Thursday 3 December 2020

The Secret of Mermaids


THE SECRET OF MERMAIDS

On the Mythology of Mermaids & Plato’s Atlantis

© R. Blackhirst

Introduction

The mythology of the mermaid (or of mermen or merpeople) is so widespread that we may safely describe it as well-nigh universal. Tales of a race of creatures, half human half fish, that live in oceans and waterways are found across the world and in a wide range of cultures, even among people of inland regions who have little commerce with the sea. But this mythology is in most cases residual and has lost its integral, symbolic coherence. It has become disconnected from wider and deeper symbolic understandings and it has thus slipped into the realm of folklore, while among modernized people it has become grotesquely sentimental and “saccharine” to use an appropriately industrial adjective. The most common remnant of the mythology in popular culture comes to us through the tale of Hans Christian Anderson called 'The Littlest Mermaid', a thoroughly debased rendering that, like all of Anderson's stories, is symbolically unintelligent and infantalized, or to use the exact term “puerile”. To Anderson, living in the 1830s, the language of myth had already become nothing but quaint nonsense from the infancy of mankind serving no higher purpose than the indulgence of children. Profound myths, communicating a great and primordial heritage of gnosis and sophia, had by this time been reduced to “fairy tales.” Arguably, no mythology suffered greater trivilization from Anderson than the mythology of the mermaid. Then, nineteenth century science also played a hand. Among the surreal delusions of Darwinism are theories of an “aquatic ape” of which mermaid myths are supposed to be distant memories preserved, it is said, by our ignorant forebears. The mermaid was posited as some form of “missing link” in the evolutionary continuum from amoeba to man. This, as much as the sentimentality of “fairy tales”, has made the mythology of mermaids incomprehensible to the modern person. The modest purpose of this current article, therefore, is to present the essential keys to an integral understanding of mermaids in order that readers can re-situate mermaid mythology within the greater mythology – and the primordial tradition - to which it belongs, to restore to the reader the pertinent clues to what this mythology is in fact about. Our starting point in this enterprise is Plato who, while he does not mention mermaids himself, nevertheless gives us - in his own mythological settings - the framework necessary for a proper understanding and who is, of extant traditional sources, one of the most accessible.


Atlantis

The cosmology of Plato is set out in an (apparently) unfinished ensemble of dialogues bearing the names of Timaeus and Critias. This ensemble is connected to Plato's famous Republic where Socrates provides a description of a communistic utopia, his Ideal State governed by Philosopher Kings. In the Timaeus/Critias Socrates tells his guests at their “feast of discourse” that he dearly wants to hear of how his Ideal State will conduct itself in practice, and it is in response to this request that both Timaeus and Critias deliver their respective speeches. In the case of Critias, he relates (over two installments and via accounts given by ancient Egyptian priests handed down through a chain of transmitters) the extraordinary story of how, many thousand years before, a antediluvian Athens, populated by the earth-born (autochthonous) children of the gods (specifically the gods Athene, Gea and Hephaestus) defeated an imperialistic power called 'Atlantis' which had once existed as a large continent beyond the Pillars of Herakles in the Atlantic Ocean. This great power had long since sunk into the watery depths, and only a distant memory of it remained. Nevertheless, the Egyptians had preserved details of the Atlanteans and had communicated them to Solon, the Athenian sage, who had at one time, we are told, intended to compose an epic poem on the theme which would have made him a greater poet, so Critias says, than even Homer.

There are some unmistakable resonances between this story of the Atlantean continent and Homer's sea-journey epic, the Odyssey, and it is clear from the narrative construction that Plato presents this unwritten poem of Solon as a type of counter-Homeric epic.  The mythological background to this narrative construction – and also the Ideal State of Socrates with its Philosopher Kings – is the Athenian cult of autochthony for which the Acropolis in Athens was centre. The setting for the Timaeus/Critias dialogues is the “festival of the goddess”, namely the Panathenaea, at which contests in epic poetry were held, and which celebrated the birth of the Athenians as autochthons, aboriginals, from the native soils of Attica.

Plato is our original literary source for the story of the lost continent of Atlantis, and we do not know from where Plato acquired it, but it is consonant with countless tales from a wide range of sources, many much older than Plato, that give similar accounts of a civilization that long ago sunk into the sea. Among people on both sides of the Atlantic, and among people from nowhere near the Atlantic, we find persistent tales of an ancient land that became submerged and whose inhabitants – once a highly advanced people – were lost in a watery cataclysm.

Accounts of an aquatic race (mermen) are, in the first instance, closely related to this wider mythology. Mermaids, in this context, are a remnant of a lost people from a lost land which, long before living memory, was swallowed up in an ancient catastrophe. The race of mermen are a survival from a previous age, just as, in Greek (and in Biblical) mythology, giants and other monsters are the residue of former times when the conditions of the world were different and when, for instance, the sons of god mated with the daughters of men. The scientistic mentality, conditioned by evolutionary theories, detects nothing in such stories other than some “race memory” of mankind's origins in a primeval aquatic soup, or else Jungians, conditioned by psychologistic reductions, will try to explain how the submerged continent is an image of our “collective unconscious” still populated by both neuroses and “archetypes” that occasionally float to the surface. Regardless of such theories, it is nevertheless plain that the mythology of mermaids (mermen) needs to be considered in relation to and as part of a larger mythological frame and specifically stories that tell of how some portion of humanity, long, long ago, became creatures of the sea. Plato gives us the classic version. Once, we are told, a whole civilization sunk into the ocean. Now we have tales of how remnants of its inhabitants survive as distortions of the human form.

Accordingly, in many mermaid stories, the merpeople have a fascination for land-dwelling humans and have a “nostalgia' for human company. They are not indifferent to human beings but regard them as a lost kin. Often, for example, mermaids are attracted to and fall in love with and desire marriage with human males but they “forget” that human males cannot live under water. It is as if mermaids still think of themselves as the same as us and fail to remember than the conditions of the world have changed. Tragically, as many sailor's stories relate, they innocently embrace their human lovers and drag them into the sea to drown. Often mermaids are depicted as yearning to be like human beings, or else as uncomprehending as to why their human cousins cannot, like them, live below the waves. One of the dangers of the mermaid, that is, is that she does not appreciate the differences that have come about between her race and the race of men. This is because mermaids have devolved from human beings. Once human, they have now adapted to – or been deformed by – their aquatic abode, and their interest in human beings who venture into their abode can thus be deadly.

King Alexander

Some of the more famous but opaque mermaid stories need to be understood in exactly this way and as part of this Atlantean mythology. This is the first key to an intelligent appreciation of mermaid myths. We must place these myths within the context of larger myths that concern a portion of humanity that diverged from the rest of the human race as a result of an ancient calamity. In fact, it is the narrative constructions in Plato, rather than in parallel accounts from other traditions, that most surely unlock what otherwise seem strange curiosities in the mermaid mythos. The clues are best preserved in Plato and can be extrapolated from an astute reading of the Platonic accounts. For example, in ancient maritime lore, continuing through almost to modern times, there are stories that when mermaids encountered ships they would ask the question, “Is King Alexander alive?” meaning, of course, Alexander the Great. In some versions of this story it is Alexander's own daughter, Thessalonike, who becomes a mermaid and asks this question of sailors. The correct answer to the mermaid's question is “He lives and reigns and conquers the world!” at which the mermaid would calm the seas and assist the ship on its way. But if a sailor was to give an incorrect answer to the question, the mermaid would be enraged, would stir a tempest and the ship and its sailors would be carried to their doom.

What is this story about? Why is it important to mermaids that King Alexander lives and reigns and conquers the world? Plato's 'Atlanticus' ensemble gives us the key. As we stated above, the story of Atlantis in Plato is linked to Socrates' account of the Ideal State and the rule of the Philosopher Kings. Like antediluvian Athens, Atlantis too was once an “Ideal State' in the Socratic manner, but it fell into decline and ruin and was finally punished by the gods. The important thing to realise here is that King Alexander, in this mermaid tale, is nothing other than the model of the Philosopher King. This is why ancient accounts of his life present him as a student of Aristotle (and so, by extension, a student of Plato) and why in many traditions – even in the Islamic tradition – he is revered as the the model of wise kingship, the paradigmatic philosopher ruler. So when the mermaid asks “Is King Alexander alive?” the question is really, “Does the rule of the philosopher kings prevail?” If the answer that is supplied is no, then the mermaids brings down upon the hapless sailors the fate that befell Atlantis when it finally lost all traces of the philosophical nature in her rulers and surrendered to degenerate governance. The destruction of Atlantis came about, Critias says, because the divine blood of the gods became too diluted in her inhabitants, and the precious quality of the soul that Plato calls the “philosophic nature” disappeared from her people. If “King Alexander” is no longer alive in the world of men then the fate of Atlantis will revisit them.

