Hebraic Repetition in the Canticle of Zechariah

The Canticle of Zechariah is one of the standard liturgical texts prayed by Catholic clergy and religious, and many lay people, each day.  It is a text I quite enjoy, though I must confess that it can appear - particularly when one is tired or distracted - as a bit disjointed, a series of platitudes strung together.  Today I'd like to propose a method for digging deeper into it.

In the Hebrew scriptures, repetition is a frequently used literary device.  Anyone who has seen the canticle in Daniel chapter 3 (prayed on Sunday morning of Week 1) will have a sense of this:

Every shower and dew, bless the Lord. 
All you winds, bless the Lord.
Fire and heat, bless the Lord. 
Cold and chill, bless the Lord.
Dew and rain, bless the Lord. 
Frost and chill, bless the Lord.
Ice and snow, bless the Lord. 
Nights and days, bless the Lord.
Light and darkness, bless the Lord. 
Lightnings and clouds, bless the Lord.

And so forth.  It might suffice to say "water," but instead "shower and dew" are used.  One might assume that "fire" implies "heat," but the author uses both.  Some pairings are more complex: "nights and days" are opposites which, together, might be taken to mean "all times."

More often, this repetition in the Hebrew scriptures comes in the form of back to back lines which repeat the same concept.  We can see this, for example, in Psalm 81:

Sing joyfully to God our strength;
raise loud shouts to the God of Jacob!

Take up a melody, sound the timbrel,
the pleasant lyre with a harp.

Blow the shofar at the new moon,
at the full moon, on our solemn feast.

For this is a law for Israel,
an edict of the God of Jacob

Although the Canticle of Zechariah comes in the New Testament, it is uttered by a Jew, indeed a priest of the tribe of Levi.  Thus it comes as little surprise that it follows this convention of repetition.  I would like to suggest, however, that this repetition is not - neither here nor elsewhere - merely filler.  Nor is it simply a repetition for those who may not have been paying attention the first time (though that too is a useful function).  Rather, I believe these repetitions, in pairs or triples, invite us to consider the subtle differences between them and offer insights if we consider carefully what is being equated.  Let us begin with the first lines:

Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel;
He has come to His people and set them free.

Notice the conjunction in the second line: He has come to His people and set them free.  This is a repetition, a redundancy.  The very act of God's coming is inherently liberating.  That is a powerful witness to both His might and His goodness.

He has raised up for us a mighty Saviour,
Born of the house of His servant David.

I think this pairing speaks of the promise that God makes to David, through the prophet Nathan, in 2 Samuel 7: "The Lord also reveals to you that he will establish a house for you.   And when your time comes and you rest with your ancestors, I will raise up your heir after you, sprung from your loins, and I will make his kingdom firm....   And I will make his royal throne firm forever.   I will be a father to him, and he shall be a son to me....   Your house and your kingdom shall endure forever before me; your throne shall stand firm forever."  Any good Jew, familiar with this messianic prophesy, knows that the savior will come from the house of David.  And if he does, clearly he will be mighty, for the Lord will be with him.

Through His holy prophets He promised of old
That He would save us from our enemies,
From the hands of all who hate us.

He promised to show mercy to our fathers
And to remember His holy covenant.

This was the oath He swore to our father Abraham:
To set us free from the hands of our enemies,
Free to worship Him without fear,
Holy and righteous in His sight
All the days of our life.

We have three promises given here, or three versions of the same promise: salvation from enemies, mercy, and freedom to worship.  The Psalms and other writings often conflate political and spiritual enemies; while such a reading is possible here, I think the repetition begins to unwind it, since enemies are not merely political rivals or opponents on the battlefield, but those "who hate us."  For those with the eyes of faith, the ultimate hate comes from Satan, born of his jealousy that mankind might be so intimate with God.  Thus, salvation from enemies is more than a promise that God marches with our armies; it is deliverance from evil.

The mercy promised to our fathers is paired with God's remembrance of His covenant.  To a Jew, bound by the ritual law and all its requirements, the covenant might seem like a burden, a punishment, not mercy.  Even Christians, bound by fewer everyday restrictions - though called to the law of love - sometimes feel burdened by God's covenant.  But Zechariah reminds us that God's covenant and rules are the fruit of His mercy.  We may trust that they are for our good.

