Let the Reader Understand: Essays in Honor of Elizabeth Struthers Malbon 9780567674050, 9780567674074, 9780567674067

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LIBRARY OF NEW TESTAMENT STUDIES

583 formerly the Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement series

Editor Chris Keith

Editorial Board Dale C. Allison, John M. G. Barclay, Lynn H. Cohick, R. Alan Culpepper, Craig A. Evans, Robert Fowler, Simon J. Gathercole, John S. Kloppenborg, Michael Labahn, Love L. Sechrest, Robert Wall, Steve Walton, Catrin H. Williams

LET THE READER UNDERSTAND

Studies in Honor of Elizabeth Struthers Malbon

Edited by Edwin K. Broadhead

T&T CLARK Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA BLOOMSBURY, T&T CLARK and the T&T Clark logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in 2018 Paperback edition first published 2020 Copyright © Edwin K. Broadhead and contributors, 2018 Edwin K. Broadhead has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Editor of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: HB: 978-0-5676-7405-0 PB: 978-0-5676-9194-1 ePDF: 978-0-5676-7406-7 eBook: 978-0-5676-8416-5 Series: Library of New Testament Studies, volume 583 Typeset by Newgen KnowledgeWorks Pvt. Ltd., Chennai, India To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

CONTENTS Preface Elizabeth Struthers Malbon: Scholarly Publications and Contributions List of Contributors Elizabeth Struthers Malbon: A Tribute

ix xi xix xxv

Part I THE CREATIVE ACHIEVEMENT OF ELIZABETH STRUTHERS MALBON IN CONTEXT Chapter 1 MEANING AS NARRATIVE Werner H. Kelber

3

Part II ISSUES IN METHODOLOGY Chapter 2 ELIZABETH STRUTHERS MALBON’S CONTRIBUTION TO OUR UNDERSTANDING OF MARK’S CHRISTOLOGY R. Alan Culpepper Chapter 3 BECOMING A DISCIPLE WITHOUT SEEING JESUS: NARRATIVE AS A WAY OF KNOWING IN MARK’S GOSPEL Elizabeth E. Shively Chapter 4 “WHO DO YOU SAY THAT I AM?” CHARACTERS AND CHARACTERIZATION IN NARRATIVE AND PERFORMANCE Kelly R. Iverson

31

35

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Part III STUDIES IN CHARACTERIZATION Chapter 5 THE MARKAN JESUS, JESUS’ ACTIONS, AND THE KINGDOM OF GOD Joanna Dewey

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Contents

Chapter 6 CHARACTERIZING JESUS IN MARK’S LONGER ENDING: THE NARRATIVE CHRISTOLOGICAL TRAJECTORY OF MARK 16:9–20 Christopher W. Skinner

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Chapter 7 THE CHARACTERIZATION OF THE DEMONS IN MARK’S GOSPEL Joel F. Williams

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Chapter 8 THE WAITING GUEST ROOM: A PROPHETIC SYMBOL? Edwin K. Broadhead

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Chapter 9 THE CHARACTER OF THE GOOD SAMARITAN: A CHRISTOLOGICAL READING Mikeal C. Parsons Chapter 10 DIS-GUISING JESUS: ST(R)AYING IN CHARACTER IN JOHN’S APOCALYPSE David L. Barr

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Part IV NARRATIVE READINGS Chapter 11 REVISITING MARK’S POOR WIDOW (MK 12:41–4): THE CASE FOR NARRATIVE TENSION Ira Brent Driggers

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Chapter 12 GENDERING THE MAGNIFICAT David J. A. Clines

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Chapter 13 PAUL AND MARK: A FAMILY RESEMBLANCE Calvin J. Roetzel

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Chapter 14 SALVIFIC SUFFERING IN PAUL: ESCHATOLOGICAL, VICARIOUS, AND MIMETIC Jerry L. Sumney

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Contents

Chapter 15 THE FIRST SPORTS INJURY: GENESIS 32 BETWEEN RELIGIOUS COMMENTARY AND SECULAR PHILOLOGY Brian Britt

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Part V AESTHETIC AND POLITICAL READINGS Chapter 16 LOVE OF ENEMIES AND THE PROBLEM OF MASS INCARCERATION Robert C. Tannehill Chapter 17 READING LUKE’S ANNUNCIATION IN THE LIGHT OF DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI’S ECCE ANCILLA DOMINI J. Cheryl Exum Chapter 18 JUNIUS BASSUS SARCOPHAGUS: TAKING STOCK AND LOOKING FORWARD IN ART Heidi J. Hornik Chapter 19 THE PARADOXICAL PRESENTATION OF GOD IN THE GOSPEL OF MARK AND THE TABLE OF SILENCE OF CONSTANTIN BRANCUSI Geert Van Oyen

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Chapter 20 NARRATIVE AND PERFORMANCE CRITICISMS TRAVEL SOUTH Philip Ruge-Jones

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Chapter 21 “NEVER SAY I AM THE CHRIST. I AM THE SON OF MAN” Richard Walsh

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Chapter 22 LISTENING AND GIVING VOICE: POEMS FROM THE GOSPEL OF MARK Cynthia Briggs Kittredge

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Chapter 23 CONCLUSION Edwin K. Broadhead

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Name Index Subject Index

335 341

PREFACE This volume honors Elizabeth Struthers Malbon by engaging the major themes from her teaching and research. The initial chapter by Werner H. Kelber seeks to highlight the importance of the work of Professor Malbon and to place it within a much larger history of interpretation. R. Alan Culpepper highlights what is perhaps the most unique contribution of Professor Malbon’s approach—recognition of the tension between the christology of the narrator and that of Jesus. A number of chapters engage the contributions of Professor Malbon in specific areas of methodology and interpretation. Some colleagues test her methods in new texts and arenas. Some make connections between the text and aesthetic interests or political questions. Others seek to push forward by exploring new dimensions in methodology and interpretation. Each of the contributions and each of the tributes in this volume share in common deep respect and gratitude—a sentiment echoed by a wide circle of scholars from various fields—for the scholarship of Professor Malbon and for the extraordinary grace with which she serves as teacher, mentor, and colleague.

ELIZABETH STRUTHERS MALBON: SCHOLARLY PUBLICATIONS AND CONTRIBUTIONS Education 1980 PhD (Humanities), Florida State University (FSU) Dissertation: “Narrative Space and Mythic Meaning: A Structural Exegesis in the Gospel of Mark,” Robert A. Spivey and John F. Priest, codirectors 1977 Fall (Merrill Fellow from FSU), Vanderbilt University Fields of Study: Structural Exegesis (Daniel Patte), Gospel of Mark (John R. Donahue, SJ) 1970 MA (Religion), FSU Project: “Liturgical History and Liturgical Renewal,” John J. Carey, director 1969 BA Magna Cum Laude (major: Religion/minor: English), FSU

Employment 1980–2016, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University 2016–, Professor Emerita of Religion and Culture 2009–16, Professor, Department of Religion and Culture 2003–9, Professor of Religious Studies, Department of Interdisciplinary Studies 2001–3, Professor of Religious Studies, Center for Interdisciplinary Studies 1995–2001, Director and Professor, Religious Studies Program, Center for Interdisciplinary Studies 1994–95, Director and Professor, Religious Studies Program 1992–94, Professor, Department of Religion 1985–92, Associate Professor, Department of Religion 1980–85, Assistant Professor, Department of Philosophy and Religion 1979–80, Adjunct Lecturer, Department of Religion, FSU 1978–79, Visiting Instructor, Department of Religion, Vassar College 1976–77, Teaching Assistant, Program in the Humanities, FSU 1972–73 (full-time), 1974–75 (part-time), Research Assistant, Religion in Elementary Social Studies Project, FSU 1970–72, Assistant Director, Wesley Foundation, Tallahassee, Florida

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Honors and Awards Nomination by Center for Instructional Development and Educational Research at Virginia Tech for the Robert Foster Cherry Award for Great Teaching, 2015 (a “top-tier” nominee) William E. Wine Award for Teaching Excellence, Virginia Tech, 2014 Alumni Award for Research Excellence, Virginia Tech, 2014 Mentor Award, Committee on the Status of Women in the Profession, Society of Biblical Literature, 2013 College of Liberal Arts and Human Sciences Award for Excellence in Research, Virginia Tech, 2012–13 “Favorite Faculty” Award, Housing and Residence Life, Virginia Tech, 2012 Certificate of Teaching Excellence, College of Liberal Arts and Human Sciences, Virginia Tech, 2007 Omicron Delta Kappa G. Burke Johnston Award for Excellence in Teaching and Leadership in the Academic Community, Virginia Tech, 2004 Nomination by Virginia Tech for Virginia Outstanding Faculty Award (one of 123 nominees at the state level), 1988 American Council of Learned Societies Travel Grant, toward airfare to Sheffield, England, to present a paper at the International Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature, August 1988 National Endowment for the Humanities Summer Seminar, “Art in the Culture of Pagan and Christian Rome in Late Antiquity,” American Academy in Rome, June–August 1987 Certificate of Teaching Excellence, College of Arts and Sciences, Virginia Tech, 1986 American Council of Learned Societies Research Fellowship for Recent Recipients of the PhD, for independent research on “Patterns of Characterization in the Gospel of Mark,” January–June 1984 Phi Beta Kappa, FSU, 1969 Phi Kappa Phi, FSU, 1967

Publications Authored Books Mark’s Jesus: Characterization as Narrative Christology. Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2009. 300 pages. Paperback edition. Baylor University Press, 2015. Hearing Mark: A Listener’s Guide. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2002. 125 pages. Currently available from Bloomsbury. In the Company of Jesus: Characters in Mark’s Gospel. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2000 (second printing, Fall 2001). 264 pages. French edition: En compagnie de Jésus, translated by Marie-Raphaël de Hemptinne, OSB; introduction by Camille Focant. Paris: Le Cerf and Brussels, Edition Lessius, 2009.

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The Iconography of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus: NEOFITVS IIT AD DEVM. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1990. 277 pages + 45 plates. Paperback edition. Princeton Legacy Library, 2014. Narrative Space and Mythic Meaning in Mark. New Voices in Biblical Studies. New York and San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1986. 229 pages. Paperback edition. Volume 13 of The Biblical Seminar. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991. Currently available from Bloomsbury.

Edited and Coedited Volumes One of five area editors, Oxford Encyclopedia of Biblical Interpretation, 2 vols., Stephen L. McKenzie, editor in chief. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013. Between Author and Audience in Mark: Narration, Characterization, Interpretation. New Testament Monographs 23. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2009. (Also authored the introduction and an essay.) With Linda Bennett-Elder and David Barr, Biblical and Humane: A Festschrift for John F. Priest. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996. (Also authored the preface and an essay.) With Edgar V. McKnight, The New Literary Criticism and the New Testament. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994. Paperback edition. Valley Forge: Trinity Press International, 1994. (Also authored an essay and jointly authored the introduction.) Currently available from Bloomsbury. With Adele Berlin, Characterization in Biblical Literature. Semeia 63. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1993.

Articles “Narrative Criticism: Learning to Listen to the Story.” Journal of Catholic Theology and Thought (Korean; special issue on biblical hermeneutics) 72 (2013): 11–43. “Introduction: Reading Luke’s Redaction and Rhetoric.” Introduction to a special issue of Biblical Interpretation 21–3 (2013): 295–301. “Midrashim on the Binding of Isaac: The Power of the Story and the Contexts of the Storytellers.” Sewanee Theological Review 50 (Christmas 2006): 110–37. With Sharyn Dowd. “The Significance of Jesus’ Death in Mark: Narrative Context and Authorial Audience.” Journal of Biblical Literature 125 (2006): 271–97. Reprinted in The Trial and Death of Jesus: Essays on the Passion Narrative in Mark, edited by Geert Van Oyen and Tom Shepherd. Contributions to Biblical Exegesis and Theology 45. Leuven: Peeters Publishing, 2006, pp. 1–31. “Narrative Christology and the Son of Man: What the Markan Jesus Says Instead.” Biblical Interpretation 11, 3/4 (2003): 373–85. “ ‘Reflected Christology’: An Aspect of Narrative ‘Christology’ in the Gospel of Mark.” Perspectives in Religious Studies 26, in honor of Edgar V. McKnight (1999): 127–45. “Texts and Contexts: Interpreting the Disciples in Mark.” Semeia 62 (1993): 81–102. “Echoes and Foreshadowings in Mark 4–8: Reading and Rereading.” Journal of Biblical Literature 112 (1993): 213–32. “The Poor Widow in Mark and Her Poor Rich Readers.” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 53 (1991): 589–604. Reprinted in The Feminist Companion to Mark, edited by Amy-Jill Levine. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001, pp. 111–27. “Ending at the Beginning: A Response.” Semeia 52 (1990): 175–84.

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“The Jewish Leaders in the Gospel of Mark: A Literary Study of Marcan Characterization.” Journal of Biblical Literature 108 (1989): 259–81. “Disciples/Crowds/Whoever: Markan Characters and Readers.” Novum Testamentum 28 (1986): 104–130. Reprinted in The Composition of Mark’s Gospel: Selected Studies from Novum Testamentum, edited by David E. Orton. Leiden: Brill, 1999, pp. 144–70. “Mark: Myth and Parable.” Biblical Theology Bulletin 16 (1986): 8–17. “Tē Oikia Autou: Mark 2:15 in Context.” New Testament Studies 31 (1985): 282–92. “The Theory and Practice of Structural Exegesis: A Review Article.” Perspectives in Religious Studies 11 (1984): 273–82. With Frank Burch Brown. “Parabling as a Via Negativa: A Critical Review of the Work of John Dominic Crossan.” Journal of Religion 64 (1984): 530–38. “The Jesus of Mark and the Sea of Galilee.” Journal of Biblical Literature 103 (1984): 363–77. “The Spiral and the Square: Lévi-Strauss’s Mythic Formula and Greimas’s Constitutional Model.” Linguistica Biblica 55 (1984): 47–56. “Fallible Followers: Women and Men in the Gospel of Mark.” Semeia 28 (1983): 29–48. “ ‘No Need to Have Any One Write’? A Structural Exegesis of 1 Thessalonians.” Semeia 26 (1983): 57–83. An earlier version appeared as “ ‘No Need to Have Any One Write’? A Structural Exegesis of 1 Thessalonians.” Society of Biblical Literature 1980 Seminar Papers. Missoula, MT: Scholars Press for SBL, 1980, pp. 301–35. “Structuralism, Hermeneutics, and Contextual Meaning.” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 51 (1983): 207–30. “Galilee and Jerusalem: History and Literature in Marcan Interpretation.” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 44 (1982): 242–55. Reprinted in The Interpretation of Mark, edited by William R. Telford. London: T&T Clark, 1995, pp. 253–68. “Mythic Structure and Meaning in Mark: Elements of a Lévi-Straussian Analysis.” Semeia 16 (1979): 97–132. An earlier version appeared as “Elements of an Exegesis of the Gospel of Mark According to Lévi-Strauss’ Methodology.” Society of Biblical Literature 1977 Seminar Papers. Missoula, MT: Scholars Press for SBL, 1977, pp. 155–70.

Chapters “Teaching Mark’s Narrative in a Markan Narrative Way.” In Communication, Pedagogy, and the Gospel of Mark, edited by Elizabeth Shively and Geert Van Oyen. Atlanta: SBL Press, 2016, pp. 29–43. “Reading Borges Re-Writing Mark’s Gospel in Light of Seeing Arcand Re-Viewing Jesus of Nazareth.” In Borges and the Bible, edited by Richard Walsh and Jay Twomey. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2015, pp. 125–37. “History, Theology, Story: Re-Contextualizing Mark’s ‘Messianic Secret’ as Characterization.” In Character Studies and the Gospel of Mark, edited by Christopher Skinner and Matthew Hauge. Library of New Testament Studies. London: T&T Clark, 2014, pp. 35–56. “The Healing of the Hemorrhaging Woman on Fourth-Century Sarcophagi from Rome.” In The Woman with the Blood Flow (Mark 5:24–34): Narrative, Iconic, and Anthropological Spaces, edited by Barbara Baert. Leuven, Belgium: Peters Publishers, 2014, pp. 109–42, including fourteen photographic plates. “Mark.” In Women’s Bible Commentary, 3rd edition; edited by Carol A. Newsom, Sharon H. Ringe, and Jacqueline E. Lapsley. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2012, pp. 478–92.

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“Characters in Mark’s Story: Changing Perspectives on the Narrative Process.” In Mark as Story: Retrospect and Prospect, edited by Kelly Iverson and Christopher Skinner. Resources for Biblical Study 65. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2011, pp. 45–69. “New Literary Criticism and Jesus Research.” In The Handbook of the Study of the Historical Jesus, Vol. 1: How to Study the Historical Jesus, edited by Tom Holmén and Stanley E. Porter. Leiden: Brill, 2011, pp. 777–807. “The SBL [Society of Biblical Literature] in the Classroom: Pedagogical Reflections.” In Foster Biblical Scholarship: Essays in Honor of Kent Harold Richards, edited by Frank Ames and Charles William Miller. SBLBSNA 24. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2010, pp. 169–88. “The Jesus of Mark and the ‘Son of David.’ ” In Between Author and Audience in Mark: Narration, Characterization, Interpretation, edited by Elizabeth Struthers Malbon. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2009, pp. 162–85. With Joanna Dewey. “Mark.” In Theological Bible Commentary, edited by Gail R. O’Day and David L. Petersen. Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2009, pp. 311–24. “Markan Narrative Christology and the Kingdom of God.” In Literary Encounters with the Reign of God (in honor of Robert C. Tannehill), edited by Sharon H. Ringe and H. C. Paul Kim. New York/London: T&T Clark, 2004, pp. 177–93. “The Christology of Mark’s Gospel: Narrative Christology and the Markan Jesus.” In Who Do You Say That I Am? Essays on Christology (in honor of Jack Dean Kingsbury), edited by Mark Allan Powell and David R. Bauer. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1999, pp. 33–48. “Literary Contexts of Mark 13.” In Biblical and Humane: A Festschrift for John F. Priest, edited by Linda Bennett-Elder, David Barr, and Elizabeth Struthers Malbon. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996, pp. 105–24. “The Major Importance of the Minor Characters in Mark.” In The New Literary Criticism and the New Testament, edited by Elizabeth Struthers Malbon and Edgar V. McKnight. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994, pp. 58–86. Paperback edition with editors’ names reversed, Valley Forge: Trinity Press International, 1994, pp. 58–86. With Janice Capel Anderson. “Literary Critical Methods.” In Searching the Scriptures, Vol. 1, A Feminist Introduction, edited by Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza. New York: Crossroad Press, 1993, pp. 101–14. “Narrative Criticism: How Does the Story Mean?” In Mark and Method: New Approaches in Biblical Studies, edited by Janice Capel Anderson and Stephen D. Moore. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1992, pp. 23–49. Revised for a second edition of the book: Mark and Method: New Approaches in Biblical Studies, edited by Janice Capel Anderson and Stephen D. Moore. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2008, pp. 29–57. “The Text and Time: Lévi-Strauss and New Testament Studies.” In Anthropology and the Study of Religions, edited by Frank E. Reynolds and Robert L. Moore. Chicago: Council for the Scientific Study of Religion, 1984, pp. 177–91.

Dictionary Entries and Contributions to Reference Works “Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus.” In The Grove Encyclopedia of Medieval Art and Architecture. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012. Also Grove Art Online. “Narrative Criticism.” In Searching for Meaning: A Practical Guide to New Testament Interpretation, edited by Paula Gooder. London: SPCK, 2008; Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2009, pp. 80–82.

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“The Year of Mark.” In Sundays and Seasons 2009. Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress Press, 2008, pp. 13–14. Twelve entries (50–1,000 words each) for Women in Scripture: A Dictionary of Named and Unnamed Women in the Hebrew Bible, Apocrypha, and New Testament, edited by Carol Meyers, Toni Craven, and Ross Kraemer. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2000— Syrophoenician woman in Mark; daughter of Syrophoenician woman in Mark; woman with seven husbands in Matthew, Mark, and Luke; poor widow in Mark and Luke; servant-girl(s)/woman who accuses(s) Peter in Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John; Salome. Fourteen entries (50–250 words each) on New Testament topics for The HarperCollins Dictionary of Religion. San Francisco: HarperCollins for the American Academy of Religion, 1995—Apostles; Ascension; Beatitudes; Demythologizing; Jesus—Quest for Historical; Kerygma; Last Judgment; Lord’s Prayer; New Testament; Paul—Saint; Resurrection; Second Coming; Son of God; Son of Man.

Other Publications “Society of Biblical Literature—1989–90 Survey on Regional Meetings: A Report of the Ad Hoc Committee on the Regions.” April 1990. Summary: “SBL Survey on Regional Meetings,” Religious Studies News 5 (1990): 1, 3. Kovacs, B. W., ed. “A Joint Paper by Members of the Structuralism and Exegesis SBL Seminar.” Society of Biblical Literature 1982 Seminar Papers. Chico, CA: Scholars Press for SBL, 1982, pp. 251–70; Malbon contributed sections 1.42 (p. 256) and 2.4–2.41 (p. 261). Joan G. Dye (Elizabeth S. Malbon, Curriculum Researcher). Teacher’s Guide for Level 1 and Teacher’s Guide for Level 2. Learning about Religion/Social Studies. Niles, IL: Argus Communications, 1976. My Story and Way/My Special Places (two children’s books introducing the concepts “religious tradition” and “sacred space”). Level 1 of Learning about Religion/Social Studies. Niles, IL: Argus Communications, 1976.

Organizations and Activities Memberships Society of Biblical Literature (SBL, 1974–) American Academy of Religion (AAR; no longer current) Studiorum Novi Testamenti Societas (by election, 1989) Society for the Culture and Religion of the Ancient Mediterranean (by invitation, 1988–95) Society for Values in Higher Education (by election, 1983) Catholic Biblical Association (by election, 1982) Anglican Association of Biblical Scholars

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National Offices and Committees Program Co-Coordinator, Anglican Association of Biblical Scholars, 2015– Nominating Committee, national SBL, 2011–15 Steering Committee Member-at-Large, Anglican Association of Biblical Scholars, 2010–15 Selection Committee, Achtemeier Award, SBL, 2009–10 Steering Committee Member, Synoptic Gospels Section, SBL, 2008–10, 2011– 13, 2014–16 Communications Officer, Anglican Association of Biblical Scholars, 2008–10 Steering Committee Member, Art and Religions of Antiquity Section, SBL, 2005–8 Co-Chair, The Bible and Visual Art Section, SBL, 2005–7, 2008–10, 2011–13 Program Coordinator, Anglican Association of Biblical Scholars, 2003–7 Co-Chair, The Bible and Visual Art Consultation, SBL, 2002–4 Program Committee, SBL, 1995–2000 Ad Hoc Member, Program Committee Subcommittee on Annual Meeting Structure and Regulations, SBL, 1993 Steering Committee Member, Literary Aspects of the Gospels and Acts Group, SBL, 1991–3, 1994–6 Chair, Biblical Criticism and Literary Criticism Section, SBL, 1990–95 Committee on Religion Departments, AAR/SBL, 1988–90 Ad Hoc Committee on the Regions, SBL, 1987–90 Steering Committee Member, Biblical Criticism and Literary Criticism Section, SBL, 1985–9 Regional Offices and Committees Nominating Committee, SBL/Southeastern Region, 1995, 1997, 2000 Vice President, Southeastern Commission on the Study of Religion, 1989–90 President, SBL/Southeastern Region, 1988–99 Vice President (Program Chair), SBL/Southeastern Region, 1987–8 Chair, New Testament Section, SBL/Southeastern Region, 1981–7 Representative-at-Large to the Executive Committee, AAR/Southeastern Region, 1981–4 Service on Editorial Boards New Testament Monographs, Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2013–15 Journal of Biblical Literature, 1997–9, 2007–9, 2010–12, 2013–15 Biblical Interpretation: A Journal of Contemporary Approaches (Netherlands), 1991–2010 Conversations with Scripture series (in association with the Anglican Association of Biblical Scholars), Morehouse Publishing, 2005–9 JSNT Supplement series, Sheffield Academic Press, 1991–2000

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Board of Associate Editors, Catholic Biblical Quarterly, 1989–96 Semeia, 1989–94 Editor (1 of 4), Overtures to Biblical Theology Series, Fortress Press, 1988–91 Assistant Editor (1 of 2), Bible and Literature Series, Almond Press, 1986–90 Other Professional Activities Reviewer of article submissions, book manuscripts, grants, dissertations, promotion and tenure cases, etc.

CONTRIBUTORS David L.  Barr is Emeritus Professor of Religion and former chair of the Departments of Religion, Philosophy, and Classics at Wright State University. He received his PhD in religion from Florida State University in 1974, taking work in classics, history, literature, and religion. His publications include Tales of the End:  A Narrative Commentary on the Book of Revelation (2nd ed., 2012); New Testament Story:  An Introduction (4th ed., 2009); and two edited volumes on the Apocalypse:  The Reality of Apocalypse:  Rhetoric and Politics in the Book of Revelation (2006) and Reading the Book of Revelation: A Resource for Students (2003). Brian Britt is professor and chair of the Department of Religion and Culture at Virginia Tech. He received his PhD from the University of Chicago Divinity School. He works at the intersection of cultural theory and biblical studies on questions of modernity and tradition. Major publications include Postsecular Benjamin:  Agency and Tradition (2016); Biblical Curses and the Displacement of Tradition (2011); Rewriting Moses: The Narrative Eclipse of the Text (2004); Walter Benjamin and the Bible (1996); and the coedited volume Religion, Gender, and Culture in the Pre-Modern World (with Alexandra Cuffel, 2007). Edwin K. Broadhead is professor at Berea College in Berea, Kentucky. He holds a doctorate in theology from the University of Zürich. His research areas include Formalism, the Gospel of Mark, the Sayings Tradition (Q), the Gospel of Thomas, the historical Jesus, the Gospel of Matthew, and Jewish Christianity in antiquity. His major publications include The Gospel of Matthew on the Landscape of Antiquity (2017); Jewish Ways of Following Jesus: Redrawing the Religious Map of Antiquity (2010); The Gospel of Mark in The Readings Commentary Series (2001, 2nd ed., 2009); Naming Jesus: Titular Christology in the Gospel of Mark (1999); Demand and Grace: The Sermon on the Mount (1999); Prophet, Son, Messiah: Narrative Form and Function in Mark 14–16 (1994); and Teaching with Authority:  Miracles and Christology in the Gospel of Mark (1992). David J. A. Clines, PhD, is Emeritus Professor of Biblical Studies, University of Sheffield. His research interests include Hebrew lexicography, masculinity, and ideological criticism. His major publications include Job (3  vols., Word Biblical Commentary, 1989–2011); The Dictionary of Classical Hebrew (9  vols., 1991– 2016); and On the Way to the Postmodern:  Old Testament Essays, 1967–1998 (2 vols., 1998).

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R. Alan Culpepper is dean and professor of New Testament emeritus of the McAfee School of Theology, Mercer University, and research fellow, Department of Old and New Testament, University of the Free State, Bloemfontein, South Africa. Culpepper’s research has worked primarily on the gospels, with a particular focus on narrative theory and on the Gospel of John. Major publications include “The Gospel of Mark” in Smyth and Helwys Bible Commentaries (2007); Eternity as a Sunrise: The Life of Hugo H. Culpepper (2002); The Gospel and Letters of John (1998); “The Gospel of Luke,” The New Interpreter’s Bible (1995); John, the Son of Zebedee: The Life of a Legend (1994); Pentecost 2 in Proclamation 3 C (1986); 1, 2, 3 John in the Knox Preaching Guides (1985); Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel: A Study in Literary Design (1983); and The Johannine School (1975, repr. 2007) . Joanna Dewey is Harvey H.  Guthrie Jr. Professor Emerita of Biblical Studies, Episcopal Divinity School, Cambridge, Massachusetts. Dewey received her PhD from Graduate Theological Union, Berkeley. Her interests include the Gospel of Mark, feminist criticism, orality studies, and performance criticism. Major publications include The Oral Ethos of the Early Church: Speaking, Writing, and the Gospel of Mark (2013); Mark as Story: An Introduction to the Narrative of a Gospel (with David Rhoads and Donald Michie, 3rd ed., 2012); and “The Gospel of Mark” in Searching the Scriptures: A Feminist Commentary (1994). John R.  Donahue, SJ, is Raymond E.  Brown Distinguished Professor of New Testament Studies (Emeritus) at St. Mary’s Seminary and University in Baltimore and is currently research professor in theology at Loyola University, Maryland. He earned a PhD in New Testament from the University of Chicago. Fr. Donahue published three volumes of commentaries on the Sunday Readings, one of which won First Place in Professional Books from the Catholic Press Association. Other books include The Gospel of Mark (2005); Are You the Christ: The Trial Narrative in the Gospel of Mark (1973); Theology and Setting of Discipleship in the Gospel of Mark (1983); What Does the Lord Require: A Bibliographical Essay on the Bible and Social Justice (1993); and The Gospel in Parable:  Metaphor, and Narrative in the Synoptic Gospels (1988). From 1998 to 2001, he wrote the weekly “Word” column for America. Ira Brent Driggers is professor of New Testament, Lutheran Theological Southern Seminary of Lenoir-Rhyne University, Columbia. He received his PhD from Princeton Theological Seminary. His research interests include narrative-critical interpretation of the Gospels and theologies of the Gospels. His publications include Following God through Mark (2007); and “God as Healer of Creation in the Gospel of Mark” in Character Studies and the Gospel of Mark (2014). J. Cheryl Exum is Emeritus Professor of Biblical Studies at the University of Sheffield. She holds MA and PhD degrees from Columbia University and an honorary ThD from Uppsala University. Her research interests include literary criticism of the Hebrew Bible; feminist and gender criticism; cultural studies; the

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Bible in art, music, and film; and the Song of Songs and ancient Near Eastern love poetry. Among her books are Song of Songs: A Commentary (2005); Plotted, Shot, and Painted: Cultural Representations of Biblical Women (1996); and Fragmented Women: Feminist (Sub)versions of Biblical Narratives (1993); Tragedy and Biblical Narrative: Arrows of the Almighty (1992). She is currently completing a monograph on visual criticism, with attention to figures from Hagar to Mary the mother of Jesus. Robert M. Fowler is professor of religion in the Department of Religion at Baldwin Wallace University, Berea, Ohio. He earned his PhD in Bible from the Divinity School of the University of Chicago. He is best known for his “reader-response” studies of the Gospel of Mark: Loaves and Fishes: The Function of the Feeding Stories in the Gospel of Mark (2006) and Let the Reader Understand:  Reader-Response Criticism and the Gospel of Mark (2001). He contributed to a popular volume surveying new literary approaches to the Gospel of Mark, Mark and Method: New Approaches in Biblical Studies (2008), and as a member of “The Bible and Culture Collective,” he collaborated in the writing of The Postmodern Bible (1995). Heidi J. Hornik is professor of Italian Renaissance and Baroque Art History at Baylor University. She received her PhD from The Pennsylvania State University. Hornik’s work, Michele Tosini and the Ghirlandaio Workshop in Cinquecento Florence, was the first biography on the Late Renaissance painter incorporating her primary research from the state archives in Florence and in church archives throughout Italy. She has coauthored four books on art and theology (the Illuminating Luke trilogy and The Acts of the Apostles through the Centuries) with Mikeal C. Parsons, professor of religion at Baylor University. Hornik was awarded a visiting scholar fellowship at Harvard University for the spring 2017 semester to complete The Art of Christian Reflection (Baylor University Press). Kelly R.  Iverson received his PhD from the Catholic University of America (Washington, DC) and is associate professor of New Testament at Baylor University. He is the author of Gentiles in the Gospel of Mark:  “Even the Dogs under the Table Eat the Children’s Crumbs” (2007); the editor of From Text to Performance: Narrative and Performance Criticisms in Dialogue and Debate (2014); and the coeditor of Mark as Story: Retrospect and Prospect (2011) and Unity and Diversity in the Gospels and Paul (2012). Werner H. Kelber is the Isla Carroll and Percy E. Turner Professor Emeritus of Biblical Studies at Rice University. He studied in Germany at Munich, Tűbingen, and Erlangen and in the United States at Princeton Theological Seminary and the University of Chicago (MA and PhD). His work has focused on gospel narrativity, media studies, biblical hermeneutics, the historical Jesus, text criticism, and the history of biblical scholarship. Among his publications are The Oral and the Written Gospel (1983, 1997) and Imprints, Voiceprints, and Footprints of Memory (2013).

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Cynthia Briggs Kittredge is dean and president and professor of New Testament at Seminary of the Southwest in Austin, Texas. She earned her MDiv, ThM, and ThD from Harvard Divinity School and her BA from Williams College. She is a contributor to The New Oxford Annotated Bible (2007) and the Women’s Bible Commentary (3rd ed., 2012), and the author of Conversations with Scripture: The Gospel of John (2007) and Community and Authority: The Rhetoric of Obedience in the Pauline Tradition (1998). She coedited The Bible in the Public Square: Reading the Signs of the Times (2008) and Walk in the Ways of Wisdom: Essays in Honor of Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza (2003). She is the coeditor of the Fortress Commentary on the Bible: The New Testament (2014) and author of A Lot of the Way Trees Were Walking: Poems from the Gospel of Mark (2015). Mikeal Parsons is professor and Kidd L.  and Buna Hitchcock Macon Chair in Religion at Baylor University, where he has taught since 1986. He received his PhD from Southern Seminary and publishes in the area of Luke/Acts and rhetorical criticism. Among his publications are Paideia Commentaries on Acts (2008) and Luke (2015), Baylor Handbook on the Greek Text of Acts (2003) and Luke (2010), and Body and Character in Luke and Acts (2011). With Heidi Hornik, he has published Acts through the Centuries (2016) and the trilogy Illuminating Luke (2004, 2006, 2008). Earlier works include The Departure of Jesus in Luke-Acts (1987) and Rethinking the Unity of Luke and Acts (with Richard I. Pervo, 1993). David Rhoads is Emeritus Professor of New Testament at the Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago. He holds a PhD from Duke University. His research areas include narrative criticism, performance criticism, eco-justice criticism, and the Gospel of Mark. He is author of Mark as Story: An Introduction to the Narrative of a Gospel (with Don Michie, 1st ed. 1982; 3rd ed. with Don Michie and Joanna Dewey, 2012); Reading Mark, Engaging the Gospel (2004); The Challenge of Diversity (1996); and editor of From Every People and Nation:  The Book of Revelation in Intercultural Perspective (2005). Calvin Roetzel is Sundet Professor of New Testament and Christian Studies (Emeritus) at University of Minnesota. He holds a PhD from Duke University. His research is focused on the Apostle Paul, then and now. His major publications include The Letters of Paul: Conversations in Context (6th ed.); Paul: The Man and the Myth (winner of Biblical Archaeology Society award as best New Testament book of the year, 1998); The World That Shaped the New Testament (rev. ed.); 2 Corinthians; Abingdon New Testament Commentary; and numerous tributes to colleagues in Festschriften. Phil Ruge-Jones is a scholar and storyteller of the Gospel of Mark. His full performance of the Gospel of Mark is distributed on YouTube by Ankosfilms. He is coeditor of The Bible in Ancient and Modern Media: Story and Performance (2009). Ruge-Jones was professor at Texas Lutheran University with almost two decades of teaching before moving to Wisconsin to pursue his vocation as

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storyteller, speaker, and writer. Each summer, he convokes a group of scholars and professional storytellers through the Network of Biblical Storytellers Seminar to explore what they can learn from each other. Elizabeth Shively is lecturer in New Testament studies, St. Mary’s College, University of St. Andrews. She holds the PhD in New Testament from Emory University. Shively’s current research interests are the Gospel of Mark and Synoptic Gospels, Jewish apocalyptic thought, narrative criticism, and the intersection of narratology and the cognitive sciences. Her major publications include Communication, Pedagogy, and the Gospel of Mark (coedited with Geert Van Oyen, 2016); Apocalyptic Imagination in the Gospel of Mark: The Literary and Theological Role of Mark 3:22–30 (2012); and “Characterizing the Non-Human: Satan in the Gospel of Mark” in Character Studies and the Gospel of Mark (edited by C. Skinner, 2014). Christopher W. Skinner is associate professor of New Testament and Early Christianity, Loyola University, Chicago. He holds a PhD from the Catholic University of America. His major areas of research are the Gospel of John, the Synoptic Gospels, the Gospel of Thomas, and narrative criticism. His major publications include Reading John (2015); Character Studies and the Gospel of Mark (with Matthew R. Hauge, 2014); What Are They Saying about the Gospel of Thomas? (2012); and Mark as Story: Retrospect and Prospect (with Kelly R. Iverson, 2011). Jerry L. Sumney is professor of New Testament at Lexington Theological Seminary. He holds a PhD from Southern Methodist University. His primary area of interest is Pauline studies, specifically his opponents and the Corinthian correspondence. He has also given attention to the disputed Paulines and rhetorical analysis of New Testament writings. Sumney’s major publications include Paul: Apostles and Fellow-Traveler (2014); The Bible: An Introduction (2nd ed., 2014); Colossians: A Commentary (2008); Philippians: A Greek Student’s Intermediate Reader (2007); and Identifying Paul’s Opponents: The Question of Method in 2 Corinthians (1990, reissued in 2013). Robert C. Tannehill is professor emeritus of New Testament at the Methodist Theological School in Ohio. He holds a PhD from Yale University. His research interests include forceful and imaginative language in the synoptic Gospels; narrative criticism of Luke-Acts; and implications of the New Testament for social justice. Among his major publications are The Sword of His Mouth: Forceful and Imaginative Language in Synoptic Sayings (1975, repr. 2003); The Narrative Unity of Luke-Acts: A Literary Interpretation (2 vols., 1986, 1990); Luke in the Abingdon New Testament Commentaries (1996); The Shape of Luke’s Story: Essays on LukeActs (2005); and The Shape of the Gospel: New Testament Essays (2007). Geert Van Oyen is professor of New Testament studies and Biblical Greek at the Faculty of Theology and a member of Religions, Societies, Cultures, and

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Spiritualities of the Catholic University of Louvain (Belgium). He holds a PhD from the Catholic University of Louvain. His research focuses on the Gospel of Mark, the Jesus of history, the book of Revelation, the Apocryphal Infancy Gospels, and Albert Schweitzer. Among his major publications are The Interpretation of the Feeding Miracles in Mark (1999) and Reading the Gospel of Mark as a Novel (2014). He has also edited many books, including Persuasion and Dissuasion in Early Christianity, Ancient Judaism, and Hellenism (2003), The Trial and the Death of Jesus (2006), La surprise dans la Bible (2012), Resurrection of the Dead: Biblical Traditions in Dialogue (2012), and Le lecteur (2015). Richard Walsh is professor of religion and co-director of the honors program at Methodist University. He holds a PhD from Baylor University. His interests include the Gospel of Mark, literary theory, and reception criticism of the Gospels. He is the author of Mapping Myths of Biblical Interpretation (2001), Reading the Gospels in the Dark (2003), Three Versions of Judas (2010), and the editor of Son of Man: An African Jesus Film (with Jeffrey L. Staley and Adele Reinhartz, 2013) and Borges and the Bible (with Jay Twomey, 2015). Joel F. Williams is professor of New Testament studies at Cedarville University, Ohio. He holds a PhD from Marquette University. His scholarly interests revolve primarily around the narrative features of Mark’s Gospel and their rhetorical impact. He is the author of Other Followers of Jesus: Minor Characters as Major Figures in Mark’s Gospel (1994). His current project is the forthcoming volume on Mark in the Exegetical Guide to the Greek New Testament series.

ELIZABETH STRUTHERS MALBON A Tribute A Tribute from David M. Rhoads I am delighted to offer a tribute to Elizabeth Struthers Malbon. I  have known Elizabeth for thirty-five years as a colleague in the Society of Biblical Literature (SBL), as a collaborator in common fields of study, and as a friend. Elizabeth has been a pioneer in academic studies of the Bible as a prolific scholar actively engaged in creative research projects with a fresh angle of vision or a new application of method. She has pushed the envelope with new challenges, for herself and for the academy. She has one of the sharpest critical minds in our field. This was recognized recently when Elizabeth won the 2014 William E.  Wine Award for teaching excellence and outstanding scholarship at Virginia Tech in Blacksburg where she has taught since 1980. The recipients for this honor are nominated by students, alumni, and faculty and selected by their peers—at a university of 30,000 students! Elizabeth’s full vita is too long and detailed to recite here—the books she has written; the volumes she has edited; the articles she has published; the presentations she has given at regional, national, and international scholarly societies; the invited papers she has presented; the books she has reviewed; the boards on which she has served; the grants she has been awarded; and the honors she has received. It is accurate to say that virtually all of what she has produced has made a contribution to the field, including her incisive evaluation of the work of others. This litany of achievements represents a lifetime of dedication to innovation in critical scholarship. In particular, Elizabeth has made major contributions to our understanding of and appreciation for the Gospel of Mark. This is no small feat in light of the voluminous work published on Mark. Since the eighteenth century, as we know, as much critical writing has surely been done on the Gospel of Mark as on any text. Myriad biblical scholars with a variety of skills and methods have explored the text using historical studies, recovery of oral traditions of the early church, proposals about Mark’s audience, cultural dynamics of ancient Israel, and, more recently, structuralism, narrative analysis, reader-response criticism, feminist critiques, postmodern reflections, deconstruction, anti-imperial studies, oral performance criticism, rhetorical analyses, and global interpretations from diverse postcolonial perspectives. Those who have studied Mark have recognized that this gospel is at once a most astounding and also a most puzzling piece of literature that has attracted attention

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not only in biblical circles but also among secular critics. We now know that it is no haphazard collection of oral traditions but a coherent and carefully plotted narrative. A  colleague of mine in Shakespearean studies, Don Michie, who has studied Mark extensively, considers it to be the “most tightly written story I have ever read.” The prize-winning novelist Reynolds Price, who learned Greek in order to publish his own translation of the Gospel of Mark, referred to Mark as arguably “the most original narrative writer in history, an apparently effortless sovereign of all the skills and arts of storytelling.”1 Elsewhere he referred to the Gospel of Mark as “the most enduringly powerful narrative in the history of Western civilization, if not in the history of the world.”2 The acclaimed British literary critic Frank Kermode devoted an entire monograph to Mark, entitled The Genesis of Secrecy: On the Interpretation of Narrative.3 If any are reading this present volume of essays with limited familiarity with Mark, it is worth noting that Mark is “baffling text”4 with many mysteries: its opening lines introducing Jesus in medias res (without birth narratives); its extremely terse style and fast pace; its perplexing motif of the messianic secret; the persistent obtuseness of the disciples; multiple patterns of structured repetition that are interwoven like a tapestry; multiple themes running through it like a fugue; the extensive use of riddles, suspense, and irony; the dramatic climax of the journey to Jerusalem and the death scenes portrayed there; the stunning lack of closure in the ending with women running from the tomb saying “nothing to anyone”; and with the absence of any resurrection appearances. All these and more represent conundrums that have attracted and puzzled the sharpest minds. I say all this because it is laudatory when someone makes major contributions to our understanding of the Gospel of Mark. Yet Elizabeth Struthers Malbon has done just that. Most advances in New Testament studies have come not from discoveries of new documents or artifacts but by posing new questions and applying new disciplines to familiar texts. Early on, Elizabeth saw the fecundity of narrative analysis for gospel studies, especially for the Gospel of Mark. She embraced the narrative approach as a young scholar at a time when the methods of historical excavation of traditions behind the text dominated the scene; and it was not considered legitimate to move in front of the text to interpret the Gospel of Mark as one might interpret a play of Shakespeare or a short story. Elizabeth was part of the first wave of scholars in the 1980s who applied narrative criticism to the story world of the Gospel of Mark. This approach opened the field of Markan studies to many fresh interpretations. Narrative criticism has now taken its place as a standard approach not only in the Gospel of

1. Reynolds Price, Three Gospels (New York: Touchstone, 1997), p. 17. 2.  Reynolds Price, “Foreword,” in Mark as Story: An Introduction to the Narrative of a Gospel, ed. David Rhoads and Donald Michie (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1982), p. xi. 3.  Frank Kermode, The Genesis of Secrecy:  On the Interpretation of Narrative (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1979). 4. Price, “Foreword,” p. xi.

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Mark but also in biblical studies generally. Over the years, Elizabeth has come to be recognized as a premier crafter of this method. What is remarkable about Elizabeth’s use of the narrative method is that she grew as the method developed, and the method grew with her. She has never applied it in wooden or mechanical ways. Rather, for her, narrative analysis is fluid and heuristic, applied in ways that open up the text, that attend closely to details in the text, and that allow the text to be the final arbiter of interpretation. Because of this approach, she is among the most careful and thoughtful interpreters of the Gospel of Mark. She was a pioneer in the studies of Markan narrative when she published her structuralist analysis of space in the Gospel of Mark (Narrative Space and Mythic Meaning in Mark, 1991). No one before or since has approached the settings of Mark’s narrative in such an instructive and comprehensive way, analyzing the physical, geographical, and cosmic settings and their role in the developing narrative. Her work garnered significant scholarly conversation. In the explosion of her papers, essays, and reviews that followed, Elizabeth dealt with many aspects of Markan narrative and then came to settle on an analysis of the characters in Mark. Again, she has done more to unpack the dynamics of characterization than any other scholar. In her treatments of character, Elizabeth appreciates the subtleties and nuances of a text. Never satisfied with views of the characters in Mark as stereotypes, she has regularly pointed to the anomalies and novelties of Markan characterization as a basis for understanding the text’s meaning and rhetoric. That is why, for example, she has characterized the disciples, the women, and other minor characters as “fallible followers.” Her work on this cast of characters culminated with In the Company of Jesus: Characters in Mark’s Gospel (2001). In her latest and most significant contribution, Elizabeth does not hesitate to take on the most challenging problem of all by tackling the character of Jesus in Mark’s Jesus: Characterization as Narrative Christology (2009). I recall a seminar session in the SBL years ago in which a colleague was noting how scholars were doing studies on the disciples, the opponents, and the minor characters of Mark’s Gospel but that no one seemed to have the courage to take on the character of Jesus. Now, Elizabeth has done that, and she has done it with interpretive insight and thoroughness. Her research and writing on this subject has garnered accolades from many quarters in New Testament studies for the subject and the quality of her work. My own promotional quotation, based on a thorough reading of the manuscript, included these words: “An excellent analysis. By carefully sorting out the actions, dialogue, and points of view of the different characters, Malbon discerns fresh angles of vision and wrests many new insights from Mark’s story.” Given the amount of work that streams out of Markan studies, her accomplishment is a tour de force. Elizabeth has made many other important contributions. She wrote the chapter on Mark for third edition of The Women’s Bible Commentary. She entered the field of performance criticism when she published the popular book Hearing Mark (2002). Consider the fine volume she recently edited, entitled Between Author

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and Audience (2009), and her prestigious role as one of five area editors of the Oxford Encyclopedia of Biblical Interpretation (2013). She even went outside New Testament to explore and appreciate the relationship between the Bible and art, publishing a fascinating study on The Iconography of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus (1990). Throughout many years, she participated in seminars and chaired panels on art and religion. She also created a new undergraduate degree at Virginia Tech in religion and culture. Elizabeth knows well the importance of collaboration in research and writing. She has coedited several books, such as the one with Edgar Mcknight, another outstanding scholar in our field (The New Literary Criticism and the New Testament, 1994). In addition, she has cowritten articles, such as the challenging one with Sharyn Dowd (“The Significance of the Death of Jesus in Mark”—a landmark essay). With Joanna Dewey, she cowrote the article on the Gospel of Mark for The Westminster Dictionary of the Bible. In addition, she has sought feedback from others on drafts of her work, which she invites, welcomes, and acknowledges in the most professional way. She has also inspired, affirmed, and promoted the work of others. Elizabeth has a wonderful collegial spirit. And amidst all this, Elizabeth has been a close friend to so many of us in the academy, not just a colleague but a dear friend. For many years at various conferences, Elizabeth and I  have met over a meal to share our lives with each other. And we just pick up where we have left off year after year. Some years back, she graciously invited me to Blacksburg to lecture in her classes. Although I have not experienced her teaching directly, the openness and engagement of her students made clear to me what an exemplary teacher she is. I do know that she has received among the highest student evaluations and that she has a reputation as a creative instructor who fosters student-centered learning. At the time of that visit, Elizabeth invited me to stay at her home. Due to the deep snow, we were unable to drive up the hill to where she lived. As we walked up in the glistening snow with dark trees on both sides of the road, I was led to recite Robert Frost’s “Stopping by a Woods on a Snowy Evening.” Sharing it in the moonlit landscape and reflecting together about how we all have “miles to go before we sleep” proved to be a moment we have cherished and recall often. One of the most significant things I have learned about Elizabeth is her deep compassion and sense of justice. When the tragic shooting took place on the campus of Virginia Tech on April 16, 2007, thirty-two students and faculty died, some of whom she knew. Like the entire community, she was devastated and needed to talk about it again and again. What was striking was her concern for all those who had died, including the student who had been the shooter and who had died by suicide. She had known of him as a student there. He too had family and friends who were distraught and grieving. Elizabeth spoke about this often and did not want to let it go. So when her congregation in Blacksburg devoted a memorial to those who had died, they did so for all thirty-three who had perished that day. Elizabeth has had a fine career as an outstanding teacher, as a creative and prodigious scholar, and as a source of encouragement to her colleagues. She has also had a life filled with love of family, friendships with students and colleagues, and,

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perhaps most important of all, a life permeated with an enduring sense of integrity in all that she does.

A Tribute from John R. Donahue One afternoon in the Fall Semester of 1977 when I  was teaching at Vanderbilt Divinity School, a young woman came to my office and introduced herself. She told me that she was doing doctoral work at Florida State University under Robert Spivey and John Priest and that she had come to Vanderbilt primarily to benefit from the work of Daniel A.  Patte, who was a leading figure in joining insights from structuralism to biblical studies. She was also very interested in the Gospel of Mark and wanted to have conversations with me about this most inviting and intriguing gospel. She knew of my work with Norman Perrin at the University of Chicago and of his call to explore new approaches to the Gospel of Mark. Little did I realize that Elizabeth Struthers Malbon would emerge in the coming decades as a major figure in significant and original application of emerging methods of study to the Gospel of Mark, in the areas of narrative criticism and character portrayal. But, I should have been aware of the promise of a gifted and dedicated student when, after recommending a large number of books on Mark that constituted an informal “canon” at that time, she returned in little over a month having read the works, assimilated their insights, and offered critical reflection on them. Elizabeth’s academic career began during a time of ferment when historicalcritical studies of the gospels in general and of the Gospel of Mark were yielding to a panoply of new methods. There were earlier attempts to treat the Gospel of Mark as a literary text rather than a deposit of early Christian traditions by interpreters such as Dame Helen Gardner of Oxford, who described “The Poetry of St. Mark” in the sense that “reading the Gospel is like reading a poem. It is an imaginative experience. It presents us with a sequence of events and sayings which combine to create in our minds a single complex and powerful symbol, a pattern of meaning.”5 In 1964 Amos Wilder, whose work in New Testament spanned seventy years of the twentieth century, called for renewed attention to the literary quality of New Testament texts. Reflecting, some years later, on the resistance to the literary turn in biblical studies, Wilder stated that “both scholars and general readers have failed to do justice to what one can call the operations of the imagination in the Scriptures—to the poetry, the imagery and the symbolism.” He attributes this failure to an “occupational cramp due to a philological interest in minutiae that reduced poetry to prose and to a theological tradition that was interested in ideas.”6 Shortly before his death in 1976, Norman Perrin, who embodied the journey from historical criticism through redaction and composition criticism, reflected

5. “The Poetry of St. Mark,” in The Business of Criticism (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1959), pp. 102–3. 6. Jesus’ Parables and the War of Myths (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1982), p. 15.

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that “it was necessary for redaction criticism to mutate into a genuine literary criticism, which it has done here in America.”7 One of the initial directions the literary turn took was “structural exegesis” or structuralism, which Robert Spivey in 1974 called the “uninvited guest” of biblical studies.8 Elizabeth Struthers Malbon describes well the dimensions of structuralism:  “(1) it stresses that language is communication and focuses on the text as a medium of communication between author and reader; (2)  it stresses that language is a system of signs that no text exists in isolation from the work as a whole and that a narrative is a system of configurations of different signs; (3) it stresses that language is a cultural code that often covers a deeper system of convictions underlying a particular text.”9 Clearly Elizabeth Struthers Malbon was poised to become a major figure in Markan studies of the latter part of the twentieth century and the early decades of our century. David Rhoads in his appreciation has limned expertly the contributions of Elizabeth to Markan scholarship, so I will limit my appreciation to select areas, especially to the essays of the collection In the Company of Jesus: Characters in Mark’s Gospels and in some other significant explorations. Over the years I taught a course at the Graduate Theological Union on “Methods of New Testament Study.” Elizabeth’s exposition of narrative criticism now available in this collection was a lucid and invaluable introduction for all trying to keep abreast of the shifting currents of biblical interpretation. Her expositions are a model of comprehensive scholarship written in lucid and inviting prose, often in stark contrast to the labyrinthine reflections on methods by a cadre of “postmodern” authors. Her study of the various characters of Mark offered a prism by which one could gaze upon the richness of the gospel. An article I found especially helpful and which influenced my engagement with the Gospel of Mark is “Echoes and Foreshadowings in Mark 4–8: Reading and Rereading.”10 This article, along with the essays of Joanna Dewey on oral composition, which drew on the insights of classical scholars such as Eric Havelock on oral composition, opened up interconnections within the Markan text and was an invaluable help when teaching students to read the gospel as an integrated narrative rather than a series of isolated sections. These articles also stimulated me to reflect more on “intertextuality” in the Gospel of Mark, especially in relation to the ways in which Old Testament texts echo throughout Mark’s Gospel. Mark’s Jesus: Characterization as Narrative Christology (2009) is the epitome of decades of research that joined two major interests of Elizabeth Struthers

7. “The Interpretation of the Gospel of Mark,” Interpretation 30 (1976), p. 198. 8.  “Structuralism and Biblical Studies:  The Uninvited Guest,” Interpretation 28 (1974), pp.  133–45. “Narrative Criticism:  How Does the Story Mean?” in Mark and Method: New Approaches in Biblical Studies, ed. Janice Capel Anderson and S. D. Moore (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1992), pp. 25–6. 9. “Narrative Criticism: How Does the Story Mean?” in Mark and Method: New Approaches in Biblical Studies, ed. Janice Capel Anderson and S. D. Moore (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1992), pp. 25–6. 10. JBL 112 (1993), pp. 213–32.

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Malbon: extensive exposition and use of narrative criticism and engagement with one of the more debated areas of literary criticism in general—characterization. The work offers a multilayered portrait of Jesus that combines different “Christologies” presented by the narrator, by Jesus himself in relation to God and by other characters. The fundamental tension in the book is that though the narrator proclaims Jesus as Christ and Son of God, Jesus deflects attempts to identify him with the divine. The Jesus of Mark cannot be understood by a series of propositions, but emerges only from the engagement in the narrative itself for which the book provides a demanding but rewarding guide. Malbon has presented not only the most comprehensive embodiment of narrative criticism of Mark’s Gospel but left a model for its application to other gospels, especially to Luke, which is the only one explicitly called a “narrative” (1:1, diēgēsis). Truly outstanding about the academic life of Elizabeth is her engagement in the world of biblical scholarship by participation in the work of the SBL and in national and international conferences. And remarkably all this was done while remaining a dedicated teacher and parent. Though we were in personal contact often in the early 1980s, my own work expanded into different directions, and I attended the meetings of the SBL less often, but one early meeting is stamped on my memory. In the spring of 1981 I was teaching at the Pontifical Biblical Institute in Rome. Elizabeth wrote and told me that she would be in Rome so she could examine firsthand the sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, a wealthy and distinguished Roman official (praefectus urbi) and new convert who died in 359 CE. Her study would be published by Princeton University Press in 1990 as The Iconography of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus. With ornate carvings of Old Testament and New Testament images, it has been called the greatest of all monuments of early Christian art. Reviewers have commented that Malbon’s work is significant in discussing and stressing the theology of the work rather than simply its artistic achievements. Her reading of the “text” of the carving is very much in line with her unfolding engagement in narrative criticism. But during her study in Rome we spent time together touring some of the churches of Rome, notable for their art and history. We stopped at the Church of Sant’Agostino, near the Piazza Navona in Rome, the site of the famous painting by Caravaggio called “The Pilgrim’s Madonna.” It depicts the appearance of the Virgin and naked child to two peasants on a pilgrimage. The realism of the painting shocked Caravaggio’s contemporaries: Mary is a young, beautiful, and barefoot mother showing her son, who has but the hint of a halo. The pilgrims could have been taken from ordinary Romans of the day. They are dressed in ragged clothes, and the bare and swollen feet of one of them is in the foreground. Yet as the infant Jesus points at them, their eyes and those of Mary meet, and the scene is a moment where ordinary men and women encounter the divine. As we stood silently gazing at this stunning work of art, Elizabeth looked very pensive. Since she was a recent mother whose son was still in America, I thought that the painting touched her love and longing for him. But then she said simply, “I could never give up my son to be killed.” Profound religious sensitivity, love, and compassion appeared on the wall before us and at my side. I am not at all surprised that Elizabeth dedicated her

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study entitled Mark’s Jesus not only to her own parents but “in honor of and concern for all the parents” of those brutally shot on her campus in April 2007. I began by recalling when a young woman came to my office and asked me to recommend some works on Mark. Four decades later if the scenes were repeated, I would simply print out a list of the writings of Elizabeth Struthers Malbon and say “Tolle, lege” (start reading!).

A Tribute from Robert Fowler It is a joy to offer some personal remarks in tribute to Elizabeth Struthers Malbon. Without doubt, Elizabeth has been one of the most influential proponents of “narrative criticism” of the gospels, and of the Gospel of Mark in particular. She has been prolific in producing journal articles, books, and edited volumes that have advanced the development of narrative criticism.11 In thinking about what I might say in tribute to Elizabeth, I found myself thinking back to the days when I was an undergraduate and then a graduate student, first encountering the academic study of the Bible in the days before narrative criticism, and then to the new literary approaches that developed in the 1970s and 1980s. Those reflections then led me to recollections of professional contexts and writing projects in which Elizabeth and I both had roles to play from the 1980s on. It is impossible for me to think back upon Elizabeth’s distinguished career without remembering the countless ways in which our respective paths have intertwined. But before talking about those intertwined paths, I would like to share briefly some of my own personal reflections about the days before “narrative criticism.”12 My first exposure to the academic study of the Bible came in an introductory course on the life and teachings of Jesus that I took as a lark in my senior year in college, in the fall of 1971. The approach taken to the gospels in this course was form criticism. My grasp of this method was undoubtedly shallow and naïve, but I think it would be fair to say that I was taught that to understand the gospels properly, one had to dissect them into the bite-size pieces of pregospel storytelling out of which the gospels had been stitched together by editors. It was all about the 11. Elizabeth’s publications are too numerous to be reviewed here. See the reflections by David Rhoads and others in this volume that detail Elizabeth’s prolific publication history. 12.  Truth be told, I  have always been uneasy with the term “narrative criticism.” My concern has always been that the term would surely make little sense to our academic colleagues in literature departments, for whom there are an infinite number of ways to perform criticism of narrative. When I see the term “narrative criticism,” I automatically translate it in my mind to something like this: “criticism of the Bible deeply informed by the insights into the form and function of narrative as analyzed by contemporary ‘narratologists’ such as Genette, Chatman, Todorov, Uspensky, Booth, Iser, and so on.” Having registered this reservation, “narrative criticism” of the Bible has been the term we have been using since the early 1980s, and it is not likely to be abandoned now in favor of the impossibly awkward “narratologically informed criticism.”

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“form” and the “Sitz im Leben” of each individual “pericope” that existed prior to the editorial construction of a particular gospel. That is about as far as the narrative analysis of each pericope went, and that is to say, not very far at all. There was no sense whatsoever that the gospels themselves were coherent narratives, each with its own narrative integrity. If sophisticated storytelling were to be found, it would have to be at the stage of pregospel tradition, but even there, narrative sophistication was perceived to be in short supply. Early in graduate school I was introduced to redaction criticism. I was surely still shallow and naïve, but anyone could discern that the first step in this method was still the discovery of pregospel traditions. Gospel writers were now being given credit for a modicum of ingenuity in how they stitched together the discrete pieces of their Vorlage, thereby dropping hints about their implied “theology” along the way, but in using this method also, the identification of pregospel tradition still mattered first and foremost. There was still not much appreciation for the gospel writers as imaginative, creative authors or storytellers in their own right, nor was there much appreciation for how the gospels function quite successfully as integral narrative wholes, with all the various characteristics of narrative that narratologists have long discussed.13 For me the transition from redaction criticism to full-fledged literary criticism came in my 1978 dissertation, published in 1981 as Loaves and Fishes: The Function of the Feeding Stories in the Gospel of Mark.14 The bulk of this study was a traditional rhetorical-critical analysis of the two feeding stories in Mark 6 and 8, along with other seemingly matched pairs of episodes in Mark 4–8. I challenged the prevailing (and still today widely accepted) notion that the so-called doublets in Mark 4–8 were evidence of competing, parallel cycles of, once again, pregospel tradition. Instead, I argued that any perceived echoes or duplications in Mark 4–8 were likely the handiwork of the gospel writer himself. Rather than attributing creativity and ingenuity to hypothetical pregospel storytellers, I argued, we ought to be giving credit to the storyteller responsible for the story we have in hand, a certain “Mark.” A large part of this argument hinged upon a literary argument that the repetitious material in Mark 4–8 actually served to give the reader of Mark a powerful experience in working through multiple ironies in the narrative.15 The final chapter of the study was a survey of “reliable commentary” in the gospel, on the basis of which a reader could make informed decision about when, how, and 13. In retrospect it is easier to see today how pioneering redaction critics such as Marxsen, Conzelmann, and Bornkamm were already on the way toward a genuine narrative appreciation of the gospels in the 1950s and 1960s. Indeed, figures from the early twentieth century such as Wrede and Schmidt were in a way precursors not only of redaction criticism but also narrative criticism. 14. Robert M. Fowler, Loaves and Fishes: The Function of the Feeding Stories in the Gospel of Mark (Society of Biblical Literature Dissertation Series, No. 54; Chico, CA:  Scholars Press, 1981). 15. My main guide for working through the abundance of irony in Mark was Wayne C. Booth, A Rhetoric of Irony (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974).

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why an author might be employing irony or other narrative strategies. That was my transition into “reader-response criticism,” which was a lively new approach to literary criticism in the late 1970s and early 1980s. I have been a self-professed “reader-response critic” ever since. Now comes the point in my narrative where Elizabeth’s path and mine began to intertwine and have remained so ever since. For almost twenty years, in the 1980s and 1990s, the primary incubation chamber for the development of new literary approaches to the gospels within the professional ranks of the SBL was the Literary Aspects of the Gospels and Acts Group.16 Elizabeth and I were active participants in that group for all of those years. In the 1980s we began to see a steady flow of important publications from Elizabeth that have never abated over the years. Building upon her doctoral dissertation, she published a series of journal articles that eventually morphed into her first book, Narrative Space and Mythic Meaning in Mark.17 Also in the 1980s, five of us in the Literary Aspects Group who had interests in the Gospel of Mark (Janice Capel Anderson, Stephen Moore, David Rhoads, Elizabeth, and myself) put our heads together at an SBL meeting, and we hatched the idea that we might work together to produce a volume on Mark illustrating various new literary approaches to the gospel. Thus was born Mark and Method: New Approaches in Biblical Studies, which appeared in 1992.18 After an introductory chapter by editors Anderson and Moore, the next chapter was Elizabeth’s, on narrative criticism, which was only appropriate, since narratologically informed criticism undergirded everything that followed in the book, including my own chapter on reader-response criticism, as well as the chapters on deconstruction (Moore), feminist criticism (Anderson), and social criticism (Rhoads). The book sold so well that Fortress Press agreed to publish a second edition in 2008, with new chapters on cultural studies (Abraham Smith) and postcolonial criticism (Tat-siong Benny Liew). By 2008 narrative criticism was here to stay, and to one degree or another, it was in evidence everywhere in the guild. There is another important book on the narrative criticism of the gospels that has also achieved such success that it was judged worthy of not just one, but two new editions. This is Mark as Story: An Introduction to the Narrative of a Gospel, originally authored by David Rhoads and Donald Michie (1982), with Joanna Dewey joining the team for the totally rewritten edition of 1999. A third edition appeared in 2012.19 The profound influence of Mark as Story in establishing the

16. Note the arguably broader, more comprehensive term “literary” in the name of this working group. That is the term we used the most in those days to describe our emerging new scholarly interests. 17.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, Narrative Space and Mythic Meaning in Mark (San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1986). 18.  Janice Capel Anderson and Stephen D. Moore, eds., Mark and Method:  New Approaches in Biblical Studies (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1992). 19. David Rhoads and Donald Michie, Mark as Story: An Introduction to the Narrative of a Gospel (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1982); David Rhoads, Joanna Dewey, and Donald

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legitimacy of narrative criticism within biblical studies over the course of thirty years cannot be overstated. While Elizabeth and I had no involvement in the production of this landmark work of narrative criticism of the Gospel of Mark, we did both have the opportunity to contribute to a wide-ranging retrospective celebration of Mark as Story in a volume edited by Kelly R. Iverson and Christopher W.  Skinner, Mark as Story:  Retrospect and Prospect.20 As before with Mark and Method, Elizabeth’s contribution to Mark as Story: Retrospect and Prospect comes near the beginning, where it belongs, one of her many by-now-classic studies of characterization in the Gospel of Mark.21 Elizabeth’s work has always been foundational for all of the rest of us to build upon. As with two editions of Mark and Method, this retrospective tribute to three editions of Mark as Story demonstrates conclusively, as if one needed proof at this late date, that narrative criticism has achieved the status of a recognized, accepted, valid approach to the study of the Bible. Indeed, it is routinely taken for granted.22 Elizabeth’s contributions to this achievement are incalculable. Elizabeth, narrative criticism “won”! And you were always at the forefront, in the thick of the fray! Congratulations, and well done!

Michie, Mark as Story: An Introduction to the Narrative of a Gospel, 2nd ed. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1999); idem, Mark as Story: An Introduction to the Narrative of a Gospel, 3rd ed. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2012). 20. Kelly R. Iverson and Christopher W. Skinner, Mark as Story: Retrospect and Prospect (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2011). 21. Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, In the Company of Jesus: Characters in Mark’s Gospel (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2000); idem, Mark’s Jesus: Characterization as Narrative Christology (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2009). 22. Two anecdotes demonstrating the taken-for-granted validity of narrative criticism, at least within the study of Mark’s Gospel: One, several years ago, as I was working on an essay on Mark, I undertook to read one of those massive thousand-page historical-critical commentaries of Mark. I was pleasantly surprised to find narrative-critical observations scattered throughout a text that was ostensibly historical-critical in focus. Two, in November 2015 I attended a session on the Gospel of Mark at the annual meeting of the SBL in Atlanta, Georgia. The conversation that day revolved around many old, familiar themes of Markan scholarship, including Mark’s implied theology (“high” or “low”?) and hints of the historical circumstances surrounding the writing of the gospel. Even so, scholar after scholar offered off-hand narrative-critical observations into the working of Mark’s narrative, even though that was not the focus of most of the papers under discussion. The technical language of narrative criticism has become a kind of lingua franca even for scholars whose primary interests remain theology and history.

Part I T HE C REATIVE A CHIEVEMENT OF E LIZABETH S TRUTHERS M ALBON IN C ONTEXT

Chapter 1 M E A N I N G A S N A R R AT I V E Werner H. Kelber

Malbon is a narrative critic, and her approach is throughout narratological. —Joanna Dewey One of the true values of Elizabeth Malbon’s narrative work on the Gospel of Mark is that it teases out the treasures that can only be found by paying attention to the nuances of the unfolding story. —Christopher W. Skinner Thus the tension between the narrator and Jesus is not a problem to be resolved, not a gap to be filled in, but a narrative christological confession offered by the implied author to the implied audience as a challenge and a mystery. —Elizabeth Struthers Malbon1 How does one honor a colleague of distinction suitably and in a manner fitting for the genre of a Festschrift? A number of options come to mind. One can, for example, appraise the record of Elizabeth Struthers Malbon in the three quintessential areas that define a successful academic career—teaching, scholarship, and administrative work—and from the cumulative evidence draw a portrait of her academic persona. Or, one may summarize her most significant intellectual achievements and illustrate the impact they have made and the potential they hold for biblical scholarship. Alternatively, one could explore ways in which her work specifically intersects with that of others, as amply verified in the twenty-two contributions submitted by friends and colleagues to this volume. Numerous other options suggest themselves if one were to proceed selectively and combine various features of the aforementioned examples.

1.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, Mark’s Jesus: Characterization as Narrative Christology (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2009).

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Gospel Narrativity: La Longue Durée Another possibility to pay tribute to Malbon, and the one chosen for this introductory essay, is to locate her narrative work in a broader frame of historical references. The premise of this latter option is that context clarifies significance or—to use the terminology of the French Annales School—that the history of a long time span (la longue durée) discloses explanatory structures more readily than the capriciousness of short-time events. Taking the long view will assist us in understanding more comprehensively the issues concerning narrative, and in illuminating Malbon’s historic achievement in context. What is meant by context is—true to the ethos of narrative criticism—not that of factual history, but that of the history of interpretation. Rather than viewing her work as an isolated oeuvre apart from the history of biblical—and specifically narrative—criticism, it is suggested that it can be appreciated more aptly when viewed within the wider web of biblical interpretation to which she has contributed significantly. If, therefore, a sizable portion of this essay is concerned with the history, theory, and interpretation of biblical narrative, the intention is to broadly contextualize the distinctive achievement of the honoree, and in this manner disclose a perspective on her work that has, as yet, not been fully acknowledged, and may have remained unrecognized perhaps even by herself. In the history of biblical studies, the gospels have continuously challenged the interpretive skills and imagination of students of exegesis and literary theory—quite apart from inspiring readers and hearers of all walks of life. Over the centuries, the ancient narratives provided productive incentives for hermeneutical and methodological theories and became a training ground for feats of exegetical ingenuity. In modernity, a vast and still growing literature raised consciousness about issues such as factuality versus fictionality, facts versus fact-likeness, foundationalism versus revisionism, concealing versus revealing, meaning versus power, and history versus myth. And lately it is the narrative form of the gospels that has come to the fore in biblical studies. Reflecting on the hermeneutical richness and potentialities of the gospel texts, Kermode has judiciously commented, “The gospel ought to be the prize song of exegetical apprentices.”2 Narrative criticism in New Testament studies arose in the 1970s and has grown in quantity and methodological sophistication ever since. So widely acclaimed and influential has the work of numerous critics become—above all in North American biblical scholarship—that we are likely to forget that in the broader context of biblical interpretation the gospels’ narrative nature has, for a very long time, escaped the attention of New Testament scholars and theologians alike. In North American gospel studies, the narrative appreciation of the gospels almost appears to be in the process of gaining an ascendancy

2.  Frank Kermode, The Genesis of Secrecy:  On the Interpretation of Narrative (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1979), p. 15.

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over other approaches, as is also documented by many of the contributions to this volume. But far from taking the current wave of narrative criticism for granted, I intend to raise the question why, until recently, the logic of the gospels’ narrative poetics has remained strangely inaccessible to historiographical, theological, and exegetical approaches. My objective here is to gain a deeper perspective and to explore the fortunes of the gospel narrative broadly in the context of biblical hermeneutics. I propose a metanarrative with the objective of accumulating data that will help us appreciate Malbon’s place and stature in the tradition.

Referentiality and the Demise of Narrative Hermeneutics For my own introductory piece, I have chosen the theologian Hans Frei as a guide whose profound hermeneutical grasp of the modern interpretive history of biblical narrative is closely allied with an uncommon appreciation of the storied character of the gospels. What gives his work a particular edge, moreover, is that it has probed more deeply—than any other study I  am familiar with—our historical inability to come to terms with gospel narrativity. Keen understanding of the dilemma has enabled Frei to address the issue of the gospels’ narrativity from a novel angle and with a high degree of originality. The difficulty that eighteenth- and nineteenth-century biblical hermeneutics encountered in capturing narrative meaning so intrigued him that he made it the central theme of his book, The Eclipse of Biblical Narrative.3 It was Frei’s insightful appreciation of biblical narrative that ideally “rendered a world at once real and meaningful,”4 coupled with disapproval of the proposition of “meaning as reference,”5 that has made him an ideal entrée for my deliberations of the work of Malbon. Frei’s hermeneutics grew out of the understanding that the principal dilemma of our approach to the gospels had been the loss of narrative comprehension in modernity. It had occurred because logical, and often theological, priority had been given not to narrative itself, but to that which narrative was understood to be referring to. Meaning was held to be separable from narrative plot. This was true if biblical narrative was viewed as having been constructed on the rationale of historical processes—in which case the narrative’s significance was equated with external events. This was also true if biblical narrative was assumed to be controlled by theological or ethical issues—in which case ideas or values were abstracted from narrative. In both instances, meaning was held to be separable from narrative plot. In one instance, narrative appeared to

3.  Hans Frei, The Eclipse of Biblical Narrative:  A Study in Eighteenth and Nineteenth Century Hermeneutics (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1974). 4. Frei, The Eclipse of Biblical Narrative, p. 156. 5. Frei, The Eclipse of Biblical Narrative, p. 128.

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be transparent to what was assumed to matter above all else, namely historical factuality; and in the other case, narrative seemed to refer to what was likewise considered superior, namely theological and ethical ideas. In each case, a loss of narrative sensibilities had occurred, and the assemblage of events, characters, and discourse arranged in narrative form was viewed peripheral at times, transitional quite often, and entirely expendable in the extreme. Frei’s concept of narratology turned out to be extraordinarily rigorous. While his attention was chiefly directed at historical and theological referentiality, his treatment of what he termed the eclipse of biblical narrative was by no means confined to historical and ideational readings. His antireferential animus extended deeply into areas considerably more difficult to apprehend than history or theology. In Frei’s view, any reading of narrative that affirmed a reference point above, beneath, or aside from the narrative was suspect, whether that point was constituted by historical events, the general consciousness or form of life of an era, a system of ideas, the author’s intention, the inward moral experience of individuals, the structure of human existence, or some combination of them.6

What in all these instances seemed dubious to Frei was that “the meaning of the text is not identical with the text.”7 This transference of narrative meaning to external referents of whatever kind, Frei reasoned, was inadmissible because it dispensed with what ought to have mattered above all: the storied integrity of realistic narrative. He is adamant in driving home this point: narrative is solely grasped on its own, narrative terms. As the above citation demonstrates, he has employed the concept of referentiality in an uncompromisingly radical sense, and defined narrative with the rigors of a strict formalist. Paul Ricoeur has described this model of narrative hermeneutics as “the strict immanence of literary language in relation to itself.”8 It is in this spirit that Frei developed something of a pure phenomenology of narrative. One may well ask whether and to what extent practitioners and theoreticians of narrative have really championed this form of austere narrative criticism. And one can begin to ask what kind of narrative criticism Malbon has espoused and practiced.

Historical Criticism versus Narrative Criticism Hans Frei’s idea of “eclipse” implies that prior to eighteenth- and nineteenthcentury modernity, a sense of narrative reading prevailed whereby meaning was

6. Frei, The Eclipse of Biblical Narrative, p. 278. 7. Frei, The Eclipse of Biblical Narrative, p. 278. 8.  Paul Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, trans. Kathleen McLaughlin and David Pellauer (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984), vol. 1, p. 79.

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not transferred to referents, and biblical narrative simultaneously depicted and represented the reality of its subject matter. In Frei’s words, there was a precritical era, in which [the] literal explicative sense was identical with actual historical reference, literal and figurative reading, far from contradicting each other, belonged together by family resemblance and by need for mutual supplementation.9

This precritical approach, he affirmed, was the legacy of the Protestant Reformers who, despite numerous differences among themselves, came to regard the literal sense as a text’s true meaning that was understood to be in substantial agreement with its historical reference.10 It was from this Reformation ideal of unity of the literal with the historical sense that biblical hermeneutics subsequently defected, precipitating a lengthy development of historical criticism that reached a point of culmination with the separation of story from history in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It can justly be argued that Malbon’s narrative reading in no way aspires to harmonize the literal or grammatical with the historical sense in the spirit of Reformation theology. In fact, her mode of narrative criticism is basically characterized by a position of reserve toward historical criticism. Indeed, an underlying concern of her narrative work is that the vast majority of gospel commentaries were, until very recently, not story-centered and failed to convey a sense of narrative coherence, causality, and followability. Malbon is troubled by the fragmentation of biblical narrative caused by form and redaction criticism11—two prominent branches of historical criticism. Form criticism, she explained, had dismantled the gospels into ever smaller parts, and redaction criticism was deteriorating into an ever more intricate separation of redaction from tradition. Moreover, literary layers and strands that historical criticism professed to have detected in the gospel text may, in Malbon’s view, not necessarily result from developments in the history of the tradition, but could well find their explanation in literary and narratological causalities. Likewise, in the interest of eschewing “certain excesses”12 of the historical approach, Malbon views historical criticism’s customary focus on the “real” author as an overestimation of the processes of historical origination and an oversimplification of the relationship between literary text and historical genesis. Historical criticism and narrative criticism, she reasoned, operate in tension with each other, and they “differ in their basic approaches to the Gospels.”13 As she put it succinctly, “I have been trying to pay attention to what is written . . . rather than

9. Frei, The Eclipse of Biblical Narrative, p. 28. 10. Frei, The Eclipse of Biblical Narrative, pp. 18–50. 11.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, In the Company of Jesus: Characters in Mark’s Gospel (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2000), 20–21. 12. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 251. 13. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 256.

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to what is written about.”14 Similarly, she defined the relationship between the historical Questers and narrative critics as follows: “For the former, the Gospels are means, for the latter, ends.”15 Given this understanding, one cannot move casually, if at all, from the literary level of the gospel to its assumed historical source. Thus, rather than unifying story with history, Malbon seeks to overcome the perceived deficiencies and limitations of historical criticism and to “compensate for the fragmentation of the text.”16 Hence her decision to adopt the “literary turn”17 and to advance narrative, the very genre that has been subjected to the corrosive influence of historical criticism. While Malbon’s narrative shows no interest in reconciling story with history, she does, however unconsciously, appear to operate hard on the heels of Luther’s principle of the hermeneutical self-sufficiency of Scripture. To this I will return toward the end of this piece. Malbon’s reading of gospel narrative, with one significant exception, is not traceable to the Reformers and what Frei saw as their exemplary narrative hermeneutics. Furthermore, her work, at least in part, is meant to be an antidote to the detrimental impact of the historical criticism that has dominated biblical scholarship for more than two centuries. If Malbon’s work is not rooted in Reformation hermeneutics or in historical criticism, from what legacy or tradition or source does her exquisite sense of narrative poetics draw its inspiration? Stephen Moore is entirely to the point when he states that “it was a profound disgruntlement with the hegemony of historical criticism that impelled emergent narrative criticism.”18 But positively, how deeply are the roots of narrative criticism sunk in past tradition.

Hermeneutics of Signification in Ancient Linguistics, Philosophy, Theology, and in Medieval Exegesis It is again Frei’s Eclipse of Biblical Narrative, and critical reflections on his book, that will advance the argument. Reviews have not been sufficiently cognizant of the fact that his thesis concerning modernity’s loss of narrative interpretation exemplified a largely Protestant history of biblical interpretation, founded upon the assumed ideal of narrative readings in Reformation hermeneutics and centered on the rise of a heavily Protestant biblical criticism. This observation invites a series of queries that will take us far beyond the territory covered by Frei. Could not a broader perspective, and one less overtly grounded in Reformation theology, give us deeper

14. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 254. 15. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 256. 16. Malbon, In the Company of Jesus, p. 20. 17. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 255. 18.  Stephen Moore, Literary Criticism and the Gospels: The Theoretical Challenge (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989), p. 7.

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insights into the issue of narrative criticism? And if one were to locate the gospel narrativity in the larger sweep of history, would referential hermeneutics still present itself as the problem solely of the eighteenth- and nineteenth-century history of biblical interpretation? Or, still more to the point:  is referentiality, this postulation of meaning beyond, below, besides, or apart from narrative, deserving of such a categorically negative assessment, or did it not also serve as carrier of deeply held theological, not to say spiritual, aspirations? Importantly, would not la longue durée of the history of interpretation set accents differently, and provide us with a historically more reliable viewpoint from which to assess and acclaim the achievement of the honoree? And, to probe the deeper and perhaps most audacious question: can we take it for granted that the holistic reading of the gospels was as frequent an occurrence, a virtual commonplace in the Christian tradition, as is often assumed or implied? In looking backward from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries into the prior history of biblical hermeneutics, I  am proposing that a sizable segment of the premodern history of biblical hermeneutics has seized on and practiced what amounted to a form of linguistic-theological referentiality. It manifested itself prominently in the theory of the sign, a concept that accorded language referential status by endowing it with spiritual signification. It was a type of referential hermeneutics that flourished from late antiquity and throughout medieval intellectual history up to the philosophical school of nominalism and beyond into the present. In ancient history, the signs theory principally revolved around the problem of knowledge, and widely affected linguistic thought in literary, philosophical, medical, and rhetorical traditions.19 A discernible advance in the signs theory was accomplished by Augustine, who was the first among Latin authors to call words signs. With Augustine we reach for the first time an explicit fusion of the theory of the sign with the theory of language. Such a rigorous and important theoretical development remains unmatched for at least the following fifteen centuries, until Saussure’s Cours de linguistique générale is written.20

In addition to Saussure, one might mention Charles Sanders Peirce, the North American logician, mathematician, and philosopher whose complex semiotic theory stated that everything, including our thought, is a sign, which does not exist as sovereign entity, but represents something else. But nearly five centuries earlier, it was Augustine who posited that words, spoken or written alike, pointed beyond themselves and referred to, or signified, realities corresponding to or even different from language. Language, according to his way of thinking, operated in the fashion of a sign, and “a sign is a thing which, apart from the impression that is present to the senses, causes of itself some other things to enter our thought”

19.  Giovanni Manetti, Theories of the Sign in Classical Antiquity, trans. Christine Richardson (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993). 20. Manetti, Theories of the Sign in Classical Antiquity, p. 157.

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(De Doctrina Christiana 2, 1.1:  signum est enim res, praeter speciem quam ingerit sensibus, aliud aliquid ex se faciens in cogitationem venire). Put differently, owing to its signifying capacity, language cannot be taken at face value: “No one should consider [signs] for what they are but rather for their value as signs which signify something else” (De Doctrina Christiana 2, 1.1: ne quis in eis attendant quod sunt, sed potius quod signa sunt, id est, quod significant). In De Magistro, written some thirty-seven years after De Doctrina Christiana, Augustine, arguing still more boldly, chose to attribute an astonishingly provisional character to language: “By means of words, therefore, we learn nothing but words” (De Magistro 11.36: verbis igitur nisi verba non discimus). The most that could be said about words was that “they serve merely to intimate that we look for realities” (De Magistro 11.36: admonent tantum ut quaeramus res). Words are prompters, as it were, and “the realities that were signified were to be esteemed more highly than their signs” (De Magistro 9, 25.1–2: res quae significantur, pluris quam signa esse pendendas). If one were to summarize Augustine’s theory of the sign in the terminology of modern linguistics, one could say that in dealing with language, attention is being directed away from the visible signifiers to what really mattered: the invisible signifieds. In principle, Augustine’s theory of the signs character of language defined a hermeneutical process that brings to mind the one Frei had surveyed so well. It is well understood that, whereas in Frei’s case one is dealing with a historical and ideational referentiality, in Augustine’s situation one is confronted with a linguistictheological referentiality. But the decisive difference lies in their respective appraisal of the referential quality of language. While Frei strenuously objected to a broad spectrum of external referents, all of which were shown to exert a deleterious effect on narrative, Augustine had formally sanctioned the transferring propensity of language and asserted its profoundly religious value. Still, in principle, both Frei and Augustine were deeply conscious of, and indeed preoccupied with, the processes of linguistic transference. As might be expected, Augustine applied the theory of the sign preeminently to Scripture. Accordingly, biblical texts had a potentially signifying capacity, continuously pointing beyond themselves and carrying hidden meanings beneath and above the literal sense. It was precisely not the strict immanence of biblical language, but this reaching out and beyond its textual borders that rendered the Bible a book of almost impenetrable complexities and inexhaustible mysteries. This signifying status of the Bible was a hermeneutic widely shared by medieval exegetes, and a virtual commonplace in medieval theology. It kept the borders of the Bible open and drew attention to its multisensory potentials. When Kermode expressed the opinion that allegory, this trope that is destined to gesture beyond itself, was “the patristic way of dealing with inexhaustible hermeneutic potential,”21 he was unwittingly making an apt observation about the signifying hermeneutics of the Bible that was current throughout much of medieval theology. Unlike Frei’s thesis that referentiality

21. Kermode, Genesis of Secrecy, p. 44.

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was the root cause of the narrative eclipse, a broad spectrum of medieval theologians and exegetes viewed signifying referentiality as an indispensable mode of keeping texts open to new meanings with a view to exhausting the boundless riches of Scripture. And yet, one feels bound to ask in deference to Frei whether referential hermeneutics was not also a way of impeding access to the narrative reading of the gospels. If the text of the gospel meant more and other than what it says, was not the appreciation of the gospel as narrative weakened or even undermined?

Hermeneutics of Scriptural Pluralism The idea that the Bible was a reservoir of plural senses and open to multiple interpretations was systematized in the theory of the four senses of Scripture.22 In its classic formulation, it suggested that the sacred texts were amenable to four different readings: the literal or plain sense, which could be the authorial, or the historical, or the grammatically and syntactically correct one; the oblique or allegorical sense, which gestured beyond the literal sense toward deeper or higher meanings; the homiletic and often ethical sense, which drew practical lessons for everyday living; and the spiritual sense, which pointed toward higher realities. Thus was the single truth of Scripture, that it was accessible in a plurality of multiple senses. This premise of the plural senses of the Bible has remained a prized, although by no means the only, hermeneutics through the centuries right up to the Reformation, and beyond it. As is well known, the Antiochene school was inclined to give preference to the literal sense. But as far as the dominant plurality of biblical senses was concerned, Henri de Lubac called it a “theological pluralism within the unifying matrix of faith.”23 Whether one acknowledged this fourfold sense, or merely complied with a twofold sense, or inclined toward a threefold explication, the spiritual sense was in all instances accorded a position of priority. With the exception of representatives of the Antiochene school, this spiritual understanding enjoyed “the unanimity of centuries, a unanimity that abounds with witnesses from the very first generation of Christians right to the time of recent ecclesiastical documents.”24

Linguistic Deferrals and Theological Referentialities Undeniably, premises such as the signs character of language, the signifying hermeneutics of Scripture, scriptural pluralism, and the predominance of the spiritual

22.  Henri De Lubac, Medieval Exegesis:  The Four Senses of Scripture, 4  vols. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1959–64). 23. Lubac, Medieval Exegesis, p. 31. 24. Lubac, Medieval Exegesis, p. 262.

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sense were all notions profoundly religious in character and centrally embedded in medieval theology. But again, the question forces itself upon us: was this climate of linguistic deferrals and theological referentialities conducive to the cultivation of a holistic interpretation and performance of the gospels as narratives? And more strictly to the issue of Malbon’s achievement: if one takes into account her reservation concerning the limitations of historical criticism, the incompatibility of her narrative work with the Reformers’ project (with one exception), and the improbability of a medieval theological influence, how does one assess, historically and in the context of the Christian interpretive tradition of the Bible, narrative criticism and specifically Malbon’s prominent role in it? If narrative criticism and explicitly Malbon’s work were largely, though not entirely, incompatible with a hermeneutics exemplified by Reformation theology, and if implicit in the mainstream of medieval linguistics and theology were factors that discouraged a reading and interpreting of a gospel’s immanent coherence and sequential order from beginning to end, what, one is bound to ask, was the status of gospel narrativity among the early Christians. Can it be affirmed that in the early centuries the gospels were appreciated more as narrative than as reference? Can it plausibly be claimed that in early Christianity a holistic reading of the gospels as narratives was the rule, as is sometimes implied by narrative and performance critics? Or are the linguistic-theological features we found to be characteristic of medieval hermeneutics already in place in the early Christian tradition?

Hermeneutics of Scriptural Orality and Performance Criticism Until recently, scholarship has either explicitly or tacitly operated on the narrowly culture-bound notion of a private readership and silent study of gospel manuscripts. But the disciplines of rhetorical criticism, orality-scribality studies, readerresponse criticism, sound mapping and discourse analysis have all been tipping the scales in the direction of the readers, or rather hearers. Sound mapping and media studies in particular have enhanced our knowledge of the ancient communications culture and forced the question how individuals in antiquity could have been readers capable of mastering a gospel text from beginning to end. Reading in Greco-Roman antiquity, Margaret Lee and Brandon Scott have reminded us, “tended to be a phenomenon of the elites and reinforced the values of the elites.”25 It, therefore, more and more does appear to be an anachronistic proposition to imagine a large body of early Christian readers able to peruse a gospel’s narrative in a state of complete isolation from the public. But when one transposes processes of transmission and reception of gospel scripts from one of privacy and silent readings into the domain of public readings,

25.  Margaret Lee and Brandon Scott, Sound Mapping the New Testament (Salem, OR: Polebridge Press, 2009), p. 28.

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the idea of a full narrative enactment immediately gains plausibility. Some thirty years ago William Graham’s pioneering study Beyond the Written Word26 made the case for a hermeneutical fact that should long have been obvious but had remained largely unacknowledged: the oral functioning of Sacred Scripture. Operating on the global scale of world religions and in a broadly comparative context, the author proposed that Holy Scripture was something more and other than a purely literary genre. In all world religions, their respective canonical texts—in addition to being written, copied, read, and interpreted—were predominantly quoted and proclaimed, homiletically explained and midrashically explicated, musically performed, catechetically taught, listened and often responded to, and ideally internalized. Scripture in the frequently so-called religions of the book consistently operates as vox intexta, or, in Graham’s terms, as scriptural orality. Now what is conventional practice in world religions applies a fortiori to early Christian communications culture. Although individual and even silent readership cannot entirely be ruled out among a minority of early Christians, the role of lectors and the practice of recitation or reading aloud are phenomena well documented. Dan Nässelqvist has succinctly summarized the media situation:  early Christianity was “a reading culture which emphasized the hearing of literature.”27 It suggests that “for most people in antiquity ‘to read’ involved listening to someone else read the text aloud for them.”28 But even public lectorship required thorough training and expert skills: “few people, even among the educated, were capable of fluently reading an extensive text aloud without faltering or mispronunciation.”29 Mastering the scriptio continua called for special skills and training. Thus, not only were there few individuals reading privately, but few people as well capable of performing “the strenuous task of public reading.”30 Rather than being read privately, many scrolls were more likely to be reoralized publicly. More recently it has been the emerging discipline of performance criticism that made the oral rendition of biblical texts in the early Christian tradition the principal focus of exploration. It proceeded from the working hypothesis that “the first century Mediterranean world was basically comprised of oral cultures”31 and of a communications environment in which “performances were central to the life of the early Church.”32 Performance critics are acutely attuned to distinct rhetorical signals and to the cumulative rhetorical thrust of whole gospel narratives (as well

26. William Graham, Beyond the Written Word: Oral Aspects of Scripture in the History of Religion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993). 27.  Dan Nässelqvist, Public Reading and Aural Intensity: An Analysis of the Soundscape in John 1–4 (Lund: Lund University Press, 2014), p. 276. 28. Nässelqvist, Public Reading and Aural Intensity, p. 64. 29. Nässelqvist, Public Reading and Aural Intensity, p. 75. 30. Nässelqvist, Public Reading and Aural Intensity, p. 74. 31.  David Rhoads, “Performance Criticism:  An Emerging Methodology in Second Testament Studies,” Biblical Theology Bulletin 36.4, part I, p. 5. 32. Rhoads, “Performance Criticism,” p. 5.

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as other biblical texts). More importantly, they reintegrate those more-than-textual paralinguistic and multisensory features that were unable to survive the process of textualization: bodily gestures, speed of delivery, breathing pauses, pitch and inflection of voice, the sound patterning and perhaps above all the emotive power of speech. What is symptomatic of the work of performance critics is that many are themselves practitioners in the oral recitation of biblical texts. While originating in and commencing with textual materials, and remaining committed to the written products, they nevertheless reactivate the gospels in a media environment outside the pages’ controlling borders. As flesh and blood narrators they exercise narrative fluency in delivering performances to flesh and blood audiences. If one were to imagine, in Ricoeur’s phrase, “the plurality of temporalities,”33 namely different conceptualizations of time in relation to narrative—narrative time, performance time, readers’ time, and hearers’ time—the reciters of narrative gospel managed to bring narrative time into conformity with performance time. What all this suggests is that their performances are not interpretations of texts but live compositions, or rather oral recompositions that vary, in however small or large a way, with each retelling. In different words, performance criticism is transforming gospel narratives from spatialized, linearized products into temporal, multisensory experiences. Here I need to factor in one additional complication which links up with the earlier discussion of referentiality. It should not be assumed that signifying processes are the exclusive property of the written medium. Language’s capacity to point beyond itself is a commonplace of allegorical, metaphorical, and parabolic speech. Orality and rhetoric have long been familiar with metonymic expansiveness that resonates with realities beyond spoken words, and with figurative language that resists being taken at face value. However, the preceding observations suggest that the oral performance culture manages more successfully than the silent reading culture to evade all those habits that are likely to interfere with the full flow of narrative comprehension: the turning of pages back and forth, slowing down or halting the pace of reading in order to reconnect with previous gospel experiences, scanning the narrative text or skipping whole segments in search of a specific idea or passage, cross-checking verses or pericopae, and many more. Unimpeded by textual materiality and inevitable reading distractions, the oral delivery thus allows hearers the kind of direct experiential access to the gospel narrative that is denied the written medium. Oral performances, furthermore, work hand in glove with all those nonverbal cues that function in the absence of script and are an effective aid to the actualization of the narrative: the live presence of the speaker, his or her modulation of voice, and the use of gestures. As far as the latter is concerned, Nässelqvist has asserted that the practical difficulties associated with reading from a scroll were such that they “severely impeded the lector’s ability to use gestures.”34 But the employment of gestures and mimicry cannot entirely be brushed aside. Joanna Dewey in her

33. Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, p. 104. 34. Nässelqvist, Public Reading and Aural Intensity, p. 70.

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contribution to this volume proposes that the performer has the ability to sharpen the profile of narrative characters “both through the use of voice, likely also by the use of repeated gestures, and by placement (staging) within the performance area.” In fairness, performance circumstances will not be the same from one case to another. But what all this goes to show is that oral performances operate under media conditions that are ideally suited for the public reciter to narrate a strictly consecutive plot and for the hearers to participate in its sequential progression. Given the conditions of the ancient communications culture, therefore, the best chance for a gospel narrative, or any other New Testament text, to be communicated and apprehended from beginning to end was not the written medium but prevailingly, although not exclusively, oral performance.

Citational Hermeneutics This is not to say that the oral performance eo ipso assured full narrative enactment of the gospel. Not by any means. Apart from the recitation and interiorization of the unified gospel narratives, one also encounters the selective citation out of narrative contexts. It was a practice universally favored in ancient as well as medieval and modern biblical hermeneutics, and implemented both in the oral and written medium. Just as New Testament texts reflect the custom of quoting and recomposing wordings from the Hebrew Bible and other sources, so did the Church Fathers selectively summon the authority of texts remembered or copied from the New Testament or the Hebrew Bible. Peter Brown, commenting on Augustine’s impressively energetic citational habits, observed that his memory, trained on classical texts, was phenomenally active. In one sermon, he could move through the whole Bible, from Paul to Genesis and back again, via the Psalms, piling half-verse on half-verse.35

Undoubtedly, Augustine knew most biblical texts, and most certainly the gospels and the Pauline epistles, by heart. In describing the oral actualization of the Bible in liturgical and homiletical settings among the people of Augustine’s Hippo, AnneMarie Bonnardière refers to his “memorized Bible” and the people’s “mnemonic learning of the Bible.”36 The four gospels alone “constitute a third of Augustine’s biblical citations.”37 Perusal of Augustine’s sermons conveys the impression that large portions of the Bible were present in his memory, and that he felt entirely comfortable in citing selectively and out of context, as it were. Except that the idea

35. Peter Brown, Augustine of Hippo: A Biography (London: Faber and Faber, 1967), p. 254. 36.  Anne-Marie Bonnardière, “Augustine, Minister of the Word of God,” in Augustine and the Bible, ed. and trans. Pamela Bright (The Bible through the Ages, vol. 2; Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1999), p. 250. 37. Bonnardière, “Augustine, Minister of the Word of God,” p. 250.

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of biblical words being taken “out of context” would have been foreign to him and many Church Fathers. For most of them the Bible, despite its multiple sense potentials, was perceived to be a single unit, and selective parts thereof were viewed as a microcosm of the unified whole. Along similar lines, lists of preassigned readings for each day of the Church year, the so-called lectionaries, are proof of a purposefully selective use of Scripture that was authoritatively initiated and formally sanctioned. In Augustine’s case, it is to some extent possible to compile from his sermons a catalogue of assigned Bible readings. More importantly, we are in possession of approximately 2,500 lectionaries of the Greek New Testament, among them the so-called Evangeliaria or Evangelistaria, selections specifically from the gospels which comprise the majority of lectionaries.38 While we do not possess textual evidence of lectionaries for the early centuries, the practice of selecting and designating scriptural readings was a legacy of the synagogal worship service,39 and recommended and observed early on in Christian worship services (1 Thess 5:27; I Timothy 4:13; Justin Martyr, 1 Apol 67; cf. also Lk 4:16–30). Thus both citational habits that are observable in virtually all quarters of early Christian piety and practice, and the widespread use of lectionaries will caution us against assuming a universal commitment to the ideal of narrative unity and coherence. Holistic readings of biblical texts cannot be in doubt, especially in the oral mode of delivery and apperception, but those were not the only means of communicating and assimilating the narrative gospels. Indeed, extractions from the gospel narratives for citational purposes may well have been the custom more widely in use than fulllength gospel narrations.

The Prevalence of the “Eclipse of Biblical Narrative” It is a major conclusion of the preceding deliberations that the evidence for direct lines of influence connecting Malbon’s narrative work with distinctly identifiable legacies of the past is not as plainly in evidence as one might expect. Both in theory and in practice, a full narrative comprehension of the gospels, characterized by a consecutive reading from beginning to end, does not seem to be a widely established feature of ancient and medieval hermeneutics. At best, it was the literal or plain sense that took the gospel’s narrated deeds and discourses into consideration. But far from reigning supremely, that sense was partly compensated and partly superseded by other senses. There are unmistakable theories, mechanisms, and institutionalized practices in place that discouraged direct and undivided attention

38.  David Parker, The Living Text of the Gospels (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 1997), p. 12. 39. Birger Olsson, “The Hermeneutics of the Synagogue,” in The Ancient Synagogue from Its Origins until 200 C.E., ed. Birger Olsson and Magnus Zetterholm (Stockholm: Almquist and Wiksell, 2003), pp. 449–52.

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to the gospel’s narrative plot. A tendency toward historical, ideational, linguistic, and theological referentialities—deep-seated, pervasive, and difficult to overlook in the tradition—suggests that the “eclipse of biblical narrative” is a phenomenon by no means confined to eighteenth and nineteenth century hermeneutics. Through much of the history of biblical hermeneutics it was a widely held proposition that the Bible was not reducible to single sense, but that it functioned as a reservoir of a plurality of senses. Both the irreducibility to single sense and the multisensory potential is bound to have a restraining effect on the project of tracing meaning in narrative from beginning to end. Examples abound in patristic theology and exegesis of continuous testimony in praise of the inexhaustible depths, unlimited richness, and impenetrable mysteries of Scripture. Widespread also was the sense that biblical texts were concealing the wisdom of latent senses. All this represents a theological language that is remarkable for its inclination to proceed along the path of selective readings, manifold meanings, and latent senses, and not in pursuit of a gospel’s strict narrative followability. Moreover, in exegesis, homily, preaching, and liturgy, the citational extraction of particular gospel passages appears to have been the rule more than the exception. A holistic implementation of the gospel narrative was anything but a hermeneutical given in the ancient and medieval communications culture. Most importantly perhaps, theological-spiritual referentiality was anything but a hermeneutical aberration in the sense Frei had judged historical, ideational and other types of referentiality. To the contrary, there is ample exegetical documentation in medieval theology that the spiritual sense was the “full sense” (sensus plenus)40 that was held in the highest possible esteem. Attainment of this “full sense” was not, or only partially, a matter of exegetical techniques or fitting methodologies. Ultimately, the traditional understanding was the spiritual or full sense was unattainable without discernment and the gift of faith.

Narrative Criticism and Modern Critical Theory As proposed at the outset of this piece, I have sketched an overview of pertinent features of the history of biblical hermeneutics with a focus on the narrative form of the gospels. Throughout I  have traced that history with a long view toward Malbon’s narrative work. By way of explanatory and probing commentaries scattered across the survey, I  explored the roots of her narrative project, delimited its boundaries, narrowed down its distinctiveness vis-à-vis other interpretive approaches, and began to situate it in the context of the broader history of biblical narrative. The findings of this overview illuminate the status of the current, especially North American, boom in narrative criticism, and help assess Malbon’s achievement in its appropriate historical and hermeneutical setting.

40. Lubac, Medieval Exegesis, pp. 61–7, et passim.

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It was tempting to assume that her reserve toward historical criticism, coupled with her espousal of the “literary turn” in gospel studies, was associated with a return to models taken from ancient and/or medieval hermeneutics. After all, historical criticism is a paragon of modern intellectualism that was largely nonexistent in the ancient world, while a holistic comprehension of narrative in the early Christian communications culture would appear to be a natural conjecture. But if the survey has shown anything, it is that Malbon marches to a different drummer. The grounding principles of her narrative work are taken from modern critical theory—a fact Malbon is entirely cognizant of. But it merits our attention, and it requires emphasis. Rather than postulating a false familiarity with the ancient or medieval past, we recognize that it is contemporary critics, exegetes, linguists and theoreticians of narrative who have made a major impact on her work. Malbon’s narrative criticism, in all its theoretical and exegetical finesse, is a project of modernity. It is misunderstood if we think of it as a means of taking us back to the beginnings, because it is powered by modern postulates and preferences. At a later point we will have occasion to qualify this statement and point out one medieval and one ancient exception. Malbon herself names structuralism and the New Criticism among the major influences on biblical literary and narrative criticism.41 To these I would want to add a third aspect: the print medium, high tech of the fifteenth and sixteenth century, which affected all walks of modern life, including biblical scholarship. Before entering into a discussion of these three major influences, I need to make this one point: to identify the alliance Malbon’s project has formed with the spirit of modernity is not to criticize it, but to praise it.

Structuralism Significantly, Malbon’s first major work was a structural study of the gospel of Mark. Narrative Space and Mythic Meaning in Mark42 does not derive meaning from narrative itself, which is viewed as a mere surface phenomenon, but centers on a deep structure that is viewed as the driving force behind narrative. In terms of intellectual history, Malbon’s structural project draws on the work of Claude Lévi-Strauss (who in turn adapted principles taken from Ferdinand de Saussure’s structural analysis of language), and on Seymour Chatman, widely known for his analysis of the narrative structure in novels, poems, and films. Her narrative work, on the other hand, has benefited from the legacy of modern critical theory. These two approaches, structuralism and narrative criticism, do not immediately seem to be compatible. For example, while narrative is a genre predestined to process

41.  Malbon, In the Company, pp.  3–6; “Narrative Criticism,” pp.  80–81; Mark’s Jesus, p. 250. 42.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, Narrative Space and Mythic Meaning in Mark (New Voices in Biblical Studies; New York and San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1986).

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and represent temporality,43 Malbon’s structural study adopts a spatial model. As Ricoeur articulated the matter, narrative is distinguished by an “irreducibly diachronic character,” while structuralism derives its logic from “completely achronological models.”44 Despite these patent differences, one can retrospectively discern connections between the two approaches employed by Malbon. There are three features intrinsic to her structural analysis that were going to assume importance in her later narrative work. First, true to structural rules, Narrative Space and Mythic Meaning is oriented around a formalist model of narrative that heavily focuses on features of internal organization and dynamics. In principle, this structural model anticipates the procedure she was to pursue in her narrative work. Both in her structural and in her narrative studies, Malbon shows herself to be an artist in pursuit of balance, mediation, and integration. Second, much of her work displays a distinct preference for the idea that meaning emerges in a system of interrelationships. This is manifest in her structural emphasis on relations and bundles of relations, and likewise observable in her literary interpretation of characters and christology in Mark. Here as elsewhere, greater value is placed on internal interrelations than on strict narrative followability. Third, although true to structural principles Malbon centers her Markan study on the internal dynamics of opposition and mediation of three spatial suborders, structuralism, from her point of view, “does not unfold in isolation from other critical approaches to the New Testament.”45 Similarly, in her article on “Narrative Criticism” she points to the role of the “engaged reader” which “opens the door into other methods of interpretation.”46 With all her skills in implementing methodological consistency, Malbon’s structural and literary formalism is—unlike Frei’s purist phenomenology of narrative—remarkably nondoctrinaire and open-ended. The New Criticism A second influence on Malbon’s narrative work, the so-called New Criticism, flourished from the 1930s through the 1950s in Anglo-American literary criticism. Among the numerous biblical exegetes and critics Malbon cites, the following seven appear to be her frequently cited conversation partners: Norman R. Petersen, who was principally responsible for the application of literary criticism to New Testament texts, and Robert C. Tannehill, who explored the narrative worlds and unity of Luke’s gospel and Acts; David Rhoads (with Donald Michie and also Joanna Dewey), who did more than anyone to make a case for Mark as Story, and Werner H. Kelber, who was among the first to take tentative steps toward reading Mark as a coherently plotted narrative; Joanna Dewey, who

43. Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, p. 88. 44. Ricoeur, Time and Narrative, p. 56. 45. Malbon, Narrative Space, p. 13. 46. Malbon, “Narrative Criticism,” p. 87.

