El viento baila y viene
Viene a destrozàr el edifício de tu auséncia
Me acuerda de ayer cuando estabamos juntos
Y no podíamos
Hoy si podemos
Hoy, a lo lejos, si podemos
El viento me lleva en caminos largas y estrechas hasta esos tiempos fijos:
tu sonrísa
las notas de tu voz
tu pelo tan claro y esquisita
Parece que el tiempo se ha cortado las alas en deferéncia de nosotros
Imagenes volàn, viénen y van
Y no se han muerto
Monday, December 27, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
A Chronicle of "Barnia"
Mr. Maldonado
It seems like a crossroads of existence and for a small town it might as well be.
You know, for a place like Kingsville, ripe with paradox (a curse-of-a-small-town nestled within the largest ranch in the world), their lives seem so mundane; if by mundane one means broken and perplexed, triumphant and forward looking, overworked and under paid, like the rest of the world but in the microcosm that is small town living. Taking what this life gives and making anything out of it, whether the best or the acceptable, I have the lot of seeing them everyday in this endeavor. It’s my job.
The frantic mother, always late, hurrying to buy breakfast for her kids before school; the still sleepy student who, in frustration, informs me he still can’t remember Avogadro’s number for his Chem. quiz in 30 minutes--Red Bull, please! And Ana: sweet, precious, efficacious Ana, every time I see her I can’t help but hum the chorus to Rod Stewart’s Some Guys Have All the Luck which tugs my heart into a platonic oblivion.
And then there’s Mr. Maldonado.
I have often sat in judgment of his drinking habits, which start bright and early as the dew. He drives into the Party Barn with his fingers raised in a “V” which is the sign letting me know he wants two Bud Light scuds.
Dame dos, he says, making sure I’ve gotten his order right.
Sometimes he springs for Camel Filters, always in the soft pack. He’s always joking. Most times, shit he says is not at all funny but I’d like to think he jokes anyway just to have a reason to let out his raucously big laugh; a laugh fraught with all the character that years of cold beers and cigarette smoke have given him. A laugh as deep and varied as the insistent wrinkles on his face. My judgments often take the form of snide remarks held within myself. Thoughts like, ‘ah, yes, the breakfast of champions’ or ‘are you on a liquid diet or what?’ and I indulge in little victories. I’ll never forget the time my judgment came to a stark halt when, as usual, he drove in; his grey Toyota Camry sporting a new spare tire. The lack of “the signal” became obvious only later.
Como estas, sir? Dos? I asked.
Si dame los dos.
As I plunged my hands into the icy water which held the beer, he solemnly informed me: Se me murio mi vieja a noche, his voice cracking along the fault lines of his sentence structure. It took a few milliseconds for me to register: No pendejo-this was no joke. And his words brushed cold upon me like the water that surrounded my hand.
Apenas vengo del hospital, he tells me.
I look at him wondering if I should say anything at all or whether to let my silence speak for me and just listen. And really, what could I say that has any semblance of meaning. All I can think to say is what I’ve heard my mom and countless elder relatives say at news like this: pero como? It turns out diabetes had struck its interminable changes upon yet another soul.
No se que hacer ya; voy a tomar hasta que muero yo tambien.
He followed this foresight with a rather shallow laugh, like he was half joking. But the tears in his eyes told a different story. Commerce is cruel in times like this, you know. With such emotion hanging in the air refusing to be denied or supplanted or overlooked, the price of his purchase lingered like the proverbial white elephant in the room, oh-so-ready to burst the bubble of poignancy he had created: $4.52, sir…
Ten, aqui tengo unas pesetitas.
He continued, pos, que le hacemos? Alla vamos todos, he bleakly surmised.
That’s true, I offered. I’m sorry to hear about your wife Mr. Maldonado. Que descanse en paz, eh.
Ojalah que pueda, era bien repelona mi vieja.
And there it was, like a gritty refugee breaking through the tyranny of grief; his laugh. His BIG raucous laugh. His grand laugh; His I-miss-her-so-much-I-just-wanna-fuckin-die laugh. It was morning, about 8:30 am, and the cars where stacking up behind him. The morning rush had overtaken 'the Barn' and not even the death of the cherished one could stop that. And so with polite acceptance he bid farewell and drove away.
It seems like a crossroads of existence and for a small town it might as well be.
It seems like a crossroads of existence and for a small town it might as well be.
You know, for a place like Kingsville, ripe with paradox (a curse-of-a-small-town nestled within the largest ranch in the world), their lives seem so mundane; if by mundane one means broken and perplexed, triumphant and forward looking, overworked and under paid, like the rest of the world but in the microcosm that is small town living. Taking what this life gives and making anything out of it, whether the best or the acceptable, I have the lot of seeing them everyday in this endeavor. It’s my job.
The frantic mother, always late, hurrying to buy breakfast for her kids before school; the still sleepy student who, in frustration, informs me he still can’t remember Avogadro’s number for his Chem. quiz in 30 minutes--Red Bull, please! And Ana: sweet, precious, efficacious Ana, every time I see her I can’t help but hum the chorus to Rod Stewart’s Some Guys Have All the Luck which tugs my heart into a platonic oblivion.
And then there’s Mr. Maldonado.
I have often sat in judgment of his drinking habits, which start bright and early as the dew. He drives into the Party Barn with his fingers raised in a “V” which is the sign letting me know he wants two Bud Light scuds.
Dame dos, he says, making sure I’ve gotten his order right.
Sometimes he springs for Camel Filters, always in the soft pack. He’s always joking. Most times, shit he says is not at all funny but I’d like to think he jokes anyway just to have a reason to let out his raucously big laugh; a laugh fraught with all the character that years of cold beers and cigarette smoke have given him. A laugh as deep and varied as the insistent wrinkles on his face. My judgments often take the form of snide remarks held within myself. Thoughts like, ‘ah, yes, the breakfast of champions’ or ‘are you on a liquid diet or what?’ and I indulge in little victories. I’ll never forget the time my judgment came to a stark halt when, as usual, he drove in; his grey Toyota Camry sporting a new spare tire. The lack of “the signal” became obvious only later.
Como estas, sir? Dos? I asked.
Si dame los dos.
As I plunged my hands into the icy water which held the beer, he solemnly informed me: Se me murio mi vieja a noche, his voice cracking along the fault lines of his sentence structure. It took a few milliseconds for me to register: No pendejo-this was no joke. And his words brushed cold upon me like the water that surrounded my hand.
Apenas vengo del hospital, he tells me.
I look at him wondering if I should say anything at all or whether to let my silence speak for me and just listen. And really, what could I say that has any semblance of meaning. All I can think to say is what I’ve heard my mom and countless elder relatives say at news like this: pero como? It turns out diabetes had struck its interminable changes upon yet another soul.
No se que hacer ya; voy a tomar hasta que muero yo tambien.
He followed this foresight with a rather shallow laugh, like he was half joking. But the tears in his eyes told a different story. Commerce is cruel in times like this, you know. With such emotion hanging in the air refusing to be denied or supplanted or overlooked, the price of his purchase lingered like the proverbial white elephant in the room, oh-so-ready to burst the bubble of poignancy he had created: $4.52, sir…
Ten, aqui tengo unas pesetitas.
He continued, pos, que le hacemos? Alla vamos todos, he bleakly surmised.
That’s true, I offered. I’m sorry to hear about your wife Mr. Maldonado. Que descanse en paz, eh.
Ojalah que pueda, era bien repelona mi vieja.