Zechariah ties the freedom to worship with freedom from enemies; more on that in a moment.  Notice that worshiping without fear is paired with being holy and righteous.  Why would a worshiper fear?  If such worship were illegal one might fear the secret police.  Real though such a fear is, it is ultimately temporal and passing.  But what if one's worship is not pleasing to the Almighty?  This fear is eternal and of the gravest consequence.  Here Zechariah points out that, in the context of the savior's coming, God will make us holy and righteous, such that our worship might be pleasing to Him.

But let us return to the three-fold promise: salvation from enemies, mercy, and freedom to worship.  Not only does the canticle link them all together by identifying them as God's promise, but Zechariah explicitly notes that God sets us "free from the hands of our enemies, / Free to worship Him without fear," thus linking these promises.  Why?  Because they are all pieces of the larger movement of God's salvation, brought by the Davidic savior: In God's mercy we are protected from the malevolent powers of evil, made holy and righteous, called to a new life as God's people, and invited to worship Him.

You, My child shall be called
The prophet of the Most High,
For you will go before the Lord to prepare His way,
To give His people knowledge of salvation
By the forgiveness of their sins.

Notice that the prophet - John the Baptist - is doing three things here.  Or, rather, three dimensions of his task are explained: he prepare's the Lord's way, he imparts knowledge of salvation, and he speaks of the forgiveness of sins.  Recall that we have already seen the Lord's coming linked with salvation; the latter is the natural consequence of the former.  Thus, the Lord's way is not prepared with triumphal arches or flower-strewn roads, but by communicating the reality of His salvation.  Whereas earlier stanzas understood salvation as freedom from enemies and the promise of holiness, we now understand it in a new way: forgiveness of sins.  This is not a contradiction but a viewing of the same reality from another side.  Satan, the Tempter, lures us into sin and thereby deprives us of holiness.  But the savior will free us from the Evil One, forgive our sins, and thus bring holiness.

In the tender compassion of our Lord
The Dawn from on High shall break upon us,
to shine on those who dwell in darkness
And the shadow of death,
And to guide our feet into the way of peace.

Finally, we are told that the Dawn from on High - that is, Jesus, the Davidic savior - will do two things: He will shine on those in darkness and He will guide us into peace.  The interconnection between our human sin and spiritual warfare is already seen above.  Likewise, we have implicitly been hearing about the communal nature of sin and salvation: notice that Zechariah always speaks in the plural about "us."  In these final lines these concepts are brought together.  Those dwelling in darkness - the darkness of demonic oppression and of personal sin - cannot live in social harmony, and so their lives are lives of conflict.  But Jesus brings something different.  He brings His light, His saving presence, and by dispelling the darkness shows us the way to harmony and peace.

Joseph the All Comely

No, this is not another post about Joseph, the husband of Mary, one of my favorite saints. No, this is about a different Joseph, Joseph the Patriarch, otherwise known as Joseph the All Comely.

The other day I stumbled upon this intriguing image, and clicked through to find this Orthodox priest's blog.

Joseph, the son Jacob, who was sold into slavery by his brothers and rose to be a major official in Egypt, is venerated in a number of branches of Christianity. Eastern Catholics and many Eastern Orthodox commemorate him on the Sunday of the Holy Forefathers (two Sundays before Christmas) and on the Monday of Holy Week (known as Holy and Great Monday). The Armenian Apostolic Church venerates him - along with the other Holy Forefathers - in July, whereas the Missouri Synod of the Lutheran Church does so on 31 March.

The title "the All Comely" refers to Joseph's good looks - which got him in trouble with the wife of an Egyptian official - but even more to the beauty of his interior life. Similar images of him can be found here and here.

Seeing and Understanding in Mark 8

The eighth chapter of Mark's gospel offers an interesting meditation on seeing and understanding. The chapter begins with the feeding of the four thousand. This is actually the second time Jesus has fed a multitude - back in chapter 6 He fed five thousand - but even so, His disciples ask "How can one feed these men with bread here in the desert?" Of course, Jesus pulls it off, with seven baskets full left over.