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has skillfully integrated orality studies and feminist interpretation with narrative poetics; Edwin K. Broadhead, who illustrated christological titles, discipleship, and the mighty deeds and teachings of Jesus as part of a comprehensive narrative design; and John R. Donahue, whose work exemplified the transition from redaction to composition criticism, who used parable as an interpretive key to the understanding of Mark’s Jesus and the Gospel of Mark, and whose “A Neglected Factor in the Theology of Mark” left a deep imprint on Malbon’s later work. To my knowledge, only one of the seven authors was consciously drawing on the legacy of the New Criticism.47 In fact, the work of a number of them is noteworthy for interfacing the literary, narratological pursuit with theological and historical concerns. For example, Donahue integrates theological language into his literary approach, while Kelber combines deliberation of Mark’s internal narrative world with interest in the social setting that occasioned it, and Dewey, as pointed out, heavily focuses on orality and feminist studies. Between the seven, it was Rhoads who programmatically developed both the descriptive and the applied poetics of narrative criticism. In “Narrative Criticism and the Gospel of Mark”48 he articulated the two founding principles of the new approach: Mark’s gospel is a unified story that is misunderstood as a redactional revision of antecedent sources, and the closely allied idea that the gospel is an integrated whole that is misinterpreted if meaning is relegated to referentiality beyond and apart from the narrative text. Meaning, so Rhoads’ understanding, is strictly procured from the narrative form and functions, and it is processed through events, settings, characters, and conflicts and the many interactions among them. Stephen D. Moore was the first to associate Rhoads’ approach, and the thrust of narrative criticism, with the New Criticism.49 Moore’s thesis is that Rhoads’ concept of narrative poetics was not the logical extension of redaction criticism into composition criticism, but the infiltration of an

47. In 1992, Edwin Broadhead laid out a formalistic methodology designed to read the miracle stories in the Gospel of Mark in a work entitled Teaching with Authority: Miracles and Christology in the Gospel of Mark (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1992), pp. 26–55. His approach investigated the narrative world in distinction from the factors and people who produced it and from those who read and interpret it. This internal analysis was built upon a narrative grammar composed of narrative morphology and narrative syntax. In later works, Broadhead identified this as a type of Biblical Formalism, and his approach is traced in the entry on “New Criticism and Formalism” in Oxford Dictionary of Biblical Interpretation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013). Broadhead has always been concerned for the connection of the narrative world to the dynamics of its production and to its appropriation by readers, and he now speaks of his work as a formalistic analysis set within a traditionsgeschichtliche (history of traditions) context. 48. David Rhoads, “Narrative Criticism and the Gospel of Mark,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 50.3 (September 1982), pp. 411–34. 49. Moore, Literary Criticism and the Gospels, pp. 7–11.

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“immigrant” concept that had been “imported” from the New Criticism.50 In his words, “Rhoads’s views of the text and of the critic’s task are essentially New Critical views.”51 Malbon confirms the often observed emergence of narrative criticism out of redaction criticism.52 With respect to her own work, however, she enters narrative criticism not via redaction and composition criticism, but by way of the formalist discipline of structuralism. Affirming her debt to the New Criticism, as I noted above, she shares, in my view, not merely vague undercurrents and peripheral affinities but some of its essential properties. First and foremost, she makes the narrative artifact and the interior narrative landscape the center of her interpretation. It follows, second, that all extrinsic aids, referentiality in all forms, including authorial intentionality, are excluded from consideration. Third, her specific narrative focus is on the hypertactic more than the paratactic style, a syntactical construction that favors subordination and interrelations over simple coordination of narrative elements.53 Deeply attentive to the narrative unfolding by way of overarching themes, anticipations, recapitulations, as well as interrelations, she uncovers complexities of the Markan plot rarely encountered before. Perhaps most importantly, she subscribes to the principle of the inseparability of form and content. Ideas are inextricably shaped and formulated by narrative configurations, and comprehensible only in their narrative engagement. This feature may best be illustrated by her treatment of christology. There is, in her view, no titular christology, only narrative that shapes the character of Jesus. While she uses the designation of narrative christology, she remains focused on multiple ways in which the narrative describes, molds, and illuminates Jesus, the gospel’s central character. And “characters are known by what they say and by what they do, and by what others . . . say and do to, about, or in relation to them.”54 No doubt, hers is a modern, New Critical treatment of the narrative role of characters. But it is precisely her interactive approach that protects her from adopting the concept of character derived from over two centuries of novelistic fiction and defined by individuality, autonomy, and psychological inwardness. Thoroughly embedded in narrative, meaning is in large measure a function of the interaction of character and narrative circumstance, and characters among themselves. Mindful of characterization as a criterion of narrative christology, Malbon ingeniously divides christology into five different categories:  enacted christology (what Jesus does), projected christology (what others say to or about him), deflected christology (how Jesus’ responds to others), refracted christology (how he bends the christologies of others), and reflected christology (as mirrored in the exemplary actions of others). Those of us who were used to reading Mark’s christology on the

50. Moore, Literary Criticism and the Gospels, pp. 7–11. 51. Moore, Literary Criticism and the Gospels, p. 10. 52. Malbon, Mark, p. 37; “Narrative Criticism,” p. 80. 53. Malbon, Mark, pp. 23–4. 54. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 17.

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basis of titular designations are invited to a noteworthy redefinition of christology as a complex, multilayered narrative web. Christology is not abstracted from narrative, and it is not even detected in narrative, but it is perceived as narrative. This is why I have placed this essay under the heading not of Meaning in Narrative, but of Meaning as Narrative. The Print Medium Perhaps more than anything else, it is print technology, a third influence on Malbon’s work, that helps explain why narrative criticism is to be viewed as a phenomenon of modernity. The argument concerning the typographic medium proceeds from the premise that print was the medium in which modern biblical scholarship was born, and from which it has acquired formative methodological tools, exegetical conventions, and intellectual habitus. Undeniably, print’s engagement in biblical scholarship does not leap to the eye, and it has remained largely unrecognized as a cultural catalyst in the making of the New Criticism and biblical narrative criticism. This is the case because the print medium is so thoroughly innate to many of our exegetical habits and conventions. Notwithstanding the advent of the digital age and the rapid acceleration of an electronic culture, we are to a considerable extent still children of print culture. Many of us have been raised on, and even trained in the print Bible. For the professionals among us, the encounter with the typographic page is as common an experience as our daily nourishment and our nightly sleep. But because we tend to be least conscious of that which has become so very much part of our scholarly self, we are not well positioned to gain (full) awareness of print’s impact. In different words: our printinduced habits of writing, reading and interpreting are so much part of ourselves that we lack the cognitive and psychological distance necessary to acknowledge their impact on our work. Yet, if we project ourselves back to times when oral tradition, oral-scribal interfaces and manuscripts were the dominant media channels, we are bound to recognize that the high tech of the fifteenth and sixteenth century carried with it the potential of changing the rules in the communications game. To fully appreciate this idea, one needs to think in the broad perspectives of media history. It is worth remembering that every spoken word and living discourse exists in, depends and thrives on its ecological environment. Oral tradition, furthermore, lives in time and exists as borderless communication. And speech, finally, is visually unrepresentable and knows of no holding places. Coming from oral sensibilities, the remarkable feature about written words is that they are subject to severe spatial constraints. Boundaries are beginning, but only beginning, to be drawn. A step removed from a sustaining lifeworld, written words exist alone in the company only of other words. They, therefore, have it now in their power to take on a life of their own, and to find meaning in language alone. But the boundaries of many ancient and medieval chirographic products were permeable and not strictly drawn. For example, ancient manuscripts were frequently “works in progress,” subject to alteration and rewriting. While the reasons for redrafting scripts were

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manifold, “revision was a common practice.”55 The sense of textual stability that came with print did not yet exist. Gurd, who has written extensively on the phenomenon of scribal revision among Roman and also Hellenistic authors painted “an image of textuality as a plural field characterized by flux and change.”56 In all probability, oral-derived texts such as the gospels remained open for recitational, proclamatory, didactic, and homiletic purposes. On the one hand, the Middle Ages were more text-centered, and increasingly capable of exploiting the potential resources inherent in the chirographic medium. In the words of Brian Stock, “Texts gradually acquired the capacity to shape experience itself and to operate as intermediaries between orally transmitted ideas and social change.”57 And yet, the degree to which manuscripts remained allied with, dependent on, and in service to oral, rhetorical interests is, from the modern print perspective, difficult to imagine.58 Along similar lines, Mary Carruthers has thoroughly documented the symbiotic relationship between medieval manuscripts and memory, developing the overall concept of a complex oral-scribal-memorial medieval culture.59 In broad terms, both Stock and Carruthers interpret the Middle Ages not as a strictly documentary history, but as a complex oral-scribal-memorial media culture. What is new about the advent of print is that it took full, technological charge over the page. The result was typographic space: each page was systematically formatted, meticulously linearized with equidistant lines perfectly aligned along fully justified margins—left and right, top and bottom. And the point we should never lose sight of is that the communications revolution was ushered in with Gutenberg’s forty-two-line Bible, which provided the media model for the kind of Bible modern biblical scholarship was henceforth going to make use of. The materiality of the print Bible was to have a profound impact on the epistemology of scholarship. Walter Ong aptly writes about “the diagrammatic tidiness which printing was imparting to the realm of ideas.”60 With the borders firmly closed, or better perhaps, with print creating the illusion of closed borders, the media conditions were now in place to think of a gospel as narrative space and accessible to the viewer for analysis and exploration with regard to internal patterns and configurations. To my knowledge, the only biblical scholar who

55.  Sean Alexander Gurd, Work in Progress: Literary Revision as Social Performance in Ancient Rome (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), p. 13. 56. Gurd, Work in Progress, p. 6. 57.  Brian Stock, The Implications of Literacy:  Written Language and Models of Interpretation in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries (Princeton: Princeton University Press), p. 527. 58. Walter Ong, The Presence of the Word: Some Prolegomena for Cultural and Religious History (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1967), pp. 53–63, et passim. 59.  Mary Carruthers, The Book of Memory:  A Study of Memory in Medieval Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990). 60. Walter Ong, Ramus: Method and the Decay of Dialogue: From the Art of Discourse to the Art of Reason (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1958), p. 311.

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seems to have recognized connections between print and narrative criticism was Stephen Moore: “Narrative criticism, which tends to conceive of the text in terms of wholeness, the integration of parts, well-formedness . . . is no less the unwitting purveyor of print-derived habits of thought.”61 However direct or subliminal the impact of print may have been, fact is that the New Criticism was flourishing when the technologizing impact of print had reached its peak, while narrative criticism of the Bible came into its own at the point of transition from the typographic to the electronic medium. In conclusion, I reiterate the point made once before; to acknowledge the work of Malbon as modern and as a product of print culture is not to criticize it, but to praise it. The full rationale for this assessment will be given at the very end of this essay. Here is the point to return to an issue raised earlier. I had suggested that on the whole Malbon’s narrative criticism was incompatible with Reformation hermeneutics—with one exception. Luther’s well-known dictum that “Holy Scripture is its own interpreter” (Scriptura sacra sui ipsius interpres) may not strike the modern reader as particularly unusual, precisely because it has a very modern ring to it. What Luther himself had in mind was that hearers ought to let Scripture have its way with them because the Spirit had authored the sacred text and was speaking through it. While his statement may sound like a theological commonplace to us, it was not that to his contemporaries. In medieval Christianity and Catholic theology, Scriptura sacra sui ipsius interpres was an unacceptably audacious proposition, because it alienated the Bible from all extrabiblical authorities:  the Pope, councils, theology, and above all from tradition. But from the hindsight of modernity one may justly view Luther’s statement as an advocacy of Scripture’s hermeneutical self-sufficiency, the very principle that found its most conspicuous expression in structuralism, the New Criticism, and biblical narrative criticism. With respect to this one principle, Malbon’s narrative work is heir to Reformation hermeneutics. By way of example, when she makes reference to “the creativity of the Markan narrative itself,”62 she strikes a formalist note that closely resembles Luther’s Scriptura sacra sui ipsius interpres. Narrative and Discourse Malbon’s work increasingly signals sympathy with orality and performance critical studies. This appears to be the case in her study of Hearing Mark: A Listener’s Guide, which intends to illustrate “the rhetoric of the gospel,” and unmistakably affirms that it “was meant to be heard altogether.”63 The book is a

61. Moore, Literary Criticism of the Gospels, p. 96. 62. Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “The Jesus of Mark and the ‘Son of David,’ ” in Between Author and Audience in Mark:  Narration, Characterization, Interpretation, ed. Elizabeth Struthers Malbon (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2009), p. 173. 63.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, Hearing Mark: A Listener’s Guide (Harrisburg:  Trinity Press, 2002), pp. 4–5.

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“creative retelling” of Mark64 and follows the narrative sequence from beginning to end. Since narrative criticism for Malbon is driven by a “holistic passion,”65 might one not assume a favorable disposition toward narrative in the performance medium that could have had the best chance of grasping the story as a whole? But strictly speaking, Hearing Mark inhabits not the performance arena, but a narrative critical environment. The book retains chapter and verse division, charts the gospel’s framing arrangements, and divides the text into four major sections under the rubric of kingdom, community, discipleship, and suffering. Despite tentative concessions to the hearing of the story, Malbon remains at heart a narrative critic, committed to descriptive poetics and spatial designs, more than to oral, performative dynamics. In keeping with the first epigraph to this essay, Malbon, in Dewey’s words, is a narrative critic whose “approach is throughout narratological.” And yet, embedded in Malbon’s narrative criticism is an oral, rhetorical dimension. The latter is conventionally referred to as the discourse character of narrative, which deals with the communicative relationship of the author with the audience. The question of how Mark communicates with his audience is all the more relevant since, as Malbon readily agrees, the gospel “was written to be heard.”66 Two closely interrelated principles determine the gospel’s rhetorical function. One is the understanding that Markan rhetoric is “narrative rhetoric.”67 It suggests secondly that rhetoric is to be “appreciated at the level of the scene”68 and by the manner in which the gospel story is constructed. In Mark, this includes the placing of episodes, the juxtaposition of events, framing arrangements, intercalations, repetitions, echoes and foreshadowings, characters, and the interaction of these and many other features. When one notices that these are all intrinsic parts of the narrative’s management, contributing elements to the gospel’s emplotment strategies, one wonders what their distinctly rhetorical function might be. The question is how Malbon holds together intratextual configurations and a pragmatic orientation toward readers/hearers. At this point, the communicative roles of the implied author (narrator) and the implied reader (narratee) come into play. Following Chapman’s communications model, implied author and implied reader have become a frequent item in reader-response criticism. In the absence of historical author and audience, they are to be understood as characters or dynamics, molded by the text and entirely a property of the narrative. With Malbon, one will be justified in viewing them as theoretical and hypothetical constructs. And with Stephen Moore, one may describe the reading experience ascribed to the implied reader as “an ineluctably cerebral one”: none of the readers “shivers or weeps.”69 But by means of the implied author and implied reader Malbon succeeds in introducing

64. Malbon, Hearing Mark, p. 6. 65. Malbon, In the Company, p. 20. 66. Malbon, Mark, p. 7. 67. Malbon, In the Company, p. 18. 68. Malbon, In the Company, p. 20. 69. Moore, Literary Criticism of the Gospels, p. 96.

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the communicative dimension into the text: the implied author’s communication with the implied reader is what constitutes the discourse level. In answer to the question raised above, Malbon reconciles the literary, narratological turn with the pragmatic, rhetorical turn by subsuming the latter under the former. To the extent that implied author and implied reader intimate rhetorical sensibilities, these are projected as inside views that, rather than representing outside realities, work themselves out in the discourse processing of the narrative. The result is what she calls Mark’s “narrative rhetoric.” In her essay on “The Jesus of Mark and the ‘Son of David’ ” Malbon demonstrates the usefulness of her narrative-rhetorical apparatus. Under Malbon’s editorship, her contribution appeared, along with eight other essays, in the volume Between Author and Audience in Mark.70 What characterizes these essays is that they move between implied and historical author, and implied and historical audience, the latter ranging from a first century to a post-Holocaust setting. Not unexpectedly, Malbon’s own essay forgoes working with historical author and audience. The uniqueness of her contribution is based on two methodological decisions, both drawn from the narrative critical repertoire. First, she abandons titular christology, prominently represented by Ferdinand Hahn in his classic study of Christologische Hoheitstitel (1963). And second, she addresses the old query whether the designation Son of David is acknowledged or disputed in Mark not by exploring the title’s history of the tradition, but by delving into its enmeshment in the Markan narrative. In other words, her critical focus is directed toward the fate of the Son of David in the discourse between the Markan narrator, the Markan Jesus and characters (Bartimaeus, the crowd outside Jerusalem, the voice of God) on one side and the implied audience on the other. Malbon’s observations are as follows: the narrator introduces Jesus as Christ, but not as Son of David (1:1); the Markan Jesus rejects the linking of Christ with Son of David (12:35–37a): Bartimaeus’ Son of David exclamation, made in his state of blindness (10:47–8), is neither taken up by the narrator, nor by the Markan Jesus (and not confirmed by the voice of God); and the crowd’s acclamation concerning “the coming kingdom of our ancestor David” (11:9–10) remains unconfirmed both by the narrator and the Markan Jesus—it is considered “problematic” by Malbon71 (168) because the Markan Jesus continuously speaks of the kingdom not of David, but of God. The christology concerning the Son of David is thus complex, but given the diversity of narrative voices, not an inconsistent one. In the end, the implied audience is expected to acknowledge the inappropriateness of the Son of David designation. Abandoning titular christology altogether, Malbon’s study features the depth, nuance, and complexity of narrative christology which is defined by what Jesus says and how others deal with the titular designation of Son of David.

70.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, Between Author and Audience in Mark:  Narration, Characterization, Interpretation (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2009). 71. Malbon, “The Jesus of Mark and the ‘Son of David,’ ” p. 168.

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Concluding Thoughts on Malbon’s Creative Achievement A long journey has finally arrived at its destination. All along, a major thesis has been that Malbon’s engagement with narrative criticism is by and large a manifestation of modernity’s sensibilities. Unlike ancient exegetical practices and medieval theories of language and cognition, it strikes new paths in biblical hermeneutics. But there are exceptions to the thesis. I had singled out Luther’s theory of scriptural self-sufficiency that found its modern equivalent in structuralism, the New Criticism, and in the narrative criticism of the Bible. In conclusion I seek to make the case for Malbon, the narrative critic, as an however unwitting heir to yet another tradition of the distant past. One last time I return to patristic as well as medieval theology to demonstrate an umbilical link with the hermeneutics of modern narrative criticism. Ancient and medieval theology abounds in words of the highest commendation for the fecundity and rich hermeneutical potentials of Scripture. In a sheer never-ending profusion of metaphors, exegetes sing the praises of the virtual inexhaustibility of the Bible. By way of example: Scripture is a robe woven with a thousand colors. Or: it resembles a fountain—the more water is drawn from it, the less it is depleted. Or: it is similar to a fertile field in which something always remains to be harvested. Or: it is like a forest with innumerable trees and branches. When viewed broadly in the history of the hermeneutical tradition, Malbon’s creative achievement may be seen as the rediscovery in modern clothing of the fecundity of Scripture, an idea that patristic and medieval exegesis had ceaselessly insisted on. As narrative critic, Malbon is not inclined to look through a narrative’s window at the historical references, but she is rather focused on the narrative picture itself, taking pleasure in all its parts and appreciating their formation into a whole. Intently focused on narrative space, she explores its patterns and configurations, as well as its narrative logic and causalities. And in doing so, she takes the greatest possible advantage of the text’s innate properties, pointing out countless connectivities and interrelationships. In keeping with the second epigraph to this essay, Malbon, in Skinner’s words, is masterful in teasing out the often unexplored narrative treasures of the gospel. I am inclined to hold the view that Malbon’s supremely creative achievement has been the employment of modern, narrative critical tools with a view toward uncovering the fecundity of the Gospel of Mark. Malbon’s exploration of scriptural fecundity finds its exegetical expression in the plurality of narrative voices. By way of example, I reflect on the Markan narrator and the Markan Jesus, a relationship to which Malbon attaches great importance. Although there are crucial areas of agreement between the two, there exists a difference or creative tension between them as well. While the narrator boldly introduces the main character as “Jesus Christ, the Son of God,” Jesus is far more reluctant to reveal his own identity. Furthermore, the designation Son of Man is exclusively used in Jesus’ words. In fact, aside from Jesus, the designation is nowhere to be found: not in addresses directed to Jesus, not in somebody’s statement about Jesus, nor in any single narrative aside. The Markan narrator, however,

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never takes over the title from Jesus. Also, the Markan Jesus freely refers to the in-breaking of the kingdom of God, but exercises a remarkable reservation to disclose his own identity. The narrator, on the other hand, seems to have no qualms to affirm Jesus and God, but refrains from announcing the kingdom of God. In conclusion I  suggest that musical orchestration might be an appropriate model to illuminate Malbon’s engagement with the Markan narrative. The gift she has presented us with is comparable to a musical score, composed not in the baroque and classical mode of Johann Sebastian Bach, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart or Joseph Haydn, but in the modern mode of Gustav Mahler, Claude Debussy, or Richard Strauss. The score she has been developing is unlike musical compositions that are fully coordinated and entirely in sync. Nor does it favor postmodern musical expressions that incline toward tonal discrepancies and inconsistencies. Rather, her preferred type of narrative orchestration is located precisely in the space between classic historical criticism’s and postmodernism’s textual labyrinth that knows neither foundation nor exits. One may describe her score as an experiment in polyphonic tonality. Malbon’s narrative model is capable of harboring plural voices, many similar and compatible, some dissimilar and incompatible. A plurality of instrumental voices and numerous instrumental interactions generate unconventional sound effects. She breaks with the classical past (of historical criticism), but never completely. On the other side, she refrains from adopting full harmony and shows no inclination to abstract theology/christology from narrative. Throughout she remains loyal to the spirit of her narrative score, without necessarily harmonizing Interior tensions and discrepancies. As she states in the third epigraph to this essay, in the relations between the narrator and Jesus tensions may have to remain unresolved and gaps need to be filled. Or as she phrased it elsewhere in a bow to postmodernism: “it is good for narrative criticism to be reminded of . . . the tensions, gaps, and mysteries of the text itself—even the text against itself.”72

72. Malbon, In the Company, p. 20.

Part II I SSUES IN M ETHODOLOGY

Chapter 2 E L I Z A B E T H S T RU T H E R S M A L B O N ’ S C O N T R I BU T IO N T O O U R U N D E R STA N D I N G O F M A R K ’ S C H R I ST O L O G Y R. Alan Culpepper

Elizabeth Struthers Malbon’s Mark’s Jesus advanced both narrative criticism of Mark and our understanding of Mark’s christology.1 By focusing on the basic elements of characterization (what the character does, what others say, what the character says in response, what the character says instead, and what others do) Malbon constructed a bridge from characterization to christology. Her analysis is marked by clarity and rigor regarding both narrative elements (implied author, narrator, character, and historical figure) and Mark’s use of the various christological titles. As a result, she is able to distinguish the points of view of the implied author, the narrator, and Mark’s Jesus more clearly than previous authors. My aim is to describe what I perceive as the main contribution of Mark’s Jesus, which is but one aspect of Elizabeth’s fruitful career of reading and teaching others to read this gospel. The following paragraphs focus on her keen observations about the perspectives of the narrator, the Markan Jesus, and the implied author, especially in the opening and closing verses of the gospel.

The Narrator and Jesus Malbon’s careful analysis of the various narrative layers of Mark’s christology enables her to distinguish points of view more clearly than previous studies. In particular, she concludes that the point of view of the Markan Jesus and the Markan narrator do not always coincide, and one must similarly distinguish the point of view of the Markan narrator and the Markan implied reader. The key to the argument is that the narrator is assertive, ascribing to Jesus the titles Christ and Son of God in Mark 1:1, while Jesus is reticent, deflecting honor to God. In Mark, paradoxically, it is the narrator and the unclean spirits that acclaim Jesus as “Son of God,” and whenever Jesus is confronted with the acclamation he 1.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, Mark’s Jesus: Characterization as Narrative Christology (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2009).

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silences and exorcizes the demons. For example, when the unclean spirits shout “You are the Son of God!” Jesus “sternly ordered them not to make him known” (Mk 3:11–12; cf. 1:24–5; 5:7–8). Similarly, when the rich man asks Jesus, “Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus responds, “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone” (Mk 10:17–18). As Bultmann said, however, “The proclaimer becomes the proclaimed,”2 and the narrator in Mark identifies Jesus as “Son of God.” Malbon contends that the ideological points of view of the Markan narrator and the Markan Jesus overlap without coinciding and differ without loss of reliability.3 The argument depends heavily but not entirely on Mark 1:1, which Malbon takes to be the title of the entire gospel. As T. W. Manson observed sixty-five years ago, The opening of Mark has long been as difficult a problem to commentators as its close, in some ways even more difficult. Verse 1 offers a subject with no predicate; vv. 2 and 3 a subordinate clause with no main clause; and v. 4 gives a statement of fact about John the Baptist, which seems to have some links in thought with what has gone before, but no obvious grammatical connexion.4

To this list we may add the meaning of “beginning” in this context, the question of whether euangelion refers to the oral proclamation of the “good news” about Jesus or a written account of his ministry, and the omission of the title “son of God” in some manuscripts. Is Mark 1:1 part of the first sentence of the gospel, or a superscription or textual marker, and if the latter who placed it there? N. Clayton Croy advanced the challenging thesis that the Gospel of Mark suffered mutilation, losing both its beginning and its ending, and that Mark 1:1 was added by a scribe late in the second century, who thereby identified the mutilated work.5 This theory, though bold, solves a number of difficulties. “Beginning” would signal that this was the beginning of the gospel text, which began abruptly with verse 2, “as it is written,” and “gospel” would mean the written text that follows rather than the oral proclamation of the “good news” (as it does in Mk 1:14–15). The jury is still out, but obviously if this thesis stands it will alter significantly our narrative reading of Mark and its christology unless one defines the task at the outset as a reading of the canonical or received Mark. If Mark 1:1 is removed from the playing field, the

2. Rudolf Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament, trans. K. Grobel (New York: Scribner’s, 1951–5), vol. 1, p. 33. 3. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 237. 4. T. W. Manson, “The Life of Jesus: A Survey of the Available Material: 2. The Foundation of the Synoptic Tradition,” John Rylands Library Bulletin 28:1 (1944), pp. 121–2; reprinted in Studies in the Gospels and Epistles (Manchester: Manchester University, 1962), pp. 30–31. 5.  N. Clayton Croy, “Where the Gospel Text Begins:  A Non-Theological Interpretation of Mark 1:1,” NovT 43 (2001), pp. 105–27; The Mutilation of Mark’s Gospel (Nashville: Abingdon, 2003).

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game changes. Malbon includes a section on “What the Narrator Says about Jesus in the Rest of the Gospel” and a footnote later on distinctive speech characteristics of Jesus and the narrator,6 but her argument for the distinction between the assertive narrator and the reticent Jesus in Mark still rests heavily on accepting Mark 1:1 as the narrator’s opening words. Regardless of its origin, Mark 1:1 is part of the gospel’s paratext. Massimo Fusillo summarized Gérard Genette’s definition of paratext as “the borderland of titles, subtitles, intertitles, epigraphs, prefaces, dedications, commentaries, and interviews.”7 Writing on the “patterns of closure in ancient narrative,” Fusillo found that the endings of ancient novels can be analyzed in terms of four elements: (1) succession, “a proleptic reference to the future of the story beyond the limits of the novel”; (2) duration of the closing scene or summary; (3) perspective, “i.e., whether or not we conclude with a character’s point of view”; and (4)  voice, “whether a narrator or character is speaking.”8 The same elements might serve as a guide for further analysis of Mark 1:1–4: (1) Succession: What precedes the beginning of the narrative about Jesus? (2)  Duration: Is the opening statement a scene or summary? How much time is covered, and how much initial exposition is given? (3) Perspective: Whose perspective is expressed in the opening words? And (4)  Voice: Who is speaking? To these we might add (5)  Themes (or titles): What themes or titles are introduced? and (6)  Correspondence: how does the introduction function in relation to the themes, characters, plot, and ideology of the narrative it introduces? Parenthetically, let me add that Malbon’s conclusions regarding distinction in point of view between the narrator and Jesus hold true for the Gospel of John also. The narrator uses the title logos of Jesus in the prologue, but Jesus never uses this title of himself even though the Johannine Jesus is not reticent about claiming metaphorical titles in the “I am” statements.

The Implied Author Malbon rightly insists that both the Markan narrator and the Markan Jesus are creations of the implied author. One must therefore distinguish between the point of view of the narrator and the implied author. The result is that the implied author sets up a tension between the Markan Jesus and the Markan narrator.9 We need to

6. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, pp. 66–70, 238, n. 22. 7. Massimo Fusillo, “How Novels End: Some Patterns of Closure in Ancient Narrative,” in Classical Closure:  Reading the End in Greek and Latin Literature, ed. Deborah H. Roberts, Francis M. Dunn, and Don Fowler (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997), p.  211, citing Gérard Genette, Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation (trans. Jane E. Lewin; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). 8. Fusillo, “How Novels End,” p. 211. 9. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 240.

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recognize, however, that demonstrating a distinction in voice between the central character and the narrator does not necessarily establish that there is a difference in ideology between the narrator and the implied author, and certainly not that the narrator is unreliable. For that to be the case one would need to show that the implied author renders the narrator’s voice suspect, or gives the reader reason to view the character differently than he (in this case) is portrayed by the narrator. That, I take it is not Malbon’s argument. She contends for a more subtle nuance— one that represents a significant contribution to Markan scholarship. Neither the christology of the narrator, she claims, nor the christology of Jesus is false, but they stand in creative tension through most of the gospel. Plots revolve around conflict, and in Malbon’s reading of Mark there is a subplot: a christological tension between the narrator and Jesus. The narrator makes claims for Jesus that Jesus first silences, later interprets, and only accepts when the alternative might save him from death. Mark’s “messianic secret” is therefore placed in a new perspective. The book’s last sentence echoes the challenge Mark’s ending leaves with the reader:  “The tension between the narrator and Jesus is not a problem to be resolved, not a gap to be filled in, but a narrative Christological confession offered by the implied author to the implied audience as a challenge and a mystery.”10 Is there a functional or effectual difference between a problem or a gap on one hand a challenge and a mystery on the other? Do not all of these terms denote a narrative situation that invites, perhaps even compels, the reader to seek a resolution—even if one is not forthcoming? If so, there are two possible resolutions: (1) the implied author may critique or undermine both the narrator and the character by placing them in tension with one another; or (2) the implied author may use one to qualify the other. In Mark the latter seems to be the case because in the end Jesus accepts the title “Son of God” (literally, “Son of the Blessed One”) in 14:61–2, and the centurion’s confession strategically employs the title “Son of God” also (15:39). The dead Jesus, who can no longer deflect honor, has in fact succeeded in establishing his christology, however: the only way to accurately characterize him is to name his relation to God. Elizabeth Struthers Malbon’s penetrating analysis of the characterization of Jesus in Mark succeeds also. She has offered a model of close reading, analytical clarity, and discernment of the various voices in the gospel that brings its christology into striking relief, and for that we should all applaud her.

10. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 258.

Chapter 3 B E C OM I N G A D I S C I P L E W I T HO U T S E E I N G   J E SU S Narrative as a Way of Knowing in Mark’s Gospel Elizabeth E. Shively

One of Elizabeth Struthers Malbon’s most far-reaching contributions to Markan studies is through her revision of our understanding of characters and characterization. She has pushed the boundaries of our thinking by showing how to understand characters both contextually and relationally. In addition, she has modeled how to ask not only what the story says, but also how the story means by focusing on the way the implied author conveys characters to the implied audience through literary features and narrative presentation.1 It appears as if Elizabeth has written on all the Markan characters: the disciples and the crowd, the women, the Jewish leaders, the “minor” characters, and, most recently, Jesus. There is in many ways little to add to her scholarship; but I would like to honor Elizabeth by extending her work on the disciples. I intend this essay more as building material set upon the impressive foundation that she has so carefully laid than as an entirely new or altered structure. Malbon has developed the thesis that the disciples are fallible followers, portrayed with both strong and weak features “in order to serve as realistic and encouraging models for hearers/readers who experience both strengths and weaknesses in their Christian discipleship.”2 In various studies, she investigates the 1. Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “Texts and Contexts: Interpreting the Disciples in Mark,” in In the Company of Jesus: Characters in Mark’s Gospel (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2000), pp. 100–130 (115). 2.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “Discipleship/Crowds/Whoever:  Markan Characters and Readers,” in In the Company of Jesus, pp.  70–99 (71). She also argues this thesis in “Fallible Followers: Women and Men in the Gospel of Mark,” in In the Company of Jesus, pp. 41–69, and “Text and Contexts: Interpreting the Disciples in Mark,” in In the Company of Jesus, pp. 100–130. See also Robert C. Tanehill, “The Disciples in Mark: The Function of a Narrative Role,” Journal of Religion 57 (1977), pp. 386–405; and Joanna Dewey, “Point of View and the Disciples in Mark,” in 1982 Seminar Papers (SBLASP 118; Chico, CA; SBL, 1982), pp. 97–106.

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internal relations of the text to reach the conclusion that the implied author portrays the disciples as complex figures. According to Malbon, the implied audience shares the disciples’ situation and so identifies with them; but they identify with Jesus’ values.3 Also, the implied author helps the implied audience to relate to the disciples by building relations between the disciples and other characters in the narrative.4 Through these relations among characters, Mark builds a composite portrait of Jesus’ followers5 and, as a result, “discredits not the disciples, but the view of discipleship as either exclusive or easy.”6 I agree with Malbon’s conclusions, but I wish to extend them by asking a new question and accessing new resources to investigate how it is that the disciples may serve as models for a real audience. I build on narrative criticism’s question of how the story means also to ask why the story means. This question seeks the way narrative understanding works as a sense-making activity. This question seeks reasons for acting; however, it is not a question narrative critics have typically asked. Thus, I employ the sciences of mind in order to look at how the Gospel of Mark functions as a resource for passing on knowledge about what it means to be a disciple. The cognitive sciences are interested, in part, in how narratives restructure our conceptual patterns for making sense of the world. In this study, I am interested in how the disciples may function as models for making sense of the actions of others and our own. I look at how the disciples learn what it means (and what it does not mean) to follow Jesus through their interactions with Jesus in the course of the narrative. Through the narrative experience of the disciples’ following, I propose, the audience learns a cognitive model of following Jesus.7 Before turning to Mark’s narrative, I  lay a bit of groundwork on the intersection of narrative criticism and the cognitive sciences as it pertains to my interpretative goals.

Approaching the Task: The Intersection of Narratology and Cognitive Science According to cognitive theory, we organize what we know about the world according to what we already know and experience.8 That is, based on past knowledge 3. Malbon, “Texts and Contexts,” pp. 100–130 (117). 4. See Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “Echoes and Foreshadowings in Mark 4–8: Reading and Rereading,” JBL 112 (1993), pp. 229–30, in which she discusses the way that the implied author employs literary features such as repetition to create a corresponding relationship between the characters and the readers/hearers. 5. Malbon, “Texts and Contexts,” pp. 100–130 (117). 6. Malbon, “Texts and Contexts,” pp. 100–130 (119). 7. An important part of the disciples’ characterization is their relationship to the crowds and to minor characters, as Elizabeth Struthers Malbon has shown in In the Company of Jesus; but this is beyond the scope of the essay. 8.  See George Lakoff ’s discussion of the development of cognitive models, Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things: What Categories Reveal about the Mind (Chicago:  University

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and experience,9 we build mental models or frameworks as summary representations of whole categories; then we use these models to determine expectations in social and textual contexts.10 Daniel Chandler provides a useful way of mapping the process by which we form mental models, or what he calls schemas11: 





A schema can be envisaged as a kind of framework with “slots” or “variables,” some of them filled in and others empty. The slots are either filled in already with compulsory values (e.g., that a dog is an animal) or “default values” (e.g., that a dog has four legs) or are empty (optional variables until “instantiated” with values from the current situation (e.g., that the dog’s color is black). When what seems like the most appropriate schema is activated, inferences are generated to fill any necessary but inexplicit details with assumed values from the schema.12

For example, an individual or community builds (“activates”) a mental model of “mother” by filling in the variables of the framework with compulsory values (e.g., that a mother is a female parent), default values (that a mother gives birth)13 and optional values that are generated from the context (e.g., the mother exhibits care and affection). This mental model generates values for evaluating and interpreting future encounters with individual mothers in the world or in texts, confirming, challenging, or even reshaping the mental model of “mother.” Narratives function as resources for making sense of the world by portraying the experiences of individuals-in-the-world, thereby allowing audiences to construct and evaluate mental models of persons. Scholars in the psychology and philosophy of mind have demonstrated that storytelling is one of the key ways of Chicago Press, 1987), pp. 1–154. On pp. 39–57, Lakoff builds upon Eleanor Rosch’s pioneering work, in which she overturns the classical idea of categories and develops the idea that people conceptualize prototypes and then see other members of the category in relation to the prototype. Eleanore Rosch, “Cognitive Representations of Semantic Categories,” Journal of Experimental Psychology: General 104 (1975), pp. 192–233; see especially p. 193. See the development of her ideas in Eleanor Rosch and Barbara B. Lloyd, eds., Cognition and Categorization (Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum, 1978). 9.  This is the “frame of reference” from a narratological perspective. Mieke Bal refers to the frame of reference as communal information, or the influence of reality on the story (Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative, 3rd ed. [Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009], pp. 121–3). 10.  George Lakoff calls these mental frameworks “idealized cognitive models” (“ICMs”), in Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things, pp. 68–76. See also the development of this idea in Chandler, “Schema Theory and the Interpretation of Television Programmes” (Aberystwyth:  Media and Communications Studies Site, University of Wales, 1997). www.visual-memory.co.uk/daniel/Documents/short/schematv.html. 11. Chandler, “Schema Theory.” 12. Chandler, “Schema Theory.” 13. Some mothers adopt, but would still be recognized as mothers.

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that human beings make sense of experience, reason about others’ and their own actions, and find patterns for thinking and behavior.14 According to pioneering psychologist Jerome Bruner, “We organize our experience and memory of human happenings mainly in the form of narrative—stories, excuses, myths, reasons for doing and not doing, and so on.”15 Philosophical psychologist Daniel Hutto builds on Bruner’s work to show how stories play a key developmental role in allowing children to acquire beliefs and attitudes so that they may understand what is required in order to take certain actions.16 From an early age, Hutto argues, stories suggest, “how a person’s reasons can be influenced by such things as their character, history, current circumstances, and larger projects.”17 Children learn “which kinds of factors must be taken into account and adjusted for when it comes to making sense of the stories that others tell about the reasons why they acted, as well as learning what needs mentioning when providing their own accounts.”18 In short, storytelling provides a pattern or model for thinking and acting. Narratives function as sense-making resources for two reasons.19 First, a narrative fits events that otherwise might appear to be unconnected into a temporal structure of cause-and-effect relationships so that a character’s words and actions may be explained in terms of a broader, unfolding pattern that leads up to the present moment. Human beings tend to organize experience into bounded, recognizable, and memorable segments or “chunks.”20 For example, we find it easier to memorize a seven-digit phone number than a longer sequence. While a

14.  Jerome Bruner, Actual Minds, Possible Worlds (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 1986). David Herman, Storytelling and the Sciences of Mind (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2013), p. 227. Storytelling is not the only way that people make sense of experience. Other ways might include conversation, verbal instruction, and ceremonies. Eric Eve, Behind the Gospels: Understanding the Oral Tradition (Minneapolis:  Fortress, 2014), p.  92. David Herman discusses the limitations of storytelling in Storytelling and the Sciences of Mind, pp. 80–94. 15. Jerome Bruner, “The Narrative Construction of Reality,” Critical Inquiry 18 (1991), p. 4. This research is harmonious with social memory theory by which recently some biblical scholars explain both the transmission of the Jesus tradition and the interpretation of the gospel narratives. See Eve, Behind the Gospels, pp. 91–8. 16.  Daniel D. Hutto, “The Narrative Practice Hypothesis:  Origins and Applications of Folk Psychology,” in Narrative and Understanding Persons, ed. Daniel D. Hutto (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2007), pp. 43–68. Hutto bases his work on that of Jerome Bruner. See also Jerome Bruner, “The Narrative Construction of Reality,” Critical Inquiry 18 (1991), pp. 1–21. 17.  Daniel D. Hutto, Folk Psychological Narratives:  The Sociocultural Basis of Understanding Reasons (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2008), p. 28. 18. Hutto, Folk Psychological Narratives, p. 29. 19. Herman, Storytelling and the Sciences of Mind, p. 305. 20.  George A. Miller, “The Magical Number Seven, Plus or Minus Two: Some Limits on Our Capacity for Processing Information,” Psychological Review 63 (1956), pp. 81–97.

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chunking process makes events memorable and manageable, a narrative selects and arranges chunks to make them meaningful. Mark’s narrative has an episodic quality that reflects the arrangement of manageable and memorable chunks into a larger framework.21 The focus on the central character, Jesus, and other characters across episodes builds relationships among them, reveals new information, and shows development.22 The second way that narratives may function as sense-making resources is by explaining how experience deviates from a communal norm, that is, by explaining what Jerome Bruner calls a situation of “canonicity and breach.”23 Mark, for example, challenges norms and builds a new way of understanding the world. From one perspective, the narrative challenges the mental models of the audience. Mark introduces the narrative as the good news and quotes from the Jewish scriptures, characterizing Jesus comprehensibly for his first century Jewish and Roman audience. The audience approaches the text from a frame of reference that generates a set of expectations: they inhabit a world shaped by other texts and cultural factors, such as the LXX and the political, economic, religious, and elements of the GrecoRoman world. The characterization of Jesus depends, in part, on the convergence of the audiences’ expectations, or mental model of the Christ, and the progressive narration of Jesus’ character that either confirms or challenges those expectations.24 From another perspective, the narrative challenges the mental models of the disciples (and other characters) differently. Unlike the audience, the disciples do not begin with the information of Mark 1:1 about Jesus’ identity. At first it is not clear by what mental model they evaluate him. As the narrative progresses, the disciples attempt to fit Jesus into some sort of mental model, filling in variables with values (to use Chandler’s terms). They infer details from their mental model to explain Jesus’ words and actions, or to evaluate what they think his words and actions should be. The disciples struggle when Jesus’ words and actions do not fit the mental models by which they seek to evaluate him.

21. David Rhoads, Joanna Dewey, Donald Michie, Mark as Story: An Introduction to the Narrative of a Gospel, 3rd ed. (Minneapolis:  Fortress, 2012), pp. 4, 47–54. Joanna Dewey has argued that Mark exhibits oral features in its composition techniques, which reflect manageable and memorable frames for the audience. Joanna Dewey, “Oral Methods of Structuring Narrative in Mark,” Interpretation 43 (1989), pp. 32–44 (32–3). In addition, Mark was likely written with a listening audience in mind. Mark as Story, p. 47. Eric Eve discusses the ancient media culture in Behind the Gospels, pp. 1–14. 22. See also Tanehill, “The Disciples in Mark,” pp. 386–405 (388–9). 23.  Jerome Bruner, “The Narrative Construction of Reality,” Critical Inquiry 18 (1991), p. 11. Elsewhere Bruner explains, “while a culture must contain a set of norms, it must also contain a set of interpretive procedures for rendering departures from those norms meaningful . . . Stories achieve their meanings by explicating deviations from the ordinary in a comprehensible form.” Jerome Bruner, Acts of Meaning (Cambridge:  Harvard University Press, 1990), p. 47. 24. See also Mieke Bal, who puts this in narratological terms, Narratology, pp. 121–3.

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I am interested in how narratives function in the construction and interpretation of mental models of persons, and specifically, in how Mark’s narrative functions in the construction and interpretation of a model of “disciple.” In the course of my discussion of the text, I will show how the construction and interpretation of a model of “disciple” is interconnected with the way that the disciples evaluate Jesus according to their mental models of persons. I use the word “person(s)” to refer to entities that have both minds and bodies, to be distinguished from the category of things or nonsentient entities. I follow David Herman’s definition of persons as “assemblages of mental as well as material attributes structured in a specific way, whereby a person has a mind that is indissolubly linked with but not reducible to a body.”25 Since persons have interconnected minds and bodies, I ascribe both mental and material traits in the construction and evaluation of mental models of persons. I  use contextual cues to ascribe to persons such traits as intentions, thoughts, feelings, wishes, beliefs, and aims. For example, we may observe a woman open an umbrella on a cloudy day, and we may describe this action on a physical level. But on a mental level we may also form a hypothesis that she did this because she thought it would rain, wanted to stay dry and believed the umbrella would be effective to keep the rain off. An alternative hypothesis might be that she thought the sun was about to come out, she wanted to shield her skin, and believed that the umbrella would be effective to block the sun. These hypotheses involve ascribing mental terms to the woman’s behavior based on contextual clues. Both hypotheses are open to revision given more information. The implication for narratives is that both the human characters and the audience constructing those characters have the capacity to predict and explain behavior in mental terms.26 Admittedly, this research challenges the narrative communication paradigm that has become axiomatic and which I have employed in much of my own work.27 According to this paradigm, the actual author and actual reader of a narrative remain outside of the narrative communication.28 This paradigm

25. Herman, Storytelling and the Sciences of Mind, p. 74. 26. Herman, Storytelling and the Sciences of Mind, p. 25. 27.  Elizabeth E. Shively, “What Type of Resistance? How Apocalyptic Discourse Functions as Social Discourse in Mark,” Journal for the Study of the New Testament 37 (2015), pp. 381–406; “Characterizing the Non-Human: Satan in the Gospel of Mark,” in Character Studies and the Gospel of Mark, ed. C. Skinner and M. Hauge (Library of New Testament Studies; London:  T&T Clark, 2014), pp. 127–51; “The Story Matters:  Solving the Problem of the Parables in Mark 3:22–30,” in Between Author and Audience in Mark:  Narration, Characterization, Interpretation, ed. E. S. Malbon (Sheffield:  Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2009), pp. 122–44; Apocalyptic Imagination in the Gospel of Mark: The Literary and Theological Role of Mark 3:22–30 (BZNW 189. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012). 28.  The implied author is a version of the real author reconstructed from the narrative that directs the implied reader through rhetorical signals. The “implied reader” corresponds

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developed out of the rise of structuralism and New Criticism that stressed the close reading of texts themselves without recourse to outside sources, in response to W. K. Wimsatt and M. Beardsley’s “The Intentional Fallacy,”29 which flagged the error of judging that the intention of the author is important or even available for determining the meaning of a text and “The Affective Fallacy,” which flagged the error of judging or evaluating a text on the basis of its emotional effects on a reader.30 Research in the sciences of mind suggests, however, that human beings perform communicative action—including storytelling—for reasons that can be investigated. David Herman comments, therefore, that, “when one moves to the domain of narrational action, why-questions, or questions about reasons become pertinent.”31 My particular task in this study is to look at how the disciples construct and evaluate models of persons to explain their experience of Jesus and to ask how Mark’s narrative portrayal illuminates their role as model of disciple. In order to accomplish this task, I  determine diagnostic questions to put to the text by combining the approaches of narrative criticism and cognitive psychology to characterization. Whereas narrative criticism approaches characterization as the construction of an actor in the storyworld in the process of reading or hearing a text,32 cognitive psychology approaches characterization as the construction of mental models of individuals-in-a-world in the process of reading or hearing a text.33 Employing narrative criticism, I ask, “What do the disciples say and do?” and “What does Jesus say and do with respect to the disciples?” I also ask what the narrator says in relation to the disciples, because the narrator provides the audience with a point of view that is unavailable to the characters. Employing cognitive theory, I also include the question, For what reason do the disciples/Jesus say or do it?34 This question is consistent with a cognitive approach that sees characters as mental models of individuals-in-a-world. Once the audience decides that a character belongs to the category of “persons” (not “things”) then the audience

to the “implied author” as the reader assumed by the narrative. Seymour Chatman, Story and Discourse:  Narrative Structure in Fiction and Film (Ithaca:  Cornell University Press, 1978), pp. 148–50. 29. “The Intentional Fallacy,” Sewanee Review (1946; rev. 1954). 30. “The Affective Fallacy,” Sewanee Review (1946). 31.  David Herman surmises that the implied author–implied reader construct is a heuristic model that allows the interpreter to ascribe intention to textually bound actors without falling prey to the intentional or affective fallacies. He thus argues for, “an intentionalism without implied authors—and thus without implied reader” (Storytelling and the Sciences of Mind, pp. 24–5, 39). 32. See, for example, Bal, Narratology, pp. 113–28. 33.  Uri Margolin, “Character,” in The Cambridge Companion to Narrative, ed. David Herman (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2007), p.  76. Herman, Storytelling and the Sciences of Mind, p. 192. 34. See the diagnostic questions in Herman, Storytelling and Sciences of Mind, p. 195.

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ascribes a paradigm of personal traits that includes both material features and mental capacity.35 Two sets of cues allow the audience to ascribe a paradigm of personal traits to characters:  (1) a model of persons and (2)  textual features.36 According to David Herman, engaging with narratives entails orienting to textual patterns as deliberately designed prompts that cue interpreters to fill out—as necessary—dimensions of mentally configured worlds; recipients use these features of the text to frame— again, to the extent required by their engagement with a given narrative— answers to questions about the WHEN, WHAT, WHERE, WHO, HOW, and WHY aspects of a storyworld.37

The cognitive approach expands on the narratological approach by which the audience follows textual clues to map onto characters a paradigm of traits or abiding qualities that develop through the story by adding “why” or “for what reason” to the list.38

The Disciples in Mark’s Narrative To understand Mark’s portrayal of the disciples, I  look at the development of their words and deeds in the context of the whole narrative.39 Disciples include the twelve, a larger group that follows Jesus with the twelve, and a smaller group among the twelve whom Jesus takes along with him on certain occasions (Peter, James, John, and sometimes Andrew).40 Nevertheless, the narrative focuses on the relationship between Jesus and the twelve. I  trace the disciples’ activity in the narrative by looking at units that are marked simultaneously by shifts and intensifications in Jesus’ ministry and in Jesus’ expectations of his disciples. My discussion is necessarily selective rather than exhaustive, since both the scope of the material and the constraints of this essay preclude a comprehensive analysis. Recapping my approach, I look at what the disciples do and say and why, what Jesus says and does with respect to them and why, and what the narrator says with respect to them. My goal is see how Mark narrates the way that the disciples learn what it means to follow Jesus and to map how the audience may learn a mental model of following Jesus (“disciple”) through the narrative experience of the disciples’ following.

35. Herman, Storytelling and Sciences of Mind, p. 193. 36. Herman, Storytelling and Sciences of Mind, p. 195. 37. Herman, Storytelling and the Sciences of Mind, p. 44. 38. Chatman, Story and Discourse, pp. 127–32. See also Bal, Narratology, pp. 126–7. 39. Tanehill establishes this principle in “The Disciples in Mark,” pp. 386–405 (388). 40. See also Tannehill, “The Disciples in Mark,” pp. 386–405 (388). Malbon, “Disciples/ Crowds/Whoever,” pp. 70–99.

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Mark 1:16–6:6a At the beginning of his ministry, Jesus calls the first disciples to follow him. The placement of the first call narrative just after Jesus’ announcement of the good news of God’s reign (1:14–15) reiterates the radical response that is required. The calls of the first disciples follow the same pattern: Jesus passes by the sea, he sees and then calls them, and then the men leave their livelihood and family ties to follow Jesus without speaking (1:16–20; 2:13–14). This repeated response provides a clue for the ascription of mental attributes to the characters and about their reasons for acting. The context suggests that they act because they believe Jesus is authoritative, since the opening episodes are concerned with Jesus’ authority to teach, exorcise, heal, and forgive sins (1:1–28, 29–31, 40–45; 2:1–12). These call episodes do not suggest what sort of mental model by which the first followers evaluate the words and works of Jesus, but the larger context gives some clues. At the Capernaum synagogue, the narrator describes the crowd’s astonishment at Jesus’ authoritative teaching that is modeled on a comparison with the teaching of the scribes (1:22, 27); Jesus’ first disciples are compared to John’s and the Pharisees’ disciples (2:18); later, people speculate that Jesus is a prophet (6:14–15; 8:27–8). Jesus’ first disciples likely initially evaluate him according to a mental model of teacher or prophet. The first disciples had followed Jesus into Capernaum where he taught and cast out a demon (1:21); then “as soon as they left the synagogue (εὐθὺς ἐκ τῆς συναγωγῆς ἐξελθόντες)” they went to the home of Simon Peter and Andrew with James and John. The narrator thus connects these two episodes (1:21–8, vv. 29–31). We may infer that the disciples were in the synagogue with Jesus, seeing and hearing what happened there; then in the house, they tell Jesus about Simon’s sick mother-in-law (ἐυθὺς λέγοθσιν αὐτῷ περὶ αὐτῆς, 1:30). The context gives a clue about their reason for acting and suggests the ascription of mental terms to the characters. The disciples make their request because they believe that Jesus can heal her based on the prior experience of Jesus’ words and deeds in the synagogue. Jesus does heal her, so that the disciples experience Jesus’ miraculous act. Later that day, Jesus is mobbed at the house as “the whole city gathered around the door” and he heals many and casts out demons. The next morning, Jesus goes to a secluded place to pray. Simon Peter and his companions seek him out and say, “everyone is searching for you.” The narrative builds contextual cues about the disciples’ reasons for acting. Now that Simon Peter and the others have seen Jesus’ powerful and authoritative words and deeds in the Capernaum synagogue, in the house, and among the crowd, this suggests that they search for Jesus because there are still many sick whom they believe Jesus can heal. As the narrative continues, the disciples are aligned with Jesus and experience opposition for following him (2:18–22, 23–8). They practice what Jesus teaches, and when others question Jesus about their practice, he defends their followership as good practice, and himself as an authoritative teacher. The disciples do what Jesus says, and they rarely speak. Their actions model trust in Jesus’ authority and their words model belief in Jesus’ power. The disciples’ words and actions thus

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suggest that they respond to Jesus’ words and actions with belief as long as they evaluate Jesus according to some model of teacher or prophet. Jesus soon appoints the twelve as apostles for two purposes (ἵνα, twice in v. 14): in order to be with him, and in order be sent to preach and cast out demons. That is, he calls out the twelve from among the rest of his followers to participate in the words and the deeds of the reign of God, his very activity. After Jesus tells the Parable of the Sower, those around him along with the disciples ask him about the parables (4:10). Contextual cues suggest that this is the same group that sat around Jesus in the house in 3:30–35 (compare the use of ὁι περὶ αὐτὸν in 3:23 and 4:11; see also ἐν παραβολαῖς in 3:23 and 4:2, 11; οἱ ἕξω in 3:31 and 4:11; ἀφίημι in 3:28–9 and 4:12). That is, this is the group of disciples that Jesus called his family and those who do God’s will, as opposed to Jesus’ kin and the scribes who sought to disrupt his ministry and remained outside the house. The group of disciples in 4:10 asks Jesus about the parables because they seek understanding. Jesus responds that they have been given the secret of the kingdom of God, while those outside receive everything in parables (v. 11). Jesus cannot mean that the disciples do not receive any teaching in parables, because they have just heard the Parable of the Sower, and the whole point of their original question is to ask Jesus about the parables. Rather, Jesus’ statement suggests that the disciples receive parables (like everyone else) but also receive the secret of God’s kingdom that generates understanding; by contrast, those outside receive everything in parables so that they may not perceive or understand or be forgiven, that is, so that they may not receive the benefits of God’s kingdom (1:14–15). It makes no sense, then, for Jesus to intend a rebuke with the questions, “Do you not understand this parable? Then how will you understand all the parables?” (v. 13). Rather, the contextual cues indicate that Jesus’ first question in verse 13 repeats the disciples’ initial question about the parables and affirms that they do not understand them; and his second question insinuates that the disciples will understand as Jesus reveals the secrets of the kingdom of God—which he then begins to do through his explanation of the Parable of the Sower. The narrator underlines this point again at the end of the chapter: Jesus speaks everything in parables (i.e., to everyone), but explains everything privately to his disciples (vv. 33–4). Up to this point in the narrative, then, the disciples (the twelve and some who are with them) are presented positively. They listen to Jesus’ teaching, seek understanding, and continue to follow him. But the calming of the storm tests their response. In the first part of this section, the disciples witness and experience the power of God’s reign through Jesus’ words and deeds and believe his power to act on behalf of others (especially 1:16–3:6). Yet when they themselves now face the forces of nature, they are undone. They wake up the sleeping Jesus and say, “do you not care (οὐ μέλει) that we are perishing?” Their question is remarkable because they have said nothing like it to Jesus so far. What is the reason for their response? Jesus identifies one reason when he asks, “Why are you afraid (δειλός)? Do you not yet (οὔπω) have faith?” (v. 40). But their subsequent response to Jesus’ calming of the storm suggests another reason. The narrator comments that they “were greatly afraid/in awe” and discussed amongst themselves “who is this, that the wind and

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the sea obey him?” This event evidently challenges the model of persons by which the disciples have been evaluating Jesus thus far. For the first time in the storyworld Jesus wields power over nature and this does not fit their expectations. One reason they were afraid of the storm, woke Jesus, and asked him such a question is that they did not expect his power to extend to the realm of nature. The use of the word οὔπω in verse 40 suggests that the disciples’ previous experience of Jesus’ words and deeds should have resulted in the response of faith that the reign of God requires (1:15). That is, Mark has narrated a process that has led to this point. The disciples’ experience thus far should have suggested values or characteristics for an alternative model of persons other than the one they have constructed. On the heels of his teaching in parables, Jesus’ questions in verse 40 suggest that his action to calm the storm functions as a parable that is in need of interpretation. Jesus does not explain the event for his disciples, however, but continues with them in their imperceptions. In the first part of this section the disciples believe that Jesus can do powerful works (1:16–3:6). Mark narrates a process that leads to the point that exposes their dullness and reveals how Jesus’ words and deeds challenge the mental model by which they evaluate him. Yet, they continue as Jesus’ followers and Jesus continues with them. Mark 6:6b–8:26 The disciples have had a complex response to Jesus thus far. Yet surprisingly, Jesus increasingly involves the twelve in the words and works of the kingdom. Simultaneously, they become more vocal in their interactions with Jesus and their comments increasingly expose their lack of perception about him and their followership. First, Jesus sends out the twelve to preach and cast out demons (see 3:14–15). The narrator tells us that they accomplish the mission (6:12–13), and later, they return to tell Jesus about all they did and taught (v. 30). We surmise that they had a measure of success and experienced the power of God’s reign through their own activity. Jesus’ unsuccessful preaching in Nazareth (6:1–6a) suggests that the twelve must have encountered faith in the recipients of their ministry and that they exhibited faith themselves (Mk 6:5–6; see 9:14–29, 38–41). The account of the feeding of the 5,000 follows immediately after the disciples return from their missionary activity. They ask Jesus to send the crowd away for something to eat, but Jesus tells them to provide food. The disciples had just experienced God’s power through their own activity, yet now they are unwilling or unable to consider this situation as an opportunity once again to provide kingdom benefits for others. Rather, they respond with the abrasive remark, “Are we to go and buy two hundred denarii worth of bread, and give it to them to eat?” (v. 37), which suggests that their reason for acting (or not acting, in this case) is because they think Jesus wants them to provide food through human channels, and they know that this is impossible. Nevertheless, Jesus manifests power and involves the disciples in the miracle (the distribution of the food), which fulfills his initial

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command (“You give them something to eat”). The Feeding of the 4,000 repeats the same pattern (8:1–10). The two boat episodes that follow each of the feedings reveal that in addition to human reasoning, misperception is another reason for the failure to act. First, the account of Jesus’ walking on the water follows upon the heels of the Feeding of the 5,000. Jesus makes the disciples get into a boat and intends to pass them on the water while they struggle. They see Jesus but do not recognize him, think he is a ghost and are terrified (v. 50). Jesus tells them not to be afraid and identifies himself, gets into the boat and calms the wind. Similar to the calming of the storm, the disciples’ fear prevents them from recognizing him, and the narrator explains that they were “ were utterly astonished (ἐξίσταντω) because (γάρ) they did not understand about the loaves but their hearts were hardened (ἀλλ᾽ ἦν αὐτῶν ἡ καρδία πεπωμένη, vv. 51–2).”41 The scene with the loaves has provided the disciples with the values to construct the appropriate mental model by which to evaluate Jesus. When they see him walking on the water, they should be able to identify him, but cannot. Second, Jesus is in a boat with his disciples again and uses as a teaching opportunity the fact that they have forgotten bread (8:14–21). The Pharisees have asked for a sign from heaven, yet Jesus has amply provided one in the multiplication of the loaves. So he warns the disciples against the yeast of the Pharisees and Herod. Yet the disciples’ response again exposes their dulled senses. They think that Jesus is referring to the fact that they have no bread. Jesus responds with some leading questions, highlighting their hard hearts and their poor faculties of hearing and seeing (see 4:9, 12, 23, 33). A key detail of Jesus’ series of questions is that they are framed by the statements “Do you not yet (οὔπω) perceive or understand,” and “Do you not yet (οὔπω) understand?” (vv. 17, 21). Once again, the disciples’ previous experiences with Jesus have led to this point in the narrative, and Jesus thinks that they should exhibit understanding and faith, but they do not. Their participation in Jesus’ ministry should have suggested values for an alternative model of persons than the one they apply. The mental model that the disciples have formed at this point by which to evaluate Jesus appears to be a moving target, but not what Mark confessed in 1:1. Yet, Jesus continues to be with them. Mark 8:22–10:52 It is at this point in the narrative that we encounter the account in which Jesus heals the blind man at Bethsaida. The two-part healing suggests that clear spiritual sight, like clear physical sight, comes both gradually and miraculously. Looking forward, the healing of the blind man at Bethsaida suggests that Peter’s confession is the initial part of a divine revelation (8:27–9). In other words, Peter receives partial sight.

41. Earlier in the narrative, the hard-heartedness of Jewish leaders is juxtaposed with the faith of the friends who bring the paralytic to Jesus for healing (Mk 2:1–12; cf. 7:6).

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Peter finally activates “Christ” as the most appropriate model for Jesus, reflecting the opening words of the gospel. The entire narrative has led to this point, recalling the questions that Jesus put to the disciples at key moments, capping their experience of Jesus’ activity:  “do you not yet have faith?” (4:40; 8:17, 21). Only here, unlike with those earlier moments, Jesus has not done or said anything to precipitate Peter’s response. The narrative pattern has been for the disciples to respond with imperception to Jesus’ words or deeds. The break in the pattern here, preceded by the healing of the blind man, suggests that Peter “sees” that Jesus is the Christ because it has been revealed to him.42 Peter and the disciples only receive partial sight, like the first stage of the healing of the blind man. Jesus’ three predictions of his suffering, death, and resurrection, and his subsequent teachings immediately propose clashing values to the mental model of the Christ that the disciples have finally applied to Jesus. Again, this clash is revealed as Jesus involves the disciples in his ministry. After Peter rebukes him, Jesus responds not with a corrective teaching about the “Christ,” but about “disciple” because the mental model of disciple is a reflection of the mental model of the Christ. He teaches that any who wish to follow him must deny themselves, take up their cross, and follow him. In other words, following is not about traveling in the same direction, but about taking on the same values. Yet the disciples respond by exhibiting opposing values, each contending for top rank in the kingdom they suppose Jesus will establish (9:34; 10:37; see 9:38–41; 10:13–16). Jesus’ plain teaching in all three predictions is consistent as the narrative unit progresses. With the first prediction, Jesus tells his disciples plainly (παρρησίᾳ), rather than parabolically, that he will suffer, die, and rise (8:31–32a). The content of the other two predictions is the same, even if the language varies. Moreover, Jesus’ accompanying teaching throughout the unit is consistent and follows a rising trajectory towards the ransom saying in 10:45. On the other hand, the disciples’ responses to the passion predictions vary and become increasingly problematic. Peter understands the plain sense of Jesus’ words at the first passion prediction because he takes Jesus aside not to ask what he means, but to rebuke him (8:32). Peter does not want Jesus to suffer and die because this would violate his mental model of Messiah. We glean Peter’s reason for acting from Jesus’ counterrebuke:  “you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things” (8:33). After the second prediction, the narrator tells us that, “They did not understand what he was saying and were afraid (ἐφοβοῦντο) to ask him” (9:32). Jesus’ plain teaching now functions parabolically, and fear keeps these followers from asking Jesus what he means. Then, just before the third prediction, before Jesus speaks any words at all, the narrator tells us that the disciples “were amazed (ἐθα μβοῦντο) and those who followed were afraid (ἐφοβοῦντο, 10:32).” At this point, Jesus himself has become like a parable. The response to the third prediction is not narrated. The disciples now possess the right model of persons but with the wrong

42. Matthew evidently reads Mark this way (Mt 16:17).

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values, which prepares the audience to evaluate their actions in the remainder of the narrative. The healing of blind Bartimaeus falls at the very end of this section. When Jesus asks, “what do you want me to do for you,” he replies, “Lord, let me see.” We might contrast Jesus’ earlier question to James and John, and their reply, “Lord, let us sit on your right and your left in your glory” (10:37). Jesus responds to the blind man, “Go, your faith has made you well.” The man regains his sight and follows Jesus on the way to Jerusalem, that is, on the way to the cross. This episode reinforces the need for the miraculous provision of sight in order to follow Jesus. Mark 11:1–13:37 During Jesus’ ministry in Jerusalem, the disciples are largely in the background as Jesus teaches in the Temple. When they leave, Jesus speaks to Peter, James, John, and Andrew about a time beyond the scope of the narrative, after his death, when his followers will be delivered over to councils, beaten in synagogues, and stand as witnesses before governors and kings for his sake (13:9–13). Jesus both echoes and foreshadows his own words and fate, again involving his disciples in his own mission, albeit in the future (compare, e.g., παραδίδωμι in 13:9, 11, 12 with 9:31; 10:33; see 8:31). Mark 14:1–15:39 This section traces the disciples’ desertion. While Jesus and his disciples celebrate the Passover, he reveals that one of them will betray him. After the meal, on the Mount of Olives, Jesus tells the disciples that they will all desert him, but he also promises to meet them in Galilee after he is raised. Peter says that even if all the others desert Jesus, he will not. Jesus then predicts that Peter will deny him. Then all the disciples protest that they will die with Jesus before they desert him (14:31). They all think they have the capacity to stand firm. Jesus takes his disciples to the place called Gethsemane, but then takes along Peter, James, and John with him to pray (14:32–3). The narrator says that Jesus is distressed and agitated, and Jesus tells his disciples that he is deeply grieved even to death. He prays for an escape from the coming hour, but commits himself to God’s will (14:35). Three times, Jesus tells the disciples to stay awake. Jesus not only intends for them to stay awake physically, but also to remain spiritually alert by praying. Jesus’ comment to Peter provides a textual cue that this is the case: “Simon, are you asleep? Could you not keep awake one hour? Keep awake and pray that you may not come into the time of trial; the spirit indeed is willing but the flesh is weak” (14:37–8). This episode explains both Jesus’ and the disciples’ reasons for acting when Jesus is arrested. Because Jesus prayed, he stands firm even after asking God to escape death; on the other hand, because the disciples failed to pray, they flee even after protesting that they would face death rather than desert.

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But Peter follows Jesus. The preceding context indicates the reason for Peter’s action: he had said that even if all the others were to desert Jesus, he would not. Peter wishes to uphold his words. After Jesus is arrested, the narrator introduces the next group of scenes by juxtaposing the location of Jesus and of Peter: “They took Jesus to the high priest . . . Peter had followed him at a distance, right into the courtyard of the high priest” (14:53–4). Immediately following is a juxtaposition of Jesus’ trial before the council with Peter’s “trial” before those around the fire. While Jesus confesses his identity as the Christ before his accusers, Peter denies his identity as a disciple by denying Jesus. But when the cock crows a second time, Peter remembers Jesus’ words and weeps bitterly. Mark 15:40–16:8 The disciples do not appear again as characters, but they are mentioned crucially in the final section of narrative. The reminder of the promise and the command, “go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him,” is a promise of revelation and restoration of and by the risen Christ. The narrative pattern suggests that the experience of seeing the risen Jesus provides the next stage of the disciples’ “healing” (recall the two-stage healing of the blind man at Bethsaida) to renew their spiritual sight and thereby provide the right values for their mental model of the Christ as one who suffered, died, and was raised.

Summary and Implications In the first half of the gospel, Mark communicates through repetition and variation that the disciples’ experiences with Jesus lead them to points at which they should exhibit understanding of his person, but do not. Mark thereby builds the problem of human imperception. At the midpoint of the gospel, Peter’s confession of Jesus’ identity at Caesarea Philippi is not a response to Jesus’ words and deeds and is, implicitly, a divine gift. Subsequently, in the second half of the narrative, the disciples’ understanding deteriorates. Full understanding of the secret of Jesus’ identity is revealed only after his crucifixion and resurrection, first when the disciples see the risen Jesus in Galilee. Ultimately, disciples require revelation to recognize and follow Jesus fully. Through the narrative experience of the disciples’ interaction with Jesus, Mark gives the audience access to knowledge about Jesus and how human beings come to understand and respond to him. Throughout the narrative, Mark gives textual clues that suggest the disciples’ reasons for acting, which are often complex and about which the disciples are often unaware, like imperception, hard-heartedness, satanic influence, and prayerlessness. By narrating explicit and hidden, natural and supernatural reasons for acting, Mark gives the audience access to knowledge, revealing what otherwise would remain unseen.

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The Markan narrative thus helps the audience to think about thinking. Mark introduces certain expectations about Jesus and then challenges them as he progressively narrates the relationship between Jesus and the disciples. The experience of processing the disciples’ words and actions can help the audience interpret their own actions and their consequences. Unlike the disciples (and other characters), Mark provides the audience with a model of persons by which to evaluate Jesus by identifying Jesus as the Christ at the outset. The audience fills in values to construct a mental model of “the Christ” based on their knowledge and experience. Thus, a real audience processes the disciples’ conflicted model of persons (teacher? prophet? Christ) in light of a given model of persons (Christ). Once Peter confesses that Jesus is the Christ, the audience’s mental model has merged with that of the characters in the story. The whole narrative has moved towards the point when the disciples finally appropriate the right model of persons when Peter confesses that Jesus is the Christ. Yet, it is immediately apparent that the values they input are flawed. The narrative communicates that the disciples should increase in their understanding of who Jesus is through his words and deeds; but instead they grow more and more imperceptive. As a result, the disciples’ choices to act as they follow Jesus are marked by good intentions but unintended consequences. Like the healing of the blind man at Bethsaida, the partial sight they have been given requires additional revelation in order to see fully. Also unlike the disciples (and other characters), Mark’s audience has always existed after the crucifixion and resurrection. Thus, though the audience has never seen Jesus, they are poised to perceive and follow him. The model of persons by which to evaluate Jesus and the choice to follow, that is, the model of disciple, are interconnected. The narration of the disciples’ activity before and after Peter’s confession models what it is like for human beings to make choices when they encounter opportunities for action in particular contexts.43 That is, Mark’s narrative progression shows how the disciples’ circumstances, their character, and other factors influence their reasons for acting. If the audience thinks about why the disciples act or fail to act in the storyworld, then they have a model for making sense of their own stories in the world.

43. See Herman, Storytelling and the Sciences of the Mind, p. 261.

Chapter 4 “ W HO D O Y O U S AY T HAT   I   A M ? ” Characters and Characterization in Narrative and Performance Kelly R. Iverson

For over two decades, Elizabeth Struthers Malbon has been a go-to source for the study of narrative criticism, characterization, and the Gospel of Mark. Her work was and continues to be an inspiration for the kind of creative and insightful reading that a narrative approach can offer. In appreciation for her many contributions and for her quiet influence on many of us, it is hoped that this essay (and book) will be a fitting tribute.

Introduction The rise of narrative criticism in the late 1970s and early 1980s paved the way for a return to the text. It was not that the gospels had been ignored or forgotten. Rather, as Hans Frei suggested, the reading of the biblical narratives had been “eclipsed” by methodologies driven by the winds of modernity.1 The advent of narrative criticism renewed interest in the study of the gospels as coherent stories intended to move the reader to action. As Frei pointed out, during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, this reading strategy had been largely neglected in scholarly circles. The return to the gospels as literature brought fresh attention to the constituent elements of narrative, resulting in a seemingly endless array of books and articles. In the wake of this methodological “sea change,”2 the study of gospel characters has featured prominently in narrative-critical discussions. Since characters 1.  Hans W. Frei, The Eclipse of Biblical Narrative: A Study in Eighteenth and Nineteenth Century Hermeneutics (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1974). 2.  R. Alan Culpepper, “Mark 6:17–29 in Its Narrative Context: Kingdoms in Conflict,” in Mark as Story: Retrospect and Prospect, ed. Kelly R. Iverson and Christopher W. Skinner (Atlanta: SBL, 2011), p. 145.

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are “intuitively the most crucial category of narrative”3 and intertwined with the development of plot, it is not surprising that significant energy has focused on understanding how characters are depicted in gospel texts.4 As a result of this extended conversation, we have an enriched understanding of characters in the gospel stories.5 The aim of the present study is not to detail a particular theory of characterization or to evaluate a particular character in the gospel traditions. Instead, this essay seeks to examine how the study of characterization as a literary endeavor—a profitable and helpful advancement in New Testament study—might be supplemented by recent developments in orality. More specifically, this essay will attempt to further the discussion by exploring how performance criticism might complement a narrative-critical understanding of characterization in New Testament scholarship.

Characterization in Narrative Criticism It would be erroneous to suggest that there is a single theory of characterization among narrative critics, as though New Testament scholars adopted a shared perspective in their analysis of character. To make such a claim would be simplistic and ignore countless studies devoted to the subject.6 Discussions regarding the theory of character (e.g., ancient vs. modern, Hebrew vs. Greek) remain an important part of ongoing research.7 Yet, despite these discussions, there remain several assumptions that are widely accepted among narrative critics. Though charting such a conversation requires a broad, theoretical analysis, it will be helpful to understand how narrative critics typically approach the study of character in order

3.  Mieke Bal, Narratology:  Introduction to the Theory of Narrative, 2nd ed. (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1997), p. 115. 4. On the relationship between plot and characters, Henry James (“The Art of Fiction,” in The Future of the Novel: Essays on the Art of Fiction, ed. Leon Edel [New York:  Vintage, 1956], pp. 15–16) insightfully asks, “What is character but the determination of incident? What is incident but the illustration of character?” 5.  For a historical survey of the conversation in Markan scholarship, see Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “Characters in Mark’s Story:  Changing Perspectives on the Narrative Process,” in Mark as Story: Retrospect and Prospect, pp. 45–69. 6.  For a sample of perspectives, see Elizabeth Struthers Malbon and Adele Berlin, eds., Characterization in Biblical Literature (Semeia 63; Chico, CA; SBL, 1993); David Rhoads and Kari Syreeni, eds., Characterization in the Gospels:  Reconceiving Narrative Criticism (JSNTSup 184; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999). 7. For recent points of discussion, see Stephen D. Moore, “Why There Are No Humans or Animals in the Gospel of Mark,” in Mark as Story: Retrospect and Prospect, pp. 71–93; Cornelis Bennema, “A Theory of Character in the Fourth Gospel with Reference to Ancient and Modern Literature,” BibInt 17 (2009), pp. 375–421.

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to appreciate recent developments in orality. The following summary will attempt to sketch these ideas before exploring the intersection between narrative and performance criticisms. According to Mark Allan Powell characterization is “the process through which the implied author provides the implied reader with what is necessary to reconstruct a character from the narrative.”8 David Rhoads provides a similar, though more succinct definition, suggesting that characterization is the process of “bringing characters to life in a narrative.”9 These statements provide a relatively straightforward definition of “characterization,” but how does one go about assessing characters in actual narratives? Fortunately, narrative critics have offered a rather uniformed response to this question. Representative of this view, Malbon suggests that the analysis of characters is “based on a fairly simple observation about characters in narratives: characters are known by what they say and by what they do and by what others (the narrator and other characters) say and do to, about, or in relation to them.”10 This general approach to characterization has been affirmed in various forms by a number of narrative critics.11 Other scholars have offered similar perspectives, but with slight variation. Some have attempted to provide description of these devices by cataloging specific narrative techniques.12 Still others have moved in the opposite direction by offering a more generalized assessment. Kingsbury and Resseguie, for example, both describe the process of characterization as involving the practice of

8. Mark A. Powell, What Is Narrative Criticism? (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), p. 52. 9. David Rhoads, Reading Mark: Engaging the Gospel (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2004), p. 10. 10.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, Mark’s Jesus: Characterization as Narrative Christology (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2009), p. 14. 11. See, for example, David Rhoads, Joanna Dewey, and Donald Michie, Mark as Story: An Introduction to the Narrative of a Gospel, 2nd ed. (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1999), pp. 98–9. 12. See, for example, Joel F. Williams (in Other Followers of Jesus: Minor Characters as Major Figures in Mark’s Gospel [JSNTSup 102; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994], pp. 60–7) identifies eleven devices used in characterization: (1) the narrator may directly state the traits of a character; (2) the narrator may indirectly express an evaluation of a character; (3) a character may directly state the traits of another character; (4) a character may indirectly express an evaluation of another character; (5) a character may express an evaluation of another character through actions; (6) the narrator may reveal a character’s inward thoughts; (7) the narrator may reveal a character by presenting the character’s actions; (8) the narrator may reveal a character by presenting the character’s speech; (9) the narrator may reveal a character by presenting the character’s appearance; (10) the narrator may reveal a character by analogy; (11) the narrator may influence the reconstruction of a character’s traits by the order of presentation. This description of techniques is indebted to Meir Sternberg who provides an even more exhaustive list in The Poetics of Biblical Narrative (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1985), pp. 475–81.

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“showing and telling.”13 Despite their differences, all of the approaches make use of the same underlying principles articulated by Malbon. For the sake of simplicity, however, the following will briefly describe what scholars mean by showing and telling. Showing is the stock means of characterization in biblical narrative and is sometimes referred to as indirect presentation. According to Booth, it is tantamount to the author allowing the reader to “eavesdrop” upon the story.14 Through the various interactions and speech, the reader is left to infer the intentions, attitudes, and dispositions of the characters, thus creating a composite portrait through clues that emerge in the narrative. For example, when the Magi arrive from the east, though the narrative makes no explicit statement about the travelers’ intentions, the Magi’s actions demonstrate that they, unlike Herod, are favorably disposed towards Jesus (Mt 2:1–12). Words and deeds are crucial for showing what a character is like. However, in addition to these devices, narrators also utilize more subtle techniques such as physical description and setting. Biblical description is often sparse by modern standards, but the inclusion of such material is often highly significant. Mark, for example, describes John in terms of his clothing (Mk 1:6) in order to stylize the Baptist in the likeness of Elijah (1 Kgs 1:8; cf. Mk 9:13). Likewise, John makes use of themes developed in the prologue to provide commentary on the arrival of Nicodemus (Jn 3:2). The association between light and darkness (Jn 1:1–13), coupled with the temporal setting at “night,” functions as implicit commentary on Nicodemus’ spiritual condition.15 These characters, though depicted by different literary techniques, illustrate how seemingly extraneous information may be used for the purpose of characterization. Though showing (and, to some degree, all characterization) requires the reader to make inferences based upon textual details, the narrator may utilize a range of techniques that place different demands on the reader. For example, in some situations, a character may express an evaluation of another participant in the story, thus describing a character in explicit terms. For instance, in Mark’s baptism scene the heavenly voice declares that Jesus is “the beloved son” (Mk 1:11). Elsewhere in the narrative Jesus refers to the Pharisees and scribes as “hypocrites” (Mk 7:6). While unique, both scenes assess a character or character group through the commentary of another individual in the narrative. This kind

13.  James L. Resseguie, Narrative Criticism of the New Testament:  An Introduction (Grand Rapids: Baker, 2005), pp. 126–30; Jack Dean Kingsbury, Matthew as Story, 2nd ed. (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1988), pp. 9–10. See also Rhoads, Reading Mark, p. 10. 14.  Wayne C. Booth, The Rhetoric of Fiction, 2nd ed. (Chicago:  University of Chicago Press, 1983), p. 8. 15. For a discussion of how Nicodemus might be understood from a narrative and performance perspective, see Holly E. Hearon, “Characters in Text and Performance,” in From Text to Performance: Narrative and Performance Criticisms in Dialogue and Debate, ed. Kelly R. Iverson (Biblical Performance Criticism 10; Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2014), pp. 53–79.

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of showing contributes to the developing portrait of a character or reinforces an existing portrayal.16 In still other places, the narrator may show what a character is like by providing “inside views.” An inside view refers to the “internal thoughts and feelings of a character” and provides a window into a character’s motivations and perspective.17 Luke utilizes this technique in the characterization of a Pharisee who, after observing a sinful women anoint Jesus’ feet, remarks to himself, “if this man [Jesus] were a prophet, he would have known who and what sort of woman this is.  .  .” (Lk 7:39). Though none of the characters hear this derogatory statement, the reader is given access to the man’s internal thoughts. This kind of privileged information— revealed through inside views—is distinctive to the literary enterprise and provides a tool for characterization that is not available in the real world.18 While indirect presentation may at times be explicit, it may also generate ambiguity or, at the very least, leave the reader with considerable work in determining a character’s contribution to the narrative. Perhaps the classic example is the centurion’s so-called confession in Mark’s Gospel. Immediately after Jesus dies, the narrative quickly transitions to the temple (15:38), before returning to the scene of the crucifixion where the centurion declares, “Truly this man was the son of God!” (15:39). Few would object that the episode represents a key moment in the story or that Jesus is the Son of God in Mark (see 1:11; 9:7). The more problematic issue relates to the characterization of the centurion. Though Mark provides the centurion’s response to Jesus’ death, how is the reader to understand the statement? Is the “confession” an expression of heartfelt belief in Jesus as the true Son of God (in a Christian sense)? Is the “confession” a derisive insult, an ironic declaration intended as a final verbal blow towards a messianic pretender? Or is the so-called confession something in-between—an affirmation of Jesus’ special status but framed within the context of the Roman gods? On this particular question the history of

16.  It should be noted that this type of characterization is indirect because the reader must evaluate the reliability of the character. In the above examples, God and Jesus reinforce the validity of a particular characterization. In other contexts, a character’s perspective may be discounted based upon the character’s perceived unreliability (e.g., Mk 14:64). 17. Resseguie, Narrative Criticism, p. 127. The presence of inside views is, in part, why many scholars argue that the narrators in the gospels are omniscient. Resseguie suggests that this kind of narrator “exercises the freedom to move at will from the external world to the inner world of characters and knows everything connected with the story.” 18. Alan Culpepper (in Anatomy of the Fourth Gospel: A Study in Literary Design [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983], pp. 102–3) astutely notes that “the reader may be admitted to the character’s mind for an inside view or assisted by the narrator to gain a ‘true’ view of the character. Characters can be fully exposed; people cannot. The implication of this observation for the study of the Gospels is powerful: the Gospels, in which Jesus is a literary character, can make him known to readers more profoundly than he, as a person, could have been known by his contemporaries.”

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scholarship is divided, but the sheer volume of literature on the subject is more than enough to indicate that the characterization of the centurion is somewhat ambiguous.19 Whether intentionally or not, Mark’s depiction of the centurion—the showing of character traits—leaves room for uncertainty and multiple interpretations. Showing may be relatively explicit in some contexts, but in others it opens the door for multiple perspectives. The second means of characterization is telling. In contrast to showing, telling is sometimes referred to as direct presentation since it involves the narrator’s explicit assessment of a character. Unlike showing, where the reader must evaluate a character based upon what a character does and says, as well as the character’s interactions with others, telling is an explicit affirmation of the narrator’s perspective and is often more overt. For example, in Matthew, Joseph is called a “righteous man” (Mt 1:19) and Judas is described as the one who betrays Jesus (Mt 10:4).20 Although these descriptions are not unlike other forms of indirect presentation, they are nonetheless to be differentiated. When a character makes a statement about another participant in the narrative, the value of the affirmation must be determined by the reader. As a case in point, when the relatives of Jesus declare that, “he [Jesus] is out of his mind” (Mk 3:21), the reader must assess the merit of the statement before dismissing it as a misguided perspective (based upon other indicators in the narrative). In contrast, the necessity for this kind of interpretive filtering (from characters to reader) is minimized in the act of telling since any statements associated with the characterization of an individual come directly from the narrator.21 The basis for this conclusion is predicated on the notion that the narrator represents a reliable character whose perspectives are aligned with the implied author. Although Malbon has recently challenged the position,22 this underlying 19. See Ched Myers, Binding the Strong Man: A Political Reading of Mark’s Story of Jesus (Maryknoll:  Orbis, 1988), p.  393; Donald H. Juel, A Master of Surprise: Mark Interpreted (Minneapolis:  Fortress, 1994), p.  74; Tae Hun Kim, “The Anarthrous υἱὸς θεοῦ in Mark 15:39 and the Roman Imperial Cult,” Bib 79 (1998), pp. 221–41; Whitney T. Shiner, “The Ambiguous Pronouncement of the Centurion and the Shrouding of Meaning in Mark,” JSNT 78 (2000), pp. 3–22; Kelly R. Iverson, “A Centurion’s ‘Confession’: A PerformanceCritical Analysis of Mark 15:39,” JBL 130.2 (2011), pp. 329–50. 20.  The first reference to Judas in each of the gospels is accompanied by a note of his betrayal (Mk 3:19; Lk 6:16; Jn 6:71). 21.  A hallmark of the narrative approach is the assumption that the entire story is a reflection of the narrator’s intentional selection of material. While true, not all of the views expressed reflect the narrator’s perspective. Some characters are included to juxtapose the narrator’s perspective from others. 22.  Malbon (Mark’s Jesus, p.  243) argues that “contrary to what has generally been observed about Mark’s Gospel, the narrator is not identical with the implied author. The implied author controls the narrator and all the characters. It is the implied author who juxtaposes the christology of the Markan Jesus and the christology of the Markan narrator and other characters, and it is the Markan implied audience who has to hold the two together.”

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assumption has been a guiding principle among narrative critics.23 If it can be assumed that the narrator and implied author share similar perspectives, as many have argued, it further bolsters the importance of telling as a means of characterization, for the narrator’s comments shape the reader’s interpretation of the various interactions and characters within the story. As Resseguie summarizes, “what the narrator tells us influences how we read the narrative. We rely upon the narrator to express the norms and values of the narrative and how we should respond to individual characters. Those who voice the norms and values of the narrative receive approval while those who are opposed to these values are cast in a negative light.”24 Thus, telling communicates the narrator’s thoughts and intentions, providing a virtual inside view to the implied author who guides the interpretation of the narrative. Ultimately, whether or not the narrator’s views are aligned with the implied author, telling—along with showing—is a vital means of characterization in biblical narrative.

Characterization in Performance Criticism Over the last several decades, there has been meaningful progress in the area of performance criticism. Indeed, some who were pioneers in narrative criticism, such as David Rhoads, Joanna Dewey, and Tom Boomershine, have turned to understanding ancient media and its importance for the study of biblical texts. Rhoads and Dewey have even suggested that the recent interest in orality and performance beckons for a “paradigm shift” in order to “reframe our image of early Christianity and to recast and expand the methodological tools we scholars use in New Testament studies.”25 While a lofty objective, the goal in the remainder of the essay is to consider how performance affects characterization. To address this query, it is necessary to discuss some of the distinguishing features of performance before turning attention to specific ways in which an oral/aural context sheds light on the broader subject of characters and characterization. Foundations of Performance Rhoads and Dewey have suggested that performance criticism is “the study of the biblical writings as oral performances told from memory or sometimes as prepared readings in performance events before communal audiences in a predominately oral culture.”26 There are many facets to this definition that might be

23. See, for example, Mark W. G. Stibbe, John as Storyteller: Narrative Criticism and the Fourth Gospel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), p. 20. 24. Resseguie, Narrative Criticism, pp. 127–8. 25. David Rhoads and Joanna Dewey, “Performance Criticism: A Paradigm Shift in New Testament Studies,” in From Text to Performance, pp. 1–2. 26. Rhoads and Dewey, “A Paradigm Shift,” p. 1.

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developed, but two are particularly noteworthy for considering the question of characterization in an oral context. One of the central premises of performance is that the majority of individuals in the ancient world experienced texts in an oral/aural setting. The reason texts were “performed,” as opposed to being read silently, is that most individuals were incapable of reading literary documents. In fact, estimates suggest that only three to fifteen percent of the population were “literate,” leaving somewhere between ninety-seven to eighty-five percent of the population illiterate.27 Of course, these are only estimates and it is impossible to know exactly what percentage of the population was able to read biblical-like texts. The very idea of “literacy” is open for debate, and how one defines the term has implications for assessing “literacy rates.”28 Furthermore, the proposed rates would have fluctuated based upon a number of variables, including geographic region, gender, and socioeconomic status. Yet, despite these qualifications and the various challenges in estimating literacy rates—to my knowledge—there has been no study suggesting that a majority of the population would have been capable of reading the biblical texts. This is not to suggest that some were incapable of reading biblical texts, that some did read silently and privately, or that others possessed a rudimentary, functional literacy necessary for commerce or daily activities. Instead, it is to underscore that for the average person living in the Roman Empire, reading gospel-like texts was beyond their abilities. As Harris observes, “there was without doubt a vast diffusion of reading and writing ability in the Greek and Roman worlds . . . [but] there was no mass literacy . . . The classical world, even at its most advanced, was so lacking in the characteristics which produce extensive literacy that we must suppose that the majority of the people were always illiterate.”29 The second premise for understanding performance and its implications follows closely from the first. If the majority of individuals in the ancient world were incapable of reading literary texts, and therefore experienced biblical literature in an oral/aural context, then it stands to reason that most did so within a communal gathering. In and of itself, this assumption is not unique. Scholars have long acknowledged that biblical texts were written to and read in communities of faith. However, the interpretive significance of this premise has too often been ignored. Although most scholars would affirm that the biblical texts were read aloud in a communal setting, their exegesis is dependent upon an interpretive program that

27.  William V. Harris, Ancient Literacy (Cambridge:  Harvard University Press, 1989); Catherine Hezser, Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001). Meir Bar-Ilan, “Illiteracy in the Land of Israel in the First Centuries CE,” in Essays in the Social Scientific Study of Judaism and Jewish Society, ed. Simcha Fishbane and Stuart Schoenfeld (Hoboken, NJ: Ktav, 1992), pp. 46–61, suggests an even lower figure, arguing that the composite literacy rate was below three percent. 28.  See the discussion in Kelly R. Iverson, “Oral Fixation or Oral Corrective,” NTS 62 (2016), pp. 183–200. 29. Harris, Ancient Literacy, p. 13.

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tacitly assumes the kind of quiet, private reading experienced by individuals in the modern world. The notion of a communal setting is a simple deduction from the previous point, but its significance for the hermeneutical task and the many questions that emerge from it are often neglected. For example, what does it mean for a performer and audience to be copresent within the same performative space? Do audiences experience a narrative presentation in the same manner that a reader does? What kinds of interactions take place between performers and audiences? What does it mean for real people located in spatial proximity to experience a biblical text? A response to all these questions is beyond the scope of this essay, but the implications have interpretive ramifications. In fact, the issues that arise from these questions lead Simonetta Cochis to conclude that understanding the “dynamic visual and aural narrating” inherent to a performance and communal setting often leads to “new textual analysis.”30 In an effort to explore these potentially new perspectives, the following offers a few preliminary ideas on how these observations might inform an understanding of characters and characterization. Embodied Characters For narrative critics characterization is a process involving show and tell. By means of a literary text “the author of a narrative breathes life into a character that is realized in the reader’s imagination.”31 Characterization is an activity in which the reader—shaped by clues and signals within the story—generates a mental picture of a literary creation. Characters may share a degree of verisimilitude with people, but they are not real people.32 They are the mental assimilation of character traits derived from a literary text. How closely they depict historical persons is another question, but from a narrative perspective characters are a literary construct that are brought to existence in the reader’s imagination.

30.  Simonetta Cochis, “Plusurs en ai oïz conter: Performance and the Dramatic Poetics of Voice in the lais of Marie de France,” in Telling the Story in the Middle Ages: Essays in Honor of Evelyn Birge Vitz, ed. Kathryn A. Duys, Elizabeth Emery, and Laurie Postlewate (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2015), p. 48. 31. Resseguie, Narrative Criticism, p. 121. 32.  Robert Scholes (in Elements of Fiction [New York:  Oxford University Press, 1968], p. 17) insists that “the greatest mistake we can make in dealing with characters in fiction is to insist on their ‘reality.’ No character in a book is a real person. Not even if he is in a history book and is called Ulysses S. Grant.” Mieke Bal (in Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narrative, 2nd ed. [Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1997], p. 115) expresses a similar conclusion: “Characters resemble people . . . That remains a truism, so banal that we often tend to forget it, and so problematic that we as often repress it with the same ease . . . The character is not a human being, but it resembles one. It has no real psyche, personality, ideology, or competence to act, but it does possess characteristics which make psychological and ideological descriptions possible.”

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Unlike the literary process, in performance characters are not reconstructed solely in the neurological pathways of the human mind. In performance, literary characters are brought to life in the storytelling event. Because this activity takes place in the storytelling event, two elements, in particular, shape the audience’s perception of characters. First, given the oral/aural nature of performance, the performer becomes the intermediary between the character and audience. Whereas in literature individual readers may engage the text in a semiautonomous fashion, partially insulated from outside influences as mental images are formed, in performance the audience is located in a different hermeneutical position relative to the story.33 Rather than having direct access to the narrative through a written document, the performer functions as the intermediary through which the story is conveyed to the audience. Though such a distinction may seem pedantic, the difference is hardly trivial, for the performer acts as an interpreter of the narrative before the audience (potentially) has the opportunity to engage the story. What the audience receives in the act of performance is the performer’s depiction of the narrative—an interpretive layer that precedes audience reception. The performance, which represents the performer’s understanding of the narrative, has a guiding influence on audience reception—indeed every bit as determinative as the author’s—and in some sense precludes a more independent engagement of the story that is often assumed in narrative-critical discussions of characterization. At the very least, characterization is not only what “the implied author provides the implied reader,”34 but what the performer interprets from the implied author and conveys to the audience. Second, as an extension of the performer’s interpretive influence over the narrative, in an assembled gathering of people the performer functions as the agent through which the characters are brought to life. In the context of performance where an individual is tasked with telling a story (from memory or via the recitation of a manuscript) that contains character dialogue (like the gospels and other biblical texts), the performer often takes on the role of the character, thus becoming a representation of the literary figure. The performer, in such instances, becomes a real, physical embodiment of the character rather than a mental construct for the reader to imagine. The embodiment of characters is important for interpretation because the performer possesses a variety of tools to convey his or her perception of a character. In particular, in a live storytelling event a performer may utilize extralinguistic

33. John A. Darr (in On Character Building: The Reader and the Rhetoric of Characterization in Luke-Acts [Literary Currents in Biblical Interpretation; Louisville:  Westminster John Knox, 1992], p. 22) argues that all readers approach the bible with an “extratext” or “extratextual repertoire,” which consists of knowledge related to: (1) language, (2) social norms, (3)  classical or canonical literature, (4)  literary conventions, (5)  relevant historical data. While this is certainly true, the reader has direct access to the text, whereas the audience is presented with an interpretation of the text. 34. Powell, What Is Narrative Criticism? p. 52.

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(e.g., facial expression, gestures, body language, movement) and paralinguistic (e.g., voice intonation, loudness, pitch, pace) communication in order to facilitate characterization. These communication tools may (and invariably do) go beyond what is contained in the written narrative and allow the performer to supply the audience with additional interpretive clues. Unlike literature in which the reader must recreate the depiction of a character from the words on a page, the audience actually “sees” and “hears” the characters, adding an additional layer of information to the characterization process. In this sense, it may be that narrative critics have not gone far enough in describing characterization. It is certainly true that both showing and telling, or what characters say and do and what others say or do in relation to them, are common techniques used to portray characters in both literature and performance. However, the question is whether this provides an adequate description in an oral/ aural context. To illustrate the issue, it might be helpful to return to the previous discussion of the centurion in Mark’s Gospel. As mentioned before, it is not entirely clear how to interpret the so-called confession in 15:39, and there has been significant scholarly debate on the subject. Nonetheless, regardless of how scholars understand the statement, most would acknowledge that from a literary perspective the utterance is potentially ambiguous, or at least open to different interpretations. It is only by appeal to broader contextual factors that scholars come to more definitive conclusions regarding the perceived genuineness of the statement. Likewise, the reader of Mark’s narrative must sift through the literary details, and only by concerted effort assess the force of the centurion’s statement. In performance, the inherent ambiguity of the statement is likely mitigated altogether. For unlike the reader, who has only to engage the printed words on the page, the audience is positioned in a multisensory environment to assist in the interpretation of the story. When the opportunity arises for the performer to embody the centurion, the performer’s own interpretation is communicated through extralinguistic and paralinguistic cues.35 Indeed, it is difficult to imagine a scenario where the performer’s voice intonation, facial expression, and body language did not provide a relatively clear set of interpretive cues to signal how the statement should be understood. Even if the performer intended the statement to be ambiguous, that uncertainty would, somewhat paradoxically, be more discernable in an oral arena. Though the centurion’s words may be ambiguous from a literary perspective, the performer would have little difficulty communicating his or her own perspective. Because the performer embodies the character, the potential ambiguity is dispelled for a listening/viewing audience. From a performance perspective, characterization is more than what a characters does and says, and what others do and say in response. Literary characterization may involve showing and telling, but the

35. It may be that the performer, in preparing for the performance, faces an interpretive challenge that is similar to the modern reader, but it is equally likely that the performer’s own interpretation is influenced by other, previous performances of Mark.

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terminology needs clarification for only in the oral arena does the performer literally show and tell. Taking a cue from Malbon’s own work in which she suggests that scholars have been content to ask “what the story means” instead of the more probative question, “how the story means,” it might be helpful to restate the issue from a performance-critical perspective.36 Given the manner in which people typically experienced biblical texts, it is better to affirm that characterization is the result of not only “what a character says and does,” but “how a character says and does” and “how others respond to that character.” Audience as Character Another unique feature of characterization in a performance setting is the way in which an audience is able to take on the role of a character. Although the story is told to an audience, it is also possible for the audience to become a participant in the performance. To appreciate how this transpires in performance, it is necessary to probe the idea of a “story world.” Narrative critics often refer to the “story world” created by a piece of literature. As Rhoads suggests, the concept refers to “the world inside a narrative with its own times and places, its own characters, its past and future, its own set of values, and its series of events moving forward in some meaningful way.”37 This story world is not to be confused with the real world, for it “is neither the historical world depicted by the story nor the historical world of the situation in which the story was first told. Rather, it is the imaginary world created by the narrative in its telling.”38 Similar to literary characters, the story world is a fictive construct that is derived from a written text and is actualized in the reader’s mind. While this concept has been instrumental in moving the hermeneutical conversation beyond traditional historical questions and has brought greater understanding to the literary process, it is not entirely applicable as a model for the oral event. At issue is the place of the reader in the hermeneutical process. From the narrative perspective, the reader is situated beyond the story world. Though the reader is brought near to the events of the story, they are “eavesdroppers” to all that takes place within the narrative.39 Ultimately, the reader is insulated from the story world and remains an outside observer to the literary creation. In no way does this deny the power of narrative or the potential for a reader to become immersed in the story. As Powell observes, “we probably all have had the experience of reading ourselves into a story at times, of imagining in the course of reading that we are there somewhere among the characters of the story world.”40 Such engagement 36. Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “How Does the Story Mean?” in Mark and Method: New Approaches in Biblical Studies, ed. Janice Capel Anderson and Stephen D. Moore (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992), pp. 23–49. 37. Rhoads, Reading Mark, p. 24. 38. Rhoads, Reading Mark, p. 24. 39. Booth, Rhetoric of Fiction, p. 8. 40. Powell, What Is Narrative Criticism? p. 56.

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is moving and has the potential to change us, but the dynamism of literature is derived through empathy, sympathy, or antipathy.41 We may get “lost in” or “caught up in” a literary story, but we are not in the story world. The power of literature is in our response to the plot and characters in the story, not to any real participation in the narrative. Though a person may be moved by a literary depiction, the reader is not an actor in the story world. Literature, by its very nature, necessitates an inherent distance between the author/narrator and the reader, but performance involves both spatial and temporal intimacy.42 One of the ways in which this intimacy manifests itself is though characterization and audience participation. Theater critics often refer to the separation between audience and performers as the “fourth wall.”43 Corresponding to stage design, the fourth wall represents the invisible barrier that defines the space between performers and audience (the other three walls delineate the boundaries of the stage) through which the audience (but not the actors) is able to view the drama. Situated beyond the fourth wall, the audience is positioned as an outside observer to the developments on the stage.44 In this respect, performance may be similar to a literary event in that the viewer/reader is located beyond the “story world.” However, in performance, the fourth wall may be suppressed. Unlike literature, where the narrator must interject into and beyond the story to communicate explicitly with the audience (e.g., “Let the reader understand” in Mk 13:14), the performer is able to weave in and out of direct address without disrupting the flow of the narrative.45 Indeed, the performer can intentionally blur, if not jettison the boundary, separating him or her from the audience. How is this accomplished? Overcoming the fourth wall may be achieved through the performer’s visual orientation during scenes of dialogue. As has already been suggested, in performance the storyteller embodies the characters— including the narrator—depicted in the story.46 When a performer is called to narrate a scene with first person dialogue, the storyteller has at least two options. In 41. Powell, What Is Narrative Criticism? p. 56. 42. Kelly R. Iverson, “The Present Tense of Performance: Immediacy and Transformative Power in Luke’s Passion,” in From Text to Performance, pp. 131–57. 43.  Patrice Pavis, Dictionary of the Theatre:  Terms, Concepts, and Analysis, trans. Christine Shantz (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1998), pp. 154–5. 44.  Michael Mangan (in The Drama, Theatre, and Performance Companion [New York:  Palgrave Macmillan, 2013], p.  172) defines the fourth wall as “the separation between the audience and the stage; its conventions involve a denial on the part of the actors of the presence of the spectator and a corresponding pretence on the part of the audience that they are voyeurs or eavesdroppers on the dramatic, observing but unobservable.” 45.  Even when the narrator in a written text speaks directly to the audience, the audience remains outside the story world. It is the narrator who breaks the fourth wall, not the other way around. 46.  For consideration of how a narrator functions in a performance context, see Philip Ruge-Jones, “Omnipresent, not Omniscient:  How Literary Interpretation Confuses the Storyteller’s Narrating,” in Between Author and Audience in Mark:  Narration,

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some situations, the storyteller may choose to deliver a speech while gazing at an imaginary character situated on-stage.47 Due to the performer’s visual orientation, this technique is sometimes referred to as an on-stage focus. In other contexts, a performer may deliver a speech with a slight variation. Instead of orienting her eyes with an on-stage focus, the performer may adopt an off-stage focus. This technique involves the performer looking beyond the stage to the communal audience. This shift in visual orientation, while simple, masks an important hermeneutical move. As long as the performer adopts an on-stage focus, the fourth wall remains intact and the audience is able to observe the narrative from a perspective that is external to the drama. However, if the performer chooses an off-stage focus, a subtle transformation occurs. Unlike the literary work, where the boundary between audience and story world is semipermanent, the invisible fourth wall between audience and performer is permeable. When a performer embodies a speech while adopting an off-stage focus, the boundary between audience and performer is altered. The visual orientation of the performer transforms the audience from external observers to a character (or character group) within the narrative— indeed the character (or character group) addressed by the performer. With this change in focus, not only is the audience reoriented to the development of the story (from outside to inside), the audience actually becomes a participant in the narrative, allowing the storyteller to speak directly to the audience from within the narrative. Such transformation is, to a degree, dependent upon the length of address. As Boomershine notes, “the shift in the listeners from being themselves to identification with the characters . . . increases in its experiential impact in correlation with the length of the speech. The longer [a character] . . . addresses the audience as a particular character, the more deeply the audience identifies with and ‘becomes’ that character.”48 In Mark this kind of direct address occurs most frequently with Jesus. Boomershine has plotted the instances in the Gospel of Mark where there is sufficient opportunity for the performer to embody a character and address the audience.49 He notes fifty such occasions in Mark, forty-five of which have Jesus as the speaker.50 In each of these instances, the performer—speaking in the role and Characterization, Interpretation, ed. Elizabeth Struthers Malbon (New Testament Monographs 23; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2009), pp. 29–43. 47.  For a discussion of on-stage and off-stage focus, see David Rhoads, “Performance Criticism: An Emerging Methodology in Second Temple Studies—Part II,” BTB 36 (2006), p. 176. 48.  Thomas E.  Boomershine, “Audience Address and Purpose in the Performance of Mark,” in Mark as Story: Retrospect and Prospect, pp. 124–5. 49.  Boomershine (in “Audience Address and Purpose in the Performance of Mark,” p. 125) limits his analysis to those places where the address involves two or more sentences. 50.  Boomershine, “Audience Address and Purpose in the Performance of Mark,” pp. 125–8. Boomershine identifies one occasion where the narrator speaks to the audience in direct address (7:3–4). I  would distinguish this text from the other examples in that 7:3–4 is more akin to 13:14. In these instances, the audience does not take on the role of a

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authority of Jesus—is able to address the audience in a way that transcends the boundary between the story world and the audience’s lived experience. Because the audience is made to take on various character roles within the narrative, ranging from the crowds to the religious leaders to the disciples, the Markan Jesus is able to speak to the audience in a way that offers challenge, rebuke, and encouragement. Thus, in contrast to literature, oral performance allows the narrator to involve the audience in ways that are challenging if not impossible to reproduce in a literary work. Such inclusions do not require obtrusive interjections to jolt the reader into participation. With a subtle turn of the head, the performer can transform the audience and speak beyond the horizons of the story world, providing the audience with access to “an imagined reality that can have a powerful impact on . . . the audience even after the performance is complete.”51 Like “unpaid extras” the audience may, for a time, become a participant in the drama.52

Conclusion Characterization involves complex processes and techniques. Understanding how characters develop is a point of ongoing discussion in literature and other media. Narrative critics have done much to help us understand how readers perceive characters in literary texts. However, while there are points of overlap between written texts and oral performance, we should not assume that the media types are identical. When a performer interacts with a live audience, unique dynamics affect the interpretive process. Because the performer is able to take on the role of the characters in the narrative, he or she is able to provide a more vivid depiction for the benefit of the audience. The portrayal may be based on a literary text, but “how” the performer chooses to depict characters may employ techniques not explicit or even indicated in the literary document. These communicative techniques, which are often unconscious to the performer, bring the characters to life and aid the audience in discerning how to interpret the narrative. Moreover, in performance the narrator is able to blur the interpretive worlds, forcing the audience to take on the role of characters in order to speak directly to the world beyond the story.

character and thus enter the story world. Rather the narrator steps out of the story world to speak to the audience. 51.  Terry Giles and William J. Doan, Twice Used Songs:  Performance Criticism of the Songs of Ancient Israel (Peabody : Hendrickson, 2009), p. 22. 52.  Whitney Taylor Shiner, Proclaiming the Gospel: First-Century Performance of Mark (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press, 2003), p. 178.