Arabian Nights

The connection with the Ideal State of Plato's Republic is plainer in other stories. Many elements from Plato's treatment of these matters find their way into later literature. Perhaps the plainest connection is found in a tale preserved in the Arabian Nights. The story is called “Abdul the Fisherman” or “Abdul the Merman” and is about a fisherman who attains the power of breathing under water. In the sub-aquatic realm he encounters a race of mermen who take him to their sunken city. This city, we learn, is not like the cities of the terrestrial world but is instead ruled by Platonic communism, the wise rulers sharing all their property in common. The tale – reconfigured in the imagination of the Arabian storytellers who received it through the Islamic appropriation of the Hellenic heritage – has a very obvious resemblance to Socrates' utopia, but now exists far beneath the ocean and is populated by the race of mermen. This is an Arabian version, a folk rendering, of the Atlantis myth and clearly shows that we are to understand mermaids as remnants of the Atlanteans and their underwater city as the lost city described by Plato in the two instalments of Critias. Here it is the motif of communism that persists in the tale, rather than the idea of the Philosopher King as in the case of the question about Alexander, but the source is the same. We can best understand this tale, like the tale of the mermaid's concern about Alexander, by reference to Plato. In both cases, there is a clear identification to be drawn: the race of mermaids are to be understood as having devolved from the Atlanteans and we are to understand mermaid mythology in the broader context of that mythic land which once sunk into the sea.

Details from Plato's Critias confirm and amplify this identification. In particular, and most obviously, the god from whom the Atlanteans were descended was Poseidon (Neptune), god of the sea. That is, the Atlanteans were – even before their land was submerged – children of the sea god, and thus too mermaids are always portrayed in subsequent tales. In iconography, the mermaid is very often shown with Poseidon, or Triton, who bears the trident, or sometimes, as in Scandinavian mythology, the mermaid herself wields the Neptunian trident. In popular representations such as the staggeringly inane Disney version of Anderson's “littlest mermaid” we find – sure enough – that the mermaid (here a precocious American teenager!)  lives in “Atlantis” with old Neptune as her “Dad”. The Platonic account is a richer point of reference. In the Odyssey Homer presents Poseidon and Athene as rivals. In his 'Atlanticus' ensemble – the epic poem that Solon would have written, and which would have been greater than Homer's poems if he had written it - Plato will not have this but instead presents the war between Athens and Atlantis as a result of mortal failings when the influence of the god's blood is so diminished that men lose the 'philosophic nature'. Plato insists that while men might quarrel, gods do not. Athens and Atlantis are a complimentary pair, just as Athene and Poseidon are complimentary (not rival) guardians of the Acropolis in Plato's Athens. And just as the first Athenians are autochthons, born from the Attic soil, and count Athene as their mother, so the Atlanteans are the progeny of Poseidon and are also autochthons, born from the soil and so are not born out of animal reproduction. The imprint of this is revealed in the mermaid morphology. The primordial autochthon of Athens, Erechtheus (sometimes Erechthonious) is usually depicted as half man, half serpent – a human upper body and a serpentine lower body. In the mermaid, of course, in a direct parallel, we find a human upper body and a piscatorial lower half. It is vital to appreciate that autochthons are usually shown as hybrid forms in this way. That is, to understand why mermaids have the form they do we must realise that they are autochthons. This is the second key to understanding this mythology. Mermaids are part of a wider mythology that concerns autochthons, the earthborn race of the primordial Golden Age. If we wish to understand mermaids we must understand them as autochthonous – the autochthons of Poseidon - and as part of the wider mythology of autochthony. The hybrid form, rather than signifying a muted recollection of man's kinship with animals as Darwinian interpreters would have it, signifies a hybridization of man and god from which animal reproduction is a falling away. Serpents and fish are used in these forms because both were regarded as reproducing asexually. These are not malformations. They signify the semi-divine state prior to the descent into crude animal existence.

Athene and Poseidon

As an Athenian Plato has a deep concern to show that Poseidon and Athene are not enemies. Their complimentary partnership is integral to the city of Athens and its institutions. At the Panathenaea a ship was draped with a large peplos for a sail and then taken (dragged) in procession through the streets of the city up to the Acropolis where the peplos was removed and used to cover the cult statue of the goddess in the Parthenon. This is a very odd custom because, for a start, Athens is an inland city and it is strange to find a ship central to her most solemn festive rites. But the Panathenaeic ship represents the cooperation of Poseidon and Athena, water and air deities respectively, and is emblematic of their dual guardianship of the city. The mermaid represents a conjunction of the same deities and is an extension of the same assembly of mythological ideas, mutatus mutandis. It is not an accident that the mermaid (rather than the merman) is the typical form. The female top half of the mermaid is a motif suggestive of the goddess Athene, while the fish tail of the lower half is a motif of Poseidon. There are no hermaphroditic elements in this and they would not be relevant: the conjunction is woman and fish, or the amphibious conjunction air-breathing form and water-breathing form. It is, in any case, an expression of the Athene/Poseidon mytho-type that, as we have said, is central to Plato's 'Atlanticus' construction. On a deeper level, Plato has reason to chide Homer for presenting these gods as rivals, for in Platonic metaphysics they are Essence and Substance respectively (or even metaphysics and cosmology, per se, the virgin goddess unsullied by manifestation and the earthshaking god of flux) and he wants to preserve their proper relationship against Homeric misconstructions. All of this symbolism is active in the practice of casting a mermaid as the figurehead of ships. Aside from the sailor's belief in “luck” the mermaid represents the harmony of air and water, the two elements vital to a ship, and by extension the vertical axis of the mast and the horizontal axis of the hull, the metaphysical axes Essence and Substance, compliments in a cruciform relationship illustrated by this most basic ship symbolism.

That the upper female half of the mermaid alludes back to the goddess Athene is made plain in some important instances of medieval heraldry where the mermaid takes on the otherwise unlikely role of defender of cities. There is no obvious sense in which mermaids are defenders of cities and indeed this aspect of their mythology is at odds with those elements in which mermaids are treacherous or harbingers of doom. In Greek myth generally, but especially in Athens, Athene is the goddess of defensive warfare and is represented bearing a shield. She is not an aggressive goddess, but no male god is her match. During the Trojan war it is to her that the Trojan women pray when their city is besieged. Sometimes, in heraldry, mermaids are shown in this way, and often for the defense of cities much further inland than Athens.  One of the most outstanding instances of this is the Polish city of Warsaw which, though hundreds of miles inland, has the mermaid as her emblem. In a symbolism dating back to at least the 1200s, both mermaids and the trident-bearing Neptune are presented as guardians of Warsaw. To this day, a mermaid holding sabre and shield (Mermaid as Athene, goddess of defense) is the official emblem of the city and representations of this heraldry are characteristic of insignia everywhere there. But how did this come about in a city so far from the sea? Land-bound Athens appropriated a port, the Piraeus, during her mercantile expansions, but it is decidedly odd to find a developed mermaid mythology in a city like Warsaw. The Warsaw mermaid is one of the most famous in the world, but the many and contradictory explanations of her history and significance and how she defends the city - as they are given to tourists - are unsatisfactory to say the least. Let us briefly explore this particularly interesting case as a way of illustrating how Platonic doctrine illuminates and clarifies this mythology and answers many riddles.

