August 30: Gender-bending in the Song of Songs

In the film The Wedding Crashers, Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson play two young men who pretend to be guests at weddings in order to attend the lavish receptions. In one scene the two characters, seated in church just before the Bible reading at a wedding, place a bet on whether the text will be from Song of Songs or I Corinthians 13. Vince Vaughn makes the losing bet on Song of Songs, grumbling as the reader begins, “Love is patient, love is kind . . .”

This scene indicates the extent to which the Song of Songs has become a familiar fixture in American culture. The verses from this week’s lectionary reading, 2:8-13 may be familiar to those of us who have been on the wedding circuit this summer. The Song was also a source of inspiration for Chagall, who created paintings intended as its illustrations:

8 Listen! My lover!
Look! Here he comes,
leaping across the mountains,
bounding over the hills.
9 My lover is like a gazelle or a young stag.
Look! There he stands behind our wall,
gazing through the windows,
peering through the lattice.
10 My lover spoke and said to me,
"Arise, my darling,
my beautiful one, and come with me.
11 See! The winter is past;
the rains are over and gone.
12 Flowers appear on the earth;
the season of singing has come,
the cooing of doves
is heard in our land.
13 The fig tree forms its early fruit;
the blossoming vines spread their fragrance.
Arise, come, my darling;
my beautiful one, come with me.



The authorship of the Song of Songs is unknown. Although Solomon is referenced in the text, words which may have a Greek, Persian, or Arabic origin have caused scholars to date the Song to the post-exilic period (NOAB, 959). In her essay “Ten Things Every Feminist Should Know about the Song of Songs,” appearing in The Song of Songs: a Feminist Companion to the Bible,” Cheryl Exum begins by acknowledging the extent to which this book is beloved by feminist theologians. She writes:

“At first glance, the Song of Songs seems to be a woman’s text: it boldly celebrates female desire, and the behavior of the woman . . . does not conform to the social norms we can construct from the rest of the Bible. A woman initiates sexual encounters; a woman roams the streets looking for her lover; a woman speaks openly about her desire; there is no indication that the couple or couples we meet in the Song are married, yet they are clearly lovers, at least on the level of double entendre.”

Alicia Ostriker is a Jewish feminist theologian who finds positive meaning in the Song. In her own essay, “A Holy of Holies,” she approaches the Song as both a love poem and an allegory of God’s love for Israel: “It is no accident that every mystical tradition on earth speaks of God as the beloved . . . If elsewhere we must divide the ‘sacred’ and the ‘secular,’ that division is annihilated in the Song.”

Ostriker goes on to characterize the Song as a “countertext” within the biblical canon. By this term, she means a text that does not portray and affirm hierarchical relationships between God and humans on the one hand, and men and women, on the other that are found in other books of the Bible. She writes that the song “. . . offers and extraordinarily egalitarian image of mutual love and desire” that can lead the reader to “the possibility of a mutually delighting love-relationship with God, which is not contingent on obedience or subordination” (Ostriker, 37).

She calls attention to how the speaker invites her lover, not to her father’s house, but to her mother’s house, in 3:4 and 8:2; the images imply the mother may have taught her daughter about sexuality. Ostriker also reads the refrain line to the Daughters of Jerusalem not to “awaken love until it is ready” as an image of romantic love in opposition to marriage arranged by parents for reasons of economics or social standing—or a relationship in which one partner is dominant (Ostriker, 46).

Exum and Ostriker both focus on the passage 5:2-8, in which the female speaker seeks her beloved and is beaten:

I sought him, but did not find him;
I called him, but he gave no answer.
Making their rounds in the city
the sentinels found me;
they beat me, they wounded me,
they took away my mantle,
those sentinels of the walls.
I adjure you, O daughters of Jerusalem,
if you find my beloved,
tell him this:
I am faint with love.

Ostriker reads this passage as a plea for greater inclusion for women within their religious tradition. Coming from a tradition of theology in which women’s religious experience is emphasized, Ostriker connects this passage to ostracizing of women in modern times. She gives examples of how women are not always allowed to act as equal participants in worship: “Women who dare to pray aloud at the Kotel (the Western or ‘Wailing’ Wall at Jerusalem) have been spat on, cursed, called whore. . . . Although nothing in halakhah (rabbinic law) actually forbids these women’s activity, the Supreme Court of Israel pronounces that ‘custom’ should be observed” (Ostriker, 53).