Part III S TUDIES IN C HARACTERIZATION

Chapter 5 T H E M A R KA N J E SU S , J E SU S’ A C T IO N S , A N D T H E K I N G D OM O F   G O D * Joanna Dewey

Elizabeth Struthers Malbon’s excellent book, Mark’s Jesus:  Characterization as Narrative Christology1 broke exiting new ground in narrative analysis of the Gospel of Mark. In the book, Malbon asserts that a proper narrative christology should distinguish among the points of view of the narrator, Jesus, and each of the various characters or character groups. Her careful analysis by character bears much fruit. She finds that the character Jesus in Mark’s Gospel consistently points away from himself to God, while the narrator and other characters point to Jesus. Malbon is a narrative critic, and her approach is throughout narratological. She never speaks of Mark as the composer or author of the gospel, but always of the implied author. She writes, “For me the Gospel of Mark is not a resource to be mined for historical nuggets or Christological jewels; it is the ground on which we walk.”2 Her question is, “How does the Gospel of Mark characterize Jesus? not What is the christology of Mark’s Gospel?”3 By “Mark’s Jesus” (her title), Malbon means all the various christologies found in the gospel; by the “Markan Jesus,” she means only the christology the character Jesus exemplifies in what he says and does within the narrative. She separates the Markan Jesus methodologically from what the narrator and other characters say about or to Jesus. She covers what Jesus does concisely at the discourse level, summarizing it as follows: what the Markan Jesus does is preach and teach (about the in-breaking of God’s rule), exorcise and heal (as an exemplification of the in-breaking of God’s rule), * This chapter builds on both my review for the panel on Mark’s Jesus for the 2009 annual meeting of the SBL in 2009 and my contrast of Rikki Watts’ and Malbon’s views for the Mark Seminar at the 2011 meeting of the SBL. Quotations are from the NRSV unless otherwise noted. I am grateful for David Rhoads’ careful read-through of the article. 1. Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2009. 2. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 4. 3. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 14.

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The Markan Jesus’ actions all relate not to who he is but to the in-breaking of the kingdom of God. Malbon then presents a methodical analysis of the sayings material in the gospel character by character. First, she presents what the narrator and then the other characters or character groups internal to the story say about Jesus, dealing with all the usual titles spoken by the narrator and internal characters (“Projected Christology”). Next she reviews what Jesus says in response (“Deflected Christology”). Finally, she discusses what Jesus says instead: the Son of Humanity and kingdom of God sayings (“Refracted Christology”). Many studies of Markan christology tend to ignore the kingdom of God material, focusing only on the titles; Malbon considers it central to understanding the Markan Jesus, as can be seen in her summary of Jesus’ actions. Her question is, how does the Markan Jesus’ teaching about the kingdom of God influence the narrative christology of the gospel? She writes, “In terms of narrative christology, Jesus is one who experiences God’s nearness in this surprising way and tries to enable others to experience it as well.”5 Malbon’s analysis of the sayings material demonstrates clearly that there is tension between the point of view of the narrator and the other characters who consistently point to Jesus to exalt him, on the one hand, and the point of view of the Markan Jesus who consistently points away from himself to God, on the other. A quick read-through of Malbon’s sixty-six-page chapter on deflected christology should convince (or at least alert) anyone to how consistently the Markan Jesus deflects attention from himself to God and God’s in-breaking rule. For Malbon, the implied author challenges the implied audience “to deal with the tension between an assertive narrator who proclaims ‘Jesus Christ the Son of God’ and . . . a reticent Jesus who deflects attention and honor, challenges traditional views, and insistently proclaims not himself but God.”6 She writes, “Although the Markan narrator does show interest in the christological question, ‘Who is Jesus?’ the Markan Jesus focuses on other questions: ‘What is God doing?’ and ‘What will the hearers of this good news do?’ ”7 Thus, Malbon presents a relatively low christology for the Markan Jesus, and clearly distinguishes Jesus from God. Malbon does not deal in detail with Jesus’ actions. In my opinion, one possible limitation of her book that might affect her results is its minimization of the doings, what Jesus and the other characters do. In a simple page count, forty-eight pages are devoted to what Jesus and others do, and one-hundred-sixty-two pages 4. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 21. 5.  Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p.  213. Note that Malbon writes, “Jesus is one who experiences. . .” not “Jesus is the one who experiences.” When speaking of narrative christology, Malbon does not capitalize christology; Watts always does. 6. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 216. 7. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 216.

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to what others and Jesus say. She acknowledges this, stating that she is focusing on the discourse level in regard to actions (how the implied author communicates with the implied audience) and that for reasons of space and redundancy she needs to be selective. The question I wish to pursue in this article is, “If one pays attention in similar detail to the Markan Jesus’ actions, would Malbon’s conclusions that the Markan Jesus consistently points away from himself to God and God’s kingdom hold, or would it require some modification?” Of course, I cannot review all of Jesus’ deeds in detail—it would require a full volume. I am choosing to focus on the two sea stories and the two feeding stories, for these episodes present the most serious challenge to Malbon’s conclusion. They present Jesus doing what in Hebrew scripture only God can do. If Malbon’s thesis holds for these episodes, it is likely to hold for the whole gospel. As a discussion partner, I  am using a paper by Rikki E.  Watts circulated in the Mark Seminar at the 2009 SBL meeting, “In the Power and Authority of God:  A Preliminary Exploration of Yahweh Christology in Mark.” In it Watts argues that “there are strong indications that Jesus is acting with the power and authority characteristically attributed to Yahweh alone. That is, Mark distinctively characterizes Jesus as assuming in a unique and quite natural manner the prerogatives of Israel’s God.”8 Thus Watts suggests that the Gospel of Mark may have a very high christology. He argues that in addition to “Davidic, ‘Son of Man,’ Elijah-Elisha (prophetic), Isaianic ‘suffering servant,’ and/or Mosaic paradigms . . . Mark’s fundamental category for understanding Jesus is what might be termed a Yahweh-Christology.”9 Watts is not suggesting ontological identity. Rather he is exploring “the implications of his [Jesus’] manner of acting in the world.”10 Watts’ method, in keeping with his other work, focuses on the gospel’s use of Hebrew Bible motifs to convey its message.11 Watts’ interest is primarily theological. He does not work within a narrative-critical framework; he does not distinguish between the points of view of the narrator, other characters, and Jesus. He can speak comfortably about “Mark’s proclamatory intention.”12 He does not consider the kingdom of God material. Yet his article does not just mine the gospel for “Christological jewels.” He works systematically through the narrative from the beginning, building on what has gone before; if you will, his is a reading of the plot in light of Israel’s traditions. And in the process, he compiles quite extensive evidence that “Jesus is acting with the

8.  Rikki E. Watts, “In the Power and Authority of God: A Preliminary Exploration of Yahweh Christology in Mark” circulated at the Mark Seminar of the SBL 2009, pp. 1–28 (1). 9. Watts, “Yahweh Christology,” p. 1. 10. Watts, “Yahweh Christology,” p. 2. 11. See Rikki E. Watts, Isaiah’s New Exodus in Mark (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2000). This is a reprint of the 1997 publication by J. C. B. Mohr (Paul Siebeck). See also Watts’ paper “Mark’s ‘Dappled’ Christology” circulated at the Mark Seminar of the SBL 2015, pp. 1–29. By “Dappled” he means the variety of christologies that can be discerned in the Gospel, not different christologies or christologies in tension held by different characters. 12. Watts, “Yahweh Christology,” p. 3.

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power and authority characteristically attributed to Yahweh alone.” Watts presents Mark’s Gospel holding a very high christology. Malbon, focusing on Jesus’ sayings, finds the Markan Jesus consistently pointing away from himself to God. Watts, focusing on the gospel as a whole, finds Jesus acting as God. So to repeat, my question is, “Would Malbon’s thesis that the Markan Jesus points away from himself to God need to be modified if one gave equal treatment to Jesus’ actions?” What follows is an exploratory probe into a few passages in Mark’s Gospel with this question in mind. As I proceed, it is important to remember that for Malbon, the Markan Jesus is only one part of the gospel’s christology. There is also the view of the Markan narrator and other characters. Both views are presented to the implied audience, ancient audiences, and modern scholars. It is helpful, however, to distinguish between the various views. In this article, I am only concerned with the view of the Markan Jesus. My probe consists of a close reading of the first and second boat and desert feeding episodes (Mk 4:35–41; 6:30–44; 6:45–52; and 8:1–10). Here, if one is at all familiar with Israelite traditions, it is hard to miss the echoes of God’s actions in the Exodus and wilderness narratives. I have viewed the Exodus theme as central in Mark since my first course on the gospel many decades ago. It was taught by Edward Hobbs, who was convinced that one could not understand the gospel if one did not know the Hebrew traditions that the gospel assumes its hearers know. Hobbs believed that the gospel was presenting the Jesus-event as a new Exodus much as Second Isaiah had proclaimed God leading a new Exodus.13 His views have remained an important part of my understanding of Mark as I have explored narrative and oral aspects of the gospel. Thus, for the purposes of this article, I am assuming the basic validity of Watts’ general argument about the importance of Exodus themes and allusions in Mark. I  am asking, however, “Do these echoes really point to a Yahweh-Christology in Mark?” A few caveats are in order. First, as noted, I am focusing only on the Markan Jesus. Second, it is not a full exploration of the Markan Jesus’ actions which would be necessary for a full evaluation of Malbon’s thesis. Third, I  found it impossible to deal with Jesus’ actions apart from the sayings in each particular passage. Therefore, I include both in my analysis. My method is basically close narrative reading, paying careful attention to what pertains to the Markan Jesus, and what pertains to other characters or the narrator.

Jesus Stills a Storm: Mark 4:35–41 That this passage evokes the crossing of the sea in the Exodus is generally acknowledged by scholars, including both Watts and Malbon. Watts views the passage as suggesting Jesus’ (partial) identity with God. He writes, “there is only one who commands the sea and immediately thereafter drowns a military (albeit demonic) 13.  Edward C.  Hobbs, “The Gospel of Mark and the Exodus” (PhD dissertation, University of Chicago, 1952).

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host therein.”14 Jesus shows “not the slightest hesitation in exercising apparently autonomous authority over the sea”; he does “what only Yahweh himself can do.”15 On the other hand, Malbon suggests, “that Jesus’ power over the sea can only be received from God, who has the power over the sea in scripture.”16 For Watts, Jesus is acting as God; for Malbon, Jesus’ authority derives from his reliance on God. Do we have here simply a difference in interpretation and emphasis? After all, narratives are polyvalent. Or, might the episode itself help clarify the meaning? The situation in the passage is a huge windstorm, causing waves that are swamping the boat, which is in danger of sinking. The use of λαῖλαψ in verse 37 echoes the literary topos, with “furious blast” stressing the violence of the storm.17 The disciples are afraid that they are about to drown (v. 38b). Jesus is so confident and trusting in God’s providence that he is asleep in the back of the boat. The scene sharply contrasts the terror of the disciples with the trust or confidence of Jesus. In the story, being roused by the disciples, Jesus rebukes the wind and the sea, with the same vocabulary he uses in casting out unclean spirits (ἐπιτιμάω, φιμόω). As Malbon shows, in the exorcisms the Markan Jesus consistently deflects attention from himself to God.18 I suspect that he is doing the same here. In the Markan narrative world, there is no sharp distinction between exorcisms of demons from people and exorcisms of wind in nature. Jesus’ speech to the disciples confirms this: “Why are you such cowards? You still don’t trust, do you?” (v. 41, SV). Trust or faith in the Gospel of Mark is not belief in Jesus, but trust in God, in the good news of the in-breaking kingdom of God (1:14–15). Indeed, Jesus’ berating the disciples in this passage for their faithlessness suggests that if they had truly trusted the good news of the arrival of God’s rule, they too could have stilled the storm. The Markan Jesus’ saying implies that, while the power over the sea does derive from God, the use of this power on earth is not necessarily unique to Jesus, but could be shared by others now that the rule of God is breaking in. This view is confirmed by Jesus’ teaching on prayer after the proleptic destruction of the temple in Mark 11: “Have trust in God. Let me tell you, those who say to this mountain, ‘Up with you and into the sea!’ and do not waver in their conviction, but trust that what they say will happen, that’s the way it will be” (11:22–3, SV). In this sea-storm passage, the Markan Jesus does not seem to be claiming any unique power but rather suggesting that those truly trusting the arrival of God’s kingdom may share in God’s power over nature. The disciples respond to the calming of the storm in fear or awe: “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?” (v. 41). The disciples appear to have no clue that they might be able to share this power. Malbon suggests that, since no one within the narrative answers their question, it is directed outward 14. The story of the Gerasene Demoniac (Mk 5:1–20); Watts, “Yahweh Christology,” p. 15. 15. Watts, “Yahweh Christology,” p. 16. 16. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 140. 17.  Adela Yarbro Collins, Mark:  A Commentary (Hermeneia, MN:  Fortress, 2007), p. 259. 18. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, pp. 131–7.

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to the implied audience.19 The disciples do raise the question of Jesus’ identity, whether as Christ, Son of God, or perhaps as Yahweh-Christ.20 Characters in this episode other than Jesus, in this case the disciples, do point to Jesus. The Markan Jesus, however, seems to imply that they too, if they trusted, could have managed the storm. In conclusion, then, the actions and sayings in this passage support Malbon’s thesis that Jesus points to God (or perhaps to the blessings of God’s inbreaking rule), while others point to Jesus.

The Feeding of the Five Thousand: Mark 6:30–44 Having crossed the Red Sea and drowned the military legion symbolically or metaphorically, the gospel continues the Exodus theme by recounting a feeding in the wilderness. Jesus and the disciples are in a desert place, and Jesus is teaching a huge throng which has sought him out. The disciples again are worried, this time not about their own survival but in concern for the crowd. They ask Jesus to send the crowd away to the villages to buy food. The Markan Jesus responds, “You, give them to eat” (δότε αὐτοῖς ὑμεῖς φαγεῖν, v. 37). The command is emphatic, with its redundant use of “you.” As in the prior stilling the storm episode, Jesus seems to assume that the disciples should be able to handle the matter themselves, to provide the crowd with food. According to the narrative, Jesus considers the resources of the kingdom of God available not only to himself but also to his disciples. As Malbon writes, the disciples “betray their inability to share Jesus’ confidence in God’s power and providence.”21 They ask if they should go buy this huge amount of the food. Following Jesus’ practical instructions, they gather what bread and fish they have, Jesus, looking up into heaven, blesses and breaks the bread, the disciples feed the huge crowd—All ate and were filled—and the disciples collect baskets of leftover food. Thus, as in the wilderness wanderings of the Exodus, food is provided where there is no food. Watts suggests that Jesus miraculously provides the sustenance “without any hint of invoking divine assistance.”22 I suggest with Malbon that the looking up to heaven and blessing the food is calling upon God. Malbon writes, he “seeks the company of God, the only one through whom such events can occur.”23 In this passage, then, in Malbon’s terminology, Jesus again (rather subtlety) deflects

19. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 103. 20.  Bruce J. Malina and Richard L. Rohrbaugh (in Social Science Commentary on the Synoptic Gospels [Minneapolis:  Fortress, 2nd ed., 2003], p.  164) present another option. They suggest that ancient audiences would not understand this to be a question about identity but rather about “status or honor . . . Jesus’ location in the hierarchy of powers.” They agree that humans cannot control the wind and the sea, but suggest that the general belief among Jews was that they were controlled by spirits or demons. 21. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 107. 22. Watts, “Yahweh Christology,” p. 17. 23. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 141.

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attention from himself to God. More importantly, the Markan Jesus assumes that others besides himself have this power in the desert. He expects (or hopes) the disciples will rely on God’s in-breaking kingdom and provide the food themselves. The implied author does not present the ability to provide food in the wilderness as the unique power of Jesus. It belongs rather to all those who trust in God’s arriving kingdom.

The Second Boat Scene—Jesus Walking on the Sea: Mark 6:45–52 The narrative then recounts a second miraculous sea episode and a second miraculous feeding. I  suggest the implied author is not concerned so much with a one-to-one correspondence with earlier Exodus and wilderness events, but with making sure that the implied audience gets the message: God is again acting in an Exodus-like manner in inaugurating the kingdom with Jesus. The episodes follow a typical rhetorical procedure of repetition with variation.24 The second boat scene presents a considerable variation from the first one. Once again, the disciples are in a boat, attempting to cross the lake. This time Jesus is not with them. The boat was not in danger, but the disciples were rowing hard against a head wind, apparently making little progress. In the early morning, Jesus comes walking on the sea, intending to pass them by (v. 48). “Pass by” echoes the theophany to Moses, where God “passes by” Moses’ face (Exod 34:5–6 LXX) and also one to Elijah.25 This is an inside view of Jesus provided by the narrator.26 More importantly for the purposes of this article, the “passing by” is not necessary for the story. The story flows as well if not better if verse 48b, “He intended to pass them by,” is simply omitted as Matthew does (Mt 14:25). The sentence is likely there to further emphasize the echoes to the Exodus: here Jesus is doing as God once did. The disciples are terrified at the sight of a figure walking on the sea; they take it to be a ghost. Jesus then gets in the boat and says to them, “It is I” (ἐγώ εἰμι, v. 50). The phrase can be simply a colloquial “it’s me.” However, given Jesus’ power over the sea in this story, and given the “pass by” statement, more likely ἐγώ εἰμι also echoes God’s words at the burning bush, another theophany (Exod 3:14). Watts and Malbon concur on this. Malbon writes, “The Markan Jesus’ allusion to the voice of God from the burning bush . . . signals to the implied audience at least the scriptural background for understanding through whose power the sea is mastered and people are fed in the desert.”27

24.  See Eric Havelock, “Oral Composition in the Oedipus Tyrannus of Sophocles,” New Literary History 16 (1984), pp. 175–97; Joanna Dewey, “Oral Methods of Structuring Narrative in Mark,” Interpretation 53 (1989), pp. 32–44. 25. Collins, Mark, 334. The verb is all cases is some form of parerchomai. 26. On inside views, see Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, pp. 66–70. 27. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 141.

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The narrator reports that the disciples were dumbfounded, since they did not understand about the bread. This suggests that, if they had understood about the loaves, that is, that God’s providence and abundance are available to Jesus and also to them, they would not have been so terrified at the sight of the figure on the sea, or so astounded when it turned out to be Jesus. Given the overall coherence of the gospel’s narrative, this is likely. The theme that the disciples too could share this power over the sea is not developed. Perhaps, however, it is to be assumed on the basis of the preceding two episodes. Matthew, the first interpreter of Mark, assumes that the power could be shared: Peter attempts to walk on the sea, and succeeds in doing so until he loses confidence, gets frightened, and starts to sink. The Matthean Jesus responds, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?” (Mt 14:28– 31). Furthermore, there are references in both Gentile and Jewish sources of humans walking on water.28 This episode differs from the earlier two in that Jesus does not explicitly deflect attention from himself to God or God’s kingdom. While the “intending to pass by” is an inside view by the narrator, the narrator is throughout a reliable narrator, and the intention attributed to Jesus should probably be considered the Markan Jesus’ own intention. Further the Markan Jesus could have just said εἰμι and not echoed the divine self-revelation. Malbon writes of this passage, “On the one hand, the Markan Jesus is consistently reticent to speak of himself or defend himself; but, on the other, when he does speak he echoes the words of God—which also could be considered observant of Jewish tradition, perhaps deflecting attention and honor to God.”29 It seems to me more straightforward to say that here Jesus calls attention to his close relation to, even identification with, God. Watts writes, “As many commentators note this is probably the most divine moment in Mark’s narrative of Jesus’ life.”30 This passage does not easily support Malbon’s thesis of the Markan Jesus deflecting attention from himself. Indeed, Malbon writes of the gospel’s second use of ἐγώ εἰμι in the trial narrative: And yet, amid this narrative tension between the Markan Jesus and the Markan narrator, there are also some intriguing correspondences. Sometimes it appears that the Markan Jesus takes on an ideological point of view first expressed by the Markan narrator. The usually reticent Markan Jesus does finally accede at the end to the title “Christ, Son of the Blessed One” (14:61–62) which the Markan narrator asserted at the beginning.31

The second boat scene perhaps belongs here as well. The passage is ambiguous. Most likely, walking on water should be included in actions that all those trusting

28. See Collins, Mark, pp. 328–33 and the literature cited there. 29. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 170. 30. Watts, “Yahweh Christology,” p. 16. 31. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 192.

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in God’s in-breaking kingdom can do. But at the same time, it does seem to support Watts’ argument that this passage at least has a hint of a Yahweh christology.

The Feeding of the Four Thousand: Mark 8:1–10 This second multiplication of loaves in the desert is basically a somewhat shorter recapitulation of the earlier feeding (ten verses vs. fifteen verses)—with the important difference in content in that it is now Gentiles not Jews who are being fed. Here, instead of the disciples being concerned about the welfare of the crowd, it is Jesus who has compassion for the crowd. In the first episode, the disciples wondered if Jesus wanted them to go buy food; in this one, the disciples are entirely disbelieving, “How can one feed these people with bread here in the desert?” (v. 4). Following after the first feeding (and Jesus’ demonstrations of power over the sea in the two boat scenes), the disciples’ disbelief emphasizes for the implied audience their obtuseness.32 Once again, Jesus shows the disciples how to do it. He turns to God in blessing the bread and the fish; the disciples carry out the distribution and collect the leftovers. Unlike the second boat scene which is quite different from the first, this one is simply a repetition with variation, characteristic of an oral style. These four episodes provide good test cases to see if a focus on Jesus’ actions suggests that Malbon’s thesis of the Markan Jesus pointing to God needs modification. They evoke the Exodus and wilderness narratives. They show Jesus’ stilling the storm, feeding five thousand, walking on water, and feeding four thousand, things that Hebrew scriptures reserve for God. Watts views these passages as evidence for a Yahweh christology in Mark, the Markan Jesus doing things only God can do. Malbon does not analyze them in detail, but she views them as part of the in-breaking of God’s rule. With the in-breaking of God’s rule, they are now possible for Jesus and others participating in God’s rule. The Markan Jesus is able to do them because of his trust, indeed confidence, in God, and suggests that others who turn and trust the good news of God’s kingdom can do them as well. This is explicit in the first boat scene where Jesus accuses the disciples of their lack of trust, and in the first feeding story where Jesus commands them to feed them. It is less explicit in the second sea and feeding stories, but it certainly is not excluded. There is a third boat scene (Mk 8:14–21) consisting of sayings, not actions. It continues the theme of the feedings so is worth brief consideration. In this passage, the Markan Jesus berates the disciples for not understanding. “Why are you talking about bread you don’t have? You still don’t get it, do you? You still haven’t got the point, have you?” (v. 17, SV). They have one loaf; do they not yet

32. If I put myself in that situation, the feeding in the desert is so far outside my expectations of reality that I could think of first feeding as an odd exception, not a repeatable possibility, or more likely, revise my memory altogether so I don’t believe it happened since it doesn’t fit my views of reality, as memory studies have shown that we humans quite frequently do. At any rate, for the implied audience, the disciples still don’t get it.

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understand that bread can be multiplied? Scholars’ interpretations of this passage vary. Malbon writes: “What the Markan Jesus wants the disciples to understand, . . . is that God is acting here—in the feeding of both Jews and Gentiles, in Jesus’ mastery over the sea to calm and protect his disciples. The rule of God that Jesus proclaims is breaking into existence in his actions for others.”33 Given my discussion of the passages above, I would press this even further—or make the implications more explicit. The disciples do not get that they too have the power to do such deeds through their participation in the in-breaking rule of God. Returning to my question, does a more focused consideration of Jesus’ actions require any modification of Malbon’s basic thesis that the Markan Jesus points consistently away from himself to God? On the basis of these five passages, I would suggest Malbon’s thesis is confirmed, but also made more complex. In the first boat scene and the two feeding scenes, Jesus acts but suggests also that the disciples could also have acted to handle the matter themselves; the Markan Jesus is not assuming unique powers. In the second boat scene, with its statement about passing by, and the use of ἐγώ εἰμι, some exaltation by Jesus of himself may be implied. But the story of Peter walking on water in Matthew’s Gospel suggests that ancient audiences would not necessarily view walking on water as unique to Jesus alone. I would suggest that a more comprehensive survey of Jesus’ actions in the gospel would show more examples where Jesus functions as God’s agent, doing what God alone does (e.g., forgiving sins, changing the Torah), and that might be done by others as well. These actions on the whole culminate in sayings more fully discussed by Malbon. Quite consistently in the sayings material, Jesus does direct attention to God or God’s in-breaking rule. For example, in Mark 2:9–10, the Markan Jesus says, “Which is easier, to say to the paralytic, ‘Your sins are forgiven,’ or to say, ‘Stand up and take your mat and walk’? But so you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins. . .” and the paralytic gets up and walks. Clearly the Jewish authorities in the narrative consider this blasphemy, doing what only God can do (v. 7). However, as Malbon notes, “Your sins are forgiven,” is a divine passive and “probably should be read, ‘your sins are forgiven by God,’ in which case Jesus is not taking the initiative in forgiving the man’s sins but proclaiming the availability of forgiveness and healing, which are interconnected, as a consequence of the in-breaking rule of God.”34 On the basis of a small sample of Jesus’ actions—but the ones showing Jesus doing things generally reserved for God—I conclude that a consideration of Jesus’ actions does not require any significant modification of Malbon’s thesis that the Markan Jesus points to God or God’s rule. Furthermore, Malbon’s analysis also demonstrates the fruitfulness of distinguishing in Mark’s narrative between the Markan Jesus on the one hand and the other characters and narrator on the other. We are generally not accustomed to

33. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 142. 34.  Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p.  152. For more on Malbon’s understanding of the Son of humanity, see pp. 151–4, 199–210.

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making this distinction when investigating a gospel’s theology or christology, so I wish to argue for the necessity or at least the usefulness of doing so. First of all, I am a narrative critic so I think paying attention to character matters. It is the interaction of character and plot that creates a story. Second, in the overwhelmingly oral culture of the first century, audiences heard the gospel performed; they did not, indeed could not read it.35 In performance, the distinction among characters is much more obvious to the audience than it is to a reader reading a script. The performer/narrator clarifies who is speaking by performing as that particular character both through the use of voice, likely also by the use of repeated gestures, and by placement (staging) within the performance area.36 A helpful analogy for us may be the way we read stories to children, impersonating the various characters. In telling aloud, in performance, characters do not all blend into one homogenized whole, but are more distinct and differentiated for an audience. For Watts, if he had considered separately the Markan Jesus and the disciples (the other important character group in the sea and feeding passages), I think perhaps he would have paid more attention to the distinction between what Jesus thinks the disciples should be able to do and the disciples’ own perspective. And he might have paid more attention to the kingdom of God material. In the first sea story and the feeding stories, it is clear that the Markan Jesus believes that the disciples also have power over the sea and power to provide food in the wilderness. If they would trust in God and the good news of the arrival of God’s kingdom, they too could do these things. Therefore, I would suggest that the passages stress more the in-breaking of the kingdom of God than any Yahweh christology. The Markan Jesus indeed does actions only God can do, but he also endeavors to enable others to do so as well.

The Markan Jesus and the Kingdom of God Marcus Borg wrote “ ‘Jesus is Lord’ is the post-Easter equivalent of Jesus’s proclamation of the kingdom of God.”37 For the other characters and the narrator in the Gospel of Mark, and for most contemporary scholarly interpreters of the gospel including Watts, this statement is true. But Malbon has shown that for the Markan

35.  On literacy rates in antiquity, see William V. Harris, Ancient Literacy (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1989); Catherine Hezser, Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine (Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2001); Joanna Dewey, The Oral Ethos of the Early Church:  Speaking, Writing, and the Gospel of Mark (Biblical Performance Criticism 8; Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2013), pp. 3–19, 31–43. 36.  Whitney Shiner, Proclaiming the Gospel:  First-Century Performance of Mark (Harrisburg:  Trinity, 2003), pp. 77–98, 127–40; David Rhoads, “Biblical Performance Criticism: Performance as Research,” Oral Tradition 25 (2010), pp. 157–98 (181–4). 37.  Marcus J. Borg, Jesus:  Uncovering the Life, Teachings, and Relevance of a Religious Revolutionary (New York: HarperOne, 2006), p. 289.

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Jesus, and thus for the narrative christology of the gospel as a whole, this is manifestly not true. The in-breaking of the rule of God remains central, perhaps as or more important than the titles attributed by others to Jesus. In Mark’s Gospel, the kingdom of God has not been swallowed up by an exalted Jesus. Both are found in Mark’s Jesus. Malbon notes that the kingdom of God material has been generally neglected in scholarly work on christology in the Gospel of Mark.38 Although she does not stress the importance of God’s rule in her conclusion, she does repeatedly bring it forward in her narrative reading of Mark. Where it comes strongly forward is in her first numbered relatively short chapter on “Enacted Christology: What Jesus Does.” At the 2009 SBL, there was a special panel on Mark’s Jesus. Alan Culpepper, Eugene Boring and I presented reviews and Malbon responded. I wondered, as noted earlier, if she had dealt in detail with Jesus’ actions, would her basic conclusion have held. Alan Culpepper found the chapter “problematic” and surmised that, “the issues related to outlining the gospel have little effect on the later chapters of the book where its real contribution is made.” Malbon responded, “Actually chapter one presents the overall view of Mark’s Gospel that is presupposed in the rest of the book .  .  . The point of my chapter one is to present the overall pattern of narrative actions of Jesus as the foundation for any look at the narrative christology of Mark.”39 That overall pattern concerns the in-breaking of God’s rule. In Mark 4, the parable chapter, the Markan Jesus teaches about the in-breaking in this age; in Mark 13, about the age to come. The central section of the gospel, Mark 8:22–10:52, teaches about suffering and service as the way of the kingdom in this age. Malbon summarizes: The dominant impression is of the Markan Jesus’ relentless proclamation of the in-breaking rule of God, in spite of the ever clearer consequences of this proclamation in the sphere of the rule of powerful men. Also highlighted is the difficulty of others (both characters and implied audience) in appreciating and appropriating the implications of such a proclamation.40

The foundation that Malbon sets up in her chapter on enacted christology puts front and center the in-breaking of God’s rule. I would concur. In the third edition of Mark as Story, David Rhoads and I wrote, “This arrival of God’s rule—the heavens opening, the defeat of Satan in the desert, and the announcement by Jesus—is the key watershed event in the narrative world. Mark, then, may be described as ‘the arrival of the rule of God with an extended denouement.’ ”41

38. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 19. 39. From unpublished copies of the responses given at the panel. 40. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 36. 41. David Rhoads, Joanna Dewey, and Donald Michie, Mark as Story: An Introduction to the Narrative of a Gospel (Minneapolis: Fortress, 3rd ed., 2012), p. xiii.

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The question for interpretation of the two sea and two feeding stories is whether Jesus alone can accomplish these things or whether the Markan Jesus understands them as also possible for others participating in the in-breaking of the kingdom. Summarizing Malbon’s quotation on Jesus’ actions from the beginning of this article, the Markan Jesus preaches and teaches, exorcises and heals, insists on and practices service to those with the least status in society, and suffers persecution and death, all in relation to the in-breaking of God’s rule. 42 The disciples and sometimes others are clearly shown to share in many of these activities. The disciples are chosen to preach and to heal; later they go out two by two preaching, casting out demons, and healing many who were sick (Mk 3:14–15; 6:12). In addition, the Markan Jesus defends the strange exorcist who is casting out demons in Jesus’ name but not following them (Mk 9:38–41). This power is shared. The disciples are often admonished to serve those with less status in society, perhaps most clearly in the discussion on who is greatest after the second passion prediction: “Whoever wants to be first must be last of all and servant of all” followed by the teaching on welcoming a little child (Mk 9:36–7, see also 10:43–5). And there is no question but that the disciples can expect to suffer persecution, possibly execution as well. The Markan Jesus says, “As for yourselves, beware; for they will hand you over to councils; and you will be beaten in synagogues; and you will stand before governors and kings because of me, as a testimony to them. And the good news must first be proclaimed to all nations” (Mk 13:9–10; see also Mk 8:34–7). Basically, all that Jesus does, followers are expected to do as well. It is not what disciples are to believe about the Markan Jesus, but what they are to do following him. The in-breaking of God’s rule empowers—and challenges—all who participate. Is there any reason for us (for Malbon, the implied audience) to exclude the power to calm the sea, walk on water, and feed thousands in the desert where there is no food? Or do we (modern scholars) like the Markan disciples who, having experienced the stilling of the storm, the feeding of the five thousand, and the Markan Jesus walking on water, respond to the Markan Jesus’ concern for the four thousand, “How can one feed these people with bread here in the desert?” (Mk 8:4). Such nature miracles were apparently outside the Markan disciples’ view of reality in the Gospel of Mark; they are certainly outside of our scientific view of reality in the twenty-first century. But they are not outside the view of the inbreaking kingdom of God in the Markan narrative; they are a continuation of the God-given authority to heal and exorcise. There are suggestions in the passages themselves that the Markan Jesus expects the disciples—those participating in the in-breaking of the God’s rule—to be able to do these actions. And the Markan Jesus’ teaching after his action in the temple and the withering of the fig tree confirm that the power over nature is also shared, not unique to Jesus. The mountain will be thrown into the sea if one trusts that it will happen (Mk 11:22–3). I suggest there is no reason to exclude the power over nature as part of the in-breaking of

42. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 21.

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the kingdom of God in the Markan narrative. For the Markan Jesus, healing, exorcism, and nature miracles are a progression in degree, not in any way different in kind. All those who, like the Markan Jesus, trust in God and the kingdom of God can do such things. The in-breaking of God’s rule on earth allows Jesus and others to do what only God does in Hebrew Scripture. They share some of the power of God granted to humanity with the in-breaking of the kingdom. In conclusion, then, my probe into Jesus’ actions, using the nature sea and feeding miracles as test cases, confirms Malbon’s thesis that the Markan Jesus points away from himself to God and God’s in-breaking rule. Furthermore, it demonstrates the usefulness, indeed necessity, of differentiating the different points of view of the different characters and the narrator. Christological work on this and the other gospels should investigate differences in points of view of characters in the narrative. Finally, my analysis confirms Malbon’s emphasis on the importance of the arrival of God’s rule; indeed, in my opinion, renders it more central than she places it. A final comment on the Exodus theme is in order. It remains important in the narrative of Mark’s Gospel as a whole, and is found in the actions of the Markan Jesus particularly in the sea and feeding stories. Watts argues that this is evidence for a Yahweh christology. I would reframe this as evidence of the in-breaking of God’s rule. I  suggest that, through these allusions to the Exodus, the arrival of God’s kingdom is presented in Mark as a new Exodus, as God once again liberating the people (and all of creation). The in-breaking of the rule of God is central in Mark’s narrative.

Bibliography Borg, M. J. Jesus: Uncovering the Life, Teachings, and Relevance of a Religious Revolutionary (New York: HarperOne, 2006). Collins, A. Y. Mark: A Commentary (Hermeneia, MN: Fortress, 2007). Dewey, J. The Oral Ethos of the Early Church: Speaking, Writing, and the Gospel of Mark, Biblical Performance Criticism 8 (Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2013). ———. “Oral Methods of Structuring Narrative in Mark,” Interpretation 53 (1989), pp. 32–44. Harris, W. V. Ancient Literacy (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1989). Havelock, E. “Oral Composition in the Oedipus Tyrannus of Sophocles,” New Literary History 16 (1984) pp. 175–97. Hezser, C. Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001). Hobbs. E. C. “The Gospel of Mark and the Exodus” (PhD dissertation, University of Chicago, 1952). Malbon, E. S. Mark’s Jesus: Characterization as Narrative Christology (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2009). Malina, B. J. and R. L. Rohrbaugh. Social Science Commentary on the Synoptic Gospels (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2nd ed., 2003). Miller, R. J. The Complete Gospels: The Scholars Version (Salem, OR: Polebridge, 4th ed., 2010).

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Rhoads, D. “Biblical Performance Criticism: Performance as Research,” Oral Tradition 25 (2010), pp. 157–98. Rhoads, D., J. Dewey, and D. Michie. Mark as Story: An Introduction to the Narrative of a Gospel (Minneapolis: Fortress, 3rd ed., 2012). Shiner, W. Proclaiming the Gospel: First-Century Performance of Mark (Harrisburg: Trinity International, 2003). Watts, R. E. “In the Power and Authority of God: A Preliminary Exploration of Yahweh Christology in Mark” circulated at the Mark Seminar of the SBL 2009, pp. 1–28. ———. Isaiah’s New Exodus in Mark (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2000). ———. “Mark’s ‘Dappled’ Christology” circulated at the Mark Seminar of the SBL 2015, pp. 1–29.

Chapter 6 C HA R AC T E R I Z I N G J E SU S I N M A R K ’ S LONGER ENDING The Narrative Christological Trajectory of Mark 16:9–20 Christopher W. Skinner

In her 2009 volume, Mark’s Jesus, Elizabeth Struthers Malbon introduces readers to five different ways in which the Gospel of Mark characterizes Jesus: (1) enacted christology (what Jesus does); (2)  projected christology (what others say about Jesus); (3)  deflected christology (what Jesus says in response); (4) refracted christology (what Jesus says instead); and (5) reflected christology (what others do).1 In drawing out both the words and deeds of various characters and the text’s explicit and implicit commentary, Malbon combines several areas of research with which she has become associated during her scholarly career. First, she continues her tradition of insightful narrative commentary on the Gospel of Mark,2 while connecting that with her work on Markan characters and characterization—a subject on which she is the foremost authority among those currently working in Markan studies.3 She then uses these two concerns to help

1.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, Mark’s Jesus: Characterization as Narrative Christology (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2009). 2.  For a useful example of Malbon’s narrative exegesis, see her book, Hearing Mark: A Listener’s Guide (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press, 2002). 3. Her publications on this subject have been voluminous. See, in order of publication, “Fallible Followers: Women and Men in the Gospel of Mark,” Semeia 28 (1983), pp. 29– 48; “The Jesus of Mark and the Sea of Galilee,” JBL 103 (1984), pp. 363–77; “Disciples/ Crowds/Whoever: Markan Characters and Readers,” NovT 28 (1986), pp. 104–30; “The Jewish Leaders in the Gospel of Mark: A Literary Study of Marcan Characterization,” JBL 108 (1989), pp. 259–81; “The Poor Widow in Mark and Her Poor Rich Readers,” CBQ 53 (1991), pp. 589–604; “Text and Contexts: Interpreting the Disciples in Mark,” Semeia 62 (1993), pp. 81–102; “The Major Importance of the Minor Characters in Mark,” in The New Literary Criticism and the New Testament, ed. Elizabeth Struthers Malbon and Edgar V. McKnight (Sheffield and Harrisburg, PA: Sheffield University Press/Trinity Press, 1994),

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readers understand how Mark functions as a narrative christology.4 At the outset of her discussion, she explains that focusing on titles for Jesus in the gospel is an illegitimate way to establish the Markan presentation of Jesus, indicating that such an approach would yield a christology that is both incomplete and potentially incorrect. Too many works on New Testament christology focus on various titles and actions and generate an understanding of Jesus that is superficial at best.5 Instead, in an effort to draw out Mark’s christology, Malbon writes: “What leads to understanding is engagement with the story.”6 This one line beautifully sums up Malbon’s work, both in that book and throughout her scholarly writings on the Gospel of Mark.7 In this essay, I want to combine those same three concerns—narrative exegesis, characterization, and christology—to examine an element of Mark’s Gospel that has largely been ignored in Malbon’s work. A survey of her publications on the Gospel of Mark reveals that Malbon never discusses the so-called Longer Ending (Mk 16:9–20) in any great detail. I would like to use this essay as an opportunity to interact with Malbon’s work in the three aforementioned areas while examining a text to which she has devoted little attention. In what follows, I will first look briefly at the consensus position that the Longer Ending is a later addition to the Gospel of Mark, while also considering recent concerns about the notion of an “original text.” Then, I will provide a short commentary on the Longer Ending in which I will apply the various narrative christological categories employed in Mark’s Jesus. I will close by raising a few questions about the christological trajectory of the Longer Ending vis-à-vis the commonly accepted original ending (16:8).

pp. 58–86. She also coedited, along with Adele Berlin, the volume Characterization in Biblical Literature (Semeia, 63; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 1993) and edited Between Author and Audience in Mark: Narration, Characterization, Interpretation (NTM, 23; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2009). 4.  This term was first used by Robert Tannehill, “The Gospel of Mark as Narrative Christology,” Semeia 16 (1979), pp. 57–95. For a helpful overview of different narrative Christological approaches in recent Markan scholarship, see Gregg S. Morrison, The Turning Point in the Gospel of Mark: A Study in Markan Christology (Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2014), pp. 197–213. 5. For a work focusing on the narrative behind each New Testament writing rather than titles and functions, see Frank J. Matera, New Testament Christology (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1999). 6. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 16 (emphasis mine). 7. As her peers have noted, this book represents the culmination of a stellar career commenting on the Gospel of Mark. See sympathetic reviews in Int 68.1 (2012), pp. 91; CBQ 74.2 (2012), pp. 381–2; WW 31.4 (2011), pp. 432–4; JETS 54.1 (2011), pp. 161–4; RBL (July 2010): http://bookreviews.org/pdf/7522_8207.pdf.

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The Longer Ending Is Not Original: A Brief Look at the Consensus No one who has genuinely engaged the Gospel of Mark can escape the lure of deliberating over its difficult ending. The ending of Mark’s Gospel has been called “the gravest textual problem in the NT,”8 and surely ranks among the most consistently discussed New Testament text-critical issues.9 Despite the level of interest in this difficult textual problem however, there is an overwhelming consensus among scholars that the Longer Ending is not original to the Gospel of Mark.10 The following list represents the most salient concerns raised against the antiquity of Mark 16:9–20. External Evidence While the sheer volume of manuscript evidence for the Longer Ending is impressive—one estimate has it appearing in roughly 99 percent of extant Greek manuscripts11—the quality of manuscripts lacking the Longer Ending raises serious questions about its antiquity. This observation goes back to the debate over the best way to evaluate external evidence. Those employing a strict documentary approach would have the majority of manuscripts ruling the day, while an eclectic approach considers the date and quality of the manuscripts and attempts to weigh their significance vis-à-vis other factors.12 Some very important manuscripts are

8.  James R. Edwards, The Gospel According to Mark (PNTC; Grand Rapids:  Eerdmans, 2002), p. 497. 9.  In 2007, an entire conference was devoted to the question of Mark’s ending(s) at Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary in Wake Forest, North Carolina. David Alan Black, Maurice Robinson, Daniel B. Wallace, and J. Keith Elliott gave papers and responded to one another on the subject. Out of that conference came the book, edited by Black, Perspectives on the Ending of Mark: Four Views (Nashville: B&H Academic, 2008). Of the four views represented in the book, Wallace and Elliott argue that the Longer Ending is not original, while Black and Robinson argue, against the consensus, for the antiquity of the Longer Ending. 10.  Against the consensus, see N. Clayton Croy, The Mutilation of Mark’s Gospel (Nashville:  Abingdon, 2003), and the more recent work, Nicholas P. Lunn, The Original Ending of Mark:  A New Case for the Authenticity of Mark 16:9–20 (Cambridge:  James Clarke, 2015). 11. Kurt Aland and Barbara Aland, The Text of the New Testament: An Introduction to the Critical Editions and to the Theory and Practice of Modern Textual Criticism, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1989), p. 292. 12.  In drawing this contrast between documentary and eclectic approaches, I  do not want to appear guilty of creating a false choice. While these have been the two major approaches employed throughout the history of recent text-critical research, there are other approaches. For example, J. K. Elliott is one of the most ardent defenders of the approach known as “thoroughgoing eclecticism,” which focuses largely on internal evidence. Maurice

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missing the Longer Ending, including the fourth century uncials, Sinaiticus and Vaticanus, the Old Latin codex Bobiensis (it k), and the Sinaitic Syriac manuscript.13 This evidence suggests, at least provisionally, that the Longer Ending is not original to Mark. Transcriptional Probability It is highly unlikely that a copyist would have intentionally omitted the Longer Ending if it were original to Mark. If we take into account the maxim, lectio difficilior potior, we must surely conclude that an ending at 16:8 is by far the more difficult reading, both literarily and theologically. Conversely, it is much easier to account for the addition of the Longer Ending, especially in light of the seemingly unsatisfying ending offered by 16:8.14 In this context, arguments about a “lost leaf ” or “missing ending” appear to be special pleading at best; still, such assertions can be found in the writings of prominent New Testament scholars.15 Vocabulary and Style The Longer Ending introduces eighteen different terms that do not appear elsewhere in the Gospel of Mark. This number represents nearly 11  percent of the

Robinson, who argues in favor of the Longer Ending’s inclusion, uses an approach called “Byzantine Priority.” See his important book, complied and arranged with William G. Pierpont:  The New Testament in the Original Greek:  Byzantine Textform (Southborough, MA:  Chilton, 2005). A helpful primer for understanding the various positions within NT textual criticism is David Alan Black, ed., Rethinking New Testament Textual Criticism (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2002). 13. It is sometimes argued that the blank space at the end of Mark in Vaticanus is large enough to have included the Longer Ending, suggesting the copyist knew of the ending but was conflicted about whether to include it. This is, at best, an argument from silence, to say nothing of the debate about whether or not the space is actually large enough to include the Longer Ending. Even if the space was large enough, such an argument actually works against the originality of verses 9–20. Uncertainty about whether to include those verses is an indication of conflict over the originality of the verses. 14.  To be clear, I do not personally regard the ending as unsatisfying, though it seems clear that early Christians did not always appreciate Mark’s subtle literary strategy. Early Christians were concerned with proclaiming the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus, and since an ending at 16:8 lacks an explicit resurrection with appearances to the disciples, many would have considered Mark incomplete. 15.  For example, Ben Witherington III (The Gospel of Mark:  A Socio-Rhetorical Commentary [Grand Rapids:  Eerdmans, 2001], p.  49) opines that, “The original ending of Mark must have been lost at a very early date. If this is even remotely close to correct, it then follows that we should not build vast theological and literary castles on the uncertain foundation that 16:8 must have been Mark’s original intended ending” (italics in original).

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whole unit—a strong indicator that the language of the Longer Ending is nonMarkan. In addition to concerns of vocabulary, the style of the Longer Ending is more polished and differs significantly from the rough, paratactic discourse we find throughout the rest of the gospel. These two observations also strongly suggest that the Longer Ending is not Mark’s original ending. Lack of Attestation in Important Early Church Fathers We do not see the Longer Ending cited by the most important early commentators on the text, including Origen, Tertullian, Cyprian, and Cyril of Jerusalem. This is a likely indication that they were not aware of the Longer Ending, and their lack of awareness strongly suggests it was not original to Mark. Similarity to Later Gospel Traditions Another point that in my estimation is not emphasized enough in this discussion is the similarity of material in the Longer Ending to later gospel traditions.16 The Longer Ending appears to be an amalgam drawn from sources that appeared after the Gospel of Mark. Verses 9–10 align with the events narrated in John 20:11–18; verses 11–13 echo the Emmaus Road story in Luke 24:11, 13–35, 41; the appearance to the gathered eleven disciples and Jesus’ rebuke of them—both of which appear in verse 14—are reminiscent of material in Luke 24:36–49 and John 20:19– 23; the commissioning in verse 15 appears to be based upon Matthew’s so-called Great Commission (28:18–20); and Jesus’ ascension in verse 19 is similar to that in Luke 24:50–51. In light of this evidence, France insightfully comments that “vv. 9–20 have something of a ‘secondhand’ flavor, and look like a pastiche of elements drawn from the other gospels and Acts.”17 All of this evidence has led to a broad consensus among a generation of commentators that the Gospel of Mark originally ended at 16:8.18 A  question thus

16.  On this issue, see the authoritative work of James A. Kelhoffer, Miracle and Mission: The Authentication of Missionaries and Their Message in the Longer Ending of Mark (WUNT II/112. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000). 17.  R. T. France, The Gospel of Mark (NIGTC; Grand Rapids:  Eerdmans, 2002), p.  687. Nineham similarly notes: “With respect to the general character and purpose of the verses, they fit so awkwardly to 168 that they can hardly have been composed originally as a continuation of the Gospel; more probably they were compiled for catechetical use at a time when there was no other document giving a succinct account of all the known appearances of the risen Lord” (D. E. Nineham, Saint Mark [Pelican New Testament Commentary; New York: Penguin Books, 1963], p. 450). 18.  Van Iersel’s appraisal of the situation is poignant: “If anyone wants to know what the Scriptures have to tell us about the appearances of Jesus after the resurrection, they had better consult the other three evangelists . . . The alternative to disregarding Mark 16:9–20, however, is not to close the book and give one’s thoughts to something else, for that would

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arises:  if there is such an overwhelming consensus against the antiquity of the Longer Ending, can there be a good rationale for devoting an entire essay to discussing its contribution to Mark’s narrative christology? While modern textcritical study of the New Testament has been obsessed with recovering the “original text,” a more recent paradigm shift within New Testament studies has sought to emphasize the oral/aural dynamics of life in the ancient Mediterranean world. In particular, those working in the related areas of orality studies and performance criticism have looked suspiciously at the notion of an original text, at least as that notion has been envisioned by centuries of scholars steeped in the trappings of print culture. This emphasis has led to “a shift from treating biblical writings as modern printed texts toward treating them as scripts and aides memoires for oral performance in antiquity. This shift refocuses the object of study toward the orality of early Christianity, toward memory as the primary repository of tradition, toward writing as ancillary to orality and memory, and toward performance events of New Testament texts.”19 Against that backdrop, performance critics are quick to note that those hearing Mark in the first few centuries of Christian proclamation would not have shared our contemporary concern for an original written text. Such concerns are those of modern literate men and women educated largely in the western world. In a well-known and oft-cited study, William Harris has argued that the vast majority of the ancient Roman world was illiterate, noting in particular that the “likely overall illiteracy level of the Roman empire under the principate is almost certain to have been above 90%.”20 Most modern individuals—including highly trained scholars—fail to consider how this strikingly different cultural context would have impacted the dissemination of the gospel materials. When we think of “reading” a “text” in our modern world, we usually conceive of sitting down to

be to disregard the signal contained in its open ending. A more appropriate response is to think about the unanswered and disturbing questions raised by Mark’s narrative and read it again. A  reader who chooses this alternative stays within the bounds of the text. The other alternative is to leave the confines of the text” (Bas M. F. van Iersel, Mark: A ReaderResponse Commentary, trans. W. H. Bisheroux [London: T&T Clark, 1998], pp. 507–8). 19. David Rhoads and Joanna Dewey, “Performance Criticism: A Paradigm Shift in New Testament Studies,” in From Text to Performance:  Narrative and Performance Criticisms in Dialogue and Debate, ed. Kelly R. Iverson (Biblical Performance Criticism 10; Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2014), pp. 1–2. 20.  William V. Harris, Ancient Literacy (Cambridge:  Harvard University Press, 1989), p. 22. In his recent study, Language and Literacy in Roman Judaea: A Study of the Bar Kokhba Documents (AYBRL; New Haven: Yale University Press, 2015), Michael O. Wise criticizes Harris for his lack of precision in defining literacy and for failing to pursue more detailed research in Jewish sources, while essentially affirming Harris’ assertion of majority illiteracy. The view of majority illiteracy was recently challenged by Udo Schnelle in his 2014 presidential address, subsequently published as “Das frühe Christentum und die Bildung,” NTS 61.2 (2015), pp. 113–43.

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read silently to ourselves. We have approached the entire enterprise on the basis of our own modern assumptions and with our own experiences in mind, referring to the authors of these texts as “the writers” and to the recipients as “readers.” These categories would have been foreign to the experience of those living in the Roman world. Most early Christians had access to the gospel stories about Jesus only through preaching and public performances and the experience was nearly always communal rather than individual.21 And since it is also the case that many, if not most Christians from the late second/early third century on heard the Gospel of Mark preached or performed with the Longer Ending (or some alternate ending)22 in place, we must reflect further on what would have been considered “original” in such a context.23 In making this distinction between modern reading and ancient hearing, it is not my goal to undermine the legitimacy of the traditional text-critical enterprise, but rather to leaven and expand our primarily print-based reflections on the earliest dissemination of the gospels. On this point Rhoads and Dewey note, “It is important to observe that we are not setting up an oral/written divide or a binary opposition but a model that encompasses interrelationships of speech, memory, and sometimes writing. We are advocating a major shift in gravity to a focus on orality, memory, and writing that are actualized in performances.”24 Thus, a further consideration of the matter leads to a resounding “yes” in answer to my previous question. There does seem to be good reason to devote an entire chapter to discussing the narrative christological trajectory of Mark’s Longer Ending. Such an examination has the potential to tell us something substantive about the shape of Christian proclamation as it developed in the late second/early third century Christian contexts and the assumptions—particularly about christology and resurrection—that attended early Christian interest in these stories. We can also learn about the ways in which Christians in the second and third centuries were uncomfortable with ambiguity as preaching about Jesus became more explicit and more “orthodox.” We turn now to a brief narrative exegesis of the Longer Ending

21.  For more insights on performance criticism vis-à-vis orality, aurality, and the textualization of the NT narratives, see Joanna Dewey, The Oral Ethos of the Early Church:  Speaking, Writing, and the Gospel of Mark (Biblical Performance Criticism 8; Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2013). 22. No doubt some heard Mark preached with the so-called shorter ending, while others would have heard the Freer Logion, preserved today only in Codex Washingtonianus (W). 23.  Those working in orality studies and performance criticism recognize that the Gospel of Mark, even subsequent to its textualization, was not a static entity. Rather, we can liken ancient performances of the gospel to various modern performances of an Eric Clapton song. While Clapton has recorded a specific version of the song in question, a given audience is unlikely to hear that exact performance in a live concert since a great deal of Clapton’s live performance is characterized by improvisation within the musical parameters of the recorded version. 24. Rhoads and Dewey, “Performance Criticism,” pp. 7–8.

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with specific attention to the narrative christological categories established by Malbon in Mark’s Jesus.

Reading the Narrative: Mark 16:9–2025 By way of an open-ended and enigmatic conclusion (ἐφοβοῦντο γάρ26), Mark 16:8 has left the audience with a characteristically Markan sense of fear and uncertainty.27 Now, in what appears to our modern sensibilities to be an incongruous turn in the narrative, verse 9 opens with an explicit reference to Jesus’ resurrection on the first day of the week (Ἀναστὰς δὲ πρωῒ πρώτῃ σαββάτου), followed by the mention of Mary Magdalene. Mary appears prominently here—the very first resurrection appearance—even though she has only just appeared for the first time in the story in 15:40, 47. Though Mary’s appearance here might seem strange within the context of a modern narratological approach that is focused on (1) the final written form of the text, and (2) the Gospel of Mark without reference to other gospel traditions, it is easy to see how a late second/early third century audience would not have found this to be an odd detail. We have the same situation in the Gospel of John, where Mary Magdalene appears for the first time at the foot of the cross (John 19:25) and is then featured prominently in the Johannine resurrection narrative as the first person to whom the risen Jesus appears (John 20:11–18). Again, while this may appear odd within the context of our primarily narrativecritical and print culture considerations, it seems clear that second century audiences were well aware of the place of Mary Magdalene in Christian preaching and storytelling. It is also important to note that the same basic information provided here about Mary (παρ’ ἧς ἐκβεβλήκει ἑπτὰ δαιμόνια) is found in Luke 8:2 (Μαρία ἡ καλουμένη Μαγδαληνή, ἀφ’ ἧς δαιμόνια ἑπτὰ ἐξεληλύθει). Also in keeping with a broader resurrection account that second century Christians would likely have expected, Mary returns to proclaim the risen Jesus to those mourning his death, but they do not believe her (vv. 10–11). Transitioning with an expression that is characteristic of both Lukan and Johannine writings (μετὰ δὲ ταῦτα),28 the narrator next introduces a uniquely

25.  It is important to note that the text of Longer Ending itself is fraught with corruptions. There is not space here in this chapter to discuss all the variants and deal with the question: “What exactly did they actually hear?” For this chapter, I am relying on Novum Testamentum Graece, 28th ed. (Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 2013). 26.  On the suitability of using γάρ to conclude a narrative, see Kelly R. Iverson, “A Further Word on Final Γάρ (Mk 16:8),” CBQ 68 (2006), pp. 79–94. 27. For more on this theme in Mark, see Douglas Geyer, Fear, Anomaly, and Uncertainty in the Gospel of Mark (ATLA Monograph Series; Lanham, MD: Scarecrow, 2001). 28. A variation of the transitional phrase μετὰ ταῦτα appears eight times in the Fourth Gospel (3:22; 5:1, 14; 6:1; 7:1; 13:7; 19:38; 21:1) and nine times in Luke-Acts (Lk 5:27; 10:1; 12:4; 17:8; 18:4; Acts 7:7; 13:20; 15:16; 18:1), but nowhere else in Mark.

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Lukan resurrection appearance, reporting that Jesus appears in “another form” (ἐν ἑτέρᾳ μορφῇ) to two individuals. Presumably, as in Luke 24:13–35, the so-called Emmaus Road story, these individuals are Jesus’ disciples though the phrase used here is “two of them” (δυσὶν ἐξ αὐτῶν). As in verse 11, the narrative continues to build upon the theme of persistence in unbelief by those hearing about the resurrected Jesus but not seeing him directly (see v. 13); the scene reaches its climax in Jesus’ stern rebuke of their unfaith and hardness of heart (τὴν ἀπιστίαν αὐτῶν καὶ σκληροκαρδίαν) to believe the proclamation of his resurrection. These two descriptors appear infrequently in the New Testament. The term ἀπιστία appears twice in Mark (6:6; 9:24) and once in the rest of the gospels (Mt 13:58), while σκληροκαρδία appears only two other times in the entire New Testament (Mk 10:5; 19:8). It is conceivable that the presence of these two terms elsewhere in the Second Gospel could be used as evidence against the argument that the language of the Longer Ending is largely non-Markan. However, since the number of occurrences of these two terms in Mark amounts to very little, it is hard to imagine such an argument carrying much weight. Further, of greater importance to our present concerns is that these two terms are used in the wider context of belief/unbelief in the proclaimed word, a theme that is unique to the Fourth Gospel.29 By the late second/early third century, however, such a theme would have been part and parcel of Christian preaching about Jesus. Thus, it was unlikely to have struck such an audience as inconsistent with Mark’s foregoing narrative emphases. In the context of this rebuke, little space is devoted to conversations between Jesus and the disciples about his resurrection or their response. Instead, the narrative turns immediately in verse 15 to the Markan version of the so-called Great Commission (cf. para Mt 28:18–20). Jesus instructs his disciples to go out into the world and preach the gospel to all creation (πάσῃ τῇ κτίσει; cf. Matthew’s “all nations,” πάντα τὰ ἔθνη), an emphasis that became of ever-increasing importance within the post 70 CE context of early Christianity. The earliest expressions of Christianity were no doubt explicitly eschatological, complete with the expectation that Jesus would return at any moment. Of course, the kingdom never arrived as expected and the fall of Jerusalem in 70 CE forced the church to come to terms with its disappointment and reckon with the delay of the Parousia. One wonders what τὸ εὐαγγέλιον would have communicated in this context. Within the gospel itself there are at least two different meanings attached to the

29. Throughout the Gospel of John there is a distinction between those who come to follow Jesus as a result of specific signs they have witnessed and those who follow on the basis of Jesus’ word. Those who believe because of Jesus’ works either fall away or show that they do not fully understand Jesus’ message, mission, and identity (e.g., Nicodemus in 3:1–12; the crowds in chapter 6). On the other hand, those who act on or believe in Jesus’ word are the ultimate models of belief and faithfulness (see, e.g., the mother of Jesus in 2:1–11; the woman of Samaria in 4:39–42). This emphasis is perhaps best seen in Jesus’ climactic announcement to Thomas in 20:29: “You believe because you have seen [= belief by works]. Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe [= belief by the proclaimed word].”

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term. At the outset of the narrative (1:1), “the Gospel” appears to be about Jesus, though when Jesus preaches for the first time in 1:15, “the Gospel” is about God’s coming kingdom. Which meaning would have been intended here?30 Verses 16–18 rapidly begin to pick up broader themes that were increasingly emphasized within second century Christian circles: baptism, salvation for those who believe, condemnation for those who do not believe, and signs accompanying genuine faith. While casting out demons (v. 17b), speaking in new tongues (v. 17c) and the healing of sick people (v. 18b), especially as practiced by the original apostles and Paul, were all part of earliest Christian preaching, much has been made of the foreignness of both handling vipers (ὄφεις ἀροῦσιν, v.  18a) and drinking deadly poisons (θανάσιμόν τι πίωσιν, v. 18a). We have one similar example of snake handling in the New Testament; in Acts 28:1–6, Paul is bitten by a viper while moving a pile of brushwood. Those watching him expect him to die but he remains unharmed. Apart from this story, there are no other examples in the New Testament of believers handling poisonous snakes or drinking deadly poisons and surviving. Verses 19–20 close with a high christological flourish, complete with a reference to Jesus as κύριος and his ascension into heaven to sit at God’s right hand. Though we are not focusing primarily here on titles, we should note that the titles most commonly used for Jesus in Mark are Christ, Son of God, and Son of Man. This is the first time in the entire story that the narrator directly identifies Jesus as κύριος. These events lead directly to wide and indiscriminate preaching by the disciples (ἐκεῖνοι δὲ ἐξελθόντες ἐκήρυξαν πανταχοῦ), all of which is confirmed by Jesus, who is again called κύριος (v. 20). With these final verses, the Longer Ending offers an exalted conclusion that second century Christians would have found both acceptable and commonplace. In it we see an explicit conclusion to an intentionally open-ended gospel that spells out the subtleties of Mark’s original resurrection account in keeping with what early Christians had come to expect from stories about Jesus’ death. Important for our examination here is material that fits into Malbon’s narrative christological categories. Of the five categories presented in Mark’s Jesus, four are found here: 1. 2. 3. 4.

Enacted christology (what Jesus does) Projected christology (what others say about Jesus) Deflected christology (what Jesus says in response) Reflected christology (what others do)

30. In Mark’s incipit we have what is likely an objective genitive (τοῦ εὐαγγελίου Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ; the gospel about Jesus Christ), but the focus of this “gospel,” as least as Jesus preaches it, is rarely Jesus himself—a striking difference from the understanding of “gospel” that would have been held by some of Mark’s earliest audiences. Instead Jesus’ proclamation is about God and the nearness of God’s kingdom. Especially in the first half of the Gospel (1:1–8:30), whenever Jesus is found preaching and teaching, the focus is on God rather than himself. This begins to change in the second half of the Gospel, especially in 8:31, 9:31, and 10:32–4, where Jesus predicts his coming betrayal, persecution, and death. Steadily in the

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We will briefly consider how each of these contributes to the new trajectory in Mark’s narrative christology.

Enacted Christology in Mark’s Longer Ending Keeping in mind Malbon’s earlier warning that titles and functions are not enough to provide us with a complete christology, we approach our task with an emphasis on the unfolding story. Malbon describes enacted christology as follows: At the most elemental level, what the Markan Jesus does is preach and teach (about the in-breaking of God’s rule), and insist on and practice service to those with the least status in society and thus suffer persecution and death by the authorities of that society (as an exemplification of the implications of the inbreaking of God’s rule in the present age).31

I am paying particular attention here to the verbs Malbon uses: preach, teach, insist on service, practice service, and suffer. These are the primary activities of Jesus throughout the Markan drama. If we focus on the verbs describing Jesus’ actions in the Longer Ending, we end up with the most extensive data upon which to build our understanding of this altered narrative christological trajectory. In the Longer Ending, Jesus (1)  rises on the first day of the week, (2)  appears to various individuals and groups, (3)  rebukes the disciples, (4)  instructs the disciples, and (5)  ascends into heaven. These are also the primary verbs of collective memory that make up the earliest Christian story,32 as evidenced by the emphases of the first Christian creeds.33 The Jesus who appears in the Longer Ending, while immediately recognizable to Christians in the late second and early third centuries, is somewhat bizarre to those who have paid careful attention to the Jesus constructed throughout Mark’s original narrative. Thus, the enacted christology of Mark’s Longer Ending comes into direct conflict with at least three elements of Mark’s narrative christology. First, through the consistent use of secrecy, the narrator has sought to veil Jesus’ identity. Mark’s chapter on parables (4:1–41) pictures Jesus giving explicit

latter chapters of Mark, Jesus’ preaching becomes more and more about his mission, crucifixion, and resurrection. 31. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 21 (emphasis added). 32. I use “Christian story” here to refer to the larger conflated narrative about Jesus that moved us toward orthodoxy in contradistinction to “Mark’s story” or any other autonomous narrative about Jesus that emerged in the first century. 33.  With respect to Jesus, the earliest Christian creeds confess that Jesus suffered, was crucified, died, was buried, descended into hell, rose again on the third day, ascended into heaven, and is seated at God’s right hand. The verbs of Mark’s Longer Ending already have us halfway to the ecumenical creeds and orthodox Christianity.

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interpretations to his disciples, the ultimate “insiders,” while the crowds are left wondering what these parables mean. To punctuate this state of affairs, the Markan Jesus proclaims to the Twelve:  “To you has been given the secret of the kingdom of God, but for those outside, everything comes in parables; in order that ‘they may indeed look, but not perceive, and may indeed listen, but not understand; so that they may not turn again and be forgiven’ ” (Mk 4:11– 12, NRSV). Ironically, however, this is not what actually happens in the story. Instead, throughout the narrative Jesus’ disciples remain perpetually in the dark while outsiders—often the most unlikely characters—come to comprehend Jesus’ identity (cf., e.g., the Gerasene Demoniac in 5:1–20; the Syro-Phoenician woman in 7:24–30). The identity of Jesus, which lies at the heart of Mark’s εὐαγγέλιον, is something hidden to be discovered. Here in the Longer Ending it is something explicit to be proclaimed. Second, through the use ambiguity, the narrator has subtly demonstrated how the in-breaking of the βασι λεία τοῦ θεοῦ actually works. In an insightful chapter entitled, “Moves of Greater Uncertainty,” Robert Fowler discusses the modern discomfort with ambiguity and its connection to modern scholars’ inability to account for opacity in the Markan drama.34 This critique also proves true for second and third century Christians and their inability to tolerate anything ambiguous in the earliest texts about Jesus. One need only look at the history of New Testament textual transmission to see that the trend in copying was nearly always intentionally to make the text clearer and more explicit. However, Mark was quite at home with using ambiguity as a literary technique. For instance, Mark’s presentation of the kingdom of God does not come with fanfare but rather starts out as something small and unexpected (like a mustard seed) and from this inchoate state grows into something enormous and pervasive (like a huge tree with its branches extended and in which birds can nest; cf. Mk 4:30–31). The ambiguity and cautiously incremental growth associated with the arrival of God’s Kingdom is key to Mark’s narrative christology. The kingdom emerges slowly and incipiently; here in the Longer Ending it has arrived all at once. Third, through the use of fear and anxiety, the Gospel of Mark has consistently emphasized the alien nature of Jesus’ presence in this world. At various turns this emphasis in manifested in the display of intense emotions (e.g., amazement, ἐκπλήσσω; astonishment, θαμβέω; fear, φοβέω) and penetrating gazes (Greek:  διαβλέπω). Against this tendency, the Longer Ending redirects our focus on the women who, out of fear, refuse to proclaim the risen Jesus, and turns us in the direction of a more familiar and comfortable scenario in which all fear, anxiety, and misunderstanding are overcome and the disciples go out and “everywhere proclaim the good news” (16:20). Thus, in the Longer Ending these three characteristically Markan christological elements (secrecy, ambiguity, fear and anxiety)

34. Robert Fowler, Let the Reader Understand: Reader Response Criticism and the Gospel of Mark (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1996), pp. 195–227.

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dissipate in the face of a growing early Christian emphasis on proclamation and discomfort with that which was vague or uncertain. The Jesus who rises, appears, rebukes, instructs, and ascends is the Jesus of early Christian proclamation but not necessarily the Jesus of Markan imagination.

Projected Christology in Mark’s Longer Ending At the outset of her chapter on projected christology, Malbon writes: What others in the narrative say to and about Jesus is naturally of great importance to a Markan narrative christology, but it is not to be given priority or dominance. Projected christology, that is, the view of Jesus that is projected onto him by the narrator and the characters internal to the story, is one of several aspects of narrative christology. Care is taken to note who says what to or about Jesus and under what circumstances in the narrative.35

She identifies two different sources of projected christology in the narrative—what the narrator affirms about Jesus and what given characters say about him. This material extends to things implied about Jesus as well as things that are explicitly stated. The Longer Ending provides fewer examples of projected christology than what we saw in our previous discussion of enacted christology. In the Longer Ending we have two examples: (1) what the narrator affirms about the risen Jesus, and (2) what Mary Magdalene proclaims about him.36 In the narrator’s description of Jesus’ activity (see the verbs above in our discussion of enacted christology), we see the strong implications of Jesus’ now exalted status. He rises from the dead, appears in a different form, and even ascends into heaven. The Longer Ending also has the narrator twice referring to Jesus as “Lord” (vv. 19, 20). As mentioned above, the title κύριος, while essential to second century (and later) constructions of christology, is not part of Mark’s suffering Son of Man. There are implications throughout the narrative that Mark’s Jesus is to be understood as an exalted figure, but these hints emerge in signs and shadows. In other words, Mark never announces Jesus’ exalted status on a neon billboard and picking up this theme requires that one pay careful attention to the subtle movements

35. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 57. 36.  I deliberated here about the place of doubt as it relates to projected christology, but ultimately decided to exclude it from my discussion. Doubt about the resurrection is reported among Jesus’ followers in verses 11, 13. While there is no direct statement indicating that, “Jesus has not been raised,” the doubt expressed in these verses ultimately amounts to an implication about Jesus, which Malbon includes in her discussion of projected christology. However, as it stands, the doubt expressed in verses 11, 13 implies more about the followers’ frame of mind that it does about Jesus’ actual state. Still, I am left to wonder where doubt might fit within Malbon’s narrative Christological categories.

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of the story. However, in the Longer Ending, the narrator twice refers to Jesus as “Lord” in passing, as if such a title has been commonplace all along. An audience attuned to the nuances of Mark’s christological presentation will sense that something is amiss here. The Longer Ending also provides an evangelistic voice even if we hear no specific proclamation. Verse 11 provides the substance of Mary’s report—Jesus is alive and she has seen him. The substance of this proclamation is in keeping with the evangelistic voice of the young men in the tomb, though unlike Mary’s report we are privy to their specific preaching: Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised; he is not here. Look, there is the place they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you. (Mk 16:6–7, NRSV)

Mary’s report then merely summarizes the two most fundamental points of postresurrection preaching of the disciples: (1) Jesus is alive, and (2) I have seen him. Once again we see that the risen and exalted Jesus of the Longer Ending moves away from the narrative subtleties associated with Mark’s original conclusion and invites the audience to eschew the potential darkness associated with ambiguity. We turn now to the move for Jesus to clarify both his mission and identity in crystal clear terms.

Deflected Christology in Mark’s Longer Ending In dealing with deflected christology, Malbon looks at how the Markan Jesus responds to what others say about him.37 In the Longer Ending we do not have Jesus responding directly to what others have said about him. Instead, we have one instance of Jesus responding to what others have thought about him and how they have behaved in light of their doubts. The followers of Jesus, denoted by the phrases, “those who were mourning and weeping” (v. 10) and “the rest” (v. 13)  experience doubt over the report that he has been raised. When he finally makes his appearance to the gathered eleven, Jesus rebukes them for their unfaith and hardness of heart. This rebuke does not include direct discourse from Jesus to others about himself. It does seem to imply, however, that he is exalted and that the message of the εὐαγγέλιον (v. 15) is now focused on Jesus, rather than on the coming Kingdom of God. Earlier in the narrative, the proclamation of the gospel was πεπ λήρωται ὁ καιρὸς καὶ ἤγγικεν ἡ βασι λεία τοῦ θεοῦ μετανοεῖτε καὶ πιστεύετε ἐν τῷ εὐαγγελίῳ (1:15). Now, presumably, Jesus, rather than the coming kingdom, is to be the focus of their preaching. His resurrection is apparently now the centerpiece of the εὐαγγέλιον. As was

37. See this discussion in Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, pp. 129–94.

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mentioned above, the presence of the phrase “Gospel of/about Jesus Christ” in Mark’s incipit suggests that within Mark’s Sitz im Leben, there has already been a move to identify Jesus rather than the kingdom as the locus of “gospel preaching.”38 Thus this element of deflected christology in the Longer Ending does not appear to contribute much to the altered narrative christological trajectory we have been tracing.

Reflected Christology in Mark’s Longer Ending The final element in our consideration of the narrative christology of Mark’s Longer Ending is what Malbon calls reflected christology, “that is, christology reflected in what some characters other than Jesus in the Markan narrative do that reflects what the Markan Jesus says and does.”39 There is really only one example of reflected christology in the Longer Ending and it comes about mainly in response to Jesus’ rebuke of the eleven. As discussed above, the followers of Jesus display doubt on several occasions as to his resurrection. When he finally appears to them he rebukes them for their hardness of heart and unwillingness to believe. Consequently, they go out and preach about Jesus everywhere (v. 20). While the scene represented by this verse is a very small piece of the Longer Ending, it might serve to illuminate the greatest contrast between the narrative christological trajectory of the Longer Ending and that of the original gospel. Throughout the Gospel of Mark, the disciples are the most persistent in their inability to grasp the truth, respond appropriately to Jesus, and follow him as they should. This is what Joseph Tyson classically referred to as the “blindness” of the disciples.40 He looked at their inability to understand, among other things, the calming of the sea (4:41), the feeding of the five thousand men (6:52), and the first two passion predictions (8:31–3; 9:30–32) and concluded that Mark’s view of discipleship was different than that of Jesus’ earliest disciples. Tyson thus saw the characteristically “blind” disciples as a vehicle for Mark to illustrate an improper understanding of what it meant to follow Jesus. Commentators have long recognized the problematic role played by the Twelve throughout the story and have placed the disciples at the very center of deliberations on Markan christology and discipleship for decades. At the end of the day, the reflected christology of the Longer Ending shows the disciples behaving as the heroic preachers of the risen Jesus they became in the collective memory of the early church rather than the problematic fools they often are in Mark’s Gospel. This element of the Longer Ending, perhaps more than anything else, demonstrates a deliberately altered narrative trajectory.

38. See the discussion in n. 28. 39. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 219. 40. Joseph B. Tyson, “The Blindness of the Disciples in Mark,” JBL 80 (1961), pp. 261–8.

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Re-envisioning Jesus and Rereading Mark As I have tried to note throughout my treatment of Mark 16:9–20, the originally subtle ending of Mark’s narrative has been expanded to reflect a more specific second century christology. This type of orthodox filling-in-the-gaps in an otherwise open-ended narrative is indicative of one of the most pervasive, unquestioned, and (to my mind) pernicious elements of a distinctly “Christian” approach to reading the New Testament. Too many readers of the New Testament approach the Gospel of Mark with knowledge of the mosaic that is ultimately a “Christian” story of Jesus. They enter with unquestioned certainty about what the story has to say and impose upon Mark’s Jesus something that may not even be present. Many contemporary audiences approach the gospels in a manner similar to those who appended the Longer Ending. Such audiences are attuned the broader movements of the “Christian” story and are less skilled (and very often less interested) in paying attention to the nuances of a given account. In short, throughout much of Christian history, those devoted to the Christian message—and this is true for contemporary Christians and for those responsible for Mark’s Longer Ending— have simply not learned how to read the narrative on its own terms. One of the true values of Elizabeth Malbon’s narrative work on the Gospel of Mark is that it teases out the treasures that can only be found by paying attention to the nuances of the unfolding story. Only through engaging with the narrative can we discover Mark’s narrative christology, and only then can we ask how Mark contributes to the broader narrative of the New Testament. Contemporary audiences must first engage the story or they will walk away from the Second Gospel with nothing but what they carried in to begin with. Malbon concludes Mark’s Jesus with these words: It is not the Markan Jesus’ point of view or the Markan narrator’s point of view that is the point of view of Mark’s Gospel. It is the implied author’s point of view as this is received by the implied audience. Thus the tension between the narrator and Jesus is not a problem to be resolved, not a gap to be filled in, but a narrative christological confession offered by the implied author to the implied audience as a challenge and a mystery.41

She uses several key words here to describe the experience of reading Mark:  tension, gap, challenge, mystery. We have seen that the Longer Ending resolves the tensions, fills in the gaps, alleviates the challenges, and explicates the mysteries. The Longer Ending removes the Markan ellipsis from 16:8 and instead stamps the narrative with the exclamation point of verses 9–20. In this way, the narrative christological trajectory of the Longer Ending bypasses the unexpected gift of Mark’s silent conclusion and instead produces an orthodox misappropriation of Mark’s understated and enigmatic Jesus.

41. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 258 (emphasis added).

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Postscript Outside of the professors with whom I studied directly, there is no scholar who has so influenced my thinking and scholarship as Elizabeth Struthers Malbon. She has mentored me from afar with her writings and been very gracious to me up close in other ways. Her collection of essays In the Company of Jesus was one of the first books I reviewed for an academic journal, and it was one of the works that sparked my own interest in character studies.42 On at least three occasions Elizabeth graciously agreed to read and comment on things I was writing, and she twice agreed to contribute to volumes I  was editing.43 During these latter experiences, I  was both surprised and encouraged by how often our conversations about editorial matters drifted into conversations about our children and the more important issues of seeing to the needs of family while pursuing a career in academia. In all of my engagements with Elizabeth, she has displayed an uncommon warmth and generosity. I am honored to contribute to her Festschrift and I wish her a rich and rewarding retirement from formal academic life.

42. See Christopher W. Skinner, review of Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, In the Company of Jesus: Characters in Mark’s Gospel (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2000), in RevExp 103 (2006), pp. 627–9. 43. See her articles, “Characters in Mark’s Story: Changing Perspectives on the Narrative Process,” in Mark as Story: Retrospect and Prospect, ed. Kelly R. Iverson and Christopher W. Skinner (SBLRBS 65; Atlanta: SBL, 2011), pp. 45–70; and “History, Theology, Story: ReContextualizing Mark’s ‘Messianic Secret’ as Characterization,” in Character Studies and the Gospel of Mark, ed. Christopher W.  Skinner and Matthew Ryan Hauge (LNTS 483; London: T&T Clark, 2014), pp. 35–56.

Chapter 7 T H E C HA R AC T E R I Z AT IO N O F T H E D E M O N S I N M A R K ’ S   G O SP E L Joel F. Williams

No one has done more to shed light on the portrayal of various characters in Mark’s Gospel than Elizabeth Struthers Malbon. With her ground-breaking studies on Mark’s portrayal of Jesus, women and men, the disciples and the crowd, the Jewish leaders, and the minor characters, she has seemingly covered the full range of significant characters in Mark.1 However, one character group is still lurking in the shadows—the demons or unclean spirits. In fact, narrative critics in general have not done much to bring any light to Mark’s portrayal of these figures, leaving them hidden in the darkness. In a recent survey of studies on characterization in Mark’s Gospel, Christopher W. Skinner noted that articles and monographs employing narrative-critical perspectives have proliferated, covering both questions of method and the analysis of specific characters or character groups in Mark. Skinner provides references to character studies on God, Jesus, Peter, women, children, Jews, Gentiles, religious leaders, Herod, the crowd, and most of all the disciples.2 Somehow the demons in Mark’s Gospel have managed to escape 1.  For her work on characterization, see especially Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, In the Company of Jesus: Characters in Mark’s Gospel (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox, 2000); Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, Mark’s Jesus: Characterization as Narrative Christology (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2009). On the guiding influence of Malbon’s work on characterization in Mark, see Christopher W. Skinner, “The Study of Character(s) in the Gospel of Mark: A Survey of Research from Wrede to the Performance Critics (1901 to 2014),” in Character Studies and the Gospel of Mark, ed. Christopher W. Skinner and Matthew Ryan Hauge (LNTS, 483; London: T&T Clark, 2014), pp. 3–34 (27–9). 2.  Skinner, “The Study of Character(s) in the Gospel of Mark,” p. 26. The essays in this volume edited by Skinner and Hauge expand the list of characters studied in Mark’s Gospel to include also Satan and the Roman authorities. See Elizabeth Shively, “Characterizing the Non-Human:  Satan in the Gospel of Mark,” in Character Studies and the Gospel of Mark, pp.  127–51; Adam Winn, “ ‘Their Great Ones Act as Tyrants over Them’:  Mark’s Characterization of Roman Authorities from a Distinctly Roman Perspective,” in Character Studies and the Gospel of Mark, pp. 194–214.

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focused scholarly attention.3 Yet it is worth shedding some light on their portrayal within Mark, since they occupy an important place in Mark’s plot and among Mark’s characters.4 The undercurrent that runs beneath all of Malbon’s work on Markan characterization is the idea that characters exist in relation to other characters (and in relation to settings and plot as well).5 A character should not be understood in isolation but only in relationship. “The richness of Markan characterization is in the interplay, comparisons, and contrasts between these characters and in their

3. So, for example, the characterization of the demons is not discussed in the two chapters on characters in David Rhoads, Joanna Dewey, and Donald Michie, Mark as Story: An Introduction to the Narrative of a Gospel (Minneapolis:  Fortress, 3rd ed., 2012). Jack Dean Kingsbury offers an overview of characters in the introduction of his Conflict in Mark: Jesus, Authorities, Disciples (Minneapolis:  Fortress, 1989), but he does not address Mark’s portrayal of the demons. Stephen H.  Smith provides two paragraphs on the demons in his thirty-page chapter on characters in Mark’s Gospel in A Lion with Wings:  A NarrativeCritical Approach to Mark’s Gospel (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996). For the most part, the two paragraphs discuss when and how the binding of Satan by Jesus took place (pp. 75–6). In her study on Mark’s Jesus, Malbon does take note of the demons’ transcendent knowledge of the identity of Jesus and of Jesus’ commands to silence as directed to the demons. See Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, pp. 45–6, 80–83, 131–2. Part of the reason for scholarly neglect concerning the demons in Mark may arise out of the difficulties involved in studying nonhuman characters. On the challenges in analyzing Mark’s characterization of nonhuman characters, see Shively, “Characterizing the Non-Human,” pp. 128–35. 4. The focus of this study is on the portrayal of demons and Jesus’ power over them within Mark’s narrative. On the use of Mark’s Gospel as a source for historical information on Jesus as an exorcist, see Graham H. Twelftree, Jesus the Exorcist: A Contribution to the Study of the Historical Jesus (WUNT, 2/54; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1993), pp. 57–117, 122–9. On the use of Mark’s Gospel as a source for historical information on the practice of exorcism within the early church, see Graham H. Twelftree, In the Name of Jesus: Exorcism among Early Christians (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2007), pp. 101–28. 5.  See especially Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “Characters in Mark’s Story:  Changing Perspectives on the Narrative Process,” in Mark as Story: Retrospect and Prospect, ed. Kelly R. Iverson and Christopher W. Skinner (Resources for Biblical Study, 65; Atlanta:  SBL, 2011), pp. 45–69 (61). On the significance of understanding characters in relation to other characters, as well as in relation to the narrator and the unfolding plot, see also Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “Narrative Criticism:  How Does the Story Mean?,” in Mark & Method: New Approaches in Biblical Studies, ed. Janice Capel Anderson and Stephen D. Moore (Minneapolis:  Fortress, 2nd ed., 2008), pp. 29–57 (34–5). As an example, Malbon’s study of Mark’s Jesus focuses not just on what Jesus says and does but also on what other characters say and do in relation to him and indeed on what Jesus says and does in response to them. See Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, pp. 14–15, 17–19; and Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “History, Theology, Story:  Re-Contextualizing Mark’s ‘Messianic Secret’ as Characterization,” in Character Studies and the Gospel of Mark, pp. 35–56 (43).

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reaching out to the hearers/readers, both ancient and contemporary.”6 So, for example, Mark’s portrait of the “fallible followers” of Jesus emerges not just from a study of the disciples in isolation but from the complex interactions between the disciples and the crowd, as well as between women followers and men followers in Mark.7 Indeed, the minor characters are also significant for this complex portrait, since they extend the continuum of possible responses to Jesus and therefore contribute to Mark’s overall portrayal of what it means to be a follower.8 Therefore, in order to discern the nature of demonic opposition in Mark’s Gospel, it is necessary to ask not just “How does Mark’s Gospel portray the demons?” but rather to ask “How does Mark’s Gospel portray the demons in relation to other characters?” I will start by looking at how Mark portrays the demons in relation to their leader, Satan, and their human victims, oppressed individuals who belong to the larger character group of the crowd. Next, I will examine the relationship in Mark’s Gospel between the demons and Jesus, the stronger one who stands against Satan’s kingdom and extends the rule of God in this world. Finally, I want to compare how Mark portrays the demons with how he presents both the disciples and the religious authorities, two other character groups with whom Jesus comes into conflict. Through the complex interplay of various characters, Mark’s portrayal of the demons serves to clarify the broader cosmic conflict of the story between God and Satan but also the more narrowly focused earthly conflicts between Jesus and his disciples and between Jesus and the religious authorities.

The Demons in Relation to Their Ruler and Their Victims To make sense of the relationship between the demons and Satan, it is necessary to understand how Mark initially frames his story. The introduction to Mark’s Gospel depicts the story as a whole as a conflict between God and Satan, and in this way it sets forth the cosmic apocalyptic dimensions of Mark’s story world.9 When Jesus

6. Malbon, In the Company of Jesus, p. x (italics hers). 7.  See “Fallible Followers:  Women and Men in the Gospel of Mark,” pp.  41–69 and “Disciples/Crowds/Whoever:  Markan Characters and Readers,” pp.  70–99, in In the Company of Jesus. 8. See “The Major Importance of the Minor Characters in Mark” (pp. 189–225) in In the Company of Jesus. For a similar point, see Joel F. Williams, Other Followers of Jesus: Minor Characters as Major Figures in Mark’s Gospel (JSNTSup, 102; Sheffield: Sheffield University Press, 1994). 9. Malbon identifies the conflict between the kingdom of God and the kingdom of Satan as the background conflict of Mark’s narrative (Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, pp. 43–6). According to Malbon, “the background conflict, the foundational conflict underlying the story, is God’s: God struggles with Satan through the main character Jesus” (Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 44). Mark’s narrative then intertwines this background conflict with that between Jesus and the authorities and that between Jesus and the disciples.

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arrives on the scene, coming from Galilee to be baptized in the Jordan by John the Baptist, he is stepping into this cosmic conflict. God himself declares Jesus to be his messianic Son, and the Holy Spirit indwells and empowers him. Jesus is the Lord whose way has been prepared for by John, and he is the mightier one who will baptize with the Holy Spirit. Immediately after his baptism, the Spirit drives Jesus out into the wilderness to face Satan and to be tested by him. According to the introduction, Mark’s Gospel is about Jesus the Messiah, who on behalf of God stands opposed to Satan. Yet when Jesus comes into Galilee to begin his ministry and to proclaim the message of good news from God, the cosmic conflict recedes into the background (1:14–15). God himself is almost entirely absent from the story as an actively involved participant. At the transfiguration (9:2–8), three of Jesus’ disciples are able to have a foretaste of the glory that will belong to Jesus when he comes in power as the Son of Man, and at that moment God’s voice breaks in to call on the disciples to listen to his beloved Son. Certain events at the end of the story are only explainable as the work of God—the tearing of the temple veil from top to bottom and the resurrection of Jesus from the dead—but even with these events Mark does not directly insert God into the story so that we can see him act to accomplish his will. God is hidden from sight. He does not step in to take away the cup of suffering from Jesus (14:36), and Jesus dies on the cross after crying out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (15:34). Satan also steps into the background. Jesus mentions that Satan keeps some people from hearing and therefore from receiving the message concerning God’s kingdom, especially those who have already hardened themselves against the truth (4:15). However, Mark never directly portrays Satan as doing so. Jesus regards Peter’s attempt to turn him away from his destined suffering and death as a temptation from Satan (8:33). Yet all that Mark directly portrays is the misguided rebuke from a disciple who is setting his mind on human interests. When Jesus’ ministry begins, the story world shrinks from its cosmic dimensions to the boundaries of this world with a focus on Galilee and Jerusalem. The story plays out as Jesus, God’s Messiah, comes to proclaim God’s message concerning his kingdom, to serve those who are in need, and to give his life. Some people become followers of Jesus, others come to him for help, others come into contact with Jesus but show no continuing interest in him or his message, and others reject his messianic authority and seek to destroy him. The demons play a crucial role by bridging the gap between the cosmic realm inhabited by God and Satan and the more narrowly focused earthly sphere where people encounter Jesus and respond to his message. In Mark 3:22, scribes from Jerusalem claim that Jesus is casting out demons by the power of Satan (or Beelzebul as they call him), the ruler of the demons. Jesus in his response does not dispute that Satan rules over the demons but assumes that Satan has a kingdom and a royal household and that Satan’s kingdom is not divided but strong (3:23–6). The demons belong to this kingdom of Satan and live under his rule. Although Satan himself does not appear directly in Mark’s story after the introduction, the demons do so repeatedly. Therefore, some understanding of the relationship between Satan and the demons is crucial for interpreting Mark’s Gospel as a whole.

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In Mark’s Gospel, Satan opposes God and his work in the world. Mark’s enigmatically brief temptation account (1:12–13) portrays Satan as testing Jesus in the wilderness. Like Israel, Jesus faces testing in the wilderness in danger from wild animals, although for forty days rather than for forty years. Yet, unlike Israel, he apparently proves faithful through the power of the Spirit and the ministry of angels, since he completes the test and enters the land, coming into Galilee with a message of good news from God. Nevertheless, Mark’s temptation scene is left open-ended, without any sense of ultimate resolution or finality, leaving the impression that the conflict between Jesus and Satan is ongoing. Mark 3:22–30 further clarifies the nature of that conflict. Satan and his kingdom are strong, so that it would be foolish to make any claim that might leave the impression that Satan’s kingdom is divided against itself and has lost its power (3:23–6). However, Jesus is the one who is mightier and eventually he will bind Satan and plunder his house through the power of the Holy Spirit (3:27). Satan opposes God by seeking to halt the advance of God’s kingdom in this world. He does so by attempting to keep people from hearing the message about the kingdom, so that the message might not be received and might not bear fruit in their lives (4:15). Satan also opposes God’s work by seeking to divert Jesus from his path of obedience, a path that will lead him to suffering, death on the cross, and resurrection (8:33). The demons appear repeatedly in Mark’s Gospel, but more frequently in the first half of the gospel. Mark uses two different terms, “unclean spirit” and “demon,” with equal frequency, both eleven times, and he uses them interchangeably (see, e.g., 6:7, 13; 7:25–6). In addition, Mark uses the verb δαιμονίζομαι (“to be possessed or tormented by a demon”) another four times (1:32; 5:15, 16, 18).10 Within Jewish literature, the term “unclean” appears at times as a description for evil and hostile spirit beings (Jub. 10:1; T. Benj. 5:2; 1QM 13:4–5; 4Q444; 11QPsa 19:15). As a commonly used word for ceremonial impurity, the adjective “unclean” communicates that association with demons exposes humans to a pollution that makes them unfit for worship of God or fellowship with God.11 The demons extend the work of Satan’s kingdom by oppressing individuals, leaving them in such misery and torment that they withdraw from God’s presence and from the community of people who worship God. Unclean spirits spread religious defilement. It is perhaps worth noting that, although the demons are under the rule of Satan, they do not oppose God’s work in the world in the same way that Satan does. They do not tempt or test people. They do not make a point of preventing people from hearing the message of the kingdom. They do not seek to divert Jesus from following God’s plan for his life. Also we never see them act in response to the direct command of

10. On the definition of δαιμονίζομαι as possessed or tormented by a demon, see BDAG, p. 209. 11.  Vincent Taylor, The Gospel According to St Mark (London:  Macmillan, 2nd ed., 1966), pp. 173–4. Mark L. Strauss (Mark [ZECNT; Grand Rapids:  Zondervan, 2014], pp. 91–2) suggests the translation “defiling spirit” as a way to convey the idea of religious defilement brought about by the hostile spirit.

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Satan. In Mark’s Gospel, they simply seem to serve Satan’s kingdom by bringing pain to humans in ways that keep them from fully experiencing a proper relationship with God and others. The people oppressed by unclean spirits belong to the broader category of the crowd as opposed to the disciples or the religious authorities. The demons take control of individuals in order to bring them pain or misery and perhaps ultimately to destroy them, all of which takes place through sickness, disability, or self-inflected wounds and isolation (5:2–13; 9:17–27). Although demons can afflict people in ways that parallel human sicknesses and disabilities (9:17–18), Mark’s Gospel makes a distinction between illness and demonic oppression (e.g., 1:32–4) and does not attribute all human suffering or sickness to demonic attacks. Translating the verb δαιμονίζομαι as “to be demon possessed” has the potential to miscommunicate if such a translation conveys the idea that demons in some way own their victims or spatially fill them. Instead, in Mark’s Gospel, those who are “demonized” are to some extent controlled by a demon and are therefore oppressed and harmed by the demon (e.g., 1:23, 26; 5:3–10; 9:17–18, 20–22, 26). The cosmic struggle between God and Satan has collateral damage among humans under the control of unclean spirits. For Mark’s audience, the repeated appearances of the demons communicate that the struggle between God and Satan is ongoing and that at least part of that conflict takes place here on earth in ways that bring misery to human victims. The demons serve Satan’s kingdom and further his purposes in this world by driving people away from God through pain and torment.

The Demons in Relation to Jesus Mark’s Gospel provides a series of exorcism scenes in which Jesus encounters demonic beings. These scenes follow a common pattern but in a way that allows for variation in details.12 The demons recognize Jesus as a potential threat and the agent of God’s judgment, since they know him to be God’s Son. Yet they are helpless before him, and by his authority he drives them away and delivers their victims from their oppression. In several ways, Jesus’ first encounter with an unclean spirit in Mark’s Gospel sets the pattern for Jesus’ continuing conflict with demons in the ongoing narrative. This initial encounter takes place in the synagogue in Capernaum, where Jesus was teaching and where a man with an unclean spirit suddenly makes his presence known (1:21–8). The presence of an unclean spirit in a synagogue is at least somewhat startling, although the power of Jesus over the demon is what will amaze the crowd even more.13 In this scene, the unclean spirit sees Jesus as a potential threat. The cry of the man with the unclean spirit in

12.  Robert C. Tannehill, “The Gospel of Mark as Narrative Christology,” Semeia 16 (1979), pp. 57–95 (67). 13. For possible explanations to account for the presence of a demon-possessed man in a synagogue, see Twelftree, Jesus the Exorcist, pp. 60, 144.

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the presence of Jesus begins with an idiomatic expression (1:24:  τί ἡμῖν καὶ σοί). That expression can take on various meanings depending on the context.14 This use in 1:24 is similar to instances in the Hebrew Bible in which the question communicates a rejection of any association with someone (i.e., “what do you have to do with us and what do we have to do with you?”), especially at a time when the speaker is seeking to maintain a safe distance from a potential aggressor (Judg. 11:12; 2 Sam 16:10; 19:22; 1 Kgs 17:18).15 A similar question appears on the lips of the Gerasene demonic (Mk 5:7:  τί ἐμοὶ καὶ σοί), who continues by begging Jesus to swear an oath before God that he will not torment him. In 9:20, the demon that renders a boy mute does not speak when the boy is brought into the presence of Jesus, but the unclean spirit recognizes Jesus and immediately attacks the boy, shaking him violently. Unclean spirits seem to recognize Jesus immediately as a potential threat, as the one who has come to plunder Satan’s house (Mk 3:27). The unclean spirit in the synagogue in Capernaum saw Jesus as a threat, because Jesus is God’s agent of judgment who has authority to bring a final condemnation to demonic beings. So the unclean spirit asks (Mk 1:24):  “Have you come to destroy us?” The ultimate fate for Satan and his demons is variously described in Mark’s Gospel as being destroyed (1:24), bound (3:27), plundered (3:27), or tormented (5:7). Mark’s Gospel is not entirely clear about the exact nature of this judgment or about the extent to which at least some demonic beings may experience this condemnation prior to the final judgment at the end of the age. The unclean spirit at the synagogue seems to assume the possibility of an immediate destruction (1:24). In addition, the incident with the herd of pigs in Mark 5 seems to indicate that Mark’s Gospel envisions that some particularly vicious demons could be sent to their final condemnation before the anticipated judgment at the end of the age. The potential threat of final judgment seems to be the motivating reason for why the Legion of demons in Mark 5 begs Jesus not to send them out of that region (5:10). Apparently, they are seeking to forestall their future torment (5:7) and the destruction that they know to be their final fate. Jesus’ response seems to indicate that he intended to allow the Legion of demons one last opportunity to avoid their final judgment by inhabiting a herd of pigs (5:11–13). However, the demons were unable to keep themselves from completely destroying the pigs (5:13), which seems to imply that they were also unable to avoid the fate that they had feared. Their own destructiveness produced their own disastrous end. There was no longer any other place for them to go other than to their final torment. One theme in Mark’s Gospel that begins with the deliverance of the demonpossessed man in the synagogue in Capernaum is that the demons know and declare the identity of Jesus but he silences them. The unclean spirit in the synagogue in Capernaum knows that Jesus is the Holy One of God (1:24). Demons

14.  Adela Yarbro Collins, Mark:  A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis:  Fortress, 2007), p. 169. 15. See also R. T. France, The Gospel of Mark (NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), p. 103.

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also know and declare that Jesus is the Son of God (3:11) and Son of the Most High God (5:7). Yet when demons cry out Jesus’ identity, he rebukes them and does not permit them to speak (1:25, 34; 3:12). These conversations between Jesus and the unclean spirits concerning his identity do not appear to enlighten the others present at the scene in any way. While the crowds are amazed at Jesus’ authority over the demons (1:27), they seemingly do not hear the declarations of the demons concerning Jesus’ identity and do not grow in their understanding of who Jesus is. In this way, the demons further the paradox in Mark’s Gospel concerning the revelation of Jesus and the hiddenness of Jesus. Jesus has authority over demons. They always obey him; people may not but demons always do. Jesus drives them away, simply by commanding them to leave. Mark’s Gospel portrays Jesus as having authority over demons even in particularly difficult cases. In Mark 5:1–20, Jesus encounters a demon-possessed man who is completely beyond control. No one has been able to bind or subdue the man or in fact to restrain him from his self-destructive actions. When Jesus asks the demon what his name is, the unclean spirit responds with “Legion, for we are many” (5:9). The name offered by the unclean spirit, “Legion,” is a word that originated as a military term for the largest unit of troops in the Roman army. In the first century CE, a legion at full strength consisted of approximately 6,000 soldiers, and twentyfive legions formed the core of the Roman army as a whole.16 The later destruction of about 2,000 pigs by the demons serves as an indicator that there were many spirit beings both empowering and tormenting the possessed man (5:13). Yet their power came not only from their number but also from their unified assault on the man. The cooperative attack of these demons is exemplified by the use of a single name for all of them and the use of a single voice when carrying on the conversation with Jesus. Mark portrays a united army of demons attacking a helpless man in service of the undivided kingdom of Satan.17 Yet in spite of the number and unified power of the demons represented by the single name “Legion,” Jesus is able to drive the demons away from the possessed man and to restore the man to his right mind (5:15) and to his family (5:19). One complicating factor with regard to the deliverance of the demon-possessed daughter of the Syrophoenician woman is that the daughter was not even present at the scene with Jesus (7:24–31). Yet Jesus has authority over demons even at a distance. The deaf and mute spirit in Mark 9:14–29 seems to have also been particularly powerful, since the disciples were unable to cast out the demon even though they had successfully cast out demons in the past (cf. 3:15; 6:13). Once again, Jesus commands the spirit to leave, and the spirit obeys. Later Jesus explains that this kind of demon only comes out by prayer (9:29). What is unusual about

16. F. Annen, “λεγιών, ῶνος, ἡ,” EDNT, II, pp. 345–6; BDAG, p. 588. 17. Elizabeth E. Shively, Apocalyptic Imagination in the Gospel of Mark: The Literary and Theological Role of Mark 3:22–30 (BZNW, 189; Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2012), pp. 179–80; Shively, “Characterizing the Non-Human,” p. 143. See Matthew 26:35 for another example of a metaphorical use of “legion” to portray an “army” of spirit beings, in this case, angels.

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that explanation is that Jesus himself does not pray before driving out the demon. Instead Mark portrays Jesus as someone who regularly seeks out time to be alone with God in prayer (1:35; 6:6; 14:35–9). Part of what enables Jesus to overcome powerful demons is a life of prayer that exemplifies Jesus’ continuing dependence upon God. Mark never portrays Jesus’ conflict with Satan or with the demons as complete. As mentioned earlier, Mark’s account of Satan’s temptation of Jesus in the wilderness is brief and open-ended, leaving the impression that the conflict between Jesus and Satan is ongoing.18 Although Jesus’ encounters with demons end in Mark 9:14–19, nothing about that last encounter conveys the idea that demonic beings have been completely conquered or demonic activity has been brought to an end. In fact, Mark’s Gospel indicates the possible continuing work of others who will drive away demons in Jesus’ name (9:38–40) after the last narrated encounter between Jesus and an unclean spirit (9:14–29). In Mark’s Gospel, Jesus’ practice is to respond to unclean spirits who appear on the scene or to care for the demon-possessed who are brought to him by others. Mark’s Gospel does not portray Jesus as seeking out demons in order to rid the world of their influence. In Mark 3:23–6, Jesus argues in such a way that makes it clear that Satan’s power in this world continues to be strong. His kingdom and house are not divided, and therefore logically Jesus cannot have received his power to cast out demons from Satan. However, Jesus also foresees a day when Satan will be bound and his house will be plundered (3:27), and Jesus’ repeated actions against demons seem to be a foretaste of that final judgment. Jesus’ parables in 3:23–6, which portray Satan as powerful, and his parable in 3:27, which presents Satan as bound and his house as plundered, stand somewhat in tension with one another. However, that tension must be understood within the context of Mark’s story as a whole.19 Jesus came to 18.  Views on Mark’s temptation account have generally followed either the interpretation of James M. Robinson or that of Ernest Best. For Robinson, Mark’s temptation account is the inauguration of the eschatological struggle against Satan that continues in Jesus’ exorcisms and indeed in all of his ministry. See James M. Robinson, The Problem of History in Mark and Other Marcan Studies (Philadelphia:  Fortress, 2nd ed., 1982), pp. 69–101. For Best, Mark’s temptation account points to the decisive victory of Jesus over Satan in which he binds the strong man (as expressed in 3:27), so that Satan is rendered powerless and disappears from Mark’s story. Jesus’ exorcisms are “mopping-up operations,” certain to be successful because Satan is already bound. See Ernest Best, The Temptation and the Passion: The Markan Soteriology (SNTSMS, 2; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2nd ed., 1990), pp. xv–xxiii, 10–30; see especially p. 15. On the one hand, Best does not seem to give sufficient attention to the open-ended nature of Mark’s temptation account (on this point, see Twelftree, In the Name of Jesus, pp. 113–14) or to Jesus’ teaching concerning the continuing power of Satan and his kingdom in 3:23–6. On the other hand, Robinson does not seem to account for the way in which Satan recedes from the narrative as an active participant after Mark’s introduction. 19.  Elizabeth Shively, “The Story Matters:  Solving the Problem of the Parables in Mark 3:23–37,” in Between Author and Audience in Mark:  Narration, Characterization,

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bind Satan, but that victory will ultimately be accomplished through the entirety of his life, death, resurrection, and coming again in power and glory. Jesus’ exorcisms are an expression of his opposition to the oppressive kingdom of Satan and his demons and a foretaste of that evil kingdom’s final demise. According to Mark’s Gospel, Satan and his demons remain powerful foes, able to inflict pain and misery upon humanity, but their doom is sure.

