Author: Aliosha Bielenberg

Upson-Saia, Kristi. “Wounded by Divine Love.” In Melania: Early Christianity through the Life of One Family, edited by Catherine Chin and Caroline Schroeder, 86–105. Oakland: University of California Press, 2017.

In this chapter, Upson-Saia investigates wound metaphors in the ascetic context. She argues that, because of their ubiquity, “wounds and wounding provided a widely recognizable conceptual frame and an immediately meaningful linguistic device” (87). Upson-Saia draws on various sources to demonstrate how ascetics used wound metaphors to construct “a thoroughly medicalized notion of Christian piety” (87).

Upson-Saia notes that her analysis is indebted to Elizabeth Clark’s discussion of the celibate-bride metaphor in early ascetic discourse. However, Upson-Saia draws on cognitive linguistic theory (especially the work of George Lakoff and Mark Johnson) to strengthen and clarify the relationship between early Christian figurative language and the experiences of everyday life. She suggests that wound metaphors “were not merely linguistic flourishes but that the bodily experience of being wounded structured early Christians’ concepts of sin and heresy” (88). In order to flesh out this connection, Upson-Saia recognizes that one must first define a relatively uniform set of properties and experiences related to wounding which can be “meaningfully exported” to “conceptual categories of sin and heresy” (88).

In Upson-Saia’s analysis, ancient medical typology split wounds into harmful results of accidents, injuries, and diseases on the one hand and the “salutary” wounds caused by the physician on the other. Of course, both types of wounds were painful and greatly feared. Ancient medical writers therefore recognized that the “best physicians” had the “sharp rhetorical skills and easy bedside manner” (90) necessary to deal with even the most truculent patients.

Christian writers and preachers drew on this medical literature when discussing the concepts of sin and heresy. For example, they recognized that sin and heresy – like physical wounds – had a variety of sources. But whatever the origin, the sin corrupted and putrefied the soul just like a gangrenous, septic wound. If left untreated, the sinner will no longer even be able to feel the festering as the wound numbs and the patient becomes oblivious to sin. As Tertullian notes, heretics who suffer delirium and fevers for long will eventually dull their normal senses and lose the ability to perceive orthodoxy. This and other associations were evoked by describing the wounds of sin and heresy “in lurid detail,” including a strong emphasis on the “foul and repellent stench of putrefied flesh” (92).

Christian writers were careful to maintain the dichotomy between salutary and malevolent wounds already established in ancient medical literature. In Upson-Saia’s analysis, “they structured an understanding of beneficent chastisement and ecclesial discipline on the physicians’ rewounding treatments” (93). Spiritual treatments were painful, but the divine physician always “wounds in order that he may heal” (93, echoing Deuteronomy 32:39).[1] Christians must be prepared to follow God’s example in treating “their friends’ wounded souls” (94). For example, John Chrysostom urges his community to imitate the surgeon who heeds not his patients’ cries but cares only for their health (94, quoting Patrologia Graeca 63: 212).[2] At the same time, Chrysostom urges his community to model “Christian reproof on a physician’s gentle persuasion and comforting bedside manner” (94). Thus, treatment of spiritual wounds must be adjusted to the sinner’s temperament.

Ascetics also suffered bodily afflictions because of sin and vice. Melania herself developed an inflammation from her worldly clothes. Upson-Saia reads this as “a corporeal wound inflicted by the Great Physician, a wound that mirrors or manifests the wounding of Melania’s soul” (97). In order to be healed, Melania must adopt a healthier form of life – a more rigorous asceticism. As a good patient, an ascetic must be humble and obedient in order to experience true healing.

In sum, Upson-Saia provides a wide-ranging and lucid demonstration of how embodied experiences of wounding structured early Christian discourse surrounding sin, heresy, and repentance. The polyvalent wound metaphors also structured ascetic piety. In her conclusion, Upson-Saia uses her emphasis on the body “as itself a vehicle for thinking, feeling, and acting” (98, quoting Laurence Kirmayer) to suggest that these metaphors were at the core not only of Christian discourse but also of Christian concepts. This stronger claim seems to link up to Upson-Saia’s initial mention of cognitive linguistic theory, but she should have made this relationship more explicit in order to provide evidence for her stronger claim. Overall, however, this article is an outstanding synthesis of at least three distinct strands of literature – modern, medical, and ecclesiastical – to support a compelling and inventive thesis.

