In summer of 2017, I worked for Professor Susan Harvey as a research assistant on her book project, Women’s Singing, Women’s Stories in Ancient Syriac Christianity. One of my main tasks was to read articles and provide short, critical abstracts for her. I’ve made these abstracts available here, accessible under the category “Critical abstracts — late antiquity”:
Continue reading “Critical Abstracts: Overview”Category: Critical abstracts — late antiquity
Upson-Saia Critical Abstract
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.
[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 Critical Abstract — Worrying about Emotions in History
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 Critical Abstract — Problems and Methods
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 (ed.) Critical Abstracts
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 Critical Abstract
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.
Krawiec Critical Abstract — Monastic Families
In this article, Krawiec analyzes four monastic texts to argue that an attitude of “profamilialism” existed alongside the familiar view of antifamilialism. These ideologies are based on the link between spiritual and “fleshly” families in late antique Christianity. While Krawiec recognizes that ascetics largely rejected biological family bonds, she is interested in how spiritual communities – especially monasteries – negotiated biological families within their institutional contexts.
Krawiec begins by offering a background on the evolution of Roman notions of family in late antique Christianity. First, she notes that there is a significant amount of continuity; even “Christian” values like “requiring sexual fidelity from husbands” have Roman antecedents (284). Yet asceticism also contributed to change in family discourse, as Elizabeth Clark detailed in “Antifamilial Tendencies in Ancient Christianity.” As Krawiec sees it, the core of this shift is the divide between “fleshly families and spiritual communities” (285). Ascetics did not argue against the family per se, but they did emphasize the spiritual family over the biological; late antique Christianity was less “antifamilial” than it was “antiflesh.” In Krawiec’s words, ascetic Christianity absorbed “all that was valuable and transcendent about the family” and left the fleshly family “to wallow in its valueless corporeality” (285).
In this article, Krawiec nuances this thesis by examining the roles of biological families in the institutional context of monasticism. Krawiec argues that the inclusion of biological family members within the spiritual family of Christianity created rich, binding, eternal ties that were praised by even the most antifamilial ascetics. The first text Krawiec uses to illustrate this is Augustine’s letter to Laetus. Krawiec acknowledges that the letter appears to be a typical example of ascetic antifamiliasm. Like many ascetics, Augustine presents the biological family as a hurdle that must be overcome “in order to follow the higher devotion to God” (289). Yet Krawiec’s analysis demonstrates that Augustine fundamentally redefines rather than rejects the family. For instance, Augustine acknowledges that Laetus still has a duty to provide financially for his biological family. This shows that although Laetus’ loyalty is owed to his spiritual family, not all his biological relations can be rejected. More significant is how Augustine discusses Jesus’ relationship with his mother. In Krawiec’s reading, Augustine believes that Jesus can claim Mary as his mother not because she happened to give birth to him but because “she fits his definition of spiritual family relationships” (291). Mary does God’s will by not following the example of Eve but rather following God. This is why Jesus can claim Mary as his mother. On the other hand, Laetus must reject his mother. But the reason for this renunciation is not because of their biological relationship, but because Laetus’ mother chose Eve as her role model. A mother that follows the correct spiritual path can reaffirm her biological ties and create a spiritual family relationship; a mother that goes astray must be renounced.
Krawiec next turns to Augustine’s letter to Ecdicia. His advice to her is quite different from Augustine’s advice to Laetus. In fact, Augustine deems Ecdicia’s asceticism a sin because it led her husband into sin. Krawiec ascribes these different approaches to asceticism to the difference in familial obligations between a son and his mother and a wife and her husband. Each of these bonds is due to the model of Mary, even though the responsibilities entailed vary greatly. Augustine admonishes Ecdicia to follow Mary’s example in remaining submissive to her husband (Joseph) despite “no longer mixing in carnal intercourse [carnali consortio]” (293, quoting Augustine ep. 262.1). When Ecdicia adopts a principle of sexual abstinence – asceticism – she fails in her “specific role as a wife” (293). Augustine sees intercourse as a debt that spouses owe each other, even when one party chooses celibacy. This debt continues to have power, even within asceticism. As with Laetus, choosing to be an ascetic does not give one license to neglect financial obligations to family members – even when these financial obligations include one’s body.
