I mentioned a few months ago that I’d read the Book of Revelation for the first time, and found it mostly off-putting. The other day I mentioned this difficulty to Telford, who said that the way he teaches the apocalyptic genre is that its closest modern analogy as an editorial cartoon. In September, in fact, he used a post-hurricane cartoon as an illustration in class. From his description, it must have been this one.

I can see why he chose that cartoon, because it conveys its message purely with image, unlike most other cartoons that label its characters or add captions to make sure you get the point. By doing so, it manages to convey two messages at once: that Bush is indifferent to the suffering of others, and that he’s oblivious to the danger to himself.

At the same time, of course, it is extremely contextual. The image of being underwater implied the flooding of New Orleans only at that moment in history; if I came across it even now, I wouldn’t know what it was about unless I saw the date. The image of Nero fiddling while Rome burned is more lasting, but still depends on a certain shared cultural knowledge. The idea is that Revelation commented on current events in a similar way, by using images that were outlandish and yet instantly recognizable to the people of the time.

All this suggests two things to me. One, that editorial cartooning, like fairy tales and rock music, is a modern form of “low” art that descended from much grander, even sacred, origins. I had never thought of it that way before, but it might say something about the current hysteria going on over a certain set of editorial cartoons. To say that they’re “just” cartoons is perhaps underestimating the impact of such absurd images. (On the other hand, the fact that Bush manages to be president despite being probably the most cartooned person on the planet suggests that this impact might be diluted by abundance.)

The other thing this makes me wonder, heretical though this may be to Protestants, is how much this makes Revelation worth studying today. What’s the point of reading the text yourself if you need an expert to explain practically every single image in it? If the Spirit was, in fact, speaking to people in such an extremely contextual fashion, I wonder how much it is even meant for us all these years later. And the underlying message of it all — God is in charge, he will overthrow evil empires and reward his followers — appears elsewhere in the Bible, often in more comprehensible form.

So have any of you out there studied Revelation? Is it worth getting some tour guide (Telford recommended Bauckham) to take you through it all, or is it one of those things that’s better read about than actually read, if you see what I mean?

(Updated to include the link to the article — d’oh!)

In my last post, I mentioned the problems with reading myth and symbolism in a simple “this equals that” formulation. As it happened, Hugo linked to an article on a completely different subject, Ephesians 5, that provided an illustration of what I mean:

Marriage is a mystery: The Bible says that husband and wife become “one flesh,” as head and body, in the likeness of Christ and the church. The husband is the head; the wife is the body. Together they project a spiritual image, a bizarre picture of a male-headed female body.

The language of “one flesh” and “head” is metaphorical, of course. And as Eugene Peterson wisely puts it, “A metaphor, instead of pinning down meaning, lets it loose. The metaphor does not so much define or label as it does expand.”

Now there’s a line for my permanent quotation arsenal. Sumner goes on to say that moderns tend to assume that this means the husband is the leader and decision-maker, but points out that nowhere in the Bible does it actually say that. She suggests, in fact, that this might be partly to blame for the high evangelical divorce rate: “It’s not very disturbing for a leader to break up with his assistant, or for two equal individuals to decide to go their own ways. But it is utterly disconcerting to imagine a bloody rupture between a body and its head.”

In a way this also illustrates the problem of reading metaphors across cultural divides. We live in a world of bureaucracy and job titles, so reading that passage as a simple “who does what” seems obvious. But another thing I always wonder about when I read that passage is how our assumptions about anatomy play into it. In the modern scientific era, we think of our bodies in a likewise bureaucratic fashion: each organ and appendage has its use, with the brain as the command center. But the premoderns viewed consciousness as more diffuse throughout the body. The way we colloquially use “heart” today — as the generator of emotions and instincts, the core of self — is a hangover from what our forbears believed the heart actually was. Therefore, to say the husband was the “head” would not imply the overwhelming dominance that it does now.

This shows, I think, that while myth and symbolism has timeless and universal elements, not all of them translate equally well across cultures. (Back in college I read an amusing essay on this point called Shakespeare in the Bush.) I suspect that Revelation is one of those whose chain of mental associations depended on a certain context, which is no doubt why moderns have such wildly different ways of reading it (I mean, even more than other parts of the Bible). I am aware of such interpretations, but I think I was hoping that when I read it it would “speak” to me somehow, sort of like the story of the Garden of Eden speaks to me in a mythic way. However, I suppose that, just as I had to rely on footnotes to explain all those nations, tribes and wars that Isaiah was talking about, some parts of the Bible just aren’t going to speak to me directly. And that’s just the way it goes.

I’d almost thought Kynn Bartlett had abandoned The Village Gate, but this weekend he not only returned but blogged Mark 7. I blogged the same chapter here, and for the most part couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

There are several classic stories packed into this chapter. First we have the Transfiguration, where Peter, James and John see Jesus transformed into dazzling white with Elijah and Moses. After Jesus goes back to normal, they have a puzzling conversation:

Then they asked him, ‘Why do the scribes say that Elijah must come first?’ He said to them, ‘Elijah is indeed coming first to restore all things. How then is it written about the Son of Man, that he is to go through many sufferings and be treated with contempt? But I tell you that Elijah has come, and they did to him whatever they pleased, as it is written about him.’