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[1] NRSV: “I kill and I make alive; / I wound and I heal; / and no one can deliver from my hand.”

[2] In English translation, available at http://www.newadvent.org/fathers/240230.htm (see the last two paragraphs).

Rosenwein, Barbara. “Worrying about Emotions in History.” The American Historical Review 107, no. 3 (2002): 821–45.

In this article, Rosenwein examines the historiographyof emotions throughout Western history. She describes the first calls for a history of emotions and the theoretical perspective that emerged based on the grand narrative linking progress to emotional restraint. She then surveys more recent theoretical approaches to emotions, before concluding with her approach based on the recognition of “emotional communities.”

Rosenwein argues that historians have neglected emotions in the past because they were primarily writing history with political aims in mind. Rosenwein considers Febvre, who in 1941 called for writing histories of emotions. In her analysis, his appeal was not driven by a real recognition of the value of emotions but rather by a need to identify how some periods “could keep passions tamped down better than others” (823) ­– and in so doing construct a rational, ordered civilization. In her view, Febvre was advocating “public policy masquerading as history” (823).

Next, Rosenwein discusses the “emotionology” endorsed by Peter and Carol Stearns. In this field, the emphasis is less on feelings themselves and more on the social norms towards emotions and their expression (especially in public contexts). Rosenwein describes this as an examination of the “managed hearts of the past” (824). The Stearnses attempted to avoid “elite” history and therefore turned to “non-elite” sources such as advice manuals. Rosenwein argues that emotionology therefore excludes almost all pre-modern sources, meaning that medievalists find it impossible to engage in “true” emotionology. The Stearnses acknowledge this limitation by claiming that there was essentially no management of public emotion – no “general emotional control” (825, citing Stearns 25) – in the Middle Ages.

The German historian Norbert Elias supported this view in his 1939 book, republished and translated in the 1970s. In it, he traces the evolution of emotional control from the rude and violent folk to the restrained and civilized court, which became institutionalized with the emergence of the modern state. Indeed, Elias identifies the history of Western civilization with the history of increasing emotional restraint. Rosenwein finds echoes of this paradigm in many great theorists, from Weber to Freud to Foucault. In fact, Rosenwein sees this “grand narrative” as part of the wider use by historians of the Middle Ages as a “convenient foil for modernity” (828). She also sees a similar pattern in the use of the South – both American and European – to describe emotions and the subsequent move to civilize and tame them.

Rosenwein next turns to the Annales school, which reacted against elitist tendencies of traditional historiography by centering the “folk.” In so doing, the Annalistes “depicted the masses as passive slaves to their own mental structures” (831). Medievalists often adopt this perspective, which in Rosenwein’s view is another manifestation of Elias’ grand narrative – identifying civilization with emotional restraint. To flesh out a specific example, Rosenwein highlights the work of Peter Dinzelbacher. He largely aligns with the Annalistes, but with a distinctive emphasis on the church. Dinzelbacher agrees that the masses were slaves to mental structures, but argues that it was the church who knew how to kindle these emotions in the medieval population. Delumeau, similarly, argues that the fears are “not the passions of primitive minds but rather the transferal and broadening out of the emotional climate of the monastery” (832).

Rosenwein asserts that the grand narrative adhered to by these diverse scholars has a clear conceptual understanding of emotions at its heart. This is what Rosenwein calls “the ‘hydraulic’ model: the emotions are like great liquids within each person, heaving and frothing, eager to be let out” (834). This model derives from the medieval humors, but also accords with early-twentieth-century scientific theories of energy. The turning point in the grand narrative can be imagined as the moment when the immense flow of liquid was finally constrained and confined to its proper place. This view was “dethroned” in the 1960s and 70s by two rivals: first, the cognitive view by which emotions derive from perception and judgment; second, the view by which emotions and their display are created and transformed by their social context.

