The Godman and the Sea: The Empty Tomb, the Trauma of the Jews, and the Gospel of Mark 9780812296396

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The Godman and the Sea

DIVINATIONS: REREADING LATE ANCIENT RELIGION Series Editors: Daniel Boyarin, ­Virginia Burrus, Derek Krueger A complete list of books in the series is available from the publisher.

THE GODMAN AND THE SEA The Empty Tomb, the Trauma of the Jews, and the Gospel of Mark

MICHAEL J. THATE

u n i v e r s i t y o f p e n n s y lva n i a p r e s s philadelphia

Copyright © 2019 University of Pennsylvania Press All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations used for purposes of review or scholarly citation, none of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without written permission from the publisher. Published by University of Pennsylvania Press Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19104-4112 www​.­upenn​.­edu​/­pennpress Printed in the United States of Amer­i­ca on acid-­free paper 1 ​3 ​5 ​7 ​9 ​10 ​8 ​6 ​4 ​2 Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Names: Thate, Michael J., author. Title: The Godman and the sea : the empty tomb, the  trauma of the Jews, and the Gospel of Mark / Michael J.  Thate. Other titles: Divinations. Description: 1st edition. | Philadelphia : University of  Pennsylvania Press, [2019] | Series: Divinations : rereading  late ancient religion | Includes bibliographical references  and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019017144| ISBN 9780812251517  (hardcover : alk. paper) | ISBN 0812251512 (hardcover : alk.  paper) Subjects: LCSH: Bible. Mark—Criticism, interpretation,  etc.—Psychology. | Jesus Christ—Influence—Psychology.  | Church history—Primitive and early church, ca.  30–600—Psychology. Classification: LCC BS2585.52 .T38 2019 |  DDC 226.3/06—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019017144

‫إهداء إلي ديمة‪:‬‬ ‫في مسيرتي عبر األمواج العاتية‪ ،‬دائم ا ً ما كنتي‬ ‫مصدر طمأنينتي‬

Contents

Preface Chapter 1. Somewhere in the Unfinished: Approaching a Markan Sentiment

ix 1

Chapter 2. On Beginnings and Bodies: Mark, Mythopoesis, and Posttraumatic Social Formations

36

Chapter 3. A Theater for Action: The Social Sea and Mark’s Mythic Crossings

69

Chapter 4. The Memory of Almost Drowning: Hostile Spirits, Slumbering Gods, and Eerie Calms

107

Chapter 5. Binding Boundless ­Waters? Out of the Tomb and into the Sea

132

Chapter 6. The Enchafèd Sea: Ships of Separation or Trampled Dragons?

157

Chapter 7. Tragic Vision: T ­ oward a Po­liti­cal Sentiment of the Unfinished

183

Notes

205

Bibliography

261

Index

305

Acknowl­edgments

315

Preface

Once upon a time, an early hominid stood before a protective fire. With preying predators prowling round and gathered kin nestled close, stories w ­ ere shared from which emanated a new kind of warmth, stronger than the licking flame. Grunts had given way to tactical gestures; and from t­ hose, a grammar emerged. With freed hands and nuanced communication, gods ­were born and revelation made pos­si­ble. It would be this thermal protection of words that comforted ­those huddled close in efforts to fend off the terrors of night. Myths originated from inside the fire’s glow, fending off stalking threats snarling in the darkness. This was the birth of an interior: warmth and won­der—­words!—­warding off tooth and claw.1 Or something like that . . . This speculative moment is referred to as the “symbolic revolution” in studies of our social origins as a species.2 Thinking about this thermal work of words comforts this lowly scholar working in the humanities a g­ reat deal, in light of some of our best con­temporary minds disparaging their relevance. Disciplines devoted to their study—­history, philosophy, philology, theology—­ amount to ­little more than “bad poetry.”3 What ­really ­matters, so the criticisms go, are sciences, maths, engineering, and the financialization of both. It must be admitted that this proj­ect amounts to l­ittle more than “bad poetry.” Worse still, it is about the long history of bad poetry: namely, myth and its thermal protection against a chilled and darkened exterior. Homo sapiens warmed their kin and lit the night with a revolution of words.4 From this revolution emerged all the daring that would send us to the heavens, tumble the gods—­and, in an ironic turn, lead to the questioning of our words themselves: our myths. The Godman and the Sea attempts to turn this “revolution” inside out. The thermal protection of myth, once aimed against the predators of night, is ­here turned against the comforts of day. In par­tic­u­lar, this proj­ect considers the thermal work of early Chris­tian­ity via Gospel writing. Though its

x

Preface

myths and moralities may leave few convinced, we in the West still see by the remains of its day. We still dress in accordance to the warmth of its smoldering embers. If but for the sake of new light and new warmth, then, we must question its remainder ­until a time comes when its burning star ­shall be no more (cf. Isa. 60:19, Rev. 21:23). In par­tic­u­lar, this proj­ect concerns itself with the figure whom Huysmans referred to in his habitual haunting as le pâle décloué du Golgotha:5 “the pale martyr of Golgotha.”6 Le pâle in Huysmans’s usage communicates a sense of the feeble and unimpressive. Yet it also gestures ­toward hues and histories of a particularist imaginary. By renewing cataclysms of old—­namely, the trauma and ecstasy emanating from the gaping absence of the “pale martyr’s” tomb—­this proj­ect attempts to deconstruct the thermal protection of such an imaginary that hides in the very light it produces. And, perchance, bend ­these traditions t­ oward a more distant coming.

Chapter 1

Somewhere in the Unfinished: Approaching a Markan Sentiment

What was it that Rilke wrote? That m ­ usic raised him out of himself, and never returned him to where it had found him, but to a deeper place, somewhere in the unfinished. —­Karl Ove Knausgaard, A Man in Love We ­don’t want to be lonely, but we are. —­Kathleen Graber, The Eternal City Of course t­ here are werewolves and vampires, we say this with all our hearts. —­Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus

A World Filled with Too Much Absence The Godman and the Sea is an extended reflection on the stubborn and seem­ ingly impossible per­sis­tence of the fundamental real­ity of Nothing. The bulk of this book concerns itself with the social, literary, and meta­phorical aspects of this statement with re­spect to traumatic recurrence in the sea scenes in the Gospel of Mark. “The sea” (Θάλασσα) in Mark is a no-­place of chaotic swirl that separates a traumatized body from its founding desire. It is depicted as the Nihil that suspends life, ruptures space, and breaks time, as its threatening fluids fill the boat of an assembly adrift in social abey­ ance. As Herman Melville wrote so hauntingly in a dif­fer­ent context, the

2

Chapter 1

traumatized assembly was “lost in the infinite series of the sea.”1 Moreover, the “full awfulness of the sea” and all its repre­sen­ta­tions,2 as Melville continues, “find a strange analogy” to something interior. The separating nothingness of the “vacant sea,”3 the “mad sea,”4 the demonic depths, reproduces ­these sentiments within, they recur even as that very interior traumatically splits from itself be­ fore the void of the watery wilderness. “Into the sea,” to appropriate from Luce Irigaray’s masterful Marine Lover, life traumatically recurs; it enacts a life of some primordial loneliness. Yet this recurrence may well open horizons “to a more distant coming”—­with all its terrors, won­ders, and unfinishing affect.5 Such concerns are anchored in a physical and material confession and guide an experimental reading of Mark’s Gospel. The concept of absence, or a world filled with absence, is something of an inflection of what is becom­ ing part of the standard model of theoretical physics: space filled with and filling a world.6 As the Nobel laureate and theoretical physicist Frank Wilc­ zek has argued, what we have long thought as the vast emptiness of space, the ether, or what he calls the “Grid,” is actually quite full.7 Space is filled with virtual particles or evanescent quantum vibrancy. “Besides the fluctuating activity of quantum fields, space is filled with several layers of more permanent, substantial stuff.” T ­ hese plenums or ethers are materials that fill space.8 This, of course, is what physicists’ equations and particle accelerators tell them. Images of space projected back to us by the Hubble telescope (or what ­will be produced from the forthcoming James Webb Space Telescope), or what we see when we gaze into a clear night sky, appear to be vast pools of darkness punctured by the odd speck of light. This perceived absence, however, consists of a “space-­filling mist of quark-­antiquark pairs”—or a “chi­ ral symmetry breaking condensate.” And it is this “space,” Wilczek argues, that is the “primary real­ity.” ­Matter, the presence of forms, is secondary; space, ­those canvasing bits of perceived absence—­Nothing—is primary. Even if one could theoretically empty space, it would still prove to be “an explo­ sive environment, ready to burst forth with real quark-­antiquark molecules.”9 ­These fields fill space and have a life all their own. They can create and de­ stroy particles that are themselves disturbances in ­these fields. Space is the fundamental real­ity. It contains every­thing.10 And what we busy ourselves with, in ­matters minute or major are but small sprays of mist from colliding waves in this vast and dynamic ocean of Nothing.11 Standard philosophical and theological accounts of the world, particularly ­those affected by the heavy gravity of Heidegger’s influence, tend to begin with the purported prob­lem of why ­there is something instead of nothing as a fun­



Somewhere in the Unfinished

3

damental issue of philosophy. This formulation assumes that somehow “something” in some way does away with the per­sis­tent challenge of “nothing.” In other words, ­because ­there is an apparent “something”—­a disturbance—­ somehow “nothing” is no longer. Following Wilczek and other theoretical physicists, perhaps we ­ought to reconsider our philosophical and theological reflections on this point. ­There is ­matter ­because ­there is an ever-­expanding amount of space. ­There is something precisely ­because ­there is, in fact, so much nothing. In the physical world, dark m ­ atter and dark energy are teaching cosmolo­ gists just how inseparable concepts like “presence” and “absence,” “something,” and “nothing,” may actually be.12 Our concepts of nothingness, absence, and emptiness remain unstable markers precisely ­because “presence” remains pri­ mary in most theological or philosophical modes of reflection. Presence and ­matter, however, are secondary phenomena. They are impurities in the sprawl­ ing seas of cosmic space. Nothing is not lack. The world is filled with too much “absence.” Yet this absence is disturbed by an all-­too-­present world.13 Our organs of perception have not evolved to detect the discrete points where this fundamental action occurs all around us. What we perceive to be empty space is, in real­ity, a dynamic medium “whose activity molds the world.”14 To nimbler eyes and sensory indicators, as Wilczek memorably puts it, space would appear as an “ultrastroboscopicmicronano lava lamp.” ­Owners of such sensory abilities, Wilczek provocatively suggests, would not fall prey to the ­human illusion that space is empty.15 Perhaps, then, our obsession with the problematics of “something” instead of reckoning with the Noth­ ing reflects our incapacities as sensory beings.16 Perhaps we begin with “­matter” ­because that is what we can see—­that is what we are. Perhaps our contorted metaphysics of “presence” are the collapsed genealogies of that all-­ too-­human illusion of its own primacy.17 Yet we are embedded in a medium of vast nothingness, of ever-­expanding space; and this embeddedness, this presence, “complicates the appearance of t­ hings.”18 We as disturbance do not negate the Nihil—we remain within it and it in us. Presence is thus a kind of “lack;” and we remain a kind of nothing.

Nothing and the Shape of Life How should we think of this “something” that lives amid, and out of the ex­ cess of, so much Nothing? One con­temporary exploration of this paradoxical paring in the plane of subjectivity is in Karl Ove Knausgaard’s seven-­volume

4

Chapter 1

work My Strug­gle. While reflecting on how the articulation of his life “came into being,” and the strug­gle of that life to become his own, he states that ­there ­were “years of nothing u ­ ntil something definite began to take shape.”19 What I find useful in Knausgaard at this point is in his troubling any easy separation between shape and silence. Nothingness remains in the appear­ ance of the shape, just as the disturbance of the emergent “shape” was within the vibrant potentialities of Nothing. We tend to think of the shape or ap­ pearance of something as the eradication of Nothing: as appearance or pres­ ence dispelling absence. In light of what we are learning about the material medium of the cosmic ocean of space filled with fluids that move the world, what if instead we consider appearances as the disturbance of a Nothing that still remains? And what if, following Blaise Pascal, we modeled our philo­ sophical and even theological questioning ­after this real­ity and sought only to know our nothingness and conceive ourselves as unfinished—­perhaps even unfinalizable?20 This Pascalian reckoning of the trauma of being before the horror of infinities is the material pattern of questioning through which I would like to bend Mark’s Gospel as an attempt to give shape to a life traumatically exposed to the howling swirl of the Nihil. Such questioning may lead to new considerations in the field of Gospel writing: Why do we have any Gospels at all? Are they all the same in terms of form and genre? From what noth­ ingness or absence did they emerge? And in what way does the absence and nothingness of what preceded and out of which emerged the “shape” of Mark (ΚΑΤΑ ΜΑΡΚΟΝ) remain within the shape itself? ­These are some of the questions that w ­ ill be engaged in Chapter 2. The point to be adumbrated is that Mark’s Gospel bears the very absence from which it emerged. As such, it may also have something to say to that “interior” of which Melville and Irigaray speak, which is often hard-­pressed by the trauma of absence, by horror vacui and the emergent form within that feels alien and strange.

A Politics of Nothing An opening gambit of this sort may appear remarkably cynical, abstract, and even off-­point—­what does this have to do with the Gospel of Mark and early Gospel writing? The insistence on a world too filled with absence and the per­sis­tence of Nothing, is, however, a polemic that ­counters the many subtleties and entrenched rigidities that appear as presence, and the myriad



Somewhere in the Unfinished

5

ways in which we are told what is precisely ­because this Is has materialized itself as reason and real.21 ­These pro­cesses of forming, shaping, and captur­ ing life are referred to collectively throughout this proj­ect as “enclosure.” The world is filled with absence; yet the politics and pro­cesses of enclosure are bent on terraforming. ­These have been the targets of Foucault, Derrida, Deleuze, Irigaray, among ­others, and their suspicion of the facticity of the order of ­things: that “self-­validating pride of a reason that can explain itself, securing on its own behalf a masterful log­os, or account of the world.”22 Our moment has be­ come dominated by an “invariable structure” that has so naturalized itself in us and ourselves in it that its diffuse and complex “network of signifiers” pro­ vides both lexicon and language for the self ’s existence and expression, as well as its very forms of critique. 23 Foucault and Derrida, for example, “began with an insistence on the inescapable character of a system”—­for Derrida, Western metaphysics; for Foucault, post-­Enlightenment institu­ tions.24 And both thinkers experimented with approaches for the possibility of the alternative,25 or with what Irigaray referred to as a more distant coming. To summon Deleuze, can who-­I-am ever find a way out from the I-am that enclosures have produced for me? The ­spherical trap of Deleuze and Guattari,26 ­ ill refer or what Lefebvre referred to as the “trap of the pre­sent,”27 and what I w to as the practices of enclosure, is the precise rendering of the pre­sent as a protesting presence painted over the blazing absence loosed by an originary trauma. We are left to articulate an identity in which we ourselves feel foreign and, as the Markan text has it, out-­of-­mind. A politics of the Nothing refuses this terraforming at its fundamental base of construction by asking, What/ Who am I in this mea­sure of time?28 Presence is disturbance. This is the con­ fession of a politics of dis-­enclosure. Yet ­there is a creeping remainder that haunts from within. It is to this questioning that the text of Mark is bent in its reformulation of that questioning as well as in its provisional responses to an originary trauma haunting an abandoned community previously gathered around Jesus of Nazareth and the uncertain social movement of his name.

Theory, Recognizability, and Madness It is “nice to talk like every­body ­else,” wrote Deleuze and Guattari.29 Recog­ nized speech patterns and the repetition of certain disciplinary codes can lead to comfortable positions in the acad­emy and publishing contracts with

6

Chapter 1

prestigious university presses. Research profiles of “dissent” can trend up­ ward in academic and po­liti­cal arenas, producing, as Deleuze and Guattari had it in another context, “flows of speech in exchange for flows of money.”30 As trendy as theorizing an “alternative” from the safety of academic halls has become, it is impor­tant to stress how an ­actual alternative, or a life re­ moved from the faux safety of enclosing practices, is a position of social expo­ sure and vulnerability. Profiles of bourgeois rage that are dominating much of current theory drown out the threat of ­actual dissent operating outside enclo­ sure.31 I do not presume to place myself or this proj­ect among the truly coura­ geous and vulnerable bodies engaging in such dissent. I do hope to distance this proj­ect, however, from fash­ion­able (and profitable!) theories of protest that neglect the realities of howling void outside sovereignty’s enclosure. In 1941, Herbert Marcuse alluded to ­these dangers. He observed that the “world had been rationalized to such an extent” that this rationality, in turn, “had become such a social power that the individual could do no bet­ ter than adjust himself without reservation.”32 This rationality, or “attitude,” as he elsewhere called it, “dissolves all actions into a sequence of semi-­ spontaneous reactions to prescribed mechanical norms,” reducing even the conception of an alternative or the thought of “protest” as “senseless” and madness.33 Or, perhaps most pernicious, this frequency establishes autho­ rized channels that make allowance for “legitimized forms” of demonstra­ tion and protest.34 Madness may prove “a radical break from power in the form of a disconnection,” or breaking with the sprawling disciplinary ap­ paratus of the enclosure,35 but, again, to repeat Deleuze and Guattari, it is also nice to be able to speak with and be understood by other ­people. Life lived outside the staged safety of enclosure is a place of risk and vulnerabil­ ity.36 Speaking another language risks not being heard, left off invitation lists, or labeled as barking mad. Daniel Kahneman, Nobel laureate in economics, has astutely noted how we tend to duck difficult questions by answering their easier forms without necessarily realizing that we have done so.37 Kahneman’s wisdom should give us pause not only in the reconsideration of our answers (namely, our histo­ ries of interpretation) but also in our methods, assemblages of questions, and points of intervention. With Kahneman in mind, diagnosing what precisely the questions of our moment might, in fact, be becomes more difficult—­ and indeed, more pressing. Could our questions and interventions be ­little more than sovereignty’s allowances for the populace, the demos, to get “pro­



Somewhere in the Unfinished

7

test” out of its system? Do our protests and politics—­which carry with them an “aura of authenticity”—­play the part offered to us by power’s stag­ ings, narrations, and directions? Are they simply more of what Irigaray re­ ferred to as “­little enclosures”?38 Are our theories of “protest” the reflex of domestic servility? And what, if anything, might the study of texts (and sen­ timents) from antiquity have to say by way of requestioning or reformulat­ ing what it means to be in our moment, in all its temporalities, territories, and temperatures?39

Mark and Enclosure ­ hese are the concerns at the heart of The Godman and the Sea and, indeed, T the ordering anx­i­eties around which I want to bend the Gospel of Mark. I suggest that a radical politics of Nothing allows for the fracturing of gov­ erning apparatuses even as it speaks to Irigaray’s and Melville’s interior of a nothingness that remains within. Sovereignty’s frequencies and the enforced and disciplining “adjustments” to such frequencies, as Marcuse would call them, are drowned out by the infinite hum of a musica universalis from the beyond and bleeds from within. But how can we possibly get ­there? Part of the driving aim of this proj­ect is to say, with Pascal, that this is already the case: vous êtes embarqué—­you are already embarked!40 We are already ­there! We are also always already enclosed. I suggest a repositioning of the empty tomb and the staging of the sea in the mythic geographies of the Markan Gospel as witnesses to a trauma that places us outside the safeties of enclo­ sure. Though the deep and infinite hum released from this traumatic wound potentially produces an opportunity for alternatives, that opportunity is marked by a trauma of separation and social exposure. This suggestive approach attempts thus to theorize the problematics of enclosure through a bent reading of the Gospel of Mark and its sea stories as points of what Jean-­Luc Nancy has termed déclosion. La déclosion, or dis-­ enclosure, designates for Nancy a kind of opening, tear, or rupture in a field of previous closures (or enclosures). Nancy sees in his peculiar reading of Chris­tian­ity the possibility of historical opening, which, by its own decon­ struction, prolongs the tear in the royal wears of enclosure’s fabric. Nancy’s concept of déclosion is impor­tant for this proj­ect and ­will return in Chap­ ter 7. Particularly in Chapter 3, the production of space and territorialization

8

Chapter 1

as a po­liti­cal technique of enclosure ­will be considered in the context of the mythic geographies of the Markan Gospel. At this point, it may prove helpful to adumbrate on its relationship with what is referred to as the “enclosure.”

The Enclosure For Nancy, dis-­enclosure denotes an opening in the enclosure of meta­ physics.41 As Nietz­sche and Heidegger framed it (and Derrida and Deleuze, too), metaphysics represents the grounding of being as “a warranting pres­ ence beyond the world,” which, in turn, stabilizes a form of being in the world.42 It is ­here where Judith Butler introduces an impor­tant pivot. Much of Butler’s work consists of laying bare what it means to become a subject in specific historical fields of power. The self that seeks to make itself a “self ” is affected and formed within and by t­ hese fields (and frequencies).43 What counts as a subject, then—­how it gets named and classified, racial­ ized and gendered—­depends upon its zoning.44 ­These spatial and temporal dynamics are brought into conversation with and extended through recent theory in ­human geography around the concept of the “enclosure.” As Al­ varo Sevilla-­Buitrago states, enclosure “works as a polymorphous tech­ nique throughout history, better grasped as a set of variegated regulatory procedures as complex and diversified as the uneven geography of dispos­ session they shape. It articulates territorial practices of social ordering to other apparatuses and institutions—­markets, legalities, police, design and so forth.”45 The enclosure is both pro­cess and product and the very program of dis­ possession. It is the action by which life becomes divided into separable parts, and then packaged and bundled into tradable forms. To rule is to spec­ ulate and set in time, to mea­sure, to standardize and frame. Peter Sloterdijk, in the second volume of his sprawling trilogy, Spheres, suggests that the en­ tirety of history consists of strug­gles for spheric expansion.46 Sovereignty is what encloses all strug­gles for spheric expansion in its own sphere of disci­ plinary control. Sovereignty expands, zones, maps, and then standardizes subjectivities. Following the charging war­horses in the strug­gle for expan­ sion come the bureaucratic wagons of enclosure. Attention to mea­sure­ments therefore serves as an index to the enclosing practices of sovereignty. Rome’s spatial revolution in the first ­century, global finance capitalism and its sprawling



Somewhere in the Unfinished

9

techniques of financializing life into rhythms and flows in our lifetime,47 the continuation of empire’s latent yet tactile colonial reach, sovereignty’s framing of licit and illicit expressions of subjectivity, love and protest, and the rigidities of logocentrism are all enactments, techniques, or disciplinary practices of enclosure.

Dis-­enclosure Into what, then, can déclosion open? In other words, to what new spaces or more distant comings do pro­cesses of dis-­enclosure open (expose) themselves? In many re­spects, this is the proj­ect to which Negri and Hardt devote ­great critical attention in their theorizing the multitude as a potential po­liti­cal power.48 For Hardt and Negri, a “material my­thol­ogy of reason” emerges from the multitude’s repositioning and redirection of “technologies and produc­ tion ­toward its own joy and its own increase of power.” This new my­thol­ogy of the multitude opens into an activity and consciousness outside the “long arm of Empire.”49 The multitude is marked by an excess that shatters sover­ eignty’s “bounds of mea­sure.”50 This excess of activity and consciousness out­ side Empire’s reach and enclosing practices,51 therefore, “constitutes time beyond mea­sure.”52 The multitude becomes, in fact, a new city.53 This ex­ cessive flow of bodies and desires establishes alternative geographies or, rather, “geo­graph­i­cal mythologies,” that open into new cartographies,54 spaces, forms of life,55 and temporalities.56 And it is precisely ­here, at the edge zones of Empire’s “central repressive operations,” at the limits of the enclosure, where the multitude becomes “political”57—­and, of course, exposed, vulnerable, and unfinished. ­These spaces of an unformed new, the novum to which dis-­enclosure opens itself, particularly as they emerge from “geo­graph­i­cal mythologies,”58 ­will be picked up in Chapters 3 and 7. Particularly as it relates to the Gospel of Mark, the sea scenes outside 4:35–41 and 6:45–52 are significant in the way they position Jesus and ­those whom he desired (cf. 3:13) in a series of cross­ ings and separations. Crossings to the other side of the sea (τὸ πέραν τῆς θαλάσσης) in classical lit­er­a­ture frequently signified some mythic entry into a beyond. Such crossings ­were often associated with themes of death or so­ cial legitimation.59 The crossings of Mark’s Gospel are often ambiguous in terms of the whos and wheres,60 while also portraying a traumatic split in the constitution of desire itself.

10

Chapter 1

­ ere again, it is impor­tant to stress that such movements to the other H side at the limits of enclosure “often cost terrible suffering.”61 Hardt and Ne­ gri mention the repressive and restrictive mea­sures that Empire takes in order to prevent the movements of the multitude in “gaining po­liti­cal le­ gitimacy.”62 Such mea­sures as they relate to Roman practices of provincial enforcement have been documented in several excellent studies.63 ­Those who traversed to the other side (τό πέραν) could be held in suspicion.64 Even more than ­these threats of physical vio­lence and discipline, however, are the le­ gitimate risks of exposure to social bodies born through dis-­enclosure.65 In the case of Mark, the pro­cesses of traumatic rupture and dislocation placed a community in a position of dis-­enclosure. Life outside a recognizing ap­ paratus of the enclosure is thus a point of primordial exposure, even as it presses its own vulnerability into the edges of sovereignty’s feel.66

The Vibrancy of Nihil This is not a book about Derrida or Foucault or Nancy or Deleuze or Iriga­ ray. Far better books on ­these authors exist. By bending the Gospel of Mark into the composition of its question, The Godman and the Sea par­ ticipates in and extends the anx­i­eties and vari­ous programs of différance and dis-­enclosure. If rationality is the answer to the questions we ask and logocentrism is the naturalization of ­these answers, what is needed is an interrogative intervention of a dif­fer­ent sort, apart from ­these reifications of something. The asking of why ­there is something instead of nothing can neglect confronting the unsettling per­sis­tence of the Nothing. Something does not dispel the Nihil. The Nihil remains. Particularly in Chapter 7 of this volume, reflections on this point ­w ill be appropriated into what I call “a theology of the unfinished.” Even ­those with a feel for the edges of this nothingness, however, tend to shy away from embracing its fundamentality by attempting some move of revisioned hope—­what Irigaray powerfully referred to as the making of tragedies into occasional dance floors.67 Ray L. Hart, for example, writes that the question left “outstanding and unre­ solved is ­whether the nihil can be given its due without resulting in an ex­ haustive nihilism, construed as utter indifference to ­matters of meaning and value.”68 Following Ray Brassier, who has provocatively suggested that, far from being reduced to an “existential quandary,” this proj­ect sees Nihil providing a “speculative opportunity.”69 As Régis Debray notes, “Nothingness



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opens to every­thing.”70 This “every­thing,” however, must resist closing in on itself into discourses of revised hope.71 This “speculative opportunity,” the nothingness that opens to every­ thing, is a tragic vision. This vision functions as the point of intervention from which an attempt at theorizing the enclosure is launched through a reading of the sea and the traumatic in the Gospel of Mark.72 Just as the vast cosmic ocean of space is filled with fluids that move the world, I want to read in Mark’s mythopoesis of the sea something of the beyond, some­ thing of that nothingness that opens to every­thing, that trou­bles the en­ closing practices of sovereignty at its most insecure point, unfinishing all that is finished. Fredric Jameson captures the notion of the enclosure well: “[S]o many ­people seem immobilized in the institutions and the profession­ alization that seem to admit of no revolutionary change, not even of the evo­ lutionary or reform-­oriented kind. Stasis ­today, all over the world—in the twin condition of market and globalization, commoditization and financial speculation—­does not even take on a baleful religious sense of an implaca­ ble Nature; but it certainly seems to have outstripped any place for ­human agency, and to have rendered the latter obsolete.”73 Troubling for Jameson is his contention that we have “come to think of capitalism as natu­ral and eternal.” He calls for a Brechtian pain of becoming “in order to reach our more satisfying ­human possibilities.”74 The irony, of course, is Jameson’s apparent mislabeling of our age as one of stasis. It is dif­ ficult to think of an expression that better captures the contradictions of global capitalism than what Peter Minowitz has termed “frenetic motion.”75 What Jameson’s analy­sis of stasis communicates so well, however, is that this frenetic motion is wrested away from action, in the Arendtian sense, through pro­cesses of what the enclosure deems allowable and effects into a kind of subjective standardization.76 Similarly, Dale B. Martin, an eminent historian of early Chris­tian­ity, has issued a provocative proposal that “the most impor­tant phenomenon to be critically studied and debated in our time is capitalism.”77 What do schol­ ars of ancient texts possibly have to say about capitalism? One can be for­ given a mea­sure of skepticism in thinking that what­ever is put forward by scholars of antiquity ­will be lacking in complexity and force with re­spect to the politics of our moment’s current encircling of life. Simply to call “capi­ talism” names amounts to paltry critique. Martin, as a scholar of the New Testament, suggests critique along vocational lines. “Our job now,” he states, “is to think about capitalism, to avoid being sucked into its ideology and

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self-­defense and ‘naturalness,’ and to realize that ­human beings do not have to be oppressed by cap­i­tal­ist exploitation and ideology forever.”78 Martin’s critique of capitalism is undertaken in his proj­ect theologically by focusing on bodies, class structure and conflict, gender, economy, and politics in a materialist reading of the New Testament. In many ways, his call is near Jameson’s critique of the natu­ral, inevitable, and eternal nature of what they are naming “capitalism.”79 What this means for capitalism is not immedi­ ately apparent. Eternality, however, runs both ways. Perhaps, then, it is in the explication of alternative arrangements in history where Martin’s proposal is most pointed. As opposed to a critique of capitalism, The Godman and the Sea is interested in troubling practices of enclosure by bending the text of an ancient Gospel ­toward readings of dis-­enclosure while theorizing alternative resources from within the histories of Gospel writing for fresh unfinishings of early Gospel writing and Western self-­understandings.

Emancipating Emancipation and the Pain of Becoming In Žižek’s reading of Hegel’s foreword to his Phenomenology of Spirit, he la­ ments that “the standard by means of which we mea­sure the situation and establish that it is problematic is itself part of the prob­lem and should be abandoned.”80 Likewise, Nancy suggests that we might well need to “eman­ cipate ourselves from a certain thinking of emancipation.”81 We must be cured from the cure—­Nous guérir de la cure!82 The idea of the permissible, the au­ thorized, the bread and circuses of the enclosure’s allowance for protest, is what should fill our politics with anxiety. Be they protesters for the promise of an Arab Spring, occupants doubting the equity of Wall Street, or con­ cerned citizens voicing rage over racial discrimination, the images of protest are framed by an encircling enforcement of the enclosure. Protest is visibly demarcated by the lined, faceless “peacekeepers” wearing riot gear. The line of sovereignty encloses the commons wherein the aura of re­sis­tance becomes spectacle and self-­cleansing. Everywhere frenetic motion; nowhere change. Jameson was right: everywhere stasis. The complex and contradictory series of phenomena that we have come to call “early Chris­tian­ity” are the result of complicated pro­cesses of enclo­ sure. It enclosed its own miracles by inscribing them with a sense, a ratio­ nality, a description, a canon, and by “finishing” its Gospels into a genealogy and identity.83 But as Nancy has boldly and beautifully put it, “Chris­tian­ity



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designates nothing other . . . ​than the demand to open in this world an al­ terity or an unconditional alienation.”84 Though the Markan traumatic “pain of becoming” cannot be reduced to a “Chris­tian­ity,” it lends itself to ­these sorts openings of which Nancy speaks, or the horizons of distant comings presaged by Irigaray. Ostensively, then, this book is an experimental reading of the Gospel of Mark within early Gospel writing and the social force of the sea within its traumatized world. What Wilczek, Lawrence Krauss, and ­others have seen in the materiality and physicality of the cosmic ocean is read socially and meta­phor­ically into the watery myths of the Markan world. With Nancy, Irigaray, and ­others, a bent reading of Mark is offered that pre­sents a chal­ lenge to enclosing practices (the something) through mythopoesis and its confrontation with the beyond (the Nothing) of Mark’s mythic geography. Mark’s depiction of Jesus walking on the sea and his demonstration of au­ thority over natu­ral forces, for example, imposes a questioning of a real­ity upheld by a rationality that deems such acts (or ideas!) as madness (in that Marcusian sense). Yet this Markan madness, this abnormalization of enclo­ sure’s naturalization of the subject, this “standing outside of oneself,” as the Markan text ­will put it, does not stop ­there.85 It also refuses any dialectical definiteness on the actuality or “nature” of this act (or idea). That is to say, the impossibility of walking on the sea or exercising control over nature, as well as the mirror impossibility of inscribing that possibility into a rational­ ity of its own, pre­sents a twofold opening and tear. The vibrant Nihil out of which all ­things emerge is the undoing of any pretension of “final” and “finished.” This vibrant suspension subverts regimes of enclosure policed by this or that politics through a pain of becoming, challenging actualizing dialectics by releasing liberative energies for an alternative,86 for emerging subjectivities, for beings-­in-­the-­world, and expressions of love outside But­ ler’s historical fields of power. To insist on the unfinished, on the miracu­ lous, on the monstrous, is thus understood as a reckoning with the beyond—­w ith the Nihil that is teeming with so many ­things. Practices of enclosure are protections against the leveling threat of the beyond: they entrap a buffered self. Insecurity resides at the borders. An opening or tear­ ing of enclosure’s governing fabrics is thus not only a confrontation with sovereignty’s encircling mea­sure­ments but also an exposure to the howling chill of the beyond.87 As Carl Schmitt had it in his Land and Sea, life outside enclosure pre­sents humanity with the traumatic vision of horror vacui—of terror before absence;88 a place of insecurity for governing powers

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in fear of that distant coming; a position of terror and vulnerability for ­those socially exposed. ­Here I wish to stress an alignment with an essay by Robert J. Myles that holds the entrenched trope of “subversion” in early Christian studies in sus­ picion.89 Po­liti­cal agency in this proj­ect, following Judith Butler, is born through a traumatic pain of becoming, social decimation, trauma, and ec­ stasy (τρόμος καὶ ἒκστασις)—­not through triumphant leaders or messages of ironic hope. As with “the schizo” (le schizo) in Deleuze and Guattari, and the traumatic tear in Mark, I suggest trauma est hors territorialité, parce qu’il a porté ses flux jusque dans le désert. It is “beyond territoriality ­because it has carried its flows right into the wilderness.”90 Instead of the wild and unfin­ ished wilderness, I wish to speak of ­these realities manifesting themselves upon the unfinished spaces of the sea.

Descendants of Odysseus The Godman and the Sea is therefore a tale as much about theorizing a sub­ jectivity of difference, of dis-­enclosure and vulnerability, of the pain of be­ coming amid actualizing systems, enclosures, and affective economies, as it is about the seaside Galilean and a traumatized social body. Yet it is also a bending of ­these themes ­toward Melville’s “interior,” from which all our col­ lective pain screams inarticulately. By focusing on the sea in Mark, that “ele­ment of flux, danger and destruction” of which Hegel spoke,91 Jesus and the early Markan assemblies are placed within that web of wanderers that Margaret Cohen has elegantly named the “descendants of Odysseus.”92 Co­ hen states that Odysseus, that cunning king of Ithaca, applied his practical resourcefulness in “an enchanted cosmos,” while his maritime descendants employ their cunning to survive amid the risks and dangers of a world “aban­ doned by God.”93 Cohen speaks of this abandonment in terms, following György Lukács, of a cosmos both disenchanted and steeped in despair. The descendants of Odysseus are marked by their navigation of t­ hese desolate spaces, t­ hese “edges of an unknown, expanding, chaotic, violent,” sublunary realm of the beyond. Cohen brilliantly narrates the ways in which the sea produced a stage for the per­for­mance of ­human mastery and craft in this post-­abdicated world.94 What is distinct in the Markan seascapes, however, is the pointed absence of ­human craft or mastery. The fishermen called to follow Jesus in the opening



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scene of Mark’s Gospel (1:16–20), ­those who made their living from and ­were scented by the sea, are represented as lacking craft and agency in the sea scenes of 4:35–41 and 6:45–52. We ­will return to ­these points in Chap­ ters 4 and 6; for now, it is significant to adumbrate how the sea in Mark is neither theater nor stage for craft and ­human mastery but a space of cosmic collision, confusion, and confrontation—­a point to be extended in Chap­ ter 3, specifically around the question of relevance and ­later communities. To follow Cohen a bit further, significant for this proj­ect is her reading of the sea’s repre­sen­ta­tion in modernity as scenery for the sublime. Throughout The Novel and the Sea, Cohen speaks of the “edge zones” of modernity, of “wild spaces, ruled by ­great forces beyond ­human control” and the “reach of law.”95 ­These “edge zones” of modernity, as well as their expanse across the globe and through its waterways,96 ­were viewed by Hegel as the “natu­ral ele­ment for industry, animating its outward movement.”97 The seas of the globe during the eigh­teenth and nineteenth centuries, for example, became a “frontier of cap­i­tal­ist speculation,”98 the circulation of capital, and the bru­ tal byways of enslaved bodies.99 The seas ­were the frontiers of modernity.100 Modernity buffered itself at ­these wild zones through an insulation of vul­ nerable bodies even as ­these edge zones reflected back to it the very limits of its reach of recognition.101 The “monstrous, boundless sea,” as Baudelaire has it in Les sept vieillards (1861),102 or the “world beyond the line,”103 is the “space” at which enclosure—­ again, it is impor­tant to read “enclosure” as shorthand for all its forms and guises—is not only most insecure but also most violent. Carl Schmitt spoke of this phenomenon in what he termed wild zones “beyond the line” in Eu­ ro­pean strug­gles for land appropriations in the New World. The status of being “beyond the line” introduced “want of any ­legal limits to war” in the appropriation of ­these lands.104 As with the New World itself, the sea repre­ sents the “smooth spaces” of which Deleuze and Guattari speak, whereupon power competes and contests “for the purpose of controlling striated space more completely.”105 ­There is something dangerous about being out at sea—­ both for ­those who remain on land and for ­those embarked. My experimental reading strategy proposes the Gospel of Mark as an instance of an attempted mythopoetic consolation; as an attempted but unfinished forming of being through a traumatic pain of becoming; as an attempt to navigate an abandoned world for ­those traumatized by the swirling darkness of the empty tomb—­a nd, perhaps, the ruin and rubble of the fallen ­temple.106 ­These anx­i­eties are reflected in the sleeping Jesus of

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Mark 4:38 (see Chapter 4) and the passing by in 6:48 (see Chapter 6). This slumber might as well be the death of God. The only difference between death and slumber in this sense may well be an abstraction of temporality. Amid crises and alienating threat, howling winds and crashing waves, a slumber­ ing God is a dead God. Snoring Jesus amid chaotic seas is the anachronistic placement of a rotting corpse upon the disciples’ storm-­tossed boat. The roused Jesus is thus an enactment of replaced temporality and resurrection, of the return of God and dispelling of alienating threat. Yet even h ­ ere, Nan­ cy’s notion of “an unconditional alienation” remains amid the trauma and ecstasy of an empty tomb—­that exquisite signifier of dis-­enclosure.107 ­There is no repre­sen­ta­tion of resurrection in Mark—­only traumatic recurrence and its resulting somatic insecurities. Even at their most triumphant, the sea scenes bear the mark of trauma. Even at its core of attempted consolation, the myth remains unfinished, the community adrift and abandoned.

Homelessness and Dissociation Lukács suggested that the modern novel was an expression of modern con­ sciousness’s “transcendental homelessness” trapped in a disenchanted world. ­Here the “heroes, sundered from nature and community, set off in quest of interiority, psy­chol­ogy and ‘essence.’ ”108 Adorno and Horkheimer, forerun­ ners, in a fashion, to Cohen, positioned Odysseus as one who suffered from this homesickness of “moderns.”109 This homelessness cannot be reduced to a malaise of modernity. Odysseus, in his so-­called homecoming in Book 19 of the Iliad, is recognized as being in Ithaca only when his boyhood wound is witnessed by the el­derly maid, Euryclea. This witnessing of Odysseus’s scar functions as a vis­i­ble marking of what was no longer vis­i­ble. What was lost is witnessed “through the scar itself.”110 Significantly, the witnessing of his scar occurs during Euryclea’s lament of the absence of her old master. The traumatic loss brought on by separating seas and foreign wars cannot be erased. But ­there is something in the scar of Odysseus, in Euryclea’s mark­ ing of the wound, where trauma is given place amid absence.111 B. P. Reardon notes that ancient Greek novels “express a community’s perception of the forces that govern its existence” in the form of a narra­ tive.112 As Žižek would say, narration is “a survival mechanism.”113 It also entraps. Reading the Markan assemblies among the “descendants of Odysseus” dispels settlements of “identity” and “essence,” t­ hose entrapments of enclo­



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sure, in that the traumatic event is never erased—­only marked, scarred. The unfinished Markan myth therefore resists the stable doubling of the world in another one. We can read Mark as the circumvention of this doubling (and its critics) as a kind of play within the unfinished.114 The posttraumatic emergence of the Markan assembly as an abandoned community shatters any spectrum of continuity and the “new,” leaving new questions for communi­ ties and subjectivities conscripted by alienation and yet forever enacting its forms. W ­ hether we should call this “transcendental homesickness” or a post­ traumatic consolation, or a community abandoned by God is not impor­tant to me. I simply employ the concept of alienation to point, rather clumsily, to this shifting and emerging constellation of feelings and sentiments.

Formations of a Sentiment: Mark and the Oceanic What should we call this constellation of feelings? Perhaps more relevant is considering what produces such feelings. Chapter 7 attempts to explore this constellation through a kind of theology and revaluation of the unfinished. And Chapter 2 attempts to read Mark’s mythopoetic consolation as an ef­ fort to provide a mea­sure of temporal and spatial stabilization amid the so­ cial risks that threaten a community exposed by its opening and traumatic wound. ­Here, I want to align this constellation by appropriating from a Freudian reading of the oceanic and a post-­Marxist reading of alienation be­ fore turning to trauma itself.

* * * Upon receiving a copy of ­Future of an Illusion, Romain Rolland wrote to Freud and lamented his friend’s neglect of the sense of the limitless, the unbounded, the beyond, the “oceanic.”115 Rolland names this “sense” the “subterranean source of religious energy,” though it has subsequently been “cannibalized and dried up by the Churches.”116 Rolland extends his discussion of the oceanic sen­ timent, what he describes as “invisible forces that act in secret,”117 into what he terms a “ritualistic and multi-­secular physiology.”118 This feeling is dis­ tinct from knowledge and desire,119 and yet, Rolland warns, would prove dan­ gerous for any “phi­los­o­pher and man of action to ignore.”120 Freud would respond on 14 July 1929 that this notion of the oceanic has left him “no peace.”121 Troubling for Freud is his inability to arrive at the

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“oceanic” from his scientific commitments, referring to the mystical as a closed book.122 Nevertheless, he did not deny how such experiences and feel­ ings ­were “highly valuable for an embryology of the soul when correctly interpreted.” They remain “worthless,” however, “for orientation in the alien, external world.”123 Freud would return to this notion of the oceanic in a 1936 paper dedicated to Rolland, where he discusses feelings of “derealization.”124 This sense of derealization has been understood by Meissner as Freud’s at­ tempt to convey “oceanic feelings” as “the basis and springboard of religion—­ insofar as they are a defense against depression and the memory of a buried wound.”125 The oceanic arises out of its entanglement with the ego’s organ­ ization of the rational structures of the self.126 When the ego detaches itself from the external world and “regresses,”127 a sense of limitlessness and “a bond with the universe” manifests itself.128 This sense of “undifferentiated being,” as Milner calls it,129 is a point of creative tension in Freud. Out of this undifferentiated being arises an “oddly contradictory” combination of joy, with a sense of the real, on the one hand, and feelings of “derealization and depression on the other.”130 Stanley Schneider and Joseph H. Berke, in a series of intriguing stud­ ies,131 have suggested that the oceanic “seems bound up with our understand­ ing of consciousness,” and the “latent unification with the hidden.”132 ­W hether we should call this “consciousness” is immaterial, but the concept of the oceanic as a “latent unification with the hidden” is significant. Freud would speak of the oceanic as defying “characterization” and would even ad­ mit to having “nothing to suggest which could have a decisive influence on the solution of this prob­lem.” He goes on to suggest, however, that the oce­ anic represents a kind of “feeling of an indissoluble bond, of being one with the external world as a ­whole.”133 The ego is “subject to disturbances,” and its “bound­a ries” remain inconstant.134 The aim is not to provide a reading Freud or even to appropriate him necessarily. And ­there is certainly no attempt to locate anything of ­human confrontation with the beyond to something essentially within. Placing the “oceanic” within spatial pro­cesses of differentiating what is internal and what is external, between inconstancy and latent unifications of and with what is hidden, pro­cesses of derealization and disturbance, and the “oceanic” emerg­ ing out of a memory of a buried wound, however, are at the heart of this proj­ect.135 The point of departure is that this “oceanic” bond is read not as some fons et origo, neither source nor origin, but as a series of emerging re­ sponses to and a kind of parabolic enactment of social alienation and trauma.



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Moreover, I suggest that ego, or social identity, is not only subject to distur­ bance but is the very effect of disturbance. Karl Jaspers, in an interview given in 1966, suggested: Die Unendlichkeit des Meeres ist etwas, das uns befreit—­the infinity of the sea is something that ­frees us.136 He continued: “The sea has become something like a self-­evident background of life as such: i.e., the presence of infinity; every­thing in movement. The sea is always changing yet within the ­great order of infinity. The infinity of the sea is like the ex­ perience of freedom that brings life to where solidity ends and the infinite secret begins.” In this experimental reading of Mark’s Gospel, “Mark” is not respond­ ing to some original “oceanic” bond so much as it is attempting to form such bonds in disintegrating and traumatized communities. The Gospel of Mark is a series of narrative strategies, disturbances emerging out of trauma; an attempt in the formation of a social bond, a sensibility, a disposition, a feel­ ing, of stabilizing and structurating coordinates for a community whose com­ pass had broken—­all while bearing the mark of an originary trauma,137 all while constitutively unable to be finished. Such language, however, risks sev­ eral technical missteps that should be addressed.

Disturbance and Alienation In Franco Berardi’s seminal study, The Soul at Work, he inserts the term “soul,” despite its lexical absence in the historical period, as a meta­phor with which to “rethink the core of many questions referring to the issue of alien­ ation” during varying manifestations of Marxist thought in the 1960s. Ac­ cording to the Italian Workerism movement (Operaismo), alienation was understood as the “relationship between ­human time and cap­i­tal­ist value.”138 For Hegel, “alienation” (Entäusserung) referred to the sense in which the self becomes something ­else, something other.139 Or, as Berardi puts it, “to the historical and mundane separation existing between the Being and the existent.”140 For Marx, alienation marked the rupture between life and l­abor. In the 1844 Manuscripts, Marx notes how alienation (Entäusserung) and estrangement (Entfremdung) refer to the same pro­cess but from two perspec­ tives. “The devaluation of the ­human world grows in direct proportion to the increase in value of the world of t­ hings.”141 As Berardi sees it, alienation is a loss not of ­human authenticity but an “estrangement from capitalistic interest, and therefore as a necessary condition for the construction—in a

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space estranged from and hostile to l­abor relations—of an ultimately h ­ uman 142 relationship.” ­These issues became central concerns for the Frankfurt School as well as vari­ous inflections of existentialism.143 Through the philosophical style of Italian Workerism, however, alienation became understood as “the sepa­ ration between ­human beings, the loss of ­human essence in historical exis­ tence,” and the formation of compositionism.144 Compositionism parted with anticipations of the restoration of “humanity,” or an essentialist ­human uni­ versality, and instead framed alienation in terms of class conflict. In other words, it is precisely b­ ecause of “the radical inhumanity of the workers’ ex­ istence that a ­human collectivity can be founded, a community no longer dependent on capital. It is indeed the estrangement of the workers from their ­labor, the feeling of alienation, and its refusal, that are the bases for a ­human collectivity autonomous from capital.”145 In a series of writings published in Classe operaia and Potere operaio, es­ trangement began to replace alienation to mark ­these shifted concerns. It was felt that the latter assumes a “previous h ­ uman essence.” The former, how­ ever, holds the placement of ­labor in the natu­ral condition of ­human social­ ity in suspicion. Estrangement ­favors ­labor in a “specific historical condition that needs to undergo a po­liti­cal critique.”146 The formulation of laborers es­ tranged from their ­labor thus introduces possibilities of liberation while the concept of alienation reflects “the pro­cess by which the identical is restored.”147 As Berardi notes, if “we want to exit the Hegelian field of prob­lems, we have to let go of the dialectic, we have to abandon the idea of an original truth to be restored, both on the level of the self-­realization of the spirit and of the self-­assertion of radical Humanism.”148 What he terms “the matrix” blocks the event, reducing real­ity to the Log­os, establishing sameness and identity. “To be recognized in the networked universe one must become compatible with the generative logic of the matrix.”149 Madness and foul spirits—­hic sunt dracones, as the Hunt-­Lenox Globe (1510) has it—­roam outside. Berardi brilliantly captures what we have been calling the enclosure’s effective forces and formalized structures of recognition. What happens out­ side is ­either madness or demonic, or simply does not count or qualify. And he does well in reminding us how the language of “return” or “restoration” perhaps reifies the very pro­cesses we wish to trou­ble. ­There is no original truth, as such, to be restored. Perhaps we should follow Berardi’s suggestive language of “estrangement” in order to stress this alignment. In this con­ figuration, ­there can be no rhe­toric or politics of return. ­There is instead



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emergence and an insistence on contingency. What we might call the open­ ing that is Chris­tian­ity is therefore outside the field of return—it is “not ­behind us: it is in front of us.”150 Yet ­there is something of “alienation” that I wish to retain.151 ­There is no original truth to be restored in my reading of the Markan Gospel. The named subjectivities that count within the enclosure are the productions and pro­cesses of disturbance. But the enclosure—­the something that boasts to be every­thing—is itself a disturbance. Though dangerous and deadly, enclo­ sure is, as Irigaray beautifully puts it, “showy rubbish.”152 We ­will have to return to estrangement—­the making strange, the making of strangers—as it relates to a Markan theology of the unfinished. Nancy’s notion of “uncon­ ditional alienation,” however, allows for this. Alienation affirms the funda­ mental origin of all ­things as disturbances of the Nothing. It also refuses any being of alienation as conditioned by disturbances within enclosure’s sprawl. This is the radical critique of the stars: Nothing, in par­tic­u­lar. This is the radical unbecoming—­t hat more distant coming—to which trauma exposes us: Nothing, in par­tic­u­lar. To live as an assembly of dis-­enclosure, of “unconditional alienation,” poses social risks. To be estranged and alienated—to be stranger and alien— is to be incompatible with the working world and all its benefits.153 As Marx read Feuerbach, the “more man puts into God, the less he retains within himself.”154 This, of course, is meant as a critique of religion. It might also reveal something fundamental about the social risks caused by the absent body of Jesus. A ­ fter hearing of the difficulties of entering the kingdom of God (10:17–27), his disciples ­were “greatly astounded” (περισσῶς ἐξεπλήσσοντο), and Peter cries out as if to remind their rabbi: “Look, we have left every­ thing and followed you” (ἰδοὺ ἡμεῖς ἀφήκαμεν πάντα καὶ ἠκολουθήκαμέν σοι). The response placed on the lips of Jesus in the next verse appears to affirm Peter’s boast. Houses, ­brothers, ­sisters, ­mothers, ­fathers, ­children, and even fields appear to have been left on account of (ἕνεκα) Jesus and the Gospel (τοῦ εὐαγγελίου; v. 29). The fascinating economies of value and re­ distribution aside (cf. 10:30),155 what is impor­tant for this proj­ect’s purposes is the way in which the figure, with and around whom bodies so radically identified and aligned themselves, is now traumatically absent.156 A separa­ tion more than death: disappearance. No body to mourn; no death to mark. ­After abandoning all on account of Jesus and the Gospel—or, to appropriate Marx, ­after putting all of themselves into another—­the threat of losing even more loomed large with a disappearance that was more than death. “So

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they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement [τρόμος καὶ ἒκστασις] had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they ­were afraid [ἐφαβοῦντο]” (16:8).

Trauma and the Paradox of Loss The Markan assembly is the marking of a wound of unbecoming. Its scar marks an originary community of loss, alienation, and trauma and ecstasy (τρόμος καὶ ἒκστασις). As Freud put it, we “are never so defenseless against suffering as when we love, never so helplessly unhappy as when we have lost our loved object or its love.”157 Violent death and empty tomb formed a real­ ity too strong for ­those whom Jesus desired—­whose traumatized witness haunted ­later repre­sen­ta­tions of “the Markan community” and finishings in Gospel writing. With no body to mourn, the empty tomb became an event of derealization. It refracted an all-­too-­present absence back into life and re­ vealed the fundamental threat of the Nothing, even as it placed ­those whom Jesus desired beyond the encircling practices of enclosure. This, as we ­shall argue in Chapter 2, was a point of embarrassment for early Gospel writing—­ one that vari­ous writings increasingly attempted to expunge. Yet this origi­ nary loss haunted t­ hese l­ater repre­sen­ta­tions. But how can we speak of loss? Judith Butler has provocatively posed the paradox of loss as a condition that can never be overcome but is si­mul­ta­neously productive.158 Loss, Butler contends, must be “marked,” but it can never be represented as loss. Loss fractures repre­sen­ta­tion.159 The longing to which loss gives rise is the trace of that “something” that was lost somewhere and at some time. Yet with trauma, place, time, desire, and the meaningful assortment of ­these divi­ sions are lost.160 Loss, Butler insists, is not the cessation of thought but in­ stead the emergence of a dif­fer­ent kind of thought from the ruins.161 Though irrecoverable, the traces of this social decimation can become the paradoxi­ cal condition “of a new po­liti­cal agency.”162 But how to get ­there—to a place from the no-­place of traumatic dissociation? Though Butler cautions that “no story can be told about that which was lost,”163 significant for my purposes, particularly in Chapter 2, are the ways that thought-­as-­ruins are placed through mythopoesis. ­These claims are not agonistic with each other. Through the condition of loss, place, time, and desire are destroyed, vacated, barred. This loss is neither redeemed nor re­ stored. But ­there, in the rubble of ­things, is the opening to a more distant



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coming: the new. Newness, Butler contends, “is founded upon the loss of orig­ inal place, and so it is a newness that has within it a sense of belatedness, of coming a­ fter, and of being thus fundamentally determined by a past that continues to inform it.” This new place and, indeed, this new time and new desire are points of “no belonging.” And this “no belonging,” this loss, is never overcome but instead becomes a sensation, a feeling ­toward some attempted belonging. Loss thus contains no chronology or genealogy. Though “oddly fecund” and “paradoxically productive,” even this productivity that emerges from loss “cannot constitute a rewriting of the past or a redemption that would successfully reconstitute its meaning from and as the pre­sent. What­ ever is produced from this condition of loss ­will bear the trace of loss” and its wounds as a community of loss through the traumatic pain of becoming.164 In this re­spect, it is not unsurprising that Mark is the only synoptic Gos­ pel without a genealogy, and with a notoriously perplexing chronology and ending. The text of Mark, of course, is not a repre­sen­ta­tion of an originary trauma but bears its mark in all its ­later textual witnesses. As we ­shall see in ­later chapters, witness itself is traumatized and remains incomplete. Specifi­ cally as it relates to somatic insecurity, the splitting of desire and the dislo­ cation of space and time, the originary trauma of separation issuing from the empty tomb haunts ­later textual traditions. ­Later reading communities of Mark must have sensed something of it in the vulnerability of the origi­ nating desire in their current strug­gles in order for it to have been preserved. ­These problematics of relevance and the mark of trauma in the textual his­ tories of Gospel writing ­will be addressed in Chapter 2. The point ­here is that the unfinished feel of Mark is owing to the very nature of an originary traumatic haunting. Instead of competing or conflicting mythologies in Gos­ pel writing,165 then, we may well view ­later textual traditions as completing mythologies that attempt to expunge the embarrassment of the unfinished nature of an originary trauma haunting Mark.

Trauma and Somatic Insecurity In Bessel van der Kolk’s work on the psychosomatic effects of trauma, he argues that witnessing happenings of terror can lead to “intense and largely accurate” memories of the event for significant periods of time.166 The more adrenaline that is secreted, the more vivid the memory ­will be. As van der Kolk cautions, however, this is “true only up to a certain point.” Horror and

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terror can overwhelm and break down memory pro­cesses and connections to space and time. Traumatic experiences, of course, prove challenging rec­ reations for any laboratory testing. Van der Kolk conjectures that when over­ whelmed by horror and loss, the frontal lobe shuts down, along with its regions responsible for putting feelings into words, and creates our sense of location. The thalamus is likewise damaged, which integrates our sensory experiences of the outside world. The brain organizes the imprints of trau­ matic experiences “not as coherent logical narratives but in fragmented sen­ sory and emotional traces, images, sounds, and physical sensations.”167 Lost are orientations of time, group narratives, social bonds, and spatial aware­ ness. Trauma ruptures perceptions and situations of being in the world, and is marked in, on, and by the body. ­These dynamics are reflected in Constance’s heart-­wrenching dirge for her departed son, Arthur, in Shakespeare’s The Life and Death of King John (1623):168 Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form; Then, have I reason to be fond of grief? Fare you well: had you such a loss as I, I could give better comfort than you do. I ­will not keep this form upon my head, When t­ here is such disorder in my wit. O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son! My life, my joy, my food, my all the world! My widow-­comfort, and my sorrows’ cure! Arthur’s absence is one that refuses to remain so. It is filled by the specter of another. The language of repetition is impor­tant. ­There is no return to the words of her absent child or of the child himself. Grief “repeats his words.” Grief takes his form. Grief disrupts and disorders.169 It represents Arthur’s form but in ways that only highlight his a­ ctual absence. Absence cannot re­ sist being filled. Yet presence cannot deny its per­sis­tent lack. ­There is no repre­sen­ta­tion of trauma. When the needle of wit skips, only repetition



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follows—­skipping along the scratches of ruin. Space, “all the world,” as Con­ stance has it, and time are stuck in a traumatic loop. T ­ here is no placement of loss in the past. King Philip’s rebuke of Constance thus proves ironic: “You are as fond of grief as of your child.” On the one hand, it is a statement that Constance herself cannot deny: “Then, have I reason to be fond of grief?” Grief fills and repeats the form of young Arthur. And so grief becomes the repetition of her beloved. On the other hand, the king could not be more wrong. His rebuke as­ sumes and imposes a foreclosure of temporality upon Constance that can­ not be experienced as an ordered chronology of happenings. As Walter Kalaidijan states, “traumatic memory opens a certain epistemological crisis in the discursive regime of archival commemoration. As wound, disaster, catastrophe and so on, trauma breaches discursive repre­sen­t a­t ion and eclipses thought itself.”170 It fractures and scrambles “historical understand­ ing.”171 This is what Adorno misses when he claims “to write poetry ­a fter Auschwitz is barbaric.”172 King Philip and Adorno both reproduce a tempo­ rality of locating Constance and Holocaust victims ­after the traumatic event, as opposed to within the deferred action (Nachträglichkeit) of trauma’s “un­ folding event.”173 ­There can be no poetry ­after Auschwitz precisely ­because ­there is, as such, no ­after for ­those suspended in traumatic recurrence and disorder.

Narrating the Ruins Trauma scrambles previous patterns of memory while looping the traumatic event as repetition. What van der Kolk calls “ordinary memory” tends to be adaptive and flexible and is modified according to circumstances. It is “es­ sentially social.”174 Traumatic memory, however, introduces “dissociation” (désagrégation). Following the pioneering work of Pierre Janet (De l’automatisme physiologique [1889]), van der Kolk explains how the dissociation of traumatic experience introduces attachments to “an insurmountable obstacle.”175 This obstacle prevents the assimilation of new experiences. Therapy, as Janet saw it, seeks to integrate traumatic memory into a wider narrative that locates the event in a past, allowing for pre­sent functioning. The normal pro­cesses of memory integrate ele­ments of experience “into the continuous flow of self-­ experience by a complex pro­cess of association.”176 Attending to trauma thus

26

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seeks to integrate t­ hese dissociative states into a person’s or community’s “on­ going narrative of life.”177 Narrative is mobilized against the many dissocia­ tive forms of trauma’s “speechless terror.”178 Han Baltussen has produced a series of in­ter­est­ing studies on ancient Roman consolation traditions, particularly in the writing of Cicero.179 Book 3 of Cicero’s Tusculan Disputations, for example, is devoted to the grief Cicero feels at the loss of his ­daughter, Tullia.180 In Consolation, he concludes with a kind of apotheosis of Tullia.181 He even planned a shrine for her in an attempt at consolation (ad Att. 12.49, 12.18.1)—­though apparently it was never built. Baltussen makes an intriguing distinction between what is felt and how this feeling is channeled. Cicero explored the therapeutic value of writ­ ing amid the trauma of loss and his “maladaption” to it.182 No one can ever know what Cicero felt, but the channeling of ­those feelings into material forms proves intriguing points at which to detect formations of sentiment and restructurations and stabilizations of a lacerated real­ity. Sorrow was given words, to evoke the Bard, to curb a shattered heart—or, in the case of Mark, a crumbling symbolic cosmos.183 The giving of words to social wounds is a useful way to approach Mark as a Gospel bearing the mark of trauma and ecstasy.184 We ­w ill discuss this further in Chapter 2, in a reading of Mark as an attempted narration of a world for ­those whose spatial and temporal being was frayed by alienation and trauma. “Mark” consoles by building among the ruins of the unbear­ able features staring back at the abandoned community through the trau­ matic repetition of a mangled corpse and an empty tomb. In defiance to what Freud might call “illusion,” this Markan mythopoetic consolation is the narration of a posttraumatic pain of becoming, the marking of loss and ruin as a place for communal self-­determination, and a place to gather.185 Emotional responses are, of course, culturally determined.186 By attending to the channeling of ­these feelings in Gospel form, in narrative, we are witnessing the formation of a sentiment,187 a kind of remapping of alien­ ation into a recast immanence of reassociation via ­those “magical conduc­ tors” that “abolish distances of space and time.”188 Alienation, as Žižek has it, generates a “Self.”189 The “subject is the outcome of a loss.”190 Instead of rebuilding the matrix of the Markan community’s place in early Chris­tian­ ity, then, I suggest considering the traumatic point of loss as not only the point around which “all the variations and fragments circulate,”191 as it ­were, but the haunting wound from which a sentiment arose as a means of



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stabilizing a community of loss. Yet, as haunted and traumatized, the com­ munity remains unfinished.

Marked, but Unfinished Maia Kotrosits and Hal Taussig have similarly suggested a reading of Mark’s Gospel that addresses pain, loss, and trauma.192 They position Mark as a “dis­ tant companion” in the strug­gle to create “more detailed and complicated pictures to account for the world’s muddle.”193 In the ending of Mark, they see the “howl of defeat and aloneness” confronting a community amid an unrelenting and mocking death.194 This confrontation, they insist, is cre­ ative.195 It produces an “unsteady opening.”196 Narrative, as they beautifully phrase it, “staggers uncomfortably ­toward won­der, extravagant surprise, and healing in and among the leftover scraps of a recent history of destruction.” From traumatic wound and gaping loss, a “reparative impulse” births narrative form. And this form assem­bles the “jagged historical and cultural fragments” into what they term a “never-­before existing ­whole.”197 The study of Kotrosits and Taussig is an impor­tant guide for The Godman and the Sea. But can we speak of Mark as a “­whole”? The view suggested ­here, however, is that Mark itself, as with Cicero’s shrine, remains unfin­ ished. The complex textual histories of this claim have been well documented and, indeed, theorized.198 Much of the debate turns on the placement of γάρ in 16:8. Can an ancient document end with this particle? If so, how would one translate it? Some have suggested that such a reading “deprives the ­whole Gospel of completeness.”199 Lightfoot defends the placement of γάρ as the “original ending” by appealing to parallels in classical Greek, LXX, and early Christian writers.200 Magness proposes ­these histories as evidence not of some lost, absent, or omitted ending but a sophisticated literary technique of a “suspended ending.”201 What­ever the case may be, the suspended and the unfinished are read ­here as a reflection of the traumatic as well as a strate­ gic, mythopoetic consolation of the repetition.202 The dif­fer­ent hands that account for 16:9–20 are thus read as a filling of what is empty, 203 of speaking over silence. Such filling and chat could be brought about only by ­those act­ ing outside the wound. ­Those marked as a community of loss are conditioned by that loss and remain within the traumatic temporal loop of repetition. The textual traditions of vv. 9–20 spring from the impatience of Eliphaz,

28

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Bildad, and Zophar; of King Philip and ­those who speak over silence and call for a moving on. 204 The text, bearing this originary traumatic mark, then, cannot be w ­ hole. Its monument can never be finished. In Freud’s understanding of “traumatic neurosis,” the event is always un­ wittingly reenacted as what can never simply be left ­behind. Cathy Caruth has extended this insight through her reading of the lexical origins of trauma (τρόμος) as “an injury inflicted on a body”205 and the voice that arises from that wound. 206 The wound cries out from, and as, repetition. Trauma refuses historicization or being located in some original event. It remains unassimilated and incomprehensible. Mark as a traumatized text is thus un-­whole, bearing the mark of inarticulate screams. It is tattered and in­ complete, marking a tattered and incomplete community. It reflects the trau­ matic even as it attempts to place that trauma into a re-­temporalized order. In this slight departure from Kotrosits and Taussig, then, I do not wish to stray from their positioning the form of Mark, with its diffuse and unfin­ ished, jagged fragments, as a newness that springs from loss. The material form arises from the traumatic wound and the absence of a body to mourn. Yet the form is never ­whole or finished. The textual paradox of incomplete­ ness is owing to the paradox of loss itself. It bears the marks of trauma that cannot, but must, speak. ­Here again, we witness the vibrancy of loss, the something of Nothing, the pregnancy of emptiness ­earlier posed by Butler and Irigaray. Thirteenth-­ century Sufi mystic Jalāl ad-­Dīn Muhammad Rūmī (1207–73) spoke of this vibrancy in his poem “Buoyancy”: This emptiness, more beautiful than existence, it obliterates existence, and yet when it comes, existence thrives and creates more existence!207 It is ­here I want to trou­ble notions of an “early Christian identity” and of Mark as a finished or ­whole text.208 Identity is always something on the way, a purchase. It is disruption, an existent born out of the surplus of existence. As such, social bound­a ries are movable even as they are maintained or de­ fended. The stakes for the loose associations of ­those who followed a leader understood or put forward in some sense to be “God’s son” could never have been higher than at the time of the leader’s death. The absence of the lead­ er’s body set the formation of ­these loose groups and assemblies into anx­ ious motion. ­Those who had gathered around the now-­absent body in some



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manner of social arrangement ­were left exposed and vulnerable. It was a mo­ ment of peril. A ­ fter trauma and loss, ­there is never a ­simple return to some “time” before. ­There is, in fact, no ­after. The absence of Jesus’ body birthed a new presence—­a traumatic body among existing bodies. Mark’s mytho­ poesis is a way of forming a sentiment as well as marking the trauma of the absence of Jesus’ body as part of this social body’s history. The Gospel of Loss is thus a posttraumatic animation of a new body, marked on the social body of the Markan community. The loss of the body of Jesus, and with it the loss of place and time, produced from this condition of loss a new po­liti­ cal agency, a new body politic, an emergent existence among the social body of Judaism.209 This is what I refer to in Chapter 7 as the tragic vision of the Markan community of loss.210

Ecstasy and Excess What­ever the par­tic­u­lar details of Jesus’ public execution may have been, 211 they ­were likely traumatic for early witnesses on multiple levels. Seeing the mutilated body on public display would have cut deep “wounds of memory.” ­These wounds would have been compounded, owing to the social attach­ ments of ­those who dissociated from previous social bonds and reassociated around the Nazarene and all he symbolized. The public display of this cru­ cified body was thus a threatening reflection to the social body’s own shame­ ful extinction.212 Yet ­those whom Jesus desired (cf. 3:13) ­were not ­there to witness the crucifixion or his body. Nor, moreover, was the witness of the absent body transmitted (16:8). Witness itself in Mark is traumatized. This proj­ect seeks to shift the event of the pain of becoming away from cross and resurrection to the traumatic wound of the empty tomb.213 ­There was no body to mourn. Yet it was precisely this “wound to the social body” and the “disintegration of old habits” that allowed for “the opportunity for a new order.”214 The empty tomb, that point of traumatic loss and absence—­ that Nothing of which Debray speaks—­opens to every­thing. As unfinished, trauma ­couples with ecstasy (ἕκστασις) to produce a mythic temporality of repetition. The spatial and temporal location of this repetition for Mark ­will be addressed in Chapters 2 and 3. At this point, it is impor­tant to under­ score how this repetition is never a return to an origin but a traumatic pain of becoming. An opening, yes—­but to a primordial vulnerability along the horizons of excess.

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The interplay between the mythic portrayal of the sea and the empty tomb in Mark’s Gospel occurs in their mutual signifying of unsaying and threat. The chaotic sea and the “empty” tomb are narrated as the unsaying of enclosing practices that name, gender, and classify. But this unsaying also exposes and threatens. Enlightening to ­these movements is Derrida’s read­ ing of Bataille—­who, Derrida suggests, is best read with re­spect to his scat­ tering of excess in the enclosing system of Hegel. As Bataille saw it, Hegel’s system depended upon a view of knowledge as complete or on its way. Ba­ taille’s scattered seeds of excess, on the contrary, open ­these enclosing sys­ tems to nonmeaning and radical negativity.215 Bataille unsays the completeness of Hegel’s system into what he calls a founding of truth on incompletion. This unsaying, of course, is the point where enclosure is threatened with a tear in its royal wears. But as Derrida notes, excess, even as it dis-­encloses, leads to threat and exposure.216 Significant for Bataille is the laceration that excess works. The lacerat­ ing effects of excess opens the subject (or group) to arrangements outside the enclosure. This laceration, or what Lacan might call the “ruin,” releases jouissance: that excess/ecstasy that “goes beyond,” dissolving both the subject and its protective mea­sures in the pro­cess.217 Bataille notes how his medita­ tion on the photo­graph of a torture victim lacerated the “sphere” that “en­ closed” his own “personal particularity.”218 Amy Hollywood, in her brilliant exposition and exploration of mysticism, connects ­these sentiments with Ba­ taille’s discussion of catastrophe—­those radical experiences of the beyond—­ specifically to what is central about the crucifixion. 219 For Bataille, the significance of the crucifixion “is neither who is on it, nor the salvific nature of his suffering, but the suffering itself, which serves as the projected image through which the subject experiences his or her own dissolution.”220 It is this dissolution that leads not only to an “ecstasy in the void” and an “ec­ stasy before the void” but an ecstasy emerging from the void itself, as the void is the vibrant point of all excess.221 And, for Bataille, it is from this dis­ solution where communication occurs and new communities emerge.222 We ­will return to this in Chapter 2, but I wish to adumbrate what ­will follow by placing the social nature of existence in this reading of trauma and ecstasy. What happens to existence when the social itself has been lacerated? As we have seen above, traumatic memories require a therapy of narrative. It is in the retelling of the traumatic event that sets the skipping needle, re­ placing the logic of repetition with reordered desires and embodied memo­ ries into meaningful narrations. ­Here we must harken to the shrewd wisdom



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of Patricia Yaeger. She warns of the all-­too-­hasty reflex of giving speech for the dead.223 In par­tic­u­lar, ­there is danger in placing the dead—or, in this case, the exposed—­into sweeping salvation-­historical narratives of redemp­ tion or po­liti­cal tropes that skirt over the real­ity of their loss and their trauma. Worthwhile, too, is taking heed of Durkheim’s reflections on the mal de l’infini, the pain of the infinite, in his text Suicide. “Irrespective of any ex­ ternal regulatory force, our capacity for feeling is in itself an insatiable and bottomless abyss. But if nothing external can constrain this capacity it can only be a source of torment itself.”224 Excess proves inherently dangerous and threatening ­unless ­limited by social norms and controls of the internal sort (Freud) or the external (Durkheim). Excess produces real social risks and a fundamental problematic. 225 Life within the enclosure offers a negotiated sense of security. Life outside: horror vacui. Key for this proj­ect is Bataille’s placement of his account of communi­ cation “in and through the lacerating real­ity of the other’s suffering” as what “does not embrace any salvific narrative and does not reduce the suffering other” to their use value in this or that politics or proj­ect.226 Or, again, as Irigaray has it, what refuses to turn tragedy into occasional dance floors.227 This is precisely where Sartre’s critique of Bataille meets its own ironic turn. For Sartre, to be ­human is to be engaged in proj­ects. In Sartre’s reading of Bataille, he has difficulty seeing how the latter’s thought can engage in mean­ ingful politics or proj­ects. He sees Bataille as attempting to escape tempo­ rality, history, and responsibility.228 The particulars of this debate are better surveyed and analyzed elsewhere.229 Significant is what trou­bles Sartre: the very nature of excess leads to what is beyond and therefore outside of proj­ ects and politics. Again, we must stress the roles of unsaying and threat. Ex­ cess leads to exposure and threat—to exile and banishment. It also refuses what has been said through a lacerating of enclosure’s lexical rule. Though Bataille does, of course, write—as did Derrida! As do I!—­his writing was not a therapeutic attempt of bringing trauma and catastrophe into language “in order to give them meaning, shape, or coherence.” It was instead an at­ tempt “to traumatize writing itself—­and through this traumatized writing to communicate the writer’s self-­shattering apprehension of catastrophe to the reader.”230 It is through laceration that communication and community engage in a tragic politics of contestation and change—­a change that is al­ ways and can only be “incomplete, unfinished, and without limit.”231 The enclosure may offer security, but only ­after subjectivity has been surrounded by its sovereign, encircling practices. As Bataille suggests, “society

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gives to the individual the easy life.”232 To live within enclosure is to be part of its rules and modes of exchange.233 The pre­sent—­and its histories and speculations—­however, is forever in excess of politics or proj­ects.234 The security of the enclosure is thus governed by a rule of insecurity. It is pre­ cisely ­here where I think we might be able to read the mythic geographies of the sea scenes, and the trauma and ecstasy emerging from the empty tomb in Mark’s Gospel, as a “tear,” a laceration, an opening within enclosure. We must also read “Mark” as torn, lacerated, opened, and unfinished. The tear (σχίζω) of Mark’s Gospel offers something of a fragmented frame.235 It is ­here, somewhere in the unfinished, where Mark provides a place from which to refuse the enfolding forces of enclosure in its confrontation with the be­ yond. It is in its tragic vision of the unfinished where a po­liti­cal agency may emerge.

Old Men, Godmen, and the Tragedy of the Sea This is a story of ­going beyond, of trespass, of the incomplete and of tragic vision. It is a story of trauma and ecstasy and the pain of becoming. For this reason, a wide reading is offered across a range of disciplines that deal with the problematics of trauma, loss, and their repre­sen­ta­tions. Historically, dis­ cussions of the sea in the Gospels are dominated by disputes over godmen (θεῖος ἀνήρ) and vari­ous formulations of Christology.236 The Godman and the Sea, specifically in its final chapter, turns away from Christologies of tri­ umph and theologies of hope and the redemptions of which Yaeger warns, attending instead to a tragic, unfinished vision emerging from trauma and ecstasy. In conversation with modern novelists such as Proust, Kafka, and, of course, Hemingway, 237 it suggests a bending of Mark as tragic vision, as a gospel of dis-­enclosure, which places gospel witness in all its edge and vibrant vulnerability. But why experiment or play with ancient texts such as Mark? I think we can say something about existence and what has become through pain’s past by engaging ­these texts. The challenge, of course, is that approaches make their own findings. ­There may be something out ­there. And, as Iain McGilchrist suggests, that something may exist apart from ourselves. Nev­ ertheless, “we play a vital part in bringing it into being.” Central to McGil­ christ’s proj­ect is the significance of dispositions “as being fundamental in grounding what it is that we come to have a relationship with, rather than the



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other way around.” As he goes on to say, the pattern of this disposition “ac­ tually alters the world: we are, literally, partners in creation.”238 ­There are invariably many fragments of my own becoming and biogra­ phy in this text. I also think ­there is something inseparable from our life and ­these many texts that have emerged from the ruins. They say something about existence. Vari­ous versions of the triumphalistic and hopeful Gospel narrative have sunk into the deep structures of life that have fused with our pre­sent and superficial politics. In this re­spect, the tragic vision of Mark’s Gospel can unsay something about this form of life to which we have been reduced.239 Régis Debray speaks of the ways in which “God is made of the same textual fabric as our secularity.”240 ­There may be something to this, and it could occupy us at a l­ater time.241 The point is to attempt to perform in some minor way what Luc Ferry has done with re­spect to Greek myths.242 I wish to conjure “sleeping meta­phors” of Mark’s Gospel as an unfinished tragic vision and set its “linguistic afterlife” as a gospel of dis-­enclosure loose into an unsaying of current questioning of our moment.243 Following Mc­ Gilchrist, then, ­there is something relevant in this ancient text with which we might partner—­not only in the creation of new expressions of life but also in the de-­creation and unsaying of life’s pre­sent forms.244

A Sketch of the Path Ahead As opposed to offering a general overview or summary, this chapter has al­ ternatively attempted to position the volume’s anx­i­eties and objectives in a series of conversations and concerns. The overwhelming themes that domi­ nate scholarly interaction with the sea scenes in the Gospels and early Chris­ tian­ity tend ­toward varying scripts of θεῖος ἀνήρ (godmen), high Christology, or some form of counter-­imperial positioning. The point being marshaled ­here is not the restoration of some original portrait of a historical, radical, or subversive Jesus from which a politic is being recovered. The point, rather, is to think through the resulting social abeyance, exposure, and vulnerability issuing from the empty tomb, and how from this laceration of real­ity a tear emerges in the fabric of enclosure’s royal wears. The Gospel of Mark bears the mark of this originary trauma and loss, lending itself to a reading of tragic vision, a theology of the unfinished, and a politics of life outside the “comforts” of sovereignty’s sphere—­what Jean-­Luc Nancy re­ fers to as “dis-­enclosure.” This has historical implications for the relevance

34

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of the Gospel for early readers of Mark experiencing the trauma of the de­ struction of the ­temple.245 Po­liti­cal agency in this proj­ect, following Judith Butler and modern novelists such as Kafka, Proust, and Hemingway, is thus seen as emerging through a traumatic pain of becoming, social decimation, τρόμος καὶ ἔκστασις (trauma and ecstasy), and not through triumphant leaders or messages of ironic hope. Chapter 2 theorizes the complex relations between myth, repre­sen­ta­tion, and trauma, and brings this assemblage to bear upon the phenomenon of Gospel writing. In par­tic­u­lar, questions of dating and genre are reworked through what Deleuze and Guattari refer to as “zones of intensity.” When the writing of Mark is discussed by early Christian writers, it is done so in the context of departure—­Peter’s or Mark’s. Chapter 2 works through ­these traditions, discerning a logic of departure in early writings on Mark’s Gos­ pel. It also tracks the migration of somatic insecurity with re­spect to the corpse of Jesus in Gospel writing, suggesting that ­these are clues not of “early” or “late” but of vari­ous positions of habitation with re­spect to an originary trauma of separation. From ­these perspectives, thorny issues relating to an originary trauma and l­ater writing are discussed (e.g., its relevance for a com­ munity of readers/hearers at least a generation ­later), and a new model/ meta­phor for Mark’s relationship with Judaism is proposed. Chapter 3, the longest in the volume, returns to discussions of what we have been referring to as “enclosure.” The relationship of sovereignty and en­ closure is pursued through ancient geography and the challenges presented by the sea to classical geo­graph­i­cal mea­sure­ment and to stable repre­sen­ta­ tions of power. The sea was a complex space in antiquity. It was boundless and indeterminate; a space of the wild and ghoulish, as well as a passageway to the realm of the dead. From this context, sea scenes in Mark outside the so-­called calming of the storm and walking on the sea are explored, as is the significance of traveling by boat in general. Chapter 4 offers a fresh reading of the familiar sea calming of 4:35–41 by introducing three broad themes that are pursued throughout Chapters 4, 5, and 6. The first is the significance of the demonic pattern in Mark’s Gospel in general and the manifestations of that pattern in 4:35–41, 5:1–20, and 6:45–52, in par­tic­u­lar. Second, the chapter considers the significance of a “ship” in antiquity and late Chris­tian­ity, specifically as a symbol of a social body and, of course, the position of Jesus slumbering in the ship. Fi­nally, far from seeing ­these activities in Mark 4–6 as cosmic victories, the chapter considers the theoretical significance of “silence” in ancient, Jewish, and



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modern maritime traditions as a series of monstrous retreats, an eerie calm just prior to its l­ater rising. Chapter 5 positions the Gerasene episode (5:1–20) in the demonic pat­ tern also developed in Chapters 4 and 6. The chapter considers the social label of “demoniac” spatially and in relationship with the dissociative effects of trauma and guilt. The tropes of eerie calm and mythic crossings are con­ tinued as well. The chapter concludes by theorizing the confrontation of the demoniac living in/among the tombs (ἐν τοῖς μνήμασιν; 5:3) with Jesus in its portrayal of Jesus alone in a mythic land of the dead and in his being cast out by the villa­gers through the lens of scapegoat and sacrifice. Chapter 6 continues with the themes of the sea’s relation to the demonic pattern established in Chapter 4, the ship as symbol of a social body in an­ tiquity and late Chris­tian­ity, and the return of eerie calm through a fresh reading of the so-­called walking-­on-­water scene of 6:45–52. The new read­ ing offered is specifically focused on the traumatization of desire that has been alluded to throughout the volume. Desire is portrayed as something creative in Mark. In 6:48, however, Jesus is presented as desiring to pass by ­those whom he had ­earlier desired to be with him (cf. 3:13). The emotional effects of traumatic separation—­specifically, guilt—­help make sense of the negative portrayal of the disciples in early Chris­tian­ity in general, and in their thinking the same Jesus who had ­earlier desired them now desires to pass them by. Moreover, the function of the disciples’ misrecognition of Jesus as phantasma is considered in conversation with sources from antiquity and with Derrida’s notion of phantasma and the body. Chapter 7 concludes the volume by reflecting theologically on the tale that has been told of ­going beyond, of trespass and traumatic displacement, and of tragic vision. Specifically, it considers the problematics of trauma, loss, and their repre­sen­ta­tions by turning away from Christologies of triumph and theologies of hope, and attending instead to a tragic, unfinished vision in conversation with modern novelists such as Proust, Kafka, and, of course, Hemingway. It is this bending of Mark as tragic vision, I suggest, that al­ lows for a po­liti­cal reading of dis-­enclosure: that more distant coming that appears through the pain of becoming.

Chapter 2

On Beginnings and Bodies: Mark, Mythopoesis, and Posttraumatic Social Formations

Before stories, we w ­ ere too busy for stories, too busy hunting & suffering to invent the tales of our own resurrections. —­Kathleen Graber, The Eternal City Magicians only applied themselves to writing books when magic was already in decline. —­Susanna Clarke, Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell One dervish to another, What was your vision of God’s presence? I ­haven’t seen anything. But for the sake of conversation, I’ll tell you a story. —­Rūmī

At What Ending Do Beginnings Begin? With this question, we might as well consider who begins—­and at the ex­ pense of whose ending? This may be a rather clumsy way to put it. ­After all, endings and beginnings are not easily separable. Beginnings can be contin­ uations that shift what has gone before into a register of what now is. They can also signal a genealogy of enacted inheritance. Moreover, as Edward Said states, a beginning may also be the point at which a “writer departs from all



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other works; a beginning immediately establishes relationships with works already existing, relationships of ­either continuity or antagonism or some mixture of both.”1 Beginnings thus cannot be reduced to mere reports of initial action. They are frames of mind, kinds of work, attitudes, and ex­ pressions of sentiments.2 In this sense, beginnings designate, indicate, clar­ ify, or define some “­later time, place, or action.”3 They are the necessary productions of social cohesion; ends brought forward, retrofitted with the constructed meaning of “origins” and all their mobilized anx­i­eties. As Régis Debray states, “in any and ­every pro­cess, what we baptize ‘origin’ is usually its point of completion.”4 Appropriating from Nietz­sche, then, when some­ one speaks of a beginning, we may well ask: “What is this supposed to hide? From what does it divert our gaze?”5 We must also consider the point to which our gaze is being directed. Yet, as Irigaray powerfully reminds us, even this question is not altogether unproblematic. As she puts it to Nietz­sche, “Where does difference begin?”6 The origin, the beginning, as a disclosure of and quest for some “primordial emanation,” is the sequestering of space, time, and desire where an identity is given a facticity and aura of rediscov­ ery.7 This is Le Goût de l’archive, as Arlette Farge has it: the allure of ar­ chives;8 the “awe of beginnings.”9 Yet beginnings invariably blush. With ­every origin, one won­ders, “What happened before?” Jameson states that history “always impossibly confronts us with its prehistory.”10 And so it is with beginnings. They mask a “throb­ bing sense of insecurity”11 and tend to begin with a wound.12 From this in­ security, beginnings attempt to “predate in order to be the mightiest”—­and, as Debray puts it, the mightiest are the ones who can show their neighbors (and themselves) that they ­were ­there first, “in the lap of the Primordial, as close as pos­si­ble to the Origin.”13 Beginnings therefore attempt to securitize the vulnerability of a social body precisely at the point of its originary wound.