And there it was, like a gritty refugee breaking through the tyranny of grief; his laugh. His BIG raucous laugh. His grand laugh; His I-miss-her-so-much-I-just-wanna-fuckin-die laugh. It was morning, about 8:30 am, and the cars where stacking up behind him. The morning rush had overtaken 'the Barn' and not even the death of the cherished one could stop that. And so with polite acceptance he bid farewell and drove away.
It seems like a crossroads of existence and for a small town it might as well be.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Etudes In Longing
I
Fathers and mothers, brave sons and dear daughters turn ear my way. I carry with me the mist of her heirlooms: so fragile, tender and sweet. I cannot see them, I feel them. Nor can I touch them, for I have become them. I cannot display them, I live them out in the Visigoth of life. I guard in my being the memories of her past that I could rescue, rescue from the ever gathering dark.
~~
II
I often sit gazing at your picture and I still dream. Through the day and into the night I imagine us together. But then, suddenly, the flutter of hope subsides and I am left with the wings of dead butterflies that fall and wither away into a powdery nothingness, like my dreams that come as a wave and recede again into the ocean
~~
III
This day I long for the guns of yesteryear when we boldly crossed that little Rubicon of hope. You showed me the fate of destiny, it was bound in our love entwined like the roots of aged trees. Harbinger of many firsts, firsts that fell upon my ignorance like grapeshot. You alone silenced my cannons of fear and guarded me in the phalanx of your love. Repose I gained in the convent of your bosom and there I stayed. Til came the belligerent usurper and tore our house asunder and there, in platonic upheaval, I lept once more into the breach. Compelled to live in the light of mere memories now hallowed like soldiers on the ground.
~~
IV
I didn't count the cost that came with reverie. A life I thought was there ahead for me to see. Enraptured psychology, I walked right through the doors of independence. A different sort of fruit now grows upon this tree; cracked and marred by a cruel destructive victory. Constant soliloquies, I rage against the tears that flow within me.
~~
V
I thought I saw you in the sway of the tree. Your lovely form it took when it danced in the wind and caused within me a sigh; a sigh like you used to. And there in the sharpest break of green and blue and in the softest hiss of its song I knew you once again; and I was happy.
~~
VI
Y pienso que hamas voy a ver de amores, bebiste todo el agua que tenia. Y sin tu amor no es justo que se llena de nuevo. El quietud que quedo despues de tu presencia me fastidia y solo hay que cantar tu nombre. Como es que me encanta estar en mi jacal con mis suenos y mi deseo solo por hervir en ti.
~~
VII
See here my new found joy! She came as the morning sun and perforce drove many darknesses from my eyes. Bits and pieces they fell from my person like tiny scabs set in their way. As often happens on these sharp and bright mornings, when awake, the day presents her gift in a thousand forms of splendor, like the many faces of her.
~~
VIII
Part I: Elation
Kaleidoscopes may have once embraced the melody of her faces
And may someday capture the spring in her dance
Tonight, gaze brazenly into the sky for mere hints and glimpses of the wonders in her expression
Impetuous delights abound in the art of her playfulness
Entangled with each moment, like conspicuous pearls, are new and better reasons to smile
~~~
Part II: Longing
Renlinquish as best you can the gift of her presence
Assuage the sting of that cold darkened sound
Compelled to live in the light of mere memory
Hallowed like soldiers on the ground
Echoes of her linger: that porch, that couch, that tree
Leading to long winding roads of reverie
Longing to embrace once more the melody of her faces
Ebbing inevitably with the passage of time
~~~
Part III: Jubilation
Songbirds kiss the dawn, greetings in a thousand forms of splendor: the many faces of her
Mana falls with new expression-the shape of her smile
Inundated by wealth in her attention
Taken by the warmth of her style
Hail, O Fourtuna, she gave me new eyes and new meaning; evermore besotted in the brightness of her being
Fathers and mothers, brave sons and dear daughters turn ear my way. I carry with me the mist of her heirlooms: so fragile, tender and sweet. I cannot see them, I feel them. Nor can I touch them, for I have become them. I cannot display them, I live them out in the Visigoth of life. I guard in my being the memories of her past that I could rescue, rescue from the ever gathering dark.
~~
II
I often sit gazing at your picture and I still dream. Through the day and into the night I imagine us together. But then, suddenly, the flutter of hope subsides and I am left with the wings of dead butterflies that fall and wither away into a powdery nothingness, like my dreams that come as a wave and recede again into the ocean
~~
III
This day I long for the guns of yesteryear when we boldly crossed that little Rubicon of hope. You showed me the fate of destiny, it was bound in our love entwined like the roots of aged trees. Harbinger of many firsts, firsts that fell upon my ignorance like grapeshot. You alone silenced my cannons of fear and guarded me in the phalanx of your love. Repose I gained in the convent of your bosom and there I stayed. Til came the belligerent usurper and tore our house asunder and there, in platonic upheaval, I lept once more into the breach. Compelled to live in the light of mere memories now hallowed like soldiers on the ground.
~~
IV
I didn't count the cost that came with reverie. A life I thought was there ahead for me to see. Enraptured psychology, I walked right through the doors of independence. A different sort of fruit now grows upon this tree; cracked and marred by a cruel destructive victory. Constant soliloquies, I rage against the tears that flow within me.
~~
V
I thought I saw you in the sway of the tree. Your lovely form it took when it danced in the wind and caused within me a sigh; a sigh like you used to. And there in the sharpest break of green and blue and in the softest hiss of its song I knew you once again; and I was happy.
~~
VI
Y pienso que hamas voy a ver de amores, bebiste todo el agua que tenia. Y sin tu amor no es justo que se llena de nuevo. El quietud que quedo despues de tu presencia me fastidia y solo hay que cantar tu nombre. Como es que me encanta estar en mi jacal con mis suenos y mi deseo solo por hervir en ti.
~~
VII
See here my new found joy! She came as the morning sun and perforce drove many darknesses from my eyes. Bits and pieces they fell from my person like tiny scabs set in their way. As often happens on these sharp and bright mornings, when awake, the day presents her gift in a thousand forms of splendor, like the many faces of her.
~~
VIII
Part I: Elation
Kaleidoscopes may have once embraced the melody of her faces
And may someday capture the spring in her dance
Tonight, gaze brazenly into the sky for mere hints and glimpses of the wonders in her expression
Impetuous delights abound in the art of her playfulness
Entangled with each moment, like conspicuous pearls, are new and better reasons to smile
~~~
Part II: Longing
Renlinquish as best you can the gift of her presence
Assuage the sting of that cold darkened sound
Compelled to live in the light of mere memory
Hallowed like soldiers on the ground
Echoes of her linger: that porch, that couch, that tree
Leading to long winding roads of reverie
Longing to embrace once more the melody of her faces
Ebbing inevitably with the passage of time
~~~
Part III: Jubilation
Songbirds kiss the dawn, greetings in a thousand forms of splendor: the many faces of her
Mana falls with new expression-the shape of her smile
Inundated by wealth in her attention
Taken by the warmth of her style
Hail, O Fourtuna, she gave me new eyes and new meaning; evermore besotted in the brightness of her being
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Scenes From Matias ( Act I)
South Texas is a place where memories linger. Perhaps the flat land, where one can see for miles around and in any direction, keeps memories tied to the land for there are no mountains to guide them upward into infinity. Matias had memories too.
As he sat there listening to Mrs. O’Shea read, as she did every Friday after the days work, a conflict arose within him. He had heard this story before but not the way Mrs. O’Shea was telling it. He sat intently listening to the story waiting to hear what he knew should be there. As the key words echoed in his head: “…Texans” “…Mexicans” “…Santa Anna” “…Fannin” “…massacre” he wondered whether perhaps his mother had been mistaken. Or, he thought with dread, maybe she had lied. Maybe she hadn’t been there. Maybe she hadn’t loosened the bonds of some of the Texan rebels. Maybe she hadn’t provided food and water and shelter in defiance of the supreme Mexican general’s orders to execute every one of them.