The Demons in Relation to the Disciples and Religious Authorities The cosmic conflict between God and Satan is not the only conflict in which Jesus is a participant within Mark’s Gospel. Jesus runs into conflict with his disciples over the necessity of suffering on the part of the Messiah and over what it means to follow a suffering Messiah who came to serve. Another plot line in Mark’s Gospel, the conflict between Jesus and the religious authorities, revolves around the authority of Jesus and his identity as God’s Messiah. Since the religious authorities reject that authority and seek to destroy Jesus, a significant part of Mark’s narrative describes their attempt to accomplish this task and how that attempt ironically serves the plan of God, who has willed that the Son of Man should suffer, give his life as a ransom for others, and receive new life through the resurrection. Yet the earthly conflicts between Jesus and his disciples and between Jesus and the religious authorities take place within the larger cosmic battle between God and Satan, and that larger struggle gives to Jesus’ earthly story its proper significance and gravity. The demons serve Satan in the cosmic struggle by inflicting misery on human victims in the earthly sphere, but their involvement on the earthly plane only rarely touches directly on the plot lines concerning the disciples and concerning the religious authorities. Jesus calls his disciples for the purpose of training them to further his mission (1:17; 3:13–15), part of which is to have authority over unclean spirits and to drive them away (3:15; 6:7). When Jesus sends his disciples out on a mission trip, they not only proclaim a message of repentance and heal the sick but also drive away many demons (6:12–13). However, the authority of the disciples over demons is not at the same level as that of Jesus, since the disciples could find themselves powerless before a particularly obstinate demon (9:17–18, 28). The disciples would only be able to have authority over such a demon through ongoing prayer and the dependence on God that such prayer expresses. In addition, authority over demons is not an exclusive right of the disciples, since others who do not belong to the twelve are apparently able to cast out demons in Jesus’ name (9:38–40). The demons play an even smaller role in Mark’s portrayal of the religious authorities. Scribes from Jerusalem accuse Jesus of casting out demons by

Interpretation, ed. Elizabeth Struthers Malbon (New Testament Monographs, 23; Sheffield:  Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2009), pp. 122–44; cf. also Shively, “Characterizing the Non-Human,” p. 142.

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the power of Satan, the ruler of the demons (3:22, 30). Jesus responds by demonstrating the lack of logic behind such a claim and by warning the scribes about the eternal danger of blaspheming against the Holy Spirit, through whom the victory of Jesus over demons is taking place (3:23–39). Other than this exchange between Jesus and these scribes from Jerusalem, the story of the religious authorities and the story of the demons do not intersect in Mark’s Gospel. Even with little involvement in the plot lines represented by the disciples and the religious authorities, the demons have an important function as contrasting figures. They extend the continuum of possible responses to Jesus. Since they knowingly serve Satan and oppose God, they exist at the extreme end of potentially negative responses to Jesus and his kingdom work. The disciples fail miserably in Mark’s narrative, fleeing rather than following Jesus at the very moment when their devotion to Jesus calls for sacrifice (14:50; cf. 14:66–72). Yet Mark’s Gospel also holds out hope for the disciples, hope that Jesus will gather together and restore his scattered sheep (14:27–38) and that they will not fail in future opportunities to suffer for Jesus and for the worldwide proclamation of the gospel (10:39; 13:9–13). No such restoration or hope lies ahead for the demons. In light of Jesus’ authority and coming victory, only judgment and destruction lie ahead for demonic beings (1:24; 5:7). In addition, Mark’s Gospel does not portray the religious authorities as uniformly opposed to Jesus and his teaching. It is possible for a wise scribe to acknowledge the truth of Jesus’ teaching and to be open to the kingdom of God and ready to enter into it (12:28–34). By way of contrast, the demons are uniformly opposed to God and his kingdom. Unlike the disciples and the religious authorities, the demons are beyond restoration or hope. One implication is that it is impossible to demonize the disciples or the religious authorities in Mark’s Gospel as entirely negative characters because the demons already occupy that role within Mark’s narrative.20

20.  Malbon had been able to demonstrate that neither the disciples nor the religious authorities function as entirely negative characters in Mark’s Gospel. In the essay, “Disciples/Crowds/Whoever:  Markan Characters and Readers,” Malbon documents how Mark’s Gospel portrays the disciples with both strong and weak points, so that they might serve as realistic and encouraging models. See Malbon, In the Company of Jesus, pp. 70–71. In the essay “Text and Contexts: Interpreting the Disciples in Mark,” Malbon shows through a careful examination of the internal interrelations of the elements in Mark’s narrative that Mark’s abrupt ending in chapter 16 does not negate Jesus’ prediction of future faithfulness on the part of the disciples in chapter 13 and that Mark’s portrayal of the disciples encourages audience identification with them, at first through their strengths but later also with their weaknesses. See Malbon, In the Company of Jesus, pp. 114–24. In the essay “The Jewish Leaders in the Gospel of Mark:  A Literary Study of Markan Characterization,” Malbon emphasizes that, although the Jewish leaders as a group are opposed to the Markan Jesus, individual exceptions are possible. Opposition to the Markan Jesus is not simply determined by one’s social or religious status and role. See Malbon, In the Company of Jesus, pp. 148–65.

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In contrast to the disciples and the religious authorities, the demons disappear from the narrative before the story reaches its culmination in Jerusalem. The demons make their exit from the narrative when Jesus casts a deaf and mute spirit out of a possessed boy in 9:14–29. As a result, by the time that Jesus arrives in Jerusalem, the cosmic struggle has receded even further into the background, and Jesus’ conflicts with the disciples and with the religious authorities take center stage. Not only do God and Satan appear to be absent from the action, but the unclean spirits as agents for their ruler, Satan, step away from the action as well. Instead, the story focuses on the earthly realm with the disciples struggling to follow, the religious authorities working out their destructive plan, minor characters reflecting the values of God’s kingdom, and Jesus—in spite of his own internal conflict in Gethsemane—submitting his will to the Father’s will and going the way of the cross. One crucial issue in understanding Mark’s Gospel involves making sense of how to relate the larger cosmic struggle, that is, the conflict in which the demons are active participants, to the more narrowly focused earthly struggle, the conflict in which human characters must decide how to respond to Jesus. The fact that the larger cosmic struggle recedes into the background complicates any attempt to sort out the relationship between the cosmic and the earthly conflicts. One possibility is that satanic activity, though hidden, is in reality implicit and pervasive throughout Mark’s narrative.21 If Satan is able to take the word of God away from some who hear the kingdom message (4:15), perhaps Satan and his demons are at work any time that there is an inadequate response to Jesus and his message, even if they are not explicitly mentioned. If Satan somehow stands behind Peter’s foolish attempt to turn Jesus away from his messianic mission (8:33), perhaps Satan and his demons are at work in a hidden way any time that human characters seem to hinder the plan of God or to oppose God’s Messiah. Maybe even Jesus’ own wavering in doubt before the cup of suffering in Gethsemane is the result of satanic attacks on his heart and mind. Such an approach, however, leaves unexplained Mark’s decision to refrain from portraying Satan as an active participant in the narrative after the introduction and to follow this up with the subsequent departure of the demons from the story. In addition, it has the potential to convey that Satan and his demons function as the sole source of conflict for Jesus. Another possible interpretation is that Mark’s Gospel is a “Lord of the Rings” type of story, a story in which there is indeed a larger conflict, but also a story in which at times the larger battle recedes into the background long enough for the narrative to focus attention on the faithful actions of the seemingly insignificant, actions that determine the outcome of that larger conflict. In Mark’s Gospel, the cosmic conflict between God and Satan is real, and Jesus and the demons participate in that conflict. Yet in Mark’s Gospel, the earthly conflicts are also real, and it is on that earthly stage where the Messiah by himself wavers before the cup

21.  See especially Shively, Apocalyptic Imagination, pp. 1–2, 153–71, 252, 254; Shively, “Characterizing the Non-Human,” pp. 143–51.

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but submits to the Father’s will, where selfish desires for power and prominence harden human hearts, where fear of persecution and suffering can make failures of even the most devoted followers, and where sacrificial deeds of service for those in need, though easily overlooked, take on eternal significance. The cosmic story gives significance to the earthly story, but the earthly story determines the course of the heavenly battle. Not only the presence of Satan and his demons but also their absence gives weight to Mark’s story, because it enables Mark to focus attention on human responses to Jesus and on the ultimate meaning of the Messiah dying on the cross all alone as an act of service toward others and as an exemplary paradigm of sacrifice for his followers.

Conclusion: The Demons in Relation to Mark’s Audience In Mark’s Gospel, the demons function as servants of Satan, belonging to his kingdom and advancing his rule. They do not take on the same tasks as Satan in Mark’s Gospel, but instead further the work of his kingdom by tormenting human victims and creating such misery for them that they withdraw from God and normal human relationships. In this way, they are active participants in the cosmic conflict between God and Satan. The demons are irredeemably opposed to Jesus, who is the stronger one able to plunder Satan’s household through the power of the Holy Spirit. The demons know who Jesus is, that he is the Son of God, and they recognize him as the one who will bring them to their final judgment. They understand that Jesus has authority over them, and they obey his commands to be silent and to leave their victims. They serve Satan but are subservient to Jesus. In the end, Mark has the demons step back out of the action, and by so doing he draws attention to the human characters who must make decisions about who Jesus is and what it means to follow him. In this way, the demons—by their absence—draw attention to the more narrowly focused earthly conflicts in Mark’s story. While demons are able to inflict misery on their victims, ultimately their power does not decide the end of the story. Instead, in Mark’s Gospel, the fate of humanity lies with God’s Messiah, Jesus, and how people respond to him determines the course of their lives. Mark’s narrative—including his portrayal of demons—has a rhetorical function. Any narrative is an act of communication that seeks to affect an audience in some way, and characterization is part of that communicative design. As Malbon points out, the narrative process moves “from an implied author, through a story world of settings, plot, and characterization—all rhetorically presented—to an implied audience.”22 Therefore, any character or character group in a narrative such as Mark’s Gospel should be studied not only in relation to other characters

22. Malbon, “Characters in Mark’s Story,” p. 69. See also Malbon, “Characters in Mark’s Story,” p.  67 for Malbon’s interest in the relation of characters to the implied reader or audience.

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but also in relation to Mark’s audience. By analyzing the intended rhetorical impact of a narrative, it is possible to answer not just the question “What does the story mean?” but more importantly the question “How does the story mean?”23 How does Mark design his characterization of the demons as one of the means by which he might influence his implied audience? First, Mark’s portrayal of the demons serves to increase narrative space and therefore narrative significance. Mark tells a story that includes both cosmic and earthly dimensions, with the demons participating in both realms. This greater narrative space, which extends beyond the earthly realm, creates greater significance for the events in the story, since those events take on cosmic importance— not only within Mark’s narrative world but also potentially for the world of Mark’s audience. Mark’s repeated references to the demons communicates to his implied audience both the depth of human suffering and the extent of Jesus’ authority. According to Mark, human misery is not simply self-inflicted; it has a cosmic, apocalyptic dimension. Human misery, caused in part by powerful supernatural enemies, is not easily solved. Yet Mark portrays Jesus as God’s Son and as the powerful Messiah who has the authority to rule over demonic beings. Jesus’ acts of deliverance, setting free human victims tormented by unclean spirits, serve as promises of his future plundering of Satan’s house and the final defeat of evil. Through the authority of Jesus and through his death and resurrection, the victory of God’s kingdom has already begun. Someday, when Jesus as the Son of Man comes in power and glory, the time of judgment will arrive, and the destruction of Satan and his demons will be completed. Mark’s audience lives between the decisive battle at the cross and the final victory at the coming of the Son of Man and can therefore recognize Jesus’ authority over demons while still longing for the final demise of evil. Second, while the presence of demons in Mark’s story creates narrative space, their absence from the latter part of the narrative serves to create a narrative vacuum. Mark tells a story that includes both a cosmic conflict and earthly conflicts, but in the story God and Satan step into the background so that the interaction between Jesus and human characters can step into the foreground. The repeated passages concerning the demons function as a reminder of the cosmic conflict, but in the end the demons also step back out of the action. They join God and Satan in the background, and along with Mark’s audience they watch as the disciples of Jesus struggle to follow, as opponents of Jesus plan for his death, and as Jesus himself anguishes over whether to submit to the Father’s will. The story plays out between Jesus and the frail people all around him. The most crucial part of the story unfolds on an earthly stage, and eternal destiny hangs in the balance. Demons start out as active participants in the story, vestiges of the power of Satan, enemies who seek to inflict pain on human victims. Yet they are powerless in the presence of Jesus and therefore in the end do not determine the final outcome. The real story takes place in the lives of the human characters. The presence of demons

23. On this point, see Malbon, “Narrative Criticism,” pp. 29–30.

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in the story and then their subsequent absence only serve to raise the importance of human response, first by placing human actions within the context of a larger struggle and then by focusing on human actions at the determining moments in that larger struggle. For Mark’s Gospel, the cosmic struggle continues on beyond the end of the narrative, so that human actions still have the potential to influence the cosmic struggle during the time of the implied audience. Human neglect and opposition can still diminish the growth of God’s kingdom. Yet every act of compassion toward those in need, accomplished in the name of Christ and for the sake of the gospel, can make an eternal difference.

Chapter 8 T H E W A I T I N G G U E ST   R O OM A Prophetic Symbol? Edwin K. Broadhead

Within the history of Israel and its stories the figure of the prophet is central. The prophetic task is an elusive one, ranging from divination to itinerant shamanism to prophecy in cult and temple to court prophets to isolated prophetic figures to writing prophets. Prophetic activity within early Judaism could be apocalyptic, eschatological, clerical, or sapiential.1 This diversity of role and task makes it difficult to create a generic portrait of the Hebrew prophet. Typically prophecy was defined in terms of antecedent figures—a prophet like Moses, a prophet like Elijah, a prophet like Jeremiah. Nonetheless, a few images became stereotypical signs of a prophet in Israel. Among these are courageous preaching, wilderness sojourn, unusual clothing, strange diet. I wish to explore here the possibility that one other symbol was seen as indicative of the life of a prophet—that of the waiting guest room.

The Tradition of Elijah and Elisha The image of the prophet’s guest room first emerges in the Elijah narrative. Two scenes are paradigmatic. 1 Kings 17:1–24 creates a prototypical image of Israel’s prophet. Elijah predicts the future drought in the name of God (17:1) He hears and obeys “the word of the Lord” (17:2). He is sustained by God in the wilderness that is east of Jordan (17:3–6). When the drought ends these provisions (17:7), Elijah is prompted by the word of the Lord to go and live with a widow from Sidon whose name is Zarepath (17:8–9). She has been commanded by God to make provision for the prophet (17:9). When she meets 1.  On the diversity of the prophetic identity and task, see David E. Aune, Prophecy in Early Christianity and the Ancient Mediterranean World (Grand Rapids:  Eerdmans, 1983) and J. J. Collins, The Apocalyptic Imagination:  Introduction to the Jewish Matrix of Christianity (New York: Crossroad, 1989).

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Elijah she expects to die shortly, and she is preparing a last meal for herself and her son (17:12). When Zarepath meets the needs of the prophet, her meal and oil become a sustainable source of food: “The jar of meal was not emptied, neither did the jug of oil fail, according to the word of the Lord that he spoke to Elijah” (17:6). The closing segment of the story (17:17–24) is marked by the death of the widow’s son. The prophet takes the boy’s body to the upper chamber, lays him upon the prophet’s bed, and revives the boy (17:19–23). Twice the story notes that the prophet’s guest room is an “upper chamber” (17:19, 23). The story concludes with the testimony of the woman to the identity of the prophet: “Now I know that you are a man of God, and that the word of the Lord in your mouth is true” (17:24). A similar story is found in 2 Kings 4:8–37 in connection with Elijah. The prophet becomes a regular guest at the table of a wealthy woman from Shunem (4:8). Certain that he is a “holy man of God,” the woman prepares a guest room to be used on his regular visits (4:9–10). The room is an upper chamber, and it is frequented by the prophet (4:11). On one visit, Elijah foretells the birth of a son to the woman, and this prediction is fulfilled in due time (4:11–17). The following segment (4:18–37) tells of the death of the child some years later. The hurting child is brought to the lap of his mother, where he dies (4:20). The woman takes the child up to the empty room and lays him on the prophet’s bed. The prophet is called, he prays for the child and lies upon his body, then the child is revived (4:32–7).2 These stories share key elements and generate a prototype of prophetic activity. Both prophets practice an itinerant ministry marked by wondrous deeds. While the Elijah story has bottomless jars of meal and oil, the Elisha story is prefaced by the account of a bottomless jar of oil (2 Kings 4:1–7). Both are recipients of divine revelation and insight into future events. Both Elijah and Elisha are able to call a dead son to life. Both are shown interacting with foreign women hosts. In both scenes an empty guest room awaits the occasional visit of the prophet.

Prophetic Images in Early Christianity The gospels of the New Testament describe prophetic figures more through showing than through telling. Consequently, images played an important role in the description of the prophets. John the Baptist is recognized as a prophet because he preaches from the wilderness a message of stark confrontation. His diet is strange and his clothing is unusual. He employs prophetic symbolism in his water baptism, and he speaks of the future judgment. Thus he is associated with the figure of Elijah (Mk 9:13). Jesus himself extols the prophetic identity of John by noting his appearance and his preaching in the wilderness (Q 7:24–8).

2. The story of the woman and her family continues in 2 Kings 8:1–6.

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The images abound in the Sayings Tradition (Q), where the role of the prophet is central. Here Jesus is portrayed as the wandering proclaimer who goes from village to village performing wonders and announcing the imminent in-break of God’s kingdom. The prophetic activity of Jesus sets the pattern for that of his followers: they are to go through the villages healing the sick and proclaiming the nearness of the kingdom, and they are to stay as guests in the homes that welcome them (Q 10:2–12). They are emissaries of Jesus, who is an emissary of God; to accept or reject their ministry is to accept or reject Jesus and the One who sent him (Mt 10:40; Lk 10:16). This pattern of ministry endures among some followers of Jesus. The Gospel of Thomas remembers Jesus as one who has no place to lay his head (GThomas 86) and the disciples as itinerant healers who are dependent upon local hospitality (GThomas 14). The Didache also demands hospitality for the prophets, who by this time appear to be retiring from the road: “But every true prophet who wishes to settle among you is worthy of his food. Likewise a true teacher is himself worthy, like the workman, of his food” (Did 13:2).

Prophetic Hospitality and Jesus While the early Church largely abandoned the prophetic image of Jesus in favor of more lofty titles—Son of God, Messiah, Lord—there is sufficient evidence that prophetic characterization undergirds the most primitive christology. Important traces of this imagery remain in the description of Jesus in the gospels. Jesus is one who has no place to lay his head (Q 9:58). He wanders from village to village healing the sick, casting out demons, and proclaiming the nearness of God’s kingdom. He is the frequent guest in local homes. The Gospel of Luke associates the prophetic image with Jesus at the outset of his story. Transporting the scene at Nazareth from the midst of Jesus’ story, Luke places the synagogue scene as the frontispiece for his account of Jesus’ ministry (Lk 4:16– 30). Prophetic images abound in the scene, including citation of Isaiah 61. Lest the reader miss the connection, it is announced from the lips of Jesus himself: “Amen, I say to you that no prophet is welcome in his home town” (Lk 4:24). In the midst of this prophetic scene, Jesus recalls the tales of Elijah and Elisha (4:25–7). In particular, Jesus recalls the sojourn of Elijah with Zarephath of Sidon. Her standing welcome and hospitality for the prophet Elijah provides a stark contrast to the hostility that meets the prophet Jesus in his own hometown (Lk 4:24, 29). I wish to suggest that the synoptic passion accounts restate this prophetic characterization at a crucial juncture in Jesus’ story. In the account of the preparation for his final Passover (Mk 14:12–17; Mt 26:17–20; Lk 22:7–14), Jesus knows ahead of time where he will celebrate the meal. Whether through prophetic insight or previous experience, Jesus directs his followers to an upper room, which he expects to be prepared. In a hostile city Jesus finds, as he expected, a waiting guest room. There the prophet and his followers celebrate together their last Passover and their final meal.

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In the Gospel of Mark, this subtle imagery does not stand in isolation, but draws upon a larger characterization in which Jesus is seen as God’s final prophet.3 The Prophet title is related to Jesus on four occasions in the Gospel of Mark. In Mark 6:4 Jesus sets a proverb before the worshipers in his home town: “A prophet is not without honor except in his home town and among his own people and in his own house.” The title is further tied to Jesus in two scenes that speculate about his identity. The activity of Jesus in the Galilee raises the question of his identity in Mark 6:14–16. Each of the comparisons—John the Baptist, Elijah, another prophet— center around a prophetic identity. A similar conjecture is found in the scene at Caesarea Philippi in Mark 8:27–30. When asked about popular views of Jesus’ identity, the disciples respond with various opinions—John the Baptist, Elijah, one of the prophets—all of which are prophetic. The transfiguration story in Mark 9:2–8 generates a prophetic image without using the title. In an epiphanic scene, Jesus is associated with the lawgiver Moses and the great prophet Elijah, but he is declared from heaven to be the Beloved Son. This scene implies that the whole spectrum of Hebraic prophecy has reached its fulfillment in Jesus. Of key importance for the Gospel of Mark, this prophetic image is connected to the suffering and death of Jesus (Mk 9:9–13). The parable of the vineyard in Mark 12:1–12, without using the prophet title, places Jesus in a long line of rejected messengers whom God has sent to Israel. This popular speculation and the theme of suffering and death are joined in the abuse following the trial before the religious authorities in Mk 14:65. Here Jesus is mocked by the singular taunt: “Prophesy!” In this way, the image of Jesus as the rejected prophet, first suggested in the home town synagogue and nurtured through various scenes from Jesus’ ministry, is given full voice in the midst of the passion story. The passion narrative in Mark 14–16 develops the prophetic characterization of Jesus around three distinct roles: instruction, prediction, and suffering. These various images and lines of characterization converge in Mark 10:45, and they do so on the lips of Jesus. In a prophetic announcement about the future, Jesus instructs his followers—and the readers of this gospel—that the key to his identity and his mission is found in his suffering and service for the people: “the son of man did not come to be served, but to serve and to give his life as a ransom for the many.” It is clear that the story of Jesus’ death in the Gospel of Mark abounds with strategic moves and images that characterize Jesus as the final envoy sent from God— as God’s faithful prophet. I  would suggest that this line of characterization also draws upon a longstanding tradition within Israel in which the traveling prophet depends upon the hospitality of the waiting guest room.

3. I have developed this theme in Prophet, Son, Messiah: Narrative Form and Function in Mark 14–16 (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994), especially pp. 267–9 and in Naming Jesus: Titular Christology in the Gospel of Mark (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), pp. 43–60.

Chapter 9 T H E C HA R AC T E R O F T H E G O O D S A M A R I TA N A Christological Reading* Mikeal C. Parsons

In the subtitle of her book Mark’s Jesus, Elizabeth Struthers Malbon discloses the goal of her study, Characterization as Narrative Christology.1 For Malbon, the narrative christology of Mark is “understood as the way in which the Markan Jesus is characterized.”2 She pursues this goal by exploring “the basic ways characters become known to an audience . . . characters are known by what they say and by what they do, and by what others (the narrator and other characters) say

*  I have known Elizabeth Struthers Malbon for well over thirty years. In fact, as program chair of the New Testament section of SBL-SE, she put me on my first SBL program in 1983. Although she had no graduate students of her own at Virginia Tech, she has been a staunch supporter and advocate for younger colleagues in the guild (some of whom, like me, are no longer young!) for decades. I am, therefore, delighted to contribute this essay to a Festschrift honoring Elizabeth Struthers Malbon. This essay draws on an earlier and abbreviated article, originally published as “Hearing a Parable with the Early Church,” in Parables, ed. Robert B. Kruschwitz (Christian Reflection: A Series in Faith and Ethics, 21; Waco, TX:  Center for Christian Ethics at Baylor University, 2006), pp. 19–26. Gratitude is expressed to Robert B. Kruschwitz, editor of the Christian Reflection series, for permission to use that material. 1.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, Mark’s Jesus: Characterization as Narrative Christology (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2009). 2.  Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, pp.  1–7. Malbon is building on the work of Robert Tannehill, “ The Gospel of Mark as Narrative Christology,” in Perspectives on Mark’s Gospel, ed. Norman R. Petersen (Semeia, 16; Missoula, MT:  Scholars Press, 1979), pp. 161–87; Eugene Boring, “The Christology of Mark:  Hermeneutical Issues for Systematic Theology,” in Christology and Exegesis:  New Approaches, ed. Robert Jewett (Semeia, 30; Decatur, GA:  Scholars Press, 1984), pp. 125–53; and Edwin K. Broadhead, Teaching with Authority: Miracles and Christology in the Gospel of Mark (JSNTSup, 97; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1992).

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and do, to, about, or in relation to them.”3 Malbon further explores the categories from five different angles, what she calls enacted christology (what Jesus does), projected christology (what others say), deflected christology (what Jesus says in response), refracted christology (what Jesus says instead), and reflected christology (what others do).4 Her study results in a richly textured reading of the Markan Jesus. Given the importance of parables as shaping what the Markan Jesus says, one might expect that parabolic material would be treated in Malbon’s study, and it is under “refracted christology.” But the treatment is surprisingly brief and tends to focus on the way in which “the Markan implied author is able to present Jesus the parabler as a parable.”5 To be fair, Malbon does treat specific parables in other places, but one wonders if more could not be made of the ways in which the parables contribute to Jesus’ characterization, or narrative christology if you will, both in terms of how their content contributes to “refracted christology,” but also in terms of how the characters in Jesus’ parables might contribute to “reflected christology” (what others do in imitation of Jesus). Malbon understandably limits her study of these “exemplary” figures to those characters who populate the first level of discourse, in which Jesus is interacting with others. But might one also gain insight into Mark’s (or any Synoptic Gospel’s) narrative christology by considering the words and actions of characters as characters constructed in Jesus’ parables? This would be especially relevant for those parables that seem explicitly (the parable of the sower in Mk 4) or implicitly (the parable of the wicked tenants in Mk 12) to offer an allegorizing interpretation in which one of the parable’s characters seems to represent Jesus himself (the sower or the son).6 In such cases, there may be some blurring of Malbon’s categories. What Jesus says, either in response to or instead of, constructs characters who exemplify “reflected christology”—that is, some of the parables’ characters through reflected christology are also “exemplary characters” who “mirror how Jesus relates to God and thus to others—or perhaps how Jesus relates to others and thus to God.”7 In this essay, I  would like to explore the character of the Good Samaritan through the lens of Malbon’s categories, especially “reflected christology,” to argue that the Good Samaritan is a Christ figure whose words and actions mirror how Jesus “relates to others and thus to God.” In so doing, I am moving against the modern critical consensus regarding the figure of the Good Samaritan and retrieving a “precritical” reading that held sway for most of the history of interpretation.

3. Malbon, Mark’s Story, p. 17. 4.  Malbon, Mark’s Story, p. vii. Malbon structures the heart of her study around these rubrics, devoting a chapter to each. 5. Malbon, Mark’s Story, p. 217. 6.  Mary Ann Tolbert, Sowing the Word: Mark’s World in Literary-Historical Perspective (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1996), pp. 148–210, 218–38. 7. Malbon, Mark’s Story, p. 230.

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The Critical Consensus For most students of early Christianity, the first encounter of Augustine’s famous allegory of the Good Samaritan is typically through a secondary source, such as C. H. Dodd’s classic work, The Parables of the Kingdom, in which the allegory is quoted in a condensed form.8 Dodd notes that while Augustine’s line of interpretation had “prevailed down to the time of Archbishop Trench,” “the ordinary person of intelligence” would nonetheless find this kind of “mystification” “quite perverse”!9 Citing the work of Adolf Jülicher, as has become obligatory now in the academic study of the parables, Dodd notes that “the parables in general do not admit of this method [of allegorizing] at all.” Even when the evangelists betray such allegorizing tendencies (the classic case is Mk 4:11–20), their efforts “rest on a misunderstanding.”10 More recently, Craig A. Evans’ words represent the critical consensus among scholars of all theological stripes: This parable, as the other parables, is not to be allegorized. The man leaving Jerusalem does not represent fallen Adam’s exit from Paradise (Gen. 3:22–24); the robbers do not represent Satan and his demons; stripped him does not refer to humanity’s loss of immortality; the priest does not represent the Law nor the Levite the Prophets or some other part of the OT or Jewish practice; the Samaritan is not Jesus.11

A cursory reading of parable literature over the ensuing twenty-five years confirms the negative scholarly evaluation of allegory found in Dodd and Evans. We should not be surprised, then, to find most modern Lukan commentators sharing in this rejection of allegorical interpretation, especially with regard to the parable of the Good Samaritan. Joseph Fitzmyer is representative of the modern view when he labels these allegorical readings of the Good Samaritan parable as “farfetched.”12 John Nolland is a bit more cautious, but in the end, despite the fact that he sees God or God’s agent figured in all the narrative parables in Luke except Luke 10,13 Nolland makes it clear that he, too, rejects christological

8. C. H. Dodd, The Parables of the Kingdom (London: Nisbet, 3rd ed., 1941), pp. 11–13. 9. Dodd, Parables, pp. 12–13. 10. Dodd, Parables, p. 13. 11. Craig A. Evans, Luke (NIBC, 3; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers, 1990), p. 178 (italics my emphasis; bold in the original). 12.  Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel according to Luke X–XXIV (AB, 28A; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1985), p. 885. 13.  John Nolland, “The Role of Money and Possessions in the Parable of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11–32): A Test Case,” in Reading Luke: Interpretation, Reflection, Formation, ed. Craig G. Bartholomew, Joel B. Green, and Anthony C. Thiselton (Scripture and Hermeneutics Series, 6; Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2005), pp. 178–209 (186, 194).

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readings,14 which typically identify Jesus as the Good Samaritan15 or atypically identity Jesus as the wounded man.16 In light of nearly two millennia of Christian exegetical tradition, which has typically, if not uniformly, identified the Good Samaritan as a Christ figure, I would like to examine the evidence of Luke’s own presentation to determine if there are literary grounds upon which to hang such a christological interpretation. I wish to ask, given that God or his agent, Jesus, plays a role in every other longer narrative parable in Luke (so Nolland), whether or not we should reconsider the conclusion of critical orthodoxy and return, in this case, to the consensus christological reading of patristic exegesis, a reading that was sustained, as Dodd notes, well into the nineteenth century.

Reading the Parable of the Good Samaritan in the Context of Luke’s Gospel Within the narrative of Luke, a good, even compelling case can be made for a christological reading of the Good Samaritan. The term ἐσπλαγχνίσθη, “he had compassion,” occurs three times in all of Luke/Acts; in the other two instances, only God’s agent, Jesus (Lk 7:13), and a figure for God, the father of the Prodigal (Lk 15:20), show compassion. In other words, “showing compassion” in the Lukan narrative is a divine prerogative and a divine action.17 Here is our first clue in the text of Luke itself that the Good Samaritan, when he shows compassion on the man in the ditch, is functioning figuratively as God’s agent. This interpretation gains momentum when one considers the Lukan frame within which the parable is set. At the conclusion of the parable, Jesus asks, “Which of these three, do you think, proved neighbor to the man who fell among robbers?” (Lk 10:36). The lawyer responds by saying, “The one who showed mercy on him” (ὁ δὲ εἶπεν· ὁ ποιήσας τὸ ἔλεος μετ’ αὐτοῦ, 10:37). This comment is usually understood by commentators to show the lawyer’s reluctance to even

14. Nolland, “Money and Possession,” p. 181; Luke 9:21–18:34 (WBC, 35B; Dallas: Word, 1993), pp. 590, 597. 15.  For modern attempts at this identification, see Jean Daniélou, “Le bon Samaritain,” in Mélanges bibliques: Rédigés en l”Honneur de Andre Robert (Paris:  Bloud et Gay, 1957), pp. 457–65; Helmut Gollwitzer, Das Gleichnis vom Barmherzigen Samariter (BS, 34; Neukirchen-Vluyn:  Neukirchener Verlag, 1962); Helmuth L. Egelkraut, Jesus’ Mission to Jerusalem: A Redaction Critical Study of the Travel Narrative in the Gospel of Luke, 9:51– 19:48 (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1976), pp. 89–90. 16. See, for example, Hermann Binder, “Das Gleichnis von barmherzigen Samariter,” TZ 15 (1959), pp. 176–94. 17. M. J. J. Menken, “The Position of σπλαγχνίσθη and σπλάγχνα in the Gospel of Luke,” NovT 30 (1988), pp. 107–14 (111), suggests the centrality of the act of compassion by noting that in NA26 ἐσπλαγχνίσθη stands in the literal center of the passage, with sixty-eight words preceding it and sixty-seven words following.

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utter the word “Samaritan.” Without denying this claim, the response also has the effect of creating an interpretive gloss on the Samaritan’s action. The Samaritan’s act of compassion is made by the lawyer to be the dynamic equivalent of “showing mercy.” This interpretation is evidently accepted by Jesus and the narrator, since neither corrects or contradicts the lawyer. This reading would seem crucial for getting at Luke’s understanding of the Samaritan’s action, and through that action to the Samaritan’s “identity.” In Luke’s Gospel, only God or God’s agent, Jesus, shows mercy.18 In the infancy narrative, God is repeatedly described as “showing” or “doing” mercy. In the Magnificat, Mary sings, “My spirit rejoices in God my Savior . . . for he who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is his name. And his mercy (τὸ ἔλεος αὐτοῦ) is on those who fear him from generation to generation . . . He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy (τὸ ἔλεος αὐτοῦ)” (Lk 1:47, 49–50, 54). Zechariah strikes a similar theme: “Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for he has visited and redeemed his people and has raised up a horn of salvation for us in the house of his servant David . . . and thus he has shown the mercy (ποιῆσαι ἔλεος) promised to our fathers, and remembered his holy covenant” (1:68–9, 72).19 Later in Luke’s Gospel, as Jesus is passing between Samaria and Galilee he is met by ten lepers who cry out, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on (ἐλέησον ἡμᾶς) us!” (17:13). In response to their plea, Jesus does show them mercy and sends them to the priest, “and as they went they were cleansed” (17:14). Likewise, in response to the blind beggar from Jericho’s repeated request, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on (ἐλέησόν με) me!” (18:38, 39), Jesus complies and grants the man his sight (18:42). As with “compassion,” every instance of “mercy” is associated with acts of God or God’s agent, Jesus. The only exception is in the parable of the rich man and Lazarus, where the rich man, suffering in the torments of Hades, pleads with Father Abraham, “have mercy on (ἐλέησόν με) me” (Lk 16:24). Abraham refuses, and the exception again proves the point: in Luke’s Gospel only God or God’s agent, Jesus, shows mercy or has compassion. Within the immediate context of Luke’s Gospel, the Good Samaritan, who “shows compassion” and “does mercy,” functions as a “Christ” figure who ultimately acts as God’s agent. The larger context of Luke supports this christological reading as well. The question posed and the answer given in Luke 10:25–8 govern the final form of Luke 10:29–11:13, and the parable of the Good Samaritan must be read within that context. To gain eternal life, one must love the Lord and one must love the

18. Neither compassion nor mercy (as a noun or verb) appears in Luke’s sequel, the Acts of the Apostles. 19.  The Greek in 1:72–5, though loosely connected, is, as Joel B. Green notes, “clear enough in function. First, with its references to showing mercy and remembering the covenant, verse 72 continues to enumerate why the praise of God is appropriate” (The Gospel of Luke [NICNT; Grand Rapids: Wm. B. Eerdmans, 1990], p. 117).

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neighbor. The parables and stories that immediately follow in chapters 10 and 11 illustrate these points: Notice the pattern is a simple chiasm: A. On loving neighbors (parable of the Good Samaritan, Lk 10:29–37); example, Samaritan as Christ figure B. On loving the Lord (Mary and Martha, Lk 10:38–42); example, Mary B. On loving the Lord (the Lord’s Prayer, Lk 11:1–4); example, Jesus A. On loving neighbors/friends (parable of the friend at midnight, Lk 11:5– 13); example, friend seeking bread Far from a loosely connected collection of sayings and stories, as some have argued, this section is intricately woven together. The lawyer’s question and answer are followed by a section that sandwiches two parables around two scenes, which themselves present a narrative and a brief discourse. Furthermore, the stories chiastically provide examples of loving the Lord and loving the neighbor. Finally, and this is crucial for understanding the parable of the Good Samaritan in its final form in Luke, the stories alternate between having Jesus as the prime example of loving the Lord and loving neighbor and having another character other than Christ (or a Christ figure) make the same points. So we have four examples, two in which Christ, actually or figuratively, shows how properly to love neighbor and the Lord, and two in which other characters, one in the narrative proper, the other in a parable, do likewise. This is “reflected christology” at its best!

Patristic Exegesis and Medieval Allegory of the Parable of the Good Samaritan As implied earlier in the essay, interpreting the Good Samaritan “christologically” finds confirmation in much of the premodern history of interpretation of the parable. In his work Medieval Allegories of Jesus’ Parables, Stephen Wailes has done a great service by collecting, summarizing, and evaluating allegorical interpretations from the patristic period to the high Middle Ages. Wailes has conveniently summarized the history of interpretation of the figure of the Good Samaritan: “Christ is the good Samaritan who places man upon his own body and brings him to the Church; the leaders of the Church receive a spiritual trust from Christ for the care of man, with the promise of recompense for additional benefits.”20

20.  Stephen Wailes, Medieval Allegories of Jesus’ Parables (Berkeley :  University of California Press, 1987), p. 210. Elsewhere, Wailes notes: “As understood in the Middle Ages, ‘The Good Samaritan’ condenses all the history of salvation into a brief tale. Within this tale is the Fall and loss of innocence, the unavailing epochs under the Old Law, the Incarnation and ministry of Christ, the Passion and Resurrection, and the establishment of the Church” (p. 45).

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Origen is apparently the earliest writer whose comments on the parable of the Good Samaritan have survived (albeit in a Latin translation).21 At the beginning of his treatment of the Good Samaritan, he claims, “the Samaritan is Christ,”22 and then spends several pages developing this christological interpretation. Despite several attempts at more strictly ethical interpretations (Wailes notes Gottfried of Admont and Hugh of Saint-Cher), Origen’s christological interpretation is followed by Augustine and many others. Wailes claims that it is Augustine’s interpretation that shapes much of the subsequent discussion of the parable for centuries to come.23 Thus, to label the parable of the Good Samaritan an “example story,” as though the story were itself devoid of a christological or theological referent, is to miss the point of the parable—or at least one of the points—and to miss it badly. The parable, in its canonical context, does not primarily focus on the perspective of the man in the ditch.24 Rather, Jesus’ admonition to the lawyer, “Go, and do likewise” (10:37), demands that the primary perspective be that of the Good Samaritan, whose example the lawyer is admonished to follow. But the example is here enlivened by the fact that the example of the Good Samaritan’s compassion and mercy is, as the text of Luke affirms, the example of none other than God and God’s agent,

21.  Hom. Luc. 34; see Henri Crouzel, Francois Fournier, and Pierre Perichon, eds. and trans., Origène: Homélies sur S. Luc (SC, 87; Paris:  Éditions du Cerf, 1962), pp. 400–410. François Bovon (Das Evangelium nach Lukas. II. Lk 9,51–14,35 [Düsseldorf:  Benziger Verlag, 1996], p. 93) notes that there is indirect evidence (also from Origen) for even earlier references to the Good Samaritan in the writings of Gnostics and Marcion. 22. Origen, Hom. Luc. 34.3. The Latin text of Origen’s interpretation reads, in part: “Hiericho mundum, latrones contrarias fortitudines, sacerdotem legem, Leviten prophetas, Sameriten Christum, vulnera vero inoboedientiam, animal corpus Domini, pandochium, id est stabulum, quod universos volentes introire suscipiat, ecclesiam interpretari; porro duos denarios Patrem et Filium intellegi, stabularium ecclesiae praesidem, cui dispensatio credita sit . . . Quae sunt plagae, quae vulnera, quibus vulneratus est homo? [Vitia atque peccata.] . . . [tollit duos denarios et honorat stabularium, haud dubium quin angelum ecclesiae, cui praecipit, ut diligenter curet eum et ad sanitatem usque perducat, quem pro angustia temporis etiam ipse curaveret” (Hom. Luc. 34.3, 4, 8, in Crouzel, Fournier, and Périchon, Homélies, pp. 402, 404, 408, emphasis original). 23.  See Augustine, Quaest. ev. 19, cols. 1340–41, in PL, 35. For more on Augustine’s interpretation of this parable (along with a defense of the plausibility of Augustine’s exegesis), see Roland J. Teske, “The Good Samaritan (Lk 10:29–37) in Augustine’s Exegesis,” in Augustine:  Biblical Exegete, ed. Frederick Van Fleteren and Joseph C. Schnaubelt (New York: Peter Lang, 2001), pp. 347–67. 24.  Contrary to Robert W. Funk, “The Good Samaritan as Metaphor,” in The Good Samaritan, ed. John Dominic Crossan (Semeia, 2; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1974), pp. 74–81, esp. pp. 76–7. As Funk himself understood, the perspective of the man in the ditch becomes primary only when, and precisely because, the parable has been removed from its Lukan context.

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Jesus. Thus, we have in its literary context a call by Jesus to imitate the compassionate Samaritan and, in so doing, to imitate the compassion of Jesus himself. Ethical admonition is grounded in a christological basis. Origen understood this long ago when he wrote: The Samaritan, “who took pity on the man who had fallen among thieves,” is truly a “guardian,” and a closer neighbor than the Law and the prophets. He showed that he was the man’s neighbor more by deed than by word. According to the passage that says, “Be imitators of me, as I too am of Christ,” it is possible for us to imitate Christ and to pity those who “have fallen among thieves.” We can go to them, bind their wounds, pour in oil and wine, put them on our own beasts, and bear their burdens. The Son of God encourages us to do things like this. He is speaking not so much to the teacher of the Law as to us and to all men when he says, “Go and do likewise” (Hom. Luc. 34.9).25

Far from a “perverse” or “far-fetched” interpretation of the Good Samaritan, I propose that Origen’s basic christological reading is more sensitive to the Lukan literary context than most, if not all, modern interpretations of the parable! Why then do modern commentators so resist such a reading? Presumably this hesitation is because of the presence of the Samaritan. Nolland concludes that christological interpretation is “finally to be rejected because it can do no justice to the presence of the Samaritan figure in the parable.”26 Origen understood the difficulty of having a Samaritan stand as a “Christ” figure and proposed an etymological solution (see above), claiming the roots of “Samaritan” were to be found in the term “guardian” or “protector.”27 25. Joseph T. Lienhard, trans., Origen: Homilies on Luke (FC, 94; Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1996), p. 141. The Latin text reads: “Vere lege et prophetis custos animarum iste vicinior, qui fecit misericordiam ei, qui inciderat in latrones, et proximus eius apparuit non tam sermone quam opere. Quia ergo possible est iuxta illud, quod dicitur: Imitatores mei estote, sicut et ego Christi, imitari nos Christum et misereri eorum, qui inciderant in latrones, accedere ad eos, ligare vulnera, infundere oleum et vinum, imponere super proprium iumentum et ferre onera ipsorum, propterea ad talia nos cohortans Filius Dei non tam doctori legis quam nobis quoque omnibus loquitur: Vade, et tu fac similiter; quae si similiter fecerimus, vitam consequemur aeternam in Christo Iesu: cui est gloria et imperium in saecula saeculorum. Amen” (Hom. Luc. 34.9, in Crouzel, Fournier, and Périchon, Homélies, pp. 408, 410, emphasis original). 26. Nolland, Luke 9:21–18:34, p. 590. 27. Ambrose also knows this interpretation: “Indeed ‘guard’ is signified by the name Samaritan. The interpretation has this. Who is the Guard, if not He of Whom it is written, ‘The Lord preserveth the infants’ [Psalm 114:6]?” (Exp. Luc. 7.74, in St. Ambrose of Milan: Exposition of the Holy Gospel According to Saint Luke with Fragments on the Prophecy of Esaias, trans. Theodosia Tomkinson [Etna, CA: Center for Traditionalist Orthodox Studies, 2nd ed., 1998], p. 268, emphasis original). This solution is made all the more attractive by the fact that Shomrim (“keepers” of the Torah) was the Samaritans’ self-designation; see

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The etymological solution of Origen preserves the christological interpretation of the Good Samaritan, while at the same time softening its scandal. It is precisely in the use of the figure of the Samaritan as representative of Christ that the parable maintains its “edginess.” Whatever the historical reality of the Samaritans,28 Luke, in his gospel, clearly understands them as “outsiders.” In the story of the ten lepers (17:11–19), when only one, a Samaritan (v. 16) returns to thank Jesus for his healing, Jesus asks, “Was no one found to return and praise God except this foreigner (ὁ ἀλλογενὴς οὗτος)?” (v. 18). Although this term is a hapax in the New Testament, it has a rich background in the Greek Old Testament, where it consistently refers to those who are “foreigners,” “pagans,” or “non-Jewish outsiders,” often in negative contexts (see, e.g., Lev 22:10, 12, 13, 25; 1 Esd 9:7, 9, 12, 17, 18, 36; 1 Macc 3:36, 45; 10:12). Thus, for the Lukan Jesus to depict himself as a “compassionate Samaritan” has profound implications. In the immediate context of Luke 9–10, it is to identify with the group upon whom James and John had just offered to call down consuming fire from heaven (9:51–6), an act certainly understandable to those familiar with Jewish/Samaritan hostilities (cf. Jn 4:9; Josephus, Ant. 11:340–41). Such scandalous identification is not unknown to Luke’s Jesus; rather, it fits in with the generally acknowledged pattern of reversal in Luke’s Gospel, where the world is turned topsy-turvy. Luke’s world is one where the rich and mighty will be brought down, the lowly raised (Lk 1:51–2), where the kingdom disciples are called to love enemies, do good to those who hate them, and bless those who curse (6:27–8). In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus himself defies convention. Jesus is the Messiah who must suffer (24:46), an affront to traditional messianic expectation. He is a friend of tax collectors and sinners (7:34). Jesus even uses female imagery in reference to the activity of God and his own role as God’s agent, an affront to the patriarchal culture in which he lived.29 In the parable of the lost coin, the Robert T. Anderson and Terry Giles, The Keepers: An Introduction to the History and Culture of the Samaritans (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers, 2002), p. 13. 28.  The literature on the Samaritans is voluminous. For bibliography and a balanced explanation of the social and historical context of the Samaritans, ancient and modern, see Anderson and Giles, The Keepers, cited above. 29. This theological, or, more properly, christological interpretation is found in the writings of Cyril of Alexandria: “We then who had fallen, and, so to speak, been lost, have been found by Christ, and transformed by holiness and righteousness into His image . . . For we were found, as I said, by the wisdom of God the Father, Which is the Son” (Comm. Luc. 106, in R. Payne Smith, trans., Cyril of Alexandria: A Commentary upon the Gospel According to Saint Luke [2 vols.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1859], p. 499). The dominant view of the exegetical tradition eventually came to be that represented by Ambrose, where the woman represented the church: “Who are these three, the father, the shepherd, the woman? Who if not God the Father, Christ, and the Church? . . . the Church seeks . . . the Church searches out like a mother” (Exp. Luc. 7.207–8, in Tomkinson, Exposition, pp. 315–16). On the history of interpretation of this passage, see François Bovon, Das Evangelium nach Lukas. III. Lk 15,1–19,27 (Düsseldorf: Benziger Verlag, 2001), pp. 33–7.

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image of a woman searching for her lost drachma is sandwiched between the parables of the lost sheep and loving father. Thus, two traditional images for God, “God is like the loving father” and “God is like a good shepherd” (also used of God’s agent, Jesus, see John 10) is juxtaposed with this radical image, “God is like a housewife”!30 Furthermore, the radical claims of the parable of the Good Samaritan are not avoided when one excludes Jesus as the referent of the parable, since Jesus calls the lawyer to “act like a Samaritan.” Why should Jesus, a Jew, expect something of a Jewish lawyer that he himself is not prepared to expect of himself? It is in the very offense of the image of the Samaritan as a Christ figure that the parable has its evocative power in its fullest sense. Thus, we conclude that the exegetical tradition that has understood the Good Samaritan as Christ logically presents a more compelling reading in light of the text of Luke itself than the modern critical consensus.

Conclusion According to Malbon’s categories, the Good Samaritan functions in Luke’s Gospel as an example of reflected christology, that is, “what some characters other than Jesus . . . do that reflects what . . . Jesus says and does.”31 In Mark’s Gospel, Malbon finds that the “exemplary characters” are the “minor characters” who, despite being “fallible followers,” “are generally exemplars of suffering and service as paradoxical aspects of the messiahship of Jesus and the rule of God.”32 These characters serve to entice the implied audience to identify with these exemplars “in the surprising difficulty of the task of following—and thus reflecting—one who chooses to serve rather than be served.”33 In Luke, the Good Samaritan, likewise, serves as an example of reflected christology, an example to be followed not only by the lawyer in Luke’s narrative, but also by the audience of the Third Gospel: “Go and do likewise!” 30. Nolland interprets the parable of the lost coin theologically (“God is no more content than is the woman with what remains to him when some of his People are lost from him in their sin” [Luke 9:21–18:34, p. 776]), but he does not comment on the radical nature of this female imagery sandwiched between two more traditional images for God. Most commentators fail to comment on the shock value of this imagery. One exception is Barbara E. Reid, Choosing the Better Part: Women in the Gospel of Luke (Collegeville, MN:  Michael Glazier Press, 1996), pp. 179–89. 31. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 219. 32.  Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p.  222. These minor characters include two men healed of blindness (Mk 8:26; 10:46–52), two giving women (12:41–4; 14:3–9), and two “exceptional Jewish authorities” (an unnamed scribe, 12:28–34; and Joseph, 15:42–6). 33. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 230.

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Bibliography Anderson, Robert T., and Terry Giles. The Keepers: An Introduction to the History and Culture of the Samaritans (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2002). Bartholomew, Craig G., Joel B. Green, and Anthony C. Thiselton, eds. Reading Luke: Interpretation, Reflection, Formation, Scripture and Hermeneutics Series, 6 (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2005). Binder, Hermann. “Das Gleichnis von barmherzigen Samariter,” TZ 15 (1959), pp. 176–94. Boring, Eugene. “The Christology of Mark: Hermeneutical Issues for Systematic Theology,” in Jewett, ed., Christology and Exegesis, pp. 125–53. Bovon, François. Das Evangelium nach Lukas. II. Lk 9,51–14,35 (Düsseldorf: Benziger Verlag, 1996). Bovon, François. Das Evangelium nach Lukas. III. Lk 15,1–19,27 (Düsseldorf: Benziger Verlag, 2001). Broadhead, Edwin K. Teaching with Authority: Miracles and Christology in the Gospel of Mark (JSNTSup, 97; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1992). Crossan, John Dominic, ed. The Good Samaritan (Semeia, 2; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1974). Crouzel, Henri, Francois Fournier, and Pierre Perichon, eds. and trans. Origène: Homélies sur S. Luc (SC, 87; Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1962). Daniélou, Jean. “Le bon Samaritain,” in Mélanges bibliques: Rédigés en l”Honneur de Andre Robert (Paris: Bloud et Gay, 1957), pp. 457–65. Dodd, C. H. The Parables of the Kingdom (London: Nisbet & Co., 3rd ed., 1941). Egelkraut, Helmuth L. Jesus’ Mission to Jerusalem: A Redaction Critical Study of the Travel Narrative in the Gospel of Luke, 9:51–19:48 (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1976). Evans, Craig A. Luke (NIBC, 3; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1990). Fitzmyer, Joseph A. The Gospel According to Luke X–XXIV (AB, 28A; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1985). Funk, Robert W. “The Good Samaritan as Metaphor,” in Crossan, ed., The Good Samaritan, pp. 74–81. Gollwitzer, Helmut. Das Gleichnis vom Barmherzigen Samariter (BS, 34; NeukirchenVluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1962). Green, Joel B. The Gospel of Luke (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Wm. B. Eerdmans, 1990). Jewett, Robert, ed. Christology and Exegesis: New Approaches (Semeia, 30; Decatur, GA: Scholars Press, 1984). Kruschwitz, Robert B., ed. Parables, Christian Reflection: A Series in Faith and Ethics, 21 (Waco, TX: Center for Christian Ethics at Baylor University, 2006). Lienhard, Joseph T., trans. Origen: Homilies on Luke (FC, 94; Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1996). Malbon, Elizabeth Struthers. Mark’s Jesus: Characterization as Narrative Christology (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2009). Menken, M. J. J. “The Position of splagxni/zesqai and spla/gxna in the Gospel of Luke,” NovT 30 (1988), pp. 107–14. Nolland, John. Luke 9:21–18:34 (WBC, 35B; Dallas: Word, 1993). Nolland, John. “The Role of Money and Possessions in the Parable of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11–32): A Test Case,” in Bartholomew, Green, and Fitzmyer, eds., Reading Luke, pp. 178–209.

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Parsons, Mikeal C. “Hearing a Parable with the Early Church,” in Kruschwitz, ed., Parables, pp. 19–26. Petersen, Norman R., ed. Perspectives on Mark’s Gospel (Semeia, 16; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1979). Reid, Barbara E. Choosing the Better Part: Women in the Gospel of Luke (Collegeville, MN: Michael Glazier Press, 1996). Smith, R. Payne, trans. Cyril of Alexandria: A Commentary upon the Gospel According to Saint Luke (2 vols.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1859). Tannehill, Robert. “The Gospel of Mark as Narrative Christology,” in Petersen, ed., Perspectives on Mark’s Gospel, pp. 161–87. Teske, Roland J. “The Good Samaritan (Lk 10:29–37) in Augustine’s Exegesis,” in Van Fleteren and Schnaubelt, eds., Augustine: Biblical Exegete, pp. 347–67. Tolbert, Mary Ann. Sowing the Word: Mark’s World in Literary-Historical Perspective (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1996). Tomkinson, Theodosia, trans. St. Ambrose of Milan: Exposition of the Holy Gospel According to Saint Luke with Fragments on the Prophecy of Esaias (Etna, CA: Center for Traditionalist Orthodox Studies, 2nd ed., 1998). Van Fleteren, Frederick, and Joseph C. Schnaubelt, eds. Augustine: Biblical Exegete (New York: Peter Lang, 2001). Wailes, Stephen. Medieval Allegories of Jesus’ Parables (Berkeley : University of California Press, 1987).

Chapter 10 D I S - G U I SI N G J E SU S St(r)aying in Character in John’s Apocalypse David L. Barr

ἀρχὴ μὲν οὖν καὶ οἷον ψυχὴ ὁ μῦθος τῆς τραγῳδίας, δεύτερον δὲ τὰ ἤθη Thus, the chief property of tragedy, its soul, so to speak, is plot; in second place is character. Aristotle, Poetics, 1450a1 Few of our colleagues in biblical studies understand the process of narrative characterization any better than Elizabeth Struthers Malbon. She has explored both the theories of narrative characterization2 and the actual characterization3 of various figures in Mark’s gospel: the disciples,4 the women,5 Jewish leaders,6 the crowds, and others. This careful and diligent work culminates in an extensive and insightful exploration of the characterization of Jesus—Mark’s Jesus.7 It is this work that 1. This translation provided by David Barr. 2.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon and Adela Berlin, eds., Characterization in Biblical Literature, vol. 63 of Semeia. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1993. 3.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, In the Company of Jesus:  Characters in Mark’s Gospel (Louisville, KT: Westminster John Knox Press, 2000). 4.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “Disciples/Crowds/Whoever:  Markan Characters and Readers,” Novum Testamentum 28(2) (1986), pp. 104–30. 5.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “Fallible Followers: Women and Men in the Gospel of Mark,” Semeia 28 (1983), pp. 29–48. 6.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “The Jewish Leaders in the Gospel of Mark: A Literary Study of Characterization,” Journal of Biblical Literature 108 (1989), pp. 259–81. 7.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, Mark’s Jesus: Characterization as Narrative Christology (Waco, TX:  Baylor University Press, 2009). See also Elizabeth Struthers Malbon and Sharyn Dowd, “The Significance of Jesus’ Death in Mark: Narrative Context and Authorial Audience,” in The Trial and Death of Jesus:  Essays on the Passion Narrative in Mark, ed. Geert van Oyen and Tom Shepherd (Leuven: Peeters, 2006), pp. 1–32.

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has stimulated my attempt at a more systematic understanding of the Jesus of John’s Apocalypse and my effort to understand him as a character in John’s story, putting aside questions of history and theology. No sensible person would ever confuse John’s portrayal of Jesus with the historical Jesus,8 but many—indeed most—interpreters move directly from John’s images of Jesus to a proposed theological understanding of Jesus.9 It may be possible to translate narratives into other modalities of thought, but that is a work that interests me very little. If we understand theology as an attempt to express the meaning of religion in systematic, propositional language, John had no theology. Such rational reflection is a product of later centuries. Malbon consciously works in that space between the historical and the theological. She follows the lead of several other scholars and employs a mediating category:  narrative christology.10 While that offers some improvement, I  find it too static a category for what actually happens in a narrative. King Lear is not captured in abstract categories like Indulgent Father or Foolish King (or even as Tooearly Retiree). He is King Lear. And whatever else we say about him, he must be encountered in the imagination. At some level the attempt to state John’s theology is just another version of the debate about the meaning of a work of art. To me it seems clear that the meaning of a story is found in the story itself—in the reading or hearing of the story—not in some abstract statement that can be extracted and substituted for the story.11 Were that not true, we could dispense with a story once we have found its meaning (but perhaps that is what some theologians would prefer). At best “narrative christology” is an oxymoron, rather like poetic contract.

8.  M. Eugene Boring notes that John only mentions four things connected with the historical Jesus:  his birth, disciples, death as a martyr, and resurrection. See “Narrative Christology in the Apocalypse,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 54 (1992), pp. 702–23, 715. But even these are cast in dramatically unhistorical modes. His birth is cast as a cosmic event (12:1–6), his disciples (apostles) are the foundation stones of the new Jerusalem (21:14); only his death is recognizable: he was crucified (11:8). 9.  Among many fine works, see Richard J. Bauckham, The Theology of the Book of Revelation (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 1993); Larry W. Hurtado, One God, One Lord: Early Christian Devotion and Ancient Jewish Monotheism, 2nd ed. (London: T&T Clark, 1998); and the always cautious work of James D. G. Dunn, Did the First Christians Worship Jesus? The New Testament Evidence (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), especially pp. 130–46. 10.  Reluctantly:  “First, the term is anachronistic when applied to a first century text; christology as an explicit category of thought is a development of later centuries of Christian tradition. Second, christology is usually discussed in propositional language—even when such language is paradoxical” (Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, pp. 3–4). 11.  Boring defends the concept in his excellent article “Narrative Christology in the Apocalypse,” arguing that christology is inherently a narrative category (pp. 702–3). Perhaps so, but the opposite is not true; narrative should not too soon be translated to christology, as Boring himself has eloquently argued (Revelation [Atlanta: John Knox, 1989], pp. 51–9).

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Still, if the Apocalypse really is “the revelation of Jesus Christ” (1:1), one ought to be able to say who that is, what he looks like “unveiled” (Ἀποκάλυψις). There must be some sense to the various guises (or disguises) in which he appears. In point of fact, the character named Jesus does nothing in the story until the very last scene when he suddenly speaks: “It is I, Jesus. . .”12 All of the action of the story is carried by characters the reader understands—without being told—to be somehow Jesus in another guise. Rather than tell us about Jesus, John shows us Jesus in starkly contrasting images, even contradictory images, such as the Lion-Lamb in the heavenly throne room (5:1–7).13 But that is to get way ahead of ourselves. We must first ask how one might discern characterization in a story and then consider John’s actual narrative.

Character Building When we meet someone new we begin the process of understanding who they are and what they are like. We form our judgments based on what others tell us about them, on what we see them do or say, on what others around them do and say (“the friends they keep”), how they dress, where we see them, and eventually we manage to fit all these things together. It is not far different for characters we meet in stories.14 Our first and probably most influential basis for assessment of a character is what the storyteller/narrator tells us about the character. This is tempered somewhat by what other characters in the story tell us (including how they act in relation to the character). These characters too are the creation of the author, and the degree to which there is discrepancy between their reports and that of the narrator, the reader is compelled to resolve the tension. Perhaps they (or the narrator) are unreliable or perhaps the character is more complex or perhaps the story is more complex. Ultimately readers must make their own determination, and inevitably what others say is trumped by what the character actually says (or does not say) and does (or does not do).15 12. See Revelation 22:16. The name Jesus occurs only fourteen times in John’s apocalyptic narrative, eight of which are in the opening and closing scenes. The rest occur in some stylized expression such as “the testimony of Jesus” (12:17, 19:10 twice, 20:14), “the faith of Jesus” (14:12), or “the witnesses to Jesus” (17:6). 13. “He deals in symbols rather than explanations”: Richard J. Bauckham, The Climax of Prophecy: Studies on the Book of Revelation (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1993), p. 184. 14. Percy Lubbock, The Craft of Fiction (New York: Scribner, 1955), p. 7. 15.  Malbon carefully examines these aspects of characterization in exquisite detail appropriate for her study of Mark (Mark’s Jesus), labeling them: enacted (what Jesus does), projected (what others say of him), deflected (how Jesus response to what others say), and refracted (the new perspective resulting from the interaction of the other three). Her observation of the tension between the various characters and the narrator uncovers a whole new dynamic in the Markan narrative.

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Characters are defined by their traits,16 understood as the relatively stable and abiding personal qualities they exhibit. A trait is not simply everything we know about an actor and should not be confused with passing thoughts or moods. Chatman calls them “narrative adjectives” (and he calls plot the narrative verb).17 Characters are defined by their traits but they are constructed by the audience in accord with the culturally available types. As the fool tells King Lear, you are old before your time. You should not be old until you are wise (I.5.40–44). Unlike actions, which occur sequentially in a story, character traits can be read forward and backward in the narrative and persist over the whole sequence of actions. Thus, Aristotle argued that the tragic character should be good, appropriate, realistic, and consistent.18 This means the characters must make good choices, act in accord with their status, be like people we know, and persist throughout the course of the story. And if the character is inconsistent, he or she should be consistently inconsistent. Finally, there is the useful, if much criticized,19 distinction between flat and round characters.20 Flat characters are those with few character traits, whose actions are straightforward and predictable. In contrast characters with many, sometimes conflicting, traits are unpredictable and thus interesting. If we think of these as poles on a continuum of characterization from the stock character to the highly developed psychological human being, we have at least a useful tool. In what follows I will argue that the Jesus of John’s apocalypse is a highly complex, but hardly conflicted, character. The various (dis)guises used to present him are inconsistent with one another and must not be taken in isolation. This inconsistency is consistent, resulting in a rounded character who is not entirely predictable. The Narrative John’s story seems to be the middle panel of a triptych: there is a story before this one and there will be one after.21 Consider, for example, the exclamation at the beginning of the story, “Look! He is coming with the clouds; every eye will see him, even those who pierced him” (Rev 1:7). Notice the tenses: pierced (past), will see him (future), and is coming (present). The story presupposes some version of

16.  See the careful discussion in Seymour Chatman, Story and Discourse:  Narrative Structure in Fiction and Film (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1978), pp. 107–45. 17. Chatman, Story and Discourse, p. 25. 18. Poetics XV (1454). 19. Malbon and Berlin, Characterization, p. 97. 20. E. M. Forster, Aspects of the Novel (New York: Penguin Books, 1962). 21.  See David L. Barr, “Waiting for the End That Never Comes: The Narrative Logic of Johns Story,” in Studies in the Book of Revelation, ed. Steve Moyise (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2001), pp. 101–12.

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the Jesus story shared by John and his audience; the only important part of that story concerns Jesus’ death and exaltation,22 and there will be a subsequent story of a new heaven and a new earth. But the middle panel itself is not a simple, one-dimensional story23: the events transpire on various levels. There is the down-to-earth level of John on Patmos where John speaks in his own voice (Rev 1:8 and 22:8). Then there is the out-ofbody experience of John, who sees himself in the vision interacting with other characters (Rev 1:17). Then there is the heavenly traveler John whom John in his vision sees ascend into heaven (Rev 4:1). Or consider the voices John uses to address the audience: the letter writer, the visionary, and the character within the vision. Were we to try to visualize this in the manner of a medieval illustration we might imagine a picture of John at his desk writing his letter, gazing into the distance where he sees himself lying on the ground on Patmos having a vision, in that vision he sees himself interacting with other figures and visiting the heavenly throne room. These are, and are not, the same character. We might presume that what one John knows, the other John also knows, but the letter writing John knows the whole story, while the John character within this vision clearly does not (5:3–5). And near the end of the story both John the character within the vision and John the one having the vision attempt to bow down before an angel and each is reprimanded (19:10, 22:8). All of which should caution us not to rely too heavily on any one aspect of the story even if that be the word of the narrator. Our narrator apparently does not entirely grasp the meaning of his own story. The Characters There is literally a cast of thousands in the story, and any thorough examination of the characterization of Jesus would have to take account of many of them. This is not such an examination. Rather, I want to focus on one technique that John uses to characterize those in his story: presenting them in multiple disguises. For example, we are told that after the primeval battle in heaven “The great dragon was thrown down, that ancient serpent, who is called the Devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world” (Rev 12:9). Not content with these multiple aliases, John proceeds to characterize this beast as both Leviathan and Behemoth (Rev 13). These, then, are not so much three characters as one character in three (dis)guises. Jesus too travels in disguise.

22.  Boring calls this the macronarrative level of the story; see “Narrative Christology,” p. 704. 23.  For two rather different attempts to examine this story, see James L. Resseguie, Revelation Unsealed a Narrative Critical Approach to John’s Apocalypse (Leiden: Brill, 1998), and David L. Barr, Tales of the End: A Narrative Commentary on the Book of Revelation, 2nd ed. (Salem, OR: Polebridge Press, 2012).

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John’s Jesus In our initial introduction to the character Jesus (Rev 1:1–2), we learn two things about him. First, he stands in a peculiar place in the great chain of being. The usual order would be God–Angels–humans (male-female)–animals. In our story God gave a revelation to Jesus, who gave it to angels, who gave it to John, who gave it to the audience: God–Jesus–Angels–John–the audience. Second, we learn that the community to which it is addressed is defined by two things—the word of God and the testimony of Jesus—though we cannot be quite sure what those terms mean. This external narrator is immediately replaced by a character narrator: John. John characterizes Jesus with three attributes:  the faithful witness, the firstborn of the dead, and the ruler of the kings of the earth (1:4). This witness/testimony clearly involved his death (“by his blood” in 1:5) and thus refers to an action before the plot of this story, the time of the man Jesus (“the past”). The firstborn of the dead refers to the vindication of Jesus by his resurrection/exaltation (“the present”). The ruler refers to the present status of Jesus in heaven and its imminent fulfillment on earth (“the future”). As we have already seen, the past story of Jesus, at least the story of his death, is assumed in this introduction,24 As such it lies outside the plot of the story told here. On the other hand, John is very fluid in his use of tenses and the blurring of past, present, and future times.25 And the characterization of Jesus from the story before our story, his death (faithful witness) and postmortem existence in the new order (firstborn), are the essence of his character, assumed in everything told here. For some reason, the character named Jesus drops out of the story at this point (1:9), not to be mentioned again until 12:7 and not characterized in any new fashion until 22:16, where he unexpectedly speaks and takes responsibility for this revelation. Instead, we are presented with other characters, each corresponding to a segment of the plot.26 These characters are radically different from each other, and each of them is in some way recognized by the reader as representing Jesus (re-presenting) in different disguises. They are a majestic human (One like a Son of Humanity who dictates letters to the seven churches), A Lamb, Slaughtered yet Standing (who opens a scroll given him by God in his throne room), A Rider on a White Horse (who leads a heavenly Army). A Majestic Human27 In addition to his very loud voice (Rev 1:10), the Majestic Human figure is characterized both by descriptions of his person and clothing and by his actions. His 24.  John exhibits no interest in the teachings, the healings, or the exorcisms connected with the story of Jesus. His sole interest is in his death and vindication. 25. Barr, Tales, pp. 170–76. 26. See Barr, Tales, pp. 17–32. 27. The text reads ὅμοιον υἱὸν ἀνθρώπου (literally, one like a son of humanity, which is usually translated into English as Son of Man). But the idiom is so foreign to English that

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dress resembles that of one of the ruling class (or perhaps a priest, Isa 6:1, or an angel, Rev 15:6), while his person resembles that of a classical statue, perhaps of a deity.28 In addition, he bears the icon of authority, a sword—albeit in his mouth. His actions include offering John comfort, holding seven stars in his right hand, and commanding John to write to the seven churches among whom he is said to walk. At the beginning of each letter he ratifies certain of the descriptors attributed to him by the narrator, adding a few new ones: he is son of God (2:18), he has the seven spirits of God (3:1), and he is the beginning (ἀρχὴ) of God’s creation (3:14).29 None of this would directly connect to Jesus, but when he addresses John he asserts his prior death and present life (1:18), confirming that connection. This majestic figure is (or was) a human being (who else could die?); yet clearly he has exceeded the identity of an ordinary human and is at least godlike.30 This impression is confirmed when we hear this character adds new descriptive traits beyond those of the narrator: he claims to possess the seven spirits of God (Rev 3:1—as does the Lamb in 5:6) and to be the “son of God” (2:18—only here). As the majestic human addresses each of the seven churches he claims to know intimately about them, judges them, and promises to act either to reward or punish them. These actions include some extraordinary abilities: to give them permission to eat of the tree of life (2:7), to give them a crown of life (2:10), to give them authority over the nations (2:26), and to give them a place on his own heavenly throne (3:21), among several others. These are clearly extraordinary claims; how does this human come to have these powers? He does not leave us guessing. In each case he is passing on a gift he has received from God: “to the one who conquers I will give a place with me on my throne, just as I myself conquered and sat down with my father on his throne” (3:2—enacted at 20:4; see also 2:28).31 In this way Jesus is just like the audience, only he has already achieved his victory and they have yet to do so. While native to the letter writing scene, the majestic human appears in the last segment of John’s story as well. He is hardly recognizable, for he appears as an agent of judgment, armed with a sickle not a sword, and he is instructed by an angel to reap the earth (Rev 14:14–16). Only the name persists, none of the

I will here avoid the term. For discussion see John J. Collins, “The Son of Man in FirstCentury Judaism,” New Testament Studies 38:3 (1992), pp. 448–66. 28.  I am ignoring the question of where John derived these elements and considering only how they might have been heard by John’s audience. The essential difference between humans and the gods was said to be their immortality, a trait the Son of Humanity claims (1:18). Justin Martyr cites analogies between Jesus and Greek stories of various dying and risen gods (1 Apol 21), and we should note Pliny’s claim that Christians sang hymns to Christ as to a god (Letters 10:96). 29. He omits only having white hair and having the keys of death. 30.  He is also “the first and the last” (1:17), a description strikingly close to the divine assertion “I am the Alpha and the Omega, says the Lord God” (1:8; see also 22:13). 31. Compare “As the Father has sent me, so I send you” (Jn 20:21).

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attributes is shared between the two figures. He seems to have wandered into the wrong story. He is not the only wanderer. And yet, some of the traits of the majestic human connect him to another figure: the Rider on the White Horse (19:11). The Rider This character appears only briefly and is ascribed only a few traits. Chief among them, he judges and makes war—and war has been underway since chapter 12. He shares two traits with the human figure of the introductory vision: eyes like a flame of fire and a sharp sword coming from his mouth. He also wears a robe, but this one is dipped in blood. And he has a new name, the King of Kings, For—like the human figure—he will rule the nations with a rod of iron. It is perhaps not too much of a stretch to see this figure as the warrior aspect of the human figure (who threatens war; see 2:16). What is surprising about this character is that, aside from his introduction where he is said to be attacked by the beast (19:20), he does not appear in any of the appropriate scenes. He does not lead the Army (14:1), he does not share God’s throne (22:1), and he does not marry the bride at the end of the story (19:7). Instead it is the Lamb. The Lamb—Slaughtered Yet Standing Much has been written about the Lamb, for it is universally recognized as the dominant characterization of John’s story.32 I limit my comments to consideration of the characterization involved in producing this image and its relation to the others considered above. The Lamb is introduced in the most dramatic fashion possible when, in the midst of the heavenly throne scene, there is a call for one worthy to open the sealed scroll. It is announced that the lion of the tribe of Judah has conquered and can open it, but what appears instead is the slaughtered standing Lamb, who has

32.  See especially Loren L. Johns, The Lamb Christology of the Apocalypse of John an Investigation into Its Origins and Rhetorical Force (Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2003); Sophie Laws, In the Light of the Lamb:  Imagery, Parody, and Theology in the Apocalypse of John (Wilmington, DE: Michael Glazier, 1989); and Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, “The Followers of the Lamb:  Visionary Rhetoric and Socio-Political Situation,” Semeia 36 (1986), pp. 123–46. Also see 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:  SBL, 2006), pp. 205–20; Richard J. Bauckham, “The Lion, the Lamb, and the Dragon,” in The Climax of Prophecy: Studies on the Book of Revelation (Edinburgh:  T&T Clark, 1993); Donald Guthrie, “The Lamb in the Structure of the Book of Revelation,” Vox Evangelica 12 (1981), pp. 64–71; and Steve Moyise, “Does the Lion Lie Down with the Lamb?” in Studies in the Book of Revelation, ed. Steve Moyise (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2001), pp. 181–94.

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seven horns and seven eyes. No other traits are ascribed to the Lamb beyond his macabre image and the declaration of his conquest, and while that conquest will be displayed in many actions, the Lamb never speaks. His sole action in this scene of heavenly worship is to do the job for which he was summoned: to unfasten the seals of the seven sealed scroll. While there is no agreement on the significance of the transformation of this image, all agree that its meaning rests in the dialectic between what John hears (the Lion of the tribe of Judah) and what he sees (the slaughtered Lamb). Further the Lion is more in keeping with what we have learned about the Son of Humanity. Just as all the majesty of the Lion was undone by this image of the Lamb, all the power, prestige, and status associated with the Son of Humanity is undermined as well. We are cautioned not to understand too quickly, not to assume that any one thing said about these characters can be taken in isolation.33 With the last scroll-seal opened, and the last trumpet blown, the scene of heavenly worship comes to its close with the acclamation that the kingdoms of the world have become the kingdom of God and of his Messiah (11:15). The scene now shifts to the Dragon and his preparations for war (12:17; see also 11:7). Clearly a new characterization of Jesus is necessary for this new action: a conqueror, one riding a white horse as did Roman generals, and we find such a character (discussed above). We would expect him to gather an army, lead them into battle, defeat the enemy, join in victory celebration. But things go amiss; it is the Lamb who gathers an army (14:1), joins the battle (17:14), gains victory (17:14), and marries the bride (19:7–9). And it is the Lamb who shares God’s throne (22:1–2). Now some care must be taken here, for the adoration of the Lamb and his place on God’s throne is sometimes taken to be clear evidence that John’s Jesus is a divine character.34 I think not. First John is going to extraordinary lengths to show why the Lamb shares the throne—namely, because of his conquest of evil by his faithfulness unto death. Further, he promises his followers a similar reward (3:21, dramatized in 20:1–4). Second, John is always careful to note that it is God’s throne that the Lamb shares (e.g., Rev 5:13, 6:16, 7:10–17). The relationship between God and the Lamb is nicely captured in John’s imagery regarding the illumination of the new Jerusalem: there is no need for sun or moon “for the glory of God is its

33. “Proof-imaging” is no more persuasive than proof-texting. 34. See Daniel Boyarin, “The Gospel of the Memra: Jewish Binitarianism and the Prologue to John,” Harvard Theological Review 94(3) (2001), pp. 243–84; and Larry W. Hurtado, “The Binitarian Shape of Early Christian Worship,” in The Jewish Roots of Christological Monotheism: Papers from the St. Andrews Conference on Historical Origins of the Worship of Jesus, ed. Carey C. Newman, James R. Davila, and Gladys S. Lewis (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1999), pp. 187–213. For the complexity of the enthronement motif, see Timo Eskola, Messiah and the Throne:  Jewish Merkabah Mysticism and Early Christian Exaltation Discourse (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen Zum Neuen Testament. 2. Reihe 142; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001). On Revelation, see pp. 211–16.

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light and the lamp is the Lamb” (21:23). The Lamb is not the light nor is it a kind of “co-light” (binitarian). It is the means by which the light is revealed.35

Conclusions John promises to reveal Jesus, but this revelation is achieved by hiding him behind other figures. It is not that we should look behind the figures and immediately identify them with Jesus; John is careful not to do that. Instead we must see the disguises themselves as the revelation. No one disguise, no one image, no one action can be taken to be simply true of Jesus; all three must be taken together. If we had only the magnificent human being, we might mistake Jesus for a divinity of some sort. If we had only the slain Lamb, we might mistake Jesus for a masochist who revels in his sufferings. If we had only the rider on the white horse, we might mistake Jesus for a ruthless warlord who dominates his enemies through the strength of arms. Rather, the transcendent one who shares God’s throne only does so because of his victory, a victory that entailed his suffering and death. Each of these disguises presents a fairly flat characterization, but together they present a rounded picture of Jesus—one whose actions are not easy to predict or understand. This complex characterization is achieved through two techniques. First, the author uses images that are plainly contradictory, or at least paradoxical. Jesus is the Lion-Lamb, the Divine Martyr, the slaughtered one worthy to unseal the scroll, the Holy Warrior displaced by the Lamb. Second, the author lets the Lamb wander. These characters not only stay in character, they stray as characters. A dead lamb leads a heavenly army to victory. The majestic human joins the final battle seated on a cloud taking orders from an angel. John’s story does not resolve these contradictions; nor should we.36 By overlaying and eliding these various configurations of Jesus’ traits, John manages to produce a complex image that is not easily grasped nor is it easily articulated. Like all literary characters, the narrative Jesus of John’s Apocalypse can only be apprehended through the imagination of the reader. By portraying Jesus in a series of conflicting and unstable characterizations, John’s narrative reveals a Jesus who is neither the historical Jesus of the past nor the theological Jesus of later traditions. To grasp this character, we must read the story.

35. This is in some tension with the poetic introduction to John’s Gospel where Jesus is apparently seen as the true light coming into the world (1:9). See Dunn’s conclusion that “he brought the divine presence into human experience more fully than ever been the case before” in First Christians, p. 150. 36.  As Malbon concludes, “Thus the tension between the narrator and Jesus is not a problem to be resolved, not a gap to be filled in, but a narrative Christological confession offered by the implied author to the implied audience as a challenge and a mystery” (Mark’s Jesus, p. 258).

Part IV N ARRATIVE R EADINGS

Chapter 11 R EV I SI T I N G M A R K ’ S P O O R W I D OW ( M K 1 2 : 4 1 – 4 ) The Case for Narrative Tension1 Ira Brent Driggers

Mark 12:41–4 tells the story of a poor widow who gives her last monetary resources to the temple treasury. Until 1985 there was widespread agreement about the basic meaning of the story:  the widow exhibits commendable behavior and, by most interpretive accounts, offers a model of self-giving for the hearer-disciple to follow. However, in 1985 Addison Wright published a thought-provoking essay in which he argued that the story of the poor widow was actually a story of exploitation and victimization and thus a cause for lament, not praise.2 Six years later, Elizabeth Struthers Malbon published a counterargument to Wright,3 but by that time the new interpretive trajectory had gained momentum. The traditional reading still enjoys a majority,4 but the insights of Wright continue to influence the scholarly 1.  It is an honor to contribute to this Festschrift and to do so by directly engaging the work of Dr Malbon, who has been a model for me both as a scholar and a colleague. 2. Addison Wright, “The Widow’s Mites: Praise or Lament? A Matter of Context,” CBQ 44(2) (1982), pp. 256–65. 3. Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “The Poor Widow in Mark and Her Poor Rich Readers,” CBQ 53(4) (1991), pp. 589–604. 4.  For example, in order of publication, Joel Williams, Other Followers of Jesus: Minor Characters as Major Figures in Mark’s Gospel (Sheffield:  Sheffield Academic, 1994), pp. 176–8; John Painter, Mark’s Gospel:  Worlds in Conflict (London:  Routledge, 1997), p.  169; Bas van Iersel, Mark:  A Reader-Response Commentary, trans. W. H. Bisscheroux (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1998), pp. 385–6; Sharyn E. Dowd, Reading Mark: A Literary and Theological Commentary on the Second Gospel (Macon, Georgia:  Smyth and Helwys, 2000), p.  134; Ben Witherington, The Gospel of Mark:  A Socio-Rhetorical Commentary (Grand Rapids:  Eerdmans, 2001), pp. 335–6; R. T. France, Mark:  A Commentary on the Greek Text (Grand Rapids:  Eerdmans Publishing, 2002), p.  493; Francis J. Moloney, The Gospel of Mark: A Commentary (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2002), pp. 247–8; Mary Healy, The Gospel of Mark (Grand Rapids:  Baker Academic, 2008), p.  254; Robert Stein, Mark (Grand Rapids:  Baker Academic, 2008), p.  578; Lars Hartman, Mark for the Nations:  A

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guild.5 Notably, the prominent exegete Joseph Fitzmyer followed Wright’s lead when interpreting the Lukan version of the story (Lk 21:1–4).6 The purpose of this essay is to assess the debate between Wright and Malbon with an eye toward upholding a narrative tension. With few exceptions, scholars tend to pick one side of the debate. I  will argue, however, that there are merits to both sides. To summarize, Mark 12:41–4 creates a narrative tension in which Jesus’ own commendation of the widow’s offering cuts against the grain of the narrative’s dominant rhetoric, a rhetoric defined by Jesus’ agenda of human flourishing and his condemnation of the temple leadership. To borrow the words of Alan Culpepper—one of the few to uphold this tension—the figure of the widow is simultaneously “exemplary” and “tragic.”7

Text- and Reader-Oriented Commentary (Eugene, OR:  Pickwick, 2010), p.  512; William Placher, Mark (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox, 2010), pp. 182–3; Mark Strauss, Mark (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2014), pp. 559–61. 5.  For example, in order of publication, Hisako Kinukawa, Women and Jesus in Mark:  A Japanese Feminist Perspective (1994; repr., Eugene:  Wipf and Stock, 2003), pp. 66–77; Douglas Hare, Mark (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox, 1996); Mitzi Minor, The Spirituality of Mark:  Responding to God (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox, 1996), p.  87; Ched Myers, Binding the Strong Man:  A Political Reading of Mark’s Story of Jesus (Maryknoll, NY:  Orbis, 1997), pp. 321–2; Eugene LaVerdiere, The Beginning of the Gospel: Introducing the Gospel According to Mark, vol. 2 (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1999), pp. 193–4; Richard Horsley, Hearing the Whole Story: The Politics of Plot in Mark’s Gospel (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox, 2001), pp. 216–17; Craig Evans, Mark 8:27– 16:20 (Nashville:  Thomas Nelson, 2001), pp. 280–85; André Resner, Jr., “Reading the Text for Economic Justice: Mark 12:38–44 for Stewardship Season,” Living Pulpit 12(2) (2003), pp. 6–7. 6. Joseph Fitzmyer, The Gospel according to Luke X-XXIV (Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Co., 1985), p.  1321. See Turid Karlsen Seim, The Double Message: Patterns of Gender in Luke-Acts (Nashville: Abingdon, 1994), pp. 245–6. 7.  Alan Culpepper, Mark (Macon, Georgia; Smyth and Helwys, 2007), pp. 429–30. Culpepper does not offer an in-depth analysis of the tension but should be credited for refusing to resolve it (see also John R. Donahue and Daniel J. Harrington, The Gospel of Mark [Collegeville, MN:  Liturgical Press, 2002], p.  363; Bonnie Bowman Thurston, Preaching Mark [Minneapolis:  Fortress Press, 2002], pp. 140–43; Chloe Breyer, “The Widow’s Might,” Journal of Religion and Health 43(2) (2004), pp. 123–6; Darrell Bock, Mark [New  York:  Cambridge University Press, 2015], pp. 317–18). To my knowledge, Susan Miller, Women in Mark’s Gospel (New  York:  T&T Clark, 2004), pp. 112–27, is the only scholar who comes close to examining the tension rather than simply naming it. This essay follows Miller’s lead, giving further insights into how the tension arises in Mark and why careful exegesis will ultimately uphold it rather than resolve it. On theological tension in Mark, see Ira Brent Driggers, Following God through Mark: Narrative Tension in the Second Gospel (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox, 2007); Laura C. Sweat, The Theological Role of Paradox in the Gospel of Mark (New York: Bloomsbury, 2013).

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I begin with a synopsis of the passage. I then briefly summarize the essays of Wright and Malbon before turning to an assessment of their arguments. In support of Malbon, I affirm and further substantiate her interpretation of Mark 12:43– 4 as a statement of praise and commendation, rather than lament. Indeed, these verses evoke the sacrificial mission of Jesus and his disciples. In support of Wright, I affirm and further substantiate his argument that the widow is a victim of economic exploitation. This becomes especially clear by tracing the unfolding conflict between Jesus and the temple leadership in Mark 11–12 (something that Wright does not do). Significantly, Malbon does not deny the possibility of the widow’s victimization. She does, however, overlook the dissimilarities between that victimization, on the one hand, and the sacrificial mission of Jesus and his disciples on the other hand. When those dissimilarities are taken into account, the laudatory significance of the widow’s offering is lessened, and the tension between praise and victimization is magnified.

Summary of Mark 12:41–4 The scene opens with Jesus positioning himself opposite the temple’s “treasury” (γαζοφυλάκιον, 12:41), where he observes a large crowd of Passover pilgrims depositing monetary offerings. In the Second Temple literature the term γαζοφυλάκιον normally suggests the inner court storerooms from which Jesus and other nonpriests would have been barred access.8 Of course it is not beyond Mark9 to exaggerate the historical possibilities when it comes to the sacerdotal jurisdiction of Jesus, who only recently “would not allow anyone to carry anything through the temple” (11:6). However, that the crowd is able to deposit its own money into the treasury suggests that Mark has in mind not the temple storeroom per se, but one of the thirteen shofar-shaped offering chests that stood in the outer court.10 It was common for visitors to give alms in this way. At the same time, the use of the term γαζοφυλάκιον may be significant if Mark aims to highlight the ultimate destination of these offerings.11 That is, the offerings will be stored deep within, and

8.  Joel Marcus, Mark 8–16 (New Haven:  Yale University Press, 2009), p.  857, citing 1 Maccabees 14:49; 2 Maccabees 3:6; Josephus, War 5.200; 6:282; Ant 19.294. See also Adela Yarbro Collins, Mark: A Commentary (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2007), pp. 587–8. 9.  By “Mark” and Mark’s “audience” (or “hearers”) I  mean the author and audience “implied” or presupposed by the narrative itself, as distinct from the real historical author and audience. The term “narrator” refers to the voice used by the implied author to tell the story. See Mark Allan Powell, What Is Narrative Criticism? (Minneapolis:  Augsburg Fortress, 1990), pp. 19–21, 25–6. 10. Marcus, Mark 8–16, pp. 857–858; Collins, Mark, p. 588. The chests are known to us from m. Šeqal 6:5. 11. So BDAG, p. 186.

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for the benefit of, the very institution against which Jesus has staged his prophetic protest (11:15–19; see discussion below). From his perspective opposite the offering chests, Jesus observes rich people depositing large sums of money (12:41), followed by a poor widow who deposits a minute sum (12:42). The widow’s gift of two λέπτα (NRSV: “copper coins”), Mark explains, amounts to only a single κοδράντης—that is, a Roman quadrans. This is the smallest of all Roman denominations12 (NRSV: “worth a penny”) and thus a designation suggestive of the gift’s insignificance. Accentuating this monetary insignificance is the stark contrast Jesus observes between the widow’s two coins, on the one hand, and the “great sums” (πολλά) offered by the “many” (πολλοὶ) rich people on the other hand. The one-time (aorist ἔβαλεν), infinitesimal offering of the widow is engulfed by the ongoing (imperfect βάλλει) and vast contributions of her affluent neighbors, a negligible drop in a great river of wealth. The narrator does not explain how Jesus knows that the woman is a widow.13 However, the fact of her widowhood serves to explain her meager gift, since widowhood could (though did not always)14 deprive one of ample financial provision and thus could easily lead to destitution. As Turid Karlsen Seim notes, widows were often seen “as persons without any prospects of fending for themselves” and thus as “social cleintele in need of mercy and material care.”15 That is why numerous scriptural texts lift up widows, along with other economically disadvantaged persons (orphans, foreigners), as special objects of compassion.16 The narrator’s contrast between the widow and the numerous wealthy givers sets up Jesus’ surprising pronouncement: “This poor widow has put in more than all those who are contributing to the treasury. For all of them have contributed out of their abundance; but she out of her poverty has put in everything she had, all she had to live on” (12:43–4). In this way Jesus draws attention, not to the sheer financial amount of the offerings, but to the sacrifice those amounts imply relative to the wealth of the givers. Without expressing any judgment on the donations of the wealthy, he highlights the tremendous sacrifice made by the poor widow. In Jesus’ eyes, she has given more to the temple—more than all of the others combined17—insofar as her gift exhausts her resources. While the others donate greater amounts “out of their abundance” (ἐκ τοῦ περισσεύντος αὐτοις) and thus

12. Collins, Mark, p. 589; Marcus, Mark 8–16, p. 858. 13.  It is likely a manifestation of Jesus’ clairvoyance (see, e.g., 2:8; 11:1–6; 14:12–16; 13:1–27; 14:26–31). 14. Miller, Women in Mark’s Gospel, pp. 113–14. 15. Seim, The Double Message, p. 230. 16.  See Exod 22:22; Deut 10:18; 14:29; 24:17, 19, 21; 26:12; 27:19; Job 22:9; 24:3, 21; 31:16, 18; Pss 68:5; 94:6; 146:9; Prov 15:25; Isa 1:17, 23; 10:2; Jer 7:6; 22:3; Ezek 22:7; Zech 7:10; Mal 3:5; Wis 2:10; Sir 35:17; Bar 6:38; 2 Mac 3:10; 8:28, 30; 2 Esdr 2:20; Lk 4:25–6 (cf. 1 Kings 17:8–24); 7:11–17; 18:1–8; Acts 6:1–6; 1 Tim 5:3–16; James 1:27. 17. Following Marcus, Mark 8–16, p. 858, who reads πλεῖον πάντων (“more than all”) in a collective sense rather than a distributive sense.

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with the advantage of falling back on their plentiful reserves—mere “droplets of their overflow,”18 in Black’s words—the widow donates “out of her lack” (ἐκ τῆς ὑστερή αὐτῆς; NRSV: “out of her poverty”), giving everything that she had (πάντα ὅσα εἶχεν).

Addison Wright’s Case for Lament As previously noted, the traditional reading of 12:43–4 understands Jesus’ words as positive commentary on the widow’s actions. In other words, he praises the costly sacrifice of her temple offering. However, Addison Wright challenges this reading, arguing that it fails to account for “the proper context” of the passage.19 Specifically, it fails to account for Markan passages that highlight Jesus’ concern for the poor and disadvantaged in contrast to the unjust and exploitative practices of his opponents. In light of such passages (see below), Wright prefers to read Jesus’ statement in verses 43–4 not as a revelation into the hidden value of the widow’s gift—as if her act were somehow commendable—but simply as an “ordinary remark” consistent with cultures that are “known to value the gifts of the poor.”20 While Jesus’ statement is hardly “a trite remark,” according to Wright, “it is not overly profound either.”21 Wright appeals to three passages to make his case. The first is the so-called Corban statement of Mark 7:10–13. Here Jesus condemns the practice of withdrawing support from one’s parents (and therefore violating the fifth commandment) in order to honor the vow of a temple offering. In particular, he condemns certain Pharisees and scribes for teaching that such a vow takes precedence over the needs of one’s parents. For Wright, it is irrelevant whether the widow of 12:41– 4 is holding herself to precisely this kind of vow, or whether she even has dependents that should take precedence over her offering. The main point is that Jesus “is remembered for having said that human needs take precedence over religious values when they conflict.”22 Because the poor widow exhausts her resources for the benefit of the temple, it is unlikely that Jesus could “enthuse over the widow’s contribution . . . without contradicting himself.”23 The second and third passages invoked by Wright constitute the immediate narrative context of Mark 12:41–4. On the one hand, in the preceding verses of 12:38–40, Jesus condemns self-aggrandizing scribes who like to wear impressively

18. C. Clifton Black, Mark (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2011), p. 263. 19.  Wright, “The Widow’s Mites,” p. 259. Wright (pp. 263–4) credits Quentin Quesnell and Louis Simon with introducing important qualifications to the dominant view, although they do not, in his view, question it sufficiently. 20. Wright, “The Widow’s Mites,” p. 260. 21. Wright, “The Widow’s Mites,” p. 260. 22. Wright, “The Widow’s Mites,” p. 261. 23. Wright, “The Widow’s Mites,” p. 261.

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long robes, to be greeted respectfully in public, and to have the honorary seats in synagogues and at banquets. Most importantly for Wright, Jesus accuses these scribes of “devouring widows’ houses” (οἱ κατεσθίοντες τὰς οἰκίας τῶν χηρῶν, v. 40). In Wright’s view, it is no coincidence that the story of a widow giving her last monetary resources to the temple is preceded by a reference to the financial oppression of widows.24 The sequence suggests that the actions of the poor widow should be interpreted in light of the preceding condemnation. For if “Jesus is opposed to the devouring of widows’ houses,” Wright reasons, then “how could he possibly be pleased with what he sees” in the temple treasury?25 In this way Wright avoids the tension that results when interpreters posit a condemnation in verses 38–40 alongside an approbation in verses 43–4. Instead, Wright posits a kind of two-staged condemnation. The story of the widow “does not provide a pious contrast to the conduct of the scribes in the preceding section (as is the customary view)” since “Jesus’ saying is not a penetrating insight on the measuring of gifts; it is a lament.”26 The widow, Wright contends, “had been taught and encouraged by religious leaders to donate as she does, and Jesus condemns the value system that motivates her action, and he condemns the people who conditioned her to do it.”27 Thus, in bringing the widow’s gift to the disciples’ attention, Jesus provides a gut-wrenching example of the kind of injustice he has just denounced, a “further illustration of the ills of official devotion.”28 Wright concludes that “There is no praise of the widow in the passage and no invitation to imitate her, precisely because she ought not be imitated.”29 Finally, to further support this argument, Wright appeals briefly to the verses immediately following the widow’s offering. In this scene one of Jesus’ disciples marvels at the magnificent size of the stones and buildings (13:1). Jesus responds by prophesying the temple’s wholesale destruction: “Do you see these great buildings? Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down” (13:2). With these words Jesus begins an extended apocalyptic discourse, foretelling various earthly and cosmic catastrophes that lead up to the Roman destruction of Jerusalem (13:3–23) as well as his own climactic appearance as the glorious and powerful Son of Man (13:24–7). In this way the destruction of the temple is a key component—even the main component—in the apocalyptic “birth pains” (13:8) that usher in the era of God’s kingdom. What matters to Wright, however, is less the apocalyptic context of the temple’s impending destruction than the simple fact of that impending destruction. “It is hard to see,” he explains, “how anyone at this point could feel happy about the widow. Her contributions were totally misguided, thanks to the encouragement of official religion, but the final irony of it all was

24. On the possible meaning of the phrase “devouring widows’ houses,” see below. 25. Wright, “The Widow’s Mites,” p. 262. 26. Wright, “The Widow’s Mites,” p. 262. 27. Wright, “The Widow’s Mites,” p. 262. 28. Wright, “The Widow’s Mites,” p. 262. 29. Wright, “The Widow’s Mites,” pp. 262–3.

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that it was also a waste.”30 Tragically, the widow has exhausted her last resources on what is essentially a dead institution.

Malbon’s Critique of Wright Malbon appreciates how the larger Markan narrative informs Wright’s interpretation of the poor widow, especially the immediate context of 12:38–40 (the condemnation of the scribes) and 13:1–2 (the prediction of the temple’s destruction).31 She does not, however, agree entirely with Wright’s reading of that immediate context. Moreover, she takes exception to the way in which Wright absolutizes those verses as the singular key to interpretation. Malbon asks, “why should we be content to consider only the preceding three verses and the succeeding two verses the context of the poor widow’s story? Does the context or the proper context even exist?”32 To demonstrate the limitations of this absolutizing approach, Malbon considers four other narrative contexts that shed light on the story of the poor widow. Before doing so, however, she offers some different interpretive angles on the immediate context of 12:41–4. With regard to the preceding verses, Malbon disagrees with Wright’s argument that 12:38–40 (self-aggrandizing scribes) and 12:41–4 (selfless widow) complement one another, forming a two-staged condemnation of an unjust temple establishment. She favors the customary contrast drawn by interpreters between the scribes (whom Jesus condemns) and the widow (whom Jesus is said to commend). The “unobtrusive”33 and giving widow could not be more different than the honor-seeking scribes, especially when one considers the extent to which the Markan narrator contrasts scribes with Jesus himself. Jesus, Malbon points out, “is unlike the self-centered scribes and like the self-denying widow in being one who gives.”34 Moreover, in Malbon’s view, the possible victimization of the widow fails to register as a point in favor of Wright once one considers how the narrator depicts Jesus’ own death as a victimization at the hands of chief priests, scribes, and elders.35 For Malbon, then, to say that Jesus commends the actions of the poor widow is not to say that he approves of her exploitation, as if reversing his preceding condemnation of the scribes. It is a way of saying that the narrator commends her Jesus-like self-giving as a model of discipleship.36 “The focus seems to be on 30. Wright, “The Widow’s Mites,” p. 263. 31. Malbon does not directly address the context of Mark 7:10–13. That omission, however, does not lessen the force of her critique. 32. Malbon, “The Poor Widow in Mark,” p. 595 (original emphasis). 33. Malbon, “The Poor Widow in Mark,” p. 595. 34. Malbon, “The Poor Widow in Mark,” p. 596. 35. Malbon, “The Poor Widow in Mark,” p. 596. 36.  See also Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “Fallible Followers: Women and Men in the Gospel of Mark,” Semeia 28 (1983), pp.  37–40; Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “The Major Importance of Minor Characters in Mark,” in The New Literary Criticism and the New

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giving, but not just on money. The last words of the passage are those left echoing in our ears”37:  “her whole life” (ὅλον τὸν βίον αὐτῆς, 12:44; NRSV:  “all she had to live on”). Likewise, Jesus’ own ministry constitutes a giving of his own life (τὴν ψυχὴν αὐτοῦ, 10:45), establishing the pattern for disciples to follow (8:34–8; 9:35–57; 10:42–5). Malbon continues this christological line of interpretation when she turns to the verses that follow the widow. For Malbon, Jesus’ prophecy of the impending destruction of the temple (13:1–2) does not indicate “the absurdity of the poor widow’s gift” but rather contributes, in juxtaposition to the widow, to “the impressive irony of the Marcan passion narrative.”38 In making this argument Malbon widens the interpretive scope to the “overall temple context”39 of Mark 11–12, a context that begins with Jesus’ prophetic demonstration in the temple (11:15– 19) and ends with his commentary on the widow’s offering. Jesus’ temple demonstration results in the cessation of all temple activities, foreshadowing what is explicitly explained in 13:1f:  the temple will fall.40 Likewise, in highlighting the self-giving actions of the widow, the narrator foreshadows what is finally depicted in chapters 14–15: Jesus himself will die. The entire temple context of Mark 11– 12 is therefore bookended by juxtaposing references to destruction:  “Jesus’ first action in the temple, the driving out of the buyers and sellers, points to the temple’s end; and Jesus’ final action in the temple, or rather his reaction to the poor widow’s action, points to his own end.”41 Adding significance to this juxtaposition is the way in which the narrator presents these two events—the end of the temple and the death of Jesus—as constituting the very turning point of salvation history: “the kairos of the temple . . . is surpassed by the kairos of the kingdom and of the Messiah who proclaims that ‘The kairos is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God is at hand’ (1:15a).”42 Having addressed the immediate context of 12:41–4, Malbon turns to four other narrative contexts, each of which brings a different kind of significance to the poor widow and therefore tempers Wright’s absolutizing approach. First, Malbon notes how the poor widow complements the anonymous woman who anoints Jesus for his burial (14:3–9). Together, the two women frame the temple discourse of chapter 13, demonstrating commendable generosity in contrast

Testament, ed. Edgar V. McKnight and Elizabeth Struthers Malbon (Sheffield:  Sheffield Academic, 1994), pp. 76–81. 37. Malbon, “The Poor Widow in Mark,” p. 596. 38. Malbon, “The Poor Widow in Mark,” p. 597 (original emphasis). 39. Malbon, “The Poor Widow in Mark,” p. 597. 40. As most interpreters now acknowledge, the intercalation of Jesus’ temple action with his cursing of the fig tree suggests not only a foreshadowing of the temple’s destruction but its condemnation (although the precise reason for that condemnation continues to be the subject of debate). See the discussion below. 41. Malbon, “The Poor Widow in Mark,” pp. 597–8. 42. Malbon, “The Poor Widow in Mark,” p. 597.

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to self-seeking men (12:38–40; 14:1–2, 10–11).43 Second, and relatedly, the poor widow and anointing woman belong to a select but notable group of women characters who exhibit the qualities of authentic discipleship, taking “decisive action to which Jesus makes a significant reaction.”44 Malbon theorizes that, for Mark, “women characters are especially appropriate for the role of illuminating followership” because the Markan Jesus insists that “many who are first will be last, and the last will be first” (10:31).45 Third, the story of the poor widow reinforces certain details that are significant to Mark’s overall characterization of Jesus as authoritative teacher. Specifically, Jesus sits (καθίσας, 12:41), calls disciples to himself (προσκαλεσάμενος, 12:43), and prefaces his teaching with “Amen” (ἀμὴν, 12:43). All three details suggest that the declaration of 12:43–4 is “a solemn proclamation about the kingdom.”46 Fourth, Malbon draws attention to “the overall pattern of Marcan characterization,” according to which the Markan narrator depicts minor characters such as the poor widow as “flat” examples of extreme types—bad or good, enemy or exemplar.47 The twelve disciples, on the other hand, are “round” or “multivalent” in their characterization, presenting “both positive and negative models for the reader to follow or avoid.”48 Based on this Markan schematization of characters, Malbon concludes that “it would be inappropriate to focus on the ‘goodness’ of the poor widow’ in opposition to the ‘badness’ of the twelve disciples without also observing her ‘flatness’ in contrast to their ‘roundness.’ All the Marcan characters work together for the sake of the Marcan story, its teller, and its hearers.”49 Before assessing the differing approaches of Wright and Malbon, it helps to clarify the common ground between them. To begin, both agree that Mark wants to draw a contrast between the widow and the scribes of 12:41–4, at least with respect to their vastly different socioeconomic situations. Susan Miller summarizes this contrast well: The high social status of the scribes contrasts with that of the widow, who lives on the margins of society unnoticed by everyone but Jesus. The scribes are associated with the social elite, whereas the poor widow is one of the least in societal terms. They seek privileged places in public, while the widow in our passage

43. Malbon, “The Poor Widow in Mark,” pp. 598–9. See also Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, Mark’s Jesus: Characterization as Narrative Christology (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2009), pp. 225–6. 44. Malbon, “The Poor Widow in Mark,” p. 599, now including 5:35–43 (the hemorrhaging woman) and 7:24–30 (the Syrophoenician woman). See also Malbon, “Fallible Followers,” pp. 37–40. 45. Malbon, “The Poor Widow in Mark,” p. 600. 46. Malbon, “The Poor Widow in Mark,” p. 601. 47. Malbon, “The Poor Widow in Mark,” p. 601. 48. Malbon, “The Poor Widow in Mark,” p. 601 (original emphasis). 49. Malbon, “The Poor Widow in Mark,” p. 601.