Immediately following this episode, the Pharisees come "seeking from Him a sign from heaven, to test Him." Just as the disciples had seen the feeding of the five thousand, but did not have faith that Jesus could feed the four thousand, so the Pharisees - like all those assembled - had just seen the miracle, but failed to understand it. Jesus answers them in an interesting way. In the parallel passage in Matthew's gospel, Jesus tells the Pharisees, "An evil and adulterous generation seeks for a sign, but no sign will be given to it except the sign of Jonah," that is, resurrection. Luke uses similar language about the sign of Jonah, as does Matthew in an earlier passage. But in Mark's gospel, Jesus simply tells the Pharisees, "No sign shall be given to this generation." Not even the sign of Jonah? Are the various gospels at odds on this point? I suspect not; rather, I think we can read Jesus' words in Mark as indicating that the Pharisees - who have clearly just had a sign - will not understand any, and thus all their seeing is of no more value than having no signs at all.

As Jesus and his disciples leave that area in the boat, He makes a comment about avoiding the leaven of the Pharisees and of Herod. The disciples misinterpret the remark and He must ask them, "Do you not yet perceive or understand? Are your hearts hardened? Having eyes do you not see, and having ears do you not hear. And do you not remember?... Do you not yet understand?"

The point receives further exposition when the boat lands in Bethsaida, where Jesus heals a blind man. Spitting on the blind man's eyes and laying His hands on him, Jesus asks, "Do you see anything?" The man gives an odd answer: "I see men, but they look like trees, walking." As I child I found this a funny notion, but later came to assume that the man meant that his vision was fuzzy and the healing incomplete. But this is not the only possible interpretation and, in light of the context, seems unlikely. First, we should ask ourselves: had this man ever seen before? If he had been blind from birth, he would not know what either men or trees looked like; his sole sources of information would be his other senses (primarily touch) and the descriptions other people had given him. If he was born blind, perhaps his comment should be interpreted to mean, "I see men, but I mistakenly think they look more like how I imagined trees than how I imagined men." Even if the man had not been born blind, might his memory of how things looked faded during his years of blindness? In either case, I think we should consider the second healing the man receives from Jesus a healing of his understanding, not his sight. His sight was healed initially, but without a healing of his understanding, a metaphorical opening of his eyes, the literal opening was not worth much.

The chapter ends with a final episode, involving Peter, which again highlights the theme of understanding. In a moment of great faith, Peter declares to Jesus, "You are the Christ." But as soon as Jesus begins talking about His suffering and death, Peter scolds Jesus, earning the rebuke, "Get behind me, Satan! For you are not on the side of God, but men." Again, Peter's understanding was limited: he could see that Jesus was the Christ, but did not understand the coming passion, death and resurrection.

Parsing all of this out can be a fun parlor game, an exercise in literary analysis. But if this is to have real value, we should pray for the wisdom to understand all the signs that God has scattered across our lives. We should pray not only to see Him at work, but to understand His plan, to see the full depths that He sees, and not merely superficially, as man sees.

Learning from the Free Imperial Cities

I have been known to write about Christian political mythology before. The whole notion might be considered problematic for a number of reasons (as the comments on the above post suggest). However, I find myself continuing to desire some sort of framework for thinking about Christian political philosophy precisely because Scripture provides so little.

To be sure, Scripture tells us a great deal about how to treat our neighbors: we are to love them, give them our coat, pray for them (even if they are our enemies). But Scripture does not tell us what form of government to have or how society should best serve the least among us. There are good reasons for this paucity of policy prescriptions: Scripture is primarily a theological account, not a political one. While Christianity has political implications, it is a religion, not a political party. Moreover, Scripture provides no single blueprint because there is more than one way to organize a just society. Still, I would like a little more to hold onto...

In the medieval era, many thinkers argued that the state should be organized as a monarchy, in imitation of the divine order, wherein Christ is King of the universe. This makes good sense: man is made in the divine image (Gen 1:27), is called to divine perfection (Mt 5:48) and love in imitation of God (Jn 13:34). Why, then, should man not also organize his polities in imitation of the divine?