As Mrs. O’Shea finished the story about the Battle of Goliad, Matias ventured a question: Does it tell of a woman who helped the Texan rebels escape execution? Does it say that she helped loosen their bonds, provided food and shelter? Or that she gave them water to drink?
Mrs. O’Shea replied “No…” in a tone reflecting curiosity. Wondering in Matias' she continued, “Why do you ask?”
My mother was the mate of Capt. Telesforo Alavez. She was there when those events took place.
Mrs. O’Shea shuffled through a few pages in deference to his question then firmly concluded “Matias, I’m afraid what you’re telling me is not found in this book.”
His first instinct was to cower in shame, he believed his mother after all.
How could this be? he thought. How could her efforts be left out only to be forgotten?
“That’s it for today, es hora de cenar” concluded Mrs. O’Shea as she stood to her feet; and walking to the doorway of the school house, she placed the book on a desk nearby. Matias’ mind was bubbling with thoughts, the kind of thoughts that had him feeling like he was on a horse and hastily being taken somewhere. As she thought aloud in a rambling fashion about her plans for next Friday’s reading, her heels clopping against the wooden floor, Matias’ gaze remained fixed on the book on the desk. By this time, feelings of shame were rapidly spiraling into frustration and anger.
How could these damned gringos forget such a woman that helped save their life? he murmured to himself.
“See you next week, Matias” said Mrs. O’Shea as she receded into the shadows of the schoolhouse.
A half-hearted wave was all Matias could muster in his pensive state. He walked slowly down the dirt road of the Santa Gertrudes ranch toward his house. The dust he kicked up as he walked in the South Texas heat gave him a tangible image of the storm brewing within him. As he approached the house he could see his mother at her chores and, already, he could smell dinner cooking. Today, however, he had not the will to determine by the aroma what was being prepared. The only smell that instantly found a home in his memory, as he walked in the door, were the freshly cooked tortillas that mounded the table.
Hola Mama, como estas? he asked, going through the motions of his usual routine; not wanting to alter anything that would clue his mother, Panchita, into the fact that this day was different.
“Pos“, she sighed, “aqui hijito, haciendo que hacer” she replied as she removed the last of the tortillas from the comal. Looking up to gaze upon her oldest child, she noticed the pensive look on his face.
“Matias, porque andas tan callado? Todo esta bein en el trabajo?”
Si mamma, todo esta bien. Alfonso le manda saludos.
“Como les fue con la senora O’Shea?” she asked casually, unaware that she had struck the very chord of his troubles.
Todo fue bien. Muy bien pero una cosa me fastidio. La senora O’Shea leyo de la batalla de La Bahia Espiritu Santo. Y no habia ninguna palabra de que usted les ayudo al los Americanos. Nunguna palabra! Fue como si…como si no estabas ayi! Se olvidaron de ti mamma!
Noticing her son was close to tears, Panchita put the palote down on the table. And walking toward him gesturing with motherly affection to sit next to her, she consoled him saying,
“Matias, el libro que leyo la senora O’Shea es una vercion de las batallas. Y si no hay mencion de mi, sera que no saben; no que se olvidaron. Basta que nosotros sabemos y acuerdamos de esos dias tragicas. O quicas, puedes tu educarlos! Quiero que sepas que nosotros Mexicanos nacimos del grito de Hidalgo y no del libro de los Americanos. Ven Matias, ya esta la comida.”
As he sat there listening to Mrs. O’Shea read, as she did every Friday after the days work, a conflict arose within him. He had heard this story before but not the way Mrs. O’Shea was telling it. He sat intently listening to the story waiting to hear what he knew should be there. As the key words echoed in his head: “…Texans” “…Mexicans” “…Santa Anna” “…Fannin” “…massacre” he wondered whether perhaps his mother had been mistaken. Or, he thought with dread, maybe she had lied. Maybe she hadn’t been there. Maybe she hadn’t loosened the bonds of some of the Texan rebels. Maybe she hadn’t provided food and water and shelter in defiance of the supreme Mexican general’s orders to execute every one of them.
As Mrs. O’Shea finished the story about the Battle of Goliad, Matias ventured a question: Does it tell of a woman who helped the Texan rebels escape execution? Does it say that she helped loosen their bonds, provided food and shelter? Or that she gave them water to drink?
Mrs. O’Shea replied “No…” in a tone reflecting curiosity. Wondering in Matias' she continued, “Why do you ask?”
My mother was the mate of Capt. Telesforo Alavez. She was there when those events took place.
Mrs. O’Shea shuffled through a few pages in deference to his question then firmly concluded “Matias, I’m afraid what you’re telling me is not found in this book.”
His first instinct was to cower in shame, he believed his mother after all.
How could this be? he thought. How could her efforts be left out only to be forgotten?
“That’s it for today, es hora de cenar” concluded Mrs. O’Shea as she stood to her feet; and walking to the doorway of the school house, she placed the book on a desk nearby. Matias’ mind was bubbling with thoughts, the kind of thoughts that had him feeling like he was on a horse and hastily being taken somewhere. As she thought aloud in a rambling fashion about her plans for next Friday’s reading, her heels clopping against the wooden floor, Matias’ gaze remained fixed on the book on the desk. By this time, feelings of shame were rapidly spiraling into frustration and anger.
How could these damned gringos forget such a woman that helped save their life? he murmured to himself.
“See you next week, Matias” said Mrs. O’Shea as she receded into the shadows of the schoolhouse.
A half-hearted wave was all Matias could muster in his pensive state. He walked slowly down the dirt road of the Santa Gertrudes ranch toward his house. The dust he kicked up as he walked in the South Texas heat gave him a tangible image of the storm brewing within him. As he approached the house he could see his mother at her chores and, already, he could smell dinner cooking. Today, however, he had not the will to determine by the aroma what was being prepared. The only smell that instantly found a home in his memory, as he walked in the door, were the freshly cooked tortillas that mounded the table.
Hola Mama, como estas? he asked, going through the motions of his usual routine; not wanting to alter anything that would clue his mother, Panchita, into the fact that this day was different.
“Pos“, she sighed, “aqui hijito, haciendo que hacer” she replied as she removed the last of the tortillas from the comal. Looking up to gaze upon her oldest child, she noticed the pensive look on his face.
“Matias, porque andas tan callado? Todo esta bein en el trabajo?”
Si mamma, todo esta bien. Alfonso le manda saludos.
“Como les fue con la senora O’Shea?” she asked casually, unaware that she had struck the very chord of his troubles.
Todo fue bien. Muy bien pero una cosa me fastidio. La senora O’Shea leyo de la batalla de La Bahia Espiritu Santo. Y no habia ninguna palabra de que usted les ayudo al los Americanos. Nunguna palabra! Fue como si…como si no estabas ayi! Se olvidaron de ti mamma!
Noticing her son was close to tears, Panchita put the palote down on the table. And walking toward him gesturing with motherly affection to sit next to her, she consoled him saying,
“Matias, el libro que leyo la senora O’Shea es una vercion de las batallas. Y si no hay mencion de mi, sera que no saben; no que se olvidaron. Basta que nosotros sabemos y acuerdamos de esos dias tragicas. O quicas, puedes tu educarlos! Quiero que sepas que nosotros Mexicanos nacimos del grito de Hidalgo y no del libro de los Americanos. Ven Matias, ya esta la comida.”