Time of the Autochthons

In passages dotted throughout his works Plato is concerned with the question of why the Golden Age must finally give way to the Silver Age, the Silver to the Bronze and the Bronze to the Iron. Why do cosmic conditions decline? Socrates is concerned with why his Ideal State – though ideal – will not endure. The background to the Atlantis mythology in Plato addresses this issue. His answer to this conundrum, found in several dialogues but especially in the Republic and the Timaeus/Critias ensemble, is that, at length, men fall into “unseasonable marriage” and the quality of souls declines as heaven and earth fall out of kilter. The “divine blood” grows thin in men's veins. The Egyptian priests who inform Solon that his people are “mere children” because they do not remember the true meaning of their own myths informs him that many stories known to the Greeks concerning cosmic decline and earthly catastrophes are really about the wavering declination of heavenly bodies and shifts in astronomical cycles. Sometimes elements of these doctrines appear in mermaid myths and help us account for what are otherwise curious details of symbolism and folklore. To make sense of these motifs it is once again doctrines extracted from Plato that provides the relevant background. Plato has in mind the calculations of the Great Year and the periodic destructions that divide its various ages. The earthborn are the golden souls, but as the cosmos unwinds inch by inch, the conditions of the world slowly decline until the dire conditions of the Ferric Age are arrested by a catalysm and, at length, the cycle begins again. The aurumic quality of souls – the philosophic nature – slowly diminishes over astronomical measures of time. The story of Atlantis appears, finally, as an elaborate allegory of cosmic decline whose real meaning is in astronomical calculations of the Great Year through the solar procession of the equinoxes. The only way to sustain the Ideal State is to perpetuate the qualities of the golden souls by “seasonable marriage” and births. This is the significance of the Panathenaea. The autochthons were born at this time. To be born at this time is to partake of this autochthonous quality. The noble born children of Athens born at this time were presented with a golden serpentine necklace to signify their autochthonous heritage.

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The Mermaid of Warsaw


The mermaid of Warsaw is part of a symbolic scheme that illustrates these astronomical cycles . It is very obvious in many of the representations of her that her sword and shield are, in fact, moon (in crescent) and sun. In this she represents the same astronomical point as did the Panathenaic festival in Athens, namely the first new moon after the summer solstice. The coat of arms of the city, in fact, is nothing other than a graphical, symbolic illustration of that astronomical configuration and the fact that that point is the “autochthony” point in the year. The Athenians, as we have just noted, by manipulation of their marriage festivals, calculated to have children born near this date, for in this they might perpetuate the “golden” quality of incarnating souls. In the crest of Warsaw we see the mermaid autochthon, her upper half representing Athene, defender of cities, and her lower half her Poseidonian nature, air and water. She recalls the man-serpent Erechtheus, autochthon of the Panathenaea, born at this time of the year. Her weapons are aspects of Athene too, but more importantly they are the full sun of the solstice (the round shield) and the crescent of the new moon (the curved sabre). What she defends, in this sense, is the 'aurumic' quality of souls against the dying of the age. There can be no better defence than protecting and prolongating the qualities of the golden age. There is no Panathenaea in Warsaw, of course, but there is a local festival with unmistakably Panathenaic elements. At the midsummer the young women (maidens) of Warsaw – Athene the Virgin - light candles and float them down the Vistula river recalling similar candle-lighting rites in ancient Athens and in the Egyptian rites that, according to Herodotus, were practiced in the equivalent cultus in Egypt.

Confirming this astronomical reading of the crest are important symbolical constructions elsewhere on the same river. At Gdansk we find lion gates, and further up river from Warsaw Kracow has a dragon as its emblem and insignia. The lion gates are surely solar in symbolism and the symbolism of dragons concerns the moon's nodal axis that “swallows” the sun in an eclipse. It appears then, that the river is, in all of these cases, analogous to the path of the sun and that a celestial, solar configuration has been imposed upon the river's landscape. Gdansk, at the river's mouth, is – symbolically – at the “gates of the sun” while Kracow is – symbolically – the lunar node, the place on the ecliptic where sun and moon cross paths. And Warsaw is – symbolically – the lunation of the summer solstice, or the summer solstice “corrected” to a soli-lunar symbolism. But if we admit this, then how did it come about? Who imposed such symbolisms upon the river's landscape and why? The answer to this is that a wealthy trade in amber had developed in which high quality amber was collected in the Baltic Sea, transported up the Visula River, then overland to join other rivers flowing southwards to Byzantium where the Byzantine Greeks paid handsomely for genuine northern amber. Amber, for our purposes, is interchangeable with gold in its symbolism, and is certainly solar in nature, and so when the amber trade developed along the Vistula it became the “golden river” - analogous to the path of the sun – and the places along this “golden river” acquired appropriately solar symbolisms of their own, symbolisms that travelled “downstream”, so to speak, from Greek Byzantium. This is the whole background to the mermaid of Warsaw. She is the autochthon – Athene protecting the city and the amber route – of the summer solstice (soli-lunar) where the Vistula is the golden path of the Sun. All of this is surprisingly consistent with the astronomical and calendrical background of Plato's cosmology, which cosmology the fable of Atlantis serves to illustrate.

In any case, the mermaid of Warsaw represents the graphic combination of the elements: air-breathing Athene, defender of cities, water-breathing Poseidon, crescent moon as sabre, solar disk as shield. It is also relevant to note here that the two elements water and air are the elements associated with birth, because, at birth, the human baby moves from its aquatic womb and, at its first breath, becomes a citizen of the air, and in Athens the Panathenaea is, as we said already, a birth festival commemorating the birth of the Athenian autochthons. Again, the whole image is a depiction of a particular point in the annual solar cycle, the first lunation after the summer solstice, the time of the Panathenaea in ancient Athens. We need to think of the Vistula as the path of the Sun. Warsaw is midway from source to mouth. It is the solstilial zone. It is given the iconography and mythos of the mermaid – even though it is so far inland – because the mermaid is an image of the autochthon, and in this case, in fact, an image of the autochthon along with visual codes indicating the time of the festival of the autochthons, the first crescent after the full sun.

Conclusion

There is, that is to say, a very complex and developed doctrine, a doctrine about the mysteries of autochthony,– at once astronomical, mathematical and mythopoeic – of which the 'Atlanticus' of Plato is but one part,  and in which expanded context the mermaid mythology that is our current subject needs to be seen in the end. The first key is to understand that mermaid mythology is connected to the Atlantis myths. This refers us to Plato and to the ensemble of cosmological dialogues that contain Plato's original and extensive account of the lost continent. The second key is to realise that mermaids are the autochthons of Atlantis – children of Poseidon - and are connected to a wider mythology concerning autochthony. This mythology is complex, but it is impossible to understand mermaids except in regards to the myths and iconography of autochthons. Their very form – upper human, lower fish – is characteristically autochthonous. The third key is to appreciate that the mysteries of autochthony are ultimately expressions of a vast cosmic context that makes mermaid mythology not only fascinating but also significant and profound. There are mythological perspectives that open up from the cultus of the ancient Acropolis, - the cultic pair, Athene and Poseidon – a mytho-cultus of air and water – all illuminated by the works of Plato, to which the mythology and symbolism of mermaids is intimately related. The purpose of this article, let us recall, is “to present the essential keys to an integral understanding of mermaids in order that readers can re-situate mermaid mythology within the greater mythology – and the primordial tradition - to which it belongs...” While bits and pieces of the integral understandings persist here and there – sometimes even in popular debasements – it need hardly be said that common ideas about mermaids today reduce them to a childish fantasy and nothing more, or else a “fringe science” spin-off from the modern evolution cult. Mermaids, in fact, are part of the Great Narrative, the story of the ages, of the golden souls and their decay over aeons, of the cycles of time and the cycles of the heavens, that Narrative of autochthony that Plato calls the 'Noble Lie' in the Republic. It is the Great Narrative of the four Ages that underpins such stories as the lost continent of Atlantis and a sub-aquatic race of autochtonoform mermen and deep sea civilizations of Socratically communistic city-states. The modern person needs a much broader frame of reference, and specifically this Platonic Narrative, in order to place mermaid mythology within what we might otherwise call the primordial tradition.

 



Thursday 26 November 2020

A Platonic Pedigree

In the programmatic statements at the beginning of Plato's Timaeus, there is an implied configuration of connections that has become canonical in the Platonic tradition. For a start, the Timaeus is set upon the festival of the Panathenea - visitors from Magna Grecia are in Athens for the "festival of the goddess". This is the same narrative device around which the dialogue called 'Parmenides' is framed and so we are surely supposed to see a connection between the two works. Thus in the Platonic tradition these two works were seen as complementary, one concerning cosmology and the other metaphysics. But, as Socrates speaks, we are also told that the day before he had given an account of the Ideal City and he gives a summary of the first part of the dialogue called the Republic - now he wants to see the ideal state in action - and so we are surely to see a connection with that work as well. The Republic, of course, is regarded as Plato's masterpiece, and is central among Plato's writings. In this configuration it is linked with the Timaeus and the Parmenides such that the Platonic tradition has often seen these three works as a set, and as the core of the Platonic corpus.

 
Accordingly, we can distinguish three great streams of Platonism, and Platonists (a very broad category) are usually of one of these three complexions. There are those whose primary focus is metaphysics (Parmenides), those whose focus is the political/sociological/psychological and ethical Plato of the Republic, and then there are those whose Platonism is essentially cosmological (Timaeus). Needless to say, these areas overlap, and we are schematizing, but there are nonetheless three main directions in which Platonic thought is developed. It is a useful model.