Periodization and Sovereignty Kathleen Davis has brilliantly linked periodization and sovereignty.14 A sense of time—­setting, standardizing, and knowing—is a technique of sovereignty manifesting its dissemination of rule. Within the standard frames of peri­ odization, every­thing becomes a sign, and every­thing can be interpreted. It is within ­these frames where meaning gets manufactured, distributed, and recognized. It is where a ­people discover its election—­where a community is

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disciplined to become itself. To signal “the beginning” thus functions as a form of rule. It is the place where politics happens. In Gaius’s commentary on the Twelve ­Tables, for example, he states that “the most impor­tant part of anything is its beginning” (et certe cuiusque rei potissima pars principium est).15 The beginning, the origin, is where politics goes, and from which it creeps onto the dry lands of the everyday. The cultural revolution awaiting in and emanating from the “origin” is the “anthropology in the rough” that it procures.16 How might this work for the beginnings and periodization of Gospel writing? And how might such periodization be affected by the disassociate effects of trauma and ecstasy?

Gospel Beginnings? Each of what ­later appeared as the canonical Gospels constructed its own beginning. With re­spect to Luke, Loveday Alexander suggests that, follow­ ing early Greek histories, the opening sentence is crafted to reflect the sub­ ject the work ­will undertake.17 The work is positioned ­after the undertakings of ­others who had attempted to form a narrative shape from the vari­ous deeds (πραγμάτων). Luke begins with a note of authoritative finality and comple­ tion (1:1–4) and concludes with joy and continuity (24:50–53). For Luke, the arriving ­after is precisely what allows him to arrive before at a more au­then­ tic account of the origin. John reaches back to the origins of time and places the λόγος ­there from the beginning with God: Ἐν ἀρχῇ ἦν ὁ λόγος, καὶ ὁ λόγος ἦν πρὸς τὸν θεόν, καὶ θεὸς ἦν ὁ λόγος (1:1)—­In the beginning was the Log­os; and the Log­os was with God; and God was the Log­os. The text concludes with affirmations of life and belief for the community (20:30–31).18 The community is the continuation of the beginning of the Log­os—­the new ­people of God’s fresh breath (20:22).19 Matthew begins with a Βίβλος γενέσεως Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ (1:1)—­a genealogy of Jesus—­planting him in the royal ­family tree of Judaism, concluding with a call to be his royal emissar­ ies throughout the world (28:16–20). ­Here we consider the ἀρχὴ τοῦ εὐαγγελίου Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ—­the begin­ ning of the Gospel of Jesus Christ (Mark 1:1)—as a Markan departure.20 But from what? And to what? And when? ­These questions are complex and have busied brilliant minds for a long time.21 I propose that the Markan “begin­ ning” is the formation of an interior among Judaisms.22 What triggered the



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development of this interior broadly was “the moment at which the ­whole of biblical memory was mobilized” in an attempt to protect the community from what Eric Santner terms, in another context, “primordial exposure.”23 The crucifixion and empty tomb split the ordering desire of an ­earlier com­ munity’s social gravity (cf. Mark 3:13).24 Mark goes to the “beginning” in an attempt to cope with this loss, to mark this trauma, in a way that gave a former collapse a prophetic inevitability and sense, while forming an inte­ rior to protect against the threat of exposure, vulnerability, and the anx­i­ eties of a ­later community’s current crises. This is the question of relevance, transparency, and continuation.25 The suggestion is that a traumatized com­ munity, perhaps owing to the trauma and ruin of the fallen ­temple, 26 was placed before the howling ache of an empty tomb. At this point, something must be said about the descriptor “Mark” in this proj­ect. It is more or less agreed among scholars that by the second ­century, a written form of what was ­later referred to as the Gospel according to Mark (ΕΥΑΓΓΕΛΙΟΝ ΚΑΤΑ ΜΑΡΚΟΝ) was circulating with some success among geo­graph­i­cally diverse assemblies and incorporated into the texts of ­later redactors.27 Specifically as it relates to its sampling in the Gospels of Luke and Matthew, and o­ thers, such as the Gospel of Thomas and the Gos­ pel of Peter, as well, a recent crop of historians of textual forms have sug­ gested conceiving of what we have come to refer to as the ΕΥΑΓΓΕΛΙΟΝ ΚΑΤΑ ΜΑΡΚΟΝ as something fluid, open, and, in point of fact, materially “unfin­ ished.”28 The uses and rearrangements of Mark that make their way into Luke and Matthew testify to this practice, as do the diverse endings and other textual shifts in Mark itself.29 Yet, though materially unfinished, this Mark had made use of ­earlier material.30 The very phrasing of ΕΥΑΓΓΕΛΙΟΝ ΚΑΤΑ ΜΑΡΚΟΝ therefore pre­sents complications, distances, and interpre­ tive decisions to be made. Namely, what is a Gospel (εὐαγγέλιον)?31 What is the relationship between εὐαγγέλιον and the hermeneutical force of the preposition κατά? And what does it mean to speak of dates, provenances, and geo­graph­i­cal locations of an unfinished and open text? As T. C. Skeat states, any study of the canonical Gospels “rightly begins with the famous passage in which Irenaeus, writing around the year 185, seeks to defend the Canon by finding a mystical significance in the number four.”32 Skeat is referring is Irenaeus’s labeling of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John as a τετράμορφον τὸ εὐαγγέλιον (Adv. haer. 3.11.8)—­a quadriform gospel. The “mystical significance in the number four,” for Irenaeus, reflects the “four zones of the world” and its “four principled winds.” The canonical four are

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“pillars” out of which breathes an immortality refreshing all humanity. The four are also likened to the four-­faced cherubim upon whom the “Word and Artificer” of all ­things sits. The Gospel is “four aspects” but bound by one spirit. This quadriform, for Irenaeus, reflects the four “principal covenants” given to the “­human race”: Adamic, Noahic, Mosaic, and the new covenant that “renovates humanity—­summing up all ­things in itself by means of the Gospel” (Adv. haer. 3.11.8). The “mystical significance” of εὐαγγέλιον for Irenaeus therefore func­ tions as a kind of temporal periodization as well as an Evangelium Geographicus. As a geographic Gospel, then, εὐαγγέλιον is depicted not simply as a genre but a map or constellation of a world territorialized and periodized by the “Artificer of all t­ hings” who “contains all ­things” (Adv. haer. 3.11.8). An­ nette Yoshiko Reed, in her study on the function of the εὐαγγέλιον pattern in Irenaeus’s Adversus haereses, argues that such usage does not reveal an articulation of a canonical Gospel in ­later senses of the phrase. Rather, “buttressing the Church on all sides against the threat of heresy, [Irenaeus] weaves a sophisticated argument about how multiple authoritative Christian documents (i.e., ‘gospels’) can paradoxically bear witness to an essentially singular Truth (i.e., the ‘Gospel’).”33 The εὐαγγέλιον functions as a kind of Panopticon, surveying, disci­ plining, and protecting the emerging confessional map and temporality of nascent Chris­tian­ity.34 In this re­spect, heresy and εὐαγγέλιον are spatially and temporally conceived. The former is that assemblage that is banished from the standardized tempero-­territorality of the latter. With re­spect to Mark, Irenaeus ­earlier had stated that ­after the “departure” of Peter and Paul, “Mark, the disciple and translator [ἑρμηνευτής] of Peter, likewise handed down to us the ­things preached by Peter in written form” (Adv. haer. 3.1.1). This departure that gave rise to the writing of the Gospel is also apparent in the Old Latin introductory statements of Mark: “­After the departure [post excessionem] of Peter himself, [Mark] wrote this Gospel in the regions of Italy.”35 In early Christian tradition, Mark was frequently referred to as Peter’s interpres (interpreter).36 The second-­century bishop of Hierapolis, Papias,37 for example, writes: “And the Presbyter use to say: Mark became Peter’s inter­ preter and wrote accurately all that he remembered, not, indeed, in order, of the ­things said or done by the Lord. For he had not heard the Lord, nor had he followed him, but ­later on, as I said, followed Peter, who used to give teach­ ing as necessity demanded but not making, as it ­were, an arrangement of the Lord’s oracles, so that Mark did nothing wrong in thus writing down single



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points as he remembered them. For to one ­thing he gave attention, to leave out nothing of what he had heard and to make no false statements in them.”38 The point of “no false statements” is given a distinct recast in Jerome’s statement that Mark remained “informed . . . ​in spiritual ­matters” but “un­ informed” in his accrediting the citation in 1:2 to Isaiah and not Malachi (3:1).39 The split is an intriguing continuation of Papias’s qualification of Mar­ kan “accuracy.” Insofar as he served as Peter’s interpreter, he was correct; his ordering, however, was not. The contours of historical accuracy aside, the nature of Mark’s association with Peter is more impor­tant to this proj­ect. Intriguingly, Clement of Alexandria stated: “When Peter publicly preached the word in Rome and in the spirit proclaimed the gospel, ­those pre­sent, who ­were many, requested Mark, as he had long followed him and remembered what [Peter] had said, to put it into writing. This he did and gave the gospel to ­those who had requested it of him. When Peter became aware of this, he neither prohibited nor endorsed it.”40 Clement introduces further definition to the distancing that seems to appear in valuations of Mark’s Gospel as it relates to Peter. In Irenaeus and the Old Latin introductory statements to Mark, the departure (death) of Pe­ ter and its resulting distance with the assemblies are given as grounds for the compiling of memories and recollections. In Clement, this distance is alluded to but is also subtly placed between Petrine authority and Mark’s written memoirs.41 In each case, departure and impending absence are em­ bedded into the provenance of “Mark’s” production.

Dating the Unfinished Though much more should be said about traditional questions of prove­ nance,42 authorship,43 and so on, questions of dating require attention ­because of their potential devastation to the reading strategy offered by this proj­ect. What pos­si­ble relevance could ­there be for a traumatic reading of Mark if the text itself was written for an assembly at least a generation ­after, and perhaps from differing geographies from, the traumatic events of cruci­ fixion and empty tomb? Some of the force of this may be mitigated by the social shame of being in some form of association with a figure who died a ­ ere responding to such mockery into violent death.44 Early Christian writers w the m ­ iddle of the third c­ entury (e.g., Origen, Contra Celsus).45 This may be a wise hedge—­and may have something to do with the abiding place of Mark

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among other Gospels, particularly ­after the “completion” of Matthew and Luke. Even if its place ­were secure in something like a canonical four,46 ­there is surprisingly ­little interest shown in the text.47 With re­spect to the papy­ rological evidence from Oxyrhynchus—­even if granted that the catechumen Leon, whom Sotas describes as a catechumen in the beginning of the Gos­ pel (καθηχούμενον ἐν ἀρχῇ  τοῦ εὐαγγελίου; PSI 9.1041), was studying Mark—­its attestation remains statistically close to null.48 With re­spect to dating, Markan scholarship divides over ­either pre-­or post-70 ce.49 The relationship of 13:6 with the presence of messianic pre­ tenders such as Menahem and Simon son of Gioras between 66 and 70 ce,50 and the general tenor of the so-­called ­Little Apocalypse with events leading up to, during, or the immediate aftermath of the Jewish War are the inter­ nal evidence over which judgments are made.51 Externally, the earliest at­ testation in extant manuscripts is not ­until the third ­century.52 And, with the pos­si­ble exception of Justin Martyr (Dial. 106.2–3; Mark 3:17), ­there are no clear quotations from Mark before Clement of Alexandria and Irenaeus, in the late second ­century. No ­later than the mid-­second ­century, however, Papias makes plain that ­there are clear associations of the text with the name “Mark” (Hist. Eccl. 3.39.15). Markus Vinzent has boldly pushed the external evidence even further.53 Significant for Vinzent is the absence of early citations or quotations of the synoptic Gospels in early Christian lit­er­a­ture.54 In his analy­sis, Marcion must be credited with the creation of the “new literary genre” of Gospel writing. All other “witnesses, including Mark, have integrated” this single source.55 Moreover, Vinzent expresses skepticism over the assumption that a compo­ sitional order can be determined from the later-­dated Synoptics.56 Questions of dating are complex. Even in the most critical formulations of proposed answers, the formulation of the question of what is being dated can be left uncritically unexamined. Questions of dating are ­matters not only of when but also of what. What is being dated? A textual tradition? A final form?57 Matthew Larsen has produced a provocative line of inquiry away from a “published” understanding of the Gospel of Mark, asking instead: “What if Mark was unfinished textual raw material, ὑπομνήματα, notes, memoirs, a draft?” Many of the earliest readers and redactors (“users”) of the Markan material appear to have read it as such. If what we call Mark, then, consists of “disorderly or unpolished notes, ὑπομνήματα or άπομνημονεύματα,”58 what does that do to our questions of citation, use, and dating? Considering ­later uses of the material as in Matthew’s Gospel, Larsen concludes that cat­



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egorizing them as “a separate piece of lit­er­a­ture” would be “anachronistic.”59 ­Later Gospels are better seen as “a continuation of the same mushrooming textual tradition of the gospel.”60 Larsen thus appears to be arriving at a sim­ ilar conclusion to Vinzent in terms of questions of composition and order61 but from a very dif­fer­ent starting place of dating. Yet what is being dated appears similar: something textual—­finished or other­wise.

Zones of Intensity If dating is a ­matter of what and not only of when, this proj­ect attempts to shift the contents of the what away from questions of textuality, orality, and memory ­toward something ­else. Even ­these new readings that speak of con­ stellations, fluidity, and the unfinished nature of texts, orality, and memory tend to operate within a logic of textuality. The shifts that are introduced in ­these impor­tant studies are in reclassifying what ­these texts, in fact, are and the dynamic of their relationality with their environment. This is no small achievement. What is proposed ­here is not so much a departure from their programs as it is a kind of detour. (I hope to link up with them a bit ­later.)62 What I am ­after is something dif­fer­ent—­not something textual but some­ thing like a sentiment. Not a theology, Christology, or philosophy. Not a setting in life, or social situation; not even a communal concern—­though, of course, ­these are all relevant. Not even a theme or trope. But something like a feeling, a sentiment. What I am suggesting is that Mark retains something like a mark of an originary trauma in the social body described as ­those whom Jesus desired (cf. 3:13), even in the marking of a ­later trauma. Something about the dialec­ tic of trauma fundamentally resists repre­sen­ta­tion.63 Yet ­there also remains in the brokenness of the very language that attempts to give witness to, and mark the haunting of trauma, an irrepressible scream. The witness of which I am speaking is nothing like the eyewitnesses of certain scholarship or the scribal witness a­ fter the pattern of the Lukan self-­representation (Luke 1:1– 4). The witness of which I am speaking is the trace of the wound in the so­ cial body and its fractured desire: its scar. What Proust called the body’s “terrible capacity” is its registering pain as contemporaneous with all aspects of life.64 The dating of the composition of a Markan text in all its va­ri­e­ties, then, remains fundamentally marked by this trauma—as does the unfolding history of Gospel writing that attempts to place or expunge it. Witness to

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trauma contains a dialectical inability, yet undeniable attempt, to express.65 Like the scar of Odysseus that identifies him to his childhood nanny, we can sense in the brokenness of the Markan witness something like an orig­ inary trauma. As ­will be traced through the next four chapters, we see this manifest specifically as it relates to the problematics of guilt, somatic inse­ curity, departure, and demonic haunting.66 This originary sentiment haunts from within (see Chapter 6) and ­orders the Markan flow in its broken and unfinished form. In this re­spect, Mark remains dif­fer­ent from ­later attempts of writing trauma out of the early wit­ nesses (e.g., Thomas, Gospel of Peter, Matthew, and Luke). Yarbro Collins, who has impressively surveyed ancient literary genres in antiquity, has con­ cluded that the Markan text was worked into “an eschatological counter­ part” of a previous biblical genre—­namely, a “foundational sacred history” of God’s activity. This hybrid genre was reworked around Jesus and fused with Hellenistic historiographical and biographical forms.67 This may be the case. The move ­here, however, in terms of locating the so-­called synoptic Gospels in their literary environment and with re­spect to one another, is to pivot from viewing genres as “autonomous spheres,”68 or even fixed constellations, ­toward viewing Gospel texts as occupying differing zones of intensity with re­spect to an originary trauma.69 As Deleuze and Guattari describe it, intensities are becomings and transitions; potentials, thresholds, and gradients. They mark a “harrowing, emotionally overwhelming experience,” which brings the splitting of desire to the brink of a “living center of ­matter.”70 Identification is thus not neces­ sarily a m ­ atter of association with “vari­ous historical personages” or group­ ings but rather a pro­cess of “identifying the names of history” in vari­ous zones of intensity of a social body.71 In this re­spect, the emergent ­matter of forms of writing on the historical personage and the name of Jesus are not neces­ sarily ­matters of associations—­genre. They are instead dif­fer­ent pro­cesses of identifying that name with re­spect to their respective social body’s life in vari­ous zones of intensity. The move is thus from genre to sentiment.72

Departures, Distance, and the Trauma of Witness Though not necessarily advocating an ac­cep­tance of the traditions surround­ ing the Petrine witness to the Markan text, ­there is something of the logic of ­these traditions that requires bearing out. To recall Irenaeus, he notes how



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the departures of Peter and Paul gave rise to Mark’s placing Peter’s preach­ ing “in written form” (Adv. haer. 3.1.1). This logic of departure is repeated in the Old Latin introductory statements of Mark,73 as well as in Clement of Alexandria.74 Mark—in all the complexities that that signifier com­ municates—is somehow born out of, and in all its forms bears the logic of, departure. In an intriguing proposal put forward in an impor­tant essay by Kristina Dronsch and Annette Weissenrieder,75 this logic of departure is placed as a founding event: in der von Christus verlassenen Welt—in a world abandoned by Christ.76 The issuing absence from this abandonment, argue Dronsch and Weissenrieder, stood at “the center of the real­ity of early Chris­tian­ity. This experience of absence is the basic starting point from which the verbal me­ dia of the early church are to be unfolded.”77 The Gospel form was thus an “embodiment,”78 an enacted mediator, of this absence.79 The term “gospel” (εὐαγγέλιον), they propose, is understood as a messenger and medium of the absent body of Jesus80—­one that ­will inhabit a vacated ὁδὸν κυρίου (way of the Lord).81 The εὐαγγέλιον of Jesus bridges absence for the community by the community itself.82 The work τοῦ εὐαγγελίου is thus to reconcile distance, not eliminate difference.83 The writing τοῦ εὐαγγελίου voices si­ lence, which, according to Dronsch and Weissenrieder, must be “understood as bringing the absent Jesus to presence.”84 The departure of Peter could be viewed among some early Christian writers as the event that occasioned the transmission of a textual form. According to Dronsch and Weissenrieder, the absent body of Jesus was the event of early Chris­tian­ity that the written Gospels attempt to represent—­and, I argue, attempt to expunge.85 The logic of departure and absence thus drive the tradition where the abandoned community becomes the apparent community. The absence of Jesus’ body is represented in distinctive ways, depending on a witness’s place in vari­ous zones of intensity. Mark’s “ending,” which we ­shall be addressing throughout this proj­ect, is remarkably dif­fer­ent from other gospels. It comes soon and sudden. ­Those whom Jesus desired in 3:13 are last seen in flight and denial. The a­ ctual witnessing of violent death was by some w ­ omen from afar (Ἦσαν δὲ καὶ γυναῖκες ἀπὸ μακρόθεν θεωροῦσαι; 15:40). The ­women named are Mary Magdalene, Mary the ­mother of James the Less and Joses, and Salome, who had all followed and ministered to him in some fashion in Galilee (vv. 40–41). The first two ­women kept watch to see (ἐθεώρουν) where he was to be taken (15:47). When the Sabbath was over, the three came to where he lay, in order to perform acts of piety on his body

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(16:1). Upon entering the tomb ­after seeing the stone rolled away, a young man (νεανίσκον) wearing a white robe appears sitting in the tomb. The ­women ­were terrified with amazement (ἐξεθαμβήθησαν; v. 5). The young man (νεανίσκον) attempts to calm the ­women by telling them to fear not (μὴ ἐκθαμβεῖσθε; v. 6). Jesus, he says, is arisen and not ­here (ἠγέρθη, οὐκ ἔστιν ὧδε). It is unclear how to take the first statement. The passive form can be understood as somehow being resurrected or brought back from death. This is the case in Herod’s fear of John being resurrected (cf. 6:16)86 and in Paul’s kerygmatic statements.87 In John, it can refer to arising from a seated position (11:29), or when connected with a genitive prepositional phrase, being risen from the dead (ἠγέρθη ἐκ νεκρῶν; 2:22). In Luke, it most likely refers to being risen from the dead,88 whereas in Acts it is sim­ ply a rising from a seated position (9:8). Matthew can use it in isolation to refer to Jesus’ raising ­others from the dead,89 and repeats Mark’s descrip­ tion of Herod’s fear of John having been risen from the dead (14:2). With re­spect to Jesus, however, the statement of the angel (ὁ ἄγγελος) in 28:6 is sandwiched between two explicit statements of Jesus being raised from the dead (ἠγέρθη ἀπὸ τῶν νεκρῶν).90 In the LXX, it refers ­either to awaking from sleep,91 or being roused for ­battle.92 What­ever the case may be for the ambiguous sense of Mark’s use of ἠγέρθη, Luke and Matthew made their meanings clear: Jesus was ἠγέρθη ἀπὸ τῶν νεκρῶν—he was raised from the dead. Resurrection or not, the effect in Mark is clear: he is not ­here (οὐκ ἔστιν ὧδε; 16:6). The rest is all enigma. The young man (νεανίσκος) tells the ­women to go and report to Jesus’ disciples (ὑπάγετε εἴπατε τοῖς μαθηταῖς αὐτοῦ) to return to Galilee, where they ­shall see Jesus (v. 7). The ­women, however, flee (ἔφυγον), ­were overcome by trauma and ecstasy (τρόμος καὶ ἔκστασις), and repeat nothing of what they ­were told ­because they ­were afraid (οὐδενὶ οὐδὲν εἶπαν· ἐφοβοῦντο γάρ; 16:8). The logic of witness ­here is fractured. The last we hear of the disciples was in their desertion in Gethsemane (14:50) and Peter’s three denials (14:66–72). Among the flight of the disciples, an unde­ fined young man (νεανίσκον) is mentioned who, during his escape, leaves ­behind an article of clothing and flees (ἔφυγεν; 14:51–52). The reappearance at the tomb of the νεανίσκον whose article of clothing is also described may well be another figure. The fleeing of the former figure, however, is repeated in the fleeing of the ­women (ἔφυγον). As w ­ ill be discussed ­later, the act of fleeing is undertaken by the ­people of God in disobedience or the enemies



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of God ­running from judgment. This may or may not necessarily be the case ­here. The point is that witness has been traumatized, broken, and abandoned. The public display of the violent death of Jesus would have already been trau­ matic.93 The absence of a body to mourn would have compounded this trauma. In trauma and ecstasy, witness falls ­silent. ­There ­were no disciples to witness violent death and no disciples pre­sent to view the empty tomb. And, as 16:8 ends, t­ here are no disciples who hear the witness of t­ hose who had been t­ here. Placed squarely at the center of the zone of intensity of the empty tomb, trauma is given no witness—or, perhaps better, witness itself is traumatized. A remarkable shift of zones of intensity occurs in Matthew’s version. Several differences appear. First, the young man (νεανίσκος) has been re­ placed with an angel (ἄγγελος). Similar to what Mark had done, the angel tells the w ­ omen not to be afraid: Jesus had been raised. The angel then com­ missions them to report to the disciples what they had seen and to meet the Lord in Galilee (28:5–7). This shift distances associations of the desertion in Gethsemane with the report from the tomb. The second difference is that the ­women (only Mary Magdalene and the “other Mary”; cf. v. 1) depart quickly (ἀπελθοῦσαι ταχὺ). They do not flee, as Mark had it. Terror is re­ placed by an excitement of witness. Third, they are said to be overcome with “fear and ­great joy” (φόβου καὶ χαρᾶς μεγάλης)—­not trauma and ecstasy (τρόμος καὶ ἔκστασις). And, fourth, the ­women “run to confess to the dis­ ciples” (ἔδραμον ἀπαγγεῖλαι τοῖς μαθηταῖς αὐτου; v. 8). What is more, when Jesus meets the ­women on the way, they “took hold of his feet and worshiped him” (αἱ δὲ προσελθοῦσαι ἐκράτησαν αὐτοῦ τοὺς πόδας καὶ προσεκύνησαν αὐτῷ; v. 9). Luke’s Gospel adds distinction as well. First, Luke places Jesus’ acquain­ tances (πάντες οἱ γνωστοὶ αὐτῷ) among the ­women who ­were witnessing the crucifixion from afar (23:49). Second, whereas Matthew only mentions Mary Magdalene and the other Mary as sitting opposite the sepulchre where Jesus was laid (27:61), Luke adds that the ­women saw not only the tomb but also how his body was rested (ὡς ἐτέθη τὸ σῶμα αὐτοῦ; 23:55). Third, when they entered the tomb on the first day of the week, Luke adds that they found no “body” (σῶμα; 24:3). Fourth, at the sight of two men (ἄνδρες),94 the ­women “fear” (ἐμφόβων) and prostrate on the ground (24:5). Fifth, ­there is neither ­r unning nor fleeing. They merely “return” (ὑποστρέψασαι) and “report” (ἀπήγγειλαν) all they had seen and heard (24:9). Sixth, the

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r­ unning that takes place is not from the tomb but ­toward the tomb—­and by Peter (24:12). L ­ ater appearances of Jesus to his disciples in Luke stress how recognition comes by way of seeing his body and hearing the word (24:13– 49). The story ends with “­great joy” (χαρᾶς μεγάλης) and worshiping in the ­temple (24:52–53). The Gospel of Peter famously places the cross as not only a revelatory event but also a communicating agent. ­Those near the cross heard a sound/ voice speaking from heaven (καὶ φωνῆς ἤκουσον ἐκ τῶν οὐρανῶν λεγούσης; 10:42).95 It also positions Mary Magdalene as a disciple of the Lord (μαθήτρια τοῦ κυρίου; 12:50) who brings her friends to the tomb to mourn (v. 51).96 The young man (νεανίσκον) reappears in the empty sepulchre, and when the ­women see and hear him, they run away in fear (φοβηθεῖσαι ἔφυγον; 13:57). The last we have of the text pictures the disciples returning to their homes grieved (14:59), with Peter and his ­brother Andrew taking to the sea (ἀπήλθαμεν εἰς τὴν θάλλασσαν; v. 60). The differences in John’s Gospel are too many to list. The distance of the witness of Jesus’ death is not only collapsed but populated by his ­family and closest disciples (19:28–30). Joseph of Arimathea is said to be a disciple of Jesus—­which is very near to the high valuation in the Gospel of Peter, who positions him as both a friend to Pilate and the Lord (G.Pet. 2.3). Mary Mag­ dalene first comes to the tomb alone, but upon seeing the stone rolled away (20:1), she “runs” (τρέχει) to Peter and the beloved disciple (v. 2). Peter and the beloved disciple “raced” (ἔτρεχον) to the tomb (vv. 3–5), witnessed the empty tomb and Jesus’ linens, and, as opposed to fearing, they believe (vv. 6–8). Though ­there is repeated stress of vari­ous forms of interaction with the body of Jesus (τὸ σῶμα τοῦ Ἰησου),97 in remarkable contrast with Matt. 28:9, Jesus forbids Mary Magdalene from touching his body: do not hold me (μή μου ἅπτου; 20:17).98 The point to be made is not about textual priority, dependence, or the search for original sayings. Better studies exist on the complexities of the synoptic prob­lem and the impressive efforts in the history of interpreta­ tion to introduce answers to ­these riddles.99 The point, rather, is to survey the manner in which each Gospel lives in varying zones of intensity of the originary trauma of witness. My curiosity is in the ways the mark of the traumatic witness of violent death and separation migrates through texts. As we ­shall explore more fully in Chapter 5, the traumatic effects of disturbance and distance mark themselves psychosomatically. Something



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of this originary trauma remains in the broken and unfinished texts of Mark. It ends in trauma and ecstasy. ­There is flight and neglect of witness. ­There is no body. ­There are no “disciples.” Even in the so-­called longer ending of Mark, ele­ments of this somatic insecurity remain in the per­sis­ tence of the unbelief of the disciples100 and the language of Jesus appear­ ing in another form (ἐν ἑτέρᾳ μορφῇ; v. 12). Irigaray asks, “Where can you find a body to touch?”101 Nowhere in the zones of intensity near an originary trauma. The radical difference of Matthew on this point is telling: the ­women fall and touch his feet (28:9). The curiosity in this migration of so­ matic insecurity in varying zones of intensity is its reappearance in John 20:17. Something of an originary sentiment may be retained in this very “late” Gospel.

Mythopoesis as a Consolation of Absence This may, as has been stressed from the beginning, say very ­little about date, dependence, and duration (chronology). The point, intended to be comple­ mentary to existing studies on Gospel writing, is to explore how the rem­ nants of an originary trauma are refracted through the Markan text. The dialectic of trauma is its fundamental re­sis­tance to repre­sen­ta­tion and yet its inability not to express its experience. Bataille referred to this as “the truth of the scream.” The individual is a fall into a ­thing, excluded from protective intimacies. The inarticulate scream that arises from this exclusion, however, can bring the very positionality of powerlessness to light.102 Mark’s recourse to a beginning might well be viewed as a kind of attempt at a sudden inter­ ruption of sovereign power—­a “taking charge of life,” as Foucault might have said.103 Perhaps memory was mobilized in order to forget the horrors of an all-­too-­present real­ity.104 Origins, ­a fter all, “are constituted through the very experience of their loss”—­a nd, as Žižek suggests, “the striving to return to them.”105 The point is to suggest a difference between Mark and other “gospels” in that they occupy varying spaces with re­spect to the zones of intensity of an originary trauma. It was the anguish of departure and inarticulate screams that gave rise to the Markan text. The fissures and fractures of the Markan text are an imperfect witness to the dialectic of this anguish of departure. The rise of Gospel writing, I propose, may re­ flect discrete movements not within a genre but from within and among

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zones of intensity, and may well reflect varying attempts to move away from the anguish of departure.

Somatic Theoria Mark’s text slides along ­these zones of intensity, positioning εὐαγγέλιον as a theory of desire haunted by an anguish of departure.106 The Markan wit­ ness is accredited to ­women who ­were attempting to see (ἐθεώρουν) where Jesus’ body would be laid (15:47). The description of this act as “seeing” com­ municates more than that upon which bodies lay their eyes. The classicist Andrea Nightingale, in her brilliant volume Spectacles of Truth in Classical Greek Philosophy: Theoria in Its Cultural Context,107 suggests that seeing or theoria originally had less to do with “ways of knowing” or even “ways of seeing” and more to do with civic institutions. As summarized by Swedberg, a Greek city “would send an individual, or a theoros, on a pilgrimage abroad for the purpose of consulting an oracle or participating in a religious festival and then reporting back to his community what he had experienced. A sec­ ular version also existed, where the theoros traveled abroad more as a tourist or a researcher [or we might say ­today, an ethnographer]. [But] in all such cases, the traveler was re­united with his original community by giving an account of what he had [seen and] witnessed.”108 Intriguingly, fourth-­century bce phi­los­o­phers “explic­itly used theoria as an allegory or symbolic narrative to explain what they meant by philosophy” and how they viewed the par­tic­u­lar way of living that this new term implied.109 The most famous instance is, of course, Plato’s Republic and the ability “to see in the dark,” to return to the cave with the gift of sight.110 Mark’s theoria of desire, by contrast, is incomplete, unfinished, and traumatized. It is a witness that does not and cannot speak or see in the dark (16:8). It is theoria incomplete. To return to our ­earlier discussion of Cicero’s trauma of losing his ­daughter, Tullia: his plans to commemorate this trauma ­were never realized. Loss remained unplaced. To memorialize requires place and duration. Trauma fractures both. Cicero’s consolation therefore bears the mark of the origi­ nary trauma.111 Likewise with Mark, ­there is something of the attempt to position “witness” as consolation that remains unfinished and marked by an originary trauma. Mark as mythopoesis attempts to narrate and place ­later events in some sensible world. Wherever (Syria/Galilee/Rome) or whenever



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(pre/post-70 ce) that may have been, tradition suggests that the mythopoe­ sis was born out of the anguish of departure: namely, Peter’s death. The his­ toricity of this tradition is not necessarily the point. The logic of departure as a haunting, however, is fundamental. The anguish of absence—as well as the trauma of separation—is the specter in the myth that prevents it from closing. Mark as mythopoetic consolation, then, must be understood as an attempted mythopoetic consolation of locating trauma born in its originary mark. Like Tullia’s memorial, it remains unfinished. The communal con­ cerns that produce the myth are haunted by an affective emotional haunting that cannot keep to its own.

Mark and Mythopoesis Any discussion of myth with re­spect to Gospel scholarship, in par­tic­u­lar, opens a remarkably sprawling set of thorny, polemical issues. The vari­ous uses of myth in the history of New Testament interpretation, stemming from D. F. Strauss,112 ­running through Rudolf Bultmann’s hermeneutic,113 and re­ worked in varying details by Burton Mack and ­others,114 have caused some to caution against its use,115 while ­others have excoriated scholars’ uninformed recourse to the term.116 Unfortunately, myth has become po­liti­cally enmeshed in party lines of historical happenings by ignoring its complex theorized her­ itage,117 or by reducing it to equating with falsity.118 The opposition of myth and history is not always a useful one.119 Not only is the mind able to in­ habit multiple conceptual worlds,120 but myths “may well contain ele­ments of history, just as history may contain ele­ments of myth.”121 Two ele­ments from Aelius Theon in his Progymnasmata are helpful ­here. First, Theon states that mythos “is fictitious discourse imaging truth”; and, second, “historical writing is nothing other than a combination of narrations.”122 Narration (διήγημα) is thus language descriptive of ­things “as though they had hap­ pened.”123 Again, this is not to introduce a wedge between history and myth-­ as-­falsity but to trou­ble this easy bifurcation.124 For Theon, myths imagine truths and set them in a narrative world of social relations. To ask primarily about their historical happening is to square a circle. Moreover, it must be stressed that “myth” is employed h ­ ere as a theoretical concept and not sim­ ply a leme from texts in antiquity. The Pauline school, for example, can be seen as despisers of myth at the leme level,125 but Paul himself busily

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engaged in mythopoesis at the conceptual level, as did the ­later school (e.g., Paul and Thecla).126 One might also note examples such as Justin Martyr, in his First Apology, where he rails against the myths of the pagan poets who ­were ­under the influence of wicked demons. The truth of the prophets had been told slant by ­these spirits, resulting in the construction of the gods. When, for example, it “had been foretold that [God] should heal ­every sickness, and raise the dead,” pagans produced Asclepius (§54). Justin’s construction of As­ clepius is given another shade, however, where the plausibility of Jesus’ healing activities is brought into parallel with reports of ­those performed by Asclepius (§22)—­whereas in Dialogue 69, Justin ­later refers to ­these per­for­ mances as imitations. Gleaning from Theon, we can see myth at the con­ ceptual level as the creation, assembling, redaction, and structuration of fundamental experiences and memories of group identity set in narrative form.127 It is a writing of the body into history. Myth is thus properly pre­ history in the sense that history comes ­after and out of myth. The concept of myth has been fruitfully employed in Hebrew Bible and ancient Near East studies.128 Of par­tic­u­lar interest for the purposes of this proj­ect is the scholarship on how ­these texts adapted and ­adopted the myths of surrounding ­peoples,129 particularly with re­spect to the sea and Chaoskampf traditions.130 The strong narrative current of a god who fights a ma­ rine monster and wins a kingdom, and how this story is refracted through the stories of a p­ eople’s heroes, “cuts through Hebrew literary tradition in a ­great swathe, forming the paradigms of creation (Genesis 1), of redemption from Egypt (Exodus 15), of redemption to come (Isaiah 27:1).”131 Such stud­ ies reveal a po­liti­cal dynamic concerning royal legitimacy where the mythic authority of the god is gifted to the king through ritualization.132 The mythic overlap of ­peoples as evidenced in their texts and material remains—­t he Akkadian Atrahasis, the Babylonian Enuma elish, or the Hebrew Bible—is thus not merely a sharing but also a form of outbidding,133 a polemical stance ­toward legitimization,134 body construction,135 and reading of real­ity.136 As W. H. Auden said, “the pre­sent moment is a polemical situation” on two fronts: against one’s past and against the pre­sent of o­ thers.137 Mythopoesis—­ the creation of myths—is thus, in part, a subversion of the “canons of the ordinary” by forming canons of one’s own.138 One prob­lem besetting the appropriation of the term is its diverse mor­ phology and social function in dif­fer­ent texts and contexts.139 ­There is no one adequate definition of myth.140 It is perhaps prudent to show reluctance



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t­ oward any attempt to define it,141 particularly as it relates to literary genre over and against saga, legend, and epic, as is often done. An impor­tant aspect of myth that must be kept in mind is what Paul Ricoeur has described as “a nar­ rative of origins.”142 That is, myth organizes questions that pertain to the ori­ gin of ­things, extending them to all aspects of social life.143 Myth constructs and interprets a community’s “historical mode of existence”: that is, their being in the world.144 ­These “history-­like narratives,” as Ricoeur has termed them, situate and sustain a community’s sense of self.145 The theologians of the Hebrew Bible, like their ANE counter­parts, “­were concerned with the place of humankind—­and particularly of their own ­people—­within the realm of be­ ing.”146 Myths are thus stories that both stabilize and situate a social body in the cluttered social terrains of other stories.147 It is out of some previous wound that the body is marked in (as) history.148 This understanding of myth ­will function as a “wobbling pivot” on which this proj­ect ­will turn with re­ spect to seeing Mark as a kind of mythopoesis149 and the social function of the sea as a par­tic­u­lar instance in Mark’s posttraumatic mythmaking.150

In the Beginning? Again, we must ask what is actually begun with the signaling of Mark’s be­ ginning (ἀρχή). The text of 1:1 is fraught with challenges.151 Yarbro Collins has noted the “complex function” of ἀρχή in 1:1.152 On the one hand, the events recounted in the entire work constitute only “the beginning” of the good news. The narrative as a ­whole is open-­ended, and impor­tant predic­ tions and promises remain unfulfilled when the account ends. On the other hand, the account of the life and work of Jesus, which constitutes the be­ ginning and cause of the proclamation of the good news, must also have a par­tic­u­lar beginning. Thus, Mark 1:1 also introduces the first unit of the text, Mark 1:2–15, which introduces the rest.153 Yarbro Collins adroitly draws attention to the literary function of ἀρχή in setting the text to sea, as well as suggests a growing sentiment for the community—­a kind of enacted aesthetic, as living in the times of the Gos­ pel of Jesus Christ (τοῦ εὐαγγελίου Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ), which are open-­ended and unfulfilled. More than writing a “biography of Jesus,” and even more than positioning Jesus “at the end of a line of salvation-­historical fulfill­ ment,”154 Mark is a myth of unfinished consolation. As with Scheherazade before Shahryar, the moment she stops telling her story is the moment she

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dies. Mark’s Gospel depends on the community’s repetition of what was only begun with Jesus yet ruptured by the trauma of an empty tomb. Joel Marcus suggests the beginning of the Gospel ends on Easter morning. The good news of Jesus, however, continues “through the life of the church.”155 The difficulty of Marcus’s statement lies in the certainty of continuity. In the text of Mark, immediately following its confession of beginnings, a sense of inevitability and, indeed, a prophetic patch with redemptive-­historical time are given by anchor­ ing not only the beginning of the Gospel but also its pre­sent continuation in accord with authoritative writings. Even so, the beginning cannot complete itself before the Nihil of the empty tomb. The beginning of Mark as a work, as mythopoesis, reflects the dialectic of trauma’s inability to articulate yet stay ­silent. The myth is borne out of wound: traumatic separation is placed in the loss of another. As Richard Kearney has beautifully phrased it: [W]e need to think about the genuinely cathartic role of trauma stories as requiring open narratives that never end, rather than closed narratives that presume to wish away wounds rather than working through scars. Trauma narratives are by their very nature truncated, gapped, fractured, inconclusive. They may be g­ reat stories but they can never offer terminal solutions. T ­ here are no total cures. Writings can only work through traumas as traces, revisit them as hauntings; they can never fully retrieve such experiences or tell the full story. In the transposition from inexpressible wound to written scar t­ here is something lost in translation. Invariably. Why? ­Because the “wound” is precisely that which could never be properly regis­ tered or recorded in the first place. It was ­because it was “too much” that trauma repeats itself as lack. Trauma narratives are scabs over the cavities left by inexperienced experience.156 Gospel writing thus contains a ge­ne­tic unfinishing as well as the impulse to close and suture. The dialectics of trauma are the now/not yet, finished/ unfinished voice of Gospel writing.

A Beginning That Signals an End? Hans Leander extends fascinating reflection to what he calls the “pregnant phrase” of 1:1, with re­spect to its relation with Roman imperial discourse,



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suggesting it functions as a “superscription to the entire work.”157 It is this incipit, drawing on both Roman imperial and Jewish discourse, that is sug­ gested as a “point of departure” in the Markan text, and “opens a subversive space within imperial discourse.”158 Leander suggests a reading of ἀρχή at least in loose accord with the ἀρχὴ Ῥωμαίων—­a beginning/rule of Rome. Josephus could speak of ἀρχὴ Ῥωμαίων as a way of inflecting its imperial supremacy.159 In the Greek, ἀρχή could well be translated as “beginning,” “rule,” “power,” or “head.”160 The link between ἀρχή and εὐαγγέλιον is impor­tant for Leander from the distinct scriptural allusions in Isaiah as well as in the ways imperial pro­ nouncements ­were tied with conceptions of temporality.161 This is evi­ denced, for example, in inscriptions relating to the distribution of the Julian calendar throughout Greek cities. In response to a missive from the procon­ sul of Asia (lines 1–30), the Greek assembly issued two decrees (lines 30–84), in which they de­cided to “reckon time from the birth” of Augustus (line 49).162 This reconfiguration of time as mediated through the implementa­ tion of the Julian calendar throughout numerous Greek cities is also on dis­ play in an inscription from Priene (9 bce).163 The inscription celebrates the birthday of Augustus as “the beginning of all ­things” (τῶν πάντων ἀρχῆ; line 6), “the beginning of life” (ἀρχὴν τοῦ βίου; line 10), and the bringer of “peaceful order” (κοσμἠσοντα [δὲ εἰρήνην]; line 37).164 Craig Evans has ar­ gued that Mark’s incipit interacted with the Priene inscription.165 Of par­tic­ u­lar relevance for the reading of Mark 1:1 is the inscription that proclaims: “the birthday of god [Augustus] was the beginning of the gospels that he brought to the world” (ἧρξεν δὲ τῶι κόσμωι τῶν δι ᾽αὐτὸν εὐανγελί[ων ἡ γενέυλιοσ ἡμέ]ρα τοῦ θεοῦ; lines 40–41). Though we might well remain suspicious of statements of de­pen­dency, awareness, and allusion, Leander rightly suggests that “the establishment of a universal calendar was an impor­ tant manifestation of Roman rule.”166 The question of when this “establishment” of Roman rule happened in­ sofar as it became invested into the person of the principate, of course, is not as clean as Leander seems to suggest. But he sheds light on an impor­tant development of Roman rule: the spreading throughout the Mediterranean world of an orienting sense of a provincial’s historical time “around the rhythms of the Roman state.”167 The Antonine age, for example, “witnessed an increased rate of assimilation of local civic calendars to one another, in a pro­cess already vis­i­ble in Flavian municipal laws.”168 This was seen in the pro­cess of renaming months,169 the reor­ga­ni­za­tion of local calendars around

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the Roman new year,170 and, similarly, around the birthday of Augustus.171 Key for the myth of “stability and concord of the Antonine ­house” was its production and provision of a sense of time, which allowed “all to familiar­ ize themselves with the language appropriate” to that myth.172 Moreover, the vari­ous municipal fasti concerned themselves with “holidays prescribed by the Senate” as well as the display honors paid by vari­ous municipal bodies to the “emperor of the world.”173 Clifford Ando, in his brilliant book, Imperial Ideology and the Provincial Loyalty in the Roman Empire, illustrates the impor­tant connection of time, myth, and law in Cicero’s De republica and his ­later De legibus. This ­later work was itself a constitution and extensive commentary on the law code for the ideal state that he had articulated in the ­earlier De republica. Cicero’s exposi­ tion began with rules governing state religion: its priesthoods, and their function. While Cicero allowed for private worship of ancestral deities, he also insisted on the universal ac­cep­tance of an approved state pantheon and the universal observance of state-­sanctioned holidays [Leg. 2.19; 2.27, 29]. The Principate made it pos­si­ble for this ideal consensus to be realized: quite in­de­pen­dent from the steady extension of the franchise, the position of Augustus atop the empire allowed the Mediterranean world to share a deity for the first time. It did so by providing, in the first instance, the real­ity of a shared calendar [italics mine]. The only remotely comparable phenomena prior to Augustus w ­ ere t­ hose formed within diplomatic negotiations, when city-­states recognized commonalities between their respective mythological traditions or identified Jupiter Capitolinus with a local Zeus, for example. The comparison cannot bear much scrutiny, though; cities neither changed the names of their own deities nor instituted new festivals on appropriate days in response to such identifications. In point of fact, the sheer absence of uniformity in civic calendars made the attempt pointless. A ­century a­ fter Augustus that situation changed entirely. A traveler could recognize at least one ­temple in ­every city he visited and would know the prayers for one divinity in ­every ritual he witnessed; he could identify the dates of imperial holidays in any civic calendar as shared with ­every municipality in the empire.174



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The apparatus of imperium consisted of a complex network of founding narratives (myths) and laws that stabilized ­these narratives—­all, of course, in step with new orientations established by an official, universalized tem­ porality. The manifestation of imperium in the form of the so-­called impe­ rial cult, then, is less about patterns or networks of enforced belief; it was a translational effort to universalize space and time into a common experience of rule within “a set of ritual observances.” ­W hether they ­were “Africans greeting Gordian, or Antiochenes welcoming Niger, or Constantinopolitans honoring Procopius,” they all enacted greetings “using largely identical cer­ emonies, ­because they, like the citizens at Oxyrhynchus and Athens, had practiced that ritual throughout their lives before imperial portraits. Even ­those who never left the city of their birth could realistically imagine, when swearing their annual oath and making the concomitant prayers for the health of their ruler, that ­every other citizen of the empire was performing the same act at precisely the same moment.”175 Laws and institutions, myths and time,176 ritual and place: such are the forms that support and manifest rule. Such is the bricolage of enclosure. Mark’s beginning, then, may reflect a sense both of origin and an at­ tempted authority of another kind. Leander suggests that the Markan text “constitutes the beginning/rule of the gospel.”177 Significant is the way in which this authority is enmeshed with the medium of the Markan text—or, as Leander suggests, its curious relation with the “codex.”178 Though we should be cautious of thinking of finalized, finished, and authoritative ver­ sions of Mark circulating during this period,179 theorizing the materiality of a text’s social function warrants further attention. Joanna Dewey has pro­ duced a string of impressive studies relating to a kind of audio analy­sis of the social effects of public readings.180 Related particularly to my suggested reading strategy, Dronsch and Weissenrieder propose the Markan text as the enacted remembering—­indeed, veneration—of the absent body of Jesus.181 With Dronsch and Weissenrieder, we might well view the materiality of the Gospel form as related to the absent figure of the early community’s veneration. To appropriate from Susan Clarke: evangelists applied themselves to writing Gospels when the magic of remembrance was in threat of decline. Gospel genre is the material form of the community’s enactment of resur­ rection amid alienating threat and social exposure. Mark 1:1 may also trigger lexical associations with LXX translations of Gen. 1:1: “in the beginning” (Ἑν ἀρχῇ). This was a daring boast by a group

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of scattered exiles living in Babylon.182 As has been demonstrated by many excellent studies, the world of Genesis 1–3 is very much a borrowed world.183 The materials of surrounding creation myths feel at once reworked and dis­ enchanted. Somewhat differently, yet related in impor­tant ways, sociologist Robert Wuthnow has reflected on the social significance of such “borrow­ ings” in what he calls “the prob­lem of articulation”: [I]f cultural products do not articulate closely enough with their social settings, they are likely to be regarded by the potential audiences of which ­these settings are composed as irrelevant, unrealistic, artificial, and overly abstract, or worse, their producers ­will be unlikely to receive the support necessary to carry on their work; but if cultural products articulate too closely with the specific social environment in which they are produced, they are likely to be thought of as esoteric, parochial, time bound, and fail to attract a wider and more lasting audience. The pro­cess of articulation is thus characterized by a delicate balance between the products of culture and the social environment in which they are produced.184 The move ­toward origins enlists this pro­cess of articulation. In it, we wit­ ness the founding and election of a ­people, its self-­formation and the point at which they come to recognize themselves as themselves. Again, it signals a point of rule and creates a space of legitimacy. We ­will return to the latter in Chapter 3, but the point of rule is worth further reflection in the Genesis 1 account. In Gen. 1:1, we read: Ἑν ἀρχῇ ἐποίησεν ὁ θεὁς τὸν οὐρανὸν καὶ τὴν γῆν. In the beginning, God made the heavens and the earth. Intriguingly, the next appearance of ἀρχή is in 1:16, where we read of the domains of the two lights: τὸν σωστῆρα τὸν μέγαν εἰς ἀρχὰς τῆς ἡμέρας καὶ τὸν φωστῆρα τὸν ἐλάσσω εἰς ἀρχὰς τῆς νυκτός the greater light for regulating the day and the lesser light for regulating the night The first two appearances ἀρχή in the LXX reflect this dual meaning of “be­ ginning” and “rule.” To begin is to rule; and to rule is to begin anew. The



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complication for Mark is, as Wittgenstein stated in a dif­fer­ent context: “It is so difficult to find the beginning. Or better, it is difficult to begin at the beginning. And not try to go further back.”185 The prob­lem of articulation for Mark manifests itself in the very next verse: Καθὼς γέγραπται ἐν τῷ Ἠσαΐᾳ τῷ προφήτῃ Just as it was written in Isaiah the prophet (1:2) The ἀρχὴ τοῦ εὐαγγελίου Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ (beginning/rule of the Gospel of Christ Jesus) is predated by the Jewish scriptures. The Gospel is run through with this tension of beginnings, continuations, and articulations of fulfill­ ment. The text reflects an anxiety over “new” and “old.”186 In the contro­ versy over the plucking of grain on the Sabbath, for instance (2:23–28), what is condemned by the Pharisees as novel and out of step with tradition is de­ fended by an appeal to an ­earlier tradition. This tension comes to a head most forcefully in the disputes over eating with unwashed hands (7:1–23). Mark positions the Pharisees and all the Jews (καὶ πάντες οἱ Ἰουδαῖοι) as aligning themselves around the tradition of the elders (κρατοῦντες τὴν παράδοσιν τῶν πρεσβυτέρων; v. 4) and the community around Jesus’ read­ ing of Isaiah and Moses (vv. 6–13). Throughout the text, Jesus is positioned as a faithful interpreter of Jewish tradition and, in some re­spects, in step with and continuing its field of authority (e.g., 9:2–8). In ­these texts, we see this tension, this anxiety, over the Markan assem­ bly’s prob­lem of articulation. The prob­lem is not solved by a ­simple return to the Jewish scriptures. Rather, the Markan text reflects formations of rites of passage, or authenticating lanes of authority. Jesus is given an authoritative role (πρεσβύτερος) for the community. Texts like Mark 7 and 9 evidence crossed intersections of legitimacy with other such authenticating lanes. The pro­cess of articulation is a series of interjections of the new into the old, “imparting ­ ill return to patina to what we invent and allure to what we inherit.”187 We w this below, but the point at which this pro­cess ends is, in fact, the community’s beginning—­its origin. The beginning stands upon an elaborate theorizing of a social order and aesthetics of form. At the end is the beginning.

The Question of Empire and the Location of Politics With re­spect to this question of beginnings and empire, I wish to restate what was put forward in Chapter 1 on the question of politics. What is

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difficult to contest is what Ando brilliantly outlined as the complex network of founding narratives and laws that effected and disciplined a universal­ ized “Roman” temporality. Though hardly static or stable on the ground, the universal boast of Rome’s imperium worked to standardize an experience and an exchange of space and time. The question is how one should under­ stand the evidence of lived or envisioned alternative rhythms. ­There is something quite moving and power­f ul in some of the studies that place the Gospel of Mark as somehow counter-­imperial. Empire is surely a worth­ while enterprise to ­counter. Such reading strategies are not only in­ter­est­ing but relevant. The problematic I am attempting to insert in such studies is the question of where po­liti­cal agency resides. If ­there is a position and tempo­ rality that the Markan community occupies that is somehow alternative to or dif­fer­ent from empire, how did such communities come to occupy such a position? This is a question of the mechanism of one’s politics. I think ­there is something to be said with ­these texts against practices of enclosure. What I am hesitant in affirming, however, is the location of a strong, activist politics in ­these texts. ­There is fundamental agreement with what is being argued ­here—­and what ­will be suggested in Chapter 7—­with studies that position the com­ munities of Mark’s Gospel outside the spatio-­temporal enclosure of Rome’s rule. The disagreement is how ­there came to be an outside. My argument has been that the disciples, and witness itself, are traumatized. Space, time, and desire are traumatically split by an absence issuing forth from the empty tomb. This originary trauma is marked for a ­later traumatized community as their story. Perhaps owing to the rubble and ruin of the fallen ­temple, the collapsed meaning of this latter community’s world is placed in another’s loss. What­ever the trauma of the Markan community may have been, it was placed along, within, and before the trauma and ecstasy (τρόμος καὶ ἔκστασις) of the empty tomb. Mark’s mythopoesis is its attempted consola­ tion of t­ hese traumatic ruptures—­its good news at the abyss (Frohe Botschaft am Abgrund).188 Mark as myth is not ­counter to empire (how could we determine that par­tic­u ­lar sort of intention?) but marks a community of loss outside the spatio-­temporalities of empire precisely ­because of trauma’s dissociation of space, time, and desire. To recall Judith Butler from Chapter 1, it is from loss and traumatic disruption that the emergence of a “new po­liti­cal agency” is made pos­si­ble.189 To do ­things with texts is a dif­fer­ent enterprise from lo­ cating ­things in texts. The latter is rejected ­here, while the former is made



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pos­si­ble by a condition of loss that ruptured ­those whom Jesus desired from time and place—­imperial or other­wise.

Mythopoesis and Self-­Narrations If beginnings always stand upon some elaborate theory, I want to call the productions of ­these beginnings and their pro­cesses “mythopoesis.” In his classical study on ancient Greek novels, B. P. Reardon suggests that myths and legends in antiquity “express a community’s perception of the forces that govern its existence” in the basic form of narrative.190 Myths rewrite the past “to endow the pre­sent with meaning by offering a focus of desire to a com­ munity with reason to doubt its ­f uture.”191 This meaning, sentiment, or stance is a function of governmentality as it is its formation—­and, of course, a materializing of the intersections of competing forms.192 Robert Bresson, with echoes of Durkheim, has suggested that “the super­natural is the natu­ral precisely rendered.”193 Myth reflects this render­ ing pro­cess in the production of ideologies in narrative form.194 Mythopoe­ sis cannot be reduced to ­simple equations of fiction, forgery, or intentions to deceive and manipulate. Myth emerges from “an instinct for preservation,” a kind of re-­elaboration of the community’s real­ity, lest it careen into despair or meaninglessness. As Debray suggests, “a ­people without legends is con­ demned to die of cold.” The mythic outfitting of the origin is thus a “thermal effort” and “indispensable to the maintenance of a ­human group.” The cohe­ sive effect of “the m ­ ental sharing of an origin and destination” is produced by the social bonding that takes place in and through a mythic world. It is this effected communitarian matrix that fabricates an origin in order to inject threats of chaos with destination and form.195 “Avoiding dissolution requires that the pre­sent ‘fix’ the past with a glue that neutralizes dissemination.”196 Myth narrativizes the “itinerary” of the community and promotes to the point of universality a series of specific events emanating from an origin. We must again consider the prob­lem of articulation as it relates to this tension between particularity and universality. The Markan community was the pro­ duction of and participant in networks of an evolving and emerging discourse. The emergence of Gospel writing tended to be tied to specific geographies. We see this in the cases of Gospel of the Hebrews, Gospel of the Egyptians, Gospel of the Nazarenes, and a tradition from Serapion preserved in Eusebius about a community gathered around the Gospel of Peter (H.E. VI.12.6).

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As Margaret Mitchell has persuasively argued, the reception of the Gospels in patristic interpretation “was very self-­consciously and complexly working at the fulcrum between the universality and particularity of the gospels.” Working for a universal was never at the expense of some explication of provenance. Early Christian interpretation “found many creative ways to hold in tension the gospels’ historical particularity and theological univer­ sality.”197 The canonical four ­were no dif­fer­ent. Mark was positioned with Rome and/or Alexandria, Matthew with Judaea, Luke with Achaia, and John with Ephesus and/or Patmos.198 Clement of Alexandria, for example, in a fragment preserved in Eusebius (H.E. VI.14.5–7), states: “Mark im­ parted the gospel to ­those who ­were asking him [for it]” (ποιήσαντα δέ, τὸ εὐαγγέλιον μεταδοῦναι τοῖς δεομένοις αὐτοῦ).199 Chrysostom suggests Mark responded to such requests in Egypt (Hom. in Mt. 1.3). With re­spect to ancient rhetorical theory, a writing must be “suitable,” or πρέπον, with its readers/hearers.200 Papias, as preserved in Eusebius, spoke of the teach­ ing of Peter as given in accord with what was needed (ὃς πρὸς τὰς χρείας ἐποιεῖτο τὰς διδασκαλίας; H.E. III.39.15). Mitchell points to Irenaeus as giving proof that “circumscription of audience was being used in the second ­century as an interpretive princi­ple.”201 Intriguingly, such “audience request traditions,” as Mitchell labels them, 202 and as we have noted, ­were made in light of the writer’s impending departure or absence.203 “In the attempt to create epiphanic moments of encounter with Jesus via text, each evangelist, although naturally at some points both echoing and entering debates on the insistent rhetorical, catechetical and theological needs of the churches he knew, as he knew them, opened the door for anyone conversant with the Greek language to enter, see, and live inside the scripted real­ity of the Christ event.”204 Mitchell sees the “genius” of the emerging literary culture of early Chris­ tian­ity to be precisely at the point of working from a provincial to a trans-­ local and trans-­generational readership of ­these texts. The trans-­local and trans-­generational then returns to the provincial in the reading/hearing as the “ritual reenactment in local worshiping communities,” reconceiving “ac­ cess to the living presence of the Christ” as something spanning across time.205 Mitchell further credits Mark with transforming “the narrative po­ tentialities of bare-­bones pre-­Pauline missionary kerygma (1 Cor. 15:3f.) through the mediatorial hermeneutics of the Pauline letters, into a work which offered his readers . . . ​a chance to stand on equal footing with the original disciples of Jesus.”206



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The relationship between Mark and the “narrative potentialities” of the pre-­Pauline kerygma hints ­toward the dynamic work of mythopoesis.207 The origin lives in a crowded social space: that is, among ­others. This is what makes all beginnings blush: ­there is always a before—­and, indeed, a between. With Mark, we witness the complication of this before with re­spect to the kerygma, Petrine memory, and, of course, the circulating Pauline oeuvre. Jacob Taubes, following Nietz­sche’s assertion of Paul as the originator of Chris­tian­ity, contrasts Moses, who “twice rejects the idea that with him be­ gins a new ­people and that the ­people of Israel should be eliminated,” with Paul, who acquiesces.208 Taubes suggests that it is in Paul, and not Jesus, that “Chris­tian­ity has its origin.”209 ­Here we might recall Hermann Cohen’s “philosophy of origin.”210 Steven Schwarzschild has reflected upon the title of Cohen’s Religion of Reason: Out of the Sources of Judaism (Religion der Vernunft aus den Quellen des Judentums) and the way Quelle and Ursprung are synonymous in Cohen’s thought. For Cohen, the origin is less of a historical beginning and more of “the transcendentally logical ground, the rational pre­ suppositions, which are the only conceptual basis from which the subse­ quent historical events could transpire.”211 The production of the origin, in turn, effects concepts and ideas of “God, creation, revelation, redemption, the ­human self, and so on, all of which entail rational and religious obligations for ­human beings.”212 Critical for my reading is how, following Debray, the “crucial moment is always left blank.”213 I wish to amend Debray and suggest that the crucial moment for Mark is traumatized and left empty. Returning to Deleuze, the event is always “a kind of plague, war, wound or death.” Debray suggests that the “myth of the founder, the figure of the Event” is its “radical break with the past.”214 As Proust put it, with his customary magic, “the long silence that followed seemed to herald the beginning.”215 In the necessary caution re­ quired in rightly tempering readings of clean breaks between something like “early Chris­tian­ity” and Judaism, we should not miss the traumatic fis­ sure or break with something like a past t­ oward which Mark gestures. But what past? Whose past? Another point into this series of questions is in theo­ rizing what is left blank in Mark. Or, what remains empty? The answer, of course, is the empty tomb. The signification of that emptiness and absence, however, is an awkward re­orientation with a sense of locating an originary trauma. To refer once more to Mitchell’s concept of placing early communi­ ties on equal footing with the early disciples, though hardly flattering, Mark’s mythopoesis is therapeutic precisely in locating traumatized communities of

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differing environments at the origin. The difference is that the trauma of witness is given place by the therapy of myth. The disciples do not witness the body or hear the report of traumatized witnesses. The therapy of myth enacts for l­ater communities this precise function that was e­ arlier absent. At several points in the Jewish scriptures, the wilderness is where the community reinforces itself amid threats of dissolution. Ernest Renan, in his five-­volume History of the ­People of Israel (Histoire du Peuple d’Israël; 1887–93), spoke of the desert as revealing to humanity the concept of “the infinite.” Several excellent studies exist analyzing this theme in Mark.216 I suggest the sea as another space along the point of the infinite in the sense of its unfin­ ishing any attempted closure. The sea is where the gods live. It is a stitch between creation and chaos and the per­sis­tent tension between the two; the symbol of untamable promise and the threat of “absoluteness.”217 The infi­ nite is the last concept of our invention before we ­settle for God—­with the gods being our “first defense against anxiety.”218 Yet the imagery of a social body adrift on and battered by the primordial powers of the sea reflects some­ thing fundamental about exposure and vulnerability. The sea returns us, as Irigaray has it, to a loneliness, 219 a rapture, 220 to “a limitless world of appear­ ances” and delusions, 221 and, by its very depth, the undoing of all perspec­ tive.222 To be at sea is to be in “anxious suspense.” Even the proudest of sailors ­will wait and pray, suggests Irigaray. “How needy and suppliant they are in this moment. How afraid they are the sea ­will swallow them up. How un­ prepared they find themselves to face this unchaining of natu­ral forces. And what good is all their seamanship if the sea refuses to submit to it? . . . ​Might they not then be found bent ­toward the ground, faced with their nothing­ ness, and warding off the abysses?”223 Sea scenes in Mark reflect the nothingness and the “vertigo of the abyss” loosed from the empty tomb.224 The empty tomb of Jesus—or, the absence of his body—­focalized ­those who had gathered around him into a position of vulnerability. Throughout Mark, we read of ­those “gathering around” Jesus. Jesus had become a heavy density of being and readjusted social orbits. What happens when that density is removed? The absent density of Jesus’ body threw ­those who had socially “gathered around” him into vulnerability—­a position of “primordial exposure.”225 A density of being was therefore needed that could set social orbits back in motion while renarrating loss into some­ thing meaningful—­the marking of failure, absence, anxiety, and the trauma of loss as somehow effective. “Just as memories, in order to make sense, must be spoken, and reor­ga­nized through their articulation, the memory traces left



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b­ ehind by Jesus could be transmitted only by being remobilized, reinserted into the collective psychodrama, and ­shaped into confirmations.”226 Mythopoetic pro­cesses consist in the reworkings of previous reworkings of memories and a rich plurality of smaller narratives into a composite myth of absence and loss retold as something meaningful. As Lefort saw it, with re­spect to “religions,” “­human society can only open on to itself by being held in an opening it did not create.” I would like to swap out his use of “religions” for my deployment of “myth.” The impulse Lefort detects con­ sists of the way socie­ties fill and “populate” this opening with objects, fig­ ures, and narratives of time and space before a meaningful sequencing of time and space.227 The opening is the crucial moment—­the space always left blank. The trauma of an empty tomb was the opening of what came to be early Chris­tian­ity. The Gospel of Mark is among the vari­ous and competing nar­ rative strategies that attempted to navigate the ordeal by suturing the sociopo­ liti­cal link between the absent body of Jesus and the social body of Markan assemblies.228 Bruce Lincoln states that in myths, “creation follows on the death of some primordial being, whose disarticulated body provides the material sub­ stance from which the cosmos is fashioned.”229 The pattern is that of creation through strug­gle, and cosmic remembering through somatic dismember­ ing. This provides an intriguing lens through which to read Mark 6:30–44, 8:1–10, and, of course, 14:22–24. The first two texts ­will recur ­later (see Chapter  6), but ­here we consider the so-­called institution of the Lord’s Supper.230 What­ever might have happened in that upper room on that first eve­ning of Unleavened Bread (14:12), the episode of Jesus’ distribution of the ele­ments was ­later refracted through the bloody horrors of the crucifixion and exposure of social suspension caused by Jesus’ absent body. When the communities gathered, the royal remains collected in the baskets of the twelve (cf. 6:43), and the seven (cf. 8:8) ­were redistributed with the words: “this is my body” (τοῦτό ἐστιν τὸ σῶμά μου; 14:22). In the breaking of bread, the death of Jesus as “primordial being” and his “disarticulated body” become the “material substance” from which both cosmos and community are formed: the aperitif of an abandoned community.231 Again, this is not to suggest a pure constructivist model of Gospel material. Myth would hardly be a durable point of reference ­unless it re­ vealed and connected with par­tic­u­lar points of lived experience and history. This “anthropology in the rough,” or “anticipation of our analytic procedures,” as Debray has it, 232 describes even as it mobilizes the past into a sense of

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satisfactory and effective completeness. As Peter Brown has written in his treatment of the so-­called rise of western Christendom: “The past was treated as a body of living truth, to be applied to ­every situation of their own times. In that sense, ­there was no past. . . . ​W hat mattered was that the past still ‘worked’ in the pre­sent.”233 With re­spect to the Markan Gospel, this sense of social utility and ex­ istentially satisfactory completeness envelops the prob­lem of articulation even as it complicates what constitutes the past for the community. It does so with re­spect to the “Jewishness” of the Gospel and what we have come to describe as the historical Jesus. It also does so across the emerging distinction of forms assembling around the loss of this “primordial being.” Myths are a “discourse of differentiation.”234 As David Brakke has astutely noted, despite “their di­ versity and disagreements, early Christians liked to imagine themselves as a single community spread across the world.”235 The articulation of this “sin­ gle community,” from the perspective of a diverse set of myths, instituted “rival regimes of truth”236 and, in some cases, “conflicting mythologies.”237

Trauma, Myth, and Therapeutic Differences Among a Social Body In lieu of a conclusion that attempts to tie all the ­running ribbons through­ out this chapter into a pretty bow, I want to consider how myth and trauma might help us revision a text like the Gospel of Mark and its witness to an emerging relationship “among” and within Judaisms. With Daniel Boyarin, of course “canonical Mark is best read as a Jewish text.”238 And, again like Boyarin, it is right to affirm that Mark does not constitute a “break with or step out of ” Judaism.239 Unlike Boyarin, however, the emergent implications of trauma and myth to which we have only now gestured introduce a rupture within the relationship with the Judaisms of the Markan assemblies. Trauma, as we have been suggesting, disrupts time, space, and associative desires. The desocializing effects of trauma upon the relationships of the traumatized can be far-­reaching. For the former, life goes on. For the latter, the carefully woven fabric of life’s form becomes unraveled. For the trauma­ tized, the world and their body in that world fall into an agitated state of trau­ matic repetition. Every­thing is trapped within trauma and its dissociative reign. In this sense, the spatio-­temporal and desirative bricolage that is a form of life gets lived quite differently for ­those outside of trauma. The



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relational stress that attends living with (and with someone who has) PTSD is well documented. Part of the therapeutic pro­cess is restoring the rhythms of relationships while acknowledging a new presence: the specter of trauma. Numerous studies have addressed the complicated issues of the relation­ ship between Judaism and the early Gospels.240 I merely wish to point out an implication of what has been put forward thus far in this proj­ect. The implication of what I have been arguing is a shift in prepositions. Through trauma, difference emerged among a social body, owing to divergent thera­ peutic needs. In Chapter 1, I spoke of an “originary trauma.” In many re­ spects, this phrasing is in blatant contradiction to what I am proposing. ­There is no origin—no before, no ­after—­with trauma. ­There is something about the formative neurological effects and pro­cesses of all that has made us us, and the world the world, that trauma breaks apart. Yet we must retain the conviction that something happened somewhere and at some time. That is to say, ­there was a traumatic event.241 This is the complexity to which “an originary trauma” rather awkwardly and clumsily points. Speaking of a before or ­after this event, however, becomes profoundly complicated from the perspective and experience of the traumatized. The trauma and ecstasy issuing from the empty tomb is the originary event that placed out of kilter ­those who had enacted some mea­sure of so­ cial reor­ga­ni­za­tion in their lives around the heavy center of Jesus’ gravity.242 The loss of that center-­density by a violent death and the precise lack of clo­ sure and witness and care for a corpse introduced a radically new therapeu­ tic need along their Jewish horizon. Again, this is not a break from, but the emergence of a radically new need among, a social body of Jewish followers. A shift is introduced when considering the relevance of marking this origi­ nary trauma by a community facing distinctively dif­fer­ent terrorem animi (ter­ rors of the mind). The traumatic event of a collapsed ­temple occurred ­after the originary trauma. What­ever the particulars ­were for ­later assemblies, it was marked by their being placed along the experience of the former:243 trauma was experienced as being placed at a distance from violent death and before a tomb with no body to mourn. Rudolf Bultmann, in his Shaffer Lectures given at Yale Divinity School in 1951, stated that his proj­ect of demythologizing was ­after what is relevant for humanity’s modern situation in the preaching of Jesus.244 His method,245 which he referred to as merely a manner of questioning, 246 was one of mak­ ing clear and ready for a personal encounter with a God that is “never pre­ sent as a familiar phenomenon but who is always the coming God.”247 For

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Bultmann, the turn to the past and its texts and experiences is the pursuit of therapeutic possibilities for ­human existence.248 He admits that one’s re­ lation “to the subject-­matter prompts the question” that one brings “to the text and elicits the answers” that one obtains “from the text,”249 and that the “question of God and the question of myself are identical.”250 Moreover, he states that ­there ­will never be a right philosophy or line of questioning. His own philosophy is simply one that best accords to his moment and “of­ fers the most adequate perspective and conceptions for understanding ­human existence.”251 Far from seeking reconciliations, however, Bultmann’s thera­ peutic method “destroys ­every longing for security.”252 The readiness to be a ­human, 253 as he has it elsewhere, is in the realization and confrontation with our fundamental loneliness.254 Demythology as therapy, then, is not an at­ tempt to make one at home or make one comfortable, but an experiment in adequate forms of expression of our alienation.255 What I find so power­ful in Bultmann, who, in many ways, was a modern-­ day Origen, 256 is the way he places pro­cesses of articulation as therapy, which invariably leads to divergent ends for ­those with divergent needs. The violent death of Jesus and the absence of a body to mourn traumatized a small group of Jewish followers who had gathered around Jesus. The resulting loss of that center created a need for differing therapeutic myths. And around ­these differing therapeutic myths, loose associations of bodies gathered. ­These myths became an adequate form for social expression in marking the trauma of a ­later community. Rubble and ruin, trauma and ecstasy: emer­ gent social bodies among Judaisms with distinct needs of articulation; dif­ fering bodies set along differing social rhythms owing to an originary trauma not shared. 257 To return to Boyarin one last time, sometimes “redefining ­things can . . . ​be the beginning of a new po­liti­cal vision.”258 As traumatic therapy, sometimes they can also lead to new social articulations among the same social body.259

Chapter 3

A Theater for Action: The Social Sea and Mark’s Mythic Crossings

When it comes, the Landscape listens—. —­Emily Dickinson, “­There’s a certain Slant of Light” And you had all to lose sight of me so I could come back, ­toward you, with an other gaze. —­Luce Irigaray, Marine Lover Where are your monuments, your b­ attles, martyrs? Where is your tribal memory? Sirs, in that grey vault. The sea. The sea has locked them up. The sea is History. —­Derek Walcott, “Sea Is History”

The Ruin of Sea We are “over-­awed,” suggests Charles Taylor, by the greatness of ruin. In places of desolation, such as wilderness and sea, “we sense a vastness which is alien and strange, which dwarfs us, passes our understanding, and seems to take no heed of us.”1 Taylor’s reflections are situated within a wider analy­ sis of what he calls the loss of old meanings and tattered tales that played at making sense of h ­ uman existence within vast spaces of ruin. This ruin, ac­ cording to Taylor, bore witness to the rise of the sublime—­what Thomas

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Burnet referred to in his Telluris theoria sacra (Sacred Theory of the Earth) as that “excess” that emerges out of the grandeur of spaces of desolation.2 The theme of desolation is significant for this proj­ect on Mark and the sea not simply owing to the potential social situation of the ­temple in Trümmern (wreckage) but also the trauma that haunts ­later pro­cesses of articula­ tion. The originary trauma of separation and violent death remained an experience incapable of communal decipherment.3 This trauma, to appro­ priate from W. G. Sebald’s masterful study Luftkrieg und Literatur, obscured “a world that could no longer be presented in comprehensible terms.”4 The heavy burden of “history” as a work came ­later, built among and, indeed, with the Trümmern and trauma of a shattered community. The rise of Gospel writing is thus a kind of Trümmer auf Trümmer—­wreckage on wreckage,5 attempts at positioning life and witness at the terrible moment of their own disintegration.6 Traumatic displacement of time, space, and desire exposes life to primordial bareness and formlessness—to an abyss of time,7 to mem­ ories outside descriptions of what is tolerable. Kenzaburo Oe wrote in his notes on the survivors of Hiroshima in 1965 that even twenty years ­after the bomb, many still could not speak of ­those fateful days in August 1945.8 The phenomenology of what comes ­later is thus a kind of straightening and plac­ ing of the anguish of memory—­traumatized, maimed, and mute. Speech and home are happenings ­after the marking of trauma.9 ­Until that marking, all remain inarticulate screams. Another impor­tant voice in this philosophy of the void is E. M. Cio­ ran’s Précis de decomposition (A Short History of Decay). To return to our ­earlier introductory words on the science of nothing and the ultimate void of “a universe engulfed in its own absence,”10 Cioran writes how the “sciences prove our nothingness” but worries that the significance of this “ultimate teach­ ing” is nowhere grasped.11 The infinite spaces of “nothing” constitute the same “stuff ” of that equally infinite Melvillian nothing that is “in us.”12 The realization of this too-­awful truth—of our right sense of position in the world, of our “infinitesimal presence”—­Cioran suggests, “would crush us.”13 And so myths are made,14 attempting to shield life from the “elegant noth­ ingness of all ­things.”15 Amid and on the other side of physical destruction and trauma, we are placed outside the enclosures of ­human life, displaced from space and time, and exposed to this frigid nothingness in the raw.16 Even so, this abyss summons and calls us, Cioran suggests.17 It is a duty to study loss18 and to rush into the many climates of the incomplete,19 in search of the geographies of “Nothingness” upon unknown seas.20



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It is this connection of the geographies of Nothingness sought upon un­ known seas, and the fundamentality of that Nothingness in all ­things that directs my engagement with Mark and the sea. ­These thoughts ­were given power­f ul voice by Pascal, specifically as they relate to his reflections on Jesus in Gethsemane in fragment §717: Le mystère de Jésus, 21 in what he phrased Jésus dans l’ennui (“Jesus in agony”).22 For Pascal, Jesus stands where ­every ­human stands: seul dans la terre (“alone on the earth”). The solitary terror that he faced dans l’horreur de la nuit (“in the horror of night”) appears to be, for Pascal, in some way salvific.23 Even so, Jésus est sera en agonie jusqu’à la fin du monde (“Jesus ­will be in agony ­until the end of the world”). The vocation of humanity, then, is staying awake in an attempt to prevent the repetition of this délaissement universel (“universal abandonment”).24 This uni­ versal desertion, however, was the fundamental exposure of ourselves in all our néant (“nothingness”). Far from being something to avoid, Pascal admon­ ishes one to tear oneself away from the inhabitations of love and enter dans l’agonie (“into [his] agony”).25 The Christological implications of Pascal’s philosophy of Jesus in ag­ ony, abandoned, and then absent, provoke power­f ul considerations. Though he does not engage with Pascal in his reading of Mark, John Carroll, for example, has produced a haunting exploration of the existential dimensions of the second Gospel’s repre­sen­ta­tion of its main character.26 The interest in this proj­ect is in the traumatic effects of this agony, abandonment, and ab­ sence upon ­those whom Jesus desired (Mark 3:13) and how a text bears the mark of this trauma as it places desire among varying spaces of ruin—­ specifically, the sea. Pascal is an impor­tant voice to which we must return in Chapter 7, specifically as it relates to entering dans l’agonie. Moreover, Pascal alerts us to the shifting feeling of sway and elemental misplacement as prop­ erly conditional for any form of life: vous êtes embarqué—­you have embarked (§397)!27 Throughout history, the wild spaces of wilderness and sea have been con­ ceived as “unfinished” in the sense that they ­were outside the safe harbors of the habitable world.28 Though some may remain unconvinced of the par­ ticularities of Taylor’s sweeping narrative of ruin and the sublime, it is his idea of the sea (in par­tic­u ­lar) as a space representing the unfinished, un­ formed, and demonic—­a wild place to be exorcised—­that I would like to pick up in this chapter and extend to the sea’s repre­sen­ta­tion in Mark.29 The unfinished sea—­and the ways in which sovereignty has attempted to exor­ cise its “demonic” force within its enclosures—is not only a theme worth

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considering across imaginaries of space and time but also provides a fresh ­angle of vision to the Gospel.30 Sovereignty and its techniques, of course, are hardly stable or static across times and spaces. The impulses of what I ­will describe below as “enclosure,” together with ­these emphases marked by Taylor as ruin, the alien and strange, the loss of old meanings, and the sea as an unfinished, unformed, and demonic space, provide a wobbling pivot from which to consider the differentiations of making space and telling time. And, as already suggested, the relationship between the unfinished and the demonic provides a fresh breeze to the familiar sea scenes of Mark’s Gospel in general and, in par­tic­u­lar, Mark 5. At the end of this chapter, we w ­ ill fo­ cus on the seemingly passing references to the sea in Mark where it appears to function as scenic detail. But first a few words on geography and what I am calling “enclosure.”

A Geophilosophy In their final cowritten work together, What Is Philosophy? (Qu’est-ce que la philosophie?), Deleuze and Guattari introduce the notion of “geophilosophy.”31 The work suggests a Nietz­schean approach to the practice of philosophy ­after the death of God, which places the earth as the fundamental topos of re­ flection.32 The term moves philosophy away from transcendental metaphys­ ics to the complex pro­cesses and assemblages of the mundane. Philosophy is brought down to earth. The dense particulars of their work need not con­ cern us ­here.33 What is relevant is the way in which they position space/place/ territory in philosophy’s proper mode of reflection. Though Deleuze and Guattari ­were hardly interested in a return to an Athenian Golden Age—­ they are forever interested in the “now” of thought—­the rough outline of a geophilosophical impulse was gestured ­toward two millennia ­earlier by the classical geographer Strabo of Amasia (62 bce–24 ce).34 In the opening line of his classical study, Geographica, Strabo claims that the business of the phi­ los­o­pher must be concerned with geography as much as any other science. The differences between Strabo and Deleuze/Guattari manifest themselves quite distinctly. What is compelling from both directions, and what is ap­ propriated ­here, is the conviction that geography is already a philosophical mode of reflection—or that philosophical thought assumes latent geo­graph­ i­cal assumptions. James Romm suggests that geography cannot be thought of as some isolated branch of physical science in antiquity but is a kind of



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literary genre.35 This is true insofar as we understand “literary genre” as an assemblage of po­liti­cal commitments and suggestive views of life.36 The texts of Strabo, Pomponius Mela, Pliny the Elder, Ptolemy of Alexander, or the maps of Anaximander or the travel logs of Hecataeus, Scylax, and Euthy­ menes, therefore, cannot be viewed as mere descriptive narratives of disin­ terested surveyors.37 They function as po­liti­cal tools and techniques of enclosure. Strabo, for example, argues that the geographer has no business pondering what lies beyond the known world (oikoumenē).38 As I ­will argue below, the establishment of oikoumenē becomes a form of territoriality: a “spa­ tial strategy to affect, influence, or control resources and ­people” by first surveying and then controlling an area.39 The interests in this chapter are in the ways territories are formed, or­ga­nized, and governed, as well as the strat­ egies of life within t­ hese enclosures that attempt to tear or break from ter­ ritorialized forms of life.40

Enclosure Being happens in the world.41 To be is “to be implaced.”42 Not to be is to be dis-­enclosed. Merleau-­Ponty was right when he suggested that “the world is what we perceive”43 and that this world pre­sents itself to us as a “woven fab­ ric.”44 But can we r­ eally say that this world is “precisely the one that we rep­ resent to ourselves”?45 Does this skip over questions of how perception is disciplined as well as the diverse rulings of what is allowed to be perceived? Or, better, does it answer it too quickly? In Foucault’s attention to “disciplinary socie­ties,” which he located in modernity, ­there was initiated what Deleuze ­later termed “the organ­ization of vast spaces of enclosure” (l’organisation des ­grand milieux d’enfermement).46 In disciplinary socie­ties, the “individual never ceases passing from one closed environment to another, each having its own laws” and rationality.47 For Fou­ cault, ­these institutions range from ­family and school to barracks, factories, hospitals, and prisons. As Deleuze argues, ­these “environments of enclosure” (milieux d’enfermement) concentrate and “distribute in space [and] order in time [while] composing a productive force within the dimension of space-­ time.”48 Enclosure is therefore the act of sovereignty’s distribution of space, ordering of time, and production of force—or means of exchange. Deleuze diagnosed the late twentieth ­century as awash in a “generalized crisis in relation to all the environments of enclosure.”49 Moreover, he is

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marking a distinctive migration from socie­ties of sovereignty through disci­ plinary socie­ties into what he terms “socie­ties of control,” characterized by “limitless postponements.”50 In socie­ties of control, the ­faces of power are hidden ­behind an army of extensions that lead nowhere.51 As he suggests, “man is no longer man enclosed, but man in debt.”52 Deleuze is careful not to argue for clear separations between ­these shifts and migrations of sover­ eignty. He stresses, rather, that we are “at the beginning of something” in what he calls socie­ties of control53—­and that it is up to the phi­los­o­pher to help determine what we are being made to serve and begin,54 along with the molds into which “life” is being enclosed.55 In a slightly dif­fer­ent vein, Jeff Malpas has written that to be located is “to be within, to be somehow enclosed.” He states that to be located also constitutes an opening and possibility. Any thinking of place therefore must consider “ideas of opening and closing.”56 ­These two spatial themes of en­ closure and opening related to being as being implaced are central to my read­ ing of Mark but not owing to their proximate relationship. Rather, their significance is owing to the latter’s agonistic position to the former. The significance of place in the study of Mark has been well recognized by a few excellent studies and ­will be discussed further below. The point of differentiation in this study is in the complex inflection that trauma intro­ duces to concepts such as origin, time, desire, and any sense of place. The dynamic and labyrinthine histories of Markan “texts” bear witness to early Christian space-­making. That early Christian space-­making emerged from a traumatic wound among Judaism for a community that had socially gath­ ered itself around and into a social body that lived within the enclosures of Roman sovereignty. The traumatic wound placed this community into a po­ sition of social exposure and vulnerability. It is from this a-­place that early Christian space-­making emerged. The interest of this study is precisely the points at which this traumatic sentiment marked and haunted ­these ­later textual histories in general and, in par­tic­u­lar, the sea scenes. Space forces us to think about the formal and informal establishment of an inside and an outside.57 And the relevance of time suggests the con­ structive nature of sequence, simultaneity, and duration.58 As such, space and time are put forward as “basic categories of ­human existence.”59 Does ­human experience occur only in space and time?60 Is not life lived, formed, and dis­ ciplined in dimensions that ­simple descriptions of space and time cannot exhaust?61 Or are not space and time arbitrary mea­sure­ments that are used to place life in some governable form? In addition to being inside or outside,



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t­ here are also notions of being in step or out of step—or in rhythm or out of rhythm.62 Moreover, habitations zoned as in or out are constituted by a range of strategic orientations.63 Sovereignty’s structuring of place or topos or what­ever ­else we might want to call it encompasses and encloses being.64 Being inside or outside, then, is somewhat irrelevant. As Deleuze and Guat­ tari write in Anti-­Oedipus, “outside and inside no longer have any meaning whatsoever.”65 This is ­because being is already enclosed. Or being is the rec­ ognized product, the authorized form of life, of enclosure. One cannot be outside—­nor can one not be outside. It is simply something ­else,66 something perhaps even demonic. The themes of enclosure and opening—or what we ­shall call dis-­ enclosure—­a re presented ­here as Markan themes.67 The pre­sent chapter pro­ poses a reading of Mark’s sea scenes that moves beyond the fact/error dichotomy of empirical geographies and ­toward a mythic geographies ap­ proach,68 or geographies of the mind—­those constructs that shape a commu­ nity’s perceptions of the world and give a sense of place within that world.69 “The lineaments of the world we live in are both seen and ­shaped in accor­ dance, or by contrast, with images we hold of other worlds—­better worlds, past worlds, ­future worlds.”70 What Lowenthal calls “substantive environmen­ tal beliefs” affect a community’s self-­understanding and their sense of place in the world.71 Space is not simply a stage on which events occur.72 It is a complex assemblage of events and forces that participate with the events themselves.