Cheryl Exum reads the Song as certainly gender-bending, but not necessarily as the strong image of gender equality with regard to love, sex, and the body that Ostriker does. In her essay, she begins by stating that the Song does not purport to describe an actual woman—it is a series of love poems and an artistic creation. She goes through possible scenarios of authorship, including David Cline’s suggestion that the Song is a male fantasy: a male writer creating his ideal dream woman (Exum, 28).

Expressing surprise that a culture with strict regulations concerning female sexuality (insofar as early Biblical texts indicate) would produce the Song, Exum then describes how a poet might create an imaginative vision of what life might be like outside social norms. She highlight explicit gender-bending in the Song’s imagery: the woman is often described using military imagery such as warrior shields, a defensive wall, towers, while the man’s body is compared to ivory, sapphires, and alabaster. Exum quotes Daphne Merkin: “Any putatively male love object described with . . . such a decidedly female sense of adornment presents ripe territory for study” (Exum, 30).

Exum focuses on currents that run counter to the image of egalitarian passion. She points out the elusiveness of the male lover who bounds over hills, but comes and goes—in the beating scene, the woman is searching for her lover who knocks on her door but then abruptly leaves. She questions, “Does his freedom of movement reflect a social reality that she has internalized, since that is how she thinks of him?” (Exum, 30). Responding to theologians who read the beating scene as a figment of the woman’s dream, Exum wonders whether the poet wants to depict a woman with a sense of threat, if this is what she dreams about. Her final conclusion affirms the Song’s complex portrait of desire:

“Our protagonist is assertive, determined, and, not least important, vulnerable. This combination makes her an irresistible subject for further feminist investigation. Feminist readers of this Best of Songs might to well to say to the ancient authors and traditionalists who preserved it for us, ‘Thanks for your text, and I’ll decide how to read it.’” (Exum, 35).

Other lectionary readings for this week include Psalm 45: 1-2, 6-9; James 1:17-27; Mark 7: 1-8, 14-15, 21-23.

--Elizabeth Fels

Source: Brenner, Athalya, and Fontaine, Carole R., eds. The Song of Songs: a Feminist Companion to the Bible. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000.

Chagall photo credits here and here.

August 23: Vampires

56 Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in him. 57 Just as the living Father sent me and I live because of the Father, so the one who feeds on me will live because of me. (John 6)

I was told in preparation for the AP Literature exam, “if you don’t know what to write, argue that the central figure is intended to be read as a Christ-symbol.” Milking one’s religious heritage to score points on a test is not necessarily the best advice, apart from the fact that this strategy would work better for some characters than others. Tom Robinson: sure; Hamlet: stretching it. However, for centuries artists have incorporated central elements of the Christian narrative—atonement, resurrection, eternal life—
in narratives about redemption. One part of pop culture that explicitly appropriates, and interrogates, narrative elements from the Gospels is the HBO Vampire series True Blood. The show is based on the novels of Charlaine Harris, a senior warden at her town’s Episcopal Church.

One of the most interesting aspects of what one might call the Christian narrative thread in True Blood is its interrogation of revenge. While the show follows basic vampire genre conventions in showing lots of fangs and gore, in addition to hand-to-hand combat and chase scenes, the show’s major source of tension lately has not been “Will she escape?” or “What’s behind that door?” but, “Should one return violence with violence?”

In the world of the show, the production of synthetic blood has allowed vampires to come out of the closet, so to speak, living openly with humans. There is a thinly veiled extended metaphor between vampires and homosexuals. For example, at one point the characters see on television news that Vermont has just starting recognizing marriages between vampires and humans. In another instance, a young man introduces his vampire girlfriend to his mother; although the girlfriend is eager for acceptance, the young man’s mother announces that she will never condone her son’s relationship with a partner “who can’t have children.”

The last shows focus on rising tension between a self-identified Christian community called The Fellowship of the Sun and the vampires of Dallas, Texas, who are attempting to integrate into society or mainstream. The head pastor of the Fellowship, Steve Newlin, claims that his father was killed by a vampire, and sets the eradication of vampires as the goal of his church. “We are fighting for God’s green earth, and daytime, and Christmas, and Easter eggs, and all that is sacred and good! We are fighting for…human rights, human rights,” the pastor and his wife claim on national TV—when asked to justify why their church armed a suicide bomber who killed both vampires and humans.



The character who my former colleague would identify as the “Christ-symbol” is a 2000-year old vampire named Godric, the Sheriff of the Dallas vampire community. Godric does not purport to be divine, or to assist humans in building a relationship with God. What he does do is explicitly take a stance against the use of violence to end violence, or returning evil with evil. When the Fellowship attempts to kidnap a vampire to be killed in a gruesome ceremony, Godric reasons that they will not stop until they succeed, and accordingly allows himself to be captured.