Thursday, July 1, 2010
A Certain Kind of Fiction
Note: The following characters, depictions and events are somewhat true
"It's not the act of death that bothers me," she said, "it's its unanimity." And she laughed as she said it.
Sure, I thought it a curious place for a laugh and I told her as much. But she shrugged her shoulders in that familiar form and the irony of what she had said fell off of me like a meaningless insult.
I went on telling her the story. So it's true, there is no real concept of hell in the old testament. It's a rather ambiguous place called Sheol. It's there the patriarchs went after they died. So when the Nicene creed reads Jesus descended into "hell" it probably doesn't mean what we think it means.
She thought for a moment and asked, "so it's kinda like when we say the underworld?"
Something like that, yes; I replied.
"Do you think maybe the Hebrews got the idea from the Egyptians? you know when..."
Just then, a knock broke the intensity of our conversation. We stared at each other, almost as if we had done something wrong. Or perhaps it was that we hadn't heard a knock at all. Then the jolting sound of the doorbell; followed by a distant knock echoed through the hall into my room. It was the front door we finally surmised. I was halfway to the door when I realized it was a Fed-Ex delivery.
"Something from Amazon.com for you, sir!"
He was a tall pale fellow, rather lanky. His hair was styled to be messy and jet-black; almost as if he had colored it the night before and the true color hadn't taken just yet. Considering the myriad of tattoos covering his arms, I thought it quite fitting.
It seems early 90's 'grunge' has yet to die out, I thought to myself.
As I signed for my parcel, it struck me that his jovial nature and the excitement with which he had presented himself was at odds with his styled look.
"Last name?" he asked.
Oh, Al-va-rez I retorted.
"Is that with an 'S' or a 'Z'?", he clarified.
A 'Z,' I returned.
"Cool, thanks man!" was his outro as he jogged away.
And before I could say anything in return he was in his truck and off to his next delivery.
As I made my way back to my room, Ariana called out "I'm over here!"
I stopped mid-step and made a 180. What are you doing in the kitchen? I asked.
"I figured I'd make us some iced tea, what do you think?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
Sounds refreshing! was my first and only thought.
"Is that the book? Huh...huh. is it...is it??" she inquired playfully.
Yes...yes...yes it is; it's finally here!! I said matching her silliness.
It was a book of photographs I encountered while browsing Amazon.com. Very specific pictures; it was a collection of black and whites of two 3rd century catacombs: one from Jerusalem and one from Rome. Early Christians used the underground necropolis for burying their dead; some say they also took refuge. And some say they even had fellowship there; that the earliest expressions of the Eucharistic Mass took its form in that underground world.
Whatever the case, they left their mark in wall carvings and in frescoes and mosaics. What was of interest to me was the specific manner in which they depicted Jesus, the miracle worker. Whether it was Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead or Jesus multiplying the loafs and fishes on the Mount of Olives, invariably these early pictographs placed in Jesus' hand a thing which can only be described as a magician's wand.
I had become interested in the subject after reading a work called 'Magic and Meal.' In it, the author, a former Roman Catholic Priest, expounded upon the sociological difference between a "miracle worker" and a "magician." He had come to the conclusion that there was really no substantive difference between the two; it was a matter of semantic nuance.
His cross-cultural analysis of societies had persuaded him that the only real difference, in whether a person was called a miracle worker or a magician, was the difference between official and unofficial religious practice. That is, within an official accepted religion the harbinger of wondrous deeds was called a miracle worker and within unofficial and unaccepted religious practice, the harbinger of wondrous deeds was called a magician. Or as he put it "...'we' practice religion...'they' practice magic'...'we' say prayers; 'they' cast spells."
With the dark smell of brewing tea hanging in the air and the gurgling cadence of percolation breaking the silence, I tore open the package. The book was not of an impressive size; a clue that the photos within were not heavily laden with text from an editor's hand. A chamber from the Roman catacombs of St. Callixtus adorned the cover. The fresco's that bordered the ancient loculi were small given the size of the book but enough was revealed to tantalize.
Seeing my excitement and taking advantage of my inattention, Ariana grabbed the book from my eager hands.
"LET ME see it!!" she barked as she ran off in a giggle.
Annoyed, I gazed at her making sure she noticed the offense. It took a moment for me to realize, yet again, that such attempts at passive aggression were futile. She had always found a way to cast them aside; usually like a moody teenager by rolling her eyes. But this time she perked up, looked back at me square in the eyes.
"What?" she asked with utter bravado.
"This book will always be with you; but me you may not always have." she said as she turned again toward the book.
Then she halfway looked up again and through her hair she flashed a muted smile; wanting to know if I had picked up on the gospel allusion. In fact, I had.
As I approached the sanctum of her remark, I noticed she paused on a certain page. And gazing at the picture of the "Cubicle of the Sacraments" she asked pointedly,
"you know, isn't it more important to study what they said of themselves rather than what we say about them? of all the images they could have used to commemorate their dead, why these? A Shepard, a communal meal,..."
As she pointed to the frescoes which surrounded the four loculi hewn into a wall she continued,
" even if you find anything approaching Jesus the magician in these pictures, wouldn't that just tell you about the people who made the paintings and not Jesus himself?"
That is one of the aspects I'm looking for, I replied. Either way, a picture emerges.
"Well you'll have to do that on your own, I have to go" and she cast the book aside on the couch.
As Ariana gathered her things, I reminded her that these catacombs were from the 4th century and even if it could be proven that what Jesus held in his hand was, in fact, a magician's wand and not a walking stick, it would still be required to account for how far back the idea went.
"Good luck with that one geek!" she spat off in her pithy humor and left, closing the door behind her.
The Bell
South Texas is a place where memories linger. Legend says that the flat land, where one can see for miles all around, allow the memories of its people to wander; for there are no mountains to guide them upward into infinity. I had often wished to be born elsewhere. Rome or Greece, I had thought, would be the best place to be born. It was so rich in history and memory that to walk the streets under the Parthenon or the Colosseum on any given night was to walk where ancient people had walked. And that had always struck me. It was a far cry from South Texas to be sure. Our history went as far as the arrival of the Spaniard in the 1500's. As impressive as that can be, it was an age away from those great city-states.
I had come to the Bell Library in Corpus Christi on the cusp of a memory. Years ago I had come with a friend- Juan Solizeno had invited me to peruse the family history section of "the Bell" as he had come to call it. He was particularly interested in a set of papers collected in early 1760. The Englehardt Papers preserve, in four journals, the travels of Daniel Englehardt, whose journey along the Rio Grande, gives us the first glimpses of the families living along the great river. He details a number of family names, local customs, laws and other information that had remained unknown until Englehardt's journals were discovered in the 1930's.
"Here it is." mumbled Juan. "This is why I love the Bell, a 18th century collection cherished and preserved as if it were from the 1rst."
"Here put these gloves on." he insisted.
I obliged and while he removed the journals from the safe-box, I imagined we were archaeologists viewing the documents for the first time in history.
"I want to tell you of the first time I encountered these journals." he said mysteriously.
"I was 34 years old when these journals were brought here. I was teaching English at the high school when the city hosted the event in conjunction with this library. It was a huge deal when the choice was made to house them here." he recalled, savoring the residue of the memory.
"I thought it would be a good idea to somehow incorporate these journals into my lesson plans. So when the hoopla was over I would read them an hour each day after school."
He continued, "One day I came across this page."
He pointed halfway down the page. The irony of primary sources struck like a gong within me. I could not read the handwritten text. My eyes were not accustomed to deciphering quickly the cursive handwriting of Mr. Englehardt. Noticing my struggle, Juan took liberty.
