MetaCatholic

It seems to me that all too often, conservative and liberal share the same assumption in talking about the gospels. Early writings are held to carry a higher degree of historicity. Today Dan Wallace offered an initial post on the modern history of critical appraisal and dating of John. The idea that John was of little or no historical use certainly grew strongly in parallel with movements to date it late into the second century. Wallace relates how manuscript dating put paid to that, since we have a fragment of John earlier than the mid-second century, and possibly considerably earlier, as many readers will know. I don’t know where he will go with this idea, but there are hints that just as arguing for its lateness went hand in hand with doubting its historical value, so arguing for its early composition will strengthen its historical value.

In the same way Markan priority is often equated (perhaps subconsciously) with Markan historicity. Part of the mania for Q seem likewise concerned with constructing an earlier and more reliable (and more reliable because earlier?) source than the Synoptics. Likewise, and in face of some of the pained arguments, whether Thomas can be dated to the first century is a different question from whether it gets us any closer to the historical Jesus.

On the one hand the idea that early is more likely to carry historical memory is a reasonable starting assumption with which to explore the evidence, but it can’t overrule the character of the evidence: rather the evidence must be allowed to challenge the assumption. Luke, for example, makes an explicit claim that he has done detailed research and an implicit claim that he has found other earlier accounts (Matthew and Mark) unsatisfactory. The more we recognize Mark’s theological agenda, the less we can use the criterion of embarrassment to argue for the certain historicity of, say, the disciples’ thickness.

The fourth gospel is problematic – both assessing it in itself, and considering it in relationship to the synoptics, and in the face of such a complex work, its probable first century dating can say little enough about its historicity.

written by doug

I can’t specifically say when I first heard a reading from Eccelsiastes, but I do remember it sounding strikingly miserable for the Bible. I guess I might have been around nine or ten. I was not really aware of either the obsolescent meaning of vanity as emptiness, nor of the odd semitic construction of the superlative that passed into English via the KJV. What I do know is that I associated the phrase with Private Frazer from Dad’s Army. In my mind “Vanity of vanities: all is vanity!” segued effortlessly into “We’re all doomed, Captain Mainwaring, doomed I tell you.” Irrespective of the fine details of exegesis, that tone seems to match the rhetorical tradition of quoting Qoheleth, and shows how one’s own reading is a multi-layered and many-influenced thing. Some phrases just don’t seem the same in newer translations, and discovering the Bible’s very own miserable bugger made the wording all the more valued.

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The rather grammatically challenged (what’s wrong with the Vocative?) kratistos Theophilos blog says this about the apocrypha.

The Palestinian Jews rejected the Septuagint because it deviated from the Jewish text. It contained extra books such as the Old Testament Apocrypha which the Jews rejected.

That in the course of the second century Jewish and Christian canons diverged is not in question. But this kind of statement, which my own impressions suggest is far from unusual, begs a number of questions.

• We know the views of early rabbinic Judaism, which may or may not be the same as generic Palestinian Judaism.
• We know comparatively little of the Diaspora canon: though it seems reasonable to associate the Septuagint with Egyptian Judaism, we cannot be sure about the extent of the scripture collections used elsewhere.
• The extent we can speak of the Septuagint as some kind of unified collection of texts is unclear.
• The factors which influence the rabbinic decisions are also unclear, but would seem to be traditional, linguistic and about definition in elation to the Jesus movement.
• Palestinian Jews couldn’t reject an “Old Testament Apocrypha”, since they didn’t have an Old Testament (as opposed to a Bible) nor, therefore, an intertestamental period, and there was no early unified collection of books that could be identified as Apocrypha.
• Apocrypha in its modern sense is really a late term to identify the books that were in the generally accepted Christian canon, but not accepted as scripture by Judaism.

Too many discussions seem to presuppose the clearly defined existence of the Apocrypha in debates about the status of these books. While the books exist, and their canonicity is debated, the sense of them as a collection is a very late development. The whole point is that they are varied books, and what is being debated is whether they belong to the church’s collection.

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A few days ago I waded in on the discussion about the pericope adulterae (John 7:53 – 8:11), suggesting that long and continual lectionary use of this story was what gave it a place in the canon, irrespective of the question of original text. For some who interacted and commented this is clearly an odd position for me to take. In the most recent comment Mike asks me about the long ending to Mark.

The honest answer is that I have no idea, but I think it is for the same reasons: long lectionary usage. Does that mean we have to treat it as part of the gospel? I see no reason why we should. It is clear that the church has long read the passages as scripture. It is equally clear that they are not part of the original text. Why is that a problem? Is it because such a view poses too many problems for the priority of scripture over the church?