The Sea as Intermediary Space The sea is more than a s­ imple topographical phenomenon. Throughout an­ tiquity, and even in the complex histories of modernity,73 the sea has posed a fundamental geo­g raph­i­cal challenge as well as a philosophical prob­lem. Writing of The Sea in the Greek Imagination, Marie-­Claire Beaulieu suggests that not only is it “everywhere in the Greek landscape”;74 the sea generally pre­sents itself as “an impassable barrier.”75 Journeys across the sea are often presented as traversing “across cosmic bound­aries.”76 It also functions in clas­ sical traditions as a permeable membrane where ­human and divine spheres seep into the other—­a place of divine epiphany, where Apollo, Poseidon, Aphrodite, to name but a few, make themselves felt and known.77 Sea voy­ ages are often portrayed in symbolic terms representing the voyage of the dead to afterlives, or the crossing over into the realm of the dead, as in the

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case of Pindar’s account of Jason and the Argonauts. It can also represent pro­cesses of deification and the making of heroes. As Beaulieu suggests, “Dionysus is particularly at home in this inter­ mediary space, since he unites the ­human and the divine, or mortality and immortality, in his own person.”78 As a place of Dionysiac revelation, Beau­ lieu argues, the sea is a locus where sailors “receive the impulse to worship” the god.79 Perhaps most insightful in Beaulieu’s impor­tant study is the way she positions the conflicting and disparate portrayals of the sea and sea cross­ ings in both scholarship and antiquity. The sea is “spatially ambiguous,” inhabiting and operating within “dif­fer­ent planes of real­ity.”80 Despite the variation, she suggests a consistency in the conceptions that underlie the nar­ ratives. In Greek texts, at least, in addition to an intermediary space be­ tween countries and continents, the sea enacts a boundary between domains of the living, the dead, and the gods—­separating vis­i­ble and invisible worlds.81 As an intermediary space, moreover, it integrates ele­ments of all the regions it divides—­both geo­graph­i­cally and mythically—­presenting all its paradoxical characteristics alongside one another.82 A source of life and sustenance; a deadly barren wasteland. A pathway or road; an impassable boundary.83 Bodies of ­water, of course, are not all the same. Differences exist be­ tween saltwater and freshwater. Within what Beaulieu terms a “mythical hy­ drological network,” saltwater is placed between the ocean and rivers and springs—­both freshwater bodies. Freshwater sustains biological life on earth and the divine life of the gods. Saltwater is sterile. Both bodies of w ­ ater are considered purifying agents. Saltwater purifies life even as it eradicates it. Seawaters, therefore, can be linked with death and purification in Greek my­ thol­ogy.84 Sea voyages or immersions into the sea transition humanity to the bound­a ries of death—­whether physically or symbolically. The approach or crossing of this boundary may entail a purification, a divine revelation, as well as a change of social status or position.85 ­After surveying the diverse range of meanings that the sea occupies in a Greek imaginary, Beaulieu suggests that sea scenes in antiquity, as well as the sailor’s navigation of the sea, overlap “with finding one’s way through dif­fer­ent states of life and existence.” The ocean served as an imaginary con­ tinuation of the sea, functioning as a doorway to the divine and to the dead. In this intermediary zone live both the sublime and ghoulish: the Garden of the Hesperides, the Islands of the Blessed, and the Islands of the Gorgons. The sea is what Beaulieu calls both a “positive and negative space.” It



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comprises networks of communication and exchange. From a cultic stand­ point, the sea is a space of divine revelation and epiphany. Yet po­liti­cally, mythic lands and new worlds beyond the sea became places where land pow­ ers attempted to extend their control; or ­those on the margins set sail in attempts to flee and live on the other side of that reach.86 Carl Schmitt claimed that humanity is a creature of the earth, a land-­treader (der Mensch ist ein Landwesen, ein Landtreter).87 From its secure position on land, human­ ity called its planet “Earth,” forgetting that it may as well have been called our “sea.”88 Seas are ­free in that they neither belong nor are they subjected to any state or territorial sovereignty.89 Yet, as Blumenberg convincingly argues, ­humans “seek to grasp the movement of their existence above all through a meta­phorics of the perilous sea voyage.”90 We prospect at sea so as to protect and expand our holdings on land.

Mark and the Sea—­Maps Torn and Unfinished Writing of the sea in his Letters, Pliny claims that it is a true and private “seat of the Muses.” He continues, “how much they inspire, how much they dictate” to him personally (Letters 1.9).91 In the study of early Chris­tian­ity in general, and the Gospels in par­tic­u­lar, the sea has played the role of muse for several impressive studies.92 The majority of scholarship on the sea in Gospel scholarship tends ­toward fourfold emphases: a desire for an appro­ priate background and parallel (Jewish, Hellenistic, or other­wise); a focus on genre and form and its relevant function;93 a preoccupation with the calming of the sea,94 or the traversing over the sea;95 and, of course, the Christologies of ­these texts. Though appropriating from many of ­these impor­tant studies, my primary concern is with the social function of the sea as part of Mark’s mythic and spatial imaginary and the mark of trauma in ­these texts. As such, this study is interested in Mark as an example of mythopoesis and spatiality; the diverse range in which the sea could be heard in Mark’s com­ plex milieu;96 the appearance of the sea outside of 4:35–41 and 6:45–52 (the interest specifically of this chapter); the social effects of ­these texts beyond a Christological horizon in Mark’s polemical situation; and the originary traumatic split of ­these social realities that haunt their textual afterlives. Most significant is the way the sea can be viewed meta­phor­ically as a place of ruin and alienation of all that is unfinished, unformed, and demonic.

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Several studies have appeared that consider the spatiality of early Chris­ tian texts.97 Specifically in Mark, the geo­graph­i­cal challenges pre­sent in the Gospel have long been pointed out.98 Writing in 1941, C. C. McCown ar­ gued that Mark’s Gospel had no apparent itinerary, owing to ­there being “no definite data.”99 McCown sees this as presenting ­little prob­lem: “factual itineraries may actually distract from the true purpose of religious instruc­ tion.”100 Catherine Hezser likewise sees no “proper itinerary” in the Gospels in general and Mark in par­tic­u­lar. The movements of Jesus are presented as “random and arbitrary.” Hezser contends that such movements produce a se­ ries of “dislocations” that function as literary devices.101 Klaus-­Stefan Krieger has argued that the Gospels may be about priorities other than t­ hose envisioned by old geographies approaches. Based upon a reading of Matt. 4:23–25, Krieger suggests Matthew alternatively was concerning itself with reconstructive geopolitics.102 ­Others have pointed out how spatial challenges may be keys to the nar­ rative structure of Mark.103 In a move similar to Henri Lefebvre’s suggestion that the artist does not merely show or report space but, in fact, creates it,104 Eric C. Stewart suggests that Mark as a text creates a space of its own.105 The Gospel as a space all its own,106 according to Stewart, challenges spatial relationships and practices and their repre­sen­ta­tions in differing social con­ figurations.107 This is an impor­tant step away from the tired reveries of old geographies approaches to the Gospel as fact, fiction, or religious truth. The place created in Mark has often been suggested as a kind of repositioning of Galilee.108 The two classical studies are ­those of Lohmeyer and Lightfoot, who see Mark orchestrating a capital shift from Jerusalem to Galilee in early Chris­tian­ity.109 Werner Kelber, though not keen on Galilee as a new re­ orientation point, sees the function of Galilee in Mark’s text as breaking all geopo­liti­cal bound­a ries and ties of early Chris­tian­ity.110 If the Jesus move­ ment is at home in Galilee, then why not anywhere—­Rome, for example? In this sense, Galilee takes on a symbolic function.111 John Riches suggests that Galilee represents, “in some sense,” the first lands “purged of evil and suf­ fering.” Even so, Galilee remains within this schema an indefinite location. Conflicting powers war throughout the “­whole world,”112 just as God’s pres­ ence is “disembedded,” bound by “no par­tic­u­lar cultic sites.”113 Stewart suggests that Mark’s cosmic rearrangement of space therefore looses geopo­liti­cal distinctions of their “significance.”114 The remainder of his impressive study is devoted to understanding the “social nature of space



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in antiquity” with re­spect to the way power disseminates itself in space—­ and, in turn, how Mark understood, accepted, and subverted rival spatial claims in the place “Jesus lived.”115 Surely, Stewart is onto something ­here. Mark pre­sents Jesus and his disciples practicing distinct patterns of living.116 And dif­fer­ent patterns of living pre­sent potential challenges to established order.117 Might he assume too much in suggesting such alternative patterns of living are direct “challenges to Roman and early Jewish ways of thinking about space”? Are such alternatives necessarily rejections of the centers of Judaism and Rome?118 Part of the challenge of thinking about space in this way is that it seems to assume a hybridity of space from two points of interaction: ­there is a place of power, and ­there is that other group of actors who make their own place. How are we to think of the happening of space “in light of the realization that this topological happening also inevitably implicates the ­human”?119 ­There may exist what Carl Schmitt referred to as the “plurality of forms of existence” corresponding to a “plurality of spaces.”120 Happenings of place, however, are a happening of a par­tic­u­lar formation of place.121 Po­liti­cal potential ­will be discussed in Chapter 7; ­here I only wish to insert a mea­sure of caution against such forms of early Christian triumpha­ lism. As discussed in previous chapters, Mark bears the mark of traumatic disassociation. And this disassociation manifests itself in an estrangement or alienation from time and space. Kelber has written of the collapse and re­orientation of space and time represented in Mark’s Gospel. He places the kingdom in “dialectical relationship” with evil and in “antithesis” with the old order of t­ hings.122 As such, Kelber argues, space and time arrive in “con­ flict,” necessitating belief.123 In this re­spect, as we have discussed above, Mark can be read as a kind of consolation lit­er­a­ture. What is more, its mythic geo­ graphies pre­sent an opportunity to think about voyages beyond enclosure for ­those traumatically placed outside of time and place. An impor­tant development in Markan scholarship that lends itself to ­these spatial dynamics is evident in the works of Rhoads, Dewy, and Michie,124 Riches, Moxnes, and, especially, Malbon, as it relates to the unfinished na­ ture of Markan space. Malbon writes beautifully on how Mark pre­sents the “conflict between the chaos and order of life” as never overcome fi­nally in an arrival, but in a long journey of “being on the way.”125 Mark is therefore en­ gaged in a kind of geography of restoration. But to where? And from where?126

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A significant study in this regard is the impressive proposal of Roy Ko­ tansky,127 who attempts to make sense of the garbled geography of Mark 4:35–5:43 and the textual prob­lem of 5:1 by arguing for a redactional appro­ priation of a pre-­Markan source relating to vari­ous myths about Heracles Melqart at Cádiz and the Straits of Gibraltar on the western shores of the Mediterranean. The source is placed in a genre of the fantastic sea voyage akin to t­ hose of Jason and Odysseus and the geography of the distant west­ ern Phoenician city Gadeira (modern Cádiz), far removed from terra Palaestina.128 It must be stressed that Kotansky is not pushing for a revisionist reading of the material. His proposal is an attempt to smooth over the chal­ lenges of geography and genre. So, for example, the presence of ­actual cliffs, rocks, and tombs in Phoenician Gadeira,129 the zoology of sus,130 the local legends of herds, tides, and ­water spirits,131 as well as the wider Geryon myth,132 are put forward as a better contextual fit than the standard place­ ment of Galilee. The proposed Sitz im Leben of the source, perhaps redacted by Philip,133 is placed in an early pre-­Markan westward mission to Punic-­ Phoenician traders around the Iberian Peninsula.134 Kotansky’s study is often cited in lit­er­a­ture reviews as a gloss only to be ignored in the respective author’s own constructive proposal.135 A significant contribution of Kotansky’s proposal, however, is how it pushes the geo­graph­ i­cal ambiguities and challenges in Mark’s Gospel to their conceivable limit. ­These challenges and attempts at harmonization have been noted before.136 Rudolf Pesch, for example, claims: “Mark has, as in the par­tic­u­lar editorial arrangement of his traditions in chapters 4–8, shown no personal knowledge of the Palestinian geography around Galilee, as would be assumed for a (trav­ eled) Jerusalemite. However, this argument cannot be given any forceful appeal in view of the geographic disbelief and memory of other authors” (translation mine).137 Willi Marxsen, however, proposes a hermeneutic of theological integra­ tion into the life of the community with re­spect to the oddities of Gospel time and geography: “The Gospel is a proclamation of the evangelist to the community of his time. It is now on the way” (translation mine).138 In other words, symbolic and theological reasons may inform geo­graph­i­cal challenges. Though Kotansky’s geographic conclusions may remain unconvincing to some,139 the under­lying assumption of a correlationism between text and physical geography is the point that I wish to trou­ble. Why should we as­ sume that places described in Mark’s text reflect modern geographic reali­ ties or sensibilities? Why, for example, must we take a firm stance on ­whether



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ἡ θάλασσα refers ­either to Lake Kinneret or the Mediterranean?140 Why must the vari­ous crossings of the sea beginning in 3:7 lead to “logical” places?141 As Aune points out, Kotansky’s geographic placement of the pre-­ Markan source of 4:35–5:43 may fail to convince; but his bold proposal high­ lights an “obvious symbolic meaning” operative throughout the source, in par­tic­u­lar, and, of course, in the Gospel in general.142 Several of ­these themes ­will be detailed in Chapters 4 and 5 of this volume. Pertinent ­here is the notion of the mythic journey of Jesus to the ends of the earth in confronta­ tion with the forces of death. Though our naming of a physicalist destina­ tion may slightly differ, I follow Kotansky ­wholeheartedly on this mythic voyage to the Other Side:143 Jesus’ mythic sea voyage to the land of the dead— or, at least, into some fantastical world outside the geographies of the Ro­ man Provence, Judaea.144 In what follows I want to bend the text of Mark into the phenomena of practices of enclosure and distinct strategies of dis-­enclosure. In d­ oing so, I am resisting attempts to determine any kind of “polemical situation” of the text. It has become commonplace to speak of how “history-­telling,” or nar­ rations, are always “framed within the social location of its narrator.”145 ­There is a corrective truth to this line of logic that is as necessary as it is apparent. Nevertheless, ­there may be something of an overcorrective in such state­ ments. Bataille, for example, spoke in his Theory of Religion of how the foundation and fundamentality of one’s thought “is the thought of an­ other.”146 Or, put differently by the indefatigable Leopold Bloom in Joyce’s Ulysses, “[You] never know whose thoughts ­you’re chewing.”147 Social loca­ tion is always a multiplicity with no fixed edges to contain anything solid within. In the case of Mark, it must be stressed that an ­earlier disassocia­ tion of an exposed and vulnerable community haunts textual repre­sen­ta­tions of the geographic imaginary of “textual Mark” and any ­imagined Sitz im Leben of ­later “Markan assemblies.” The social location of the writing bears no single location or chronology; it bears the mark of an originary trauma, in all its chaotic fury and multiplicity.

The Sea, Enclosure, and the Techniques of Sovereignty In the theory of enclosure being put forward, a deep-­seated insecurity—or what Schmitt referred to as an innere Kämpfe (“interior strug­gle”)—is felt at the heart of sovereignty.148 How can power assert bound­aries over the formless

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and boundless?149 Anaximander, for example, employed the adjectival form of apeiron to refer to a boundless welter of ele­ments from which the universe had been formed.150 The precise rendering of apeiron is unclear,151 but as Romm has ably shown, it “implies a formlessness and diffusion that are the enemies of order and hierarchy.”152 Insecurity rests precisely at the “imaginative construct” of power’s enclosure (peirata).153 The seemingly un­ limited spaces of the beyond inspire a “cognitive discomfort.”154 On a grander scale, Schmitt spoke of this as horror vacui.155 This spatial insecurity, accord­ ing to Schmitt, drives po­liti­cal history in the form of territorial conquests.156 ­Every po­liti­cal order is a spatial order,157 instilling a nomos that consists of, first, a seizure; second, a division and distribution of what has been seized; and, fi­nally, a tending: “to usufruct, exploit and turn to good account the partitioned land, to produce and to consume.”158 The boundary therefore serves as a mark in which life is given form, made intelligible, legitimized, and, of course, governed159 through pro­cesses of “seizing-­dividing-­tending.”160 It is this form of life that is recognized as such in the imaginative con­ struct of the oikoumenē.161 Romm suggests “known world” or “familiar world” as better translations of the term. Or, when certain accompanying phrases are taken into account: our world.162 The oikoumenē constitutes spaces wherein life, exchange, and any manner of empirical investigation “can take place, since all of its regions fall within the compass ­either of travel or of informed report.”163 Herodotus of Halicarnassus, whom Romm refers to as the era’s greatest revisionist geographer,164 is an impor­tant witness in this regard.165 His conceptual map is divided into inner and outer spaces based on “the pres­ ence of ­human inhabitations and the availability of eyewitness informa­ tion.”166 The place of “distant lands,” or the eschatiai in the conceptual mapping of Herodotus, became a “frame-­like structure” that surrounded and enclosed the rest of the world.167 Eschatiai and oikoumenē thus demonstrate a standard geographic sense,168 giving all manners of ethnocentrism a spa­ tially conceived reflex.169 Claude Nicolet, in his masterful study L’Inventaire du Monde,170 writes that no empire or monarch in antiquity could “reasonably wish to dominate the entire terrestrial sphere.” Claims of “universal domination” could claim no more than the known world. Claims existed, however, of occupying spe­ cial places in some cosmic destiny, owing ­either to divine security or cove­ nant with the gods; or to the claim that they themselves ­were divine. As such, sovereignty put itself forward as “an ele­ment, or the guarantee, of world



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order.”171 It is in this context that the frequent appearance of globes on Ro­ man coins, beginning around 76 bce, leaves l­ittle room for doubting its pre­ tensions.172 Again, Schmitt is incisive, suggesting an under­lying nexus between po­liti­cal acts and spatial repre­sen­ta­tion. New po­liti­cal eras not only begin but coincide “with an extensive territorial appropriation.” ­Every sig­ nificant shift “in the image of Earth is inseparable from a po­liti­cal transfor­ mation, and so, from a new repartition of the planet, a new territorial appropriation.”173 Questions of what, when, and for whom Mark begins take on intrigu­ ing directions if we consider Schmitt’s proposal. What kind of po­liti­cal acts might emerge (or have emerged) from what­ever spatial repre­sen­ta­tion was attempted in Mark’s complex mythopoesis? Or, as has been the interest throughout this proj­ect, how might trauma displace, disrupt, and fracture any repre­sen­ta­tion of a spatial order? The trauma of an empty tomb cannot be an activist politics of “an extensive territorial appropriation,” but its tear creates its own falling, its own disappropriation. Is this a new po­liti­cal era? And in the sea, might we find what Hester Blum referred to as “new critical locations from which to investigate questions of affiliation, citizenship, eco­ nomic exchange, mobility, rights, and sovereignty”?174

The Sea and Geopo­liti­cal Ambiguity As discussed above, not all ­water spaces are represented as the same. This is particularly the case with the many repre­sen­ta­tions of Ōkeanos.175 As Romm suggested, in early Greek texts, ­these mythic ­waters pre­sent themselves as a “terrifying and unapproachable entity.”176 It also marks a “space,” if we can refer to it as such, where rules and laws of the known world appear to un­ ravel. Pytheas of Massilia, for example, in Peri Ōkeanou, mentions an ac­ count of how the ele­ments of earth, sea, and air in the northernmost regions of Ōkeanos lose their distinctiveness from one another, forming a kind of mythic mixture. This hybrid produces a murky and undifferentiated welter of ele­ments.177 Ōkeanos was considered beyond all ­things with nothing be­ ­ aters” w ­ ere the originator of the gods,179 and, yond it,178 whose “primordial w according to Seneca, in some far-­off age, the ocean ­will loose the bonds of ­things fi­nally and fully (cf. Medea). ­There is thus a sense of temporal pri­ macy, physical disor­g a­ni­za­tion, and “monstrous disorder,” with re­spect to

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t­ hese ­waters.180 As such, Ōkeanos was an outer limit of both geographic space and historical time, inspiring “equal mea­sures of fear, fascination, and rev­ erence”181 of its powers and divine/demonic inhabitants. Though ­these many repre­sen­ta­tions of Ōkeanos continued to be reflected into the turn of the ­century through, for example, the collection of Greek epigrams in Seneca the Elder’s Suasoriae, what is impor­tant for this proj­ect is the function of Ōkeanos as a primordial boundary.182 It functioned as a fi­ nal point of enclosure within which the “archaic age succeeded in carving an intelligible chunk of earth out of the surrounding void. The terrifying apeiron of primal chaos was banished to the outermost edge of the globe, where flowed the stream of Ocean, so as to permit a more formal ordering of its central spaces; and this outer region was decisively fenced off from the rest of the world.”183 This watery enclosure of the beyond proved to be a “moving bound­ ary.”184 Its fluidity is characterized by the shifting geography of the Pillars of Hercules.185 In what Romm refers to as an act of “deliberate mythopoiesis,” Tacitus, for example, places the Pillars near the mouth of the Rhine rather than the Straits of Gibraltar (Germ. 34).186 Though the place has changed locale, the meaning of the Pillars remains consistent: Ocean remains a stub­ born and impenetrable foe,187 a cosmic nemesis,188 barring Roman coloniza­ tion and exploration (cf. Germ. 10). In Greek cosmology, access to the ocean through the Pillars is placed via the strong contrary currents of the Straits of Gibraltar (or, in the East, out of the Black Sea)189 and is forbidden.190 In Tacitus’s rationale, then, Roman retreat from the North Sea can be imbued with a refashioned piety. Pliny could affirm the impiety of sea crossings,191 and yet ­others—­for example, Manilius—­could affirm acts of daring as positive.192 The ambiguities of the sea and its spaces of contradiction as a social and mythical force of both renewal and chaos pre­sent in the Greek imaginary are reflected in the Roman period as well.193 Yet t­ here ­were also subtle strands of development in the Roman period. Crossings ­were undertaken for a vari­ ety of reasons. Flavius Philostratus, in his Life of Apollonius of Tyana, pre­ sents Apollonius as a new Alexander traversing the seas not on his way t­ oward conquest but in search of wisdom.194 The sea became a space on which to demonstrate the imperium of land power as seen in Pliny’s writings on Pom­ pey (N.H. 7.97–98).195 The ocean, particularly when understood as the At­ lantic, became a pathway for Rome’s imperium to spread to distant lands.



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Ocean could also be presented as a captive, laid low in Caesar’s Gallic tri­ umphs (Florus 2.13).196 Virgil suggests similar logic and strategy with re­spect to Augustus (G. 1.25–31)197—­a strategy Augustus would l­ater celebrate him­ self (cf. R.G. 26.14–18).

Liquid Forms of Life Seas and waterways ­were places of sustenance and transportation but also networks of information, war, and economic and po­liti­cal exchange, as well as scientific and technological development.198 The deep ambivalence t­ oward the sea is reflected in its many names,199 as both a source of life and com­ munication, “but also a disquieting empty and barren space that evokes death and can even lead to Hades.”200 Odysseus, for example, set westward sails in order to visit Tiresias in Hades. 201 In both Greek and Semitic traditions, ­dying was associated with westward horizons, or westerly bodies of ­water as the way of transition from life to death, from the ordinary to the wonder­ ful.202 Death could be represented as a sea voyage.203 Alternatively, during the civil war, Cicero could employ voyages to and along the ocean as a “re­ treat from tyranny” (Cic., Fin. 5.53).204 The chaotic ­waters of the deep pro­ vided entry to “another real­ity and another time, so far away as to escape the miseries of their world.”205 Ocean and sea lived in a dynamic relationship be­ tween real and ­imagined geographies, at once im­mense and boundless spaces, and, as intermediary spaces, integrating the very ele­ments of the areas that they separate.206 The sea was also the place of epiphany and encounter with the divine and demoniac alike.207

Sea as Death and Monstrosity In the Hebrew Bible, the sea (‫ ) י ָם‬can refer to vari­ous bodies of ­water rang­ ing from the Mediterranean Sea 208 to the Dead Sea, 209 the Sea of Reeds, 210 and the freshwater Sea of Kinneret.211 It can often signify symbolic and mythic meanings as well.212 In this re­spect, the sea could be portrayed as the primordial nemesis of the creator God.213 The linguistic proximity of the “deep” (‫ )ּתְ הֹום‬with neighboring Babylonian, Ugaritic, and Hittite mate­ rial has often been noted and evidences well-­worn and widely shared themes of

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divine conflict and repre­sen­ta­tions of Sieg über die Chaosmächte (“victory over chaos-­powers”).214 The dragon snake and Leviathan, for example, are often personifications of an ongoing conflict with such Chaoskräfte (“forces of chaos”).215 Despite this primordial agonistic positioning between sea and divine, in the Hebrew text (and LXX, too), God is the creator of sea monsters. (Gen. 1:21 MT) .‫ַוּיִב ָ ְ֣רא אֱֹל ִ֔הים ֶאת־הַּתַ ּנִי ִנ֖ם ַהּגְד ִֹל֑ים‬ καὶ ἐποίησεν ὁ θεὸς τὰ κήτη τὰ μεγάλα. (Gen. 1:21 LXX) And God made the ­great sea monsters. As such, the sea retreats from its creator.216 Despite its fomenting rage, it is pictured as having already been defeated and ­will again be defeated, 217 often in einen schöpfungstheologischen Zusammenhang (“in a context of creation the­ ology”).218 God as victorious over the sea is represented by the still “molten sea” in the ­temple courtyard, 219 and in some texts the chaotic monster could be reduced to an eschatological snack, 220 or mocked as a mere plaything.221 In a kind of philosophizing by means of myth, as Plato had it, 222 vary­ ing redactors could set the sea among symbolic associations with wicked­ ness223 and death.224 In the early Christian writing known as the Apocalypse,225 the sea could be equated with the origins of cosmic evil.226 In the envisioned new heaven and new earth, the disappearance of the sea is placed in apposi­ tion with the extinguishing of death as both belonging to a primordial or­ der passing away (τὰ πρῶτα ἀπῆλθαν):227 ἡ θάλασσα οὐκ ἔστιν ἔτι. (Rev. 21:1) The sea was no more. ὁ θάνατος οὐκ ἔσται ἔτι. (Rev. 21:4) The death was no more. ­ arlier in the text, the sea and Hades as the abode of the dead are placed in E apposition: καὶ ἔδωκεν ἡ θάλασσα τοὺς νεκροὺς τοὺς ἐν αὐτῇ. (Rev. 20:13a) And the sea gave up the dead from itself.



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καὶ ὁ θάνατος καὶ ὁ ᾅδης ἔδωκαν τοὺς νεκροὺς τοὺς ἐν αὐτοῖς. (Rev. 20:13b) And the death and the Hades gave up the dead in them. Both are personnifieés comme deux monstres insatiables (“personified as two in­ satiable monsters”).228 The emptying of the dead from the sea, in effect, removes the sea as death.229

Worlds Beyond Enclosure Plato was perhaps the first writer—of whose writings remain, at least—­who gave extended consideration to pos­si­ble worlds beyond the oikoumenē. 230 Quintus Curtius, in his History of Alexander the ­Great, spoke of “another world” (alius arbis; 9.3.8). For ancient Greek and Roman authors of the first ­century of the common era, the frontiers of the known world and its bound­ aries with the beyond ­were imbued with “mythic dimensions.”231 The sea served not only to define geo­graph­i­cal and cosmological bound­a ries but also po­liti­cally and socially defined the communities and individuals who crossed such bound­a ries.232 ­There was a complex geopiety evident in antiquity when it came to the sea and its crossing.233 Seafaring could be seen as a kind of fall from grace234 and was used as a meta­phor for greed by the Scythian sage in Letters of Anacharsis.235 Seneca—­whose views on the sea are complex—­ saw Rome’s maritime expansions as a catastrophic slide ­toward “reckless am­ bition, amorality, and self-­annihilation.”236 Strabo censured geographers from speculating outside of oikoumenē.237 Pindar viewed maritime activity as hybris.238 Tacitus could warn against venturing beyond the enclosures of em­ pire (consilium coercendi intra terminus imperii), 239 while also warning impe­ rium itself to remain within its existing limits.240 Warnings against eclipsing the enclosures of the known world could manifest themselves in spurious reports that exaggerated the perils beyond the Straits in order to keep commercial competition moored ashore—­the so-­called Phoenician lie.241 In a remarkably dif­fer­ent approach, verging almost on paranoia, Seneca cursed the winds, warning Rome that its impious hu­ bris in attacking lands of the beyond might tempt fate to rouse ­these same winds for some transoceanic power someday to send its warships against them. ­There are no lands, he warns, too distant to prevent foreign powers

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from sending a menace of their own. “The greatest contribution to ­human peace,” he concludes, “would be for the seas to be closed off.”242 We see this enacted in his tragedy Medea—­which opens with Jason pre­ paring to remarry the princess of Corinth and send the “barbarian witch” Medea away. The king of Corinth, Creon, attempts to rid his kingdom of the “infection” and “monster” and “wild ­thing” who is his ­f uture son-­in-­law’s ex-­wife by giving her a lesson in the need to submit to royal power (2.180– 90). Medea refuses the singularity of Creon’s claim by affirming her own sovereign lineage through Aeetes (2.167). This is a precarious boast for Me­ dea, as she aided Jason’s quest for the Golden Fleece by desolating her own kingdom of Colchis. Her gruesome escape with Jason over the seas on the Argo is the context with which condemnations of the chorus in Medea must be heard. The Argo is referred to as the “fragile boat,” the “delicate wood,” the “too-­slender boundary” and the “wicked boat” that bore over the treach­ erous waves a greater evil than the sea (2.300–379). The world would be better off if all obeyed the strict partitions of sovereignty (2.335). The anger of the deep sea’s master was roused by the conquering of his realm (cf. 3.589). The forbidden and frenzied sea is therefore replaced with “a new source of terror” (4.795): the arrival of Medea. The chorus sings for the strength of Corinth and laments the presence of Medea. Sea traveling in general, there­ fore, is not necessarily condemned by the chorus. Jason is Corinth’s celebrated son-­in-­law. The Argo and the sea that bore the infamous vessel are condemned ­because of its cargo: the foreign and feminine contagion of Medea.243 Intriguingly, Josephus, in his rendering of the speech of Agrippa to dis­ suade the Jews from revolting against Rome, points out the advantage of Ro­ man rule as it relates to maritime power.244 Her warships made the seas navigable, bringing peace to a once-­u nnavigable and “savage sea” of Azov (Bell. 2.16.4, 367).245 The advantages of Roman rule for Josephus ­were the extended economic, social, and cultural systems that allowed for exchange—­ which, of course, was Pliny the Elder’s praise for Pax Romana. 246 Euse­ bius could l­ater speak of the w ­ hole sphere of the Roman empire, 247 as did 248 Jerome. For Josephus, Caesar, as “lord of the universe” (ὁ τῆς οἰκουμένης προστάτης), 249 pre­sents an enclosed, governed world within which inhabitants—­those habituated within encircled spaces of sovereignty—­a re best to abide.250 The worlds beyond oikoumenē could also provide an external theoretical space from which to sharpen an internal polemical geopiety—or what Schmitt



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referred to as a “global feeling of space” (an umfassende Raumgefühl).251 As Romm suggests, the mythic lands placed beyond enclosure “seemed to offer Rome the possibility of social and cultural renewal,” or escape from the so­ cial decline of Rome.252 Seneca could speak of the final apocalyptic meta­ morphosis of humanity breaking forth from ­these distant lands. Virgil could speak of new beginnings and origins that lie outside oikoumenē (e.g., Georgics). ­Others, like Horace, pointed to the beyond not as places from which renewal could come but destinations to which to escape from the inevitable demise of Rome (esp. Epode 16). The exception of Horace is telling. The ex­ ternal lands outside the known world ­were often conceived as lands that would, in some fashion, aid renewal in the known world. In other words, the colonial gaze of idealizing the beyond could function as a kind of cultural and economic harvesting of emerging markets.253

Crossing in Order to Establish Sea crossings could function in the ser­vice of establishing enclosure. Odys­ seus’s return to Ithaca ­after being lost for a de­cade on distant seas and ex­ posed to the special geo­g raph­i­cal, ethnographical, and cosmological knowledge of the beyond, for example, affirms the strict social structures of marriage, status, and an ordered ­house­hold on landed life.254 In other cases, such as with Perseus, Theseus, and Jason, crossing the sea effected a kind of paternal and po­liti­cal recognition of their status. Perseus’s crossing into the land of the Hyperboreans establishes and legitimizes his divine and po­liti­cal status. For Pindar, crossing into the beyond was about establishing essence and excellence as a son of Zeus (cf. Pythian 10). The significance of patriar­ chal lineage for Pindar is not simply an individual affair; it was a ­matter of a governing social body. The vessel of crossing as navigated by able hands es­ tablishes them as po­liti­cal leaders (cf. Bacchylides, Ode 17).255 ­These themes are repeated in stories relating to the right recognition of the κλέος (“glory”) of Theseus but broadened to communicate deeper civic affirmations of Ath­ ens as the rightful leader of the Delian League.256 ­These themes are extended further in the redeployment of the myth of Jason and the Argonauts by Pin­ dar in his mythic founding of Cyrene (cf. Pythian 4). In this context, Pindar represents the sea as “difficult and dangerous space in which the colonists risk their life in order to create a new city and civilize Libya.”257

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The stories of Perseus, Theseus, and Jason—­a nd Odysseus, too258—­ demonstrate how sea crossings could be represented as the attainment of po­liti­cal objectives, new status, or social order for a community. In such cases, as Beaulieu summarizes, a “moment of indetermination” is resolved where heroes prove themselves to be po­liti­cal leaders through their journeys across the sea and pave the way for ­f uture po­liti­cal leadership in Thessaly, Athens, and Cyrene. Within the cities of per­for­mance of the odes, social and po­liti­cal moments of tension are resolved by sea crossings, as the Thessalian dynasty experiences the satisfaction of seeing its excellence cross the sea of life. As the Athenians navigate the dangerous ­waters of po­liti­cal hegemony over allied cities, and as the Cyrenean king manages to traverse the troubled seas of dissent. Just as the sea determines the place of po­liti­cal entities by forming a geo­graph­i­cal barrier, it also defines the place of individuals and communities in the geographies of the mind.259 Such crossings reestablish existing ­orders by other means or names. Return­ ing heroes take their new position in a reestablished society.

Crossing in Order to Disrupt ­ uman activity has been, and is increasingly appearing to be, ­little more H than a series of endless positionings and placings that encompass life in and by a standardized form. Within such tactics and forms of life, subjectivity is rendered identical to what is mea­sur­able and calculable.260 As such, identity is infused with a sense of inevitability and eternality—as we saw above with Josephus’s description of Rome’s geopolitics—of such forms.261 Sea cross­ ings, in this sense, then, can be understood as disruptions to any sense of continuity or inhabitation within the enclosures of sovereignty. Crossing the sea ­toward the beyond could symbolize a transition into an entirely new oikos, social body, community, and new life.262 The sea can also be viewed as a dis­ ruptive space from the perspective of “empire.” The sea separates colonists from their colonized cities. Assumed in this separation are established new configurations of polities that wreak horrific havoc on what was before. Yet fluid distances could serve as barriers and boons of insecurity. As Burkert



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wrote, “again and again the path from destruction to a new beginning leads through the sea.”263 As we saw in the case of Medea, status is what defines a person’s jour­ ney as licit or illicit. Jason was a hero. The foreign (and female) body of Me­ dea was contagion. In this re­spect, the pirate in antiquity is an intriguing index of ­these phenomena. Writing a few hundred years ­after Seneca, Au­ gustine made a similar point. Augustine details an exchange between Alex­ ander the ­Great and a captured pirate. Alexander demanded of the pirate, “What is your idea in infesting the sea?” The pirate responded, “The same as yours in infesting the earth! But ­because I do it with a tiny craft, I’m called a pirate; ­because you have a mighty navy, ­you’re called an emperor.”264 The pirate is claiming that size does ­matter—­that might does make right. The claim that the pirate and Alexander are functionally the same but distinct by name reflects this. This is also an issue of spatial positionality.265 Do you operate within the fictive enclosures of oikoumenē or not? Noble Odysseus, king of Ithaca, prided himself on raiding ships at sea, but nowhere is he referred to as pirate. 266 In the l­ater part of the fourth ­century bce, Rhodes boasted of beating back piracy.267 This ideological clash is seen in the Roman expanse beyond Italy.268 In the third c­ entury bce, Rome clashed with pirates in the Adriatic (Pol. 2.8); and in 122 bce, with pirates along the Balearic Islands.269 Varying acting praetores launched campaigns against pirates in the eastern Mediterranean. The most successful was Pom­ pey.270 Responding to crises relating to the interruption of the grain supply and vari­ous raids off Italy’s coast, 271 special powers ­were granted to Pompey in the form of lex Gabinia, which granted complete jurisdiction over pirates.272 What constitutes “pirate,” then, is more than size—or lack thereof. It is fun­ damentally an issue of spatiality. We do no ser­vice to history by romanticizing such figures as the pirate. It is impor­tant to stress, however, that life, economies of exchange, and so­ cial bodies moved and had their being outside the expansive techniques of enclosure in the form of the pirate. Labels such as “pirate” or “buccaneer” may well signify a difference of applied terminology by t­ hose with sanctioned forms of trade and vio­lence wishing to discredit rival economic networks. In the logic of empire, the pirate and monster ­were ­those bodies that ­were first contacted via empire’s outward expanse. Their bodies ­were claimed via the introduction of zoning schemes and ­legal maneuverings such as lex Gabinia. In the case of the Cilician pirates, categorizing them as pirates was but the first step of war.273 The rest could be categorized as Pompey’s spatial therapy

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of a social body ­under threat by alien contagion.274 Augustus, following de­ cades of insecurity at sea during the civil war between Julius Caesar and Pom­ pey, 275 presented himself as the legitimate and final champion of land and sea. As Res Gestae 25.1 states: mare pacavi a praedonibu (“I made the sea peace­ ful and ­free from pirates)”276—­a social body healed of foreign contagion.

Space and the Repre­sen­ta­tions of Rule Ovid stated at the turn of the ­century: Romanae spatium est Urbis et orbis idem—­“the extent of Rome’s city is the same as that of the world” (Fasti 2.684).277 Strabo, Pomponius Mela, and Pliny the Elder, for example, all seem to have suggested as much before: the oikonumenē or orbis terrarium had been completely circumnavigated.278 This achievement, however real or imaginary, imposed an abrupt limit upon expansionist desires inherent within empire.279 From the first ­century before to the first ­century ­a fter the common era, archetypal conquerors such as Scipio Africanus, Messalla Corvinus, and, of course, Alexander the ­Great ­were recurrent figures in texts that theorized distant lands such as the Antipodes and the inherent necessity of empire to expand. 280 The Antipodes for Cicero ­were an unconquerable land beyond the reach of the enclosures of imperium. Yet geographic reach became an index of imperium. Cicero’s use of the Antipodes as the lands beyond enclo­ sure translates into an urgent warning on the need for limits to power. 281 For ­others, their conquering would serve to secure the contradictions of imperium. The trope of “other worlds” tended to appear in places—or in texts that spoke of places—­where the limits of enclosure ­were felt most acutely. With re­spect to Claudius’s conquest of Britannia, for example, a Roman elegist claims: “Ocean, the bounds of the world, is no longer bounds to our em­ pire” (qui finis mundo est, non erat imperio).282 Florus, writing in the second ­century, frames Julius Caesar’s invasion of Britannia in accord with a new Alexander and his search for new worlds to conquer: “Having traversed all lands and seas Caesar faced Ocean and, as if the Roman world ­were not enough, contemplated another” (Epitome 1.45.16). Geopo­liti­cal challenges w ­ ere met with “mythic solutions,” where, in several early imperial texts, imagina­ tive expeditions of conquest enacted extensions of imperium “beyond the edges of the earth.”283 Lucan, intriguingly, employs ­these stratagems against imperial ambitions of expansion (B.C. 10.20–52).284



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Something distinct began to occur in the complex formation of the principate. Pompey and Julius Caesar had extended the bound­a ries of imperium “almost to infinity.” Their deaths cast the center in a fragile frame, popu­ lated by enemies abroad and at home.285 It was in this time of the first principate where administrative continuity emerged from within an “obsession” with space.286 The princeps introduced a delicate stability in his person and administrative apparatuses. First, he “finished” the conquests of the repub­ lic by extending them throughout the known world. Second, he established a pax and concord with the state as the second founder of Rome. Fi­nally, he established a status republicae by combining t­ hese first two moves by organ­ izing and governing the known world “henceforth enclosed” with a sense of eternality and peace. This achievement, as Nicolet explains, was “spatial, tem­ poral, and po­liti­cal.”287 An empire without end (imperium sine fine; Aeneid 1.278) can be understood both spatially and temporally (cf. 6.780). Horace ­ ill assigned to Rome an imperial vocation of celebrated as much.288 Divine w conquering and dominating—­but also one of tending and caring, pacifying and organ­izing, the ­whole world: Tu regere imperio populos, Romane, memento! You, O Roman, govern the nations with your power—­remember this! (Aeneid 6.851) Imperial Rome, understood territorially, and the Rome of the princeps, un­ derstood as the investing of imperium into a person who governs, collec­ tively absorbed into its own fate the fate of the world.289 Space emerged as “a centralized and personalized power.” Enclosure and its pretensions required a par­tic­u­lar perception of geography.290 In order for lands to come ­under rule and brought within enclosure, they must be made understandable in a logic of empire. The interest ­here—­similar to that of the brilliant work of Nico­ let—is not so much the spatial “realities” of imperium but the varying levels of awareness among conquerors, collaborators, elites, and ­those subjected to the foreign rule of its repre­sen­t a­t ion, and, of course, their strategies of negotiation.291 Schmitt argued that each ­great era begins with an “extensive territorial appropriation.” Shifts in geographic repre­sen­ta­tion are inseparable from po­ liti­cal transformations—­and vice versa—­and therefore, “from a new reparti­ tion of the planet, a new territorial appropriation.”292 First the rubble; then

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the regulation—­“the inventory of a domain.”293 Romans or­ga­nized their ter­ ritory through operations of enclosure “linked directly to conquest, to the adjustment of the status of t­ hose who had been conquered, and to the even­ tual or ­actual expropriation that resulted in the re­distribution of land to Ro­ man colonists or to individual recipients.”294 Within this operation of enclosure was a significant system of specialists operating as extensions of Roman civic systems spread to the edges of the known world. ­These spe­ cialists catalyzed the physical spaces and codified a ­legal nature within.295 Such specialists ­were responsible for the complex operations of the census that or­ga­nized vari­ous cities with re­spect to the eternal city, giving it a rec­ ognized, registered, and official form of life.296 Imperium, understood as a geographic space, then, is not least an administrative space. Though seem­ ingly banal, as Nicolet stresses, this “actually marks an impor­tant change, a notable modification in the perception of space.”297 The hegemony of Rome up to the end of the republic constituted a series of “complex and entangled institutions where no basic princi­ple existed, and in which territoriality was but a badly coordinated component.”298 The placement of Rome at the cen­ ter of orbis terrarium—­communicated in diverse writers such as Strabo (6.4.1), Dionysius (1.36–37), and Vitruvius (6.1.10–12)—­was a fixing of geography, pol­ itics, and spirituality in the princeps as an embodiment and repre­sen­ta­tion of this centrality.299 The study of geography during this period is therefore the study of dis­ crete repre­sen­ta­tions of a standardized rule and resulting form of life. It is geography influencing history and the experience and formation of a life in that history. Geography, as Nicolet writes, is “fundamentally a po­liti­cal his­ tory.”300 The notion of Rome’s universal rule had been expressed before (e.g., Polybius 1.1.5).301 In the person of the princeps, however, it was infused with this sense of stability, singularity, universality, and eternality.302 It is in this context that Res Gestae should be placed as a geographic sur­ vey and cata­log of the conquests of the princeps—an annotated map and “administrative geography of empire at its foundation”—­and a stirring pam­ phlet of po­liti­cal theology.303 Res Gestae offers a geography fully defined, enrolling itself as the last stage of an imperial movement of expansionist ad­ ministrative controls and surveys of conquest of the inhabited world.304 It is the repre­sen­ta­tion of a “new world,” remade,305 founded and protected by Augustus.306 In R.G. 13, pax is secured by victories on land and sea “through­ out the ­whole empire of the Roman ­people” (per totum imperium populi



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Romani terra marique). The known world came ­under the dunasteia or rule of Rome (R.G. 3). In par­tic­u­lar, the ­Battle of Actium forged “a new imperial program which promoted the goal of global, even extra-­global expansion as the natu­ral concomitant of autocratic rule.”307 Virgil, for his part, portrayed Augustus as extending imperium beyond mere geography and into cosmo­ logical proportions.308 Related to this are the varying repre­sen­ta­tions of uni­ versal dominance. Rome was triumphant on land and sea.309 In addition to a temporal marker, then, imperium is, among other ­things, not least a spa­ tial category.310 Strabo, for example, represents the world as one waiting for the denoue­ ment of Rome’s universal rule.311 In the case of Strabo, Pliny, and Ptolemy, geography was undertaken for the sake of allowing sovereigns to rule and govern better.312 Part of that governance consisted of norming epistemology and standardizing cartography. To govern an empire, it must be known, mea­ sured, and mapped. The map as we know it, of course, did not exist.313 Repre­sen­ta­tions of the known world, however, as evidenced in triumphal ex­ hibitions in ­temples, and so on, did exist in antiquity, and ­were most likely the origin of Roman cartography.314 ­These crude maps reveal an understand­ ing of “surface”—or an understanding of space in two dimensions.315 Never­ theless, such maps ­were bound to the periplus—­a kind of linear repre­sen­ta­tion of space as if populating an itinerary.316 In any case, throughout his reign, Augustus attempted “to make knowledge and repre­sen­ta­tion of the imperial sphere more precise,” implying the creation of a coherent and progressively improving geography, a chorography and even a cartography.317 In the case of Strabo, cartography influenced the shape of government and origins of empire. For Strabo, the monarchy of Augustus was that of a “caring” and “knowing” ­f ather. At Rome, as at Aphrodisias, “allegorical geography joined the cosmological myths of sovereignty to mark the accom­ plishments of the times.”318 Agrippa’s map marked a singular achievement in what Schmitt referred to as a Raumerweiterung—­a “spatial expansion.”319 ­These repre­sen­ta­tions, however, posed as marking the real. The falsification of maps was a crime punishable ­under the lex Julia Peculatus (Dig. 48.13.10).320 Fresh breaches and tears into the repre­sen­ta­tions of previous mappings ­were likewise real dangers. The “surge of new energies” brought new lands and seas into the visual field of ­human awareness. Spaces of historical existence underwent a corresponding shift. New criteria, alongside new dimensions of po­liti­cal and historical activity, new sciences, and new social systems, therefore

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emerged out of ­these fissures. As such, “nations are born or reborn,”321 and repre­sen­ta­tions of a rule ­were always tenuous affairs.

Mark’s Sea Scenes and Crossings The Markan story, despite all its ele­ments of simplicity, is “a complex one.”322 In light of the above, this is particularly the case with re­spect to the subtle­ ties of the sea and its crossing as social space and social action in Mark’s complex imaginary. Mark’s repre­sen­ta­tion of the sea is a dynamic and vi­ brant image that lives amid the cartographies and enclosures of an emerg­ ing spatial revolution in the first ­century of the common era. The sea is a tensive trope that plays with and within the complex mythographies of a Jewish imaginary. Interspersed and intersecting t­ hese two illusions of a co­ ordinated ­whole are the sea scenes and crossings of Mark’s Gospel. The sea has been the subject of much recent discussion in so­cio­log­i­cal, economic, and po­liti­cal reflection in light of the so-­called spatial turn.323 Sadly, such approaches have yet to be introduced into studies on the sea scenes of early Chris­tian­ity and Gospel scholarship. Outside the so-­called stilling of the storm (Matt. 8:23–27, Mark 4:35–41, Luke 8:22–25) and the traversing upon the sea (Matt. 14:22–33, Mark 6:45–52, John 6:16–21), the sea has passed with ­little attention in Gospel scholarship.324 This is rather unusual, given the significance of sea spaces in antiquity. The world inhabited by Greco-­ Roman antiquity was “essentially determined by its geo­graph­i­cal centre,” the Mare Nostrum.325 Sea space, as with land space, “is si­mul­ta­neously an area wherein social conflicts occur and a space ­shaped by ­these conflicts.”326 The “socially constructed” ocean, in turn, shapes social relations on land and at sea.327 In short, the sea is not simply “a space used by society; it is one com­ ponent of the space of society.”328 Mare Nostrum and the Sea of Galilee (τὴν θάλασσαν τῆς Γαλιλαιάς), of course, refer to dif­fer­ent bodies of ­water,329 but both ­were socialized and socializing spaces. In what follows, I would like to treat the sea as social space, a place of society,330 a crowded site of contest where Mark’s mythopoesis participates in a wider social and mythic imagi­ nary.331 We must also consider the sea as a chaotic swelter marked and haunted by an originary traumatic dislocation. This interplay of traumatic disloca­ tion within the repre­sen­ta­tional reign of enclosure is of fundamental im­ portance. Strabo said that “we are in a certain sense amphibious,” not exclusively connected with the land, but with the sea as well. Land and sea



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therefore “furnish theaters for action, ­limited for ­limited actions and vast for grander deeds.”332 It is to the sea as Mark’s “theater for action,” in all its complex signification, that we now turn.333

Passing Along the Sea The first appearance of the sea in 1:16 follows upon the programmatic state­ ments of 1:14–15 and the “nearing of the kingdom of God” (ἤγγικεν ἡ βασιλεία τοῦ θεοῦ). ­After making this proleptic remark, Jesus is said to “pass along” (παρἀγων παρά) the Sea of Galilee (τὴν θάλασσαν τῆς Γαλιλαίας) and call his first followers. Verse 16 thus sets the “narrative proper” into motion.334 The language and imagery of παρἀγων παρά is similar to what we see ­later in 6:48–50 and is taken by some to be an allusion to Elijah passing by Elisha before commissioning him (1 Kings 19:19) or the Exodus imagery where God passes by Moses (cf. Exod. 33:18–23).335 The naming of the small body of freshwater separating the regions of the eastern Gaulan and Decapolis from Galilee named ­here as θάλασσα is intriguing.336 Some see it likely employed to awaken Semitic imagery of ‫ים‬,337 chaos,338 the ar­ chetypal foe of the creator God.339 Michael Fishbane has argued that for ­later Jewish mythopoesis, ranging from rabbinic midrash through the Zohar, “the entirety of Scripture” functioned as a “thesaurus for ongoing mythic cre­ ativity.”340 Why would it be much dif­fer­ent for the pro­cesses of Markan com­ position? The sea is thus given archetypal force throughout Mark’s Gospel through an exegetical and mythic engagement with the thesaurus of Jewish scriptures and imaginary. ­Others point to the sea, particularly in the sea-­ walking and sea-­stilling episodes, as drawing mainly from pagan sources.341 We ­shall return to ­these episodes in greater detail below; the focus ­here is on the sea as a socialized space and a theater for action. Spaces are arenas and effects of politics. Physical space is often taken for granted as simply “being ­there.” It is for this reason that physical space becomes an active ground for “implementing, reproducing, and challenging systems of power/ knowledge.”342 The freshwater lake that Mark names the “Sea of Galilee” was but one of its many aliases.343 It was called Lake Kinneret or the Sea of Kinneroth (or Kinneret),344 ­Water of Gennesar,345 and Lake of Gennesaret.346 The Tal­ mud frequently refers to it as the yammah shel Teveryah.347 Owing to its early alignment with the via Maris, the lake was ­u nder frequent retooling by

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geopo­liti­cal powers. Surrounded by a thriving local trade,348 with central marketplaces for Kefar Hananya pottery in Tiberias and Sepphoris,349 the sea was the lifeblood of Galilee.350 It was a “sea of legend,”351 a “storied place,”352 a place of “considerable” economic importance, owing to its lively fishing trade.353 Several harbors dotted its shores where catches of musht, biny, and sardine would be brought to market.354 Capernaum was known for its cus­ tom offices lining the shore for Herod Antipas’s tax of new arrivals. Migdal, south and to the west, was strong in its opposition to Roman rule.355 Near its shores was the site of an infamous naval ­battle.356 On a sesterius minted by Titus, one of the coins in the Judaea Capta series in which Vespasian and Titus celebrated their victory over Judaea, Titus stands with his right foot on the bow of a ship, perhaps in honor of the Roman victory at Migdal.357 Two other ­battles in which ships took part in the context of the first revolt ­were at Jaffa and near the Dead Sea. The particulars of the vari­ous manifestations of historical conflict sur­ rounding the sea—or their varying figurations—­need not concern us ­here.358 What is significant is reading the sea as a space of economic, colonial, and po­liti­cal conflict, and the resulting misfit bodies upon ­those seas.359 Jose­ phus is illustrative ­here (B.J. 3.462–542). In his detailing the fall of Tari­ cheae, he speaks of “all the seditious” (πᾶν τὸ νεωτερίζον) gathering themselves and placing their confidence in the strength of the city and the lake (τῇ λίμνῃ).360 If the city fell, preparations ­were made for a naval ­battle as well.361 Several ships, which he describes as λῃστρικά (B.J. 3.523), ­were made ready. The ­battle on land favored the Romans, who “pursued them, and drove them into their ships” (συνελαύνουσιν αὐτοὺς εἰς τὰ σκάφη; 3.468). The skirmish then shifted to anchored boats from which the rebels hurled stones upon the Romans (3.469). Titus is sent to disperse the rebels, and Josephus pre­sents him firing up his troops for ­battle by ensuring them of victory: τὰς μέν γε ἡμετέρας χεῖρας οὐδὲν εἰς τοῦτο τῶν ἐπὶ τῆς οἰκουμένης διαπέφευγεν. For as to us, Romans, none of the inhabitable world has been able to escape our hands. (3.473; cf. 3.472–84) The Jews are described as an already-­defeated foe (3.473), and God is said to be on the side of Titus and his gathered army (3.484, 494). Titus



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c­ ontinues by referring to the Jews as a disor­g a­nized body (ἀσύντακτοί), while admonishing his soldiers to remember that they are Romans (3.475). Courage and bravery—­not numbers—­a re what manage victory (3.478). The bravery of the Jews, according to Titus, however, is no bravery at all: it is madness (ἀπόνοια; 3.479). Washed aside is their defense of liberty and country. What is placed in crisis is the glory (εὐδοξία) of Rome (3.480) and, in par­tic­u ­lar, the renown (τό κατόρθωμα) of the army assembled ­there, lest the arriving reinforcements from Vespasian rob and dilute their glory (3.481). It was this band of Roman soldiers that chased the Jews to the lake and their ships (cf. 3.499). Upon the arrival of Vespasian, ships w ­ ere made ready to pursue ­those who had fled to the sea (3.505). Josephus is careful to situate λίμνη Γεννησάρ (Lake Gennesaret) in the context of a Jewish historical and biological landscape (3.506–21). Jewish ships ­were no match for Vespa­ sian’s vessels (3.523). Complete carnage ensued ­until the lake was filled with blood and corpses (3.529). The environmental vibrancy of 3.506–21 shifts rad­ ically into a spoiling and rotting of the ecosystem (3.529–31) and a ruining of the local economy through mass slaughter and slavery (3.532–42). Land and sea groaned. Much more could, and prob­ably should, be said of Josephus’s repre­sen­ta­ tions of the Jewish war on the sea. In his urge for the Jews to consider Roman hegemony (τὴν Ῥωμαίων ἡγεμονίαν), their own weakness (ἀσθένειαν), and the unconquerable strength of Rome throughout the inhabitable world (τῆς οἰκουμένης; 2.362), for example, Josephus turns to the sea (2.363). Despite their expansive rule, Rome’s rule turns to the beyond (πλέον) in search of other worlds (ἑτέραν . . . ​οἰκουμένην) beyond the ocean itself (ὑπὲρ ὠκεανὸν). ­There is something about the internal combustion of sovereignty that must fill itself with surrounding environments in its need of expanse. A necessary, if not tenuous, move in the expanses of enclosure is the move from land to sea. Markan awareness of ­these histories is not necessarily at issue ­here.362 What is relevant is the princi­ple of the supple relationship between land and sea, and how any designation of a beginning or a new territorialization must develop its sea legs. Part of the overflow of time’s fulfillment and the near­ ing presence of the kingdom of God mentioned in 1:15, then, must be an at­ tempted mythic and spatial reimagination of land and sea. Yet the beginning falters, stumbles, and collapses unfinished upon the boundless sea. Fulfill­ ment and arrival fray into trauma and ecstasy.

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Immediately ­after the programmatic pronouncement of 1:15, Jesus passes along the sea (1:16) akin to the way God passed by Moses—­a moment also rife with mythic and spatial reimagination. Jesus is again said to pass along the sea (ἐξῆλθεν πάλιν παρὰ θάλασσαν) in 2:13, ­after casting out unclean spirits (1:21–28), healing the sick (1:29–34), cleansing a leper (1:40–45), and healing a paralytic (2:1–12). The astonished crowds exclaim they have never seen anything like it (οὕτως οὐδέποτε εἴδομεν; v. 12). ­These manifestations of the presence of the prolepsis in 1:15 are followed by Jesus again along the sea and another calling episode. The calling of Levi is similar to the calling of the four (1:16–20). This time, all the crowds (πᾶς ὀ ὄχλος) gather around him (2:13). This pattern pre­sents itself again in 3:7, where Jesus withdraws to the sea with his disciples (ὁ Ἰησοῦς μετὰ τῶν μαθητῶν ἀνεχώρησεν πρὸς τὴν θάλασσαν). Once more, the sea indexes Jesus’ actions ­after further manifestations of the kingdom’s nearness, the presence of a g­ reat crowd (3:7– 12), and the calling of disciples (3:13–19). The g­ reat multitude (πολὺ πλῆθος) in v. 7—­those from Idumea to the south, the area beyond the Jordan to the east, and the territories of Tyre and Sidon to the north—­calls to mind John’s ministry in 1:5.363 Together with the symbolic significance of the twelve,364 such a gathering signifies the first fruits of a restorative univer­ salism (cf. 6:43).365 The significance of the next sea episode, in 4:1, where Jesus is teaching along the sea (πραρὰ τὴν θάλασσαν), is in its fusing 3:35 with 4:11.366 ὅς γὰρ ἄν ποιήσῃ τὸ θέλημα τοῦ θεοῦ, οὗτος ἀδελφός μου καὶ ἀδελφὴ καὶ μήτηρ ἐστίν. Whoever does the ­will of God, this is my ­brother, s­ ister and ­mother. (3:35) ὑμῖν τὸ μθστήριον δέδοται τῆς βασιλείας τοῦ θεοῦ. To you the mysteries of the kingdom of God have been given. (4:11) The ὑμῖν in 4:11 are the emerging body described in 3:35 as ­those set apart from ­others outside (δὲ τοῖς ἔξω).367 ­Here we see the socializing effects of the kingdom’s nearness and “a new social world in the making that began with Jesus calling his disciples.”368 Moreover, in a socially significant position of authority, Jesus sat in a boat upon the sea while entire crowds gathered



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beside the sea on land (καθῆσθαι ἐν τῇ θαλάσσῃ καὶ πᾶς ὁ ὄχλος πρὸς τὴν θάλασσαν ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς ἧσαν; 4:1). Images of the ­people of God along a sea yet safely on dry ground recall the passing through the Red Sea,369 crossing the Jordan,370 and the promise of a new Exodus.371 Jesus “sitting upon the sea” evokes Psalm 29, where God is said to be sitting upon the ­waters in royal majesty.372 We see pos­si­ble allusion to the myth of the creator God’s power over the sea,373 perhaps employed to legitimate Jesus’ royal author­ ity.374 Mythic reimagination happens at two levels: one, the legitimating of Jesus’ authority—­perhaps even royal legitimation; and, two, the transformed ­people of God of 3:35 and 4:11 passing through to the other side of the sea with Jesus in 5:1, as Israel did with Moses.375 ­After the encounter with Le­ gion (λεγιών; 5:1–20; cf. 1 Enoch 55:4), Jesus crosses the sea in a boat, a ­great crowd is gathered around him, and he is again along the sea (παρὰ τὴν θάλασσαν; 5:21). Two power­f ul demonstrations of Jesus’ authority take place with the ­woman with a flow of blood for twelve years (ἐν ῥύσει αἵματος δὠδεκα ἔτη; 5:25)376 and in the raising of Jairus’s ­daughter (5:21–24, 35–43). The final mention of the sea occurs in 7:31, where Jesus returns from Tyre through Sidon to the Sea of Galilee, through the region of the Decapolis. The healing of the deaf and dumb in ­these regions may allude to Isa. 29:17–19 and Isaiah 35.377 When ­those who had witnessed the healing ­were greatly astonished (ὑπερπερισσῶς ἐξεπλήσσοντο), they claim that he has done all ­things well (καλῶς πάντα πεποίηκεν; v. 37)—­a near echo of Gen. 1:31 LXX.378 The particulars of each of ­these seemingly innocuous verses of transi­ tion deserve more attention than can be given ­here.379 Some, for example, hypothesize that ­these texts constitute a pre-­Markan “boat cycle” contain­ ing miracle pericopae.380 ­W hether a redacted “source” or a construction of ­these episodes, ­these sea scenes are not only integral to the narrative but sig­ nificant when read as part of Mark’s spatial and mythic reimagination. The aim has been to introduce a “critical spatial perspective” to Mark’s mytho­ poesis of the sea.381 The sea that was at once commodified through colonial power and the crowded site of mythic memory is contested by the kingdom of God materializing382 through Mark’s “spatial hermeneutic.”383 It was a site that the kingdom of God’s nearing socialized a ­people for its arrival. The sea is a space wherein social conflicts occurred and a space ­shaped by ­these very conflicts. Moreover, this sea of multiple social constructions s­ haped its sur­ rounding social relations.384 When read in light of Mark’s programmatic statement in 1:14–15, ­these sea scenes bear witness to the resocialization and

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reimagination of space brought on by the presence of the kingdom of God.385 Yet, as we ­will argue in Chapters 4, 5, and 6, each sea scene also bears the mark of an originary trauma of separation. To demonstrate this point, one final text needs to be considered in this brief survey of the sea outside of Mark 4–6.

Trauma, the Demonic, and Failure ­ here is a final sea scene that needs to be considered—­but only briefly, as it T ­will ­factor again in Chapter 6. It is necessary to engage with 8:13 at this junc­ ture, owing to its signaling impor­tant associations of failure and demonic recurrence with the sea. As ­will be argued in more depth in Chapter 5, the demon, like the pirate, was a monstrous body that resulted from locative dis­ placement.386 In late antiquity, the demon could be associated with mis­ placed beliefs—­heresies.387 In antiquity, however, as J. Z. Smith has master­ fully outlined, the attribution of “demon” was the result of social and spatial judgments on par­tic­u­lar bodies. The demon, then, was an index, “a mea­sure of distance, a taxon, a label applied to distinguishing ‘us’ from ‘them.’ ”388 In light of our foregoing discussions of trauma, the slight emendation to Smith’s claim is that in Mark, the demon registers the tenuous nature of such cat­ egories as “us” and “them.” It indexes the collapse of ­these fictional catego­ ries into a chaotic swirl with each other: ­there is no “us” and no “them” but only disruptive per­for­mances. As it stands, the transition of 8:13 appears to signal a deep social shift. In v. 11, the Pharisees arrive to argue, to seek a sign, and to test Jesus: Καὶ ἐξῆλθον οἱ Φαρισαῖοι καὶ ἤρξαντο συζητεῖν αὐτῷ, ζητοῦντες παρ᾽ αὐτοῦ σημεῖον ἀπὸ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ, πειράζοντες αὐτόν. The Pharisees arrived and began to argue with him, seeking from him a sign from heaven, in order to test him. To request a sign does not necessarily signify a lack of fidelity in Jewish writ­ ings.389 The associations of testing, however, raise immediate distinctions between parties. In 1:13, though it is the spirit who leads Jesus into the wil­ derness, he was tested by Satan (πειραζόμενος ὑπὸ τοῦ σατανᾶ). Satan as



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“tester” became a recurrent trope in ­later scriptural writings.390 Vari­ous Jew­ ish traditions, as Joel Marcus notes, linked the Satan figure with the “test­ ing of God” during the wilderness wanderings.391 Elsewhere in Mark, the religious leaders are in the position of “testing” Jesus.392 The response of Je­ sus in v. 12 confirms this distinction between Jesus and the authorities but also prepares the way for the rising distinction manifesting itself in the trau­ matized body of ­those whom Jesus had desired. From the very fundamen­ tality of his person (τῷ πνεύματι αὐτοῦ), Jesus sighed deeply (ἀναστενάξας). This “sighing from deeply within his spirit” is linked with the exorcism ac­ tivity of 7:34.393 Intriguingly, the verb also appears in the LXX translation of Lamentations, regarding the crying out of the priests over the destruc­ tion of the ­temple: ὁδοὶ Σιων πενθοῦσιν παρὰ τὸ μὴ εἶναι ἐρχομένους ἐν ἑορτῇ πᾶσαι αἱ πύλαι αὐτῆς ἠφανισμέναι οἱ ἱερεῖς αὐτῆς ἀναστενάζουσιν αἱ παρθένοι αὐτῆς ἀγόμεναι καὶ αὐτὴ πικραινομένη ἐν ἑαυτῇ. The ways of Zion mourn, ­because ­there are none that attend the feasts. All her gates are ruined: her priests groan, her virgins are led away captive, and she is in bitterness within herself. (Lam. 1:4 LXX) The particularizing of this generation (ἡ γενεὰ αὕτη) in v. 12 introduces a mea­ sured qualification that is carried throughout Mark.394 It is not ἡ γενεὰ αὕτη, however, which asks for a sign; the Pharisees do (cf. v. 11). The mark­ ing of an emerging qualification in time, ἡ γενεὰ αὕτη, signals a division of time itself. Again, it must be stressed, this is not a splitting of the ways or any such anachronism. It is, rather, the marking of an a-­chronism. Time is out of joint. Trauma has ruptured a body among a body from shared rhythms. Time, “the ­great vandal,” to borrow from the divine light of Rohinton Mis­ try,395 leaped ahead while leaving a wreckage ­behind. The shift to departure, or however we might play with καὶ ἀφεὶς αὐτοὺς (and he left them), takes place through some form of embarking to the other side (εἰς τὸ πέραν; v. 13). What follows in vv. 14–21 takes place in the boat (ἐν τῷ πλοίῳ), presumably somewhere between the region of Dalmanutha (τὰ μέρη Δαλμανουθά) and Bethsaida. ­These themes ­will be treated ­later; ­here we simply adumbrate that it is while in the boat, away from requests of

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this generation (ἡ γενεὰ αὕτη) and all its social indexes, that crises of mem­ ory, understanding, and somatic insecurity manifest themselves most acutely. In this reading, space is out of joint, too. Even ­after the apparent triumphs and all that preceded the scene of vv. 14–21, ­those whom Jesus de­ sired fail to follow. The social bond of the body is in crisis. They neither perceive nor understand. Their hearts are hardened. They neither see nor hear. They cannot remember. Desire is out of joint, held in anxious suspense while adrift at sea. ­These fissures in space, time, and desire are indexed by the comment of the dumbstruck disciples: we have no bread (ἄρτους οὐκ ἔχουσιν; v. 16). As ­will be argued in Chapter 6, bread (ἄρτος) signals impor­tant associations with a somatic insecurity that runs throughout Mark. The declaration of lack in v. 16 while Jesus is with them reverberates back onto itself in the as­ sociation of Jesus’ body with bread upon his departure (14:21–25). From this suspense and splitting of time, space, and desire, the “demonic” begins to move in and out of the enlarged pores of the traumatized body. The groan from the fatigued depths of Jesus echoes across the ­water into the creaking boat. The confrontation with ­those on land cannot be left even with the voy­ age to the other side. The demon is on board, loosed from fissures caused by the trauma of an absent body—­haunting ­those who remain through their repeated failures and guilt.

Locality and Myth The appearance of t­ hese dynamics at sea is not insignificant. Even so, Mark’s mythic and spatial reimagination of the sea cannot be reduced to a strict lo­ calized sense—­the Sea of Galilee as a conflicted site of socialized space. Though many have wisely championed the need for “local studies” to stem the tide of undisciplined associations,396 we must also bear in mind how the trope of land and sea can be used symbolically. The trope of land and sea in antiquity was a common ideological expression of universal rule. According to Herodotus, Athenian ambassadors sent the distant Persians a symbolic offer of earth and w ­ ater as a show of their submission to their sovereign claim (Hist. 5.73.3). Augustus was careful to list his conquests and successes on land and sea in the 14 ce edition of his Res Gestae (e.g., 4.2).397 At Aphrodisias, in modern-­day Turkey, t­ here is a relief of a frieze from the shrine of the Sebas­ teion showing Augustus with repre­sen­ta­tions of land and sea symbolizing



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his universal power (c. 60 ce).398 The trope appears in Appian’s description of Rome at the time of the civil wars as “the most power­f ul mistress of so many nations by land and sea” (B. Civ. 4.16). The height of Pompey’s rule was defined as one that reigned “on land and sea.”399 The young Octavian’s golden statue dedicated to him is inscribed, “Peace, long disturbed, he rees­ tablished on land and sea” (B. Civ. 5.130).400 ­Under Augustus, Roman historians boasted of ruling “from Ocean to Ocean,” and maps of the world w ­ ere accordantly constructed to reflect this ideology.401 Referring to the Mediterranean as Mare Nostrum “was part of a po­liti­cal and cultural pro­cess by which they progressively defined the place of Rome at the heart of an Inhabited World—an Oecumene or Orbis Terrarum with the Mediterranean at its centre.”402 As such, it was impor­tant to establish military control on both land and sea—or, at least the show of it. Around 39 bce, for example, Sextus began referring to himself as “son of Neptune,” which was “an allusion to his own sea-­power and to his ­father Pompey’s ­great naval victories” and prowess.403 Octavian thus needed to de­ feat Sextus Pompeius at sea to demonstrate the legitimacy of his claim over Pompey404 and, of course, ­later at Actium against Antony.405 Claudius staged a ­battle against a ­whale at Ostia, attempted to drain the Fucine Lake near Rome, and staged sea ­battles in 52 ce to amuse crowds as well as demon­ strate the scope of his rule.406 The sea in Mark’s polemical situation, therefore, might well be read lo­ cally as the Sea of Galilee and its many aliases. It may also be considered symbolically within the mythic maps of Jewish traditions as well as a trope in antiquity amid pos­si­ble imperial propaganda. Yet it must also be consid­ ered as a space of desolation and void whereupon the social body of the ship is adrift without bread.

The Sea and the Suspension of Being The Gospel of Mark pre­sents a peculiar image of the sea, which is itself peculiarly marked by an originary trauma. It is the sea as a space of desolation, as we ­were alerted to by Taylor and Cioran, where “we sense a vastness which is alien and strange, which dwarfs us, passes our understanding, and seems to take no heed of us.”407 Desolation has been appropriated in this chapter as a corrective ­angle of vision for the Markan sea, owing not only to the poten­ tial social situation of the ­temple in Trümmern but also to the traumatic

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haunting of the mythopoetic pro­cess. The trauma of separation and violent death was an experience that set a community out of joint—­with time, with space, with desire. Historically, the wild spaces of wilderness and sea have been conceived as unfinished, in the sense that they ­were outside the safe harbors of oikonomia.408 Taylor’s idea of ­these spaces of desolation, and the sea in par­tic­u­lar, as representing the unfinished, unformed, and demonic—­a wild place to be exorcised—­has been picked up in this chapter and extended to the sea’s repre­sen­ta­tion in the Gospel of Mark.409 The relationship be­ tween the unfinished and the demonic provides a fresh breeze in the famil­ iar sea scenes of Mark’s Gospel. As s­ hall be argued in the following chapters, ­there is no overcoming them. With each new embarking and ­every apparent calm, the demonic emerges from the very splitting of time, space, and de­ sire. The demon is in the rubble of space, ruin of time, and desolation of desire. The sea, in addition to being a crowded stage for the posturing of im­ perial power and divine might, is a wild space, writhing and ­running where it ­will. The impact of the sea upon history is, in part, its traumatizing of history. As we encountered in Josephus, the w ­ aters are polluted by stinking bodies bloated with its suffocating liquids. ­Battle and war. Storm and fury. The clash and clamor of each new “territorial appropriation.”410 The ­waters become still again. The ­waters remember.411 They speak, too. And their storms inevitably recur.

Chapter 4

The Memory of Almost Drowning: Hostile Spirits, Slumbering Gods, and Eerie Calms

I’ll never forget the feeling of almost drowning. —­K risten Bishop No voice divine the storm allayed, No light propitious shone; When, snatched from all effectual aid, We perished, each alone: But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he. —­William Cowper, “Castaway” [T]he profound calm which only apparently precedes and prophesies of the storm is perhaps more awful than the storm itself; for, indeed, the calm is but the wrapper and envelope of the storm; and contains it in itself, as the seemingly harmless ­rifle holds the fatal powder, and the ball, and the explosion; so the graceful repose of the line, as it silently serpentines about the oarsmen before being brought into ­actual play—­this is a ­thing which carries more of true terror than any other aspect of this dangerous affair. . . . [I]t is only when caught in the swift,

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sudden turn of death, that mortals realize the ­silent, subtle, ever-­present perils of life. —­Herman Melville, Moby-­Dick

The Howling Gale of the Void In the next three chapters, we consider three extended sea scenes in Mark’s narrative world: 4:35–41, 5:1–20, and 6:45–52. The first and the last of ­these scenes tend to receive the majority of attention in the lit­er­a­ture. The less considered expulsion of Legion (λεγιών) to the sea in 5:1–20, however, is fundamental to the dynamic of the sea, in general; and the swirling under­ current ­running between 4:35–41 and 6:45–52, in par­tic­u­lar. Reading ­these three texts together introduces a subtle texture to what we have been call­ ing Mark’s mythic and spatial reimagination and the mark of trauma recur­ ring in both. In chapter 5, God most high (v. 7)—in all the diverse ways it could have been heard—is mythically refocused on Jesus. The sea is given a spatial dynamic vis-­à-­vis the kingdom of God’s “nearness” announced in 1:14– 15. We also begin to detect distinct personifications of chaos/evil as well as the placeless vulnerability of the disciples.1 ­These ele­ments wind through Mark 4–6. In this chapter, we ­will focus on Mark 4 and the positioning of the disciples in a boat with a sleeping Jesus, his rising to confront the cha­ otic storm, and the resulting eerie calm.

Hostile Spirits and Strong Men Though ­there are several passages in Mark with ­simple, generic mentions of Jesus’ or the disciples’ strug­gle with the strongman (ὁ ἰσχυρός), 2 the ex­ tended exorcism scenes follow a general pattern: (a) an encounter where the demon(s) ­either cries out or enacts aggressive be­hav­ior; (b) a demonstration of right recognition ­either by form of address, obedience, or an editorial play­ ing with the ambiguity of προσκυνέω; (c) Jesus rebukes the forces; (d) the forces cry violently in response; and (e) the onlookers respond with fear. Jesus’ first encounter with the strongman takes the form of an unclean spirit (ἄνθρωπος ἐν πνεύματι ἀκαθάρτῳ) in the synagogue of Capernaum (1:21–28). The scene relates to the baptism of John in its splitting the par­ ticularity of geographies with the universality of movement. In 1:5, “all the

you are the holy one of God (v. 24)

σύ εἷ ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ θεοῦ

you are the son of God! (v. 11c)

and he cried out, saying (1:23–24)

προσέπιπτον αὐτῷ καὶ ἔκραζον λέγοντες

They fell before him and cried out, saying (3:11b)

he convulsed and fell to the earth, rolling about and foaming at the mouth(9:20)

­

σύ εἷ ὁ ἅγιος τοῦ θεοῦ

ἀνέκραξεν λἐγων

συνεσπάραξεν αὐτόν, καὶ πεσὼν ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς ἐκυλίετο ἀφρίζων

Right Recognition

Encounter

­Table 1. Demonic Pattern 1

he rebuked (v. 25)

ἐπετίμησεν

and all he sternly warned not to reveal him (v. 12)

καὶ πολλὰ ἐπετίμα αὐτοῖς ἵνα μὴ αὐτον φανερὸν ποιήσωσιν

he rebuked him . . . ​ saying, silence! (v. 25)

ἐπετίμησεν . . . ​λἐγων φιμώθητι

Jesus’ Rebuke

and it cried out and convulsed much and then left (v. 26)

καὶ κράξας καὶ πολλά σπαράξας ἐξῆλθεν

­

convulsing . . . ​he cried out in a ­g reat voice (v. 26)

σπαράσσω . . . ​ φωνῆσαν φωνῇ μεγάλῃ

Demonic Response

they ­were amazed (v. 15)

ἐξεθαμβ ήθησαν

ἐθαμβήθησαν they ­were amazed (v. 27)

Onlookers’ Response

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country of Judaea and all the ­people of Jerusalem” (πᾶσα ἡ Ἰουδαία χώρα καὶ οἱ Ἱεροσολυμῖται πάντες) went out to John for baptism. In Caper­ naum, all (ἅπαντες) are amazed at Jesus’ authority (v. 27), resulting in his fame spreading “everywhere throughout all the surrounding region of Gali­ lee” (καὶ ἐξῆλθεν ἡ ἀκοὴ αὐτοῦ εὐθὺς πανταχοῦ εἰς ὅλην τὴν περίχωρον τῆς Γαλιλαίας; v. 28). This universal movement is the programmatic revi­ sioning of space and time announced in 1:15 that relativizes all par­tic­u­lar geog­ raphies, sites, and institutions. The geographies in which the announcement of John was given fold their spaces and times in on themselves with the first announcement of the coming of the spirit (1:8). The presence of the spirit (τό πνεῦμα) in 1:10 and its active force in v. 12 thus introduces a new dynamic through which the perception of the world passes. The declaration of the spirit of the man in Capernaum as unclean is intriguing, in this re­spect. The designation of “unclean” (ἀκάθαρτος) functions as a ceremonial label that receives its meaning from within the logic of ritual. Ritual renders and segments space and time into meaningful bits. To be designated as clean or unclean, then, is to be designated, to be located, with re­spect to the organ­ ization of a governing ritual. In this sense, the man designated as “unclean” is possessed by “spirits” of a dif­fer­ent locale and rhythm from ­those of the spirit operative in the work of the kingdom of God. Possession in Mark, likewise, is a spatially perspectival and dimensional phenomenon.3 In 1:21–28, the contrast is therefore not merely between clean and unclean spirits but between realms of authority and dimensional opera­ tions. In the spirit, time and place have received a kind of revitalization, put­ ting into motion a new kind of event that relativizes authorities of times and ­ ntil 1:32, a­ fter Jesus leaves the synagogue places past (cf. 7:1–23).4 It is not u (cf. 1:29), that we hear of “­those possessed by demons” (τοὺς δαιμονιζομένους). The remainder of such encounters in Mark appear to receive the two de­ scriptors interchangeably. Perhaps this is reflective of differing source mate­ rial. Or perhaps ­there is some under­lying logic operative in each description. What must be highlighted is the function of the spirit as a dimensional fold. The spirit indexes the separation and splitting of standardized spatial and temporal perception and the arrival of something other. Yet, as we have been discussing, this separation is suspended by traumatic absence. The sudden and violent “taking away” (ἀπαίρω) of the bridegroom in 2:20 hints of an impending violent fate befalling Jesus.5 It also reflects the sudden, traumatic separation and exposure of the community. In Mark, the presence of the risen Jesus with the community is never promised. They are left in abeyance and



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anxious suspense—no longer fully of the world from which they ­were called or of the real­ity that was promised.