In response to the shifts in the theoretical understanding of emotion, historians have adopted new perspectives on the history of emotions. One example Rosenwein gives is Reddy’s theory of “emotives.” These are the processes by which all of us manage and shape our emotions. This theory subsumes the earlier emotionology by acknowledging that emotives are influenced both by societal norms and by individual choices. A much broader array of sources is seen as acceptable for this theory. In particular, Rosenwein asserts that medievalists think about gestures as valuable sources for emotives. An example comes from Althoff’s examination of confraternities. He sees gestures – and therefore emotions – as constituting “the medium through which power was expressed, understood, and manipulated” (841). Emotions are governed by coherent social rules that allow for their use as carriers of information – for example, about the possibility of peace, friendship, or enmity. One issue with the theory of emotives that Rosenwein highlights is that it hinges on power and politics, even though emotions were “as much a part of intimate family constellations as of high politics” (842).

In response to these trends, Rosenwein suggests her own historical approach to emotions. Her theory is based on the concept of “emotional communities.” Each of these communities has their own way of evaluating emotions and modes of emotional expression. Rosenwein recognizes that people moved amongst these communities and adjusted their approaches to emotions appropriately. What might seem to be contradictory values and attitudes in a society are seen as the characteristics of different emotional communities. Rosenwein’s model accounts for the diversity of medieval approaches to emotions by recognizing the various emotional communities in which people can exist – even simultaneously. The narrative a historian should emphasize is not based on the progress of emotional restraint but rather “on the interactions and transformations of communities holding various values and ideas, practicing various forms of sociability, and privileging various emotions and styles of expression” (845).

Rosenwein’s scholarship in this paper is admirably expansive and sensitive to her predecessors. She successfully probes a variety of sophisticated theoretical perspectives to create a coherent, sustained narrative of historiography. Her conclusion provides an intriguing and convincing suggestion for a better theoretical approach to emotions.

Rosenwein, Barbara. “Problems and Methods in the History of Emotions.” Passions In Context, no. 1 (January 2010): 2–32.

In this paper, Rosenwein argues for a history of emotions based on “emotional communities.” She begins by surveying the scientific literature on emotions to discuss their supposed universality. She then elaborates on her methodology, mentioning some issues and benefits of centering emotional communities before concluding with some thoughts towards the future of the history of emotions.

Rosenwein states that most psychologists follow Paul Ekman in the theory “that particular facial behaviors are universally associated with particular emotions” (2, quoting Ekman). In fact, the inability to identify emotions with the facial expressions that Ekman specifies is often seen as a sign of mental illness. Biologists and geneticists also work within this framework when carrying out their research. Rosenwein identifies the underlying assumptions of this kind of scientific research as presentism and universalism. She notes that evolutionary psychology has the potential to challenge the presentist view, but does not do so. Rosenwein cites two leading theorists of this field, Leda Cosmides and John Tooby, who conclude that “our modern skulls house a stone age mind” (5) – fossilized emotions and all.

On the other hand, Rosenwein also discusses scholars who challenge the “scientific” view of emotions, often by asserting some form of social constructionism. For example, anthropologists have criticized Ekman for neglecting the role of language and translation when testing “universal” emotions and facial expressions. As for the evolutionists, other scholars have pointed out that we know very little about the Paleolithic – when emotions are said to have “fossilized” – and the little we do know is deeply influenced by our own time. Furthermore, neurobiologists have demonstrated a remarkable amount of plasticity in the brain, not to mention the importance of epigenetics. These factors indicate that change in emotional pathways can be much more rapid than genetic evolution would suggest. This view supports the theory of social constructionism – briefly, that emotions “are shaped by the societies in which they are embedded” (9).

Rosenwein laments that even social constructionists, however, neglect the history of emotions. In order to counter both universalist and presentist trends, Rosenwein stresses that a history of emotions “must not deny the biological substratum of emotions” but must also “problematize the feelings of the past, addressing their distinctive characteristics” (10). At this juncture, she introduces the concept of “emotional communities.” These are “largely the same as social communities” but with a heavy emphasis on “systems of feeling” (11).