Update and Clarification: When I said “part of the gospel” I intended to mean “part of the particular gospel narrative in which they have long been found” – a literary judgement, not a theological one.

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… any better than anyone else. (And worse than liberal catholics!)

I’m not sure how I missed news of this news conference, but I don’t recall seeing it discussed. Apologies if I’m going over old ground. This is the most interesting summary:

Fundamentalists, or those who take a literal view of Scripture, do not know more about the Bible than anyone else. In fact, researchers said, it’s readers whose attitudes they described as “critical,” meaning that they see the Bible as the word of God but in need of interpretation, who are over-represented at the highest levels of Biblical literacy. In other words, fundamentalists actually score lower on basic Biblical awareness.

But this observation runs it a close second:

There is no apparent correlation between reading the Bible and any particular political orientation. In other words, it’s not the case that the more someone reads the Bible, the more likely they are to be a political conservative or liberal.

I’d love to see the questions that were actually asked and the methodology employed. If true, however, it may suggest very controversially that not only does “believing the Bible” function as a shibboleth rather than anything else, but that the scriptures may exercise very little power over the biblically literate and illiterate alike. If Bible reading and knowledge has no correlation with political affiliation, that would seem to be suggested.

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Kevin Sam posts with some questions on the pericope adulterae (John 7:53-8:11)and Tim Ricchuiti offers a firm opinion.

While I fully agree on its lack of authenticity as a part of the fourth gospel, I entirely disagree with Tim (and note some evidence of early retellings of this story) on its canonicity, since as far as I’m concerned there is ample evidence of the church having read it as scripture for a very long time. Then again, I’m all for fuzzy edges to the Bible. (Not for nothing are the top two Google hits on fuzzy-edged bible from this blog.)  However, that’s not the point of this post.

No, what I find baffling is the obsession with “originality”. Let’s work with the reasonably common article of faith that our texts of the Old and New Testament are inspired, without enquiring too precisely into the nature of inspiration, or the precise texts to be included in the term “Old Testament”. It must be noted that the ways in which some of those texts use other of those texts pay very little attention to whether it is original. Rather, out of the available options, the most convenient or appropriate text is chosen. Paul, whom we may safely judge to know the texts in both their Hebrew and Greek version, is a serial offender.

The inspired use of texts is thus uncaring of original form. The scriptures that inform, shape and guide our faith rewrite and use rewritten versions and translations of earlier scriptures. Where then, especially among those who are most concerned to put the Bible first, does this insistence on the original text (even assuming we know what it is) as the only inspired text come from?

Come to think of it, when we are discussing the canonicity of a text that has, actually, inspired people, challenged and changed them and been a vehicle for God’s speaking to them words of both forgiveness and rebuke … what do we think “inspired” means when we talking about texts anyway. If (according to one inspired text, which is a heavily revised version of an earlier inspired text ) God could deliver a prophecy to Josiah through Pharaoh Neco (2 Chronicles 35:21) how bothered is he likely to be about which texts he can and can’t use.

written by doug

Nathan Stitt points to a book that also comes as a free PDF and e-book. It’s on that hardy old perennial of the identity of the author of the fourth gospel. I’m never quite sure why that should excite more interest than the identity of the authors of any of the other three. Nor do I think it makes much difference if any to the significant questions of interpretation. But since Nathan described this book as making the case for Lazarus as “the beloved disciple” and the author of the gospel, I thought it would be worth a quick look (and a quick look is all I have given it). I’m afraid I find myself completely disagreeing with Nathan over the value of this book.

I should begin by coming clean about my own views. While I think John 21:24 identifies the beloved disciple as the key tradent for the gospel’s traditions, I think that is some step away from claiming him to be the author. I should also say that I regard the appellation “beloved disciple” as an implicit polemical claim to the superiority of the Johannine version of Christianity, especially vis-à-vis James and the Jerusalem church. (See here and here for a couple of previous posts that touch on this conjectural sectarianism.) I do not regard the term as part of a straightforward historical puzzle, so I’m not part of the natural audience for this book.

I must confess also, that without Nathan’s post, I would have written this book off if I had simply stumbled across it. Lots of underlining, shouty bold type, copious quotes from the KJV and the note that “References to the Greek text are from the Interlinear Greek-English New Testament, © 1981 by Baker Book House”: these things all conspire to prejudice me.