Reordered Desire This abeyance is given distinct social form in the Beelzebul controversy (3:20–35). The context of the controversy turns on a cosmic reordering of desire. Jesus is portrayed as ascending the “cosmic mountain”—­the place where heaven and earth meet and where God speaks to his ­people—­and yet inviting into his fellowship only ­those whom he desires (ἤθελεν).6 As op­ posed to developing an elaborate theory of desire, following Deleuze and Guattari, I simply wish to point out its creative force. Desire produces the real (le désir produit du réel).7 Deleuze and Guattari helpfully theorized this produced quality of desire (le caractère producteur du désir)8 by highlighting the productive nature of desire in effecting the flow of desire (les flux du désir).9 ­These flows carry communal interests along directions even as they transform productive connections.10 Elementary forces of desire (forces élémentaires du désir) are the materials of a social field. Any emerging desire is therefore revolutionary in the sense that it is plugged in to an existing social field (branche sur le champ social existant). This desire becomes a source of al­ ternative and effective energy.11 Desire represents nothing; it produces. It means nothing; it works.12 Internal to itself is the power to create its own object and field.13 It is in this economy of desire (l’économie du désir) where social needs are derived.14 It is not desire that is produced by needs (les besoins). Just the opposite: needs derive from desire (ce sont les besoins qui dérivent du désir). Social needs are by-­products of the real that desire produces (contre-­produits dans le réel que le désir produit). Lack (le manque) is the coun­ tereffect of desire that is natu­ral and social.15 This is significant for what w ­ ill follow specifically as it relates to the division of ­peoples into four indistinct social groups: ­those whom Jesus desires (3:13); the twelve (3:14); the crowd (3:20); and his “­family” (3:21).16 In what appears to be a response to this reordering of desire, Jesus’ “­family” attempts to seize (κρατῆσαι) him while labeling him as mad. Elsewhere the chief priests, scribes, and elders attempt to seize Jesus ­after a parable is told against them (12:12). In the Beelzebul controversy, the telling of parables, attempts to seize Jesus, and the appearance of religious leaders are again all pre­sent. The difference is that ­those trying to seize him are his intimates or

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f­amily who now stand outside his desire (3:31–32). Yarbro Collins has pointed out relevant texts in Plato (Phaedr. 249C–­D) and Philo (Ebr. 36 §145–46), where ­those operating from an ordinary plane of perception are unable to understand the activities of divinely inspired persons. As a result, the for­ mer conceive of the latter as “out of their senses.”17 In the case of Mark’s ­family, Jesus is out of his mind. In the case of ­those whom Jesus desired, they are standing outside themselves—in a state of ekstasis. Psalm 68 LXX may also be relevant. In this text, designated as a Psalm of David (68:1), chaotic “­waters” (ὕδατα) are a threat (v. 1), and the depths of the sea (τὰ βάθη τῆς θαλάσσης) are surging and flooding over life (v. 3). ­There is a “crying out” (κράζων) in v. 4 to a seemingly slumbering God. The psalter speaks of an attempt on the part of his enemies “to destroy” (‫ )צמת‬his life (MT 69:4).18 He has been “estranged” from his intimates and “alienated” from his ­mother (ἀπηλλοτριωμένος ἐγενήθην τοῖς ἀδελφοῖς μου καὶ ξένος τοῖς υἱοῖς τῆς μητρός μου).19 And ­there is mention of the divided nature of a “house” (οἶκος) in v. 10. All ­these themes are pre­sent in Mark 3–4. Some of ­these themes ­will be picked up below. What concerns us presently is the notion of being estranged or alienated from one’s intimates and ­mother. The ­family of Jesus is recharacterized in 3:35 as ­those who do the ­will of God (ὃς [γὰρ] ἂν ποιήσῃ τὸ θέλημα τοῦ θεοῦ, οὗτος ἀδελφός μου καὶ ἀδελφὴ καὶ μήτηρ ἐστίν). The ­family that is characterized as being in a state of estrangement (ἔξω) in vv. 31–32 is the inverse of the ­family of Psalm 69 (68), where the Davidic figure is estranged from his ­family. In Psalm 68 (69), it is the Davidic figure who is alienated from his ­family. In Mark, it is the ­family that is estranged from Jesus—­who, in some sense, is positioned ­ ere. The theological or rhe­ in relation to David.20 ­There is an odd misfit h torical rationale of this inversion may mistakenly communicate a consistency of the experience outlined in Psalm 69 (68) with the experience of the com­ munity. ­Those who left h ­ ouses, ­brothers, ­sisters, ­fathers, ­mothers, wives, ­children, lands, and former ways of life in order to follow Jesus w ­ ere left in a socially dangerous place of exposure.21 They ­were thus doubly estranged: from what they originally left and for what they left. Yet ­there appears to be some hope to which the community clings; a moment of temporal restoration where relational rhythms ­will again sync with past promises (cf. 10:30). It is not surprising, then, that the charge of the scribes that Jesus is in league with an “unclean spirit” (πνεῦμα ἀκάθαρτον) is conceived as unforgivable blasphemy (3:29–30). The spirit



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indexes where one stands with re­spect to the spatiality and temporality of the gospel of God (1:15). To characterize the dynamic force of the spirit op­ erative in Jesus’ work and his reordering of desire as “unclean” is to locate oneself in a dif­fer­ent rendering of space and time. The traumatic rupture loosed by the empty tomb broke time, estranged space, and frustrated de­ sire’s bonding effect. ­There is no return to some pretraumatic origin. The community is in abeyance. It is posttraumatic, outside itself, scrambled, adrift in anxious suspense. Estrangement is further highlighted in 3:22 by the judgment of scribal authorities come from Jerusalem (οἱ ἀπὸ Ἱεροσολύμων καταβάντες). Jesus’ work is classified as originating from Beelzebul. The attribution of his works to Beelzebul is certainly in­ter­est­ing when, according to the first-­century ce text of the Testament of Solomon, the demon boss was understood to “de­ stroy through tyrants,” corrupt priests, 22 and arouse evil spirits from the sea.23 The placement of the religious leaders ­here, moreover, may be evidence for some anti-­capital polemic at work in Mark. Jesus, ­after all, speaks to them in parables (v. 23)—­that is, as outsiders (τοῖς ἔξω, cf. 4:11). ­There might be something to this theory, but it seems to miss the chaotic situation of the Markan narrative world. ­There is no relocation of a civic center. Not even in Jesus’ hometown is he recognized as one of their own (cf. 6:1–6). The com­ munity is not relocating a po­liti­cal center. ­There is no center. They are in abeyance. They are out of joint. As with the one to whom they realigned their lives and desires, they are recognized nowhere. In addition to furthering the confusion of social logics between king­ doms and ­house­holds, the Beelzebul controversy hints ­toward another latent uncertainty of the posttraumatic community: Is the strongman (ὁ ἰσχυρός) bound or loose? Intriguingly, Jesus is referred to as a strongman by the Baptizer in 1:7 (ἔρχεται ὁ ἰσχυρότερός μου ὀπίσω μου). In 10:42, earthly rulers who only appear to be strong or ­g reat are also mentioned (οἴδατε ὅτι οἱ δοκοῦντες ἄρχειν τῶν ἐθνῶν κατακυριεύουσιν αὐτῶν καὶ οἱ μεγάλοι αὐτῶν κατεξουσιάζουσιν αὐτῶν). The strongman in 3:27 is an archetypal figure of chaotic force that stands against God’s gospel. ­W hether Satan or Beelzebul, “to bind” (δέω) this figure calls to mind God’s binding of Leviathan, 24 or Raphael’s binding of Azazel.25 To bind the former curbs chaos (Job 41:1–2 LXX). To bind the latter corrects the ruin of false teach­ ing (1 Enoch 10:8). The associations ­here of Leviathan and false teaching are impor­tant for what follows in that they turn the accusation of the religious

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leaders onto themselves and recast the sea scene to follow in 4:35–41 as a mythic confrontation over real-­world realities.26

Binding the Sea (4:35–41) As we turn to the text, we see the pattern of demonic encounter outlined above repeated in 4:35–41. ­There is an ambiguity, however, in that we are not sure who is confronting whom. Though “closely linked” with the preceding section (4:1–34), v. 35 tran­ sitions from Jesus’ parabolic discourse with the statement put on the lips of Jesus: “Let’s go over to the other side” (διἐλθωμεν εἰς τὸ πέραν).27 What follows in vv. 36–41 is a string of καί statements that gives the scene a hur­ ried, choppy pace.28 The “­great storm of wind” (λαῖλαψ μεγάλη ἀνέμου) in v. 37 initiates the demoniac pattern.29 The sharkia howling down the Bashan stirs up the cantankerous and unruly sea30 and threatens the disciples’ life.31 Panicked, the disciples cry out to their teacher (διδάσκαλος; v. 38),32 who rouses from his slumber,33 rebukes the wind (ἐπετίμησεν τῷ ἀνέμῳ),34 and says to the sea: Silence! Be still! (σιώπα, πεφίμωσο; v. 39). The ­great storm of wind (λαῖλαψ μεγάλη ἀνέμου) turns to a ­great calm (γαλήνη μεγάλη), evoking ­great fear among the disciples (καὶ ἐφοβήθησαν φόβον μέγαν),35 causing them to won­der among themselves who it is that even the wind and sea obey him (τίς ἄρα οὕτός ἐστιν ὅτι καὶ ὁ ἄνεμος καὶ ἡ θάλασσα ὑπακούει αὐτῷ).36 Marcus suggests that the repetition of “­great” (μέγας) “implies that the disciples are threatened by a devastating superhuman power.” The greater power of Jesus, however, overmatches the strongman (ὁ ἰσχυρός) from 3:27 made manifest upon the sea. Jesus is thus presented as a “conqueror of the sea.”37 His “rebuking” (ἐπιτιμάω) the wind fits with the common occurrence of ‫ =( גער‬rebuke) in Aramaic and Hebrew incantation texts involving exor­ cisms,38 as well as evokes the primordial b­ attle where God rebuked and sub­ dued the chaotic forces of the sea (cf. Job 26:10–12).39 Moreover, as in the mythic past, ­these chaotic forces ­w ill again be “rebuked” in the mythic ­f uture.40 The sudden and violent appearance of demonic power on both sea and land “contributes to the audience’s perception of evil’s restless” nature and, Marcus suggests, to the “impression that Jesus has not yet unsheathed the weapon that ­will deliver the final deathblow against it.” Despite the fact that Jesus appears to prevail in each encounter with the forces of chaos, up ­until this point their repeated presences throughout chapters  1–8, some



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­Table 2. Demonic Pattern 2 Encounter καὶ γίνεται λαῖλαψ μεγάλη ἀνέμου καὶ τὰ κύματα ἐπέβαλλεν εἰς τὸ πλοῖον

Right Recognition

Jesus’ Rebuke

καἰ ἐπετίμησεν ἐκόπασεν ὁ τῷ ἀνέμῳ ἄνεμος καὶ εἶπεν τῇ θαλάσσῃ σιώπα, πεφίμωσο

and ­there arose a and the he rebuked ­g reat storm of wind, wind ceased the wind and and the waves ­were (v. 39b) spoke to the breaking over the boat sea: Silence! so much that the boat Be still! was filling up (v. 37) (v. 39a)

Demonic Response

Onlookers’ Response

ἐκόπασεν ὁ καὶ ἄνεμος καῖ ἐφοβήθησαν ἐγένετο φόβον μέγαν γαλήνη μεγάλη the wind ceased, and it became a ­g reat calm (v. 39c)

 . . . ​a nd they became greatly afraid (v .41)

suggest, communicate that a “final reckoning, a decisive ­battle, looms in the ­f uture.”41 Or does it? In 4:35–41, the demonstration of Jesus’ power over the sea may also intro­ duce a polemical intervention into the wider cultural script’s pantheon of sea powers.42 ­There ­were plenty of stories about sea storms and sea rescues in the Greco-­Roman world.43 ­Those who escaped danger on the sea could attribute benefaction to any number of gods, ranging from Poseidon, Hercules, and Isis.44 Heroes such as Pythagoras and his disciple, Empedocles, are reported by Porphyry to have suppressed violent winds and calmed storms at sea.45 Aphrodite saved Herostratus of Naucratis from the tumultuous sea.46 Posei­ don, “the god of the deep,” is named savior of ships and help of sailors.47 The Dioscuri deliver sailors from stormy seas and calm sea storms.48 Samothrace deities ­were given benefaction for saving a ship owing to the prayers of the initiate Orpheus.49 So was Isis.50 Though speaking meta­phor­ically, Philo de­ scribes Augustus as stilling the stormy seas of the world through his calming pax.51 The singing of Orpheus soothed the Black Sea.52 Pythagoras is credited with calming seas and rivers.53 Empedocles was nicknamed “the wind-­stiller” (135–36). And Apollonius of Tyana was seen as a master over tempests.54 Jesus’ binding of the sea and bringing his disciples to the other side may highlight the failure of other would-be “sea gods.”55 Antiochus Epiphanes in 2 Macc. 9:8 is portrayed as a man of hubris who thought, in his “super­ human arrogance” (ὑπὲρ ἄνθρωπον ἀλαζονείαν), that he could command

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the waves of the sea (τῆς θαλάσσης κύμασιω ἐπιτάσσειν). He was thus made low, which, according to 2 Maccabees, made “the power of God manifest to all” (φανερὰν τοῦ θεοῦ πᾶσιν τὴν πᾶσιν τὴν δύναμιν ἐνδεικνύμενος). The tyrant who could not command the sea became par­ ody to the God who can.56 Caesar himself attempted to cross the Adriatic Sea amid violent swell and was forced to turn back.57 Propaganda over the sea was often implemented by po­liti­cal and military leaders as a way of communicating universal rule, divinization, election, piety, and empower­ ment from the gods.58 The sea as a theater for action kept a po­liti­cally crowded stage. Strelan has suggested that despite the numerous similari­ ties between Jesus on Kinneret and Caesar on the Adriatic,59 the funda­ mental difference is that the authority of Jesus “extends over the very storm that confronts him—­a nd the demons that instigate it.”60 Indeed, one might well read Caesar as an agent or one of the minions ­doing chaos’s bidding in Mark’s script.61 In Mark’s complex polemical situation, it should be stressed, as we have alluded to above, in the social imaginary of early Chris­tian­ity, the God of the Hebrew Bible would have reigned supreme over the raging sea. God alone was able to still its waves.62 Despite imperial propaganda to the contrary, as Captain Nemo of the Nautilus in Jules Verne’s Twenty Thousand Leagues ­Under the Sea claimed, the “sea does not belong to despots.”63 It belongs to the cre­ ator God. Some have seen this as evidence for a kind of functional identifi­ cation of Jesus with the divine identity.64 ­Whether or not the Markan redactor was aware of the pos­si­ble parallels listed above, it should be stressed that similarity does not necessarily reveal dependence. Regardless of why such par­ allels exist, it is their presence that is so intriguing.65 They add nuance to the disciples’ (community’s?) unanswered question: Who is this that the wind and sea obey amid such a crowded theater of action? Marcus notes that the answer to the disciples’ question is none other than “the bringer of a new world, who, like the creator God in ancient Near Eastern myths and poetic OT texts, defeats a demonic sea monster and thus brings a new order, a cosmos, into being.”66 The binding of the sea functions as a kind of Überbietung, an “outdoing” of the kingdom as manifested in Je­ sus’ authority.67 Though certainly one could discuss themes of theophany or epiphany,68 the sea is also presented “si­mul­ta­neously [as] an area wherein so­ cial conflicts occur and a space ­shaped by ­these conflicts.”69 The sea is a crowded site of contest where Mark’s mythopoesis participates in a complex



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network of social identities. It is a theater for action, a place where gods and men lay competing claims and where forces of chaos are given personifica­ tion. Jesus’ rebuke of the sea in 4:35–41 is part of his larger rebuking of ­these chaotic forces that continue to encroach past their set bound­aries and against which the kingdom of God’s coming announced in 1:14–15 competes in this socialization of space. The sea as the abode of chaos and the enemies of God is thus a space of dimensional conflict. As W. H. Auden said, “The sea, in fact, is that state of barbaric vagueness and disorder out of which civiliza­ tion has emerged and into which, ­unless saved by the efforts of gods and men, it is always liable to relapse.”70 Can we suggest, then, that 4:35–41 is a demonstration of Jesus’ ongoing strug­gle with the strongman (ὁ ἰσχυρός) of 3:27? Is Jesus’ “calming” the sea enacting the plundering (διαρπάζω) and binding (δέω) of chaotic forces and the enemies of God by enacting the king­ dom’s arrival and its socializing effects?

Slumbering Gods and Sinking Ships Such approaches can be, and certainly have been, defended. Might they re­ flect, however, a bit too much triumphalism for a traumatized community abandoned before the howling Nihil of an empty tomb where a figure con­ demned to a violent death had been laid? What is more, his followers fled and ­were living on the run prior to and ­after his trial. They bore no witness to his death or to the empty tomb. Witness itself, as we saw ­earlier, was trau­ matized. How, then, can we understand such strong Christological readings alongside the trauma and ecstasy at the text’s unfinishing? How can we speak of a new world, a new cosmos, or a new order amid such ruin? The community as posttraumatic and socially exposed finds vivid sig­ nification in a storm-­tossed ship ferrying a slumbering “god” across a wild and outraged sea. ­Those whom Jesus desired are on the boat, yet undiffer­ entiated and unnamed. As alluded to in Chapter 1, they are akin to the com­ pany Margaret Cohen identified as “the descendants of Odysseus”—­but with a fundamental difference. Descendants of Odysseus are ­those who ply their practical resourcefulness to survive a world bereft of the divine. ­Those of this ménage exhibit maritime capacities along the edge zones of the un­ finished wild spaces of the sea. This is precisely where the lineage of ­those whom Jesus desires are suspect. ­These men of the sea exhibit neither cunning

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nor capacity in the sea scenes. They drift alienated upon the medium of their livelihood.

Ships In the diverse narrative repre­sen­ta­tions of the Mediterranean world, the sea dominates.71 Yet, as suggested in Chapter 3, reflections on the “sea” do not necessarily confine themselves to specific bodies of ­water. Owing to the sea’s unpredictable swells and sudden and dramatic meteorological changes, it took on personifications of capricious force and an unpredictable and moody di­ vinity. Across traditions, texts, and geographies, the sea was seen as the orig­ inator of all life. To understand the sea in antiquity, one must begin ­here: the world has, in some form, emerged from its mysterious liquids.72 Life-­as-­ emerged, however, was subject to the primordial ele­ment of its emergence: the sea. In the end, life ­will pass through foreboding ­waters on its way to the other side of all that is. In this antique ­water world of signs and symbols, the ship is ubiqui­ tous.73 The significance of the ship has been surveyed in several impressive studies,74 ranging from early Christian and classical art and architecture,75 to the rich series of studies undertaken by Rahner on the ecclesial symbol­ ogy of the ship in classical and patristic lit­er­a­ture.76 The ship was a dynamic symbol in early Chris­tian­ity, providing a symbolic and mobile place, a kind of mobile center and transportable ­middle point (Mittelpunkt) from which to enact the contradictions of life amid wild waves and demonic powers.77 Hilgert produced an impor­tant study of the symbol of the ship in the lit­er­ a­ture of the New Testament.78 He surveyed the symbolism of the ship in the lit­er­a­t ures of Egypt,79 Mesopotamia,80 Greece,81 Rome,82 and Judaism.83 Across the lit­er­a­ture examined, three themes find remarkable resonance: the ship as a mode of transportation to the land of the dead; the ship at sea as the course of h ­ uman life; and the symbol of the ship as a social body. In the Jewish imaginary,84 Hilgert suggests that though in Palestine the symbol of the ship is not abundant, “­every one of the leading motifs” in Greco-­Roman lit­er­a­ture, art, and archaeology “appears in Palestinian Juda­ ism before or con­temporary with the writing of the New Testament.”85 ­These themes are the ship as ­human life,86 or soul;87 the ship caught in a storm as Jewish life in tribulation;88 the ship as representative of the fate of the world;89 and the transporting of the soul to the world of the dead.90 ­These uses of



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the ship symbol appropriate a rich and diverse series of deployments in au­ thors as varied as Plutarch, Seneca, Virgil, Terence, Juvenal, Horace, Cicero, and Livy. And, in some form or other, they influenced ­later Christian sym­ bolics of the ship as the church.91 The church would be seen as the ­bearer of life safely through threatening storms into the harbor of paradise. As a collec­ tive of diverse functions working together, the church, then, was viewed akin to the ship of state, while comprehending in its offices the fate of the world.92 In Jewish traditions, the ship often signified terror and judgment at the hands of foreign enemies.93 If the covenant is broken, the Lord ­will return disobedient Israel “in ships” to Egypt (Deut. 28:68). The redeemed passed through the sea on the stability of dry land in Exodus. In their exile, however, they ­will return on boats. Hilgert suggests that the ship was mainly conceived of as an e­ nemy in Jewish tradition; it was the bringer of foreboding.94 The variety and range of the ship of state symbol across chronologies, geographies, and lit­er­a­tures demonstrate how widely used and recognized it was in antiquity.95 Though the image frequently appears in Cicero,96 per­ haps the most well-­k nown reference belongs to Horace, who employed the imagery amid the squalls of civil war.97 The Testament of Naphtali 6:1–8:2 may be evidence for a vision of the ship-­as-­the ­people of God “beset by storm” in use in Palestinian Jewish communities during the time of the writing of the New Testament.98 The ship as symbolic for the Jewish ­people amid stormy seas is pre­sent in 4 Ezra 12:42 and throughout the Talmud and midrash.99 The storm could be conceived as a meta­phor to communicate the attacks of an ­enemy.100 The sea is both the elemental origin of life and the chaotic force that threatens it. Primordial and chaotic ele­ments are leading motifs ranging across nearly ­every symbol of the sea in antiquity.101 The sea as a chaotic force is placed in Hebrew texts as the mythic strug­gle between the creator God and the sea monster.102 At some point in a promised cosmic reordering, God ­will slay this mythic monster of the deep. In some texts, this mythic monster is in the sea.103 In other texts, the monster is represented as this archetypal ­enemy of God—in some way, as the sea, over which God is victorious.104 The sea is thus constituted as essentially hostile to creation and yet in some form sub­ servient to the God of creation;105 or at some point, it eventually ­will be made subservient both to God and the new-­creation community of God.106 Such themes find resonance in the wider Mediterranean milieu. Rahner argued that in Hellenistic writings, Typhon was connected with Ophioneus. Ophioneus was defeated at the hands of Kronos and thrown into the sea. Oph­ ioneus was associated with ὄφις, the primeval serpent that reigned sovereign

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over the seas.107 In Homer and beyond, the sea could be understood as an army or threatening nation.108 It was an alien realm,109 filled with “savage sea-­beasts in ­every direction,”110 and could be configured as an ­enemy attacking (consurgere) the Roman fleet of Germanicus.111 The winds ­were considered with some ambiguity, as they brought both benefit and harm.112 As Seneca warns, they may spell doom in pushing the sails of alien powers over the horizons:113 “No land is so far distant that it cannot send out some evil of its own contriving . . . . How can I know w ­ hether this or that wind brings war down upon me? The greatest contribution to ­human peace would be for the seas to be closed off.”114 Euripides refers to “Ocean” as the “holy boundary of the sky.”115 Hesy­ chius could also refer to the Ocean as “air” (aera), illustrating how t­ hese mys­ terious ­waters—­not quite liquid and yet not quite solid—­were “the meeting point of the material and the immaterial.” In this mysterious malleability of earth, air, and ­water, a juxtaposition of ele­ments illustrates a juxtaposition ­ ater, and land­ of dimensions.116 Wild storms at sea centripetally mix air, w 117 masses, disorienting and shipwrecking sailors. The sea, moreover, medi­ ates transitions between phases of life and states of liminal existence. As Versnel explains, to abandon one’s own fate, ­either by self-­sacrifice or by a jump into the sea, places the self outside the society of the living.118 To be outside a ship is to be in an intermediary state—­represented as being adrift at sea. To return from the sea, however, to pass to the other side, is to re­ turn to the world of the living with some reconceived status.119 The sea sym­ bolized thus not only the axle, horizon, and point at which sky and sea lap into one another but also the place at which “life and death converge.”120 Odysseus’s journey therefore takes on “cosmic proportions—­visiting all corners of the world—­both mortal and immortal, living and dead, with deep civil consequences regarding his return to Ithaca.”121 As we have seen above, a ship amid a storm in Jewish lit­er­a­ture signifies a ­people in tribulation. In the developing self-­presentation of the church in late antiquity, the sea became a kind of figuration of the wider hostile world.122 The winds ­were demonic,123 the threatened ship a fledgling church.124

A Seed at Sea The connection between the so-­called stilling of the storm (4:35–41) and preceding parabolic discourses (4:1–34) has rightly been pointed out by ­others.125 The purpose of the parables explicated in 4:10–12 for the disciples—­



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appropriating themes of judgment from Isa. 6:9—­develops further the reor­ dering of desire that began in 3:13. To ­those within Jesus’ reordering, “the secret of the kingdom of God has been given” (τὸ μυστήριον δέδοται τῆς βασιλείας τοῦ θεου); to every­one ­else, every­thing is in parables (4:11). ­There is a rather pronounced difference in Matthew and Luke at this point. In their visions of the kingdom mystery,126 the disciples are given the capacity “to know” (γνῶναι) a plurality of mysteries (μυστήρια).127 In Mark, though the disciples appear to be chided for not understanding the parable of the sower (4:13), the framework of mystery as given does not necessarily assume un­ derstanding. We may infer that “a capacity for understanding is created by identification with the community,” but the language of understanding it­ self is not pre­sent in Mark.128 Teaching in parables to the disciples and with­ out explanatory asides continues in 4:21–34. Even ­after Jesus begins to speak “openly” (παρρησίᾳ) in 8:32, confusion and misunderstanding persist. The mystery of the kingdom is the word (ὁ λόγος) as sown (4:14). ­Earlier (2:2), λόγος appears in the preaching and healing at Capernaum (ἐλάλει αὐτοῖς τὸν λόγον), splitting the crowd’s responses into charges of blasphemy or dispositions of won­der (2:6–12). Such responses reveal where one lives within the economy of the kingdom’s reordering of desire. A “desire” (ἐπιθυμίαι) for “­things” (τά λοιπά) outside (4:19) demonstrates a displacement from the “desire” (θέλω) of the kingdom of the gospel of God (3:13). Yet, as we ­shall see more fully in Chapter 6, on the other side of violent death and empty tomb, desire is traumatically split from itself. ­These dynamics are played out further in the notoriously difficult mentioning of the other boats in 4:36. The cryptic course set by Jesus to the “other side” (διέλθωμεν εἰς τὸ πέραν) should be taken as a journey ­toward some mythical realm (4:35).129 We see Jesus again withdrawing from the crowds to the sea with his disciples.130 The crowds are left ­behind (ἀφέντες τὸν ὄχλον), and Jesus is taken by the disciples into their boat (παραλαμβάνουσιν αὐτὸν ὡς ἦν ἐν τῷ πλοίῳ). In the three other uses of παραλαμβάνω in Mark,131 Jesus is always the one who performs the action of the verb. H ­ ere, however, it is Jesus who is taken in the boat (πλοῖον) by the disciples.132 This is not insignificant. In 4:1, Jesus is teaching the mul­ titude while sitting, apparently alone, in a boat on the sea. Prior to this, the first appearance of a boat is in 1:19–20, where James and John ­were called (v. 19), leaving the boats of their f­ ather, Zebedee, with his hired ser­ vants (v. 20). Following this departure from their ­father’s boat, controversy arises over the question of “authority” (ἐξουσία) and the presence of a new

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authoritative teaching (διδαχὴ καινὴ κατ᾽ ἐξουσίαν) in a Capernaum syn­ agogue (1:21–28). This developing ship symbolism introduces a migration of authority from the collective of the ­fathers, to the teacher upon the sea, to the frayed community. The unity of this community, however, is hardly stabilized or secure. “Other boats” (ἄλλα πλοῖα) ­were among the fleet (4:36) but show no evidence of making it through the storm. Their ruin is the raven’s devouring of the seed (4:4). Their splintered vessels are the shriveling within a sun-­scorched soil (4:6). Their wreckage is life choked by weeds (4:7). This is the course of the ship embarking on a mythic voyage to the Other Side. The primordial ­enemy of God stands against it (cf. 4:15), summoning his monsters and storms (4:37), casting the boat into tribulation and peril (4:38; cf. 4:17), all while the “teacher” lay asleep, seemingly indifferent to its plight (4:38). This is the tragic vision of the vulnerability of a social body bereft of its ordering desire. A traumatized community adrift at sea. A teacher dead asleep.

The Jonah Pattern and Markan Dissimilarity The sudden appearance of a “­great storm of wind” (λαῖλαψ μεγάλη ἀνέμου) introduces an ambiguity regarding its originating point: From whence or whom comes the storm? The language of λαῖλαψ appears in the descrip­ tion of God addressing Job out of the whirlwind (Job 38:1 LXX). It also ap­ pears in traditions relating to Elijah’s transport to heaven (cf. Sir. 48:9, 12). The use of λαῖλαψ also appears in contexts of divine judgment.133 Though λαῖλαψ does not appear, intriguing comparisons are to be made thematically—­ both in terms of similarities and differences—­between the story of Jonah (1:4–16 LXX) and the storm scene in Mark (4:35–41).134 The sudden rising of the wind on the sea (πνεῦμα εἰς τὴν θάλασσαν) in Jonah is sent from the Lord (κύριος ἐξήγειρεν) in v. 4. The sailors rec­ ognize the super­natural origin of the storm and cry out to their own gods (οἱ ναυτικοὶ . . . ​ἀνεβόων ἕκαστος πρὸς τὸν θεὸν αὐτῶν) in v. 5. Recalling Cohen’s discussion of industry at sea, οἱ ναυτικοί engage in maneuverings to save the ship (v. 5). Jonah, however, was belowdecks snoring (κατέβη εἰς τὴν κοίλην τοῦ πλοίου καὶ ἐκάθευδεν καὶ ἔρρεγχεν). Discourses on som­ nolence in the Hebrew Bible and LXX are theologically complex, as such narrations tend to open ironic tears of orientation.135 Who is awake and who

­Table 3. Jonah Pattern Jon. 1:4–16

Mark 4:35–41

The Lord raised a wind on the sea (4a)

A ­great storm of wind arose (37a)

and ­there was a ­g reat storm (4b)

The boat was in peril (37b)

the ship is in peril (4c) Sailors afraid (5a) Sailors cry out to their own gods (5b) Attend to ship (5c) Jonah in the hold of ship (5d)

He was in the stern (38a)

Jonah asleep and snoring (5e)

Asleep on a cushion (38b)

Captain approaches Jonah (6a)

They awoke him (38c)

Why do you sleep? (6b)

“Teacher, do you not care if we perish?” (38d)

Call upon your god to save us (6c) Divining the guilt of Jonah (7) Inquiries of occupation and origin (8) Jonah’s self-­identification as one who fears the Lord—­maker of earth and sea (9) Men fear (10a)

Men fear (41a)

Jonah tells them he is fleeing the presence of God (10b) Men ask what they must do in order that the storm be stilled (11) Jonah asks to be cast into the sea (12a) He is the reason for the storm (12b) Men attempt to save ship but storm grows (13) The sailors cry to the Lord (14) They cast Jonah into the sea (15a)

He awakes and rebukes the wind (39a)

The storm is stilled (15b)

The storm is stilled (39c) Why are you afraid? Have you no faith? (40)

The men fear (16a)

The men fear (41a)

The men sacrifice to the Lord (16b)

And won­der (42b)

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is slumbering? To what real­ity is one awake or asleep? Jonah, belowdecks in his attempt to escape the presence of the Lord (1:3, 10), is asleep to the real­ity that he cannot flee the one who neither slumbers nor sleeps (Ps. 121:4) and is everywhere pre­sent.136 Sleep communicates a fundamental misalignment be­ tween Jonah and the word of the Lord (λόγος κυρίου). Even when awake, Jonah remains asleep. As each sailor cried out to his own god, Jonah remained ­silent while the pagan sailors eventually cry out to the Lord (‫ ;י ְהוָה‬v. 14). Yarbro Collins suggests a deliberate allusion to Jonah in Mark’s ver­ sion of the calming of the storm.137 The thematic parallels are hard to miss even if the lexical links are not as strong.138 The comparison with Jonah is most striking at its points of dissimilarity. First, the ­middle aspect of γίνομαι in 4:37 suggests an agent standing b­ ehind the winds. If that agent ­were God, as in Jon. 1:4, it is hardly clear. Moreover, if we w ­ ere to assume the patterning of Jonah at work ­here, and if the winds ­were of divine ori­ gin, against whom ­were they sent—­a nd why? The theme of somnolence again introduces an ironic reversal of ­those who are awake and ­those who are asleep. Though of l­ittle relation to Mark’s Gospel, 1 Thess. 5:1–6 bears significant similarities on this point. Writing of the day of the Lord, the author urges his audience not to sleep but to stay sober and alert (ἄρα οὖν μὴ καθεύδωμεν ὡς οἱ λοιποί ἀλλὰ γρηγορῶμεν καὶ νήφωμεν; v. 6). The language is the same (καθεύδω) and the context of tribulation/ day of the Lord imagery is similar. Batto, drawing from ancient Near East symbol­ ism, suggests that depictions of a divine king peacefully asleep was a motif used to communicate unquestioned sovereignty.139 This may be the case. In stormy seas and times of tribulation, however, to sleep—­perchance to dream— is hardly a good look. Placing sleeping Jesus in texts of a slumbering God in Jewish tradition places apparent weakness in a perspectival phenomenon. I quote just a few such texts: Ps. 7:6 Arise, LORD, in your anger; rise up against the rage of my enemies. Awake, my God; decree justice. Ps. 7:7 LXX ἀνάστηθι κύριε ἐν ὀργῇ σου ὑψώθητι ἐν τοῖς πέρασι τῶν ἐχθρῶν μου ἐξεγέρθητι κύριε ὁ θεός μου ἐν προστάγματι ᾧ ἐνετείλω. Ps. 44:23 Awake, Lord! Why do you sleep? Rouse yourself! Do not reject us forever.



The Memory of Almost Drowning

Ps. 43:24 LXX ἐξεγέρθητι ἵνα τί ὑπνοῖς κύριε ἀνάστηθι καὶ μὴ ἀπώσῃ εἰς τέλος. Ps. 59:4–5 I have done no wrong, yet they are ready to attack me. Arise to help me; look on my plight! You, LORD God Almighty, you who are the God of Israel, rouse yourself to punish all the nations; show no mercy to wicked traitors. Ps. 58:5–6 LXX ἄνευ ἀνομίας ἔδραμον καὶ κατεύθυναν ἐξεγέρθητι εἰς συνάντησίν μου καὶ ἰδέ καὶ σύ κύριε ὁ θεὸς τῶν δυνάμεων ὁ θεὸς Ισραηλ πρόσχες τοῦ ἐπισκέψασθαι πάντα τὰ ἔθνη μὴ οἰκτιρήσῃς πάντας τοὺς ἐργαζομένους τὴν ἀνομίαν διάψαλμα. Ps. 78:65–66 Then the Lord awoke as from sleep, as a warrior wakes from the stupor of wine. He beat back his enemies; he put them to everlasting shame. Ps. 77:66–67 LXX καὶ ἐπάταξεν τοὺς ἐχθροὺς αὐτοῦ εἰς τὰ ὀπίσω ὄνειδος αἰώνιον ἔδωκεν αὐτοῖς καὶ ἐπάταξεν τοὺς ἐχθροὺς αὐτοῦ εἰς τὰ ὀπίσω ὄνειδος αἰώνιον ἔδωκεν αὐτοῖς. Isa. 51:9–11 Awake, awake, arm of the LORD, clothe yourself with strength! Awake, as in days gone by, as in generations of old. Was it not you who cut Rahab to pieces, who pierced that monster through? Was it not you who dried up the sea, the ­waters of the ­great deep, who made a road in the depths of the sea so that the redeemed might cross over? So the ransomed of the LORD ­will return, And come with joyful shouting to Zion; And everlasting joy ­will be on their heads. They w ­ ill obtain gladness and joy, And sorrow and sighing w ­ ill flee away. Isa. 51:9–11 LXX ἐξεγείρου Ιερουσαλημ καὶ ἔνδυσαι τὴν ἰσχὺν τοῦ βραχίονός σου ἐξεγείρου ὡς ἐν ἀρχῇ ἡμέρας ὡς γενεὰ αἰῶνος οὐ σὺ εἶ ἡ ἐρημοῦσα θάλασσαν ὕδωρ ἀβύσσου πλῆθος ἡ θεῖσα τὰ βάθη τῆς θαλάσσης ὁδὸν διαβάσεως ῥυομένοις καὶ λελυτρωμένοις ὑπὸ γὰρ κυρίου ἀποστραφήσονται καὶ ἥξουσιν εἰς Σιων μετ᾽ εὐφροσύνης καὶ ἀγαλλιάματος αἰωνίου ἐπὶ γὰρ τῆς κεφαλῆς αὐτῶν ἀγαλλίασις καὶ αἴνεσις καὶ εὐφροσύνη καταλήμψεται αὐτούς ἀπέδρα ὀδύνη καὶ λύπη καὶ στεναγμός.

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Considered from the perspective of the roused Jesus in v. 39, at least a func­ tional association with the divine who stills storms and calms seas arises.140 Even so, amid tribulation and terror, the teacher slept indifferently. This highlights the second dissimilarity with the Jonah pattern. In Jo­ nah, the sailors (οἱ ναυτικοὶ) cry out to their own gods and chastise Jonah for not ­doing the same. In Mark, ­there is no crying out or praying but only a rousing and voicing of despair: “Teacher! Do you not care that we are per­ ishing [διδάσκαλε, οὐ μέλει σοι ὅτι ἀπολλύμεθα; v. 38]?” Jesus is nowhere named in this pericope—he is simply referred to as the teacher (ὁ διδάσκαλος). A teacher is not necessarily one from whom a group learns. A teacher is the one around whom a group gathers ­a fter leaving former associations and bonds. As mentioned above, the disciples left the ships of their ­fathers and all their symbolic associations (cf. 1:20) for the ship of the teacher (4:1) and all his symbolic associations. ­After having taken him (παραλαμβάνουσιν) in their ship (4:36), they are terrorized by the chaotic sea while he slumbers. Compared with the Jonah pattern, ­there is nearly nothing of the perspective of the disciples while their precious cargo sleeps. In Jonah, we are given de­ tails of actors in the waking world while Jonah slept belowdecks. In Mark, it is as if the “waking world” is suspended in a state of hypnagogia. ­There is no action on the boat—­only terror at sea.141 Even ­after οἱ ναυτικοί learn of the theological reasoning for the storm (1:7–12), they assert all their indus­ try against the storm (cf. v. 13). ­After their industry fails them, they cry out to the creator God of land and sea and throw Jonah overboard (vv. 14–15). In Mark, ­there is no exertion of industry or cries for help. They are caught in traumatic suspension. Time, place, and past associations are out of joint while the wildness of the sea beats and fills their fledgling ship—­a ship that can­ not be a ship of state precisely ­because ­there is no one at the helm. The third Markan dissimilarity with Jonah is that neither cargo nor per­ sons are loosed to the sea. In antiquity, diving into the sea was a recurring trope for Greek and Latin writers.142 We ­will return to this theme in a ­later chapter as it relates to 6:45–52 and the stark differential development of Matt. 14:22–33. Theological reasons exist for the lack of Petrine dives into the sea in 4:35–41 and 6:45–52. The relevance ­here—­again, when compared with Jo­ nah—is that in addition to lacking the release of precious cargo into the sea, ­there is also no explication of guilt. ­There may be an under­lying cri­ tique of the disciples ­running through the narrative of Mark, and perhaps that polemic is presenting itself ­here as well.143 In par­tic­u­lar, the disciples never fare well while aboard ships.144 Nevertheless, whereas in Jonah ­there is



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explicit referencing to the reason for the sudden tempest (1:7–16), nothing of this exists in Mark. ­There is an implicit allusion to themes of misunder­ standing and misplaced fear (v. 40). It is difficult to conceive of the winds coming upon the sea, however, owing to some misdeed of the ship. In­ triguingly, ­there is also no mention of a captain (πρωρεύς) figure (1:6) in Mark. All industry, agency, and leadership hinted at in 4:36 collapses into the terrified, disor­ga­nized cry of v. 38. Unidentified and undifferenti­ ated, “they cry out” (λέγουσιν). The ship of the community was storm-­ tossed and traumatized—­w ithout course, direction, or leadership. It was amorphous—­lacking any social or orga­nizational form. Feelings of guilt remained unexpiated. Other differences between the Markan scene and the Jonah pattern could be mentioned—to say nothing, of course, of the many similarities.145 The ambiguities at the point of origin for the blowing winds, however, do not lend themselves to the Jonah pattern. As mentioned, the argument put for­ ward is that the storm scene follows the pattern of demonic encounter ­running through Mark. The demonic uprising in the form of the mighty winds signals an uneasy foreboding that runs throughout the Gospel: what­ ever it means for time (ὁ καιρός) “to be fulfilled” (πεπλήρωται) in 1:15, the ­battle between kingdoms remains unfinished and unfinalizable. We ­will deal with this theme more fully in Chapter 6, but ­here we simply mention how the sudden hostility of the sea reflects the return of stubborn spirits. Like lapping waves, they return again and again. Having been driven out in sev­ eral preceding scenes,146 something mythic and ancient rises in 4:37 to im­ pede the ship of the disciples. A demonic force animates the storm that threatens the safety of the ship. Jesus’ rebuke (ἐπετίμησεν) of the winds and muzzling (φιμώθητι) is an en­ counter with a primordial foe (cf. 1:25).147 This ancient evil could exert power over the wind and seas,148 and yet God remains Lord over the sea. Jesus rebuking the wind and muzzling the sea may allude to God rebuking (ἐπετίμησεν) the sea in Ps. 105:9 LXX. Moreover, it is hard to miss the the­ matic similarities with Ps. 65:5–7 (64:5–8 LXX). The disciples’ response of being exceedingly fearful (ἐφοβήθησαν φόβον μέγαν) fits into classical tra­ ditions of fear being a natu­ral reaction to divine epiphany.149 Amid all t­ hese functional associations with the divine in demonstrating power over the sea, the sea “remains a threatening danger to humanity.”150 The cosmology of Mark—­specifically as it relates to the mythic spatializing of the bound­a ries of land and sea—­remains unfinished precisely ­because its world is held in

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traumatic suspension. This theme ­will be outlined in Chapters 5 and 6. Be­ fore that, I want to suggest a reading of the “­great calm” (γαλήνη μεγάλη) in v. 39 not as a sign of divine triumph but as a portent of doom and foreboding.

Eerie Calm Goethe, on his return voyage to Naples from Messina in May 1787, recounts how he was caught in dire peril—­not of a thrashing tempest but by the “lull in the winds” that prevented his vessel from all navigation.151 As he ­later recorded, his com­pany “nearly went down, in the strangest way, with a com­ pletely clear sky and completely calm seas, as a result of this very becalm­ ing.”152 The “deathly calm” (Todesstille) is worrisome for the sailor. Peaceful seas are, of all watery spaces, the most “dreadful” (fürchterlich), suspending the life of and upon the ship in anxious suspense.153 Lest we consider such reports a stylized flourish from the pen of the ­great German poet, they are hardly unique in the world of lit­er­a­ture. Simi­ lar sentiments ­were voiced ­earlier in Fontenelle’s New Dialogues of the Dead. Modeled ­after Lucian’s Dialogues of the Dead, Herostratus says: “It is said that sailors fear most of all calm seas and that they want wind, even at the risk of tempests.”154 As the epigraph at the head of this chapter from Moby-­Dick attests, the terror of being becalmed was among the greatest of the sea’s suite of terrors. The recurrence of an “eerie calm,” as Kotansky has provocatively dem­ onstrated in classical lit­er­a­ture, often signals a foreboding or a passing from the known world into the world of the other side.155 Odysseus’s crew is caught in a ­great sea storm (μεγάλη λαῖλαψ) that places them along the dangerous path of Scylla and Charybdis—­a nd, of course, Calypso.156 An eerie calm (γαλήνη) presages the events of Odysseus in Scheria (Od. 5.452). The Phae­ acian king, Alcinous, returns Odysseus home by putting him in a kind of cryogenic sleep before setting his craft along the γαλήνη of the sea (Od. 7.319). Odysseus sleeps the sleep of death (Od. 13.80) in the prow (πρύμνα) of the ship (Od. 13.75). Kotansky sees a clear parallel ­here with the “compres­ sion of travel-­time” and “magical suspension of real time” in Mark.157 The land of the Laestrygonian cannibals is reached only through the eerie calm (γαλήνη) of its harbor (Od. 10.94). The eerie calm signals the impending doom of the “death trap” of Laestrygonians and the destruction of all but one of the twelve ships.158 The γαλήνη appears before his arrival to the isle



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of the Sirens, his encounter with Scylla, Charybdis, and the ­cattle of Helios Hyperion.159 In each case, an eerie calm warns Odysseus of a “lurking dan­ ger,” signaling for the reader a bizarre entrance into a mythical world where normal geographies recede and ancient dangers confront the hero.160 Similar themes, as alluded to above, occur in the imaginaries of Juda­ ism. Silence is often associated with judgment. In 4 Ezra 7:30, primeval si­ lence (antiquum silentium) returns at the end of history, when all the earth’s inhabitants are dead and brought before the final judgment.161 The earth is ­silent before the Lord in Hab. 2:20—­which 1QpHab. 13:1–4 interprets as the day of judgment. Such themes are repeated throughout prophetic lit­er­a­ture.162 In the first-­century ce text from Alexandria, Wisd. 18:14 speaks of all t­ hings in a quiet silence (ἡσύχου γὰρ σιγῆς περιεχούσης τὰ πάντα) prior to God’s almighty word leaping to judgment on the firstborn of Egypt (v. 15).163 Si­ lence presages doom.

Demonic Recurrence and a Neglected Sign A case could be made that the g­ reat eerie calm (γαλήνη μεγάλη) is prelude to a coming judgment, a final reckoning with recurrent evil. This would make sense in the text’s Jewish milieu. The silencing of the sea in this reading, then, would not communicate its defeat but instead a kind of fermata—an interlude before the divine’s final blast. The anxiety of this proj­ect has been to reckon any such reading with the aesthetics of failure both within the operations of ­those whom Jesus desired and Jesus himself. The texts intro­ duced in this chapter suggest pos­si­ble resonances and afterlives for the γαλήνη μεγάλη in Mark 4:39 away from triumphant Christologies and ­toward this tragic vision of recurrence. ­After each “triumph,” the demon re­ turns—in darkness, in loud cries, and in a scattered, fleeing community; in trauma and ecstasy. To connect our discussion of the Jonah pattern in this chapter with the thoughts on 8:11–13 from Chapter 3, a remarkable difference with Matthew and Luke further highlights this Markan tragic vision. The setup in Mat­ thew and Mark is similar. Scribes and Pharisees seek a sign from Jesus.164 The Lukan version mentions the ambiguous o­ thers (ἕτεροι) that request the sign (11:16). Jesus’ responses in the vari­ous Gospels are remarkably dif­fer­ent. The precise rendering of ­these differences is surveyed in other studies.165 The point is how the sign of Jonah (τό σημεῖον Ἰωνᾶ) is neither named nor

Matt. 12:39–41

ὁ δὲ ἀποκριθεὶς εἶπεν αὐτοῖς· γενεὰ πονηρὰ καὶ μοιχαλὶς σημεῖον ἐπιζητεῖ, καὶ σημεῖον οὐ δοθήσεται αὐτῇ εἰ μὴ τὸ σημεῖον Ἰωνᾶ τοῦ προφήτου. 40 ὥσπερ γὰρ ἦν Ἰωνᾶς ἐν τῇ κοιλίᾳ τοῦ κήτους τρεῖς ἡμέρας καὶ τρεῖς νύκτας, οὕτως ἔσται ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ ἀνθρώπου ἐν τῇ καρδίᾳ τῆς γῆς τρεῖς ἡμέρας καὶ τρεῖς νύκτας. 41 ἄνδρες Νινευῖται ἀναστήσονται ἐν τῇ κρίσει μετὰ τῆς γενεᾶς ταύτης καὶ κατακρινοῦσιν αὐτήν, ὅτι μετενόησαν εἰς τὸ κήρυγμα Ἰωνᾶ, καὶ ἰδοὺ πλεῖον Ἰωνᾶ ὧδε.

But he answered and said to them: “An evil and adulterous generation craves a sign; and no sign ­will be given it but the sign of Jonah the prophet. For just as Jonah was three days and three nights in the belly of the sea monster, so s­ hall the son of man be three days and three nights in the heart of the earth. Men of Nineveh w ­ ill stand with this generation at the judgment and condemn it ­because they repented at the preaching of Jonah. Behold, something greater than Jonah is ­here.”

Mark 8:12

καὶ ἀναστενάξας τῷ πνεύματι αὐτοῦ λέγει· τί ἡ γενεὰ αὕτη ζητεῖ σημεῖον; ἀμὴν λέγω ὑμῖν, εἰ δοθήσεται τῇ γενεᾷ ταύτῃ σημεῖον.

And sighing deeply from within, he said, “Why does this generation seek a sign? Truly I say to you: no sign w ­ ill be given this generation.”

­Table 4. The Sign of Jonah

This generation is a wicked generation; it seeks a sign, but no sign w ­ ill be given to it but the sign of Jonah. For just as Jonah became a sign to the Ninevites, so s­ hall the son of man be to this generation. . . . ​Men of Nineveh s­ hall stand up with this generation at the judgment and condemn it ­because they repented at the preaching of Jonah. Behold: something greater than Jonah is ­here.

ἡ γενεὰ αὕτη γενεὰ πονηρά ἐστιν· σημεῖον ζητεῖ, καὶ σημεῖον οὐ δοθήσεται αὐτῇ εἰ μὴ τὸ σημεῖον Ἰωνᾶ. 30 καθὼς γὰρ ἐγένετο Ἰωνᾶς τοῖς Νινευίταις σημεῖον, οὕτως ἔσται καὶ ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ ἀνθρώπου τῇ γενεᾷ ταύτῃ. . . . ​32 ἄνδρες Νινευῖται ἀναστήσονται ἐν τῇ κρίσει μετὰ τῆς γενεᾶς ταύτης καὶ κατακρινοῦσιν αὐτήν· ὅτι μετενόησαν εἰς τὸ κήρυγμα Ἰωνᾶ, καὶ ἰδοὺ πλεῖον Ἰωνᾶ ὧδε.

Luke 11:29–32



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its rationale given in Mark. In Mark, from deep within his being (τῷ πνεύματι), Jesus groans and then laments. No explanation is given. His de­ parture is given no prophetic sign. A sign requires a finished system in which to signify—it needs time and space and the elemental force of desire. In Mark, trauma has seared asunder the productive connections of ­these forces. The splitting of desire, however, leaves the need intact. Lack, though countereffect, remains in the absence of desire. It becomes the social. ­There is no sign given ­because ­there can be no sign in Mark’s unfinished Gospel. Mark’s Jesus simply leaves, embarking again as he departs for the other side (καὶ ἀφεὶς αὐτοὺς πάλιν ἐμβὰς ἀπῆλθεν εἰς τὸ πέραν; 8:13).

Chapter 5

Binding Boundless ­Waters? Out of the Tomb and into the Sea

Eros has degenerated; he began by introducing order and har­ mony, and now he brings back chaos. —­George Eliot, Middlemarch They departed, the gods, on the day of the strange tide. —­John Banville, The Sea Oh, life! ’tis now that I do feel the latent horror in thee! —­Herman Melville, Moby-­Dick

The Threatening Menace of All That Lies Dormant As the calèche raced Jonathan Harker through the mysteries of the Carpath­ ian night, a wild howling pierced its dark gowns. All about ­were baying wolves. Their pacing encircled the driving ­horses, throwing them into ter­ rified screams. Then, in a “grim silence” far more terrible than all the sound and fury that proceeded, the pack fell quiet.1 Silence. Nothing but silence. The eerie calm, however, was but woeful presage to the aching void now filled with the appearance of a greater evil. Dracula has arrived; and the wolves bow in deference to their dark master. Foreboding silence as presage to the appearance of evil is a theme that dominates the horror tale of Bram Stoker.2 The novel is a voyage through clamor and calm, with the end trailing off into haunting quietude. Seven



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years ­after the monster was slain, with a look of peace and repose in Dracu­ la’s moment of final dissolution,3 Jonathan and Mina returned to Transylva­ nia and all its terrible memories with their son, named ­after the brave Quincey. Mina believes that some of the spirit of her son’s namesake “has passed into him.” A creeping disturbance springs from this confession: What ­else might have passed into the child? Is not young Quincey consanguineal with Drac­ ula? Jonathan Harker’s comment in his journal thus appears more hopeful than statement of fact: “­Every trace of all that had been was blotted out.”4 More accurate is the chilling line that Dr. Seward enters into his diary on 26 September: “Truly ­there is no such ­thing as finality.”5 Evil’s trace remains in the vital fluid of the young Harker. This is no ending; only dormancy. The Gospel of Mark likewise consists of a series of silences and sounds, presences and separations. Though the myth attempts a consolation of an originary trauma, the text itself is traumatized, caught in repetitions, frac­ ture, and fragment. Trauma’s trace remains. Throughout Mark, silences fol­ lowing each successive “triumph” over evil are thrown back into recurrence. Encounter. Strug­gle. Silence. And then the return. The myth places the community before the eerie calm of an empty tomb. How might we think of the silence and absence of the empty tomb? Of a traumatized community split from itself and scattered from its originating desire? Stoker’s horror tale captures the terror that lives among silence and the creeping unendingness of pos­si­ble returns of all that is monstrous. ­There can be no blotting out, precisely b­ ecause ­there is no ending. The trace remains. All is recurrence.

Silence and Separation As suggested in Chapter 4, the becalmed sea of 4:39 was evil regathering itself for another offensive. The rage of storm stills (4:37), only to rise from the tombs in chaotic fury (5:2–13). This mythic scene among the tombs takes place within a separation and splitting. Jesus is frequently represented in a position of social separation in Mark’s Gospel. Initially, he is separated from the community of the Baptist and “cast out” (ἐκβάλλει) into the wilderness (1:12–13). ­After the successes of his initial healing ministry, he departed to a deserted place (ἐξῆλθεν καὶ ἀπῆλθεν εἰς ἔρημον τόπον) and prayed (1:35). Even ­after Simon and the ­others pursued him and found him, they could not persuade him to return to Capernaum. He instead withdraws with his disciples to other towns throughout Galilee (1:38–39). His movements increase

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in secrecy and stealth,6 as he retreats again (ἐξῆλθεν πάλιν)—­this time, to the sea, only to be pursued ­there as well (2:13). In 3:7, he withdraws to the sea in the com­pany of his disciples, ascending a mountain in order to call ­those whom he desired (προσκαλεῖται οὓς ἤθελεν αὐτός).7 He is described as being “alone” (μόνας) in 4:10, and leaves the crowds in 4:36. He departs, alone, from an undefined place in 6:1, sends his disciples out on their own (6:12–13), ­later retreating with them to an isolated place (6:31–33). He dismisses his disciples to Bethsaida and ascends a mountain alone (6:45–46). He retreats to some “other side” (εἰς τὸ πέραν) in 8:13 (cf. 8:10) and, in Bethsaida, leads a blind man “out of the village” (ἔξω τῆς κώμης) in order to heal him (8:23), forbidding him from reentering city life (8:26). Beginning in 8:31, Jesus initiates a series of foretellings of an ultimate depar­ ture and withdrawal. He again ascends a mountain—­this time with Peter, James, and John (9:2). He refers to his final departure five more times.8 And when he withdraws to Gethsemane, the penultimate of his departures, he is abandoned by ­those whom he asked to remain with him—­indeed, by ­those whom he had desired (14:32–50). This theme of separation ­will be the subject of the next two chapters. In Chapter 6, Jesus’ passing by the ship in the ­middle of the sea ­will be ad­ dressed, specifically as it is represented as his desire to pass the disciples by (6:45–52). In the pre­sent chapter, Jesus’ encounter with the Gerasene demo­ niac is the subject of our investigation (5:1–20).9 Often overlooked in discus­ sions of Jesus and the sea scenes in Mark are exorcisms, in general, and 5:1–20, in par­tic­u­lar.10 Demonic encounters add impor­tant texture to the sea scenes, however, specifically as they relate to this double anxiety of demonic stain and the unfinished nature of their banishment.

Mythic Crossings and Rising from Tombs Following the eerie calm of 4:39 and the disciples’ declaration of fear and won­der, the scene shifts with the action of the verb occurring in the third-­ person plural: “and they left” (ἦλθον; 5:1).11 As with the enigmatic “other boats” in 4:36, plurality appears to fade—or, at least, is dropped by Mark. The boat (πλοῖον) in which the disciples “took” (παραλαμβάνω) Jesus “to the other side” (εἰς τὸ πέραν) in 4:36 safely arrives “to the other side of the sea” (εἰς τὸ πέραν τῆς θαλάσσης) in 5:1. The disciples, however, are nowhere to be seen—­Jesus appears alone. Where are ­those who took him?



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With the exception of 4:36, the subject of παραλαμβάνω in Mark is always Jesus and the object his disciples or followers.12 In 4:36, ­these are re­ versed. The disciples take Jesus. Yet they cannot retain him on their ship. He crosses to a place where they cannot follow. The locality of the “other side” (εἰς τὸ πέραν) is far from certain. The temporal agreement between 4:35–41 and 5:1–20 is problematic. As Yarbro Collins articulates: “Jesus and the disciples leave the spot where Jesus was teaching from the boat, presum­ ably a point near Capernaum, in the eve­ning (4:35). ­There is no indication, however, that it took the ­whole night to cross the ‘sea,’ nor that the encoun­ ter with the Gerasene demoniac takes place at night.”13 The spatial connection is also a “major textual and interpretive prob­ lem.”14 Though Γερασηνῶν is strongly attested by ‫ *א‬B D 2427 vid latt sa,15 it makes ­little geo­g raph­i­cal sense. Modern-­day Jerash is some thirty miles southeast of Kinneret. Some have suggested that this may indicate the pres­ ence of redaction or torn stitches of adjoining catenae.16 What­ever the case, ­later textual corrections bear witness to an early Christian attempt at mak­ ing space and time17—­that is, textual adaptations for the sake of making life sensible and inhabitable, and space and time meaningful.18 The geo­graph­i­ cal uncertainties in Mark may therefore testify to a kind of rubble: trauma­ tized and broken pieces of space and time; and a socially exposed ­people caught under­neath. The problematics of space and time in the Gospel of Mark have been a perennial challenge to interpreters.19 Brenda Deen Schildgen, in a series of impor­tant studies on Mark and time, has suggested that the scene of the empty tomb visited by the “frightened ­women” removes the investment of “messianic hope” from a person, shifting it, rather, “in the radical change that takes place in ­those individuals who heed [or have heeded] the mean­ ing of this paradoxical narrative.”20 For Schildgen, this narrative is thus an attempted healing of time by placing the crisis of separation in a wider con­ tinuity of living tradition and retelling.21 Particularly on points of “mythic time,” Schildgen is an invaluable ­ hether we can speak of a traumatized commu­ guide.22 The challenge is w nity’s hope—in a person or other­wise. Hope is a spatio-­temporal category.23 Trauma shocks the sorting of space and time out of its meaningful parts, 24 scrambling them into varying dissociations. ­Those who gathered themselves around Jesus formed (unofficially or officially) into a social body. The trau­ matic separation of this social body from its rabbi left the community in spatial, temporal, and relational disassociation. Its founding desire (cf. 3:13)

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had been fractured. Hope needs time. Hope lives in space. Hope emerges from shared registers of desire.25 The community—if we can even refer to it as a community—is thus one that cannot hope. It is stuck in anxious suspen­ sion and the repetition of this separation. Mark as posttraumatic consola­ tion lit­er­a­ture is an attempt to narrate this separation so as to set time in motion and space in stabilization. It is a therapy of desire so that one can hope. Yet the text bears the wound of a traumatized witness—it cannot hope. The trace of separation’s recurrence is refracted through its assorted scenes. The shift to the singular in 5:2 from the plural in v. 1 bears witness to this traumatic wound and recurrence. Jesus is not retained in the “taking” of the disciples. The ambiguities of this failed retention are refracted in com­ binations of guilt and abandonment. It may also signal an attempted mytho­ poeia of this separation—or an attempt to make this separation meaningful.26 The departure of Jesus is to that place where no one can follow: the land of the dead.

Land of the Dead In a kind of unfinished exodus, the way through the sea presented ­here is neither over dry land nor with a redeemed in tow.27 Jesus arrives alone. And it is precisely at this point of separation where the bond of desire splits. Verse 2 positions Jesus and the man with an unclean spirit along a netherworldly nexus. On “the other side of the sea” (τὸ πέραν τῆς θαλάσσης), Jesus arises from the boat (ἐκ τοῦ πλοίου) and the demoniac from the tombs (ἐκ τῶν μνημείων). In one of the more original works of scholarship on this text, Kotansky radically repositions 5:1–20 away from the known geographies of the circum-­Galilean region and ­toward the “otherworldly setting of Jesus’ arrival” to a land beyond the sea where he b­ attles “netherworld forces.”28 The exegetical trou­ble of identifying the sea town and the cliffs from which the swine fall, for example, he argues, is owing to attempts at accommodating the text to “a very misplaced Galilean topography.”29 The sea over which Je­ sus crosses is not the Sea of Galilee. Rather, the body of ­water that Jesus transgresses, according to Kotansky, is the mythic threshold of the Straits of Gibraltar, which open to the primordial ocean. Mark, according to Kotansky, is appropriating preexisting catenae originating from Phoenician Gadeira, whose local myths and association with the ­Temple of Tyrian Heracles pro­ vide relevant background for his reading of the Markan catenae.30 Mark was



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thus a “retelling” of Phoenician mythic traditions in order to court ­favor31 and convert Punic-­Phoenician traders living at sea.32 Aune has produced a trenchant response to Kotansky.33 Though not without high praise for the proposal, he still ­favors a Lake Kinneret context even for its hy­po­thet­i­cal pre-­Markan form. Aune states that Kotansky “is simply misguided” in pressing for “geo­graph­i­cal and historical accuracy by changing venue” from Galilee to Iberian Gadeira. Moreover, the classical myths brought into conversation with 4:35–5:43 require “allegorical manip­ ulation” to elicit Kotansky’s underworld journey.34 What­ever the case may have been in terms of the origins of the source material, Kotansky grants that “the miracle catenae are not geo­graph­i­cally bound.”35 The voyage is set in “mythic time” and cast in distant lands,36 with death casting a symbolic shadow.37 Kotansky’s proposal, sadly, has been too readily and easily dis­ missed in most studies of Mark 5. Though unconvinced of some of the specifics of his suggested parallels, I employ ­here some of his general in­ sights. In par­tic­u­lar, it is in a mythic spatio-­temporality of distance and geographies of death that I want to read the strange scene of the demoniac confronting Jesus. In light of a vast network of holy sites, sacred texts, and cultic incanta­ tions, the world of antiquity was one where the underworld was very much ­ ere alive in the “in reach.”38 Journeys to this netherworldly destination w imaginaries of Greco-­Roman myth as well as early Jewish apocalypses.39 Such roots nourished ­later flowerings in early Christian storytelling of Jesus’ de­ scent into Hades.40 The path to the underworld had become “well-­trodden” in antiquity,41 with Christians making frequent recourse to Jewish apoca­ lypses and pagan myths of vari­ous crossings.42 In the worlds of early Chris­ tian­ity and late antiquity, the most frequent trope of such crossings took the form of Jesus’ descent into the realm of the dead.43 The descent motif is apparent in Paul (Rom. 10:7) and was picked up in ­later formulations from Eph. 4:9 through 1 Pet. 3:19 (cf. 4:6) and the Gospel of Peter (41–42). Celsus taunted the Christians for such belief,44 and the trope grew even more elab­ orate in the Syrian Odes of Solomon (42.11–20) and Acts of Thomas (10). In the centuries following Constantine’s Edict of 312, Christians took greater “in­ terest in Jesus’ descent to hell.”45 Cyril of Jerusalem used the trope in many of his sermons—on one occasion, likening Christ’s descent both as resem­ bling and reversing the prophet Jonah’s.46 Descent into the underworld continued to flourish in power­ful and fruit­ ful ways throughout late antiquity and into the ­Middle Ages.47 Though not

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stemming exclusively from Jonah associations, early Christian readings of Jesus as a Jonah-­like figure who entered the belly of a monster and was vom­ ited out proved significant in the development of the trope.48 In Mark’s Gospel, however, no sign of Jonah (σημεῖον Ἰωνᾶ) is given. ­There also ap­ pears to be no descent. Jesus crosses over the sea and then comes out of the boat (ἦλθον εἰς τὸ πέραν τῆς θαλάσσης . . . ​ἐξελθόντος αὐτοῦ ἐκ τοῦ πλοίου). Does this therefore preclude the possibility of a journey to the land of the dead? Bauckham suggests no. Though certainly the case for the vast majority of journeys to the “world of the dead,” such journeys, he suggests, “­were not always descents.”49 Moreover, such journeys often took the form of “unusual psychological experiences.”50 Following Kotansky and appropri­ ating from the works that survey ­these geographies of death, I suggest that we position Jesus’ arrival in 5:2 on the shores of the strongman in the land of the dead separated from his disciples.

Jesus and the Strongman Though ­there are several passages where a ­simple generic statement men­ tions Jesus’ or the disciples’ strug­gle with the strongman (ὁ ἰσχυρός),51 the extended exorcism scenes, as we have noted, fall into a general pattern. ­There is first an encounter where the demon(s) cries out or enacts some aggressive be­hav­ior. They then demonstrate a form of right recognition by form of ad­ dress, enacted obedience, or Mark’s playing with the ambiguity of προσκυνέω (fall down /worship). Then follows Jesus’ rebuke that effects a ­great cry or violent response. Fi­nally, onlookers respond with fear. The Gerasene demoniac follows this pattern but with a subtle twist.52 Jesus apparently gives the unclean spirits leave (ἐπιτρέπω) to enter a herd of swine that then hurl themselves into the sea.53 It has been speculated as to ­whether the demons escaped torment or if Jesus had “outwitted” them in some way.54 ­Others suggest that the demons returned to their “proper dwell­ ing place”55 of the abyss or Sheol, symbolized by the sea.56 The latter possi­ bility is intriguing when considering the ambiguity introduced with Legion addressing Jesus as “Jesus, son of God most high” (Ἰησοῦ υἱὲ τοῦ θεοῦ τοῦ ὑψίστου; v. 7).57 The title could appear in Jewish epithets for the Jewish God.58 It originally reflected a Canaanite divine name59 but was also a com­ mon designation for Zeus.60 It should be noted that though Poseidon could be referred to as the “lord of the sea”61 and was regularly given accordant

the holy one of God (v. 24)

σύ εἷ ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ θεοῦ

you are the holy one of God (v. 11c)

Jesus, son of the most high God (v. 7)

and he cried out, saying (1:23–24)

προσέπιπτον αὐτῷ καὶ ἔκραζον λέγοντες

they fell before him and cried out, saying (3:11b)

he fell down before him and cried out in a ­g reat voice, saying (5:6–7)

he convulsed and fell to the earth, rolling about and foaming at the mouth (9:20)

συνεσπάραξεν αὐτόν, καὶ πεσὼν ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς ἐκυλίετο ἀφρίζων ­

Ἰησοῦ υἱὲ τοῦ θεοῦ τοῦ ὑψίστου

ὁ ἅγιος τοῦ θεοῦ

ἀνέκραξεν λἐγων

προσκύνησεν αὐτῷ καὶ κράξας φωνῇ μεγάλῃ λέγει

Right Recognition

Encounter

­Table 5. Demonic Pattern 3

he rebuked (v. 25)

ἐπετίμησεν

Come out of the man, you unclean spirit! (v. 8)

ἔξελθε τὸ πνεῦμα τὸ ἀκάθαρτον ἐκ τοῦ ἀνθρώπου

and all he sternly warned not to reveal him (v. 12)

καὶ πολλὰ ἐπετίμα αὐτοῖς ἵνα μὴ αὐτον φανερὸν ποιήσωσιν

he rebuked him . . . ​ saying (v. 25)

ἐπετίμησεν . . .  ​λἐγων φιμώθητι

Jesus’ Rebuke

and it cried out and convulsed much and then left (v. 26)

καὶ κράξας καὶ πολλά σπαράξας ἐξῆλθεν

and they drowned in the sea (vv. 12–13)

καὶ ἐπωίγοντο ἐν τῇ θαλάσσῃ

­

convulsing . . . ​he cried out in a g­ reat voice (v. 26)

σπαράσσω . . . ​ φωνῆσαν φωνῇ μεγάλῃ

Demonic Response

they ­were amazed (v. 15)

ἐξεθαμβή θησαν

they feared (v. 15)

ἐφοβήθησαν

they ­were amazed (v. 27)

ἐθαμβήθησαν

Onlookers’ Response

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epitaphs,62 “Greek interest in deities associated with the sea [was] less sys­ tematized than is frequently assumed.”63 ­There was “continual reflection within the context of ancient polytheism as an open religious system.” The need for a fixed theology of sea deities was not needed, as the category was dynamic.64 Indeed, “votive inscriptions and offerings relating to sea voyages can be addressed to the most diverse of deities.”65 Poseidon/Neptune, though credited with sovereignty over the seas, was portrayed in vari­ous ways, de­ pending on geo­graph­i­cal context.66 The address of the demoniac in 5:7 could thus function both as a Jewish and cosmopolitan epitaph, “ideally suited to be a name for God in Diaspora Judaism, where it is often found in synagogue inscriptions” (cf. Acts 16:17).67 The mastery of the sea was a significant ele­ment of God’s identity in the Hebrew Bible.68 Evoking “God most high” (ὁ θεός ὕψιστος) may call to mind God’s sovereign control over the ­whole earth.69 This sovereignty had been confessed as established in primordial time over chaotic powers70 but becomes “reasserted by subsequent divine defeats” of the agents of ­those powers.71 Such a reading would mesh with our reading of placing Jesus in the land of the dead. Irrespective of how one ends up in such a place, God’s power brings one up from the underworld into the land of the living.72 God not only kills and makes alive;73 he also brings down and leads up again.74 Placing Jesus at the gates of the underworld75 and naming him as son (υἱός) of this most high God76 may therefore introduce a crucial intervention in the spatial and mythic imagination of Mark’s social milieu.77 The “most high’s” sovereignty over the sea is apparently shared with the son, and the chaotic agents of pri­ mordial anti-­god powers are checked back to their assigned abode.78 This is near the position of Malbon, who suggests that the depiction of Jesus ­here is one who has harnessed the power of the sea.79 Might this signal that the promised removal of “unclean spirits” is at hand, with the appearance of the kingdom of God?80 If this is the case, how might this scene fit with our sug­ gestion of Mark as traumatic lit­er­a­ture? Or the text of Mark bearing the mark of trauma? Or might other readings emerge? A potential challenge to such readings is the precise recurrence of the demonic. The bringer of a new world on the other side of defeating the de­ mons of the deep does not quite fit Mark’s picture. If Jesus “exorcises the roaring, satanic power of the sea” in 4:35–41,81 why, then, its recurrence on land? Marcus has powerfully stated how the “continual shuttling of the de­ mons back and forth between sea and land” communicates a perception of



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evil as “restless.”82 He also suggests that Jesus “wins all of his encounters with the opposition,” even if only provisionally.83 Such a reading—­though power­f ul and persuasive—­assumes the silences following the foment as signs of defeat. What other possibilities might emerge if we consider the silences not as endings but as demonic dormancy? What if ­these encounters ­were not “won” by Jesus?

Dispossession, the Demonic, and the Disorder of Space ­ fter a series of novels in which he narrated adventures on high seas and A exotic lands, Conrad turned his literary attention to the banal chaos of do­ mestic life.84 His second novel in this series was The Secret Agent (1907), where Conrad reflects on “the close-­woven stuff of relationships,” particularly the dynamics of familial power and the negotiation of movement. In this ex­ change between ­those with and ­those ­under power, “­there occur solutions of continuity,” and, as Conrad beautifully adds, the sudden puncturing of “holes in space and time.” ­Those living within the enclosures of power’s sur­ veillance “may be watched inch by inch and minute by minute, but a mo­ ment always comes when somehow all sight and touch of [them] are lost for a few hours, during which something (generally an explosion) more or less deplorable does happen.”85 Kaplan, who has produced a series of stimulating studies on Conrad and trauma, appropriates this notion of trauma’s fracturing of space-­time to early development psychoanalysis. In his treatment of trauma in Awakening the Dreamer,86 Bromberg astutely articulates the effects of traumatic dissocia­ tion not as a mere additive trait to one’s existing personality but as a com­ plete rearrangement of the ele­ments of subjectivity. Early developmental trauma is a “disruption of self-­continuity through the invalidation of the pat­ terns of meaning that define the experience of ‘who one is.’ ”87 The authori­ tative figure is the one who locates early identity formation into a series of “self-­states,” offering subjectivity a kind of witness to its fledgling develop­ ment. Flexibility and agility of movement between “self-­states” are what al­ low one to retain a sense of self while also changing.88 Dissociation is a proactive strategy of the mind that attempts to dodge the repetition of the traumatic event. Yet, as Stolorow surmises, trauma freezes life “into an eter­ nal pre­sent in which one remains forever trapped,” Sisyphus-­like, condemned

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to repeat the rolling rock of unbeing. Duration and stretching thus collapse. Past and ­f uture lose their meaning by becoming eternal recurrence.89 Ka­ plan, in her elegant summary of ­these complex psychological phenomena, states that dissociation, then, is the traumatic disruption of temporality and spatiality—­holes in space and time. Trauma leaves the subject vulnerable and exposed in a dangerous world that threatens to fall apart at any moment,90 and out of which monstrosities suddenly emerge. ­These reflections on trauma’s rupture of space and time, as well as the sudden terror of recurrence, are relevant for our discussion of 5:1–20. As men­ tioned throughout this study, Mark bears witness to a community that is in a position of exposure even as it is marked by an originary trauma. The fig­ ure around whom they had gathered and left previous social ties was vio­ lently removed. The social center of gravity bonding them together was thus ­under imminent threat of dissolving and collapsing. Moreover, the loss of Jesus as familial figure (cf. 3:31–35) introduces a dissolution of the spatio-­ temporal fluidity of the community’s emerging “self-­states.” And from ­these fissures in space and time, monsters emerged. Punctured holes in space and time and the disbanding of desire: out of ­these spaces and between their blurring, the creepy ­things of the demonic are made manifest. J. Z. Smith has masterfully theorized the concept of the demonic as locative in nature. He shifts from a “logic of identity” to a “logic of relations” in considering the demon in antiquity.91 The demon is “a loca­ tive term that establishes outer limits or distances much as wild men or mon­ sters are depicted as inhabiting the borders of antique maps. In the same way as in archaic traditions, the dwelling place of demons is in wild, unin­ habited places or ruined cities—­that is to say, beyond city walls or where walls have been broken or allowed to fall into disrepair.” The demon, the pagan, or the heretic are thus socially similar in that they function as “primarily ethnographic categories.” That is, they situate another from an Other.92 In early Chris­tian­ity and late antiquity, heresy had demonic associations.93 In Justin’s description of Marcion, for example, the demonic are said to strive for nothing ­else than alienation—­from God, Christ, and one another.94 In their “imitation of truth,” as Justin has it elsewhere,95 the meaningful (orthodox) assortments of time and place split. They disor­ der space.96 The demon is an emplaced phenomenon, a kind of social index that mea­sures intervals and distance. It is “a taxon, a label applied to distin­ guishing ‘us’ from ‘them.’ ”97 The demonic also reveals the very tenuous na­ ture of any concept of “us.” It is thus a relational term for social labeling.98



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Bulwarks against the demonic are defenses against the porous bound­a ries of a social body.99 The demon cannot be reduced to an interpretive substantive category; it is situational and relational. Bound­a ries are always mobile, shift­ ing according to what­ever social map is employed. The appearance of the demon indexes the locality of a social body. The demon somehow slips through and out of ­these holes in space and time of a social body’s porous bulwark. Defenses against the demonic in this reading, then, are attempts ­ nder at “preserving the closure of a system.”100 The community was thus also u an immanent threat. What, then, might the rupture of any form of Markan closure index?

Legion, Trauma, and Po­liti­cal Agency The politics of 5:1–20, as Aune has suggested, are “hard to ignore.”101 As in­ terpreters are fond of pointing out, the self-­referencing of the demoniac as Legion (λεγιών) can hardly be coincidental. The Roman tenth legion, Fre­ tensis, stationed in Syria since 6 bce, and pre­sent in Judaea following the first revolt, flew the image of a boar on its standards and seals.102 The scene of Legion entering two thousand swine (χοίρους) and then throwing them­ selves into the sea may therefore reflect de-­colonial desire from the ­later Markan community still marked by an originary trauma (v. 13). Kotrosits and Taussig, in their impor­tant study on trauma and the Gospel of Mark, have suggested that it is precisely “Roman occupation that torments” the man. Beyond mere meta­phor, they argue, the pain and possession of the man are tied up with the meshed worlds of spirits and politics—­“the man is possessed and pained by Roman occupation.” The so-­called demoniac suffers from “an experiential account of pain within conditions of colonization.”103 ­Others have seen in the so-­called Gerasene demoniac a per­for­mance of the subversive role of possession against empire’s presence.104 In this reading, the script of possession is a form of “class antagonism rooted in economic exploitation,” or “a socially acceptable form of oblique protest against, or escape from, oppression.”105 Though entirely in agreement with this par­tic­u­lar po­liti­cal potential,106 I won­der if locating an or­ga­nized po­liti­cal agency within the Markan com­ munity assumes too much.107 Even in my formulation of the Markan com­ munity, far too much stability and cohesion are assumed. In employing the shorthand “Markan community,” ­there is slippage between ­those who had

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detached from former social ties, gathered around Jesus, and ­were left in a position of exposure and vulnerability a­ fter his violent death; and latter com­ munities that w ­ ere offered consolation by the myth. In both cases, the com­ munity is a traumatized and abandoned community. They ­were also living ­under occupation and thus doubly traumatized. It was this complex of trauma that marks the myth. Can po­liti­cal agency arise from a traumatic rupture of place, time, and desire?108 Recent postcolonial studies have noted the impe­ rial effects of spatio-­temporal dissociation.109 Fanon saw this clearly in his day. The trauma of the colonized, as Deleuze and Guattari read Fanon, pro­ duced unconscious effects not only in active rebels but also in ­those claim­ ing neutrality and an uninvolved position in po­liti­cal affairs.110 Fanon traced the tearing of memory by the colonial situation, its explosive effects upon the subject, and the emergence of haunting specters from the fragmenta­ tions of life.111 The significance of tearing, as Deleuze and Guattari saw it, is precisely in the possibility of unintended outcomes. Jaspers is brought to bear in his contrasting concepts of pro­cess with reaction formation or personality de­ velopment. Pro­cess, in their reading of Jaspers, is rupture or intrusion—­a relationality with the démonique dans la nature.112 The demon appears not as a super­natural aberration but as the emergence of a relationality in nature.113 “Nature,” however, is often, at least perceptibly, inseparable from the residual and artificial territorialities of enclosure. The artifice becomes real.114 The trap of this artifice, however, cannot govern its own effects. Demonic ele­ments emerge from within,115 erupting outward.116 The monstrous is engendered by a vigilant and insomniac rationality (la rationalité vigilante et insomniaque).117 We ­will return to ­these thoughts in Chapter 6; ­here, it is impor­tant to bring them together with our ­earlier discussion of J. Z. Smith. The demon is a materialist, interstitial phenomenon—­emerging from cracks and tears in nature but also in the porous constructs of the traumatized self. Politics rests in the very production of desire. Desire is itself, in essence, revolution­ ary (Le désir est dans son essence révolutionnaire).118 Its revolutionary character, however, is precisely bouleversant:119 shattering, or “explosive.”120 The poli­ tics of 5:1–20 rests in this combustible and traumatization of desire. Jesus calls to himself ­those whom he desired (3:13). And from that desire, a body emerges. Traumatic punctures in space and time thus doubly tore at the threads of the closely woven stitches of the Markan community’s fledgling relationships and senses of self. Surely, this text might reveal the horrors, brutalities, and even banalities of the colonial butchery of desire and



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s­ ubjectivity. The separation of vv. 1–2 communicates as much. But could po­liti­cal mobility, hope, and agency live amid such conditions of trauma?

Demonic as Dislocation and Social Disorder As opposed to settled readings of po­liti­cal agency, I suggest that the Ger­ asene scene in Mark refracts this traumatic separation and disorder of space and time outside enclosure. The placement of Jesus among tombs (v. 2) and swine (v. 13) on some mythical other side of the sea (v. 1) is a chaotic swelter of pollution and void. As argued above, “unclean” (ἀκάθαρτος) is a social classification.121 To be unclean is to be out of step, out of rhythm, out of sync, and therefore located outside the inhabitations of a society’s symbolic system. The label “unclean” contains social assumptions of division and in­ completeness as well.122 “Pure” and “clean” are labels that describe right place­ ment of bodies in a social body’s meaningful arrangement of space and time. Unclean persons are misplaced and mistimed bodies, according to the rhythm analyses of a governing social body.123 The erratic spatial descriptors of the passage are noteworthy in this re­ gard. A ­ fter arriving on the “other side” (τό πέραν), Jesus comes “up from of the ship” (ἐκ τοῦ πλοίου) and “immediately” (εὐθὺς), a strongman whom no one could tame “came up out of the tombs to confront him” (ὑπήντησεν αὐτῷ ἐκ τῶν μνημείων). The strongman “lived among the tombs” (ὃς τὴν κατοίκησιν εἶχεν ἐν τοῖς μνήμασιν). He roamed from the extremities of time (νυκτὸς καὶ ἡμέρας) to the extremities of space (ἐν τοῖς μνήμασιν καὶ ἐν τοῖς ὄρεσιν), working vio­lence on himself and ­others. When he sees Jesus “from afar” (ἀπὸ μακρόθεν), he “rushes near” (ἔδραμεν), falling low before him (προσεκύνησεν). Jesus commands the unclean spirits to “come out” (ἔξελθε), and the spirits beg not to be exiled (ἀποστείλῃ ἔξω τῆς χώρας). The spirits ask to be sent into a herd of hogs (πέμψον ἡμᾶς εἰς τοὺς χοίρους, ἵνα εἰς αὐτοὺς εἰσέλθωμεν). Jesus agrees, and the spirits “go out from” (ἐξέρχομαι) the man and “enter into” (εἰσέρχομαι) the pigs. The pigs leap “from the cliff ” (τοῦ κρημνοῦ) “into the sea” (εἰς τὴν θάλασσαν) and drown “in the sea” (ἐν τῇ θαλάσσῃ). Jesus as misplaced in the land of the dead and in the domain of the de­ moniac is signaled by the unclean spirits’ knowledge and Jesus’ ignorance. It is in this realm of no-­place and dimension of no-­time where the answer to the disciples’ question (4:41) is fi­nally made known (5:7). As with the revelation

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at the empty tomb, the disciples appear nowhere near to hear or witness this revelation. Desire has been separated, fallen through the holes of space and time.

The Flight of Desire The sudden presence of “the herdsmen” (οἱ βόσκοντες) in v. 14 is somewhat surprising. ­Others had been alluded to in vv. 3–5, and h ­ ere, a­ fter bearing wit­ ness to the restoration of the man who lived among the tombs, their first reaction is “to flee” (φεύγω). But why flee? When appearing in the plural aorist aspect, the action of fleeing tends to be performed by enemies of God or the ­people of God in disobedience.124 The verb appears, for example, in Exod. 14:27, where the Egyptians “fled from the ­water” (ἔφυγον ὑπὸ τὸ ὕδωρ), which was miraculously held back for safe passage for the p­ eople of God. The Lord then overthrew the Egyptians “in the midst of the sea” (καὶ ἐξετίναξεν κύριος τοὺς Αἰγυπτίους μέσον τῆς θαλάσσης). The verb also appears in the context of the rebellion of Korah (Num. 16:34), where “all Israel . . . ​fled from the sound” of the rebels’ perishing (πᾶς Ισραηλ . . . ​ ἔφυγον ἀπὸ τῆς φωνῆς αὐτῶν). In Mark, the disciples “abandoned” (ἀφέντες) Jesus and “fled” (ἔφυγον) from Gethsemane (14:50). And in 16:8, upon seeing the empty tomb, Mary Magdalene, Mary the ­mother of James,125 and Salome “fled” (ἔφυγον). Fleddermann has suggested that the enigmatic flight of the young man (νεανίσκος) in 14:52 dramatizes the universal flight of the disciples and is thus a kind of enacted “commentary” on v. 50.126 The history of the inter­ pretation of this verse has been ably surveyed by Yarbro Collins, with her customary thoroughness and evenhandedness, and need not detain us ­here.127 The act of the young man’s “following” (συνακoλουθέω), by contrast, com­ municates discipleship,128 and the abandoned “linen sheet” (σινδών) lends itself to seeing the young man representing “the paradigmatic disciple or the Christian initiate” abandoning Jesus in desperate flight.129 Though without verbal connections, the thematic contrast between the young man (νεανίσκος) of 14:52 and the man (ἄνθρωπος) in the land of the Gerasenes is pointed. The disciples are presented as overstating and underperforming through­ out Mark. ­Here, however, Jesus commands the man to remain and report (ἀπαγγελλεῖν) what had been done for him, and he instead preaches (κηρυσσεῖν) throughout the Decapolis (v. 20). A similar overper­for­mance is



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­Table 6. The Contrast Between “Man” and “Young Man” in Mark 5 and 14 Ἄνθρωπος (5:1–20)

Νεανίσκος (14:32–52)

Seated (v. 15)

Fleeing (v. 52)

Clothed and in his right mind (v. 15)

Naked and afraid (v. 52)

Desiring to follow to Jesus (v. 18)

Abandoning Jesus (v. 52)

Told to return home (v. 19)

Told to sit and remain (v. 32)

pre­sent in the story of the leper (1:40–45), where he is simply commanded to pre­sent himself to the priests (1:44) and instead preaches and spreads the news of what Jesus had done (1:45). Perhaps ­these stories contribute to the theme of the misunderstanding of the disciples ­running throughout Mark. In both cases, ­those who overperform, as it ­were, are ­those who are spatially and temporally restored. The disciples, by contrast, are ­those left in social abeyance—­a theme to which we ­will return in Chapter 6.130 The significance of the contrast between the man living among the tombs (5:1–20) and the young man (νεανίσκος) in Gethsemane (14:52) is in the grammar of movement. One is seated; the other flees. One is clothed and restored to his right mind; the other is naked and out of his mind with fear. One desires to follow Jesus; the other abandons him, though asked to remain. One is told to return home; the other is told to remain with him. The contrast of movement does not end ­there. In the former, Jesus enters the land of the dead alone. In the latter, Jesus enters a secluded place with ­those whom he desired and is abandoned by them. Both scenes reflect sepa­ ration. In 5:1–20, this separation happens at the beginning. In Gethsemane, the separation occurs at the end. The precise rendering of this comparison is unclear. The trauma of separation is its connective grammar. The signifi­ cance of the separation in 5:1–20, however, does not end t­ here.