"Allow me: "...some miles south of the River, encountered a most curious regional aspect. head of the household proudly boasts his family as first to bring the printing press to the region. A quaint little ranchito called El Solizeno. All manner of material printed by their nimble hands...."
I looked at Juan with a puzzled look. That is your last name!
"Yes...yes it is. This is where genealogy became real to me. My curiosity soared! It was the start of a long journey-a journey I continues to this very day."
"I remember sitting on the porch with my grandparents, aunts and uncles. They would tell stories about our family. Most of the time it was boring but there were times I couldn't help but listen. One story was about 'el jacal abajo de la casa.' Way back when our great-great grandparents lived on a ranch and under their house was a shed. The details as to what was in there differed from telling to telling; some say gold and silver, others say jewels. Based on this Engelhardt account, I think it was books they stored."
My recollection suddenly burst, "What are you dooooing?" asked Ariana in her stylistic playful greeting.
I'm trying to find a book.
True to form she added, "That shouldn't be too hard here in a library."
No silly. I'm looking for a book I found years ago while here with a friend. It was my first time here at the Bell so I wandered. I came across an archaeological report about a site on the Gulf Coast, here in Corpus. I remember there was found the remains of a shipwreck. In my rush to take in the facilities I only quickly read through it. But I seem to recall it stating that Roman denarii were collected and that it might be dated to Roman times. The only evidence of a Roman ship on the shores of Corpus Christi. But that is all I remember, so, I'm trying to find it and read the full report.
"It's not the act of death that bothers me," she said, "it's its unanimity." And she laughed as she said it.
Sure, I thought it a curious place for a laugh and I told her as much. But she shrugged her shoulders in that familiar form and the irony of what she had said fell off of me like a meaningless insult.
I went on telling her the story. So it's true, there is no real concept of hell in the old testament. It's a rather ambiguous place called Sheol. It's there the patriarchs went after they died. So when the Nicene creed reads Jesus descended into "hell" it probably doesn't mean what we think it means.
She thought for a moment and asked, "so it's kinda like when we say the underworld?"
Something like that, yes; I replied.
"Do you think maybe the Hebrews got the idea from the Egyptians? you know when..."
Just then, a knock broke the intensity of our conversation. We stared at each other, almost as if we had done something wrong. Or perhaps it was that we hadn't heard a knock at all. Then the jolting sound of the doorbell; followed by a distant knock echoed through the hall into my room. It was the front door we finally surmised. I was halfway to the door when I realized it was a Fed-Ex delivery.
"Something from Amazon.com for you, sir!"
He was a tall pale fellow, rather lanky. His hair was styled to be messy and jet-black; almost as if he had colored it the night before and the true color hadn't taken just yet. Considering the myriad of tattoos covering his arms, I thought it quite fitting.
It seems early 90's 'grunge' has yet to die out, I thought to myself.
As I signed for my parcel, it struck me that his jovial nature and the excitement with which he had presented himself was at odds with his styled look.
"Last name?" he asked.
Oh, Al-va-rez I retorted.
"Is that with an 'S' or a 'Z'?", he clarified.
A 'Z,' I returned.
"Cool, thanks man!" was his outro as he jogged away.
And before I could say anything in return he was in his truck and off to his next delivery.
As I made my way back to my room, Ariana called out "I'm over here!"
I stopped mid-step and made a 180. What are you doing in the kitchen? I asked.
"I figured I'd make us some iced tea, what do you think?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
Sounds refreshing! was my first and only thought.
"Is that the book? Huh...huh. is it...is it??" she inquired playfully.
Yes...yes...yes it is; it's finally here!! I said matching her silliness.
It was a book of photographs I encountered while browsing Amazon.com. Very specific pictures; it was a collection of black and whites of two 3rd century catacombs: one from Jerusalem and one from Rome. Early Christians used the underground necropolis for burying their dead; some say they also took refuge. And some say they even had fellowship there; that the earliest expressions of the Eucharistic Mass took its form in that underground world.
Whatever the case, they left their mark in wall carvings and in frescoes and mosaics. What was of interest to me was the specific manner in which they depicted Jesus, the miracle worker. Whether it was Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead or Jesus multiplying the loafs and fishes on the Mount of Olives, invariably these early pictographs placed in Jesus' hand a thing which can only be described as a magician's wand.
I had become interested in the subject after reading a work called 'Magic and Meal.' In it, the author, a former Roman Catholic Priest, expounded upon the sociological difference between a "miracle worker" and a "magician." He had come to the conclusion that there was really no substantive difference between the two; it was a matter of semantic nuance.
His cross-cultural analysis of societies had persuaded him that the only real difference, in whether a person was called a miracle worker or a magician, was the difference between official and unofficial religious practice. That is, within an official accepted religion the harbinger of wondrous deeds was called a miracle worker and within unofficial and unaccepted religious practice, the harbinger of wondrous deeds was called a magician. Or as he put it "...'we' practice religion...'they' practice magic'...'we' say prayers; 'they' cast spells."
With the dark smell of brewing tea hanging in the air and the gurgling cadence of percolation breaking the silence, I tore open the package. The book was not of an impressive size; a clue that the photos within were not heavily laden with text from an editor's hand. A chamber from the Roman catacombs of St. Callixtus adorned the cover. The fresco's that bordered the ancient loculi were small given the size of the book but enough was revealed to tantalize.
Seeing my excitement and taking advantage of my inattention, Ariana grabbed the book from my eager hands.
"LET ME see it!!" she barked as she ran off in a giggle.
Annoyed, I gazed at her making sure she noticed the offense. It took a moment for me to realize, yet again, that such attempts at passive aggression were futile. She had always found a way to cast them aside; usually like a moody teenager by rolling her eyes. But this time she perked up, looked back at me square in the eyes.
"What?" she asked with utter bravado.
"This book will always be with you; but me you may not always have." she said as she turned again toward the book.
Then she halfway looked up again and through her hair she flashed a muted smile; wanting to know if I had picked up on the gospel allusion. In fact, I had.
As I approached the sanctum of her remark, I noticed she paused on a certain page. And gazing at the picture of the "Cubicle of the Sacraments" she asked pointedly,
"you know, isn't it more important to study what they said of themselves rather than what we say about them? of all the images they could have used to commemorate their dead, why these? A Shepard, a communal meal,..."
As she pointed to the frescoes which surrounded the four loculi hewn into a wall she continued,
" even if you find anything approaching Jesus the magician in these pictures, wouldn't that just tell you about the people who made the paintings and not Jesus himself?"
That is one of the aspects I'm looking for, I replied. Either way, a picture emerges.
"Well you'll have to do that on your own, I have to go" and she cast the book aside on the couch.
As Ariana gathered her things, I reminded her that these catacombs were from the 4th century and even if it could be proven that what Jesus held in his hand was, in fact, a magician's wand and not a walking stick, it would still be required to account for how far back the idea went.
"Good luck with that one geek!" she spat off in her pithy humor and left, closing the door behind her.
The Bell
South Texas is a place where memories linger. Legend says that the flat land, where one can see for miles all around, allow the memories of its people to wander; for there are no mountains to guide them upward into infinity. I had often wished to be born elsewhere. Rome or Greece, I had thought, would be the best place to be born. It was so rich in history and memory that to walk the streets under the Parthenon or the Colosseum on any given night was to walk where ancient people had walked. And that had always struck me. It was a far cry from South Texas to be sure. Our history went as far as the arrival of the Spaniard in the 1500's. As impressive as that can be, it was an age away from those great city-states.