Two vampire characters that embody different ways of responding to violence are Godric and Stan. Dressed in a black cowboy hat and rippling with muscle, Stan demands that vampires respond to the Fellowship simply by killing them—after all, the vampires are immeasurably stronger—and organizes a vampire squad to attack the church. Godric however appears in time to do what one might call conflict mediation. He asks the humans whether they are prepared to die for their leader, and in response they calm down and slowly exit. Losing respect among vampires who long to take revenge through violence does not deter Godric.

While I will not give away the final plot turn, the most recent show entitled “I Will Rise Up” brings the Christian narrative thread in True Blood to a resolution. In so doing, the show offers a modern interpretation of questions at the core of the crucifixion narratives: what does it mean for a single individual to atone for the wrongdoing of a group? What are plausible motivations to not demand eye for an eye and return violence with violence? In presenting scenarios in which wronged groups and individuals decline to take revenge, and in explicitly integrating Christian imagery into its plotlines, True Blood illustrates the practice of mercy and the great personal cost that can accompany it.

The complete lectionary readings for this week are John 6:56-69; Ephesians 6:10-20; 1 Kings 8:(1,6,10-11), 22-30, 41-43; and Psalm 84.

Photo Credit

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August 16: "Thy love is better than wine."

The lectionary readings for this week include Ephesians 5: 15-20:

15 Be very careful, then, how you live—not as unwise but as wise, 16 making the most of every opportunity, because the days are evil.

17 Therefore do not be foolish, but understand what the Lord's will is. 18 Do not get drunk on wine, which leads to debauchery. Instead, be filled with the Spirit.

19 Speak to one another with psalms, hymns and spiritual songs. Sing and make music in your heart to the Lord 20 always giving thanks to God the Father for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Whether or not drinking alcohol is morally aboveboard is a point of contention among American churches. When I was growing up in Western Kentucky, a woman in our community once asked my mother, who enjoys an occasional glass of red wine, how she could possibly consider herself a Christian and drink. When my mother pointed out that Jesus changed water to wine during the Cana wedding, suggesting that He harbored a favorable view toward it, the woman retorted that water was not safe to drink during the time in which Jesus lived. “Then why didn’t Jesus turn the water into clean water?” my mother asked.

However, Christians who aspire to not drink at all have more substantial reasons justifying using grape juice instead of wine at the Eucharist. For those attempting to read the Bible literally, Ephesans 5:18 is one of the major verses that justifies abstaining from alcohol: “Do not get drunk on wine, which leads to debauchery. Instead, be filled with the Spirit.” In this verse, Paul portrays getting drunk as an obstacle blocking spiritual guidance, in a straightforward, one could even say didactic, manner: getting drunk runs counter to “the Lord’s will.”

Other biblical passages in keeping with this gist include Proverbs 23:31-32: “Look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth his colour in the cup, when it moveth itself aright. At the last it biteth like a serpent, and stingeth like an adder.” Romans 13:13 parallels drunkenness and hurtful behavior: “Let us walk honestly, as in the day; not in orgies and drunkenness, not in sexual immorality and debauchery, not in dissension and jealousy.” In I Corinthians 5:11, Paul explicitly tells his follows not to associate with those who drink: “But now I have written unto you not to keep company, if any man that is called a brother be a fornicator, or covetous, or an idolater, or a slanderer, or a drunkard, or an extortioner; with such a one no one is to eat.”

Adding to the complexity of biblical passages on alcohol is the extent to which wine looms large in poetic metaphors. The opening of the Song of Songs, “Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine,” suggests, like the Cana miracle, that wine is a good thing.

One question that such passages raise is, to what extent might these strictures apply to our lives today? Should they be read literally? Are Paul’s commands not to drink, and not to associate with those who do, remnants of a bygone era in which the Early Church was competing with Greek temples for members? How might one read these passages metaphorically in a manner that resonates in a contemporary context?

One theme in Paul’s writing that Christians who do not drink sometimes use is the importance of not being a “stumbling block” for others. A quarterback of the University of Iowa’s football team, an evangelical Christian, once explained to me that he did not drink, not because he thought it intrinsically immoral, but because he knew that other male students looked up to him as a model: “I’m big enough to handle it. But someone who’s not might watch me and try to do what I do,” he said.

One distinction ministers and pastors may make concerning these passages is between social drinking and addiction. In spiritual autobiographies, it is not uncommon to see a motif of either the writer or someone the writer is close to moving more deeply into their faith at the same time that they get an addiction to drinking under control.