Scapegoats, Sacrifice, and Pharmakoi On the island of Leucas, a steep promontory of white cliffs juts into the Io­ nian Sea, forming its southwestern extremity. In antiquity, its peak of some two thousand feet was crowned by a ­temple of Apollo. During annual sacri­ ficial honors to the god, Leucadians would cast a criminal from t­ hese cliffs

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into the sea. The scapegoat, if surviving the fall, would be ushered beyond the boundary of the city.131 The scapegoat ritual endowed victims with the pollution of the polis. Hurling them into the sea purged the community and averted evil.132 Through rituals of expulsion, the pharmakos (φαρμακός) is socially purged in order to allow a community to recover a temporary sense of harmony.133 ­These similarities of cliffs and the act of the victim being tossed into the sea have inspired some to won­der about imaginative possibilities for read­ ing 5:1–20.134 Any argument using such similarities to locate a provenance of an original source or a geography of Sitz im Leben ­will remain uncon­ vincing. Moreover, suggesting some form of awareness on the part of the source or redactor with traditions of the Leucas island scapegoat is beyond demonstration. In what follows, I want to take the similarities as license to consider the general phenomenon of the scapegoat and see if it might offer a fresh a­ ngle of vision for the Markan text.135 Deborah Steiner, in her impor­tant essay “Diverting Demons,”136 works with the notion of the “φαρμακός complex” to explicate themes of civic un­ rest in the Iliad.137 The “φαρμακός complex” is a construct and amalgam composed of associative and conventional material from a variety of myths, rituals, and other media, which give articulation to and for a society’s shared belief.138 Steiner argues that at the heart of Greek apotropaic practices, ­there “exists the notion of banning like with like, of directing against a hostile power a substance, repre­sen­ta­tion or individual identical with or equivalent to the malignancy.”139 The one who drives away evil may at the same time “be made to take upon himself the accumulated evil of his p­ eople.” He may be made φαρμακός and scapegoat, while being ceremonially beaten, exiled, and slain.140 By definition, the φαρμακός must be heaved from the city and its borders in order to restore space and time.141 The scapegoat also func­ tioned as “surrogate and double for the leader of the community.” This dy­ namic movement of the social exchange of the leader and φαρμακός occur “in tandem, . . . ​at once parallel and opposite,” spatially and temporally con­ necting pollution and prosperity.142 Interestingly, as in the case of Diodor­ an’s novel Romance of Iamboulos, scapegoats w ­ ere sometimes placed in boats 143 and sent overseas. The notion of the scapegoat has been critically appropriated in trauma studies,144 as well as in postcolonial studies.145 The name often accompany­ ing studies on the scapegoat is René Girard.146 Girard’s proj­ect concerns it­ self with how the expulsion of the victim restores normative patterns of



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differentiation.147 For Girard, the nexus of sacrifice and vio­lence is where the logic of the scapegoat lives. Sacrifice’s aim, according to Girard, is to control the spread of vio­lence by shifting vio­lence itself onto the life of an Other. This Other must be close enough yet distinct from po­liti­cal life. If the life is too near, ­there ­will be retaliation; if it is too distant, the shift of rage ­will be rendered in­effec­tive. The scapegoat becomes purifying and cleansing by releasing vio­lence through the per­for­mance of vio­lence on a proper victim. Girard actually turns to “The Demons of Gerasa” to demonstrate his reading of the scapegoat.148 For Girard, “mimeticism” is the origin of all hu­ manity’s “trou­bles, desires, and rivalries,” all the “tragic and grotesque mis­ understandings,” as well as the source of all humanity’s disorder. As such, in his mimetic structure, it equally rests in ­every order through the mediation of the scapegoat.149 The scapegoat is thus placed in the mimetic system of socie­ties as an or­g a­nized opposition and is the guiding dynamic to ­every mythic and religious origin—­except, according to Girard, the ἀρχή (“be­ ginning”) of the Gospels. Girard’s Christian exceptionalism reads the Gos­ pels as “the only textual mechanism that can put an end to humanity’s imprisonment in the system of mythological repre­sen­ta­tion based on the false transcendence of a victim who is made sacred ­because of the unan­i­mous ver­ dict of guilt.”150 Very l­ittle of this is satisfying—­specifically as it relates to the Gospel of Mark. The text is Jewish and, as traumatized, resists repre­sen­ta­tion or any closure of a system. The Jewish Gospel of Mark is unfinished and cannot end. This is not a text that breaks repre­sen­ta­tion. It is a text caught in rep­ etition, marked and broken by what is unrepresentable: τρόμος καὶ ἔκστασις (trauma and ecstasy). Girard, however, initiates an impor­tant discussion sur­ rounding the demonic, the scapegoat, and the societal instability of Mark 5 reflected in the shifts between singular and plural. The demonic in Girard’s system is a trope “invoked at times when dis­ order predominates.”151 ­Here we have a bridge between our ­earlier discus­ sions of space, time, and desire. The specter emerges ­because they are out of joint. Moreover, the demon from the tombs personifies a somatic insecurity that pervades the communities. As s­ hall be discussed in Chapter 6, t­ here is a contrast of tending to the bodies of the dead within Mark. The corpse of John the Baptist receives proper rites by disciples (6:29). By contrast, ­there is a fundamental absence of the disciples’ care of Jesus in Gethsemane and his corpse at the crucifixion and before the empty tomb. ­After hearing of their master’s execution, John’s disciples “went and took his body and placed

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it in the tomb” (ἦλθον καὶ ἦραν τὸ πτῶμα αὐτοῦ καὶ ἔθηκαν αὐτὸ ἐν μνημείῳ). The πτῶμα (“corpse”) of Jesus, however, is neither marked nor placed. Moreover, as we have been discussing throughout, witness to the ab­ sence of Jesus’ corpse has been traumatized. Somewhere between the proper placement and marking of John’s violent death and the separation and ab­ sence of the “corpse” of Jesus is the “living corpse” that rises to meet Jesus from the tombs (ἐκ τῶν μνημείων).152 Strangely, Girard speaks of Jesus restoring the man “without any vio­ lence.”153 We must question if t­ here is a “restoration” and if t­ here r­ eally is an absence of vio­lence in Girard’s system. I propose a slightly dif­fer­ent reading of the episode as it relates to the notion of expulsion. Significant in this ex­ tension and challenging of Girard’s reading is in the marking of distance. The episode begins with the demoniac seeing Jesus from afar (ἰδὼν τὸν Ἰησοῦν ἀπὸ μακρόθεν), and then ­running and bowing before him (5:6). The concept of distance marked grammatically by the adverbial construc­ tion ἀπὸ μακρόθεν (“from afar”) is repeated with the feeding of the crowds (8:3), Jesus’ seeing a fig tree sprouting leaves but bearing no fruit (11:13), Pe­ ter following at a distance in the courtyard of the high priest (14:54), and the ­women who bore witness to the violent death of Jesus (15:40). The first and last of ­these occurrences are significant and connect the torn bodies of the demoniac and Jesus. The difference is that in the former, distance is over­ come; in the latter, separation remains. In Girard’s reading of the episode, ­there is a mirror relationship of pre­sent doubling that links the city with the expulsed.154 Possession, according to Girard, is never an individual phe­ nomenon; rather, it emerges from the cumulative effects of “aggravated mi­ meticism.” As he memorably fashions it: “Each is the other’s demon.”155 The link between the demon and the demos is as appositional as it is opposi­ tional. This surely cannot be denied. The departure operative ­here is in ex­ tending demonic association not simply with the demos but with the disciples and Jesus himself. The comparison with the man in 5:1–20 and the “young man” in Geth­ semane has already been made above and need not occupy us more. An ad­ ditional dynamic emerges in what Girard refers to as Mark’s “stroke of genius” in the “strange” transitioning in this scene “from singular to plural.”156 Gi­ rard’s attention is in the dynamic fluidity of states of singularity and multi­ plicity between demon and demos. In many re­spects, this is undeniable. Yet ­there is also an apparent inverse to Girard’s argument. The demos can be viewed as a collective solidarity and Legion (Λεγιών) as multiplicity. The



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singularity of the man is stressed up u ­ ntil the naming of Legion (Λεγιώ) as Legion. He is referred to first as “a man” (ἄνθρωπος; 5:2), and the per­ sonal pronouns used of him and by him are all singular. Even at the mo­ ment of encounter, he cries out: “What do I have to do with you, Jesus, son of the most high God? I adjure you by God, do not torment me” (τί ἐμοὶ καὶ σοί, Ἰησοῦ υἱὲ τοῦ θεοῦ τοῦ ὑψίστου; ὁρκίζω σε τὸν θεόν, μή με βασανίσῃς; 5:7). When Jesus demands his name in the second-­person singular, Legion replies: “I am called Legion, for we are many” (λεγιὼν ὄνομά μοι, ὅτι πολλοί ἐσμεν; 5:9). ­After the naming, the personal pronouns are mixed in narra­ tion; but in the speech of Legion, the plural returns: “the demons be­ seeched him saying, ‘Send us into the swine so that we may enter them’ ” (παρεκάλεσαν αὐτὸν λέγοντες· πέμψον ἡμᾶς εἰς τοὺς χοίρους, ἵνα εἰς αὐτοὺς εἰσέλθωμεν; 5:12). The apposition of polis (πόλις) and the living corpse of the demoniac are apparent since the mentioning of shackles and chains in 5:4. The two are bonded. In Mark, it is noteworthy that the demon begs not to be sent away “from the region” (ἔξω τῆς χώρας; 5:10). In Luke, they beg not to be sent “into the abyss” (εἰς τὴν ἄβυσσον; Luke 8:31; cf. Rev. 20:3). In Mat­ thew, they worry that Jesus had come to torment them “before the appointed time” (πρὸ καιροῦ; Matt. 8:29). The extremities of time and space in the more finished cosmologies of Matthew and Luke are latent in the Markan scene, as discussed above (cf. Mark 5:5). The extremities, however, lie sim­ mering in the banal materialism of the region. Legion is not a primordial character,157 then, but an index of a con­temporary imaginary. The caretak­ ers of the pigs (οἱ βόσκοντες) are likewise significant in this re­spect, as they move between the region (χώρα) and the polis (πόλις). They flee from the region and announce (ἀπήγγειλαν) the event throughout the city and into the countryside (εἰς τὴν πόλιν καὶ εἰς τοὺς ἀγρούς; 5:14). ­Those who come to witness the report are referenced in the undemonstrative third-­person plu­ ral. They are simply an undifferentiated gathering. It was this “they” who grew terrified—­not, however, by the reports of pigs rushing over the cliff but in their witnessing of the man in his right mind (σωφρονοῦντα). Their fear is owing to the expulsion of their expulsion. What they had sent out and chained had been placed in the waiting chambers of restoration. Girard suggests that exorcisms ordinarily are a local displacement, ex­ change, or some kind of substitution.158 For socie­ties based on collective ex­ pulsion, ­there was a grave social threat in the cure of that expulsion.159 “The expulsion is not permanent or absolute, and the scapegoat—­the possessed—­

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returns to the city between crises. Every­thing blends, nothing ever ends.”160 The young man is no longer ­under physical threat, but the threat of “psy­ chopathological relationships” has been piqued in the expulsion of Legion. This is the nonfatal threat that neither resolves nor ends.161 In order for the unnamed multitude to return to a polis, therefore, an alternative expulsion must be made: Jesus (5:17). We consider this expulsion below. Before ­doing so, it is necessary to re­ flect upon a further aspect of the Markan “stroke of genius.”162 It is in the “strange” transitioning “from singular to plural” where we can place the odd shift from the plural of 5:1 to the singular of 5:2. The plural recurs but in the form of the multitude (5:21). The disciples do not return ­until 5:31, wedged between two scenes of somatic insecurity: the ­woman with a flow of blood and the dead ­daughter of the ruler from the synagogue (ἀρχισυνάγωγος). With the expulsion of Legion, t­ here is something slightly off in the descrip­ tion of Jesus’ sending the man back to his ­house­hold (εἰς τὸν οἶκόν σου πρὸς τοὺς σοὺς; 5:19). Perhaps part of what is communicated in the man’s begging to depart the region with Jesus—­the exact opposite request of the demoniac—­and his restless wandering is that ­there is no ­house­hold (οἶκος) to which to return. The ­house­hold was constituted by its expulsion. In the ex­ pulsion of that expulsion, the ­house­hold fundamentally shifts and splits. ­There is thus no home to which to return. Legion had its place in the structured region outside the polis. Now in his “right mind,” ­there is no ­house­hold to which to return. ­There can be no restoration, owing to the collapse of its structures of expulsion. A complementary account to Girard’s theory of sacrifice is that of Hal­ bertal, who considers the trauma of rejection from sacrificial bonds and the exclusion from gift cycles as the source of vio­lence. He turns to the primor­ dial origin of this separation in the story of Cain and Abel, which demon­ strates how the “risk of rejection is inherent in the act of sacrifice.”163 When Cain’s gift was rejected, he was excluded from the gift cycle that stabilized a “most meaningful bond.”164 Sacrifice, according to Halbertal, is “a gift given within a hierarchical context in which the ordinary obligation to receive and return is not valid. As such, a cycle of gift exchange is not necessarily estab­ lished with the pre­sen­ta­tion of the offering, and a dangerous gap between giving and receiving is opened up, creating a potential for rejection and trauma.”165 It is when being itself is marginalized from life that “the deepest ele­ ment in vio­lence” manifests itself.166 The fatal possibility of rejection gives



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rise to detailed prescriptions of ritual as a means of ensuring successful transfer. Rituals are protocols that protect from this fatal “risk of rejec­ ­ nder which the individual hides its own tion.”167 They offer a kind of shade u individuation.168 Halbertal suggests that the establishment of ritual is an effort of securing anonymity and overcoming “the anxiety of rejection” in­ herent in sacrifice and gift-­giving. The ­whole structure of ritual therefore attempts to routinize and automate. Or, to put it negatively, to secure sub­ jectivity against the “inherent unpredictability” of the trauma of rejection and exclusion.169 In the scene of 5:1–20, the ritual binding demos and demon was rup­ tured in the expulsion of Legion. Against Girard, however, the scene can­ not be read as some Christian exceptionalism breaking the mimetic cycle of vio­lence. Legion is violently sent over the cliffs. And, as we ­shall see, bodily vio­lence connects the demoniac with Jesus. The attempted reconstitution of the ritual of the scapegoat collapses in the expulsion of Jesus. We discern this from the restless wandering of the man set in his right mind. The ­house­hold is now something other, and the stakes of trauma and rejection could not be higher. Most pernicious is that the demonic is no longer bound to the region of the tombs. It is loosed. The scene concludes, then, not with restoration or the end of vio­lence. Nor does it end with the defeat of Legion. ­There is, in fact, no ending—­only the fissuring of social bound­aries and ex­ pulsion of the demon’s new host: Jesus.

Jesus and Demonic Recurrence Though Girard speaks of the inherent impermanence and finite nature of expulsion, guided by his Christian exceptionalism he refers to the scene in Gerasa as “the expulsion.” That is, it signifies the final exorcism that ­will rid the world “forever of its demons and the demoniac.”170 He also refers to the event as “without a ­f uture”—­except for the one restored.171 Mimetic vio­lence has been ended for Girard, and the restored man is given a ­f uture precisely ­because he is set back into the spatio-­temporalities of hope. A dif­fer­ent approach is being proposed ­here. As has been suggested above, not only is ­there no restoration of the man with the polis; ­there is no finality in the removal of demonic stain. This lack of integration and con­ tinued haunting are attested by the repeated erratic spatial descriptions of Jesus’ encounter with the demoniac in the social unrest that ensues ­after

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the exorcism (5:14–20). The demoniac “sitting clothed, and in his right mind” (θεωροῦσιν τὸν δαιμονιζόμενον καθήμενον ἱματισμένον καὶ σωφρονοῦντα) is an inverse image of the naked disciple in flight, as we have already noted, but also of Jesus himself. What appear to be his f­amily at­ tempted to seize him on account of his being out of his mind (καὶ ἀκούσαντες οἱ παρ᾽ αὐτοῦ ἐξῆλθον κρατῆσαι αὐτόν· ἔλεγον γὰρ ὅτι ἐξέστη; 3:21). Their act of attempting to seize (κρατῆσαι) Jesus is repeated in the context of the chief priests, scribes, and elders attempting to seize Jesus (ἐζήτουν αὐτὸν κρατῆσαι) while he was teaching in the ­temple (12:12). The connection of the two episodes does not end ­there. Immediately following the accusation of being out of his mind by his ­family, scribes who came from Jerusalem (οἱ γραμματεῖς οἱ ἀπὸ Ἱεροσολύμων καταβάντες) accuse him of being pos­ sessed by Beelzebul (3:22). Moreover, the expulsion of Jesus by the undifferen­ tiated crowd in chapter 5 a­ fter witnessing their expulsion in his right state of mind drives him into the very sea to which Legion had fled in retreat. The repetition and inverse image reveal a placement of Jesus and the de­ moniac in similar spatial positions of social abeyance. As has been discussed above, demonic possession is a “locative category.”172 Demoniacs are ­matter and bodies out of place.173 The encounter in chapter 5 takes place among the tombs somewhere outside but in no way distinct from inhabited zones.174 The demoniac, bound with fetters and chains, depicted as frequently “crying out” (κράζων), ­doing vio­lence to his body with stones,175 “crying out in a loud voice” (κράξας φωνῇ μεγάλῃ), asking not to be tormented or “sent from the country” (ἀποστείλῃ ἔξω τῆς χώρας), and rushing from a cliff introduce fur­ ther associations with Jesus. Girard highlights how the two “­great ritualistic methods of execution figure explic­itly” in the scene of Gerasa: “stoning and falling from a high cliff.”176 Rome had its Tarpeian rock, and Greek myths had their cliffs such as ­those of Marseille, from which the pharmakos was thrown. Their pres­ ence signals what Girard refers to as crucifixion equivalents.177 The expul­ sion of Jesus, however, reflects the trauma of rejection and anxious suspense in attempted meaningful placements of his violent death. The most striking recurrence is the doubling of crying out. In the first instance, ἐβόησεν is used in Jesus’ cry of dereliction: “he cried out . . . ​in a ­great voice” (ἐβόησεν . . . ​φωνῇ μεγάλῃ; v. 34). The form of this verb oc­ curs throughout LXX in instances where Moses cries out to the Lord for help,178 in ­legal stipulations regarding the requirement of ­women to cry out while being raped in order to retain their innocence,179 calls among the judges



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­Table 7. Gerasene Demoniac and Jesus’ Crucifixion Thematic Recurrence

Gerasene Demoniac in 5:1–20

Jesus’ Crucifixion in 15:16–39

Social position of being outside

He lived among the tombs (vv. 2, 3, 5)

They led him outside to crucify him (v. 20b)

Cities and other regions ­were departed by inhabit­ ants in order to witness (vv. 14–15)

Simon of Cyrene coming from the country (v. 21)

Jesus is asked to leave the region (v. 17)

They brought him to a place called Golgotha (v. 22) ­ hose passing by (vv. 29, T 35)

Being bound and shackled

Bound with chains and fetters (vv. 3–4)

They crucified him (vv. 24–25, 30, 32)

Doubling of a loud cry

he was always crying out (v. 5)

He cried in a loud voice (v. 34)

upon seeing Jesus, he cries out (v. 7)

He uttered a loud cry (v. 37)

Bruising himself with stones (v. 5)

Crown of thorns (v. 17)

Vio­lence done to body

Struck his head with a reed (v. 19) Crucified him (vv. 21–39) Confession of Jesus’ identity

Disciples’ witness

Son of the most high God (v. 7)

Truly this man is the son of God (v. 39)

Association of Jesus with Lord (vv. 19–20)

Cf. King of Jews (15:2, 9, 12, 18, 26, 32)

­

for help,180 Samson’s petitions to the Lord,181 Samuel crying out to the Lord,182 David crying out to Saul,183 vari­ous kings crying out warnings and pleas of petition,184 Eliu crying out a­ fter the ­widow of Zarephath,185 Athali­ ah’s charge of treason,186 Sennacherib’s mockery of the Hebrews,187 Isaiah crying to the Lord,188 David crying out to the Lord and being answered by fire from heaven,189 and lamentations of God’s ­people crying out for aid.190 Intriguingly, Judith’s prayer is given with a loud voice (ἐβόησεν φωνῇ μεγάλῃ).191 The lexical sense has a remarkably flexible range in general

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descriptions of enthused or impassioned speech. In Mark, however, the loud cry lives within hauntings of the demonic pattern. It is the cry of departure—­ but never defeat. The loud cry in v. 37 is slightly dif­fer­ent: “Jesus cried out in a loud voice and expired” (ὁ δὲ Ἰησοῦς ἀφεὶς φωνὴν μεγάλην ἐξέπνευσεν). At first glance, the lexical shift marks ­little significance. When ἐκπνεώ (to breathe out /expire) and φωνή (voice) appear together in proximity in classical ma­ terial, they do so frequently in medical contexts.192 The centurion’s witness of this parting breath seems to communicate ­little more than the banal fact of Jesus ­dying. Or does it? As argued throughout this proj­ect, the demonic pattern in Mark consistently positions the demoniac crying out or scream­ ing. While dif­fer­ent verbs can be used for the ­actual cry, consistently ap­ pearing as a modifier of the action is the adjective μεγάλη (“­great”).193 More to the point, it appears in the contexts we have been considering in chap­ ters 5 and 15. Some commentators suggest that this is Jesus’ final cry of di­ vine victory.194 The preceding occurrence of μεγάλη in v. 34 seems to point in the opposite direction. Jesus dies with his cries unheard and unheeded, mocked by his enemies, placed outside space and time, and abandoned by ­those whom he had desired. His last cry is the cry of a demonic.195 Significantly, in both cases the disciples are nowhere and unable to wit­ ness the ­great cries or the confessions of “outsiders” with re­spect to Jesus’ identity. The major difference between ­these two scenes is what leaves the reader with an eerie chill and horrific foreboding. Whereas the ­great cries of the man in chapter 5 loose the demons into the sea and allow for the return of his senses, the ­great cries of Jesus end precisely ­there. The eerie calm of 4:39 was thrown back into chaos by Legion rising from the tombs. ­After rushing into the sea, calm again returns—­but no less eerie. As we ­will dis­ cuss in Chapter 6, the abode of Legion rises yet again in the strong wind against the solitary disciples (6:48). Eerie silence returns (6:51). And h ­ ere we end where we began: with the ambiguous ending of Bram Stoker’s Dracula and Dr. Seward’s final entry in his journal: “Truly t­ here is no such t­ hing as finality.”196 The demonic trace is never blotted out. This is no ending—­only dormancy. The traumatized community is laid bare, exposed and unsettled by the eerie calm of an empty tomb on the other side of an abandoned corpse. The ­great death cries of Jesus unleash upon ­those whom he desired terror and silence, darkness and the creeping unendingness of pos­si­ble returns of all that is monstrous;197 and all the ghoulish and demonic that fell through and emerged from holes in space and time.

Chapter 6

The Enchafèd Sea: Ships of Separation or Trampled Dragons?

He had vanished without anyone’s noticing his departure, like a god. —­Marcel Proust, Sodom and Gomorrah And once the storm is over you w ­ on’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You w ­ on’t even be sure, in fact, ­whether the storm is ­really over. But one t­ hing is certain. When you come out of the storm you w ­ on’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about. —­Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore The intellectual as buccaneer—­not a bad dream . . . ​k nocked about unpredictably on the seas of social alienation. —­Peter Sloterdijk, Critique of Cynical Reason

The Habit of Being . . . ​Interrupted Habit “so fills up our time,” says Proust’s narrator in À la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time), “that we have not, ­after a few months, a ­free moment in a town where on our first arrival the day offered us the absolute disposal of all its twelve hours.”1 The density of this reflection, buried away ­toward the end of the fourth volume of Sodome et Gomorrhe, encapsulates

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Proust’s sprawling exploration of the productive effects of habit with re­ spect to space, time, desire, and memory.2 Habit, for Proust, is an archi­ tect.3 It orients desire and organizes life into times, spaces, and memories.4 To vacation or break from the habitudes of Paris was thus a break from the form of life that the city habituated. Yet the break from this form is only momentary, as habit quickly fashions another in the village of Balbec. Habit fills our time by placing life into settled forms, or what Proust calls “crucibles.”5 Proust’s narrator alludes to the problematic that we have been explor­ ing throughout this volume. What happens to the integrated functions of space and time, to desire and memory, when the habits and sentiments of life are suspended? More specifically, what happens to “life” when its forms are traumatically ruptured? What happens to desire and its associative work when its fixed points separate from themselves; and when ζωή (life) splits from the enclosures of βιός (form of life)?6 ­These are the questions examined in this chapter through a reading of Mark 6:45–52. The repre­sen­ta­tion of Jesus walking on the sea is well-­k nown in Western art.7 The overwhelming depiction of the scene—in lit­er­a­ture and paintings—is of Jesus striding over the sea, shod in the brilliance of the sun, coming to the rescue of his panicked disciples. Surely, ­there is something to this reading. How can his walking on ­water mean anything less than the revelation of Jesus as θεῖος ἀνήρ (godman)? In what follows, such Chris­ tologies, which may or may not be pre­sent, are of less interest than the im­ age of a ship caught amid the sea. In par­tic­u­lar, I wish to extend what has been discussed in Chapters 4 and 5 by considering themes relating to the traumatic effects of somatic insecurity and guilt. The reading put forward ­here is positioning 6:45–52 less as an epiphany of Jesus as a godman and more as reflecting a social body alienated at sea, suspended in a topography of trauma.

Violent Death, Trauma, and the Separation of Desire In Mark’s Gospel, two unities (βιοι) separate on the other side of violent death. The structural pre­sen­t a­t ion of “all the country of Judaea, and all the p­ eople of Jerusalem” coming out for the repentance of John stylizes a unity of the ­people of God around the reappearance of the prophetic word (1:2–8).



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πᾶσα (all) ἡ Ἰουδαία χώρα (all the region of Judaea) καὶ (and) οἱ Ἱεροσολυμῖται (the Jerusalemites) πάντες (all) This is the first unity: a ­people readied for the way of the Lord (τὴν ὁδὸν κυρίου). The second is signified in the calling of the disciples (1:16–20), “­those whom [Jesus] desired” (οὓς ἤθελεν αὐτός; 3:13), and the vari­ous scenes of stylized unity enacted throughout the region.8 The first unity is disrupted by the violent beheading of John (6:14–29); the second by crucifixion and empty tomb. In the former, John’s corpse (πτῶμα) receives acts of piety from his followers (6:29). In the latter, Jesus’ corpse is abandoned by his followers and attended to by another (15:45). In the former, physical contact and inter­ action with the corpse are stressed: “they came and took away his corpse and laid it in a tomb” (ἦλθον καὶ ἦραν τὸ πτῶμα αὐτοῦ καὶ ἔθηκαν αὐτὸ ἐν μνημείῳ; 6:29). In the latter, not only is the corpse of Jesus seen only “from afar” (ἀπὸ μακρόθεν); it is seen only by vari­ous ­women who had ministered to him while in Galilee (15:40–41).9 The social wound (τρόμος) was thus never witnessed or given place in the history of t­ hose whom Jesus desired. The trauma of an absent corpse ruptures the organ­izing desire that had habituated ­those who left former forms of life for the form of another—­that is, one gathered around the body of Jesus. The supple body produced by this desire was, from the beginning, a tenuous assemblage. The first sign of sep­ aration from the stylized unity of ­those drawn to Jesus’ proclamation comes from the religious leaders.10 It spreads to his ­family,11 and even unto and into ­those whom he himself had desired.12 ­There is, fi­nally, an inverted repetition of stylized unity against Jesus in his trial.13 Significantly, t­ here is neither outside nor inside as it relates to this move­ ment of separation. This appears to go against a plain reading of the out­ side/inside distinction that Jesus seems to make in Mark 4:11. It is unto ­those whom he desired that the mystery of the kingdom of God is given. To ­those outside, all remains mystery and parable: “to you the mystery of the king­ dom of God has been given; but ­those outside receive every­thing in para­ bles” (ὑμῖν τὸ μυστήριον δέδοται τῆς βασιλείας τοῦ θεοῦ· ἐκείνοις δὲ τοῖς ἔξω ἐν παραβολαῖς τὰ πάντα γίνεται). As we ­shall explore below, the dis­ ciples are ­those characterized by an inability to see and understand the mys­ tery (τό μυστήριον). It is from this “inside,” t­ hose constituted by desire, that

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the disciples thrice turn over in sleep in Gethsemane, abandoning him upon the arrival of the arresting force sent from the religious leaders. It is one of the twelve (εἷς τῶν δώδεκα) who betrays him (14:43). And it is Peter who “followed from a distance” (ἀπὸ μακρόθεν ἠκολούθησεν), only to deny him three times. This is the last we hear of the disciples: scattered, in hiding, denying, and deserting. God even appears to have forsaken Jesus (cf. 15:34). ­Those who appear to be “outside,” however, look ­after his corpse (πτῶμα; 15:43–46), bear witness to his identity as the son of God (15:39), and are charged with saying the unsayable: placing trauma into a history (16:7). The alienating effects of traumatic separation resides in desire itself. Betrayal and denial lived from the beginning in ­those whom Jesus desired (3:19). Desire is therefore always already constituted by this separation.

Horror, the Demonic, and Trauma Thus far, I have been proposing a reading of Mark as a kind of attempted consolation for a traumatized community that bears the mark of an origi­ nary trauma.14 Trauma, writes Caruth, in its “most general definition,” ar­ ticulates “an overwhelming experience of sudden or catastrophic events in which the response to the events occurs in the often delayed, uncontrolled repetitive appearance of hallucination and other intrusive phenomena.”15 A community in a position of exposure, having habituated into a form of life once gathered around a now-­absent body, thus split from within itself: trau­ matized and standing outside itself.16 Ordinary responses to trauma, suggests Herman, “banish” it from con­ sciousness—or, at least, attempt to do so. Such violations to a social body are simply “unspeakable.”17 Yet ­these very atrocities refuse burial. Trauma becomes that haunting specter that refuses rest ­until its story is told, ­until it is historicized and given place.18 This is the return of the repressed. Pro­ cessing, remembering, telling, and marking are prerequisites for the resto­ ration of a social body and for the healing of individual bodies.19 Trauma introduces “profound and lasting changes” to desire, emotion, cognition, and memory—­often severing “­these normally integrated functions from one an­ other.”20 It fractures basic relationships and attachments, shatters the self that is formed by t­ hese relationships and attachments, and undermines belief sys­ tems that give meaning to ­human experience. They violate the subject’s



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faith in a natu­ral or divine order and cast subjectivity into a crisis of being—­ placing being at odds with itself.21 Structures of the self, systems of attach­ ment, and the meaning of one’s positionality are thus ruptured.22 As Herman contends: “Traumatized ­people feel utterly abandoned, utterly alone, cast out of the ­human and divine systems of care and protection that sustain life. Thereafter, a sense of alienation, of disconnection, pervades ­every relation­ ship, from the most intimate familial bonds to the most abstract affiliations of community and religion.”23 Long ­after danger’s passing, its threat recurs. Life cannot resume its nor­ mal course, for trauma repeatedly interrupts the integrated functions of life. Time and place become suspended, like a scratched vinyl rec­ord, skipping and jumbling the sound and sense orientation precisely at the spatio-­temporal moment of the trauma.24 Janet spoke of this arresting function of trauma producing a kind of idée fixe; a haunting, unincorporated memory into the spatio-­temporalities of an ongoing life story. Traumatized memories freeze into vivid sensations and images, what Lifton termed an “indelible image,” a “death imprint,” an “ultimate horror.”25 In this intense fragmentation of sensation, of an image without context, traumatic memory becomes a “height­ ened real­ity.”26 Freud called this a demonic force at work 27—­that terror, rage, and hatred of the traumatic moment living between the forgetting and reliving of the original wound. Herman refers to this as the “dialectic of trauma”: the inability to speak of it but the recurring need to do so.28 Re­ sulting from trauma is also a “loss of bodily integrity”29 and psychosomatic disassociation in experiences of space and time.30 Moreover, for ­those who witness or feel somehow culpable in the suffering or the death of another, feelings of guilt become “especially severe.”31 What­ever the particulars of Jesus’ public execution,32 they would have been traumatic for early witnesses on at least two levels. Seeing a mutilated body on public display would have cut many deep “wounds of memory.” Sig­ nificant social stigma and public shaming for both the crucified and ­those associated with him would also occur.33 ­These wounds, moreover, would have been compounded owing to the social attachments of ­those who dissociated from past social bonds and reassociated around the desire of Jesus (3:13). The public display of a crucified body and the traumatic response to an empty tomb ­were thus reflections of the threat of the social body’s own shameful extinction and position of exposure and vulnerability. What is more, trauma highlights impor­tant ele­ments of guilt. ­There was no witness from ­those

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whom Jesus desired—­only betrayal, denial, and abandonment, leading up to his violent death. Trauma thus compounds. Not only was ­there no body to mourn; ­there was nobody to witness. Trauma, as Herman states, can be made the e­ nemy.34 And, to summon Freud again, that ­enemy becomes a demonic force within the traumatized. Trauma marks itself in the body. Bodies and desire become at odds with themselves. Outside themselves. Traumatized. Demonized.

Sea and Separation Reflections on 6:45–52, as we have noted, tend ­toward θεῖος ἀνήρ (godmen) parallels or anti-­imperial readings. Though several smart and in­ter­est­ing studies exist from ­these perspectives, they are not our primary focus. In Chapter 7, I return to the question of trauma and politics. ­Here, I want to think through 6:45–52 as it relates to the traumatic effects of demonic force, social separation, guilt, somatic insecurity, and the dissociation of desire. Be­ fore proceeding, a word of caution is in order. Appropriating from trauma theory for a reading of ancient texts should give us pause for at least two reasons. First, as Herman warns, no two ­people experience the same reaction to the same event.35 Second, theories of trauma formulated in one imaginary—­largely from psychopathology casework on survivors of war, holocaust, and sexual abuse—­cannot responsibly be trans­ planted ­wholesale into another imaginary. Though we should proceed with caution, this study has thus far proposed an experimental reading of the Gos­ pel of Mark not only as a gospel of attempted reassociation and consolation but also one bearing the very effects, ruptures, sentiments, and unfinished nature of the originary trauma of separation. Mark attempts a per­for­mance of the unstageable: narrating trauma. The myth, however, is not catharsis as completion or closure. ­There is neither closure nor completion in the repeti­ tions of trauma. As Laub hauntingly remarks, the traumatic event “has no beginning, no ending, no before, no during and no a­ fter.”36 This reading, I hope, might prove to be a useful contribution in placing the dialectic of trauma in any study of the spatial and temporal complexities of early Chris­tian­ity and Gospel writing as well as in the study of trauma itself. In this chapter, we consider the final major sea scene in Mark 6:45–52 from three perspectives. The first attempts a reading away from Christology



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on the high seas in order to set up the second and third perspectives of trauma: separation and Mark’s somatic insecurities.

The Sea Strikes Back If 4:35–41 can be seen in some sense as the ongoing ­battle with ὁ ἰσχυρός (the strongman) of 3:27, then 6:45–52 might well represent the strongman striking back.37 The retreat of the sea in 4:39, and set as prison for the forces of chaos in 5:13, is portrayed as rebelling and raging against the disciples fresh off their itinerant demonstrations of the kingdom’s arrival on land (6:6b–13, 30). Jesus “gave to them authority over unclean spirits” (ἐδίδου αὐτοῖς ἐξουσίαν τῶν πνευμάτων τῶν ἀκαθάρτων) in 6:7b. And they cast out many demons (δαιμόνια πολλὰ ἐξέβαλλον; v. 13). As we saw in 4:39, Jesus’ rebuke of the wind (ἐπετίμησεν τῷ ἀνέμῳ) and commands of peace and stillness (σιώπα, πεφίμωσο) transformed the ­g reat storm of wind (λαῖλαψ μεγάλη ἀνέμου) into a ­g reat calm (γαλήνη μεγάλη). This authority over the forces of chaos, enacted by the disciples on land (6:6b– 13, 30), is overturned anew as the winds in 6:48 return as adversarial at sea (ὁ ἄνεμος ἐναντίος αὐτοῖς). What are we to make of the recurrence of the adversarial winds? Or the disciples’ sudden ineptitude, powerlessness, and fear? ­After the feeding of the five thousand (6:30–44), the disciples are sent off with haste (εὐθύς) to Bethsaida (v. 45);38 and ­after taking leave of the crowds, Jesus went up the mountain (ὄρος) to pray (v. 46).39 ­There are five mountain scenes in Mark.40 It is difficult not to think of Exod. 24:15–18 and the “exodus imagery that runs through this story.”41 At Sinai, Moses leaves the crowds (24:2) and his elders ­behind (v. 14), and communes with God in solitude atop the mountain.42 Given the length and detail of information on Moses’ communion with God (Exod. 24:12–31:18), it is somewhat surprising how ­little is said of the duration of Jesus’ communion (v. 46). All we know is that ­after sending his disciples away, he withdrew to a mountain to pray (ἀποταξάμενος αὐτοῖς ἀπῆλθεν εἰς τὸ ὄρος προσεύξασθαι). In any case, whereas Moses comes down and sees the p­ eople (καὶ ἰδὼν Μωυσῆς τὸν λαὸν) in idolatry (Exod. 32:25), Jesus descends to see his disciples straining against the sea, for the wind was contrary to them (βασανιζομένους ἐν τῷ ἐλαύνειν ἦν γὰρ ὁ ἄνεμος ἐναντίος αὐτοῖς; v. 48).

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The appearance of βασανίζω (“to torment”) h ­ ere has been taken as a hint ­toward communal transparency regarding eschatological tribulation,43 or possibly martyrdom and torture.44 Some have argued that “the distress of the Markan disciples at sea would prob­ably remind the Markan com­ munity of the eschatological affliction and bewilderment they themselves ­were experiencing in the wake of the persecutions associated with the Jewish War.”45 In this reading, the arrival of Jesus at the “fourth watch” (v. 48) is given an epiphanic as well as an ecclesial edge.46 The fourth watch, which ends with the arrival of dawn,47 corresponds with the time of God’s help, which chases away the dark.48 Not unrelated are the strong resonances of the odd phrasing καὶ ἤθελεν παρελθεῖν αὐτούς (“he wanted to pass them by”; v. 48)49 with Exod. 33:17–34:8 and reworked in 1 Kings 19:11–13.50 Marcus has argued that, in light of the effective force of ­these texts, the verb παρελθεῖν (“to walk” or “to pass by”) became near-­shorthand for divine epiphany throughout the LXX.51 Jesus’ consolatory ἐγώ εἰμι (“I am”) to the disciples in v. 50 adds further epiphanic texture, as this referencing technique was reserved for God.52 The so-­called divine name could also be employed in magical spells,53 including, intriguingly, the calming of storms (b. B. Bat. 73a).54 Moreover, pos­si­ble connections between 6:50 and Ps. 76:16 LXX may suggest that God is once again leading a troubled (ἐταράχθησαν) p­ eople (cf. 6:50) through troubled (ἐταράχθησαν) ­waters (cf. Ps. 76:17 LXX). Theissen has noted how epiphany and sea rescue narratives appear in classical Greek, Hellenistic, and other NT texts.55 Even so, though Greek and Roman tradi­ tions both “include a portrayal of a deity controlling wind and sea and mak­ ing a path through the sea,”56 in the Jewish imaginary God alone rescues ­people from the sea.57 In this reading, then, the divine is made manifest in Jesus’ appearance to the disciples upon the w ­ aters.58 The focus of scholarship on 6:45–52 has taken this line of Jesus walking over the sea.59 Such abilities, however, have been attributed to heroes/kings, gods—­and also demons.60 The trope was common enough that the purported ability was subjected to satire by Lucian.61 According to Papyrus Berolinensis, a demon can “quickly freeze rivers and seas in such a way that he can pass over them” (1.20).62 Poseidon allegedly gave his son Euphemus the ability to travel over the sea as on land.63 Abaris, according to Pythagorean legend, was carried over the sea by an arrow;64 and the River Caucase was said to have responded to Pythagoras’s greeting as he passed over.65 By “at least the fifth ­century bce, power over the sea began to be associated with rulers and



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kings.”66 The biographer Callisthenes seemed to merge the powers of Pose­ idon with Alexander in having the sea withdraw before his march, as though recognizing him, “not failing to know its lord so that in arching itself and bowing it may seem to do obeisance.”67 Alexander also took the island city of Tyre by building a path across the sea and, in effect, allowing his pavilion to walk over the ­waters.68 Caligula is said to have ridden across the Bay of Baiae on ships that ­were anchored in double file with earth upon their decks, which made him equal—in his eyes, at least—­with Neptune. This faux god­ like per­for­mance of “riding upon the sea” staged a conquering of land and sea, equaling the mighty deeds of Xerxes.69 According to 2 Macc. 5:21, ­after plundering the ­temple, Antiochus attempted to traverse upon the sea (πέλαγος) as if it ­were land. The Maccabean author named this act as one according to the arrogance of heart (διὰ τὸν μετεωρισμὸν τῆς καρδίας). Such texts from a Hellenistic-­Jewish milieu suggest that “the idea of walking on ­water was associated with the arrogance of rulers who claimed to be divine.”70 Though heroes in Jewish traditions ­were granted abilities over the sea,71 walking on the sea is reserved “as the prerogative of the Jewish God.”72 In the Greco-­Roman imaginary, Poseidon/Neptune traversed upon the sea in his horse-­drawn chariot, “for well they knew their lord, and in gladness the sea parted before him.”73 The rhetorician Eustathius adds that the seas parted in glad recognition of their lord.74 The God of the Hebrew Bible is pictured as the one who tramples down the sea with his ­horses like a warrior.75 He is the one who trampled down the waves of the sea;76 the one who made a path through the sea so that his exodus ­people could follow;77 and the one who ­will make a way through the sea for a new exodus ­people.78 Again, we witness the sea as a crowded theater for action, starring competing myths.

The Disciples as Demonized? Instead of focusing on Jesus’ striding over the sea, in what follows we con­ sider the demonic patterning that has thus far been tracked both in its rep­ etition and variation. Some question ­whether the disciples ­were caught in an ­actual storm, as is often assumed,79 suggesting that meteorological comparisons with the storm scene in 4:35–41 are “an overstatement.”80 Though such caution is likely appropriate, the appearance of the adverse winds in v. 48 calls to mind the ­great gale (λαῖλαψ μεγάλη ἀνέμου) that arose in 4:37. In 4:39, we see Jesus

he spoke with them and said, “Courage! I am. Fear not.” (v. 50)

they thought that he was a phantasma (v. 49)

and seeing them strug­gle, straining at the oars, for the wind was against them (v. 48)

the wind ­stopped (v. 51)

ἐκόπασεν ὁ ἄνεμος

ἐλάλησεν μετ᾽αὐτῶν καὶ λέγει αὐτοῖς θαρσεῖτε ἐγώ εἰμι μὴ φοβεῖσθε

ἔδοξαν ὅτι φάντασμά ἐστιν

καὶ ἰδὼν αὐτοὺς βασανιζομένους ἐν τῷ ἐλαύωειν ἦν γὰρ ὁ ἄνεμος ἐναντίος αὐτοῖς

Jesus’ (Rebuke?)

(Right?) Recognition

Encounter

­Table 8. Demonic Pattern 4

and they ­were greatly astonished (v. 51)

They cried out (v. 49)

for they did not under­ stand . . . ​but their hearts ­were hard (v. 52)

οὐ γὰρ συνῆκαν . . . ​ἀλλ᾽ ἦν αὐτῶν ἡ καρδία πεπωρωμένη

for they all saw him and ­were frightened (v. 50)

πάντες γὰρ αὐτὸν εἶδον καὶ ἐταράχθησαν

καὶ λίαν ἐκ περισσοῦ ἐν ἑαυτοῖς ἐξίσταντο

Onlookers’ Response

ἀνέκραξαν

(Demonic?) Response



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“rebuke the wind” (ἐπετίμησεν τῷ ἀνέμῳ) and the wind obey (καὶ ἐκόπασεν ὁ ἄνεμος). The reappearance of the adversarial winds in 6:48 fits with the pre­sen­ta­tion of the sea in the Hebrew Bible as rebellious and raging against the limits that the creator God established.81 Moreover, in Mark the chaotic sea rages against the emergence of the kingdom of God, in general (1:14–15), and the disciples’ recent enactment of its nearness, in par­tic­u­lar (6:6b–13, 30). Fiedler has cata­loged instances in Jewish and Greco-­Roman texts where the wind and sea are personified as demonic or storms are caused by demonic forces.82 We have noted how the sea can be seen as a socialized space of con­ flict. In 6:45–52, we see the sea as a socializing space of conflict from the perspective of demonized effect.83 In other words, the sea winds are not sim­ ply against the disciples, but the sea is portrayed as socializing the disciples against Jesus and the kingdom. If the demonic pattern holds as it has throughout our investigation, the disciples are placed not only in the abode of chaos but functionally in the role of chaos’s minions. Throughout Mark’s Gospel, demoniacs offer ironic right recognition of Jesus’ identity.84 The demoniacs name him as “holy one of God” (ὁ ἅγιος τοῦ θεοῦ; 1:24),85 “son of God” (υἱοῦ θεοῦ; 3:11), and “son of God most high” (υἱὲ τοῦ θεοῦ τοῦ ὑψίστου; 5:7). The designation of Jesus as God’s son is attested by a voice from heaven (1:11), a voice from a cloud (9:7), the centu­ rion (15:39), and, of course, demons.86 Precisely where, according to the pat­ tern we have been considering thus far, we would expect that the demons would have rightly recognized Jesus as “son of God” (υἱοῦ θεοῦ), the disci­ ples falter by misrecognizing him as phantasma (φάντασμα; v. 49).87 The ab­ surdity of this misrecognition of Jesus as phantasma has been forcefully argued by Combs to suggest the disciples’ “failure to believe in Jesus.”88 The disciples’ lack of understanding has often been noted as a theme in Markan scholarship,89 often as an instance of communal transparency of ecclesial wa­ vering in light of persecution.90 This may well be true, but the added tex­ ture I am attempting to introduce is placing the disciples in the socializing force of the sea-­as-­chaos and the functional role of the demonized. When the disciples see Jesus walking on the sea, they “cried out” (ἀνέκραξαν) and ­were “terrified” (ἐταράχθησαν). ­These responses, according to our pattern established above, are the responses of the demoniacs who cry out at the sight of the son of God. ­After walking on the ­water and boarding the boat, Jesus spoke (ἐλάλησεν) to the disciples and revealed who he was: “I am; fear not!” (ἐγώ εἰμι μὴ φοβεῖσθε; v. 50). As with Poseidon/Neptune and Alexander, even the winds recognized who Jesus was and “ceased” (ἐκόπασεν; v. 51). The

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disciples, however, neither recognized nor understood (v. 52) ­because of their hard hearts (ἦν αὐτῶν ἡ καρδία πεπωρωμένη; cf. 8:17).91 In their repetition of the demonic pattern they fail in offering right recognition. Hardened hearts ­were markers of the enemies of God.92 They ­were also a constant threat to the ­people of God.93 As such, they ­were warned against by prophets.94 Though positing an anti-­t welve polemic on the part of Mark may be ­going too far,95 the adversarial position of the disciples with re­spect to the identity of Jesus is striking. The threatening sea, though checked ­until this point, is represented as a socializing force over the disciples. Enmeshed in chaos’s strug­gle with the creator God and the emergence of the kingdom, the disciples are depicted as both far from God (vv. 47–48) and unable to recognize the manifestation of divine power and presence (vv. 51–52; cf. 4:41). In response to the disciples’ fear in 4:40, Jesus asked, “Where is your faith [οὔπω ἔχετε πίστιν]?” In 6:49–52, not only does their fear return, but their lack of faith is made emphatic both by their misrecognition of Jesus as phan­ tasma and their hardness of heart.96 The sea thus becomes a site of contest in terms of the disciples as socialized beings: the socializing forces of chaos and unbelief at odds with the kingdom of God and rightly recognizing the body of Jesus. Jesus’ “walking upon the sea” (περιπατῶν ἐπὶ τῆς θαλάσσης), then, can­ not simply be reduced to a super­natural commute. It is a depiction of the strug­gle over the socialization of the ­people of God as well as the refraction of traumatic guilt. As with the portrayal of God in Job 9:8 LXX as the one who “trampled the back of the sea dragon” (παριπατεῖν . . . ​ἐπὶ θαλάσσης)— or in Ps. 73:13–14 LXX as the one who prevailed against the sea (σὺ ἐκραταίωσας ἐν τῇ δθνάμει σου τὴν θάλασσαν), dashed the head of the dragon (σὺ σθνέτριψας τὰς κεφαλὰς τῶν δρακόντων ἐπὶ τοῦ ὕδατος), and crushed the heads of the Leviathan (σὺ σθνέθλασας τὰς κεφαλὰς τοῦ δράκοντος)—­Jesus’ walking over the sea is his trampling over the dragon-­ snake, that ­enemy of old.97 As Heil suggests, “Jesus’ walking on the sea means divine dominance over it and functions as divine rescue from it.”98 He is as the warrior-­God trampling down the sea.99 Jesus’ walking over the sea is therefore not the utterly “useless” miracle that some have noted.100 What­ ever Mark’s cultural scripts might have been, they are integrated “into his narrative” and into a “more complex picture of Jesus’ identity.”101 Beyond this Christological horizon,102 if we take seriously the misrecognition of Jesus as phantasma by the disciples, a new function of Mark’s mythopoesis” emerges.103 The sea becomes a space of competing socialization. The disciples (and the



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p­ eople of God) are split between the forces of chaos and the kingdom of God; between Jesus and the strongman (ὁ ἰσχυρός) of 3:27; between guilt and shame.

No Body to Mourn: Phantasm and Desire Striding over the sea, whose ­waters ­were “littered with the pearly debris of the dawn,”104 the disciples see what they believed (ἔδοξαν) to be an appari­ tion, a phantasma (φάντασμά). Commentators tend to take the observation of the disciples ­here to be yet another instance of stylized themes of misun­ derstanding, misrecognition, and misapprehension. In many re­spects, this seems to make sense. The redactor of the Gospel shapes the story at several points precisely along ­these lines. Even ­after Jesus’ explanation of all ­things (ἐπέλυεν πάντα) in 4:1–34, the disciples remain dumbfounded as to who Jesus is.105 They are l­ater associated with the same crowds to whom all t­ hings ­were to remain unclear: “Are you thus similarly without understanding [οὕτως καὶ ὑμεῖς ἀσύνετοί ἐστε]?”106 The appearance of καί in 7:18 con­ nects the disciples with the Pharisees and scribes who had come from Jeru­ salem to question him over the traditions of the elders (τὴν παράδοσιν τῶν πρεσβυτέρων; 7:3). The disciples are portrayed as consistently misunder­ standing the capacities bestowed on them following the feeding miracles.107 They are positioned opposite time’s fulfillment and the side of God,108 lack­ ing understanding of Jesus’ death109 and mission,110 and cast within the lots of a faithless generation (γενεὰ ἄπιστος).111 ­Earlier, we noted that in Jewish traditions, the ship often signified ter­ ror and judgment at the hands of foreign enemies.112 In Isa. 33:21, for ex­ ample, Zion is said to be outside the reach of any threatening ship. Elsewhere, the threat is reversed, and the enemies of God are said to be repelled and sent away in shame in their own ships.113 Moreover, if the covenant is bro­ ken, the Lord ­will return his disobedient ­people “in ships” to Egypt: καὶ ἀποστρέψει σε κύριος εἰς Αἴγυπτον ἐν πλοίοις (Deut. 28:68 LXX). It is perhaps more than merely an “editorial link,”114 then, when Jesus compelled his disciples to get into the boat (ἠνάγκασεν τοὺς μαθητὰς αὐτοῦ ἐμβῆναι εἰς τὸ πλοῖον; 6:45). Or, as it is restated in the following verse, he took his leave of them (ἀποταξάμενος). The placement of the disciples “in the boat” (εἰς τὸ πλοῖον) compounds their status as one of separation, isola­ tion, and exposure. In 6:31, they ­were summoned by Jesus “into a deserted

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place” (εἰς ἔρημον τόπον). Alone, they departed in the boat to a deserted place (ἀπῆλθον ἐν τῷ πλοίῳ εἰς ἔρημον τόπον; 6:32). In this place of isola­ tion, this placeless-­ness, their lack of faith and socio-­temporal alignment manifests itself by a powerlessness and inability to replicate kingdom functions—­even a­ fter the apparent successes of 6:7–13.115 Undifferentiated and adrift, they lack the capacities and that ingenuity of which Cohen speaks on the swelling sea.116 The bridge between ­these scenes is the episode of the death of John the baptizer (6:14–29). Significantly, as we have alluded to above, his disciples came and took away his body and laid it in a tomb (ἦλθον καὶ ἦραν τὸ πτῶμα αὐτοῦ καὶ ἔθηκαν αὐτὸ ἐν μνημείῳ; 6:29). The presence of a corpse (πτῶμα) to mourn by the followers of John as well as their pious acts of burial con­ trasts sharply with the corpse of Jesus abandoned by his disciples (15:45). This is not the first time a contrast between the practices of John’s and Jesus’ dis­ ciples is evident. ­Earlier, John’s disciples are represented as fasting and the disciples of Jesus are not (2:29). And ­here, it is not Jesus’ disciples who look ­after the corpse of Jesus but Joseph of Arimathea (15:43)—­a man “waiting for the kingdom of God” (προσδεχόμενος τὴν βασιλείαν τοῦ θεου) and a respected member of the council (εὐσχήμων βουλευτής). That someone eagerly waiting for the kingdom of God would come to collect the corpse of Jesus is not surprising, in light of 1:14–15; that this person would be from the council, however, is. The council is presented as wholly together (ὅλον τὸ συνέδριον) in putting Jesus to death (εἰς τὸ θανατῶσαι αὐτόν) in 14:55. The chief priests, elders, scribes, and the “­whole council” (ὅλον τὸ συνέδριον) bound Jesus and delivered him to Pilate (15:1). Moreover, it is with re­spect to this council that the disciples are said to be in danger of ­f uture persecution (13:9). Someone described as βουλευτής, of course, is not necessarily a member of the Sanhedrin. The association depends entirely on context.117 The description of Joseph as a prominent member of the council (εὐσχήμων βουλευτής), however, to­ gether with the actions of the unified religious leaders handing Jesus over to a foreign leader to die,118 introduces what might be a cryptic allusion to Job 12:17 (MT/LXX): διάγων βουλευτὰς αἰχμαλώτους κριτὰς δὲ γῆς ἐξέστησεν. .‫ׁשֹול֑ל וְ ֽׁשֹפ ִ ְ֥טים י ְהֹולֵ ֽל‬ ָ ‫מֹול֣יְך יֹוע ִ ֲ֣צים‬ ִ He leads counselors away stripped; and judges he makes fools.



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In Job 12:17, the Lord is the one leading the counselors away. In the Markan account,119 counselors lead away the one whom ­later tradition ­will refer to as the Lord Jesus (ὁ . . . ​κύριος Ἰησοῦς).120 In the text of Mark, it is precisely one of ­these counselors—­who is among ­those who are presented as unified in their ­handling of the trial and handing over of Jesus to imperial power—­ who attends to his corpse. For the disciples, ­there was no body (πτῶμα) to mourn precisely ­because ­there was nobody pre­sent to mourn. The last we hear of ­those whom Jesus desired collectively is in Gethsemane, where they abandon him and flee (καὶ ἀφέντες αὐτὸν ἔφυγον πάντες; 14:50); the last of whom individually we hear is a broken and weeping Peter (καὶ ἐπιβαλὼν ἔκλαιεν) a­ fter his threefold denial (14:66–72).

Phantasma What are we to make of the disciples’ recognition of Jesus from the boat as phantasma (φάντασμά)? What does the misunderstanding of Jesus upon the sea as phantasma say about the logic of misunderstanding? Reading the dis­ ciples’ misrecognition of Jesus as phantasma (ἔδοξαν ὅτι φάντασμά ἐστιν) together with the editorial insertion of their misunderstanding of the bread (οὐ γὰρ συνῆκαν ἐπὶ τοῖς ἄρτοις) yields an impor­tant clue (6:49, 52). In Philo, following Plato, phantasma consistently carries negative con­ notations. In De fuga et inventione 129.4, it is what emerges from a “variously formed life” (πολυμόρφῳ βίῳ) separated from the sole good (τὸ καλὸν μόνον). It is associated with the dreams (τά ὀνείρατα) of ­things that only appear good (φαινομένων ἀγαθῶν). ­Later (144.1), phantasma is contrasted with the “real ­things” (πραγμάτων) of which Moses speaks in Gen. 31:33. In De somniis 2.162.2, Philo again returns to its associations with dreaming: But the deep and long-­enduring sleep in which ­every wicked man is held, removes all true conceptions, and fills the mind with all kinds of false images, and unsubstantial visions, persuading it to embrace what is shameful as praiseworthy. For at one time it dreams of grief as joy, and does not perceive that it is looking at the vine, the plant of folly and error. ὁ δὲ βαθὺς καὶ διωλύγιος ὕπνος, ᾧ πᾶς κατέχεται φαῦλος, τὰς μὲν ἀληθεῖς καταλήψεις ἀφαιρεῖται, ψευδῶν δὲ εἰδώλων καὶ

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ἀβεβαίων φαντασμάτων ἀναπίμπλησι τὴν διάνοιαν, τὰ ὑπαίτια ὡς ἐπαινετὰ ἀναπείθων ἀποδέχεσθαι. καὶ γὰρ νυνὶ λύπην ὡς χαρὰν ὀνειροπολεῖ καὶ οὐκ ἀισθάνεται, ὅτι τὸ ἀφροσύνης καὶ τοῦ παραπαίειν—­φυτόν, ἄμπελον, ὁρᾷ. In Josephus, phantasma can refer to angelic figures,121 or bringers of dreams or visions.122 It can also refer to other wonderful occurrences (τὰ λοιπὰ φαντάσματα) that accompanied Moses’ vision of the bush. In this case, it appears in a divine sphere of activity. Gideon is met by a phantasma who took the form of a young man (παραστάντος νεανίσκου μορφῇ) and proclaimed him beloved of God.123 Manoah’s wife, who exceeded her contemporaries in beauty,124 was met by a phantasma, whose appearance (ἐπιφαίνεται), Josephus explains, was of God (τοῦ θεοῦ).125 Josephus recounts the visions of Daniel in Susa, and states that it was God who had interpreted the phantasma of them.126 In a fascinating passage detailing the moment that Josephus realized God’s purposes for his ­people and the prophetic meaning of the events unfolding around him in Jotapata,127 Josephus details being con­ fronted with disturbing images and phantasma.128 Fi­nally, Pha­raoh was ter­ rorized by phantoms of the night.129 In 1 Enoch 99:7, phantasma can be associated with demons and other dark spirits standing ­behind the worship of graven images. In a similar scene to what Josephus describes in Wars 5.381, Wisdom 17.14 speaks of phantasms terrorizing the Egyptians at night. The rich deployment of phantasma in the diverse writings of antiquity, though resisting easy classification and definition, introduces problematics with re­spect to the world that pre­sents itself as given and the bodies enclosed therein. Derrida’s schema of spectrality, which includes ghosts, haunting, and conjuration, is useful ­here. Ghosts and spirits are what arise at the end or death of something—an era, a desire, an attachment, a belief, a figure, a nar­ rative.130 For Derrida, the very fact that we possess a language of “haunting” or phantasma belies a latent confession that dead ­things live. Spirits contra­ vene the finality of death, weakening its line with life. Learning to live there­ fore assumes an ac­cep­tance of the non-­opposition between life and death, figured, as it is, by haunts and specters that open our senses to a pre­sent permeated by an elsewhere. Specters and phantasma are what arise from the permanent disruption of canonical oppositions that render our world coher­ ent. The specter is the “in-­betweenness,” the “becoming body,” or, perhaps, the “has-­been body.” It is a force that upsets time and unsettles space, revealing the contingent nature of both.



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In Derrida’s hauntology,131 the specter reverses any understanding of his­ tory as origin and the pre­sent as the inevitable result of that origin by its very being as revenant and recurrence. “The specter begins by coming back, by repeating itself, by recurring in the pre­sent.”132 The logic of phantasma is thus not simply a pre­sent haunted by what tran­spired in the past but also by ­those ­things confused or misnamed, forgotten, or unclear. “To be haunted is at once to experience the profundity or significance of something from the past and not to know what that something was.”133 To be haunted is to be disquieted and disoriented, to be in a place of “permanent open-­endedness of meaning and limits of mastery.”134 The arrival of phantasma is thus the appearance of what should be in the past but is not ­there; it is somehow ­here—­but not. As Wendy Brown beautifully describes: “It is to recognize that ­there is something from the past occupying the pre­sent, something whose shape or meaning eludes us. Haunting takes place between history and memory; it is si­mul­ta­neously an achievement of memory and a failure of memory with regard to some significant historical effect. As an achieve­ ment, haunting keeps the phenomenon alive and potent; as a failure, it in­ dicates or points ­toward a history that cannot fully conjure or command.”135 Language of phantasma evinces an attempt at placing the unsayable in speech even as it remains an “unclaimed experience.” It may offer an unof­ ficial history censured by constraints of official culture. The telling, how­ ever, remains in the dissociative dialectic of trauma.136 Its mute terror is a reminder of ­those many horrors that must, but cannot, be said.

Bread, Anxiety, and Bodies ­ fter witnessing stilled winds and the reassociation of Jesus with the boat, A the Markan redactor states that the disciples ­were amazed (ἐξίσταντο) ­because their hardened hearts did not understand the loaves (οὐ γὰρ συνῆκαν ἐπὶ τοῖς ἄρτοις, ἀλλ᾽ ἦν αὐτῶν ἡ καρδία πεπωρωμένη). The challenge is how to understand the γάρ that connects ­these seemingly disparate thoughts in 6:51–52. If they had understood ­matters concerning the bread (ἐπὶ τοῖς ἄρτοις), for example, would the disciples have rightly recognized Jesus as Je­ sus and not as a phantasma (v. 49)? Would they not have been beyond won­ der (v. 51)? To what, moreover, does ἐπὶ τοῖς ἄρτοις refer? The plural form likely refers to the remaining morsels of the miraculous feeding (6:30–44), but might ­there be other resonances as well, as it relates to the misrecognition

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­Table 9. Bread and Bodies 6:41

8:6

14:22

καὶ λαβὼν τοὺς πέντε ἄρτους καὶ τοὺς δύο ἰχθύας ἀναβλέψας εἰς τὸν οὐρανὸν εὐλόγησεν καὶ κατέκλασεν τοὺς ἄρτους καὶ ἐδίδου τοῖς μαθηταῖς [αὐτοῦ]

καὶ λαβὼν τοὺς ἑπτὰ ἄρτους εὐχαριστήσας ἔκλασεν καὶ ἐδίδου τοῖς μαθηταῖς αὐτοῦ

Καὶ ἐσθιόντων αὐτῶν λαβὼν ἄρτον εὐλογήσας ἔκλασεν καὶ ἔδωκεν αὐτοῖς καὶ εἶπεν· λάβετε, τοῦτό ἐστιν τὸ σῶμά μου.

and he took the five loaves and the two fish, and looking up to heaven, he blessed it and broke the bread and gave them to the disciples.

and taking the seven loaves, he gave thanks and broke them, and gave them to his disciples

And while they ­were eating, he took some bread, and ­a fter a blessing he broke it, and gave it to them, and said, “Take it, this is my body.”

of Jesus as phantasma? Worth comparing in this re­spect are 6:41, 8:6, and 14:22. In 14:22, ἄρτος (“bread”) signifies the body of Jesus (τοῦτό ἐστιν τὸ σῶμά μου), broken and given (ἔκλασεν καὶ ἔδωκεν). Might the bread in 6:41 and 8:6, then, also broken and given (κατέκλασεν τοὺς ἄρτους καὶ ἐδίδου), signify the body of Jesus? Though not necessarily incorrect, we are perhaps led too quickly by overly familiar associations of ­later Eucharist tra­ ditions with 14:22–26, which then cast their ritualistic rays back into the feedings of 8:6 and 6:41. This may be the case in ­later traditions. Even if Eucharist readings remain unconvincing ­here, what it commemorates lends intriguing possibilities: the body of Jesus not broken and given but taken and absent. Bread in the Gospel of Mark triggers anxiety. Its first occurrence (2:26) appears in Jesus’ seemingly strained and erroneous defense to the religious leaders concerning the right to harvest grain during the Sabbath.137 Bread also occurs in contexts exacerbated by lack and economic crisis,138 as well as further disputes with religious leaders on ritual purity.139 Bread indexes, po­ sitions, and disciplines bodies at discrete points of anxiety within fields of power.140 What, then, is the anxiety raised by the texts of 6:52 and 8:14–21? Four similarities recur in each of ­these texts. First, the scenes take place on a boat (6:51, 8:14). Second, anxiety or fear is pre­sent (6:51, 8:16) ­because of, third, misunderstandings surrounding the significance and signification of bread.



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And, fourth, the disciples are charged with lacking understanding and pos­ sessing hardened hearts (6:52; 8:17, 21). The misunderstanding of bread while onboard a ship is unlikely to be coincidental. Too many similarities and prox­ imities exist. Moreover, both scenes follow the disciples’ misrecognition of Jesus as phantasma—as a body that is not quite, no longer, or perhaps not yet a body141—­and, of course, not yet in the boat: not yet incorporated into the social body of the community.

Desire and the Horror of Separation Even more perplexing is how this phantasma is depicted as desiring to pass the boat by. Some commentators see an Exodus typology operative between Jesus ascending the mountain to pray (v. 46) and then passing the disciples by (v. 48).142 In the former, he is a Moses figure; in the latter, he is somehow associated with theophany. The relevant texts are: ἤθελεν παρελθεῖν αὐτούς He desired to pass them by. (6:48) καὶ κατέβη κύριος ἐν νεφέλῃ καὶ παρέστη αὐτῷ ἐκεῖ καὶ ἐκάλεσεν τῷ ὀνόματι κυρίου καὶ παρῆλθεν κύριος πρὸ προσώπου αὐτοῦ καὶ ἐκάλεσεν κύριος ὁ θεὸς. And the Lord descended in a cloud and stood near him t­ here and called by the name of the Lord; and the Lord passed by before his face and the Lord God called. (Exod. 34:5–6 LXX). καὶ εἶπεν ἐξελεύσῃ αὔριον καὶ στήσῃ ἐνώπιον κυρίου ἐν τῷ ὄρει ἰδοὺ παρελεύσεται κύριος. And he said, “You ­shall go out tomorrow and s­ hall stand before the Lord on the mountain; behold the Lord ­will pass by.” (3 Kingdoms 19:11 LXX) Reading 6:48b with texts of the Lord revealing himself to Moses and Elijah raises confusion with v. 48a. Why would ­there be adverse winds? Dibelius and Yarbro Collins suggest that the winds forestall the disciples precisely so that divine power can be made manifest in Jesus as divine messiah.143 This

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is certainly with pre­ce­dent. In Jon. 1:4, the Lord raises a contrary wind in order to retard the wayward journey of Jonah (καὶ κύριος ἐξήγειρεν πνεῦμα εἰς τὴν θάλασσαν καὶ ἐγένετο κλύδων μέγας ἐν τῇ θαλάσσῃ καὶ τὸ πλοῖον ἐκινδύνευεν συντριβῆναι). If we stick within the Gospel of Mark, how­ ever, and move our attention one word prior, to παρελθεῖν (“to pass by”)—­ ἤθελεν (“to desired”)—­a new reading emerges. Jesus is the subject of ἤθελεν (“to desire”) on four occasions in Mark.144 Mark 3:13 has been an impor­tant verse in this proj­ect, and t­ here are impor­ tant parallels with 6:48. Jesus is said to go up a mountain (ἀναβαίνει εἰς τὸ ὄρος) and call ­those whom he desired (καὶ προσκαλεῖται οὓς ἤθελεν αὐτός), which resulted in their gathering around him (ἀπῆλθον πρὸς αὐτόν). It is significant that ­those whom he desired ­were upon the mountain with him, drawn to him. In 6:46, ­a fter sending ­those whom he desired away (ἀποταξάμενος αὐτοῖς), he departs to a mountain by himself (ἀπῆλθεν εἰς τὸ ὄρος). He is separated from the ship (v. 47), and while walking over the sea, v. 48 says that “he desired to pass them by” (ἤθελεν παρελθεῖν αὐτούς). Desire as a creative force in 3:13 is thus traumatically split in 6:48. The “ship” (τό πλοῖον), suspended in primordial placeless-­ness (v. 47), experiences the recurrence of the traumatic event of separation and abandonment. This traumatic inverse of the social body’s beginning is what Freud would call the “repetition compulsion.”145 It is the “threat of annihilation,” the ter­ ror at experiencing the traumatic rupture of desire afresh, that pursues the traumatized long ­after the event has passed.146 We see this repeated in the narrative, with re­spect to anx­i­eties over Jesus’ body,147 the repetition of sep­ aration and anxiety,148 the threat of Jesus’ vari­ous departures,149 and guilt issuing from Gethsemane and Peter’s denials.150 As Herman surmises in a dif­fer­ent context: “The results of ­these investigations validate the century-­ old insight that traumatized ­people relive in their bodies the moments of terror that they cannot describe in words. Dissociation appears to be the mechanism by which intense sensory and emotional experiences are discon­ nected from the social domain of language and memory, the internal mechanism by which terrorized ­people are silenced.”151 The other two appearances of Jesus as the subject of ἤθελεν (“to de­ sire”) occur in texts where he wishes to remain anonymous.152 Desire ­here drifts ­toward isolation. This is fitting with trauma. Trauma can produce al­ tered states of consciousness.153 It tears apart “complex systems of self-­ protection,” issuing a dialectic of needing to share and refusing to speak.154 This is part of Herman’s dialectic of trauma: living between psychological



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states of intrusion and constriction, attachment and isolation.155 The terror of the traumatic event’s recurrence intensifies the need for new protective attachments or can result in outright separation and secrecy.156 The scene of Jesus sending his disciples away in a boat, then, cannot simply be reduced to displaced resurrection narratives, mighty deeds of a θεῖος ἀνήρ (godman), or epiphanic visions. The scene refracts the felt exposure, alienation, and traumatic separation of the disciples from the body of Jesus. It is a hauntology of an early community’s somatic insecurity and recurrent guilt.

A Social Body Adrift at Sea At this point, we briefly return to a few threads left dangling from Chap­ ter 4, with re­spect to the recurring imagery in antiquity of the ship as a meta­ phor for a social body (the ship of state). What is significant is the symbolic function of the ship as it relates to the disciples in Mark and latter elabora­ tion of this episode in Matt. 14:22–33. In a writer like Philo, the imagery of the ship (ναῦς) is diversely deployed. Perhaps most common is the use of the ship as an image for the soul (ἡ ὅλη ψυξή)157 sailing for safe harbor.158 Philo can also employ the image of the ship, following Plato’s famous ship-­ of-­state imagery,159 to signify individual regions or even the ­whole inhabited world.160 What has become of Eu­rope and Asia, and, in short, of the ­whole of the inhabited world? Is it not tossed up and down and agitated like a ship that is tossed by the sea, at one time enjoying a fair wind and at another time being forced to b­ attle against contrary gales? τί δ᾽ Εὐρώπη καὶ Ἀσία καὶ συνελόντι φράσαι πᾶσα ἡ οἰκουμένη; οὐκ ἄνω καὶ κάτω κλονουμένη καὶ τινασσομένη ὥσπερ ναῦς θαλαττεύουσα τοτὲ μὲν δεξιοῖς τοτὲ δὲ καὶ ἐναντίοις πνεύμασι χρῆται? Though deployed significantly less in meta­phorical or symbolic uses, Jose­ phus likewise echoes the imagery of the ship as nation or city—or some sort of social body.161 Recurrent in both authors are associations with a ship and its pi­lot.162

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In Mark, the function of the boat (πλοῖον) reflects social relations and affiliation. Its first usage appears in the contest of Jesus calling (καλέω) James and John of Zebedee (1:19–20). The sons leave their ­father in his boat with his servants (καὶ ἀφέντες τὸν πατέρα αὐτῶν Ζεβεδαῖον ἐν τῷ πλοίῳ μετὰ τῶν μισθωτῶν ἀπῆλθον ὀπίσω αὐτοῦ) in order to follow Jesus. The second occurrence introduces Jesus’ command to ready a boat in order to escape the pressing crowd (3:9). The boat is the place whereupon t­ hose whom Jesus de­ sires depart to desolate places (cf. 6:32); and it is only they who are ever placed together with Jesus on a boat. The boat becomes a place from which Jesus sits and teaches, as well as a physical boundary between him and the crowds (4:1, 8:10). The boat also rep­ resents a place of confusion, separation, and misunderstanding. Twice on the boat, the disciples misunderstand the somatic significance of bread (6:52, 8:14). ­After he is taken into the boat of the disciples, as opposed to other nearby ships (4:36–37), he mysteriously separates from them, arriving at and then returning alone from the mythic world of the dead (5:2, 18). He contin­ ues his journey, still apparently alone, to a region where he heals the ­daughter of the ruler of a synagogue and a ­woman suffering from a constant flow of blood (5:21). He rejoins the disciples, and together they again embark to a deserted place (cf. 6:32), from which he sends his disciples away by boat so that he can commune with God alone on the mountain (6:45). When Jesus returns from the mountain, it is eve­ning (ὀψίας). The boat is said to be in the ­middle of the sea while Jesus remained alone on land (ἦν τὸ πλοῖον ἐν μέσῳ τῆς θαλάσσης, καὶ αὐτὸς μόνος ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς; v. 47). The verses that follow return to using the personal pronoun αὐτούς (“them”) to refer to the disci­ ples. In v. 51, the two modes of reference are placed alongside each other: καὶ ἀνέβη πρὸς αὐτοὺς εἰς τὸ πλοῖον. And he went up    with them    into the boat. The movement ­here suggests that the entities of boat (πλοῖον) and disci­ ple (μαθητάς) cannot necessarily be made separable. In this context, the one refers to the other. The ship caught in the ­middle of the sea is the



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traumatized and dissociative social body of ­those whom Jesus had desired. And Jesus is traumatically repositioned as the one who now desires to pass them by.

Land and Sea The separation of desire also consists of a manifest spatial displacement be­ tween Jesus on land and the disciples/ship at sea (6:47).163 καὶ ὀψίας γενομένης ἦν τὸ πλοῖον ἐν μέσῳ τῆς θαλάσσης καὶ αὐτὸς μόνος ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς. And when it was eve­ning the boat was in the ­middle of the sea and he was alone on land. This trope of land and sea factored significantly in Schmitt’s effort to dis­ cover new concepts that would best describe humanity’s relationship with its social, po­liti­cal, and ideological environment.164 Humanity is “terrestrial, a groundling,” he states in the opening of Land and Sea, living, moving, and walking on the “firmly grounded Earth.”165 Land thus becomes both stand­ point and reference in the production and conditioning of a “world outlook,” forming what he termed “an elemental opposition.” The Nazi jurist makes recourse to no less than kabbalah traditions, which see world history as the mythic combat between Leviathan and Behemoth,166 before turning to geopo­liti­cal events that repeat this fundamental opposition and strug­gle.167 It is this opposition that reveals for Schmitt how the formation of any basic order is, in fact, the formation of a spatial order.168 Ultimately, of course, the land/sea distinction that held throughout an­ tiquity and into early modernity becomes redundant for Schmitt. The sea has been brought into the dominion of the groundling. Nevertheless, any new nomos composes itself from and upon the ruins of the old. The nomos demanded by a new relationship with and configuration of humanity’s new surroundings is a change in the standards and criteria of existence. As op­ posed to seeing a death or an ending of a world in this, Schmitt says that this is but a living through an opposition now past. The old is passing away,

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dragging with it its accompanying social and spatial order. This is not with­ out threat, as this passing places existence before horror vacui even as new meanings are seeking to impress themselves. Yet “­there is nothing to show that what is to come ­will, by the force of ­things, be but chaos or nothing­ ness, inimical to any nomos.”169 Perhaps this might shed light on the dynamics operative h ­ ere. The po­ sitioning of Jesus on land and the disciples at sea is the placement of a split within the kingdom of God, which appeared to be pre­sent in some form in the mission of the twelve (6:7–13) and the feeding of the five thousand (6:30–44). Even at the point in which the distinction between land and sea is closed, the traumatic recurrence of separation positions Jesus as desiring to pass by. His body is not recognized. Even when he enters the boat, his body is neither understood by nor incorporated into a social body. The division of land and sea is thus never overcome. His passing by places the “ship” before horror vacui, a fledgling community’s break from the framework of grounded existence and the terror before Nihil.

Leaps into the Sea In lieu of a conclusion, I want to consider a ­later Matthean elaboration of this scene,170 and theorize as to how trauma might suggest why this elabo­ ration is not, and could not have appeared, in Mark itself. The elaboration is the exchange between Peter and Jesus (Matt. 14:28–33). Upon Jesus’ dis­ closing his identity upon the ­water (v. 27), Peter responds by demanding if it is so, then he should walk over the ­waters: κύριε, εἰ σὺ εἶ, κέλευσόν με ἐλθεῖν πρός σε ἐπὶ τὰ ὕδατα. Lord, if it is you, call me to come to you on the ­water. (v. 28) Jesus acquiesces, and Peter is said to have leaped from the boat and walked over the w ­ aters to Jesus: καὶ καταβὰς ἀπὸ τοῦ πλοίου [ὁ] Πέτρος περιεπάτησεν ἐπὶ τὰ ὕδατα καὶ ἦλθεν πρὸς τὸν Ἰησοῦν. And Peter descended from the boat and walked on the ­water and came ­toward Jesus. (v. 29)



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When Peter sees the rising waves, he begins to sink (καταποντίζεσθαι) and cries out to the Lord to be saved (v. 30). Jesus acquiesces (v. 31), and the two go up and into (ἀναβάντων) the boat together (v. 32). The winds stop, and the disciples worship (προσεκύνησαν), declaring: “Truly you are a son of God” (ἀληθῶς θεοῦ υἱὸς εἶ; v. 33). The distinction of land and sea and of separation is overcome in Matthew. ­There may be a parallel from the classical world that makes sense of the healing of this breach between land and sea and Jesus and his disciples in Matthew. In Pindar’s Pythian, Perseus sets across the ­waters on a quest for the recognition and authentication of his identity as son of Zeus.171 Estab­ lishing this identity is key not simply for Perseus but for the state as a w ­ hole. Similar moves are pre­sent with Theseus in Bacchylides’ Ode 17. In both cases, lineage and legitimacy are at stake. Illegitimacy is overcome by travel and travail. In the case of Theseus, Minos pre­sents the recovery of a ring thrown into the sea as a kind of ἀδύνατον—an impossible feat—­that could prove the latter’s special status as the son of Poseidon. The reward for Theseus’s leap is κλέος—­honor and right standing in the Athenian social order.172 Gallini suggested that leaps into the sea ­were composed so as to resolve situations of social crisis.173 He differentiates three broad categories of reso­ lution. First, coming-­of-­age myths where the hero is integrated into a group ­after emerging from the dive. Second, a cathartic healing of guilt cleansed by a leap into the sea. And, third, leaps as an initiation rite, as when par­ ticipants in the mysteries of Eleusis perform ritual immersions into the sea. In each case, “some radical transformation is effected by a voluntary leap into the sea.”174 Yet prior to that radical transformation, the leap occurs as a radi­ cal and rash impulse that stems from some deeply troubling situation.175 The leap places the diver in “an intermediary space” and an “in-­between ex­ istence.”176 It is a moment of separation,177 resulting in a “physical manifes­ tation of the irreversible psychological change operated by contact with the divine.”178 The sea is an intermediary space, spatially ambiguous.179 A leap into the sea is therefore to depart from land and life and marks an entrance into an intermediary state. Passing through and return from a leap is thus a return to land and life transformed and repositioned in an existing social order.180 Beaulieu surveys texts that deal with such leaps into the sea and lists frequently used verbs to designate voluntary leaps.181 The participle that de­ scribes the action of Peter is not among this list: “descending from the boat” (καταβὰς ἀπὸ τοῦ πλοίου). The verbal connection is therefore thin.

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The thematic similarity, however, is intriguing. Peter goes down into the sea, and his return to the ship with Jesus is associated with the calming of the wind: “and when they ascended into the boat, the wind ­stopped” (καὶ ἀναβάντων αὐτῶν εἰς τὸ πλοῖον ἐκόπασεν ὁ ἄνεμος; v. 32). It is not insig­ nificant that it is also in Matthew, which claims that it is upon Peter whom Jesus says he w ­ ill establish his church (ἐκκλησία; 16:18). Which ele­ments are pre­sent in Matthew from Gallini’s three categories of resolution is a proj­ect for another day. What­ever the case may or may not be for Matthew, the point is that none of ­these categories is pos­si­ble in Mark. The leap into and then the coming up out of the sea by Peter is a lovely en­ actment of his restoration in Matthew. In Mark, the picture is quite dif­fer­ ent. In response to his question to the disciples about their opinion of who he is, Peter says to Jesus: “You are the Christ” (σὺ εἶ ὁ χριστός; 8:29). In Matthew’s version, Peter receives blessing and apostolic legitimation (Matt. 16:18). What follows in Mark is shocking: admonitions to silence (8:30), pre­ dictions of violent death (8:31), and the attribution of Peter as Satan (8:33). The requirement of discipleship is then hastily given through the framework of denial (8:34). Disciples are to deny themselves, take up their crosses, and follow Jesus. Peter, in par­tic­u­lar, does each of ­these in reverse: he denies the Christ, leaves the cross to be shouldered by another, and flees. The ­later elab­ oration of Peter’s leap into the sea highlights the haunting and lingering trauma staining Mark. In Mark, ­there could not be status integration, ca­ tharsis, or guilt cleansing, or any initiation, precisely b­ ecause trauma dislo­ cates any spatio-­temporal framework for a social body’s resolution. Space, time, and desire remain out of joint and the isolated social body tossed on the ruins of the chaotic sea.

Chapter 7

Tragic Vision: ­Toward a Po­liti­cal Sentiment of the Unfinished

[L]ife’s endless war against the self you cannot live without. —­David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest We grow accustomed to the Dark— When Light is put away. —­Emily Dickinson, “We Grow Accustomed to the Dark” I want to know only my nothingness —­Blaise Pascal, Pensées

Making Place As one walks into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in the Old City of Jeru­ salem, a large mural appears opposite the Stone of Unction, which is meant to commemorate where Jesus’ corpse was laid in preparation for burial.1 The mu­ ral comprises three paradigmatic scenes: the deposition, the preparation, and the entombment of the corpse. On a recent visit to Jerusalem, I stood before the mural and was struck by how space and time have been made meaningful by a vast multiplicity within Chris­tian­ity’s capacious traditions. In the Holy Sepulchre, several communities have made place: Ethiopian Tewahedo, Syriac Orthodoxy, Coptic Orthodoxy, Roman Catholicism, Armenian Apostolicism, and Greek Orthodoxy. Standing next to me before the mural was a brilliant ­legal phi­los­o­pher and ethicist with whom I had become friendly during the

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weeklong conference that had brought us to the Holy City. I heard him recit­ ing the Lord’s Prayer and was moved by the emotion and spiritual energy emanating from his posture of prayer. He was not alone. All around ­were prostrated bodies. The chamber was filled with the soft murmurs and gentle cries of the devout mixed with the muffled sounds and shuffling steps of curi­ ous tourists. For my part, I was intrigued by an incongruity. In each of the mural’s three sectional images, the early followers of Jesus are visualized as tending to his corpse. Across the spread, eleven figures stand out that are in physical contact with the corpse. Nine of them wear the nimbus. How pro­ foundly Christian, I thought, standing before the sublime image; and yet how un-­Markan. Even so, depicted in the mural of the Stone of Unction, a figure with nimbus is set at the feet of the corpse with eyes averted, a hand resting on the stone and a fin­ger languidly directed at the corpse. This is the dialectic of trauma’s gesture: it can neither touch nor witness, and yet it points—­it must! This contradictory gesture, in all its terrifying inabilities and wondrous neces­ sity, is the repose of Gospel writing’s transgenerational trauma. Consider another image—­t his time, descriptions of a text from late antiquity. The sixth-­century Gallo-­Roman historian Gregory of Tours (538– 594) spoke of the miraculous rescue of a boat amid a terrible storm. As the vessel was tossed along the waves, passengers cried out in terror for salva­ tion. Bishop Baudinus was crossing the lake by boat en route to a neighbor­ ing villa. Once onboard, however, the quiet ­waters ­were disturbed by dark clouds and strong winds. The ­waters tossed the boat along its ­great intervals of wave and swell. The passengers, para­lyzed with fear, expected death. The old bishop Baudinus knelt and cried out with outstretched hands to the stars, asking for assistance from the “blessed Martin.” What is described as an “un­ believer” onboard, whom Gregory interprets as the treacherous devil him­ self, mocked the blessed bishop by saying that he was alone and that the blessed Martin was deaf to his prayers. Baudinus, however, rallied the rest of the passengers to pray, and “suddenly a very sweet fragrance like balsam covered the boat, and as if someone had gone around with a censer, the fra­ grance of incense was overpowering. At the approach of this fragrance the savagely violent winds ­stopped, the masses of nearby waves ­were crushed, and the lake became tranquil again. Every­one who had already been resigned to death marveled at the calmness of the waves, and once calm was restored, they ­were immediately returned to the shore.”2 Gregory of Tours makes plain that the power ­behind the miracle was the blessed Martin, whose arrival vindicated the faith and piety of the bishop



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Baudinus. Thematic similarities to the Markan sea stories are uncanny. It is difficult to read Gregory’s narration without thinking of the setting of the Gospel stories. Nevertheless, any scriptural allusion is drowned out by a har­ rowing silence. Intriguingly, the demonic and dev­ilish attacks on the faith of Baudinus manifested themselves by the trace of the blessed Martin’s ab­ sence. We have heard e­ arlier renditions of this threat of absence: a terrified community, alone on threatening ­waters, crying out to indifferent saviors. The steps of removal are several and severe. Again, ­there are no scriptural citations or allusions. ­There is no mention of God or his son. What is more, Saint Martin never physically appears. The sweet smells of balsam signify the saving presence of the saint while also placing the miracle in the sacred environs of the liturgy. Trauma has been placed and sacralized. The connection between the story of Gregory of Tours and the Markan sea scenes is not of the genealogical variety. Rather, the point of interest be­ tween Gregory of Tours and the Markan sea scenes is how the demonic threat of absence and traumatic abandonment has been firmly placed in a spatio-­temporal world of liturgical life and, indeed, given sacral significance by the scent-­dispensing censer in late antiquity. In the case of the mural at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the carcass of Jesus was touched and firmly placed within sacred space. For writers in late antiquity, such as Greg­ ory of Tours, violent death, the carcass, and absence ­were no longer prob­ lematic. In fact, they did not even register. How un-­Markan.