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is hidden among the crowd. The widow, moreover, contrasts with the scribes because women were excluded from the role of religious authorities. The scribes have the authority to interpret the scriptures, but they ignore the prophets’ teaching to take care of the widows and orphans.50

Wright and Malbon also agree that the Markan Jesus wants to draw a contrast between the poor widow and the rich givers who surround her. In particular, he wants to draw special attention to the fact that she has divested her resources. Therefore the declaration in verses 43–4 functions as the key to the passage, the meaning of that declaration depending on various exegetical and contextual factors.

Commendable Self-Giving With respect to the meaning of 12:43–4, Malbon’s most compelling counter to Wright is her analysis of key Markan terms which, weighed together, suggest that Jesus is giving much more than an “ordinary remark.” The opening reference to Jesus sitting (καθίσας, 12:41) already casts him in “the authoritative position of the rabbis while teaching.”51 Significantly, the narrator casts Jesus in the same authoritative sitting position for a series of programmatic (albeit somewhat enigmatic) kingdom parables (4:1), for an explanation of the self-giving nature of discipleship (9:35), and for a prophesy about the apocalyptic events surrounding the temple’s destruction (13:3).52 These are not moments of ordinary remarks but moments of authoritative insight. Moreover, in Mark, the fact that Jesus “calls together” (προσκαλεσάμενος, 12:43) the disciples indicates—without exception—a transition to a pivotal and even revelatory teaching moment. The same verb marks the transition to Jesus’ appointment and instruction of the twelve apostles (3:13; 6:7), his programmatic statement of opposition to Satan (3:23), his clarification of the nature of true defilement (7:14), his preparing the disciples for a miraculous feeding of crowds (8:1), and, again, his explanation of the self-giving nature of discipleship (8:34; 10:42).53 Finally, and perhaps most importantly, Malbon points to the use of the prefacing particle ἀμὴν (“amen,” 12:43) as equally indicative of an extraordinary teaching

50. Miller, Women in Mark’s Gospel, p. 120. 51. Malbon, “The Poor Widow in Mark,” p. 600. 52. Citing the cognate verbs καθίζω (12:41; 9:35) and κάθημαι (4:1; 13:3). Malbon (“The Poor Widow in Mark,” 600) does not mention the use of καθίζω in 9:35. Nor does she mention the use of κάθημαι in 14:62, when Jesus alludes to his cosmic authority as the heavenly enthroned Son of Man. 53. The only exception to this pattern is 15:44, but that involves a different subject: Pilate. Malbon (“The Poor Widow in Mark,” p. 600) mentions only the discipleship teachings of 8:34 and 10:42 because she wants to draw a stronger connection to the teaching of 12:43–4. She also invokes 9:35, but the verb in that case is φωνέω, which lacks an equally compelling pattern of usage related to authoritative and revelatory teaching.

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moment in keeping with Jesus’ special authority and apprehension. Malbon cites the two uses of the particle that most resemble the discipleship teaching of 12:43–4: For truly (ἀμὴν) I tell you, whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because you bear the name of Christ will by no means lose the reward. (9:41) Truly (ἀμὴν) I tell you, there is no one who has left house or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields, for my sake and for the sake of the good news. (10:29)

Yet the other ten appearances of ἀμὴν are also worth citing as a way of illustrating the particle’s consistent connection to Jesus’ unique knowledge and insight: Truly (ἀμὴν) I tell you, people will be forgiven for their sins and whatever blasphemies they utter. (3:28) Truly (ἀμὴν) I tell you, no sign will be given to this generation. (8:12) Truly (ἀμὴν) I tell you, there are some standing here who will not taste death until they see that the kingdom of God has come with power. (9:1) Truly (ἀμὴν) I tell you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will never enter it. (10:15) Truly (ἀμὴν) I tell you, if you say to this mountain, “Be taken up and thrown into the sea,” and if you do not doubt in your heart, but believe that what you say will come to pass, it will be done for you. (11:23) Truly (ἀμὴν) I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all these things have taken place. (13:30) Truly (ἀμὴν) I  tell you, wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her. (14:9) Truly (ἀμὴν) I tell you, one of you will betray me, one who is eating with me. (14:18) Truly (ἀμὴν) I tell you, I will never again drink of the fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new in the kingdom of God. (14:25) Truly (ἀμὴν) I tell you, this day, this very night, before the cock crows twice, you will deny me three times. (14:30)

Wright limits his observations on ἀμὴν to a footnote. He correctly observes that 12:43 contains the only use of ἀμὴν in connection to a past event; all of the other uses have to do with future warnings or promises.54 Based on this “atypical” usage, Wright reasons that “it is probably best not to draw any conclusion from it. The

54. Wright, “The Widow’s Mites,” pp. 259–60, n. 8.

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word ‘Amen’ is not necessarily an indication that the meaning of the saying is not obvious.”55 Logically speaking, however, the temporal aspect of a statement should have no bearing on the possible of use ἀμὴν to introduce that statement as a lessthan-obvious truth. In other words, that 12:43 is atypical with respect to the timing of the ensuing statement does not mean that it is atypical with respect to the unique insight conveyed by that statement. The more pertinent question is whether or not ἀμὴν, in its Markan usage, functions to introduce less-than-obvious truths; and the answer is overwhelmingly “yes.” None of the ἀμὴν sayings are “ordinary remarks,” as if the disciples could discern their truth without the special insight of Jesus. Of course 12:43 could still be an exception to this rule. To make this case, however, one would need to point to something besides the temporal aspect of the statement it introduces. Wright does not do this. Malbon, on the other hand, groups the use of ἀμὴν with other compelling linguistic details suggestive of a lessthan-ordinary teaching in verses 43–4. When the Markan Jesus sits opposite the temple treasury, calls his disciples, and prefaces his teaching with ἀμὴν, hearers of the narrative do not expect him merely to affirm a common “observation on life that needs to be said from time to time, and when it is said one would expect that virtually all would agree with it.”56 Instead, in this kind of scenario, the hearers stand at special attention, ready for a teaching that carries special authority.57 One can go further and argue, against Wright, that the declaration of verses 43– 4 is not only one of extraordinary insight but one of commendation. On this point Malbon’s observations regarding the schematization of Markan characters proves helpful. Whereas the disciples are characterized in a multivalent manner, presenting both examples of, and foils to, authentic discipleship, minor characters are depicted as simplified flat types vis-à-vis Jesus. Most pertinent in the case of 12:41– 4 is the Markan pattern of minor characters who exhibit commendable, disciplelike traits. Malbon draws attention to female minor characters: the hemorrhaging woman who exhibits faith in Jesus’ healing power (5:34), the Syrophoenician woman who exhibits special insight into the universal applicability of that healing power (7:27–30), and the anointing woman who takes solemn action to commemorate Jesus before his death (14:3–9). In addition to these one could highlight the faith of Jairus (5:36)58 and Bartimaeus (10:52), who parallel the hemorrhaging woman in their desperate faith. In the case of the healed Bartimaeus, the narrator even adds that he “followed Jesus on the way” (ἠκολούθει αὐτῷ ἐν τῆ ὀδῷ, 10:52)—a loaded phrase suggestive of discipleship, even if Bartimaeus’ actual

55. Wright, “The Widow’s Mites,” pp. 259–60, n. 8. 56. Wright, “The Widow’s Mites,” p. 260. 57. See also Collins, Mark, pp. 589–90. 58.  I read the present imperative πίστευε in 5:36 as a command that Jairus continue believing, the implication being that his faith in Jesus’ healing power prompted him to approach Jesus in the first place. So there is a kind of positive commentary on Jairus here, albeit less explicit than Jesus’ praise of the hemorrhaging woman in 5:34. The contrasting “fear not” (μὴ φοβοῦ, 5:36) complicates this manifestation of faith but does not negate it.

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status as a formal disciple remains ambiguous.59 In fact, with the possible exception of Bartimaeus, none of the minor characters mentioned here are depicted as actual disciples. The point is rather that their actions evoke the traits of faithful discipleship for the Markan audience. This clarification will prove crucial when it comes to the ensuing discussion of the widow’s victimization. This pattern of exemplary minor characters is important for two reasons. First, it demonstrates the narrator’s tendency to use nondisciple characters as a means of illustrating the basic form of discipleship, complementing the altogether authoritative Jesus, on the one hand, and the inconsistent disciples on the other hand.60 While each of these characters is minor with respect to the duration of his or her appearance on the narrative stage, the cumulative effect of those appearances is to flesh out what authentic discipleship looks like: trusting Jesus, following Jesus, and giving of one’s resources for the sake of God’s mission. Second, it is worth noting that Jesus openly commends the disciple-like behavior of each of these minor characters. In most cases he addresses the minor character directly (5:34, 36; 7:29; 10:52), while in one case he does so indirectly by speaking to others (14:6–9). In terms of his larger audience within the narrative, Jesus’ commendations may fall within earshot of the crowds (5:34, 36; 10:52), dinner guests (14:6–9), or the disciples specifically (7:29). In every case, however, it is the implied author who draws attention to these minor characters for the benefit of the implied audience. Indeed, it is precisely through the commendations of Jesus that the implied author makes clear that these minor characters exhibit disciple-like behavior.61 At this point the conclusion is easy to draw: the poor widow fits easily within the Markan pattern of openly commended minor characters. She is most like the anointing woman insofar as she is commended indirectly for a selfless, giving action. When placed alongside the other commended minor characters, she helps the implied author flesh out what authentic discipleship looks like, even though she is not a disciple herself. In exhausting her resources she echoes Jesus’ call to the rich man to sell his possessions, give the money to the poor, and follow him (10:17–22; see 10:28–31).62 Also, in giving “her whole life” (ὅλον τὸν βίον αὐτῆς, 12:44) she fulfills the “first” commandment that Jesus entrusts to the inquiring scribe:  love God with “your whole (ὅλης) heart, your whole (ὅλης) soul, your whole (ὅλης) mind, and your whole (ὅλης) strength” (12:30, citing Deut 6:5).63 59. Compare Marcus, Mark 8–16, p. 761; and M. Eugene Boring, Mark: A Commentary (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2006), p. 307. 60.  No one has done more to articulate the complementarity of Markan character groups than Malbon, especially in “Fallible Followers” (passim) and “Disciples/Crowds/ Whoever: Markan Characters and Readers,” NovT 28 (1986), pp. 104–30. 61.  On minor characters in Mark, in addition to the cited work of Malbon, see Joel F. Williams, “Discipleship and Minor Characters in Mark’s Gospel,” BSac 153 (1996), pp. 332– 43; David Rhoads, Joanna Dewey, and Donald Michie, Mark as Story: An Introduction to the Narrative of a Gospel (2nd ed.; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1999), pp. 129–35. 62. Boring, Mark, p. 352. 63. Collins, Mark, p. 590; Williams, Other Followers of Jesus, pp. 176–7.

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Finally, as Malbon makes clear, the widow corresponds to Jesus’ gift of his own life (τὴν ψυχὴν αὐτοῦ, 10:45) for the benefit of others. For these reasons, despite the protestations of Wright, the story of the poor widow serves as a perfect foil to the condemnation of the selfish scribes in 12:38–40, not only with respect to her lowly status but also with respect to her commendable actions. The irony, of course, is that Jesus condemns the selfish scribes for, among other things, devouring widows’ houses.

Unjust Temple Leadership While Malbon effectively challenges Wright’s absolutizing insistence on “the” appropriate interpretive context for Mark 12:41–4, there is still something to be said for the attention Wright brings to the widow’s narrative location between self-aggrandizing scribes, on the one hand, and Jesus’ prediction of the temple’s destruction on the other hand. In fact the total sequence of 12:38–13:2, as the conclusion to Mark 11–12, proves integral to the unfolding subplot in which Jesus condemns an unjust temple leadership for opposing and subverting the healing efforts of his kingdom ministry.64 To be clear, Malbon does not misinterpret this governing conflict.65 Yet her focus on Mark’s multivalent literary artistry does have the effect of downplaying the underlying causes of that conflict as well as the degree to which the question of social justice drives the plot forward. Because the widow is directly implicated in the conflict between Jesus and the temple leadership, it is worth tracing how the conflict unfolds in Mark 11–12, less as a corrective to Malbon than as way to reinforce some of Wright’s insights. This discussion will, however, build toward a more critical engagement with Malbon in the next section. The seeds for the conflict between Jesus and the temple leadership are planted much earlier than Mark 11–12, meaning an attentive audience will not be surprised to find that an antagonistic priestly elite awaits Jesus in Jerusalem.66 It was Jerusalem scribes who came down to Galilee to wage a smear campaign against Jesus: “He has Beelzebul, and by the ruler of the demons he casts out demons” (3:22). This charge is not just about exorcisms. More fundamentally, it serves as the Jerusalem leadership’s explanation for why Jesus’ healing ministry circumvents

64.  The governing argument of this section draws on Ira Brent Driggers, “The Politics of Divine Presence: Temple as Locus of Conflict in the Gospel of Mark,” BibInt 15 (2007), pp. 227–47. 65.  In addition to the insights described above, see Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “The Jewish Leaders in the Gospel of Mark: A Literary Study of Marcan Characterization,” JBL 108 (1989), pp. 259–81. 66. The following discussion should not be read as historical description but rather as an interpretation of Mark’s narrative rhetoric. I make no claims, in other words, regarding how the historical Jesus related to the temple and its leadership.

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their allegedly more authoritative interpretations of Jewish law and custom.67 As Wright notes, the same dynamic underlies Jesus’ criticism of Pharisees and scribes, also from Jerusalem, who hold persons to their corban vows—thereby ensuring monetary offerings to the temple—even when those vows end up jeopardizing the well-being of one’s own parents and thus conflicting with the fifth commandment (7:9–14).68 In this way the narrative groundwork is laid for a confrontation in Jerusalem over the relative value of human flourishing and the role of the Jerusalem leadership in meeting, or suppressing, such flourishing.69 Over the course of Mark 11–12 various aspects of this confrontation surface. I will focus on three crucial moments. First, there is Jesus’ prophetic demonstration in the temple, when he overturns the tables of the moneychangers and the seats of dovesellers, effectively bringing all temple activities to a halt (11:15–16). Long understood as an attempt to “cleanse” the temple from commercial activities, the Markan version of the story suggests something different.70 Malbon, following the lead of others, notes how the intercalation of this demonstration between Jesus’ cursing of the fig tree (11:12–14, 20–25) points less to a cleansing than a “symbolic closing down” that foreshadows the temple’s impending destruction (13:2).71 Equally important, however, is the way in which Jesus proceeds in verse 17 to condemn the temple leadership for perverting the mission of God’s own house (“my house,” 11:17). Mark 11:17 explains this perversion through the citation of two scriptural verses. Jesus begins by quoting Isaiah 56:7 to express God’s original intention for the temple as “a house of prayer for all the nations,” that is, as a place for Gentiles to worship the God of Israel.72 While Isaiah envisioned such inclusion in the future,

67. Mark 2:1–12; 3:15–17, 18–22, 23–8; 3:1–6. See Driggers, “Politics of Divine Presence,” p. 235. 68. Wright, “The Widow’s Mites,” pp. 260–61. 69.  Wright insists that, for Jesus, “human needs take precedence over religious values when they conflict” (“The Widow’s Mites,” p. 261, emphasis added). However, because Jesus’ motivations are neither less religious nor less socio-political than those of his Jerusalem opponents, I prefer to say that, for Jesus, human need takes precedence over his opponents’ “allegedly more authoritative interpretations of Jewish law and custom.” This way of phrasing things also rules out an inaccurate opposition between Jesus and Jewish law/custom. 70. The traditional interpretation is influenced largely the Johannine version of the story (Jn 2:16). 71.  Malbon, “The Poor Widow in Mark,” p.  597, citing Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, Narrative Space and Mythic Meaning in Mark (San Francisco:  Harper and Row, 1986), pp. 120–26, 131–6; Werner H. Kelber, The Kingdom in Mark: A New Place and New Time (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1974), pp. 97–102. See also Marcus, Mark 8–16, pp. 781–96. 72.  This is likely a response to the fact that the buying and selling—integral activities for facilitating the Passover pilgrim’s participation in the temple cult—takes up too much space in the Court of the Gentiles and therefore causes undue interference to Gentile worship. So Marcus, Mark 8–16, p.  791; Morna Hooker, The Gospel According to Mark (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1991), p. 263. Collins argues that the Markan audience would

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the Markan Jesus insists that it should be a present reality. He then quotes a modified version of Jeremiah 7:11 to capture the nature of the perversion itself: “But you have made it a den of robbers.” Mark’s chief modification is the addition of the verb πεποιήκατε—“you (pl.) have made it”—to make more explicit that the object of Jesus’ condemnation is not the temple cult per se but its caretakers. Moreover, if the context of Jeremiah 7 is any indication, then the ground for Jesus’ condemnation is not only the obstruction of Gentile worshippers but the abuse of power at the expense of the needy, as if the divine origins of the temple could safeguard its leaders against gross injustices: Do not trust in these deceptive words: “This is the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord, the temple of the Lord.” For if you truly amend your ways and your doings, if you truly act justly one with another, if you do not oppress the alien, the orphan, and the widow, or shed innocent blood in this place, and if you do not go after other gods to your own hurt, then I will dwell with you in this place, in the land that I gave of old to your ancestors forever and ever. (Jer. 7:4–7, NRSV)73

This scriptural echo lends further credence to the claim that the emerging conflict between Jesus and the temple leadership has to do with the failure of that leadership to foster human flourishing, particularly with its failure to safeguard the livelihood of the most disadvantaged (alien, orphan, and widow). Soon after Jesus’ temple protest, a second crucial narrative moment reinforces this charge of exploitation and abuse. That moment comes when the temple leadership—chief priests, scribes, and elders—approach Jesus for an explanation of his temple demonstration (11:27). While a brief exchange seems to result in Jesus refusing to offer any explanation (11:33), the ensuing parable of 12:1–12 belies that assumption. Or, to be more precise, the parable offers a more cloaked account of the reasons Jesus refuses to state explicitly. The parable of 12:1–12 appropriates the well-known scriptural metaphor of Israel as a vineyard planted and tended by God (see especially Is 5:1–7). It

understand the quotation of Is 56:7 in accordance with the larger Isaianic context in which Gentiles “will turn to the God of Israel and adopt Jewish practices” (Mark, p. 531). 73.  A similar subtext resides in Malachi 3:1–9, the Markan parallels having been articulated by Timothy C. Gray, The Temple in the Gospel of Mark: A Study in Its Narrative Role (Grand Rapids:  Baker Academic, 2010), pp. 43–4. On the scriptural background of the fig tree cursing vis-à-vis the temple protest, see William R. Telford, Barren Temple and the Withered Tree (Sheffield: Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Press, 1980), pp. 128– 75. My interpretation does not preclude the possibility of a cloaked allusion to anti-Roman revolutionaries or “zealots”—known to Josephus as λῃσταί—in Mark 11:17 (σπήλαιον ληστῶν). See Joel Marcus, “The Jewish War and the Sitz Im Leben of Mark,” JBL 111 (1992), pp. 449–61. However, that allusion, while perhaps meaningful to a first-century audience, does little to explain the unfolding plot of Mark 11–12.

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describes a wealthy landowner (God) leasing his vineyard (Israel) to tenants (the temple leadership). The tenants, however, revolt against the landowner, asserting their own ownership of the vineyard and its produce. Specifically, when the landowner sends representatives to collect his share of the yield, the tenants abuse and kill them, a pattern of behavior that climaxes with the murder of the landowner’s “only son” (υἱὸν ἀγαπητόν, 12:6, a clear allusion to Jesus).74 The owner or “lord” (κύριος) of the vineyard then responds by destroying the tenants and giving the vineyard to others (12:9). The parable develops two key themes within the increasingly hostile conflict between Jesus and the temple leadership. First, it develops the charge of selfaggrandizement already implied in 11:17. “This is the heir,” the tenants say of the owner’s son. “Come, let us kill him, and the inheritance will be ours” (12:7). Whether or not the tenants’ plot within the parable is a rational one,75 Jesus’ basic point is clear. Similar to the earlier condemnation of Jeremiah, Jesus is accusing the priestly elite of abusing their positions as leaders. He exposes “the incompatibility between the divine will . . . and the actualities of the institution.”76 Second, the parable reinforces the connection between the abuse of those leadership positions, on the one hand, and the impending destruction of the temple on the other hand. That is, Jesus condemns neither Israel per se nor the temple per se but the ones appointed by God as leaders of both.77 The temple, it seems, stands condemned only to the degree that its appointed leaders have self-servingly perverted its mission beyond recognition. Just as the fig tree fails to bear fruit (καρπός, 11:14) for Jesus, so the tenants refuse to hand over the fruit (καρπός, 12:2) of the vineyard to their lord.78 The third noteworthy narrative moment comes in 12:41–4, when Jesus condemns those scribes who seek social honors while hypocritically devouring widows’ houses. Several interpretive issues are worth addressing here. First, it should be noted that the Greek text of verse 28 may not designate all scribes but only a certain kind of scribe, the kind who likes to do such self-centered things.79 The 74. See Mark 11:1; 9:7. 75. See Marcus, Mark 8–16, pp. 804–5. 76.  Herman C. Waetjen, A Reordering of Power:  A Socio-Political Reading of Mark’s Gospel (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1989), p. 182. 77.  See K. R. Snodgrass, “Recent Research on the Parable of the Wicked Tenants: An Assessment,” BBR 8 (1998), pp. 192–3, 208–9; Karen Wenell, “Contested Temple Space and Visionary Kingdom Space in Mark 11–12,” BibInt 15 (2007), p. 334; Emilio G. Chávez, The Theological Significance of Jesus’ Temple Action in Mark’s Gospel (Lewiston, NY:  Edwin Mellen, 2002), pp. 144–6; Marie Noonan Sabin, Reopening the Word:  Reading Mark as Theology in the Context of Early Judaism (Oxford:  Oxford University Press, 2002), p.  88; Craig A. Evans, “Jesus’ Actions in the Temple: Cleansing or Portent of Destruction?” CBQ 51 (1989), p. 264. 78. Gray, The Temple in the Gospel of Mark, pp. 41–2, 91. 79. Following Marcus, Mark 8–16, p. 852, who reads the participle clause τῶν θελόντων as a restrictive modifier (“the ones who like”); contra Boring, Mark, p. 349.

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fact that Jesus has very recently encountered a sympathetic and insightful scribe (12:28–34) supports this reading. Second, the fact that these scribes seek the honorable seats in synagogues (12:39)80 should not be taken to mean that they are somehow unrelated to the temple. Mark uses the term “scribe” (γραμματεύς) as a kind of umbrella category for Jewish authorities who oppose Jesus. While they are sometimes mentioned in conjunction with synagogue worship in Galilee (1:22; 2:6), they are also associated consistently with Jerusalem (3:22; 7:1) and the priestly leadership (8:31; 10:33; 11:18, 27; 14:1, 43, 53; 15:1, 31). Moreover, the type of long robe worn by these scribes (στολή, 12:38) carries priestly connotations in numerous scriptural and second temple texts.81 Besides all of this, the overall temple setting of 11:15–13:37 encourages the audience to associate these scribes with the temple, particularly given the parallel between the widows whose houses they devour, on the one hand, and the poor widow who exhausts her resources for the benefit of the temple on the other hand.82 Third, there is an implicit contrast between these scribes and Jesus insofar as the scribes, to whom conventional wisdom assigns authority, go out of their way to receive social honors, while Jesus actually exercises authority even as he rejects such honors.83 It was in response to Jesus’ first public teaching that people “were astounded . . . for he taught them as one having authority, and not as the scribes” (1:22). Yet, ironically, the one who exercises true authority shuns the worldly accolades so coveted by the scribes. “For the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve” (10:45).84 This contrast between Jesus and the scribes is noteworthy due to the aforementioned resemblance between the poor widow and Christ. In condemning the scribes for their self-absorbed behavior, Mark sets up his audience for the widow’s commendable Christ-like behavior. The final and more difficult interpretive issue has to do with what it means to “devour widows’ houses” (οἱ κατεσθίοντες τὰς οἰκίας τῶν χηρῶν, 12:40). “Houses” in this phrase may mean something more like “property,” although it should be noted that this broader definition is ordinarily associated with the masculine οἶκος85 rather than the feminine οἰκία used here. If physical “houses” are in view, then the offense entails the confiscation of needed shelter. If “property” is in view,

80. Likely a reference to a seat of teaching authority (so Marcus, Mark 8–16, pp. 852–3). 81.  Marcus, Mark 8–16, p.  852, citing Exod 28:2; 29:21; 31:10; 2 Chron 18:9; Philo, Embassy to Gaius 296; Josephus, Ant. 3.151–6; 11.80. 82. See also Miller, Women in Mark’s Gospel, p. 121. 83.  Harry Fleddermann, “A Warning about the Scribes (Mark 12:37b–40),” CBQ 44 (1982), p. 57. 84. In the Greek text of 12:39 the scribes literally seek out the “first seats” (πρωτοκαθεδρία) and the “first places” (πρωτοκλισία), establishing an unfavorable contrast with Jesus’ insistence that “Whoever wants to be first (πρῶτος) must be last of all and servant of all” (9:35; see also 10:31, 44) (Miller, Women in Mark’s Gospel, p. 120). 85. BDAG, p. 699.

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then the offense could be something more like financial embezzlement. The latter of these scenarios is somewhat easier to conceive since the assets of widows and orphans were often placed under a designated guardian, and there is ample evidence in Jewish literature regarding guardians deceitfully filtering funds from their clients.86 In that case the “long prayers” subsequently described in verse 40 may serve as pious cover—a “pretext” (πρόφασις; NRSV: “for the sake of appearance”)—for the underlying duplicity.87 Regardless of the precise scenario, it is clear that Jesus is accusing some temple-affiliated scribes of taking for themselves assets that rightfully belong to widows, the added tragedy being that widows lived a most precarious economic existence. The rapaciousness implied by the verb κατεσθίω (“devour”) heightens the tragic element still further: these scribes are predators who hunt the weak and defenseless, preying on the very ones they are called to protect.88 It is a dastardly, if not outright satanic,89 behavior for which Jesus, following scriptural precedent, promises “the greater condemnation” (12:40).90 Not coincidentally, his prediction of the temple’s destruction follows almost immediately afterward (13:2), the progression interrupted only by the story of the poor widow in the temple treasury. In support of Wright, it is hardly coincidental that Mark follows the condemnation of temple-related scribes who devour widows’ houses with the account of a poor widow who gives her last resources to the temple. Of course that sequence need not suggest that the poor widow has been victimized in precisely the manner of 12:40, whatever unjust practice that verse might describe. It does, however, create a kind of thematic correlation, especially given the way in which Mark has plotted the growing conflict between Jesus and the temple leadership. The self-aggrandizing scribes of 12:38–40 conclude a two-chapter subnarrative in which Jesus condemns the temple leadership for perverting the mission of God’s house for their own selfish gain. Due to this rebellion against the Lord of the vineyard, the temple itself now faces imminent destruction (12:9–12; 13:1–2).

86.  See J. Duncan M. Derrett, “‘Eating Up the Houses of Widows’:  Jesus’s Comment on Lawyers?” NovT 14 (1972), pp. 1–9; see also Seim, The Double Message, 95. Contra Fleddermann, “A Warning about the Scribes,” p. 61. 87. Fleddermann, “A Warning about the Scribes,” pp. 62–3. 88. In fact 2 Maccabees 3:10 suggests that funds from the temple treasury could be used to provide for widows and orphans (Marcus, Mark 8–16, p. 858). 89.  See Mark 4:4, the only other Markan use of κατεσθίω, which speaks of the birds (= Satan:  4:15) devouring the seeds planted by the sower (Miller, Women in Mark’s Gospel, 121–2). A Satanic subtext is also implied in the description of Jesus’ temple protest, when he “casts out” the sellers (11:15) and buyers just as he “casts out” demons and unclean spirits (ἐκβάλλω; 1:34, 39; 3:22; cf. 3:15; 6:13; 9:18, 28). 90. For the condemnation of the oppressors of widows, see Deut 27:19; Job 22:9–11; Ps 94:6; Ezek 22:7; Mal 3:5; Wis 2:10.

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Discipleship and Victimization Given the preceding observations, it is with good reason that Wright questions the overall coherence of interpreting 12:42–3 as a commendation of the poor widow’s offering. More is at work than ironic literary framing. The widow is precisely the kind of person whose needs Jesus would normally highlight for his disciples, and the temple is the very institution he has condemned due to the unjust and exploitative practices of its leaders. Thus on the one hand, as Malbon makes clear, attention to the overall Markan narrative suggests that Jesus commends the widow’s offering in 12:42–3. Yet, on the other hand, that same narrative context—especially the context of Mark 11–12—suggests that the widow, by virtue of her offering, has been unjustly devoured by Jesus’ opponents. Since it will not do to follow Wright in reading 12:42–3 as a lament, it would seem that the Gospel exhibits a deep narrative tension at this point. Jesus praises the widow’s gift; yet, in Susan Miller’s words, it is a “poignant” moment in which Mark likely “intends to leave us with a picture of the poverty of the widow.”91 To be clear, Malbon is willing to posit some degree of tension between the condemnation of 12:38–40 and the praise of 12:42–3. Yet, as previously noted, her tendency is to categorize this tension in largely christological terms: the fate of the widow is essentially the same as that of Jesus and his disciples. For Malbon, Wright’s discomfort with the widow’s fate is born of Mark’s passion-focused Gospel: Of course the widow’s gift of “her whole life” is not reasonable, but that is the same complaint that Peter makes (in 8:31–33) of Jesus’ willingness “to give his life as a ransom for the many” (10:45). Wright’s narrow contextual focus results in an unfortunate, if not unusual, case of “blaming the victim.” Perhaps we are to assume that the poor widow has been victimized by scribes who devour widows’ houses and by the authority of traditional religious teaching; surely the Marcan Jesus is victimized by the chief priests, scribes, and elders, those who traditionally hold authority in the temple and in the broader religious tradition.92

While I  follow this assessment to the degree that the widow evokes the pattern of Jesus’ own self-giving, there is one crucial difference having to do with the precise nature of her victimization. In Mark, not all unjust suffering is the same. Jesus suffers and dies because he heals the broken and reaches out to the marginalized. In particular, his ministry of healing and inclusion breaks with certain socio-religious conventions (forgiveness, sabbath, purity, etc.) and therefore elicits hostile responses from the authorities who uphold those conventions. Prior to his entry into Jerusalem, virtually every moment of conflict between Jesus and

91. Miller, Women in Mark’s Gospel, p. 124. 92.  Malbon, “The Poor Widow in Mark,” p.  596. Marcus draws directly on Malbon’s argument in Mark 8–16, p.  862, while the same basic point is made by Placher (Mark, 183) and Black (Mark, p. 263).

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rival leadership figures arises in accordance with this pattern (2:1–3:6; 7:1–23). Once he is in Jerusalem, it is Jesus’ prophetic demonstration in the temple that sets in motion the events leading to his arrest and crucifixion (11:18), yet, as already explained, this climactic sequence of events also comes down to Jesus’ mission of healing and inclusion. The antagonism between Jesus and the temple leadership in Mark 11–12 unfolds along the divide between an agenda of human flourishing, on the one hand, and an agenda of self-aggrandizement on the other hand. Jesus dies as a result of this antagonism, which is to say he dies because he refuses to back down from his agenda of human flourishing.93 Mark’s characterization of Jesus’ disciples follows this same pattern. At least with respect to the twelve apostles, Jesus appoints them and commissions them to participate in his own ministry of healing—to cast out demons, to heal the sick, and to herald these actions as God’s kingdom made manifest in the world (3:14–15; 6:7, 12). Moreover, at moments when Jesus predicts his own suffering and death, Mark takes care to follow those predictions with teachings about the Christ-like, self-giving nature of discipleship (8:31–8; 9:30–37; 10:32–45). The provocative intercalation of John the Baptist’s martyrdom vis-à-vis the healing mission of the twelve (6:7–30) further anticipates the hostile responses that await faithful disciples. Over the course of the narrative, then, the audience hears a correlation between Jesus’ ministry-leading-to-suffering, on the one hand, and the disciples’ ministry-leading-to-suffering on the other hand, even though the latter, temporally speaking, occurs largely outside the bounds of the narrative (10:39; 13:9–10). Stated simply, Jesus’ disciples suffer because they participate in his ministry. Also worth noting is the Markan emphasis on what anthropologists call fictive kinship. To the extent that disciples leave behind their ways of life to follow Jesus (1:16–20; 10:21, 28), they enter into a new family, a surrogate family defined by a common participation in Jesus’ kingdom ministry rather than by consanguinity and the accompanying concern for social honor. Mark indicates that the band of disciples, under Jesus’ leadership, cares for its own and can even repurpose certain possessions—for instance, Peter’s house (1:29–34) or fishing boats (4:1, 36; 6:32; 8:10)—for the sake of Jesus’ ministry.94 As Jesus tells Peter, “there is no one who has left house or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields, for my

93. This does not mean that Jesus’ death carries no theological significance. See Driggers, Following God through Mark, pp. 61–83; Driggers, “Jesus’ Atoning Life in the Gospel of Mark,” Lutheran Forum 44.4 (2010), pp. 11–14; Driggers, “God as Healer of Creation in the Gospel of Mark,” in Character Studies and the Gospel of Mark, ed. Christopher Skinner and Matthew Ryan Hauge (New York: Bloomsbury, 2014), pp. 81–106. See also Sharyn Dowd and Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “The Significance of Jesus’ Death in Mark: Narrative Context and Authorial Audience,” JBL 125 (2006), pp. 271–97. 94.  If there is an implied connection between Peter’s house and the city of Capernaum (1:21), then Jesus’ subsequent appearances in that city likely suggest the reuse of that house (2:1; 9:33).

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sake and for the sake of the good news, who will not receive a hundredfold now in this age—houses, brothers and sisters, mothers and children, and fields with persecutions—and in the age to come eternal life” (10:29–30; cf. 3:31–5).95 This is not to suggest that the Markan Jesus seeks to establish a stationary, redistributive community along the lines of Acts 2:43–7 and 4:32–7, since the kingdom mission in Mark is mainly itinerant in nature. The point is that the path of discipleship, while modeled on the self-giving passion of Jesus, is not ultimately a path of isolated self-deprivation. In the words of Boring: “Following Jesus does not lead to deprivation but to wholeness and fulfillment, not only in the world to come but in the here and now.”96 Mark’s characterization of the poor widow does not follow these patterns. In contrast to Jesus and the disciples, she is not called into Jesus’ itinerant kingdom ministry. She is only observed giving over her remaining assets to the very leaders whom Jesus (unbeknownst to her) has condemned for their unjust and exploitative practices. The irony surrounding the poor widow, then, is not only that she stands in thematic contrast to the self-aggrandizing scribes but that she helps to prop them up, albeit in a most minuscule way. Moreover, there is no indication that the widow enjoys a support network, whether in the form of a conventional or surrogate family.97 Jesus never engages her, much less calls her to follow (unlike his encounter with the rich man in 10:21). Thus Mark leaves the audience with a picture of her utter destitution, and not merely her poverty.98 It is not entirely accurate, then, to say that the widow’s victimization parallels that of Jesus and the disciples, or that Wright’s refusal to read 12:42–3 as praise is parallel to Peter’s rejection of the path of suffering. Wright may misread 12:42–3, but in my view he does not “blame the victim.” Rather he attempts to describe the widow’s victimization. Hers is a different kind of unjust suffering. To summarize this argument: that Mark’s depiction of the poor widow evokes the themes of Christ-like discipleship should not be taken to mean that the poor widow is an actual disciple of Jesus, as if her suffering were analogous to theirs. This is not to suggest that the disciples in Mark are a permanently fixed group,99 much less that they consist only of men (15:40–41; 16:1–8). It is simply to highlight important differences between the disciples and the poor widow so as to clarify the nature of her victimization. The widow should not be confused with

95.  See David M. May, “Leaving and Receiving:  A Social-Scientific Exegesis of Mark 10:29–31,” PRSt 17.2 (1990), pp. 141–51, 154. 96. Boring, Mark, p. 297. 97. Miller, Women in Mark’s Gospel, p. 114. 98. Giving more nuance to the insight of Miller, Women in Mark’s Gospel, p. 124. 99. As indicated by the various discipleship teachings addressed to “whoever” (ὅς) and “anyone” (τις) (3:35; 8:34; 9:35, 37, 40; 10:43–4). On the way in which Mark’s characterization of the disciples overlaps with (and differs from) his characterization of the crowds, see Malbon, “Disciples/Crowds/Whoever.”

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those whom Jesus has explicitly called to follow him, to be with him, to travel with him, to assist him in his ministry and—most importantly in this case—to suffer the world’s hostile response to that vocation. As David Rhoads perceptively notes, Jesus only teaches selfless service to two kinds of people: those “who already have status or power and want to maintain it” (his opponents) and those “who do not have status or power but who want to acquire it for themselves” (his disciples).100 Thus, much like the other minor characters who exhibit the traits of Christ-like discipleship, it would seem that the poor widow functions largely as a symbol of what the disciples too often lack.

Conclusion Having insisted on the symbolic function of the widow, I  want to conclude by acknowledging that she is not merely a symbol. She is very much a “real” person within the narrative, both with respect to her unjust plight and her admirable piety. Furthermore, her piety is in no way diminished by the injustice of the situation since, as Joel Marcus points out, it is possible “to recognize the corruption of an institution and the venality of its officers and at the same time to admire the piety of the simple souls who devote themselves to it in innocence and faith.”101 I have emphasized the widow’s symbolic function chiefly with respect to 12:43–4, as a way of clarifying, in defense of Malbon, how one can affirm the laudatory significance of Jesus’ words, while also honoring Wright’s concerns for the widow’s victimization. Ironically, it is the extremeness of Mark’s language—“everything she had . . . her whole life” (12:44)—that both encourages a parallel to discipleship at the symbolic level and establishes the tragedy of the widow’s plight at the literal level. Of course no mainstream scholar who acknowledges the injustice of 12:41–4 would deny that it conflicts with the gospel’s overall concern for human life and wholeness. Clarifying and emphasizing the tensive, dual meaning of Mark 12:41–4 is important, however, since a lack of precision with respect to the widow’s symbolic function can lead to problematically ambiguous descriptions of her significance. What does it mean, for instance, to say with little or no qualification, that the widow “represents a complete surrender to God and his mercy,”102 that in giving to the point of life-threatening poverty she provides “a model of Christian

100.  David Rhoads, Reading Mark:  Engaging the Gospel (Minneapolis:  Fortress Press, 2004), p. 50. 101.  Marcus, Mark 8–16, p. 863. So also Dowd: “But from her own point of view, the widow is giving, not to the scribes, the priests, or the temple, but to God” (Reading Mark, p. 134). Of course the widow’s point of view is not the same as that of the audience, which is aware of the temple leadership’s role in things. 102. Williams, Other Followers of Jesus, p. 176. See also van Iersel, Mark, p. 386; Strauss, Mark, p. 561.

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discipleship”?103 Were such descriptions applied to an actual disciple who, within the context of Jesus’ new family, risked her life for the sake of extending Jesus’ healing ministry, then they would fit the Markan template perfectly. However, as applied to a poor widow “who has been consumed”104 by Jesus’ enemies, such descriptions require the appropriate caveats, especially for the benefit of readers who aim to carry a Markan understanding of discipleship into congregational and para-church settings. A fully Markan interpretation, in my view, will acknowledge both the positive value of the widow’s action at the symbolic level, as well as the tragedy of her “suicidal gift”105 to an exploitative temple leadership. Even if Jesus’ commentary in 12:42–3 is a form of praise, Mark has given his audience substantial grounds for lamenting the faithful widow’s offering.

Works Cited Bauer, Walter. A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature. Revised and edited by Frederick W. Danker, 3rd ed. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000. Beavis, Mary Ann. “Women as Models of Faith in Mark,” Biblical Theology Bulletin 18, no. 1 (1988): 3–9. Black, C. Clifton. Mark. Abingdon New Testament Commentaries. Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2011. Bock, Darrell. Mark. New Cambridge Bible Commentary. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2015. Boring, M. Eugene. Mark: A Commentary. The New Testament Library. Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2006. Breyer, Chloe. “The Widow’s Might,” Journal of Religion and Health 43, no. 2 (2004): 123–6. Chávez, Emilio G. The Theological Significance of Jesus’ Temple Action in Mark’s Gospel. Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press, 2002. Collins, Adela Yarbro. Mark: A Commentary. Hermeneia: A Critical and Historical Commentary on the Bible. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2007. Culpepper, R. Alan. Mark. Smyth and Helwys Bible Commentary 20. Macon, GA; Smyth and Helwys, 2007. Derrett, J. Duncan M. “‘Eating Up the Houses of Widows’: Jesus’s Comment on Lawyers?” Novum Testamentum 14, no. 1 (1972): 1–9. Donahue, John R., and Daniel J. Harrington. The Gospel of Mark. Sacra Pagina 2. Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2002. Dowd, Sharyn E. Reading Mark: A Literary and Theological Commentary on the Second Gospel. Macon, GA: Smyth and Helwys, 2000.

103.  Stein, Mark, p.  580. See also Witherington, The Gospel of Mark, p.  335; France, Mark, p.  493; Moloney, The Gospel of Mark, pp.  247–8; Hartman, Mark for the Nations, p. 512. 104. Evans, Mark 8:27–16:20, p. 285. 105. Hare, Mark, p. 165.

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Dowd, Sharyn E., and Elizabeth Struthers Malbon. “The Significance of Jesus’ Death in Mark: Narrative Context and Authorial Audience,” Journal of Biblical Literature 125, no. 2 (2006): 271–97. Driggers, Ira Brent. Following God through Mark: Theological Tension in the Second Gospel. Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2007. Driggers, Ira Brent. “The Politics of Divine Presence: Temple as Locus of Conflict in the Gospel of Mark,” Biblical Interpretation 15, no. 3 (2007): 227–47. Driggers, Ira Brent. “Jesus’ Atoning Life in the Gospel of Mark,” Lutheran Form 44, no. 4 (2010): 11–14. Driggers, Ira Brent. “God as Healer of Creation in the Gospel of Mark.” In Character Studies and the Gospel of Mark. Library of New Testament Studies 483. Edited by Christopher W. Skinner and Matthew Ryan Hauge, 81–106. New York: Bloomsbury, 2014. Evans, Craig A. “Jesus’ Actions in the Temple: Cleansing or Portent of Destruction?” CBQ 51, no. 2 (1989): 237–70. Evans, Craig A. Mark 8:27–16:20. Word Biblical Commentary 34B. Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2001. Fitzmyer, Joseph A. The Gospel According to Luke X-XXIV: Introduction, Translation, and Notes. Anchor Bible 28A. Garden City, NY; Doubleday and Co., 1985. Fleddermann, Harry. “A Warning about the Scribes (Mark 12:37b-40),” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 44, no. 1 (1982): 52–67. France, R. T. Mark: A Commentary on the Greek Text. New International Greek New Testament Commentary. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002. Gray, Timothy C. The Temple in the Gospel of Mark: A Study in its Narrative Role. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2010. Hare, Douglas R. A. Mark. Westminster Bible Companion. Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1996. Hartman, Lars. Mark for the Nations: A Text- and Reader-Oriented Commentary. Eugene, OR: Pickwick, 2010. Healy, Mary. The Gospel of Mark. Catholic Commentary on Sacred Scripture. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2008. Hooker, Morna D. The Gospel According to Mark. Black’s New Testament Commentary 2. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1991. Horsley, Richard A. Hearing the Whole Story: The Politics of Plot in Mark’s Gospel. Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2001. Kelber, Werner H. The Kingdom in Mark: A New Place and New Time. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1974. Kinukawa, Hisako. Women and Jesus in Mark: A Japanese Feminist Perspective. Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 2003. First published 1994 by Orbis Books. LaVerdiere, Eugene. The Beginning of the Gospel: Introducing the Gospel According to Mark, vol. 2. Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1999. Malbon, Elizabeth Struthers. “Fallible Followers: Women and Men in the Gospel of Mark,” Semeia 28 (1983): 29–48. Malbon, Elizabeth Struthers. “Disciples/Crowds/Whoever: Markan Characters and Readers,” Novum Testamentum 28, no. 2 (1986): 104–30. Malbon, Elizabeth Struthers. “The Jewish Leaders in the Gospel of Mark: A Literary Study of Marcan Characterization,” Journal of Biblical Literature 108, no. 2 (1989): 259–81. Malbon, Elizabeth Struthers. “The Poor Widow in Mark and Her Poor Rich Readers,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 53, no. 4 (1991): 589–604.

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Malbon, Elizabeth Struthers. “The Major Importance of Minor Characters in Mark.” In The New Literary Criticism and the New Testament. Edited by Edgar V. McKnight and Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, 58–86. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1994. Malbon, Elizabeth Struthers. Mark’s Jesus: Characterization as Narrative Christology. Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2009. Marcus, Joel. “The Jewish War and the Sitz Im Leben of Mark,” Journal of Biblical Literature 111, no. 3 (1992): 441–62. Marcus, Joel. Mark 8–16: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. Anchor Yale Bible 27A. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009. May, David M. “Leaving and Receiving: A Social-Scientific Exegesis of Mark 10:29–31,” Perspectives in Religious Studies 17, no. 2 (1990): 141–51, 154. Miller Susan E. Women in Mark’s Gospel. New York: T&T Clark, 2004. Minor, Mitzi. The Spirituality of Mark: Responding to God. Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1996. Moloney, Francis J. The Gospel of Mark: A Commentary. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2002. Myers, Ched. Binding the Strong Man: A Political Reading of Mark’s Story of Jesus. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1997. Painter, John. Mark’s Gospel: Worlds in Conflict. London: Routledge, 1997. Placher, William C. Mark. Belief: A Theological Commentary on the Bible. Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2010. Powell, Mark Allan. What Is Narrative Criticism? Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1990. Resner, André Jr. “Reading the Text for Economic Justice: Mark 12:38–44 for Stewardship Season,” The Living Pulpit 12, no. 2 (2003): 6–7. Rhoads, David. Reading Mark: Engaging the Gospel. Minneapolis: Fortress Press 2004. Rhoads, David, Joanna Dewey, and Donald Michie. Mark as Story: An Introduction to the Narrative of a Gospel, 2nd ed. Minneapolis: Fortress, 1999. Sabin, Marie Noonan. Reopening the Word: Reading Mark as Theology in the Context of Early Judaism. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002. Seim, Turid Karlsen. The Double Message: Patterns of Gender in Luke-Acts. Nashville: Abingdon, 1994. Snodgrass, K. R. “Recent Research on the Parable of the Wicked Tenants: An Assessment,” Bulletin for Biblical Research 8 (1998): 187–216. Stein, Robert H. Mark. Baker Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament. Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2008. Strauss, Mark L. Mark. Zondervan Exegetical Commentary on the New Testament 2. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2014. Sugirtharajah, R. S. “The Widow’s Mites Revalued,” Expository Times 103 (1991): 42–3. Sweat, Laura C. The Theological Role of Paradox in the Gospel of Mark. Library of New Testament Studies 492. New York: Bloomsbury, 2013. van Iersel, Bas. Mark: A Reader-Response Commentary. Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement Series 164. Translated by W. H. Bisscheroux. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1998. Waetjen, Herman C. A Reordering of Power: A Socio-Political Reading of Mark’s Gospel. Minneapolis: Fortress, 1989. Wenell, Karen. “Contested Temple Space and Visionary Kingdom Space in Mark 11–12,” Biblical Interpretation 15, no. 3 (2007): 323–37. Williams, Joel F. Other Followers of Jesus: Minor Characters as Major Figures in Mark’s Gospel. Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement Series 102. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1994.

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Williams, Joel F. “Discipleship and Minor Characters in Mark’s Gospel,” Bibliotheca Sacra 153 (1996): 332–43. Witherington, Ben. The Gospel of Mark: A Socio-Rhetorical Commentary. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001. Wright, Addison G. “The Widow’s Mites: Praise or Lament? A Matter of Context,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 44, no. 2 (1982): 256–65.

Chapter 12 G E N D E R I N G T H E M AG N I F IC AT David J. A. Clines

Mary’s Magnificat (Lk 1:46–55) is an enchanting text that has inspired composers, liberation theologians and countless of the faithful—and feminist writers also. But from the perspective of a gender analysis, it is also a shocking text for its incorporation into the words of a female character so much masculine ideology. Hardly a word of it fails to reflect male language, and it is ripe for an exposure of its ideological bias. Here I plan to undertake a gender analysis of the Magnificat, asking how the three main characters in the poem are constructed—God, Mary, and the others.

The Construction of the Deity The issue here is how God is conceived of in the Magnificat. Strength and Power The most important characteristic of the deity in this canticle is strength. A capsule statement is verse 51: “The Mighty One (ὁ δυνατός) has done great things (μέγαλα).” It is not at all unusual for a deity to be described as “great”; in fact it is almost the default characteristic of deities everywhere, from Zeus Megistos to Allahu akbar. It is rarely noticed, however, that strength is definitional of a male deity. It is fundamental for the traditional male to be strong. Lack of strength, that is, weakness, is not a desirable male trait in traditional societies; even in our own less traditional and more egalitarian society lack of physical strength in a boy or a man is still deplored to a degree it is not in a girl or a woman. The Pauline injunction, “Quit you like men, be strong, ἀνδρίζεσθε, κραταιοῦσθε” (1 Cor 16:13), is evidence enough of the conjunction of masculinity and strength. In this hymn, a lot follows from this particular conception of the deity. It is not just that God is “the Mighty One” (in Zeph 3:17 of Yahweh, translating Hebrew ‫ ;)גִּ בּוֹר‬what a mighty one does are inevitably “great things” (Deut 10:21). He

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displays his strength (v. 51), literally “he made strength” (ἐποίησεν κράτος), using his “arm,” which is conventionally a symbol of strength, presumably in the sight of those who have just been mentioned, “those who fear him” (v. 50). To “make strength” is a strange phrase,1 but I take it to be a generalizing summary of the actions that follow in verses 51b–53 (plus perhaps 54), that is, to scatter (δια-σκορπίζω) the proud, putting down the mighty, raising those of low degree, filling the hungry, sending the rich away empty, and (perhaps also) taking the part (ἀντι-λαμβάνω)2 of Israel.3 In short, almost all that God has done has been an exhibition of his power. As a powerful deity, he is naturally first referred to by the epithet κύριος, “master, lord” (v. 46); as a lord he of course has power of many kinds: to scatter (διασκορπίζω) the proud (v. 51), to bring down (καθαιρέομαι) rulers from their thrones (v. 52), to send the rich away empty (v. 53), as well to elevate the oppressed (ταπεινός) and fill the hungry (vv. 52, 53). However he displays his power, the deity plays the role of a male, who are the persons with power and the persons who love to display it. Mary’s Magnificat is then largely in praise of the male deity and his strength. She hardly knows of any other aspect of the divine character, for the other aspects I will turn to are equally manifestations of his power. I  might remark that praising God for his strength must be the laziest compliment to pay to a deity. You would have thought that power was an essential element of a job description of any deity. Mercy But is there something else to deity apart from the exercise of force? We might think so, when appeal is made to his ἔλεος. The divine characteristic of ἔλεος, traditionally translated as “mercy,” is not, however, to be understood as a soft or quasi- feminine counterpart of strength. In its context in the Magnificat, it does not refer to any emotion or feeling of kindness or mercifulness, but corresponds to the Hebrew ‫ ֶח ֶסד‬.4 That term, though traditionally translated “lovingkindness,”

1. It is no doubt a Hebraism, ‫“ עשׂה ַחיִ ל‬to do valiantly” (e.g., Ps 60:14). 2.  I will not translate it “help” since I argue that a helper is always a subordinate; see “What Does Eve Do to Help? and Other Irredeemably Androcentric Orientations in Genesis 1–3,” in my What Does Eve Do to Help? and Other Readerly Questions to the Old Testament (Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series 94; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990), pp. 1–22 (3–7). 3.  Against Raymond Brown, who argues that “showing” is on an equal footing with the other verbs of these verses (The Birth of the Messiah:  A Commentary on the Infancy Narratives in Matthew and Luke [London: Geoffrey Chapman, 1977], p. 337). 4. Though the equivalence of ἔλεος with ‫ ֶח ֶסד‬is well recognized in the older literature (e.g., R. Bultmann, “ἔλεος κτλ.,” in TDOT, II [1964], pp. 477–87 [479]), it is not alluded to by, for example, Frederick W. Danker, in his Greek– English Lexicon of the New Testament (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000), p. 316.

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does not denote a feeling but a relationship of commitment. Here it is explicitly the anc ient Hebraic promise to the ancestors of what we may c all “covenanted support” (“as he said to our fathers,” v. 55). The same ἔλεος appeared already in v. 50, where his ἔλεος is directed to and restricted to “those who fear him,” that is, Israelites, who are bound by obligations of duty toward their covenant lord. The divine ἔλεος is thus not a generalized kindheartedness, since Israelites are its exclusive recipients, and it is not expressed in warm feelings but in tangible form by the deity’s taking the side of (ἀντιλαμβάνω) Israel, that is, against its enemies and oppressors (v. 54)—which necessarily implies by military means. This covenanted commitment is an expression of strength; it is nugatory if the person making promises is unable to deliver on them. It implies capability on the part of the one exercising ἔλεος. ἔλεος is, indeed, not the same as sheer strength since it has an interpersonal dimension as well as implying power. Strength could consist solely in the possession and exercise of power, whereas ἔλεος involves as well the support of a needy person in accord with former pledges. ‫ ֶח ֶסד‬and ἔλεος generally represent the action of a superior towards an inferior. They may not at first seem to constitute a male characteristic, but almost everywhere it is males who exercise ‫ ֶח ֶסד‬and ἔλεος , and possession of those qualities implies strength.5 Savior, Helper Two other terms may be thought to modify the dominant construction of God in this canticle as a mighty one. In verse 47 Mary calls him “God, my saviour,” and in verse 54 he takes the part (ἀντιλαμβάνω) of Israel. These terms do not of course refer to the exercise of sheer power, but to his activity on behalf of humans. They are therefore like ἔλεος. And equally with ἔλεος, these characteristics are praiseworthy only if they are effectual. If the deity takes the part of Israel, but is defeated, or if he attempts to save people but is not very successful, no one will thank him for trying. He has a right to these epithets only if he is able to bring the saving or the taking-the-part-of into effect; which is to say that these qualities are aspects of his strength and power, male qualities. Holiness There is one more term in the construction of the deity we need to look at. In verse 49, immediately after “the great one has done great things” we read “for holy is his name.” After the term “great,” “holy” must be the next most empty characteristic to ascribe to God. For holiness is nothing more than definitional of the divine: God

5. The only places in the Hebrew Bible where women are said to show ‫ ֶח ֶסד‬are Genesis 20:13 and Ruth 3:10, where the sense is something like “kindness,” a specific benefit that is not related to an earlier promise; this seems to be a specialized sense of the word.

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himself is holy, and only people and things devoted to him may be called holy. Thus to say that God is holy is really a tautology. But there is more to it than that. Holiness is also a male term. Not many people know, I suspect, that ‫“ ָקדוֹשׁ‬holy” never occurs in the feminine in the Hebrew Bible. Not only are there no “holy women,” the adjective is not even used with any feminine noun.6 Women cannot be holy, sanctified or consecrated.7 The sphere of holiness is exclusively male, which is not very surprising, since it is the essence of the male deity. Reversal A special coloration is given to Mary’s psalm by the depiction of how the Lord reverses (or, has reversed) the situations of the powerful and the powerless (vv. 52–3). He has “put down” the mighty from their thrones and exalted those of low status (ταπεινοί); he has filled the hungry with good things and sent the wealthy away empty. Leaving aside the question when this is supposed to have happened, and the bizarre notion of correcting social ills by merely reversing the social classes—as bizarre as solving world hunger by creating a new class of the hungry who were previously bankers—my present purpose is to read the text as a further manifestation of the divine male power. This degree of divine interference in human history and social order, which many would judge outrageous, is fantastic; it has a dreamlike quality of fantasy, and it is perhaps at this point that the poem has its greatest effect on those who identify with the poor and lowly. The strength of a deity can have no greater trial than such overwhelming social reversal. What we have learned so far is that the God who appears in the Magnificat is a male deity, whose primary characteristic is strength.

The Construction of the Speaker Mary begins to construct herself in the second verse of the Magnificat (v. 48): she calls herself a ταπεινή, a low-status woman who usually expects to be invisible; the Lord has, however, cast his eyes upon her (ἐπιβλέπω), and she has been brought out of invisibility into the limelight. 6. If you want to say “holy city” in Hebrew, you must say “city of holiness” (‫) ִﬠיד ק ֶֹךשׁ‬, as in Nehemiah 11:1, 18; Isaiah 48:2; Daniel 9:24 (the only occurrences). 7. A woman (Bathsheba) is once said to “sanctify” herself (‫ קךשׁ‬hithp.) “from her uncleanness” by bathing (2 Sam 11:4), but it is self-evident that this ritual makes her clean, not holy. What c an be sanctified or consecrated (‫ )קדשׁ‬are, for example, priests (Exod 19:22), the sabbath (Gen 2:3), male firstborn (Exod 13:2), the altar (Exod 29:27), the temple (2 Chron 36:14), the people of Israel, that is the males (Exod 19:10; Josh 3:5), war (Jer 6:4)— all of them objects in the public realm, which is to say, the world of males.

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“Lowly” (ταπεινή) The speaker thinks of herself as “lowly (ταπεινή),” but what does that mean? Commonly it is understood as referring to her humble disposition, “lowliness.” So NRSV, NAB (and similarly, I suppose, REB “lowly as she is”). But that will not work. The Lord has “looked upon” her ταπείνωσις and has consequently (we are to infer) done great things for her in making her mother of the messiah. If she really is humble, she would not be saying that it is because of her humility that God has chosen her, otherwise she would not be humble but a very proud humble person. It could be a line from the Life of Brian, but not from Luke’s Gospel. When a woman in the Hebrew Bible speaks of her low estate (‫)ﬠֳ נִ י‬, she is referring to the reproach or social disapproval that attends a married woman who has had no child; so Hannah in 1 Samuel 1:11, Leah in Genesis 29:32, and similarly Zion in 4 Ezra 9:45, speaking as a childless woman. But Mary is not yet married, and so earns no social reproach. Vernon Robbins thinks it must be the reproach that M ary will be subject to for having conc eived a child out of wedlock8; but that will not work either, since she can hardly be praising God for the very social reproach that he is responsible for causing. Her ταπείνωσις must be her social standing.9 The KJV and RSV already understood this, translating the term “low estate.” Yet there is nothing in Luke 1–2 to suggest that Mary and Joseph belong to the poor, since Jesus is provided with a Davidic line of descent in chapter 4, and Mary has a kinswoman, Elizabeth, who has married into an ancient priestly family. The only ταπείνωσις Mary suffers from is being a woman. While women may expect to be overlooked and disregarded, as do the poor generally, the Lord has “looked upon” (ἐπιβλέπω) her ταπείνωσις and has fastened on her for public display as mother of the Son of the Most High and the future king of Israel (vv. 32–33), as high an elevation as any woman could hope for. Maidservant (δουλή) It is common enough for devotees of a deity to proclaim themselves the god’s “slaves” or “servants.” Mary further abases herself, beyond her low estate as a woman, by calling herself a female slave of the deity. Considering how female slaves or servants of all cultures may expect to be used by their masters, it seems a little near the knuckle for Mary to use this term for the Most High whose (male) power has overshadowed her (v. 35). 8. Vernon K. Robbins, “Socio-Rhetorical Criticism: Mary, Elizabeth and the Magnificat as a Test Case,” in The New Literary Criticism and the New Testament, ed. Elizabeth Struthers Malbon and Edgar V. McKnight (JSNTSup, 109; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994), pp. 164–209 (183). 9. As Luke Timothy Johnson says, “ ‘Lowliness’ is not simply a mental attitude (‘humility’) but an objective condition” (The Gospel of Luke [Sacra pagina, 3; Collegeville, MN: The Liturgical Press, 1991], p. 42).

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These terms are Mary’s own evaluation of herself, but she did not invent the categorization. She learned them from her society. Hungry Mary, whose ταπείνωσις constructs her as one of the socially ταπεινοί, doubly “low” through being a woman, similarly ranks herself with the “hungry” who long to be filled with “good things” as against the rich who are destined to be sent “empty” away. This hunger is wider than a hunger for food, since its opposite is not food but “good things.” And the emptiness of the rich is not just an absence of food, but their deprivation of the good things they have enjoyed. It is a good sign that Mary does not rest content with the socially approved description of women and the poor as “lowly,” and with the religiously approved description of herself as a slave of the deity. In associating herself with the “hungry” she makes common cause with the ταπεινοί as “hungry,” that is, not content with the way things are but desirous of change. Blessed All generations will call her blessed (μακαριοῦσίν, με v. 48). In constructing herself as “blessed,” Mary sees her own worth as arising from no quality of her own, from no desire or effort that she has had or expended, but from a chance event. She will be praised by future generations solely because she has become, without her own volition, a mother. It is not a circumstance she has aspired to or prepared herself for; it has been thrust upon her by the “power” of the “Most High” (v. 35). She is a victim who has accepted the divinely imposed lot, a complicit victim but a victim nevertheless. She is being used by the male world, which needs a mother for the Son of God. A Cog in a Machine It is very noticeable in Mary’s canticle how soon she stops speaking of herself (by the end of the fourth verse, out of ten) and turns her attention to God and to Israel (vv. 50–55).10 In so doing, she denies her own subjectivity. After verse 50 she does not even figure in the narrative she creates about God’s “help” for his servant Israel. Though the character Mary does not know what she is doing, she is constructing herself as a cog in a machine, as a necessary function for the furtherance of God’s plans, but nothing more. She does not even show an explicit awareness of how her motherhood can have anything to do with the divine plan, or any understanding

10.  A characteristic move is to speak of this change of direction in the Magnificat as a “widening out” of its scope (see, e.g., Johnson, The Gospel of Luke, p. 43). It might better be thought of as a loss of focus.

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of how the “great things” God has done for her (v. 49) may be connected with his “mercy” (v. 50) towards God-fearers in general.

The Construction of the Others Beside the deity and Mary herself, who else appears in the hymn? First, there is God’s servant Israel, specified in wholly, and unnecessarily, male language as “our fathers, Abraham, and his seed” (vv. 54–55), a triply inscribed masculinity. They are those who “fear” the Lord (v. 50). And, second, there are those who are called the “proud in the imagination of their hearts,” the “mighty” and the “rich” (vv. 51–53). This opposition of the devout and the wicked is a time-honored one in Hebrew literature. Most commentators note the psalmic language, but not that the language brings with it the psalmic ideology, masculine through and through, of the binary division of humankind into the pious and their enemies and of divinely sanctioned violence against the psalmists’ enemies. This is a sad enough theology in itself, that knows only two ways, two spirits, two destinies; but we should not fail to notice that, like binary oppositions generally, it stands open to deconstruction. For the seed of Abraham, the heirs of the promise, must also, regrettably, include those very proud and mighty and rich who will come to a bad end (there is no hint in the Magnificat that these wicked people are foreigners). And the desire of the hungry and lowly to supplant the proud and mighty, to take their place and their power, becoming in their turn, no doubt, proud and mighty and rich, is a further undermining of the distinction.11 From the perspective of the canticle, indeed, we might say that the mighty and rich are no more than those who are on the way to becoming poor and downtrodden, while the empty, hungry God-fearers can only be depicted as those who have in their sights the power and money of the rich. The upshot of this analysis is, to my mind, that Mary, though a sympathetic character, has been forced in the very canticle ascribed to her to succumb to male ideology, that is, to seeing the only solution to oppression as the reversal of roles, putting the poor on thrones and perpetuating the structure of domination. There is no space here for the reformation of wrongdoers, no room for any self-doubt on the part of God-fearers. And her canticle is far from being The great New Testament song of liberation—personal and social, moral and economic—a revolutionary document of intense conflict and victory. It praises 11.  It would be a total mistake, thinks Walter Schmithals (Das Evangelium nach Lukas [Zürcher Bibelkommentare; Zurich:  Theologische Verlag, 1980], p.  31), to imagine that Luke is thinking of a political revolution or a social upheaval; these are God’s acts of salvation. But what then are the thrones, and why is the divine plan so full of the language of political revolution?

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God’s liberating actions on behalf of the speaker, which are paradigmatic of all of God’s actions on behalf of marginal and oppressed people.12

There is no liberation here: Mary, even if mother of the king of Israel, remains no more than that; she has no significance apart from her (forcible) motherhood. And God’s actions for the reversal of power go no further than wishful thinking: aorist verbs may be used, as if the eschaton has arrived, but nothing has actually happened. The world is perhaps better off without any reversal in such terms as are used in the Magnificat—which exclude, for example, a more just distribution of power and wealth. More pertinent is Jane Schaberg’s summary statement of the effect of Luke’s portrayal of women generally in his Gospel: Claiming the authority of Jesus, [Luke’s] portrayal [of women] is an attempt to legitimate male domination in the Christianity of the author’s time. It was successful.13

If what I have argued amounts to a disenchantment of an enchanting text, there is a loss; but also a gain. For I think that disenchantment especially of sacred texts is the proper task of critical scholarship. Its purpose is not to remove magic (enchantment) from our lives or our texts but to dethrone it and show it for what it is.

12.  Jane Schaberg, “Luke,” in Women’s Bible Commentary, ed. Carol A. Newsom and Sharon H. Ringe (rev. ed., 1998; Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press), p. 373. 13. Schaberg, “Luke,” p. 363.

Chapter 13 P AU L A N D   M A R K A Family Resemblance Calvin J. Roetzel

I am honored and pleased to share in this project honoring Elizabeth Struthers Malbon from whom I have learned much. Her work on nuanced narrative space has inspired my thinking about ways that emphasis was shared by the Apostle Paul, her service on the SBL Program Committee when I was also a member was impressive and enjoyable, and her willingness to introduce me to important historic Roman sites all combine to cause me to greatly value her unselfish, intelligent, critical, caring, and kindly spirit. Her retirement, though well deserved, will deprive the profession and the society of rare and needed gifts. Only recently by the academic clock have scholars begun to explore the possibility of a shared narrative space by Paul and Mark. For almost a century, Martin Werner’s decisive rejection of any direct influence of Pauline theology on the Gospel of Mark foreclosed any academic consideration of that possibility.1 It was Werner’s view that the parallels, however suggestive, of a literary relationship between Paul and Mark, were due to a mutual dependence on early Christian traditions rather than a literary interdependence. But Joel Marcus and others have persuaded me that the tide is shifting.2 While there is hardly room here for a full recounting of challenges to Werner’s position, there are important studies underway that promise to show that the tide is not merely shifting but has already shifted.3 If it should be proven that Mark’s author was acquainted with and influenced by either the Pauline letters or a Pauline tradition, the implications for New Testament scholarship would be difficult to exaggerate. With Mark setting the pace, the other two synoptics had 1.  See Martin Werner, Der Einfluss paulinischer Theologie im Markusevangelium: Eine Studie zur neutestamentlichen Theologie (BZNW1: Giessen: Töpelmann, 1923). 2. Joel Marcus, “Mark—Interpreter of Paul,” NTS 45 (2000), pp. 473–87. Marcus offers a full accounting of multiple efforts pushing back against Werner’s argument. 3.  I am aware of graduate research on that relationship is currently underway at the University of Chicago and the University of Heidelberg.

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to accommodate that directive however contentious that accommodation might have been. In an effort to facilitate this discussion and to properly honor Elizabeth Malbon I will focus on one small point that Marcus’ seminal article mentions in passing, that is, their shared and unusually negative view of the disciple Peter.4 We enter our topic through a consideration of Paul’s promotion of an offering project whose symbolic meaning would have had enormous implications for the later narrative Mark constructed under the influence of Paul. I gain entry indirectly to a possible connection of Mark and Paul through a short treatment of Paul’s offering project. No scholarly silence exists about his offering for the hoi ptôchoi tôn hagiôn (the “poor among the saints”) in Jerusalem. English works by Giorgi5 and Nickle6 are well known, and studies by Longenecker,7 Johannes Munck, and others have dealt with benefaction in the early church. A score of UK scholars have focused on the offering as well, but most scholars, English and German, deal with the theological, not social or anthropological, dimensions of the offering in the ancient world.8 Stephan Joubert’s use of a wider disciplinary lens is exceptional, and his thesis informs this short study.9 Following Saller’s study of Seneca, Joubert allowed that the gift protocol of the North American native, archaic peoples well studied by Marcel Mauss was similar to that of the Roman world. In both archaic and Roman cultures failure to reciprocate a gift was seen as a repudiation of solidarity and was considered an act so hostile that it could trigger conflict.10 The wide-angle optic Joubert used was first honed by the French anthropologist Mauss.11 Mauss’ work already enjoyed the acclaim of Mary Douglas.12 She called 4. Marcus, “Mark—Interpreter of Paul,” p. 475. 5.  Dieter Giorgi, Remembering the Poor: The History of Paul’s Collection for Jerusalem (Nashville: Abingdon, 1992). 6.  Keith F. Nickle, The Collection:  A Study in Paul’s Strategy (Naperville:  Alec R. Allenson, 1966). 7. See his bibliography. 8.  The most recent mammoth 653-page treatment by John M. G. Barclay, Paul & the Gift (Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans, 2015), makes my point well. 9.  Stephan Joubert, Paul as Benefactor, Reciprocity, Strategy, and Theological Reflection in Paul’s Collection, Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament 2. Reihe, 124 (Tübingen:  Mohr Siebeck, 2000). This study was supervised by Klauck when he taught at Münster. 10. Joubert, Paul as Benefactor, pp. 70–71. 11. See his Essai sur le Don. 12. First published in Paris in 1925, Mauss’ little tractate belatedly appeared in English in 1954 (Free Press), then again in 1990, 2000 (Routledge), and 2011 (Martino Publishing). It gained further attention in the works of Claude Lévi-Strauss’ Les Structures Elémentaires de la Parenté in 1971, and R. P. Saller on patronage in the early Roman empire. Introductions to English translations by such notables as Evans-Pritchard and Mary Douglas lent it additional stature.

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that study “profound and original,” she deemed it a welcome antidote to the individualistic emphases of most studies of archaic peoples, and she opined that it was exceedingly relevant for contemporary interdisciplinary study. Here we will attempt to profit from her judgment. The esteemed Pauline scholar, John Barclay of the UK recently mentioned the work positively, but largely failed to exploit its significance for the gift that Paul orchestrated for the “saints” in Jerusalem.13 The studies of Mauss and Joubert, I believe, have profound significance not only for a study of the collection that Paul promoted, but indirectly for both a consideration of Paul’s grand eschatological vision and for the study of the Gospel of Mark. The structure of that gift exchange protocol formula will inform this study of the project Paul promoted and defended for almost a decade, and which he imbued with an apocalyptic fervor and symbolic reach that validated a Gentile mission under almost constant attack. Embedded in Mauss’ gift formula was the absolute and unalterable obligation to reciprocate an initial gift with one of equal or superior value and the role that reciprocity played as a signifier of solidarity. Given the powerful anthropological significance of such exchanges, any disruption of that formula was considered shameful and dishonorable. In the Roman Empire as well as among North American native peoples that reciprocal gesture carried a communal valence of profound significance. That exchange in the Roman setting was hardly between equals and could become an instrument of power and control; this later point underscores the importance of the Paul/Peter transactions to which Paul’s Galatians refers. In the structured Roman society any refusal of the superordinate’s gift bespoke a repudiation that conveyed the message, “I want nothing to do with you.” Such a rejection at either end of the formulaic exchange thus carried multiple symbolic meanings that were always negative. The studies by Mauss and Joubert reveal emerging fractures in the early Jesus movement between the apostle Paul and the disciple Peter and the Jerusalem “pillars.” Both the length of Paul’s multi-year offering project and its broad geographical reach underscored the point that while the target was the poor among the saints in Jerusalem, the contributions coming from dirt poor Gentile converts was pregnant with multiple meanings. Yes, there was something special about the Jerusalem target. Jerusalem was the symbolic center of Paul’s world and that of his peers. Offerings flowed or trickled there from the Diaspora, affirming its primal mythic status as the site of the most intimate link between heaven and earth, or between God and the Hebrew people. Even Philo, who rarely returned to Jerusalem, made much of the single visit he recalled. The prophetic vision that a world bathed in eschatological bliss would someday assemble in Jerusalem to praise Israel’s God was a common legacy of Hebraic peoples. The apocalyptic vision of the Qumran sect of a purified temple also placed Jerusalem at the center. So, that Jerusalem should be the organic center of Paul’s offering discourse and of

13.  See John Barclay, Paul & the Gift (Michigan/Cambridge: Grand Rapids, 2015)—a work of some 615 pages!

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the mother church’s ability to set terms for its endorsement of Paul’s Gentile gospel was totally consistent. That singular fact justifies our beginning this discussion with a summary of Paul’s post hoc sarcastic recall of his consultation there with the “so-called pillars (stuloi)” (Gal 2:6–10). Later he wrote of traveling there to gain the “pillars” endorsement of his apostolic call and mission and to receive their endorsement of his Gentile gospel. That journey and consultation with the Jerusalem core group wittingly or unwittingly implied their super and his subordinate status, and in spite of his protestations the quest implicitly recognized the legitimating authority resident there. That presumption accorded enormous power to the Jerusalem cohort (disciples Peter, James and John, and the other James, Jesus’ brother). Their handshake that Paul recalled that sealed an agreement was hardly a pact between equals. The implied authority of the Jerusalem circle authorized it to specify that Paul’s Gentile converts reciprocate their endorsement of his mission (their gift) with a gift from the Gentile converts for the “poor” (anawim, ebionim in Hebrew or ptôchoi in Greek) in Jerusalem. Even allowing for Paul’s later flawed memory of that transaction, his statement that “I was eager to do” (2:10) sounds somewhat disingenuous. Nevertheless, multiple Pauline letters (1 Cor 16:1–4; 2 Cor 8–9, Rom 15:22–32, and Gal 2:1–10) that chronicle the apostle’s commitment to enlist his Gentile converts in this reciprocal gesture (Rom 15:22–32) reveal the symbolic importance he accorded this gesture. Given customary Roman practice, the symbolic value of that gift that all parties recognized would do much more than meet basic human need, though it would do that; it would affirm a solidarity, a covenantal relationship, even a kinship of Gentile converts with God’s elect (Gal 4:5; Rom 8:15, 23; 9:4). Such a symbolic or mythic incorporation would make them “heirs” or “joint-heirs” (Gal 3:29; 4:1, 7; Rom 8:17) with the elect of Israel. As years later he wintered in Corinth awaiting the spring shipping season when he with the delegation of Gentile converts would set out to deliver the collection, Paul recited once again his recall of the gift reciprocity formula: “For if the ethnê (Gentiles) shared in the pneumatikoî (spiritual things) of them (Jerusalem believers) they (the Gentiles) ought also to minister to them (reciprocate) with sarkikoîs (fleshly things)” (Rom 15:27). So in spite of all of Paul’s gainsaying in Galatians that he was earlier commissioned by God directly to preach a gospel to and perform an adoption ritual of Gentile converts into Israel’s elect as joint heirs (Gal 1:11–17; 2:6), his protestations conflict with the realities he later recited. That complicated and even contradictory post hoc recall of the Jerusalem transaction (Gal 2:1–10) affirming the superordinate status of the Jerusalem “pillars” Paul would later qualify in 2 Corinthians 8. We turn now to Paul’s later reflections on the offering protocol that he earlier had accepted. I  note two passages from the letters that suggest a Pauline adjustment of the traditional modus operandi. The first is the Christological summary he offered in a later letter (2 Cor 8:4, 6, 7, 19): “For you know that the grace (charis [gift]) of our Lord Jesus, that though he was rich became poor, in order that you who are poor might become rich.” Here Paul made the God the presumptive, primal superordinate (not the Jerusalem “pillars”), a statement which he grounded in the gift formula, that is, God’s gift of

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Jesus, and this rephrasing clearly disrupted the protocol of the gift-formula the culture dictated and the “pillars” probably presumed. We ache to know exactly how the Jerusalem cohort would have understood the “agreement” with Paul and if his later adjustments would have set off alarm bells. One is entitled to wonder if the news of Paul’s adjustment of the traditional gift formula to include believing Gentiles into the elect without the usual prerequisites of adoption (circumcision and law observance) might have sparked off second thoughts in Jerusalem about the wisdom of their earlier endorsement of Paul’s claim to apostolic status on the basis of a vision and his Gentile gospel and mission. In light of his version of the traditional gift formula in Romans 15:25–7 and his revision in 2 Corinthians 8 some may wonder at Paul’s inconsistency; it is entirely possible that the two versions were incompatible but each context made its own demand and Paul may have been simply adjusting the formula to fit a different contest. Under pressure to entice Greek Gentile converts to support the offering project for the “poor among the saints in Jerusalem,” he could not have been unaware of the extreme poverty of his Gentile addressees. In 2 Corinthians 8, he clearly recognized the limits that the Corinthian abject poverty imposed on the size of their reciprocation (Bartchy estimates 1/3 were slaves and 1/3 freed).14 Paul explicitly noted: “I do not mean that there should be relief for others and a burden (thlipsis) for you, but it is a question of isotétos (equality) between your present abundance (perisseuma), and their need (husteréma), so that their abundance (perusseuma) may [perhaps in the future] be for your need (husteréma), in order that there may be isotétos (equality).” In that recognition, however, he made this exchange as one between equals, which was a clear adjustment of the traditional formula. Please note the order of giver to receiver was reversed and an equity was affirmed that would violate the spirit of the gift exchange formula Paul earlier seemed to accept (see Gal 2:9). While I partially agree with Joubert that Paul “conceptualized the collection as an undertaking that was intended to address Jerusalem’s poverty,”15 I think it was more, much more. The oft-presumed beneficent-reciprocal act that Paul imaged was to forge a solidarity between Jew and Gentile. The acceptance of the offering of the Gentile churches would not only have met real need; more importantly, it would have affirmed an eschatological family of Jewish believers and Gentile converts that the prophets envisioned taking place in the future. In 2 Corinthians, Paul sketched that end-time drama with an imagined scenario that is still breathtaking. This chapter, as I have argued elsewhere, appears to be a round robin letter carried to Gentile churches in Achaia inviting their participation in the offering project.16 Paul constructs a dramatic scene that sets his

14. Bartchy, S. Scott, MALLON CRÊSAI: First-Century Slavery and the Interpretation of 1 Corinthians 7:21 (SBLDS 11; Missoula: Scholars Press, 1973). 15. Joubert, Paul as Benefactor, p. 146. 16. See my 2 Corinthians, Abingdon New Testament Commentaries (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 2007).

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Achaian Gentile readers beside their Jewish brothers and sisters in Jerusalem in an apocalyptic moment of praise and thanksgiving to God. That imagined eschatological moment might have been fed by multiple prophetic texts (Is 45:14; 60:1–22; Mic 4:1—2, 13, and the LXX of Is 23:14–24:1). It imagined a great choir of Jew and Gentile joining voice to voice, base to tenor and alto to soprano in one great chorus of thanksgiving and praise that moved Paul to exclaim involuntarily: “Thanks be to God for his indescribable gift” (2 Cor 9:15).17 The magic of that transported moment, however, became more sober just weeks later as Paul scribed Romans 15 from Corinth. While enjoying the hospitality of his former convert Gaius, Paul dictated his letter to the Roman churches and prepared for the spring trip first to Jerusalem with the offering and the delegation chosen to deliver it; then his mind raced back to Rome and beyond to Spain. As he pondered this prospect, dark, disturbing thoughts troubled him. His mood darkened (Rom 15:31), and the bright exultation of the grand moment conjured in 2 Corinthians 9 clouded to a sober, pensive, anxious, almost palpable dark and anxious dread. The prospect of a public meeting with key members of the Jerusalem cohort stoked afresh the pain that sill lingered from their last meeting in Antioch. The hurt of the public shouting match with Peter there still throbbed (Gal 2:32–16). The sting from earlier challenges from “those of James” (Gal 2:11–14) combined with the vivid memory of the beatings from hostile synagogue factions and the scars they etched on his back (2 Cor 11:24). All of these combined to move Paul to plaintively beg for their prayers that “my ministry (diakonía, offering) may be acceptable to the holy ones (hagíois)” (15:31). That ministry, code for material (fleshly) gift, which was to reciprocate Jerusalem for “spiritual blessings” (15:27) and was to affirm a koinonía (community) between giver and recipient, was in jeopardy. But the real possibility of a rejection of the gift would have been a slap in the face, a repudiation of everything he fought, bled and almost died for. It would have brought his grand eschatological vision into question; it would have clouded the future of his Gentile mission and would have heaped shame and dishonor on him, his apostleship and his gospel. With that plaintive prayer request, Paul’s voice goes silent. For information about the gift’s reception, we are inevitably driven to the later, perhaps much later, account of Luke’s Acts.18 Given Luke’s immersion in Greek and Roman culture, it is impossible to imagine that he was unaware of the importance of the traditional gift formula as he scribed the Acts. As Joubert well noted, Luke did know a good deal about the offering. He knew the Pauline letters; he knew from whence the offering came and to whom it was going. He recognized its symbolic significance. He knew about the delegation Paul was leading, and he knew about the opposition to Paul’s “circumcision free” gospel and accusations that his Gentile gospel was antinomian (Acts 21:21). He knew of Paul’s meeting with the Jerusalem “elders.”

17. For a fuller discussion see my 2 Corinthians, pp. 152–7. 18. Richard Pervo, The Dating of Acts (Santa Rosa, CA: Polebridge Press, 2006).

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Nevertheless, his silence about the reception of the offering is deafening. What can that possibly mean? The great German New Testament scholar Roloff put it best when he said: “Er übergeht die Kollekte nicht etwa, weil sie in seinen Augen unwichtig wäre, sondern—paradoxerweise—weil er von ihrer überragenden Bedeutung wusste! Ihm war aus seinen Quellen bekannt, dass die Jerusalemer das Opfer der Heiden nicht angenommen haben.”19 In other words, “Luke passed over the collection not because it was unimportant, but, paradoxically, because he knew it was supremely important. From his sources he knew that the Jerusalem cohort had not accepted the offering of the Gentiles.” With minor adjustments Pesch and Gerd Lüdemann have both supported Roloff ’s judgment. Joubert also recognized the heaviness of Luke’s ominous silence, and offered an unsatisfying and specious “happy ending.” Drawing on Acts, Joubert believed, Paul struck a deal with the Jerusalem pillars that allowed him to prove that he was law-abiding and loyal to the Judean traditions. Through a contrived performance of the Nazarite vow—that is, the shaving of head, offering of lambs, and other acts20—Joubert imagines, Paul could have assuaged the worries of the Jerusalem elders.21 That concession, he offered, would have refuted the critics and made it possible for the Jerusalem church to accept the offering. But nothing in Acts supports that view. Joubert argued that even if the Jerusalem church did not accept the offering, Paul’s performance of the Nazarite vow made it possible for the Jerusalem elders to accept the offering even in failure because he demonstrated his fealty to the law. But, in the aftermath of this gesture of conciliation, Acts reports that Paul was arrested, and accused by hostile Jews of bringing a Gentile into the temple (21:27–36), and Acts offers no record of protests from Peter, the “pillars,” or the Jerusalem “elders.” Thus in Joubert’s view even though Paul would have succeeded at one level he would have failed at another. I find that construction unpersuasive. If the Jerusalem church did indeed reject the offering, one can understand Luke’s omission of that rejection in Acts. His presentation of Paul as the hero of the early “Christian” narrative and his narrative highlighting Paul’s trip to and final repose in Rome made it difficult, if not impossible, to conjure a narrative containing a Pauline failure in Jerusalem. That may explain Luke’s omission of the rejection. Please note that in spite of Luke’s construction of a parallel narrative that brought Paul and Peter into full agreement, there is not a single word from Peter in the Acts account defending Paul after his detention in Jerusalem. Nor is there any reference to a reconciliation between them in the concluding conflict-ridden Acts narrative.

19. J. Roloff, Die Apostelgeschichte, NTD5 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck, 1981), p. 312. 20. Joubert, Paul as Benefactor, p. 214. 21. Please note that Luke credited the Jerusalem leadership solely for the Nazarite strategy, but surely Paul played some role in the process if indeed one took place at all. See Joubert, Paul as Benefactor, p. 214.

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Although there is much that is valuable about Joubert’s treatment, I cannot go with his final reading of the silence about the offering in Acts. The question with which we are left is that more, much more, needs to be done on the Acts account and the outcome of the offering project. A simple “theological” accounting that ignores the anthropological and social significance of the offering project formula is basically unsatisfying. Is Luke’s account really historical? Do its silences speak volumes suggesting a rejection of the offering by the Jerusalem church? Is this the first crack in the solidarity of Jew and Gentile in the emergent Jesus movement that would slowly widen into the absolute split that Boyarin has sought to trace?22 And if so, what might the reasons have been for Luke’s deliberate silence about the offering’s acceptance of rejection? It is true that a rejection of the offering and the solidarity its acceptance symbolized would have placed the Gentile mission Paul led under a cloud. I think that Mauss’ construction of the gift formula and the highly favorable commentary by Mary Douglas noted above, should better attune us to the supreme importance of the presentation of the offering mandated by the Jerusalem “pillars” and which he so assiduously promoted for many years (see 1 Cor 15:1–4, 2 Cor 8 and 9, Rom 15, and Gal 2). Did the superordinate status of that core group authorize it to control the legitimating process, including the possible withdrawal of its endorsement? Moreover, tensions with Rome in the fifties and synagogue antipathy to Paul's Gospel pitted some law-observant Jewish Christians against non-observant Diaspora Gentile converts.23 Also, might Paul’s self-acknowledged opposition by other factions of the church in Corinth, Galatia, and Philippi (also see Rom 3:8), have made the environment so toxic that acceptance of the offering was already compromised before Paul arrived in Jerusalem with the delegation of Gentile converts? Would such a reading help us better understand the Pauline reclamation project of Luke’s Acts and better appreciate the concern of certain Deutero-Pauline writings, for example, Ephesians, about the wall of separation between Jew and Gentile?24 A presumed rejection of the offering by the leaders of the Jerusalem mother church (Peter, James, John, and others) would help us understand the lengths to which Luke’s Acts goes to paper over a possible split between the Pauline and Petrine factions in the early church. If penned as late as Pervo has argued (ca. 125 CE), then new light is shed on the puzzling end of the narrative suggesting that the mission to the Jews has failed and now the “salvation of God has been sent to the Gentiles; they will listen” (Acts 28:28, RSV, my emphasis).25 Moreover, the fact 22.  Boyarin, Daniel. Border Lines:  The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007). 23. See the published form of Rhoad’s brilliant dissertation directed by W. D. Davies: Israel in Revolution: 6–74 C.E. (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1976). 24.  See C. J. Roetzel, “Jewish Christian-Gentile Christian Relations:  A Discussion of Ephesians 2:15a,” ZNW 74 (1981), pp. 81–9. 25.  Richard I. Pervo, Dating Acts, Between the Evangelists and the Apologiusts (Santa Rosa, CA: Polebridge Press, 2006).

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that the earlier speeches put on Peter’s lips that defend and advocate a Pauline Gentile gospel may reflect a turn that was taking place two generations after Paul and a modus operandi that Paul’s letters nowhere support, that is, that Paul’s mission strategy was to go to the synagogues first and only after their rejection did he go to the Gentiles. This argument for the sameness of the Petrine and Pauline vision of the Gentile mission so contradicts Paul’s own recall in Galatians 2 and 2 Corinthians 11:21b–12:10 that it is difficult to reconcile with what we know as historical fact. This brings us to our brief consideration of the Gospel of Mark. Mark, scribed over a decade after Paul wrote what was arguably his last letter, Romans (57–58 CE). That distance would have allowed time for word of the Pauline tradition to spread and for that tradition or even his letters to shape Mark’s Jesus narrative.26 Had the Marcan author known of the tensions noted above between Paul and Peter and had he favored the Pauline tradition as Marcus suggests, then his unflattering portrait of Peter would assume added importance. The literary critical suggestion that Mark’s portrait of the flawed, obtuse, and clueless disciple Peter served to emphasize his messianic secrecy motif has appeal,27 but such a judgment hardly rules out the real possibility that Mark’s author sided with Paul against Peter. Also, the starkly negative portrait of Paul in the equally negative portrayal in the Kerygma Petrou may contain a genuine historical reminiscence with the Pauline tradition.28 Mark’s starkly negative portrait of Peter gains credence from the ways both Matthew and Luke race to retouch it. The first Markan sketch that I note occurs in 8:27–33 and will be familiar to most. In that episode after confessing Jesus to be the Christ (8:29) Peter rebuked Jesus for suggesting that the “son of man” would suffer much, be reviled, humiliated, finally killed (8:31). Mark has Peter scold Jesus for harboring such an idea (8:32) and has Jesus rebuke Peter for being an agent of Satan whose ideas resemble those of “humankind” more than those “of God” (8:33). Interestingly, both Matthew and Luke rush to retouch this portrait. Matthew decidedly qualifies Jesus’ rebuke by elevating the importance of Peter’s confession of Jesus as the Christ “the son of the living God” (16:16), making it the Rock on which the church is built and by having Jesus entrust to Peter the “keys of the kingdom of heaven” (16:19). Jesus’ rebuke of Peter in Mark was omitted entirely by Luke. We turn now to consider a second Markan negative portrait of Peter, one that not only depicts Peter as sleeping while Jesus agonizes in the garden, but also features Peter’s denial of Jesus as he is dying on the cross. Mark’s sketch of the crucifixion with Peter watching from a safe distance offers a threefold denial, and when

26. See the position of Joel Marcus above. 27. David Rhoads, Joanna Dewey, and Donald Michie, Mark As Story, An Introduction to the Narrative of a Gospel, 2nd ed. (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1999). 28. See note 2.

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Peter is accused of being an accomplice he emphatically curses and swears that he does not know Jesus (14:71). Matthew does report this event while slightly exaggerating Peter’s remorse after the cock crow by having Peter weep “bitterly (pikrõs)” (Mt 26:75, my emphasis). Interestingly, Luke removed entirely the Petrine curse (Lk 22:60). While these two instances suggest a discomfort with the Markan portrayal of Peter, they hardly prove Markan dependence on the Pauline letters; but they do hint of a connection with a Pauline tradition. Such a reading of Mark is made more credible if, as I have argued above, the “pillars” headed by Peter rejected the offering project that Paul defended and promoted for most of his ministry (see Gal, 1 Cor 16, 2 Cor 8 and 9, and Rom 15). Such a rejection would not necessarily have led to the ugly divorce that was yet to come, but the bitterness would have lingered to poison the discourse of the early church. Such a toxic situation would account for the peace and harmony Luke proposes in Acts to reconcile a fractured church. The assumption of such a bitter family quarrel may help us better understand the tension between Paul and Peter rising to the surface in later documents. Offering some confirmation of the position taken here are the glimpses of the flashes from communal fires elsewhere. From within the canon I think the contest was intramural as in the gospel of John (9:22; 12:42; l6:2), and in Revelation as well. (See there references to the venom of the church in Smyrna for those who “say they are Jews and are not, but are a synagogue of Satan” [Rev 9:8–9]). Also within the canon disciples of the Pauline tradition clearly surface in the DeuteroPauline letters. Even in Paul’s letter to the Romans (chapter 14) the strain of the life together of the Jewish and Gentile factions troubles him. It is hard to imagine such a family quarrel without some sense of Peter’s voice off stage. Outside the canon we hear of multiple sources like the Gospel of the Hebrews and the Gospel of the Ebionites which attest to the existence of a Petrine faction.29 The conflict of those separate visions later broke into the open in the pseudo-Clementines. There the Kerygmata Petrou (or Proclamations of Peter) openly disputed Paul’s claim to apostolic legitimacy mediated through a vision (Gal 1:12–13), and challenged him to be a friend to the “apostles” who spent years with the living Jesus (H XVII 19. 1–4).30 The vehement contempt for Paul as an “enemy” is expressed there. He is portrayed there as an enemy posing as a friend (H II 18:2), as darkness compared to Petrine light, as ignorance contrasted with knowledge, and as sickness measured against healing (H II 17:3). If any lineage can be allowed between the undisputed Pauline letters and such vitriol in the name of Peter, it is easier to grant some credence to the contrast I have drawn between the Pauline tradition and the portrait of Peter offered in the Gospel of Mark. That leads me to suggest that whatever Mark’s literary agenda hidden therein there was tension generated by the influence of the Pauline tradition and the

29. See Edgar Hennecke, New Testament Apocrypha, ed. Wilhelm Schneemelcher, trans. R. McL. Wilson (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1963), vol. 1, pp. 118–20. 30. Hennecke, New Testament Apocrypha.

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impact it had on Mark. This influence is attested I  suggest by the later Lukan attempt to retouch this unpleasant reality and supports my claim for at least a family resemblance between Paul and Mark. Taken alone this instance may not prove a connection but when combined with the evidence offered by others31 the case for Markan dependence on the Pauline tradition and a family resemblance between them is more compelling.

31. See n. 2.

Chapter 14 S A LV I F IC S U F F E R I N G I N   P AU L Eschatological, Vicarious, and Mimetic Jerry L. Sumney

Suffering is a recurring, perhaps even central,1 theme in the Pauline corpus. Two realities required this attention to suffering: the way Jesus died and the suffering believers endure because of their membership in the church.2 Paul is less often concerned about an overarching theodicy than he is about explaining why Christ-believers suffer. Given common first-century understandings of suffering, this experience of believers and the manner of Jesus’ death raise questions about the truth of the gospel.3 Paul does not, however, provide a comprehensive theology of suffering. He assigns suffering a bewildering variety of meanings,4 perhaps because it has a 1. J. Christiaan Beker notes that the theme of suffering and triumph has “a central place in Paul’s thought” (“Suffering and Triumph in Paul’s Letter to the Romans,” Horizons in Biblical Theology 7 [1985], pp. 105–19 [105]). 2. Elizabeth Castelli comments that, “from the earliest sources onward, it becomes clear that early Christians positioned the historical experience of persecution almost immediately within a framework of meaning that drew upon broader metanarratives about temporality, suffering and sacrifice, and identity” (Martyrdom and Meaning:  Early Christian Culture Making [New York: Columbia University Press, 2004], p. 25). She comments further that “the view that vindication and salvation were achieved in and through the public humiliation involved in ignominious execution . . . would certainly have been a shocking and unintelligible one to the average Roman” (p. 41). See also John Pobee’s discussion of the need to interpret the scandal of the cross in Persecution and Martyrdom in the Theology of Paul (JSNTSS 6; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1985), pp. 53–64, 83. 3.  Though some argue that Paul is the first to use crucifixion language in the church (e.g., Demetrius K. Williams, Enemies of the Cross: The Terminology of the Cross and Conflict in Philippians [JSNTSS 223; Sheffield:  Sheffield University Press, 2002], p.  25), this seems unlikely because the first task the church had was to interpret the shameful death of its founder. 4.  See Susan R. Garrett’s discussion of use of conflicting cultural paradigms without recognizing the difficulties in doing so (“Paul’s Thorn and Cultural Models of Affliction,” in

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bewildering variety of manifestations.5 This discussion of suffering will be limited to three overlapping ways that Paul discusses the suffering of Christ and of believers in Christ: the way he sets them in eschatological context, the ways they are vicarious, and the ways they involve imitation. We will explore these interpretations of suffering by examining Paul’s treatment of the suffering of Christ, of apostles, and of all believers. It is a privilege to contribute to this volume to honor Elizabeth. She has been a caring and joyous friend and a wonderful conversation partner from early in my career. Flying out of the same airport to get to SBL meetings gave us many occasions to talk shop and share our work. It is an honor to call this faithful scholar a friend. Elizabeth’s work on Mark has at times focused attention on the meaning of the suffering and death of Jesus.6 Her careful reading of the narrative as a narrative has helped demonstrate the emphases Mark has in his construct of Jesus’ suffering. As we will see, what Elizabeth finds about the meaning of Jesus’ suffering and death shares much with what we find in Paul.

The Sufferings of Christ Paul says surprising little about the sufferings of Christ. He often mentions the death of Christ and assigns it various meanings, but the language of suffering in connection with Christ is quite limited.7 Excluding the vocabulary of death and dying, but including all of his references to the cross and crucifixion (which may allude to suffering), Paul mentions Christ’s sufferings only twenty-three times. Paul’s own distinctive usage suggests that we should explore the vocabulary of suffering in distinction from that of Christ’s death. First, every use of νεκρός in connection with Jesus is part of an expression that speaks of Jesus being raised from the dead. Paul’s uses of θάνατος and ἀποθνῄσκω are broader. He uses these terms to speak of the vicarious and expiatory nature of Christ’s death and of the believer’s participation in that death and its consequences. When we turn to the vocabulary

The Social World of the First Christians: Essays in Honor of Wayne A. Meeks, ed. L. Michael White and O. Larry Yarbrough [Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995], pp. 83–85). 5. J. C. Beker argues that different kinds of suffering call for different Christian perspectives on suffering and hope (“Suffering and Triumph in Paul’s Letter to the Romans,” p. 111). Barry D. Smith identifies seven ways Paul explains suffering (Paul’s Seven Explanations of the Suffering of the Righteous [Studies in biblical Literature 47; New York: Peter Lang 2002]). 6.  See especially Elizabeth Struthers Malbon and Sharyn Dowd, “The Significance of Jesus’ Death in Mark:  Narrative Context and Authorial Audience,” Journal of Biblical Literature 125 (2006), pp. 271–97; reprinted in The Trial and Death of Jesus:  Essays on the Passion Narrative in Mark, ed. Geert Van Oyen and Tom Shepherd (Contributions to Biblical Exegesis and Theology 45; Leuven: Peeters, 2006), pp. 1–31. 7. Pobee, Persecution and Martyrdom, p. 92, notes that Paul pays little attention to the act of Jesus’ martyrdom but is rather concerned about its meaning and significance.

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of suffering, however, the range of meanings narrows.8 Significantly, the sufferings of Jesus, including the references to the cross and crucifixion, never have an expiatory function in the undisputed letters.9 Sufferings of Christ as Eschatological Event Even though Paul gives no expiatory meaning to the suffering of Jesus, Christ’s suffering and crucifixion do have crucial and soteriological significance for him. The importance of Paul’s interpretation of the crucifixion is evident in the expression, “Word of the Cross.”10 In 1 Corinthians 1:17–18, “word of the cross” defines the overarching understanding of existence that is to prevail in the church. It is the determining sign of the way God is present in the world. Kraftchick describes Paul’s interpretation of Christ’s death and resurrection as the “generative metaphor,” that structures Paul’s thought.11 “Word of the cross” gives expression to this metaphor, this interpretive scheme, in 1 Corinthians. This is particularly clear in 1:18 where “word of the cross” stands for the whole of Paul’s understanding of the gospel. The same meaning is evident in 2:2, 2:23, and 1:17. The challenge Paul’s proclamation of the cross presents to the epistemology and ethics of his contemporaries is evident in 1 Corinthians 2:8 where he says that if

8.  The vocabulary of suffering that Paul employs includes συσταυροώ (Rom 6:6; Gal 2:19), συμπάσχω (Rom 8:17), ὀνειδισμός (Rom 15:3), κενόω (Phil 2:7), σταυρὸς (1 Cor 1:17, 18; Gal 5:11; 6:12, 14; Phil 2:8), σταυρόω (1 Cor 1:23; 2:2, 8; 2 Cor 13:4; Gal 3:1; 5:24; 6:14) πάθημα (2 Cor 1:5; Phil 3:10), πάσχα (1 Cor 5:7); θλῖψις (1 Thess 1:6); πτωχεία (2 Cor 8:9), νέκρωσις (2 Cor 4:10; see the discussion later on the meaning of this term). I have not dealt with the five places Paul mentions the blood of Christ (Rom 3:25; 5:9; 1 Cor 10:16; 11:25, 27). While these clearly reference the death of Jesus and allude to its mode, they do not comment on the violence or suffering involved in the shedding of that blood. 9. Malbon and Dowd, “The Significance of Jesus’ Death in Mark,” p. 271, note that “the Gospel of Mark makes no explicit connection between the death of Jesus and the forgiveness of sins.” In her commentary on Mark, Struthers Malbon is yet more emphatic, asserting simply that forgiveness of sins is not related to Jesus’ death in Mark (“Mark,” in Women’s Bible Commentary, ed. Carol A. Newsom, Sharon H. Ringe, and Jacqueline E. Lapsley [3rd ed.; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2012], pp. 478–92 [481]). As we have noted, Paul does in more extensive and expository interpretations relate the forgiveness of sins to Jesus’ death, but not to his suffering. 10. As Williams notes, nearly all Paul’s references to the crucifixion appear in polemical settings (Enemies of the Cross, p. 3). This does not suggest, however, that they were unimportant for Paul’s preaching or theology. Still, there are only three uses of cross vocabulary outside of Galatians and the Corinthian correspondence. Those three are Romans 6:6 and Philippians 2:8; 3:18. 11.  Steven Kraftchick, “Death in Us, Life in You:  The Apostolic Medium,” in Pauline Theology Volume II: 1 and 2 Corinthians, ed. David M. Hay (Minneapolis:  Fortress, 1993), pp. 156–81 (158).

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the ruling powers of the cosmos had known its meaning they would never have “crucified the lord of glory.” The crucifixion’s manifestation of the presence of God announces an unexpected mode of divine action that requires a radical shift in how believers must see reality and live with others.12 In his discussion of this astonishing mode of divine action, however, Paul says nothing about the pain the cross involved. Christ’s crucifixion (but more often simply his death) exemplifies and inaugurates the way God is present in the time between that inaugural event and the parousia. But Paul does not explicitly mention the suffering of Jesus. Paul uses “the cross” to set the proper worldview of the church over against all other ways of understanding existence, the activity of God, and expectations for the proper mode of behavior in the church.13 The same cross language appears in other letters. In Philippians 3:18, “enemies of the cross” points to those who oppose Paul’s gospel and assumes that Paul’s distillation of his message to “the cross” is recognizable to the Philippians. In Galatians “the cross” again stands for the entire gospel proclamation when Paul says he does not “nullify the cross” (5:11) and when he asserts that the other teachers want to avoid persecution because of the cross (6:12). Similarly, his insistence that he will boast only in the cross points to the alternative understanding of the cosmos that it exemplifies (6:14). The centrality of this reordering of reality is affirmed in 3:1 where the message of “Christ crucified” is the means through which the Galatians received the eschatological gift of the Spirit. While suffering may be implicit in mentioning crucifixion, Paul never raises this aspect and he gives it no significance in itself.14 The closest Paul comes to speaking of suffering in connection with the crucifixion is 2 Corinthians 13:4,

12.  Alexandra Brown argues that this discourse on the cross is both foundational for the whole argument of 1 Corinthians and a challenge to the epistemology and ethics of the first century (“Character Formation or Character Transformation? The Challenge of Cruciform Exegesis for Character Ethics in Paul,” in Character and Scripture:  Moral Formation, Community, and Biblical Interpretation, ed. William P.  Brown [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002], pp. 264–89 [265]). 13.  This also seems to be the function of Paul’s reference to Christ as “our Passover” being sacrificed when telling the congregation to expel the immoral man. 14. Regular use may well have blunted the reference to suffering that is implicit in speaking of crucifixion. When we mention hanging or even the electric chair, we may see them as barbaric but we do not immediately think about the amount of pain involved in their use. Even more direct references to violence lose their connection to the violence when they are used regularly. The expression “he blew them away” is an example. The reference to the violence and pain involved in dying by gunshot is entirely missing from common use of this expression, an expression that is fairly new in our social vocabulary. Use of “cross” in Paul’s preaching and perhaps in liturgical material suggests that it may also have become detached somewhat from thought of devastating pain. Even if we envision a more direct association between Paul’s mentions of the cross and the actual event, crucifixion was at least as much about shame as it was about pain.