There are, however, any number of problems associated with monarchy, as America's Founding Fathers pointed out. But does republican government necessarily undermine our understand of ourselves as subjects of Christ the King? I think not. The Cristeros of Mexico, though animated by a keen sense of divine kingship - best exemplified in their battle cry, "¡Viva Cristo Rey!" - were not bent on establishing a monarchy in Mexico. Instead, they wanted a republic that would accord with God's law and His Church.

A medieval model may here prove useful. In the Holy Roman Empire, there were free imperial cities, cities which received their charter directly from the Emperor and owed their allegiance to no intervening lord or margrave. Such cities were often governed by a municipal council. While conditions varied considerably from one city to the next, these councils usually had some sort of republican character, representing the leading families and guilds of the city, frequently through elections. Though they enjoyed extensive privileges, usually including exemption from taxation, such cities were essential to the Emperor, facilitating trade in his Empire and providing loans and other financial services to his imperial administration. Similar cities could be found throughout medieval Europe, sometimes called communes; in England, London enjoyed a similar status.

It strikes me that the notion of a "free imperial city" is a good way for Christians to think about how we organize our polities. On the one hand, the insights of republican government, checks and balances and other modern (and frequently secular) insights should not be discarded. On the other hand, we should never forget that our ultimate allegiance is to our Sovereign, from whom our charter for free government comes. In this light, there is a certain medieval flair to the Founders words: All men are created equal,... endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights.... To secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men.

Joseph, Son of David

Today we celebrate the feast of one of the Church's great saints and one of my personal favorites (as readers of this blog may recall): St. Joseph. Significant though he be, St. Joseph is one of the most enigmatic characters in Scripture. He is mentioned only a handful of times and speaks no lines. He was probably a humble man, a simple carpenter. He may have been one of the leading businessmen of the village of Nazareth, but Scripture gives no indication of this; more likely, he worked construction at the Roman resort complex at Decapolis, a short distance from Nazareth, which, we know from historical and archaeological sources, was a massive building project at the time. He probably carried his lunch pail to the building site each day, working alongside other Jewish laborers, piecing together instructions from his Roman superiors in broken Greek. But this is all speculation, and not based on biblical data.

But today's Gospel reading does provide us with one fascinating bit of information: the angel of the Lord addresses him as "Joseph, son of David." Here is this lowly man, about whom we know almost nothing, who speaks not a word in Scripture, but the Lord's messenger addresses him as one in the line of kings. If at first this seems incongruous, on closer examination we see just how fitting it is. In each generation a king teaches his son, the prince, what it means to be king; when he dies, the prince ascends the throne and in turn teaches his son to be king. But in the case of Joseph and his boy, the child is no mere prince, no merely human heir. Rather, this boy is the King of Kings and Lord of Lords. Who, then, is worthy to raise Him to manhood? Who can teach Him to be a king? Is Joseph, the carpenter, the one? Surely not, man would say. Indeed, he is, God answers. He is a son of David, not simply by blood, but in the fullest sense.

David was many things: a warrior, a poet, a king. Also an adulterer and murderer, a man with too much blood on his hands to build the temple. But apart from his successes and in spite of his failings, David was most importantly a man after God's own heart. So when the angel addresses today's saint as "Joseph, son of David," we should hear, "Joseph, after the Lord's own heart." Is it any wonder the Lord should choose such a man to be the foster father of His Son?

St. Joseph, patron of husbands, patron of fathers, carpenter of Nazareth, son of David, man after God's own heart: Pray for Us!

Life in the Spirit, Part III: First Things Last

Continuing from Parts I and II...

One of the best ways of discerning the workings of the Holy Spirit is in conjunction with others. This is part of the reason why Rome supports the Charismatic Renewal through the Catholic Fraternity of Charismatic Covenant Communities and Fellowships, an organization under the auspices of the Pontifical Council for the Laity. I mentioned the Catholic Fraternity in my first post, but did not elaborate on its significance. This is not just an organizational matter. Discerning the work of the Holy Spirit in our lives is not something one learns overnight. Some people attend a single prayer meeting, are told they have received the baptism of the Holy Spirit and are then released out into the world, without explanation, without formation and without the support of a community. This is at odds with natural common sense and with God's revelation in the Church, which unites its many members in a single body. Thus, charismatic prayer ought not be separated from community life and the guidance of holy and mature leaders.