The problem is, the book’s arguments rather confirm all my prejudices. A large part of the book is devoted to arguments why the apostle John couldn’t have written the gospel. These include such gems as saying that if he had done, he would have included incidents like the transfiguration to which he was an eyewitness. Since John’s gospel noticeably omits the transfiguration, it can’t have been written by one who was there. This is not the world’s most impressive argument.

Mr Phillips (our author) also seems to be in two minds:

As stated earlier, the writer of this Gospel always described himself with phrases that avoided directly disclosing his identity. When one takes note of this, then mere dogmatic assertions regarding this author’s identity are likely to seem less convincing than they might have otherwise – since his identity is the very thing that God saw fit to have him conceal. (p7 pdf version)

He has a view of inspiration that makes him believe that the author concealed his identity as a matter of divine prompting. It leads me to wonder why, if God wanted the author’s identity concealed, Phillips is trying so hard to reveal it. The logic escapes me.

For a book which makes much of appealing to the Bible alone, it is surprising that the disciple whom Jesus loved is with no argument identified as the anonymous other disciple of John 18:15-16. It’s by no means an unreasonable or unusual conjecture (and I’m inclined to agree with it), but it’s far from certain fact. The beloved disciple is anonymous. The disciple with Peter is anonymous. Therefore they are the same person. The logic doesn’t quite work. You know you’re facing a dodgy argument when completely specious appeal is made to the Greek cribbed from an interlinear: ” The literal Greek says: “the other disciple” (Jn. 18:15) and “the disciple other” (Jn.18:16).” Yeah, that really proves the identification.

This is worth noting, since the author tries to build on it. His later argument (pp17-18) seems to have three elements:

• The other gospels never mention a particular disciple whom Jesus loves
• The other gospels specifically don’t mention him when we know he was present, like at Peter’s denial.
• The other gospels do mention John the son of Zebedee.

From these elements Phillips concludes that this somehow proves John is not the beloved disciple, and therefore not the author of the gospel. It is hard to take such fallacious reasoning seriously: it conflates the phrases “the other disciple” and  “the one whom Jesus loved” into a discrete identity, and assumes that this person can’t be someone referred to in another way in the Synoptics. Similar and equally fallacious arguments follow. They are predicated on a jigsaw-puzzle approach to the gospels, which assumes that we are dealing with identical literary material, describing exactly the same events, with the same intent, and that what we need to do is put them together. This, in my view, completely misses the point.

The idea that the gospels are a jigsaw puzzle to be pieced together continues even more bizarrely with arguments about the Last Supper which totally ignore the significant differences between the Synoptic and Johannine narratives. So he takes Mark 14:18-20: “And when they had taken their places and were eating, Jesus said, “Truly I tell you, one of you will betray me, one who is eating with me.”  They began to be distressed and to say to him one after another, “Surely, not I?”  He said to them, “It is one of the twelve, one who is dipping bread into the bowl with me.” He comments that the phrase “one of the twelve” must imply others present, because when Jesus addresses them directly in John 6:70, he says “you, the twelve”. This not only ignores the parallels in Mark between “one of you will betray me, one who is eating with me” and “one of the twelve, one who is dipping bread into the bowl with me” but also ignores the way that Matthew edits this linguistic awkwardness out. (Luke does something else again.)

While it is historically likely that others, such as the women who travelled with Jesus, were present at the Last Supper, the gospel accounts imply a meal only with the twelve. While the fourth gospel’s narrative is different yet again, the foot-washing narrative does appear to make most narrative and dramatic sense if only the twelve are present. Phillips’ desire to smuggle others in, of course, is that it is essential to his argument that Lazarus is the beloved disciple. If the Last Supper is limited to the twelve, then Lazarus can’t possibly be he.

His next argument shows the danger of the person who thinks “the Bible alone” obviates the need for scholarship. The KJV is alone among English translations in taking John 13:2 καὶ δείπνου γινομένου as “And supper being ended”. This suits Phillips’ argument, for it allows him to reconcile the eucharistic picture of the synoptic tradition with the non-eucharistic picture of the fourth gospel, and keep putting that jigsaw together. But unfortunately he reveals his ignorance:

[Various Bible versions translate this verse differently because of conflicting interpretations of the Greek word tenses involved. However, the study of things like word tenses can often end up with us having to choose between the opposing opinions of Greek scholars. So instead, let’s look again to the Bible to learn what it can teach us.] (p 25)

We don’t have to choose between different interpretations of the Greek “word tenses”, because we can always just read the Bible! (And Jesus said unto them: you have heard it was said in the aorist, but I speak unto you in the present.) “Ended” does strike me as the least likely interpretation. Most translations settle for “during supper” or something similar. I would be more inclined to take it along the lines of “When it was supper time…”. It seems to me, again, that the foot-washing makes most sense as an action that precedes eating. (John 13:4 poses a hint of a problem for this, but need not be taken to imply a meal already in progress.)