Of the three, the path of the Republic is by far the most common. That is, most Platonism is a development of the doctrines and teachings of the Republic, which is also to say it is Socratic. We can distinguish between three wider traditions that extend out from Plato's key works: the Socratic, the Eleatic and the Pythagorean. Socrates is the hero of the Republic, but the Parmenides is - in a sense - anti-Socratic (since Father Parmenides puts young Socrates in his place) and the Timaeus is - in a sense - non-Socratic (it is a long uninterrupted monologue by Timaeus of Locri in which Socrates plays no part.) Socrates is the key figure in Platonic ethics, but the Platonic metaphysical tradition leads to Parmenides and the Eleatics and the cosmological tradition leads to the Pythagoreans. (Yes, we might say that Socrates - at least Plato's Socrates - was a Parmenidean and a Pythagorean, but the distinctions are still meaningful.)


Platonists tend to diverge along these lines and then pursue the Platonic tradition in one of these directions. This is testimony to the sheer fecundity of Plato: not only was his forehead broad (Platon), but his philosophy is of such extraordinary breadth that it is the starting point of great highways of thought. Or to use a different metaphor Plato is the great progenitor of many remarkably rich intellectual pedigrees. 

For example, Socratic ethics lies at the root of the later and largely Roman Stoic tradition. We can map it thus:



 
The reputed founder of Stoicism, Zeno, is said to have been inspired by Socrates, and Stoicism is built upon and develops several central themes of Socratic asceticism. But more generally Stoicism is the fruit of the Socratic revolution - documented in the Platonic dialogues - that shifted the emphasis of ancient philosophy to ethical questions - Socrates' question was 'How should one live?' - as opposed to the cosmological preoccupations (the search for the arche) of the Presocratics. Those who pursue the Socratic ethical tradition are very likely to embrace Stoicism as its natural, practical extension. Alternatively, they are drawn to Christian ethics which are themselves deeply influenced by the Stoicism of Epictitus, underpinned by parallels between Socrates of Athens and Jesus of Nazareth as moral heroes. In any case, this is a road to Rome: either the secular ethics of the Latin Stoics or the ethical soteriology of Christianity.

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Many roads from Plato, however, are diverted through Aristotle. Indeed, the discovery of the works of Aristotle by the Romans so changed the philosophical landscape that much of the Platonic heritage was subsumed by Aristoteleanism and the Peripetatics, and from that time on it became standard to read Plato through Aristotle and to blend the two together in various forms. This - Plato subsumed by Aristotle - became the major philosophical tradition of Western civilization. It was taken up by the Roman Church. Eastern Orthodoxy remained more properly Platonic - which is to say non-Aristotelean -, but in the West Aristotelean Platonism prevailed.  The following map illustrates one of the most illustrious intellectual pedigrees in Western history. Many friends and colleagues of the present author have taken this path.


 

The intrusion of Aristotle also gives rise to that school of ancient thought that nineteenth century scholars dubbed 'Neoplatonism'. This was not merely a case of Plato Revisited as the prefix neo- suggests. Rather, this is a Platonism (via so-called 'Middle Platonism') that has absorbed - along with much else - Peripatetic thought. This was a particularly rich synthesis and was subsequently influential in the Christian and Islamic traditions as ancient philosophy gave way to the monotheisms. In general, the mystical Platonism of both the Christians and the Muslims was a development of (Aristotle-infused) Neoplatonic thought rather than directly from Plato himself. Thus:

 


The place of Aristotle in a man's Platonism is telling. For much of the Middle Ages Christians and Muslims were happy to conflate and confuse Plato and Aristotle, or else sought to reconcile them. Famously, in Raphael's School of Athens they are complementary. But there is always that mode of Platonism that resists Aristotelean revision. Aristotle is a major intersection, but not all roads from Plato go through it.
 
 
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A great many Platonists, especially those of the metaphysical bent (and we might say non-Aristotelean ones), have been inclined to align Plato not with the monotheisms but with the non-dualist Vedanta of India. In the modern era especially, an acute problem for Platonists of any stripe is to situate themselves within a living, functioning philosophical and spiritual tradition. Classical academic Platonism is an arid museum. Where can a living Platonism, as a living discipline, be found?

There are some profound parallels between Platonic thought and Advita Vedanta - the works of Shankara in particular - so many Platonists take the road to India. This has been a notable trend among the present author's contemporaries. His mentor, the Platonist Roger Sworder, in search of a jnana yoga, made himself the student of Swami Chinmayanada on this basis - orthodox Hindu Vedanta. Vedanta non-dualism and Platonic metaphysics are certainly compatible. Similarly, some readers of the Republic, more political and sociological than metaphysical, find parallels between the vocational order described in Plato's Ideal Polity and the traditional Hindu social system and attempt a Platonic-Hindu synthesis as well. Political Traditionalism often takes this form.



Not all roads lead to India, however. The Platonic cosmology leads naturally in a quite different direction and finds few resonances in Indian thought. The cosmological stream has roots that are signaled in the Timaeus itself. The dialogue is prefaced by an account of Solon's (supposed) journey to Egypt where he is schooled by the Egyptian High Priests who chide the Greeks for being mere children. There is an Egyptian Plato. Indeed, strong ancient traditions report that Plato spent time there during his years of exile following Socrates' execution. Elements of the Egyptian Plato are part of the Neoplatonic synthesis, but the full debt of Plato to the Egyptian tradition has only been explored in recent times such as in the pioneering studies of another colleague of the present author, the Lithuanian scholar Algis Uzdyvinas. This brings us to an altogether different intellectual landscape. The Timaeus, rather than the Republic or the Parmenides, becomes the pivotal text. There is a cosmological path, as distinct from the metaphysical or ethical.

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As it happens, this has been the path of the author of these pages, and he has been pursuing it - down many side alleys - since he was a teenager. This is a different Platonic journey, leading to neither India nor Rome. Instead, he has pursued a different road, following a different pedigree, across several cultures, with the Timaeus the central juncture and its connections to Egypt primary. The most important link is between the Platonic cosmology and alchemy. This followed from the author's doctoral dissertation which argued that the Platonic Demiurge is a philosophical reconfiguration of the blacksmith god, Hephaestus. The smith is the prototype of the alchemist. A cosmology in which the cosmos is crafted by a smith-deity is inherently alchemical. The 'golden thread' of Platonism can be pursued into the alchemical traditions, which are themselves broad and rich. It is worth noting, though, that there is no alchemy in the Indian tradition. The Islamic and the Chinese traditions are alchemical. It is conspicuous that the Hindu tradition does not have an alchemical cosmology. That, for the present author, is a major point of divergence. From Athens he travels to Egypt and the cognate school of thought he first finds there is Hermeticism.

The following illustration shows the author's Platonic pedigree:
 

Despite appearances, this is a pursuit of a single, coherent line of Platonic thinking. There is a single configuration of philosophical ideas and mythological motifs nascent in Plato's cosmology that can be found across diverse traditions. It is (largely) non-Aristotelean; indeed, the present author has been happy to remove Aristotle from his reckonings altogether. Plato, in the Timaeus (and other works) participates in a very deep, ancient and widespread doctrine that has its ultimate roots in early metallurgical traditions: an alchymie primordiale. We find its reiterations across many ancient civilizations, albeit often as a 'secret' or a 'hidden' body of knowledge. For all his 'natural science' there is not the slightest sign that Aristotle had any acquaintance with this strand of Plato at all. In this sense, Aristotle is profane.

Again: the cosmological Plato cannot be neatly separated from Platonic metaphysics or psychology or ethics, but there are certain themes in Plato for which the Timaeus is the central text.

Some notes:

HERMETICISM

Note that Plato shows his familiarity with the Egyptian Hermes - Thoth - in the Phaedrus.

THE SOLOMONIC TRADITION

The Divine Craftsman of the Timaeus leads naturally to the Divine Architect and to the analogy of temple and cosmos. In the Judaic monotheisms this strand of doctrine and symbolism is associated with Solomon. Note too that this tradition includes the Platonic Eros, eg. the Song of Solomon.

SUFISM

Mevlevi (Turkish) Sufism specifically. The Mevlevi debt to Plato is signalled in traditions that place Plato's tomb at Konya (Conium). Mevlevi spirituality combines the Platonic cosmology - in the form of an astro-cosmological dance - with the Platonic Eros (Rumi's Path of Love), absorbed within an Islamic framework.