The study notes aren’t very helpful here, saying this is “lacking any clear biblical referent.” Earlier, they’d said that the return of Elijah was thought by some at the time to signal the end of an age, so perhaps this whole story signifies Elijah’s “coming” (though suspiciously few people actually saw him). But I really can’t figure out what “they did to him whatever they pleased” refers to. I’m not sure if “him” means Elijah or the Son of Man, and what point in time he’s talking about (what they did to Elijah in his first incarnation? what they’ve already done to Jesus? what they’re going to do to Jesus?).

But anyway. We move on to an unusually detailed exorcism story. A man’s son is having seizures of some sort, and the disciples have tried and failed to heal him. Jesus, somewhat atypically, asks how long the son’s been afflicted. Since childhood, he’s told, and it’s sometimes tried to kill him. The father says, “… if you are able to do anything, have pity on us.” Jesus answers that all things can be done for one who believes, and the father returns with the famous line, “I believe; help my unbelief!”

It’s one of those great lines because it seems contradictory, and yet it’s so true. There are a lot of points on the continuum between believing and not believing, and the story sends the message that Jesus is willing to help you out even if you haven’t fully arrived.

Jesus heals the boy, though it’s traumatic. At first the son is so weakened the bystanders think he’s dead. The disciples ask Jesus later why they couldn’t cast out the demon. He answers, “This kind can come out only through prayer.”

It’s a puzzling answer. It implies that there are categories of demons and this was a particularly tough one. But it’s also odd because there isn’t any sign in the story of Jesus or the boy praying; Jesus just commands the spirit to leave, as usual. I suppose if anybody was praying it was the father, but it seems like everybody who asks Jesus for help “prays” in that fashion. And anyway, I thought all the healings involved prayer of some sort, in calling on God’s help.

At any rate, Jesus foretells his death and resurrection again, and the group goes to a house to stay over. They have a very disjointed conversation that underlines the strung-together quality of the gospels, ranging from the disciples’ argument over who’s the greatest to the protection of children to the “if your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off” litany. In the middle, though, there’s an interesting and less well-known conversation where the disciples say somebody they don’t know was doing healings in Jesus’ name and they’d tried to stop him. Jesus answers:

Do not stop him; for no one who does a deed of power in my name will be able soon afterward to speak evil of me. Whoever is not against us is for us. For truly I tell you, whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because you bear the name of Christ will by no means lose the reward.

The second sentence is striking because it inverts the way I usually hear that sentiment: “You’re with us or you’re against us,” “If you’re not part of the solution you’re part of the problem”, etc. That seems to be the attitude the disciples are taking, in suspecting anyone who isn’t actively following Jesus as they are. But Jesus says no, anybody who’s not fighting us is OK, and even little actions on our behalf count. Like the “help my unbelief” story, it seems to respect those who are somewhere in between. It’s a different attitude than most revolutionaries take, and perhaps at the time Mark was written it was aimed at purists who were overly concerned with who’s “in” and who’s “out”. Certainly every church has those.

Tom answered my request for what meaning scholars have derived from all the numbers in Mark 8:

“By the five loaves are figured the Five Books of Moses, by the two fishes, the Psalms and Prophets.”
“Or the two fishes are the discourses of fishermen, that is, their Epistles and Gospel.”
Or “by the five thousand men are meant those who, living in the world, know how to make a good use of external things.”
Or “by the twelve baskets, the Apostles and the following Doctors are typified, externally indeed despised by men, but inwardly full of healthful food. For all know that carrying baskets is a part of the work of slaves.”
“Or, in the gathering of the twelve baskets full of fragments, is signified the time, when they shall sit on thrones, judging all who are left of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the twelve tribes of Israel, when the remnant of Israel shall be saved.”

Et cetera. I had noticed the numbers seven and twelve have mystical significance in the Bible, and thought there might be a connection, but I didn’t want to try to hazard what it was. Generally, stuff like this almost makes me sympathize with Zwingli. Almost.

I noticed in GG’s post on the middle part of Mark 8, commenter Pat remarks on a healing story in it that neither one of us addressed:

This account from Mark is another of my favorite healings in the Gospels. Jesus sighs at his disciples then effects another healing. That he had to lay hands on the man twice is a reminder that healing is usually a gradual process.

And, we do see only dimly, as through a dark glass — seeing “like trees walking.” Jesus will lay hands on us that final time and we shall see perfectly.

I hadn’t thought of that — it looked like yet another in a long line of healing stories. But it’s interesting to think of this in light of where it’s situated in the story. We just finished a story where nobody understands what Jesus is doing — the Pharisees demand a sign, and the disciples are totally confused about the bread. But after the healing story, we get a glimmer of light: Peter identifies Jesus as Messiah. He still can’t cope with the idea that Jesus will die, but like the blind man, he’s beginning, imperfectly, to see.