I had come to the Bell Library in Corpus Christi on the cusp of a memory. Years ago I had come with a friend- Juan Solizeno had invited me to peruse the family history section of "the Bell" as he had come to call it. He was particularly interested in a set of papers collected in early 1760. The Englehardt Papers preserve, in four journals, the travels of Daniel Englehardt, whose journey along the Rio Grande, gives us the first glimpses of the families living along the great river. He details a number of family names, local customs, laws and other information that had remained unknown until Englehardt's journals were discovered in the 1930's.
"Here it is." mumbled Juan. "This is why I love the Bell, a 18th century collection cherished and preserved as if it were from the 1rst."
"Here put these gloves on." he insisted.
I obliged and while he removed the journals from the safe-box, I imagined we were archaeologists viewing the documents for the first time in history.
"I want to tell you of the first time I encountered these journals." he said mysteriously.
"I was 34 years old when these journals were brought here. I was teaching English at the high school when the city hosted the event in conjunction with this library. It was a huge deal when the choice was made to house them here." he recalled, savoring the residue of the memory.
"I thought it would be a good idea to somehow incorporate these journals into my lesson plans. So when the hoopla was over I would read them an hour each day after school."
He continued, "One day I came across this page."
He pointed halfway down the page. The irony of primary sources struck like a gong within me. I could not read the handwritten text. My eyes were not accustomed to deciphering quickly the cursive handwriting of Mr. Englehardt. Noticing my struggle, Juan took liberty.
"Allow me: "...some miles south of the River, encountered a most curious regional aspect. head of the household proudly boasts his family as first to bring the printing press to the region. A quaint little ranchito called El Solizeno. All manner of material printed by their nimble hands...."
I looked at Juan with a puzzled look. That is your last name!
"Yes...yes it is. This is where genealogy became real to me. My curiosity soared! It was the start of a long journey-a journey I continues to this very day."
"I remember sitting on the porch with my grandparents, aunts and uncles. They would tell stories about our family. Most of the time it was boring but there were times I couldn't help but listen. One story was about 'el jacal abajo de la casa.' Way back when our great-great grandparents lived on a ranch and under their house was a shed. The details as to what was in there differed from telling to telling; some say gold and silver, others say jewels. Based on this Engelhardt account, I think it was books they stored."
My recollection suddenly burst, "What are you dooooing?" asked Ariana in her stylistic playful greeting.
I'm trying to find a book.
True to form she added, "That shouldn't be too hard here in a library."
No silly. I'm looking for a book I found years ago while here with a friend. It was my first time here at the Bell so I wandered. I came across an archaeological report about a site on the Gulf Coast, here in Corpus. I remember there was found the remains of a shipwreck. In my rush to take in the facilities I only quickly read through it. But I seem to recall it stating that Roman denarii were collected and that it might be dated to Roman times. The only evidence of a Roman ship on the shores of Corpus Christi. But that is all I remember, so, I'm trying to find it and read the full report.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Gospels and Sources
Before discussing various methods and the conclusions drawn from such methods within the context of gospel origins; that is as they are understood by modern academic conception, I'd like to trace, albeit simplistically, the reasons why such an endeavor became possible even necessary.
The advent of a modern academic understanding emerged from 19th century German scholarship. Through a fairly large body of literature much of which is often contentious, reactive, and controversial these scholars reshaped the contours of N.T. studies with respect to gospel origins. But first, for the sake of symmetry, a quick word about the traditional or orthodox conception of gospel origins.
In the 5th century St. Augustine mounted a detailed and formal defense of Christianity in his "On the Harmony of the Evangelists." This in response to the Pagan philosopher Porphyry's work "Adversus Christianos" which was a list of "contradictions and implausibilities within the gospels" (Kloppenborg, 2000:295) Augustine's harmonization model became the preferred conception of gospel origins for Roman Catholics and later Protestants. Culling information for various early church fathers (Tatian, Justin, Papias etc) he proposed the gospels were written by disciples of Jesus (as in the case of Matthew) or by close associates of the disciples (as in the case of Mark).
All four wrote in canonical order, that is as they appear in the N.T., and each wrote aware of their predecessor's work. Each author chose to focus their gospel on various aspects of Christ: MT on royalty, MK on humanity, LK on priesthood, and JN on divinity. With respect to chronology, all four were written within the lifetimes of those first eyewitnesses, say prior to 70 C.E. Problems of contradiction, disagreement, and incongruities were rendered moot by an appeal to the natural fallibility of memory. Thus we have, in this model, the gospels we read today. Historicity is to be had within the framework of compound or multiple attestation, that is where 2, 3, or all 4 gospels agree. Harmony, as it were, equated historical fact.
The problematic nature of this understanding has been well established. "We do not...know the original wording of any of the gospels, for their autographs have long since perished. What we posses are about 6000 manuscripts-none from the 1st century, small fragments from the 2nd, portions of individual NT books from the 3rd and complete bibles only after the 4th century." (Kloppenborg, 2000:12) To further complicate the matter, the names ascribed a given gospel MT, MK, LK, JN are not original to the text but were added to them as late as the early 3rd century. The texts themselves are anonymous (Ehrman, 1998:10). Given this rather bleak situation, and other complicating factors available elsewhere, by the dawn on the 19th century, German scholarship began to doubt the legitimacy of the "Augustinian solution."
Already by the late 18th century, Hermann S. Reimarus (1694-1768) in a burst of minimalist bravado mounted a full scale attack on the historicity of the gospels viewing them not as "expression of Jesus intentions but as fraudulent and fantastic accounts of miracles, prophecies, angels, the resurrection, and the Parousia." (Kloppenborg 2000:275) The wedges that Reimarus had driven, notes Kloppenborg, among the gospels and between the gospels and Jesus would prove impossible to extract from all future scholarly discussion. In fact the next 100 years in NT study in relation to gospel origins would be either in assent or dissent from the Reimarus indictment.
The end of the 19th century saw a shift in the contours of understanding the gospels. By now, the rather disjunctive nature of the first three gospels (MT,MK,LK) as compared to JN became clear. An acceptance of the so-called synoptic problem meant there were two separate and distinct issues within gospel origins for which one had to account. "Synoptic" ,by the way, refers to the relative ease with which once can read the first three gospels "at a glance" because of their similar structure and internal content. The realization of the synoptic problem coupled with a rejection of the Augustinian harmonization model emphasized a dichotomy between the texts of the gospels and the dogma or theology that emerged from them. Add to this the rejection, as well, of various post-apostolic church fathers (Eusebius,Papias, Irenaeus) as reliable sources of information about gospel origins and you have the fertile environment from which the modern academic understanding of the gospels emerged.
The advent of this new understanding flourished in the text-dogma dichotomy. It allowed (required?) for novel approaches, bold conjectures, and the use of new methods of inquiry to account for various textual phenomena and literary problems. In the first place, exterior evidences of authentication were subsumed to internal literary analysis of wording and sequence, patterns of agreement and disagreement; literary criticism which employed various methods to discern source relationships, issues of dependence and independence became the vehicle through which various questions could be addressed. It was from such a 19th century context that two enduring hypotheses saw the light of the 20th century: the Greisbach hypothesis (GH) and the Two Document hypothesis (2DH)
Johann J. Greisbach became an early advocate of these new methods of inquiry. In 1789-90 he published a comprehensive outline of his hypothesis. His solution to the synoptic problem would prove significant for modern standards of study. He left Jn's gospel aside to focus on a close comparison of the synoptic threesome. That procedure is now set: how do the synoptics relate to each other and how does Jn's gospel relate to them? Greisbach concurred with Augustine in terms of Matthean chronological priority but argued that it must have been Mk, not Lk, who wrote last.