ISLAM

Traditional Islam as a whole is a deeply Platonic spirituality and even more so on its esoteric layers. There is, specifically, an emphasis on The One, and the mode of knowing The One is through recollection (dhikr).

GOETHE

Although usually unacknowledged, Plato's threefold anthropology is developed in the Goethean sciences, most prominently in the works of Rudolf Steiner (who, regrettably, wedded it to Theosophy.)


PERSIA

At every point, Persia is in the background. The Greeks defeated the Persians, but the Greek tradition (Plato is an example) was transformed by the contact. Ultimately, it is Persia that is the great seed bed of these traditions. Moreover, the deeper connections between Plato and Islam are found in the Shia schools more than the Sunni, as Henry Corbin exposed.

CHINA

From Persia, the silk road to China. Certain schools of Taoist alchemy and Neo-Confucian thought are strongly Platonic. The mythological background of Plato's Timaeus has deep parallels in early Chinese mythology. On the face of it, Chinese thought would seem to have little in common with Plato, but this is deceptive. The cosmological or alchemical Plato has echoes throughout Chinese esotericism.

Readers of these pages might observe that the apparently eclectic interests of the author do (roughly) find a place in this schema. For a start, these are journeys eastwards. Whether they lead to India, Persia or China, these are adventures in orientalism. Once you cut Aristotle adrift, you are no longer heading to Rome and so the east beckons. The alchemical cosmology also embraces the traditional arts and crafts: art, craft, representation and the theory of work are all natural interests under the provenance of the Divine Craftsman. So too traditional medicine, astrology and related symbolisms.

As far as oriental thought is concerned, one must reckon with the intrusion of Buddhism which - strange to relate - is like an eastern Epicurianism run amok. The extent to which Buddhism was formed under Greek (Hellenic) influence is widely underappreciated, yet every statue of the Buddha from Ceylon to Japan is Greek. This is a matter for another post.


Tuesday 17 November 2020

Water and Wine in the Gospel of Barnabas



DRAFT ONLY

WATER AND WINE


Inter-textual Encounters in
the Medieval Gospel of Barnabas


These are old draft notes made towards a study concerning the "Wedding at Cana" episode in the Fourth Gospel as it is presented in the apocryphal medieval Gospel of Barnabas. The GB places this episode in Judea (rather than Galilee) and on the Feast of Tabernacles (rather than the Passover). I argue that such placements are probably correct.

Dr R. Blackhirst



The Gospel of Barnabas displays some remarkable inter-textual encounters with the canonical gospels that continue to intrigue and mystify those who can look beyond the work's overwhelming peculiarities. It is not just general reflections but many of the details in the work as well that have caught the eyes of scholars. Not only does it recreate a striking semblance of ancient Ebionite themes and present an uncanny reflection of the historical forces that tore apart ancient Judea, but some of the work's rearrangements of the story of Jesus conform to the known textual history of the gospels in quite unaccountable ways. Whatever its date, provenance, authorship and origins, this strangest of gospels often shows a remarkable acquaintance with the editorial processes and textual background that formed the canonical texts, or it seems to. Against those who say that every detail of the text can be accounted for by the ignoble intentions of a medieval fabricator, there are others who see quite surprising textual configurations that accompany the general appearance of ancient roots. There has still been little detailed analysis of the text in all its dimensions but what studies have been made have yielded surprising results.


Some features of the text directly echo ancient manuscript traditions. The most spectacular example is noted by David Sox. This gospel restores the Johanine episode of the Adulterous Woman to what is widely believed to be its rightful place in the Gospel of Luke. This is a very famous and universally admitted case of textual misplacement. In the received canon the story of the Adulterous Woman is placed in the Fourth Gospel. In early manuscripts, however, it is a free-floating text that seems to have become dislodged from its correct context and has been incorporated into the Fourth Gospel at a late date and even though it is ill-fitting. The best manuscript evidence, supported by studies of vocabulary and style, tell us that it was originally part of the Gospel of Luke and was placed in Luke at the juncture 17:39. It is clearly a Lukan, not a Johanine, text and it clearly suits its supposed location in Luke. This is often one of the very first exercises confronted by undergraduate students of the gospels: it is a text-book case of a gospel pericope becoming separated from its mother text and taken into another text as an orphan. It happened at an early date, before the text of either the Gospel of Luke or the Fourth Gospel was fixed. Yet in the Gospel of Barnabas this story is removed from its place in John's gospel and restored to precisely the point in the narrative corresponding to Luke 17:39.


Chapter 200. ... And it came to pass that, when the men of Jerusalem heard that Jesus of Nazareth was coming, the men went forth with their children eager to see Jesus, bearing in their hands branches of palm and olive, singing: 'Blessed be he that comes to us in the name of God; hosanna son of David!'...


Chapter 201. Jesus having entered into the Temple, the scribes and Pharisees brought to him a woman taken in adultery. They said among themselves: 'If he save her, it is contrary to the Law of Moses, and so we have him as guilty, and if he condemn her it is contrary to his own doctrine, for he preaches mercy.' Wherefore they came to Jesus and said: 'Master, we have found this woman in adultery. Moses commanded that [such] should be stoned: what then say you?'



The phrase "'Blessed be he that comes to us in the name of God; hosanna son of David!' is found at Luke 17:38. The medieval Barnabas inserts the story of the adulterous woman at exactly this point. It is just possible, but would be unprecedented, that a very astute medieval reader might have determined for himself that the story belongs in Luke's rather than in John's gospel. Or did it just seem like an appropriate place to put it? Sox dismisses it as "probably just an accident" in the author's general reordering of gospel material, but it remains impressive nonetheless.

MIDRASH


A more extensive example, also from the Fourth Gospel, is the work's treatment of the Wedding at Cana where Jesus turns water into wine, the first miracle and sign of Jesus' ministry in the Johannine gospel's narrative scheme. Such miracle stories, and most supernatural elements in the gospels, are understood by contemporary scholarship as midrashic developments from the Hebrew Scriptures or midrash-style applications to elements of a still fluid early Jesus Tradition. Scholarship in this direction has also been stimulated by the discovery and eventual disclosure of the Dead Sea Scroll corpus as well as by the revival of a vigorous Jewish intellectualism after the Holocaust and by a climate of increased Christian/Jewish co-operation in the same period. Running counter to the general trend of Christian apologetics, this scholarship has made an effort to see the Christian gospel stories in the context of the conventions of Jewish literature by which they are revealed to be, quite obviously, examples of exegetial allegory or "misdrash". Ecclestiatic scholars such as the Episcopalean Bishop Spong have scandalized their co-religionists and become notorious by suggesting that such hallowed tales as the virgin birth of Jesus ought not be taken literally but ought to be seen as midrash-like literary developments based not in historical fact but in ancient Jewish modes of scriptural exegesis. The miracle of turning water into wine is viewed similarly. It must be considered as a literary construction with its genesis in midrashic exegetal conventions. When studied with this in view the version offered in the Gospel of Barnabas participates intelligently and quite extensively with what we can see of the ancient textual developments, especially from marks left in John's own text.


In the Gospel of Barnabas the story comes wedged between two episodes from the synoptic gospels, part of the writer's attempt to harmonize the canonical accounts. Johannine stories intrude at carefully selected points throughout the work. This is the first intrusion. Immediately after the story of the call of the twelve disciples, using the Gospel of Mark as his guide, the medieval Barnabas adds the Miracle of Water into Wine. Following it, the text returns to the Synoptics, but Matthew, not Mark, and gives us a version of the Sermon on the Mount. The scheme is:


Chapter 14. The Twelve Apostles - synoptic/Mark

Chapter 15. The Miracle of Turning Water into Wine - John

Chapter 16. Sermon on the Mount - synoptic/Mathhew


As the author moves from gospel to gospel the Johannine story is framed by the two synoptic episodes but it remains the first miracle in Jesus' ministry, as in the Fourth Gospel. The major changes made in the Barnabas text are that the wedding where Jesus performs the miracle is in Judea near Jerusalem not in Galilee as in John, and furthermore it occurs within the context of the Feast of Tabernacles or "Feast of Booths" (Sukkuth). In chapter 14 Jesus has "returned to the region of Jerusalem" and in chapter 15 "the Feast of Tabernacles was near..." Pilgrimage to Jerusalem was an obligatory feature of Tabernacles, so the two notices go together.