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where he says Christ was crucified in weakness. Beyond this, Philippians 2:8 mentions the cross as the means of Christ’s death that is the culmination of his humbling of himself. But this is not a direct connection with the kind of suffering interpreters usually associate with crucifixion. We have now mentioned every explicit reference to the cross in Paul other than those in which Paul uses it for the transformation of the believer.15 Our survey confirms Beker’s observation that the “terminology of the cross is never directly related to suffering” in Paul.16 Christ’s Suffering as Exemplary (Paradigmatic Suffering) Paul’s explicit references to Christ’s sufferings usually function either to interpret believers’ experiences of persecution or to exhort readers to exemplify the selfgiving seen in Christ. Paul interprets the persecution the Thessalonians face as an imitation of the pattern seen in Christ. While their “receiving of the word in affliction” (1:6) is not directly paralleled in Christ, his suffering shows that the person of God should expect persecution. It also demonstrates what God’s response is. This pattern, then, becomes the basis for encouraging the Thessalonians to retain their faith in affliction because they know that God responded to Christ’s faithful suffering by raising him from the dead (1:10). Their resurrection, however, must await the parousia. Here, suffering is simply part of participation in the new age while the old still remains.17 Paul uses this chronological progression differently when he warns the Corinthians that this pattern of weakness followed by a mighty act of God will shape his presence among them. In 2 Corinthians 13:4 he reminds them that Christ was crucified in weakness,18 but lives by the power of God. Then he warns

15. Galatians 6:17, where Paul says he has the “marks of Jesus in my body,” comes closest to associating the two. The phrase does not explicitly use cross language, but the context may suggest it. The metaphorical uses of cross language appear in Romans 6:6 (the old self has been crucified with Christ), Galatians 2:19 (Paul is crucified with Christ so he might live to God), 5:24 (those of Christ have crucified the self), and 6:14 (the world is crucified to Paul and Paul to it). 16.  J. C. Beker, Paul the Apostle:  The Triumph of God in Life and Thought (Philadelphia:  Fortress, 1980), p.  199. Williams argues that Philippians 1:28 and 2:8 are exceptions to this (Enemies of the Cross, p. 31). Philippians 1:28, however, refers only to the suffering of believers and the suffering in 2:8 refers to explicitly is Christ’s humbling of himself that culminates in death on the cross. 17. Robert Tannehill, Dying and Rising with Christ: A Study in Pauline Theology (BZNW; Berlin: Töpelmann, 1967), p. 114. Paul gives them assurance of their resurrection when he notes in the same verse that this resurrected Jesus will rescue them from the coming wrath. 18.  Kar Yong Lim, following Stegman, contends that “crucified in weakness” points to the weakness accepted at the incarnation, a weakness that has the crucifixion culminate his life lived for others (“The Sufferings of Christ Are Abundant in Us” (2 Corinthians 1.5): A Narrative Dynamics Investigation [NTL 399; New York: T&T Clark, 2009], p. 192).

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that while he has been weak among them, he will now live among them by the power of God that raised Christ. This threat has substance only if they accept the paradigm of God’s activity seen in the chronological progression from weakness to an exercise of God’s power in the one who was weak. The other kind of exhortation Paul supports by referring to the suffering of Jesus is the call to adopt the manner of life exemplified in Christ’s willing self-giving. The language used to describe Christ’s suffering is muted here, as it is in those places where Paul interprets persecution.19 Paul calls the Corinthians to contribute to his collection for the Jerusalem church by reminding them that Christ became poor for them (2 Cor 8:9). Similarly, the hymn of Philippians 2 provides the exemplar for how believers should relate to one another: Christ humbles himself and is obedient to the point of death in order to benefit others.20 The Philippians are to imitate Christ’s willingness to privilege the good of others above his own. The same pattern appears in Romans 15:2–3.21 Here the strong should not please themselves but defer to the weak because Christ took on insults for them.22 Suffering to set an example was seen as a type of vicarious suffering in the first century. It was used regularly to speak of the noble deaths of philosophers, soldiers, and others who showed the value of a cause by being willing to die for it.23 Their deaths were interpreted as deaths suffered for the sake of others. Thus, they were vicarious because they taught an important lesson and set an example, but they were not expiatory. This is the way the sufferings of Christ

19.  The muted character of the descriptions of the sufferings of Jesus is rendered even more surprising by the observations of Balch about the large number of artistic representations of suffering portrayed in the art of Roman domestic settings. See David Balch, “The Suffering of Isis/Io and Paul’s Portrait of Christ Crucified (Gal 3:1): Frescoes in Pompeian and Roman Houses and in the Temple of Isis,” Journal of Religion 83 (2003), pp. 24–55. 20. Paul raises the stakes of the imitation, if the majority is correct in seeing “death on a cross” as a Pauline addition. 21.  W. P.  de Boer also sees the parallel between the exhortations in Philippians and Romans (The Imitation of Paul: An Exegetical Study [Kampen: Kok, 1962], p. 62). 22. Malbon and Dowd, “The Significance of Jesus’ Death in Mark,” p. 279, argue that the example of Jesus’ suffering in Mark is primarily set out as an example of service, not suffering for the sake of suffering. In commenting on Mark 8:34, Malbon sees the suffering of Jesus as the pattern his followers should expect in their lives. She comments, “Jesus’ passion prediction for himself becomes a passion prediction for his followers.” But she is careful to note that this willingness to take on suffering is not an injunction for the powerless to accept abuse, but rather a call to “subverting that hierarchy by serving those over whom one could possibly exert some power” (“Mark,” p. 486). 23.  See David Seeley, The Noble Death: Graeco-Roman Martyrology and Paul’s Concept of Salvation (JSNTSup 28; Sheffield:  Sheffield Academic Press, 1990), pp. 92–118; Jeffrey Gibson, “Paul’s ‘Dying Formula’:  Prolegomena to an Understanding of Its Import and Significance,” in Celebrating Romans; Template for Pauline Theology. Essays in Honor of Robert Jewett, ed. Sheila E. McGinn (Grand Rapids:  Eerdmans, 2004), pp. 20–41; Jerry L.

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function in these passages. In Paul the sufferings of Christ (as distinct from his death) are vicarious only in the senses that they provide the exemplar for relations within the community of believers and demonstrate the pattern of the lives of the faithful. While Gerstenberger and Schrage may be right that Christ’s suffering as an example does not play a major role in Paul’s thought,24 Paul’s calls to imitate Christ’s suffering play a larger role than any other function of references to them.25 These references to Christ’s suffering clearly call for imitation, but not imitation of his mode of death or of the same type of suffering.26 It is Christ’s willingness to accept loss and even endure death to benefit others that sets the pattern and norm for the existence of those who believe in Christ. Believers should treat one another the way Christ treated them; that is, they should put the good of the other before their own good. The mimesis here is a broad pattern, not a stifling call for sameness. Christ’s sufferings provide a paradigmatic model that calls for new types of applications in varying settings.27 The only other references Paul makes to Christ’s sufferings appear in direct connection with suffering believers endure because they are believers. Thus we turn our attention to the suffering of believers.

Suffering of Believers The predominant uses Paul makes of the sufferings of Christ relate them to the sufferings of believers. Paul talks about his own suffering and that of other believers much

Sumney, “‘I Fill Up What Is Lacking in the Afflictions of Christ’; Paul’s Vicarious Suffering in Colossians,” CBQ 68 (2006), pp. 664–80. 24.  Erhard Gerstenberger and Wolfgang Schrage, Suffering (transl. John Steely ; Nashville: Abingdon, 1980), pp. 139–40. 25.  Similarly, Willis Peter De Boer, The Imitation of Paul:  An Exegetical Study (Kampen:  Kok, 1962), pp. 69–70; Ben Witherington, Paul’s Narrative Thought World: The Tapestry of Tragedy and Triumph (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1994), pp. 239–40. 26. Boykin Sanders asserts that Paul does not call his churches to imitate the suffering of Christ (“Imitating Paul: 1 Cor. 4:16,” HTR 74 [1981], pp. 353–63 [359]). This is correct only if we limit imitation to its most narrow construal. Paul does call for the broader mimesis of shaping one’s life by the way Christ put the good of others above his own good. In his case that led to a particular kind of suffering. Paul does not call his churches to that particular form of suffering, but he does call them to imitate the attitude that led Christ to accept it. Soon martyr theology would lionize imitation of the particulars of Jesus suffering, but Paul does not. 27. Malbon finds a similar function for the death of Jesus in Mark. She and Dowd assert that “Jesus’ suffering and death show what may also happen to any who take up his proclamation; the teacher’s life (and death) manifest the pattern for his followers . . . [and that] it is not suffering or death for its own sake that is being advocated for Jesus or for his followers

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more than he talks about the suffering of Christ. Some of this is necessitated by criticisms of his “weakness,” some by the suffering of members of his churches, and some by the need to give examples of proper living. Perhaps unexpectedly, he is also much more detailed and graphic in his depictions of these sufferings than in his descriptions of Christ’s sufferings.28 Paul interprets all suffering through his apocalyptic outlook. Suffering and death are universal experiences because of the current reign of powers that God must subdue to establish God’s reign. In Romans 8:18–23, believers are more than fellowsufferers with nonbelievers, however. In some way the future redemption of the bodies of believers seems to initiate God’s reclamation of the creation from captivity.29 This implies a connection between the sufferings of believers and those of nonbelievers, but Paul offers little clarification here. He may interpret the believer’s sharing in this universal plight as one aspect of the believer’s suffering with Christ (8:17).30 Even so, Paul gives far more attention to the suffering believers endure because they are believers than to the suffering that is part of the human condition generally.31 In a number of places, Paul also differentiates apostolic suffering from that of other believers. That being the case, we will discuss them separately here. Apostolic Suffering Paul distinguishes the suffering “of Christ” (τοῦ Χριστοῦ, 2 Cor 1:4–6) or “of Jesus” (τοῦ Ἰησοῦ, 2 Cor 4:10) that is characteristic of his life from the suffering experienced by his churches.32 In 2 Corinthians 1:4–6, Paul mediates comfort to the Corinthians because the “sufferings of Christ abound” in him. Paul’s

(the Markan Jesus has no martyr complex) but rather the strength to serve others” (“The Significance of Jesus’ Death in Mark,” p. 278). 28. For example, the depictions of suffering found in the peristasis catalogues (e.g., 2 Cor 11:23–28) are more graphic than Paul’s descriptions of Christ’s suffering as “weakness” (2 Cor 13:4), as “humbled himself ” (Phil 2:7), or was insulted (Rom 15:2–3). 29. Beker also notes that Paul’s response to this tragic suffering is “the forthcoming apocalyptic triumph of God,” a victory that has cosmic content (Suffering and Hope; The Biblical Vision and the Human Predicament [2nd ed.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994], p. 102). See also Morna Hooker, “Interchange and Suffering,” in Suffering and Martyrdom in the New Testament: Studies Presented to G. M. Styler by the Cambridge New Testament Seminar, ed. W. Horbury and B. McNeil (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), pp. 70–83 (79). 30. If the γὰρ at the beginning of Romans 8:18 and then at verse 19 have an explanatory force, they support this identification of more universal suffering with the believer’s “with Christ” suffering. 31.  Romans 7:7–25 may be a place where Paul addresses the human plight at greater length than elsewhere. 32.  So also Michael Wolter, “Der Apostel und seine Gemeinde als Teilhaber am Leidensgeschick Jesu Christi: Beobachtungen zur paulinischen Leidenstheologie,” NTS 36 (1990), pp. 535–57 (542).

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bearing of the sufferings of Christ brings benefits to the Corinthians that their suffering does not offer to Paul. His sufferings and receiving of comfort from God provided comfort and salvation for the Corinthians. He mediates God’s gifts to the Corinthians in a way that their sufferings do not provide such blessings to Paul. The distinctive presence of the sufferings of Christ in Paul’s life need not suggest a mystical union of Christ and Paul, but there is some identification of Paul’s sufferings with Christ’s. Paul, as an apostle, represents and exemplifies the sufferings of Christ in ways that others do not.33 His suffering is for the Corinthians because he mediates God’s comfort them. Such suffering is vicarious suffering because it benefits others. It is not expiatory, but it is vicarious because it mediates blessings from God.34 The reference to apostles experiencing the suffering “of Jesus” (2 Cor 4:10) appears after Paul recites a catalogue of sufferings, sufferings so extreme that he survives only by the power of God. This peristasis catalogue is more extensive and graphic than any of Paul’s mentions of the suffering of Christ. He interprets these sufferings by saying that we (the apostolic company) are “always carrying about the dying of Jesus in the body.” “Carrying about the dying of Jesus” succinctly characterizes his apostolic manner of life. Paul’s use of the term νέκρωσιν here may point to the suffering Jesus endured, not just the fact of his death.35 Paul’s acceptance of this suffering does not, however, manifest the suffering of Jesus but the life of Jesus. The tension evident here reflects the pattern seen in the death and resurrection of Christ; suffering is not an end in itself, but a means through which the power of God can be manifested. In 2 Corinthians 4:10, apostolic suffering brings life to the Corinthians. Just as in 1:4–6, this is not a kind of suffering the Corinthians can do for Paul. His sufferings represent the dying of Jesus in a way the sufferings of those outside the apostolic company do not. Apostolic suffering is again vicarious in the sense that it is endured for the sake of others. Paul sets this discussion of apostolic suffering in eschatological context in the verses that follow 4:10.36 Verses 16–18 call the painful travails described in verses

33.  See the arguments against seeing a reference to a mystical union in Lim, The Sufferings of Christ Are Abundant in Us, pp. 48–9. Among his reasons for rejecting this view is the difference between Paul’s sufferings and those of other believers. He comments that the Corinthians are less sharers of Paul’s sufferings and more “witnesses and beneficiaries.” 34.  Michael Wolter also notes that the meaning of Christ’s sufferings are mediated to the church through Paul’s suffering (“Der Apostel und seine Gemeinde als Teilhaber am Leidensgeschick Jesu Christi,” p. 551). 35.  For example, Michael Byrnes, Conformation to the death of Christ and the Hope of Resurrection; An Exegetico-theological Study of 2 Corinthians 4,7-15 and Philippians 3,7-11 (Testi Gregoriana, Serie Teologia 99; Rome:  Gregorian University Press, 2003), p.  63. This is one of only two Pauline (and New Testament) uses of this term and the only usage that refers to Jesus. 36. The reference to the “god of this age” (4:4) sets the passage in an eschatological context So Susan R. Garrett, “The God of This World and the Affliction of Paul: 2 Cor 4:1–12,”

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7–10  “slight” and “momentary” in comparison with the glorification Paul will receive. The next section, 5:1–5 (and vv. 6–10), then offers commentary on the nature of the glory apostles will receive.37 Paul manages not to lose heart because he sees his suffering in this eschatological context. He remembers that future blessing will more than repay the affliction he suffers. But he begins this commentary on what is to come with a statement about the present. While his outer person is receiving abuse, his inner person is being renewed daily. The γαρ that begins verse 17 suggests that what renews him is his remembrance of the coming glory. He may, however, also have the work of the Spirit in mind. He speaks of the “down-payment of the Spirit” at the end of 5:5, suggesting that the eschatological gift of the Spirit along with his future hope enable him to endure with faith. The Spirit renews the inner person in the present and gives assurance of future blessing. Here the eschatological framework for interpreting suffering is clear. Apostolic suffering brings life because it is through this manner of life that the power of God is manifested (4:7). The weakness of the apostle becomes an opportunity for a revelation of God’s power that rejects the configurations of power and status that structure the cosmos.38 Given the excruciating experiences Paul describes, the continuing faith and successful mission of the apostle are attributable only to the power of God. Unlike philosophers and moralists who recite their trials and afflictions as examples of their power, Paul lists his troubles as evidence of God’s power not his own.39 Garrett sees Paul casting himself in the role of the suffering righteous whose superiority is seen in his endurance.40 But Paul gives little attention to his own power or righteousness. Instead, his affliction is an embodied proclamation of the gospel that rests on the power of “the one who raised the Lord Jesus” (4:14). The apostle’s own suffering and rescue manifest the same pattern of the presence and power of God seen in the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ.41

in Greeks, Romans, and Christians; Essays in Honor of Abraham J. Malherbe, ed. D. L. Balch, E. Ferguson, and W. A. Meeks (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), pp. 99–117 (103–4). 37. See Jerry L. Sumney, “Post-mortem Existence and Resurrection of the Body in Paul,” Horizons of Biblical Theology 31 (2009), pp. 12–26. 38.  James D. G. Dunn argues that the situation of having the treasure in earthen jars is itself a manifestation of the present eschatological tension (The Theology of Paul the Apostle, [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998], p. 482). 39. So also Charles B. Cousar, A Theology of the Cross: The Death of Jesus in the Pauline Letters (OBT; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), pp. 150–51. See Victor C. Pfitzner, Paul and the Agon Motif: Traditional Athletic Imagery in the Pauline Literature (NovTSup 16; Leiden: Brill, 1967), pp. 188–91; and John T. Fitzgerald, Cracks in an Earthen Vessel: An Examination of the Catalogues of Hardships in the Corinthian Correspondence (SBLDS 99 Atlanta: Scholars, 1988), pp. 42–3, 99–111. 40. Garrett, “The God of this World,” pp. 100–103. 41. Steven Kraftchick writes, “Thus, the afflictions are not only a demonstration of God’s power but an actual manifestation of the gospel. For, in the apostle the embodied nature

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Similarly, in 2 Corinthians 6:3–10 the suffering that Paul endures commends his ministry as authentic. It is not the suffering alone that demonstrates his authenticity, but the combination of willing suffering and the presence of the word and power of God (vv. 6–7).42 In this passage, his sufferings commend his ministry and mediate the blessings of the gospel to others.43 This suffering is again a type of vicarious suffering because it is endured for the sake of others. Paul’s “thorn in the flesh” is another example of the weakness through which the power of God is manifested. As is the case in 2 Corinthians 1:9–10, this is initially a lesson for Paul. Thus his weakness is not only evangelistic proclamation; it remains pedagogical for him. But the difficult nature of the case is more complex in chapter 12 because his “thorn” is also a “messenger of Satan” (12:7). Thus, at least some of Paul’s sufferings originate with the powers of evil, but are used by God to teach Paul and to proclaim the gospel. This suffering reflects the contest between God and the forces of evil.44 God’s superior power comes to expression by using this particular evil to benefit Paul and those who turn to God through Paul’s ministry. The distinctiveness of apostolic suffering is also clear in 1 Corinthians 4.  Alluding to the Triumphal Procession, Paul says in verse 9 that God has put apostles on display as people sentenced to death.45 He does not say what function this display has, but his call for the Corinthians to imitate him in verse 16 suggests that his willingness to accept and actively take on suffering serves as an exemplar for them.46

of God’s redemptive power—strength in weakness, life in death, light from darkness— is revealed (4:10–12)” (“Death in Us, Life in You:  The Apostolic Medium,” in Pauline Theology Volume II: 1 and 2 Corinthians, ed. David M. Hay [Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993], pp. 156–81 (172). 42.  See also Scott J. Hafemann, “The Role of Suffering in the Mission of Paul,” in The Gospel to the Nations: Perspectives on Paul’s Mission, ed. P. Bolt and M. Thompson (Downers Grove: IVP, 2000), pp. 131–46 (135–6). 43. So also Scott J. Hafemann, Suffering and the Spirit: An Exegetical Study of II Cor. 2.14– 3.3 within the Context of the Corinthian Correspondence (WUNT 2.19; Tübingen:  Mohr [Siebeck], 1986), pp. 76, 220. 44. See Susan Garrett’s discussion of how Paul’s saying that his “thorn” is from Satan fits what she calls the Job model of interpreting affliction (“Paul’s Thorn and Cultural Models of Affliction,” pp. 87–91). 45.  So Gordon D. Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1987), pp. 174–5. 46.  So also John Schütz, Paul and the Anatomy of Apostolic Authority (SNTSMS 26; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975), pp. 112, 203; Jan Lambrecht, “The Nekrōsis of Jesus; Ministry and Suffering in 2 Cor 4,7–15,” in L’ Apôtre Paul; Personnalité, Style et Conception du Ministè, ed. A. Vanhoye (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1986), pp. 120–43 (138–9).

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In 2 Corinthians 2:14–16, Paul more explicitly develops the image of apostles being led by God in the triumphal procession. Here his life is clearly an element of his proclamation of the gospel. His suffering apostolate is an embodiment of what he preaches.47 Apostolic suffering is proclamation that reveals knowledge of God (or Christ). It is a re-presentation of the gospel. This suffering that mediates knowledge of the gospel is vicarious because it benefits others. The point of a Roman triumphal procession was, however, more to demonstrate the power of the victor than to show the weakness of the defeated.48 If this emphasis remains in Paul’s use of this metaphor, then he intends the Corinthians to see the power of God through his sufferings, not his own strength—or even his own weakness. Paul also asserts that his suffering advances the cause of God’s kingdom. He intimates this in 2 Corinthians 4:15 and states it directly in Philippians 1:12–19, where he interprets his imprisonment. Similarly, Paul’s decision to continue living as a prisoner constitutes a decision to suffer for the readers, particularly for their advance in the gospel (Phil. 1:21–6).49 In the context of the whole letter, Paul’s suffering also serves as an exemplar for his readers to imitate. The Philippians are not to suffer in the way Paul does, but his suffering for them demonstrates how they are to behave toward one another—they must agree with one another and stop being puffed up against one another. Likewise, God’s support of Paul and use of his sufferings convey an implicit call for imitation to faithfulness as Paul exhorts them not to be frightened by their opponents (1:28). Paul’s apostolic suffering, then, is more than an unfortunate result of the exercise of his office; it is a defining feature of his apostleship.50 Even if Paul does not fully accept the cultural elite’s devaluation of physical labor,51 he considers his plying of a trade as an intentional lowering of himself.52 In 1 Corinthians 9, he interprets this practice as a rejection of privilege and thus as a model for the way the Corinthians should relate to one another. As is the case in Philippians, Paul’s voluntary suffering in 1 Corinthians 9 provides an exemplar that the readers are to emulate in relations with fellow believers. So some of Paul’s suffering is imposed from outside and some is taken on for the benefit of his church. 47.  Michael Wolter speaks of Paul’s Verkündidungsexistenz and its salvation-giving effect (“Der Apostel und seine Gemeinde als Teilhaber am Leidensgeschick Jesu Christi,” p. 548). 48. See Hafemann, Suffering and the Spirit, pp. 33–5. 49. See the discussion of prison conditions and the talk of suicide by prisoners in Craig S. Wansink, Chained in Christ; The Experience and Rhetoric of Paul’s Imprisonments (JSNTSS 130; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), pp. 96–125. 50. Byrnes sees the active voice for “carrying about the dying of Jesus” in 2 Corinthians 4:10 as an indication that Paul’s sufferings are intentionally taken on (Conformation to the Death of Christ, pp. 65–6). 51.  See the discussion of Paul and manual labor in Todd D. Still, “Did Paul Loathe Manual Labor? Revisiting the Work of Ronald F. Hock on the Apostle’s Tentmaking and Social Class,” JBL 125 (2006), pp. 781–95. 52. Paul includes it as a hardship in 1 Corinthians 4:12.

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In 1 Thessalonians 2:9, his apostolic suffering is less a model to be imitated than it is an example of the experience of believers. The persecution the Thessalonians endure follows the pattern seen in Paul and in the churches of Judea (2:14). Thus he can assure the Thessalonians that persecution is not a sign of rejection by or punishment from God. In this instance, Paul’s suffering is not distinguished from that of other believers; it is simply an example from a prior moment that provides a proper interpretative framework for their persecution. By way of summary, Paul interprets his own suffering in multiple ways, sometimes within the same paragraph. At times he attributes suffering to opposition from the powers of evil. In this, his suffering is of the same type as that which all believers experience because of their allegiance to God and their participation in the eschatological era. Thus, Paul’s suffering is a demonstration of what believers should expect in this eschatological moment. In a number of places, however, the meanings and functions of apostolic suffering are distinctive. The lives of apostles are embodied proclamations of the gospel. Their lives are re-presentations of the mode of the working of God that is seen in the death and resurrection of Christ. Perhaps Paul can identify apostolic suffering so closely with Christ’s death because he sees the same pattern at work in his life that he sees in the death and resurrection of Christ53: God’s power is seen in the endurance of suffering,54 not in its absence. Apostles’ lives are proclamations of this paradigm of God’s activity. Apostles do not just suffer as a consequence of facing opposition; they take on intentional suffering to imitate Christ, so they can mediate the gospel’s message and benefits. In these places the sufferings of apostles are identified closely with the effects of the death of Christ; they are the means through which others receive the message and gifts of the gospel.55 Intentionally taking on hardships has another function. It serves as an example of proper behavior within the church. Paul presents his acceptance of disadvantage and suffering as an example of the ways believers should relate to one another. This mimetic suffering both embodies Christ’s not pleasing himself and provides a more immediate model of proper behavior. This function of suffering is not unique to apostles; Paul tells churches to imitate other leaders who assume this manner of life (e.g., Philippians 3:17–19).56

53.  As Schütz comments, “as the gospel is the manifestation of God’s acting, so is the apostle” (Paul and the Anatomy of Apostolic Authority, p. 232). See also Hooker, “Interchange and Suffering,” p. 78. 54.  John T. Fitzgerald argues that philosophers and moralists also commonly spoke of the divine working through a person’s weakness (Cracks in an Earthen Vessel, p. 171). 55.  Gerstenberger and Schrage do not allow for a real distinction between apostolic suffering and that of other believers (Suffering, p. 190). But Paul does seem to see some distinctive roles for his sufferings. 56. Timothy and Epaphroditus (Phil 2:19–30) are implicitly examples.

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Suffering of All Believers Paul gives more attention to interpreting apostolic suffering than to the suffering of other believers. Still, he sees believers’ suffering as an expected reality in 1 Thessalonians 2; Galatians 3:4; Philippians 1:28, and Romans 12:9–21. This expected reality, however, needs to be interpreted. In 1 Thessalonians 1:6 and 2:14, Paul assures the persecuted Thessalonians that their suffering does not suggest any defect in their faith. Instead, their steadfastness in the midst of persecution is an authentication of their reception of the gospel because it is an imitation of Paul, Christ, and other churches.57 Paul’s description of his own arrival in Thessalonica is an attempt to assure these believers that persecution is not a sign of rejection by God (2:1–2). Paul gives this assurance more directly in Romans 8:35, where he assures the readers that suffering cannot separate them from God’s love. Paul goes a step further in 1 Thessalonians 3:3–4, where he reminds the Thessalonians that they were destined to suffer.58 The extended discussion of eschatology in 1 Thessalonians suggests that believers have this experience because they live in the era in which the divine will has initiated its reclamation of the world.59 In Romans 8:17, suffering with Christ seems to be a requirement of participating in eschatological salvation. Suffering together as fellow-heirs of Christ is a precondition of being glorified with him. This suffering with Christ is part of participating in the new age while the old age is still in power.60 Within this context, the struggle to live according to the Spirit is a form of suffering that is distinctive to the church, perhaps a form of suffering that gives hope to the enslaved creation (8:18–23). This accepted, even self-imposed, suffering is taken on in imitation of Christ. The hymn of Philippians 2 provides the exemplar for the readers to emulate in their relations with one another. It is introduced by an exhortation to adopt the same way of thinking seen in the hymn and subsequently applied to the Philippians with “therefore” (v. 12). Following Christ’s example does not involve affliction or death, but adopting the posture of privileging the good of others. This type of suffering is expected of all believers. All believers are called to take on this type of vicarious sufferings. As Hooker comments, the crucified Christ is “not a mere objective fact to be believed . . . but a way of life to be accepted.”61 57. Schütz, Paul and the Anatomy of Apostolic Authority, p. 226. 58.  L. Ann Jervis notes that Paul’s discussion of suffering is not just a response to his churches’ suffering, it is integral to the gospel message and a part of his initial proclamation (“Accepting Affliction:  Paul’s Preaching on Suffering,” in Character and Scripture:  Moral Formation, Community, and Biblical Interpretation, ed. William P.  Brown [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002], pp. 290–316 [290, 293]). 59.  See also L. Ann Jervis, At the Heart of the Gospel: Suffering in the Earliest Christian Message (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2007), pp. 18–19. 60. Tannehill, Dying and Rising, pp. 114, 127–9. 61.  Hooker, “Interchange and Suffering,” p.  83. Commenting on 2 Corinthians 5:14, Steven Kraftchick remarks, “To call people to accept the death of Christ not only as a

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Philippians 3:10–11 also speaks of required suffering. At the end of his comments about what Paul has given up to be “found in him,” Paul interprets his suffering as being conformed to Christ’s death. This suffering is required if he is to attain the resurrection; it is a necessary prerequisite for salvation. But the experience of suffering is not just followed by power. Suffering with Christ and knowing the power of the resurrection are simultaneous experiences. This combination of experiences is grounded in Paul’s partially realized eschatology; as the new (the power of the resurrection) breaks in, the old inflicts suffering while it is able.62 This passage is distinctive (but not singular) because Paul’s suffering here is not accepted for the good of others; it is undertaken with his own resurrection in view.63 An eschatological reason for believers’ suffering is also explicit in 1 Corinthians 7. One of Paul’s reasons for advising believers not to marry is the “present distress” (v. 26) which is characteristic of the short time that is left (vv. 29–31). Minimally, setting this suffering in an eschatological timeframe indicates that Paul sees the powers of evil exerting increased energy to harm God’s people or cause them to desert the faith.64 One explanation of suffering that stands apart from those we have seen in connection with the suffering of all believers appears in Romans 5:3. Here affliction plays a pedagogical role; it teaches patience. This patience leads to hope through the present experience of the Spirit and coming eschatological salvation. Paul’s interpretation of the illness of some Corinthians in connection with the Lord’s Supper (1 Cor 11:30) is another instance of suffering serving to teach a lesson. Afflictions also may have a pedagogical role in Philippians 3:10–11. This pedagogical function is uncommon in Paul, but he shares it with the interpretations given to suffering in both Jewish and philosophical texts. We also saw above that he sometimes interprets his own suffering in this way.

sacrifice (5:14) but also as a manner of lifestyle and comprehension was neither a small nor an easy task” (“Death’s Parsing: Experience as a Mode of Theology in Paul,” in Pauline Conversations in Context: Essays in Honor of Calvin J. Roetzel, ed. Janice C. Anderson, Philip Sellew, Claudia Setzer [JSNTSup 221; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002], pp. 144–66 [155]). 62. James Dunn expresses a similar thought saying that such suffering is “the inevitable consequence of the life of the Spirit having to express itself through the body of death” (Jesus and the Spirit; A  Study of the Religious and Charismatic Experience of Jesus and the First Christians as Reflected in the New Testament [New Testament Library; London: SCM, 1975], p. 327). Similarly, Jervis “Accepting Affliction,” pp. 299, 305–6. 63. Jervis, At the Heart of the Gospel, p. 56. Even if Paul has in mind his death as a martyr, the gist of what he says applies to all believers. 64. Garrett comments that in the wake of the death and resurrection of Christ, Satan is engaged in “damage containment” mode, trying to keep as many in his realm as possible (“God of This World,” pp. 104–5).

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Conclusions We have seen that Paul interprets suffering in various ways. We have focused on his interpretations of suffering rather than its causes, but have also seen that they are not always separable. We will now draw together our observations and offer some final reflections. Eschatological Suffering The inseparable relationship between interpreting suffering and speaking of its cause is particularly evident when examining the relationship between suffering and eschatology. Paul sees end-time opposition from the powers of evil as the expected experience of believers. They are objects of particular attention from those powers who oppose the purposes of God. Thus, it is the eschatological fate of believers to endure persecution; faithfulness brings (or at least invites) suffering. This eschatological interpretation offers assurance to the persecuted. It precludes interpretations of suffering that would discourage or damage the community. As Karl Plank remarks, Paul’s use of the cross to interpret suffering “sets the afflicted free, not from the existence of suffering, but from the fear of its assumed meaning.”65 Particularly, it denies that suffering indicates that a person has displeased God. Thus, Paul’s eschatological interpretation of suffering both provides assurance in the face of suffering and exhorts sufferers to faithfulness. Suffering even functions as a necessary precursor of sharing in eschatological glory. Paul provides almost no explanation for this other than that it conforms the believer to the pattern of the life of Christ. Paul also locates the suffering of Christ in an eschatological setting. The cross is his central metaphor for the way God interacts with and is present in the world in the end time. It stands as the paradigm for how to assess and establish values, status, and truth. It provides the lens for the church’s worldview, demanding a radical revaluation of all things. We saw, however, that Paul does not assign Christ’s pain or anguish an eschatological function beyond an initial and foundational exemplification of the expected pattern of the believer’s life. As Christ endured suffering before attaining glory, so the believer should expect opposition in this world, with the assurance that faithfulness will lead to resurrection and glory.66 65.  Karl Plank, Paul and the Irony of Affliction (Semeia Studies 17; Atlanta:  Scholars, 1987), p. 94. 66. Struthers Malbon finds an eschatological interpretation of the Passion in Mark. And she likewise sees Mark give expression to the tension between participating in the new age while being persecuted. She writes of Mark’s passion narrative, “Irony best depicts the double assertion of Mark’s Gospel: God’s realm is breaking into this age with new power for believers, and the powers of this age are still fighting against it, leading to persecution of believers” (“Mark,” p. 491).

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Vicarious Suffering When we separate discussion of Christ’s suffering from references to his death that do not explicitly mention suffering, some surprising things emerge. The scarcity of references to Christ’s suffering and the limits on its meanings stand in significant contrast to the meanings assigned to the fact of his death and resurrection. The suffering of Christ (in distinction from his death) never serves as expiation for sin in Paul. Still, his suffering is vicarious in the sense that it was endured for the benefit of others. As we noted, part of the eschatological function of Christ’s suffering was to exemplify what believers can expect in the present. Having this pattern assures them that their suffering is not the result of displeasing God; rather, their lives follow the archetype seen in Christ’s sufferings. Christ’s suffering and subsequent resurrection, then, benefits believers by demonstrating the truth of this pattern of God’s activity. Christ’s suffering also functions vicariously when it serves as an exemplar for believers to imitate. His suffering exemplifies the way he privileged the good of others above his own good. This is the most prominent function Paul gives Christ’s suffering. Christ’s self-giving sets the pattern for community life within the church. Importantly, this pattern has the one with privilege voluntarily accepting suffering for those of lesser status; the lower status person is not asked to endure suffering for the privileged. Thus, the exhortation to imitate Christ’s suffering in its most direct form is a call for the strong the give up privilege to benefit the weak, not a call for the weak to submit. Paul sees his suffering as vicarious in the sense that it also exhibits this pattern. He intentionally takes on otherwise unnecessary suffering for the good of, indeed for the salvation of, others. He also expects other believers to accept the burden of forfeiting their own good for the good of others. Thus, this type of vicarious suffering becomes a standard of behavior in the church. At other times Paul sees his suffering as an embodiment of the way God’s power is manifested in weakness. In this mode, power does not follow suffering chronologically; instead, God’s power is manifested in the midst of Paul’s suffering. Paul’s suffering provides a means for the power of God to be seen. This both demonstrates the manner of the presence of God’s power in this eschatological time and shows that the power seen in his ministry comes from God rather than from Paul. This paradigm of God’s power being manifest through weakness is Paul’s primary means of interpreting and defining not just apostleship but all of the believers’ existence. These sufferings that manifest God’s power also teach Paul. They remind him that the power is not his but God’s. Thus, they simultaneously teach Paul and bring salvation to those who witness the power of God through them. Mimetic Suffering The crucifixion and the suffering of Christ serve as exemplars for both apostolic suffering and the suffering believers take on to serve fellow-believers. Apostolic

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suffering is mimetic suffering—suffering taken on in imitation of the suffering of Christ. Apostolic suffering re-presents the meaning and message of the suffering and crucifixion of Christ. While other believers also suffer in imitation of Christ, apostolic suffering is distinctive. It mediates the content and blessings of the gospel in ways that the mimetic suffering of other believers does not. Paul mediates comfort and salvation to his churches, they do not do this for him. This apostolic suffering is adopted voluntarily in imitation of Christ and for the benefit of others. This mimetic suffering is, then, also vicarious suffering. It proclaims the gospel through embodiment in a manner that Paul allows only to apostolic suffering. The office of apostle entails a representation of the suffering of Christ and the gospel in some manner that nonapostles cannot duplicate. Other and similar aspects of Paul’s apostolic suffering can be replicated in the lives of other believers. In some places his sufferings and that of other leaders are reflections of the eschatological pattern seen in the death and resurrection of Jesus. The people of God are afflicted by the powers of evil in the present, but are assured of a glorious future with God by Christ’s resurrection. Paul’s purposefully undertaken sufferings are also paradigmatic; they demonstrate how believers and leaders should relate to one another. All believers must imitate his suffering by privileging the good of others above their own good. Thus, believers must take on disadvantage because that is the pattern of existence seen in Christ and Christ’s apostle. This mimetic suffering, like Paul’s own mimetic suffering, is simultaneously paradigmatic. Believers who sacrifice for the good of others are exemplars for other believers. Thus, parallel to Paul’s own suffering, these sufferings are a proclamation of the gospel and the way of life it entails. Paul finds suffering to be both an inevitability and a demand. Believers should expect persecution and affliction from the powers of evil in this eschatological moment, but they should also take on suffering for the good of others. Paul’s ministry sets this paradigm for them to imitate even as he imitates Christ’s suffering for others. This type of suffering is vicarious, whether it is suffering of Christ, Paul, or believers generally. Christ’s suffering, as well as that of apostles, is salvific in that it provides an interpretive (and eschatological) framework for understanding persecution. Thus it bolsters faithfulness amidst end time persecution. Apostolic suffering functions salvifically by showing that the power of the gospel and the strength to endure persecution comes from God not the strength of the apostle. Although there are aspects of such apostolic suffering that are not transferable, Paul expects other leaders to imitate this undertaking of suffering in their ministry for the same reason. Intentionally assumed sufferings of both apostles and other believers are salvific when they are an embodiment of the gospel and so an element in its proclamation.

Chapter 15 T H E F I R ST S P O RT S   I N J U RY Genesis 32 Between Religious Commentary and Secular Philology Brian Britt

The story of Jacob’s nocturnal wrestling has engendered many interpretations that engage the irreducible ambiguity of the text and its deep resonances with the broader motifs and concerns of Genesis. Who is Jacob’s opponent, what happens during their struggle, and how does it lead to the naming, blessing, and dietary restriction that follow? How does this episode connect with the story of Jacob’s reunion with Esau, which frames it? Many interpreters suggest a working out of their sibling rivalry, which begins with the story of their birth and Isaac’s blessing on Jacob (Gen 25, 27, 28) and concludes with their reconciliation (Gen 33). But ambiguities in the text challenge ancient and modern interpreters alike: the identity of Jacob’s opponent is fundamentally unclear; so are the purpose of the wrestling and the dialogue on naming and blessing; and the resulting dietary rule is not attested elsewhere. This chapter reads the story of Jacob’s wrestling (Gen. 32:23–33) between religious commentary and secular philology. I begin with the rich study of the text’s structure and meaning by Roland Barthes and follow with a discussion of wrestling, blessing, and naming in the text and the context of traditional and scholarly readings. In spite of their different approaches, many scholarly readings of the text echo traditional, religious interpretations. From these two directions–traditional commentary and contemporary scholarship—I suggest a reading of the text and a model for biblical scholarship beyond the secular-religious, traditional-modern divide.

Barthes Roland Barthes’s essay on Genesis 32 has long been recognized as an example of structuralist analysis, but its value and significance go far beyond structuralism. In fact, it was written just when Barthes was restlessly questioning the methods of structuralism by means of a notion of “text” that resists the boundaries of

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structural linguistics.1 Introduced modestly as a nonexpert’s attempt to present “the beginning stage of research,” Barthes’s reading observes how the text incorporates and provokes interpretation. Standing outside biblical scholarship and traditional interpretation alike, Barthes opens interpretive space the two share in common. Drawing from the notion of “text” as a weaving, Barthes proposes that his analysis will engage not only structuralist analysis but also “textual analysis,” which “no longer reveals where the text comes from (historical-critical analysis), nor even how it is made (structural analysis), but how it is unraveled, exposed, and disseminated, and which coded stages go into it” (“l’analyse textuelle cherche a dire, non plus d’ou vient le texte [critique historique], ni meme comment il est fait [analyse structurale], mais comment il se defait, explore, dissemine: selon quelles avenues codees il s’en va”).2 Barthes’s appeal here to textual analysis coincides with his move away from structuralist to post-structuralist research, toward a notion of “text” as activity rather than artifact, a site of free collaboration and pleasure rather than fixed authoritative meanings.3 The text is, Barthes says, “a vehicle of meaning and not at all understood as a philological object, as the literalist would” (“comme production de significance et pas du tout comme objet philologique, detenteur de la Lettre”).4 Dividing the text into the three sequences of “the Crossing, the Struggle, and the Change of Names,” Barthes observes how the text mixes the folkloric motif of a struggle to cross a river and the biblical motif of Jacob’s solitude and election.5 The struggle carries this mixture further, leaving the identity of Jacob’s adversary ambiguous. When the adversary attempts to strike a decisive “low blow” against Jacob, it unexpectedly fails, and as dawn approaches, a negotiation in the form of name changes follows. This surprising victory for Jacob, like his displacement of Esau’s blessing, gains divine ratification in the naming phase of the story. As such, “the conflict with Esau is displaced” in an episode in which, by naming the unexpected victor, God becomes a “counter-brander,” and “By branding Jacob (Israel), God (or the Story) permits an analogical development of meaning. The story creates the precise conditions for the operation of a new ‘langue’ of which the election

1. Roland Barthes, “The Struggle with the Angel: Textual Analysis of Genesis 32:23–33,” in Structural Analysis and Biblical Exegesis, ed. Barthes et al., trans. Alfred M. Johnston, Jr (Pittsburgh: Pickwick, 1974), pp. 21–33; French text: “La lutte avec l’ange: Analyse textuelle de Genese 32.23–33,” in Analyse structurale et exegese biblique, ed. Barthes et al., pp. 27–39. Barthes presented his essay in 1971, a year after publishing his ground-breaking study of Balzac’s “Sarrasine,” S/Z, along with other programmatic writings (Josue V. Harari, “Critical Factions/Critical Fictions,” in Textual Strategies, ed. Harari [Ithaca:  Cornell University Press, 1979], pp. 38–9 [17–72]). 2. Barthes, “The Struggle with the Angel,” p. 22; “La lutte avec l’ange,” p. 28. 3. Barthes, “From Work to Text,” in Textual Strategies, ed. Harari, p. 75 (73–81). 4. Barthes, “The Struggle with the Angel,” p. 22; “La lutte avec l’ange,” p. 28. 5. Barthes, “The Struggle with the Angel,” pp. 24–5.

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of Israel is the ‘message.’ God is a logothete; Jacob is here a ‘morpheme’ of the new langue.”6 Noting this important shift from mythic and biblical narrative to language itself, Barthes describes our text as a metonymic montage in which the “themes (Crossing, Struggle Change of Names, Food Rites) are combined and not ‘developed.’ ”7 In his conclusion, Barthes sounds a note of caution for his approach that could easily be ascribed to religious interpretations: “Certainly one runs the risk of weakening the historical, economic meaning of the episode . . . but one strengthens the symbolic explosion of the text (which is not necessarily of a religious order).”8 That last qualification, “not necessarily of a religious order,” would certainly not withstand the kind of analysis Barthes himself performs. Nowhere in his essay does he explain what such a “religious order” represents, or how it would differ from his analysis. Structuralist analysis gained currency in biblical studies in the 1970s and 1980s as part of a broad expansion of literary research on the Bible. Some forms of structuralism address the nature of language itself, as in the case of Ferdinand Saussure and Roman Jakobson; others identify abstract schemata in texts, as in Algirdas Greimas’ “actantial” analysis; and others, following Claude Levi-Strauss, claim to recognize deep cultural patterns beneath texts.9 Literary and biblical scholars typically turn to structuralism for strategies of reading without necessarily endorsing the claims of structuralist linguistic and cultural theories. For Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, structuralist methods bring clarity to the analysis of biblical narratives, Mark in particular. Like Barthes, Malbon uses structuralism to find meaning in the text (rather than behind or beneath it) through close, sensitive readings that place particular emphasis on the elements of character, setting, plot, and rhetoric.10 Such an approach highlights the fundamental ambiguities of Genesis 32:  Who is the “man” character who wrestles with Jacob? What is the significance of the Jabbok as a setting? As for plot, what exactly takes place during the wrestling match, and how does it relate to the story of Jacob and Esau? Finally, given its fundamental complexity and ambiguity, does the episode convey a clear rhetorical purpose, and, if so, what is it? Barthes provides far more than a structuralist reading of the text; like the turn his own work took beyond structuralism, his essay scans a wide range of interpretive issues that align closely with traditional interpretations. And this is not Barthes’s only discussion of wrestling. In his study of Genesis 32, Samuel Tongue aptly relates Barthes’s study of Genesis 32 to his earlier essay on modern professional

6. Barthes, “The Struggle with the Angel,” p. 29. 7. Barthes, “The Struggle with the Angel,” p. 33. 8. Barthes, “The Struggle with the Angel,” p. 33. 9.  Jonathan Culler, Structuralist Poetics:  Structuralism, Linguistics, and the Study of Literature (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1975), pp. 1–95. 10.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, In the Company of Jesus (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox, 2000), pp. 6–21.

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wrestling (1957; the essay on Gen 32 is from 1971).11 Both essays interpret wrestling in cultural and linguistic terms, linking details of its texts to their significance. Like Jacob’s contest, modern wrestling expresses moral values by casting the opponents as good or evil and placing their suffering on display. Modern wrestling is a spectacle of myth and image typically culminating in the “hold,” a maneuver that vividly captures the moral contest and the loser’s suffering in a single image. Barthes’s wrestling essay invokes the category of myth without defining it clearly, just as his essay on Genesis 32 uses “religion” without discussing it at length. Named but not examined, the place of religion and myth in Barthes’s analysis shows the limitations of secular philology and opens a space for crossing and even blurring the boundary between modern scholarship and traditional commentary. By their interpretive insights, Barthes’s essays provide a starting point for a study of Genesis 32 and its history of interpretation, with particular emphasis on how the ambiguities and resonances of the text resist modern distinctions between devotional and scholarly or religious and secular interpretation. Though he does not engage the text in Hebrew or cite its history of interpretation, Barthes reveals the limitations of historical critical scholarship by embracing rather than seeking to resolve ambiguities.12 With a focus on wrestling, blessing, and naming, my discussion begins with key issues of the text, moves to biblical intertexts, and extends the discussion to traditional commentary and modern scholarship, concluding with a brief discussion of implications for biblical studies and the humanities in general.

Wrestling: Sacred Sport Barthes’s recognition of the role of myth in modern wrestling alerts us to the place of wrestling in ancient traditions. In the Gilgamesh epic, a wrestling match transforms rivalry into friendship for Gilgamesh and Enkidu, and as Esther Hamori and others have shown, the parallels between this story and Genesis 32 are significant enough to suggest influence. In both stories, the protagonist is attacked at night by a divine or divinely created being whose identity is unknown at first; after they struggle, the protagonist lets the aggressor go and receives a blessing.13 Traditional and modern commentators have identified issues of sexuality and power in the wrestling of Genesis 32. In some rabbinic sources, the injury Jacob

11.  Samuel Tongue, Between Biblical Criticism and Poetic Rewriting:  Interpretative Struggles over Genesis 32:22–32 (Leiden: Brill, 2014). 12.  Speiser, for example, considers the episode to be a clear case of a test of Jacob in line with the style and theology of the J source, even though he allows that “The reader, of course, should not try to spell out details that the author himself glimpsed as if through a haze” (Ephraim A. Speiser, Genesis [Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1964)], pp. 256–7). 13.  Esther J. Hamori, “Echoes of Gilgamesh in the Jacob Story,” JBL 130 (2011), p.  627 (625–42).

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suffers is sexual, with particular emphasis on the meaning or associations of the anatomical terms “hip socket” and its tendon or muscle (‫( )גיד הנש‬vv. 26, 33). One source glosses gid ha-nasheh as the verb ‫ התשנ‬in Jeremiah 51:30, where it connotes shriveling and becoming like women.14 A Ladino commentary ascribes this outcome to a punishment for Jacob’s marrying two sisters. The dietary restriction on this tendon serves to limit the lust and desire associated with it.15 In the Zohar, the wrestling partner is actually Lilith, who comes at night to mate with mortals.16 With all this traditional commentary on the sexual dimensions of Jacob’s wrestling, modern scholars would seem to have little to add, but some have argued that the “hollow of the thigh” refers to the genitals.17 This move is reductionistic: wrestling may resemble sex, but it is not the same thing. A striking comparison to our text appears in Deuteronomy, which prescribes amputation for the wife who grabs the genitals of a man fighting her husband: “If men get into a fight with (‫ )וצני‬one another, and the wife of one intervenes to rescue her husband from the grip of his opponent by reaching out and seizing his genitals (‫ )וישבמב‬you shall cut off her hand; show no pity” (Deut 25:11–12). The terminology for genitals here is explicit; there is therefore no reason to believe that the hip socket and its tendon or muscle are simply euphemisms for genitalia. But like Genesis 32, this text combines narrative with law in a text about man-toman fighting, and both cases involve a surprise maneuver. Yet unlike Genesis 32, where this inversion leads to victory, blessing, and naming for Jacob, the woman in Deuteronomy 25 pays for her loyal and skillful maneuver with her hand, which must be removed without pity. Traditional and modern interpretations also converge around the text’s paradoxes of power. Jacob’s surprising victory, followed by the blessing, naming, injury, and dietary restriction, sends mixed messages. Hosea’s designation of Jacob’s opponent as an angel (Hos 12:4), which gains wide acceptance in Jewish tradition, avoids the theological problem of wrestling with God and allows many ways to explain the mixture of victory and loss in the encounter. In some cases, the angel is sent to protect Jacob from Esau.18 For Christians, the opponent is sometimes Christ himself, and Jacob’s victory is a divine gift, while some view his injury through anti-Jewish eyes, as a kind of punishment.19 Modern literature typically 14. David E. Fass, “Jacob’s Limp?” Judaism (2001), pp. 144–5 (143–150). 15. Fass, “Jacob’s Limp?” p. 145. 16. Fass, “Jacob’s Limp?” p. 147. 17.  S. H. Smith, “‘Heel’ and ‘Thigh’:  The Concept of Sexuality in the Jacob-Esau Narratives,” Vetus Testamentum 40 (1990), pp. 467–8 [464–73]; Howard Eilberg-Schwartz, God’s Phallus and Other Problems for Men and Monotheism (Boston:  Beacon Press, 1994), pp. 152–3. 18. Pirke de Rab Eliezar 37, cited in William T. Miller, Mysterious Encounters at Mamre and Jabbok (Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1984), p. 111. 19.  Miller, Mysterious Encounters at Mamre and Jabbok, pp. 122–43; Tongue, Between Biblical Criticism and Poetic Rewriting, pp.  172–3. Calvin writes:  “For we know that the strength of God is made perfect in our weakness, in order that our exaltation may be joined

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renders the episode as a personal struggle. See, for example, Rainer Maria Rilke’s poem, “Der Schauende” (1906)20 and Chance the Rapper’s “Israel (Sparring)” (2015), where struggle leads to rescue and love: Jacob wrestled with God, in the desert ’til he broke him And he blessed him and he rescued his heart I struggle with love, I juggle my loves.21 Another way to read the power dynamics of the scene is to identify Jacob’s wrestling partner as Esau. Here the text itself provides a strong link, as traditional readers have long noted. The prominent motif of God’s “face” in the wrestling story, tied directly to the name of the place (Gen 32:30, Peniel), returns when Jacob and Esau meet and Jacob says that seeing Esau’s face is “like seeing the face of God” (Gen 33:10; see also 32:20). If seeing Esau’s face is like seeing God’s, then wrestling with God is like wrestling with Esau. There is no need to appeal to psychoanalysis to make this point, as Smith does.22 In Gilgamesh, Genesis, and modern culture, wrestling is an athletic activity, a nonlethal physical contest governed by rules. The term for wrestled, waye’abeq (v. 25 (24), from ‫)קבא‬, is unique in the Bible, a hapax legomenon, and may derive from a word for “dust,” as if to wrestle is to get dusty. The connection has been noted in Jewish commentary, though Rashi disputes this reading in favor of a derivation linked to an Aramaic term with the root meaning to “attach,” to describe how wrestlers attach themselves to each other by their arms.23 The injury sustained by Jacob is ambiguous: what physical action is described, and what is its impact? The verb ‫ עגנ‬describes a touch more often than a heavy blow. But perhaps only a slight touch is needed for this touch to have its effect, especially if a delicate tendon, nerve, or muscle is involved. Is the effect permanent, or temporary, as some rabbinic commentators suggest from the word ‫ םלש‬that describes how Jacob arrived at Shechem after reconciling with Esau (Gen 33:18; “restored” instead of “safely”)? The sun had healed him, according to Genesis Rabbah.24 According to

with humility; for if our own strength remained entire, and there were no injury or dislocation produced, immediately the flesh would become haughty, and we should forget that we had conquered by the help of God. But the wound received, and the weakness which follows it, compel us to be modest” (Commentary on Genesis, www.ccel.org/ccel/calvin/calcom02.x .i.html?highlight=jacob#highlight, accessed November 9, 2015). 20.  Rilke, “Der Schauende,” www.rilke.de/gedichte/derschauende.htm, accessed November 9, 2015. 21.  Chance the Rapper, “Israel (Sparring),” lyrics at http://genius.com/Chance-therapper-israel-sparring-lyrics/, accessed November 9, 2015. 22. Smith, “ ‘Heel’ and ‘Thigh,’ ” p. 471. 23. Rashi, Commentary on Genesis, www.chabad.org/library/bible_cdo/aid/82227#show rashi=true&v=25, accessed November 9, 2015. 24. Gen. Rab. 78.5, cited in Miller, Mysterious Encounters at Mamre and Jabbok, p. 105.

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sources in sports medicine, such injuries involving the hip flexor do occur in wrestling, and recovery is usually possible.25 As Barthes points out, this touch or blow injures Jacob but still fails to bring victory.26 This paradox and inversion, whereby Jacob wins in spite of the decisive “low blow,” leads not to the expected “brand” (marque) but to an inversion, a “counter-brand” (contre-marque).27 Barthes compares this counter-brand to Jacob’s supplanting of Esau’s blessing earlier in Genesis and links it to symbolism more generally: “every symbol is a displacement.”28 With this move, Barthes extrapolates from the biblical trope of inversion to language itself. If he is right, then Barthes has correctly identified Genesis 32 as one of the key biblical narratives on language, naming, and symbol. Barthes does not attempt to wrest abstraction out of narrative context. Besides naming, the primary form of identity branding in the Pentateuch is circumcision, and there are two stories involving conflict over circumcision that resemble Jacob’s wrestling in some respects: Exodus 4:21–6, a night attack between Moses and God, and, directly after our story, Genesis 34, the rape of Dinah and circumcision of the Shechemites.29 Of course, circumcision and language have been linked to each other in literary and cultural theory; Derrida’s Circumfession is a key example. Like circumcision, wrestling in Genesis 32 is a physical practice associated with injury that generates identity.

Blessing and Naming—Texts, Contexts, Intertexts, and Paratexts The text’s transition from wrestling to blessing and naming occurs at daybreak and marks a shift from narrative to language. For Rashi and others, the angel must leave at dawn to praise God.30 But daylight brings no more clarity than darkness. Why does the man answer Jacob’s request for a blessing by renaming him Israel? Why does Jacob then join the name game, asking the man his name, only to be deflected with a question (“Why is it that you ask my name?”) and then a blessing? Why does Jacob then name the place Peniel with the explanation that he has seen God face to face and survived? Answering name with name, Jacob performs a very strong reading of the encounter and his own new name: the man is now God, and, despite his injury, he claims not only victory but also the last word.

25.  See medical accounts of these injuries at www.athleticedge.biz/Hip_ Flexor_ Strain.html and http://www.muscle-pull.com/grade-2-hip-flexor-muscle-strain/, accessed November 9, 2015. 26. Barthes, “The Struggle with the Angel,” p. 27. 27. Barthes, “The Struggle with the Angel,” p. 28. 28. Barthes, “The Struggle with the Angel,” p. 28. 29. Eilberg-Schwartz, God’s Phallus and Other Problems for Men and Monotheism, p. 151. 30.  Rashi, Commentary on Genesis, www.chabad.org/library/bible_cdo/aid/8227# showrashi=true&v=25, accessed November 9, 2015.

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As it moves between the divine and human, Genesis 32 expands outward, from narrative to naming and blessing and finally to direct engagement with the ongoing dietary practice of the audience: “Therefore to this day the Israelites do not eat the thigh muscle that is on the hip socket, because he struck Jacob on the hip socket at the thigh muscle” (v. 32). In Barthes’s terms, the text moves from a specific narrative to the level of symbol and language in general. God may be a logothete, as Barthes says, but so is Jacob, and so is the narrator! There is no dispute over the rich ambiguity of Genesis 32, but there are different ways to model it. The recent emergence of reception studies or Wirkungsgeschichte has challenged the dominance of historical critical research. In her reading of Jonah and its reception, for example, Yvonne Sherwood suggests a “mutable canon where conceptual boundary lines can always be imagined otherwise.”31 Sherwood’s student Samuel Tongue goes a step further with his recent study of Genesis 32 in literature. Instead of exegesis and afterlife, two common terms for biblical reception, Tongue characterizes the interaction of scripture and literature as “paragesis” and “otherlife.” This method, he argues, is the best alternative to the dominance historical critical search for the original meaning of biblical texts.32 Focusing on poems that retell or allude to Genesis 32, Tongue proposes a “canonography” whereby literary texts expose the alterity and doubleness of the biblical canon. But in dividing Bible from literature, Tongue undermines his attempt to bridge and combine the two.33 And in privileging literature over Bible in his analysis, Tongue, unlike Sherwood and Barthes, misses the very connections between text and commentary, particular and general, that characterize the best readings of the text. His poetic paragesis throws the baby of philology out with the bathwater of secular scholarship. If historical critical scholarship cut the Bible off from traditional commentary, the challenge becomes how to reconnect them. Reception studies provide an obvious link, since they study commentary. Another step is the critique of the scientific and secularist methods of modern scholarship. But the most important connection, I suggest, resides in close reading and philology. Even without the original language, Barthes manages a brilliant reading of the text, which by its openness to ambiguity resembles traditional commentary more than scientific scholarship. That openness returns in the reception studies of Sherwood and Tongue, where the postmodern and traditional merge. But it is the use of philology, which attends to the echoes and resemblances of words, Jacob and Jabbok, the face of God and the face of Esau, the dustup of wrestling, and the connotations of Jacob’s injury, that unites them best of all.

31.  Sherwood, A Biblical Text and Its Afterlives (Cambridge:  Cambridge University Press, 2000), p.  287. Sherwood offers her reading of the text and its reception as a bridge between ancient and modern experiences of “the intransigence, randomness, incalculability of life” (289). In this sense, she frames reception studies as a bridge between traditional interpretation and modern scholarship. 32. Tongue, Between Biblical Criticism and Poetic Rewriting, pp. 2, 194. 33. Tongue, Between Biblical Criticism and Poetic Rewriting, pp. 213, 195, 260.

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Conclusion Let me conclude with a thought problem. What if our story represents not an exception to ancient or post-biblical ideas of the divine human relationship but rather a model for them? What if, as Barthes suggests in his earlier essay on wrestling, the modern spectacle of wrestling has much in common with religious tradition? He writes, “I have heard it said of a wrestler stretched on the ground: ‘He is dead, little Jesus, there, on the cross,’ and these ironic words revealed the hidden roots of a spectacle which enacts the exact gestures of the most ancient purifications.”34 From the biblical authors who alluded to the contest between Gilgamesh and Enkidu to the postbiblical commentators who thought Jacob’s rival was an angel, Lilith, himself, or Jesus, the episode of Jacob’s wrestling is less ambiguous than mysterious, which is fitting, since its subjects, divine–human relations, sibling relations, and wrestling itself, are also mysterious. Naming and understanding that mystery are common goals of traditional commentary and modern scholarship. Modern scholarship, even by the professed outsider Roland Barthes, belongs to biblical tradition more broadly conceived, a tradition that mixes and even blurs the boundaries between divine and human. By distancing himself from religion and philology, Barthes calls attention to both in a reading that associates the theological displacements of Esau, Jacob, and his opponent with the displacements of language in general. By criticizing historical and philological research in in favor of a reading that exposes the “symbolic explosion of the text,”35 Barthes opens an aesthetic portal to the traditions of commentary and text in general. But that opening must lead eventually back to the text itself. The disavowal of philology in Barthes and others scholars rightly criticizes the scientific positivism of modern scholarship, but philology has a much longer history, one that lies at the heart of the humanities, as James Turner has shown in his study, Philology: The Forgotten Origins of the Modern Humanities.36 If “every symbol is a displacement,” as Barthes shows, then it is necessary to study those symbols one by one, through philology.

34.  Barthes, “The World of Wrestling,” in Mythologies, trans. Annette Lavers (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1989), p. 21 (15–25). 35. Barthes, “The Struggle with the Angel,” p. 260. 36.  James Turner, Philology:  The Forgotten Origins of the Modern Humanities (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2014).

Part V A ESTHETIC AND P OLITICAL R EADINGS

Chapter 16 L OV E O F E N E M I E S A N D T H E P R O B L E M O F M A S S I N C A R C E R AT IO N Robert C. Tannehill

The work of Elizabeth Struthers Malbon on characters in Mark came to a mature climax with the publication of Mark’s Jesus: Characterization as Narrative Christology.1 She credits me with having begun the study of the Gospel of Mark as narrative christology and makes use of my essay,2 but her illuminating work is original in method and reaches original results. She studies what is said about Jesus by various parties and what Jesus says in response, noting significant differences. I am happy that my early approach contributed to her work. My essay sought to move the study of Mark’s Jesus away from a focus on titles applied to him and toward consideration of the roles of Jesus in Mark’s plot. The commission that Jesus receives from God results in an extended narrative as Jesus seeks to fulfill that commission in the face of obstacles. In the course of the narrative we learn the nature of Jesus’ commission more fully, as the narrative presents Jesus in certain role relationships to other characters, role relationships that have some stability but can also change at critical points. In light of Jesus’ actions in relation to other persons and groups in the story, we can say something about who Jesus is in relation to these persons and groups, that is, the roles that he plays in the narrative. In the synoptic gospels Jesus addresses powerful words to his disciples and others. He is not simply a teacher, in the narrow sense of one who imparts useful information; he is an influencer, a persuader. He is seeking to transform people through a deep change in their understanding of God, society, and self, resulting in new patterns of living. Jesus’ teaching about love in the gospels is an important part of that influence. The following essay will consider teaching about love and 1. Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2009. 2.  Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, pp. 4, 16, 17, 216–17, 242–3, and Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “Markan Narrative Christology and the Kingdom of God,” in Literary Encounters with the Reign of God, ed. Sharon H. Ringe and H. C. Paul Kim (New York:  T&T Clark, 2004), pp. 177–93 (177–83). See Robert C. Tannehill, “The Gospel of Mark as Narrative Christology,” Semeia 16 (1979), pp. 57–95, reprinted in Robert C. Tannehill, The Shape of the Gospel: New Testament Essays (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2007), pp. 161–87.

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forgiveness in the synoptic gospels, some of the issues in understanding the historical and literary contexts of this teaching, and then consider how it should apply to the criminal justice system in the United States, a system that has produced mass incarceration.

Love and Forgiveness in the Synoptic Gospels Each of the synoptic gospels contains a version of the double love commandment as an answer to the question of what is “first” or “great” in the law (or, in Luke, what will lead to “eternal life”). Yet each of the three gospels presents the scene in a distinct way. In Mark 12:28–34 the scribe who asks the initial question contrasts with the normal scribal antagonists because he approves Jesus’ answer and applies it appropriately, recognizing the greater importance of the love commands compared to temple sacrifices.3 In Matthew 22:34–40 the “lawyer” who poses the initial question fits the stereotype of an antagonist who wants to test and expose Jesus. There is no response to Jesus’ answer, but Jesus adds a significant statement with hermeneutical implications:  “On these two commandments all the law and the prophets hang” or “depend.” Luke 10:25–37 differs most from the other versions because it is the “lawyer” who states the double love commandment, in response to Jesus’ question “What is written in the law?,” and the primary focus of the dialogue is on the definition of “neighbor” in the command to love one’s neighbor. The force of the parable of the Good Samaritan, which follows in Luke, is to remove the implied limitation in the term “neighbor,” a word that, in its basic sense, does not refer to everyone but to someone near. In the parable, however, the Samaritan (that is, the outsider) demonstrates what it means to love the neighbor. Thereby Jesus in Luke moves the command to love one’s neighbor in the direction of love of enemies (previously taught in Lk 6:27–8), since the implied limitation to someone close has been removed. The same thing happens in Matthew but in a different way. In Matthew 5:43–4 the command “You shall love your neighbor” is cited, followed by “And hate your enemy.” Jesus explicitly rejects this interpretation of the scriptural command: “But I say to you, love your enemies.” An important discussion of the center of Scripture and the extent of the command to love others is taking place in these scenes, leading to Jesus’ appeal for an inclusive love, inclusive even of enemies. One of the more obvious applications of these words today would seem to be to those we call criminals, put in prison, and, if released, continue to label as felons.

3.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon refers repeatedly to this “exceptional scribe” in her article on “The Major Importance of the Minor Characters in Mark,” in The New Literary Criticism and the New Testament, ed. Elizabeth Struthers Malbon and Edgar V. McKnight (Sheffield:  Sheffield Academic Press, 1994), pp. 58–86. This article was reprinted in Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, In the Company of Jesus:  Characters in Mark’s Gospel (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2000), pp. 189–225.

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These are the people we regard as society’s enemies. But there are significant issues to be discussed before we decide whether and how the gospel teaching should be applied to society’s treatment of criminals. What was the significance of the command to love enemies in its original context? Who were the enemies that originally were in mind? Richard Horsley argues that Galilean villages were the context of Jesus’ mission and the mission of his first followers. Galilean villagers were under economic stress because of the combination of Jewish tithes with Herodian and Roman taxes. Such stress produced conflict within the villages. Some were asking for loans from neighbors, who were worrying about their own survival. Loans were not being repaid. The command to love enemies originally concerned fellow villagers, according to Horsley, and the problem addressed was the animosity among villagers produced by economic stress. Jesus’ mission was to renew the covenantal community in Galilean villages, which included reconciling villagers with each other. At the same time, Jesus was in conflict with the scribes and Pharisees, who represented the oppressive power of the temple-state centered in Jerusalem.4 Horsley believes that a Q version of an early covenant renewal discourse can be reconstructed largely on the basis of Luke 6:20–49.5 This discourse reflects an oral tradition of a sermon delivered repeatedly by Jesus and his first followers in the villages of Galilee. Horsley rejects the idea that Q 6:20–49 is a collection of separate wisdom sayings, instead insisting that it is a discourse with its own coherence. The extensive repetitive patterns in the language are evidence that the discourse was formulated for oral presentation.6 There may have been references to loans in the Q discourse. (See Lk 6:30 par. Mt 5:42; Horsley also includes the references to loans in Lk 6:34–5 in his Q reconstruction.) However, these references are not sufficient to justify labeling Q 6:27–36 as a section on “Economic Relations,” in distinction from Q 6:37–42, a section on “Social Relations.”7 There is continuity of theme from “love your enemies” (6:27), to “be merciful” (6:36), and “judge not” (6:37). Only a few verses focus on the

4.  Richard A. Horsley, Jesus and the Spiral of Violence (San Francisco:  Harper and Row, 1987), pp. 246–84; Richard A. Horsley, Jesus and the Politics of Roman Palestine (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 2014), pp. 67–9, 108–53. 5. For Horsley’s reconstruction of the Q discourse, see Richard A. Horsley with Jonathan A. Draper, Whoever Hears You Hears Me:  Prophets, Performance, and Tradition in Q (Harrisburg, PA:  Trinity Press, 1999), pp. 212–17. Horsley includes the woes, found only in Luke. 6.  See Horsley, Whoever Hears You, pp. 195–227. I agree that Q 6:20–49 is a (largely) coherent discourse. I am not convinced by Horsley’s argument that it follows a covenantal pattern. Jonathan Draper (in Horsley, Whoever Hears You, p. 184) says, “The key indicators of oral performance in literature are alliteration, assonance, rhyme, tonal repetition, parallelism, and rhythm. All of these aid in memory and in fluent performance by the speaker. Repetition of all kinds is important.” 7. Horsley, Whoever Hears You, pp. 212–15.

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issue of loans. Arguments about loans and loan payments might be one source of conflict in village life, but the discourse behind Luke 6:20–49 had a broader scope. Most clearly there is reference to the resistance and rejection that Jesus and his followers are encountering. Both the fourth beatitude (Lk 6:22) and 6:28 make clear reference to resistance and rejection, and in the latter verse Jesus’ followers are to respond in a way that shows love of enemies. Both 6:22 and 6:27 refer to those who “hate you.” Thus the enemies in mind include those who are opposing the Jesus movement. This opposition could still be within the village context, at least at the beginning. There may well have been local elders who were not pleased with Jesus’ influence and message. But the opposition would spread as Jesus’ movement spread. “Enemies,” then, are not just personal enemies but enemies in a larger social and religious conflict. From this point on I will discuss Luke 6:27–42 without reference to possible differences from an earlier Q discourse. The short command “love your enemies” in 6:27 leaves the range of application unspecified. The commands that follow (6:27b–30) become more specific, but the more specific material does not limit application but serves to suggest many applications. Verses 27 and 28 contain four short commands with present imperative verbs that require positive action toward opponents. They are a parallel set of sentences with a formal repetitive pattern. Formal repetition sets a pattern that can easily be expanded, giving the verses an allusive quality. Verse 28 contains two specific examples. However, the commands in verse 27 are general, suggesting that many other applications of the commands to love and do good are possible. We can say, then, that the specific commands in verse 28 are suggestive of other similar actions, and that the set of four commands is an open ended series—a series that could be continued with other specific cases that follow the same pattern. Verses 29–30 contain a second set of four that suggest further applications of love of enemies, but now we have a different syntactical pattern. The sentences alternate between an introductory dative participle followed by a present imperative and an introductory genitive participle followed by a negative command. Now situations that result in loss of honor or possessions are addressed. Since love of enemies is the dominant theme at least from Luke 6:27 to 35, we must understand verses 29–30 in this context. They raise the issue of how we should respond to the enemy who threatens us, commonly provoking retaliation and self-defense on our part. Radical alternatives are suggested. Verses 29–30 are again a formal set that constitutes an open ended series. The situations in verse 29 are very specific but differ from each other. They refer to things that could happen, but it is doubtful that these were the most pressing problems of everyday life at the time. They are suggestive of a pattern of behavior involving a surprising response to an injury or loss, a response that breaks with the normal pattern of self-protection. While these things could literally happen in the first century, the force of this language is broader. It is misunderstood if limited to its literal sense. Rather, it is suggestive of a pattern of behavior applicable to other situations. Such is the proper effect of a formal set of cases that focus on different situations yet are united by a common pattern that may apply more broadly. If the pattern is understood, additional cases

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could be added, including situations that may be more pressing at the moment. Thus an open ended series like this indirectly suggests additional areas of application. The process is illustrated by the parallel passage in Matthew 5:39–42, which does, in fact, contain the additional case of being forced to carry a burden for one mile.8 In previous writing I described verse 29 as two examples of the “focal instance.”9 In the focal instance the focus is very narrow—a singular situation is selected—so that a literal application of the teaching would be rather rare. Also, the required response to the situation is surprising and extreme: turning the other cheek and giving up one’s basic garment, leaving oneself naked. There is an offense to social expectations here, both for the person being addressed and for the person threatening him or her. The ingrained tendency under threat is to protect oneself and retaliate. The instruction in verse 29 twists this tendency and commands the opposite: expose oneself to further harm. These are acts that interrupt the normal course of events moving from threat to submission or retaliation. They are risky acts that can result in further aggression from the threatening person, whose dominance of the situation is being challenged. Or they might lead the threatening person to look at the other person differently and reconsider what he or she is doing. The proper effect of verse 29 is to challenge our normal thought and action. These words can awaken our moral imagination to freshly consider ways of escaping the spiral of aggression and retaliation. Because these words disrupt the normal and awaken new imaginative thought, they are not restricted to their literal sense. Indeed, the literal sense would have limited importance, since the situations are so specific. These words mean more than they say literally, and they are part of an open ended series that creates a pattern—a challenging pattern—that invites expansion into other areas. Such language is allusive, not literally prescriptive. The range of application is not spelled out for us. There is a challenge to our participation in the spiral of aggression and retaliation, but we are not told how this should apply to violence that is more than a slap on the cheek, causing permanent injury and, perhaps, death. Nor are we told what to do when a third party is in danger from the aggressor. We are not told how this teaching applies to enemies of the state incarcerated by our criminal justice system, persons who might be a continuing threat to society. However, we are being told to think differently, outside the box of the dominant pattern of offense and retribution. We are being told that we have an obligation to love our enemies, however difficult that may be in many situations. The discourse does not do our thinking for us. It is a prod to serious and creative thought.

8. There are other variations on these words in the early Christian tradition. See Robert C. Tannehill, The Sword of His Mouth: Forceful and Imaginative Language in Synoptic Sayings (Philadelphia and Missoula: Fortress Press and Scholars Press, 1975; reprint Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 2003), pp. 69, 186, n. 13. 9. See Tannehill, Sword of His Mouth, pp. 67–77.

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The discourse has a persuasive structure. Verses 31–6 support what has already been said. Verse 31, the so-called golden rule, may seem at first not to fit. It seems to argue in terms of reciprocity, while verses 32–34 emphatically emphasize that the typical practice of reciprocal love is insufficient. Verse 31, however, already undermines the typical pattern of reciprocity—responding to others in the way they have treated us—by establishing a counter-reciprocity. The standard for action now is how “you want” others to treat you, not the way they actually treat you. Our awareness of our own needs and desires becomes a standard for treatment of others, in place of the tendency to respond to negative treatment in kind. There is similarity here to the basic command to love your neighbor “as yourself,” that is, as you want to be loved. The golden rule in its context of teaching on love of enemies urges proactive and potentially unlimited beneficial action toward the other without stopping to consider whether the other person will reciprocate. Luke 6:27–42 is a carefully crafted discourse that uses repetitive patterns and emphatic language in order to move hearers away from normal behavior, dominated by concerns for self-defense and retaliation, toward a radically new understanding of human possibilities, summarized as love of enemies. The basic command is first placed within a fourfold pattern that begins to give it concreteness: Love your enemies, Do good . . . Bless . . . Pray . . . Then there is a shift to more striking examples, using what I  have called “focal instances,” again as part of a fourfold pattern: To the one striking you on the cheek . . . And from the one taking away your cloak . . . To everyone asking you . . . And from the one taking away . . . This is followed in verse 31 by the golden rule, a gnomic rule that supports a kind of reciprocity, but in doing so undermines the normal reciprocity of defensive retaliation. Then there is a threefold repetitive pattern that sharply distinguishes love of enemies from the ordinary love for those who love us. If you love those loving you . . . And if you do good to those doing good to you . . . And if you lend from whom you hope to receive . . . Concepts from verses 27 and 30 reappear in this threefold pattern, which concludes with a return to the positive commands with which the passage began, reinforcing the basic thrust:

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But love your enemies, and do good, and lend . . . God’s own mercy provides the standard, and God’s great reward provides the motivation for acting as God acts: And your reward will be great, And you will be sons of the Most High, For he is kind to the ungrateful and wicked. Be merciful as your Father is merciful. Because of the return in verse 35 to the initial commands in verse 27, a rounding off through an “envelope” structure, there is a temporary completeness to the discourse. But it picks up again through consideration of behavior contrary to love of enemies, namely, condemning judgment. Commitment to justice (understood as just retribution) and to upholding social standards can block love of enemies. After all, some people have violated the standards of society and God. Because they are threats to individuals, society, and religion, they are justly condemned, according to common opinion. Instead, love of enemies shows itself in forgiveness. Again, a fourfold pattern contributes to the rhetorical power of the words, in this case with two negative commands and two positive: And do not judge, and you will not be judged, And do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven, Give, and it will be given to you. In each case there is a shift from the active to the passive of the same verb, warning of a kind of reciprocity (a counterjustice) that speaks against the hearer’s tendency to judge others and in favor of a willingness to forgive. Our condemnation of others drags condemnation on ourselves. These words are reinforced with an extravagant promise concerning the gift that comes to those who are forgiving and generous. The pattern of the language mimics the meaning of the words, for the sentence begins with a noun followed by four adjectival descriptions that grow in length and extravagance: μέτρον καλὸν πεπιεσμένον σεσαλευμένον ὑπερεκχυννόμενον Measure good, pressed down, shaken together, cascading over. The tendency to judge others is further undermined by the satirical words about a log in the eye (vv. 41–2). Here we find a metaphor (something in the eye) developed with hyperbolic antithesis (contrasting a “speck” and a “log”). Two parallel questions build to a final command, with the metaphor maintained throughout. These verses are not polite; they present a personal attack. They are addressed personally to “you,” and the repeated question puts the addressee on the spot. Even if rhetorical, the questions press for a response, while describing a ridiculous

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situation. One can become defensive and begin to argue with the accusation. But the words are effective if they produce imaginative shock that leads us to reconsider how we evaluate ourselves and others and recognize that some of this blindness may creep in. It creeps in easily because we have an internal perspective on our own actions but usually only an external perspective on others. When we consider our own actions, we include all of our good intentions (or excuses) that seem to justify what we did. When we look at others, we see only the external actions. The tendency to see our own fault as small and the fault of others as great is reversed in the hyperbolic metaphor: our fault appears huge and our “brother’s” small. These forceful words undermine our confidence that we are capable of judging others.10 These words may have addressed a concern within the early Jesus movement. It is possible that some in the Jesus group were not comfortable with others who came from despised classes (tax collectors and sinners) and openly or subtly condemned them. These people who felt superior are being rebuked and warned. But it would be a mistake to restrict these words to a single early setting. The significance of this forceful and imaginative language can expand to other times and places. However, if we apply these words to specific issues and persons, we are responsible for that, and there is danger in the harsh language of verses 41–2. There are other passages in the synoptic tradition that strongly emphasize the importance of forgiveness. Prominent among them is the petition in the Lord’s Prayer that ties God’s forgiveness for us to our willingness to forgive others. The wording varies from “our debts” and “our debtors” in Matthew 6:12 to “our sins” and “everyone indebted to us” in Luke 11:4. In Matthew the petition is followed by an emphasizing explanation that substitutes “trespasses” for “debts” and “debtors” (Mt 6:14–15), and in Mark there is a related teaching that makes forgiveness of “our trespasses” by God dependent on our willingness to forgive what “you have against someone” (Mk 11:25). It is quite possible that the prayers in Matthew and Luke refer to forgiving financial debts owed to the petitioner, but debts owed to God would encompass more, and the substitution of trespasses indicates that the Jesus group recognized a broader application that included personal injuries and sinful behavior. Binding God’s forgiveness of the petitioner to an equivalent willingness to forgive other persons makes forgiveness essential in human relations. Forgiveness is an important theme elsewhere in the gospels. The three parables in Luke 15 urge listeners to joyfully welcome the repentant sinner, as Jesus is doing in his ministry. In Luke 17:3–4 we are commanded to forgive an offender as much as seven times a day, if he or she claims to repent.11 Similar teaching (differing in

10. On Luke 6:37–8, 41–2, see further Tannehill, Sword of His Mouth, pp. 107–18. 11.  On the relation of repentance to forgiveness in Luke-Acts, see Robert C. Tannehill, “Repentance in the Context of Lukan Soteriology,” in The Shape of Luke’s Story: Essays on Luke-Acts (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2005), pp. 84–101. This essay was first published in God’s Word for Our World, Vol. 2: Theological and Cultural Studies in Honor of Simon J. De Vries, ed. J. Harold Ellens (London: T&T Clark, 2004), pp. 199–215.

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detail) is found in Matthew 18:21–2. These verses in Matthew follow presentation of a careful three-step process of reproof of an offender that can lead to exclusion if the offender refuses to listen (Mt 18:15–17). But this instruction on church discipline is preceded and followed by urgent exhortation to seek the sinner and forgive. The instruction on church discipline is preceded by the parable of the lost sheep, understood as guidance to the Jesus community on how to respond when one member goes astray (Mt 18:10–14), and it is followed by the words to Peter about forgiving seventy-seven times and, as a climax, the parable of the unforgiving servant (18:21–35). The latter expresses in a most powerful and threatening way the danger of failing to forgive a “brother.” The focus in Matthew 18 is on relations within the community. There is no indication, however, that forgiveness is limited to the community of believers in the sentence on forgiveness in the Lord’s prayer and associated texts. Furthermore, the command to love enemies shows that a readiness for forgiveness and reconciliation must extend even to those from whom we are alienated. This strong witness in the teaching of Jesus (according to the first three gospels) conflicts both with common attitudes toward criminals today and with features of the US criminal justice system.

The Problem: Mass Incarceration in the United States Criminals are society’s enemies. That is why we feel justified in excluding them from society and punishing them. Usually we do this by putting them in prison. In the United States we do this on a grand scale. At the end of 2013 state and federal prisons held about 1,574,700 persons, according to the US Department of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics.12 If we add those in local jails, there were about 2.3 million persons incarcerated. Furthermore, there were an estimated 853,200 parolees and 3,910,600 persons on probation, greatly adding to the number of persons under criminal justice control.13 The United States has the highest rate of incarceration in the world, 716 per 100,000 population. The second highest country (Rwanda) has a rate of 492. Most countries are much lower. Our neighbor to the north, Canada, has a rate of 118 per 100,000. The rate for France is 98, for Germany 79, for Sweden 67.14 Black men are imprisoned at a much higher rate than other men. They are incarcerated at the rate of 2,805 per 100,000 population. (Compare 1,134 for Latino men and 466 for white men.15) The Sentencing Project estimates that one in three black men is likely to be imprisoned some time during his life.16 12. US Department of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics Bulletin, September 2014, p. 1. 13. The Sentencing Project; Fact Sheet: Trends in U.S. Corrections, p. 2 (www.sentencingproject.org). 14. Sentencing Project; Fact Sheet, p. 1. 15. Bureau of Justice Statistics, September 2014, Table 8. 16. Sentencing Project; Fact Sheet, p. 5.

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How did the United States become the world’s undisputed leader in imprisonment? The urban riots in the 1960s increased fear of attacks on life and property. Then President Nixon declared a “war on drugs,” and the concern about drugs increased in the Reagan era. Crack cocaine, especially, was seen as a threat to society. There was a general increase in crime from 1961 to 1991.17 The response of the public to these developments was to support politicians and prosecutors who were willing to get tough on crime. Laws were revised to add harsh penalties, including mandatory minimum sentences, in order to protect law-abiding people from criminals. The disproportionate number of African American men in prison is a special concern. On their face, the laws used to sentence offenders are written in a raceneutral way. Yet the results of arrests, prosecutions, and sentences are not raceneutral. The reasons for this are probably complex, and they are debated. Michelle Alexander argues that the present criminal justice system constitutes a “new Jim Crow.” It is a system of community control that functions to hold African Americans down, just as the Jim Crow laws in southern states previously did.18 Criminals lose their freedom, and the law discriminates against felons even after they are released. In many states felons cannot vote, and they are blocked from many kinds of employment. The punishment continues through continuing deprivation of ordinary rights. The felony convictions of many African Americans have strongly negative consequences for their families and communities. Limitations and controls imposed in the Jim Crow south are reinstated through the disproportionate impact of the criminal justice system on the African American community. Alexander traces the development that results in mass incarceration today and shows that there was a racial component in the beginning. The civil rights movement, and the urban riots that followed, provoked a reaction, which took the form of a demand for law and order. Conservatives, including Richard Nixon, recognized a political opportunity. They “succeeded in using law and order rhetoric in their effort to mobilize the resentment of white workingclass voters, many of whom felt threatened by the sudden progress of African Americans.”19 Reagan emphasized the war on drugs, which was given a boost when the media began to sensationalize the effect of crack cocaine on inner-city (largely black) neighborhoods. This development provided political motivation

17.  The rate of violent crime per 100,000 population increased from 158.1 in 1961 to 758.2 in 1991. The rate of property crime per 100,000 went from 1747.9 in 1961 to a high of 5353.3 in 1980 and remained high at 5140.2 in 1991. However, since 1991 the rate of violent crime has declined to 386.9 in 2012, and property crime has declined to 2859.2 in the same year. US Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Investigation Uniform Crime Reporting Statistics (www.ucrdatatool.gov). 18. Michelle Alexander, The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness (New York: New Press, 2010). 19. Alexander, New Jim Crow, p. 45.

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not only to get tough on crime in general but to get tough on drug crime in particular. Increasingly harsh penalties were imposed for drug crimes, including mandatory minimum sentences. Politicians could gain votes by being tough on crime, with little thought for the consequences. This tendency continued into the Bill Clinton administration. New efforts to stamp out crime included a “lifetime ban on eligibility for welfare and food stamps for anyone convicted of a felony drug offense.”20 Alexander helps us understand how the justice system works to incarcerate an extraordinary number of black men, even though using and selling drugs is widespread among whites as well as blacks. I offer this summary21: The federal war on crime encourages local police to make drug arrests and rewards the police for doing so. These efforts are supported with federal grants and rewarded by money that local officials obtain through legal forfeiture of cash and property of drug offenders. The police want to show results in arrests, and the easiest way to do that is to patrol the ghetto, where drug traffic is more open. “High crime areas,” that is, urban ghettos where many black people live, are more intensively patrolled than other areas. Constitutional rules against “unreasonable searches and seizures” (the Fourth Amendment to the Constitution) have been weakened by the Supreme Court, and police have been taught how to conduct searches even when previous standards of “probable cause” cannot be met. Many black men are caught and fed into the justice system. Public opinion encourages prosecutors to be tough on crime. They have a lot of discretion in bringing charges, which opens the door to bias against persons who seem to be of the “criminal class.” There is a tendency to “load up” charges against a defendant in order to get a plea bargain. Some of the charges can be dropped if the defendant pleads guilty to other charges, or implicates other persons. This approach is particularly effective if the defendant can be threatened with the harsh mandatory sentences that apply to drug crimes. Even innocent people may plead guilty to a reduced charge under this kind of threat. Poor people are usually dependent on public defenders, local lawyers who are often overloaded with cases and work for poor pay. Too often the legal defense is weak. Once convicted of a felony, a person’s life changes permanently. Not all convicted felons are sent to prison. Nevertheless, they are formally labeled as felons, which will have lasting consequences for their future, and they are placed under an intense system of probationary control—limitations that are easily violated, resulting in prison. Those sentenced to prison have varying experiences. Time in prison may turn unfortunate offenders into hardened criminals, or, in some cases, help them to turn their lives around. In any case, release from prison does not mean a return to life before conviction as a felon. Release on parole usually involves strong restrictions. Violations are easy and frequent. They can result in a return to prison. Released prisoners may also be loaded with fines, fees, and back payments for

20. Alexander, New Jim Crow, pp. 40–57. The quote is found on p. 56. 21. Alexander provides her own summary in New Jim Crow, pp. 180–82.

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child support that they cannot pay—another reason to send them back to prison. Furthermore, the label “felon” is a permanent impediment to finding a good job. The job application often asks, “Have you ever been convicted of a felony?,” a question designed to eliminate anyone who says yes. Background checks are required for many positions. Without any opportunities, returning to prison may seem the easier option. Recidivism rates are high.22 Alexander emphasizes the negative effects of the war on drugs, carried out with special intensity in urban ghettos. However, a change in our drug laws is unlikely to solve the problem by itself. In an article on “The Black Family in the Age of Mass Incarceration,” Ta-Nehisi Coates concludes that “the chasm in incarceration rates is deeply tied to the socioeconomic chasm between black and white America. The two are self-reinforcing—impoverished black people are more likely to end up in prison, and that experience breeds impoverishment.” He refers to a study by Richard S. Frase, professor of criminal law at the University of Minnesota. Minnesota is a state whose relatively sane justice policies give it one of the lowest incarceration rates in the country—and yet whose economic disparities give it one of the worst black-white incarceration ratios in the country. Changing criminal-justice policy did very little to change the fact that blacks committed crimes at a higher rate than whites in Minnesota.

This situation reflects the fact that the disparity between black and white family poverty is substantially greater in Minnesota than in the United States as a whole.23 Concentration of poverty is one indication of a distressed community. There are others: few job opportunities, low education rates and poor schools, many broken homes, high crime rates. Some African American youth succeed in spite of this toxic environment, but the scales are tipped against success. When approved paths to success are few and difficult, illegal paths are tempting. Tough guys, flashing images of success, can become role models, and teen gangs can influence youngsters who are still forming their own identities. Incarceration of many boys and men from the neighborhood does not help solve the problem. Poverty and broken homes are a major part of the problem. Incarceration results in more poverty and broken homes, for the punishment falls not only on the prisoner but on their families. The justice system sustains a vicious circle in distressed neighborhoods, punishing crime while contributing to the conditions that foster crime.

22. “Within three years of release, about two-thirds (67.8 percent) of released prisoners were rearrested . . . Of those prisoners who were rearrested, more than half (56.7 percent) were arrested by the end of the first year.” These results are based on a study of prisoners released in 2005 in thirty states. See National Institute of Justice (www.nij.gov/topics/corrections/recidivism). 23.  Ta-Nehisi Coates, “The Black Family in the Age of Mass Incarceration,” Atlantic 316.3 (2015), pp. 60–84. The quotes are from p. 84.

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Love of Enemies in Practice Is the command to love our enemies relevant to the problem of mass incarceration, or should we dismiss it as an impossible ideal? A phrase like “love your enemies” does not quickly tell us what policies we should adopt. However, it does address our basic attitude toward criminal offenders. This basic attitude is the core of the problem. Michelle Alexander says, “Those who believe that advocacy challenging mass incarceration can be successful without overturning the public consensus that gave rise to it are engaging in fanciful thinking.” That consensus includes racial indifference, a lack of caring for those different than the majority.24 Even more fundamental is the assumption that the purpose of the criminal justice system is to punish offenders, an assumption that is fed by punitive anger, self-centered fear, and the ego boost that comes from feeling superior to someone publicly condemned. Love of enemies, as a basic attitude, runs counter to these motivations and refuses to renounce positive concern for offenders. What would love of enemies create in the criminal justice system? It would not necessarily mean abolishing prisons. Placing certain people in prison serves two important functions: it protects society from people who have shown that they are dangerous to others, and it is a forceful way of demonstrating society’s disapproval of some kinds of behavior. However, love of enemies, in my opinion, cannot accept sentences that offer no hope of restoration to society—sentences of death or life without possibility of parole. It need not hide from the fact that there are dangerous people in prison who would reoffend, given the chance, but it will search for those offenders who can change and will change, given opportunity and support, and hold this possibility open for all. A sentencing judge cannot know in advance that the offender will never change. Love of enemies is a basic attitude that does not give up hope for offenders and will support reforms in the criminal justice system that maximize the possibility of offenders returning to society as respected and trusted members. This basic attitude can express itself by support of a whole series of current developments and proposals. If we accept love of enemies as a moral guide, we should support the efforts of lawyers like Bryan Stevenson, the founder of the Equal Justice Initiative, who has been fighting racial bias in trials and through appeals, and who has successfully appealed sentences of life without parole applied to juveniles.25 We should also support movements toward sentencing reform in Congress and state legislatures. There are current efforts to reduce sentences for nonviolent crimes and to move away from mandatory sentences, giving judges more flexibility in sentencing. These efforts are gaining bipartisan support (which may seem surprising in the current political climate in the United

24. Alexander, New Jim Crow, pp. 198, 222. The quote is from p. 222. 25. Read the vivid accounts of his work in Bryan Stevenson, Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption (New York: Spiegel and Grau, 2014).

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States).26 We should not expect, however, that reduction in some sentences will solve the problem of mass incarceration. If the focus is on the harsh sentences applied to drug offenders, this could have a significant effect on the number of federal prisoners. Slightly more than half of federal prisoners were convicted of drug crimes. However, state prisons hold more than six times the number in federal prison.27 Only about 16  percent of state prisoners are imprisoned for drug crimes, while more than half are imprisoned for violent crimes.28 Furthermore, a shorter sentence does not remove the felony label—the brand that makes it difficult to find a job and reestablish oneself as a member of society. Love of enemies should also lead us to make more use of alternatives to prison. For persons whose offenses result from drug addiction, special drug courts can require and supervise drug addiction treatment. Those who successfully complete the program can avoid prison. In many other cases (first offenses and less serious offenses) some form of community control is a better alternative than prison. In such cases the quality of the supervision is important. Some programs of probation are setups for failure, with many harsh restrictions, easily violated, but no support for success. It takes a special kind of probation officer to be both firm and supportive. A broader perspective is opened by a movement called restorative justice. Restorative justice contrasts with retributive justice, but is also distinct from older ideas of rehabilitation. Christopher Marshall, a New Testament scholar from New Zealand, has written extensively about restorative justice from a biblical perspective. On the one hand, restorative justice is based on a set of core values, which include “healing and respect, democratic participation, accountability, truth telling, empathy, mutual care, reconciliation, and peacemaking.” On the other hand, restorative justice works through a particular process, a process in which all those affected by an incident of wrongdoing—victims, offenders, and their supporters—come together, in a safe and controlled environment, with trained facilitators, to name the wrong done, to describe how they have been personally affected by it, to speak about the material and emotional needs it has created, and to resolve together how best to repair the harm and to prevent recurrence. On this understanding, the heart and genius of restorative justice lie in its use of face-to-face meetings between affected parties, and its concern to empower

26. In the US Senate, the Sentencing Reform and Corrections Act has been introduced by a bipartisan group of Senators, including Senate Judiciary Chairman Chuck Grassley. For a state-level effort (in Ohio), see Alan Johnson, “Statehouse Leaders Push for Shorter Prison Sentences, Reducing Prison Population,” Columbus Dispatch (September 10, 2015). 27. 215,866 federal compared to 1,358,875 state prisoners at the end of 2013, according to the Bureau of Justice Statistics Bulletin (September 2014). 28. Sentencing Project: Fact Sheet, p. 2.

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those present, and especially victims, to deal with the harm in a way that best addresses their needs.29

In New Zealand this process is used for first time juvenile offenders. They are required to attend a “Family Group Conference.” Such conferences bring together the offender with his family and friends, police officers, youth justice workers, and, if in agreement, the victims of the offense to discuss what happened and why, and to determine appropriate sanctions and reparation plans. This new mechanism quickly led to a massive reduction in custodial sentences for juvenile offenders: Some 55 percent of those attending Family Group Conferences did not reoffend in the future.30

Marshall argues that both Jesus’ teaching and Paul’s gospel of the justice of God fit the perspective of restorative justice, and he discusses the consequences for our understanding of crime and punishment.31 The South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission, chaired by Archbishop Desmond Tutu, worked on similar principles. The goal was not punishment but rather healing through requiring perpetrators to tell the truth and allowing victims to share their experiences. This process allowed a democratic South Africa to be born.32 If we are to deal with the problem of mass incarceration, we must address effectively the high rate of recidivism. Many released prisoners return to prison, either because of a new crime or because of parole violations. Here, also, love of enemies should be our guide, leading us to support the following kinds of programs. There are effective programs in some prisons that help prisoners prepare to return to society as trustworthy persons. These include educational programs, some of them job-related, but also programs that address issues of self-understanding and behavior. I am familiar with a program in two Ohio prisons called the Horizon Prison Initiative. Prisoners must apply for the program. If they are selected, they are placed in a special dorm and organized into small groups. In these groups and in a series of classes, participants address issues of “spiritual development, character reformation, victim awareness, trauma recovery, anger management, decision making, conflict resolution, and more.” Also, there are weekly sessions in which

29.  Christopher Marshall, “Offending, Restoration, and the Law-Abiding Community: Restorative Justice in the New Testament and the New Zealand Experience,” Journal of the Society of Christian Ethics 27.2 (2007), p. 4. 30. Marshall, “Offending, Restoration,” pp. 5–6. 31.  Christopher D. Marshall, Beyond Retribution:  A New Testament Vision for Justice, Crime, and Punishment (Grand Rapids:  Wm. B.  Eerdmans, 2001). See also Christopher Marshall, Compassionate Justice: An Interdisciplinary Dialogue with Two Gospel Parables on Law, Crime, and Restorative Justice (Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2012). 32.  See the detailed account in Desmond Mpilo Tutu, No Future without Forgiveness (New York: Doubleday, 1999).

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an “outside brother” (or “sister”) meets with an “inside brother” (or “sister”) in the program to provide support. This is an interfaith program in which each participant is encouraged to go deeper into his or her chosen faith.33 Prisoners may be assigned to a residential reentry center in a community as the time of release approaches. According to the Federal Bureau of Prisons, residential reentry centers are supposed to assist offenders with employment, housing, substance abuse treatment, and medical and mental care.34 Offenders are still under strict control. This phase of reentry is temporary. Most will leave the residential reentry center for an extended period of parole. Potentially this period of parole could be beneficial to the parolee in adjusting to society and finding employment and housing, but for many parole officers (assigned more cases than they can handle) the primary job is make sure there are no parole violations, which puts the parole officer in the role of suspicious inquisitor. There is need for personal encouragement and support by persons or groups that can gain the trust of a parolee and help him or her through the rough transition, groups like the reentry faith teams based in local churches in Durham, NC.35 All of the efforts toward the restoration of offenders noted above are important. However, even in aggregate, they will not adequately address the problem of mass incarceration unless we also address the issue of distressed communities— neighborhoods mired in poverty, with many people excluded from opportunities and alienated from the majority society because they feel unjustly treated. The restoration of distressed communities is a necessary part of solving the problem of mass incarceration. Jesus’ command to love our enemies challenges the basic social attitudes that are causing the problem of mass incarceration. This command challenges punitive retribution, based on anger and fear, as the motivation for the treatment of criminals, and also challenges our willful indifference to their fate. Those willing to hear and respond to this challenge can find many opportunities for political advocacy and volunteer service that will enable them to put love of enemies into practice.

33. For a fuller description, see www.horizonprisoninitiative.org. 34. See bop.gov/about/facilities/residential_reentry_management_centers.jsp. 35. See Samuel Wells and Marcia A. Owen, Living Without Enemies: Being Present in the Midst of Violence (Downers Grove, IL:  IVP Books, 2011), pp. 115–21. See also L. Gregory Jones and Célestin Musekura, Forgiving as We’ve Been Forgiven: Community Practices for Making Peace (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Books, 2010). Both books present personal stories that illustrate the possibilities and difficulties of love of enemies.

Chapter 17 R E A D I N G L U K E’ S A N N U N C IAT IO N I N T H E L IG H T O F D A N T E G A B R I E L R O S SE T T I’ S E C C E A N C I L L A   D OM I N I J. Cheryl Exum

The Annunciation is a frequent subject of representation in art, and the vast majority of paintings of the scene share a reverence for their subject and a conventional way of rendering it. The Virgin is typically depicted as praying or reading at a priedieu when the angel Gabriel appears to her.1 Her posture is traditionally that of submission and reverence, sometimes reverent surprise.2 Gabriel usually holds a lily, denoting purity and a traditional symbol of Mary, and a dove represents the Holy Spirit. The depiction of the annunciation I  want to consider in this essay, Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Ecce Ancilla Domini, represents a radical break from tradition (Figure  17.1).3 There is a refreshing simplicity—as well as realism—about this painting. Rossetti has used a primary color scheme:  white for purity; blue, the color associated with Mary; red symbolizing the blood of Christ; and yellow/ gold for holiness. The scene takes place in the close, intimate space of Mary’s bedroom (the tall, narrow shape of the painting is probably due to the fact that it 1.  The book she reads is typically open at the prophecy in Isaiah 7:  Ecce virgo concipiet et pariet filium et vocabitur nomen eius Emmanuel. Following other ancient traditions, some paintings show Mary standing by a well or spinning; see Heidi J. Hornik and Mikeal C. Parsons, Illuminating Luke: The Infancy Narrative in Italian Renaissance Painting (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press, 2003), p. 47. 2.  On the various reactions depicted in fifteenth-century Italian painting (conturbatio [disquiet], cogitatio [reflection], interrogatio [inquiry], and humiliatio [submission], see Michael Baxandall, Painting and Experience in Fifteenth-Century Italy:  A Primer in the Social History of Pictorial Style, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988), discussed in Hornik and Parsons, Illuminating Luke, pp. 48–51. 3.  It is a great pleasure to contribute to this volume honoring my friend Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, whose longstanding interest in the role of the Bible in visual art I share. Though she prefers Mark, she will, I hope, appreciate this foray into Lucan studies on the part of a Hebrew Bible scholar.

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Figure 17.1. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Ecce Ancilla Domini! Tate Gallery, London.

was intended as part of a diptych, with the companion piece showing the Virgin’s death). Mary is on her bed, rather than reading or in a contemplative pose, and she looks as though she has just been awakened by the appearance of the angel. She is dressed not in the more usual red with a blue robe, but rather, like the angel,

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in white, a symbol of virginity.4 She looks disheveled. Gabriel is unconventional too. He does not have wings but rather, in a more Classical mode, fiery feet; his appearance is arguably androgynous; and his exposed flesh can be seen through the folds of his robe.5 The painting is rather unsettling. What is most noteworthy about it, in my view, is the tension between the title, “Behold the servant of the Lord,” and the painting itself. Rossetti’s Mary shrinks back against the wall with a look of apprehension, if not outright fear and revulsion, on her face—extremely wary of the phallic lily that Gabriel points at her womb. This does not look to me like a submissive servant, nor one who is at all reverent, but more like an unwilling recipient of unwelcome news. Elizabeth Prettejohn remarks that “the ungainly way in which the Virgin folds her legs cannot quite be dismissed as technically inept” and finds the entire scene expressive of Mary’s unease.6 In the light of Rossetti’s depiction of the event, I  propose to take a closer look at Luke’s birth account from a feminist critical perspective, inquiring into the nature of the response given by the Mary constructed for us by Luke, and asking, Whose interest does it serve? Rossetti shows us a degree of resistance not usually associated with the biblical Mary. He is not the first or only artist to depict a Mary who does not receive the news of her conception with sang-froid. In a study of Lorenzo Lotto’s Annunciation that draws on modern literature as well as art, Jacqueline Olson Padgett draws attention to Mary’s “startled and pleading gaze” and proposes that Lotto, visualizing the biblical text “with some suspicion and even amusement,” has given us a resistant Mary (Figure 17.2).7 In support she cites the response of another viewer,

4. The red and blue typically used for Mary’s robe are present in the painting in the blue cloth in the background (as well as the blue sky, evoking heaven) and a red embroidery with white lilies in the foreground. Ecce Ancilla Domini was painted in 1849–50. In Rossetti’s The Girlhood of Mary Virgin, painted in 1848–9, Mary is depicted working on this embroidery. 5.  Are there suggestions of a relationship between Mary and Gabriel? Jacqueline Olson Padgett observes that some scholars and artists read some representations of the annunciation as suggestive of courtship (“Ekphrasis, Lorenzo Lotto’s Annunciation, and the Hermeneutics of Suspicion,” Religion and the Arts 10 [2006], pp. 191–218 [201–2]). A sexual dimension would not be unexpected in a painting by Rossetti, whose women subjects always project something of his (and shared Pre-Raphaelite) ideas about and ideals of female desire and desirability; for a fascinating analysis of the function of “woman” in Pre-Raphaelite art, see Griselda Pollock and Deborah Cherry, “Woman as Sign in Pre-Raphaelite Literature: The Representation of Elizabeth Siddall,” in Griselda Pollock, Vision and Difference: Femininity, Feminism and the Histories of Art (London: Routledge, 1988), pp. 91–114. 6. Elizabeth Prettejohn, The Art of the Pre-Raphaelites (London: Tate Publishing, 2007), p. 51. She goes on to say that the painting “represents the moment of a paradoxical deflowering that excludes the sexual”; in my view sexuality is suggested by the state of Gabriel’s undress, the position of the lily and Mary’s disheveled appearance. See n. 5. 7. Padgett, “Ekphrasis,” pp. 191–218.

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Figure 17.2. Lorenzo Lotto, Annunciation, 1534–35 Pinacoteca Civica, Recanati.

poet Wensday Carlton, who, in a poem entitled “Madonna and Child,” with the epigraph “after seeing Lotto’s Annunciation,” writes: Proof for what I’ve suspected: she didn’t want this divine child, she’s afraid, even angry that she has no choice.8

Padgett finds this same “posture of startled response” in another painting, Lorenzo di Credi’s Annunciation (Figure 17.3). She proceeds to show how this painting has been parodied, and the Lucan text dismantled, in a modern painting of the annunciation by Mary Ellen Croteau (Figure 17.4) in which “Mary points an angry finger at Gabriel, seemingly ordering him to get out and take his message with him.”9 Though Rossetti’s version does not oppose the experience Luke presents as blatantly as these modern counter-readings, it does challenge it much more 8.  Wensday Carlton, “Madonna and Child,” TriQuarterly 110/111 (2001), p.  490; cited by Padgett, “Ekphrasis,” p. 198. 9.  Padgett, “Ekphrasis,” p. 203. Croteau’s painting is part of a series of paintings from a feminist perspective, Musee de Nouvelle Renaissance 1995–2001.

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Figure 17.3. Lorenzo di Credi, The Annunciation, 1480–85 Galleria degli Uffizi, Florence.

Figure 17.4. Mary Ellen Croteau, Annunciation, 1997 Used by kind permission of the artist.