Like all aspects of our faith, we should remember that the charismatic life does not happen in a vacuum. As mentioned above, we must be faithful to reading the Scriptures and listening to God's voice there if we also want to hear Him in our hearts. We must be striving to grow in virtue: in patience, generosity, humility, self-control. These and the other virtues orient us to truth and goodness, disposing us to the Lord's will and giving us the continence to act upon it. Moreover, if we are to grow and flourish in the charismatic life we need to be receiving the sacraments, sources of grace and mercy.

I shall conclude this discussion with a point which I probably ought to have made explicit from the beginning. The Holy Spirit is not a force or an idea or a feeling. The Holy Spirit is a person, the Third Person of the Holy Trinity, one in being with the Father and Son, but also distinct from them. Thus, we should not think about charismatic prayer as a mechanistic process, whereby we can expect experiences X, Y and Z if we engage in actions A, B and C. No, charismatic prayer is primarily a relationship, a personal relationship with the Holy Spirit, Whom Christ sent to us after His ascension. If we recall that the Holy Spirit is a person and our prayer is a relationship, many things fall into their proper place. Of course we cannot "master" charismatic prayer in a day; relationships take time to grow and develop. Moreover, just as I relate to some friends differently than others, so different people will have different relationships with the Spirit. This is not a deficiency in anyone's prayer, but a sign of intimacy, that the Spirit knows and loves us in unique ways.

These are but a few thoughts that came to me over the course of a couple evenings. I hope they have elucidated a few dimensions of the charismatic life. But if you really want to meet the Holy Spirit, it will not on a blog. Rich Mullins once explained, "If you really want spiritual nourishment, read your Bible, go to church." And if you want to encounter the Holy Spirit, it will be in prayer. So go meet Him there.

Seeing Beyond the Human

One day, while eating lunch at the National Archives (pictured left), I heard the next table over discussing the Bible. My ears immediately perked up, since matters of faith are hardly normal lunchtime conversation material in such quarters. I was disappointed, however, to realize that the discussion was strictly about translations of Scripture, and not matters of faith or theology.

I have complained before about the inability of contemporary culture to consider the Highest Things. Recently I have observed another dimension of this problem.

Outside the confines of the Quincy House - whose dining room alone contained a dozen religious images at last count - and similar circles, I have frequently observed that the Church is viewed as a strictly human institution. More to the point, even the Church's claims to being more than human are overlooked. This often - though not exclusively - focuses on the Church's failures and the crimes that have been committed in her name. Admittedly, the Church's failures are real and not to be overlooked; aside from historic massacres and torture, in our own day there are many who have been profoundly hurt by injustices committed by the sons of the Catholic Church.

In light of such visible shortcomings, I would expect one of two responses. The first, which you can hear from the Church's adherents, is that the Church is both human and divine, always sanctifying while herself in need of sanctification. Moreover, not all who call themselves Catholic, or are even visibly joined to the Church, are in fact members of Christ' mystical Body and animated by His Spirit (cf. St. Augustine's City of God). The other response I would expect would be to argue that a loving God would never allow such injustices and therefore Christ' presence must not reside in the Catholic Church (or, for that matter, any human institution. If you really want to get picky, you might even call into question the Incarnation or the notion of divine self-revelation, both of which are bound to get mixed up in human messiness).

Oddly, I rarely hear this second response. Instead, the Church's supernatural claims are usually ignored. Rather than denouncing the Church for failing to measure up to perfection, she is simply castigated for being a tad lower than other human institutions, which are thereby deemed better. (By extension, on the days when the Church is perceived as doing good - feeding the hungry, caring for orphans - she may rise to the top of the heap, but it is nevertheless a low heap.) Nowhere is there a consideration of the Perfect, the Absolute, something that might circumscribe all human institutions and activities.

Perhaps this is simply a result of the fact that much of my time is spent with fellow historians, who are some of the more practically-minded members of the liberal arts family. But I think the problem is far more widespread than that, and it has a name: materialism.