As these letters indicate, ascetic vows and biological families could coexist – but only as long as “family members placed their spiritual relationship above their biological one” (295). Krawiec notes that Philip Rousseau found this same “transformation of familial bonds in the context of Egyptian communal monasticism” (295). Another prominent example of the coexistence of spiritual and fleshly bonds is the relationship between Gregory of Nyssa and his sister Macrina. Gregory’s theology “celebrates the materiality of the logos, the Word made flesh” (297, quoting Derek Krueger). Therefore, when Gregory writes a hagiography of Macrina he understands and prioritizes biological relationships. These include both Gregory’s own relationship to his sister and Macrina’s “noble exchange” (298, in Gregory’s words) with her mother. This fellowship (κοινωνίαν) is not opposed to spiritual devotion; rather, it transcends “nature” (φύσις) to support the worship of God. In all of Macrina’s relationships, the spiritual and the fleshly “work in tandem rather than opposition” (301).
Finally, Krawiec turns to the Egyptian monastic leader Shenoute. The sermon she analyzes is directed to both monks and laity, each with their own complex familial relationships. Krawiec argues that Shenoute’s “family discourse” is “remarkably consistent” (303). In both contexts, this discourse includes advocating “the correct use of corporal punishment” as part of “strong leadership” and the “proper definition” of different roles (304). Only by making these principles cornerstones of the family and of the monastic community will “true Christian sanctity” be achieved. If the Christian ideals are followed as Shenoute stipulates them, “the biological family can be as sacred as the monastic life itself, connecting all Christians rather than separating them” (305). What happens through Shenoute’s antifamilialism is not the abandonment of biological family but a discursive transformation that allows for the exploration and reconciliation of tensions within Christianity.
Throughout this article, Krawiec convincingly demonstrates that a profamilial attitude played a central role in ascetic familial discourse. Rather than abandoning the biological family, antifamilalism argues that the fleshly must be harmonized with the spiritual to “create a vision of a united Christian family” (306). In her conclusion, Krawiec gestures towards the power of this discourse. She argues that the integration of the fleshly family and the spiritual “family” creates a “myth of the ascetic’s ability to attain near perfection by living out the injunction of Luke 14.26”[1] (306). Within this myth, the biological family is not erased. Instead, the fleshly family’s “brief appearance helps to facilitate the working of the illusion” (306, quoting James Goehring). This is a powerful conclusion (although all too briefly treated) that relates the sources Krawiec treats at length to a convincing “master narrative” of antifamilialism.
[1] KJV: If any man come to me, and hate not his father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple. NTG: εἴ τις ἔρχεται πρός με καὶ οὐ μισεῖ τὸν πατέρα ἑαυτοῦ καὶ τὴν μητέρα καὶ τὴν γυναῖκα καὶ τὰ τέκνα καὶ τοὺς ἀδελφοὺς καὶ τὰς ἀδελφὰς ἔτι τε καὶ τὴν ψυχὴν ἑαυτοῦ, οὐ δύναται εἶναί μου μαθητής.
Krawiec Critical Abstract
In this chapter, Krawiec analyses Palladius’ Lausiac History to argue that Melania “is a transgressive figure in terms both of gender and of sexuality, most significantly because of her relationship to monastic memory” (131). In particular, Krawiec uses the category (or “noncategory”) of “queer” to understand Melania’s position and sexual status. Krawiec sees her status as an ascetic woman as a challenge to normative female sexuality – the same status that allows her to be an influential female voice even among men. Furthermore, the multiple roles Melania plays also contest and complicate the social memory of gender.
Krawiec begins by presenting her view of the Lausiac History as an artifact of “collective monastic memory” (132) that is meant to remind readers of important virtues. This monastic memory is cohesive at least in part, Krawiec argues, because it is primarily male. Even memories of women come from reports by men, often resulting in a view of women’s practice in men’s terms. For example, Palladius says that he attempts to “commemorate in this book the manly women to whom God granted struggles equal to those of men so that no one can plead as an excuse that women are too weak to practice virtue successfully” (133, citing Palladius 41.1).
However, Melania the Elder does not fit this pattern. Krawiec argues that rather than being gendered – masculinized – her memory is queered. An interesting example of this comes in the story of Alexandra, who leaves the city to entomb herself and refuses to meet face-to-face with any person. Melania narrates her encounter with Alexandra, through which she found out that Alexandra had hidden herself because her body had caused male heterosexual desire. What is interesting is that Melania “has a memory voice that serves in place of the male gaze” (134), indicating to the readers Alexandra’s desirability. Melania queers gender and sexuality because desire, even male heterosexual desire, has to be experienced through Melania’s gaze. Melania is termed he anthropos of God, a label that lets her function as both an object and subject of memory. For example, she is explicitly authorized to record the memory of Pambo, a male monk – ho anthropos of God. Melania’s memory is authoritative because she is queered through it.