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dramatically than most paintings of the annunciation. It encourages the viewer to consider the text critically and resistantly and to raise questions about the appropriation of the woman’s body in the service of the author’s androcentric ideology— or, if you prefer, of Luke’s theology.10 I should stress that I am not talking about a historical Mary; it is the narrative and its agenda that interests me. I see women in the biblical literature as the creations of (probably) male authors, or, in any event, authors who are writing within, and whose writings thus reflect, a patriarchal context. This is not to say that challenges to patriarchal ideology cannot be found in these texts; it is, after all, a property of texts that they are open to deconstruction. But women characters in these texts nevertheless reflect androcentric ideas about women and they serve androcentric interests. As Esther Fuchs observed years ago about biblical mothers—and Mary is surely the biblical mother par excellence— they “reveal more about the wishful thinking, fears, aspirations, and prejudices of their male creators than about women’s authentic lives.”11 Luke’s text is far from straightforward, as the pages of commentary devoted to it witness. Not surprisingly, it is a subject of controversy. As Jane Schaberg observes: Feminist interpretations of gospel infancy narratives touch a nerve in Christian and scholarly psyches. They challenge the theories of the “incarnation” and “divinity” of Jesus, of the activity of the spirit, of the role of women in the process of “redemption,” of women’s sexuality, and of a “Virgin Mother.”12

The story can and has been interpreted as having both positive and negative meaning for women. Is Mary an independent, strong woman or simply a tool, a victim? What are the implications of a virginal mother of God for women’s selfunderstanding? For some Mary has provided a role model, for others a stumbling block. It is not my intention to enter into debates about Mary’s significance or about how Luke intends his readers to understand the conception of Jesus and what his larger polemical purpose or theological agenda might be. Nor am I suggesting that

10.  As Joseph Vlcek Kozar (“Rereading the Opening Chapter of Luke from a Feminist Perspective,” in Escaping Eden: New Feminist Perspectives on the Bible, ed. Harold C. Washington, Susan Lochrie Graham, and Pamela Thimmes [The Biblical Seminar, 65; Sheffield:  Sheffield Academic Press, 1998], pp. 53–68) observes, “Patriarchal structure dominates the chapter” (p. 55) and “. . . male imagery predominates. A male child will be given the throne of David his father and rule over the house of Jacob, establishing an everlasting kingdom” (p. 63). He concludes that, “Despite its seeming potential for affirmative feminist reading, [Luke 1] . . . in the end, reimposes patriarchal perspectives upon the unwary reader” (p. 67). 11.  Esther Fuchs, “The Literary Characterization of Mothers and Sexual Politics in the Hebrew Bible,” in Feminist Perspectives on Biblical Scholarship, ed. Adela Yarbro Collins (Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1985), pp. 117–36 (118). 12.  Jane Schaberg, “Feminist Interpretations of the Infancy Narrative of Matthew,” in The Illegitimacy of Jesus:  A Feminist Theological Interpretation of the Infancy Narratives (expanded 20th anniversary ed., with contributions from David T. Landry and Frank Reilly; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2006), pp. 231–57 (231).

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art can help us solve these questions. My intention, rather, is to make a point about visual criticism and the role it can play in biblical criticism. In staging a dialogue between the text and the canvas, as I seek to do here, I  am arguing for something different from the study of art in the reception history of the Bible. I want to see art play a role in mainstream biblical interpretation. Specifically I am proposing that scholars add visual criticism to other criticisms in their exegete’s toolbox—historical, literary, form, rhetorical, ideological, feminist, queer, postcolonial, etc. Visual criticism would thus become part of the exegetical process, so that, when we interpret a biblical text, we do not look just at the text and the commentaries on the text but also at art as commentary.13 It might be a matter of identifying a problem that the artist has inherited from the text and considering how the artist’s strategies for handling the problem relate to the textual strategies for dealing with it.14 Or the visualization may raise issues not evident in the text and thus lead us back to the text with a different set of questions, as Rossetti’s painting does.15 In addition to sometimes posing a challenge to conventional interpretations, artistic representations of the biblical text can also provide an effective critical model for resistant readers who would take issue with the biblical ideology, as I seek to do here in the case of Rossetti’s Ecce Ancilla Domini.16 13.  For further elaboration of this position, see J. Cheryl Exum, “Toward a Genuine Dialogue between the Bible and Art,” in Congress Volume Helsinki 2010, ed. Martti Nissinen (VTSup, 148; Leiden: Brill, 2012), pp. 473–503. I am calling for visual criticism as an approach the biblical exegete employs. Art provides, as Paolo Berdini describes it, “visual exegesis” (The Religious Art of Jacopo Bassano: Painting as Visual Exegesis [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997], p. 35), by which he refers to the fact that a painting visualizes a reading not a text, and it is this reading, and the social and political context that enables it, that interests him. 14. See, for example, J. Cheryl Exum, “Shared Glory: Salomon de Bray’s Jael, Deborah and Barak,” and Hugh S. Pyper, “Love beyond Limits: The Debatable Body in Depictions of David and Jonathan,” pp. 11–37 and 38–59 respectively, in Between the Text and the Canvas: The Bible and Art in Dialogue, ed. J. Cheryl Exum and Ela Nutu (Bible in the Modern World, 13; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2007); Martin O’Kane, Painting the Text: The Artist as Biblical Interpreter (Bible in the Modern World, 8; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2007). 15.  See, for example, J. Cheryl Exum, “Lovis Corinth’s Blinded Samson,” Biblical Interpretation 6 (1998), pp. 410–25; Christine E. Joynes, “A Place for Pushy Mothers? Visualizations of Christ Blessing the Children,” Biblical Reception 2 (2013), pp. 117– 33; Andrea M. Sheaffer, “Images of the Indentured:  Reading the Narrative of Judith’s Slave Woman through Art,” Biblical Reception 2 (2013), pp. 75–96; Andrea M. Sheaffer, Envisioning the Book of Judith: How Art Illuminates Minor Characters (Bible in the Modern World, 64; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2014). 16. In the process of representing a biblical story, a painter may have difficulty maintaining a particular point of view over competing points of view, just as biblical narrators are sometimes at pains to promote a particular position at the expense of others, as in the case of the expulsion of Hagar; see J. Cheryl Exum, “The Accusing Look: The Abjection of Hagar in Art,” Religion and the Arts 11 (2007), pp. 143–71. If a biblical narrator has to struggle to affirm a particular ideology, does the artist inadvertently reinscribe the difficulty or recognize it or resolve it or treat it

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I shall focus here on the aspect of the text that Rossetti visualizes for us, Mary’s response, and the related issues of consent and of the appropriation of a woman’s body for the male author’s ideology. In Luke chapter 1, Mary’s first reported reaction is disturbance or bewilderment (dietarachthē) at Gabriel’s message or “word” (logos) to her. Is it his greeting (aspasmos) that arouses fear—for she is assured in the formula typical of theophanies, “Do not be afraid”—or could it be the appearance of the angel as well?17 The messenger and his message are difficult to separate, and some artistic representations of the annunciation seek to capture this through ekphrasis, drawing attention to the message by representing it visually, as in paintings by Fra Angelico and Melchior Broederlam (Figures 17.5 and 17.6).18

Figure 17.5. Fra Angelico, Annunciation (detail), 1433–34 Museo Diocesano, Cortona. in an entirely different way? Artistic representations that intentionally expose and critique biblical ideologies, such as Mary Ellen Croteau’s mentioned above, also offer resources for resistant reading; see also David Tollerton, “Divine Violence Caught on Camera: Negotiating Text and Photography in Broomberg and Chanarin’s Holy Bible,” Biblical Reception 3 (2014), pp. 146–60. 17. In verse 29 Codex Alexandrinus adds “when she saw him.” Or fear could be the reaction of a virgin to the presence of a strange man; see Mary F. Foskett, A Virgin Conceived: Mary and Classical Representations of Virginity (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2002), pp. 117–18. 18.  In Figure 17.5 (Fra Angelico) the words are:  Gabriel: Hail full of grace the Lord be with you; Mary: Behold the slave of the Lord; Gabriel: the power of the Almighty will overshadow you. In Figure 17.6 (Broederlam): Ave gratia plena dominus tecum.

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Figure 17.6. Melchior Broederlam, The Annunciation (detail), 1393–39 Musée des Beaux-Arts, Dijon.

Luke 1:27 establishes that Mary is a virgin and that she is betrothed. The annunciation of Jesus’ birth reflects the birth announcement type-scene found in the Hebrew Bible, where the birth of a son (always a son, never a daughter) to an infertile woman is foretold (Samson’s mother, Hannah, Sarah, and others).19 Although in Luke 1:26–38 the announcement is to a virgin, we might find nothing particularly unusual about an angel prophesying the birth of a son to a woman soon to be married. But Mary finds it unusual, and her response indicates that she (which is to say, Luke) understands the prophecy to mean that the conception will take place immediately.20 Her question, “How will this be, since I do not have sexual relations 19.  For discussion and other examples, see Robert Alter, “How Convention Helps Us Read: The Case of the Bible’s Annunciation Type-Scene,” Prooftexts 3 (1983), pp. 115–30. The pattern is also present in the birth announcement to Elizabeth (Zechariah) in Luke 1:5–25; scholars regularly point out the parallels between the birth announcements of John and Jesus in Luke; cf. also Matthew 1:20–25. 20. Ambiguity is created by the fact that Luke never explicitly states that this is a virginal conception, and thus the meaning of Mary’s response in verse 34 is a topic of considerable

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with a man?” (or “husband,” andra ou ginōskõ), points to a problem with the plan, and can be compared to the objection frequently found in commissioning stories.21 The answer she receives is that nothing is impossible with God. Mary acquiesces: “I am [or “behold,” idou] the slave [doulē, or as it is frequently translated “servant”] of the Lord.” As Beverly Gaventa observes, “there can be no doubt that what the word means is ‘slave’ . . . to translate ‘servant’ is to misconstrue Mary’s role as that of one who has chosen to serve rather than one who has been chosen.”22 “Let it be to me according to your word,” says Mary. Is this consent, or simply resignation?23 It is not the way one responds to good news.24 It can be compared to Jesus’ words in the garden of Gethsemane, “Not my will but yours be done.” The will of a slave is of no account. In the Greco-Roman world it was common for female slaves to be sexually exploited by their masters.25

debate; see, for example, the detailed analysis of Raymond E. Brown, The Birth of the Messiah: A Commentary on the Infancy Narratives in Matthew and Luke (London: Goeffrey Chapman, 1977), pp. 303–9. That Mary understands the conception as something that will take place in the immediate future is compellingly argued on the basis of the narrative logic by David T. Landry, “Narrative Logic in the Annunciation to Mary (Luke 1:26–38),” Journal of Biblical Literature 114 (1995), pp. 65–79. The verbs in verse 35 are future. Further ambiguity is created by Gabriel’s words in verse 36, “Elizabeth your relative, she also has conceived a son,” which could be taken to mean that Mary has just now conceived, but it makes sense for conception to occur (just) after her acceptance of the fact. 21. For example, Moses (Exod 3:10–4:17), Gideon (Judg 6:12–24), Jeremiah (Jer 1:5–10). 22.  Beverly Gaventa, Mary:  Glimpses of the Mother of Jesus (Minneapolis:  Fortress, 1999), p.  54. The term doulē, she notes, is used of those who serve God and understand God’s authority in their lives (Acts 2:18; 4:29; 16:17). 23.  Gaventa gives it a theological twist: “Mary has not chosen this task for herself any more than the apostles will later chose their own roles, but she does consent to it” (Mary, p. 54). 24.  Cf. Alfred Plummer, The Gospel according to S. Luke, 4th ed. (International Critical Commentary; Edinburgh:  T&T Clark, 1913), p.  26: “This is neither a prayer that what has been foretold may take place, nor an expression of joy at the prospect. Rather it is an expression of submission . . .” (italics his), a point Brown, among others, takes issue with, calling it an “enthusiastic” and “total and joyful acceptance” (The Birth of the Messiah, p. 319). As Barbara E. Reid (“Prophetic Voices of Elizabeth, Mary, and Anna in Luke 1–2,” in New Perspectives on the Nativity, ed. Jeremy Corley [London:  T&T Clark, 2009], pp. 37–46) notes, “While many envision the annunciation scene as wrapped in an aura of joy and delight, there is an undercurrent of terror, upheaval, and scandal in the story” (p. 39). And, drawing on understandings of virginity in antiquity, Foskett observes:  “The situation in which Luke presents Mary can conjure images of seduction, lust, and violence that both human and divine figures perpetrate against parthenoi” (A Virgin Conceived, p. 118). 25. See, for example, Sandra R. Joshel, Slavery in the Roman World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), pp. 40, 72, 192 et passim. See also James N. Hoke (“Behold, the Lord’s Whore? Slavery, Prostitution, and Luke 1:38,” forthcoming), who observes, “Though

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Like Rossetti’s painting Ecce Ancilla Domini, I  want to problematize this response. A literary device in a birth account created after the fact, Mary’s acquiescence to the divine will is a necessary feature of the story. Is she free to say “no”? Then there would be no story.26 What we have is a story in which the subject is denied subjectivity, for, as Ellen Rooney observes, “[a] feminine subject who can act only to consent or refuse to consent is in fact denied subjectivity.”27 In having Mary surrender her will to God’s—however we evaluate that submission—Luke has co-opted the woman’s voice for his purpose: to provide a mother for the son of God, one who is willing to accept this role—one who, as Luke has her kinswoman Elizabeth proclaim, is most blessed of all women because she believed the angel’s words (Lk 1:42, 45). He has Mary too call herself blessed, but not because of her faith or any attributes of her own: “all generations will call me blessed,” she says, “for the Almighty has done great things to me” (epoiēsen moi megala, Lk 1:48–49). These words, from the Magnificat, are placed in Mary’s mouth as her response to the earth-shattering event in which she is caught up.28 But whose ideology is this? A thoroughgoing male ideology concludes David Clines.29 In the Magnificat, Clines argues, God is praised for his strength and power, male qualities of a maleidentified deity, while the “low estate” that Mary claims for herself can refer only to the fact that she is a woman. As in the annunciation, Mary is a doulē, a slave subject to the will of her master, in this case one who accepts the power structures of oppressor and oppressed and wants only to see them reversed, and who declares her master’s greatness for making her a mother. In the Magnificat, Luke appropriates Mary’s voice in the service of an androcentric ideology that proclaims a new world order, but actually only reverses the old one. In the birth announcement, Luke appropriates not only Mary’s voice—“let it be to me according to your word”—but also, more intimately and invasively, her Luke’s Mary appears to submit voluntarily to God, her master (κυρίος), some early hearers of Luke’s story surely would have pictured this submission in conformity to the slave conditions with which they were familiar. In this case, Mary’s portrayal as the Lord’s slave means that her master-God has full access and rights over her body, which extended fully into the domain of sex in the Mediterranean world.” 26. We might imagine a story in which first one, then a second virgin rejects the role as mother of the son of the Most High, but, on the charmed third occasion, the woman accepts it—but Luke’s version is less like a fairy tale. 27.  Ellen Rooney, “ ‘A Little More than Persuading’:  Tess and the Subject of Sexual Violence,” in Rape and Representation, ed. Lynn A. Higgins and Brenda R. Silver (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991), p. 92. Foskett argues that Mary is portrayed as an acting subject: “In ancient literature virgins are required to navigate carefully their moral and ethical development. Virgins are figures whose honor and purity are tested . . . and proven by the choices and actions they welcome or resist . . .” (A Virgin Conceived, pp. 119, 123–4; citation from p. 119). This is a highly circumscribed agency. 28.  The canticle is modelled on the Song of Hannah, 1 Samuel 2:1–10; here, as in the birth account, Luke draws on material from the Hebrew Bible. 29. David J. A. Clines, “Gendering the Magnificat,” pp. 175–82 in this volume.

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body, to serve his purpose of providing a mother for the Son of the Most High.30 With or without a man Mary fulfils the primary female role in a patriarchal system: to give birth to a son.31 As Rossetti’s painting suggests, the role of mother of God is not sought by the woman in this story, not anticipated or prepared for or longed for. Indeed, it is presented as decided already—“you will conceive in your womb and bear a son . . . and he will be called the son of the Most High” (1:31–32). The woman in this text has no real control over her own body; her only decision is to accept her divinely ordained function. The character Mary is a victim of literary violation, whether one sees it as sexual—as Jane Schaberg argues32—or asexual— as most commentators describe the conception. Violation by the Holy Spirit?, as one might wonder, looking at the way, in Rossetti’s painting, Gabriel threatens Mary with the lily stem and the dove hovering over it. No, not by the Holy Spirit. By Luke the theologian.

30.  Does “he will be called the son of the Most High” in verse 32 imply that Jesus is not the son of Joseph? Cf. Luke 3:23. Luke will have had both theological and apologetic reasons for his version of the birth account; for example, to show God’s concern for the poor and downtrodden, to counter charges of illegitimacy by claiming miraculous origin for Jesus. For a reading of the infancy narrative in the context of apologetic discourse in the first three centuries CE, see Loveday Alexander, “The Four among Pagans,” in The Written Gospel, ed. Markus Bockmuehl and Donald A. Hagner (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), pp. 222–37; Loveday Alexander, “Madonna and Child:  The Lucan Infancy Narrative and the Apologetic Agenda,” unpublished paper read at the conference “Evangiles de l’enfance/Infancy Gospels,” University of Lausanne, October 2010. I take this opportunity to thank Loveday Alexander and Philip Alexander for discussing with me issues raised by the Lucan text. 31. Cf. Schaberg, “Feminist Interpretations of the Infancy Narrative of Matthew,” p. 238. 32.  Schaberg, in The Illegitimacy of Jesus, proposes that Mary was the victim of seduction or rape or had willingly had sexual relations with a man other than her husband-to-be Joseph and that Luke knew this tradition.

Chapter 18 J U N I U S B A S SU S S A R C O P HAG U S Taking Stock and Looking Forward in Art Heidi J. Hornik

The fourth-century sarcophagus of Junius Bassus was discovered under the choir of St Peter’s, Rome at the end of the Italian Renaissance in 1597.1 Elizabeth Struthers Malbon published her monograph on this object in 1990. This article will introduce the sarcophagus through a brief art historical formal analysis, address the contribution of Malbon’s book to the academy, and summarize select scholarly work produced since 1990 on the object. It will then focus on the “visual type” of a youthful and beardless Christ. This study concludes with the significance of the beardless type in Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel Last Judgment (1534–41) and Caravaggio’s CounterReformatory London Supper at Emmaus (1601).

A Brief Background to Junius Bassus and the Sarcophagus The Junius Bassus sarcophagus is the most famous and grandest sarcophagus from the fourth-century late antique style. The marble sarcophagus contains ten scenes in a double register and an inscription on the lid. There are six smaller scenes (partially damaged) in the spandrels. There are four scenes on the two sides. It is 8 feet long, 5 feet wide and 4 3/5 feet deep. The fragmented lid is 12 1/4 inches high. The inscription on the upper rim of the lid states that Junius Bassus, the city prefect of Rome and neophyte, died on the eighth day of kalends of September (August 25, 359

1.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, The Iconography of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus: NEOFITVS IIT AD DEVM (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1990; paperback edition: Princeton Legacy Library, 2014, p. 208, n. 2). Malbon notes that the 1597 date derives from the diary entry (October 1, 1597) of Pompeo Ugonio (d. 1614), reporting the finding of the sarcophagus at St Peter’s beneath the confession opposite the altar of St Peter himself.

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CE).2 It also states that the consuls at that time were Eusebius and Hypatius.3 The city prefect was the highest official residing in Rome, head and leader of the senate.4 Junius Bassus was from a wealthy family. His father, also Junius Bassus, served as praetorian prefect in 318–331 CE, became a consul in 331 and built a basilica on the Esquiline.5 There is some debate about whether the sarcophagus was a commission for Junius Bassus. Jaś Elsner believes that it was made for the Junius Bassus, as patron, either the year of his death or just before,6 while Jane Dillenberger stated that “it is unlikely that the sarcophagus was made specifically for the prefect in advance.”7 She suggested that it was “probably chosen afterward by members of his family from a big atelier in Rome where sculptors and marble alike came from the eastern Mediterranean, as well as from local sources.”8 The art historical analysis of the sarcophagus continues with a discussion of form and content. The sculptural composition of the front of the marble sarcophagus is divided into two horizontal registers. Both registers are divided into five narrative scenes. Each of the ten scenes is sculpted in relief in its own niche framed by columns as opposed to the usual type of a sculptural narrative set in a continuous frieze. According to Elsner, there is only one other early Christian double-register columnar sarcophagus (now in Saint-Trophime, Arles) in which each discrete scene is isolated within an intercolumniation.9 There are two or three figures in each niche. The subjects of the main facade are from both the Old and New Testaments. From left to right on the upper register are Abraham and Isaac, Peter’s Arrest, Christ 2. “IVN. BASSVS V. C. QVI VIXIT ANNIS XLII MEN. II IN IPSA PRAEFECTVRA VRBI NEOFITVS IIT AD DEVM VIII KAL. SEPT. EVSEBIO ET YPATIO COSS.” See Malbon, The Iconography of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, p. 4. For the fundamental publications prior to Malbon, see Anton de Waal, Der Sarkophag des Junius Bassus (Rome: Buchdruckerei der Geselischaft des Göttlichen Heilandes, 1900); Friedrich Gerke, Der Sarkophag des Junius Bassus (Berlin:  Bilderhefte antiker Kunst, 1936); K. Schefold, “Altchristliche Bilderzyklen: Bassussarkophag und Santa Maria Maggiore,” Rivista di Archeologia Cristiana 16 (1939), pp. 291–8; F. W.  G. Bovini and H. Brandenburg, Repertorium der ChristlichAntiken Sarkophage I.  Rom und Ostia (Wiesbaden:  Deutsches Archaölogisches Institut, 1967), no.  680, pp. 279–83; N. Himmelman, Typologische Untersuchungen an Römischen Sarkophagreliefs des 3. und 4. Jahrhunderts n. Chr (Mainz, 1973); G. Daltrop, “Anpassung eines Relieffragmentes an den Deckel des Iunius Bassus Sarkophags,” Rendicionti della Pontificia Accademia di Archeologia, LI–LII, 1978–80, pp. 157–70. 3. Malbon, The Iconography of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, p. 4. 4. Malbon, The Iconography of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, p. 4. 5. Malbon, The Iconography of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, p. 3, p. 155, n. 3. 6.  Jaś Elsner, “Framing the Objects We Study:  Three Boxes from Late Roman Italy,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 71 (2008), p. 3. 7.  Jane Dillenberger, Style and Content in Christian Art. From the Catacombs to the Chapel Designed by Matisse at Venice, France (New York and Nashville:  Abingdon Press, 1965), 41. 8. Dillenberger, Style and Content in Christian Art, p. 41. 9. Elsner, “Framing the Objects We Study,” p. 26.

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Figure 18.1. Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, dated by inscription to 359 CE Marble, front and remains of the lid. Vatican City, Museo Petriano. Photo: Scala/Art Resource, NY.

Enthroned between Peter and Paul, Christ Before Pilate and Pilate’s Judgment. The lower register, also from left to right, depicts Job’s Distress, Adam and Eve Covering Their Nakedness, Christ’s Entry into Jerusalem, Daniel in the Lion’s Den, and Paul Led to His Execution. The relationship between the scenes creates the complex iconography that is neither immediately apparent nor agreed upon in the scholarship.10 There is general agreement on the main face by the typology of Old and New Testament scenes, as well as references to the lives and martyrdoms of the Roman apostles, Peter and Paul.11 The ends (season motif), spandrels (biblical subjects), and the fragmented lid also contribute the complex meaning of the piece.

Malbon’s Scholarly Contribution Elizabeth Struthers Malbon offers a full iconographic interpretation of the façade, spandrels, and lid. After discussing the strengths and weaknesses of the programs presented by four scholars in chapter 2, she concludes, 10. As I am neither a Roman nor Early Christian scholar, I will not assess the accuracy of any given reading of the object’s meaning. For several iconographic interpretations, see Malbon, The Iconography of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, pp. 22–71. 11. Elsner, “Framing the Objects We Study,” p. 28.

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It is the interrelations of scenes and the structure of the work as a whole that must be understood if the iconography of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus is to be meaningfully interpreted. But the interrelations of scenes are manifold, and they have not yet been convincingly explicated. For this reason the reader of the interpretations of de Waal, Gerke, Schefold, and Gaertner is left with contradictions and questions as well as intriguing suggestions.12

Malbon explains her methodology: By following the work’s compositional cues and investigating the conventions of its time, as they are suggested in earlier and contemporary artistic and literary sources, we may come to understand the iconographic significance of its elements—intercolumniations, spandrels, ends, lid, compositional and ornamental elements [chapters 3–7]—and to integrate these meanings into an overall interpretation of the iconographical program in its fourth-century context [chapter 8].13

Each of her chapters, guided by the parts of the sarcophagus (intercolumniations, spandrels, ends, lid, compositional and ornamental elements), concludes with a summary paragraph of shared iconographic themes, including death and resurrection, eucharistic and sacramental meaning, significance of Christianity to fourth-century Rome, and Junius Bassus’ recent baptism. As Malbon begins her “integration” in chapter 8, she moves towards answering the question: How does the iconographical program of the sarcophagus of Junius Bassus illuminate the fourth-century context?14 Her premise is that the sarcophagus is based upon baptismal-eucharistic considerations. She concludes, The iconographical program of the sarcophagus of Junius Bassus presents a similar coherence and inner harmony that manifest a fourth-century Christian’s faith resting on a rocklike conviction of God’s continuing activity in history. Thus Junius Bassus, newly baptized, like Daniel and Job and Peter and Paul and countless Christian initiates before him, with confident assurance went to God: Neofitvs Iit Ad Devm.15

The reviewers of Malbon’s book considered her suggested iconographic program with knowledge and an informed opinion.16 Malbon, a biblical scholar and not 12. Malbon, The Iconography of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, p. 37. For specific publications by these scholars, see n. 1. 13. Malbon, The Iconography of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, p. 38. 14. Malbon, The Iconography of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, p. 127. 15. Malbon, The Iconography of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, p. 153. 16. For select reviews, see Boniface Ramsey, “Review of The Iconography of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus by Elizabeth Struthers Malbon,” Theological Studies 52.3 (September 1991), 587–8; E. Glenn Hinson, “Review of The Iconography of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus by

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an art historian, concentrated more on the theological characteristics of the object than the craftsmanship and comparative stylistic variations. The sources and precedents were not discussed in great detail nor were the influences on the artist.

Select Scholarship since Malbon Since the publication of Malbon’s book in 1990, there have been several significant contributions to the scholarly literature. Alice T. Christ completed her doctoral dissertation at the University of Chicago in 1992 that contributed additional information on Junius Bassus, his family, and their artistic patronage.17 Dr Christ investigated the meaning of its placement under St Peter’s. Probably most significant to our understanding is her art historical analysis of the style and workshop problems presented by the sarcophagus. Unfortunately, the dissertation is not published, but it is certainly a valuable work and fills in the art historical assessment missing from Malbon’s study. Alan Cameron examined the funeral of Junius Bassus and offers additional insights through primary source material related to public and private funerals.18 He concludes that city prefects dying in office were felt to have a special entitlement to a public funeral.19 Finally, Jaś Elsner included the Junius Bassus sarcophagus in his comparative three-object study of “Roman boxes.”20 Elsner describes his study: “None of my objects has external documentary evidence that would help in the process of interpretation, so we are reduced to those fundamental tools of the art-historical discipline: close observation of form, iconography, and inscriptions on the objects themselves, combined with whatever integrative contextual frames we may wish to apply, borrowed from the sense of the ‘bigger picture’ extrinsic to the objects themselves.”21

Elizabeth Struthers Malbon,” Review and Expositor 88 (1991), p. 469; John Curran, “Review of The Iconography of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus by Elizabeth Struthers Malbon,” The Journal of Roman Studies 82 (1992), pp. 305–8; Mary Charles Murray, “Review of The Iconography of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus by Elizabeth Struthers Malbon,” The Journal of Theological Studies, New Series, 43.2 (October 1992), pp. 685–90; Leonard Victor Rutgers, “Review of The Iconography of the Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus by Elizabeth Struthers Malbon,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 1.1 (Spring 1993), pp. 94–6. 17.  Alice T. Christ, The Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus: Patron, Workshop and Program (PhD dissertation, University of Chicago, 1992). 18.  Alan Cameron, “The Funeral of Junius Bassus,” Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik 139 (2002), pp. 288–92. 19. Cameron, “The Funeral of Junius Bassus,” p. 292. 20. Elsner, “Framing the Objects We Study,” pp. 21–38. 21.  Elsner, “Framing the Objects We Study,” p.  19. More recently, see Jaś Elsner and Janet Huskinson, Life, Death and Representation:  Some New Work on Roman Sarcophagi (New York: De Gruyter, 2011), p. 371.

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Beardless Christ Visual Tradition The portrayal of Christ is one of the visual, contextual frames considered when studying the influence of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus (and other fourthcentury painted and sculptural objects) on later work in the history of art. The sarcophagus scene of the Entry into Jerusalem depicts a beardless Christ (Figure 18.2). The artist of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus may have been aware of Christ as the Good Shepherd paintings located in the catacombs from the third century. Christ appears as bearded and beardless in the Early Christian period. Several scholars have concluded, and I agree, that it is impossible to assign symbolic meaning to a beardless Christ versus a bearded one in the fourth century. André Grabar stated, “The impossibility of separating as to their significance the representations of Christ made man (or the Word Incarnate) from those which mean to represent him apart from the Incarnation as God the Word, born before time eternal, makes for skepticism concerning the existence of a theological iconography of Christ in early Christian art.”22 According to Robin Jensen, “One possible explanation for these varying presentations is that it simply took time for artists and their clients to achieve the ‘right look’ for Jesus, perhaps struggling to find the key combination of features and attributes that conveyed his dual natures, while still honoring some ancient traditions or memories concerning his physical appearance.”23 Bearded and beardless Christ figures coexist together through the sixth century. Jensen suggests that one of the reasons that the variations existed together for so long is because they made a different theological point or argument in a visual manner.24 She explains, Perhaps a polymorphous presentation of Christ was seen as truer than a single static and consistent visual appearance. The texts, after all, suggest that during his life Jesus may have taken on different manifestations, projecting different exterior features, perhaps in response to the need, expectation, ability, or even requirements of different viewers.25

Michelangelo’s Beardless Christ—Judge and Redeemer Michelangelo’s beardless Christ in the Last Judgment (Figure 18.3) fresco over the altar on the west wall of the Sistine Chapel may have such theological

22.  André Grabar, Christian Iconography. A Study of Its Origins (Princeton:  Princeton University Press, 1968), p. 119. 23.  Robin Jensen, Face to Face. Portraits of the Divine in Early Christianity (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2005), p. 142. 24. Jensen, Face to Face, p. 145. 25. Jensen, Face to Face, p. 145–6.

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Figure 18.2. Sarcophagus of Junius Bassus, detail of entry into Jerusalem, 359 CE Marble. Museo Petriano, Vatican City. Photo: Scala/Art Resource, NY.

connotations associated with it. The “appearances” of Christ require a different manifestation from the usual type that was in style at the time. The fifteenthcentury Christ figure in the Italian Renaissance was bearded. Michelangelo wanted to show a resurrected Christ who was appearing on the last day. Among the least comfortable scenes for artists to paint, for us to consider, is the evaluation of men and women at the Last Judgment. “Then the sign of the Son of Man will appear in heaven, and then all the tribes of the earth will mourn,” warns Matthew, “and they will see ‘the Son of Man coming on the clouds of heaven’ with power and great glory. And he will send out his angels with a loud trumpet call, and they will gather his elect from the four winds, from one end of heaven to the other” (24:30–31). Michelangelo’s Last Judgment combines images of death, final judgment, heaven, and hell, to depict the mystery surrounding Christ’s second coming to judge the world and the confusion among

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Figure 18.3. Michelangelo Buonarotti (1475–1564), Last Judgment. Detail of Christ and Virgin Mary (begun 1534), Fresco. Sistine Chapel, Vatican Palace, Vatican City. Photo: Art Resource, NY.

humans that it engenders. In its important location, the fresco is a political as well as a personal confrontation. Pope Clement VII de Medici (1523–34) first approached Michelangelo in 1534 to replace the Sistine Chapel altar fresco, Perugino’s Assumption of the Virgin, with a “resurrection” scene. Perhaps he wanted a depiction of the resurrection of souls or of the last judgment. Clement died later that year and his successor, Pope Paul III Farnese (1534–49), supervised the project. Michelangelo produced for the new altar wall in the Pope’s private chapel one of the most magnificent scenes of the final judging of individuals for their placement in heaven or hell. The Last Judgment replaced not only the Perugino fresco behind the altar but also the scenes of the Nativity and the Finding of Moses on either side. Michelangelo’s

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figures are over-life size, and his composition fills almost the entire west wall of the chapel, which is an unusual placement because traditionally a last judgment image would be placed on the east, entrance wall of any church building. Several major works (all with bearded Christ figures) that he studied often as a child in Florence influenced Michelangelo: the medieval Last Judgment mosaic in the Baptistry, Orcagna’s frescoes in Santa Croce, Florence, and Nardo di Cione’s Hell in Santa Maria Novella. The artist also studied Giotto’s Last Judgment in Scrovegni (Arena) Chapel in Padua and was influenced by Dante’s great poem, Inferno. The beardless Christ is located in the central area of the painting that is best lit by the natural light of the chapel windows. Although the Junius Bassus sarcophagus was not rediscovered until 1597, Michelangelo was certainly aware of the variants shown on antique sculptures of the fourth century. Michelangelo paints a well built and beardless Christ who is Savior but also Judge with Apollonian facial features. Often considered a “damning” figure, he draws up the dead with his left arm and casts down those consigned to hell with his right arm. Christ’s proportions and exaggerated gestures reflect La Maniera, or the Mannerist style, which flourished between the High Renaissance and Baroque styles of art. Mary is seated on the favored right side of Christ. Michelangelo’s self-portrait is believed to be located on the figure in the lower right who holds the flayed skin of St Bartholomew and now looks up in terror at his Judge. Michelangelo was criticized not only for the beardless Christ but also for the nude figures. The Last Judgment was cleaned in the early 1990s and restored to its glorious color and power. The rich ultramarine blue is recovered in the sky and on various pieces of drapery throughout the colossal painting. The nude figures are restored to their original appearance; Michelangelo’s assistant, Daniele da Volterra, had covered them during the intense scrutiny of Roman Catholic art prompted by the Council of Trent (1545–63). Christians in the sixteenth century frequently challenged the nudity within the composition. For instance, Pietro Aretino, a contemporary of Michelangelo, criticized the fresco for being merely a display of skill and not a decorous handling of the holy subject. Despite this, engravings of the fresco were published frequently, and at least one inquisitor remarked that there was nothing that was not “spiritual” about the nudes of Michelangelo’s Last Judgment. The original audience for this fresco, given its prominent location in the Pope’s private chapel, was the theologically well-educated, powerful leadership of the government and church. Yet, Michelangelo confronts them with images of confusion and concern, presented in a complex manner. He selects a beardless Christ to make his final appearance before this critical group. They are not the final judges of reality but rather Christ is.26

26. For an earlier version of my commentary on Michelangelo’s Last Judgment, see Heidi J. Hornik, “The Final Judgment in Christian Art,” Christian Reflection. A Series in Faith and Ethics (Issue: Heaven and Hell) 3 (2002), pp. 46–9.

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Figure 18.4. Caravaggio (Michelangelo Merisi da) (1573–1610). The Supper at Emmaus, 1601. Oil and tempera on canvas. Presented by the Hon. George Vernon, 1839 (NG172) National Gallery, London, Great Britain. © National Gallery, London / Art Resource, NY.

Caravaggio’s Beardless Christ—In Alia Effigie Caravaggio, like Michelangelo, needed a way to depict the figure of Christ in an atypical manner when he received the commission to paint a Supper at Emmaus (Figure  18.4) by Cardinal Ciriaco Mattei. Mattei paid for the composition on January 6, 1602.27 Caravaggio used the standard Venetian and Lombard central type of composition, derived from Titian, but was innovative in his depiction of a post-resurrection Christ revealed to the apostles in Emmaus. Although Christ appears bearded in all other Supper at Emmaus paintings, there exist artistic precedents for a beardless Christ.28 Caravaggio was in Rome in the 1590s when the Junius Bassus sarcophagus was rediscovered and certainly had seen both the sarcophagus and Michelangelo’s Last Judgment. He used them as visual sources when revealing Christ to the apostles 27.  Creighton Gilbert, Caravaggio and His Two Cardinals (University Park, PA:  Penn State University Press, 1995), p. 37. 28.  For examples of bearded Christ figures in Supper at Emmaus paintings as well as a Lukan Counter-Reformation reading of the painting, see Heidi J. Hornik and Mikeal C. Parsons, Illuminating Luke: The Passion and Resurrection Narratives in Italian Renaissance and Baroque Painting, vol. 3 (London and New York: T&T Clark, 2007), 129–32.

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during the Supper at Emmaus. Part of the stylistic problem of this “moment of recognition” in the painted visual document is how to portray a Christ who to this point had not been recognizable. The Gospel of Mark (16:12), another area of Malbon’s expertise, says that Christ “appeared in a different guise to two of them as they were walking, on their way into the country.”29 This point in Mark made its way into the comment on Luke 24 in the Glossa Ordinaria, so that anyone consulting the Gloss about the Supper at Emmaus would encounter this reference to alia effigie, without ever having to turn the page to the comments at the end of Mark’s Gospel.30 Several scholars have noted this passage and agree that Caravaggio has indeed found a way visually to depict Christ in an atypical way.31 For Caravaggio, in alia effigie translates visually into a beardless Christ.32 Later in 1605, Caravaggio himself painted a Supper at Emmaus scene in which Christ is bearded. This painting was in the Patrizi collection by 1624; it is now in the Brera, Milan. Hibbard comments: “Christ looks like Christ: Caravaggio’s early sensationalism is over.”33 Like the complex iconography of the Junius Bassus sarcophagus, the use of a “bearded” or “beardless” portrayal of Christ by the Baroque painter Caravaggio may always remain explainable only by the artist.

29. Howard Hibbard, Caravaggio (New York: Harper and Row, 1983), pp. 75–6. 30. See the comment on Luke 24:32 in Walafried Strabo (attributed), Glossa Ordinaria. Patrologia Latina (ed. Jacques-Paul Migne, vol. 114; Paris, 1866), cols. 352–3. The connection between Mark 16 and Luke 24 may be traced back to Augustine’s Harmony of the Gospels (see Gilbert, Caravaggio and His Two Cardinals, p. 147). 31. Charles Scribner, “In Alia Effigie: Caravaggio’s London Supper at Emmaus,” Art Bulletin 59 (1977), p. 378, cites the Mark text to explain why Caravaggio depicts a beardless Christ. 32. Hibbard, Caravaggio, p. 211. 33. Hibbard, Caravaggio, p. 211.

Chapter 19 T H E P A R A D OX IC A L P R E SE N TAT IO N O F G O D I N T H E G O SP E L O F M A R K A N D T H E T A B L E OF S I L E N C E O F C O N S TA N T I N B R A N C U SI Geert Van Oyen

It is most obvious to compare Biblical texts with works of art when these works clearly refer to the text of Biblical stories. No one will be surprised to read about how Caravaggio interpreted Matthew 9:9 in his masterpiece the Calling of Saint Matthew (1601). And who will not spontaneously admire how Chagall gave a new dimension to some themes in the Book of Genesis through the medium of stained glass in the cathedral of Metz in France (1958–60)? Biblical art is more than a short annex to the Bible: it is a specific form of exegesis. In this article I will try to do something different. I would like to explore the possibility of comparing the Gospel of Mark with The Table of Silence of Constantin Brancusi, a work of art that was not intended to have a direct link with the Bible or the gospels. I am aware that such a comparison contains a lot of challenges, including the hermeneutical questions about the limits of exegesis. Here is a peculiar form of reader response criticism at work in which the exegete is aware of “reading” something in the work of art that was not intended by the artist. The subjective aspect of this kind of interpretation cannot be denied. But on the other hand, it is very natural that, for example, abstract or symbolic art appeals to the imagination of the spectator and is by itself an invitation to reflect on existential and religious questions through comparison with theological, philosophical, or anthropological themes. In this sense, a connection with Biblical literature is perfectly understandable. This can eventually lead to the discovery that the Bible is expressing the deepest experiences people are living today—even in a secularized world. The old stories may reconnect with the actual stories of life. The Bible can become a book that is not as strange as people in general might think at a first glance. Both the Biblical text and the work of art can receive a richer and more complete meaning through their comparison. Their meaning is growing by any comparison that is made, even by those that at first sight seem to be impossible or undesirable. The fundamental reason why it is worthwhile to compare Mark’s gospel and Brancusi’s Table of Silence is that both want to express the inexpressible. Both

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are reflecting on the experience of the paradoxical presence of transcendence in life itself. Both are inviting one to think about the mystery of life in the context of violence, war, and suffering. While this seems rather evident for the Gospel of Mark, Brancusi invites us to see through his work the invisible: “There are those idiots who define my work as abstract; yet what they call abstract is what is most realistic. What is real is not the appearance, but the idea, the essence of things.”1 This contribution consists of two parts:  an analysis of the paradoxical presence of God in the Gospel of Mark and a presentation of The Table of Silence of Brancusi. It is a pleasure and an honor to offer this paper to Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, who has inspired my own exegetical work by her narratological approach to the Gospel of Mark and by her interest in Bible and Art.

God and Mystery in the Gospel of Mark During more than a century, research on the Gospel of Mark focused on the messianic secret.2 In the footsteps of William Wrede’s Das Messiasgeheimnis in den Evangelien (1901), scholars have been searching for the interpretation of the tension in the gospel between the revelation of Jesus as the Messiah and the multiple signals in the text that seemed to conceal this messianic identity. But in recent times studies on the Gospel of Mark have focused more and more on the “neglected factor” in the gospel, which is the character of God3: “Increasingly . . .

1. This quote, together with the original text in French, can be found on the Wikipedia page on Brancusi (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Constantin_Br%C3%A2ncu%C8%99i; accessed October 10, 2016). It refers to Clair Gilles Guilbert, “Propos de Brancusi,” Prisme des Arts 12 (December 1957), pp. 5–7, and can be found in many works on Brancusi. 2.  For a summary of research, see, among others, Christopher M. Tuckett, “Messianic Secret,” Anchor Bible Dictionary 4 (1992), pp. 797–800; Kelly R. Iverson, “ ‘Wherever the Gospel Is Preached’:  The Paradox of Secrecy in the Gospel of Mark,” in Mark as Story: Retrospect and Prospect (Resources for Biblical Study, 65), ed. Kelly R. Iverson and C. W. Skinner (Atlanta: SBL, 2011), pp. 181–209, especially 182–96. 3.  It is noteworthy how the questions about God—the real theological questions— were seldom focused on God, as already observed more than thirty years ago:  John Donahue, “A Neglected Factor in the Theology of Mark,” Journal of Biblical Literature 101 (1982), pp. 563–94. Notice for instance the subtitle of a book on Mark as theologian:  Wilfrid J. Harrington, Mark Realistic Theologian. The Jesus of Mark (Dublin:  Columbia, 1996, rev. ed. 2002). William R. Telford, Writing on the Gospel of Mark (Guides to Advanced Biblical Research, 1; Dorset:  Deo, 2009), has a long bibliographical section on Mark’s theology (pp. 425–66), but the titles are organized around the following themes:  christology, soteriology, pneumatology, eschatology and ecclesiology. “God” is mentioned in the section on the characters in “Mark as story,” but there are only six lines of commentary and only eleven titles in the bibliography:  Paul

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interpreters have begun to trace the story’s more theocentric bent.”4 Probably one of the reasons why God was not an object of study in the Gospel of Mark was that scholars never questioned his presence because they found it simply evident that he was “there” as the unquestioned background of the gospel. On a more exegetical level, it might have been that the idea of the messianic secret claimed all attention for the identity of Jesus and was hiding the presence of the character of God in the gospel. But more and more one discovers that the mystery around Jesus’ revelation has to do with the inexpressibility and otherness of God himself and how, as a transcendent being, he is involved in the (story) world. The messianic secret has become the key to the divine mystery.5 Any valid reading of the Gospel of Mark will have to reckon with the narrative “theo-logy” of the gospel.

The Portrayal of God When looking at the character of God in Mark’s gospel, one quickly discovers that his presence is a very special one. It is not a manifest, open, or triumphalist portrait. If we call his presence a mystery, it is because although his active presence cannot be denied, it remains a surprising and unexpected one. God rarely addresses himself in a direct way to the other characters in the story, unlike the

Danove, The Rhetoric of Characterization of God, Jesus, and Jesus’ Disciples in the Gospel of Mark (JSNTS, 290)  (New  York and London:  T&T Clark, 2005) and his article in Novum Testamentum 43 (2001), pp. 12–30; Ira Brent Driggers, Disciples at the Mercy of God: The Tension of Markan Theology (Dissertation, Princeton Theological Seminary, 2001) and the published version Following God through Mark. Theological Tension in the Second Gospel (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox, 2007); Gudrun Guttenberger, Die Gottesvorstellung im Markusevangelium (BZNW, 123; Berlin:  De Gruyter, 2004). There are two unpublished dissertations with similar titles:  Philip Reubin Johnson, God in Mark. The Narrative Function of God as a Character in the Gospel of Mark (Luther Seminary, 2000); K. No, The Narrative Function of God in the Gospel of Mark (Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, 1999). One now can add Joanna Dewey and Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “Mark,” in Theological Bible Commentary, ed. Gail L. O’Day and David L. Petersen (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox, 2010), pp. 311–24; Geert Van Oyen, “Dieu: un personnage surprenant dans l’évangile selon Marc,” in La surprise dans la Bible. Hommage à Camille Focant (BETL, 247), ed. Geert Van Oyen and André Wénin (Leuven:  Peeters, 2012), pp. 191–208; Christian Blumenthal, Gott im Markusevangelium. Wort und Gegenwart Gottes bei Markus (Biblisch-theologische Studien, 144; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlagsgesellschaft, 2014). 4. Suzanne Watts Henderson, “The ‘Good News’ of God’s Coming Reign: Occupation at a Crossroads,” Interpretation 70 (2016), pp. 145–58, 148. 5. See the first line in Driggers, Following God through Mark, p. 1: “The Gospel of Mark tells the story of an incomprehensible God.”

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way JHWH speaks to individuals or to the people in the Hebrew Bible. Apart from two interventions of the voice from heaven (1:9; 9:7), God’s presence is rather indirectly experienced or mentioned. One can think of this indirect presence in the quotations of Scripture, through the passive forms of some verbs, through the use of the word δεῖ (8:31), or through the metaphoric language (e.g., the sower in Mk 4:3–9; the owner of the vineyard in Mk 12:1–12). Sometimes there are some ambiguities in the text and it is not certain whether Jesus or God is meant (5:31: “Go home to your friends, and tell them how much the Lord has done for you”). Mostly God is part of the story through the voice of other characters: the use of the expression “Son of God” (or similar ones) by the demons (1:25; 3:11 [cf. 1:32]; 5:7) or by the high priest (14:61) or by the narrator (1:1, most probably the original reading), the remarks of the bystanders who recognize God’s action in Jesus’ deeds (e.g., 2:12), the critique of his opponents (e.g., 2:7), or the words of Jesus himself about the “kingdom of God” (1:14; in total 14 times of which 13 times by Jesus). Jesus mentions God in several other occasions, such as in the context of his explanation on prayer (11:22) or in mentioning Scripture (7:9; 10:9; 12:17). Elizabeth Struthers Malbon concludes: “although Mark’s story is theocentric in the sense that Jesus is referring to God, the narrator himself speaks very little about God and when he does he is reticent.”6 She notes, however: “[But] for the Markan Jesus, God is as central as Jesus is for the Markan narrator.”7 It is mostly through Jesus we learn about God. Let it be clear that this does not imply that God is absent from the story. It means that God is (mainly) known through the way Jesus is presenting him. In this regard, one cannot emphasize enough the surprising effect of the summary in 1:14–15 in which the responsibility for the gospel of God (1:14) is entrusted to Jesus as a human person.

Jesus’ Words about God If we consider more closely the way Jesus is referring to God, we notice other remarkable elements that contribute to the mysterious presentation of God. On the one hand, Jesus uses language in which he seems to presuppose a common knowledge about who God is and how God acts. This is the case when he speaks about prayer or paying taxes or when he refers to Scripture. Jesus is quite sure that people will understand this language because of a common background. But in some other cases Jesus evokes by his surprising behavior and his unexpected words the mystery that has to do with God. This certainly is the case when he commands the demons not to proclaim that he is the Son of God. In doing so, he

6.  E. Struthers Malbon, Mark’s Jesus. Characterization as Narrative Christology (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2009), p. 44, n. 59. On the relationship between Jesus and God, see pp. 75–80, 173–90, 210–15. 7. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 173.

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not only creates a mystery around his own identity, but he also avoids that (the name of) God is proclaimed. In refusing the proclamation of his name (“Son of God”) by the demons, Jesus is also suggesting that his image of God is not based only on the success of his powerful liberating actions of healing and exorcizing. The injunctions to silence to those who want to make public his identity as Son of God make it clear for the characters in the story and for the readers of the story— though it must be admitted that the characters do not react when Jesus commands silence—that the portrayal of God is not complete if we limit it to his power over the demons. It is not yet clear in the beginning of the gospel what exactly is at stake in Jesus’ injunctions to silence. Whatever might be the sense of this constitutive element of the “messianic secret,” it certainly deals with diverging interpretations of the identity of Jesus. Only as the story further develops will one learn that the “secret” has to do with the integration of the passion in view of a true understanding not only of Jesus’ own life but also of his message to the followers.8 The narrator in Mark has succeeded through the injunctions of silence in provoking a feeling of curiosity in the mind of the readers: What kind of role will God play in the rest of the story?

The Kingdom of God and Parabolic Language The same reading experience of curiosity about God occurs when we analyze the use of the “kingdom of God.” It is at first sight a very simple expression that is not questioned by the bystanders (who do not even hear it when it is used for the first time by Jesus in 1:14–15!). In the first part of the gospel (Mk 1–8), the kingdom comes near through healings and liberating actions of Jesus, and it opposes the ruling hierarchy because of its nonconventional elements (attention to the marginal people, forgiving of sins, actions on a Sabbath, unpredictable but steady growth). The announcement and the presence of the kingdom of God create a conflict with the existing religious powers (Mk 1–3). This not only provokes curiosity but it is also surprising, and Jesus has to explain in parables what the kingdom is (Mk 4:1–34). But when he does so, it still does not become clear what exactly this kingdom of God is about. Laura Sweat has shown how the parable discourse reveals God in a paradoxical way.9 We would like to explain some elements of her exegesis in what follows. The main challenge of her analysis is how to reconcile Mark 4:10–12, which seems to exclude a certain group of listeners from the gospel as announcement of the kingdom of God, with Jesus’ message that brings the gospel of God to

8. As we will see further on, the Passion story is not only about the fate of Jesus but also about the role God plays in it. 9.  Laura Sweat, The Theological Role of Paradox in the Gospel of Mark (Library of New Testament Studies, 492; London and New York: T&T Clark, 2013).

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all people without any distinction. The only possible answer to these apparently contradictory statements is Mark’s paradoxical theology. For more than one reason one can see in Mark 4 how revelation and secret are going together.10 First, the setting of Jesus’ words shows a privileged group which is not clearly defined (οἱ περὶ αὐτὸν σὺν τοῖς δώδεκα). The clear dichotomy between the disciples and the larger group of those outside which is found elsewhere in the gospel (7:17; 8:14–33; 9:28; 10:23–31) is not found in 4:10. So to whom exactly is the mystery given? Mark is treating outsiders and insiders in the same way in the gospel and “by separating insiders and outsiders so severely in 4.10–12, yet proceeding to treat them similarly throughout the gospel, Mark demonstrates that God acts paradoxically.”11 Second, the passive forms of the verbs that explain God’s activity are vague and their meaning remains obscure. How exactly do we have to understand ὑμῖν τὸ μυστήριον δέδοται? How precisely has God given the mystery of the kingdom? And why is it or what does it mean that to those outside ἐν παραβολαῖς τὰ πάντα γίνεται? How can the same parabolic language make things clear and obscure things? And how does one explain that God intentionally does not want to be revealed to certain people? The verbs indicate that God is acting, but the precise meaning and the reason why he acts in such a particular way remains unclear. Sweat notices a debate among scholars about the implications of the interpretation of Mark 4: Is there any relation between human responsibility and divine will in the fact that the mystery is “given” or in the fact that everything is “happening” in parables? Does the disciples’ “hardness of the heart” (6:52; 8:17–21) find its source in the human attitude or in God’s will? If it comes from God, is there a kind of deterministic fate that cannot be avoided? She concludes: “In fact, the division in scholarship reflects Mark’s paradoxical presentation of God in Mark 4: divine and human actions remain perplexing and unclear throughout the passage, in both parable and proclamation.”12 Third, the use of the words “mystery” and “parables” point in a double direction. Both words seem to reveal and to hide. The mystery that is given reveals that God is present in the world, but it is not said how this revelation will take place. One could even ask if the mystery is ever revealed in the Gospel of Mark. The mystery is there but the content is hidden. One tries to define the content of this mystery, but Sweat is right: in the end, the mystery is not something that can be resolved but it is a reality that goes beyond human understanding. This is exactly how Mark 4:11 functions in the story. The gift reveals, but the mystery hides. This is true for those who are around Jesus in the story and it is true for the readers of the text. This hidden revelation is an invitation to continue

10. Sweat (The Theological Role of Paradox, pp. 30–54) distinguishes four reasons: (a) setting apart; (b) vague verbs; (c) dubiously generous gifts; (d) questionable audiences. I have put the first one and the fourth one together. 11. The Theological Role of Paradox, p. 53. 12. Sweat, The Theological Role of Paradox, p. 39.

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to search for its meaning, to discover it, to dive deeper and deeper into the mystery, while perfectly knowing that one will never find a final answer. Therefore, the secret of the mystery of the kingdom of God is different from a secret in a novel of Agatha Christie. And although the parables function like an eye-opener for all (see Mk 4:33–4), one never has the impression that one specific group of characters in the gospel is able to understand. According to Sweat, the mixture of both the revelatory aspect and the secrecy in the teaching of the parables leads to the conclusion that in a paradoxical way there is “the necessity of ‘outsiders’ (4, 11)  for the execution of God’s plan.”13 One could even go further. Jesus speaks in parables to his opponents (3:23; 12:1–12) who seem to understand what he says: “At the centre of this paradox, Jesus’ opponents serve in the enactment of God’s will in the same way that his followers do.”14 After analyzing Mark 4:10–12 and the whole parable chapter in Mark 4, Sweat concludes the following: Mark 4.10–12 attests paradoxical language that describes God’s involvement in both the things that are hidden and those that are revealed. Stated even more strongly, God hides and reveals the kingdom, the divine presence, and the roles that Jesus, insiders, and outsiders play in this unfolding drama. Therefore, humans are also drawn into this paradox. In response to hiddenness—and perhaps even in response to revelation—humans display ignorance.15

According to Sweat, Mark chooses to speak about God in a paradoxical manner because there simply is no other way to talk about him: “The ‘hidden dimension’ of heaven emerges on earth, veiling God’s revelation and making it appear paradoxical. Yet, both revelation and concealment are important aspects of God’s kingdom (4:11).”16 Before continuing our thoughts on God’s mysterious presence in Mark’s gospel, we take a short pause for deeper reflection. A reading of Mark that characterizes God as a mystery is the best drug to protect people from the idolatry of thinking that one is able to know and understand God. Only if God is considered as a mystery can he surprise anyone at any time in ways that are unpredictable and unexpected for human understanding. Only then God is not as humankind. This is what the characters in the gospel—and through them the audience—hear and experience. In this sense, the gospel seems to construct readers who leave behind their preinstalled ideas about who God is and how he should act. They

13. Sweat, The Theological Role of Paradox, p. 48, n. 85. 14. Sweat, The Theological Role of Paradox, p. 48. 15.  Sweat, The Theological Role of Paradox, p. 62. One could discuss if the word “ignorance” is the best choice to speak about the attitude of people vis-à-vis the experience of a paradox. One knows at least that it is a paradox! 16. Sweat, The Theological Role of Paradox, p. 30.

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accept the mystery that they do not know how God will act/react. The only thing that seems to be asked for is a complete surrender to him, expressed in metaphors such as “conversion” or “faith” or “understanding” or “seeing” in order to set the mind not on human things but on divine things (8:33, ὕπαγε ὀπίσω μου, σατανᾶ, ὅτι οὐ φρονεῖς τὰ τοῦ θεοῦ ἀ λλὰ τὰ τῶν ἀνθρώπων—another mysterious expression). The general metaphor Jesus is using for this mysterious reality is “the kingdom of God.” While reading and studying Mark for several years, it becomes more and more clear that one cannot read the gospel without a “theo-logy” that accompanies it. Or rather, there is a mutual fructification between gospel and theology. Once more in the words of Sweat: “there is a theological correlate to this literary observation [of paradox in Mark]: paradox is an appropriate way to speak about a God whose presence resists definitions and whose actions are often surprising.”17

God and the Death of Jesus The paradoxical presentation of God reaches its climax in the scene of Jesus’ death. We mention only two aspects of this hidden revelation.18 The first one concerns the words of the centurion at the cross. He identifies Jesus as Son of God.19 The remarkable thing here is that this “confession” can be compared to the heavenly words at the baptism (1:9–11) and at the transfiguration (9:7),20 but that in 15:39 it is a human being who is speaking and not a heavenly voice: “at the end of Jesus’ life, a centurion takes over the divine proclamation.”21 The words spoken by the centurion are once more manifesting the paradoxical presentation of a mysterious God who remains hidden in revelation. They show “the depth of Jesus’ forsakenness: not even God deigns to speak into this darkness.”22 Jesus’ experience of God’s

17. Sweat, The Theological Role of Paradox, p. 133. 18. For a more exhaustive analysis, see Sweat, The Theological Role of Paradox, pp. 133–58. 19. On the question whether there is irony or not in this verse, see Geert Van Oyen, “Irony as propaganda in Mark 15:39,” in Persuasion and Dissuasion in Early Christianity, Ancient Judaism, and Hellenism (Contributions to Biblical Exegesis and Theology 45), ed. Pieter van der Horst, Maarten J. J. Menken, Joop F. M. Smit, and Geert Van Oyen (LeuvenParis-Dudley : Peeters, 2003), pp. 125–41. See also Sweat, The Theological Role of Paradox, p. 143: “I have noted that scholarship has not come to a consensus on whether the centurion’s comment is in jest or in faith. The lack of certainty signals the possible presence of a Markan paradox.” 20.  Note that Sweat characterizes these divine interventions as examples of “concealed revelation” that “shapes the contours of Mark’s theology throughout the Gospel, because this truly is a God who is Deus absconditus atque praesens” (The Theological Role of Paradox, p. 139). 21. The Theological Role of Paradox, p. 138. 22. The Theological Role of Paradox, p. 40.

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absence is strengthened by his words in Mark 15:34 (ελωι ελωι λεμα σαβαχθανι; ὅ ἐστιν μεθερμηνευόμενον· ὁ θεός μου ὁ θεός μου, εἰς τί ἐγκατέλιπές με; my God, my God, why have you forsaken me?).23 One could use the counterargument that at least the fact that the veil is torn points to the presence of God, but this symbolic passage is also opaque.24 The second paradoxical element is the fact that Jesus’ opponents are executing God’s plan without being aware that they are fulfilling Scripture. The opponents act in a way that is similar to those “outside” who do not see and who do not hear. And as they are accomplishing the prophecy of Isaiah (compare the vocabulary in Mark 15:32: ἵνα ἴδωμεν καὶ πιστεύσωμεν), it looks as if God himself is making them blind. Their opposition towards Jesus contributes to the success of God’s project. “God has hardened the hearts of Jesus’ antagonists, yet God can reveal truth through their confessions without their knowing it . . . God’s action through Jesus’ opponents is another way in which God’s revelation is concealed.”25 The role of God in the passion and death of Jesus contributes to the experience of a paradoxical modus operandi of God.26 “God’s action remains hidden, not only from the characters in the narrative, but also to a certain extent from Mark’s audience. God is hidden but active, revealing a mystery at the cross that is not understood (see 4:11–12).”27

Intermediary Conclusion After having heard or read the Gospel of Mark, the audience does not know exactly how God is acting and speaking in the world. He is able to do “impossible” things (10:24, 26), but He does not intervene when and how one expects him to. He is surprising through his unexpected way of being present in the world.

23.  See G. Van Oyen and P. Van Cappellen, “Mark 15,34 and the Sitz im Leben of the Real Reader,” Ephemerides theologicae Lovanienses 91 (2015), pp. 569–99. 24.  Sweat, The Theological Role of Paradox, pp. 140–41: “In fact, Mark provides no reason for the veil’s being torn. However, if God is responsible for rending the veil, then God is present at Jesus’ crucifixion contrary to Jesus’ perception. At Golgotha, God is hidden so thoroughly that not even God’s son can perceive the divine presence; yet, paradoxically, God is still present and active in rending the veil. Not only is the rending of the veil unexpected on many levels, but it is also left unexplained. If God is no longer ‘safely behind the [Temple] curtain,’ Mark’s readers may legitimately wonder where God has gone. Even though the Temple curtain no longer conceals God, the audience is left with no certainty about God’s next steps” (with reference to Donald H.  Juel, A Master of Surprise. Mark Interpreted [Minneapolis: Fortress, 1994], p. 120). 25. Sweat, The Theological Role of Paradox, p. 134. 26.  Sweat, The Theological Role of Paradox, p.  43:  “By both hardening and working through Jesus’ opponents, Mark demonstrates a God who operates paradoxically.” 27. Sweat, The Theological Role of Paradox, pp. 143–4.

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If one takes seriously both sides of the paradoxical representation of God—the mysterious God who reveals himself but remains hidden—one cannot but conclude that we do not know exactly how, when and through whom God is acting in the world in order to install his kingdom. Especially at the moment of Jesus’ death, we are confronted with the climax of the paradoxical mystery: how is it possible that God reveals himself in a dead man at the cross and that in order to do so he counts on the collaboration of his opponents? This remains a mystery forever. There is no decisive (theological, psychological, anthropological) answer to this question. The paradoxical language expresses the reality (for those who use the language about God) that God and humankind live and grow together but that there is no decisive and final answer to the most challenging questions about the human condition, especially the one of suffering and an unjust death. The integration of God in a life project means that one is ready to live with a God who does not function as an immediate solution to the questions life is asking. Focusing upon the role of God in the Gospel of Mark means learning to accept that life is unpredictable, even when believing in God. The mysterious God reflects the mystery of life. Narrating the story of God with his people is narrating the story of the people with God. This does not mean that the good news of the gospel contains a kind of nihilistic or deterministic nonsensical message. The example of the life of Jesus as Son of God—his words, his deeds and his fate—offers a trajectory people can follow to search for meaning in life in a very practical and concrete way. The summary of this message is found in the threefold repetition of the paradoxes when Jesus situates his coming death within the framework of a larger philosophy of life. After each announcement of the passion and resurrection (8:31; 9:31; 10:32–4) the disciples are refusing explicitly to understand or to accept what Jesus says (8:33; 9:33; 10:35–40). Jesus responds three times with a paradoxical saying that corresponds with what he is doing in his own life (8:35; 9:35; 10:43–4). In this sense, they are an explanation of the passion predictions and the coming passion: “For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it” (8:35). But at the same time they are an appeal to anyone who hears this message to act the same way. The paradoxical presence of God in this world can be understood by those who live according to the paradoxical wisdom of God. These paradoxes are not a “solution” to a secrecy that will be resolved so that no questions remain any longer. They are given as an opportunity to live in a world in which good and evil are mixed up for those who believe in God and for those who do not believe in God. The story of Mark, which ends with the discovery of the empty tomb and the words of the young man that Jesus is resurrected, is a story of hope. In Jesus the paradoxical God is stronger than any form of evil. If one thing becomes clear after this short survey of the “theo-logy” in Mark’s gospel, it is that it is not a pure intellectual topic but that it necessarily goes together with the praxis of following Jesus.

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The theme of Jesus the Messiah of peace is the title of a recent book by Tom Boomershine.28 In this performance critical commentary on the Passion and resurrection story in Mark, he explains not only that Jesus is the Messiah of peace but that belief in this Messiah leads to several consequences: “giving oneself for one’s friends and enemies, non-violent submitting to arrest, sharing Jesus’ condemnation and death, being rejected and killed rather than killing others, and risking persecution by the announcement of Jesus’ victory.”29 Boomershine situates Mark’s gospel in the aftermath of the Judean-Roman war for a mixed audience of diverse Jewish groups and Gentiles in the first century in the Roman empire. All of them—Jews and Gentiles alike—had to learn from the gospel that they had to change their mind:  in following Jesus they would learn to live in peace together.

Constantine Brancusi: The Table of Silence What do these observations on Mark have to do with The Table of Silence of the Romanian artist and sculptor Constantin Brancusi (1876–1957)? Maybe some lines of Boomershine’s summary could function as the perfect transition to this question: The structure of Mark’s Gospel has a threaded theme and focus that had particular relevance in the post-war context of the late first century. But the issues raised by the story also have relevance in every subsequent age. The Gospel of Mark addresses the need to change the minds of the nations to belief in the power of love, healing, and compassion across the boundaries of ethnic, national, and religious identity that divide the human community . . . As it was in the first century, the telling and interpretation of the Gospel of Mark in the twenty-first century will be addressed to persons who are in various stages of non-belief in Jesus as the Messiah of peace. Mark’s passion and resurrection narrative is a story of Jesus’ suffering and death for the redemption of the world from the corporate powers of evil. It ends with the paradigmatic story of his victory over those powers and the commission to tell the story. The story of Jesus’ passion and resurrection continues to be a story about the ways that will lead to peace.30

Some elements in Brancusi’s installation evoke the mystery we have mentioned in the Gospel of Mark. While it is clear that there is no direct link with the Gospel

28. Thomas E. Boomershine, The Messiah of Peace. A Performance-Criticism Commentary on Mark’s Passion-Resurrection Narrative (Biblical Performance Criticism Series 12; Eugene: Wipf and Stock, 2015). 29. Boomershine, The Messiah of Peace, p. 360. 30. Boomershine, The Messiah of Peace, 361–2.

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Figure 19.1. The Table of Silence31

of Mark, Brancusi’s installation is full of symbolism that invites the visitor who knows about the Gospel of Mark to think about the mystery of life in the light of what we said about the paradoxical presentation of God. The open air installation, which is part of a threefold composition in the landscape of Tîrgu-Jiu in Romania (the other two are The Gate of the Kiss and the Endless Column), is composed of a large double-layered round table and twelve round chairs.32 However, the distance between the table and the chairs prohibits eating together at the table and the distance between the chairs themselves makes it almost impossible to have an easy conversation with each other. There are no human persons in the sculpture. The visitors themselves become a part of the installation as they walk by or sit on the chairs. Only when they become a part of the work do they experience the spirit of it. The title of the work, The Table of Silence, can be understood in the context of the origin and purpose of the work.

The Origin of the Table of Silence In 1934, Brancusi was asked by the National League of the Romanian women of Gorj to create a memorial for the victims of the battle between German

31.  Picture taken from https://royaltyfreephotos.wordpress.com/2010/03/01/table-ofsilence-brancusi-free-photos/, accessed October 17, 2016. 32.  On the Table of Silence and the other monuments, see Catalina Bagdan-Mateescu, Brancusi’s Târgu Jiu Monument. An Interpretation (Bucharest:  Publishing House of the Romanian Cultural Fondation, 1995); Sanda Miller, Constantin Brancusi (Critical Lives; London: Reaktion Books, 2010), especially pp. 126–40. If you do not know Brancusi’s work in Tîrgu-Jiu, I  recommend to search the internet. There are many presentations of the work, including original material filmed by Brancusi himself. See, for example, “Constantin Brancusi: L’ensemble scriptural de Târgu-Jiu,” www.youtube.com/watch?v=oD3Kil0ZLdQ, accessed October 15, 2016.

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soldiers and Romanian fighters at the Jiu river in 1916. Instead of making a traditional memorial in which the triumphalist nationalistic ideas were expressed, Brancusi chose to create a symbolic work that not only was meant to honor the soldiers but that also invites all visitors to deeper reflection on the meaning of life and death. Inaugurated in 1938, it remained almost unknown to the Western world because of World War II and the succeeding communist regime in Romania. Only in the last decades, and especially after the restoration in 2004 by the World Monuments Fund, was it discovered as one of Brancusi’s masterpieces in which architectural and sculptural elements are combined in perfect harmony. The motif of the table and the chairs is based on traditional folkloristic forms that are found in popular houses in that region. It is the place of encounter of family and friends at happy and sad moments in life. It is the place where one can share one’s feelings when a child is born or when a family member has died. In Brancusi’s work, it can be seen as the symbol of the place where the Romanian soldiers meet just before they leave their family to go fighting. But what do soldiers and family have to tell each other? One can imagine the scene of everyone sitting there silently, not knowing what to say, fearful and uncertain about the future. Maybe the only certainty they can think of is that death will be their fate in the days or weeks to come. It is a solemn and intimate moment, but the tragedy of death can already be felt. One does not need a lot of imagination to make a link with the Last Supper scene in Mark 14:22–5 (the monument is sometimes called The Apostles’ Table!). Not only the symbol of the table and the twelve chairs but also the setting of the approaching suffering and death create a similar tragic atmosphere. One can almost feel the emotions of Jesus and the disciples in Brancusi’s work. The soldiers are torn between the gestures and words of Jesus who is ready to give his body and his blood to make a new covenant and the mixed attitude of the disciples who do not even know for certain that they will not betray Jesus (14:19) or who falsely think they will be strong enough to follow Jesus (14:29–31). Or are the soldiers asking like Jesus in Gethsemane (14:36: “Take away this cup”)? Or do they keep silence like Jesus before Pilate (15:4–5) because they cannot do anything against the crazy war machinery that drives them willy-nilly to the battle field, just like for Jesus as well there was no way to oppose the decisions taken by the authorities? The soldiers are dreaming of peace, but how can war bring peace? The twelve chairs are like the numbers on a watch, but the needle is missing. The concrete situation of the Last Supper or of the battle in Tîrgu-Jiu is transcended through the void and the emptiness of lacking images of concrete soldiers or of a national flag or a written dedication: people anywhere at any time—not only those who visit the monument but now also those who see the monument through the internet—are confronted with the questions of the sense and nonsense of suffering. Brancusi has succeeded to make a piece of art that transcends the patriot or national meaning of a victory or a defeat in a single battle. The memorial of

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concrete soldiers has become an opportunity to meditate about the meaning of violence and suffering. What do we have to think about the mystery of life when pain, guilt, passion, war, (un)justice, violence is part of men’s behavior? Is there a God? And if there is a God what is his role in all this? “Reading” the Gospel of Mark through Brancusi’s work and vice versa is a condemnation of any form of violence people are using towards each other. The Gospel of Mark is a story that confronts its readers with the question of building peace in a violent world and of giving God a place in this world. So does the work of Brancusi. In memory of the victims of one battle in the Great War, the visitor is confronted with the question of where violence leads. The question of God is not explicitly present in The Table of Silence, but nobody can deny the transcendental mystic dimension of the composition of the monument. This becomes especially true if one considers the work as a part of the threefold installation with the Gate of the Kiss and The Endless Column. Especially the last one, a 29.3-meterhigh column composed of seventeen rhomboidal elements, is referring through its vertical line which leads to “heaven” to the religious aspect of the memorial. The Endless Column is pointing from the umbilicus mundi to the heavenly world beyond. It could refer to God. It could also be seen as symbol of hope, representing the resurrection or the ascension of the victims. Is there any hope for the victims of the war? Both The Gospel of Mark and The Table of Silence are works that express the inexpressible. They both lead into silence and invite reflection upon the meaning of life in a world where suffering is omnipresent. They both tell us that God has no other words and no other hands than ours to make this world a peaceful world.

The Story Goes On While looking for information on The Table of Silence on the internet, I came across a very special and wonderful artistic project. Brancusi’s work received a second life—literally, it has become flesh and blood—in a dance performance by hundreds of dancers dressed in white clothes. Every eleventh of September (9/11) at 8.15 a.m. a group of male and female dancers is performing a circular dance, called The Table of Silence, on the slow rhythm of a flute or horn and a drum. The open air performance at the Josie Robertson Plaza, Lincoln Center in New York City can be followed in livestream. It is not only a memorial to the victims of the attack on the Twin Towers that happened on that day in 2001, but it is also a sign of hope for people to live in peace.33 I wrote to the artistic director of the project Jacqulyn Buglisi and in one of her messages she expresses the intention of the performance. Buglisi describes the work as

33. See www.tableofsilence.org.

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a ritual for peace with 150+ dancers at Lincoln Center; to honor those suffering the tragedy of war and suppression of freedom; the Italian artist Rosella Vasta has made 100 ceramic plates carried by the dancers and each one is individually painted as a symbol of sharing at the banquet table a meal in peace and understanding.34

As long as people will be reading and telling the gospel of Mark, looking and meditating upon Brancusi’s Table of Silence and dancing and participating the 9/11 performance, we may continue to hope for peace in this world.

34. Mail dated November 16, 2015.

Chapter 20 N A R R AT I V E A N D P E R F O R M A N C E C R I T IC I SM S T R AV E L   S OU T H Philip Ruge-Jones

In the summer of 2015, the SBL held its international meeting in Latin America for the first time. The sessions in Buenos Aires allowed for an unprecedented level of conversation between scholars whose primary language is English or a European language and those who speak Spanish in everyday life. This chapter began as a paper that was part of that event, but it also reflects a series of conversations that took place during and after that historic meeting. In preparation for travel to the event, I returned to the writings of one of my favorite Latin American theologians, Vítor Westhelle. He reminded me, “As Christianity has migrated en masse to the symbolic planetary south, latitudinal questions became unavoidably inscribed into the scores of theological compositions.”1 This distinct angle of reflection moves, he continues, eschatological discourse from an intense focus on time to an awareness of its spatial dimensions. Whereas the north has looked primarily to the future for God’s eschatological in-breaking, the south has fixed its gaze expectantly toward the margins of their societies. In this shift “the word ‘margin’ receives a thick soteriological meaning and it is not restricted to its geographic or socioeconomic denotations. The margins stand for the Greek eschaton as the place/ time of judgment where salvation or condemnation, liberation or enslavement is pronounced.”2 These charged spaces provided salvific experiences in everyday existence. They are “quotidian eschata,”3 thresholds through which God’s Realm enters. Westhelle pulls his Greek lexicon off the shelf and notes that eschatos has three meanings. First it is defined as a spatial location, a place or boundary. The second definition in the lexicon refers to rank, or social locations at the extremes of a hierarchy, such as that mentioned in the phrase, “Many who are first shall be last, and 1.  Vítor Westhelle, Eschatology and Space:  The Lost Dimension in Theology Past and Present (New York: Palgrave, 2012), p. 71. 2. Westhelle, Eschatology and Space, p. 79. 3. Westhelle, Eschatology and Space, p. 137.

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the last shall be first” (Mk 10:31; see Mk 9:35). Westhelle points out that only in the third definition do we hear about temporal issues.4 He turns with the south to the margins, confessing that “boundaries . . . suggest vicinity to transcendence”5 and therefore God’s epiphany “takes place,” occupying space. In this schema, “The riddle of the ‘already and the not-yet’ is muted when one starts thinking topologically and less chronologically. The Reign is nearby, adjacent to our own reality, present, yet veiled in the boundaries we avoid, and in the margins we protect ourselves from.”6 Using Westhelle’s lexiconical observations as our guide, we will explore the first two dimensions of eschatos (space and social location) in Mark 5:21–43. First we will explore the text with the North American narrative critic Elizabeth Struthers Malbon and follow that with some performance critical enrichment of her observations. Then, we will listen to those who read this same text “in Spanish,” a phrase suggested by Justo González to identify a particular hermeneutical approach. Then I will bring both of these interpretations into deeper conversation with my own performance critical approach. Finally, we will make some tentative observations about the opportunities that events like the 2015 SBL International Meeting might offer in the field of biblical scholarship.

Narrative Interpretation Biblical theologians who are tethered to the biblical text have been less likely to miss the importance of space than the systematic theologians whom Westhelle critiques. This is especially true of biblical critics of the narrative persuasion who have known that setting shapes story in decisive ways. Elizabeth Struthers Malbon’s book, Narrative Space and Mythic Meaning in Mark offers a thoroughgoing study of the role of space in the construction of meaning for this gospel. She attends to the importance of space, arguing, Space is, as Mircea Eliade has shown, the necessary foundation for shaping a world. And certainly space shapes the narrative world of the Gospel of Mark in significant ways. But the spatial setting of a narrative, like the changing scenes of a stage play, are generally–and almost by definition–in the background. By moving this spatial framework to the foreground and thereby shifting our attention, we may perceive the whole in a new way: we may gain a new sense of its deeper meaning, its mythic meaning.7

4. Westhelle, Eschatology and Space, p. 34. He is citing F. Wilber Gingrich and Frederick W. Danker, eds. A Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament and Other Early Christian Literature, 2nd ed. (Walter Bauer’s 5th ed., 1958; Chicago: Chicago University, 1979). 5. Westhelle, Eschatology and Space, p. 3. 6. Westhelle, Eschatology and Space, p. 27. 7.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, Narrative Space and Mythic Meaning in Mark (San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1986), p. xii.

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Markan material offers fertile ground for this exploration as Malbon counts 288 spatial references in the gospel.8 She distinguishes two broad approaches she finds helpful when exploring narrative space: sequence and schemata. Employing both of these approaches, she helps the reader to understand three further suborders of narrative space: geopolitical, topographical, and architectural. Sequence refers to the order of spaces as they arise in the flow of the narrative. This dimension reflects diachronically on the linear ordering of spaces as the story unfolds. The reader sees that first the story is here, then it is there, and next it moves to this place. Schemata refers to what can be seen when surveying how the whole narrative organizes space into patterns of understanding and meaning. When interpreting schemata, the narrative critic stands above the narrative and identifies the patterns of multiple threads that are woven to make up the whole. The interpreter notes that taking into account what happens here, there, and over there at different points in the narrative means particular patterns emerge.9 Further suborders of space, each of which can be explored through both sequence and schemata, are: (1) geographical references including all those places that have are assigned names like Galilee or Judea,10 (2) topographical references including what would be seen from an aerial photo whether they be natural (the sea or a mountain) or humanly made (a city or village),11 and (3)  architectural markers including all space that has been enclosed by human constructions like houses or synagogues.12 We will focus on how these various dimensions of space manifest themselves in the text that interests us. In terms of sequence, Mark 5:21–43 takes place in a movement away from the sea shore through a region located within Galilee as Jesus and the crowd that accompanies him move toward the location of the house of the synagogue leader. This episode takes place within the first half of the gospel which is located primarily in Galilee with occasional significant trips into neighboring territory. Immediately preceding the story that concerns us, Jesus had gone on a trip across the sea to the other side only to return again. Mark 5:21–43 moves from the topographical location of the seaside through an undesignated public space toward the architectural marker of the house of the leader of the synagogue. Malbon says much about the role of the spatial markers mentioned above within the larger schemata of the gospel. Central to understanding her approach is the structuralist claim that mythical domains are first contrasted with one another and then the narration constructs a mediation of those extremes. Our story is set in Galilee which in the schemata of the gospel is the place of Jesus’ “ministry of power” in contrast to Jerusalem where he later effects his “ministry of suffering.”13

8. Malbon, Narrative Space, p. xii. 9. Malbon, Narrative Space, p. 3. 10. Malbon, Narrative Space, p. 15. 11. Malbon, Narrative Space, p. 50. 12. Malbon, Narrative Space, p. 106. 13. Malbon, Narrative Space, p. 142.

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Galilee is the space where Jesus calls his disciples, teaches the crowds, drives out demons, feeds people, and heals them. This story adds further heft to the healing dimension of the narrative. As stated earlier, this story comes after a trip that went across the sea and back again. The sea is explicitly named seventeen times in the gospel and is implicitly invoked another thirty-two times with such sea-specific references as “boat” or “rowing.”14 This frequency provides a spine that centers the whole narrative. Malbon dramatically illustrates the importance of the sea in a chart depicting the sequence of topographical references in the first eight chapters of Mark. The column noting references to the sea is a near solid line down the center of the chart, around which all other topographical references hover.15 Malbon notes, “The sea forms a natural boundary on the east of Galilee, but it does not keep Jesus in bounds . . . The Sea of Galilee, the supposed boundary between the Jewish homeland and foreign lands, becomes instead the bridge between them.”16 In his multiple travels across the sea, Jesus dominates this primary geographic marker by demonstrating his power over it. The sea mediates the opposition between Jesus’ homeland and the foreign land to which he travels. For Malbon, this mediating role of the sea foreshadows the later mediation performed by “the way” between the opposition of Galilee and Jerusalem. The recent sea sailing sets up the journey that Jesus and Jairus will travel on since the “power Jesus manifests on the sea is akin to the power he manifests by the sea, the power of teaching and healing.”17 The journey ends at Jairus’ home, and Malbon believes the manifestations of power in the home of this man of standing signal an important shift that the implied author is trying to create for the implied audience. The narrative leads to a reversal of expectations and to assigning places new, reversed meaning. She argues that the synagogue becomes not a place of order as one might expect, but consistently in the chronology it has been a place of disorder and controversy. Conversely, Mark moves his audience toward expecting of houses what would traditionally be expected of synagogues. In our story, the synagogue leader receives order and life for his family not in his sacred synagogue, but rather in his house. Malbon states, The raising of Jairus’ daughter may suggest movement toward mediation within the HOUSE vs. SYNAGOGUE opposition, for the scene of this most dramatic “healing” is the house (ORDER) of the ruler of the synagogue (CHAOS). As Jesus approaches the house he sees “a tumult, and the people weeping and wailing loudly” (5:38), that is chaos; but Jesus raises the girl, giving to her new life and reordering the lives of her parents.18

14. Malbon, Narrative Space, p. 53. 15. Malbon, Narrative Space, pp. 64–5. 16. Malbon, Narrative Space, p. 33. 17. Malbon, Narrative Space, p. 78. 18. Malbon, Narrative Space, p. 160.

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This mediation anticipates the decisive narrative break with the synagogue in 6:4 as Jesus meets rejection in this hometown in their synagogue. From that point on, houses rather than synagogues are the “center of narrative action, absorbing, in some respects, the functions of the synagogue.”19 About the narrative setting between sea and house Malbon does not say much. This is because none of the 288 geographical, typological, or geopolitical markers are invoked in that journey. Yet much of the most significant action in this story happens in this anonymous space. In fact, the reordering of Jairus’ house happens after the social reordering occurs in the anonymous public space. In another context, Malbon notes that the expectation regarding which spaces are profane and which are sacred gets reversed as “the spatial order of the Gospel of Mark both presents and challenges the expected oppositions, while moving toward their mediation at the mythic level.”20 Although the descriptors of “sacred” and “profane” come more from her structuralist assumptions than from the categories created by the Markan narrative, we can say that the public space Jesus traveled between the sea and the house would not have been seen as a privileged site for the sacred. And yet marvelous things occur there. Perhaps this space plays a role very much like “the way” in the later narrative as “a way between places, a dynamic process of movement”21 through which the “conflict between the chaos and order of life is overcome not in arriving but in being on the way.”22 So far we have seen that space does shape the understanding of God’s Realm in Mark. In order to understand more about Malbon’s interpretation, we now turn from issues of physical space to Westhelle’s second dimension of eschatos, people ranked at the extremes of social locations. In terms of Malbon’s work this means a shift from her work on mythical space to characterization. Within this story two characters lie at the social extremes of their context, Jairus and the bleeding woman. Jairus is a leader of the synagogue who therefore enjoys status at the upper end of his community’s appraisal; the bleeding woman is suffering, unclean, and impoverished and as a result comes from the last place one would expect to look for the sacred. Malbon observes that both of these characters fit the designation of flat or minor characters. Unlike Jesus or the disciples who also appear in this story but also throughout the narrative, both Jairus and the woman appear only this one time within Mark’s story. They therefore are less motivationally complex than either Jesus or the disciples whom narrative critics characterize as “round.”23 Yet the designation “minor” does not mean a lack of importance. In fact, Malbon asserts that minor characters carry major importance in the narrative.24 19. Malbon, Narrative Space, p. 150. 20. Malbon, Narrative Space, p. 155. 21. Malbon, Narrative Space, p. 165. 22. Malbon, Narrative Space, p. 168. 23.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, In the Company of Jesus: Characters in Mark’s Gospel (Louisville, KT: Westminster John Knox Press, 2000), p. 192. 24. Malbon, In the Company, p. 225.

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While Jairus himself is not a round character, his presence makes the characterization of religious leaders in Mark’s gospel more complex. In the chronological presentation of characters in Mark, Jairus is the first to break with the pattern that presents religious leaders as continually in conflict with Jesus.25 In terms of Mark’s character schemata, Jairus joins the good scribe (Mk 12:28–34) and Joseph of Arimathea (Mk 15:43–6) to form a much more positive vision of the religious leaders as they respond to Jesus. The portrayal of the woman who is unclean makes of her an exemplar to be followed. Her contact with Jesus, a touch driven by her faith, overturns the distinction between who is sacred and who is profane and thus challenges the very foundations of the religious law.26 Her faith in the “in-breaking power of the kingdom of God” draws her to touch Jesus.27 In turn, her faith becomes “a model of faith Jairus will need.”28 While Malbon’s primary interest is how meaning is constructed within the narrative, she glances toward the community of the author, noting that “the historical reality of women’s lower status . . . [meant she was] in a position to bear most poignantly the message that among followers the ‘first will be last, and the last first.’ ”29 First the woman and then Jairus and his family experience the healing power of Jesus that is so central to his life and ministry. These minor characters who occupy the narrative for but a moment come together with other successful supplicants to create a larger sense of the coming Realm of God. “Their story of faith and healing are absolutely essential to Mark’s story of Jesus as the Christ.”30 Malbon adds, “Especially when Mark’s Gospel is heard rather than read, certain stories of minor characters serve to ‘punctuate’ the narrative.”31 They reframe meaning for those who hear this story. Provocatively, Malbon concludes her reflections by shifting out of the written narrative toward the audience for whom it was composed. She exclaims, Perhaps the implied audience is to generalize experiences of nonexclusivity of followership [or discipleship] among narrative characters to experiences of inclusivity among other members of the implied audience . . . For the implied author of Mark, the minor characters are of major importance, but the implied audience is the most important character of all!32 In this too brief foray into the work of a major North American narrative critic, we have seen that concern with spatial meaning and social location are as old as the gospel narrative itself. Eschatology in Mark’s Gospel comes in from marginal place and overlooked people. These locations become charged with thick

25. Malbon, In the Company, p. 195. 26. Malbon, In the Company, p. 92. 27. Malbon, In the Company, p. 198. 28. Malbon, In the Company, p. 51. 29. Malbon, In the Company, p. 61. 30. Malbon, In the Company, p. 198. 31. Malbon, In the Company, p. 209. 32. Malbon, In the Company, p. 255.

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soteriological meaning. An unnamed space between sea and house becomes the threshold through which God’s Realm takes place. On the way to his house, Jairus encounters a model of faith when the bleeding woman crosses the boundary separating the clean from the unclean. In this courageous act the Realm of God takes place. Jairus is transformed by this in-breaking from the edges. His house is transformed and his daughter is raised, finalizing the reversal of sacred and profane meaning. In the hearing of this story, perhaps taking place in house churches, the gathered community finds that house absorbing, in some respects, the functions of the synagogue and thereby becoming sacred.

Performance Criticism Westhelle’s hope in the apocalyptically charged spaces takes on additional depth as Malbon’s suggestion that Mark’s narrative was typically “heard” rather than privately read and interpreted became a disciplined approach to interpretation called performance criticism. In fact, in conversation with this emerging discipline, Malbon herself became more and more convinced about the performative dimension of Mark’s Gospel. In fact, in her book Hearing Mark: A Listener’s Guide, the claim that “the Gospel of Mark was written to be heard” became one of her six guiding assumptions.33 I have learned much from narrative critics like Malbon, but my own work is that of a biblical performance critic. “Biblical performance criticism is the study of the biblical writings as oral performances told from memory . . . before communal audiences.”34 The quickest way to explain this work is to perform it, so that you can see what it looks like.35 It is helpful for me to think about how the performative move reframes elements of Malbon’s narrative observations. First of all, in performance the spatial dimensions of the narrative world take up actual space. The storyteller stands in a particular space (for lack of a better term, I will refer to this as a stage) as a real audience replaces the implied one. Situating different narrative locations in distinctive physical places on the stage helps the audience sense and remember what happens where, thus reinforcing verbal references like synagogue and house spatially on the stage. Techniques employed by storytellers can also suggest

33.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, Hearing Mark:  A Listener’s Guide (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press, 2002), p. 5. 34. David Rhoads and Joanna Dewey, “Performance Criticism: A Paradigm Shift in New Testament Studies,” in From Text to Performance: Narrative and Performance Criticisms in Dialogue and Debate (Biblical Performance Criticism 10), ed. Kelly R. Iverson (Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2014), pp. 1–26 (1). 35.  A professional taping of Ruge-Jones’ performance has been produced by ANKSOSfilms and is available on YouTube at www.youtube.com/watch?v=iEWX8-LQWIw. Begin viewing at the three-minute mark.

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differences in topographical and architectural spaces. The sea may feel more windy than the town or the house more intimate than the synagogue. Most important than this staging of narrative spaces though is the dynamic that occurs through performance. In the telling of the story, the staging ground becomes for a moment the space that the narrative invokes. The real audience finds themselves beside the sea, then on a journey through the unnamed space, and finally at Jairus’ house. Then and there becomes now and here. As the narration moves through a series of settings, both the teller and the audience have a chronological experience of the various spaces invoked as one thing follows another in the narrating. Unlike readers, those in the audience listening to a teller cannot look back a few paragraphs to remind themselves of what just had happened. Instead the narrative unfolds with one event following another. Yet, schemata plays a role in the performance. For the storyteller a clear sense of the schemata is held in memory so that the narrative world that is recounted remains coherent for the audience. Remembering that this happens here and then this follows in a distinctive place are actually memory aids that serve a storyteller’s ability to recall the flow of the narrative. For the hearer of the gospel, schemata is developed only via chronology as layer upon layer of meaning is laid out upon spaces and characters as the narrative unfolds in chronological time. Schemata is not understood by standing over the whole narrative as one can with a written text; rather it is constructed in the audience members’ memory with the passage of the story. Also performance makes it clear that the terms flat and minor characters would not be the best nomenclature to express roles like those of Jairus and the bleeding woman. The storyteller takes on these characters bodily and so they become round, more complex, and literally three-dimensional in the telling. Malbon’s claim that the minor characters play a major role has been affirmed by audience response to my performances. Often after a two-hour performance of the Gospel of Mark, the characters that the audience members most want to discuss with me are those who only appeared a single time yet made a major impact upon them. While a silent reader moves through a text at a relatively uniform speed, the storyteller can slow down the story at dramatic moments so that, for example, the drying up of that flow of blood becomes a palpable event of transformation for the audience. These transformative cameos slow down time and become concrete manifestations of the Realm of God in a way that can be quickly passed over in a silent reading. Finally, because of her awareness of performance, Malbon saw clearly that “the implied audience is the most important character of all.” In the act of performance, the real audience becomes characters in the story; for example, they become the crowd that stands around Jairus and overhear with him the bad news from his house and the woman’s whole truth. While a silent reader also imaginatively enters into the story world, in performance this happens in a way that is more direct and physical. The helpful insights that Malbon has made about various dimensions of space and the role of minor characters are not negated in performance. In my

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experience she is an excellent guide indicating narrative dynamics that are most often heightened in the act of performance. In performance, the physical space that the storyteller and audience share becomes eschatologically charged space. In the telling of this story of God’s in-breaking Realm, the room itself becomes the threshold through which this Realm “takes place” again. To recall Eliade’s phrase that Malbon found helpful, this space provides the “necessary foundation for shaping a world.”

Reading Mark 5:21–43 in Spanish We now take these reflections of Malbon and myself and mimic the interchange that happened in the first international meeting of SBL held in Latin America. We will listen for the latitudinal questions that Westhelle correctly noted would be present with this encounter. Various interpreters will demonstrate some common dimensions of the biblical interpretation that were present at the Buenos Aires gathering. In his book, Mañana: Christian Theology from a Hispanic Perspective, Justo González calls for “Reading the Bible in Spanish.”36 By this he means Spanishspeaking people interpreting the Bible intentionally from their own historical and cultural life. A certain grammar becomes apparent in these interpreters. First, the interpreter attends to who in the text has power and who does not, who is from a place of status and who from the margins, whom society called greatest and whom least.37 This highlights Westhelle’s claim about the eschatologically charged margins. Second, the interpreter remembers that these texts served communities of people, not primarily individuals.38 Presenters who interpreted biblical texts in Spanish at the international SBL were much more ready to relate the impact of biblical texts to their own ecclesial and political communities than I am accustomed to in Markan Sessions within the USA. Third, the good news requires attention to the voices of ordinary people, “children, the simple, the poor” as interpreters.39 In this sense those who inhabit the margins are not only objects of reflection, but are themselves interpreters taken seriously by scholars. Finally, this reading is in the “vocative,” expecting that as we interpret the scripture, it will interpret and transform us.40 Again, the scholars I met in Argentina were eager to think about the transformation of their ecclesial, political, social, and economic life that the text might empower. Let us read Mark 5 “in Spanish.” This story is structured with one story placed in the middle of another. Clear power distinctions exist between the bleeding woman and Jairus. Jairus is “a

36. Justo L. González, Mañana: Christian Theology from a Hispanic Perspective (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1990), pp. 75–87 (75). 37. González, Mañana, p. 85. 38. González, Mañana, p. 85. 39. González, Mañana, pp. 85–6. 40. González, Mañana, pp. 86–7.

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person of prestige” who has leader status in his community.41 Yet this leader of the synagogue falls before Jesus as his own life has been decentered. As the two of them move toward Jairus’ house, Jesus “interrupts his mission at service to a person of prestige in order to serve a powerless and despised woman.”42 We meet a woman who has suffered from a twelve-year flow of blood! The physical burden is also a “social death”43; it pushes her beyond the veil of the daily rhythms of communal life.44 In the second longest introduction of any Markan character, her suffering is emphasized.45 She has “suffered many things under many physicians, and spent all that she had, and has benefited nothing, but rather is worse.”46 Yet suffering does not exhaust this woman’s reality. She pushes back the veil and steps from the margins with determination. Her quest for healing did not stop when the money runs out. Defying the regimes that keep her on the margins, she pushes her way through the crowd. She courageously continues her quest, trusting this time in Jesus rather than the elite physicians. The aspect of the verb emphasizes continuing determination: she kept saying to herself.47 Her touching of Jesus (the word “touch” repeated four times)48 finally brings her resolution. The bleeding stops; she is healed instantly. The verbatim repetition of her stated desire after the results of her action demonstrates that she has achieved what she set out to do. Her agency carries the story out of brokenness and into God’s Realm. Power has been redistributed between her and Jesus. Moreover, she knows this “in her body.” Jesus also knows in his body that his power transferred to another; he seeks her out. She steps forward, and though she knows the powerful punishment inflicted on transgressors, she chooses to tell Jesus everything. Pikaza notes, “she must speak for herself: take her word as a woman and a person, proclaiming to all others her experience.”49 By her courageous witness, she who has been pushed to the margins pushes back the veil. She wedges her way into the context, creating a breech in the normal regime that protects the “greatest” from “least.” As Westhelle suggested, from the

41.  Guillermo Cook and Ricardo Foulkes, Marcos (Comentario Biblico Hispanoamericano; Miami: Editorial Caribe, 1990), p. 178 (translation mine). 42. Cook and Foulkes, Marcos, p. 178 (translation mine). 43.  S. J. Carlos Bravo, Jesús, Hombre en Conflicto, 2nd rev. and expanded ed. (Mexico City : Centro de Reflexión Teológica, A. C., 2010), p. 120 (translation mine). 44.  Xabier Pikaza, Pan, Casa, Palabra:  La Iglesia En Marcos (Salamanca:  Ediciones Sigueme, 1998), p. 123 (translation mine). 45. Only John the Baptist has a more thorough introduction. 46. Cook and Foulkes, Marcos, p. 178 (translation mine). 47.  Hisako Kinukawa, Women and Jesus in Mark:  A Japanese Feminist Perspective (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1994), p. 41. 48.  Fernando Belo, A Materialist Reading of the Gospel of Mark (Maryknoll, NY:  Orbis Books, 1981), p. 132. 49. Xabier Pikaza, Pan, Casa, Palabra, p. 126 (translation mine).

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margins an eschatologically charged space has opened up. Jesus steps into the salvific space that she has opened up and listens to her testimony. In this new Realm, says Martell-Otero, “the woman gains her voice and tells her story. She moves from being ill, victimized, silenced, and invisible to being made whole.”50 Martell-Otero observes that “Jesus declares her to be ‘daughter’—she is part of a community; she is familia.”51 This woman has carried forward the Realm of God from the margins and Jesus welcomes it. This comes as no surprise since “transgressing, crossing and redefining boundaries in Mark’s Gospel seem to be Jesus’ modus vivendi; he pursues this revolutionary way of being in order to include in the larger community once again the abject bodies of those who were socially dead.”52 As we will see shortly, the healing of the woman offers encouragement and opportunity to the heart-broken Jairus. Her story opens up “salvation” in its fullness, shalom communal as well as personal. From the margins we hear the witness, “The God of Jesús sato [Jesus the mutt] is creator and healer, one who pours out a healing Spirit . . ., mending the complex fractures that rend not only their bodies but also their communities.”53 Through these interpreters we see in action what González promised. Jairus and the woman are understood in terms of their social location with much attention lavished on the woman who steps out of from the margins. The concern is not only with what happens to the individuals in the text but how this story reflects the experience of contemporary communities who know marginalization and suffering. The text is interpreted in such a way that it gives voice to the people’s challenges and hopes. The interpretation pushes toward a new way of seeing the world and being in it. Leticia A.  Guardiola-Sanz names the complex ways that these dynamics come together when “reading the Bible in Spanish.” Reading from ourselves, with a clear awareness of the power relations that we need to defy in order to define our own identity, with the awareness of our fragmented identity that can be strengthened by acknowledging both its multiplicity and its incompleteness, and with the understanding that we are in process, that we are constantly hybridizing in our interactions with others, will empower us to cross the borders that we need to challenge in order to bring about transformation through the agency of our self-defined identity.54

50.  Loida I. Martell-Otero, “From Satas to Santas:  Sobrajas No More,” in Latina Evangélicas: A Theological Survey from the Margins, ed. Loida I. Martell-Otero et al. (Eugene, OR: Cascade Books, 2013), pp. 33–51 (46). 51. Martell-Otero, “From Satas to Santas,” p. 46. 52.  Manuel Villalobos Mendoza, Abject Bodies in the Gospel of Mark (The Bible in the Modern World 45; Sheffield, England: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2012), p. 96. 53. Martell-Otero, “From Satas to Santas,” p. 45. 54.  Leticia A. Guardiola-Sanz, “Reading from Ourselves:  Identity and Hermeneutics among Mexican-American Feminists,” in A Reader in Latina Feminist Theology:  Religion and Justice, ed. María Pilar Aquino, Daisy L. Machado, and Jeanette Rodriguez (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2002), pp. 80–97 (96).

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Performing the Bible in Spanish I will now bring this Spanish reading of the text into conversation with my own performance critical interpretation of it to imagine what “performing the text in Spanish” might look like. Again, seeing the performance that is digitally available will clarify much of what I attempt to describe below. Some things about the basic dynamics of my performance as storyteller of such a text need to be made clear at the outset. I as a storyteller embodied multiple characters. Especially if they speak, I must become them. In this story I became the narrator, Jesus, Jairus, the bleeding woman, the disciples, and those who brought the bad news to Jairus. The audience becomes the crowd as the story fills the performance space. Not only do I  move from being somebody to being somebody else, but the audience members see movement in each character’s body in the telling. They see Jairus drop from the erect posture of a man with status into the position of a supplicant kneeling before Jesus. They see the woman’s body lift as “she knew in her body she had been healed.” Then when she falls at Jesus’ feet, the remembered image of Jairus is evoked and the center and margins come together in a similar placement and posture before Jesus. The hearing of Jairus’ voice creates empathy for him in the audience as I mimicked the emotional tone of the request. It is as though they heard him for themselves. In written commentary, the interpreter can leave unexplored, unheard, left adrift in generalities, the word of the text.55 But the petition performed is concrete and specific in its emotional appeal. I also morph into the woman as I  move through Mark’s extensive description. The unbearable weight of her illness pulls her down further and further as I  describe her. The hearers see in my body something of the suffering that this woman has known. The kind of suffering we veil in the margins of our society is unveiled in the telling. The grammatical form conveys the endlessly ongoing suffering. The sentence’s wheels spin through no less than seven participles before it finally finds pavement with a main verb, touch.56 This continual deferring of grammatical resolution, usually eliminated in printed text, mimics the woman’s own prolonged, unresolved quest for healing. It gives the storyteller time to show the struggle and it makes the audience uneasy and longing for resolution. The audience hears her “internal” thoughts as I repeat the gesture and words of the actual healing, making the connection between her thoughts and her touching of Jesus all the more apparent. We have noted earlier that one story has been interpolated into another. However, in performance we see the borders between the stories overlap. The

55.  Consider “embodied performances .  .  . incarnate and make visible abstract principles and inchoate concepts.  .  .” from Lorne Dwight Conquergood, Cultural Struggles: Performance, Ethnography, Praxis, ed. E. Patrick Johnson (Ann Arbor:  University of Michigan Press, 2013), p. 267. 56. Kinukawa, Women and Jesus in Mark, p. 33.

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conversation between Jesus and the woman happen at the same time as the bad news is shared with Jairus. The historic presents (which are usually purged from translation) help to convey this.57 While he still speaks, people come from the house of the synagogue leader, saying, “Your daughter has died. Why bother the ‘teacher’ any longer?” But Jesus, overhearing the word spoken, says to the synagogue leader, “Don’t be afraid. Only trust courageously.” This use of the historic present coupled with embodiment make it clear that the conversation between Jesus and the woman happens in the presence of Jairus and the messengers. Jesus is still talking to the woman when he overhears the bad news. Jesus calls to Jairus in the midst of his rising fears and orders him to imitate the woman who is least. “Don’t be afraid; trust courageously!” he says, pointing out to Jairus the example of the courageously trusting woman who is before him! Jairus encounters a new reality adjacent to his own. “Jesus makes a profound connection between two people who seem to be at the [opposite] extremes of the social fabric.”58 “The greatest” is invited to follow the example of “the least” and therein find hope. Jairus has a choice to make between fear and trust. He is provided with the example of the woman and this leads him to go with Jesus so that healing might come to his house. Healing only comes to the center after a profound passage through the margins. By the end of the story, three healings have taken place: the woman, the daughter, and the now healed social fabric. Through the enfleshment of the story, each new audience witnesses the courageous trust of the woman and receives their own invitation to cross over this threshold with Jesus and enter into areas that had been veiled to them. They experience this not as separate individuals but as a shared community. The least becomes the agent through which God’s Realm draws near and this happens in the performance space that they occupy. Those with status and those oft denied status stand together hopeful, yet vulnerable, as God’s Realm breaks in from the places and people at the margins of our own awareness and invites us to move toward the margins and away from our own fears. The place in which the storytelling takes place becomes a threshold of transformation.

Conclusions The chapter has attempted to demonstrate the fruitful opportunities for interaction that occurred when SBL went to the southern hemisphere. Evocative dimensions of the narrative come about through the multiple perspectives we have brought into conversation. Our Spanish-speaking colleagues already know well much of

57.  Within the bibliography of this paper, Belo stands out in consistently translating verbs in the historic present so that they are rendered in the present. 58. Pikaza, Pan, Casa, Palabra, p. 131 (translation mine).

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the interpretive work that has been done in the northern hemisphere. Therefore, I believe it is the northern scholars who have the most to learn in this new shared place, at least I know this was the case for me. In such encounters a different kind of interpretive space is opened up. We listen to interpreters of the texts in Spanish and we find in these gatherings, in areas now adjacent to our own reality, that something new is present that had been veiled by the boundaries we ourselves had not even noticed. We listen to those who have known years of suffering, who have reached forward in hope, and who in the process experience healing for themselves and offer us a model that might bring healing to our own households. We listen to these voices and hear anew. In attentive conversation, we experience the mending of the complex fractures that rend not only our bodies but also our global community. The violence and suffering that is addressed when the whole truth is witnessed to in Spanish might give us a way to address the same painful realities when they have come home to roost in our own abode. And perhaps in the exchange hope is born. Elizabeth Struthers Malbon is no stranger to this need nor to the hope for blessing beyond the struggle. In one of the most moving passages of her scholarly corpus, she defiantly dedicates her work to hope in the face of the violence that haunts us. She wrote: In fond memory of my parents Roberta Diamond Struthers 1915–1997 Orville W. Struthers 1916–1995 from whom I received many blessings and who themselves received the blessing of not outliving their children and in honor of and concern for all the parents of the 33 students and faculty who were killed on April 16, 2007 on the campus of Virginia Tech [where I teach] Who have not received this blessing— May they receive other blessings.59 May the collaborative work of those from around the globe open up a space where such blessings might indeed break in upon us. May our work be made new in unexpected spaces and by unexpected people.

59.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, Mark’s Jesus: Characterization as Narrative Christology (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2009), p. v.