He based his conclusion on various Markan omissions of key Mt and Lk texts, like the Sermon on the Mount. In 1826, W.M.L. de Wette boulstered Greisbach's claim of Mk posteriority by attempting to show how Mk has alternated use of both Mt and Lk. A key example was his analysis of "double expressions" found in Mark. A typical example of this is Mk 1:32 ("when it was evening, when the sun had set"). For Greisbach and de Wette, it seemed as though this was a conflation of two separate texts from Mt and Lk. Mt 8:16 reads ("when it was evening") and Lk 4:40 reads ("when the sun had set"). Were this the case, clearly Mk would have been subsequent to both Mt and Lk.
Against this interpretation, Bernard Weiss (1827-1918) argued that Mk's double expression were neither tautological and secondary but necessary and original since for Mk the incident occurred on a sabbath (1:21) it was necessary to stipulate the sun had set so that the fact that the sick came to Jesus was explicable. Lk, who also dates the incident to a sabbath preserved the mention of the setting sun but in a form that betrays Mk's genetive absolute (when it was evening). In Mt, however, the healings don't occur on a sabbath and so it was not necessary for him to preserve the precise temporal reference. (Weiss 1861:683 in Kloppenborg 2000:290)
H.J. Holtzmann (1832-1910) a contemporary of Weiss argued that if Mk used Mt and Lk for his composition, one would expect to find the favorite vocabulary of his two sources within Mk. However, it lacks Mt's ("kingdom of the heavens"), ("it has been said"), ("at that time") etc and numerous Lukanisms. In response to de Wette's proposal, Holtzmann emphasized that such editing by Mk would have required "unimaginable procedures."
The works of B. Weiss and H.J. Holtzmann in critique of the G.H. paved the way for Markan priority. With this shift, the traditional Augustinian model, even with respect to Mt priority, lost all credibility within academic discourse. In the same generation of scholars, Karl Lachmann (1793-1851) made some significant insights. whereas Greisbach focused on Markan omissions, Lachmann payed special attention to disagreements among the synoptics. His conclusion? Kloppenborg sums up: "when one compared the order...in the synoptics, the greatest degree of disagreement was registered between Mt and Lk" (2000:297) Or again, with respect to order and sequence of specific units or pericopae, Mt-Mk-Lk have substantial agreement between them (the Triple Tradition) several cases where Mt-Mk agree against Lk or where Mk-Lk agree against Mt but rarely is it the case where Mt-Lk agree against Mk. When it occurs the Markan sequence is followed. Where Mt-Lk agree in content they differ in wording and sequence. Hence, they can only be independent of one another. (Kloppenborg, 2000:297)
The priority of Mk and the establishment of the independence of Mt and Lk provide the first two tiers in the architecture of the second enduring postulate of gospel origins from the 19th century. It remains the most widely accepted theory among scholars though its critics are not few. It involves a third tier as well but first a second case to establish further both the priority of Mk and the independence of Mt and Lk. Perhaps the best argued case has been made by J. D. Crossan. He cites several cases of "Markan literary fingerprints" present within both Mt and Lk. He notes, "one of the most peculiar and distinctive Markan compositional devices has been called intercalation or sandwich...basically, Event (A1) begins, then Event (B) begins and ends then finally, Even (A2) finishes." (Crossan, 1998:106) There is a fairly wide consensus on at least six cases of intercalations in Mk's gospel: Mk 3:20-35(event A), 3:22-30(event B to end), 3:31-35(event A ends) & Mk 5:21-24(event A), 5:25-34 (event B to end), 5:35-43(event A ends) are but two examples. It is the presence of intercalations within both Mt and Lk that establish Mk priority most securely, as Crossan emphasizes, those intercalations are peculiarly if not uniquely Markan. The independence of the two can be seen in the varying ways in which both Mt and Lk appropriate the "sandwich" device into their gospels. This divergence clues us into the trajectory of the device, namely from Mk into both Mt and Lk, though independently of one another.
Recall the three tiered architecture of the 2DH. Mk priority was the primary tier with the independence of Mt and Lk the secondary one. The third tier, then, is a logical inference based upon the preceding two conclusions. In 1890 Johannes Weiss, echoing the work of F. Schleiermacher, proposed a source behind Mt and Lk other than Mk. The word for source in German is "quelle" from which this hypothetical document derives its name, 'Q' now called the sayings source Q or quite simply the "Q" gospel. It must be emphasized that this document is a purely hypothetical postulate. No evidence of its existence occurs outside scholarly conception. We do not have that source available to us like we do with Mark. The same reasoning goes into this supposition as was used for Mk as a source, namely verbal agreement.
A classic example of such a possibility is to be found in Mt 3:7-10=Lk 3:7-9. Crossan explains, "That indictment by John the Baptist, over 60 words in Greek, is verbatim the same...those are not twin versions of a common oral matrix but the very...faithful reproduction of a common source." (1998:105) The "Q" hypothesis, then, is a function of the independence of Mt and Lk. If they are dependent on one another there would be no need to posit a common source.
I hope it's clear that the main contribution of that 19th century German scholarship was the introduction of and emphasis upon source-theory and literary criticism and the solutions they provide; as Kloppenborg and Crossan emphasize: they provide the most "economical accounting of the evidence than other available theories." Critics of such methods abound, usually among the more conservative scholars like N.T. Wright, L.T. Johnson, B. Witherington III to name a few. This shape of understanding the gospels leads to further conclusions that can be built atop that foundational layer.
The advent of a modern academic understanding emerged from 19th century German scholarship. Through a fairly large body of literature much of which is often contentious, reactive, and controversial these scholars reshaped the contours of N.T. studies with respect to gospel origins. But first, for the sake of symmetry, a quick word about the traditional or orthodox conception of gospel origins.
In the 5th century St. Augustine mounted a detailed and formal defense of Christianity in his "On the Harmony of the Evangelists." This in response to the Pagan philosopher Porphyry's work "Adversus Christianos" which was a list of "contradictions and implausibilities within the gospels" (Kloppenborg, 2000:295) Augustine's harmonization model became the preferred conception of gospel origins for Roman Catholics and later Protestants. Culling information for various early church fathers (Tatian, Justin, Papias etc) he proposed the gospels were written by disciples of Jesus (as in the case of Matthew) or by close associates of the disciples (as in the case of Mark).
All four wrote in canonical order, that is as they appear in the N.T., and each wrote aware of their predecessor's work. Each author chose to focus their gospel on various aspects of Christ: MT on royalty, MK on humanity, LK on priesthood, and JN on divinity. With respect to chronology, all four were written within the lifetimes of those first eyewitnesses, say prior to 70 C.E. Problems of contradiction, disagreement, and incongruities were rendered moot by an appeal to the natural fallibility of memory. Thus we have, in this model, the gospels we read today. Historicity is to be had within the framework of compound or multiple attestation, that is where 2, 3, or all 4 gospels agree. Harmony, as it were, equated historical fact.
The problematic nature of this understanding has been well established. "We do not...know the original wording of any of the gospels, for their autographs have long since perished. What we posses are about 6000 manuscripts-none from the 1st century, small fragments from the 2nd, portions of individual NT books from the 3rd and complete bibles only after the 4th century." (Kloppenborg, 2000:12) To further complicate the matter, the names ascribed a given gospel MT, MK, LK, JN are not original to the text but were added to them as late as the early 3rd century. The texts themselves are anonymous (Ehrman, 1998:10). Given this rather bleak situation, and other complicating factors available elsewhere, by the dawn on the 19th century, German scholarship began to doubt the legitimacy of the "Augustinian solution."