Not only are Melania’s memories queered, but memory of Melania also “becomes a genderqueered memorial” (136). In creating this form of memory, Palladius promotes Origenist monasticism over Jerome’s ideology. To demonstrate this, Krawiec contrasts the Lausiac History with Jerome’s account of Marcella. Marcella, too, has authority – in her case as a teacher. But Jerome shows that “she teaches, but as a woman” (137); her voice does not contain the kind of agency that could “emasculate” the men she teaches. The strength of Jerome’s account of Marcella comes precisely from her “gender-fixity,” and so his account reinforces gender norms. In contrast, Melania teaches in her own words even to those of the highest rank. On the one hand, her roles as a scriptural interpreter, a “monastic abba,” and even an “orator to the Senate” (138) carry clear male connotations. On the other hand, Palladius also refers to Melania as a loving mother and concerned grandmother, clearly establishing her in female gender roles. Even outside the monastic setting, in the memory of Melania “gender has a distinctly different role than in Jerome” (138).
In this chapter, Krawiec crafts an excellent (and succinct) analysis of Melania’s gender in the Lausiac History. Her use of “queerness,” as suggested by Virginia Burrus and Amy Hollywood, is convincing and novel. At the same time, her argument is supported by many detailed analysesGenderqueer memory should provoke significant discussion in any analysis of late antique female asceticism.
König Critical Abstract
In this chapter, König explores the genre of sympotic writing in late antiquity. With the exception of Methodius’ Symposium, König finds few such texts in Christian writing from the first to fifth centuries CE. In what follows, he explores the neglect of sympotic forms within late-antique literature. König attempts to demonstrate that Christian literature does engage with sympotic dialogue, but in so doing Christian writers self-consciously reshape it in distinct ways.
König begins by asking what features of symposia made them so attractive to Greek writers under Roman rule. His answer is that the symposium, with its Hellenic, elite, philosophical associations, is a key “space for performing Greekness” (87). At the same time, the emphasis on dialogue within symposia makes them spaces for the “active treatment of inherited knowledge” (88): in the symposium, debate is based on both intricate knowledge of the past and novel ideas in the present. Finally, the symposium also draws in the reader because it is based on the premise that every listener – reader and symposiast alike – “must be ready with his or her own addition to the string of alternative explanations on offer” (90). Indeed, this participatory element means that we as readers can imagine that we are literally in dialogue with the writings of the past. This simultaneous dialogic engagement and blurring of boundaries makes the sympotic form particularly potent. König discusses Bakhtin’s distinction between heteroglossic and dialogic forms to clarify why the effect of sympotic dialogues is so powerful. Athenaeus, the great writer in the sympotic genre, thought of every voice as “a compound of previous utterances and associations” (94). This effect, foreshadowing Bakhtin, is made clear by the framing of Athenaeus’ writings as dialogues. In other words, the symposium form makes the texts active and dialogic, in the Bakhtinian sense.
König next uses these traits of the sympotic form to discuss the absence of symposia from Christian writing. One suggestion he makes is that the “emphasis on convivial openness and ingenuity, the sympotic dislike of authoritative statement … is not a comfortable one for Christian writers” (95). To examine this and other suggestions, König treats the dialogues of Augustine. Augustine pointedly avoids linking philosophical conversation with drinking and evening settings. He also prefers to describe writing and reading over transcribing oral debate. Augustine even suggests that the audience would not benefit from seeing a “public quarrel between the interlocutors” (97). König suggests that this wariness of “speculative and playful speech” might explain “Christian neglect of the sympotic genre more generally” (97). In addition, König suggests that associations with intoxication and seduction conflicts with Christian attitudes towards “the pleasures of eating and drinking” (98). Furthermore, the elitism of symposia clashes with inclusive Christian attitudes. To resolve this conflict in his Symposium, Methodius replaces “membership of a specific sympotic community” with “attendance at the universal … banquet of the Christian church” (98).
The first example König gives is Book 2 of Clement’s Paidagogus. In this text, Clement treats sympotic themes like “the question of how to behave at dinner” and “proper attitudes to food” (100), but he avoids use of the sympotic form. Instead, Clement gives the appearance that all sources agree with him. For example, he presents the readers with his Christian sources by acting as “a mouthpiece for their coherent and consistent instruction” (101). Clement is not always successful in maintaining this appearance, but he certainly tries hard to suppress the implications of the sympotic form. As König previously demonstrated, the dialogic voice of texts by non-Christian writers like Athenaeus emerges precisely because of the sympotic form. On the other hand, the dialogic voice of Clement’s text emerges despite avoiding the sympotic form. In sum, König’s examination of Augustine demonstrated that Christian writers are uncomfortable with the indeterminacy of symposia, while reading Clement showed that they also tried hard to avoid the many-voicedness of sympotic speech.