Chapter 21 “ N EV E R S AY I   A M T H E C H R I ST. I AM THE SON OF MAN” Richard Walsh

Elizabeth Struthers Malbon’s scholarly contributions establish her as one of the Gospel of Mark’s leading narrative critics,1 but she has also considered Mark’s reception history. In a recent piece, she compares Jorge Luis Borges’ “The Gospel According to Mark,” Denys Arcand’s Jesus of Montreal, the Gospel of Mark, and the concept of parable. She finds Arcand’s film and Mark more parabolic than Borges’ satirical short story.2 In tribute to Malbon’s work, I continue her parabolic comparison of Mark and Jesus of Montreal here.3 Whatever parable is, it certainly brings (or casts) things near, beside, along (see the various meanings of παρά) that do not at first seem to belong together. As other παρά words function somewhat similarly, I suggest here that one can profitably understand Jesus of Montreal and Mark in terms of paraphrase, parody, and parataxis, before concluding with a renewed look at both as parable. 1.  See, for example, Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, In the Company of Jesus: Characters in Mark’s Gospel (Louisville:  Westminster John Knox, 2000); “Narrative Criticism: How Does the Story Mean?” in Mark and Method: New Approaches in Biblical Studies (2nd ed.), ed. Janice Capel Anderson and Stephen D.  Moore (Minneapolis:  Fortress, 2008), pp.  29–57; Mark’s Jesus: Characterization as Narrative Christology (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2009). 2.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “Reading Borges Re-writing Mark’s Gospel in Light of Seeing Arcand Reviewing Jesus of Nazareth,” in Borges and the Bible: A Collection of Essays, ed. Richard Walsh and Jay Twomey (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2015), pp. 125–37. 3. On the film’s use of the gospels see Richard C. Stern, Clayton N. Jefford, and Guerric DeBona, Savior on the Silver Screen (New York: Paulist, 1999), pp. 358–9; Jeffrey L. Staley and Richard Walsh, Jesus, the Gospels, and Cinematic Imagination: A Handbook to Jesus on DVD (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2007), pp. 122–4; W. Barnes Tatum, Jesus at the Movies: A Guide to the First Hundred Years and Beyond, 3rd ed. (Salem, OR: Polebridge, 2013), p. 313. While Jesus of Montreal “quotes” all the canonical gospels, the film has greatest affinity with Mark. See Lloyd Baugh, Imagining the Divine: Jesus and Christ-Figures in Film (Kansas City : Sheed and Ward, 1997), p. 118; Stern, Jefford, and Debona, Savior on the Silver Screen, p. 309; Richard Walsh, Reading the Gospels in the Dark: Portrayals of Jesus in Film (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press, 2003), pp. 45–68, 180–83.

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Paraphrasing Mark I was also interested in creating a paraphrase of the passion . . . to model my own personal writing on that of the Gospel according to Saint Mark.4

In the 1989 Jesus of Montreal, Daniel Coulombe accepts the commission of revising a shrine’s long-standing passion play from Father Leclerc, the shrine’s rector and the play’s author. After watching a recording of the play, Daniel conducts his own historical research, which largely bypasses the gospels as the unreliable testimonies of followers.5 Daniel collects an acting troupe of lowly actors (Martin, Constance, Mireille, and René) and begins rehearsing his play. The film’s heart is the first performance of Daniel’s revised passion play, which uses the Stations of the Cross for its structure and is staged in the shrine’s gardens overlooking Montreal.6 As Caiaphas lurks in the background, a philosophical Pilate condemns Jesus, played by Daniel, after describing crucifixion’s horrors and reflecting on the possibility of an afterlife. At the more innovative second station, Constance and Mireille, playing archaeologists, repeat the Jewish claim that Jesus was a Roman bastard, describe the gospels’ ancient, magical worldview, and depict Jesus as a magician like many others of antiquity. The play stages some of Jesus’ miracles (including the walking on water, a healing of a blind woman, and the resurrection of Jairus’ daughter) and teaching (primarily from the Sermon on the Mount). The play then segues back to the passion when Peter acclaims Jesus as the Christ to which Jesus responds, “Never say I am the Christ. I  am the Son of Man.”7 When Jesus refuses to substantiate his authority, the authorities arrest him. The ensuing passion includes scourging, the Via Dolorosa, and the crucifixion.8 The actors provide a running, graphic commentary on crucifixion’s horrors and banality so that Jesus’ fate is likened to that of many other (Jewish) victims.9 The last station, in a subterranean tunnel, is not the expected entombment. Sans Jesus, the troupe traces the development of resurrection belief to Jesus’ followers’

4. Denys Arcand, cited in Baugh, Imagining the Divine, p. 116. 5.  On the play’s historicity and Daniel’s historiography, see Adele Reinhartz, Jesus of Hollywood (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), pp. 32–7. 6. St Joseph’s Oratory refused to allow its grounds to be used, so the “garden” locations are areas around the École Polytechnique de Montréal. The church interiors are from the Church of St Michael and St Anthony. According to the Urbex Playground website, the underground resurrection scene is the Brock Tunnel. See http://www.urbexplayground .com/urbex/brock-tunnel-relic-past. 7. Unless otherwise stated, film quotations are my transcriptions of DVD subtitles. 8.  The play’s Via Dolorosa is quite brief in contrast to its importance as the setting for eight of the fourteen Stations of the Cross. 9. Reinhartz, Jesus of Hollywood, p. 35. Compare Jesus’ treatment in W. B. Griffith’s 1916 Intolerance.

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need for hope in the face of a bewildering universe some years after Jesus’ death. The play does, however, stage Mary Magdalene’s resurrection announcement and the meeting with a cloaked stranger (not played by Daniel) on the road to Emmaus. The troupe concludes by calling the audience to love one another and to seek their own salvation. As the crowd applauds, Daniel descends stairs to join the troupe and receive the crowd’s accolades.10 Although the people and the media are ecstatic, Father Leclerc furiously informs Daniel that his board will decide whether the play continues or not. Thereafter, Daniel’s own life becomes quite Christ-like. Incensed by Mireille’s degrading treatment during an audition for a beer commercial, Daniel angrily “cleanses” the set. At the play’s next performance, of which the film shows only a fragment, detectives arrest Daniel/Jesus while he is dying on the cross. Consequently, Daniel is a no show at the resurrection. Daniel is tried and remanded to psychiatric evaluation, which finds him remarkably sane. The judge releases Daniel pending sentencing, and Richard Cardinal, a media lawyer, tempts Daniel with “the city” in a skyscraper overlooking Montreal. Meanwhile, Father Leclerc tries to reinstate his traditional passion play, only to have the actors mock it by rehearsing it in various comic acting styles. Father Leclerc retreats into the shrine angrily, where Daniel accosts him for lying to the people. Father Leclerc responds that the people need hope, not truth, to cope with their suffering and desperation (compare the troupe’s own explanation for the development of the “resurrection” message) and cancels Daniel’s play, despite pleas from Daniel and Constance for “just” one more performance. During a last supper of pizza and wine, the troupe—particularly Mireille— encourages Daniel to stage a final renegade performance. When the shrine’s security guards stop the play, a scuffle with the adoring crowd topples Daniel/ Jesus’ cross. An ambulance transports the unconscious Daniel, with Constance and Mireille, to St Mark’s Hospital, which is too busy to help him. Recovering, Daniel and the women descend into a subway (see Daniel’s earlier “resurrection” descent) where Daniel rants apocalyptically before collapsing again. At a Jewish hospital, an English-speaking doctor tells the women that they have arrived thirty minutes late to save Daniel and receives Constance’s permission to harvest his organs. The film ends with people revived by Daniel’s heart and eyes, everyone but Mireille agreeing to form a Daniel Coulombe Theater with Cardinal, and two women singing the end of Pergolesi’s Stabat Mater in the subway where Daniel collapsed.11 While one might see almost any Jesus film as a paraphrase of the gospel, Jesus of Montreal’s revised passion play and treatment of Daniel as a Christ figure surely

10.  Compare the absence of the actor who played Jesus in the passion play from the troupe’s bus at the end of Norman Jewison’s 1973 Jesus Christ Superstar. In both films, one of the last shots is of a lonely cross (at sunset). 11. The same two women sing an earlier part of the Stabat Mater in the shrine during the film’s opening titles. The two women are also at the beer commercial audition.

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qualify it as a paraphrase—at least, of the traditional passion play, which it cites briefly (or of the Stations of the Cross).12 Arcand’s own comments (see the epigraph to this section above) extend the source of the paraphrase—or the restatement of a text in another’s words—to Mark’s passion. Daniel’s revised play, however, relies more on historical research than the gospels, and when it does allude to gospels, the references are seldom to Mark. The first station has a Johannine aura with its Jesus who claims that his kingdom is not of this world and that he dies out of “a greater love” (Jn 18:36; 15:13) as well as a Caiaphas who is willing to do away with an individual (to save the nation) (Jn 11:50). The only miracle unique to a gospel is that in which the Matthean Peter fails to walk on the water (Matt 14:28–33).13 The teaching is most reminiscent of Matthew’s Sermon on the Mount. Finally, the resurrection appearances liberally paraphrase John 20:18 (or Mk 16:9–11) and Luke 24:13–27. The film specifically mentions Mark only once, as the name of an overcrowded, bureaucratic hospital more interested in forms than patient care (compare the Markan δεῖ?). The film does portray Daniel as a Christ or Jesus figure.14 That characterization dominates the film after the successful performance of Daniel’s revised play. Daniel’s own passion begins at that point in conflict with religious (Leclerc) and secular (the judicial system) authorities. The latter conflict arises after Daniel cleanses a commercial set (the modern temple?) and leads to his arrest, trial, and temptation. While there is a “crucifixion,” it is causally unrelated to his secular trial. While one might christen this third part of the film Daniel’s passion, it is not markedly Markan. The first clue that the film paraphrases Mark lies in the prologue, which features a play based on part of The Brothers Karamozov. Daniel comes to see Pascal, the actor playing that play’s protagonist, who deflects media adulation by pointing to Daniel as the greater (actor). Clearly, Pascal paraphrases John the Baptist. In fact, the pretitle scene overdoes the Baptist allusions. A  female producer claims she wants Pascal’s head for an advertising campaign, and the film eventually beheads Pascal, displaying his head on a poster advertising (“Savage” or “Wild Man”) cologne in the subway where Daniel rants about “the abomination of desolation.”15 More importantly, Daniel tells Pascal that he is to play Jesus and needs “inspiration.” Their comic interchange anoints Daniel with the name “Jesus” twice more in 12. The multiplicity and variety of Jesuses also points to paraphrase, rather than to “literal” translation. The focus falls on the “construction” of Jesuses, rather than on their faithfulness to a putative original. See Walsh, Reading the Gospels in the Dark, pp. 29–33. 13.  The play does have the Markan detail of “Talitha cum” (Mk 5:41) in the raising of Jairus’ daughter. 14. See Baugh, Imagining the Divine, pp. 113–29. 15. As this Baptist betrays his (artistic) mission, he is also Judas. See Stern, Jefford, and Debona, Saviour on the Silver Screen, pp.  307, 313; Bart Testa, “Arcand’s Double-Twist Allegory: Jesus of Montreal,” in Auteur/Provocateur: The Films of Denys Arcand, ed. André Loiselle and Brian McIlroy (Westport: Greenwood, 1995), pp. 90–112 (98).

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rapid succession.16 As Daniel has not yet been called “Daniel” and as the Jesus of Montreal title follows immediately, the film begins with the “baptism” of Jesus of Montreal and concludes with this Jesus’ passion. Mark is the only gospel to begin and end similarly. Further, like Mark, the film begins in medias res. The film’s prologue assumes something like the contractual discussion between Leclerc and Daniel that follows the opening titles. Moreover, the connection between the prologue’s play and the rest of the film is not immediately obvious. One could say similar things about Mark, whose opening verses (1:1–3) are notoriously difficult and are only analogically (or paratactically) connected to what follows. The film’s conclusion also appears somewhat Markan. The doctor, clad in white, announcing Daniel’s brain death to women in a rather dark room (tomb?) and asking for Daniel’s body, darkly transfigures Mark 15:43, 46. In fact, Daniel’s entombment and the disappearance of his body (in the organ harvesting) dominate the film’s end (see Mk 16:6). The film’s finale does, however, have “resurrection” elements that are more definitive than Mark’s abrupt conclusion. If those healed by Daniel’s organs radically, modernly paraphrase the resurrection, Daniel’s three followers who continue his “mission” in an avant-garde theater bearing his name seem even more like the gospel resurrection narratives.17 This theater, however, is hardly divine. The seductive lawyer is its moving force and Mireille, Daniel’s closest disciple, leaves the venture abruptly. Consequently, the other three disciples seem to betray Daniel, and I am tempted to read them as analogues of the lost disciples that some find at the end of Mark. Mireille differs. Walking alone on the hill where the troupe staged the play (compare Mark’s Galilee?), she seems to return to the beginning to continue along the Markan Jesus/Daniel’s way.18 A more substantive indication that Jesus of Montreal paraphrases Mark is the film’s relentless focus on the passion. The opening play, adapting part of The Brothers Karamozov, is “already a modern equivalent of the Passion”19 The Stabat Mater attends the opening titles and closing credits. A large statue of Jesus

16.  “Inspire” suggests Mark’s baptismal scene, in which the spirit descends into (εἰς) Jesus (Mk 1:10), rather than those of Matthew and Luke, which describe the spirit coming upon (ἐπί) Jesus (Mt 3:16; Lk 3:22). 17. In Imagining the Divine, pp. 127–9, Baugh argues that the film’s final camera movements are suggestive of “resurrection.” The camera shifts to look down upon the women singing the Stabat Mater in the subway, then tracks horizontally, and then vertically through what seems the subway walls or some foreboding black space. The film’s final shots are of a morning sunrise (so Baugh, but it could be a sunset) and an empty cross (although it is not Daniel’s cross). If this camera suggests resurrection, that affirmation is juxtaposed to the less definitive elements discussed above and to the skeptical treatment of resurrection in Daniel’s play. 18. See Malbon, In the Company of Jesus, pp. 41–70, 100–130. One could also read this scene as a paraphrase of the Johannine Mary Magdalene (Jn 20:14–18). 19. Bart Testa, “Arcand’s Double-Twist Allegory: Jesus of Montreal,” p. 98.

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condemned to death, the first Station of the Cross, appears repeatedly. Most importantly, the film is about actors staging a passion play. As the film climaxes with Daniel’s own passion, over two-thirds of the film is given to the passion, so that this cinematic paraphrase emphasizes what many scholars consider Mark’s own passionate essence. Further, the combination of the passion play and Daniel’s own passion gives the film a double passion ending like that of Mark. While Mark 14–16 depicts Jesus’ passion, scholars interpret Mark 13 as a description of the (future) passion of Jesus’ followers.20 Norman Petersen, in particular, has argued that Mark 13 is the “real” end of Mark.21 If so, Jesus of Montreal comes very close to restoring this imagined Markan story order through two different moves. First, Daniel’s passion does actually follow that of his reconstructed Jesus. Second, the film places Daniel’s Mark 13 subway rant in the midst of Daniel’s passion, not Jesus’. Significantly, the rant also occurs after Daniel’s mortal fall on Jesus’ cross. The result is a double correction of Mark’s “misplacement” of Mark 13, and again the film’s paraphrase highlights crucial Markan elements.

Parodying Mark It’s the lowest form of employment [a shrine passion play] an actor can get, and is usually taken by out-of-work actors—in fact very bad actors.22 I had decided from the start that Daniel had to die. An individual longing for the absolute, unwilling to make any compromise, cannot survive in a world such as ours. Society crushes this type of person. So he had to die. However, I wanted to undermine somewhat the tragedy of his death because, in our age, tragedy has lost its importance. So I chose a rather grotesque death for the actor, having him fall under his cross, as if the performance itself killed the performer. But I still wanted his death to have some meaning.23

Jesus of Montreal does not merely paraphrase Mark, transplanting it to modern Montreal and transfiguring it as Daniel’s ministry and passion. The film also demeans Mark. As the second epigraph above states, today is not a time for tragedy (or for epic). The common person of the novel and cinema has replaced the 20.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, Narrative Space and Mythic Meaning in the Gospel of Mark (San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1986), pp. 151–2, 199–200. 21. Norman Petersen, “When Is the End not the End? Literary Reflections on the Ending of Mark’s Narrative,” Interpretation 34 (1980), pp. 151–66. 22. Denys Arcand, quoted in Adam Barker, “Actors, Magicians & the Little Apocalypse,” Monthly Film Bulletin 57 (1990), p. 672. 23. Denys Arcand, quoted in André Loiselle, “ ‘I Only Know Where I Come From, Not Where I am Going’: A Conversation with Denys Arcand,” in Auter/Provocateur: The Films of Denys Arcand, ed. André Loisell and Brian McIlroy (Westport: Greenwood, 1995), p. 157.

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noble heroes of tragedy and epic.24 While the commoner Jesus of Nazareth may be an apt precursor of Jesus of Montreal, the heroic Christ of the canonical gospels is not. One might read the film then as a parody. Traditionally, a parody imitates the style—and Arcand claims to aim for Mark’s style—in order to mock the exemplar. Classically, parodies imitated the heroic style, but with nonheroic subjects. Jesus of Montreal fits such a description, but Arcand points the parody at “today,” the film’s surrounding culture (and its representation in the film), not at Daniel’s acting mission (or Mark). There remains something noble about Daniel. If Daniel’s revised play parodies the traditional play and the Stations of the Cross,25 the film does not let the play’s Jesus stand alone. As Lloyd Baugh notes,26 the film undercuts the play’s Jesus in favor of the more Christ-like Daniel through transgressions of narrative boundaries that remind one that he/she is watching a play (film), through turning the play and Daniel into a media event, and through comedy. Pilate, Caiaphas, and the magicians are caricatures. The Haitian maid who mistakes Daniel’s Jesus for her Lord and the Keystone Kop security guard who repeatedly interrupts and breaks the play’s mood reduce everything to the level of farce. The security guard even gets the final, dismissive commentary on the play, as he tries to dismiss the adoring crowd during the renegade performance: “Look, he dies on the cross and is resurrected. No big deal. Talk about slow!” Further, the fragmentary second and third performances of the play seriously undercut the “miracle” of the first performance. In the second performance, apologetic detectives laud Daniel’s performance but arrest him as Mr Coulombe while he plays Jesus on the cross. More parodying occurs when the troupe mocks Leclerc’s attempts to revise the play, after Daniel’s arrest, with various modes of theater/acting, all played with derisive comedy. (Hauntingly, Daniel mimes his own ritual suicide in the Kabuki performance.) Finally, in the third and last performance, the film stages the scuffle between the crowd and the security guards as slapstick humor, until the scuffle knocks Daniel from his cross. It is as if the performance has killed him, and Daniel’s own death is “grotesque,” farcical, or “undermining.”27 One might also read Mark as parody. If the film’s rather gentle humor positions Daniel as the Jesus of Montreal, replacing the Gospel Christ and the play’s Jesus, the more savage mockery of Mark’s passion replaces the “Christ” of Mark 1:1 with “Jesus of Nazareth” (particularly in 16:6). As Malbon notes, the narrator refers to

24. See Walsh, Reading the Gospels in the Dark, pp. 23–9. 25.  Historical Jesuses all parody the noble Christ by replacing that figure with more human, if not “modern,” individuals. See Richard Walsh, “Three Versions of Judas Jesus,” in Those Outside: Noncanonical Readings of Canonical Gospels, ed. George Aichele and Richard Walsh (Harrisburg, PA: T&T Clark), pp. 155–81. 26. Baugh, Imagining the Divine, pp. 119–21. 27.  See the second Arcand epigraph to this section. See also Testa, “Arcand’s DoubleTwist Allegory: Jesus of Montreal,” pp. 105, 107–8.

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Jesus as “Christ” only in 1:1 and as “Jesus of Nazareth” seventy-five times.28 While every scholarly reader realizes that Mark 1:1 does not describe what follows well, many ultimately reconcile this juxtaposition by reading Mark as redefining Christ as the suffering Son of God (particularly at 15:39) or as the suffering Son of Man because of Jesus’ predictions about that “figure” (see 8:31; 9:12, 31; 10:33–4, 45; 14:21, 41) and, of course, Jesus’ fate. Some scholars even go so far as to read Mark’s passion narrative as an ironic declaration that Jesus is king or Christ in his death and that his enemies speak this truth unwittingly. Malbon seems nearer (the) Mark to me when she says instead that the passion narrative is not ironic because Mark rejects the notion of king.29 But, what if Mark rejects or parodies Christ (Mk 1:1), not merely king? Mark’s Jesus repeatedly replaces Christ claims with words about the Son of Man (8:29–33; 14:61–2), asks querulous questions about christology (12:35–7), and warns his followers about those who make Christ claims (13:6, 21– 2). In light of this Markan ambivalence on Christ, is not everything in the passion mockery, farce, parody? If one foregoes the certain knowledge that Mark’s Jesus of Nazareth is (also) the Christ, would one hear the cruel, mocking laughter at the cross? Would one notice that Jesus of Nazareth dies because of “mistaken identity”?30 If so, Mark’s cross is as nonheroic, nontragic, and nonsalvific as Daniel’s is.31 Modern and postmodern analysts do not, however, necessarily see parody as mockery or, at least, not mockery of the text whose style it imitates. Such thinkers see parody as a way of innovating in the face of dominant genres/texts or as the way of creating art in modern or postmodern (or simply debased) times. The resulting innovations (parodies) are intertextualities. As Gerard Genette says, every quotation is parodic.32 Such works make sense only in the context of (all other) literature, culture, or language itself.33 In this sense, Mark is certainly a parody. Even without considering later texts that determine Mark’s meaning in certain contexts (e.g., the biblical canon; twosource hypotheses; Westcott and Hort’s Greek Text), one might note that everyone seems to know (or think) that Mark has a meaning because it quotes or parodies various Hebrew Bible texts (although what these specific texts are is disputed) 28. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 61. 29.  Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, pp.  118–23. Compare Edwin K. Broadhead, Naming Jesus: Titular Christology in the Gospel of Mark (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), pp. 75–80, 160–61. 30. Compare Monty Python’s 1979 The Life of Brian. Brian is not saved from crucifixion, when someone else comically takes over his identity and goes free in his place. 31.  On “non-salvific,” see Sharyn Dowd and Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “The Significance of Jesus’ Death in Mark: Narrative Context and Authorial Audience,” JBL 125.2 (2006), pp. 271–97. 32. Gerard Genette, Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree, trans. Channa Newman and Claude Doubinsky (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press), p. 17. 33. This understanding of intertextuality is structuralist or poststructuralist. Postmodern intertextuality is not about a later text citing a previous text. It is about the “web” of texts that supports a text’s meaning(s) for a particular reading/reader.

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and because it stands among the canonical gospels, which form Mark’s seemingly unavoidable conversation partners and the incredible restrictions upon its possible meaning. Existing in late capitalism (and its constant semiotic flux), Jesus of Montreal lacks stable meaning and has many conversation partners, including, for example, The Brothers Karamozov, the Stabat Mater, the Stations of the Cross, Hamlet, and the gospels. If one vastly oversimplifies this partial list, the texts all focus attention on the death of God (or his representative or the father) and on how one should live in that death’s aftermath. The Stabat Mater, the Stations of the Cross, and the gospels all treat the death of (the Son of) God as foundational, both mythically and ethically, for the communities who employ these texts ritually. The bits and pieces of the traditional passion play in Jesus of Montreal foreground comments about Christ’s death for our sins. The Stations of the Cross and the Stabat Mater similarly lead worshipers to make Christ’s passion their own for their redemption. By contrast, the Brothers Karamozov play that opens the film assumes that God’s death means that, in the words of Ivan, “everything is permitted,” so the bastard Smerdyakov has killed his overbearing father. Rejecting hope and God, Smerdyakov hangs himself. This suicide virtually “titles” Jesus of Montreal because of its pretitle location. Further, the film emphasizes Smerdyakov’s suicide by dramatizing (the hanging) what Dostoevsky’s novel only reports. The fates (and possible redemption) of Ivan and his two brothers are more important in the novel. The film’s emphasis makes Albert Camus, who treats suicide as the philosophical question in an absurd (or death-of-God) world, into the novel/play/film’s precursor.34 René’s rendition of Hamlet’s soliloquy after Jesus’ death in Daniel’s play further emphasizes the importance of the question of suicide.35 At first, Daniel’s revised play, particularly the first station, does not respond directly to that question—although, to the extent that Pilate dominates the scene, Jesus’ action is portrayed as foolish and even suicidal. The play’s crucifixion scene does not respond to Hamlet’s question either, nor does it add anything redemptive or theological. The troupe’s “resurrection” message—to save yourself and love one another—is another matter as is Daniel’s own life and passion.36 His life evinces concern for others, particularly his troupe. Further, Daniel’s commitment to his

34.  Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays, trans. Justin O’Brien (New York: Vintage, 1991). 35.  René/Hamlet’s soliloquy becomes a mediating term between suicide and absurd creation for the film. Interestingly, Claude Lévi-Strauss, The Naked Man: Introduction to a Science of Mythology, IV, trans. John and Doreen Weightman (New York: Harper and Row, 1981), p.  659, says that Hamlet’s soliloquy expresses the two ultimate binary oppositions requiring mythic reconciliation. 36. Albert Camus’ attempt to forge an ethic without benefit of transcendence results in a similar ethic: reject suicide in order to be/create (The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays) and reject murder in order to work/love together (Camus, The Rebel:  An Essay on Man

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work/mission—his writing, staging, and acting—creates something in the face of the absurd (the death of God)37 or the ennui that followed the Quiet Revolution in 1960s Quebec and the failure of the national independence project.38 In Daniel’s serious creation of something that cannot last—his role as Jesus—he becomes one of Camus’ heroic absurd creators.39 Like such a creator, he ultimately dies, and his death has little or no meaning. Although predictable, it is a farce, a series of missteps. Mark’s canonical location typically prevents a similar reading of its Jesus’ death. But, Mark’s opening (1:1–15) describes an alienated, meaningless, absurd situation (usually called “exile” by biblical scholars), not unlike the world of Camus or Jesus of Montreal. Further, like the film’s setting, an oppressive empire (Rome rather than the United States or the consumer capitalism the latter represents) overwhelms the colony (Palestine rather than Quebec). To this absent God, if not death of God, situation, Mark’s Jesus replies with language and acts about God’s activity. Nevertheless, other than two (ambiguous) heavenly voices (1:10; 9:7) and various scripture citations, God does not speak in Mark; and other than some acts in the prologue, some so-called divine passives, and Jesus’ acts and reports, God does not act in Mark. Instead, the narrative ultimately separates Jesus, who claims to speak for God, from any sign of God. Even more than Arcand’s Daniel, Mark’s Jesus dies alone and forsaken (see the second epigraph to this section above). In particular, God does not respond to Jesus’ last two prayers (14:36; 15:34).40 Surely, there is nothing redemptive here, but there may be some integrity or absurd creation before the inevitable end. For Dowd and Malbon, Mark’s Jesus does not die to save. Instead, he dies trying to live out or create God’s kingdom community. Death is inevitable for such an absurd creator.41 in Revolt, trans. Anthony Bower [New York:  Vintage, 1992]). Compare Kevin McMahon, “Jésus of Montréal and the Culture of Nihilism,” Take One (Summer 1995), p. 43, who says that Arcand’s work responds to a culture of nihilism with a call “to find a way of grace in which to come together.” 37. Daniel’s passion play lacks God language (Jesus says only “forsaken”) as does Daniel’s final apocalyptic rant, particularly in comparison to Mark 13. Before that rant, Daniel says that his father forsook him and, almost comically in comparison to the seriousness of Dostoevsky and Camus’ characters, that “life is hard to bear, huh? . . . The source of life is hidden.” 38.  The Quiet Revolution of the 1960s ended traditional Catholic society, which was replaced by the secular consumer society of the 1980s. On Arcand’s films as critical of this society, see John Harkness, “The Improbable Rise of Denys Arcand,” Sight & Sound 58.4 (Autumn 1989), pp. 234–8; Baugh, Imagining the Divine, pp. 113–15. The 1983 The Decline of the American Empire is the most obvious critique, but it is ironically the film that made Arcand a media figure. 39. Compare Walsh, Reading the Gospels, pp. 52–7, 61–2. 40. On God’s disappearance in Mark, see Richard Walsh, “The End of the Markan God— Jesus’ Cry of Dereliction,” in Simulating Aichele: Essays in Bible, Film, Culture and Theory, ed. Melissa Stewart (Sheffield:  Sheffield Phoenix, 2015), pp. 27–47 and the sources cited there, particularly Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, pp. 75–9, 129–94. 41. Dowd and Malbon, “The Significance of Jesus’ Death in Mark,” pp. 274–7, 282.

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Paratactic Texts I wanted to make a movie of ripping contrasts, from madcap comedy to absurd drama, reflecting life around us—shattering, trivial, contradictory. Somewhat like thirty-foot supermarket displays presenting the most unlikely collection:  novels by Dostoevsky competing for space with eau de toilette, bibles, pornographic videos, the collected works of Shakespeare, photographs of the earth whole taken from the moon, astrological forecasts and posters of actors and Jesus, while loudspeakers and electronic boards pulsate endlessly against a backdrop of Pergolesi, rock n’ roll, or raucous voices.42 Jesus of Montreal is a film about actors, and actors will tell you there’s always this problem—they don’t know where the part begins and their own personality stops. Especially if you’re playing Jesus, the ultimate part.43

While critical of a hedonistic consumer society, Arcand’s film participates in such a society’s rapid, unending exchange of signifiers. Both Jesus and Daniel are media products/events. The film has not one but many Jesuses. Paraphrase and parody, the heroic and the farcical, tragedy and comedy juxtapose each other without final reconciliation. Broadly speaking, the style is paratactic.44 Further, the boundaries between the play and the world outside are as porous as those between Daniel and Jesus. This lack of stability reflects the modern/postmodern context, but, for Arcand, it is also characteristic of the nature of acting (as in the second epigraph above). The identity of both actor and character is indefinite: All effective performances share this “not—not not” quality:  Olivier is not Hamlet, but also he is not not Hamlet; his performance is between a denial of being another (= I am me) and a denial of not being another (= I am Hamlet). Performer training focuses its techniques not on making one person into

42. Denys Arcand, quoted in Peter Malone, “Review of Jésus of Montréal,” Cinema Papers 80 (August 1990), p. 58. 43. Denys Arcand, quoted in Adam Barker, “Actors, Magicians & the Little Apocalypse,” p. 672. 44. Technically, parataxis refers to a writing style that lacks subordinate conjunctions. Mark is famously so with its repetitive use of καί and καὶ εὐθ ὺς. I use “parataxis” more broadly here to refer to the laying of materials alongside without clear indication of their connection. Arcand’s cinematic style is paratactic in this larger sense. Compare the first epigraph above and Testa, “Arcand’s Double-Twist Allegory,” pp. 93–5. Andrew Loiselle and Brian McIlroy, “Introduction,” in Auteur/Provocateur: The Films of Denys Arcand, ed. Andrew Loiselle and Brian McIlroy (Westport: Greenwood, 1995), p. 2, say, “Clearly, one of Arcand’s preferred cinematic practices is the construction of dialogic structures through the juxtaposition of contradictory and irreconcilable elements at every level of a film’s diegesis.”

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another but on permitting the performer to act in between identities; in this sense performing is a paradigm of liminality.45

Or the actor and the role exist alongside one another paratactically. Thus, the film uses the signifiers “Jesus” and “Daniel” of the same figure almost randomly. Before he is “Mr Coulombe,” the protagonist is “Jesus” three times in the prologue and then in the film’s title, Jesus of Montreal (and it is never clear whether that title refers to actor or role played). No one names the protagonist “Daniel” until the media frenzy following the play’s first performance; however, his celebrating troupe refers to him as “Jesus” at that same time. When Jesus falls beneath his cross in the renegade performance, Mireille calls him “Daniel.” While no name is employed, surely some parataxis, or outright confusion of identity, occurs when Daniel descends stairs after the troupe’s resurrection message to receive the crowd’s applause. Further, confusion arises throughout the movie everywhere and to the extent Daniel is a Christ figure. Who then speaks in the passion play when Jesus responds to Peter’s Christ confession? Daniel playing Jesus responds, “Never say I am the Christ. I am the Son of Man.” Like Mark’s Jesus, this Jesus responds to the Christ confession by switching names to Son of Man, so that confusion exists not only between actor and role but also between Christ and Son of Man. The character in Jesus of Montreal is, however, more definite than the Markan Jesus (see Mk 8:29–31; 14:61–2), as he clearly negates Christ and adopts Son of Man.46 Nonetheless, the identity of the film’s Son of Man is still not immediately obvious. It seems unlikely that he is the fully human figure of creedal orthodoxy, who is also fully divine, given the banal human nature of the Jesus of the passion play. Could then the Son of Man be Daniel speaking as the Jesus he has created vis-à-vis the Christ of the Church? Or, given Daniel’s increasing Christ-likeness, could it be Daniel himself asserting his own identity vis-à-vis Christ or announcing his own Daniel/Jesus of Montreal identity (vis-à-vis other Jesuses and Christs)? This last possibility might be the most paratactic option and that most like the ambivalence between actor and role. It would also be the option most like the Jesus of Nazareth/Son of Man parataxis in Mark.47 While most assume that Son of Man is the name (or title) that Mark’s Jesus chooses to identify himself, that interpretation is problematic.48 No 45.  Richard Schechner, Between Theater and Anthropology (Philadelphia:  University of Pennsylvania Press), p. 123. 46. Does this negation reflect the silence command (Mk 8:30; Lk 9:21)? 47.  Should one set up some chiasmus (or proportion) in which the Jesuses cancel each other out and one is left with Daniel/Son of Man? Is that what the confession scene in Jesus of Montreal implies? 48.  See George Aichele, Jesus Framed (London:  Routledge, 1996), pp. 13–33, 99–120; Aichele, The Control of Biblical Meaning:  Canon as Semiotic Mechanism (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity, 2001), pp. 151–72; Aichele, The Phantom Messiah: Postmodern Fantasy and the Gospel of Mark (New York and London: T&T Clark, 2006), pp. 131–52.

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one but Jesus speaks of the Son of Man in Mark, and Jesus always speaks of that figure in the third person. Further, while Jesus’ statements about that figure partly parallel or “justify” incidents in his own life, Jesus’ life in Mark is hardly synonymous with Jesus’ full Son of Man story. In particular, the Son of Man’s triumph fails to be paralleled in Jesus’ own more mortal life (see Mk 13:26–7; 14:62).49 Thus, Son of Man does not seem to be equal with Mark’s Jesus. Instead, Mark’s Jesus tells a Son of Man story or, if one states the matter in closer parallel with the parataxis in Jesus of Montreal, Jesus tries to enact the role of the Son of Man, which he, like Daniel, creates.50 Interestingly, Peter Wilkins says something like this about Jesus of Montreal, “It is curious that no critic suggests that Arcand might be viewing the original Jesus as an actor of sorts growing into a role.”51 If one thinks of Mark in this way, perhaps it is in Mark 14:41–2 that Jesus comes closest to embodying the role. Parataxis, however, still remains:  in Mark 14:41, Jesus says the Son of Man is betrayed and, in 14:42, Jesus says I am betrayed.52 Jesus and Son of Man are as close as can be—like an actor and his/her role—without being identical. If Mark’s Jesus has now adopted the role of Son of Man, after some struggle as 14:36 implies, then his Son of Man confession before the High Priest (14:61–2) becomes far less surprising. The film’s confession scene dramatically combines Mark 8:29–31 and 14:61–2. In both the play in the film and in Mark, the trial/crucifixion of Jesus follows. Still, Mark 14:62 stands out somewhat awkwardly from the rest of Mark—so much so, that some scholars have wondered if someone other than “Jesus” speaks in 14:62.53 I suggest that it is Jesus playing the Son of Man who speaks as it is Daniel playing Jesus who speaks in the film. If then Daniel is “not Jesus” and “not-not Jesus,” then Mark’s Jesus is “not the Son of Man” and “not-not the Son of Man.” If so, who then speaks at Mark 15:34? If it is Jesus, is the actor expressing his surprise that the role he adopted is over? Is the actor surprised that he can “do” the suffering, but that the apocalyptic triumph lies beyond him? As Richard Schechner says, “He [an actor] plays a character, battles demons, goes into trance, travels to the sky or under the sea or earth: he is transformed, enabled to do things ‘in

49. Daniel also fulfills only the suffering, not the triumph, of the Son of Man. See Tatum, Jesus at the Movies, p. 217. 50.  See Richard Walsh, “Possession of Jesus,” Biblical Interpretation 24.1 (2016), pp. 60–80. 51. Peter Wilkins, “No Big Picture: Arcand and his US Critics,” in Auteur/Provocateur: The Films of Denys Arcand, ed. Andrew Loiselle and Brian McIlroy (Westport:  Greenwood, 1995), p. 129. 52. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, pp. 200–210, claims that the narrative entices the audience to connect the Markan Jesus and Son of Man. Edwin Broadhead, Naming Jesus, p. 134 finds more certain connections, but still speaks of mystery: “The Son of Man title is as much a christological question and challenge as it is an answer or description.” 53. Malbon cites scholars who pursue this possibility (see Mark’s Jesus, pp. 170, 200) as does Walsh, “Possession of Jesus,” pp. 72–4.

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performance’ he cannot do ordinarily. But when the performance is over, or even as a final phase of the performance, he returns to where he started.”54 Surely, it is worth noting then that after the crucifixion (seeing 15:39 as part of the crucifixion scene), the Markan protagonist is simply Jesus of Nazareth (16:6; see 15:43).

Parabolic Texts A Jesus who talks like the narrator could hardly be a Jesus “who came not to be served but to serve” (10:45), but a Jesus who affirms only what the Markan Jesus says could hardly bear the full weight of “the gospel of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”55

The disjoint between the Son of Man role and Jesus reaches its height at Mark 15:34. The Markan God’s representative, the one who has counseled faith in a God who delivers, realizes he will not be delivered or makes a frantic lastditch effort to raise God to action on his behalf. The actor reaches out longingly here for Son of Man 2.56 Almost everyone notes this juxtaposition at the cross. Vincent Taylor, for example, asserts that the cry reveals Jesus’ feeling, but not the theological facts (of God’s presence).57 Raymond Brown agrees, “That this [sentiment of forsakenness] is not true will become apparent the second Jesus dies, for then God will rend the sanctuary veil and bring a pagan to acknowledge publicly Jesus’ divine sonship.”58 Malbon’s literary appraisal separates Jesus’ Godforsaken perspective from the narrator’s theophanic language/perspective.59 As the epigraph above indicates, Malbon finds the distinction between the narrator (presenting Jesus as Son of God) and Jesus (presenting God’s sovereignty) throughout Mark.60 For Malbon, the implied author holds these “overlapping” perspectives together and offers them together to the audience as challenge and mystery.61

54.  Schechner, Between Theater and Anthropology, p. 126. Is Mark’s Jesus simply not as good an actor as Daniel? 55. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, pp. 243–4. 56. Compare Broadhead, Naming Jesus, pp. 131–4. 57.  Vincent Taylor, The Gospel According to St. Mark, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids:  Baker Book House, 1966), p. 594. 58.  Raymond Brown, The Death of the Messiah from Gethsemene to the Grave:  A Commentary on the Passion Narratives of the Four Gospels, 2 vols. (New York:  Doubleday, 1994), p. 1049. 59. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, pp. 186–9, 257. 60. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 237. 61.  Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, pp. 237–9, 243, 257–8. Malbon’s distinction between implied author, narrator, and Jesus distinguishes her work from earlier narrative critics. See Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, pp. 231–44.

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Following John Donahue who follows C. H. Dodd, Malbon describes this creative tension as a parable:  “But the Markan Jesus’ .  .  . words about the ‘Son of Humanity’ and the ‘kingdom of God’ . . . are so vivid and strange, even in relation to the Markan narrator, that they arrest the audience, leave doubt, and tease the audience into active thought.”62 For Malbon, “into active thought,” borrowed from Dodd’s famous parable definition, is crucial as she subsequently asserts that this “parable” shifts attention from Jesus’ identity to what God is doing and what the audience will do.63 Further, Malbon highlights “active thought” when she concludes that Borges’ “The Gospel According to Mark” is not a parable because it does not “spark” such reflection.64 The critique of Borges is part of Malbon’s larger, ongoing conversation with J. D. Crossan’s view of parable.65 For Crossan, parable exists in tension with myth; it subverts the (linguistic) world myth creates, and which a particular culture or community takes for granted as (representative of) “reality.” Following LéviStrauss, Crossan argues that myth reconciles the binary oppositions of a culture or, more importantly, makes belief in such reconciliation possible.66 By contrast, parable subverts such reconciliations, typically through a narrative that reverses expectations: “It is a story deliberately calculated to show the limitations of myth, to shatter world so that its relativity becomes apparent . . . it is in fact the dark night of story.”67 Parable dismisses absolutes created by finite humans and thus prepares one for a genuine experience of transcendence (e.g., Jesus’ kingdom of God). For Malbon, Crossan’s focus is too formal; she is more interested in content,68 like that of Mark’s ethically challenging narrative christology.69 Crossan dismisses ethics as evangelistic additions to Jesus’ parables. In the reconstructed parables Crossan privileges over the gospels themselves, he finds a complete silence about

62. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 216. 63. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, pp. 216–17. 64. Malbon, “Reading Borges,” p. 135. For a claim that Jesus of Montreal provokes active existential thought, see Tom O’Brien, “Review of Jesus of Montreal,” Film Quarterly 44.1 (Autumn 1990), p. 50. 65.  See Burch Brown and Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “Parabling as a Via Negativa: A Critical Review of the Work of John Dominic Crossan,” Journal of Religion 64 (1984), pp. 530–38. See also Malbon, “Mark: Myth and Parable,” Biblical Theology Bulletin 16.1 (1986), pp. 8–17. In the latter, Malbon was also engaging in conversation with Werner Kelber. See Malbon, “Mark: Myth and Parable,” pp. 8–17. 66.  John Dominic Crossan, The Dark Interval:  Towards a Theology of Story (Niles, IL: Argus, 1975), pp. 48–55. 67. Crossan, The Dark Interval, pp. 59–60. 68. Malbon, “Reading Borges,” p. 135. 69.  Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, pp. 215–17; Malbon, “Reading Borges,” pp. 130–131. Malbon depicts myth as structure (the overcoming of binary opposites), not genre. See “Mark: Myth

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what action is to be undertaken.70 Nonetheless, both Malbon and Crossan prize diversity, multiple perspectives, and paradox. Further, both point to Jesus and his crucifixion as fundamentally parabolic. While Malbon does so vis-à-vis Mark, Crossan does so vis-à-vis Paul (1 Cor 1:20–25).71 Finally, both Malbon and Crossan speak of parable as reversing narrative expectations. What happens, however, if the reversed expectations become the new certainty? For Crossan, the answer is “antimyth,” not parable. One myth (an antimyth) replaces another.72 Crossan’s parable may have become mythic in myth’s place for him,73 or, using Crossan’s own terms, parable may function antimythically for Crossan.74 Certainly, parable is incredibly temporary vis-à-vis myth (and antimyth).75 Malbon argues differently that Mark is both myth (establishing world) and parable (subverting world).76 In either case, however, if Mark is parabolic, it is so vis-à-vis a myth; and if Mark is mythic as well as parabolic, it is actually antimythic (and thus perhaps not, or only temporarily, parabolic). Perhaps, it would be better to say instead that Mark is parabolic in one or some situations, antimythic in others, and mythic in yet others. What then of Jesus of Montreal? Does it resurrect parabolic Mark? By paraphrasing Mark for a death-of-God, media-frenetic day, Jesus of Montreal brings quite diverse interpretations of Jesus and of Mark to the foreground.77 For that reason alone, it is parabolic.78 Is there anything more—as Daniel asserts there must be when he rejects Leclerc’s call for comfortable living? For Malbon, there is; by enacting the (Markan) gospel, Jesus of Montreal releases life-giving power.79 While she acknowledges this reprise also has negative consequences, she does not dwell on them. Perhaps, one might find a more parabolic reading of the film (or Mark) if one did dwell on its negative and positive effects. Or, is the film already parabolic enough simply because it brings together “Jesus” (or Mark) and (modern) Montreal and demythologizes one or both? Is the film a parable about telling/ and Parable,” pp.  8–17; Malbon, Narrative Space and Mythic Meaning in Mark, pp.  2–6, 200 n. 10. 70. John Dominic Crossan, Raid on the Articulate: Comic Eschatology in Jesus and Borges (New York: Harper and Row, 1976), p. 161. 71. Crossan, The Dark Interval, pp. 125–6. 72. Crossan, The Dark Interval, pp. 59–60. 73. Brown and Malbon, “Parabling as a Via Negativa,” pp. 536–8. 74.  For an argument that academics tend to debunk myth in order to erect their own myths surreptitiously, see Richard Walsh, Mapping Myths of Biblical Interpretation (Sheffield: Sheffield University Press, 2001), pp. 89–132. For Crossan specifically, see Walsh, Mapping Myths, pp. 124–8. Malbon astutely observes the negative use of “myth” by many scholars, including Crossan. See Malbon, “Mark: Myth and Parable,” pp. 12–13. 75. Crossan, The Dark Interval, p. 60. 76. Malbon, “Mark: Myth and Parable,” pp. 8–17. 77. See Wilkins, “No Big Picture,” p. 127. 78. Walsh, Reading the Gospels in the Dark, pp. 31–3, 180–83. 79. Malbon, “Reading Borges,” pp. 125, 130–33.

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enacting Mark in a death of God world and thus a parable of absurd creation? Is Mark (already) a similar parable? Perhaps, but Daniel’s aesthetic project does differ from (what the tradition has made of) the Markan Jesus’ kingdom project. For Jesus of Montreal, it is art that is potentially salvific.80 What keeps the film from becoming an antimyth, in which art simply replaces religion, is not only Arcand’s paraphrase of Mark, but also the fact that the film undercuts its “hope” in art with a scene showing art’s corruption in the foundation of the Daniel Coulombe Theater81—an effect like that of the undermining of the hero’s “noble” death with farcical and parodic elements. Should one follow the film and read Mark’s end (from 15:34 onward) as similarly undercutting what has gone before? If so, the resulting parable might say that the kingdom of God is like a son of humanity who tried to enact God and died forsaken. If so, Mark and Jesus of Montreal would be similar parables indeed, and the puzzling matter would be that Mark does not include Hamlet’s soliloquy, not that Jesus of Montreal includes it.

80.  See Arcand’s statements about cinema and hope in Loiselle, “I Only Know Where I Come From, Not Where I am Going,” p. 157. 81. See Loiselle and McIlroy, “Introduction,” pp. 5–6.

Chapter 22 L I ST E N I N G A N D G I V I N G   V OIC E Poems from the Gospel of Mark Cynthia Briggs Kittredge

In her profound respect for the text, her compassionate regard for people, and her generosity as a teacher, writer, editor, and colleague, Elizabeth Struthers Malbon embodies the virtues and values of biblical scholarship as a discipline and a way of life. Her work on the Gospel of Mark has thoroughly shaped my understanding of the gospel narrative, and her insights on pedagogy, biblical interpretation, and the role of teaching the Bible in the university have informed my teaching in the context of a theological school. For many years she has been a leader in the Anglican Association of Biblical Scholars, convening meetings, designing programs, and providing hospitality as a ministry of service. It is in gratitude and affection for Elizabeth Struthers Malbon that I offer this reflective account of a work of poetry and biblical interpretation. Several years ago while I was teaching a course on interpreting Mark for preaching, I wrote a cycle of poems following the narrative of Mark’s gospel. The first time I read a few of them publicly, Elizabeth was present, heard them, and encouraged me to give them voice and offered to help me to publish them. When I sent Elizabeth the manuscript, to my surprise, she immediately read them all. She listened again, noticed details, observed the order, identified discordant notes, asked questions, and made suggestions. She brought her deep knowledge of Mark, her love of the text, and her skill as a reader to the reading and rereading of the poems, and she advocated on their behalf. “Write a preface,” she said, and “The poems will lead the reader back to Mark.” Her respect for the work and her enthusiasm made it better, and her collegial companionship “remade” it. In the words of Nelle Morton, she “heard them into speech” and heard me into speech as well.1 In this article I trace the theme of speech and agency in the characters in the Gospel of Mark and in biblical interpretation through the medium of poetry. In the Gospel of Mark some women characters speak; many are silent. None of the 1. Nelle Morton, The Journey Is Home (Boston: Beacon, 1985), p. 82.

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animals speak. In a critical moment in the gospel women are compared with animals (τὰ κυνάρια; “dogs,” “small dogs” in Mk 7:27–8). By imaginatively engaging scripture in poetry I attempt to give voice to the voiceless and bring out connections and insights from the text. Imaginative engagement draws deeply on Markan scholarship, yet transgresses the conventions of biblical criticism.

Interpretation for Preaching—The Power of the Narrator In the course on interpreting Mark for preaching the students investigated and observed how the gospel worked as a “whole story” so that preachers could relate each episode to the arc of the story of which it was a part.2 Elizabeth Struthers Malbon’s work on plot and character in the gospel and the work of her colleagues in literary criticism have displayed how the Gospel of Mark works on a reader as narrative.3 Mark is a story whose plot unfolds episode by episode, each encounter between characters and Jesus revealing something new about Jesus and about those who respond. Readers are surprised even though the “secret” is told in the opening line. Paradox is built into the structure of the story. Less like catechism or doctrine and more like an adventure or ordeal, the Gospel of Mark displays a world and interprets a drama happening within it. Scholarship on Mark as originally an oral medium made literary criticism aware of how the text of Mark was heard, particularly how the repetition of key words (“road,” “bread,” “serve”) set up echoes between stories of exorcism, arrest, discipleship, between healing and feeding and parables and proverbs. The relationships created by the repetitions cause the hearers to make associations within the narrative, without setting up a one to one correspondence between terms or making systematic claims. In the course on interpreting Mark, we designed study guides to require students to explore and puzzle over these relationships, for example, baptism in Mark 1:9–11 and Mark 10:38. By working through the gospel in this way, students learned the perspective of the author of Mark as directed by the narrator.

2.  The course at the Episcopal Theological Seminary of the Southwest was developed with my colleagues, Ray Pickett, Michael Floyd, and Steven Bishop. I am grateful to them for our ongoing collaboration as teachers and scholars. 3.  Scholars from whom I  have learned include Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, Mark’s Jesus: Characterization as Narrative Christology (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2009); Hearing Mark: A Listener’s Guide (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press, 2002; In the Company of Jesus: Characters in Mark’s Gospel (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2000); Frank Kermode, The Genesis of Secrecy: On the Interpretation of Narrative (Cambridge:  Harvard, 1979); David Rhoads, Joanna Dewey, and Donald Michie, Mark as Story: An Introduction to the Narrative of the Gospel (Minneapolis, MN: Fortress, 1999); Mary Ann Tolbert, Sowing the Gospel:  Mark’s World in Literary-Historical Perspective (Minneapolis, MN:  Fortress, 1989); Jane Schaberg, The Resurrection of Mary Magdalene:  Legends, Apocrypha, and the Christian Testament (New York: Continuum, 2002).

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As valuable as the literary approach is for identifying the theological perspective of the author and the narrative logic of the gospel as a whole, we tried to show our preaching students how the reader of Mark is implicitly directed to accept the narrator’s viewpoint and values, for example about the contrast between “divine things” and “human things” (Mk 8:33) or the characterization of the Pharisees in Mark 7:1–13. Following the narrator’s logic, the reader may be forced into assumptions and conclusions that she does not want to make, for example, that the “women” and the “disciples” are two separate groups and that women are marginal in the community because they come to signify the “outsiders” in Mark’s narrative. If a preacher were to adopt the narrator’s view without distance or critique, then that preacher could reinforce and reinscribe, for example, the marginality of women or anti-Judaism. Interpretation of Mark for preaching requires both understanding the perspective of the narrator and sometimes intentionally resisting it. In The Liberating Pulpit, Justo and Catherine Gonzalez suggest ways to read texts that defamiliarize them and open up new perspectives: “reassign the cast of characters,” “imagine a different setting,” “consider the direction of the action.”4 In her teaching about gospel stories of women, Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza distinguishes between a reading that follows the perspective of the narrator and puts Jesus in the center and one that places the woman in the center. To put women in the center requires the interpreter to “read against the grain” or to resist the point of the view of the narrator.5 As a result of immersion in the Gospel of Mark in teaching and the conviction that all interpretation is a revoicing and reproclaiming, I began to play with the narrative of Mark, not in preaching or discursive prose, but with the medium of poetry.

Speech and Courage In the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer there is a well-loved prayer with a long history named the Prayer of Humble Access.6 Prayed before the invitation to receive communion, it expresses humility and reliance on God’s mercy upon approaching the altar. The prayer includes the line “We are not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under thy table.” This affirmation alludes to the striking

4.  L. Justo and Catherine G. Gonzalez, The Liberating Pulpit (Eugene, OR:  Wipf and Stock, 1994), pp. 66–95. 5.  Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza describes the “hermeneutic of creative imagination” as a way for reading against the grain. See Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, Wisdom Ways: Introducing Feminist Biblical Interpretation (New York: Orbis, 2006), pp. 148–51. 6.  The Book of Common Prayer (New  York:  Church Publishing, 1976)  337. See Cynthia Briggs Kittredge, “Not Worthy So much as to Gather Up the Crumbs under Thy Table:  Reflection on the Sources and History of the Prayer of Humble Access,” Sewanee Theological Review 50, 2006, pp. 80–92.

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image from Mark 7:24–30 in which the Syrophoenecian woman replies to Jesus’ rebuff of her request for healing for her daughter with a verbal comeback that makes a place for her and her daughter at, or under, the table where the children’s bread is served. The claim of the prayer that “we are not worthy” draws a conclusion from the story that moves in the opposite direction from the text itself. The woman resists Jesus’ rejection and claims “worthiness” to share in the feast. Jesus rewards her and affirms her with the statement: “for saying this, you may go, the demon has left your daughter” (NRSV). While the sensibility of the Prayer of Humble Access values modesty and lack of “presumption” (“we do not presume to come to this thy table”), the story in Mark 7:24–30 highlights the mother as a character of courage who succeeds not only because of Jesus’ mercy, but thanks to her own voice—“for saying this,” literally, “for this word (τὸν λόγον).” How few familiar prayers celebrate courage as a spiritual virtue and how rare it is that a scriptural story of a woman is memorialized in liturgy and remembered. It is ironic that in one place where tradition remembers it, its meaning is inverted. In response to this discovery I considered how to exploit a provocative text like Mk 7:24–30 by creating new prayers. I would treat scripture as structuring prototype, not mythical archetype.7

Voice for Beasts—The Temptation One of the intriguing features of the Gospel of Mark is its silence and starkness. The temptation in Mark 1:12–13 epitomizes the lack of detail that invites questions. And the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him. (Mk 13–14)

The “wilderness” is repeated, picking up the “wilderness” from the prophet Isaiah (Mk 1:3) and the landscape in which John appears (Mk 1:4). When the writers Matthew and Luke use Mark as a source, they supply dialogue between Satan and Jesus to spell out how the contest proceeds and concludes. Mark simply states that Jesus was tempted. Besides Satan the other characters are the wild beasts and the angels, who are said to “wait” (NRSV) on him. The word “waited on” is διηκόνουν, the same word used elsewhere in the gospel and translated “served” (NRSV, Mk 1:31); “ministered to” (KJV, Mk 1:13, 31); “provided for” (NRSV, Mk 15:41). What exactly the angels are doing to “wait on” or “serve” is not specified. The text uses no verb for the wild beasts, only the preposition “with.” The neutral “with” allows one to imagine the beasts as friends or foes—either behaving peaceably as the lion lies down with the lamb (Is 11:6–7) or menacing the human being as creatures of

7.  Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, Bread Not Stone:  The Challenge of Feminist Biblical Interpretation (Boston: Beacon, 1984), pp. 9–10.

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the wilderness naturally would.8 Satan says nothing. Jesus says nothing. The angels say nothing. The beasts say nothing. What if one of the beasts had species and gender and a role in a family? What if the beasts were “waiting on” Jesus along with the angels? What if sleeplessness as well as hunger afflicted Jesus in the wilderness? Wolf Moon

Moon lights the desert Gethsemane gray low moans the beast, loping, lupine, she gives unrequested company, solace unseen while he wanders, empties, hallows. Her candle eyes burn, watching the darkness Wide open now in the emptiest hours when his close heavy, he drops down the slide sinks in black eddy, not even a splash. No cup offered yet, but adversary stalks, conjuring bread, promising, lying. Here she is, wild, with, baying wolf prayers. She waits on him, speechless, fierce, forgotten.9 The poem gives voice to the speechless beast and remembers her. The she-wolf is a follower who stays awake while he sleeps. The role of the Spirit in Mark’s temptation is mysterious. In Matthew and Luke Jesus “was led” by the spirit into the wilderness. In Mark the Spirit “drives” him there. Desert

Spirit light as pigeon feather deceives us when she comes on greeting cards cross-stitched on cushions Heaving up she catapults into the wild far away for a session of testing the one she loves.10

8.  Joel Marcus, Mark 1–8:  A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (Anchor Bible; New York: Doubleday, 2000), pp. 168–71. 9. Cynthia Briggs Kittredge, “Wolf Moon,” Anglican Theological Review 93.3 (Summer 2011), p. 467. Used with permission. 10. Cynthia Briggs Kittredge, A Lot of the Way Trees were Walking: Poems from the Gospel of Mark (Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock, 2015), p. 7. Used with permission.

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The Fever Left Her: Resurrection and Call The story of the healing of Peter’s mother-in-law, as it is most often called, is the second deed of power that Jesus does in the gospel after the exorcism of an unclean spirit in the synagogue. The woman who is healed is named only by her relationship with Peter. Interpreters who ally their own viewpoint with the perspective of the narrator do not treat her as important in herself. Contemporary readers sometimes trivialize the story further by reading “mother-in-law humor” into the narrative. However, the verb “lifted her up,” “raised her” gives a clue that this is the first resurrection in the gospel,11 and her response to “serve” them shows it to be a story of discipleship as well. As soon as they left the synagogue, they entered the house of Simon and Andrew, with James and John. Now Simon’s mother-in-law was in bed with a fever, and they told him about her at once. He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up. Then the fever left her, and she began to serve them (Mk 1:29–31).

In Waiting

The angels departed their posts in the heavenly court to hover in the prickly pear and wait. Awatch for stinging, slashing things, they are available to sweep in and lift up if necessary the child in their charge. Prone, laid out in the parlor almost ash unable to protect or feed or carry anyone in her arms, mother was going to be gone before the story began. She reached out her hand, held on and she was lifted up born up on the back of the sea raised high above the other winds. She came back to us from the fire took her place at our table to attend and wait.12 11.  Ray Pickett, “Following Jesus in Galilee:  Resurrection as Empowerment in the Gospel of Mark,” Currents in Theology and Mission 32.6 (December 2005). 12. Kittredge, A Lot of the Way Trees Were Walking, p. 15.

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After describing the waiting of the angels in the desert landscape, the poem speaks in the voice of a child who fears for her mother’s life. Like other healing stories in Mark, the healing is not only making the individual well but restoring the relationship (father and daughter, Mk 5:21–43; mother and daughter, Mk 7:24–30; father and son, Mk 9:14–29). While in these stories parents advocate on behalf of their children, here we hear faintly the voice of the child grateful for a parent returned.

The Bold Faith of the Bleeder (Mk 5:21–43) Elizabeth Struthers Malbon holds up the hemorrhaging woman in Mark 5:25–34 as an example of bold faith that the author of Mark sets up as a positive example of discipleship.13 It is remarkable that this unnamed woman is given speech in the form of internal dialogue—“if I but touch his clothes, I will be made well” (Mk 5:28)—and that she seizes healing for herself by getting physically close enough to Jesus to make contact with his clothing. Unlike the daughter of Jairus, who by the narrator’s arrangement of the account is her sister in receiving life from Jesus, she has no parent to advocate on her behalf, nor does she petition Jesus. Unlike other stories of healing in which the deed of power is witnessed and acclaimed by the crowd (e.g., Mk 2:12 “they were amazed”), in this episode it is she herself who recognizes and confirms her own healing: “she felt in her body that she had been healed from her disease” (Mk 5:30). Her response of fear and trembling to Jesus’ question “who touched me?” is the reaction of a prophet or visionary in the face of a theophany. In this way it is akin to the fear of Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome in Mark 16:8. Intercalation

Neither has a name one dies one bleeds each at the point of no returning. The old one interrupts the multitude the master occupied with his errand of mercy. Dangerously grazing his fringes innermost parts sort and fold relay that she will live. Brush upon unguarded flank reverses

13.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “Fallible Followers: Women and Men in the Gospel of Mark,” Semeia 28 (1983), pp. 29–48.

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blood and power causes both to tremble. The dead one sleeps deeply no hurry for her to rise hungry.14 Characters in Mark fall into two groups: the insiders (disciples) who should know but do not understand and the outsiders (often unnamed women) who without privilege do know.15 The tradition that developed after the writing of Mark reified that rough division and, despite the fact that women like the disciples are depicted as fallible but faithful followers in Mark, women were excluded from the leadership and authority that flowed from being an official disciple. The Gospel of Mark relates stories that are healing stories which become call stories, including the healing of the man with Legion (Mk 5:1–20) and the healing of blind Bartimaeus (Mk 10:46–52). The author of Mark does not make explicit that following comes after healing for the bleeder who physically experienced Jesus’ divine power. A relationship between the stories of Bartimaeus and the bleeding woman is created by the occurrence of the word ἱμάτιον (“garment,” “cloak,” “clothes”) in both stories (Mk 5:27–28, 10:50). Garment His sister was the bleeding one who sought him in the mob, ducked among the maimed and lame, outskirted the twelve with names to snatch the power from the cloak he wore. He shouted for mercy, for mercy so loudly he was finally heard, you’ve got a chance they said, seize it and get up. He dropped his wrap for he was asked a question to be answered naked.16

Fierce and Worthy: The Syrophoenecian Mother (Mk 7:24–30) The story of the Syrophoenecian woman’s contest with Jesus to wrest healing for her daughter presents complex challenges for the interpreter.17 Much traditional commentary that reads Jesus in the center attempts to excuse or rationalize Jesus’

14. Kittredge, A Lot of the Way Trees Were Walking, p. 25. 15.  Elizabeth Struthers Malbon nuances this simplified division in “Fallible Followers: Women and Men in the Gospel of Mark,” Semeia 28 (1983), pp. 29–48. 16. Kittredge, A Lot of the Way Trees Were Walking, p. 42. 17.  Malbon identifies the story of the Syrophoenecian woman as another example of bold faith in “Fallible Followers,” pp. 36–7.

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rebuff. Efforts to read the story with the mother’s heroic faith in the center must grapple with the difficulty that to gain what she seeks, she must accept the characterization of herself and her children as “dogs.” What the text does not speak—the mother’s agony, the concrete symptoms of demon possession, and the connection between this exorcism and battle of Jesus with the power of evil, practiced in Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness and inaugurated in the first exorcism—can be voiced in a poem. Antonym

What’s the opposite of holy? In my child opposed to holy is cutting herself and gagging, pulling out her hair scarring and piercing the smooth and the whole. I shout out for holy call by name the one who owns her claws possesses her maw. I cry for holy to contend and destroy mighty, decisive. Buy her back for herself.18 The sometimes torturous scholarly explanations for Jesus’ initial rejection of the woman’s plea are undercut by a terse paraphrase. Repartee

Dirty Sprite Afflicting Her Child. She begged. He said No. My Child. Not Dog. She said Yes. My Child Too. She won. Starve a cold Feed a demon Gone Fiend. My Child.19

18. Kittredge, A Lot of the Way Trees Were Walking, p. 28. 19. Kittredge, A Lot of the Way Trees Were Walking, p. 29.

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The subjectivity of the demon-possessed daughter does not figure in the text of Mark. By imagining the story from the perspective of a dog under the table the poem gets in touch with the physical sensations of being included, “let in,” reunited with one another, and satisfied with food and sleep. Feast of Crumbs

The whole litter convened beneath the feast scrambled, tumbled warm fur shining not since they were weaned have they been filled let in from the raw back yard spilled bread red as meat take and eat then sleep the sleep of the healed.20

Sign of a Prophet: The Anointing Woman (Mk 14:1–9) Truly I tell you, wherever the good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her. (Mk 14:9)

Centuries of traditional interpretation has ignored Jesus’ commendation of the unnamed woman’s καλὸν ἕργον (NRSV, “good service”). Malbon describes her action as Mark’s example of self-denying, serving discipleship:  “This woman’s gracious self-denial is forever linked with the good news of Jesus’ gracious selfdenial.”21 Two poems in the Markan poem cycle connect her extraordinary action of knowledge and self-giving to other characters who demonstrate positive examples of discipleship. How

If you want to follow you have to risk humiliation embarrassment failure. You have to be prepared to lose everything and then lose it. The widow gave her coins

20. Kittredge, A Lot of the Way Trees Were Walking, p. 30. 21. Malbon, “Fallible Followers,” p. 40.

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the anointer her perfume every last bit of both. You have to chase like the bleeder yell like the beggar. You have to stay alive when you want to sleep You have to stay awake when you want to die. They show you how.22 Table

Tables are where people squabble about who is the greatest where they criticize the one who really is. Tables are where the lepers whores and tax collectors eat from the same bowl fingers greasy. At tables perfume is wasted. Wine is poured out. Bread is given away.23

Women Who Serve, Follow, and Know There were also women looking on from a distance; among them were Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James the younger and of Joses, and Salome. These used to follow him and provided for him when he was in Galilee; and there were many other women who had come up with him to Jerusalem (Mk 15:40–41).

The interconnection of the service of angels, of beasts, and of the women who follow Jesus is again suggested in Mark’s account of the death of Jesus and the presence of women “looking on from a distance.”24 The word διηκόνουν (NRSV, “provided for”) recalls the angels’ role in the wilderness. 22. Kittredge, A Lot of the Way Trees Were Walking, p. 65. 23. Kittredge, A Lot of the Way Trees Were Walking, p. 68. 24. Malbon, “Fallible Followers,” pp. 40–46.

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Offering

The angels didn’t feed the hungering one, rather they distracted the adversary by flashing their bright feet drawing light arcs in the sky. The multitude groaned for food and from their woven bags covered with scarlet birds they offered loaves and minor fish. They kept him now also by looking and seeing, beholding the place he was laid, so they could remember and return to minister again.25 The motif of provision prompts the poem to define the women’s role in the feeding of the multitude stories (Mk 6:30–44, 8:1–9) and offers motivation for their “looking on.”

The Open Tomb Some interpreters, scholars, and preachers fault the women who go to the tomb with spices to anoint Jesus for ignorance that he was resurrected and criticize them as well for their leaving the tomb in fear and silence.26 However, to trace the steps of the women followers in the Gospel of Mark is to understand the conclusions they drew from the “hole in the rock.”27 See

That hole in the rock was their mountain of transfiguration where they were stunned and stricken with knowledge. That gaping opening was the dazzling darkness teeming, roiling pregnant with worlds.

25. Kittredge, A Lot of the Way Trees Were Walking, p. 88. 26. Malbon, “Fallible Followers,” p. 44. 27. Jane Schaberg has convincingly argued that resurrection faith began with the empty tomb. See Jane Schaberg, The Resurrection of Mary Magdalene, and Schaberg with Melanie Johnson-Debaufre, Mary Magdalene Understood (New York: Continuum, 2006).

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It drew them in to see and rendered them wordless.28

Conclusion Exploring the Gospel of Mark through the medium of poetry gave me the freedom to ask questions that the narrator of Mark was not answering and to read from perspectives besides that of the narrator. By entering into the experience of animals and of silent and/or immobile characters (wild beasts, dogs, the healed child) I listened. As I gave them voice, they took on agency and identity. I am immensely grateful to Elizabeth Struthers Malbon for her inspiration and friendship.

28. Kittredge, A Lot of the Way Trees Were Walking, p. 96.

Chapter 23 C O N C LU SIO N Edwin K. Broadhead

This Festschrift as a whole and the individual contributions are designed to honor the work of Elizabeth Struthers Malbon. The collection seeks to do so by placing her work in the larger framework of critical scholarship on literary texts and literary methods, with a particular focus on New Testament literature. This Festschrift also explores connections between the themes and interests that mark Professor Malbon’s career and other fields of research. Implied throughout are various avenues that suggest future lines of investigation.

A Retrospective on Narrative Criticism Three key concerns are reflected in the development of narrative methodologies for investigation of biblical texts. Many scholars expressed a growing frustration with the increasing atomization of the texts of the New Testament, particularly of the gospels. The historical-critical focus on language, traditions, sources, redactions, and manuscripts was seen as a continually narrowing focus on a reality behind or outside the text itself. Second, many scholars expressed desires to restore to the gospels their voice—to allow them to speak as coherent narrative constructions that operate by their own rules and strategies and create their own worlds. Third, many scholars sought to expand the territory of biblical studies to engage the wider concerns of the modern university—to study the gospels in conversation with the scholarship and methodologies of various other critical disciplines from within the humanities. Thus, narrative criticism developed as one component within a lengthy history of critical research in the gospels of the New Testament. The term literary criticism initially referred to critical efforts within European scholarship to identify the sources employed by the gospels of the New Testament. It was source criticism that moved from almost exclusive focus on the role of the evangelists to look more critically at the materials and processes involved in the composition of the gospels. Among the major findings of this movement were:

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the interrelationship of the synoptic gospels; the priority of the Gospel of Mark within that interrelationship; the use of a sayings collection by the Gospel of Matthew and the Gospel of Luke; the probability of local traditions employed uniquely within one gospel; the probable existence of a pre-Markan passion narrative; the extensive engagement with the texts of the Hebrew Bible; the circulation of collections of parables, miracle stories, and other smaller blocks of material; the continuing role of oral traditions. Form criticism emerged, mostly among European scholars, as an attempt to trace the development of these traditions and to locate them within sociological settings within early Christianity. While the intended outcome of form criticism was historical and sociological reconstruction, the approach was inherently literary: this criticism was based primarily upon analysis of literary forms and genres. Form criticism employed a rather limited and deterministic schema of the laws of literary development and used this to trace the movement from orality to writing and to follow the transition from simple forms to more complex blocks of tradition and finally to the gospel narratives. The redactional work of gospel writers was considered the final, if somewhat intrusive, stage of literary development. Form criticism carried with it obvious theological interests in relation to the historical Jesus and the development of the early Church. The ultimate goal of this literary analysis was to locate Christian tradition in one of three stages of development: the historical Jesus, the life of the earliest communities of faith, or the work of the evangelists who wrote the gospels. Form critics remained deeply invested in the history of primitive Christianity and in the theological significance of these developments. The turn to redaction criticism proved equally literary in its approach. For this line of analysis, the work of gospel writers was no longer considered as a late manipulation that tended to blur the historical framework of the tradition. Redactional activity was now seen as careful, strategic theological formulation that could be used to unveil the intent and even the personalities of gospel writers. Each of these approaches depended on the work of linguists and text critics to establish a critical edition of the texts, and each of these approaches employed this critical reconstruction as if it were a foundational edition of the text. Moreover, each of these approaches acknowledged the complexities of ancient authorship, yet continued to treat the (reconstructed) gospel texts as the work of singular, intentional authors. The narrative criticism that arose in the last three decades of the twentieth century, mostly among American scholars, represented a conscious attempt to investigate the gospels for the sake of their narrative. This move required clarification against previous literary methodologies and distinction from previous literary criticism. The new narrative studies required both a narrative epistemology and a narrative hermeneutic—both a narrative worldview and a narrative process for investigation. These were borrowed selectively from the literature departments of

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various universities, refined in light of biblical texts, then applied to the texts of the gospels of the New Testament. Amos Wilder, writing within the context of Harvard University, explored the literary dimensions of the gospels.1 The role of mimesis in ancient literature was highlighted by Erich Auerbach, and the Gospel of Mark was analyzed in terms of this literary trait.2 Werner Kelber began exploring the construction and use of literature by looking at its role in antiquity. Kelber also analyzed the dramatic impact of writing and printing upon both the production and the interpretation of texts. A wide range of New Testament scholars were soon speaking of Mark’s story, of Luke’s design, of the Johannine world. Scholars began to insist on the narrative identity of the gospels and to push them through a grid of literary devices borrowed from the larger university: characterization, plot, setting, narration, implicit commentary, misunderstanding, among others. Edwin Broadhead sought to build a bridge between this developing scholarship and the European models of historical criticism. Some Europeans engaged this largely American conversation with sharp criticism, while others sought to incorporate these studies into the larger field of critical tools. Narrative studies of the gospels were embraced and taken in distinct directions in South Africa and in Australia.

The Creative Achievement of Elizabeth Struthers Malbon Werner Kelber, in the opening chapter of this Festschrift, locates the work of Elizabeth Struthers within this movement. He does so not only by attending to particular moves and findings within her body of work, but also by giving attention to the longer view (la longue durée) of the construction and use of narratives. Malbon’s contribution includes important and innovative insights into the particular moves and strategies of the Gospel of Mark. Various scholars point to the dexterity with which Elizabeth Malbon brings to focus the christology of the Gospel of Mark—both the process and the product. Her analysis that characterization serves, within the Gospel of Mark, as a type of narrative christology provides a foundation from which to understand the dynamics of this gospel. Several scholars have noted the ingenuity of her categories of analysis: enacted christology

what Jesus does

projected christology

what others say to Jesus or about him

deflected christology

how Jesus responds to others

refracted christology

how Jesus bends the christologies of others

reflected christology

traits mirrored in the exemplary actions of others

1.  Amos Wilder, Early Christian Rhetoric: The Language of the Gospel (New York: Harper and Row, 1964); The Bible and the Literary Critic (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1991). 2.  Erich Auerbach, Mimesis:  The Representation of Reality in Western Literature (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003).

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Both Werner Kelber and Alan Culpepper, in their contributions within this Festschrift, identify one strategic move that represents an innovation. Malbon has dared to ask if the values of the narrator are equivalent to the values of Jesus in the Gospel of Mark. She concludes they are not, then considers the implications for the implied author. In this way she moves beyond the presumptions of most critics that the gospels put before the reader a coherent and consistent narrative in which the implied author uses the narrator to articulate and enforce the values of Jesus. Here Malbon steps outside the safety of this presumption to challenge the coherence of the narrative voices. She believes that the implied author sets up a tension between the viewpoint and values of the Markan Jesus and the Markan narrator. Malbon notes that the narrator is assertive, ascribing to Jesus honorific titles such as Christ and Son of God, while Jesus, as a character, is more hesitant to claim such titles and deflects the honor to God. This innovative approach explores new territory and has caused a great deal of scholarly discomfort. Ultimately Malbon does not see a need to resolve this disjunction. The final sentence of Mark’s Jesus embraces this conflict: The tension between the narrator and Jesus is not a problem to be resolved, not a gap to be filled in, but a narrative Christological confession offered by the implied author to the implied audience as a challenge and as a mystery.3

Kelber rightly notes the distinctive contribution of Malbon’s analysis, particularly in relation to narrative christology. Those of us who were used to reading Mark’s christology on the basis of the titular designations are invited to a noteworthy redefinition of christology as a complex, multilayered narrative web. Christology is not abstracted from narrative, and it is not even detected in narrative, but it is perceived as narrative. This is why I have placed this essay under the heading not of Meaning in Narrative, but of Meaning as Narrative.

These lines of analysis demonstrate the persistence and creativity of Malbon’s engagements with the Gospel of Mark. Beyond such specific contributions, Werner Kelber has given attention to the longer view (la longue durée) and to the unique contribution of Elizabeth Struthers Malbon to the history of scholarship. Kelber surveys what he calls the emergence of referentiality—that the meaning of a text is to be found in external referents—and the demise of narrative hermeneutics in modernity. He also traces the tension between historical criticism and narrative criticism. He then turns to the longer view of the hermeneutics of signification in both the ancient and the medieval context. Kelber notes various traits and periods that could sponsor a more holistic reading of the narratives of

3. Malbon, Mark’s Jesus, p. 240.

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the gospels. Despite these lines suggesting the potential for a narrative hermeneutics, Kelber believes that the ancient world and the medieval exegesis did not fully engage in holistic readings of biblical texts. Kelber then seeks to locate Malbon’s work within this “long view” of narrative hermeneutics. It was tempting to assume that her reserve toward historical criticism, coupled with her espousal of the “literary turn” in gospel studies, was associated with a return to models taken from ancient and/or medieval hermeneutics . . . But if the survey has shown anything, it is that Malbon marches to a different drummer. The grounding principles of her narrative work are taken from modern critical theory—a fact Malbon is entirely cognizant of. But it merits our attention, and it requires emphasis. Rather than postulating a false familiarity with the ancient or medieval past, we recognize that it is contemporary critics, exegetes, linguists and theoreticians of narrative who have made a major impact on her work. Malbon’s narrative criticism, in all its theoretical and exegetical finesse, is a project of modernity. It is misunderstood if we think of it as a means of taking us back to the beginnings, because it is powered by modern postulates and preferences.

Kelber identifies three major influences in Malbon’s “project of modernity”:  Structuralism, New Criticism, and the print medium. While Malbon acknowledges her engagement with Structuralism and New Criticism, Kelber believes it is a third influence—that of the print medium—that most securely situates Malbon’s work as a “project of modernity.” Kelber argues that it was the materiality of the print Bible that changed the epistemology of scholarship and enabled the narrative approach. With the borders firmly closed, or better perhaps, with print creating the illusion of closed borders, the media conditions were now in place to think of a gospel as a narrative space and accessible to the viewer for analysis and exploration with regard to internal patterns and configurations.

Kelber finds only one premodern emphasis in Malbon’s approach. Luther’s dictum that “Holy Scripture is its own interpreter”—a revolutionary concept in the time of the Reformation—emerges anew in Structuralism, in New Criticism, and in biblical narrative criticism. This principle endures in Malbon’s persistent and consistent efforts to interpret the Markan narrative within the framework of its own creativity. Kelber concludes that Malbon’s ultimate achievement through the hermeneutics of a modern narrative criticism is her resistance to looking for historical references through the window of the text, choosing instead to focus on the narrative picture itself. Added to this is her ability to take pleasure in this narrative picture— in all of its parts and their formation into a whole, in narrative space with its patterns and configurations, its narrative logic and causalities.

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This “project of modernity” and Malbon’s exploration of scriptural fecundity finds its ultimate expression in her analysis of the Gospel of Mark and its plurality of narrative voices. This is best demonstrated in Malbon’s analysis of the dynamics that sustain the christological negotiations between the character Jesus and the narrator and implied author in the Gospel of Mark.

Collegial Connections The tributes and the contributions that compose this Festschrift testify to the collegial connections Professor Malbon shares across various locations and disciplines. These connections are personal, but also academic. The contributions in Part II take up various cues from Malbon’s work to explore issues in methodology and to seek new and productive avenues. The studies in Part III expand upon Malbon’s focus on characterization. Some seek to refine or to complement issues of characterization, most in conversation with Malbon’s work in the Gospel of Mark. Some contributors pursue issues of characterization in the longer endings to the Gospel of Mark or in other narratives. In Part IV various colleagues offer narrative readings of a variety of biblical texts. In Part V contributors explore various ways to move from the text to aesthetic and political readings. These various contributions reflect strong lines of collegiality shared by Professor Malbon. They also bear witness to the rich texture of Malbon’s work by exploring potential connections between her work and other areas of academic inquiry.

Future Connections Narrative criticism, like the texts it explores, is a work in progress. Professor Malbon has worked with persistence and care within a defined hermeneutic (narrative criticism); she has focused, for the most part, upon a particular text (the Gospel of Mark); and she has described a distinct dynamic at work within that text (characterization as christology). Alongside this focused strategy, Professor Malbon has, throughout her career, respected the work of other scholars, acknowledged the role of other approaches, and valued insights into other texts. It is a tribute to her to say that her narrative work in the Gospel of Mark shows that other important work remains, and there are other vital connections yet to be explored. Among the most important of these is the need to understand the American style of literary criticism within the larger field of synchronic analysis and the need to explore the necessary and unavoidable relationship between the synchronic and diachronic framework of a text. The developing field of cognitive poetics presents new questions and challenges to literary studies, and the fruitful connections between narrative and neurology need to be explored.

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Showing and Telling Among the conclusions of recent narrative studies is that the gospels present the story of Jesus more through showing than through telling. Narrative intrusions and asides are rare in the Gospel of Mark, allowing—and requiring—the reader to see and hear and experience the values and claims of the narrative primarily through its characters and its actions. This proposition is true as well in the career of Elizabeth Struthers Malbon. As her vita reveals, she has told us plenty about narrative studies and about the Markan world. However, when it comes to the values of scholarship, professionalism, character, collegiality, mentoring, and friendship, the maxim is most true: Elizabeth’s career is marked by the consistent grace of showing over telling.

NAME INDEX Aichele, George 301, 306 Aland, Barbara 87 Aland, Kurt 87 Alexander, Loveday 252 Alexander, Michelle 234–7 Alexander, Philip 252 Alter, Robert 249 Ambrose 130–4 Anderson, Janet Capel xxx, xxxiv, 62, 104, 209, 295 Anderson, Robert T. 131, 133 Anne, F. 110 Aquino, María Pilar 291 Arcand, Denys 295–307 Aristotle 135, 138 Auerbach, Erich 331 Augustine 9, 10, 15, 129, 134 Aune, David E. 119 Bagdan-Mateescu, Catalina 276 Bal, Mieke 37, 39, 41, 52, 59 Balch, David 200, 204 Bar-Ilan, Meir 58 Barclay, John M. G. 184, 185 Barker, Adam 300, 305 Barr, David L. 135–42 Bartchy, S. Scott 187 Barthes, Roland 213–16, 219–21 Bartholomew, Craig G. 125, 133 Bauckham, Richard J. 136, 137, 142 Bauer, Walter 170, 282 Baugh, Lloyd 295–304 Baxandall, Michael 241 Beavis, Mary Ann 170 Beker, J. Christiaan 195, 196, 199, 202 Belo, Fernando 290, 293 Bennema, Cornelis 52 Berdini, Paolo 247 Berlin, Adele 52, 86, 135, 138 Best, Ernest 111 Binder, Hermann 126, 133 Bisscheroux, W. H. 147, 172

Black, C. Clifton 151, 166, 170 Black, David Alan 87, 88 Blumenthal, Christian 267 Bock, Darrell 148, 170 Bockmuehl, Markus 252 Bolt, P. 205 Bonnardière, Anne-Marie 15 Boomershine, Thomas 57, 64, 275 Booth, Wayne xxxii, xxxiii, 54, 62 Borg, Marcus J. 79, 82 Boring, M. Eugene 80, 123, 133, 136, 139, 159, 163, 168, 170 Bornkamm, Gunther xxxiii Bovini, F. W. G. 254 Bovon, François 129, 131, 133 Bower, Anthony 304 Boyarin, Daniel 143, 190 Brancusi, Constantin 265, 266, 275–8 Brandenburg, H. 254 Bravo, Carlos 290 Breyer, Chloe 148, 170 Broadhead, Edwin 20, 119, 123, 133, 302, 307, 308, 327, 329 Britt, Brian 213 Brown, Alexandra 198 Brown, Frank Burch xiv, 309 Brown, Peter 15 Brown, Raymond 176, 250, 308–10 Brown, William P. 198, 208 Bruner, Jerome 38, 39 Bultmann, Rudolph 32, 176 Byrnes, Michael 203, 206 Calvin, Jean 217 Cameron, Alan 257 Camus, Albert 303, 304 Carlton, Wensday 244 Carruthers, Mary 23 Castelli, Elizabeth 195 Chandler, Daniel 37 Chatman, Seymour xxxii, 18, 41, 42, 138 Chávez, Emilio G. 163, 170

336

Name Index

Cherry, Deborah 243 Christ, Alice T. 257 Clapton, Eric 91 Clines, David 175, 251 Coates, Ta-Nehisi 236 Cochis, Simonetta 59 Collins, Adela Yarbrough 73, 75, 76, 82, 109, 149, 150, 158, 159, 161, 170, 246 Collins, John J. 119, 141 Conquergood, Lorne Dwight 292 Conzelmann, Hans xxxiii Cook, Guillermo 290 Corley, Jeremy 250 Cousar, Charles B. 204 Crossan, John Dominic xiv, 129, 133, 309, 310 Croteau, Mary Ellen 244, 245 Crouzel, Henri 129, 130, 133 Croy, N. Clayton 32, 87 Culler, Jonathan 215 Culpepper, R. Alan ix, 31, 51, 55, 80, 148, 170, 330 Curran, John 257 Cyril of Alexander 89, 131, 134 Daltrop, G. 254 Daniélou, Jean 126 Danove, Paul 267 Darr, John A. 60 Davies, W. D. 190 Davila, James R. 143 de Boer, Willis P. 200, 201 de Waal, Anton 254, 256 DeBona, Guerric 295, 298 Derrett, J. Duncan M. 165, 170 Dewey, Joanna xxviii, xxx, xxxiv, 3, 14, 19, 20, 35, 39, 53, 57, 69, 75, 79, 80, 82, 83, 90, 91, 104, 159, 172, 191, 267, 287, 314 Dillenberger, Jane 254 Doan, William J. 65 Dodd, C. H. 125, 126, 133, 309 Donahue, John R. xxix, 20, 148, 170, 266, 309 Doubinsky, Claude 302 Douglas, Mary 92, 184, 190 Dowd, Sharyn xxviii, 135, 147, 167–71, 196, 197, 200, 201, 302, 304 Draper, Jonathan A. 227

Driggers, Brent 147, 148, 160, 161, 167, 171, 267 Dunn, James D. G. 136, 204, 209 Duys, Kathryn A. 59 Edel, Leon 52 Edwards, James R. 87 Egelkraut, Helmuth L. 126, 133 Eilberg-Schwarz, Howard 217, 219 Ellens, J. Harold 232 Elliot, J. Keith 87 Elsner, Jaś 254–7 Emery, Elizabeth 59 Eskola, Timo 143 Evans, Craig A. 125, 133, 148, 163, 170, 171 Evans-Pritchard 184 Eve, Eric 38, 39 Exum, J. Cheryl 241, 247 Fass, David E. 217 Fee, Gordon D.  205 Ferguson, E.  204 Fiorenza, Elisabeth Schüssler 142, 315, 316 Fishbane, Simcha 58 Fitzgerald, John T. 204, 207 Fitzmyer, Joseph A. 125, 133, 148, 171 Fleddermann, Harry 164, 171 Forster, E. M. 138 Foskett, Mary F. 248, 250, 251 Foulkes, Ricardo 290 Fournier, Francois 129, 130, 133 Fowler, Robert M. xxxii, xxxiii, 96 France, R. T. 89, 109, 147, 170, 171 Frei, Hans 5–11, 17, 51 Frost, Robert xxvii Fuchs, Esther 246 Funk, Robert W. 129, 133 Fusillo, Massimo 33 Gardner, Helen xxix Garrett, Susan R. 203, 204, 209 Gaventa, Beverly 250 Genette, Gérard xxxii, 33, 302 Gerke, Friedrich 254, 256 Gerstenberger, Erhard 201, 207 Geyer, Douglas 92 Gibson, Jeffrey 200

Name Index Gilbert, Creighton 262, 263 Giles, Terry 65, 131, 133 Giorgi, Dieter 184 Gollwitzer, Helmut 126, 133 Gonzalez, Catherine G. 315 Gonzalez, Justo L. 282, 289, 315 Grabar, André 258 Graham, Susan Lochrie 246 Graham, William 13 Gray, Timothy C. 162, 163, 171 Green, Joel B. 125, 127, 133 Griffith, W. B. 296 Guardiola-Sanz, Leticia 291 Gurd, Sean Alexander 23 Guthrie, Donald 142 Guttenberger, Gudrun 267 Hafemann, Scott J. 205, 206 Hagner, Donald A. 252 Hamori, Esther J. 216 Hare, Douglas 148, 170, 171 Harkness, John 304 Harrington, Daniel J. 148, 170 Harrington, Wilfred J. 266 Harris, William V. 58, 79, 82, 90 Hartman, Lars 147, 170, 171 Hauge, Matthew 40, 101, 103, 167, 171 Havelock, Eric xxx, 75, 82 Hay, David M. 197, 205 Healy, Mary 147, 171 Hearon, Holly E. 54 Henderson, Suzanne Watts 267 Hennecke, Edgar 192 Herman, David 38–42, 50 Hezser, Catherine 58, 79, 82 Higgins, Lynn A. 251 Himmelman, N. 254 Hinson, E. Glenn 256 Hobbs, Edward C. 72, 82 Hock, Ronald F. 206 Hoke, James N. 250 Hooker, Morna 161, 171, 202, 207, 208 Horbury, William 202 Hornik, Heidi J. 241, 253, 261, 262 Horsley, Richard 148, 171, 227 Howard, Hibbard 263 Hurtado, Larry W. 136, 143 Hutto, Daniel D. 38

337

Iser, Wolfgang xxxii Iverson, Kelly R. xxxv, 51, 54, 56, 68, 63, 90, 92, 101, 104, 266, 287 James, Henry 52 Jensen, Robin 258 Jefford, Clayton N. 295 Jervis, L. Ann 208, 209 Jewett, Robert 123, 133, 200 Jewison, Norman 297 Johns, Loren L. 142 Johnson, Alan 238 Johnson, E. Patrick 292 Johnson, Luke Timothy 179, 180 Johnson, Philip Reuben 267 Johnson-Debaufre, Melanie 324 Jones, L. Gregory 240 Josephus 131, 149, 162, 164 Joshel, Sandra R. 250 Joubert, Stephan 184–9 Joynes, Christine E. 247 Juel, Donald H. 56 Justin Martyr 16, 141 Kelber, Werner H. ix, 3, 19, 20, 161, 171, 309, 329–31 Kelhoffer, James A. 89 Kermode, Frank xxvi, 4, 10, 314 Kim, H. C. Paul 225 Kim, Tae Hun 56 Kingsbury, Jack Dean 53, 54, 104 Kinukawa, Hisako 148, 171, 290, 292 Kittredge, Cynthia Briggs 315–25 Kozar, Joseph Vlcek 246 Kraftchick, Steven 197, 204, 208 Kruschwitz, Robert B. 123, 133, 134 Lakoff, George 36, 37 Lambrecht, Jan 205 Landry, David T. 246, 250 Lapsley, Jacqueline E.  197 LaVerdiere, Eugene 148, 171 Lavers, Annette 221 Laws, Sophia 142 Lee, Margaret 12 Lévi-Strauss, Claude 18, 184, 215 Lewis, Gladys S. 143 Lienhard, Joseph T. 130, 133 Lim, Kar Yong 199, 203

338

Name Index

Loiselle, André 298, 300, 305, 307, 311 Longenecker, R.N 184 Lubac, Henri De 11, 17 Lubbock, Percy 137 Lunn, Nicholas P. 87 Lloyd, Barbara B. 37 Malherbe, Abraham 204 Machado, Daisy L. 291 Malina, Bruce J. 74, 82 Malone, Peter 305 Mangan, Michael 63 Manette, Giovanni 9 Manson, T. W. 32 Marcion 129 Marcus, Joel 149, 150, 159–66, 169, 172, 183, 184, 191, 317 Margolin, Uri 41 Marshall, Christopher 238, 239 Martell-Otero, Loida I. 291 Marxsen, Willi xxxiii Matera, Frank 86 Mauss, Marcel 184, 185, 190 May, David M. 168, 172 McKnight, Edgar 85, 154, 172, 179, 226 McGinn, Sheila E. 200 McIlroy, Brian 298, 300, 305, 307, 311 McMahon, Kevin 304 McNeil, B. 202 Meeks, Wayne 196, 204 Mendoza, Manuel Villalobos 291 Menken, M. J. J. 126, 133, 272 Michie, Donald xxvi, xxxiv, xxxv, 19, 39, 53, 80, 83, 104, 159, 172, 191, 314 Migne, Jacques-Paul 263 Miller, George A. 38 Miller, R. J.  82 Miller, Sanda 278 Miller, Susan 148, 150, 155, 156, 164–8, 172 Miller, William T. 217, 218 Minor, Mitzi 148, 172 Moloney, Francis J. 147, 170, 172 Moore, Stephen xxx, xxxiv, 8, 20, 21, 24, 25, 52, 62, 104, 295 Morrison, Gregg S. 86 Morton, Nelle 313 Moyise, Steve 138, 142

Murray, Mary Charles 257 Musekura, Célestin 240 Myers, Ched 56, 148, 172 Nässelqvist, Dan 13, 14 Newman, Carey 143 Newman, Channa 302 Newsom, Carol A. 182, 197 Nickle, Keith F. 184 Nineham, D. E. 89 No, K. 269 Nolland, John 125, 126, 130, 132, 133 Nutu, Ela 247 O’Brien, Justin 303 O’Brien, Tom 309 O’Day, Gail 267 O’Kane, Martin 247 Olsson, Birger 16 Ong, Walter 23 Origen 89, 129–33 Owen, Marcia A. 240 Padgett, Jacqueline Olson 243, 244 Painter, John 147, 172 Parker, David 16 Parsons, Mikeal 123, 134, 241, 262 Patte, Daniel A. xxix Pavis, Patrice 63 Perichon, Pierre 129, 133 Perrin, Norman xxix Pervo, Richard 188, 190 Petersen, David L. 267 Petersen, Norman 19, 123, 134, 300 Pickett, Ray 314, 318 Pierpont, William G. 88 Pikaza, Xabier 290, 293 Pfitzner, Victor C. 204 Placher, William 148, 166, 172 Plank, Karl 210 Pliny 141 Plummer, Alfred 250 Pobee, John 195, 196 Pollock, Griselda 243 Postlewate, Laurie 59 Powell, Mark A. 53, 60, 62, 63, 149, 172 Prettejohn, Elizabeth 243 Price, Reynolds xxvi

Name Index Priest, John xxix Python, Monty 302 Quesnell, Quentin 151 Ramsey, Boniface 256 Rashi 218, 219 Reid, Barbara 132, 134, 250 Reilly, Frank 246 Reinhartz, Adele 296 Resner, André 148, 172 Resseguie, James L. 53–9, 139 Rhoads, David xxv, xxvi, xxx, xxxii, xxxiv, 13, 19, 20, 21, 39, 52–4, 57, 62, 64, 69, 79, 80, 83, 90, 91, 104, 159, 169, 172, 191, 287, 314 Ricoeur, Paul 6, 14, 19 Rilke, Rainer Maria 218 Ringe, Sharon 182, 197, 225 Robbins, Vernon K. 179 Robinson, James M. 111 Robinson, Maurice 87, 88 Roetzel, Calvin 183, 190, 209 Rohrbaugh, Richard L. 74, 82 Roloff, J. 189 Rooney, Ellen 251 Rosch, Eleanor 37 Ruge-Jones, Phil 63, 281, 287 Rutgers, Leonard Victor 259 Sabin, Marie Noonan 163, 172 Saller, R. P. 184 Sanders, Boykin 201 Sanders, Charles 9 Schaberg, Jane 182, 246, 252, 314, 324 Schechner, Richard 306–08 Schefold, K. 254, 256 Schmithals, Walter 181 Schnaubelt, Joseph C. 129, 134 Schnelle, Udo 90 Schoenfeld, Stuart 58 Scholes, Robert 59 Schrage, Wolfgang 201, 207 Schütz, John 205–8 Scott, Brandon 12 Scott, S. 187 Scribner, Charles 265 Seim, Turid Karlsen 148, 150, 165, 172 Seeley, David 200

339

Setzer, Claudia 209 Shepherd, Tom 135, 196 Sheaffer, Andrea M. 247 Sherwood, Yvonne 220 Shiner, Whitney T. 56, 65, 79, 83 Shively, Elizabeth 35, 40, 103, 104, 110–14 Siddall, Elizabeth 242 Simon, Louis 151 Silver, Brenda R. 251 Skinner, Christopher xxxv, 3, 27, 40, 51, 85, 101–04, 167, 171, 266 Smit, Joop F. M. 274 Smith, Abraham xxxiv Smith, Barry D. 196 Smith, R. Payne 131, 134 Smith, Stephen H. 104, 217, 218 Snodgrass, K. R. 163, 172 Speiser, Ephraim M. 216 Spivey, Robert xxix, xxx Staley, Jeffrey L. 295 Steely, John 201 Stein, Robert 147, 170, 172 Stern, Richard C. 295, 298 Stevenson, Bryan 237 Stibbe, W. G. 57 Still, Todd 206 Stock, Brian 23 Strabo, Walafried 265 Strauss, Mark 107, 148, 169, 172 Sugirtharajah, R. S. 172 Sumney, Jerry 195, 201, 204 Sweat, Laura C. 148, 172, 269–73 Syreeni, Kari 52 Tannehill, Robert C. 19, 42, 86, 108, 123, 134, 189, 208, 225, 229, 232 Tatum, W. Barnes 295, 307 Taylor, Vincent 107, 308 Telford, William R. 162, 266 Teske, Roland J. 129, 134 Testa, Bart 298–301, 305 Thimmes, Pamela 246 Thiselton, Anthony C. 125, 133 Thompson, M. 205 Thurston, Bonnie Bowman 148 Todorov, Tzvetan xxxii Tolbert, Mary Ann 124, 134, 314 Tollerton, David 248 Tomkinson, Theodosia 130, 131, 134

340

Name Index

Tongue, Samuel 215–17, 220 Tuckett, Christopher M. 266 Turner, James 221 Tutu, Desmond Mpilo 239 Twelftree, Graham H. 104 Twomey, Jay 295 Tyson, Joseph B. 99 Uspensky, Boris xxxii Van Cappellen, P. 273 van der Horst, Pieter 272 Van Fletern, Frederick 129, 134 van Iersel, Bas M. F. 89, 90, 147, 169, 172 Van Oyen, Geert 135, 196, 265, 267, 272, 273 Vanhoye, A. 205 Waetjen, Herman C. 163, 172 Wailes, Stephen 128, 129, 134 Wallace, Daniel B. 87 Walsh, Richard 295, 301, 304, 307, 310 Wansink, Craig S. 206 Washington, Harold 246

Watts, Rikki E. 69–77, 79, 82, 83 Weightman, Doreen 303 Weightman, John 303 Wells, Samuel 240 Wenell, Karen 163, 172 Wénin, André 267 Werner, Martin 183 Westhelle, Vitor 281, 282, 285, 287, 289, 290 White, L. Michael  196 Wilder, Amos xxix, 329 Wilkins, Peter 307, 310 Williams, Demetrius K. 195, 197, 199 Williams, Joel F. 53, 103, 105, 147, 159, 169, 172, 173 Wilson, R. McL. 192 Winn, Adam 103 Wise, Michael O. 90 Witherington, Ben 88, 147, 170, 173, 210 Wolter, Michael 202, 203, 206 Wright, Addison 147–61, 166, 168, 169, 173 Yarbrough, O. Larry 196

SUBJECT INDEX Annunciation 241–52 anointing 155, 158, 159, 322 apocalyptic 40, 105, 110, 114, 116, 119, 137, 152, 156, 185, 188, 202, 289, 299, 304, 307 apostle, apostolic 44, 94, 127, 136, 156, 167, 183, 185–8, 192, 196, 197, 199, 202–8, 211, 212, 250, 255, 262, 277 audience xxv, xxviii, 3, 14, 24–6, 34–42, 48–50, 56–65, 70–81, 86, 91–4, 98, 100, 108, 111, 113, 115–17, 123, 132, 135, 138–41, 144, 149, 159–64, 167–71, 196, 220, 261, 270–5, 284, 286–9, 292, 293, 297, 302, 307–9, 330 canon, canonical xxix, 13, 32, 39, 60, 129, 192, 220, 295, 301–6 Capernaaum 43, 108, 109, 167 characterization xxvii, xxx, xxxi, xxxv, 3, 21, 24, 26, 31, 34–6, 39–41, 51–69, 82, 85, 86, 101, 103, 104, 111, 113, 115, 116, 121–4, 133, 135, 137–44, 155, 160, 167, 168, 171, 172, 225, 246, 267, 268, 285, 286, 294, 295, 298, 314, 315, 321, 329, 332 christology ix, xxvii, xxx, xxxv, 3, 19–22, 26, 28, 31, 32, 34, 53, 56, 69–83, 85, 86, 90, 91, 94–100, 103, 108, 121–4, 128, 132–4, 135, 136, 139, 142, 155, 172, 225, 266, 268, 294, 295, 302, 309, 314, 329, 330, 332 deflected christology 21, 70, 85, 94, 98, 99, 124, 137, 329 enacted christology 21, 80, 85, 94, 95, 97, 124, 329 projected christology 21, 70, 85, 94, 97, 124, 329 reflected christology 21, 85, 94, 99, 124, 128, 132, 329

refracted christology 21, 70, 85, 124, 137, 329 cognition, cognitive studies xxiii, 22, 36, 37, 41, 42, 332 cross 47, 48, 92, 106, 107, 114–16, 191, 195–200, 204, 210, 221, 272–4, 296–308 deconstruction xxv, xxxiv, 181, 246 demons 32, 43–5, 73, 74, 81, 94, 103–17, 121, 125, 160, 165, 167, 220, 268, 269, 284, 307 enemy 143, 155, 192, 226, 228 eschatology, eschatological 93, 111, 119, 185, 187, 188, 195–8, 203, 204, 207–12, 266, 281, 282, 286, 289, 291, 310 feminist xxv, xxxiv, 20, 148, 171, 175, 243–7, 252, 290, 291, 315, 316 form criticism xxxii, 7, 328 Formalism (see also New Criticism) 19, 20 Galilee 48, 49, 85, 98, 106, 107, 122, 127, 160, 164, 227, 283, 284, 299, 318, 323 gender 58, 148, 172, 175, 317 gentile 76, 161, 162, 185–92 hermeneutics 4–18, 24, 27, 51, 59–64, 123, 125, 133, 226, 243, 265, 282, 291, 315, 328, 330–2 historical criticism xxix, 6–8, 12, 18, 28, 331–3 implied author 3, 25, 26, 33–6, 40, 41, 53, 56, 57, 60, 69, 70, 71, 75, 100, 115, 124, 144, 149, 159, 284, 286, 308, 330, 332 implied reader 25, 26, 31, 40, 41, 53, 60, 115

342

Subject Index

intercalation 154, 161, 167, 319 intertextuality xxx, 302 irony xxvi, xxxiii, xxxiv, 152, 154, 160, 168, 210, 272 Israel xxv, 58, 65, 107, 119, 122, 127, 161–3, 176–82, 186, 190, 214, 215, 218, 219 Jerusalem xxvi, 26, 48, 89, 93, 106, 112–14, 125, 126, 133, 136, 143, 152, 160, 161, 164, 166, 167, 184–90, 200, 227, 255, 258, 259, 283, 284, 323 Jesus of Montreal 295–311 kingdom of God 28, 44, 69–82, 96, 98, 105, 113, 143, 154, 157, 225, 268–74, 286, 298, 304, 309, 311, 313 linguistics 8, 10, 12, 214, 215 Magnificat 176 mimesis, mimetic 201, 207, 212, 329 narrative criticism xxvi, xxix–xxxv, 4–9, 12, 17–28, 31, 36, 41, 51–63, 104, 116, 149, 172, 295, 327–32 narrator ix, xxxi, 3, 25–8, 31–4, 41–9, 53–7, 63–5, 69–82, 92–100, 104, 123, 127, 137, 139–41, 144, 149, 150, 153–8, 220, 247, 268, 269, 292, 301, 308, 309, 314, 315, 318, 325, 330, 332 New Criticism (see also Formalism) oral, orality xxv, xxvi, xxx, 13–16, 22–5, 32, 38, 39, 57, 58, 60–5, 72, 75, 77, 79, 82, 83, 90, 91, 227, 287, 314, 328, 330 parable 20, 44–7, 80, 111, 122–34, 162, 163, 172, 226, 232, 233, 239, 269–71, 295, 309–11, 314, 328

performance criticism xxv, xxvii, 12–14, 52, 54, 57, 64, 65, 79, 82, 83, 90, 91, 275, 278, 279, 281–301, 305–8 poem, poetry, poetic xxix, 136, 144, 175, 178, 216–20, 244, 262, 313–25 prophet, prophetic 43, 44, 50, 71, 119–22, 125, 129, 130, 150, 154, 156, 161, 167, 185, 187, 188, 226, 227, 241, 249, 250, 273, 316, 319, 322 Q, Quelle (see Sayings Tradition) reader response xxv, xxxiv, 25, 90, 96, 147, 172, 267 redaction criticism xxx, xxxiii, 7, 20, 21, 328 Reformation, Protestant Reformers 7, 8, 11, 12, 24, 181, 239, 253, 262, 331 resurrection xxvi, 47, 49, 50, 88–99, 106, 107, 112, 116, 128, 136, 140, 197, 199, 203, 204, 207, 209–12, 256, 260, 262, 274, 275, 278, 296–9, 303, 306, 314, 318, 324 rhetoric xxvii, xxviii, 14, 24–6, 54, 60, 62, 142, 148, 160, 206, 215, 234, 247, 267, 329 Samaria, Samaritan 93, 123–34, 226 sarcophagus xxviii, xxxi, 253–63 Satan 40, 80, 103–16, 125, 139, 156, 165, 191, 192, 205, 209, 316, 317 Sayings Tradition, Q, Quelle 120, 121, 227, 228 Smyrna 192 son of man 27, 71, 78, 94, 97, 106, 112, 116, 122, 140, 141, 152, 156, 164, 191, 259, 295–311 structuralism xxv, xxix, xxx, 18, 19, 21, 24, 27, 41, 213, 215, 331 Syrophoenician 110, 155, 158