The argument continues in like vein. And there are some right doozies in there, like the argument that Lazarus as the fourth evangelist paid particular attention to the linen cloths that had wrapped Jesus’ body, because he remembered what it was like to wake up wearing your burial shroud! Buried in this inanity are the two reasonable arguments for identifying Lazarus and the beloved disciple.

1. Lazarus is particularly introduced through the phrasing of Mary and Martha’s message (John 11:3): “κύριε, ἴδε ὃν φιλεῖς ἀσθενεῖ – Lord, he whom you love is ill”. How significant this is will depend in part on whether you think φιλέω and αγαπάω are synonymous. It is always the latter verb in references to the disciple whom Jesus loved. John 11:5 is yet another argument for thinking the only difference is stylistic: “ἠγάπα δὲ ὁ Ἰησοῦς τὴν Μάρθαν καὶ τὴν ἀδελφὴν αὐτῆς καὶ τὸν Λάζαρον.” (cf also John 11:36)
2. References to the disciple whom Jesus loved only begin to occur after the raising of Lazarus has introduced the character precisely as someone whom Jesus loves. This does seem to me to disregard the paucity of references: John 13:23, John 19:26, John 20:2, John 21:7,20. There simply aren’t enough references, either to the character, or to specific disciples to say whether the character is only introduced half-way through, though it offers support to the argument from how Lazarus is introduced.

For me, unfortunately, Phillips has so many daft arguments that stronger ones take on the overall inanity of the rest. There is half a case to be made that Lazarus is the beloved disciple within the narrative of the gospel. But when it is presented by so many specious arguments, it is hard to take seriously. It is important, thought, to bracket this from any question of authorship. Luke’s account of Martha and Mary (Luke 10:38-42) calls the historicity of Lazarus into question, as does the way in which his resuscitation becomes in the fourth gospel the motivation for the crucifixion, and makes him also a target for execution (John 12:10). When one moves beyond identifying Lazarus with the beloved disciple to identifying him as the fourth evangelist, that becomes a serious question mark.

It is hard, in short,  to see that the argument is strong enough to overturn the early tradition that associates the fourth gospel with John the Apostle, even if this seems to be confused in the memory with John the elder. For Phillips, any argument from tradition is as suspect as one from the Greek. Catholic tradition and grammatical knowledge alike detract from sola scriptura. But it should not be so for the rest of us. It is possible that early church tradition relies as much on plausible deduction as we do, but it is not unreasonable to see some strength to this particular tradition. It is also hard to imagine that as unknown a figure as Lazarus should appear to be a rival for Peter in some circles, which seems to be the implication of the narrative.

I must conclude that the beloved disciple remains an enigmatic character in the fourth gospel, but seeing the appellation as the way in which the community of John the elder has characterised John son of Zebedee their founding apostle seems still to make the best sense of both tradition and narrative.

written by doug

Various blogs are noting the death of Krister Stendahl. There are comparatively few books that come to be seen as discipline-altering and influential decades after their publication. There are even fewer articles /lectures, but his “Paul and the Introspective Conscience of the West” is one of them – possibly the most significant. What would Pauline studies look like today if he’d never written it? How many other articles can you say that about?

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The blogabout boxing match on 1 Corinthians 9:27 continues. To the blogs referenced in yesterday’s post, you can now add (at least) David Ker now lingering in Better Bibles, ElShaddai Edwards, and that most perspicacious and pugnacious pugilist John Hobbins.

I repeat yesterday’s defensive block first. Despite everything everyone else is saying, I always called my rendition a paraphrase, not a translation. Take that into account.

Interestingly, David and John seem to take opposite sides on one key point. David thinks that

The reason this word [ὑπωπιάζω] gets used in such different contexts is that the word is a dead metaphor, or “semantically bleached” (I’ve always wanted to use that phrase on a blog). And further proof of this is that Paul collocates it with “body” which would really be strange: “I hit myself on the face my body.”