Materialism is by no means new. The First Vatican Council condemned it in its First Canon: "If anyone is so bold as to assert that there exists nothing besides matter: let him be anathema" (section 2). Of course, most people would not be so bold as to say that. It is fairly difficult to prove that nothing but the material exists, so most folks are intelligent enough to concede that the spiritual may be out there. But aside from this single concession, the same people will elsewhere ignore the possibility of the spiritual, both in their thought and in their actions.

What then are we to make of this rampant materialism? What are we to do in such times? I am afraid I have no genius answers, other than to throw generous quantities of salt about and pray for the best.


Incidentally, if you would like a tshirt with today's Vatican I quotation on it, just steer your browser over to anathemasit.com.

"I Did Not Know Him"

The other day I was reading the first chapter of St. John's gospel. It is an interesting passage for a variety of reasons, but one of them is this little oddity: John the Baptist says of Jesus:

I did not know him, but the reason why I came baptizing with water was that he might be made known to Israel.... I did not know him, but the one who sent me to baptize with water told me, "On whomever you see the Spirit come down and remain, he is the one who will baptize with the holy Spirit" (1:31, 33; all quotations come from the NAB, unless otherwise indicated).

This would seem to contradict the claims of St. Luke's gospel that Jesus and John the Baptist were kinsmen whose mothers spent several months together. Moreover, we know that Jesus' family visited Jerusalem for the pilgrimage festivals when He was growing up, so it seems unlikely that His kinsman John would not have known Him. What are we to make of this seeming contradiction?

The answer, I think, lies written all over the chapter, and tells us about a lot more than simply solving a small textual problem. So let's go to the beginning of the gospel. There St. John takes us all the way to beginning of time, back to Genesis, opening with the same line, "In the beginning..." (1:1). We are told that "the light shines in the darkness / and the darkness has not overcome it" (1:5). The NIV says that "the darkness has not understood it." Does that ring a bell with Genesis? "The woman saw that the tree [of knowledge of good and evil] was good for food, pleasing to the eyes, and desirable for gaining wisdom. So she took some of its fruit" (3:6). Seeking knowledge, she grasped after what had not been given, bringing death upon the human race. So too the darkness in St. John's gospel grasps, but it comes up short. It can neither understand nor contain the light. But "the true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world" (1:9). Notice who does the action: enlightenment is received by those who have it; it is not something they produce or achieve for themselves.

Returning then to the enigmatic figure of John the Baptist: when asked if he is the Messiah, Elijah or the Prophet, he denies that he is any of them. When he sees Jesus he quickly announces, "Behold the Lamb of God!" (1:29). John is keen to avoid the limelight. And I think his comments about knowledge - or rather, ignorance - of Jesus and His identity underline this. John did not grasp at an understanding of who Jesus was. He did not ascertain it by his own powers of mind. Rather, it was revealed to him by God, something for which he could take no credit.

This theme of knowing infuses the entire chapter. Those who think they can know by their own power fail - "the world did not know him... his own people did not accept him" (1:10-11). But to those who come before Him in humility of heart, Jesus says, "Come, and you will see" (1:39). For those who accept that knowledge is an invitation and a gift, Jesus promises "you will see the sky opened and the angels of God ascending and descending on the Son of Man" (1:51). Not that we could ever see such things on our own, but God, in His self gift, reveals them to us.

On St. Joseph

On this, the Feast of the Holy Family, I thought it might be appropriate to share a few thoughts on one of my favorite saints, St. Joseph.

Some years ago an interesting detail of Scripture was pointed out to me. When people in the crowds would refer to Jesus as "the carpenter's son," this was not simply a description: it was a back-handed insult. Because, you see, in a town the size of Nazareth, gossip surely spread quickly; not long after the Annunciation everyone in the village would have known that Mary was pregnant, and Joseph was not the father. So when they called Jesus "the carpenter's son," it was with a nudge and a wink. They all knew Joseph did not father this son.