We begin with another loaves-and-fishes story. It’s similar to the one in Mark 6, but this time Jesus provides a bit of analysis:

Now the disciples had forgotten to bring any bread; and they had only one loaf with them in the boat. 15And he cautioned them, saying, ‘Watch out—beware of the yeast of the Pharisees and the yeast of Herod.’ 16They said to one another, ‘It is because we have no bread.’ 17And becoming aware of it, Jesus said to them, ‘Why are you talking about having no bread? Do you still not perceive or understand? Are your hearts hardened? 18Do you have eyes, and fail to see? Do you have ears, and fail to hear? And do you not remember? 19When I broke the five loaves for the five thousand, how many baskets full of broken pieces did you collect?’ They said to him, ‘Twelve.’ 20‘And the seven for the four thousand, how many baskets full of broken pieces did you collect?’ And they said to him, ‘Seven.’ 21Then he said to them, ‘Do you not yet understand?’

On the one hand, his rebuke seems straightforward: the disciples say they’re out of bread, but Jesus reminds them that they’re actually never out of bread, thanks to God’s abundance. Since Jesus was just talking about “the yeast of Pharisees and the yeast of Herod,” however, there’s a strong suggestion that he’s urging his followers toward a metaphorical interpretation. “Yeast” elsewhere in the Gospels refers to the growth of the Kingdom from small beginnings, and the warning about others’ yeasts suggests that evil can grow likewise.

Why is Jesus so specific about the numbers? The thing that sticks out to me about them is that in the second instance, Jesus fed a smaller crowd with more loaves, and yet there was less left over. This suggests that either five loaves ultimately yields more bread than seven, or that the second crowd was hungrier. The former fact seems in keeping with the whole “the smaller and humbler the beginning, the bigger it gets” theme that I’ve mentioned already. The latter may point out that Jesus’ crowds are getting smaller, as we go barrelling toward the night where even his apostles leave him, and yet their hunger for the bread of life is greater. This is, however, all in the category of “wild-ass guess,” so I’d be curious to know what scholars have made of this.

This sense of urgency grows at the end of the chapter, when Peter first suggests that Jesus is the Messiah, and Jesus starts talking about how he will be crucified. Peter rebukes him for saying this (in typical apostle fashion, he instantly squanders whatever points he gained for correctly identifying Jesus), leading Jesus to give his famous “what profit to gain the world and lose your soul” speech (actually rendered “lose their life” in this translation).

I also notice that twice in this chapter Jesus refers negatively to “this generation” — “this adulterous and sinful generation,” he calls them at one point. It seems to go with the temporal attitude of God that I mentioned in my last post; talking about “this generation” implies that other generations might be different. One can imagine this was another one of those lines that spoke to the frustrated evangelists in the early church, trying to preach against the seemingly insurmoutable pagan dominance of their age. They had to trust that, like yeast and mustard seeds, the Word would grow, if not in this generation then those to follow.

This is a very vexing chapter, if you’re trying to figure the relationship between Jesus and the God of the Old Testament. It defies both those who make the one to be a seamless fulfillment of the other, and those who try to completely separate them.

In the first story some Pharisees criticize Jesus and his followers for eating without ritually washing first. Jesus replies:

‘You have a fine way of rejecting the commandment of God in order to keep your tradition! For Moses said, “Honor your father and your mother”; and, “Whoever speaks evil of father or mother must surely die.” But you say that if anyone tells father or mother, “Whatever support you might have had from me is Corban” (that is, an offering to God)— then you no longer permit doing anything for a father or mother, thus making void the word of God through your tradition that you have handed on. And you do many things like this.’

Then he called the crowd again and said to them, ‘Listen to me, all of you, and understand: there is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile.’

The weird thing about this is that Jesus quotes Mosaic law to undermine Mosaic law. “Honor thy father and mother” is credited as the Word of God, but the food taboos of Leviticus are treated as mere human tradition. But in the Old Testament as we have it, at least, all that law appears as a lump, delivered by God from Mt. Sinai. Jesus seems to be implying, though he does not actually say so, that the true Word ends at the end of Exodus.

And then in the next story, Jesus is approached by a Gentile woman who wants him to exorcise a demon from her daughter. Jesus resists: “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.” The woman gives the rather humiliating response that even dogs get the crumbs once in a while, so Jesus tells her her daughter is cured.

This is a strong indication that Jesus comes from the Jewish God: Jews are literally higher up the food chain than Gentiles. How this coexists with such little respect for what was already enshrined in the Jewish Torah remains mysterious.

This does, at least, help me understand one little mystery: why Christians have for so long elevated the Ten Commandments above all the other laws of Moses. As I’ve said before, the Noachide laws were actually the only ones that are supposed to apply to the whole world, and the early church seemed to follow this lead in Acts 15. But in this passage, and more conspicuously in Matthew 19:16-20 and elsewhere, Jesus quotes the Decalogue approvingly as God’s word. For us “dogs” trying to figure out what the hell is going on here, it’s a place to start.