Next, Rosenwein offers some practical methodological advice to the emotional historian. First is to gather sources for each community, preferably with multiple voices that all converge on some kinds of norms. The next step is to problematize the words used to describe emotions. This includes questioning the equation of modern and historical emotions, but also wondering whether the terms used in historical contexts were under the rubric of “emotions” at all. A good way to do this is to consult contemporaneous theorists of emotions – although not every formal definition should be taken at face value. Indeed, ideally the weight and significance of all terms should be interrogated. The methods of doing this include qualitative surveys and quantitative tools such as word counts. But these methods run the risk of omitting a key form of evidence: silence. Some kinds of “unemotional” texts reveal a clear norm that represses expression of some emotions. Metaphors and ironies can be similarly revealing, though also difficult to parse.

In sum, these steps lead the historian to consider emotions as “above all instruments of sociability” (19). Emotions are means of communication, especially when following certain scripts and hegemonic norms. Some historians, understanding this function of emotions, question whether they are “sincere.” Rosenwein stresses that emotions can play many roles; authenticity is just one of these, and it should be studied only if it is important to the society in question. In short, Rosenwein prioritizes the social function of emotions above all. Finally, Rosenwein reminds historians that they must “trace changes over time” (21): they must remember that norms and societies are never static. Rosenwein is interested in investigating the turning points in the history of emotions and connecting the emergence and transformation of emotional norms to the dominance of certain emotional communities.

Rosenwein ends by looking ahead to a time when the study of emotions will “inform every historical inquiry,” when “the problems and methods of the history of emotions should become the property of history in general” (24). This paper is an excellent counterpart to “Worrying about Emotions in History.” There, Rosenwein surveys the perspectives of historians on emotions; here, she surveys the perspectives of scientists. In both cases, she ends by advocating her own theory centered on emotional communities. In this article, Rosenwein lays out clear, useful methodological strategies for the historian to apply. Although probably not perfect, the steps she outlines should be the starting point for any future history of emotions and should be considered in any historiography.

Lunsford, Andrea, ed. Reclaiming Rhetorica: Women In The Rhetorical Tradition. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1995.

Murphy, foreword, ix–xi.

In this brief foreword, Murphy lays out the purpose of Reclaiming Rhetorica. He emphasizes that the book does not aim to argue a sustained, revisionist thesis. Nor does it attempt to provide straightforward answers that easily convince the reader. Rather, Murphy says that Reclaiming Rhetorica is meant to be an “enthymeme”: a push to look in new places and ask new questions. Murphy ends with a pithy warning, which he calls “a sort of enthymematic Newton’s Third Law”: “the reader’s mind, once set in motion, may well stay in motion” (xi).

Lunsford, “On Reclaiming Rhetorica,” 3–8.

Lunsford begins by outlining the long, circuitous path towards publication of Reclaiming Rhetorica. She describes the passion that fueled the authors in their attempt to reconfigure “woman’s place in the rhetorical tradition” (5). Lunsford decries the “masculinist” heritage of rhetoric as limited and limiting. She gives the example of John Locke, who contrasted “fundamentally deceptive” rhetoric with the “eloquence” of “the fair sex” (5, quoting Locke 106). Lunsford argues that perceptions like these arise ultimately because the voices of women in the history of rhetoric are simply not listened to. The subjects of this book, she emphasizes, have diverse relationships with rhetoric; the contributors have an equally diverse number of goals. But they are united in their aim to reclaim Rhetorica.

Jarratt and Ong, “Aspasia: Rhetoric, Gender, and Colonial Ideology,” 9–24.

Jarratt and Ong begin with caution. They acknowledge that their reading of Aspasia will no more capture the “real” woman than any other representation of her has. Instead, the authors value Aspasia as “a rich site for interpretive work” (10) on the concerns and discourses of our time.