By contrast, John clearly wishes to translate it as a live metaphor, by a corresponding metaphor, though he doesn’t like the one of my original paraphrase. After toying with his son’s “bust my butt” he settles for “break my body”. The problem is that the former is as AmE as my “ponce” was BrE¹, and the latter, as far as I know, simply isn’t an English metaphor, nor does it seem to me vivid enough to become one.

Is it a live metaphor or a dead one? If we only had the use of it in Luke 18:5 we would, I think conclude that it was indeed pushing up the linguistic daisies, and nailed to the semantic perch. If we only had the use in 1 Cor 9:27, then I think, seeing it amidst all those other agonistic metaphors, we would think it was not so much pining for, but avidly looking forward to a frolic in the poetic fjords.² Even if it had become a dead metaphor, we would have to think there was at least the possibility of its metaphorical roots being raised from the dead by Pauline punning. So if we think, as I do, that in context it is probably impossible completely to ignore the metaphor implicit in its etymology, we may still want to argue for a far less precise English equivalent, since there are some grounds for thinking the metaphor is imbued by contextual and etymological pun rather than customary contemporary usage.

In which case we have now been give a wide range of metaphors to choose from in posts and comments. Of them, the one made so far that strikes me as the most common idiom is a variant on Peter Kirk’s suggestion in a comment. He suggested “I bust my gut” but I would say “I bust a gut” is more idiomatic. If one wishes for a less colourful yet still colloquial alternative, I would suggest “I push myself hard”: it loses the sense of bruising or breaking, but maintains the sense of hard competition, and given the argument above ought certainly to be an acceptable alternative metaphor.

Translating a metaphor remains a knotty problem. While I think it well worth the effort of finding equivalent metaphors that work naturally in the target language, I think there are also occasions when the original metaphor is so striking, we may legitimately translate it term for term. The English language has been immeasurably enriched by the willingness of Tyndale and the KJV among others to do just that.

1. for those not in the know, Am(erican) E(nglish) and Br(itish) E(nglish) [↩]
2. All references to Monty Python’s Dead Parrot Sketch [↩]

written by doug

The conversation about 1 Corinthians 9:27 seems to be growing. See TC, Nathan (and again) and my previous post. Now the pugilistic Peter Kirk has stepped into the ring, and I need to exchange a few punches with him. He’s aided by John Hobbins, who doesn’t like my suggestion, but has only said so in a comment on Peter’s blog and not here. I’m sure this is against the Marquess of Queensbury’s blog rules.

First a defensive block: please note that I offered what I did explicitly calling it a paraphrase, so critique it on those grounds and not, strictly speaking, a translation.

Now on to the meat of it. One of Peter’s key points is about principle. It is possible, he suggests to take my English metaphors literally. It seems to me that if that is a valid objection we had all better stop using metaphors, since most can be taken literally by someone. Six days of creation, anyone? Son of God? Peter claims that no-one could possible take Paul’s “I bruise my body / give myself a black eye” literally. I suggest that those who have indulged in corporeal self-mortification have done just that.

Peter’s own “literal translation” of this verse is: “I give my body a black eye and lead it in slavery”. The problem I have with this is twofold, and both objections are exegetical.

The controlling metaphor which overarches the whole section is one of competitive participation in the games. If this is what people are prepared to put up with to win a paltry prize, how much more discipline should Christians put into winning the refulgent rewards of righteousness! I simply fail to see how giving ὑπωπιάζω its simplest meaning easily fits that overarching metaphor. It is possible that Paul’s language is confused. It is also possible that he draws on its extended semantic field, which my paraphrase suggests. We need not stray very far. Hard training, particularly in practice bouts, could easily lead to “accidental” black eyes on the part of the one in training. We could stray a lot further. The importunate widow of Luke 18:5 is hardly in the business of giving the unjust judge a black eye. Personally, I think the training metaphor keeps us nearer the core usage, but we need to recognise that the word is used in a wider range of metaphorical contexts, with less precise meaning.

My second objection is in considering the straightforward sense of these verses if they are taken as “”I give my body a black eye and lead it in slavery”. If this is the case, Paul is characterising the body as an enemy to be fought against, and conquered. Certainly this dualist view of the body has regularly appeared both in the interpretation of Paul and in the Christian tradition more widely. I am unconvinced that it is an accurate interpretation of Paul, whose view of the body, while not remotely hedonistic, is more positive than the Platonism of σῶμα σῆμα (the body is a tomb). Again, it is possible that Paul is inconsistent, but when two interpretations are equally possible, I prefer the one that is most consistent with what Paul says elsewhere.

And I think I’m winning on points.

written by doug