There are strong reasons to think that both of these changes have substance and that together they restore the tale to something like a very early rendition from which the canonical text deviates. Against the familiarity of the canonical text the changes might strike the reader as odd and incoherent, but against the background of the Johanine text to which Biblical scholarship, and especially so-called radical scholarship attends, they are very insightful moves. In this instance the method of the author can be traced against the canonical version. The changes he has made are not haphazard but follow discernible textual connections which are somewhat complex but nevertheless concrete and plain to see. If the fortuitous location of the Adulterous Woman pericope in the work is "probably just an accident" this example provides evidence of design and of real insight. It draws attention to textual issues in the Fourth Gospel that are certainly meaningful and it offers a remarkably intelligent and penetrating perspective on the nature of the textual traditions underpinning John's text, again from a distinctly "Jewish-Christian" point of view. The author seems to have a very good understanding of the processes of cutting and pasting that have occured in sections of John's gospel and engages with those processes in depth; the work participates in the same theological and Christological disputes as the text of John but its presentation is Ebionitic, Jewish-Christian, and counter to the Gentile agenda of the orthodox text.


It is certainly arguable that the Miracle of Water into Wine is a midrashic account of Tabernacles themes. The Barnabas writer may be perfectly correct to place this miracle in the House of Judah on Tabernacles thereby restoring the Davidic associations that have been obscured in John's construction. The nature of the miracle and the background to the story, its midrashic character, is suddenly illuminated by restoring this context. As Christian exegesis admits, the "wedding" in the Johanine story is a rather folksy rendering of the "Messianic banquet". Exegetes usually fail to make the connection the medieval Barnabas is making, though, namely that this Messianic Banquet/marriage feast belongs properly to the Feast of Tabernacles and its symbolism. The wedding symbolism is Davidic/Solomonic. Tabernacles is explicitly associated with the founding of the Temple and with the Divine Presence as Bride. In the liturgy of the Festival, the reader of the Pentateuch is esteemed as the "Bridegroom of the Law." Accordingly, the Jewish marriage feast extended over the same length of time as this festival. Moreover, Tabernacles is, in seasonal terms, specifically the feast of the vintage - a wine festival - while its "Living Water" symbolism has been thoroughly explored in orthodox commentaries. The liturgy of the eighth day of the Feast concerns prayers for rain, rites commemorating the Mosaic water miracle and readings from Old Testament passages prophesying "lifegiving water for Zion."

In short, the eighth day and the Feast in general are concerned with water symbolism and water miracles. In the Water Into Wine miracle the wine runs out towards the end of the festivities. The miracle therefore corresponds to the symbolism of the last day of the Festival. Readers should note the parallels between John's description of the eighth day as the "last and greatest" day of the festival (John 7:37) and the comments about leaving the best wine to last (John 2:10). The underlying story seems clear. It is a midrash tale developed from the symbolism of the Messianic Banquet that had the wedding on the Feast of Tabernacles in Jerusalem, or near Jerusalem, or at least in Judea and not in the village of Cana in Galilee as the canonical version now has it. It is, in fact, a story illustrating all of the above-mentioned symbolism of that festival. The original story shows Jesus as the Davidic Messiah (and bridegroom?) in Jerusalem revealing his identity, transforming the old into the new, at the Messianic banquet. In the canonical account the story has been stripped of these associations.

THE WEDDING IN JUDEA NEAR TABERNACLES


It is possible that an astute Jewish reader of the Gospel of John from any era could recognize the miracle of Water Into Wine as befitting Tabernacles and restore it to that context, but as it is woven into the Gospel of Barnabas it opens very sophisticated encounters with the canonical text that strongly suggest a deeper tradition. The medieval Barnabas account presents an altogether credible restoration of this feature of the textual traditions underpinning John. Conversely, it is John's gospel that shows signs of dissembling, revision and mutilation. Tabernacles is where the miracle belongs and the canonical text has moved it. The Barnabas gospel then restores it to its proper place and so again the work's apparently strange reorganising of gospel material turns out to contain insights far exceeding what one expects in such a medieval and disreputable work. It cannot be by accident in this case. The restoration of the miracle to Tabernacles is too revealing of an authentic insight that is the product of a tradition of encounter with the canonical treatment of the story.


The Barnabas version makes only a few textual changes to the canonical text, but these changes have wide ramifications if we pursue them further in the Gospel of John. Compared to many other canonical episodes reworked in the medieval Barnabas this case does not deviate significantly from the canonical text in its general shape. In the case of some canonical episodes the work offers truly bizarre rewritings while in others the treatment of the canonical story is almost childish. In some few cases the work has no quarrel with the canonical texts and merely paraphrases them or recounts them as they are in the canon with some medieval explanatory interpolations and exaggerations. In the case of the Miracle of Water and Wine, the medieval Barnabas has no quarrel with the Fourth Gospel about the general nature of the miracle, the reworked version in fact following John's version quite closely in most aspects. There are interesting minor variations from the canonical text but no major deviations concerning what happened to whom and why at the wedding. Jesus is still abrupt with his mother, as in John, and events unfold more or less as in the canonical story. Mainly the work has a quarrel with the canonical text over geographical location and season. Here is the full passage:


When the feast of tabernacles was near, a certain rich man invited Jesus with his disciples and his mother to a marriage. Jesus therefore went, and as they were feasting the wine ran short. His mother accosted Jesus, saying: 'They have no wine.' Jesus answered: 'What is that to me, mother mine?' His mother commanded the servants that whatever Jesus should command them they should obey. There were there six vessels for water according to the custom of Israel to purify themselves for prayer. Jesus said: 'Fill. these vessels with water.' The servants did so. Jesus said to them: 'In the name of God, give to drink to them that are feasting.' The servants thereupon bare to the master of the ceremonies, who rebuked the attendants saying: 'O worthless servants, why have you kept the better wine till now?' For he knew nothing of all that Jesus had done.


The servants answered: 'O Sir, there is here a holy man of God, for he has made of water, wine.' The master of the ceremonies thought that the servants were drunken; but they that were sitting near to Jesus, having seen the whole matter, rose from the table and paid him reverence, saying: 'Truly you are an holy one of God, a true prophet sent to us from God!' Then his disciples believed on him, and many returned to their heart, saying: 'Praised be God, who has mercy upon Israel, and visits the house of Judah with love, and blessed be his holy name.'



As the reader can see it is not very different to the canonical version; it is simply a medieval rendition of the same, with some of the differences clearly explanatory interpolation and paraphrasing. The final section, though, is an expansion on or replacement for John 2:11:


This was the first of the signs given by Jesus: it was given at Cana in Galilee. He let his glory be seen and his disciples believed in him.


In the canonical text, we note, this first miracle and sign is emphatically at "Cana in Gallilee" rather than at some unnamed location during a Jerusalem leg of Jesus' journeys as the medieval Barnabas has it. The medieval author presents a roughly canonical version with an expanded ending but has given the whole a different geographical location with a festive context. The two texts are concerned about the contending claims of Galilee and Jerusalem. While the canonical text insists that the miracle occured in "Cana in Galilee" the Gospel of Barnabas, in the corresponding expansion, insists on the mention of both Israel and Judah:

'Praised be God, who has mercy upon Israel, and visits the house of Judah with love...


Barnabas resists the canonical text. And moves the location to Jerusalem in defiance of the canonical text. It is important for the medieval author to show that Jesus performed this miracle in "the house of Judah" and not in Galillee. Conversely, it is important to the author of the Fourth Gospel to show that this first sign occurred in Galilee, not elsewhere.

SOME TEXTUAL ENCOUNTERS WITH JOHN'S GOSPEL


The beginning "When the feast of Tabernacles was near..." reveals the work to be participating in a debate found in other parts of John's gospel. While it's insertion into the Miracle of Water and Wine is in violation of the John's text and John's version does not begin thus - the wedding is not associated in any way with Tabernacles in John - this beginning is from John's gospel, although in another section. We are carried to John 7:2-10:


But when the Jewish Feast of Tabernacles was near, Jesus’ brothers said to him, “You ought to leave here and go to Judea, so that your disciples may see the miracles you do. No one who wants to become a public figure acts in secret. Since you are doing these things, show yourself to the world.” For even his own brothers did not believe in him. Therefore Jesus told them, “The right time for me has not yet come; for you any time is right. The world cannot hate you, but it hates me because I testify that what it does is evil. You go to the Feast. I am not yet going up to this Feast, because for me the right time has not yet come.” Having said this, he stayed in Galilee. However, after his brothers had left for the Feast, he went also, not publicly, but in secret.