Jarratt and Ong lay out the information that can be gathered from the references and allusions to Aspasia. She was an Athenian woman who lived around the time of Pericles, although she hailed from Miletus. Plutarch reports that Aspasia was reputed to be a “Persian seductress” – a rumor that the authors claim “bespeaks a gendered xenophobia” (12). They assert that Aspasia’s relationship with Pericles was in fact affectionate, verging on passionate. At least part of this came from the couple’s mutual interest (and skill) in politics. Aspasia’s place was particularly startling given Athenian democracy’s exclusion of women. For example, it seems that Aspasia taught Socrates in rhetoric. In Plato’s Menexenus, Socrates refers to Aspasia as “an excellent mistress in the art of rhetoric” (15). Socrates then affirms that she was his teacher and expresses his admiration for a funeral oration Aspasia was writing – which he proceeds to repeat. There is some controversy over the relationship of this speech to “the famous epitaphios attributed to Pericles by Thucydides” (16). Jarratt and Ong set aside the question of authenticity, preferring instead to emphasize the “parallel stylistic and thematic elements” (16) that Thucydides and Plato include in their speeches, despite their differing historical contexts and aims.

Next, Jarratt and Ong turn to an analysis of “Aspasia,” the character presented by Plato. First, they argue that Plato is “giving voice to a woman at a time when women were mostly denied public voice, and fixed most effectively in the role of reproduction” (18). This interpretation is complicated by Plato’s ambiguous status on the “woman question,” as found in his other works. The authors argue that the presentation of Aspasia in Menexenus best fits the view that “fourth-century philosophy advanced the task of hardening exclusionary categories” (18). In her speech (as repeated by Socrates and written by Plato), Aspasia emphasizes that autochthony is subordinate to reproduction. In other words, she “distances herself from somatic reproduction through metaphor” by prioritizing “the male citizen’s birth from the soil of Athens” over “his origin in the body of the woman” (19). The authors argue that Plato’s ventriloquism – arguing for principles of exclusion – undermines the presentation of Aspasia as a skilled female rhetorician.

Aspasia, besides being a woman, is also a foreigner. As Plato frames it, it is therefore particularly ironic for her to “presume to have knowledge about the virtues of Atheno-androcentric citizenship” (20) – and for Menexenus to be so amazed by Aspasia’s speech. Jarratt and Ong argue from this that Aspasia’s speech is a discursive space – a topos – for exploring the distinction between Athenian and foreigner. This space is created by a metaphor that links the Attic soil to its inhabitants through different familial relationships: “‘true mother’ for Athenians and ‘stepmother’ for others” (21). The former relationship is unitary and continuous, while the latter – the foreigner’s space – is fractured and discontinuous. This distinction is a powerful rhetorical tool in its own right. This opposition also plays a secondary function that is less obvious but perhaps even more important. The distinction between mother/Athenian and stepmother/foreigner ignores the “strangers” within Athens: the metics and the slaves (who, in fact, far outnumbered the citizens). By masking these power relations that undergird the Athenian polis – and the Athenian economy – Plato wipes out differences within the categories of “Athenian” and “foreigner.” Jarratt and Ong link this discursive technique to colonial ideology. In their reading of Said, “not only does ideology disguise difference in terms of modes of production, it also masks other social and cultural relations of power” (21). In this view, Aspasia is used by Plato to generate distinct discursive spaces which in turn “define, privilege, and legitimate” (22) Athenian views of the world.

Jarratt and Ong provide a dense analysis of the representation of Aspasia in Plato’s Menexenus. The links the authors draw with other theoretical perspectives are promising, though rather underdeveloped. I am particularly intrigued by the reading of colonial ideology into the presentation of Aspasia by Plato, although I am not yet convinced that colonialism is an apt descriptor for the kinds of power relations Plato engages in. Nonetheless, this remains an intriguing, challenging, and convincing paper.

Swearingen, “A Lover’s Discourse: Diotima, Logos, and Desire,” 25–52.

Swearingen begins by recognizing that seeking women in “public and learned roles in classical antiquity” is often seen as “wishful thinking” (25). However, she sees this type of criticism as complicit in the suppression of women and the erasure of women’s activities. In response, Swearingen applauds revisionist histories that critically examine the role of gender in Greek antiquity. It is within this context that Swearingen ventures her article on Diotima.

Swearingen describes the various roles of love presented in Plato’s Symposium: love as a good, “as a social practice, and as part of mythical accounts of human creation” (28). She notes that many readings have interpreted Plato as favoring intellectual, ascetic, male-to-male love over physical, heterosexual love. Swearingen claims that Diotima offers valuable evidence that Plato’s views on love are more rhetorical and more ambiguous than commonly assumed.