Markan Incongruence At the heart of Mark’s Gospel rests a fundamental somatic insecurity. This incongruence has played a key role in this proj­ect. The corpse of Jesus re­ mains unplaced. Unlike in other Gospels and early Christian writing, as we discussed in ­earlier chapters, it is a corpse untouched, untended, and absent. The placing of the corpse, the gesture of the touch, and the signification of its absence is the making of Chris­tian­ity: the meaningful placement of the corpse in space and time and the habituation of new therapies of desire. The corpse of Jesus in Mark’s Gospel, by contrast, remains untouched, untended, and unwitnessed: it remains unmarked. In Chapter 4, we noticed the corpse placed in the boat of the disciples. Amid the encircling threat of the chaotic swirl of the sea, the scene depicts the disciples in a position of social abeyance, alone against a threating demonic void. In Chapter 5, we noted the

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living corpse of the demoniac and the arrival of Jesus, apart from his disciples, into a mythic land of the dead, and his banishment into the sea to which the demons had retreated. In Chapter 6, we witnessed the haunting of desire—­the alienated social body adrift in the ­middle of the sea and the disciples fearing the specter of Jesus would pass them by. In each instance, the demonic threat of the sea recedes into an eerie calm and then rises anew. ­There is no banish­ ment of evil or the demonic in Mark’s Gospel. The demonic forever recurs. This proj­ect has not been interested in naming dates and places or the standard whens and wheres of historical Gospel scholarship. It has instead theorized the traumatic effects of violent death and an absent body on the early Jewish followers of Jesus, and the emergence of a resulting sentiment, and dislocated assembly. The argument put forward has not attempted to push dates forward or backward, in this re­spect. Though Gospel writing ap­ pears to have been a ­later phenomenon, this proj­ect has attempted to posit trauma as an originary event and trace the effects of that event on Gospel writing. The traumatic dislocations of space, time, and desire haunt the Gos­ pel of Mark in a way that is quite dif­fer­ent from other Gospel writing. ­Later Gospel writing appears to have attempted to expunge this haunting. Several indistinguishable planes are operative in any reading that bears the trace of trauma. Some ­later community traumatized by the fall of the ­temple and the horrors of war is positioned in association with ­those whom Jesus de­ sired (cf. 3:13). This originary desire was traumatized by the horrors of vio­ lent death, the absence of a body to mourn, and the posttraumatic guilt of abandoning Jesus. Space, time, and desire collapse; and from the ruin, a de­ monic haunting emerges. This haunting effected distinctive dissociative ex­ periences in Judaism. A new need emerged out of ­these ruins—or, to steal fire from the divine Racine, a new disaster prescribes new laws (nouveau malheur vous prescript d’autres lois).3 A distinctive therapy of desire was thus necessary for ­those in a position of social exposure ­a fter having gathered around their rabbi. As traumatized, every­thing is recurrence for ­these com­ munities. ­There is no end. ­There is no beginning. ­There is no return. The emergence of early Chris­tian­ity is the marking of an asymmetrically experi­ enced trauma in Judaism. The Gospel of Mark, however, remains a tragic vision of the unfinished in this recurrence. How might we end a proj­ect that has insisted on eerie calms, traumatic displacement, the demonic, and the unfinished nature of Mark’s Gospel? Per­ haps the most fitting course is to return to where we began in Chapter 1, by reflecting on nature and the fundamentality of Nothing. Pascal noted that



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we honor nature well when we allow it to “speak on every­thing, even theol­ ogy.”4 If ­there is anything to the arguments of Wilczek and ­others that we discussed in Chapter 1, we are learning that nature is far “more imaginative than we are.”5As the cosmologist Krauss has summarized: “It certainly seems sensible to imagine that a priori, ­matter cannot spontaneously arise from empty space, so that something, in this sense, cannot arise from nothing. But when we allow for the dynamics of gravity and quantum mechanics, we find that this commonsense notion is no longer true.”6 Nothing is profoundly un­ stable and thus generative.7 Something exists precisely ­because ­there is so much Nothing.8 Knausgaard, the Norwegian novelist, declared: “out with spirituality, out with feeling, in with a new materialism.”9 Perhaps as a fitting candidate for this call amid the collapse of past notions of sense held in common, a new materialist confession emerges as past distinctions between something and nothing are beginning to blur.10 If we ­were to follow Pascal, what might it look like if we allowed this understanding of nature, this new materialism, this “nothing,” to speak—­even to theology? A question we have been fore­ stalling ­until now is that of politics. Throughout the preceding chapters, we have noted vari­ous po­liti­cal readings of Mark’s Gospel and have attempted to place distance between such approaches with the concerns operative ­here. The question repeated throughout this proj­ect has been, what ground is ­there for any kind of politics in a traumatized community? In the traumatic rup­ ture of space, time, and desire, where is politics? As has been alluded to throughout, my proposal is that ­there is no ground in Mark—­only a trau­ matized social body adrift at sea, bobbing about in anxious suspense. In what follows, I offer a provisional, imperfect, and self-­consciously unfinished sketch of a kind of po­liti­cal sentiment by extending Pascal’s summons of allowing nature to speak to every­thing along with my reading of Mark, trauma, and the sea.11 In this sense, the sketch is less a theology and more a gesture ­toward a po­liti­cal sentiment. Against what would this sentiment be directed?

The Prob­lem Is the Prob­lem The prob­lem is never resolved ­until the prob­lem and the solution are both done away with (le problème n’est résolu que lorsqu’on supprime et le problème et la solution).12 In many re­spects, this aside from Deleuze and Guattari sums up the organ­izing anx­i­eties of this proj­ect. The pernicious threat hovering

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over us, resonating and harmonizing any protest or cries of emancipation into its rhythmic reign, are what we have been calling “practices of enclosure.” As Pascal had it, circles form; and blessed are ­those who can escape (cela fait un cercle, dont sont bienheureux ceux qui sortent).13 How can one escape ­these circles—­these enclosures? Though Deleuze and Guattari have been influen­ tial throughout this study, I stop short of their pressing schizo-­a nalysis (schizoanalyse) as a pathway to de-­oedipalize (de désœdipianiser) subjectivity and the unconscious in order to arrive at real prob­lems (véritables prob­lems).14 As I have been stressing throughout, life outside enclosure is an a-­space of primordial vulnerability. ­There is nothing messianic in the languid gestures of dis-­enclosure. Life traumatically ruptured from enclosure’s many forms of life promises no better ­future. ­There are no dance floors on the other side of tragedy as Irigaray warned.15 Schizo-­analysis has served as a helpful destruc­ tive analog for my trauma analy­sis. We stop short, however, of the constructive side of the analogue. Dis-­enclosure is not affective in the way in which the move to de-­oedipalize positions itself to be. Nancy is an impor­tant pivot in this re­spect. He spoke of openings within enclosure as pro­cesses of “dis-­enclosure.”16 Such pro­cesses denote, for Nancy, “the opening of an enclosure” in the “lifting of a barrier.”17 His par­tic­u­lar target was “the closure of metaphysics” (clôture de la métaphysique). Closure, in this sense, is the formation of any totality that conceives of itself as “ful­ filled in its self-­referentiality.”18 Chris­tian­ity, in Nancy’s reading, designates an essential demand “to open in this world an alterity or an unconditional alienation.”19 The kingdom of God for Nancy is not something from above or even within but something altogether other, emerging from the pro­cesses of dis-­enclosure. This “something ­else” functions as the precept by which one lives in this world as if outside it by the energies loosed from the tearing of enclosure.20 It is neither map nor territory—it is not even a being (être)—­ but an “opening of the world to inaccessible alterity” and new arrangements.21 Nancy is neither naïve nor an uncritical apologist for the Catholic faith. He sees Chris­tian­ity as standing with dirty hands paradoxically at the heart of the very practices of enclosure.22 Chris­tian­ity became a ­thing, a force, in the world. To use the language we have been employing throughout this proj­ ect, we might speak of early Chris­tian­ity as the placing of the corpse and the marking of an originary wound. Fundamentally, however, dis-­enclosure paradoxically remains inscribed in Chris­tian­ity’s self-­definitions and pro­ cesses of articulation.23 Dis-­enclosure is a restless force that never ceases



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from opening what has already opened.24 Dis-­enclosure’s key is in accord with a “spatial conquest” that rends and tears the heavens.25 This opening of the arrangements of the world from within the world “is the result of a destitu­ tion or deconstruction of Chris­tian­ity” from within Chris­tian­ity. As Nancy shrewdly cautions, “one can do virtually anything with Chris­ tian­ity.”26 His reading of Chris­tian­ity as dis-­enclosure is therefore a stylized work. In par­tic­u­lar, Nancy attempts a reading of Chris­tian­ity as inseparable from pro­cesses of Western modernity’s self-­a rticulation. As Nancy puts it, “all our thought is Christian through and through.”27 The world we experi­ ence is “the unfolding of Chris­tian­ity.”28 The merits of this strategy need not occupy us ­here, 29 but what I wish to appropriate from Nancy is his wa­ ger that by revisiting Chris­tian­ity’s provenance, something “more archaic” and “deeper than Chris­tian­ity itself ” may be found—­which, as a result, may gesture ­toward “a provenance that might bring out another resource.”30 This other resource for Nancy is the revelation of rien (Nothing),31 and, as a re­ sult, a restructuring of faith and being in this world as a formative relation to this rien—­the Nothing.32 Chris­tian­ity’s “essence” is an opening—­l ’essence du christianisme comme ouverture.33 Yet, as he states, this manifests itself as an experience of history as “a plan followed by God for the execution of sal­ vation.”34 Chris­tian­ity thus “resides essentially in the proclamation of its end.”35 This end is the revelation of rien,36 which, for Nancy, becomes an operation of disassemblage (operation de désassemblage).37 Chris­tian­ity is de­ constructive precisely “­because it relates immediately to its own origin as to a slack, an interval, some play, an opening in the origin.”38 The Christian faith as the revelation of rien is constitutive of an “act of intimacy that misses itself, that escapes itself,” that abandons itself;39 that is undone and unfin­ ished by its own origin story.

Tragic Vision What I would like to do with the Gospel of Mark à la Nancy is bend the traumatic, tragic, and unfinished nature of its composition and repre­sen­ta­ tions into a po­liti­cal sentiment for our moment. This is what has been al­ luded to throughout the preceding chapters as a tragic vision. It is in the Markan sea, to appropriate from Irigaray, where life traumatically recurs; it enacts a life of some primordial loneliness. Yet this recurrence may well open

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horizons “to a more distant coming”—­w ith all its terrors, won­ders, and unfinishing affect.40 Associating the Gospel of Mark with the tragic is certainly not unpre­ ce­dented.41 Most recently, Jeff Jay has powerfully and provocatively put for­ ward a persuasive case that “the gospel as a ­whole is a work composed by an artful writer over whom tragedy exerts considerable influence.”42 For Jay, the tragic refers to a mode of internal repertoire that cuts across genres and ap­ pears in moods and motifs such as “reversal, revenge, recognition, frequent lamentation, high emotionalism, and strong super­natural interventions.”43 Jay’s emphasis is at the level of composition and the resonance of Mark’s com­ position with the wider Greco-­Roman and early Jewish narratives, which employed the tragic mode.44 Perhaps most helpful for the pre­sent proj­ect is his differentiating between a tragic mode as a “decidedly literary-­historical concept” and a tragic vision he views as more “philosophical in nature.”45 The tragic mode is the analytic category by which he can make historical judg­ ments about facts of literary history.46 A tragic vision is a kind of sensibility or cultural reverberation of the tragic mode.47 Labels such as “tragic”—be they modes or visions—­can be as arbitrary as they are meaningless. Every­thing depends on the function of the label and its definition. Tracy, for example, upon whom Jay depends significantly at the level of conceptual arrangement,48 says as much in a refreshing admit­ tance that the meaning of tragedy consists, “above all, on what one thinks the heart of a tragic vision is.”49 With admirable self-­awareness and honesty, Tracy states: “I maintain” that tragic vision consists of “necessity, intense suf­ fering and an active ­human response to that suffering.”50 As a Catholic theologian—­perhaps the Catholic theologian in recent times—­Tracy is anx­ ious in arriving at a Christian vision of life that affirms life as consisting of moments of intense joy as well as intense suffering. The energy of the life that emerges from such a commingling is, for Tracy, Chris­tian­ity’s tragic vision. Tracy is adamant that this vision, contrary to what literary theorists ranging from Nietz­sche to Steiner have often pointed out, is not incompat­ ible with Chris­tian­ity.51 Jay places his historical proposal in this conceptual framework of Tracy. In par­tic­u­lar, he wants to challenge such sentiments as Steiner’s confident—­ and, as Jay insightfully points out, contradictory—­statement that “Chris­ tian­ity is an anti-­tragic vision of the world.”52 Again, it all returns to definition and function. Tracy maintains that the tragic is not horrific, pathetic, or hopeless.53 Jay agrees and insists upon the Gospel of Mark’s place in the



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litany of Christian tragedians.54 Mark’s forms of consolation are “real and ultimately final” and, according to Jay, consist of “genuine hope.”55 The tragic mode in Jay’s arrangement, as a supple and productive rhetorical tool, “promotes genuine humanity, fellow feeling, and even peaceful coexistence between Jews and non-­Jews who are both depicted as subject to common mortal horrors.”56 As such, the tragic mode generates sympathy and solidar­ ity and effects an identity of shared hope.57 My reading of Mark’s Gospel as a tragic vision is slightly dif­fer­ent. I cer­ tainly appreciate the move of Tracy and Jay to affirm the depths of ­human experience in all its complexity and contradictory force. What ­else could all the complex features of life be but tragedy?58 Can we, however, refer to the Gospel of Mark as a Christian tragedy?59 Moreover, a recurrent concern for Jay and Tracy is retaining hope in their discussions of the tragic. For Jay, the ending of Mark is led by a deep tragic undercurrent. Yet equally pre­sent is the thriving vitality of a ­great hope.60 Consolation and hope are not in­ commensurable with tragedy, in Jay’s estimation.61 Most impor­tant, the tragic does not lead to nihilistic views of the world.62 Jay’s historical pro­ posal sees no clash between the Christian message of “an overly aggressive vision of grace and redemption” and “the author of the earliest extant gos­ pel,” which belongs firmly in tragedy’s “unfolding legacy.” Tracy, too, repeat­ edly states that the tragic and hope cannot be separated. “Tragedy does not mean hopeless,” he states. ­After all, half of Greek tragedies end in hope; while the other half do not.63 The conviction of Tracy might better be tempered by his own half-­and-­ half accounting of Greek tragedy. The tragic may not necessarily equate with hopelessness. Neither, then, according to Tracy’s calculus, can it necessitate hope. To return to Tracy’s admirable self-­awareness, it all depends on what one thinks tragic vision is64—­and, of course, how one’s commitments affect definitions. Wherever one’s commitments may be and what­ever one’s defini­ tions are w ­ ill affect where one resides in Tracy’s ledger. My use of “tragic vision” is closer to what Jay refers to as being philo­ sophical in nature. Even ­here, vari­ous philosophical traditions are not in­ tended to be invoked.65 Rather, the tragic is a useful label that communicates the sentiment of trauma’s intense arrest and suspension of space, time, and desire. The tragic, in this usage, cannot be a genre precisely ­because the tragic unsettles final and finished states of being or affairs. It communicates a sen­ timent of haunting, of recurrence, and of the unfinished. I also maintain that the tragic operates in history as well as through and from the emergent

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energies and creeping ­things that secrete from the ecstatic pluriform of the past. Throughout the preceding chapters, we have suggested readings of the Markan material that bear the trace of an originary trauma. Now we consider a tragic vision that emerges from such readings that embrace the fundamentality of the Nihil. Contrary to Jay—­and Nancy and Tracy, in their own fashion—­the Gospel of Mark cannot be comfortably reduced to some­ thing Christian. The Gospel of Mark lives along a traumatic opening that occurred in Judaism and was not yet marked by an early Chris­tian­ity. The traumatic and ecstatic that haunts the Markan text was an embarrassment to be written out—or, perhaps better, into—­the history of early Chris­tian­ity. Nancy’s “unfolding of Chris­tian­ity,” is, in a very real sense, the rolling up of the trauma and ecstasy of Mark’s Gospel into its library of scrolls. By paying heed to this provenance, perhaps we get a sense of a more archaic and deeper sentiment—­which, as a result, gestures ­toward a distinctive resource in the experience of the world: tragic vision and radical unfinishing of all enclosure. This tragic vision is the revelation of a primordial exposure: the rien (Nothing) as an operation de désassemblage (operation of disassemblage).66 Chris­tian­ity is deconstructive in its marking yet also in its inability to banish the trace of an originary trauma. This lack and interval—­though written into early Chris­tian­ity’s history—­remains as a trace, haunting and unsettling any appropriation. It is this trace that effects an opening within practices of enclo­ sure, even as this opening exposes bodies to the howling and demonic swirl of nothingness. The revelation of and placement before the rien is constitutive of an “act of intimacy that misses itself, that escapes itself,”67 a nothingness that exposes and abandons life to the crushing realities of every­thing.68 Pascal brilliantly summed up this crushing real­ity by placing the inter­ nal dynamics of being before the raw realities of nature’s double infinite (dou­ ble infinity).69 ­Human nature, he argues, obscures our origins. We are born of the Nothing; and the pettiness of our being “conceals from us the sight of the Infinite.”70 The revelation of this truth is, according to Pascal, “too much truth,” which, in effect, “is paralyzing.”71 And so we prance along with our games and politics of divertissement in an attempt to hide our néant (noth­ ingness).72 A power­f ul complement to Pascal on this merger is Brassier: as opposed to rejecting hopelessness and nihilism, Brassier urges their abso­ lute embrace. He provocatively steers critiques of nihilism away from a kind of watchword for deficient and amoral thought and antihuman sentiment, and instead conceives nihilism as a decisive and dynamic critique operative in a mind-­independent real­ity. As critique, nihilism is the affirmation of “uni­



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versal unbinding.”73 In this sense, Brassier affirms a real­ity that is indiffer­ ent to existence and oblivious to our attempts at domesticating this indifference with stratagems of value and meaning.74 Key for Brassier is the affirmation of what he calls nihilism’s disquieting suggestion: the truth of extinction.75 Nature is neither beneficent nor home. And at some point in the ­f uture, nature ­will have worked our extinction.76 In light of this binding extinction, Brassier contends that “phi­los­o­phers would do well to desist from issuing any further injunctions about the need to reestablish the meaning­ fulness of existence, the purposefulness of life, or mend the shattered con­ cord between man and nature. Philosophy should be more than a sop to the pathetic twinge of ­human self-­esteem.”77 It is this nihilism that challenges any distinction or category by which life is made meaningful or enclosed. Such truths are overwhelming—­even debilitatingly so. All is disturbance. And all is bound for extinction. As such, nihilism is not simply an existential quandary for Brassier but a “speculative opportunity.”78 Perhaps I am quibbling with Brassier on this point, but surely an open­ ing that exposes ­humans to too much truth introduces existential quanda­ ries. Life within the disturbance of Nothing requires living ­until the moment of our inevitable extinction. Living such a tragic vision gestures ­toward what Tracy referred to as the need for tragic wisdom. For Tracy, such wisdom ac­ knowledges suffering and tragedy without abandoning hope. It also refuses asking the question, Why?79 Brassier rejects the aesthetics of meaning, pur­ pose, and hope precisely ­because the why is known. We are g­ oing nova! In an attempt to illustrate ­these dynamics of the sentiment of tragic vi­ sion and tragic wisdom in the internal dynamics of being, I turn to Heming­ way’s The Old Man and the Sea—­the namesake of this volume. Hemingway’s power­f ul reflection on the unfinished and tragic sentiment of humanity en­ closed and an old man’s encounter with the beyond helps negotiate the standstill between Tracy and Brassier specifically as it relates to the neces­ sity of wisdom and the allure of faulty hopes and politics of the harbor.

An Old Man’s Tragic Vision ­ oward the end of Hemingway’s novella The Old Man and the Sea, fisher­ T men gather around the “white naked line” of skeletal bone collapsed next to the old man’s returned skiff. Amid the clamoring crowd, the testimony of

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the proprietor reflects a deep ambiguity at the heart of the story: “­There has never been such a fish.” This statement can be read at least two ways: Are we to read this as a superlative of comparison? No such fish could rival the fish caught by the old man—or, at least, to what the skeletal remains appear to testify; or, should we read the declaration as a statement of counterfact? ­There has never been a fish! The fish has never existed. ­These bones have been misclassified or testify to something e­ lse. The significance of Hemingway’s Old Man and the Sea for this proj­ ect is in its offering a parable of the practices of enclosure’s inability to solve this ambiguity. That is to say, The Old Man and the Sea reveals something fundamentally ungraspable—or what Blumenberg referred to as the “noncenceptuality”—of life, particularly within enclosure’s exact­ ing mea­sure­ments and forms of recognition. In par­tic­u­lar, the themes of bound­a ries, trespass, and crossing are impor­tant. The old man rows “far out” beyond the normal spaces of the harbor, we are told on several occa­ sions.80 It is in the realm of the beyond where the salao (or salty luck) and barreness that he had been experiencing for eighty-­four days was lifted by the bounty of the ­g reat marlin. The tragic irony of the story is that just as the trespass of limits lifted the old man’s salao, it also ruined him upon his return. Bounty cannot be brought back from the beyond. It cannot be recog­ nized and experienced as such in the harbors of everyday forms of recognition to which we have grown accustomed—or to which enclosure disciplines us to expect.

Kafka, the Everyday, and the Fabulous Yonder By way of orienting the language and imagery of boundary, trespass, and crossing operative ­here, we turn to Kafka’s enigmatic Von den Gleichnissen (On Parables), which he begins as follows: Many complain that the words of the wise are always merely parables and of no use in daily life [unverwendbar im täglichen Leben], which is the only life we have [nur dieses allein haben wir]. When the sage says: “Go over” [Gehe hinüber], he does not mean that we should cross to some ­actual place, which we could do anyhow if the ­labor ­were worth it; he means some fabulous yonder



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[irgendein sagenhaftes Drüben], something unknown to us, some­ thing too that he cannot designate more precisely, and therefore cannot help us ­here in the very least. All t­ hese parables r­ eally set out to say merely that the incomprehensible is incomprehensible [dass das Unfassbare unfassbar ist], and we know that already. But the cares we have to strug­gle with ­every day [jeden Tag abmühen]: that is a dif­fer­ent ­matter. Concerning this a man once said: Why such reluctance? If you only followed the parables you yourselves would become parables and with that rid of all your daily cares [der täglichen Mühe frei]. Another said: I bet that is also a parable. The first said: You have won. The second said: But unfortunately only in parable. The first said: No, in real­ity: in parable you have lost [Nein, in Wirklichkeit; im Gleichnis hast du verloren].81 The interchange mentions four separate variants of the worries or concerns of daily life. The words of the wise may be nice, like “goads” and so on (cf. Eccles. 12:11), but in the hurly-­burly of the everyday, ­there is no time for such leisure. To contemplate wisdom is the luxury of the rich man, as Tevye sang. For Kafka, ­there are simply too many damned claims to file at the Workers’ Accident and Insurance Institute to bother about the ponderings of the wise. One must be about the concerns of the day in order to meet the needs of the day. As the one avers to the other, if the parables ­were followed, you would actually become parable—­and with that, freed from daily cares. Of course, this, too, is but parable. ­There is much in Kafka’s brief passage worth considering.82 Relevant for a reading of The Old Man and the Sea is the language of crossing into “some fabulous yonder” and its relationship with daily concerns or worries, as Kafka refers to them. The crossing, according to the wise man, is not to an ­actual side. The fabulous yonder is not a territory or space mapped by a po­liti­cal sovereign. It is somewhere unknown—­somewhere unmapped and unfinished. To heed the summons to cross over to this place that is no ter­ ritory forces hearers into a paradoxical suspension. To cross over is to leave ­behind the concerns and strug­gles of the day. Yet ­these are precisely the

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attachments that keep one firmly within the mea­sure­ments of the day—­ firmly within the mapped spaces and territories of enclosure.

Mapped Spaces, Po­liti­cal Territories, and the Enclosure of the Harbor Hemingway stated that The Old Man and the Sea is a rather ­simple story. It is about “an old man and a fish.” He would go on to write, however, in a let­ ter of 17 January 1951, that the story is about “every­thing in the world” that he had come to know.83 On 13 December 1954 in Time magazine, he stated: “I tried to make a real old man, a real boy, a real sea and real fish and real sharks. But if I made them good and true enough they would mean many ­things.”84 Elsewhere, he compares the power of narrative to the dignity of an iceberg’s movement. The overwhelming majority of action takes place out of sight and underwater.85 Surely, this is liberty to play with Hemingway’s narrative of crossing and trespass. Several studies attempt to place The Old Man and the Sea in Hemingway’s wider vision and psy­chol­ogy. Perhaps most famously, Burhans suggested in 1960: “The Old Man and the Sea is the cul­ minating expression of this concern in its reflection of Hemingway’s mature view of the tragic irony of man’s fate: that no abstraction can bring man an awareness and understanding of the solidarity and interdependence without which life is impossible; he must learn it, as it has always been truly learned, through the agony of active and isolated individualism in a universe that dooms such individualism.”86 Surely, ­there is something to what Burhans is proposing. Beneath the icy ­waters of such surface approaches, however, lurk the metabolized specters of Hemingway’s frustrated modernity, which manifests itself in the old man’s trespass of the harbor’s enclosing practices.87 When the sharks began tearing away at the old man’s prize fish, he realizes this and confesses to the corpse: “I ­shouldn’t have gone so far out, fish.”88 He l­ater apologizes: “I am sorry that I went too far out. I ruined us both.”89 The poor luck that appeared to have lifted with the landing of the marlin is “­violated” when he went “too far out­ side.”90 As his skiff returned to the empty harbor, he again laments, “I went out too far.”91 It was outside the harbor and through the violation of limits that the old man’s salao fi­nally lifted—­even as it ruined him. The “harbor trope” has represented throughout history and po­liti­cal thought the safety and serenity of enclosure that are lacking in the chaotic



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excess of the sea.92 Montaigne, for example, famously advised never to leave the harbor: “Might it not be Fortune’s way to leave in peace ­those who do not trou­ble her?”93 Classical attitudes envisioned the crossing of the beyond,94 materialized in the form of seafaring, as “a transgression of natu­ral bound­ aries that was likely to result in punishment.”95 Blumenberg suggests two assumptions working to support classical meta­phorics of seafaring and the gods’ punishment of it. First, “the sea is a naturally given boundary of the realm of ­human activities.” Second, the sea is a demonic “sphere of the un­ reckonable and lawless in which it is difficult to find one’s bearings.”96 The harbor, by contrast, is a feigned space of safety. It is akin to Judith Butler’s historical fields of power discussed ­earlier. All bios and clima are ­under me­ teorological and zoological surveillance; all migrations, winds, currents, and tides are precisely rendered, charted, and mapped. The harbor is the space of arithmetization; every­thing is accounted for, mea­sured, and valued. All is safe—so long as one remains within the harbor. Perhaps ironically, as Blumenberg noted, “a fundamental idea of moder­ nity is that tempting and risking shipwreck” was the necessary price to pay “to avoid the calm winds which would make all worldly commerce impos­ sible.”97 This is the tension of a frustrated modernity. Crossing to some fabulous yonder is socially forbidden and yet, in some sense, an economic necessity. In Hemingway’s era, the days of the seafaring explorer, who dares the beyond for the chance of economic gain, may have been trickling to its end. Hyper-­expansion and the vari­ous metamorphoses of capital, however, ­were alive and well. New products, new markets, refined segmentations and subjugations—­all brought back and traded (and taxed!) in the sprawling en­ closure of the harbor. The old man’s trespass of the harbor and crossing over into Kafka’s “some fabulous yonder,” then, contains a paradoxical sus­ pension in reverse. Saloa was forgone with trespass; but upon the return, failure and misrecognition came in tow.

The Stranger and the Aesthetics of Failure As many commentators have pointed out, something tragic is at work in the opening sentence of The Old Man and the Sea: “He was an old man who fished alone.”98 From ­these first eight words, we are, in Weeks’s words, “confronted with a world in which humanity’s isolation is the most insistent truth.”99 From ­here, commentators rightly rush to modernity, the tragic, and alienation.100

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Yet ­there is a remainder. The sea is presented as “kind and very beautiful” while also “cruel” with sudden danger.101 The sea for the old man always takes the feminine: la mar. ­Others saw the sea as el mar—­“as a contestant or a place or even an ­enemy.” The old man, however, sees the sea as “something that gave or withheld ­great ­favors.”102 The sea for the old man is a para­ doxical place of isolation and mystical communion.103 He looks across the sea when he crosses the harbor and realizes that he is all alone,104 even as he knows that “no man was ever alone on the sea.”105 He is alone. And in this solitude, he communes. ­These opening lines from Hemingway hark back ­toward Simmel’s “stranger”—­that figure who appears both near and far; an organic member of the group but one disentangled from its social dynamics, interests, laws, and customs.106 The old man says to the young boy: “I am a strange old man.” The stranger as in, but not of—or perhaps of, but not in—­lends itself to existential quandaries before the Nihil. Eddins has suggested that in the 1920s, Hemingway and Fitzgerald “discovered existentialism in practice be­ fore it was theorized by the likes of Heidegger, Sartre, and Camus.”107 Fitzger­ ald wrote: “One should . . . ​be able to see that ­things are hopeless and yet be determined to make them other­wise . . . . I must hold in balance the sense of the futility of effort and the sense of the necessity to strug­gle; the convic­ tion of the inevitability of failure and still the determination to succeed . . . . If I could do this through the common ills—­domestic, professional, and personal—­then the ego would continue as an arrow shot from nothingness to nothingness with such force that only gravity would bring it to earth at last.”108 Registering the futility and hopelessness of operating while enclosed in significant shapes “profoundly without life”109 and of the necessity to strug­ gle from nothingness to nothingness110 begins to adumbrate a politics of Nihil and dis-­enclosure. To venture “too far” beyond all “safe, familiar ­waters, is to encounter” what Eddins refers to as the “nada in all its life-­denying force.”111 The sail of the old man, Hemingway tells us, “was patched with flour sacks, and [when] furled, it looked like the flag of . . . ​permanent defeat.”112 Charles Taylor, in an essay from 1981 on Hemingway’s novella, reflects on the tension between living ­under the flag of permanent defeat and the ­later declaration of the old man that “man is not made for defeat—­a man can be destroyed but not defeated.”113 In order to perform our many proofs of self, suggests Taylor, “we must go out so far, alone with the realization that we may return without



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our fish; perhaps it is even likely that we ­w ill return ‘destroyed but not defeated.’ ”114 The necessity of the per­for­mance of the self is ultimately its destruction. The tragic sentiment in Taylor’s reading is that such a per­for­ mance is forever provisional, recurrent, and unfinished. So long as the destruc­ tion is performed, it can never end in defeat. This is Hemingway’s tragic vision. Writing during and ­after war­time, Hemingway’s tragic vision reflects a sensibility of humanity as placed in a position of failure as a “permanent con­ dition.”115 This “failure” is not some soft language game with victory—­but a kind of removal of subjectivity from the agonistic field of winners and los­ ers. Every­thing is loss and ruin but never destruction. “To go out ‘too far,’ beyond safe, familiar ­waters, is to encounter nada in all its life-­denying force.”116 Hemingway’s stubborn negation of despair as a damning illusion therefore mingles with an “absurdist affirmation of despair as a truth” in such a way that this commingling opens into something out ­there in the beyond—­ yet, tragically, untradable in the markets and economies of harbor life.117 To quote Eddins again, in a passage that sounds near to Kafka, in “this world that is the only world, one bears one’s cross again and again ad absurdum in repetitive acts of rebellion against the crucifying nihil.”118 The Old Man and the Sea begins and ends with the old man bearing his mast over his shoulder as a cross—­upon which flies his flag of permanent defeat.119 We read throughout of his pain, suffering, and bleeding and his solitude. The catch and strug­gle with the ­great fish happens on the third day.120 As a tragic vision of humanity, Hemingway’s novella places a necessity of locating “a stark unresolvability deep in the scheme of ­things,” while calling for courage and dignity in its passing.121 The fabulous yonder of the other side is the place of all unfinishing, of Nihil unbound. It is the call to crucify ourselves daily upon the masts, which signal our permanent defeat but cannot destroy us. This is what Weeks, in the mid-1950s, referred to as the “cosmic significance” of The Old Man and the Sea.122 The indescribable remains the indescribable—­ hopeless and futile. It must also be lived. (But we already knew that. . . .)

Cosmic Dreams and Second Dwellings Hemingway pre­sents the old man in a constant state of the pre­sent—­always in some contest of being proved or disproved. ­There is no past and no ­f uture. “Each time is a new time.”123 Each time is time itself recurring, a falling into

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an “infinite depth.”124 Even amid the dreams of lions and missing the young boy, the past cannot feed empty stomachs. The young boy declares to the old man that ­there are many good, and even some ­great, fishermen, but, in the end, “­there is only you.” The old man is endeared by this declaration and states: “I hope no fish ­will come along so ­great that he ­will prove us wrong.”125 ­Here we see another moment when the old man refers to his doubt in the collective. “We have enough faith, ­don’t we?” And ­here, “I hope no fish ­will come along so ­great that he ­will prove us wrong.” ­These two state­ ments are not unrelated. Though man may not be made for defeat,126 ­there is the constant threat of being defeated. And though it may be “silly not to hope,”127 a foreboding of “bad times” to come and our inevitable extinction infect any reflex to hope.128 This entanglement manifests as “some ­g reat strangeness” and a dreamlike state. When the old man begins to row back to shore, when he returns from being “too far out,” he “looked at the fish constantly to make sure it was true.”129 Then the sharks came cruising. Though “full of resolution” to land the ­great fish and fight off the demons, he confessed “­little hope.”130 Goodness does not last. As his g­ reat reward from the beyond is decimated by the demons of the deep—­falling through the jagged lacerations of space and time—he laments that it would have been a better dream.131 Better to dream of the beyond than to strug­gle outward and be destroyed by it. The interplay between the bounty and the erasure of the beyond, the excess and barrenness of the gift, is evidenced by the presence of the bones of the fish. Bliss does not travel well. It is the bringing in from the beyond and into the limits and horizons of the harbor that slowly depletes the great­ ness of the fish into a “white naked line” of skeletal bone.132 The “nakedness between” ­these two points of bounty and barreness is where life is lived in Kafka’s everyday.133 The fishermen gathered around the skiff and mea­sured “the skeleton” of the fish “eigh­teen feet from nose to tail.”134 The boy be­ lieves the report but does not go down to witness the remains. The testi­ mony of the proprietor is only too true: “­There has never been such a fish.”135 The remainder of the ­great fish, “now just garbage waiting to go out with the tide,” is given further complexity when it is spotted by a party of tourists on the terrace. Their classification is perhaps the cruelest turn in the novella: the bones are misrecognized as belonging to a shark.136 The ­great fish from the beyond, hooked by the sin of the old man’s trespass and de­ voured by the demons of the deep, is now misrecognized as what woke the old man to his trespass. The demonic indexes social position between the



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spaces of harbor and the beyond. The chalky outline of the ­great beast—­ real and undeniable material that it is—­g uarantees no definite witness. The proprietor speaks with Delphic ambiguity, the tourists declare a cruel nega­ tion, and the young boy bears no witness contrary to his original confes­ sion: t­ here is only you. Alienation, isolation, and saloa are suspended in the old man’s trespass of the harbor’s enclosure. As he discovers while out in the beyond, no man is ever alone at sea.137 Alienation, isolation, and saloa, however, recur upon his return to the harbor. This is no s­ imple return to something original that was lost. The old fisherman’s return from the beyond is rather a recurrence of the very condition of loss. All that remains is for the old man to sleep—­ and, perchance, to dream. For in that sleep, alienation, isolation, and saloa are once again suspended. The story ends ambiguously. While the crowds at the harbor debate the sense of the white skeletal line of the ­great beast and the young boy sits by the old man’s side in waiting, the old man sleeps and dreams of lions. This is neither the necessary prelude to death nor a marking of permanent defeat. It is the opening to some other dimension. Most often, the rhe­toric of awak­ ening is given prominence in symbolic enactments of po­liti­cal mobilization and action.138 It is in the old man’s dreaming, however, where something like a sentiment of dis-­enclosure emerges. What could possibly be disruptive about sleeping or dreaming? In the fourth volume of À la recherché du temps perdu (In search of lost time), Proust speaks of entering the “realm of sleep,” which he calls a “second dwelling.” This dwelling has its own noises, servants, special visitors, and androgynous race of men.139 The duration of time between ­these two dwell­ ings is “absolutely dif­fer­ent”: sometimes more rapid, and other times far lon­ ger. In the second dwelling, depths are descended into which “memory can no longer keep up.” Between the states of sleeping and waking, selves “tra­ verse the regions bordering on life,” waking to a momentary unknowing of who the self has been made to be. The self awakens to a momentary being of “nobody, newly born, ready for anything, the brain emptied of the past which was life ­u ntil then.” It is through this “black storm” that we pass—­ “but we do not even say we”—­that a we emerges “void of content.”140 Within this awakening to void, ­there is equally momentary liberation from the all-­ seeing surveillance of habit. We awake eventually to its nets through per­ sonality and memory. That prior suspension of a being who “knows nothing of the world,”141 however, is ­free from “the world inhabited by memory and

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thought, through an ether” in which that we that cannot be a we is alone: “more than alone, without even the companionship of self-­perception,” out­ side the range of all “time and its mea­sure­ments.”142 It is the standardized form of time and mea­sure­ment where enclosure naturalizes itself into a real­ity that governs the rhythms of being. The main­ taining that ­there is “but one time” is to live life awake in a life enclosed—­ “immersed in the time of waking men, having deserted the other time.” This is more than simply another experience of time; it is another form of life altogether, with dif­fer­ent pleasures and pains, rationalities, experiences, anx­ i­eties, and liberties—­all outside the “current account of our everyday life.”143 It is this other life that drifts outside the framework of time. Time is some­ thing we reenter, ­after we leave ­behind the realm wherein “having fought with so many ­giants, and formed so many lifelong friendships,” one’s form of life is remembered.144 Yet it is from this “oblivion” where the “­actual real­ ity” of so many surrounding “ordinary ­things” is at once escaped and life itself is liberated from form.145 All ­those memories unrecalled, as well as that unknown excess that may even extend before and far ­after the self ’s exis­ tence, form a “life” to which a we awakes. It is this “oblivion,” this recur­ rence, that obliterates every­thing and all practices of enclosure.146 Pascal pointed to dreams as indexing our discomfort with the pre­sent.147 This discomfort with the moment banishes us to a wandering in times that are not our own. We fail to inhabit and occupy the only moment that be­ longs to us. Life then becomes a form given to us—­a kind of funnel that guides us along its intended ways. Life is thus a dream but a ­little less in­ constant.148 For, argues Pascal, if we could dream the same dream each time we slumber, ­t hese dreams would affect our living as much as the objects we see in this so-­called waking life.149 If we dreamed ­every night that we ­were harassed by painful phantoms, we would wake to such suffering as if it ­were real.150 What we experience as real convinces us of its greater effect ­because of its greater continuity (à cause de la continuité). Life is but a dream a ­little less inconstant.

Torn and Unfinished In revisiting the winding and overrun road of early Chris­tian­ity’s provenance, as Nancy had it, something “deeper than Chris­tian­ity itself ” emerges—­ which, as a result, gestures ­toward “a provenance that might bring out an­



Tragic Vision

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other resource.”151 That resource, it has been suggested throughout this proj­ect, is a sentiment that emanates from the Nihil to which trauma and ecstasy opens and exposes life. The aim has not been to search Mark’s Gos­ pel for some origin lost in the chronologies of early Chris­tian­ity or trans­ generational trauma that ruptured bodies within Judaism.152 It has been suggested, rather, that the traumatic and ecstatic tear that remains in Mark’s Gospel reveals an originary condition of loss. Violent death and an absent corpse scramble space, time, and the social bonds of desire for ­those gath­ ered around the figure of Jesus. Traumatic and ecstatic effects of this sort of scrambling trigger depersonalization that can leave one in a dreamlike and distorted state.153 Such ruin requires new needs and therapies. The ravaged corpse, neither placed nor touched and, by ­those closest to him, abandoned, haunts and recurs among ­those disassociated from their former social bonds. ­There is no return ­after the empty tomb: only recurrence. As in Heming­ way’s The Old Man and the Sea, their ­going out and return from the beyond works a wreckage. To appropriate from Racine a final time, Cette image cruelle/ Sera pour moi de pleurs une source éternelle (“In that tormenting image/ Lives a source of eternal tears”).154 More than just tears, in that tormented image of a rav­ aged and absent corpse, lives a vibrant and deeper source: a sentiment loosed from the traumatic and ecstatic rupturing of life from form and enclosure. A “new spirit,” to evoke the magic of Musil, “not yet quite sure of itself.”155 It is a paradoxical loss: a condition never overcome yet si­mul­ta­neously pro­ ductive.156 Trauma and ecstasy dissociate immediate given forms of habit and association.157 If politics is the organ­ization and naming of life within sov­ ereignty’s enclosure, the sentiment loosed by this cruel image is a politics of dis-­enclosure. It is the revelation that nothing is all ­there is.158 The move­ ment from nothing to nothing names all e­ lse.159 Within this infinite depth, this abyss beyond form and meaning, all ­things emerge. This “new spirit” promises no better ­future. As with the sea in Mark’s Gospel, something huge and alive swarms under­neath the s­ ilent and impermanent surface of waking life. Upon its liquid expanse, a spectral ship is circumscribed by desolation, filled with the ­silent screams of waste and mournful ­water. ­Every calming recalls the remainder of an ancient terror and foreboding; the turning of that quiet, constant, questioning of waking life.160 By reckoning with the Nihil and its dreamlike nausea, perhaps collectives might unform and even reform into something like an outside.161 Perhaps from within this nothingness to nothingness, a recognition might emerge among ­those descendants of

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Odysseus who can tend to one another’s scars and screams. And from ­these interstitial holes in space and time, what won­ders might emerge! Even ­here, however, among the horizons of a more distant coming presaged by Irigaray, the demonic lurks and recurs. As Dr. Seward wrote in his diary of the mon­ strous stain of the devil Dracula, “Truly ­there is no such ­thing as finality.”162 We are only ever somewhere in the unfinished. . . .

Notes

Preface 1. Cf. the fascinating book of Bellah, Religion in ­Human Evolution, which has been met with significant criticisms from a range of reading commitments. I hope to address ­these criticisms in a forthcoming proj­ect on a kind of naturalist theological anthropology. 2. See, generally, Barnard, Social Anthropology and H ­ uman Origins and “Co-­evolution of Language and Kingship”; Calvin and Bickerton, Lingua ex Machina. See also Knight, Power, and Watts, eds., “­Human Symbolic Revolution”; Runciman, Origin of ­Human Social Institutions, 235–54, and Theory of Cultural and Social Se­lection. 3. This is the charge of Weinberg, To Explain the World, 12. 4. See, generally, Barnard, Social Anthropology and ­Human Origins, 58, 90–110. 5. Huysmans, À Rebours, 317. 6. Huysmans, Against Nature, 204.

Chapter 1 1. Melville, Moby-­Dick, 169. Cf. Jonathan Cook, Inscrutable Malice. 2. Melville, Moby-­Dick, 298. 3. Melville, Moby-­Dick, 307. 4. Melville, Moby-­Dick, 566. 5. Irigaray, Marine Lover, 12. 6. Cf. Goldberg, Standard Model. 7. See Wilczek and Devine, Longing for the Harmonies; Wilczek, Lightness of Being; Wil­ czek, Beautiful Question. 8. Wilczek, “What Is Space?,” 35. 9. Wilczek, “What Is Space?,” 35. 10. Ostriker and Mitton, Heart of Darkness; Rosenberg, “God Is on the Ropes”; Mudlin, Philosophy of Physics. 11. The essence of “nothing” being “something” is also related to Heisenberg’s Uncer­ tainty Princi­ple, which states that ­there is an intrinsic amount of uncertainty in the proper­ ties of a particle: (uncertainty in position) * (uncertainty in momentum) > (some constant). This does not mean that it is not mea­sur­able. Rather, it means that the Universe has de­cided that it is unknowable. In “empty” space, this uncertainty can be written as follows: (uncer­ tainty in energy) * (uncertainty in time) > (some constant). The ­actual proof is more math­

206

Notes to Pages 3–6

ematical, but the basic physical explanation means that particle pairs can be created from nothing that ­w ill exist for some duration of time (T), where T < (some constant) / (energy of particles), without violating the laws of physics. They have to be particle pairs in order to conserve momentum. The larger the particles, the more rest-­mass energy they have and the shorter their intrinsic life spans. “Nothing,” i.e., empty space, however, is unstable with re­ spect to ­these particles (known as “virtual particles,” since they borrow energy from the vac­ uum). It is therefore constantly abuzz with activity. The assertion that “nothing” is a fundamental aspect of the Universe is therefore certainly one with mathematical merit. Anal­ ogies are drawn between this spontaneous creation of virtual particles and the birth of the Universe. If empty space is “unstable” and constantly creating virtual particle pairs that ex­ pand and then “dis­appear” out of existence, it is then plausible that the Universe may be one of ­those ­bubbles. Relevant ­here are ­earlier quantum debates (e.g., Bohr-­Einstein debates, the many-­worlds interpretation versus the Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics, the EPR paradox) and, of course, the excellent Mr. Feynman. I am grateful to Joel Leja of the Harvard-­Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics, who helped me think through ­these is­ sues. His brilliance on ­these ­matters should not be judged through the medium of my un­ derstanding. I am clearly out of my ele­ment in so many of ­these m ­ atters. 12. Helpful for my understanding has been Gates, Einstein’s Telescope. 13. See Rovelli’s fascinating essay “Anaximander’s Legacy.” Rovelli argues that phi­los­o­ phers should not limp along but jump ahead and risk in their theorizing of conceptions. See also Rovelli, Anaximandre de Milet. Note, too, Anton Zeilinger, the Austrian physicist, who has repeatedly commented how phi­los­o­phers are too timid when engaging in theoretical and conceptual engagement with questions of quantum physics—­specifically from his perspec­ tive, quantum entanglement. 14. Wilczek, Lightness of Being, 73. 15. Wilczek, Lightness of Being, 89–90. 16. This is a point I ­w ill take up in a forthcoming proj­ect on “smell” in early Chris­tian­ ity and late antiquity to appear in this series. 17. Cf. the intriguing work of Cunningham, Genealogy of Nihilism. Cunningham reads “nothing as something” across theological traditions and puts forward a series of provocative proposals. 18. Wilczek, “What Is Space?,” 37. 19. Knausgaard, Man in Love, 560. 20. We ­w ill return to ­these questions in Chapter 7. 21. Cf. H. de Vries, Minimal Theologies, 572–90. 22. Mikics, Who Was Jacques Derrida?, 7. 23. Mikics, Who Was Jacques Derrida?, 8. 24. Mikics, Who Was Jacques Derrida?, 8–9. 25. See Mikics, Who Was Jacques Derrida?, 9. 26. Deleuze and Guattari, Anti-­Oedipus, 14. 27. Lefebvre, Rhythmanalysis, 23. 28. H ­ ere see Morali, Qui est moi aujourd’hui?. 29. Deleuze and Guattari, Thousand Plateaus, 1. 30. Deleuze and Guattari, Anti-­Oedipus, 72. 31. As prophetic and powerfully timely as ever is the brief essay by Audre Lorde, “Mas­ ter’s Tools.” 32. Marcuse, “Some Social Implications,” 45.



Notes to Pages 6–10

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33. Marcuse, “Some Social Implications,” 46. 34. Cf. Lefebvre, Rhythmanalysis. 35. Seem, introduction, 9, in Deleuze and Guattari, Anti-­Oedipus. 36. See the brilliant work of Scull, Madness in Civilization; Foucault, Madness and Civilization. 37. Kahneman, Thinking, Fast and Slow, 12. 38. Irigaray, Marine Lover, 4. 39. I mean this quite literally with re­spect to the varying eco-­disasters that are mount­ ing in severity even as they are denied at the same time. On ­these issues, see, e.g., Latour, Facing Gaia; Tsing, Arts of Living; Haraway, Staying with the Trou­ble. 40. Worth comparing is the line of Deleuze and Guattari: nous sommes tous des schizos! See Deleuze and Guattari, L’Anti-­Œdipe. 41. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 6. 42. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 6. 43. Butler, Senses of the Subject. See also Rovane, Bounds of Agency. Influential ­here as well is the language of “envelope,” “enclose,” and “wrap,” which occur throughout Irigaray’s Marine Lover. 44. For impor­tant studies on ­these themes with re­spect to enclosure, see Horner, Discourse of Enclosure; and the excellent essays gathered in McAvoy and Hughes-­Edwards, eds., Anchorites, Wombs, and Tombs. 45. Sevilla-­Buitrago, “Cap­i­tal­ist Formations of Enclosure,” 3. 46. See, generally, Sloterdijk, Globes. 47. See vol. 1 in the ongoing study of Dockès, Le capitalisme et ses rythmes. 48. Hardt and Negri, Empire, 392–413. See also Hardt and Negri, Multitude. 49. Hardt and Negri, Empire, 396. 50. Hardt and Negri, Empire, 394, 397. 51. Hardt and Negri refer to ­these practices as “the cloud and confusion that Empire casts over” the “earthly city” of the multitude. Hardt and Negri, Empire, 398. 52. Hardt and Negri, Empire, 402. 53. Hardt and Negri, Empire, 395. 54. Hardt and Negri, Empire, 400. 55. Hardt and Negri, Empire, 397. 56. Hardt and Negri, Empire, 401. 57. Hardt and Negri, Empire, 399. See also Surin, Freedom Not Yet. 58. Hardt and Negri, Empire, 397. 59. Cf. the discussion in Chapter 3 on this issue. 60. See 4:35; 5:1, 21; 6:45; 8:13. Cf. 10:1. 61. Hardt and Negri, Empire, 397. 62. Hardt and Negri, Empire, 398. 63. See, e.g., the excellent engagement in Ando, Imperial Ideology. 64. See the excellent studies of Marquis, Transient Apostle; Hezser, Jewish Travel. 65. ­Here I have in mind some of what Butler discusses in her power­f ul Notes, 99–192, esp. 184. 66. The oversight of this real­ity both at the level of theory and history is perhaps what is most unconvincing and obnoxious about the proliferation of casual counter-­imperial stud­ ies that appear to be all the rage at the moment. On this point, see Moore, “Turn to Empire,” 27.

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Notes to Pages 10–14

67. Irigaray, Marine Lover, 22. 68. Hart, God Being Nothing, 9. 69. Brassier, Nihil Unbound, xi. 70. Debray, God, 39. 71. Again, note the power­f ul words on hope and despair amounting to the same ­thing in Irigaray, Marine Lover, 12. 72. I am using the trope “tragic” somewhat theoretically. At the level of genre, a similar approach has been conducted by Jay, Tragic in Mark. Though mine is dif­fer­ent in approach, I hope that readers w ­ ill see my attempt as complementary to Jay’s excellent proj­ect. 73. Jameson, Brecht and Method, 6–7. 74. Jameson, Brecht and Method, 7. 75. Minowitz, Profits, Priests, and Princes, 126. See also Žižek, Sublime Object, 53; and the excellent meditation of M. Taylor, Speed Limits. 76. See Arendt, ­Human Condition. Cf. the theme of “movement” and “cooperation” as it relates to the multitude in Hardt and Negri, Empire, 393–413. If ­there is a paradigmatic scene of our age, it is surely the livestock stockade, with its chaotic swarm of anxious movement all within the rigidities of enclosure. 77. D. Martin, Biblical Truths, 34. 78. D. Martin, Biblical Truths, 35. 79. I place “capitalism” in scare quotes partly to distance myself from thin critiques of capitalism. Noam Chomsky, for one, lambasts such critiques as failing to grasp how the big bank bailouts revealed that we are living in something other than capitalism. The reliance on creative acts of the state and mono­poly rights in the ser­vice of making the banks bigger ­a fter their failures is not exactly historical capitalism. The critique of capitalism was neces­ sary, and we owe an eternal debt to ­those brave thinkers who stood up to the cap­i­tal­ist ma­ chinery when it was unfashionable and dangerous. With Chomsky, however, I won­der if we are witnessing something dif­fer­ent in our moment—­a nd continued critiques of “capitalism” that do not consider its mutant form miss the mark. See, generally, Chomsky’s many talks posted on YouTube on “Capitalism” and, in book form, Democracy and Power. 80. Žižek, Absolute Recoil, 136. 81. Nancy, Dis-­enclosure, 9. 82. Deleuze and Guattari, L’Anti-­Œdipe, 80. 83. Related ­here are the exquisite lines of Cixous and Clément, who see “religion” as what consolidates and “re-­encloses.” See Cixous and Clément, La Jeune Née, 183. 84. Nancy, Dis-­enclosure, 10. 85. Foucault, Abnormal. 86. Cf. Blanton, Materialism. 87. One thinks of the stayed tones of Rod Serling’s concluding reflections on The Twilight Zone’s episode “Where Is Every­body?,” which aired 2 October 1952: Up ­there. Up ­there in the vastness of space and the void that is sky. Up ­there is an ­enemy known as isolation. It sits ­there in the stars waiting. Waiting with the patience of eons, in the Twilight Zone. 88. Schmitt, Land and Sea, 35. 89. Myles, “The Fetish for a Subversive Jesus.” 90. Deleuze and Guattari, L’Anti-­Œdipe, 79. 91. Hegel, Philosophy of Right, 151. 92. M. Cohen, Novel and the Sea, 1. 93. Cf. M. Cohen, Novel and the Sea, 2; citing Lukács, Theory of the Novel, 88.



Notes to Pages 14–18

209

94. M. Cohen, Novel and the Sea, 3. 95. M. Cohen, Novel and the Sea, 4. 96. M. Cohen, Novel and the Sea, 61–62. 97. Hegel, Philosophy of Right, 151. 98. M. Cohen, Novel and the Sea, 66. 99. See Gilroy, The Black Atlantic; and Baucom, Specters of the Atlantic, 309–33. 100. M. Cohen, Novel and the Sea, 99. See also Benton, Search for Sovereignty. 101. Worth further investigation is Cohen’s fascinating discussion of remarkable occur­ rences at sea throughout Novel and the Sea. ­Things happened at sea that could not be mapped or explicated with the compasses and lexicons of modernity. 102. Baudelaire, “Seven Old Men,” 118. 103. M. Cohen, Novel and the Sea, 228. 104. Schmitt, Nomos of the Earth, 93–94. 105. Deleuze and Guattari, Thousand Plateaus, 479. 106. See, esp., the proposal of Bedenbender, Frohe Botschaft. Bedenbender has written on this topic elsewhere, but ­here he is the most suggestive. We ­w ill return to some of the key themes he raises below. 107. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 10. 108. M. Cohen, Novel and the Sea, 2; Lukács, Theory of the Novel, 41. 109. Adorno and Horkheimer, Dialectic of Enlightenment. See, esp., the chapter “Odys­ seus or Myth?.” 110. Slattery, Wounded Body, 42. See also Anidjar, Blood, 158–90. 111. Cf. the classical study of Auerbach, Mimesis, 3–24. ­These themes have also been appropriated into recent phenomena by Shay, Odysseus in Amer­i­ca. 112. Reardon, ed., Collected Ancient Greek Novels, 1. 113. Žižek, Less than Nothing, 23. 114. See Blanton, Materialism for the Masses, 65. 115. Letter dated 5 December 1927, in Parsons, Enigma of the Oceanic Feeling, 173. Freud, “­Future of an Illusion”; A. Jones, Life and Work of Sigmund Freud, 594. 116. Letter dated 5 December  1927, in Parsons, Enigma of the Oceanic Feeling, 174. “Churches” ­here is potentially misleading, as Rolland ­w ill state ­later that his reflection of the oceanic was thought through his work on the “Hindu mind.” Letter dated 17 July 1929 in Parsons, Enigma of the Oceanic Feeling, 175. 117. Letter dated 3 May 1931, in Parsons, Enigma of the Oceanic Feeling, 178. 118. Letter dated 17 July 1929, in Parsons, Enigma of the Oceanic Feeling, 175. 119. Letter dated 3 May 1931, in Parsons, Enigma of the Oceanic Feeling, 177. 120. Letter dated 3 May 1931, in Parsons, Enigma of the Oceanic Feeling, 177. 121. Letter dated 14 July 1929, in Parsons, Enigma of the Oceanic Feeling, 174. 122. Letter dated 20 July 1929, in Parsons, Enigma of the Oceanic Feeling, 175. 123. Letter dated 19 January 1930, in Parsons, Enigma of the Oceanic Feeling, 176. 124. Freud, “A Disturbance of Memory on the Acropolis,” 244. 125. Meissner, Psychoanalysis and Religious Experience, 48. 126. Cf. Parsons, Enigma of the Oceanic Feeling, 35–52. 127. Freud, “Civilization and Its Discontents,” 21:68. 128. Freud, “Civilization and Its Discontents,” 21:68. 129. Milner, Hands of the Living God, 29. 130. Parsons, Enigma of the Oceanic Feeling, vii.

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Notes to Pages 18–22

131. Cf., too, their jointly authored book, Centers of Power. 132. Schneider and Berke, “Oceanic Feeling, Mysticism and Kabbalah,” 134. 133. Freud, Civilization and Its Discontents, 12. 134. Freud, Civilization and Its Discontents, 13. 135. Freud, Civilization and Its Discontents, 14. 136. See https://­w ww​.­youtube​.­com​/­watch​?­v​=­fdmRyLefndE. Accessed 18 December 2017. 137. My reading of Mark as an instance of the formation of a sensibility may thus be near Agamben’s (as well as Foucault’s and Deleuze’s) notion of the apparatus (dispositive). Agamben ­w ill call “literally anything that has in some way the capacity to capture, orient, determine, intercept, model, control, or secure the gestures, be­hav­iors, opinions, or discourses of living beings” an apparatus. Yet alienation as an effect of abandonment, of a “life” now forced “to live” outside the enclosure and former forms of life, is confronted by the Markan text in its construal of subjectivity as already unconditionally alienated. It is somewhere in the unfinished, then, where alienation experiences itself as itself. See Agamben, What Is an Apparatus?, 14. 138. Berardi, Soul at Work, 22. 139. Cf. Rohrmoser, Théologie et aliénation; Rae, “Hegel, Alienation, and the Phenom­ enological Development of Consciousness”; and generally, Jaeggi, Alienation. 140. Berardi, Soul at Work, 22. 141. Cf., generally, Marx, Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844. 142. Berardi, Soul at Work, 23. 143. See, generally, Wolin, Terms of Cultural Criticism. 144. Berardi, Soul at Work, 44. 145. Berardi, Soul at Work, 44–45. 146. Berardi, Soul at Work, 45. Cf. K. Weeks, Prob­lem with Work. 147. Berardi, Soul at Work, 52. 148. Berardi, Soul at Work, 52. 149. Berardi, Soul at Work, 73. 150. Breton, Word and the Cross, 55. 151. Cf., esp., K. Weeks, Prob­lem with Work, 1–112; and the fascinating work of Jaeggi, Alienation. 152. Irigaray, Marine Lover, 27. 153. By “working world,” I have in mind both the operations and ways ­things are done in the world, as well as the way work or ­labor is done in the world. I ­w ill have to return to this at a ­later date, where I engage more with K. Weeks, Prob­lem with Work. 154. Cf. Marx, Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844. 155. See the proposal of Eubank, Wages of Cross-­Bearing. 156. See Stewart, Gathered Around Jesus. 157. Freud, Civilization and Its Discontents, 29. 158. Butler, “­A fter Loss,” 467–73. Cf. the impor­tant work of Scarry, Resisting Repre­sen­ ta­tion. 159. Butler, “­A fter Loss,” 467. 160. Butler, “­A fter Loss,” 468. 161. Butler, “­A fter Loss,” 468, following Walter Benjamin’s notion of the angel of his­ tory and his notion of wreckage upon wreckage. 162. Butler, “­A fter Loss,” 467. 163. Butler, “­A fter Loss,” 467.



Notes to Pages 23–27

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164. Butler, “­A fter Loss,” 468. 165. On this approach, see the fascinating work of Riches, Conflicting Mythologies. 166. van der Kolk, Body Keeps the Score, 176. 167. van der Kolk, Body Keeps the Score, 176. 168. Shakespeare, The Life and Death of King John, act 3, scene 4. 169. Cf. the work of Caillois, “Mimétisme et psychasthénie légendaire,” 5–10, and Méduse et compagnie. I am grateful to Rupert Dörflinger for alerting me to ­these texts. 170. Kalaidjian, Edge of Modernism, 3. 171. Kalaidjian, Edge of Modernism, 10. See also Fassin and Rechtman, Empire of Trauma. 172. Adorno, Prisms, 34. 173. Kalaidjian, Edge of Modernism, 9. See also Capara, Writing History, Writing Trauma. 174. van der Kolk, Body Keeps the Score, 180. 175. Janet, Psychological Healing, 660; quoted in van der Kolk, Body Keeps the Score, 180. 176. van der Kolk, Body Keeps the Score, 180. 177. van der Kolk, Body Keeps the Score, 181. 178. Kalaidjian, Edge of Modernism, 41. 179. Baltussen, “Grief Observed” and Greek and Roman Consolations. See also Graver, Cicero on the Emotions; Kock, Philosophie als Medizin. For classical research into emotions, see Braund and Gill, eds., Passions; Nussbaum, “Therapeutic Arguments”; Stearns and Stea­ rns, “Emotionology”; Glad, Paul and Philodemus; Entralgo, Therapy; Hope and Huskinson, eds., Memory and Mourning. 180. The awkward use of the preposition is impor­tant. ­There is something about the abrupt at-­ness of the loss that prevents any notion of grieving over the death of Tullia as a totality. 181. Boyancé, “L’apothéose de Tullia”; Kumaniecki, “Die verlorenen Consolatio des Cicero.” 182. Jacobs, Pathological Grief. 183. Shakespeare, Macbeth, act 4, scene 3, line 245. 184. See Mendelsund, in his fascinating book What We See. 185. Freud, Civilization and Its Discontents, 28. 186. See Ahmed, Cultural Politics of Emotion. 187. Cf. Neimeyer, ed., Meaning Reconstruction and the Experience of Loss. 188. Beauvoir, Prime of Life, 574. 189. Žižek, Absolute Recoil, 140. 190. Žižek, Absolute Recoil, 150. 191. Žižek, Absolute Recoil, 146. 192. Kotrosits and Taussig, Re-­Reading the Gospel of Mark Amidst Loss and Trauma, 3. See also the beautiful book by Kotrosits, Rethinking Christian Identity. 193. Kotrosits and Taussig, Re-­Reading the Gospel of Mark Amidst Loss and Trauma, 4, 8. Though entirely impressed by this impor­tant volume—­a nd, indeed, what is offered ­here is very much in line with Kotrosits and Taussig—­I do not share their desire for a “new pattern of responsibility for the biblical studies guild.” Again, I find this remarkably suggestive and intriguing, but I’m not convinced that we need to employ ­these ancient texts in the quest for “meaning in and around us” (3). 194. Kotrosits and Taussig, Re-­Reading the Gospel of Mark Amidst Loss and Trauma, 11. 195. Kotrosits and Taussig, Re-­Reading the Gospel of Mark Amidst Loss and Trauma, 18. 196. Kotrosits and Taussig, Re-­Reading the Gospel of Mark Amidst Loss and Trauma, 16.

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197. Kotrosits and Taussig, Re-­Reading the Gospel of Mark Amidst Loss and Trauma, 153. 198. See, e.g., Danove, End of Mark’s Story; Gaventa and Miller, eds., Ending of Mark and the Ends of God; Hester, “Dramatic Inclusion”; Magness, Sense and Absence. 199. Meyer, Critical and Exegetical Handbook, 197. 200. Lightfoot, Locality and Doctrine in the Gospels, 11–16, and Gospel Message of Mark, 80–97, 106–16. See also Boomershine and Bartholomew, “Mark 16:8 and the Apostolic Com­ mission” and “Narrative Technique.” 201. Magness, Sense and Absence. 202. More on this in the next chapter. 203. Though his statistics have been disputed, still worth comparing is Morgenthaler, Statistik. 204. Mark’s relationship to the assembly—­a nd which assembly—is an impor­tant theme to be considered in the next chapter. 205. Caruth, Unclaimed Experience, 15. Cf. Forter, “Freud, Faulkner, Caruth.” 206. In this point, she is extending Freud’s reading of trauma in Tasso’s Gerusalemme Liberata. The point of extension for Caruth, is that the trauma speaks out of the traumatic repetition of wounded body. 207. Rūmī, Selected Poems, 105. 208. On the historical side of ­things, see the fascinating work of Larsen, Gospels Before the Book. 209. This theme is developed further in the next chapter. 210. Butler, “­A fter Loss,” 467. 211. Note the work of Chapman and Schnabel, Trial and Crucifixion, 299–754. 212. Cf. the power­f ul essay of Tombs, “Crucifixion, State Terror, and Sexual Abuse.” 213. Among the excellent philosophical descriptions of the event, I prefer that of Proust: “Events are larger than the moment in which they occur and cannot be entirely contained in it. Certainly they overflow into the ­f uture through the memory that we retain of them, but they demand a place also in the time that precedes them. One may say that we do not then see them as they are to be, but in memory, are they not modified, too?” (Proust, Captive and the Fugitive, 540). 214. Žižek, Absolute Recoil, 140. 215. Hollywood, Sensible Ecstasy, 40. 216. Derrida, “From Restricted to General Economy,” 267. See Comay, “Gifts Without Pre­sents.” 217. Hollywood, Sensible Ecstasy, 57. 218. Bataille, Guilty, 22. 219. Hollywood, Sensible Ecstasy, 66. 220. Hollywood, Sensible Ecstasy, 73–74. 221. I hardly see this emendation to Hollywood (Sensible Ecstasy, 74) as agonistic. 222. Hollywood, Sensible Ecstasy, 74. 223. Yaeger, “Consuming Trauma.” 224. Durkheim, Suicide, 287. 225. Abbott, “Prob­lem of Excess.” 226. Hollywood, Sensible Ecstasy, 83–84. 227. Irigaray, Marine Lover, 22. 228. Hollywood, Sensible Ecstasy, 62.



Notes to Pages 31–37

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229. Cf. the excellent summary and lit­er­a­t ure surveyed in Hollywood, Sensible Ecstasy, 25–35. 230. Hollywood, Sensible Ecstasy, 109. 231. Hollywood, Sensible Ecstasy, 110. I ­shall return to this in Chapter 7; for now, see the exquisite explication of the possibility of this kind of politics in Hollywood, Sensible Ecstasy, 277. 232. Bataille, Inner Experience, 84. 233. Bataille, Accursed Share, 1:19–41, 2:21–24. 234. See L. Brown, “Not Outside the Range,” 100–112; Crary, Techniques; K. Klein, “On the Emergence of Memory”; LaCapra, Representing the Holocaust, 207–23; Roth, Ironist’s Cage, 214–27. See also Bal et al., eds., Acts of Memory; Bal, Of What One Cannot Speak. 235. On this theme, see Schreiber, “Christologie des Markusevangeliums”; Kreuzigungsbericht des Markusevangeliums; Markuspassion. And see Fredrickson, “Nature’s Lament for Je­ sus”; Gurtner, “Rending of the Veil”; Ulansey, “Heavenly Veil Torn.” 236. See, on this point, e.g., Blackburn, Theios Anēr; Litwa, “Deification”; Holladay, Theios Aner. 237. See, esp., Burhans, “Old Man and the Sea.” 238. McGilchrist, Master and His Emissary, 5. 239. On nous rabat sur eux! Cf. Deleuze and Guattari, Anti-­Œdipus, 80. 240. Debray, God, 259. Santner states that po­liti­cal theology has functioned as “an op­ erator of secularization.” The notion of po­liti­cal theology reflects the expanding reach of “religious meanings and values into the sphere of po­liti­cal life, the investment of po­liti­cal institutions and actors with the trappings and charisma of sacred authority.” But po­liti­cal theology also reflects a contraction and displacement of religious life and practice by politics “as the central organ­izing force of sociality and collective identifications” (Santner, Royal Remains, xii). 241. The debate along ­these lines between Karl Löwith and Hans Blumenberg is well worth revisiting in light of recent critical theoretical interventions (e.g., Talal Asad, Gil Ani­ djar). 242. See Ferry, Wisdom of the Myths. 243. The language is a­ dopted from Ferry, Wisdom of the Myths, 13. 244. In addition to McGilchrist, on this idea of creation and de-­creation with texts, I am indebted to Burt, Poem Is You. 245. Cf. Becker, Der früheste Evangelist.

Chapter 2 1. Said, Beginnings, 3. 2. Said, Beginnings, xv. 3. Said, Beginnings, 5. 4. Debray, God, 15. 5. Nietz­sche, Morgenröthe, §523. Cf. J. Schmidt, Kommentar. 6. Irigaray, Marine Lover, 67. 7. Debray, God, 21. 8. Farge, Allure. 9. Debray, God, 150.

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10. Jameson, Brecht, 11. 11. Debray, God, 52. 12. ­These complexities perplexed Deleuze. Cf. Deleuze, Logic of Sense, 151. “Why is ­every event a kind of plague, war, wound or death?” 13. Debray, God, 29. 14. Davis, Periodization. 15. Ad legem duodecim tabularum; bk. 1, fr. 418 Lenel = Dig. 1.2.1. 16. Debray, God, 227. See also the fascinating work of Blanton, Displacing Christian Origins. 17. L. Alexander, Preface to Luke’s Gospel, 29. Cf. Bovon, Evangelium nach Lukas, 30: “Lu­ kas ist der einzige Evangelist, der in Form eines Prologs Anlaß, Absicht und Vorgehen seiner Arbeit beschreibt.” 18. Cf. Zumstein, Johannesevangelium, 768–70, and “Interpréter le quatrième évangile aujourd’hui.” 19. Cf. Zumstein, Kreative Erinnerung. 20. On the text-­critical challenges of Mark’s Gospel, see Greeven and Güting, eds., Textkritik des Markusevangeliums. My reading is that t­ hese additions are not corruptions of ­these texts but continuations of their authoritative fit. Following Benjamin, we might well stress how the language of an “original” is itself misleading. Any “original” is always already “a frag­ ment of a broken vessel.” Benjamin, “Task of the Translator.” Cf. Žižek, Absolute Recoil, 143. Perhaps acts of text criticism could also be seen as stages of translation, updating or slipped alternative visions. See, e.g., Timpanaro, Freudian Slip. 21. For an excellent introduction to ­these issues, see Goodacre, Synoptic Prob­lem. See also Goodacre, “Mono­poly.” Intriguing, too, is the discussion in the introductory sections of Wellhausen, Evangelium Marci. 22. I w ­ ill return to this awkward choice of the preposition below. 23. Santner, Royal Remains, 6. 24. Debray, God, 111. 25. See Watson, “How Did Mark Survive?.” 26. Among the many studies on this topic, see the excellent study of Marcus, “Jewish War and the Sitz im Leben of Mark,” esp. the front ­matter in his masterful commentary. 27. On the anonymous and title-­less forms of circulating material into the second ­century, see ­Gamble, Books and Readers, 153–54. For a differing view, see Hengel, Studies in the Gospel of Mark, 64–84. Most of the uncial manuscripts of the second Gospel contain εὐαγγέλιον κατὰ Μᾶρκον. The Vaticanus and Sinaiticus manuscripts, however, simply have κατὰ Μᾶρκον. The standard title is supported by a few fragments of papyri and Old Latin and Coptic trans­ lations. The oldest manuscript of Mark (papyrus 45) does not contain the Markan opening (see Yarbro Collins, Mark, 3). 28. Cf. Larsen, Gospels Before the Book. See also the power­f ul works of Knust, e.g., “In Pursuit of a Singular Text.” Some of their provocative proposals can be found in ­earlier stud­ ies of Segovia, “Reading Readers Reading John,” esp. 322. 29. Irenaeus, e.g., refers to the so-­called Longer Ending of Mark (16:9–20) in his refer­ ence to its ending (Adv. haer. iii.10.5). 30. The nature of that material has experienced remarkably diverse valuations. Form critics tended ­toward viewing Mark as a collector of early Christian tales given form by the needs of vari­ous assemblies. ­Later redaction critics would speak of a sense of originality in



Notes to Pages 39–42

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Mark’s attempting to set in narrative form environmental expressions flowing around the figure of Jesus. 31. See, e.g., Talbert, What Is a Gospel?; Burridge, What Are the Gospels?; and the many impor­tant studies of Yarbro Collins listed ­later in this study. Cf. the in­ter­est­ing study of Wal­ ton, “What Are the Gospels?.” 32. Skeat, “Irenaeus and the Four-­Gospel Canon,” 194. See also the learned study of Markschies, Christian Theology and Its Institutions, 192–299. See also the intriguing proj­ects of Auwers and de Jonge, eds., Biblical Canons; Theobald, ed., Le canon des écritures; Poffet, ed., L’autorité de l’écriture; Tardieu, ed., La formation des canons scripturaires; Becker and Scholz, eds., Kanon; Norelli, Recueils normatifs et canons dans l’Antiquité; P. Alexander and Kaestli, eds., Canon of Scripture; Le canon des Écritures. 33. Reed, “ΕΥΑΓΓΕΛΙΟΝ,” 15. 34. Cf. the comments on Bentham’s Panopticon by Foucault, Discipline and Punish, 195–230. See also the in­ter­est­ing study of J. Coogan, “Mapping.” 35. I cite the translation of C. Black, Mark, 119; cf. 242, 225, 121, 123, vii. 36. Augustine speaks of Mark as Matthew’s servant (pedisequus) and epitomist (breviator). Within the tradition, Mark as servant is a recurrent theme (­here, Cons. 1.2). Note Ire­ naeus’s report of its use among Gnostic groups (Adv. haer. 3.11.7). Nevertheless, its place within the canon was always “secure” (Yarbro Collins, Mark, 1). Mark was used by Tatian in his Diatessaron; Jerome devoted ten homilies to Mark; John Chrysostom and Augustine, too, de­ voted homilies to the second Gospel. In the fifth ­century, Victor of Antioch lamented its lack of attention compared with the other three Gospels, compiled ­earlier writings of the ­fathers on the Gospel into a single work. Cf. the excellent reflections of Bond, “Was Peter ­Behind Mark’s Gospel?.” 37. On Papias, see, e.g., Witulski, “Zur Frage nach dem Bischofsamt des Papias”; Kört­ ner, Papias. 38. Papias is cited in Eusebius Hist. eccl. 3.39.15. 39. See Jerome, Hom. 75. 40. Clement’s Hypotyposeis is also cited in Eusebius Hist. eccl. 6.14.6–7. 41. See Mullins, “Papias and Clement”; Crosaert, The Text of the Gospels; Carlson, “Clem­ ent of Alexandria.” 42. On this question, I have no firm view. The external evidence seems overwhelmingly on the side of Rome. The internal evidence, however, ­favors somewhere near Syria or Galilee. 43. On the question of ancient authorship, cf. the discussion in Larsen, Gospels Before the Book. See also Mroczek, Literary Imagination; Parker, Living Text; ­G amble, Books and Readers; Dorandi, Le stylet; Bryant, Fluid Text. 44. This uncertain pale could cause derision from pagan authors ranging from Marcus Aurelius to Celsus. On ­these issues, see Thate, “Exeunt.” See also Aitken, Jesus’ Death. 45. Much more could (and perhaps should) be said on themes of transgenerational trauma. On this complex topic, see, esp., Atkinson, Poetics; Bakó, “Vehicle”; Schwab, Haunting Legacies. 46. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 1. 47. Interest, of course, is a difficult concept to define and phenomenon to prove. If we judge “interest” by textual interaction, it is clear that it was simply overshadowed by other Gospels. See Koester, Ancient Christian Gospels, 275. 48. Of the fragments published from Oxyrhynchus, the only clear Markan text is from the late fifth–­early sixth ­century (P. Oxy. 1.3). In her better wisdom, Luijendijk judges the

216

Notes to Pages 42–44

likelihood of PSI 9.1041 referring to Leon’s study of Mark as “remarkable,” preferring instead Matthew’s Gospel or even the Gospel of Thomas. See Luijendijk, Greetings in the Lord, 116–17, with n. 139. 49. See the very useful chart in Vinzent, Marcion, 161–63. 50. See Theissen, Gospels in Context, 134, 194. 51. Of par­tic­u­lar relevance ­here are the traumatic events surrounding the destruction of the ­temple. See, e.g., Bedenbender, Frohe Botschaft; Reinhartz, “Destruction.” 52. Cf. Koester, Gospels, 273: “Mark’s Gospel appears for the first time in the oldest ex­ tant manuscript containing all four canonical gospels (p45) which was written in the ­middle of the 3d ­century ce. No other manuscript evidence for Mark exists before the 4th ­century, where Mark is included in the oldest uncial manuscript of the entire Greek Bible (‫ א‬and B), in one papyrus (p 88), and in two uncial fragments (059, 0188). About twenty-­five more frag­ ments from uncial manuscripts, written between the fifth and tenth centuries pre­sent texts from Mark’s Gospel. Many of ­these may be fragments from manuscripts containing all four canonical gospels.” 53. For his redating of the Gospels, see Vinzent, Marcion, 215–76. 54. Vinzent, Marcion, 224. 55. Vinzent, Marcion, 277 and 274, respectively; cf. 277–82. On the Status Quaestionis of synoptic dating, see his impressive survey in the chapter 2 of his book (159–214). 56. See Vinzent, Marcion, 213. 57. Cf. Nongbri, God’s Library. 58. Larsen, “Accidental Publication,” 377 and n. 54. 59. Larsen, “Accidental Publication,” 378. 60. Larsen, “Accidental Publication,” 378. 61. Cf. Zahn, Einleitung in das Neue Testament, 2:323; and the other texts cited in Vinzent, Marcion, 213nn396–97. 62. I want to be careful in stating specifically in terms of what I am not ­doing. Often new proposals tend to wipe aside all that has gone on before or much of what is happening currently. In no way am I attempting to introduce distance between past attempts that focus on the textual histories of the synoptic tradition. Nor am I attempting to introduce distance between the approach operative ­here from the new wave of textual critics who are engaging in some truly new breakthroughs in our discipline. In point of fact, I rely very heavi­ly on, and assume the work of, a ­g reat deal of their efforts. The approach ­here is guided by perhaps a more existential question: Why a text at all? 63. Cf. the power­f ul works of Scarry, Resisting Repre­sen­ta­tion and Body in Pain. See also the discussion in Chapter 1. 64. Proust, Captive and the Fugitive, 571. 65. ­Here I am drawing on the 1921 essay by Benjamin, “Task of the Translator,” 255. The concept of dialectical trauma ­w ill be discussed ­later, in conversation with the impor­tant work of Cathy Caruth and ­others. 66. Cf. some of ­these issues in Kearney, Strangers, Gods and Monsters; Kristeva, Strangers to Ourselves, 77–94. 67. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 1. 68. On autonomous spheres, see Deleuze and Guattari, Anti-­Oedipus, 34. 69. The phrase “zones of intensity” is from Deleuze and Guattari, Anti-­Oedipus, 31–34; cf. 103.



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70. Deleuze and Guattari, Anti-­Oedipus, 32. 71. Deleuze and Guattari, Anti-­Oedipus, 34. Cf. “Non pas s’identifier à des personnes, mais identifier les noms de l’histoire à des zones d’intensité sur le corps sans organes”; idem, L’Anti-­Œdipe, 28. 72. We w ­ ill return to this in the next chapter. 73. Cf. the translation of C. Black, Mark, 119. 74. Clement’s Hypotyposeis is also cited in Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 6.14.6–7. 75. Dronsch and Annette, “Theory.” 76. Dietzfelbinger, “Die größeren Werke,” 34. 77. Dronsch and Weissenrieder, “Theory,” 210. 78. Dronsch and Weissenrieder, “Theory,” 210. 79. Dronsch and Weissenrieder, “Theory,” 212. 80. Dronsch and Weissenrieder, “Theory,” 222. 81. Dronsch and Weissenrieder, “Theory,” 226. 82. Dronsch and Weissenrieder, “Theory,” 226. 83. Dronsch and Weissenrieder, “Theory,” 235. 84. Dronsch and Weissenrieder, “Theory,” 227. 85. Dronsch and Weissenrieder, “Theory,” 235. 86. Even ­here, the ambiguous passive form of ἐγείρω is given contextual focalization with the ­earlier statement of ἐγήγερται ἐκ νεκρῶν (v. 14). 87. Rom. 4:25, 6:4. 88. Luke 7:16, 9:7, 24:6, 34. 89. Matt. 8:15, 9:25. 90. Cf. Matt. 27:64, 28:7. 91. Gen. 41:4, 7; 2 Kings 4:31; Tob. 8:4. 92. 2 Chron. 21:9, 22:10; cf. 1 Esther 2:6. 93. See Tombs, “Crucifixion.” See, generally, Frey and Schröter, eds., Deutungen des Todes Jesus, esp. 213–94; R. Brown, Death of the Messiah, 2:1492–1524. 94. The tradition of two men is pre­sent in G.Pet. 9.35. ­There may also be an additional scene of a single man entering the sepulchre as well (cf. G.Pet. 11.44; cf. 13.55). 95. Cf. the beautiful book by Crossan, Cross That Spoke. 96. Cf. the strong juxtaposition of G.Thom. 114.1. 97. E.g., John 20:12, 20, 25, 27. 98. Note the text-­critical prob­lem. 99. Bultmann, “New Approach”; Goodacre, Synoptic Prob­lem; Goodacre, Thomas and the Gospels; Head, Christology; Damm, Ancient Rhe­toric; Dungan, History of the Synoptic Prob­ lem; Sanders, Studying the Synoptic Gospels; Theissen, Gospels in Context; Solages, La composition des évangiles; Kloppenborg, Synoptic Prob­lems. See also Lindemann, “Neuere Literatur”; Neirynck, “Les expressions doubles”; Pettem, “Le premier récit.” See, generally, the excel­ lent Marguerat, ed., Introduction, 35–55. 100. See 16:11, 13, 14. 101. Irigaray, Marine Lover, 68. 102. Bataille, Theory of Religion, 13. 103. Foucault, History of Sexuality, 136. See also the very helpful introduction by Mc­ Knight, Interpreting the Synoptic Gospels. 104. Cf. Draaisma, Forgetting.

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Notes to Pages 49–51

105. Žižek, Absolute Recoil, 136. 106. ­Here again noteworthy are the reflections of Dronsch and Weissenrieder (“The­ ory”) on 1:1, 14, 15; 8:35; 10:29; 13:10; 14:9; 16:15. 107. Nightingale, Spectacles of Truth. 108. Swedberg, Art of Social Theory, 20. 109. Swedberg, Art of Social Theory, 20. 110. Plato, Republic, 211. On the impor­tant work attempting to recover ancient philoso­ phy as a set of spiritual exercises and strategies for being in the world, cf. Ferry: Le système des philosophies de l’histoire; Apprendre à vivre; Philosophie politique; Qu’est-ce qu’une vie réussie?; Mythologie et philosophie. See also Hadot, What Is Ancient Philosophy?; Plotinus; Inner Citadel; Philosophy as a Way of Life; Apprendre à lire et à vivre. And see Cooper, Pursuits of Wisdom and Knowledge, Nature, and the Good. On all ­these ­matters, see also the very helpful essay of Sel­ lars, “What Is Philosophy?.” 111. In addition to the work cited e­ arlier, cf. Baltussen, “Personal Grief.” Cf. his forth­ coming volume on the topic of classical consolation in general. 112. Strauss, Life of Jesus Critically Examined and In Defense. Cf. Breuss, Vom Wunder; Lawler, David Friedrich Strauss and His Critics; Madges, Core of Christian Faith. See also Massey, Christ Unmasked. 113. See Bultmann, History of the Synoptic Tradition; Jesus Christ and My­thol­ogy; New Testament and My­thol­ogy; idem et  al., Kerygma and Myth; Bultmann and Jaspers, Myth and Chris­tian­ity. Cf. Hammann, Rudolf Bultmann; Baird, Quest of the Christ of Faith; Miegge, Gospel and Myth; Malevez, Christian Message and Myth. 114. B. Mack, Christian Myth; Who Wrote?; Myth of Innocence. See King, “Mackination.” 115. See, e.g., Thiselton, Two Horizons, 252–63, 288–92, and New Horizons. Intriguingly, theologians have made fruitful recourse to the concept. See, e.g., Vanhoozer, Remythologizing Theology; Vest, Re-­Visioning Theology; Dorrien, Word as True Myth; Dupré, Symbols of the Sacred; M. Kelsey, Myth, History, and Faith. Note, too, Doniger, Implied Spider. 116. Strenski, Four Theories of Myth, 1–2. 117. On the vari­ous attempts at theorizing myth, see Csapo, Theories of My­thol­ogy; Thury and Devinney, Introducing My­thol­ogy; von Hendy, Modern Construction of Myth; Bowby, Freudian Mythologies; Lincoln, Theorizing Myth; Dundes, Sacred Narrative; J. Smith, Imagining Religion; J. Smith, Relating Religion; Segal, Myth; Segal, ed., Myth and Ritual Theory; Segal, ed., Hero Myths; Segal, Theorizing About Myth; Rank et al., eds., In Quest of the Hero; Ellwood, Politics of Myth; P. Cohen, “Theories of Myth.” Cf. Veyne, Did the Greeks Believe?; Auer­ bach, Mimesis; Jameson, Po­liti­cal Unconscious; Žižek, Sublime Object; R. Martin, Language of Heroes. 118. It is specious to think that subtlety and complexity ­were absent in antiquity sur­ rounding myth. Bultmann’s “modern man,” in this sense, was predated by the likes of Palaiphatus the Peripatetic, Sextus Empiricus (e.g., Against the Professors 1.260–62), and Lu­ cian of Samosata (Lover of Lies). On Palaiphatus, see Stern, Palaephatus. On Lucian, see C. Jones, Culture and Society; Baldwin, Studies in Lucian; G. Anderson, Studies in Lucian’s Comic Fiction; Branham, Unruly Eloquence. Note, too, Veyne, Did the Greeks Believe?. 119. Wyatt, Mythic Mind, 166. Wyatt notes that “history in the ser­vice of religion” func­ tions as myth (176). Note the understated “­there is more to my­thol­ogy than false stories,” in Thury and Devinney, Introduction to My­thol­ogy, 17; and Fishbane, Biblical Myth, 41: “The so-­ called dichotomy between myth and history is thus the product of a quite dif­fer­ent cultural consciousness.” See Andriolo, “Myth and History.”