Beliefnet.com quotes Johnny Cash as saying on his alcoholism,

“There was nothing left of me. I had drifted so far away from God and every stabilizing force in my life that I felt there was no hope . . . My separation from Him, the deepest and most ravaging of the various kinds of loneliness I’d felt over the years, seemed finally complete. It wasn’t. I thought I’d left Him, but He hadn’t left me. I felt something very powerful start to happen to me, a sensation of utter peace, clarity, and sobriety. Then my mind started focusing on God.”

Also representative of this motif in personal testimony is Patricia Gaddis’ account of her father, who stopped drinking after being diagnosed with leukemia and being told that his treatment combined with alcohol would be less effective. Gaddis first describes growing up often having to flee her house as a child when her father drank. Then she explicitly links her father’s sobriety with a vector of spiritual transformation:

“Sobriety gave dad a new interest in our living conditions and he began making repairs to the house. He also began attending church, reading the Bible daily, and attempting to make amends to those he had hurt. In his own way, dad followed a spiritual recovery program, turning his problems over to God . . .”

Passages such as these reflect what seems to be a strong need for coherence: to present a life narrative with a recognizable arc.

In an interview about her project on Bill Wilson, credited with founding Alcoholics Anonymous, Susan Cheever (the daughter of writer John Cheever) discusses how Wilson helped create a cultural shift to viewing alcoholics as “bad” to viewing them as “sick.” She also delves into how Wilson applied strands of New England religious thinking, by transcendentalists such as Thoreau and Emerson:

“Well 'God as we understand him.' That's Thoreau. That's Emerson. It seems to me that he took all these different strands--the religious, pure democracy, temperance, the transcendentalist-humanist strand, which was buttressed when he married a Swedenborgian--and wove them all into this astonishing program which has changed the way we think about addiction.”

On Wilson’s paradigm shift, Cheever continues,

“But he had learned that God was an extremely personal concept, and that you can never say to anyone, this is the kind of God you must have. Part of his genius was understanding that there are things no one person can prescribe for another if the person wants to help the other. This is where he really shifted the way we think. He understood that being drunk wasn't a lack of willpower or discipline. He understood that the way to treat addiction is to court a change of heart with the utmost gentleness. That is a really revolutionary idea.”

To conclude, an essay on Christian fiction by Lauren Winner indicates that even among American religious conservatives, attitudes towards drinking may be growing more varied. Describing how recent fiction geared toward a Christian audience includes characters who drink beer with meals and Irish coffee, Winner writes,

“American evangelicals' tendency toward teetotalism has translated into a marked absence of alcohol in fiction and narrative nonfiction for the Christian market. Until recently, if alcohol appeared at all, it was an immediate clue that the character with the drink was not to be trusted, and upon converting, even the most macho protagonists gave up alcohol. But increasingly in the evangelical subculture writ large, there is a greater diversity of opinion about drinking.”

To conclude, opinions on drinking within American Christian communities can be sharply divided. Many Christians self-identifying as progressives drink socially and would bristle at being told that they are doing anything wrong. However, in the spirit of reading the bible with another person’s perspective, it is worth keeping in mind that those struggling with addiction might have a different relationship with alcohol-related verses. Susan Cheever’s writing indicates that simple condemnation is an inadequate response to someone in one’s community struggling with addiction.

--Elizabeth Fels

Photo source

August 9: Absalom

The Hebrew Scripture reading, 2 Samuel 18:5-9, 15, 31-33, depicts Absalom’s gruesome death, and David’s response.

5 The king commanded Joab, Abishai and Ittai, "Be gentle with the young man Absalom for my sake." And all the troops heard the king giving orders concerning Absalom to each of the commanders.

6 The army marched into the field to fight Israel, and the battle took place in the forest of Ephraim. 7 There the army of Israel was defeated by David's men, and the casualties that day were great—twenty thousand men. 8 The battle spread out over the whole countryside, and the forest claimed more lives that day than the sword.

9 Now Absalom happened to meet David's men. He was riding his mule, and as the mule went under the thick branches of a large oak, Absalom's head got caught in the tree. He was left hanging in midair, while the mule he was riding kept on going.

15 And ten of Joab's armor-bearers surrounded Absalom, struck him and killed him.

The literal picture the text evokes is puzzling from a physical perspective. The passages elided in the lectionary reading incline the reader to reflect, how is possible to have one’s head caught in a tree branch? And for a period of time long enough for a soldier can return to his commander, have a longish conversation about whether or not to kill the king’s son, and then come back?