Diotima’s speech is presented by Socrates, finishing just as Alcibiades makes his drunken entrance. The oration draws parallels between different types of creation and procreation – namely physiological, intellectual, and spiritual. Diotima argues against Love as a possession, whether physical or intellectual. She chides Socrates for avoiding physical love, since this has hampered his pursuit of intellectual love (that is, wisdom). In discourse with Socrates, she “teaches that neither persons and their identities nor knowledge as a static whole or as a body … are immortal” (30) – in stark contrast with the Platonic theory of forms.

This dense discussion is derided by Socrates, who comments that Diotima’s speech is “spoken like a sophist.” Swearingen suggests that Plato might be using this style of speech to draw our attention to Alcibiades’ comic, drunken speech that follows. This kind of comedy is heightened by the complex relationships between Alcibiades, Socrates, Diotima, and even Aspasia and Pericles. According to Swearingen, Aspasia is “identified not only as Socrates’s teacher of rhetoric but also as his preceptress in his love for Alcibiades” (32). In sum, the depictions of Diotima and Aspasia form a “complex puzzle” (33). Swearingen endorses the idea that these characters are distorted to serve a literary purpose – although she notes that they were seen as quite authentic in antiquity.

Swearingen next turns to “traces of Pythagorean teachings that are preserved among pre-Socratic fragments” (35). Citing Martha Nussbaum, she acknowledges that Plato draws on pre-Socratic understandings of eros when writing Diotima’s revisionary speech. Swearingen then provides an “interlude” of Platonic excerpts to illustrate his adaptation of earlier philosophy to his ends. A key example of this is Diotima’s consideration of Love and the divine, which hearkens back to characteristics of Greek religion before the Olympian Gods. Diotima asserts that “Love is a spirit (daimon) that moves between divine and human traits and beings, linking them through discourse and desire” (39). Indeed, in Plato’s time love was being reconceptualized, moving between gods (e.g. Aphrodite and Eros), a social practice, and an “animating force in discourse” (39). In short, Diotima’s speech represents the trend in moving from pre-Olympian Greek religion to the new, more diverse pantheon.

Rhetorically, Diotima is the counterpart to Plato’s fundamental ascetic idealism. She urges Socrates to “give up his treasures in heaven … and to beget excellence through his talent for intelocution, an interlocution unafraid of love” (46). Plato seems to revile this teaching by immediately following it with Alcibiades’s bawdy entrance. But Swearingen suggests that the Symposium should perhaps be read as “drama, poetry, and dialectic rather than competition” (46). In this view, the opposition between Alcibiades and Diotima is less about one’s triumph at the expense of the other and more about the presentation of equally valid alternatives.

In sum, Swearingen acknowledges that Diotima’s speech “remains a cipher” and that its place in Plato’s Symposium is “teasingly inconclusive” (47). However, a few strands can be picked out of the speech: namely, its reliance on earlier Greek religion and its incorporation of women in rhetorical and religious tradition. Unfortunately, Swearingen’s article is badly disorganized. It has no section headings and few signals to help the reader understand her structure and argument. Thus, the many valuable elements she presents are never gathered together in a coherent whole and the reader is too often left disoriented.

Norman, Ralph. “Methodius and Methodologies: Ways of Reading Third-Century Christian Sexual Symbolism.” Theology & Sexuality 13, no. 1 (September 1, 2006): 79–100.

In this article, Norman examines the sexual elements of Methodius’ writings. He sees Methodius’ use of sexual symbolism as part of the long tradition that frames celibate’s relationships with God in terms of intensely erotic language. Indeed, Norman argues that Methodius is at the very beginning of this long-lasting phenomenon. Norman is specifically interested in the “remarkable” metaphor that Methodius uses: “divine insemination with the logos spermatikos” (81) – perfectly encapsulated in English by the pun “coming of Christ.” In this work, Norman uses various methodological perspectives to approach Methodius’ sexual language and compare a variety of different readings.