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120. Note Wyatt, Mythic Mind, 155; note, too, Chal­mers, Constructing the World; Elder-­ Vass, Real­ity of Social Construction. This is to say nothing of the positivistic models of his­ tory that are assumed in such moves. See, Clark, History, Theory, Text. 121. Wyatt, Mythic Mind, 155. The complexities of this movement cannot be engaged properly ­here. See Bolle, “Myth”; and, esp., Ricoeur, “Myth.” 122. Kennedy, ed., Progymnasmata, 4. 123. Kennedy, ed., Progymnasmata, 28. 124. It would be in­ter­est­ing ­here to go into what Theon terms “mythical history” (Ken­ nedy, ed., Progymnasmata, 68). 125. See, e.g., 1 Tim. 1:4; 2 Tim. 4:4; Titus 1:14. 126. See, e.g., G. E. Snyder, Acts of Paul; Marguerat, Paul in Acts. The same could be said of Pindar, the sophists, and Plato in his own way, as well as Euhemeros of Messene. But to suggest that they ­were opposed to myth is to confuse concept with leme. ­These thinkers ­were not opposed to myth as concept but ­were in conflict with the “mythic” of the Other. On Plato, see Brisson, Plato the Myth Maker. 127. Note Batto, Slaying the Dragon, 11; Batto, “Myth,” 697–701; Muir, “Mythologies,” 148–86; Peart Anderson, “Myths,” 1.487–91. Note, too, Gorospe, Narrative and Identity. 128. For a brief survey of the lit­er­a­t ure, see, esp., Wyatt, Mythic Mind, 151–88. Note, too, J. de Vries, Forschungsgeschichte der Mythologie; Hartlich and Sachs, Ursprung des Mythosbegriffes. The first comparative study was that of G. Barton, “Tiamat,” followed by Gunkel, Schöpfung und Chaos. See also Morton Smith, “Common Theology of the Ancient Near East.” 129. Wyatt, Mythic Mind, 155. 130. See Mark Smith, “Interpreting the Baal Cycle” and Ugaritic Baal Cycle; Coogan and Smith, eds., Stories from Ancient Canaan. See Wyatt, Myths of Power, esp. 117–218; Space and Time; ­There’s Such Divinity Doth Hedge a King; “Arms and the King.” See also Mark Smith, Early History of God; Day, God’s Conflict; Angel, Chaos and the Son of Man; Batto, Slaying the Dragon; Batto, “Sleeping God”; Forsyth, Old E ­ nemy; and, most recently, Ballentine, Conflict Myth. 131. Wyatt, Mythic Mind, 168–69. 132. See, esp., the comments on the Marian text A1968 in Day, God’s Conflict, 136, 151–90. See Harrelson, “Myth and Ritual School,” 10:282–85; Wyatt, Myths of Power, 219–356. 133. See Derrida, “Two Sources.” 134. Note Hepner, ­Legal Fiction, and his discussion of a “hidden polemic” (e.g., 103). See also Sanchez, From Patmos to the Barrio. 135. See Beal and Gunn, eds., Reading Bibles, Writing Bodies. 136. ­Here I have in mind the intriguing thoughts of Childs, Myth and Real­ity. Childs notes that “the prob­lem of myth in the Old Testament is essentially the prob­lem of the Old Testament’s understanding of real­ity” (7); and how the real­ity of the experience of the “New Israel” expressed itself by “destroying foreign my­thol­ogy” (98). It is this destruction that I see as central within the creative function of myth. Note, too, Morford and Lenardon, Classical My­thol­ogy, 4; Kolakowski, Presence of Myth. 137. Auden, Enchafèd Flood, 43–44. We might well add a third: the ­imagined ­f uture amid other ­imagined ­f utures. 138. Batto has noted how his use of the term “mythopoeic” refers “to that pro­cess by which new myths are created or old myths are extended to include new dimensions” (Slaying the Dragon, 12). See also Remus, Pagan-­Christian Conflict. 139. Kirk, Myth; Barr, “Meaning of ‘My­thol­ogy.’ ”

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140. Wyatt, Mythic Mind, 153. 141. See Wyatt, Mythic Mind, 166. 142. Ricoeur, “Myth,” 10:273. 143. Ricoeur, “Myth,” 10:273. 144. Ricoeur, “Myth,” 10:274. 145. Ricoeur, “Myth,” 10:277. Note, too, the intriguing study of Mastrangelo, Roman Self. 146. Batto, Slaying the Dragon, 169. 147. An in­ter­est­ing illustration of this is how Rome’s claim to spring from the Trojans proved a useful way for non-­Greek outsiders to “connect with the respected myths of the Greek world. For the Romans, the ‘Trojan connection’ was developed through Aeneas’ son and was to prove very useful when they began to have dealings with Greeks in Greece and Asia.” Fox, Classical World, 276; Erskine, Troy Between Greece and Rome, 131–56. 148. See the power­f ul reflections on this point in Caruth, Unclaimed Experience, 15. On ­t hese associations of my­t hol­ogy and trauma generally, see also the intriguing reflections ­r unning throughout Anidjar, Blood, esp. 31–96. 149. Note Fishbane, Biblical Myth, 12. Cf. his very useful introduction to myth and mythopoesis in idem, Biblical Myth, 1–27; as well as Horstmann, “Mythosbegriff.” See also Fishbane, Exegetical Imagination, 89–92. 150. The social function is stressed ­here, for as Auden says, “[E]very world is a world of social relations” (Enchafèd Flood, 59). 151. See ­these excellent studies: Yarbro Collins, “Establishing the Text”; Ehrman, “Text of Mark”; Ehrman, Orthodox Corruption, 72–75; Head, “Text-­Critical Study.” 152. On the complex function of ἀρχή, cf. Becker, Markus-­Evangelium, esp. 238–52. 153. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 131. 154. Marcus, Mark 1–8, 137, 64–69. 155. Marcus, Mark 1–8, 146. 156. Kearney, “Writing Trauma.” 157. Leander, Discourses of Empire, 185. Cf. the lit­er­a­t ure cited by Leander on 185n1, with re­spect to the vari­ous narrative beginnings within ancient lit­er­a­t ure. 158. Leander, Discourses of Empire, 188. 159. See Ant. 15.361, 16.60; J.W. 4.657, 5.322. 160. Cf. the relevant sections in BDAG and Lampe, ­etc. As noted before in the work of Kathleen Davis, conceptually, any periodization can be a per­for­mance of power. 161. Isa. 40:9, 52:7, 60:6, 61:1. 162. Ehrenberg and Jones, Documents, §98, 74–76. 163. Danker, Benefactor, 215–16. 164. Note Leander, Discourse of Empire, 189. 165. Evans, “Mark’s Incipit.” 166. Leander, Discourse of Empire, 189. See Forsythe, Time in Roman Religion. 167. Ando, Imperial Ideology, 92. See also the discussion of Roman dating at Acta Apollonii 7, Acta Pionii 23; Marcus Diaconus, Bita Porph 34, in Haensch, Capita provinciarum, 705–7. 168. Ando, Imperial Ideology, 29. 169. K. Scott, “Greek and Roman Honorific Months”; A. Hanson, “Caligulan Month-­ Names”; P.Oxy. LV 3780. 170. A. Hanson, “Village Officials,” 439. 171. Laffi, “Le iscrizioni.”



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172. Ando, Imperial Ideology, 39. 173. Ando, Imperial Ideology, 162–63. 174. Ando, Imperial Ideology, 408. 175. Ando, Imperial Ideology, 408. 176. Cf. Magie, Roman Rule; S. Mitchell, Anatolia, 1:217–25; Nock, Essays on Religion, 751. 177. Leander, Discourse of Empire, 187. 178. Leander, Discourse of Empire, 187. 179. See the in­ter­est­ing work of Botha, “Publishing a Gospel.” 180. See Dewey, “The Gospel of Mark as Oral Hermeneutic” and “Survival of Mark’s Gospel.” 181. Dronsch and Weissenrieder, “Theory.” 182. See Brayford, Genesis, 205–10. 183. See the intriguing work of Good, Genesis 1–11. 184. Wuthnow, Communities of Discourse, 3. 185. Wittgenstein, On Certainty, §471. 186. E.g., 1:14–15, 24, 27; 2:6–7, 10, 12, 2:21–22. 187. Debray, God, 30. 188. I am referring to the impressive study of Bedenbender of this same title. 189. Butler, “­A fter Loss,” 467. 190. Reardon, ed., Collected Ancient Greek Novels, 1. 191. Debray, God, 29. 192. See the work of Riches, Conflicting Mythologies. 193. Cited in Debray, God, 3. 194. Lincoln, Theorizing Myth, xiii. 195. On this point, see the fascinating work of Blumenberg, Work on Myth, 34–58. Cf. idem, Präfigurationen. 196. Debray, God, 30. 197. E.g., Aristotle, Rhet. I.2, II.1–17, III.7.4; Theon, Prog. 4. See M. Mitchell, “Patristic Counter-­Evidence,” 46. 198. See Swete, Mark, xxix–­x liii; Westcott, Introduction, 371. 199. This translation belongs to M. Mitchell, “Patristic Counter-­Evidence,” 49. 200. Cf. M. Mitchell, Paul and the Rhe­toric of Reconciliation, 13n46. 201. See, e.g., Adv. haer. iii.11.7; Tertullian, de Praescr. Haer. 22.2. Cf. M. Mitchell, “Pa­ tristic Counter-­Evidence,” 63. See also Merkel, Widersprüche zwischen den Evangelien; John Cook, Interpretation of the New Testament, 28. 202. M. Mitchell, “Patristic Counter-­Evidence,” 50 n. 42. 203. See, e.g., Epiphanius, Pan. 6.10; Eusebius, H.E. II.16; Swete, Mark, xxxix. 204. M. Mitchell, “Patristic Counter-­Evidence,” 78. 205. M. Mitchell, “Patristic Counter-­Evidence,” 79. 206. M. Mitchell, “Patristic Counter-­Evidence,” 79. 207. See Kok, “Does Mark Narrate?.” 208. Taubes, Po­liti­cal Theology of Paul, 3. 209. Taubes, Po­liti­cal Theology of Paul, 40. 210. H. Cohen, System der Philosophie, 1:8, 2:2; cf. Pizer, ­Toward a Theory of Radical Origin. 211. Schwarzschild, “Title of Hermann Cohen’s ‘Religion of Reason,’ ” 9. 212. Schwarzschild, “Title of Hermann Cohen’s ‘Religion of Reason,’ ” 15.

222

Notes to Pages 63–67

213. Debray, God, 30. 214. Debray, God, 31. 215. Proust, Swann’s Way, 120. 216. Bedenbender, “Orte mitten im Meer”; Bonnet, “Le désert”; Caneday, “Mark’s Pro­ vocative Use of Scripture”; Carré, “Regards sur l’Évangile selon saint Marc”; Delorme, “Dé­ construire le texte construire la lecture”; Mauser, Christ in the Wilderness; McGann, Journeying Self; Pace, “La prima moltiplicazione dei pani.” I owe ­these references to Telford, Writing on the Gospel of Mark, 408. 217. Debray, God, 53. 218. Debray, God, 43. 219. Irigaray, Marine Lover, 12. 220. Irigaray, Marine Lover, 13. 221. Irigaray, Marine Lover, 46. 222. Irigaray, Marine Lover, 47. 223. Irigaray, Marine Lover, 49. 224. See Irigaray, Marine Lover, 55. 225. Santner, Royal Remains, 6. Cf. Stewart, Gathered Around Jesus. 226. Debray, God, 114. 227. Lefort, Democracy and Po­liti­cal Theory, 222–23; cited in Santner, Royal Remains, 5. 228. On the ordeal, see Lefort, Democracy and Po­liti­cal Theory, 223. 229. Lincoln, Theorizing Myth, 161. See, esp., idem, Myth, Cosmos, and Society. 230. The lit­er­a­t ure on this topic is vast. For a helpful survey, see Telford, Writing on Mark, 465–66, 496–99; and, esp., 520–22. 231. See the fascinating work of Taussig, In the Beginning Was the Meal. 232. Debray, God, 277. 233. P. Brown, Rise of Western Christendom, xxviii. 234. Lincoln, Theorizing Myth, 54. 235. Brakke, Gnostics, 112; cf., generally, 112–37. 236. Lincoln, Theorizing Myth, 16. 237. See the fascinating work of Riches, Conflicting Mythologies. See also Cameron, “Al­ ternate Beginnings.” 238. Boyarin, “Jewish Reader,” 7 239. Boyarin, “Jewish Reader,” 14. 240. See, e.g., the lit­er­a­t ure discussed in Boyarin, Jewish Gospel; Chilton, Judaic ­Approaches; Schäfer, Jewish Jesus. 241. It is precisely at this point where I find the discussions of trauma and history within Holocaust lit­er­a­t ure so profoundly impor­tant and moving. 242. ­There is a lit­er­a­ture that rightly bends our attention to the social movement of Jesus and its resultant wider Christologies, as opposed to merely thinking about a solitary figure. 243. Any reasoning offered for the suturing of ­these two bodies is surely speculation. Perhaps ­there was some form of relationship? Perhaps the communities reading/hearing Mark ­were the latter generation of that ­earlier gathering of traumatized bodies of which the texts speak? I like the thought of this idea. What­ever the case may be, the therapy of this trauma sutured itself along trans-­generational needs. 244. Bultmann, Jesus Christ and My­thol­ogy, 17–18. 245. Bultmann, Jesus Christ and My­thol­ogy, 45; cf. 52. See the very in­ter­est­ing disserta­ tion of Latour, “Exegèse et ontologie.”



Notes to Pages 67–70

223

246. Bultmann, Jesus Christ and My­thol­ogy, 49. 247. Bultmann, Jesus Christ and My­thol­ogy, 43–44 with n. 23. 248. Bultmann, Jesus Christ and My­thol­ogy, 53. 249. Bultmann, Jesus Christ and My­thol­ogy, 51. 250. Bultmann, Jesus Christ and My­thol­ogy, 53. 251. Bultmann, Jesus Christ and My­thol­ogy, 55. 252. Bultmann, Jesus Christ and My­thol­ogy, 84. 253. Bultmann, Jesus Christ and My­thol­ogy, 57. 254. Bultmann, Jesus Christ and My­thol­ogy, 56. 255. Bultmann, Jesus Christ and My­thol­ogy, 83. 256. Cf. On First Princi­ples, bk. 4, chapters 2–3. 257. So much more h ­ ere needs to be explored specifically as it relates to taking the im­ age and meta­phor of a “social body” more seriously. ­There is a remarkable variability of com­ posite lives active in a “body” both in terms of its own shifting skin cells and the startling ratio of bacteria to ­human cells in an adult body. See, e.g., Sender, Fuchs, and Milo, “Revised Estimates for the Number of ­Human and Bacteria Cells in the Body.” In many re­spects, the emergence of difference from shared social (and organic) bodies is inevitable. On this point, see the provocative work of Coen, Cells to Civilizations. 258. Boyarin, Traveling Homeland, 3. 259. An area needing further exploration along ­these lines is the relationship between messianism and trauma, as raised by Scholem and ­others, e.g., messianic time in Agamben, Time That Remains (19–43, 59–87); messianism in Taubes, Po­liti­cal Theology of Paul.

Chapter 3 1. C. Taylor, Secular Age, 334. 2. See Burnet, Telluris theoria sacra. Cf. C. Taylor, Secular Age, 346. 3. H ­ ere appropriating from Kluge, Geschichte und Eigensinn, 97. 4. Sebald’s original title was Luftkrieg und Literatur; see Sebald, On the Natu­ral History of Destruction, 10. 5. Benjamin, “Über den Begriff der Geschichte,” 693–704. See Rabinowitz, “Wreckage upon Wreckage”; Buse et al., Benjamin’s Arcades, 95–104. 6. Cf. the beautiful language of Sebald, On the Natu­ral History of Destruction, 57. 7. Cf. Sebald, On the Natu­ral History of Destruction, 74. 8. Cf. Oe, Hiroshima Notes, 20; cited first in Sebald, On the Natu­ral History of Destruction, 89. 9. ­There should be a lot more research and argumentation about this point, but if ­there is something to Oe and other writers on the work of procuring an ­after, with re­spect to trauma, it is no won­der that Paul, who neither witnessed the trauma of Jesus’ violent death nor the traumatic separation loosed by the empty tomb, wrote first, and that ­there ­were no early writ­ ings from witnesses of such events. Perhaps, too, this might shed light on why John is written so very late. Again, ­these are ­simple gestures and curiosities. The larger point is that the painful wounds of trauma’s laceration calls into question the ­earlier generations’ prized posi­ tioning of “early.” If the event of Chris­tian­ity is, in fact, the trauma of absence, the very work of an ­after needs time and consolation in order to come to light. In this case, e­ arlier writings may reflect further afield positioning within the zone of intensity of the originating trauma.

224

Notes to Pages 70–73

10. Cioran, A Short History of Decay, 65. 11. Cioran, A Short History of Decay, 83. 12. Cioran, A Short History of Decay, 20. 13. Cioran, A Short History of Decay, 20. 14. Cf. Cioran, A Short History of Decay, 79. 15. Cioran, A Short History of Decay, 23. 16. Cioran, A Short History of Decay, 34, 45. 17. Cioran, A Short History of Decay, 96. 18. Cioran, A Short History of Decay, 163. 19. Cioran, A Short History of Decay, 56. 20. Cioran, A Short History of Decay, 106. 21. The ordering of Pascal’s Pensées, of course, is a contested issue. The version to which I am referring is the edition of Le Guern. Cf. Anzieu, “Naissance,” 322–33. 22. Pascal, Pensées, 514. 23. Pascal, Pensées, 512. 24. Pascal, Pensées, 513. 25. Pascal, Pensées, 514. 26. See Carroll, Existential Jesus. See also the work of Malbon, Mark’s Jesus. 27. Pascal, Pensées, 267. 28. C. Taylor, Secular Age, 335. 29. C. Taylor, Secular Age, 336–37. 30. This language of fresh ­a ngles of vision is taken from Proust, Captive and the Fugitive, 665. 31. Deleuze and Guattari, What Is Philosophy?. Cf. Günzel, “Nietz­sche’s Geophilosophy”; Gasché, Geophilosophy. 32. See also Latour, Facing Gaia, and the collection of essays in Lowenhaupt Tsing et al., eds., Arts of Living. 33. Cf. the special issue, ed. Chisholm, Deleuze and Guattari’s Ecophilosophy. 34. See Dueck, Strabo of Amasia; Muñiz Grijalvo, “Greek Religion.” 35. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 3. 36. See Goulimari, Literary Criticism and Theory; Wells, “Genres.” 37. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 5. Cf. van Paassen, Classical Tradition of Geography, 16–24; Harley and Woodward, eds., History of Cartography I. 38. See, e.g., 2.5.34; cf. 2.5.8, 13. 39. Sack, H ­ uman Territoriality, 1. 40. Worth comparing are Foucault, “Of Other Space” and “Questions on Geography.” 41. Cf. Heidegger, Sein und Zeit, §12. Note, in par­tic­u­lar, the spatial vocabulary of Hei­ degger: Ort, Ortschaft, Stätte, Gegend, Dasein, Lichtung, Ereignis. Note also Aristotle in his Physics, where he speaks of topos as a mode of being-­in. 42. Casey, Getting Back into Place, 13, and Fate of Place; cf. Sack, Homo Geographicus. 43. Merleau-­Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception, lxxx. See also Malpas, Place and ­Experience. 44. Merleau-­Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception, lxxiv. 45. Merleau-­Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception, lxxv. 46. Deleuze, “Postscript,” 2. 47. Deleuze, “Postscript,” 3.



Notes to Pages 73–76

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48. Deleuze, “Postscript,” 3. 49. Deleuze, “Postscript,” 3–4. “Nous sommes dans une crise généralisée de tous les mi­ lieux d’enfermement” (Deleuze, “Post-­scriptum,” 241). 50. Deleuze, “Postscript,” 5. 51. See the fascinating work of Graeber, Utopia of Rules. 52. Deleuze, “Postscript,” 6. “L’homme n’est plus l’homme enfermé, mais l’homme en­ detté.” On ­these complicated notions, see Lazzarato, The Making of the Indebted Man and Governing by Debt. 53. Deleuze, “Postscript,” 7. 54. Deleuze, “Postscript,” 7. 55. Deleuze, “Postscript,” 4. 56. Malpas, Heidegger and the Thinking of Place, 2. Malpas’s notion of “philosophical to­ pology” (1) is influential in this study. 57. See Malpas, “Putting Space in Place.” 58. By duration, I am referring to Henri Bergson (Durée et simultanéité) and Schmitt’s psychological and relational dimensions in Land und Meer. On Bergson, see the many mas­ terful studies of Frédéric Worms, e.g., Le vocabulaire de Bergson; Introduction à matière et mémoire de Bergson. 59. Sack, H ­ uman Territoriality, 3. 60. So claims Sack, H ­ uman Territoriality, 39. 61. Cf. J. Smith, To Take Place. 62. See the power­f ul work of C. Levine, Forms, 49–81. 63. Cf. Lefebvre, Production of Space, 31; Johnston, Question of Place, 67. 64. Malpas, Heidegger and Place, 4. 65. Deleuze and Guattari, Anti-­Oedipus, 12. 66. Cf. Bishai, Forgetting Ourselves. 67. Relevant, too, is Heidegger’s notion of Lichtung, i.e., the clearing and the happening of truth, the Ereignis. Cf. Garbutt, “The Clearing”; Amoroso, Lichtung. 68. See Shields, Places on the Margin, 61–63, and his notion of “space-­myths” and the production of cosmologies. 69. Lowenthal and Bowden, eds., Geographies of the Mind. Also in mind ­here is the lan­ guage of en un lieu mythique in Deleuze and Guattari, L’Anti-­Œdipe, 79, 88. 70. Lowenthal, “Introduction,” 3. 71. Lowenthal, “Introduction,” 3. Cf. Tuan, “Geopiety”; John Allen, “Lands of Myth.” 72. See Tilley, Phenomenology of Landscape, 9. 73. Cf. the intriguing work of Thumfart, “On Grotius’s Mare Liberum.” 74. Beaulieu, Sea, 1. 75. Beaulieu, Sea, 154. 76. Beaulieu, Sea, 159. 77. Beaulieu, Sea, 167. 78. Beaulieu, Sea, 168. 79. Beaulieu, Sea, 180. 80. Beaulieu, Sea, 188. 81. Beaulieu, Sea, 188. 82. This was the argument of the excellent Horden and Purcell, Corrupting Sea. 83. Beaulieu, Sea, 188.

226

Notes to Pages 76–78

84. Cf. Capdev­ille, ed., L’eau et le feu. 85. Beaulieu, Sea, 190. 86. Beaulieu, Sea, 197. Cf. Josephus, B.J. 2.363. 87. Schmitt, Land und Meer, 7. 88. Schmitt, Land and Sea, 50. 89. Schmitt, Land and Sea, 46. 90. Blumenberg, Shipwreck, 7. More recently, see the fascinating reworking of ­these con­ cepts and problematics in ­these impor­tant works: Deloughrey, “Submarine ­Futures”; Costa and Chilese, Our ­Mother Ocean; Probyn, Eating the Ocean. 91. Of course, Barthes had quite a dif­fer­ent experience: “­Here I am before the sea; it is true that it bears no message” (Mythologies, 112). 92. Since the focus of this study ­w ill be on Mark, see Aus, Caught in the Act, 51–133, and Stilling of the Storm; Bedenbender, “Orte mitten im Meer”; Bedenbender, “Neue Beobach­ tungen zum Markusevangelium.” Note the studies listed in Telford, Writing on Mark, 410, 495–96. See also Achtemeier, “Pre-­Markan Miracle Catenae.” On the concept of θεῖος ἄνδρες, see H. Betz, “Gottmensch II”; M. Smith, “Prolegomena”; Hadas and Smith, Heroes and Gods; Tiede, Charismatic Figure as Miracle Worker; Achtemeier, “Gospel Traditions and the Divine Man”; Kee, “Aretalogy and Gospel”; J. Smith, “Good News Is No News”; Cotter, Christ of the Miracle Stories; and, esp., Yarbro Collins, “Rulers, Divine Men, and Walking on the ­Water.” See also Lapide, Er wandelte nicht auf dem Meer; Delorme, “Déconstruire le texte construire la lecture”; Derrett, “Preaching to the Coast”; Heil, Jesus Walking; Malbon, “Jesus of Mark and the Sea of Galilee”; Pilch, “Walking on the Sea”; Reichert, “Zwischen Exegese und Di­ daktik”; Riedl, “Seewandel Jesu”; Schreiber, Theologie des Vertrauens; S. M. Smith, “Beth­ saida via Gennesaret”; Strelan, “Greater than Caesar.” 93. On genre and the Gospels, see, generally, Dormeyer, Evangelium als literarische und theologische Gattung; Talbert, What Is a Gospel?; Cancik, “Bios und Log­os”; Burridge, What Are the Gospels?; Kelhoffer, Conceptions of “Gospel” and Legitimacy. See also the many impres­ sive studies of Yarbro Collins: Beginning of the Gospel; “Is Mark’s Gospel a Life of Jesus?”; “Genre and Gospels”; “Narrative, History, and Gospel”; “Mark and the Hermeneutics of His­ tory Writing.” 94. Mark 4:35–41, Matt. 8:23–27, Luke 8:22–25. 95. Mark 6:45–52, Matt. 14:22–33, John 6:16–21. See Giblin, “Miraculous Crossing of the Sea.” Notice the curious absence of the walking on the sea miracles in Luke. I under­ stand this, however, to be an example of Luke’s ecclesial Christology, where the sea journeys and rescues represent a performativity of Christ. 96. I.e., the social realities of Jews, Christians, and pagans could hardly be assorted into such neat categories. See Malherbe, Social Aspects of Early Chris­tian­ity; Meeks, First Urban Christians; Horsley, Jesus in Context. 97. See Malina, “Apocalyptic and Territoriality”; Neyrey, “Space and Places”; Stewart, “New Testament Space/Spatiality.” 98. See, e.g., Nineham, Gospel of Mark, 180–81, 186, 263; Schweizer, Good News According to Mark, 113, 142, 154. 99. McCown, “Gospel Geography,” 3. Elsewhere, McCown speaks of the attempt to “dis­ entangle” fiction, fact, and truth (2). On the challenges of Mark’s geography, see also V. Taylor, Gospel According to St. Mark, 278. 100. McCown, “Gospel Geography,” 25.



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101. Hezser, Jewish Travel, 43. 102. Krieger, “Publikum der Bergpredigt.” He softened this position, however, in Krieger, “Maps of Palestine,” 274. 103. See Hedrick, “What Is a Gospel?.” 104. Lefebvre, Production of Space, 124. 105. Stewart, Gathered, 222. 106. Stewart elsewhere calls this an “abstract world” (Gathered, 60). 107. Cf. R. Cohen, ed., Visualizing and Exhibiting Jewish Space and History. 108. Cf. van Eck, Galilee and Jerusalem. 109. Lohmeyer, Galiläa und Jerusalem, 12, 73–77; Lightfoot, Locality and Doctrine, 65. Both Lohmeyer and Lightfoot stress the theological dimensions of Mark’s pre­sen­ta­tion of Galilee. 110. Kelber, Kingdom in Mark, 97. 111. Cf. the impor­tant assessments in Malbon, “Galilee and Jerusalem.” Note, too, the reception of Galilee as a holy place in the fourth ­century by Walker, Holy City, Holy Places?, 133–70. 112. Riches, Conflicting Mythologies, 133. 113. Riches, Conflicting Mythologies, 142. ­These are impor­tant themes, to which we ­w ill return l­ater in the argument. 114. Stewart, Gathered, 24. 115. Stewart, Gathered, 29. 116. Cf. Stewart, Gathered, 178. 117. See MacMullen, Enemies of the Roman Order. 118. Stewart, Gathered, 180. 119. Malpas, Heidegger and Place, 106. 120. Schmitt, Land and Sea, 28; cf. “Den mannigfachen Lebensformen entsprechen eb­ enso verschiedenartige Räume” (Land und Meer, 55). 121. Malpas, Heidegger and Place, 106. 122. Kelber, Kingdom in Mark, 87–108. 123. Kelber, Kingdom in Mark, 23. 124. Rhoads, Dewey, and Michie, Mark as Story. 125. Malbon, 168. Though some may see her structuralist commitments somewhat trou­ blesome, she herself admits to the “incomplete, open-­ended” nature of her study (7). See also Marcus, Way of the Lord. 126. Freyne, “Geography of Restoration.” 127. Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles.” 128. Cf. Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles,” 185–88. 129. Cf. Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles,” 195–99. 130. Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles,” 199–201. 131. Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles,” 201–5; cf. 215–21. 132. Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles,” 205–15. 133. Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles,” 226, following Trocmé, La Formation, 202–3. 134. Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles,” 229. 135. For a detailed critique of Kotansky, see the excellent review of Aune, “Jesus and the Romans.” 136. Dalman, Sacred Sites and Ways.

228

Notes to Pages 80–82

137. Pesch, Markusevangelium, 1:10. 138. Marxsen, Evangelist Markus, 33–77; ­here, 77. See also Haenchen, Weg Jesu, 32–37, and the relevant sections in the commentary; Lagrange, Évangile selon Saint Marc, CXXIX–­ CLI. Invaluable, too, is the study of Kelber, Kingdom in Mark. 139. On this point, see Aune, “Jesus and the Romans.” I stress ­here that naming his geographic conclusions “unconvincing” is nowhere meaning “unimpressive.” 140. Cf. Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles,” 163–64; Aune, “Jesus and the Romans,” 236–44. 141. Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles,” 168–73; Aune, “Jesus and the Romans,” 244–50. 142. Aune, “Jesus and the Romans,” 250. 143. Cf. Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles,” 182. 144. ­Here, again, I simply restate my fascination with Kotansky’s proposal without any qualification. I think it brilliantly complexifies questions of the relevance and geography by suturing them within the histories of texts and traditions. I won­der, however, if even in my use of the term “journey,” too much intention and agency are being granted. Part of what I want to argue ­here is that the boat as traumatically embarked and suspended trou­bles any simplistic notion of a journey from one side to another. 145. See, e.g., the impressive study of White, Remembering Paul, 171. I select this ex­ ample simply ­because the work is so impressive and convincing. His fundamental point is surely correct. The point I wish to make, however, is that social locations cannot be sectioned and sequestered: that of Paul and that of Irenaeus. Particularly with re­spect to the text of Mark in NA28, or any textual or oral traditions that scholars put forward, I suggest that ­these are haunted by an originating trauma and that feeling of social abeyance. 146. Bataille, Theory of Religion, 9. 147. Joyce, Ulysses, 217. 148. Schmitt, Land und Meer, 73. 149. Cf. J. Hamilton, Security, esp. 87–90. See also Romm, Edges of the Earth, 38 and n. 75; Dion, “Explication d’un passage des RGDA”; and the excellent work of Elden, Birth of Territory. 150. Cf. Kirk and Raven, Presocratic Phi­los­o­phers, 104–21; Kahn, Anaximander; and the studies listed in Romm, Edges of the Earth, 11n4. 151. See, e.g., Kahn, Anaximander, 231–32. 152. Cf. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 11, with studies listed in n. 6. 153. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 11. See Bergren, Etymology and Uses of “Peirar.” 154. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 11. 155. Schmitt, Land and Sea, 35. 156. Schmitt, Land and Sea, 73; “Weltgeschichte ist eine Geschichte von Landnahmen” (Land und Meer, 73). 157. Cf. Schmitt, Land and Sea, 37. 158. Schmitt, Land and Sea, 37. 159. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 11; cf. Sack, ­Human Territoriality, 1. 160. “Nehmen-­Teilen-­Weiden sind in dieser Reihenfolge die drei Grundbegriffe jeder konkreten Ordnung” (Land und Meer, 71); Land and Sea, 37. 161. See Gisinger, “Oikumene”; van Paassen, Classical Tradition of Geography, 16–24; Kaerst, Antike Idee; T. Schmidt, “Oikoumenē”; James M. Scott, Geography. 162. Cf. Lefebvre, Production of Space, 116. 163. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 37. 164. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 33.



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165. See, generally, Romm, Edges of the Earth, 32–41. 166. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 37. 167. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 39. 168. See Heidel, “Plato’s Atlantis.” Romm states that the Greeks correlated historic time with geographic space (Edges of the Earth, 47). 169. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 46. Romm convincingly demonstrates how this is done in both directions. On the one hand, “distant ­peoples” (eschatoi andrōn) become stock images of exemplary models of humanity (cf. Strabo 7.3.9) with which to show the degradation of the civilized center (48–49, 59–61). 170. Nicolet, L’Inventaire du Monde. 171. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 35–36. 172. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 36. 173. Schmitt, Land and Sea, 38. 174. Blum, “Introduction.” See also Marzano, Harvesting the Sea. 175. On the derivation of the name, see Romm, Edges of the Earth, 13n12. 176. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 16. 177. Cf. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 22. 178. Cf. the response of Plution to Alexander discussed in Romm, Edges of the Earth, 26. 179. Homer, Iliad, 14.201; cf. 14.246. Cf. Rudhardt, Thème de l’eau primordial. 180. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 25. 181. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 26. 182. On peirata and periodos, see Romm, Edges of the Earth, 27, 36; cf. 37n72. 183. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 32. See also Fränkel, Early Greek Poetry and Philosophy, 262n22; Kahn, Anaximander, 231–32. 184. Beaulieu, Sea, 23. 185. See, esp., Romm, Edges of the Earth, 17n25. 186. Cf. Pocock, “Nature of Ocean in Early Epic.” 187. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 147. 188. Cf. Annals 2:23–24; Poem of Pedo Albinovanus. Cf. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 144. 189. E.g., Heracles: Theog. 292; Jason: Pind. Pyth. 4.251. 190. E.g., Pind. Ol. 3.43–45; Nem. 3.20–23; Isthm. 4.29–31; Eur. Hipp. 742–50. Cf. Roller, Pillars of Herakles. See Ol. 3.43; Nem. 3.20–23, 4.69; Isthm. 4.29–31; fr. 256. Cited in Beaulieu, Sea, 61. 191. Cf. Hist. Nat. 19.1.5. 192. E.g., cf. Astronomicon 1.76, 87–88. Romm points to Seneca’s Medea and Pliny the El­ der as evidence of the deep ambivalence in sea crossings in antiquity (Edges of the Earth, 165). 193. “[T]he sea has an altogether ambiguous spatial orientation and materiality. It is a solid horizontal plane and a liquid vertical abyss, a surface on which to sail forward and a chasm in which to sink down” (Beaulieu, Sea, 24). See Bajard, “Quelques aspects.” 194. Cf. Nesselrath, “Where the Lord of the Sea Grants Passage,” 164. 195. Cf. Beaulieu, Sea, 112. 196. See Evans, “Cruel Sea?,” 109; Bajard, “Quelques aspects.” 197. Cf. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 158–71. 198. Cf. Beaulieu, Sea, 1; Corvisier, Grecs et la mer. 199. Cf. Beaulieu, Sea, 2. 200. Beaulieu, Sea, 2. 201. Cf. references in Beaulieu, Sea, 2.

230

Notes to Pages 85–87

202. Beaulieu, Sea, 10. 203. Beaulieu, Sea, 3. Cf. Lesky, Thalatta; Nesselrath, “Where the Lord of the Sea Grants Passage”; Ginouvès, Balaneutikè; Vermeule, Aspects of Death; Radermacher, “Meer und die Toten.” 204. Beaulieu, Sea, 10. 205. Beaulieu, Sea, 11; cf. 191. 206. Cf. the excellent discussion in Beaulieu, Sea, 16; and the discussion in Horden and Purcell on the Mediterranean and its “connectivity of microregions” (Corrupting Sea, 123). 207. Beaulieu, Sea, 196, where she discusses this precise function of the Old Men of the Sea Nereus, Phorcys, and Proteus. 208. Num. 34:6; Deut. 34:2. 209. Num. 34:3; Deut. 3:17. 210. Exod. 13:18. 211. Josh. 13:27. 212. ­Here see the useful survey of Follis, “Sea.” 213. Note the in­ter­est­ing work of Dietrich, “Grenzen göttlicher Macht.” For ­these themes in Qumran, cf. Coblentz Bautch, “Jām.” 214. Beuken, Jesaja 13–27, 388. 215. Cf. Isa. 27:1, 51:9; Job 26:12; Ps. 89:10 [89:11], ­etc. See Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 1–39, 372– 73; Oswalt, Book of Isaiah 1–39, 490–91. 216. Ps. 114:3. 217. Ps. 74:13–17, 89:9–12 [89:10–13]; Job 9:8, 26:12–14; Isa. 27:1, 51:9–10. Cf. the impor­ tant work of Levenson, Creation and the Per­sis­tence of Evil. 218. Beuken, Jesaja 13–27, 388; cf. 386–91. 219. 1 Kings 7:23–26. 220. 4 Esd. 6:49, 52; b. B. Bat. 74b. 221. Ps. 104:26; b. ‘Abod. Zar. 3b. On the rabbinic interpretation of the sea, see, e.g., Rosenblum, “Cities of the Sea” and “Inland Culture”; and, esp., the excellent study of Fish­ bane, Myth and Mythmaking. 222. Cf. Republic 27.1. 223. Cf. Isa. 57:20. See Koole, Isaiah Chapters 56–66, 110–12. 224. Cf. Isa. 27:1 with 25:7. 225. Cf. Berger, Apokalypse, 1.5–163; Karrer, Johannesoffenbarung 1. 226. E.g., 4:6, 12:18, 13:1, 15:2. Though dealing mostly with chapter 12, see also the in­ ter­est­ing work of Koch, Drachenkampf und Sonnenfrau. 227. Rev. 21:4. 228. See Allo, Saint Jean L’Apocalypse, 331. See also Loisy, L’Apocalypse de Jean, 360–62. 229. Rev. 21:1 with 21:4. 230. See Romm, Edges of the Earth, 124. 231. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 156. 232. Beaulieu, Sea, 59. 233. “Geopiety” is a term coined by John K. Wright to communicate the complex of social rules and relations between humanity and nature. See Wright, ­Human Nature in Geo­ graphy, 250–85. On seafaring in antiquity, see Meijer, A History of Seafaring; Casson, Travel in the Ancient World; Casson, Ships and Seafaring; Casson, Ships and Seamanship. 234. Lucretius, DRN 5.1004–8; Manilius Astronomicon 1.76–78; Ovid, Metamorphoses 1.96–98; Virgil, Georgics 3.141–42; Seneca, Medea 301–39, 364–79. Cf. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 74n67.



Notes to Pages 87–91

231

235. Cf. Malherbe, Cynic Epistles, 36–51. 236. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 123. 237. Strabo 2.5.34; 2.5.8, 13. 238. Ol. 3.43; Nem. 3.20–23, 4.69; Isthm. 4.29–31; fr. 256, cited in Beaulieu, Sea, 61. 239. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 34. 240. Ann. 1.11.4; Agric. 13.2; cf. Dio, 56.33.5. Cf. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 182. 241. See Romm, Edges of the Earth, 18. 242. Natu­ral Questions 5.18.11–12. Even ­here, Seneca is not so straightforward. See Romm, Edges of the Earth, 167. 243. Cf. Beaulieu, Sea, 193 244. Though quite dated now, see the classical study of Starr, Roman Imperial Navy. 245. Cf. Hezser, Jewish Travel in Antiquity, 179. 246. Hist. Nat. 14.2; cf. 3.4; 15.1. See Goldsworthy, Pax Romana. 247. Eusebius, H.E. 16.12.1. 248. Commentary on Galatians 6.12. 249. B.J. 1.633. 250. See Shahar, Josephus Geographicus. 251. Schmitt, Land and Sea, 31; Land und Meer, 60. 252. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 157. 253. Note Romm, Edges of the Earth, 167. Cf. F. Morgante, “Il progresso umano in Lu­ crezio e Seneca.” Worth noting are the fascinating reflections of Schmitt in Land and Sea, who steps outside the sweeping evolutionary narratives on offer from Oswald Spengler and Arnold Toynbee that ­were influential during his day. Central for Schmitt is the idea of frac­ ture that contingency introduces in the formation and development of any community. The success or failure of a community is in its relation to and recognition of time and the chal­ lenge of an empty space—or a space perceived to be so. This is what he refers to as the nomos. The nomos is perceived as empty space but filled with three forms of action: po­liti­cal; ­legal or juridical; and economic. Each of ­these embodies the conquest of space within its partitioning and enjoyment from the resources of this partitioning. Nomos thus expresses a territorial outlook. 254. See, e.g., Beaulieu, Sea, 57–58. See also Nesselrath, “Where the Lord of the Sea Grants Passage,” 164. 255. Cf. Beaulieu, Sea, 69. 256. Beaulieu, Sea, 73. 257. Beaulieu, Sea, 87. 258. ­Others could be included, e.g., Arion, Enalus. Cf. Beaulieu, Sea, 136–37. 259. Beaulieu, Sea, 87. 260. Cf. Malpas, Heidegger and Place, 106–7. 261. Cf. the work of Alliès, L’invention du territoire. 262. Cf. Beaulieu, Sea, 93–96. 263. Burkert, Homo Necans, 196. 264. See Augustine, City of God, 147–48. See also Hayes, “Pirates.” 265. On the role of the “pirate” in the making of modernity and the problematics of sovereignty, see the following works: Leeson, Invisible Hook; Thomson, Mercenaries, Pirates, and Sovereigns; Ford, Radical Romantic; Policante, Pirate Myth; Policante, “New Pirate Wars.” See also H. Kelsey, Sir Francis Drake; Rediker, “Pirates and the Imperial State”; Latimer, Buccaneers of the Ca­rib­be­an; Gerassi-­Navarro, Pirate Novels.

232

Notes to Pages 91–93

266. Homer, Od. 14.222–34; cf. 3.71–74; 9.252–55. 267. Diod., Sic. 20.81.3. 268. For what follows, see the excellent summary of Alonso-­Núñez, “Piracy.” 269. Flor, Epit. 1.43; Str. 3.5.1. 270. See, e.g., Tröster, “Roman Hegemony and Non-­State Vio­lence.” 271. Cic., Manil. 29–35; Cic., Flacc. 29; Plut., Pompeius 24–28; Cass. Dio 36.20–37. 272. See Benabou, “Rome et la police des mers”; Pohl, Die römische Politik und die Piraterie; Sahin, “Piratenüberfall auf Teos.” 273. Avidov, “­Were the Cilicians a Nation of Pirates?.” 274. E.g., Vell. 2.23.5; Flor. 1.41.14. See Breglia Pulci Doria, “La provincia di Cilicia e gli ordinamenti di Pompeo,” esp. 357–63; Verbrugghe, “Narrative Pattern in Posidonius’ History.” 275. This is a remarkably complex issue—­more, I am sure, than I realize. This is not a study on pirates per se but the relevance of the pirate as a social label is an impor­tant corol­ lary to what ­w ill follow ­later in the designation of “demon” as a spatial judgment. In other words, the classification of “pirate” was a judgment made from within an enclosure that made ­little of the operative systems of exchange and life on deck of social bodies sailing outside its zones. An impor­tant witness of ­these shifting labels is Pompey and his ­later conflict with Julius Caesar. See, generally, Powell and Welch, eds., Sextus Pompeius; in par­tic­u­lar, Powell, “An Island amid the Flame”; Gowing, “Pirates, Witches and Slaves.” 276. See Fugmann, “Mare a praedonibus pacavi.” See also Braund, “Piracy ­Under the Principate”; Reddé, Mare Nostrum. 277. Cf. Hardie, Virgil’s Aeneid, 364–66; Vogt, “Orbis Romanus”; E. Bréguet, “Urbi et orbi”; Nepos (Att. 20.5). 278. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 122. 279. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 123. 280. Romm (Edges of the Earth, 137) states: “The idea of Alexander’s plans for an expedi­ tion beyond Ocean grew in importance at Rome as the Roman Empire grew.” ­Toward the end of the first ­century of the common era, e.g., Quintilian reflects on ­whether Alexander would discover lands beyond the ocean (Inst. Orat. 3.8.16; cf. Lucan, B.C. 10.36–41). Cf. Ode to Messalla; Florus, Epitome. 281. Cf. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 135. Cf., however, the comments of Romm with re­ spect to the westward march of empire beyond Thule (Edges of the Earth, 206). With re­spect to Thule, authors such as Virgil and Seneca pose dif­fer­ent challenges. 282. Anthol. Lat. 419.4. Cited first in Romm, Edges of the Earth, 141. 283. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 151. 284. Lucan put forward conceptions of “good” and “bad” expansion. On this, see Romm, Edges of the Earth, 155. 285. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 15. 286. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 8. 287. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 15, and the impor­tant studies cited on 24n3. 288. See Ars Amatoria 1.174; Fasti 2.130, 683. Cf. Livy 1.16.7; Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 29. 289. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 15. 290. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 2. 291. Cf. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 10. In this sense, it is intriguing to com­ pare the similar logics at work within King Agrippa II as retold by Josephus (B.J., 2.16.345–



Notes to Pages 93–96

233

401); and Tacitus (Ann. 1.11.4; Agric. 13.2) and Dio (56.33.5) on the advantages of remaining within the known world. Cf. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 181–82. See also Hezser, Jewish Travel in Antiquity, 179. 292. Schmitt, Land and Sea, 38, and Land und Meer, 71: “Am Anfang jeder großen Ep­ oche steht daher eine große Landnahme. Insbesondere ist jede bedeutende Veränderung und Verlagerung des Erdbildes mit weltpolitischen Veränderungen und mit einer neuen Einteilung der Erde, einer neuen Landnahme verbunden.” 293. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 4, 7–8. 294. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 149 and footnote. 295. Cf. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 150 and relevant footnotes. 296. Cf. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 126. 297. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 189. 298. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 190. 299. Cf. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 192–94. 300. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 5. 301. Cf. the detailed discussion in Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 30. In Poly­ bius, domination carries a distinctively geographic sense. Nicolet suggests a link in Polybi­ us’s mind between Roman conquest and geographic improvements conquest made pos­si­ble (cf. 3.59). See Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 31 and references ­there. 302. Cf., e.g., Weber, Princeps. 303. Cf. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 9. 304. On the circumstances of the posthumous publication of Res Gestae, cf. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 16. See Cooley, Res Gestae Divi Augusti; Galinsky, “Augustus’ auctoritas.” 305. On the bound­a ries of the world, see Dion, “La géographie d’Homère.” 306. Cf. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 19, 24. 307. Romm, Edges of the Earth, 136–37. 308. Cf. Aeneid 6.785–88; 8.226–27. 309. See the examples listed in Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 112. See also Wilkins, “Land and Sea.” 310. Cf. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 14. 311. Cf. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 47. 312. Cf. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 73 and note. 313. Cf. the spatial revolution of triangulation, ­etc., in Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 71. 314. Cf. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 111. 315. This is attested to in the sphragides of Eratosthenes, Hipparchus, and Posidonius, along with the two dimensions in Agrippa. 316. See the in­ter­est­ing study of Brotton, History of the World; J. Black, Maps and History; Akerman and Karrow, Jr., eds., Maps. 317. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 125. 318. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, 47; cf. 57. 319. Schmitt, Land and Sea, 31; Schmitt, Land und Meer, 60. 320. Cf., generally, Harley, “Maps, Knowledge, and Power.” 321. Schmitt, Land and Sea, 29, and Land und Meer, 56: “Jedesmal wenn durch einen neuen Vorstoß geschichtliche Kräfte, durch eine Entfesselung neuer Energien, neue Länder

234

Notes to Pages 96–97

und Meere in den Gesichtskreis des menschlichen Gesamtbewußtseins eintreten, ändern sich auch die Räume geschichtlicher Existenz. Dann entstehen neue Maßstäbe und Dimensionen der politisch-­geschichtlichen Aktivität, neue Wissenschaften, neue Ordnungen, neues Leben neuer oder wiedergeborener Völker.” 322. Yarbro Collins, “Rulers, Divine Men, and Walking on the ­Water,” 211. 323. See, e.g., Connery, “Ideologies of Land and Sea” and “Oceanic Feeling”; Gillis, Islands of the Mind; B. Klein, Sea Changes; J. Mack, Sea; Steinberg, Social Construction of the Ocean; Jacques, Globalization and the World Ocean; Paine, Sea and Civilization. 324. Though I think that her commitment to Levi-­Strauss’s structuralism leads her a bit astray in positing a hard dichotomy between land and sea, a laudable exception to this absence is Malbon, “Jesus of Mark and the Sea of Galilee” and Narrative Space and Mythic Meaning. 325. Olshausen, “Sea.” 326. Steinberg, Social Construction of the Ocean, 20. 327. See Evans, “Cruel Sea?.” 328. Steinberg, Social Construction of the Ocean, 20. 329. Though cf. Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles.” 330. Steinberg, Social Construction of the Ocean, 6. 331. On the phrase “social imaginary,” see C. Taylor, Modern Social Imaginaries, 23, and Secular Age, 159–211. 332. Geography 1.1.56–57. 333. The land could be bought into examination through Mark’s “spatial hermeneutic” as well. At key points, we see the kingdom of God manifesting itself through Mark’s spatial (re)imagination of the land (e.g., 1:5, 14, 28, 33, 39, 45; 3:7–8; 6:1–6, 23; 7:56; 8:27; 10:1, 32ff ). Note the in­ter­est­ing work of Wenell, Jesus and Land; McLaren, Power and Politics; Burge, Jesus and the Land; Davies, Gospel and the Land. 334. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 156. 335. Note Marcus, Mark 1–8, 179. For the former, note Aus, Stilling of the Storm, 89–96; 98–100. 336. Esp. with re­spect to 6:45–52, note Aus, Caught in the Act, who sees this as evidence for the narrative being “based on a Palestinian Jewish Christian reinterpretation of Judaic traditions concerning the dividing of the Reed Sea in Exodus 14–15, combined with an inter­ pretation of Jesus the Messiah as hovering or walking over the ­water in Gen. 1:2” (53; cf. stud­ ies listed on 55n16). 337. Note Freyne, “Galilee, Sea.” 338. As Batto notes, in “the ancient Near East ­there ­were two primary, equally power­f ul symbols of chaos. One was the primeval flood or ocean, frequently portrayed as a dragonlike monster; the other was the barren desert, sometimes portrayed as a dreadful land beast” (Slaying the Dragon, 47 and n. 15). Of course, both show up in Mark (for the wilderness, cf. 1:3, 4, 12–13, 35; 6:31–32, 35; 8:4), but we ­w ill be considering only the function of the sea. 339. Cf. Gen. 1:2; Job 7:12, 26:12; Ps. 74:12–14, 93:3–4; Isa. 51:9–10. Cf. Rev 21:1. See Lev­ enson, Creation and Evil; Fishbane, Biblical Myth, 31–94. 340. Fishbane, Biblical Myth, 92. 341. Notably, Bultmann, History of the Synoptic Tradition; Kertelge, Die Wunder Jesu, 147–48. 342. Steinberg, Social Construction of the Ocean, 28–29. Note, too, the impor­tant work of Cox, Production, Power, and World Order; Lefebvre, Production of Space.



Notes to Pages 97–100

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343. See Talmi, Lake Kinneret; Nun, Sea of Kinneret. 344. Josh. 13:27, 12:3. 345. 1 Macc. 11:67. 346. Jos., Wars 3.506. 347. E.g., Tosef. Suk. 3.9. See also Duncan, “Sea of Tiberias.” 348. Adan-­Bayewitz, “Manufacture and Local Trade”; idem and Perlman, “Local Trade”; Applebaum, “Judaea as a Roman Province”; Applebaum, Judaea. See, generally, Adams, Social and Economic Life. 349. See S. Klein, Sefer ha-­Yishuv; Meyers, Netzer, and Meyers, “Sephoris”; Adan-­ Bayewitz and Perlman, “Local Trade.” Note, too, Adan-­Bayewitz, Common Pottery, 23n1. 350. See Bösen, Galiläa; Freyne, Galilee; Horsley, Galilee; Horsley, Archaeology, History, and Society; Meyers, Galilee Through the Centuries; Frankel et al., Settlement Dynamics; D. Ed­ wards and McCollough, eds., Archeology and the Galilee; L. Levine, ed., Galilee in Late Antiquity; Zangenberg, Attridge, and Martin, eds., Religion, Ethnicity, and Identity; S. Miller, “Josephus on the Cities of Galilee.” Cf. Chancey, Gentile Galilee. Note, too, Bagatti, Villages of Galilee; Fiensy and Hawkins, eds., Galilean Economy. 351. Wachsmann, Sea of Galilee Boat, 49. 352. Brueggemann, Land, 198; J. Smith, “Earth and Gods,” 109. 353. Nun, Sea of Galilee and See Genezareth. See also Leibner, Settlement and History, 185 n. 51, 186. See Jos., War 2.573, 2.463, 506, 510, 516; Ant. 5.84, 13.158, 18.28, 36; Life 249. 354. According to some Jewish legends, the Leviathan, upon whom the righ­teous would feed in paradise, tasted like the fish of Kinneret. See Vilnay, Legends, 126–27. 355. See, generally, Loftus, “Anti-­Roman Revolts.” 356. Note Wachsmann, Sea of Galilee Boat, 171–82. 357. Barag, “Palestinian ‘Judaea Capta’ Coins”; Hart, “Judaea and Rome”; Meshorer, Ancient Jewish Coins, 190–97. 358. “In the East, the most sensitive area of Roman rule was Judaea itself.” See Fox, Classical World, 503–6; Millar, Roman Near East. 359. Cf. the helpful studies on spaces of conflict by Purbrick, Aulich, and Dawson, eds., Contested Spaces; Lehtovuori, Experience and Conflict. 360. The lake of which Josephus is speaking is the Lake of Gennesaret. 361. The shift of imagery from conflict upon the lake (ἐπὶ τῆς λίμνης) to preparing for a sea fight is an in­ter­est­ing move by Josephus. The Greek text reads: σκάφη δ᾽ ἦν αὐτοῖς ἐπὶ τῆς λίμνης παρεσκευασμένα πολλὰ πρός τε τὸ συμφεύγειν ἐπὶ γῆς ἡττωμένους κἂν εἰ δέοι διαναυμαχεῖν ἐξηρτυμένα (“They prepared a ­g reat number of ships upon the lake, so that, in case they ­were defeated on land, they might retreat to them. And they ­were prepared so that they might make a naval ­battle, too”; 3.466). 362. See the excellent work on t­ hese themes in Bedenbender, Frohe Botschaft. 363. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 212. 364. See, e.g., Sanders, Jesus and Judaism, 95–105. 365. Note Reploh, Markus, Lehrer der Gemeinde, 38; James M. Scott, Restoration; Keen, Exile and Restoration in Jewish Thought; Levenson, Resurrection and the Restoration of Israel. Cf. A. Sherwood, Paul and the Restoration of Humanity, 29–212; Bryan, Jesus and Israel’s Traditions of Judgment and Restoration. 366. Marcus notes how traditions looked forward to the restoration of the ­family as a sign of “eschatological advent” (e.g., Mal. 4:6, Sir. 48:10, Luke 1:17). He also notes similarities

236

Notes to Pages 100–104

between 3:34 and Isa. 49:18–21 and 60:4  in Mark, 286. On the “­will of God,” see Marcus, Mark, 277. 367. ­There is a rather startling association with ­those who are outside (ἔξω): 3:31, 32; 4:11. 368. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 237. See also Hellerman, Ancient Church as ­Family; S. S. Bar­ ton, Discipleship and F ­ amily Ties. 369. Exod. 14:22, 29. 370. See Josh. 3:1, 7–11, 15–16; cf. 2 Kings 2:6–8, 13–15. 371. Cf. Isa. 51:10; see Watts, Isaiah’s New Exodus and Mark. 372. Note Marcus, Mark, 291. 373. E.g., Job 9:8; Ps. 74:12–17, 77:16; Isa. 43:16–21, 51:9, 19–20; Hab. 3:3–4, 8, 15. 374. On royal authority in Mark, cf. Peppard, Son of God. See also Rowe, God’s Kingdom; France, Divine Government; Matera, Kingship of Jesus. 375. Cf. Ps. 77:20; Isa. 43:16, 51:10; Wisd. of Sol. 14:3; Frg. Tg. Ex. 15:11; Odes of Sol. 39. On the general overlap between 5:1–20 and the Exodus scene (14:1–15:22 LXX), see Marcus, Mark, 349. 376. On the sociohistorical context of this issue, see the notes and lit­er­a­t ure cited in Yarbro Collins, Mark, 280–81. 377. Cf. 1QM 14:4–8. 378. Gen. 1:31 was often appropriated within ­later Jewish texts, such as Exod. 2:2, Sir. 39:16, Qoh. 3:11 LXX, Exod. Rab. 1:20, Gen. Rab. 9:2. 379. 1:16, 1:13, 3:7, 4:1, 5:21, 7:31, 8:13. 380. Cf. 3:7–12; 4:35–41; 5:1–20, 21–43; 6:31–44, 45–52, 53–56. Keck, “Mark 3:7–12 and Mark’s Christology”; Pesch, Markusevangelium, 1:277–81; Marcus, Mark, 255–56. 381. Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 1. 382. On Rome’s commodification of Palestine, see Safrai, Economy of Roman Palestine; Scheidel, ed., Roman Economy; Kamash, Archaeologies of ­Water, 75–98. 383. Soja, Postmodern Geographies, 2. Cf. the in­ter­est­ing work of Schama, Landscape and Memory. 384. Steinberg, Social Construction of the Ocean, 20. 385. Cf. Kelber, Kingdom in Mark, 58, 61. 386. See, esp., J. Smith, Map Is Not Territory, 147–71. 387. See, e.g., Polycarp, Phil. 7.1; Irenaeus, Adv. haer. iii.4; Justin’s description of Mar­ cion in 1 Apology 58, ­etc. 388. J. Smith, “­Towards Interpreting Demonic Powers in Hellenistic and Roman An­ tiquity,” 428–29. 389. Cf., e.g., Isa. 7:10–12 with Exod. Rab. 9.1 and b. Sahn. 104a. See Marcus, Mark 1–8, 498–99. 390. See, e.g., Matt. 4:3, 1 Thess. 3:5. 391. E.g., b. Šabb. 89a; Exod. Rab. 43:1; Pirqe R. El. 45. ­These texts ­were noted first in Marcus, Mark 1–8, 500. 392. See 10:2, 12:15. 393. On this text and the relevant lit­er­a­t ure that connects the deep groans of Jesus with exorcism, see Marcus, Mark 1–8, 474. 394. See, e.g., 8:38, 9:19; cf. 13:30. 395. Mistry, A Fine Balance, 89. 396. For ­those calling for such studies, see, e.g., Price, “Response,” 175–76. Related is the shrewd study on local knowledge by James C. Scott, Seeing Like a State.



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397. Cf. Cooley, Res Gestae Divi Augusti. This image is picked up by Philo in his Embassy to Gaius, where Augustus is named an “averter of evil” within an in­ter­est­ing image system of the sea (144–45). Philo is attempting to shame the new emperor, Gaius, by honoring Augus­ tus’s calming the sea storm and healing the pestilence of the world—­which, incidentally, are two powers reserved for the Jewish God. The Roman pax is the referent ­here, but the imag­ ery of the sea is intriguing. 398. Note Nasrallah, Christian Responses, 79–80; Rehak, Imperium and Cosmos, 112; R. Smith, “Imperial Reliefs,” 104; R. Smith, “Simulacra Gentium”; Thommen, “Sebasteion at Aphrodisias.” 399. ILS 9459; Cassius Dio 42.5.2. 400. Rehak, Imperium and Cosmos, 112. 401. Fox, Classical World, 485; cf. Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics. 402. Horden and Purcell, Corrupting Sea, 12. 403. Fox, Classical World, 412. See also Gurval, Actium and Augustus, 91; Pitassi, Navies of Rome, 187; Vagi, Coinage and History of the Roman Empire, 44; Scullard, From the Gracchi to Nero, 163. 404. Fox, Classical World, 414. Note, too, Lange, Res Republica Constituta. 405. Gurval, Actium and Augustus; see also Kleiner, Cleopatra and Rome, 189–99. 406. Fox, Classical World, 476; Pliny, Historia Naturalis, 9.14–15. 407. C. Taylor, Secular Age, 334. 408. C. Taylor, Secular Age, 335. 409. C. Taylor, Secular Age, 336–37. 410. Schmitt, Land and Sea, 38. 411. ­Here I hope to evoke the power­f ul essay of Agard-­Jones, “What the Sands Re­ member.”

Chapter 4 1. ­There is evidence in both Jewish and Greco-­Roman texts for the wind and sea to be personified as demonic. See, e.g., Fiedler, Antiker Wetterzauber, 25–72. Note, too, Ps. 106; T. Sol. 16 with Hom. Hymn. 22. 2. E.g., 1:32, 34, 39; 3:15; 6:7, 13; 7:24–30. 3. We ­will return to this in Chapter 5. ­Here, see the studies and biblio­graphies of Rosales-­ Acosta, “Jesus and the Demons”; van Oyen, “Demons and Exorcisms”; Pero, Liberation from Empire. Cf. Vos and Otten, eds., Demons and the Dev­il; van der Toorn, Becking, and van der Horst, eds., Dictionary of Deities and Demons. See also Twelftree, Name of Jesus, 101–28. 4. Cf. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 165. 5. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 199. 6. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 215. 7. Deleuze and Guattari, L’Anti-­Œdipe, 37. 8. Deleuze and Guattari, L’Anti-­Œdipe, 127. 9. Deleuze and Guattari, L’Anti-­Œdipe, 47. 10. Deleuze and Guattari, L’Anti-­Œdipe, 44. 11. Deleuze and Guattari, L’Anti-­Œdipe, 38. 12. Deleuze and Guattari, L’Anti-­Œdipe: Ça ne représente rien, mais ça produit, ça ne veut rien dire, mais ça fonctionne (130).

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Notes to Pages 111–114

13. Deleuze and Guattari, L’Anti-­Œdipe: À la puissance intérieure du désir d’engendrer son objet (32). 14. Cf. Deleuze and Guattari, L’Anti-­Œdipe, 65. 15. Deleuze and Guattari, L’Anti-­Œdipe, 34. 16. On the translation of οἱ παρ᾽ αὐτοῦ as “­family,” see Yarbro Collins, Mark, 226. 17. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 227. 18. The LXX does something slightly dif­fer­ent in Ps. 68:5 (LXX)—­ἐπληθύνθησαν ὑπὲρ τὰς τρίχας τῆς κεφαλῆς μου οἱ μισοῦντές με δωρεάν ἐκραταιώθησαν οἱ ἐχθροί μου οἱ ἐκδιώκοντές με ἀδίκως ἃ οὐχ ἥρπασα τότε ἀπετίννυον (“They that hate me without cause number more than the hairs on my head. My enemies who persecute me unjustly are strength­ ened. I even had to restore what I did not steal”). 19. Ps. 68:9 LXX. 20. Mark 2:25, 10:47–48, 11:10, 12:35–37. 21. See 10:29; cf. 1:16–20, 2:13–14. 22. T. Sol. 6:4. 23. T. Sol. 16:3. 24. Job 40:26, 29 LXX. 25. 1 Enoch 10:4, 18:16. Cf. Jub. 10:5–11. 26. Intriguingly, both ­these themes may be combined in Mark 8:14–15. 27. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 257–58. 28. Note the study of Decker, Temporal Deixis. 29. Yarbro Collins, Mark (261n28), notes how demons could be understood as causing inclement weather. 30. Cf. Ps. 89:9; Jer. 51:42. 31. Some have taken this to be an instance of Markan transparency where the commu­ nity is aboard the “ship,” and the episode is intended to “engender confidence in the com­ munity about the life-­threatening circumstances that surrounded them” (Cotter, Miracles in Greco-­Roman Antiquity, 232). On the sudden storms at sea: Cicero, Tusculan Disputations 3.52; Seneca, To Helvia 5.3, Letter 47.4, On Clemency 1.7.3, On Providence 4.6, 13; Pseudo-­Plutarch, To Apollonius 112d; John Chrysostom, Letters to Olympias 15.1. Cf. Malingrey, Indices Chrysostomici; Malunowiczowna, “Les élements stoïciens,” 39. 32. Interestingly, Matthew changes διδάσκαλος to κύριε (Matt. 8:25) and Luke to ἐπιστάτα ἐπιστάτα (Luke 8:24). On Jesus as teacher, see Thate, Remembrance of ­Things Past?, 273–77. Some point to the many similarities between Jonah and Mark ­here (see, esp., Aus, Caught in the Act, 11), but what is significant is that whereas sailors in Jonah cry out to their god, the disciples cry out to their διδάσκαλος. 33. See Batto, “Sleeping God.” Cf. the themes of YHWH “rising up to judge the earth” (Ps. 94:1–2); of being called to “arouse yourself,” “to wake up,” and “arise” (Ps. 44:24, 74:22; cf. 7:7, 35:23, 59:5–6). See Loewenstamm, Nahalot YHWH, 355–60. See also MacDonald, Homeric Epics, 55–62. 34. On the comparison of 4:35–41 with 1:25, see Gnilka, Evangelium nach Markus, 1.195; cf. 1 Enoch 60:16; 69:22; 4 Ezra 6:41; Jub. 2:2. 35. Fear appears as a natu­ral response when God’s power and presence are made mani­ fest: e.g., Gen. 21:17, Exod. 20:18, Deut. 5:5, Dan. 10:12, 19. Cf. Tob. 12:15ff.; Wisd. of Sol. 11:15–19, 17:3–19; 2 Macc. 3:24–26; 3 Macc. 6:16–21; 4 Ezra 10:25–28, 38, 55; 12:1–5; 13:1–8; 1 Enoch 14:13ff.; 15:1; 21:8–10; 2 Enoch 20:1–3; 21:1–3; 2 Bar. 53:1–12; Luke 1:12, 29; 2:9; 24:5; Matt. 28:4; Mark 16:4–8. Note the in­ter­est­ing parallel in 1 Sam. 12:18.



Notes to Pages 114–116

239

36. Cf. Theissen, Miracle Stories, 70. 37. Marcus, Mark 1–8, 337. Marcus adds the modifier “eschatological.” 38. See G. Hamilton, “A New Hebrew-­A ramaic Incantation Text.” Note the parallels between Zech. 2:10–3:2 with Mark 4:35–41. Marcus notes how both Ps. 46:2 and Zech. 2:10– 3:2 are frequently used in ­later Aramaic magical texts, which increases “the likelihood that they are alluded to in our passage” (Marcus, Mark 1–8, 339). See also Naveh and Shaked, eds., Magic Spells, 25, 52, 177, 240 (cited in Marcus, Mark 1–8, 339). 39. See Naveh and Shaked, Amulets and Magic Bowls, Geniza 4:3–8; Naveh and Shaked, Magic Spells, Amulet 27:16–29. I owe ­these references to Marcus, Mark 1–8, 194. Note Aus, Caught in the Act: “In the Hebrew Bible it is always God who ‘rebukes’ [g’ar] the sea, as in Nah. 1:4 and Ps. 106:9” (41). 40. See, e.g., Isa. 17:13; Nah. 1:4. Cf. Zech. 3:2; 1QM 14:10; 1QHfrg. 4, 1:6. MT = ‫ גער‬in both instances; Isa. 17:13 LXX = ἀποσκορακίζω; Nah. 1:4 LXX = ἀπειλέω. Marcus notes how Naham 1:4 is cited in the Hebrew-­A ramaic exorcist spells listed in G. Hamilton, “A New Hebrew-­A ramaic Incantation Text,” 223. See Marcus, Mark 1–8, 194. 41. Marcus, Mark 1–8, 340. This line ­w ill ­f actor significantly in our comments on 6:45–52. 42. Note Cotter, Miracles, 219–20n69. I am deeply indebted to Prof. Cotter’s study in bringing many of the texts in this section to my attention. 43. See Theocritus’s “Hymn to the Dioscuri”; Herodotus, Hist. 7.3.4; Horace, Carm. 1.3.5.14; Ovid, Metam. II.475–574; Diodorus Siculus, Hist. 4.48.5–6; Dio Chrysostom, Ven. 1–2; Plutarch, Caes. 38.3–4; Josephus, Life 13–16; Apuleius, Metamorphoses; Achilles Tatius, Leucippe and Cleitophon; Xenophon, An Ephesian Tale; Heliodorus, An Ethiopian Romance. Stories of sea storms are featured in the “novels”: Ninus and Semiramis; Chaereas and Callirhoe; Metiochus and Parthenope. See Huxley, “Storm and Shipwrecks in Roman Lit­er­a­ture”; Casson, Ships and Seamanship; Robins, “By Land and Sea”; and Thimmes, Studies in the Biblical Sea-­Storm Type-­ Scene. Many of ­these references are cited first in Cotter, Miracles, 207–10. Note the intriguing storm-­stilling story in the Acts of Andrew and Matthias (ANF 8.519). 44. See, e.g., Isidorus, Hymn to Isis 1.25–38; Cotter, Miracles, 131–32. 45. Life of Pythagoras, 29. 46. Athenaeus, Deipnosophistae 15.576a–­b. 47. Cf. Hesiod, To Poseidon, Hom. Hymns. 48. Hesiod, To the Dioscuri; Theocritus, Hymn to the Dioscuri, 22.14–22. 49. Didorus Siculus, Library of History 4.43.1–2. 50. Isidorus, Four Hymns 1.39, 43, 49, 50; Apuleius, Metamorphoses 11.5. See Witt, Isis. 51. Philo, Embassy to Gaius, 144–45. 52. Philostratus, Imagines 2.15.1. 53. Iamblichus, Life of Pythagoras 28. 54. Philostratus, Life of Apollonius of Tyana 4.13.5–13. Note the examples of Serapis listed in Achtemeier, “Origin and Function,” 201. He goes on to list the studies of Kertelge, Wunder Jesu, 97nn353, 354; Weinreich, Antike Heilungswunder, 14. 55. Marcus notes Pesiq. R. 36:1, which quotes Ps. 89:25, “to refer to the Messiah con­ trolling the flow of seas and rivers” (Marcus, Mark 1–8, 334). 56. See, e.g., Job 26:11–12; Ps. 104:7; Isa. 51:9–10. 57. See Aus, Stilling, 56–71. ­There are many accounts of Caesar’s challenge to the sea (Lucan, Civil War, 5:476–699; Plutarch, Lives: Julius Caesar 38.2–6; Moralia: The Fortune of the Romans 6; Appian, Roman History 8:56–57, 21:148; Suetonius, Divus Julius 58.2; Florus,

240

Notes to Pages 116–118

Roman History 2.13.35–38. Note Kajanto, “Fortuna,” 537. Cotter (Miracles, 148) notes Stefan Weinstock’s observation that it was impor­tant for Caesar to demonstrate greater fortune than Pompey’s reputation of being a man of good fortune, particularly at sea (Weinstock, Divus Julius, 124). Cf. the story in Dio Cassius, Roman History 46.1–4, of Caesar traveling incognito and then revealing himself to be Caesar to the startled boatman. “Be of good cheer: you carry Caesar.” Dio Cassius notes: “Nevertheless, he did not get across, but ­a fter struggling for a long time in vain sailed back.” See Cotter, Miracles, 148. Note Strelan, “Greater than Caesar.” 58. Cotter, Miracles, 228. 59. See Strelan, “Greater than Caesar,” 177–78. 60. Strelan, “Greater than Caesar,” 178. 61. See, esp., the exegesis of Myers, Binding. 62. See, e.g., Ps. 89:8–9, 107:23–30; Jon. 1:4–17. Cf. T. Naph. 6:1–10; 1QH 22–26a; Bava Metsia 59b–­f; J. Talmud, Beraḥot 9. 63. Verne, Extraordinary Journeys, 68. 64. Note Batto, Slaying the Dragon, 179. One would widen this category to include possi­ bilities of θεῖος ἄνδρες. Note Achtemeier, “Origin and Function,” 202. Cf. Blackburn, Theios Anēr, 133–82, on the “assimilation” of Jesus to YHWH. Blackburn says that this assimilation happens without a “rupture of mono­the­ism” (Blackburn, Theios Anēr, 182). Blackburn, however, says that it is “entirely inappropriate to identify the Markan miracle stories” with θεῖος ἄνδρες Christology (Blackburn, Theios Anēr, 265). Note Bauckham, Jesus. ­Others offer an apocalyptic reading where Jesus is the master of the end-­time; still ­others suggest demonic textures to the sea scene, as we have been arguing above. For bibliography on each of ­these options, see Cotter, Miracles, 212–19. Cotter ­favors the first two options, with the stress placed on the first. See Cotter, Miracles, 219. 65. Cf. Blackburn, Theios Anēr, 232. 66. Marcus, Mark, 340. He goes on to note Isa. 51:9–10; Job 26:10–13; Ps. 104:5–9; and the study of B. Anderson, ed., Creation in the Old Testament, 1–52, 74–89. 67. Heil, Jesus Walking, 90. 68. See Yarbro Collins, Mark, 262n37; Achtemeier, “Origin and Function,” 205–6; Batto, Slaying, 179. 69. Steinberg, Social Construction of the Ocean, 20. 70. Auden, Enchafèd Flood, 6–7. 71. Much of my thinking in what follows has been influenced by Horden and Purcell, Corrupting Sea. Cf. Algazi, “Diversity Rules.” 72. Hilgert, Ship, 43. 73. Cf. Bonner, “Desired Haven.” 74. E.g., Bedenbender, “Neue Beobachtungen zum Markusevangelium”; Käser, “Juden zuerst”; Klinghardt, “Boot und Brot”; Lewis, “Indications of a Liturgical Source.” 75. Stuhlfauth, “Schiff als Symbol”; Kahlmeyer, Seesturm und Schiffbruch; Lorenz, “Zur Seefahrt des Lebens.” Cf. Knorr, “Horace’s Ship Ode.” 76. Rahner, “Antenna Crucis, I, II, III, IV”; “Navicula Petri”; “Antenna Crucis, V, VI”; Greek Myths and Christian Mystery, 328–86. See Daniélou, Primitive Christian Symbols, 58–70. See also Peterson, “Schiff als Symbol”; Goldammer, “Schiff der Kirche.” 77. Hilgert, Ship, 11. Cf. Schmitt, Land and Sea, 51. 78. Hilgert, Ship, 10n8. 79. Hilgert, Ship, 15–17. 80. Hilgert, Ship, 17–19.



Notes to Pages 118–120

241

81. Hilgert, Ship, 19–23. 82. Hilgert, Ship, 23–25. 83. Hilgert, Ship, 26–39. 84. On the many appearances of the ship in Jewish lit­er­a­t ure, still relevant is Goode­ nough, Jewish Symbols, 2:43ff. 85. Hilgert, Ship, 40, 151n1. Cf. Kettenbach, Einführung. 86. Letter of Aristaeus, 251; Wisd. of Sol. 5:10. 87. Cf. Sir. 33:2; Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch 85:10f. 88. T. Naph. 6:1–8:2; 4 Ezra 12:42. 89. E.g., 4 Macc. 7:1–3. 90. See Mach, Zaddik in Talmud und Midrasch, 235n7, 236; Goodenough, Jewish Symbols, 8:164. 91. The first explicit statement of the equation of the ship with the church is likely that of Tertullian (On Baptism, 12). Cf. Hippolytus, writing from Rome in second ­century (Treatise on Christ and Antichrist, 59) and the Epistle of Clement to James (in Syria from a Jewish-­ Christian background), Ps. Clementine lit­er­a­t ure (Epistle of Clement to James). 92. Hilgert, Ship, 42. 93. Cf. Isa. 33:21, 43:14; Ezek. 30:9. 94. Hilgert, Ship, 150. 95. Cf. the discussion and citations of texts in Hilgert, Ship, 21. Cf. Jenks, Ship of State; Thompson, Ship of State. 96. Cicero, Against Piso, 20; The Republic I, 40, 63; Epistulae ad Familiares XII, 25a, 5; Letters to Atticus II, 7; IV, 19 [18]; De Oratore I, 11, 46; Pro Sexto Roscio Amerina XVIII, 51. 97. Odes I, 14. Cf. Quintilian, Institutio oratoria VIII, 6, 48; Livy, Ab urbe condita XXIV, 7.12; Horace, Epistles II, 2, 199f.; Odes I, 34; II, 10.1–4. 98. Hilgert, Ship, 37. 99. Mach, Zaddik in Talmud und Midrasch, 223–41; Goodenough, Jewish Symbols, 8:164–65. 100. Cf. 1QH ii, 12; 1QH iii, 6ff. 101. Hilgert, Ship, 43. 102. Cf. Gunkel, Creation and Chaos. 103. Isa. 27:1; Ezek. 32:2; Amos 9:3. 104. Job 7:12, 26:12; Ps. 74:13ff., 89:9ff., 14:7; Isa. 51:9. Cf. Job 38:8–11; Ps. 93:3ff.; Isa. 44:27; Jer. 51:36; Hab. 3:13–15. 105. Cf. Sir. 43:23; 1 Enoch 60:16; Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch 29:4. 106. See, e.g., 4 Ezra 6:51; Ps. 74:14; T. Asher 7:3. 107. Cf. Rahner, “Antenna Crucis, II,” 97–102. 108. Cf. Iliad II, 142–46. Cf. Polybius, Histories XI, 29, 8–11; Livy, Ab Urbe Condita XXX­ VIII, 10, 4–6. 109. Cf. Tacitus, Germania 2.1. 110. Pedo Albinovanus 15.143. 111. Cf. discussion in Romm, Edges of the Earth, 143. 112. Seneca, Natu­ral Questions 5.18. 113. Seneca, Natu­ral Questions 5.18.11. 114. Seneca, Natu­ral Questions 5.18.12.

242

Notes to Pages 120–127

115. Hippolytus 742–50. 116. Beaulieu, Sea, 189. 117. Beaulieu, Sea, 189. 118. See, generally, Versnel, “Self-­Sacrifice.” 119. Beaulieu, Sea, 196. 120. Beaulieu, Sea, 52–53. 121. Beaulieu, Sea, 53. 122. Rahner, “Antenna Crucis, II,” 104. 123. Cyril Alex, Comment in Lucam VIII; cf. Augustine, Sermo 75, 4, on the adverse winds. 124. Tertullian, De baptism 12; Augustine, Sermo 63, 1; Cyril of Alexandria, Comment. in Lucam VIII, 22; Peter Chrysologus, Sermo 20, Sermo 21; Bede, In Matthaei evangelium exposition II, 8; Walafrid Strabo [Ps. Jerome], Expositio quatuor evangeliorum Matthaeus (Mgne. Patr. Lat., 30, 550); Marcus (Mgne. 30, 561); see, too, Marcus, Comment. in evangelium sec. Marcum IV; Remigius, Homilia IX. 125. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 257. 126. Matt. 13:11; Luke 8:10. 127. On the so-­called minor agreements of Matthew and Luke against Mark, see Nei­ rynck, ed., Minor Agreements; Ennulat, “Minor Agreements.” 128. ­Here I hesitantly part ways with Yarbro Collins, Mark, 249–50. 129. See Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles.” 130. Cf. 3:1, 4:1. 131. 5:40, 9:2, 14:33. 132. In Matthew, when Jesus is the object of παραλαμβάνω, the subject is Satan (4:5, 8; cf. 12:45). 133. See, e.g., Job 21:18 LXX; Wisd. of Sol. 5:23. Cf. Jer. 32:32 LXX. 134. Cf. Zvi, Signs of Jonah. 135. McAlpine, Sleep. 136. E.g., Jer. 23:23–24; cf. Prov. 15:3; 1 Kings 8:27; Isa. 57:15, 66:1; Ps. 32:8, 113:4–6, 139:3, 5, 7–10; Job 34:21. 137. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 260. 138. Matthew appears to be strengthening the connection with Jonah at the lexical level (cf., e.g., Jon. 1:5 with Matt. 8:24). See G. F. Snyder, Ante Pacem, 45–49. Cf. Y. Sherwood, A Biblical Text and Its Afterlives. 139. See Batto, “Sleeping God.” 140. Cf. Ps. 65:7 (LXX 64:8). 141. Cf. Ps. 107:26–28; 1QH 11:14, 14:24. 142. See the brilliant work of Beaulieu, Sea, 145–66. 143. On this point, see the trenchant study of C. Black, Disciples According to Mark. Cf. J. Hanson, “Disciples in Mark’s Gospel”; Moloney, “Mark 5.6b–30”; Danove, Rhe­toric of Characterization; Best, Disciples and Discipleship. 144. We ­w ill return to this theme in Chapter 6. 145. See Yarbro Collins, Mark, 259–60; cf. 673–83. 146. Cf. 1:28, 34, 39; 3:10. 147. Cf. Eitrem, Demonology, 30–31; Theissen, Miracle Stories, 99, 140–41. 148. E.g., Jub. 2:2; 1 Enoch 69:22. Cf. Fiedler, Antiker Wetterzauber, 25–72. 149. Beaulieu, Sea, 75; Richardson, Homeric Hymn, 208–9, 252. Cf. Dwyer, Motif of Won­der.



Notes to Pages 127–135

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150. Malbon, Space and Meaning, 100. See Ps. 107:23–29; Job 38:1–11. For additional cita­ tions, see B. Anderson, “­Water”; Goppelt, “ὓδωρ”; Heil, Jesus Walking, 37–57. 151. Blumenberg, Shipwreck, 57. 152. Cf. Blumenberg, Shipwreck, 116 and n. 77. 153. Blumenberg, Shipwreck, 58; See Goethe, “Meeres Stille” (“Calm on the Seas”). 154. Quoted in Blumenberg, Shipwreck, 30. 155. Cf. Heubeck, West, and Hoekstra, Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey, 127; Schur, “Si­ lence of Homer’s Sirens”; Gresseth, “Homeric Sirens,” 210. 156. Od. 12.407–26, 447–53; cf. 7.253–56. For what follows in this paragraph, see Kotan­ sky, “Jesus and Heracles,” 176–81. 157. Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles,” 177–78. 158. Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles,” 178. 159. Cf. Od. 12.166–69, 201–59, 432–36. 160. Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles,” 180. 161. 4 Ezra 7:30; cf. 4 Ezra 6:39; 2 Bar. 3:7; pseudo-­Philo 60:2; Midr. Rab. Exod. 39.9. 162. Hab. 3:3–6; Zech. 2:13–3:2; Zeph. 1:7, 11, 2:13; Isa. 23:2, 41:1–5. Cf. Targ. Pal. Deut. 28:15ff. 163. Cf. Targ. Pal. Exod. 15; Ps. 75 (76): 7–10 (6–9). 164. Matt. 12:38, Mark 8:11. Cf. Matt. 16:1–4. 165. On the sign of Jonah, see, generally, Zvi, Signs of Jonah; R. Edwards, Sign of Jonah; J. Anderson, “Jonah in Mark and Matthew”; Chow, Sign of Jonah.