However it is possible to read the account of Absalom’s death as having a symbolic and narrative function. The context of the death scene is an extended narrative regarding Absalom’s attempted coup d’état against his father David. In Hebrew, “Absalom” is made of two words meaning “father”, which one might render in the English alphabet as “Abba”, and “Shalom,” or “peace.” The narrative on his rise and fall is juxtaposed with the narrative in which David has Uriah killed and marries his wife Bathsheba: the writer of 2 Samuel seems to suggest a retributive symmetry.

Absalom is a complex figure. 2 Samuel 13 describes the rape of Absalom’s sister Tamar by Amnon, David’s first son and heir from a different mother. Amnon lures his half-sister Tamar to his tent, pretending to be sick and asking her to bring him food. For those who would like more information, Phyllis Trible’s Texts of Terror contains a chapter that analyzes this scene in detail. After raping Tamar, Amnon calls his servants to remove her from his tent. Trible calls attention to how Amnon shifts from addressing her as “my sister” to “this woman,” a term that denotes contempt. Tamar takes refuge in Absalom’s dwelling place, but her father does not defend her: “When King David heard of all these things, he became very angry, but he would not punish his son Amnon, because he loved him, for he was his firstborn” (2 Samuel 13:21). Amnon, as the next in line to succeed David, is allowed to rape his sister with impunity.

Absalom’s first act of rebellion against David is portrayed as motivated by his desire to avenge his sister. Absalom invites Amnon to a celebration, at the height of which he commands servants to kill him. Although it is at first reported that Absalom has killed all of David’s sons, also present at the feast, David’s nephew explains, “. . . Amnon alone is dead. This has been determined by Absalom from the day Amnon raped his sister Tamar” (13:32). After this act, Absalom flees to a neighboring land in exile. After three years, David is persuaded to allow Absalom to return; however, Absalom is not allowed into David’s presence for three years (14:23).

The manner in which Absalom dies is foreshadowed in 2 Samuel 14, in the description of his hair: “Now in all Israel there was no one to be praised so much for his beauty as Absalom; from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head there was no blemish in him. When he cut the hair of his head . . . he weighed the hair of his head, two hundred shekels by the king’s weight” (25-26). The NOAB editors write that this is an extremely large amount of hair, and prefigures his death (467).

When Absalom is brought back into favor, he attempts to gain the sympathy of David’s subjects. The 2 Samuel writer describes him standing by the gate, saying to people who come with a grievance seeking justice from the king: “See, your claims are good and right; but there is no one deputed by the king to hear you. . . . If only I were judge in the land! Then all who had a suit of cause might come to me, and I would give them justice” (15:3-4). Absalom builds up power for himself, resulting in a messenger telling David, “The hearts of the Israelites have gone after Absalom” (15:13). Israel then plunges into civil war, culminating in the death of Absalom and defeat of his army, portrayed in the lectionary passage. The NOAB editors suggest that Absalom losing his mule--the animal on which members of the royal household road--reinforces his lost battle for the kingship.

31 Then the Cushite arrived and said, "My lord the king, hear the good news! The LORD has delivered you today from all who rose up against you."
32 The king asked the Cushite, "Is the young man Absalom safe?" The Cushite replied, "May the enemies of my lord the king and all who rise up to harm you be like that young man."

33 The king was shaken. He went up to the room over the gateway and wept. As he went, he said: "O my son Absalom! My son, my son Absalom! If only I had died instead of you—O Absalom, my son, my son!"

An aspect of this passage that stands out is the extent to which David mourns Absalom’s death. Although Absalom marshaled a military force that caused David to flee Jerusalem across the Jordan River, David is still capable of grieving his son’s death. At the beginning of this passage, we see David telling each of his commanders to spare Absalom’s life; his being stabbed is Joab’s decision, not David’s. David’s mourning prompts his commander and chief to use harsh words:

“You have made it clear today that commanders and officers are nothing to you; for I perceive that if Absalom were alive and all of us were dead today, then you would be pleased. So go out at once and speak kindly to your servants; for I swear by the LORD, if you do not go, not a man will stay with you this night . . .” (19:6-7)

The violence, betrayal, and unexpected grief in the narrative of Absalom’s death create a psychologically complex and tragic father-son relationship. William Faulkner’s novel Absalom, Absalom, about the rise and fall of a nineteenth-century Southern family, is a recast of this story. Other lectionary readings for this week include the following: Psalm 130 or Psalm 34:1-8; Ephesians 4:25-5:2; l John 6:35, 41-51.

Works cited:

Coogan, Michael, Ed. The New Oxford Annotated Bible (3rd ed). Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007.

Trible, Phyllis. Texts of Terror. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1984.