Norman presents several references to male orgasm in Methodius’ Symposium. Theophilia, the second virgin to speak, gives a detailed interpretation of Genesis 2:21-24 (the formation of Eve from Adam’s rib and their subsequent marriage). Methodius likens Adam’s “deep sleep” to “the ecstasy and self-forgetfulness of orgasm” (84). Methodius identifies these physical sensations with those experienced in the union of Christian marriage: he uses the same language to speak about the relationship of Adam and Eve and the union of Christ and the Church. Methodius writes that Christ’s crucifixion was how he planted the “blessed spiritual seed” in the Church, who “bears and nurtures it as virtue” (85, citing Methodius 65). According to Methodius, this orgasm-crucifixion is repeated in every Eucharist: “it is impossible for anyone to participate in the Holy Spirit … unless again the Word has first descended upon him and fallen into the sleep of ecstasy … receiving from him the pure and fertile seed of doctrine” (86, citing Methodius 66–67). Indeed, Methodius describes Paul as the “trans-gendered bride of Christ and mother of Christians” (86), exemplifying this relationship with Jesus. To support this interpretation, Methodius cites Galatians 4:19, in which Paul addresses “my little children, for whom I am again in the pain of childbirth until Christ is formed in you” (NRSV). In short, the ecstasy of orgasm is what facilitates union with Christ. Upon reflection, Norman claims, the ecstasy of orgasm seems to be a natural fit in the wider metaphor of Christ as bridegroom.

Next, Norman turns to other scholarship that interprets sexual language. He first presents the work of Denys Turner and Caroline Walker Bynum, who look at erotic symbolism in medieval Christian writing. Turner is an anti-Freudian: he believes that medieval monks were not sexually repressed, and instead deliberately transfer their sexual urges to the divine. Norman agrees, but pushes back by pointing out that sexual language – even used metaphorically – “still has the capacity to be taken literally, affecting the reader erotically and sexually on at least an instinctual level” (90). Norman notes that Bynum more closely follows this approach. She argues that sexual language was used by female mystics to evoke “somatic expressions of the Christian and Platonist sexual symbolism” (91). Reading this onto Methodius, Norman recognizes that the symbols of orgasm he uses are powerful metaphors both because of their metaphoric potency and because of their erotic content. The explicit descriptions are attractive to readers sexually, perhaps subliminally, as well as intellectually.

Norman turns to an analysis of the role of gender in Methodius’ work. The Symposium was written by a man, but he speaks through the voices of ten female characters. Methodius uses male orgasm as the metaphor to approach the aims of patriarchal theology. Rosemary Radford Ruether criticizes Methodius for his “patriarchal misappropriation of female gender roles” (93). Norman notes that Methodius’ ideal mother figure is Paul and his symbolic language – male orgasm as the ecstasy of union with Christ – clearly excludes women. Indeed, Norman places this symbolic language in the context of an explicitly patriarchal theology. He gives the example of the logos spermatikos, citing 1 John 3:9: “those who have been born of God do not sin, because God’s seed [σπέρμα] abides in them” (NRSV, NTG). Norman acknowledges that, seen in this context, Norman’s use of male orgasm must be judged quite harshly.

Norman looks next to Michel Foucault’s History of Sexuality. Reading Methodius through a Foucaultian lens, Norman sees the sexual language as fundamentally about relations of power. Women are subordinated, but so are slaves and penetrated men. Norman cites Stephen Moore, who reads Paul’s erotic metaphors as concerning “God’s phallus” penetrating the believer and causing great (erotic/spiritual) pleasure. Norman thinks Methodius should be read more positively. After all, the male orgasm is fundamentally ecstatic, even when it comes about from submissiveness. Furthermore, it is true that the orgasm described is male. But in this period there were “men who menstruate and women who inseminate” (98). So why could there not be women, too, who experience (symbolic) male orgasm upon union with Christ?

In the end, Norman argues, Methodius should be read positively. His use of the male orgasm as a metaphor opens up spaces outside of heterosexual hegemony. His discussion of celibacy, eros, and spirituality revolves around “a romantic idealization of desire” in which “sex symbolizes divine love” (99). In this light, Methodius’ Symposium is a valuable and challenging work.