John 7:2-10



The Gospel of Barnabas signals a link between the two episodes, importing the beginning of John 7:2-10 to the Miracle of Water and Wine. It therefore invites us to read the miracle along with and in light of this section beginning in John 7.

It is a simple cut and paste but immediately revealing. An attentive reading of John 7 illuminates the nature of the debate. The issue in this passage (John 7:2-10) is where Jesus should perform his miracles, Galilee or Jerusalem? In the canonical text Jesus' "brothers" urge him to go to Jerusalem and do there (for his "disciples") what he had been doing in Galilee (for his family?) Jesus does go to Jerusalem, but not with his brothers: he remains secret. There are tensions in this passage between Galilee/Jerusalem, brothers/disciples, private/public. These are the tensions with which the Gospel of Barnabas engages and does so in ways that are far more insightful than the naiveity of the rendering would lead the reader to suspect.


In terms of the parties described in the Fourth Gospel the sympathies of the medieval Barnabas are with Jesus' brothers. In John they urge Jesus: "You ought to leave here and go to Judea, so that your disciples may see the miracles you do." In the Gospel of Barnabas - when Tabernacles is near - we find Jesus doing exactly this: he is in Judea showing his miraculous powers to his disciples. There is no reluctance concerning the Feast of Tabernacles in the Barnabas Jesus. He is in Jerusalem at festive time, not home in Galilee. He performs a miracle at a public event - a wedding - and it is his "disciples" who are with him. In the Gospel of Barnabas the occasion of the Feast of Tabernacles means, quite naturally, that Jesus is in the region of Jerusalem where, at the outset of his ministry, he openly displays his miracles at a public event. In these sections of John's gospel, in contrast, the House of Judah is a house of strife. John 7:1, just before the link, announces the theme with:


Jesus stayed in Galilee: he could not stay in Judea because the Jews were out to kill him.


The Fourth Gospel wants to show Jesus as a Galilean, first and foremost, and Judea (and its "Jews") as a place of danger, hostility and opposition. The wedding is in Cana because Cana is in Galilee, and it is to the Galileans, according to John, that Jesus presents the first Sign, the water changed into wine. "He let his glory be seen..." (John 2:12) The Gospel of Barnabas disagrees. The wedding, it says, was in Judea at Tabernacles. Responding exactly to the urgings of Jesus' "brothers" in the Fourth Gospel, the Barnabas Jesus demonstrates the "Living Water" that flows through Johannine symbolism to his disciples in the "House of Judah". The issue is, where did Jesus first declare himself in public? Where was his first sign? The canonical text is anxious to place this event in Galilee, in a small village wedding among kin and neighbors and to show Jesus to be reluctant to show himself in Jerusalem at the great public assembly of Tabernacles. Contra-John, the Gospel of Barnabas depicts a Jewish Jesus who declares himself to the House of Judah at the time of the nation's feast.


The connections and the nature of the polemic in which they are involved becomes clear simply by going to those places in John's text where the Gospel of Barnabas leads us. Reading on from the locus signaled by the Barnabas version, in John 7:37 we turn to the last (eighth) day of the Tabernacle feast. Here Jesus says: "If any man is thirsty, let him come to me..." and speaks of the promise of the "Living Water" consistent with the symbolism of Tabernacles. This "Living Water" is surely linked to the Miracle of Water and Wine as the whole tradition of Christian scriptural exegesis, ancient and modern, attests. In all Christian understandings the Johannine Wedding at Cana is essentially a water miracle that demonstrates this Living Water doctrine in action. The theme of the Living Water links these two sections of John's gospel. This follows from normal Christian understandings. If the Living Water discourse to which the cut and paste in the medieval Barnabas points is appropriate to the Feast of Tabernacles, so too is the transformation of water into wine at the wedding which illustrates the same symbolism. Then, at John 7:40, in response to these "Living Water" teachings, reaching the heart of the whole matter, we find that some say Jesus is the Christ, but others say:


"Would the Christ be from Galilee? Does not the scripture say that the Christ must be descended from David and come from the town of Bethlehem?"


Here is the pivotal issue. From whence does the Messiah come? This is the issue at stake in all of these textual tensions between Galilee and Jerusalem and the issue driving many other textual tensions throughout Christian literature. It is responsible for an array of textual tangles. In the synoptic tradition, most obviously, this same tension is involved in the story that while Jesus was born in Bethlehem he was actually a Galilean; placing his birth at the time of a census revolves this problem. The sympathies of the Barnabas text vis a vis the canonical texts on these matters are plain: it prefers the claims of Jerusalem. The link "when the Feast of Tabernacles was near..." takes us to a deeply polemical section of John. "The debate... as C. H. Dood remarked, "proceeds largely upon the plane of Jewish Messianic ideas" but there is "scarcely another [section of John] where the controversial note is so sharp and so sustained..." (p. 346) The writer of the Fourth Gospel has, we know, collected his materials from diverse sources. He wants to retain this particular story and use it as the first of the great Signs of Jesus' messiahship, but for polemical reasons he objects to its Judaic Davidic/Temple/Jerusalem associations. He accomplishes his revision by removing it from its Tabernacle context. It had perhaps once accompanied the "Living Water" materials now in John 7, its specific context being the "last and greatest day" of Tabernacles (John 7:37). The over-writing in John's gospel is plain to see and also reveals the atmosphere of contention in which it was done.


Polemical engagement with John also extends to textual overlaps that paste the pericopes in their new locations in the medieval work. Immediately prior to the Wedding at Cana in John's sequence is the Calling of Nathaniel episode. The Gospel of Barnabas has instead the Call of the Disciples from Mark's gospel. It first appears that the Johannine episode has been stuck awkwardly into the Barnabas narrative; it is self-contained and flanked, as we said, by two synoptic episodes and so breaks the flow of an otherwise synoptic narrative. But in fact the plan of the Gospel of John has been overlaid with the synoptic scheme in a move to harmonize the two and so a lot more thought has got into the arrangement than it at first seems. If we are under the impression the author has stuck the wedding story into his narrative where he has at a whim we are mistaken. It is part of a larger coherent arrangement. The full scheme embraces the second part of chapter 14 through to the conclusion of the Sermon on the Mount at the beginning of chapter 19. It is a coherent construction of gospel material grouped around the Feast of Tabernacles and its themes, with the Miracle of Water and Wine integral, if not central to it. It is counter-Johannine:


John


Call of Nathaniel
Water into Wine
Cleansing the Temple


Barnabas


Call of the Twelve
Water into Wine
Sermon on the Mount


Moreover, the over-lapping tab, Call of Nathaniel (a disciple only mentioned in John's Gospel), is bound to the above-mentioned configuration in that he comes from Cana (John 21:2). And it is Nathaniel who says "Can anything good come from Nazareth?" (John 1:46) when told that they had found "the one Moses wrote about in the Law" in that place. It is an important point for the author of John. We can see how his Gospel is again insisting on Jesus' Galilean origins against the geographical assumptions of the Davidic Messiahship. John insists Jesus is a Messiah from Galilee despite what people assume about the Messianic office.

THE RESTORATION OF JUDAIC THEMES & CONTEXTS


We are remote from any Islamic influences here. In fact the restoration of the Davidic context of the Miracle of Water and Wine might be construed as counter to the whole agenda of this "Islamic gospel" which is everywhere else at pains to distance Jesus from any claim to Messiahood. But the Gospel of Barnabas preserves traditions that this miracle occured at Tabernacles and that the Call of the Disciples and the Sermon on the Mount belong in the same grouping, all of them being midrash-like developments of Tabernacles themes. In the Gospel of John we can see the textual marks left when this material was stripped of such associations. Jewish readers in particular are likely to be alive to the significance and plausibility of this. They have long complained that the Gospel of John, and the whole Christian tradition, has its festivals mixed up. A line of modern Jewish critical analysis, best known through the works of Hyam Maccoby, explain how the Christian depiction of Jesus going to Jerusalem for Passover, with a triumphant entry of the Davidic king, singing of Hosanna and waving of palm fronds, is a depiction of the symbols of Tabernacles, not Passover. Jews can hardly recognize the Christian Passover; in the Christian tradition the sacrificial symbolism of Passover, with Christ as the Paschal Lamb, has been interchanged or collapsed with or overwritten upon their Feast of Tabernacles. It is notable that the conspicuously misplaced Cleansing of the Temple, coming immediately after the Wedding at Cana in John's gospel begins: "Just before the Jewish Passover Jesus went up to Jerusalem..." participating in these interchanges and providing the immediate canonical echo for the "When the feast of tabernacles was near" in the Barnabas text. There is quite fascinating and subtle interplay between these two works.