Have you ever wondered why St. Joseph is often depicted holding a lily? Pius tradition tells the story that the lovely Mary of Nazareth had so many men seeking her hand that the suitors eventually had to draw sticks. No doubt one was a bit longer than the rest, to indicate the winner, but when Joseph drew his, the end promptly blossomed into a lily. Whether or not he drew the long one I do not know, but at that point it was pretty clear he was the winner. (Raphael and other artists sometimes depict a loser breaking his stick on his knee in frustration.) While the story is probably apocryphal, I have no doubt that Joseph was thrilled beyond words to be betrothed to Mary. So as much as he wanted to believe the best, he must have been absolutely crushed to discover that she was with child. (Indeed, it took a message from an angel for him to take Mary as his wife [Matt 1:20], and understandably so.)

People who know Greek tell me that Joseph's occupation might better be translated as "builder": a man who worked in wood, yes, but perhaps also in stone. In light of the large Roman building project going on nearby, we can speculate that Joseph was probably a construction worker. From time to time the conversation at the work site probably went a bit lewd, and you can be sure that Joseph came in for his share of abuse. After all, he was the cuckold with the wandering wife, or so it would seem. What answer can you give to such accusations? "No, really guys, she conceived through the power of the Holy Spirit." Right... I have no doubt that, being a construction worker, Joseph was a large, burly man, who could have easily decked someone. But rather than witty retorts or quick violence, I suspect Joseph responded with sorrow. I image that, no matter how often he heard such abuse, the pain never really went away; not that he cared much what other said about him, but how could they say such things about his beloved bride? (And how could he explain the absence of subsequent children? Marital chastity is not exactly the norm.)

We often meditate upon the sorrows of Our Lady, but I think we tend to forget the difficult life St. Joseph must have lived, from the stunning revelation of Mary's pregnancy and the Child's birth in a Bethlehem shed, to the flight into Egypt and the ongoing humiliations of life in Nazareth. And yet, I have no doubt that at the end of his days, Joseph would have told you that he was blessed beyond all just deserts and would not have traded the life he lived for any other.

Indeed, I imagine him on his death bed, with Jesus at his side, telling Him, "Son, I know You've come from God, and I know I don't always understand what that means, but I trust that Your Father hears You whenever You pray." Joseph summons up a little more strength, and with tears welling up in his eyes says, "Please, Jesus, do me this one favor: take care of your mother for me. And... and when You raise us up, on the last day, can I be with her again? It would mean more to me than You know..." And Jesus, Himself now lost in tears, looks at Joseph and tells him, "Father, I do know, and I promise you, it shall be so."

Did you know St. Joseph is the patron of a happy death? Reassured that the love of his family would extend into the hereafter, I have no doubt that his death was just that.

An Ancient Approach to Political Warfare - Part I

In his work Propaganda and Subversion in the Old Testament, Rex Mason makes regular reference to ‘prophecies after the event,’ (vaticinia ex eventu). Mason’s reading of these accounts is rather straightforward: such prophecies were written after the events they predicted and function as legitimizing propaganda, either for a status quo power or for forces of change.* While this may be the case with some prophecies, particularly those whose level of detail cannot otherwise be explained (at least by human factors), there are a variety of other prophetic occasions which allow for a far more nuanced understanding of political warfare as waged in the Old Testament. The appropriation of a pre-existing tradition, rather than the creation of one out of whole cloth, not only provides valuable insights for modern-day political warfare practitioners, but also begins to resolve some of the tension between the human and divine elements of the Old Testament narrative.

In Genesis 15, Abraham is promised the “land from the river of Egypt as far as the great river Euphrates,” including the land of the “Kenites, Kenizzites, Kadmonites, Hittites, Perizzites, Rephaim, Amorites and Canaanites.” Mason points out that “these are the very borders ascribed to Solomon’s rule at the height of his fortunes: ‘Solomon exercised rule over all the kingdoms from the River [i.e. the Euphrates], to the land of the Philistines, that is, as far as the border of Egypt’” (33-4; internal quotation from 1 Kings 4:21). Mason comments that “the parallel between the ideal boundary claimed in royal propaganda for Solomon and the extent of land promised to Abraham in the ‘prophecy’ cannot be coincidental,” and concludes that “the stories of Abraham have an element of royal ideology in them” (34). However, an alternative reading of this parallelism is plausible.