Chapter 5 1. Stoker, Dracula, 18–19. 2. Cf. Stoker, Dracula, 19, 25, 53, 86, 92, 104, 113, 117–19, 136, 141, 157, 184, 214, 225, 231, 241, 274, 292, 295, 297, 390. 3. Stoker, Dracula, 401. 4. Stoker, Dracula, 402. 5. Stoker, Dracula, 202. 6. 1:45; cf. 7:24. 7. 3:13. On this verse, see discussion Chapter 4 of this volume. 8. 9:19, 31; 10:33–34; 13:34; 14:28. 9. See Twelftree, Exorcist, 72–87. 10. Note Ferguson, Demonology. Cf. van der Toorn, Becking, and van der Horst, eds., Deities and Demons; see also Witmer, Jesus, the Galilean Exorcist. 11. On the textual support of this reading, see Yarbro Collins, Mark, 263. The textual support of ἦλθεν appears to be an attempt on the part of ­later scribes editing the text to make sense of the solitary nature of the scene. 12. 5:40, 9:2, 10:32, 14:37. 13. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 265. 14. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 265. 15. See Metzger, Textual Commentary, 18–19. 16. See Yarbro Collins, Mark, 265. Cf., esp., Achtemeier, “Miracle Catenae”; Achtemeier, “Origin and Function.” 17. See Matt. 8:28 and Origen, Comm. in Joh. 6.24. Cf. Schildgen, Power and Prejudice.

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Notes to Pages 135–138

18. ­Here I have in mind vari­ous appropriations from the brilliant work of Ekstrom et al., ­Human Spatial Navigation. 19. Cf. the classical study of Dalman, Sacred Sites and Ways. See also Marxsen, Evangelist Markus, 33–77. 20. Schildgen, “Conversion,” 12. 21. See Schildgen, Crisis and Continuity. 22. Schildgen, Crisis and Continuity, 117–41. 23. See the fascinating study of Pine, “Migration as Hope. Cf. the power­f ul studies of Jansen, “Vio­lence of Memories”; Carsten, ed., Ghosts of Memory; Antze and Lambek, Tense Past; Boyarin, ed., Remapping Memory; Bloch, Placing the Dead; Hirsch, Generation of Postmemory; Hoffman, A ­ fter Such Knowledge. 24. Again, cf. the excellent studies in Ekstrom et al., ­Human Spatial Navigation. 25. Cf. the remarkably humane and beautiful studies of Jon Allen, Coping with Trauma; Herman, Trauma and Recovery. 26. Though cf. the impor­tant discussion in Bultmann, Synoptic Tradition, 344–45. 27. Cf. Exod. 13:17–14:29; Isa. 43:16, 51:10. 28. Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles,” 160–61. 29. Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles,” 196. 30. Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles,” 215. 31. Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles,” 220–21. 32. Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles,” 229. 33. Aune, “Jesus and the Romans.” 34. Aune, “Jesus and the Romans,” 249. 35. Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles,” 227. 36. Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles,” 223. 37. Aune, “Jesus and the Romans,” 250–51. 38. Frank, “Christ’s Descent,” 214. 39. See the excellent work of Bauckham, Fate of the Dead. 40. Cf. Frank, “Christ’s Descent,” 211; Maayan-­Fanar, “Visiting Hades.” 41. Bar, Routes de l’Autre-­Monde. 42. Cf. Frank, “Christ’s Descent,” 214. 43. Cf. Ganschinietz, “Katabasis”; Stroumsa, “Mystical Descents.” 44. Cf. Origen, Contra Celsus 2.43. 45. Cf. Frank, “Christ’s Descent,” 216. 46. Cf. Frank, “Christ’s Descent,” 216–17. 47. Cf. Frank, “Christ’s Descent,” and the lit­er­a­t ure cited throughout her impor­t ant study. 48. See Chapter 4 of this vol. Cf. Matt. 12:40; Luke 11:29–32. See also 3 Macc. 6:8. 49. Bauckham, “Descent,” 145. 50. Bauckham, “Descent,” 145. Cf. D. Miller, “Two Sandals.” 51. E.g., 1:32, 34, 39; 3:15; 6:7, 13; 7:24–30. 52. Cf., however, the wise words of Wendy Cotter: “The meaning of an exorcism is de­ pendent on the interpreter’s lens and not on an objective set of criteria” (Miracles, 75). See also Brenk, “Light of the Moon.” 53. Marcus sees several similarities between 5:1–20 and Exod. 14:1–15:22 LXX. See Mar­ cus, Mark 1–8, 349.



Notes to Pages 138–141

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54. See Yarbro Collins, Mark, 271; Bultmann, Synoptic Tradition, 210; Bauernfeind, Worte der Dämonen, 41–44. 55. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 271. 56. E.g., Job 26:5; Isa. 27:1, 51:9–10; Dan. 7:2–7. Cf. Isa. 17:12; Ps. 88:11; Rev. 9:11, 13:1, 20:1–3; 11QapPsa 5:8–9. Of par­tic­u­lar relevance is the use of Deut. 30:13 in Rom. 10:7: “Who ­w ill go over for us to the other side of the sea [Τίς διαπεράσει ἡμῖν εἰς τὸ πέραν τῆς θαλἀσσης]?” is changed to “Who ­w ill descend into the abyss [τίς καταβήσεται εἰς τὴν ἄβθσσον]?” See Lincicum, Paul and the Early Jewish Encounter, 156. 57. Note the appearance of “legion” in 1 Enoch 55:4. 58. Deut. 32:8; 1QapGen 21:2; 4QAramaic Apocalypse 2:1. 59. Cf. Gen. 14:18–20. 60. Cf. Pindar, Nemean Odes 1.60, 11.2. Note Breytenbach, “Hypsistos.” See also on the familiarity with Mark’s readers with Zeus, Yarbro Collins, “Mark and His Readers”; Krael­ ing, ed., Gerasa. 61. Homer, Iliad 15.185–93; Ovid, Metamorphoses 4.512–42. 62. See Phillips, “Sea Gods.” 63. Phillips, “Sea Gods,” 163. 64. Phillips, “Sea Gods,” 163. 65. Phillips, “Sea Gods,” 164; cf. in the Roman period, Kamesh, Archaeologies of ­Water, 157–76. 66. Phillips, “Sea Gods,” 163. 67. Marcus, Mark 1–8, 344. It also appears in Num. 24:16; 1 Esd. 2:2; Dan. 3:26; 4:2; 2 Macc. 3:31; 3 Macc. 7:9. 68. Job 9:8; Ps. 74:12–17, 77:16; Isa. 43:16–21, 51:10, 19–20; Hab. 3:3–4, 8, 15. 69. Marcus, Mark 1–8, 344. Note Deut. 32:8; Dan. 4:17. Cf. Numbers 24 LXX. 70. Isa. 14:12–15, 34:11; cf. Deut. 32:7–8. 71. Marcus, Mark 1–8, 344. See Gen. 14:10; Ps 9:3, 47:2, 83:18; 3 Macc. 6:2; 1QH 6:33. 72. Ps. 9:13, 30:3, 86:13; Isa. 38:17; Sir. 51:5. 73. Deut. 32:39; 1 Sam. 2:6; 2 Kings 5:7; 4 Macc. 18:18–19. 74. E.g., Tob. 13:2; Wisd. of Sol. 16:13. Cf. Ascen. Jos. 20:7; Rom. 4:17; 2 Cor. 1:9; Eigh­ teen Benedictions. 75. Cf. Ps. 107:18; Isa. 38:10; 3 Macc. 5:51; Pss. Sol. 16:2. Cf. Ps. 88:6. 76. Cf. Peppard, Son of God. 77. For an intriguing reading of 5:1–20 alongside the Homeric epics, see MacDonald, Homeric Epics, 63–74, 175–76, 187, 188; cf. 49–50, 63, 70, 222nn1, 4. 78. Cf. Jer. 51:42; Ps. 104:7–9; Job 38:11; Hab. 3:9–10. 79. Malbon, Space and Meaning, 78. 80. Zech. 13:2; cf. Num. Rab. 19.8; Pesiq. Rab. Kah. 4:7; Pesiq. R. 36:1. 81. Marcus, Mark 1–8, 340. 82. Marcus, Mark 1–8, 340. 83. Marcus, Mark 1–8, 340. 84. Conrad, Nostromo; Secret Agent; Chance; Victory. 85. Conrad, Secret Agent, 68. 86. Bromberg, Awakening. 87. Bromberg, Awakening, 33. 88. Bromberg, Awakening, 2.

246

Notes to Pages 142–146

89. Stolorow, World, Affectivity, Trauma, 55. 90. Kaplan, “Sudden Holes,” 470. 91. J. Smith, “­Towards Interpreting Demonic Powers,” 430. 92. J. Smith, “­Towards Interpreting Demonic Powers,” 427. 93. Polycarp, Philippians 7.1; Irenaeus, Adv. haer. iii.4. Note Yi, “Anthropological Reading.” 94. Justin, 1 Apology 58. 95. Justin, 1 Apology, 62, 66; cf. 23, 25, 54. 96. J. Smith, Map Is Not Territory, 147–71. 97. J. Smith, “­Towards Interpreting Demonic Powers,” 428–29. 98. J. Smith, “­Towards Interpreting Demonic Powers,” 429. 99. See the brilliant chapter “Sorcery, Demons and the Rise of Chris­tian­ity,” in P. Brown, Religion and Society, 119–46. 100. J. Smith, “­Towards Interpreting Demonic Powers,” 435. 101. Aune, “Jesus and the Romans,” 250. See Theissen, Gospels in Context, 109–12. 102. Aune, “Jesus and the Romans,” 250. 103. Kotrosits and Taussig, Loss and Trauma, 50. 104. See Rajkumar, “A Dalithos Reading.” Cf. Moore, Empire and Apocalypse, 24–44; Myers, Binding the Strong Man; Hollenbach, “Jesus, Demoniacs, and Public Authorities”; Ge­ lardini, Christus Militans, 152–240, 492–503. 105. Hollenbach, “Jesus, Demoniacs, and Public Authorities,” 573. 106. See Chapter 7. Yarbro Collins speaks of the “secondary po­liti­cal implication” of the text in ­later associations of the kingdom of the strongman with the kingdom of Rome (Mark, 270). 107. Yarbro Collins states: “­T here is . . . ​no theme of opposition to Rome in Mark” (Mark, 269). 108. See the in­ter­est­ing work on agency in Gilbert et al., “Illusion Agency.” 109. See, e.g., M. Miller, Wronged by Empire. See also Caston and Weineck, eds., Our Ancient Wars. 110. Deleuze and Guattari, Anti-­Oedipus, 118. 111. Cf. Fanon, Wretched of the Earth, 262. 112. Deleuze and Guattari, L’Anti-­Œdipe, 32. 113. Deleuze and Guattari, Anti-­Oedipus, 37. 114. Deleuze and Guattari, L’Anti-­Œdipe, 42. 115. Deleuze and Guattari, Anti-­Oedipus, 49. 116. Cf. Deleuze and Guattari, Anti-­Oedipus, 161, and L’Anti-­Œdipe, 162. 117. Deleuze and Guattari, L’Anti-­Œdipe, 133. 118. Deleuze and Guattari, L’Anti-­Œdipe, 138. 119. Deleuze and Guattari, L’Anti-­Œdipe, 138. 120. Deleuze and Guattari, Anti-­Oedipus, 139. 121. ­These themes are combined in Isa. 65:4 (cf. Num. 19:11). 122. J. Elliott, “Epistle of James,” 71–72; see D. Wright, “Unclean and Clean.” 123. Still relevant is Douglas’s classic, Purity and Danger. Cf. idem, “Pollution.” On t­ hese themes in the Gospel of Mark, see Neyrey, “Idea of Purity”; Neyrey, “Symbolic ­Approach.” 124. Gen. 14:10; Exod. 14:27; Num. 16:34; Josh. 7:4, 10:16; Judg. 8:12, 9:51, 20:42; Ps. 30:12; Jer. 26:5, 21. Cf. 1 Macc. 4:14, 22; 5:9, 34, 43; 7:32, 44; 9:18, 33, 40; 10:12, 64, 82–83; 11:70–72; 16:8–10.



Notes to Pages 146–152

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125. This Mary is not, as Yarbro Collins rightly points out, to “be identified with the ­mother of Jesus” (Mark, 774). 126. Fleddermann, “Flight,” 415. 127. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 688–95; cf. idem, “Flight Revisited.” 128. Hatton, “Mark’s Naked Disciple.” 129. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 695. 130. If ­there is any merit to this reading, the νεανίσκος in 16:5–6 may well signify an attempted replacement of the ideal disciple in place and time. 131. Ovid, Fasti, v. 630. 132. Strabo 10.2.9. 133. Thalmann, Swineherd and the Bow, 103, and “Thersites,” 21–24. Cf. Ogden, Crooked Kings, 15, 22–23; Faraone, “Hipponax Fragment 128.” 134. See, esp., Kotansky, “Jesus and Heracles,” 207 and n. 129; cf. 208 and n. 134. 135. Cf. Dawson, Flesh Becomes Word. 136. D. Steiner, “Diverting Demons.” 137. The concept was first put forward in Bennett and Tyrrell, “Making Sense,” 236–37. 138. D. Steiner, “Diverting Demons,” 75. 139. D. Steiner, “Diverting Demons,” 97. 140. R. Elliott, Power of Satire, 135. 141. D. Steiner, “Diverting Demons,” 85 and n. 70. See also Forsdyke, Exile, Ostracism. 142. D. Steiner, “Diverting Demons,” 86. 143. 2.55.3. See Bremmer, “Scapegoat Rituals in Ancient Greece”; Burkert, Structure and History; Ogden, Crooked Kings. Cf. Rosivach, “Execution by Stoning,” 248, where he discusses the pharmakos myth in relation to the treatment of scapegoats at the Thargelia. See also Nagy, Best of the Achaeans; Wiechers, Aesop in Delphi; Jedrkiewicz, Sapere e Paradosso nell’Antichità. 144. Banita, “Scapegoating in ‘Ground Zero’ ”; cf. LaCapra, Writing History, Writing Trauma, esp. xv, xxvi, 24, 47, 68, 149, 189, 202, 218. 145. Ifowodo, History, Trauma, and Healing. See Caruth, Unclaimed Experience: “History is precisely the way we are implicated in each other’s traumas” (24). 146. Girard, Deceit, Desire and the Novel; Vio­lence and the Sacred; To Double Business Bound; “Mimesis and Vio­lence”; Scapegoat; T ­ hings Hidden; “Vio­lence, Difference, Sacrifice.” 147. See, esp., Girard, Scapegoat, 12–15. Note the careful reading of this text in the de­ velopment of Girard’s thought in Reineke, “­A fter the Scapegoat.” 148. Girard, Scapegoat, 165–83. 149. Girard, Scapegoat, 165. 150. Girard, Scapegoat, 166. 151. Girard, Scapegoat, 166. 152. Girard, Scapegoat, 168. 153. Girard, Scapegoat, 169. 154. Girard, Scapegoat, 171. 155. Girard, Scapegoat, 172. 156. Girard, Scapegoat, 173. 157. Cf. Needham, Primordial Characters. 158. Girard, Scapegoat, 179–80. 159. Girard, Scapegoat, 180–82. 160. Girard, Scapegoat, 175. 161. Girard, Scapegoat, 175.

248

Notes to Pages 152–156

162. Girard, Scapegoat, 173. 163. Halbertal, On Sacrifice, 9. 164. Halbertal, On Sacrifice, 19. 165. Halbertal, On Sacrifice, 13. 166. Halbertal, On Sacrifice, 20. 167. Halbertal, On Sacrifice, 15. 168. Halbertal, On Sacrifice, 16. 169. Halbertal, On Sacrifice, 18, 36. 170. Girard, Scapegoat, 185. 171. Girard, Scapegoat, 179. 172. J. Smith, Map Is Not Territory, 187. Cf. the discussion in idem, “­Towards Interpret­ ing Demonic Powers.” 173. Bligh, “Gerasene Demoniac.” 174. The report of ­these events spreads in the city (εἰς τὴν πόλιν) and the countryside (καὶ εἰς τοὺς ἀγρούς). ­These places of settlement are left by their inhabitants to witness the former demoniac among the tombs in his right mind—­a reversal of Jesus’ intimates ­earlier assessment his own state of mind (3:21). While their reaction was one of wonderment and awe, their response was to banish Jesus from their region (ἀπελθεῖν ἀπὸ τῶν ὁρίων αὐτῶν). Instead of desiring a return to his home, and reversing the demoniac’s initial request of v. 10 not to be sent away from the region (ἔξω τῆς χώρας), the man now sitting in his right mind begs to depart with Jesus. 175. See the in­ter­est­ing reflections of Starobinski, “Démoniaque de Gérasa.” This essay was first noted in Girard, Scapegoat, 170. 176. Girard, Scapegoat, 176. 177. Girard, Scapegoat, 179. 178. Exod. 8:8, 15:25, 17:4; Num. 12:13. 179. Deut. 22:24, 27. 180. Judg. 6:34–35, 7:23–24, 9:54. 181. 15:18, 16:28. 182. 1 Sam. 7:9, 15:11. 183. 1 Sam. 24:9. 184. 2 Sam. 15:2; 18:26, 28; 20:16; 2 Chron. 14:11, 18:31, 20:20. 185. 1 Kings 17:10–11. 186. 2 Kings 11:14; cf. 2 Chron. 23:13. 187. 1 Kings 18:28; cf. 2 Chron. 32:18; Isa. 36:13. 188. 2 Kings 20:11. 189. 1 Chron. 21:26. 190. Lam. 2:18. 191. Jth. 9:1–2. This cry is parodied by the crying out of Bagoas over the death of Ho­ lofernes (14:16–17). 192. Galen, De usu partium 3.412.18, 3.413.1, 3.526.3, 3.611.11. Aristotle, De generatione animalium, 781a.29; Aristotle, Problemata, 900a.39; Hippocrates, De carnibus 18.21; Oribasius, Collectiones medicae, 24.13.2.2. Luke drops φωνή in his account, only referring to ἐξέπνευσεν (23:46). Particularly relevant is Galen, In Hippocratis librum vi epidemiarum commentarii vi 17b.201.5. In this text, all three words appear. 193. E.g., Mark 1:26; the arguments of the demoniac rousing of the storm in 4:37 and its retreat in 4:39; 5:7; 15:34, 37. Noteworthy, too, are the relevant sections in Epiphanias’s and Origen’s commentaries on John.



Notes to Pages 156–161

249

194. Gundry, Mark, 947–48. 195. Cf. Marcus, Mark 8–16, 1066. 196. Stoker, Dracula, 202. 197. Though God remains Lord over the sea, “the sea remains a threatening danger to humanity” (Malbon, Narrative Space and Mythic Meaning, 100). See Ps. 107:23–29, Job 38:1–11. For additional citations, see B. Anderson, “­Water”; Goppelt, “ὓδωρ”; Heil, Jesus Walking, 37–57.

Chapter 6 1. Proust, Sodom and Gomorrah, 4:697. 2. See, e.g., Fülöp, “Habit”; Fornazari, “A constituição do sujeito”; Gardner, “Defamil­ iarization in Proust.” 3. Proust, Captive and the Fugitive, 5:81. See also the in­ter­est­ing volume of Defer and Coutant, Proust et l’architecture initiatique. 4. Yet it is oriented and or­g a­nized by t­ hese phenomena as well. 5. Proust, Captive and the Fugitive, 5:66. 6. On this somewhat stylized splitting, cf. Agamben, Homo Sacer; and, e.g., Esposito, Bíos. See, however, Dubreuil, “De la vie dans la vie.” 7. See, e.g., the very helpful list compiled at http://­w ww​.­biblical​-­a rt​.­com​/ ­biblicalsubject​ .­a sp​?­id​_­biblicalsubject​=­698&pagenum​=­2. Accessed 23 October 2017. 8. E.g., 1:27–28, 33, 37, 45; 2:12; 3:7–9. 9. It is significant that in 15:47, the two ­women named “Mary” only see where “he was laid” (τέθειται). ­There is no mention of a body or corpse. 10. 2:6–7, 16; 24; 3:2–6. 11. 3:20–27, 31–35; 6:4. 12. 14:10–11, 18–21, 27–31, 37–52. 13. 15:1–15. 14. I intend the genitive ­here, in all its maddening ambiguities. On ­these ambiguities, see Chapter 1. 15. Caruth, Unclaimed Experience, 11. 16. On ekstasis understood as “standing outside oneself,” see Ashbrook Harvey, Olfactory Imagination, 170. 17. Herman, Trauma and Recovery, 1. 18. Herman, Trauma and Recovery, 1; cf. 195. 19. Herman, Trauma and Recovery, 1. 20. Herman, Trauma and Recovery, 34. 21. Herman, Trauma and Recovery, 51. 22. Janoff-­Bulman, “Aftermath of Victimization.” 23. Herman, Trauma and Recovery, 52. 24. Herman, Trauma and Recovery, 37. 25. Lifton, “Concept of the Survivor.” Cf., generally, P. Janet, L’automatisme psychologique. 26. On this paragraph, see the lit­er­a­t ure cited in Herman, Trauma and Recovery, 38. 27. The discussion takes place in Freud, Beyond the Plea­sure Princi­ple, §2; cf. Forti, New Demons, 80–88; Sugarman, What Freud R ­ eally Meant, 87–104. 28. Herman, Trauma and Recovery, 50; cf. 47. 29. Herman, Trauma and Recovery, 188.

250

Notes to Pages 161–164

30. van der Kolk and Fisler, “Dissociation.” 31. Herman, Trauma and Recovery, 54. Lifton, Death in Life; Titchener and Kapp, “­Family and Character Change”; Erikson, Every­thing in Its Path. 32. See Chapman and Schnabel, Trial and Crucifixion, 299–754. Cf. Hengel, Crucifixion. 33. I refer again to the work of Tombs, “Crucifixion.” 34. Herman, Trauma and Recovery, 176. 35. Herman, Trauma and Recovery, 58. 36. Laub, “Bearing Witness,” 69. 37. On the text-­critical complications of 6:45–52, note Madden, Jesus’ Walking on the Sea, 75–79. 38. On the geo­g raph­i­cal awkwardness in Mark surrounding Bethsaida, see Yarbro Col­ lins, Mark, 326–27, 333. See also Leibner, “Identifying Gennesar.” 39. Heil notes how Jesus praying on the mountain “indicates that the uniquely divine action of walking on the sea proceeds from Jesus’ intimate ­union with this ­Father” ( Jesus Walking, 33). 40. Mark 3:13; 5:11; 6:46; 9:2, 9. Cf. 11:23. 41. Marcus, Mark 1–8, 422. Though, cf. Deut. 33:2, Judg. 5:4f., and Hab. 3:3 as the moun­ tain as a place from which God descends; and the mountain as the place where one experi­ ences the revelation and presence of the divine (Exod. 17:9; 1 Kings 18:42; 2 Bar. 13:1; Apoc. Abr. 9; T. Naph. 5:1; T. Lev. 2:5). 42. Some Jewish tradition refers to Moses proceeding in stages of deification in his com­ munion with God at Sinai (e.g., Ezekiel the Tragedian, Exagōgē 68–81; Phil., Vita Mos. 1.155–58). 43. E.g., Rev. 9:5, 11:10, 12:2. Davies and Allison have noted how the story may have functioned as an “edifying lesson” for the Markan community. See Davies and Allison, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary, 2:501. 44. E.g., 2 Macc. 7:13; 4 Macc. 6:5; Mart. Pol. 2:2. Cf. Marcus, Mark, 423. Note, too, 1QH 3:6, 12–18; 6:22–25; 7:45. Cf. Odes Sol. 39. 45. Marcus, Mark 1–8, 431; cf. Cotter, Miracle Stories, 232; Wellhausen, Einleitung in die drei ersten Evangelien, 59; Loisy, L’évangile selon Marc, 198–200. 46. Note Heil, Jesus Walking, 173. 47. See the discussion in Marcus, Mark 1–8, 423. 48. Exod. 14:24; Ps. 46:5; 130:6; Isa. 17:14. Cf. Joseph and Aseneth 14:1–2; Bib. Ant. 42.3; Mark 16:2. Marcus notes that the carefully redacted narrative of vv. 45–51 forms a chiasm with Jesus’ presence in v. 48b at the center (Mark 1–8, 429). 6:45 6:48a 6:48b 6:49–50 6:51

Jesus makes his disciples get into the boat. He sees them struggling in their rowing on the sea. In the fourth watch, he comes over sea to them. They see him and are disturbed. He gets into the boat.

49. For a survey of interpretive options on this difficult phrase, see Snoy, “Marc 6,48”; Aus, Caught in the Act, 57; O. Betz, “The Concept of the So-­Called ‘Divine Man.’ ” 50. Cf. Heil, Jesus Walking, 69–71; Fleddermann, “And He Wanted”; Berg, Rezeption, esp. chapter 2. 51. In Gen. 32:31–32 LXX and Dan. 12:1 LXX, e.g., the term was inserted into contexts that seemed other­w ise missing in the MT. See Marcus, Mark 1–8, 426. Note, too, Heil, Jesus Walking, 8.



Notes to Pages 164–165

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52. Exod. 3:14; Deut. 32:39; Isa. 41:4, 43:10–11. Cf. Isa. 47:8, 10. See Williams, I Am He; cf. Berg, Rezeption, chapters 4–5. 53. See Naveh and Shaked, Amulets and Magic Bowls, 45, 51, 55. 54. Rabbah reports that seafarers told him: “The wave that sinks a ship appears with a white fringe of fire at its crest and when stricken with clubs on which is engraved ‘I am that I am,’ Yah, the Lord of Hosts, Amen, Amen, Selah,’ it subsides.” Note Yarbro Collins, “Rul­ ers, Divine Men, and Walking on the ­Water,” 221. 55. E.g., Homeric Hymns 33.12; Aristedes, Hymn to Serapis 33; Acts 5:17–25, 12:3–19. The­ issen, Miracle Stories, 101. 56. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 329. 57. E.g., Ps. 107:23–32; Jon. 1:1–16; Wisd. of Sol. 14:2–4. Davies and Allison, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary, 2:503; Marcus, Mark 1–8, 432; Yarbro Collins, “Rulers, Divine Men, and Walking on the ­Water,” 212–13; Lapide, “Jewish Exegesis of the Walking on the ­Water.” 58. Before making quick and easy high Christological claims, it should be noted that in Greek (and some Roman) traditions, ­human beings could receive empowerment over the sea (see Blackburn, Theios Anēr, 145–47; cf. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 328–33). ­Here, too, see van der Loos, “Jesus Walking on the ­Water,” 665. Though cf. the discussion by Blackburn in the assimilation of Jesus to Yahweh without introducing a “rupture to mono­the­ism” (Theios Anēr, 152–82; ­here, 82). John Collins has noted how some of the functions typically reserved for the divine ­were understood to be assumed by the messiah (Collins, Daniel, 72–89). 59. Note Heil, Jesus Walking, 1n1; Madden, Jesus’ Walking on the Sea, 1, for a listing of studies on this pericope. Hooker noted how this “short narrative bristles with difficulties for the modern reader” (Gospel of Mark, 169). Clemen noted seven separate writers who believed that it derived from a Buddha narrative (Religionsgeschichtliche Erklärung, 238); Klatt, “Was­ serwandel.” Arthur Lillie has suggested that by the third ­century bce, Persia, Greece, Egypt, and Palestine had been exposed to Buddhist thought (Influence of Buddhism on Chris­tian­ity, 59). Note the studies surveyed in Madden, Jesus’ Walking on the Sea, 49–54; and the impres­ sive study of Berg, Rezeption. 60. On the interpretation of dreams of walking on the sea, see Daldianus, Interpretation of Dreams, 162. See Berg, Rezeption, 6–39. 61. A True Story 2.4; Lover of Lies 13–14. 62. See Reitzenstein, Hellenistische Wundererzählungen, 125. Note, too, Eruvin 4.1, which holds that evil spirits can transport a person from one place to another. 63. See Yarbro Collins, “Rulers, Divine Men, and Walking on the ­Water,” 207–8. 64. Herodotus, Histories 4.32, 36. 65. Porphyry, Life of Pythagoras 27. 66. Yarbro Collins, “Rulers, Divine Men, and Walking on the ­Water,” 218. 67. See Jacoby, Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, 2:B.650; though see this episode satirized in Allinson, Menander, 532–33. 68. Fox, Classical World, 223. 69. Dio Chrysostom pre­sents Socrates attributing to Xerxes the ability to lead his in­ fantry over the sea in a manner akin to “riding upon a chariot just like Poseidon” (3.30–31). On Caligula, see Suetonius, Cal., 4.19.2–3; cf. 4.22.2–3). See also the reflections of Josephus in Ant. 19.1.6. On Caligula and his abuses, see Dio Cassius, Hist. 7.59; Jos. Ant. 19.1–17; Bar­ rett, Caligula. 70. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 331. Note Horace, Odes 1.3.

252

Notes to Pages 165–168

71. Moses (Exod. 14:15–18, 21–22, 23–29; Jos., Ant. 2.347–48); Joshua (Josh. 3:11, 7–11, 15– 16); Elijah (2 Kings 2:6–8); Elisha (2 Kings 2:9–15). See also Sir. 24:5–6; Wisd. of Sol. 10:18–19, 14:3. 72. Cotter, Miracles in Antiquity, 160. The significant texts are MT Job 9:8b (Mic. 1:3; Amos 4:13); Job 9:8b LXX; Tg. Job 9:8b; MT Hab. 3:15; Tg. Hab. 3:15; Ps. 77:20; Tg. Ps. 77:20; Pirque R.E. on Ps. 77:20; Isa. 43:16, 51:9–10; Wisd. of Sol. 14:1–4; Frg. Tg. Exod. 15:11. See Heil, Jesus Walking. Note, too, Sibylline Oracles, 1.356–59, 6.13–15a, 8.272–78. Cf. the discussion in Achtemeier, “Pre-­ Markan Miracle Catenae”; Achtemeier, “Origin and Function”; Berg, Rezeption, chapter 1. 73. Homer, Iliad 13.27–29. 74. Eustathius, On the Iliad, 29. See Jacoby, Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, 2:B.650. 75. Hab. 3:12–13. 76. Job 9:6–11. 77. Ps. 77:19–20. 78. Isa. 43:16–17, 51:9–10. 79. See Gundry, Mark, 335. 80. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 333. 81. E.g., Ps. 89:9; Prov. 8:29; Jer. 51:42. 82. von Fiedler, Antiker Wetterzauber, 25–72. 83. For an excellent example of reading the sea as a socializing force, see Abulafia, ­Great Sea; see also Matvejević, Mediterranean; Norwich, M ­ iddle Sea; Horden and Purcell, Corrupting Sea. 84. Note Kingsbury, Christology of Mark, 86–89. 85. Note how the address echoes the title given to Elisha in 2 Kings 4:9 and to Aaron in Ps. 106 [105]:16 LXX. 86. On the text-­critical complications of reading υἱοῦ θεοῦ in 1:1, see Yarbro Collins, Mark, 130–32. Even if this is a ­later attestation, it is noteworthy that early Christian wit­ nesses saw Jesus-­a s-­υἱοῦ θεοῦ as a significant theme in Mark, even though the disciples never came to confess him as such. 87. Though we cannot go into it ­here, some see this scene as a displaced resurrection narrative. Note Schmithals, Evangelium nach Markus, 1:333; Madden, Jesus’ Walking on the Sea. 88. Combs, “Ghost on the ­Water?,” 358. 89. Tyson, “Blindness of the Disciples”; Malbon, “Disciples/Crowds/Whoever”; Tanne­ hill, “Disciples in Mark”; Hawkin, “Incomprehension of the Disciples.” Cf. Marcus, “Marcan Epistemology”; Robbins, “Healing of Blind Bartimaeus.” 90. See, e.g., Marcus, Mark 1–8, 433–34; Cotter, Christ of the Miracle Stories, 252, who notes the “immanence of Jesus in the community, and that his power ­will direct them through a safe crossing in a world that he w ­ ill eventually bring to peace.” Note, too, the associations of the disciples’ unbelief with the so-­called messianic secret, in Wrede, Messianic Secret, 101–14. 91. See Ernst, Evangelium nach Markus, 194–97. 92. Exod. 4:21; 7:3, 14; Deut. 2:30; Josh. 11:20; 1 Sam. 6:6. 93. Cf. Ps. 95:8–9. 94. Particularly in the book of Jeremiah, see 5:23, 9:14, 11:8, 13:10, 16:12, 18:12, 23:26. 95. Note Weeden, Mark, 49–50, 148–49. 96. On the function of encouragement, see Berg, Rezeption, chapter 3. 97. Cf. Job 40:25, Isa. 72:1, Rev. 20:2. 98. Cf. Tg. Ps. 77:17. Heil, Jesus Walking, 56. 99. Hab. 3:12–15.



Notes to Pages 168–175

253

100. Hooker, Gospel According to Mark, 169. 101. Yarbro Collins, “Rulers, Divine Men, and Walking on the ­Water,” 226. 102. Worth comparing, too, are the ­later receptions of this trope in texts like Acts of Thomas, 47. 103. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 332; “Rulers, Divine Men, and Walking on the ­Water,” 224. 104. Proust, Sodom and Gomorrah, 4:723. 105. 4:41; cf. 6:49, 52. 106. Cf. 4:11–12, 33–34; 10:10. 107. Cf. 8:4, 17, 21. 108. 8:31–33, 10:13–16. 109. 2:20; 9:10, 32. 110. 9:33–37; 10:26, 28, 35–45. 111. 9:19; cf. Deut. 32:20 LXX. 112. Cf. Hilgert, Ship, 150. 113. Isa. 43:14; cf. Ezek. 30:9. 114. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 333. 115. Cf., e.g., 6:35, 8:4. 116. Cohen, The Novel and the Sea. 117. Similar occurrences of βουλευτήριον in the Maccabean lit­er­a­t ure refer to Roman contexts of the Senate (1 Macc. 8:15, 19; 12:3) or used more generally for a council room (4 Macc. 15:25). Βουλευτικός can also refer to general wisdom (Prov. 24:6). 118. 15:1, 14:55. 119. Cf. 14:53, 15:1. 120. Mark 16:19. 121. Ant. 1.325, 331, 333. 122. Ant. 2:82. 123. Ant. 5.213. 124. Ant. 5.276. 125. Ant. 5.277. 126. Ant. 10.272. 127. War 3.351–54. See Gray, Prophetic Figures, 52–53. 128. 3.353. 129. Wars 5.381. 130. W. Brown, Politics out of History, 145. 131. Derrida, Specters of Marx. 132. W. Brown, Politics out of History, 149–50. 133. W. Brown, Politics out of History, 152. 134. W. Brown, Politics out of History, 152. 135. W. Brown, Politics out of History, 153. 136. Lachmann, Erzählte Phantastik; “Counter-­Memory and Phantasma”; Memory and Lit­er­a­ture, 1–24. 137. 2:23–28. 138. 3:20, 6:37–38, 8:1–5. 139. 7:1–23. 140. Cf. 7:27. 141. 15:43–47, 16:6–7.

254

Notes to Pages 175–181

142. Moses and the mountain is a popu­lar pairing in the Pentateuch (e.g., Exod. 3:1; 4:27; 19:3, 14, 17, 20, 23; 24:4, 12–13, 15, 18; 32:1, 15, 19; 34:29; Num. 20:28; 27:12; cf. Heb. 8:5). 143. Yarbro Collins, Mark, 334; Dibelius, From Tradition to Gospel, 95. 144. 3:13, 6:48, 7:24, 9:30. 145. Herman, Trauma and Recovery, 41. 146. Herman, Trauma and Recovery, 50. 147. Cf. the swapping of bodies in 14:1–12 with 15:6–15. 148. 1:16–20, 36–38; 2:14–15, 20; 3:7, 13; 6:7, 31–32, 45; 8:10; 9:2; 11:11. 149. 1:12, 35, 44; 2:13; 3:7; 6:1, 46; 8:13. 150. 14:32–42. 151. Herman, Trauma and Recovery, 239; cf. van der Kolk and Fisler, “Dissociation.” 152. 7:24, 9:30. 153. Herman, Trauma and Recovery, 12. 154. Herman, Trauma and Recovery, 34. 155. Herman, Trauma and Recovery, 47. 156. Cf. Herman, Trauma and Recovery, 56. Is this a way to rethink the so-­called mes­ sianic secret texts (cf. 1:25, 34, 43–44; 3:12; 4:43; 6:24; 8:26, 30; 9:9)? 157. Cf., e.g., De somniis 1.247; De cherubim 1.13. 158. E.g., De sacrificiis Abelis et Caini 1.90. 159. Republic VI.488e–89d. 160. Quod deus sit immutabilis 1.175; cf. Quis rerum divinarum ­heres sit 1.301; De Abrahamo 1.116; Legatio ad Gaium 1.50; cf. 1.371. 161. Ant. 12.130; Wars 2.556, 3.195. 162. Philo, De opificio mundi 1.88, 147; Legum allegoriarum 2.104; 3.223; De sacrificiis Abelis et Caini 1.116; Quod deterius potiori insidiari 1.141–42;  De agricultura 1.69; De confusione linguarum 1.115; Quis rerum divinarum ­heres sit 1.301; De fuga et inventione 1.27; De somniis 1.157; 2.86; De Abrahamo 1.116; 272; De Josepho 1.33; De specialibus legibus 1.121; 4.186; De virtutibus 1.186; De praemiis et poenis + De exsec. 1.33; In Flaccum 1.26, 57, 110; Legatio ad Gaium 1.50. Josephus (Ant. 10.279; Wars 3.368). 163. On the land and sea distinction, cf. the helpful discussion in Bretherton, Resurrecting Democracy, 258ff. 164. Schmitt, Leviathan; Land und Meer; “Meer gegen das Land.” 165. Schmitt, Land and Sea, 1. 166. Schmitt, Land and Sea, 6. 167. Schmitt, Land and Sea, 7–37. 168. Schmitt, Land and Sea, 37. 169. Schmitt, Land and Sea, 59. 170. On the elaborations and alterations of Mark by Matthew, consider the recent study of Doole, What Was Mark for Matthew?. 171. Beaulieu, Sea, 66. 172. Cf. Beaulieu, Sea, 76. 173. Gallini, “Katapontismos.” 174. Beaulieu, Sea, 145. 175. Beaulieu, Sea, 146. 176. Beaulieu, Sea, 158. 177. Beaulieu, Sea, 166.



Notes to Pages 181–189

255

178. Beaulieu, Sea, 179. 179. Beaulieu, Sea, 188. 180. See Duchêne, “Initiation et élément marin.” 181. Beaulieu, Sea, 145–47.

Chapter 7 1. The current stone was added in the 1810 reconstruction. The mural likewise dates from recent reconstruction efforts during the early part of the nineteenth ­century. 2. Gregory of Tours, Book of Miracles 1.9, trans. van Dam, Saints and Their Miracles, 210–11. 3. Racine, Phèdre, I.v.340. 4. Pascal, Pensées: Ceux-­là honorent bien la nature qui lui apprennent qu’elle peut parier de tout, et même de théologie (§569, p. 408). 5. Krauss, Universe from Nothing, 77. 6. Krauss, Universe from Nothing, 151. 7. Krauss, Universe from Nothing, 159. 8. See the work of Weatherall, Void. 9. Knausgaard, Man in Love, 18. 10. Krauss, Universe from Nothing, 182. 11. I use this problematic expression somewhat reluctantly. The challenges against po­ liti­cal theology are trenchantly posed by Erik Peterson, generally, in Theologische Traktate. See, e.g., Geréby, “Po­liti­cal Theology Versus Theological Politics”; Urciuoli, “Un’ordinaria eccezione”; Lindemann, “Erik Peterson.” 12. Deleuze and Guattari, L’Anti-­Œdipe, 97. 13. Pascal, Pensées, §667, p. 456. 14. Deleuze and Guattari, L’Anti-­Œdipe, 97. 15. Irigaray, Marine Lover, 22. 16. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 6. 17. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 6. The French reads: La déclosion désigne l’ouverture d’un enclos, la levée d’une clôture (Nancy, La Déclosion, 16). 18. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 6. La clôture est l’accomplissement de cette totalité qui se pense achevée dans son autoréférence (Nancy, La Déclosion, 16). 19. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 10. Le christianisme ne désigne pas autre chose, essentiellement . . . ​ que l’exigence d’ouvrir dans ce monde une altérité ou une aliénation inconditionnelle (Nancy, La Déclosion, 20). 20. Nancy, La Déclosion: [L]e précepte de vivre dans ce monde comme hors de lui (21). 21. Nancy, La Déclosion: [L]’ouverture du monde à—­l’altérité inaccessible (21). 22. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 10. Le christianisme est au cœur de la déclosion comme il est au centre de la clôture (Nancy, La Déclosion, 21). 23. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 11, and La Déclosion, 22. 24. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 12, and La Déclosion, 24. 25. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 13 and La Déclosion, 25. 26. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 141, and La Déclosion, 206. 27. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 142. [T]oute notre pensée est de part en part chrétienne (Nancy, La Déclosion, 207–8).

256

Notes to Pages 189–191

28. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 143–44. [L]e monde moderne est lui-­même le devenir du christianisme (Nancy, La Déclosion, 209). 29. Though not necessarily directed ­toward Nancy, similar proj­ects have been rightly criticized by Asad, Formations of the Secular. Cf. Foessel, Kervégan, and Revault d’Allonnes, Modernité et sécularisation; Bourdin, La question du théologico-­politique; and, esp., Blumen­ berg, Legitimacy of the Modern Age. 30. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 145, and La Déclosion, 210. Nancy continues: ouverture de soi et soi comme ouverture. 31. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 147, and La Déclosion, 214. 32. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 12, and La Déclosion, 24. 33. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 145, and La Déclosion, 210. 34. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 146, and La Déclosion, 210. 35. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 149, and La Déclosion, 217. 36. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 150, and La Déclosion, 218. 37. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 149, and La Déclosion, 217. 38. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 149, and La Déclosion, 217. 39. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 153, and La Déclosion, 221. 40. Irigaray, Marine Lover, 12. 41. See, e.g., Lang, “Kompositionsanalyse des Markusevangeliums”; Bilezikian, Liberated Gospel; Standaert, L’Evangile selon Marc; S. H. Smith, “Divine Tragedy.” See, esp., Jay, Tragic in Mark, 15–24, for a survey of past approaches. 42. Jay, Tragic in Mark, 18. 43. Jay, Tragic in Mark, 2. 44. Jay, Tragic in Mark, 3. Jay is not making claims about genre; he is instead speaking of an active mode, a kind of abstraction from genre of its vari­ous parts, operative across genres of writing. On this point, see Jay, Tragic in Mark, 12–15, 22–24. On mode, Jay follows with­ out much deviation Fowler, Kinds of Lit­er­a­ture, 54–105. 45. Jay, Tragic in Mark, 264. 46. Cf. Jay, Tragic in Mark, 268. 47. Jay, Tragic in Mark, 265. 48. Tracy, “On Tragic Wisdom.” 49. Tracy, “On Tragic Wisdom,” 17. 50. Tracy, “On Tragic Wisdom,” 17. 51. See, generally, Tracy, “On Tragic Wisdom”; Jay, Tragic in Mark, 1–11. 52. G. Steiner, Death of Tragedy, 331–32. 53. Tracy, “On Tragic Wisdom,” 16. 54. Jay, Tragic in Mark, 15. 55. Jay, Tragic in Mark, 14. 56. Jay, Tragic in Mark, 177. 57. Jay, Tragic in Mark, 267. 58. Perhaps a bad comedy or a poor joke? 59. This is where I find Jay’s study, as impressive as it is, most confusing. Is this a his­ torical judgment? Or is he making a statement about the Gospel of Mark as Christian scrip­ ture as a sensibility or cultural reverberation emerging from the historical mode? 60. Jay, Tragic in Mark, 204. See, esp., his power­f ul reflections in Jay, Tragic in Mark, 231–61. 61. Jay, Tragic in Mark, 265.



Notes to Pages 191–197

257

62. Jay, Tragic in Mark, 265. Cf. Tracy, “On Tragic Wisdom,” 23. I find his assessment of Benjamin in association with nihilism, however, to be rather misleading. On this point, see the discussion in Ponzi, Nietz­sche’s Nihilism in Walter Benjamin. 63. Tracy, “On Tragic Wisdom,” 16. 64. Tracy, “On Tragic Wisdom,” 17. 65. See, e.g., Billings, Genealogy of the Tragic; Young, Philosophy of Tragedy; Kaufmann, Tragedy and Philosophy. 66. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 149, and La Déclosion, 217. 67. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 153, and La Déclosion, 221. 68. Cf. Debray, God, 39. 69. Pascal, Pensées, §185, p. 169. 70. Pascal, Pensées: Connaissons donc notre portée. Nous sommes quelque chose et nous ne sommes pas tout. Ce que nous avons d’être nous dérobe la connaissance des premiers principes qui naissent du néant, et le peu que nous avons d’être nous cache la vue de l’infini (§185, p. 170). 71. Pascal, Pensées: [T]rop de vérité nous étonne (§185, p. 171). 72. Pascal, Pensées: Rien n’est si insupportable à l’homme que d’être dans un plein repos, sans passion, sans affaire, sans divertissement, sans application. Il sent alors son néant, son abandon, son insuffisance, sa dépendance, son impuissance, son vide (§529, p. 396). 73. Brassier, Nihil Unbound, 97. 74. Brassier, Nihil Unbound, xi. 75. Brassier, Nihil Unbound, 205–39. 76. Solar catastrophe in Lyotard, Inhuman, 223–30; see also idem, “Nietz­sche and the Inhuman.” 77. Brassier, Nihil Unbound, xi. 78. Brassier, Nihil Unbound, xi. 79. Tracy, “On Tragic Wisdom,” 20–21. 80. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 14, 28, 30. 81. Kafka, Parables and Paradoxes, 11. 82. E.g., daily life and utility; the position of the wise man; and the question of what is won and what is lost in parable and real­ity. 83. Quoted in Hendrickson, Hemingway’s Boat, 473. 84. “An American Storyteller.” 85. See Burhans, “Old Man and the Sea,” 446n1. 86. Burhans, “Old Man and the Sea,” 447. 87. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 14, 28, 30, 45, 46, 50, 61, 110, 115, 116, 120. 88. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 110. 89. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 115. 90. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 116. 91. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 120. 92. Blumenberg, Shipwreck, 7. 93. Montaigne, Complete Essays, 2.9, 763. 94. Cf. Chapter 3 of this volume. 95. Blumenberg, Shipwreck, 2. Horace speaks of “impious boats” (inpiae rates) that “rashly connect what a divinity has sundered. When the sea throws itself against the fragile vessel, it is only protecting this original division established by the gods’ wisdom and overleaped by ­human pride.” 96. Blumenberg, Shipwreck, 8.

258

Notes to Pages 197–200

97. Blumenberg, Shipwreck, 29. 98. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 1. 99. R. Weeks, “Hemingway and the Uses of Isolation,” 125. 100. Rani, “Theme of Alienation.” 101. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 29. 102. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 29–30. 103. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 103, 115, where the old man speaks of being one with the fish. 104. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 60. 105. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 61. 106. Cf. Goodstein, Simmel and the Disciplinary Imaginary, 296–330. 107. Eddins, “Of Rocks and Marlin,” 143. See also Sangari, “Touting the Void”; Croft, “Karl Jasper’s Ideas on Tragedy.” Note, ­here, Jaspers and the tragic hero as an existence of being shipwrecked; Holcombe, “Motive of the Motif.” 108. Fitzgerald, “Crack-­Up,” 69–70. 109. Faulkner, As I Lay D ­ ying, 116–17. 110. This all sounds like Camus’s Sisyphus before Camus. “For Camus, the nihilistic void functions as an inescapable generator of absurdity, undermining ­every ­human enterprise and thought by revealing its ultimate pointlessness and meaninglessness. He locates the only intellectually defensible response to this absurdity in acts of rebellion that maximize avail­ able life and its intensity, even as the cosmic futility of ­these acts is kept uncompromisingly in mind.” Eddins, “Of Rocks and Marlin,” 144; cf. Alladi, “Existentialism in Hemingway and Camus”; Holcombe, “Motive of the Motif.” 111. Eddins, “Of Rocks and Marlin,” 147. 112. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 9. 113. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 103. 114. C. Taylor, “Old Man and the Sea,” 642. 115. Justus, “­L ater Fiction”: “Man as victim in a world at war is, arguably, the ­f undamental twentieth-­century vision, and its most compelling spokesman is Heming­ way” (53). 116. Eddins, “Of Rocks and Marlin,” 147. Cf. Kuhn, “Hemingway and Nietz­sche,” 223; and the Nietz­schean notion of “tragic affirmation of life,” 224. 117. Eddins, “Of Rocks and Marlin,” 149. 118. Eddins, “Of Rocks and Marlin,” 150. 119. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 15, 121. 120. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 86. 121. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 150. 122. R. Weeks, ed., Hemingway, 15–16. 123. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 66. 124. Ledig, Payback, 42. 125. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 23. 126. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 103. 127. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 104. 128. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 106. 129. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 98–100. 130. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 101. 131. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 101, 103, 110, 111.



Notes to Pages 200–204

259

132. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 121. 133. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 121. 134. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 122. 135. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 123. 136. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 126–27. 137. Hemingway, Old Man and the Sea, 61. 138. See, e.g., the fascinating study of Welborn, Paul’s Summons to Messianic Life. 139. Proust, Sodom and Gomorrah, 516. 140. Proust, Sodom and Gomorrah, 517. 141. Proust, Sodom and Gomorrah, 518. 142. Proust, Sodom and Gomorrah, 519. 143. Proust, Sodom and Gomorrah, 519. 144. Proust, Sodom and Gomorrah, 520. 145. Proust, Sodom and Gomorrah, 521. 146. Proust, Sodom and Gomorrah, 522. 147. Pascal, Pensées: Nous ne nous tenons jamais au temps présent (§43, p. 88). 148. Pascal, Pensées: la vie est un songe un peu moins inconstant (§662, p. 453). 149. Pascal, Pensées: Si nous rêvions toutes les nuits la même chose, elle nous affecterait autant que les objets que nous voyons tous les jours (§662, p. 453). 150. Pascal, Pensées: presque autant que si cela était véritable (§662, p. 453). 151. Nancy, Dis-­Enclosure, 145, and La Déclosion, 210. 152. Jankélevitch, Henri Bergson: “We only pretend to construct; we reconstruct accord­ ing to the order indicated by an analy­sis that is always latently ­there, like a watermark” (15). Elsewhere, Jankélevitch refers to this as “pretending to obtain something that is already all posited” (Henri Bergson, 17). 153. See, e.g., Reutens, “Depersonalization Disorder”; Simeon and Abugel, Feeling Unreal. 154. Racine, Phèdre, v.vi.1545–46. 155. Musil, Man Without Qualities, 41. 156. Butler, “­A fter Loss,” 467–73. Cf. the impor­tant work of Scarry, Resisting Repre­sen­ ta­tion. 157. Cf. Jankélevitch, Henri Bergson, 88. 158. Jankélevitch, Henri Bergson, “No order is pos­si­ble in the material universe: ­there are only coincidences, given direction by incredible randomness, by prodigious chance” (21). 159. Cf. Pascal, Pensées, §209, p. 186. 160. The imagery is indebted to haunting reflections of Darl in Faulkner, As I Lay ­Dying, 93–99. 161. Taking from Proust, Captive and the Fugitive, 709. 162. Stoker, Dracula, 202.

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Index

Abandoned community, 5, 16–17, 26, 45, 65, 117, 136, 144 Abaris, 164 Absence, x, 2–4, 16, 21–24, 51, 63, 70, 133, 185 Abyss, 60, 64, 70, 138, 203 Actium, ­Battle of, 95, 105 Adorno, T., 16, 25 Adriatic Sea, 91, 116 Agrippa, 88 Alexander, L., 38 Alexander the ­Great, 84, 91–92, 165 Alienation, 26, 57, 142, 158, 161, 177, 197, 201; demonic striving for, 137; from intimates, 112; from livelihood, 118; from time and place, 79; threat of, 57; unconditional, 13, 16–22, 188 Ando, C., 56, 60 Aneximander, 73, 82 Antiochus Epiphanes IV, 115–16, 165 Antipodes, 92 Antonine age/house, 55–56 Antony, Mark, 105 Anxious suspense, 64, 111, 113, 154 Apeiron, 82, 84 Aphrodisias, 95, 104 Aphrodite, 75, 115 Apocalypse, 86 Apocalypses, 137 Apollo, 75, 147 Apollonius of Tyana, 84, 115 Appian, 105 Arendt, H., 11 Articulation, pro­cess of, 58–61, 66–70, 148, 188 Asclepius, 52 Athens, 89–90, 181 Atlantic, 84 Atrahasis, 52

Auden, W. H., 52, 117 Augustine, 91, 94 Augustus, 55–56, 85, 92, 95, 104–105 Aune, D. E., 137, 143 Auschwitz, 25 Azazel, 113 Azov, Sea of, 88 Balearic Island, 91 Baltussen, H., 26 Banville, J., 132 Bashan, 114 Bataille, G., 30, 31, 49, 81 Batto, B., 124 Bauckham, R., 138 Baudelaire, C., 15 Bay of Baiae, 165 Beaulieu, M.-­C., 75, 90, 181 Beelzebul, 113, 154 Beginnings and endings, 36–38, 49, 53–59, 61 Behemmoth, 179 Bended readings, x, 4–7, 12–14, 32, 35, 81 189 Berardi, F., 19, 20 Berke, J. H., 18 Bethsaida, 103, 134, 163 Beyond, 7–18, 22, 30–32, 82–84, 89–90, 99, 193–94, 197–203 Bishop, K., 107 Black Sea, 84, 115 Bloom, L., 81 Blum, H., 83 Blumenberg, H., 77, 194, 197 Boyarin, D., 66, 68 Brakke, D., 66 Brassier, R., 10, 192, 193 Brecht, B., 11 Bresson, R., 61 Britannia, 92

306 Index Bromberg, P., 141 Brown, P., 66 Brown, W., 173 Bultmann, R., 51, 67, 68 Burhans, C. S., 197 Burkert, W., 90 Burnet, T., 70 Butler, J., 8, 13–14, 22–23, 28, 34, 60 Caligula, 165 Callisthenes, 165 Calypso, 128 Camus, A., 198 Canon, 38–42, 62, 66 Capernaum, 98, 108, 121–22, 133–35 Capitalism, 8, 11–12, 15, 19 Carroll, J., 71 Caruth, C., 28, 160 Catastrophe, 30 Celsus, 137 Chaoskampf, 52, 65, 119 Christology, 32–35 Chronology, 23 Chrysostom, John, 62 Cicero, 26–27, 50–51 56, 92, 119 Cioran, E. M., 70, 105 Clarke, S., 36, 57 Claudius, 92, 105 Clement of Alexandria, 41–42, 45, 62 Codex, 57 Cohen, H., 63 Cohen, M., 14–16, 117, 122, 170 Colchis, 88 Combs, J. R., 167 Compositionism, 20 Conrad, J., 141 Consciousness, 18 Consolation, 15–17, 26, 133, 136, 191 Constantine’s edict of 312, 137 Corinth, 88 Cowper, W., 107 Creon, king of Corinth, 88 Cyrene, Simon, 89–90 Cyril of Jerusalem, 137 Dalmanutha, 103 David/Davidic figure, 112 Davis, K., 37 Dead Sea, 85, 98 Death, 9, 44, 85 Debray, R., 10, 29, 33, 37, 61, 63, 65

Decapolis, 97, 101, 146 Deleuze, G., 1, 34, 44, 63, 72–75, 111, 144, 187; on recognizability, 5–10; schizo-­ analysis, 14–15, 188 Delian League, 89 Demon/demonic, 52, 102–6, 136, 142, 192, 200; demonic pattern, 34–35, 108–9, 114–15, 139, 164–68; demonic sea, 2, 71–72, 77, 102, 137; Legion, 108, 138, 143–45, 150–56; madness, 20; possession, 110, 143, 150, 154; spatial label, 35, 75, 84, 102; strongman, 108, 113–14, 117, 138–41, 145, 163, 169 Demythology, 68 Depression, 18 Derealization, 18, 22 Derrida, J., 5, 8, 10, 30–31, 35, 172–73 Desire, 9, 22–23, 158, 175–77; creative force, 35, 176; elemental force, 17; flight of desire, 146–47; founding force, 1, 23, 37, 131, 133, 137; po­liti­cal production of, social bond, 9, 104, 136; reordered desire, 30, 39, 61, 71, 111–14, 121–22. See also Trauma, rupture of space, time, desire Desolation, spaces of, 70, 105, 203 Dewy, J., 57, 79 Dibelius, M., 175 Dickinson, E., 69, 183 Diodoran, 148 Dionysius, 94 Dionysus, 76 Dioscuri, 115 Disciples, 48, 100, 111, 120–21, 134, 146, 158–59, 164; abandoning Jesus, 46–47, 160; demonized, 114, 127, 165–69; failure of, 21, 35, 102–4, 169–78; hardened hearts, 168; lack of witness to Jesus, 60, 64; leaving past bonds, 126; practices of, 79; taking Jesus, 16, 135; vulnerability of, 108 Dis-­enclosure, 5, 14–16, 73–75, 188–89, 192; assembly of, 21; gospel of, 32–33; Nancy’s concept, 7–10, 33, 188; politics of, 5, 35; reading of, 12, 81 Dissociation, 16–26, 38, 60, 79, 141–44, 161–62, 176–79 Disturbance, 19, 21 Dracula, 132–33, 204 Dragon snake, 86, 168 Dreams, 171–72, 199–202 Dronsch, K., 45, 57 Durkheim, E., 31, 61

Index Early Christian space-­making, 74 Ecstasy, x, 13–16, 29–34, 110, 203; demonic effect, 129; excess, 29–34, 99; haunting, 192; issuing from empty tomb, 60, 67–68; Mark’s text, 49 149, 192; opening, 2–3; past as, 192; trauma and, x, 14, 16, 22, 26, 38, 46–47 Eddins, D., 198–99 Eerie calm/silence at sea, 34–35, 108, 128–29, 133–34, 156, 186 Egyptians, Gospel of, 61 Elijah, 97 Eliot, G., 132 Elisha, 97 Empedocles, 115 Empire, 9–10, 59–61, 82, 91–95, 143 Empty tomb, x, 21–23, 39, 41, 46–48, 60, 83, 135; absence of disciples’ witness, 146, 149; assembly placed before, 67, 133; disrupted unity, 159; moment left blank, 63–65; Nihil of, 54, 117; recurrence, 203; relation to eerie calm, 156; relation to the sea, 7, 30; ruptured order, 39; shameful extinction of assembly, 161; traumatic effects, 15–16, 26, 32–33, 41, 54, 60, 83, 113, 121; wound of, 29 Enclosure, 5–22, 30–34, 57, 60, 70–75, 81–91, 188, 194, 203 Enuma elish, 52 Eschatiai, 82 Estrangement, 19–21, 113 Euripides, 120 Euryclea, 16 Eusebius, 61–62, 88 Euthymenes, 73 Evans, C., 55 Evolution, ix Excess, 30–32, 70 Existentialism, 20 Exodus, book of, 97 Exodus, new, 101, 136, 165 Exorcisms, 100, 103, 108, 134, 140, 154 Fanon, F., 144 Farge, A., 37 Fasti, 56 Ferry, L., 33 Feuerbach, L., 21 Fishbane, M., 97 Fitzgerald, F. S., 198 Flavian municipal laws, 55

307

Fleddermann, H. T., 146 Fleeing, 46–47, 49, 146–47 Florus, 92 Fontenelle, B., 128 Form-­of-­life, 33, 66, 71–75, 82, 90, 94, 158–60, 202 Foucault, M., 5, 10, 49, 73 Frankfurt School, 20 Freud, S., 17–18, 22, 26, 28, 31, 162, 176 Fucine Lake, 105 Gadeira (modern Cádiz), 80, 137 Gaius, 38 Galilee, 78, 80, 97, 133, 136–37, 159; sea of, 96–97, 101, 104–5 Gallini, C., 181–82 Garden of the Hesperides, 76 Gaulan, eastern regions, 97 Genesis, book of, 57, 58 Geography, 34, 78, 94, 118 Geophilosophy, 72–73 Geopiety, 87–88 Genealogy, 23, 38 Geryon myth, 80 Gethsemane, 147, 149 Girard, R., 148–54 Godmen, 32–33, 158, 162, 177 Goethe, J. W., 128 Gospel writing, ix, 4, 12–13, 22–23, 34, 54, 162, 186; beginnings, 38, 59; dating, 34, 39, 42, 49; emergence, of, 61, 70; expunging trauma, 43, 45, 180–82, 186, 192; geographic gospel, 40; genre, 34, 39, 42, 44, 57; materiality of, 57; panopticon, as, 40; relationship with Judaism, 67; spatially and temporally conceived, 40; use of Mark, 39 Graber, K., 1, 36 Gregory of Tours, 184–85 Grief, 24–25 Guattari, F. See Deleuze, G. Habit, 158–60, 185 Habitable world (oikoumenē), 71, 73, 82, 88, 91–99, 105–6 Hades, 85–87, 137–40 Halbertal, M., 152–53 Harbor imagery, 119, 177, 193, 196, 200 Hardt, M., 9–10 Harker, J., 132–33 Harker, M., 133

308 Index Hart, R. L., 10 Haunting, 5, 177, 186, 192, 203; demonic form, 44, 96, 104, 153, 156, 186; Derrida, 172–73; of Gospel writing, 22–23, 50–51, 70, 74, 77, 81, 105–6; Fanon, 144; traumatic wound, 26, 27, 160–61, 192 Hebrews, Gospel of, 61 Hecataeus, 73 Hegel, G. W. F., 12, 14–15, 19, 20, 30 Heidegger, M., 2, 8, 198 Heil, J. P., 168 Helios Hyperion, 129 Hemingway, E., 32, 34, 193–201, 203 Heracles Melqart, 80 Heracles (Tyrian), 136 Hercules, 115 Heresies, 102, 142 Herman, J. L., 160–62, 176 Herodotos of Halicarnassus, 82, 104 Herostratus of Naucratis, 115 Hesychius, 120 Hezer, C., 78 Hilgert, E., 118–19 Hiroshima, 70 Hollywood, A., 30 Holocaust, 25, 162, 222 n. 241 Holy Sepulchre, Church of, 183–85 Hope, 11, 14, 32–35, 112, 135–36, 145, 153, 191 Horace, 89, 93, 119 Horkheimer, M., 16 Hunt-­Lenox Globe, 20 Huysmans, J. K., x Iberian Peninsula, 80 Idumea, 100 Iliad, 16, 148 Imperial cult, 57 Interior, ix, 4, 7, 14 Ionnian Sea, 147 Irenaeus, 39–44, 62 Irigaray, L., 2–13, 21, 28, 31, 37, 49, 64, 69 Isaiah, book of, 41, 55, 59 Isis, 115 Islands of the Blessed, 76 Islands of the Gorgons, 76 Italian Workerism Movement, 19–20 Ithaca, 89, 120 Jaffa, 98 Jameson, F., 11–12, 37 Janet, P., 25, 161

Jason and the Argonauts, 76, 80, 88–91 Jaspers, K., 144 Jay, J., 190–92 Jerash, 135 Jerome, 41, 88 Jerusalem, 78, 80, 110, 113, 158, 183 Jesus, 5, 9, 14; absent corpse, 16, 26–29, 45, 64–65, 150, 156–60, 170–71, 186, 203; binding the sea, 114–17; body, 48–50, 57, 64–65; bread, as Jesus’ body, 104–5, 171–75, 178; corpse in Gospel writing, 34, 159, 185; crossing the sea, 101, 121; departure, 133–34, 163, 176; encounter with via reading, 62; execution, 29–30, 39, 41, 65, 149, 159–61; faithful interpreter of scripture, 59; ­family, 111–12, 159; healing ministry, 101, 133; loud cry, 155–56; mad, as/out of senses, 111–12; passing by disciples, 16, 35, 134, 164, 176; passing by the sea, 97–102; phantasma, 35, 169–73; possessed by demon, 153, 156; rebuking the sea, 117; separation, 112, 133–36, 159–62, 177, 180; sleeping, 15–16, 34, 117, 122, 126; teacher, 126; t­ hose whom he desires, 9, 22, 29, 43–45, 60, 71, 103–4, 111, 121, 129, 134–35, 147, 159–62, 186; voyage, mythic, 81, 122; walking on the sea, 13, 157–82 Jewish Scriptures, 59, 64 Jewish War, 42, 98–99, 164, 186 Job, 122 John, Gospel of, 38, 48–49, 62 John the baptizer, 46, 100, 110, 113, 149–50, 158, 170 Jonah, 122–28, 137–38, 176; sign of Jonah, 129–31, 138 Jordan, 100 Joseph of Arimathea, 170 Josephus, 55, 88, 106, 176, 177 Joyce, J., 81 Judaea, 81, 110, 143, 158 Judaea Capta coins, 98 Judaism, 29, 38, 63, 66–68, 74, 77, 186, 192, 203 Julian calendar, 55 Julius Caesar, 85, 92, 93, 116 Justin Martyr, 42, 52, 142 Juvenal, 119 Kabbalah, 179 Kafka, F., 32, 34, 194–200

Index Kahneman, D., 6 Kalaidijan, W., 25 Kaplan, C. M., 141–42 Kearney, R., 54 Kefar Hananya pottery, 98 Kelber, W., 78–79 Kingdom of God, 52, 79, 88, 127, 163; dis-­enclosure, 188; entering, 21; mystery of, 159; nearing, 97–102, 108–21, 140, 167–70; splitting from within 180 Knausgaard, K. O., 1, 3–4, 187 Kotansky, R., 80–81, 128, 136–38 Kotrosits, M., 27–28, 143 Krauss, L., 13, 187 Krieger, K.-­S., 78 Kronos, 119 Labor/work, 19–20, 118, 158 Lacan, J., 30 Laestrygonian cannibals, 128 Lake Kinneret, 81, 85, 97, 99, 116, 135, 137 Larsen, M., 42–43 Laub, D., 162 Leander, H., 54–55, 57 Lefebvre, H., 5, 78 Lefort, C., 65 Letters of Anacharsis, 87 Leucas Island, 147 Lex Gabinia, 91 Lex Julia Peculatus, 95 Leon, 42 Leviathan, 86, 113, 179 Libya, 89 Lightfoot, R. H., 27 Lincoln, B., 65 Livy, 119 Lord’s Supper, 65 Loss, 22–35, 50, 60–61, 64, 70, 203 Lowenthal, D., 75 Lucan, 92 Lucian, 128, 164 Lukács, G., 14, 16 Luke, Gospel of, 38–39, 42–47, 62, 121, 129, 151 Mack, B., 51 Madness, 6, 13, 20 Magnes, L. J., 27 Malachi, 41 Malbon, E., 79, 140 Malpas, J., 74

309

Manilius, 84 Maps, 94–95, 105 Marcion, 42, 142 Marcus, J., 54, 103, 114, 116, 140, 164 Marcuse, H., 6–7, 13 Mark, Gospel of, 1–16, 21, 23, 26, 39, 203, passim; authorship, 40–41; beginning as departure, 38, 53, 55, 57; burial piety, 45, 149, 159–60, 170; consolation, 26, 50, 53, 60, 79, 133, 144, 160–62; date, 41–43, 51; ending, 27, 45; existential dimensions, 71; feeding scenes, 163; geographic uncertainties, 135; Gerasene episode, 35, 134–56, 186; Gospel of Loss, 29; Incipit, 55; interior of Judaism, 38–39; Jewishness, of, 66, 149, 186, 191–92, 203; Jonah pattern in, 122–28; logic of departure, 34, 44–45, 50–51, 62; materiality of the text, 57; mythic Geographies, 32, 78–80, 85, 137, 138; mythopoesis, as, 11, 15–17, 51–54, 96, 101, 108, 116, 127, 168; narrative structure, 78; Old Latin version, 40–41, 45; Peter’s Interpreter, 40–41; place, study of, 74; provenance, 41, 50, 62; public reading of, 57; relationship with Judaism, 34, 66–68; relationship with Paul, 62–63; sea calming, 34, 114, 117, 120–22, 126, 133; sea scenes, 9, 14–16, 30–32, 71, 74–81, 96–102, 185, 189, 203; silence, 133; textual history, 74, 135; theoria of desire, 50; therapy of desire, 63, 136, 185; traumatized text, 28, 43, 49, 79, 136, 140, 149, 192, 203; unfinished form, 28, 32, 35, 39, 44, 50, 162, 189; walking on ­water scene, 35, 157–82; ­women, 135, 146, 159 Markan assembly, 26–29, 41, 59, 61, 110, 122, 143, 164; descendants of Odysseus, 14–16; marked wound, 22; traumatized, 2, 135, 158, 160, 187 Martin, D. B., 11–12 Marx, K./Marxism, 17, 19, 21 Marxsen, W., 80 Marseille, 154 Matthew, Gospel of, 38–39, 42–47, 62 78, 121, 129, 151, 180–82 McGilchrist, I., 32–33 McGown, C. C., 78 Medea, 88, 91 Mediterranean Sea, 81, 85, 96, 105 Meissner, W. W., 18 Melville, H., 1, 2, 4, 7, 14, 70, 107, 128

310 Index Memory, 23–25, 30, 39, 49, 158, 176 Menahem, 42 Merleau-­Ponty, M., 73 Messalla Corvinus, 92 Michie, P., 79 Migdal, naval b­ attle, 98–99 Milner, M., 18 Minos, 181 Minowitz., P., 11 Miracle, 13 Mistry, R., 103 Mitchell, M., 62–63 Modernity, 15–16 Montaigne, M., 197 Moses, 63, 97, 100–101, 163, 171–72 Moxnes, H., 79 Multitude/crowd, 9–10, 100, 111, 121, 134, 163, 178 Murakami, H., 157 Musil, R., 203 Myles, R. J., 14 Mysticism, 18, 30 Myth, 34, 51, 52, 61; apparatus of imperium, 57; creation, 58; definition, 52–53; Greco-­Roman, 137; history, relationship to 51; mythic geographies, 7–9, 13, 75; mythopoesis, 13, 22, 52–53, 61–66, 83; narratives of space and time, 65; sea myths, 13; thermal protection ix–­x, 61, 70 Nancy, J.–­L ., 7, 10–13, 16, 21–22, 33, 188–89, 192, 202 Narrative, 16, 25–26, 30, 51, 52 Nazarenes, Gospel of, 61 Negri, A., 9–10 Nicolet, C., 82, 93–94 Nietz­sche, F., 8, 37, 63, 72, 190 Nightingale, A., 50 Nihilism, 10, 191–93 Nothing, 1–13, 21, 28, 54, 117, 180, 186–92, 198, 203; geographies of, 70–71 Novel, 16, 61 Oceanic feeling, 17–18 Odes of Solomon (Syrian), 137 Odysseus, 44, 80, 85, 89–91, 117, 120, 128, 203; descendants of, 14–16 Oe, K., 70 Ōkeanos, 83–84, 92, 120 Ophioneus, 119 Origen, 41, 68

Origin, 37–38, 58, 152, 189 Orpheus, 115 Ostia, 105 Ovid, 92 Oxyrhynchus, 42 Palestine, 80 Pain of becoming, 11–15, 23, 26, 29, 32–35 Papias, 40, 42, 62 Pascal, B., 4, 7, 71, 183, 186–88, 192, 202 Paul, 40, 45, 51, 62–63, 137 Paul and Thecla, 52 Pax Romana, 88, 92–94 Perseus, 89–90, 181 Pesch, R., 80 Peter, 21, 126, 134, 171; denials, 46, 150, 160, 176; departure/death, 34, 40–41, 45–46, 51; fleeing, 48; interpreted by “Mark,” 40–41, 62; leap into the sea, 180–82; Petrine memory, 63; witness to Mark’s Gospel, 44, 62 Peter, Gospel of, 39, 44, 48, 61, 137 Pharmakos, 147–53 Philip, 80 Philo, 112, 171, 177 Philostratus, Flavius, 84 Phoenician lie, 87 Phoenician myth, 137 Physics, 2, 187 Pillars of Hercules, 84 Pindar, 76, 87, 89, 181 Pirate, 91–92, 102, 232 n. 275 Plato, 50, 86–87, 112, 171, 177 Pliny the Elder, 73, 77, 84, 88, 92, 95 Plutarch, 119 Politics, 4–13, 20–22, 31–33; po­liti­cal agency, 14, 22, 29, 60, 143–45; po­liti­cal readings, 31, 55–61, 116–17, 143–45, 162, 187 Polybius, 94 Pompey, 91–93, 105 Pomponius Mela, 73, 92 Porphyry, 115 Poseidon, 75, 115, 138, 140, 164–67, 181 Possession, 110, 143, 150, 154 Posttraumatic stress disorder, 67 Praetores, 91 Pre-­Pauline Kergyma, 62–63 Presence, 3–5, 24 Priene inscription, 55 Principate/princeps, 55, 88, 93, 94 Proust, M., 32–34, 63, 157–58, 201

Index Ptolemy of Alexander, 73, 95 Pythagoras, 115, 164 Pytheas of Massilia, 83 Quintus Curtius, 87 Rabbinic midrash, 97, 119 Racine, J., 186, 203 Rahner, H., 118–19 Raphael, 113 Rationality, 6, 12–13 Realm of the dead, 34–35, 75, 81, 118, 121, 136–38, 145, 147 Reardon, B. P., 61 Recurrence, 1–2, 16, 25, 102–8, 129–36, 140–42, 176–80, 186–91 Religious leaders, 59, 102–3, 111–14, 129, 159–60, 169–70, 174 Renan, E., 64 Repetition, 24–26, 28, 136, 168 Repre­sen­ta­tion, 22–25, 32, 34–35, 43, 49, 83 Res Gestae, 94 Resurrection, 16, 46 Rhoads, D., 79 Rhodes, 91 Riches, J., 78–79 Ricoeur, P., 53 Rolland, R., 17–18 Rome, 8, 78, 94, 95; calendar as Roman rule, 55; repre­sen­ta­tion of rule, 92–96; Roman coins, 83; Roman expanse, 91; Roman imperial discourse, 54–55, 60, 84; Roman maritime power, 88; Roman spatiality, 79, 93; Roman temporality, 60; Roman tenth legion, 143 Romm, J., 72, 82–84, 89 Rūmī (Jalāl ad-­Din Muhammad Rūmī), 28, 36 Sacrifice, 35, 147–53; gift cycle, 152–53; trauma of rejection, 152–54 Said, E., 36 Sailors, 64, 76, 115, 120–28 Samothrace deities, 115 Santner, E., 39 Sartre, J.–­P., 31, 198 Satan, 102–3, 113, 140, 182–84 Scapegoat, 35, 147–53 Scheria, 128 Schildgen, B. D., 135 Schneider, S., 18

311

Schwarzschild, S., 63 Scream, truth of, 49, 70 Scylla and Charybdis, 128–29 Sea, 1, 2, 7, 11, 14–15, 19, 48; Babylonian imaginary, 85; crossings, general, 9–10, 84, 87–88, 134–136, 197; crossings to disrupt rule, 92; crossings to establish rule, 89–90; defeat of, 86; demonic and Monsters, 52, 71, 76, 84–85, 91, 102, 106, 116–19, 122, 127, 133, 138, 142, 156, 167; geo­g raph­i­cal challenge, 75, 83–85; Hittite imaginary, 85; infinite, as, 64; Jewish imaginary, 85, 96–97, 105, 164–65; leaps into, 126, 180–82; liminal existence, as, 120; multiple repre­sen­ta­tions, 85; networks, 85; originator of life, 118–19; place of desolation, 69; prison for chaos, 163; rescues at sea, 115; space of revelation, 77; social space, 53, 168; storms, 120, 122, 128; Ugaritic imaginary, 85; unfinished space, 71, 75–77, 106, 117, 181; voyages, 75–77, 79; where gods live, 64 Sebald, W. G., 70 Sea of Reeds, 85, 101 Self/subjectivity/identity, 8–9, 13–14, 18–19, 21, 26, 31, 37, 90; product of disruption, 28; shattered by trauma, 160 Self-­states, 142 Seneca, 83, 88–89, 91, 119 Seneca the Elder, 84, 87 Sentiment, 17, 43–44, 49, 53, 61, 186, 189, 191, 199, 203 Sepphoris, 98 Serapion, Gospel of, 61 Seward, Dr Q., 133, 156, 204 Sevilla-­Buitrago, A., 8 Sextus Pompeius, 105 Scheherazade and Shahryar, 53 Schmitt, C., 13–15, 77–83, 88, 93–95, 179 Scipio Africanus, 92 Scylax, 73 Shakespeare, W., 24, 26; Arthur, 24–25; Constance, 24–25; King Philip, 25, 28; The Life and Death of King John, 24–25 Ship/boat, 16, 34; B ­ attle of Migdal, 98–99; church symbolism, 118–20, 241 n. 91; disciples’ boat, 1, 121, 126–28, 134–35, 145, 167, 175–79, 182, 185; Egyptian imaginary, 118; ­enemy ships, 119, 169; fate of the world, 118; Greek imaginary, 118, 165; isolated place, 167, 169, 171, 177–78, 180;

312 Index Ship/boat (continued ) Jason and the Argo, 88; Jesus sleeping, 108; Jewish imaginary, 118, 120, 169; Jonah, 123; leaps from, 180–82; Markan assembly, 1, 117, 127, 175, 177, 203; Mesopotamian imaginary, 118; Odysseus, 91, 128; other boats, 121–22, 134; protective gods, 115; Roman imaginary, 118, 165; scapegoats sent off, 148; ship of ­f athers, 126; ship of state, 119, 127, 177; ship of teacher, 100, 103, 126, 135; shipwreck, 120, 197; social body, 1, 35, 105, 118–20, 173, 177–79; soul symbolism, 118, 177; storm, 158; travel, 34, 101, 104, 136, 138, 170, 184; tribulation, 120, 122, 180 Sidon, 100–101 Silence, 129, 132–34 Simmel, G., 198 Simon bar Gioras, 42 Sirens, 129 Skeat, T. C., 39 Sleep/awaking, 122–25, 201 Sloterdijk, P., 8, 157 Smith, J. Z., 102, 142, 144, 177 Social abeyance, 1, 33, 110–13, 147, 154, 185 Social body, 34–47, 64–68, 89–92, 143–45, 158–61, 175–82, 186–87 Social bonds, 24 Social decimation, 14, 22, 34 Social exposure, 4–17, 29–33, 64–65, 71–74, 110–12, 142–44, 160–61, 192–93 Social wounds, 26, 43, 53–54, 74, 159 Somatic insecurity, 34, 44, 49, 104, 149, 158–63, 177, 185 Sorrow, 26 Sotas, 42 Sovereignty, 6–13, 33–34, 49, 74–75, 81–83, 124; contradictions of, 99; mea­sure­ment, 34, 90; periodization, 37, 58; symbolized by land and sea, 104–5 Space, 2–3, 17, 24–25, 37, 74, 79, 158; administrative space, 94 Spatial awareness, 24 Spatial turn, 96 Spirit, 110, 112–13 Steiner, D., 148 Steiner, G., 190 Stewart, E. C., 78–79 Stoker, B., 132–33, 156 Stolorow, R. D., 141

Strabo of Amasia, 72, 87, 92, 95–96 Straits of Gibraltar, 80, 87, 136 Strauss, D. F., 51 Strelan, R., 116 Sublime, 69, 76 Swedberg, R., 50 Swine, 136, 138, 143, 145, 151 Symbolic revolution, ix Synoptic Gospels, 23, 44; scholarship on sea, 77; sea scenes, 32–33, 96 Synoptic Prob­lem, 48 Syria, 143 Tacitus, 84, 87 Talmud, 97, 119 Taricheae, fall of, 98 Tarpeian rock, 154 Taubes, J., 63 Taussig, H., 27–28, 143 Taylor, C., 69, 71, 105, 198, 199 ­Temple, destruction of, 15, 34, 39, 60, 67, 70, 105 Terence, 119 Testament of Solomon, 113 Textuality, logic of, 43 Theissen, G., 164 Theon, A., 51–52 Theseus, 89–90, 181 Thessaly, 90 Thomas, Acts of, 137 Thomas, Gospel of, 39, 44 Tiberias, 98 Time, 16–17, 22–25, 29, 37, 74, 158, 202; conceptions of, 55; of the Gospel, 53; mythic time, 135–37; redemptive-­ historical, 54 Tiresias, 85 Titus, 98–99 Tracy, D., 190–93 Tragic vision, 11, 32–35, 122, 129, 186, 189–94, 199 Trauma, x, 2–7, 10–31, 34–35, 46–47, 51, 99, 117, 129, 192; dialectic of, 43–44, 49, 54, 160–62, 176, 184; early developmental, 141; guilt, and, 35, 44, 104, 127, 136, 158, 161–62, 168, 176–77, 181, 186; lacerated real­ity, 26, 30–33; originary trauma, 34, 43–44, 48–50, 60, 63, 67, 70, 81, 102, 105, 133, 186, 192, 203; placing trauma, 160; resulting therapeutic needs, 67, 111; rupture of space, time, desire, 60, 66–67,

Index 70, 73, 103–4, 106, 113, 121, 135, 141–45, 159–60, 176, 182, 186–87, 191, 203 Trespass/going beyond, 35, 197 Typhon, 119 Tyre, 100–101, 165 Unclean, 110–13, 145 Unfinished, 2–4, 10–23, 186, 191 van der Kolk, B., 23–25 Verne, J., 116 Vespasian, 98–99 via Maris, 97 Vinzent, M., 42–43 Violent death, 22, 45–48, 67–70, 106, 110, 158–62, 186, 203 Virgil, 85, 89, 95, 119 Vitruvius, 94 Void, 30, 70; Horror vacui, 4, 13, 31, 82, 180 Vulnerability, 6, 14–15, 23, 29, 37, 64, 122, 144 Walcott, D., 69 Wallace, D. F., 183 ­Water: freshwater, 76, 85, 97; saltwater, 76

313

Way of the Lord, 45, 159 Weeks, R. P., 199 Weissenrieder, A., 45, 57 Wilczek, F., 2–3, 13, 187 Wilderness, 14, 64, 69, 71, 103, 106, 133, 169–70 Witness, 16, 22–23, 29, 43, 48–50; absent, 162; as traumatized, 44, 46–47, 60, 64, 117, 136, 150, 161 Winds, 16, 87, 108, 114–28, 163–67, 173–77, 181–84, 197 Wittgenstein, L., 59 Worlds beyond enclosure, 87–89, 92, 99 Wuthnow, R., 58 Yaeger, P., 31–32 Yarbro Collins, A., 44, 53, 112, 124, 135, 146, 175 Yoshiko Reed, A., 40 Young man/angel, 46–48, 146–47, 150 Zeus, 138, 181 Žižek, S., 12, 16, 26 Zohar, 97 Zones of intensity, 34, 43–50

Acknowl­edgments

This proj­ect originated several years ago while I was in Beirut and Safra, Lebanon—­courtesy of the hospitality of Dr. Dima Smaira and her brilliant ­family. The proj­ect followed me from ­there to five institutions and ten countries. I am happy to conclude this proj­ect ­after ­these long years where it all began: again in Lebanon on the shores of Safra—­a place with many deep wounds of memory. Once again, I am honored by the courtesy and hospitality of Dr. Smaira and her ­family. This book is for her. I must also name Janalyn Kidd, of the Small but Mighty design studio, who drew the arresting cover image. I am not sure which came first: the thought or the image. I happily acknowledge the generosity and kindness of the many friends and colleagues who arrived at vari­ous key moments in the life of this proj­ect to make it significantly better. The amount of learning they transmitted to me is inestimable. Sadly, all I can do ­here is list names and trust that t­ hose named ­will feel some semblance of the deep mea­sure of my gratitude. Omar and Mohammad Radah, Mohammad Khalid Altalli, Alex Shirazi, Doan Minh Dang, Hind Mara Lakhdar (et le Royal ligné de Lakhdars!), Joshua Jipp, Kevin Vanhoozer, May Young, Douglas Davies, Marika Rose, Joshua “don” Furnal, Bosco Bae, Sitna Quiroz, Crispin Fletcher Louis, Mahir Demir, Dennis R. Schmidt, Gerard Loughlin, Wendy A. North, Catrin Williams, Jane Heath, Matthew Larsen, Dale Martin, Yii-­Jan Lin, Bill Van Tuinen, Adela Yarbro Collins, Harry Attridge, Ana Ilievska, Linn Tonstad, William McMillian, Paul Park, Robert Wuthnow, David Miller (danke vielmals!), Anita S. Kline, Jenny Wiley Legath, Charlie Dates, Candi Cann, Ward Blanton, George Gonzalez, AnneMarie Luijendijk, Peter Brown, Peter Brooks, Michael Tilly, Elisabeth Bittner, Marietta Hämmerle, Ekaterina Matusova, Jim Aitken, Alexandra Richter, Rupert Dörflinger, Taido Chino, James Carleton Paget, Frédéric Worms, Ray Brassier, Maurie Samuels, Henri Claude de Bettignies, Laszlo Zsolnai, Kevin Jackson, Christophe Chalamet,

316

Acknowl­edgments

Loren Stuckenbruck, Harry Maier, Katharina Waldner, Dan Bryan, SooJin Pate, Devin Singh (for saving this proj­ect from the abyss), the divine Terry Tempest Williams (for helping me understand what this proj­ect was about), and Michael New­house and Ryan Elofson for their assistance in a sequence of key sound experiments that altered the course of this proj­ect significantly. My deepest gratitude goes to the editors of the impressive Divinations series for accepting this proj­ect and, of course, to the very capable Jerry Singerman, Erica Ginsburg, and their editorial team. A final word of thanks to my beautiful parents.