It is therefore not just the general shape and colouring of the medieval Barnabas that defies the generally proposterous character of the extant work to recall vivid aspects of ancient sectarian history, nor the chance relocation of a passage or two to ancient positions in the narrative, but whole configurations of text that at first seem haphazard and shallow but which suggest, on closer analysis, deep and long and penetrating roots. The life of Jesus presented in the work is so astray from the canonical models and the canonical passages have been so thoroughly shuffled that it is not surprising to find some meaningful rearrangements among them, but the evidence of the text goes much further. In some sections the rearrangements counter the canonical arrangements with profoundly astute restorations that suggest an acquaintance with ancient textual traditions.


This is why some scholars from Toland onwards have been prepared to suspend disbelief and give the work the benefit of the doubt before consigning it to the shedder or filing it away under "Miscellaneous". Aside from what fascination the whole production offers as a literary mystery, there are many places in the text that will make a reader who knows ancient sources and the critical history of the canonical texts wonder if there are not intimate reflections of a rich and worthy tradition behind the evident sham that survives. Some of the most strange textual configurations in the Gospel of Barnabas reveal very intelligent underpinnings. Almost everywhere a haze of amateurishness obscures flashes of a distant authentic glow. In the case of the Adulterous Woman we are arrested by the unlikely precision of the placement of the episode in the Barnabas narrative. In the case of the Miracle of Water and Wine the Barnabas text engages in a more complex and deep-seated polemic with the canonical model, exposing the tangles in the canonical texts and restoring a more contextually correct - and Judaic - version of the story, at the same time as exposing the seams of textual incisions still to be observed in John from the processes by which the miracle was shorn of its contextual - and Judaic - associations and put to a contrary purpose. Not only does the work manage to conjure the general appearance of being an Ebionitic gospel, it engages in Ebionitic textual disputes with canonical texts and does so at a deep and complex level.


But once again different scholars working under different paradigms will see different things. It is remarkable that mainstream Christian textual scholarship does not make the connections the Gospel of Barnabas makes, even though it admits all the parts of the equation. It admits that the Living Water discourse of Jesus in John's Gospel is given at Tabernacles because "living water" is important to the symbolism of the festival. It admits that the miracle of turning water into wine is part of this same symbolism and an expression of the Living Water theme. It admits that the wedding of the story is essentially the Messianic Banquet. But it usually fails to acknowledge that both the wedding and the Messianic Banquet are also Tabernacles themes and so fails to put the evidence together and draw the obvious conclusion. Most scholarly paradigms stumble on the assumption that the Jesus Tradition has developed from the primitive and rustic to the sophisticated and theological. In this instance it is widely assumed that John's story records an historical occasion when a rustic, historical Jesus attended a village wedding and that this primitive base has been overlaid with accumulations of theological development. This is the strategem of the so-called "demythologizers" in modern Biblical Studies. The encounter we have just seen between the Gospel of Barnabas and the Gospel of John offers a different scenerio but one that is difficult to see if one labours under the "demythologizing" paradigm. The significance of the textual arrangements in the medieval Barnabas is only likely to be obvious in minds not shaped by such assumptions. It suggests that there was first a midrashic story concerning the Messianic Wedding Banquet illustrating the symbolism of the feast of Tabernacles. The Johanine textual tradition has then taken this story, stripped it of its Tabernacles symbolism, and recast it as a simple village wedding in Cana in Galilee. It began as a sophisticated, theological story. It became rustic and primitive. It is not a simple story that has been mythologized, it is a mythic story that has been historicized and made to seem concrete and based in a common and therefore historical event.


Christian exegesis also points out that the figure underlying the Fourth Gospel's rustic rendition of the Messianic Banquet is the mysterious priest/king Melchizadek. Its foundations are recorded by Philo Judeaus of Alexandria where "Melchizadek shall bring forth wine instead of water and give our souls a pure draught..." From other paradigms, it is not that this Melchidaekean mythology has been overlaid upon an historical event, as mainstream paradigms suppose, but more likely that a mythic, eschatological story concerning Melchizadek presiding at the great banquet of the feast of nations has devolved into a quasi-historical form. If considered from this perspective the Gospel of Barnabas is uniquely stimulating and exposes something of the very early foundations of the story. Moreover, it could be added, it illuminates the Tabernacles (Festival of Booths) themes in the Sermon on the Mount as well, opening another promising line of inquiry. Jewish scholars, like Schlomo Pines, are more likely to see and appreciate and be intruiged by this dimension of the work than Christian or even secular scholars trained in a universe of residual Christian assumptions. As fresh viewpoints emerge in contemporary Biblical Studies and the paradigms that prevailed in the post-war milue pass away or are dislodged from a position of unassilability, these textual features of the medieval Barnabas can be seen and studied in new and highly constructive ways. They can help us rediscover the Jewish-Christian dimension of the gospel tradition.


The importance of the Feast of Tabernacles, or Sukkuth, in ancient Ebionite ideology has emerged as a common thread through many new studies. In the Maccabean Revolt, which sets the pattern for subsequent Jewish nationalist militancy in the Holy Land, the Feast of Tabernacles is reconformed as the Feast of the Rededication of the Temple or, in other words, the feast of Jewish national soveriegnty. The Maccabean Tabernacles feast, Hannukah, persisted somewhat incongrously in Rabbinic Judaism, but throughout the Second Temple period, up until the collapse of the Bar Chohkbar revolt, Tabernacles was a rallying point for Jewish nationalists. Coins minted by Bar Chokhbar show the symbols of Tabernacles imprinted over the face of the Roman Emperor making the significance of these symbols to the Jewish rebellion abundantly clear. The pilgrimage to Jerusalem at Tabernacles was the occasion of endless strife, riots and nationalist agitation according to the historical accounts given by Josephus. It is likely that James the Righteous was stoned to death at Sukkuth in the year 62 CE, an event that, according to Christian sources, boiled over into the full-scale revolt of the Jewish War. Aside from its Messianic and Davidic associations, its vintage and water symbolism, Tabernacles was concerned with the installation of the Law of Moses - the tablets of Moses in the Ark of the Covenant - in the Holy of Holies, a declaration of the logocratic sovereignty of Yahweh and his priesthood. The reading from the prophets in the liturgy of Tabernacles is revealing:


Then the survivors from all the nations that have attacked Jerusalem will go up year after year to worship the King, the Lord Almighty, and to celebrate the Feast of Tabernacles. If the Egyptian people do not go up and take part, they will have no rain. The Lord will bring on them the plague he inflicts on the nations that do not go up to celebrate the Feast of Tabernacles. This will be the punishment of Egypt and the punishment of all the nations that do not go up to celebrate the Feast of Tabernacles.

Zech. 14:16-19



Arguably, this is the text underlying the gospel of John's portrayal of Jesus' brothers goading him to attend the festival: it is the canonical Jesus - at least as far as his "brothers" are concerned because they do not know he goes in secret - who does not "go up to celebrate the Feast of Tabernacles", while the Gospel of Barnabas has him at Tabernacles preserving the context of the Miracle of Water and Wine as the feast of the "King of Jerusalem" Melchizadek. Whatever the case, the relevance of this feast to the Jewish zealot's struggle against Roman domination needs no further elaboration. In Zechariah's eschatological invitation to all the "nations" to come up to Jerusalem for the feast the nations will serve under the soveriegnty of the God of the Jews - His Law and His Temple -, not the Jews serve the human gods of Rome.


Tabernacles also forms the symbolic background of another important feature of Judean resistance of foreign domination from the Maccabean revolt through to Bar Kochbar, namely the practise of retiring into the wilderness and being hardened on God-given foods to escape a polluted Temple and corrupt priesthood. The Feast commemorating the dedication of the Temple does so by reliving the pre-Temple life of the Israelites. The surviving Dead Sea Scrolls are a spectacular remnant of this cultic reverence for retreating into the wilderness regions for spiritual purification. In contemporary Judaism Jews still construct rustic "booths" as abodes during Sukkuth. What we are calling Ebionite Christianity retains much of this emphasis on the Feast of Tabernacles and key aspects of its symbolism, consistent with its general zeal for the Law. In the texts and traditions of Gentile Christianity, in contrast, the important associations of this festival tend to be obscured and its pro-Law zealous meanings overwritten. Thus, in Gentile Christian texts, the Triumphant Entry happens on Passover, not Tabernacles, and the Miracle of the Water and Wine is shorn of the associations it had for "Jewish Christians" and removed from any Tabernacles context.