Already by the late 18th century, Hermann S. Reimarus (1694-1768) in a burst of minimalist bravado mounted a full scale attack on the historicity of the gospels viewing them not as "expression of Jesus intentions but as fraudulent and fantastic accounts of miracles, prophecies, angels, the resurrection, and the Parousia." (Kloppenborg 2000:275) The wedges that Reimarus had driven, notes Kloppenborg, among the gospels and between the gospels and Jesus would prove impossible to extract from all future scholarly discussion. In fact the next 100 years in NT study in relation to gospel origins would be either in assent or dissent from the Reimarus indictment.
The end of the 19th century saw a shift in the contours of understanding the gospels. By now, the rather disjunctive nature of the first three gospels (MT,MK,LK) as compared to JN became clear. An acceptance of the so-called synoptic problem meant there were two separate and distinct issues within gospel origins for which one had to account. "Synoptic" ,by the way, refers to the relative ease with which once can read the first three gospels "at a glance" because of their similar structure and internal content. The realization of the synoptic problem coupled with a rejection of the Augustinian harmonization model emphasized a dichotomy between the texts of the gospels and the dogma or theology that emerged from them. Add to this the rejection, as well, of various post-apostolic church fathers (Eusebius,Papias, Irenaeus) as reliable sources of information about gospel origins and you have the fertile environment from which the modern academic understanding of the gospels emerged.
The advent of this new understanding flourished in the text-dogma dichotomy. It allowed (required?) for novel approaches, bold conjectures, and the use of new methods of inquiry to account for various textual phenomena and literary problems. In the first place, exterior evidences of authentication were subsumed to internal literary analysis of wording and sequence, patterns of agreement and disagreement; literary criticism which employed various methods to discern source relationships, issues of dependence and independence became the vehicle through which various questions could be addressed. It was from such a 19th century context that two enduring hypotheses saw the light of the 20th century: the Greisbach hypothesis (GH) and the Two Document hypothesis (2DH)
Johann J. Greisbach became an early advocate of these new methods of inquiry. In 1789-90 he published a comprehensive outline of his hypothesis. His solution to the synoptic problem would prove significant for modern standards of study. He left Jn's gospel aside to focus on a close comparison of the synoptic threesome. That procedure is now set: how do the synoptics relate to each other and how does Jn's gospel relate to them? Greisbach concurred with Augustine in terms of Matthean chronological priority but argued that it must have been Mk, not Lk, who wrote last.
He based his conclusion on various Markan omissions of key Mt and Lk texts, like the Sermon on the Mount. In 1826, W.M.L. de Wette boulstered Greisbach's claim of Mk posteriority by attempting to show how Mk has alternated use of both Mt and Lk. A key example was his analysis of "double expressions" found in Mark. A typical example of this is Mk 1:32 ("when it was evening, when the sun had set"). For Greisbach and de Wette, it seemed as though this was a conflation of two separate texts from Mt and Lk. Mt 8:16 reads ("when it was evening") and Lk 4:40 reads ("when the sun had set"). Were this the case, clearly Mk would have been subsequent to both Mt and Lk.
Against this interpretation, Bernard Weiss (1827-1918) argued that Mk's double expression were neither tautological and secondary but necessary and original since for Mk the incident occurred on a sabbath (1:21) it was necessary to stipulate the sun had set so that the fact that the sick came to Jesus was explicable. Lk, who also dates the incident to a sabbath preserved the mention of the setting sun but in a form that betrays Mk's genetive absolute (when it was evening). In Mt, however, the healings don't occur on a sabbath and so it was not necessary for him to preserve the precise temporal reference. (Weiss 1861:683 in Kloppenborg 2000:290)
H.J. Holtzmann (1832-1910) a contemporary of Weiss argued that if Mk used Mt and Lk for his composition, one would expect to find the favorite vocabulary of his two sources within Mk. However, it lacks Mt's ("kingdom of the heavens"), ("it has been said"), ("at that time") etc and numerous Lukanisms. In response to de Wette's proposal, Holtzmann emphasized that such editing by Mk would have required "unimaginable procedures."
The works of B. Weiss and H.J. Holtzmann in critique of the G.H. paved the way for Markan priority. With this shift, the traditional Augustinian model, even with respect to Mt priority, lost all credibility within academic discourse. In the same generation of scholars, Karl Lachmann (1793-1851) made some significant insights. whereas Greisbach focused on Markan omissions, Lachmann payed special attention to disagreements among the synoptics. His conclusion? Kloppenborg sums up: "when one compared the order...in the synoptics, the greatest degree of disagreement was registered between Mt and Lk" (2000:297) Or again, with respect to order and sequence of specific units or pericopae, Mt-Mk-Lk have substantial agreement between them (the Triple Tradition) several cases where Mt-Mk agree against Lk or where Mk-Lk agree against Mt but rarely is it the case where Mt-Lk agree against Mk. When it occurs the Markan sequence is followed. Where Mt-Lk agree in content they differ in wording and sequence. Hence, they can only be independent of one another. (Kloppenborg, 2000:297)
The priority of Mk and the establishment of the independence of Mt and Lk provide the first two tiers in the architecture of the second enduring postulate of gospel origins from the 19th century. It remains the most widely accepted theory among scholars though its critics are not few. It involves a third tier as well but first a second case to establish further both the priority of Mk and the independence of Mt and Lk. Perhaps the best argued case has been made by J. D. Crossan. He cites several cases of "Markan literary fingerprints" present within both Mt and Lk. He notes, "one of the most peculiar and distinctive Markan compositional devices has been called intercalation or sandwich...basically, Event (A1) begins, then Event (B) begins and ends then finally, Even (A2) finishes." (Crossan, 1998:106) There is a fairly wide consensus on at least six cases of intercalations in Mk's gospel: Mk 3:20-35(event A), 3:22-30(event B to end), 3:31-35(event A ends) & Mk 5:21-24(event A), 5:25-34 (event B to end), 5:35-43(event A ends) are but two examples. It is the presence of intercalations within both Mt and Lk that establish Mk priority most securely, as Crossan emphasizes, those intercalations are peculiarly if not uniquely Markan. The independence of the two can be seen in the varying ways in which both Mt and Lk appropriate the "sandwich" device into their gospels. This divergence clues us into the trajectory of the device, namely from Mk into both Mt and Lk, though independently of one another.
Recall the three tiered architecture of the 2DH. Mk priority was the primary tier with the independence of Mt and Lk the secondary one. The third tier, then, is a logical inference based upon the preceding two conclusions. In 1890 Johannes Weiss, echoing the work of F. Schleiermacher, proposed a source behind Mt and Lk other than Mk. The word for source in German is "quelle" from which this hypothetical document derives its name, 'Q' now called the sayings source Q or quite simply the "Q" gospel. It must be emphasized that this document is a purely hypothetical postulate. No evidence of its existence occurs outside scholarly conception. We do not have that source available to us like we do with Mark. The same reasoning goes into this supposition as was used for Mk as a source, namely verbal agreement.
A classic example of such a possibility is to be found in Mt 3:7-10=Lk 3:7-9. Crossan explains, "That indictment by John the Baptist, over 60 words in Greek, is verbatim the same...those are not twin versions of a common oral matrix but the very...faithful reproduction of a common source." (1998:105) The "Q" hypothesis, then, is a function of the independence of Mt and Lk. If they are dependent on one another there would be no need to posit a common source.
I hope it's clear that the main contribution of that 19th century German scholarship was the introduction of and emphasis upon source-theory and literary criticism and the solutions they provide; as Kloppenborg and Crossan emphasize: they provide the most "economical accounting of the evidence than other available theories." Critics of such methods abound, usually among the more conservative scholars like N.T. Wright, L.T. Johnson, B. Witherington III to name a few. This shape of understanding the gospels leads to further conclusions that can be built atop that foundational layer.
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