Finally, König turns to Methodius’ Symposium. He argues that this work is self-consciously dialogic: it includes a range of Christian views on “the traditionally sympotic subject of desire,” expressed “in Plutarchan fashion us[ing] the language of improvisation or contribution” (103). Methodius reshapes the agonistic traditions of symposia by incorporating language of competition, including wrestling, even while mimicking the language of Plato’s Symposium closely. Methodius redirects the language of agonism to emphasize the Christian ideal whereby “the true struggle is against oneself … with virginity, and the nearness to God it provides, as the prize” (106). In König’s analysis, this repurposing of sympotic dialogue signals that Methodius is not simply neglecting sympotic dialogue, but is consciously exploring the form and signaling how and why he differs in approach.
The last text König analyzes is Macrobius’ Saturnalia. Macrobius is generally closer to his Greco-Roman precedents than Methodius. Like Plato, Macrobius celebrates local identity; the Saturnalia were a distinct part of Roman religious and literary heritage. But König argues that Macrobius is also “highly self-conscious about his engagement with and reshaping of sympotic tradition” (107) in ways that are shared with Methodius. For instance, Macrobius too is wary of argument, uncertainty, and inventiveness. In his analysis of the Saturnalia, König draws on the work of Robert Kaster. In this view, Methodius couches the obligation to maintain harmony in moral language – with no place for competition or for humor. In Kaster’s words, “the only man who smiles in the Saturnalia is the expert” (108). To resolve conflict, Methodius uses a “brutality which far surpasses the recurrent atmosphere of gentle mockery in Plutarch’s Sympotic Questions” (108). König further argues that this reshaping of traditional sympotic forms is self-conscious and clearly signaled to Methodius’ audience. For example, Macrobius translates many passages from Plutarch’s Sympotic Questions very closely but still avoids “the typical Plutarchan preference for providing several different explanations” (110). Methodius even satirizes portions of the Sympotic Questions, discussing the same questions but mocking the “garrulousness” of the Greek approach. Like Methodius, Macrobius redirects the idea of dialogue to justify a more harmonious, Christian way of understanding their world.
König ends by pointing to the many omissions he has made and directions to further explore the connections between Christian writing and the sympotic form. Furthermore, he stresses that “we should be wary of generalizing too quickly and too simplistically about Christian and late-antique disinterest in dialogue” (113). With respect to Macrobius and Methodius, König’s main argument is that although they seem to be neglecting sympotic forms what they are really doing is “engaging with those traditions intricately, reshaping them for their own new contexts and new uses” (113).
Hinterberger Critical Abstract
Note: For some quotations in this paper, I was unable to identify the page number because the top of the page was cut off in scanning.
Hinterberger notes that Byzantinists have paid little attention to emotions, despite their presence throughout Byzantine texts – especially in historiography. Hinterberger argues that if we look carefully we will find in Byzantine sources emotions that no longer exist or are far less important in modern society – and vice versa. He underlines this point by noting that all emotions differ depending on their social and historical context. Our objective must therefore not be to capture timeless truths but rather to identify the historical dimension and social function of emotions.