It is quite possible that the story of the land promised to Abraham predated the Davidic monarchy; even if some editing has occurred between the Davidic-era version and the one that has come down to us, the essential details – including the borders of the lands promised to Abraham – may have already been set down. In such a case, Solomon would not have created the account of earlier events to match his kingdom, but shaped the perception of his kingdom to imply continuity with the past. Without realizing, Mason himself seems to have considered this possibility when he notes that the boundaries claimed by Solomon were “very largely fancy, for Solomon’s ‘empire’ (if such it may be called) certainly did not extend as far nor did he receive tribute from as many nations,” as named in the Abrahamic prophecy (34).**

A host of similar cases can be found in Mason’s work. He contends, for example, that the accounts of the Israelite tabernacle are “clearly influenced by the later Jerusalem temple,” in an attempt by priestly editors to write the central role of the temple into earlier history (57). While this interpretation is possible, Mason’s chronological gymnastics are hardly necessary to understand the parallelism between the tabernacle and the temple. Just as likely, priestly or royal personnel involved in the construction of the temple reached into Israelite history and consciously drew upon the example of the tabernacle, in order to imply continuity with the past, even if the temple in fact marked a shift in Israelite spirituality, as Mason argues.

Coming soon: Part II.


* I employ the term ‘propaganda’ throughout in the same way Mason does, to indicate ‘the presentation of material so as to express a particular belief or set of beliefs in such a way as to command assent to it from those to whom it is addressed’ (170). Thus, ‘propaganda’ is a neutral term referring to a method, not to the truth or falsehood, justice or injustice of the cause being promoted.

** To be fair, Mason does not explicitly advocate the position that these prophecies were completely fabricated after the fact; rather, he leaves the issue of their original material largely untouched, and appears not to have thought about this question in a systematic way. Thus, we find him at one point claiming that “the priests were creating a social order” (63) and then turning around and writing that the priests “skillfully preserved continuity with what had gone before” (64, emphasis added).

Of Textual Analysis and Presidental Elections

Some time ago I was reading a book by a fellow named Rex Mason and I came across this passage:

It is difficult to know exactly how the 'kingship' to which Saul was appointed was understood. There are conflicting accounts of how he came to be made king. In 1 Samuel 8, the people come to Samuel and demand a king, much to Samuel's displeasure. In 1 Samuel 9.1-10.1, Samuel, the prophet, is directed by God to anoint Saul, who turns up at his house asking for an oracle to guide him to his father's lost sheep. In 1 Samuel 10.17-25, Saul is chosen by lot at an assembly of the Israelites convened by Samuel. In 1 Samuel 11, Saul is designated because of his military prowess against the threat of the Ammonites and is 'made king' at Gilgal.

In the midst of all this confusion, Mason concludes that this jumble results from pro-David, anti-Saul propaganda cranked out by the Davidic court, obscuring the truth about how Saul really became king.

I find this sort of interpretation terribly aggravating not because Mason ignores the claims of Scripture as God's revelation and in the process badmouths one of my favorite Old Testament figures. No, I find the interpretation of Mason and those like him aggravating because it's so darn uncreative. Are they so naive as to believe that coronations are always cut and dry affairs, and any other sort of account must have been manipulated?

Let us assume that years from now a Masonite analyst is reading over an account of our own times; his commentary might run something like this:

It is difficult to know exactly how the 'presidency' to which George W. Bush was elected was understood. There are conflicting accounts of how he came to office. In 1 Linderman 8, a faction of the people come to Bush and 'nominate' him president. In 1 Linderman 9.1-10.1, Bush loses the popular vote of an election, and presumably the office. But in 1 Linderman 10.17-25, Bush wins the votes of a body known as the 'Supreme Court,' which does not make him president, but allows him to win an election in one particular state, called Florida. In 1 Linderman 11, Bush wins yet another election, this one in a body called the 'Electoral College'. Then in 2 Linderman 1 Bush is 'sworn into office' by a judge, election by yet another means.

Clearly, nothing that complex could ever have really happened...

This post first appeared on the Quincy House blog in September 2007, under the title, "A Note on Textual Analysis."