Hinterberger surveys next the kinds of texts that can “provide some access to the world of Byzantine emotions” (125). He notes that art can be a valuable source, but is prone to misinterpretation and presentism; for example, tears in Byzantium could indicate both sadness and anger. Partly because of this potential for misunderstanding, Hinterberger says that he will only use textual evidence in this article. These texts are diverse, but often include some description of the self – for example, autobiographies, diaries, and letters. Public statements that regulate emotional expression are also important, but Hinterberger (following Stearns’ emotionology) believes that they can only indicate emotional conventions. Religious writing is extremely important and can fall in both categories: Symeon the New Theologian describes his emotional relationship with God quite vividly, while sermons and catechisms are generally normative documents. Hinterberger asserts that the most descriptive statements about emotions are in historiography and hagiography. That being said, Hinterberger also says that “the theoretical engagement with emotions takes place primarily in context of theology” (126). This is particularly evident in the writings of Church fathers, including the fourth-century treatise by Ephrem entitled On Virtues and Vices.[1]
Hinterberger next turns to Byzantine terminology. The closest equivalent to “emotion,” he says, is pathos (πάθος). This word has several interesting characteristics. First, it is derived from the verb paschein (πάσχειν), which implies that a pathos is something that happens to someone. This includes the sense of “that which befalls the soul,” or what we would call a passion. Hinterberger notes that the word’s connotations are mostly negative and encompass both emotions and impulses like hunger, lust, and rudeness. The passions were seen as “typically human,” so God was described as apathes. Notably, the angels were understood as susceptible to passions – for example, Lucifer’s downfall was due to pride and envy – while Christ was seen as assuming some of the passions in his incarnation. Some authors mentioned positive and negative manifestations of the passions. For example, Abbas Isaias and Theodoret of Cyrrhus noted that zelos (eagerness) could be “directed toward the acquisition of virtues” (127) but could also become phthonos (envy) if misdirected. Other authors disagreed, pointing to the fact that God is passionless and that humans were made in God’s image to conclude that pathe could not have been part of human nature. This theological view was complemented by a philosophical conception of emotions rooted in Platonism and Stoicism. In this view, the soul has three components: the reasonable, the spiritual, and the covetous (logikon, thumikon, and epithumetikon). Each of these parts was located in a different part of the body and tasked with a distinct function. They were also each identified with different emotions. The theology of pathe developed into an understanding that “apatheia, passionlessness, was the condition for the view of God” (128). Indeed, the passions were seen as tools of the Satan and identified with demons (Evagrios used the words “thought,” “demon,” and “passion” interchangeably). This negative conception of passions filtered into hagiography. Monks were often described in terms of their fight against passions. Saints often struggled against passions or against the actions of people driven by passions. Indeed, Hinterberger argues that “the monastic-ascetic ideal shaped the Byzantine world … and is paralleled by a generally negative image of emotions” (129). There were exceptions – Alexios Komnenos was described as torn between passion for his mother and for combat – but by and large Hinterberger describes hagiography and theology as having very negative attitudes towards pathe.
Finally, Hinterberger examines a number of emotions in detail. First is penthos (mourning), which was epitomized by the “special mourning cult” developed in Byzantine monasticism. The monks “shed tears over their sins and those of mankind” (130) which were said to cleanse the soul. Tears were also used to demonstrate contrition – for example, by Leo VI on the occasion of his fourth marriage.
Envy was also associated with sorrow, though sorrow for the well-being of others. Many examples of envy are drawn from those who the emperor favored above their peers. Envy was associated with the devil because of the fall of man, and so envious humans were considered to be the devil’s tools. Hinterberger traces the Byzantine emphasis on envy to the “pre-Christian perceptions of a superhuman evil power” (130) but also to the strict hierarchy of the army and the civil service. This had the effect of downplaying jealousy, especially that between spouses or siblings.
The last emotion Hinterberger examines is anger (thumos) or wrath (orge). Although Byzantine theology recognized God as passionless (apathes), it did not ignore the Old Testament’s prominent discussion of the wrath of God (theomenia).[2] In fact, this term was later used to refer to any natural disaster. The wrath of emperors was also considered devastating. Anger was often caused by insult and rudeness. This was an easy violation to make in the context of the imperial court’s strict hierarchy.
To conclude, Hinterberger sketches some general characteristics of Byzantine emotions. He argues that they were intertwined with Byzantine Christianity and values. These aspects, he says, are particularly evident in cases where emotions differ significantly from today. Hinterberger’s analysis of emotions in Byzantium is comprehensive and combines perceptive treatment of a variety of sources. Although his observations are astute, his conclusions are rather lackluster. As it stands, this article mostly consists of summaries and descriptions of various sources. The next step is to consider questions Hinterberger doesn’t ask: Whose emotions are these texts describing? How can non-literary sources complicate this picture? What influences can we trace from the cultures Byzantium interacted with and traced its heritage to? There are many directions that this scholarship can and should lead to.
[1] Ephraem Syrus, “Sermo de Virtutibus et Vitiis,” in Sancti Patris Nostri Ephraem Opera Omnia, ed. and trans. Konstantinos G. Phrantzoles, vol. 1, 6 vols. (Thessalonica: To Perivoli tis Panagias, 1988), 37–73, http://stephanus.tlg.uci.edu/Iris/Cite?4138:001:0. See also http://www.toperivoli.gr/pages/patr.htm.
[2] Note that θεομηνία has as its second word not θυμός or οργή but rather the Homeric μήνις.