The Gospel Truth: Michael Pakaluk’s Hermeneutics of Faith

Michael Pakaluk is doing really extraordinary things with the gospels. I predict his translations (of Mark in 2019, and now of John) will only grow in stature over time. He gets right to the marrow, both at the level of English rendition and in terms of his brilliantly subtle approach to the place and uniqueness of each text.

This work is long overdue. After two centuries of scholars laboring under a “hermeneutic of suspicion,” Pakaluk does something like the opposite. He goes straight to what the very earliest records tell us of the gospels, then asks himself the question: “If the early testimonies about the writing of these texts are correct, what might we expect in terms of the kind of text we’d get?” In short, Pakaluk applies what we may call a hermeneutics of trust, or more properly, a hermeneutics of faith. In both Mark and John, this approach ends up bearing much fruit--multiple new insights, multiple questions previous translators never thought to ask.

For years I’ve been waiting for a scholar who took Mark’s widely remarked “roughness” seriously enough to try to render it in English. It matters because Mark’s was the first gospel, the text that established the model for what a gospel was to be. The reeling speed and breathlessness of Mark’s narrative are part of what make it so powerful as witness and account. This narrative speed makes sense given the ancient testimony of how the gospel came to be.

The Apostle Peter, leader of Rome’s Christian community, naturally recounted his experiences to the faithful there. Getting on in years, it was recognized that Peter's memories should be recorded in writing, and Mark was called to transcribe them. That the gospel we have shows all indications of being a spoken narrative, a fact Pakaluk demonstrates at multiple levels, stands as strong evidence it is in fact what it was said to be: Peter’s memoirs.

What we’ve lacked is an English translation that showed sufficient care in rendering just these more spoken aspects of the text. In Pakaluk’s translation, which he titles The Memoirs of St. Peter, we finally have just that. His English Mark is supremely effective as spoken narrative, and follows the tense shifts and quick perspectival shifts of the Greek. The translator lays out these uniquely Markan characteristics in his commentary, and convincingly makes the case that, indeed, they indicate the speech of a witness. In any case, no ancient writer was sufficiently cunning to fake so many natural characteristics of firsthand narrative. The most economical conclusion is likely the true one: this gospel is a transcription from speech, and it is a transcription of the speech of someone who was there when the events happened. Pakaluk's renderings, attentive to the shifts and immediacy of the original, strike like lightning.

With his second translation, Mary’s Voice in the Gospel According to John, Pakaluk again begins by carefully considering the situation of the gospel’s composition. He knows that both the text itself and the earliest testimony tell us that after his crucifixion Jesus’ mother Mary went to live with John. How then, the scholar wonders, would sharing a house over many years with the Lord’s mother, remembering and recounting His life in company with her, likely shape the evangelist's later portrayal of Jesus? It’s a brilliant thought experiment, and in his introduction and commentary, Pakaluk lays out the possibilities. These, in turn, go a long way toward explaining why the Gospel of John is so strikingly different from the synoptic gospels.

Pakaluk’s actual English translation of John, his word choice and phrasing, are explained in his notes via reference to the Greek. But what is really different here is how sharp and precise, and often poetic, the English is. One feels the pith of debate in these sentences (John tends to record Jesus in dialogue) and one feels it in chiseled, natural English. Why is this so rare in our translations?

Robert Alter wrote somewhere that the problem with the King James Version was that they didn't really know Hebrew, whereas the problem with modern Bible translations is that they don't really know English. The observation is apt.

Modern Bible translators tend to fall into one of two opposing vices. Some seek to render scriptural texts in an English as wooden and unproblematic as a high school textbook. They flatten out the power of the Spirit-inspired writers--whose verbal formulations are often intentionally problematic--even as they smuggle their own theological biases directly into the English phrasing. This latter of course “for clarity’s sake”. (Think of the NIV.)

The other, opposing vice is to believe that the Greek, by virtue of its inherent linguistic difference, conveys things that can’t be conveyed in English. And so, to get to the scriptural meaning, one must create a kind of “Hellenized English”. In this way we end up with translations that are neither really Greek nor English, written in an unwieldy, eccentric new language that often, again, only conveys the translator’s own interpretive claims. (Think David Bentley Hart.)

Pakaluk somehow manages to avoid both vices. Partly, I’m sure, it’s his training as a philosopher, partly it’s his strong literary grasp of English that keeps him on the straight and narrow. He’s done the hard work of finding a native English that grabs the reader even as it conveys what is there in the Greek.

Pakaluk’s Mary’s Voice in the Gospel According to John, just published this Lent, is a must read for anyone serious about the gospels. More, it's a blessing to have, besieged as we are by cant, ideology, and misguided attempts to make the gospels "accessible".

Eric Mader
Taipei

At Amazon:

Check Pakaluk's Mary’s Voice in the Gospel According to John

Check Pakaluk's The Memoirs of St. Peter

[Note that there is currently an offer
to buy both books together at discount.]

Some deadpan with your coffee? My Idiocy, Ltd. is now in print. Dryest humor in the west.

The Vulnerable Ones

Salute to the vulnerable ones—
for remaining tender in this insensitive world,
for your hesitancy in the midst of the world's dead certainty,
for your ability to feel others as if they were you, and to take on each and every of their pains,

for being afraid of the world with its blind and bottomless conviction,

for your need to brush even the invisible dirt off your hands—

salute.

Salute to the vulnerable ones—
for your dread of the absurdity of existence,
for keeping subtly quiet about what you see in others,
for your clumsiness in the ordinary matters and your ability to commune with the extraordinary;
for your transcendental realism and your utter lack of practicality,
for being ill-adjusted to how things are, and being lucid about how they ought to be,
and for all that is endless—unknown—unspoken,
hidden in you.

Salute to the vulnerable ones—
for your creativity and ecstasy,
for your hungry friendships, love,
and for your fear that love might die even before you do.

Salute to the vulnerable ones—
for your talents, never in use,
(lack of appreciation for your greatness will not help in recognising the greatness of those who come next)
salute—because, instead of taking your example, they want you to adjust,
salute—because, instead of healing the world, it is you who get treated,
salute—for all your divine abilities getting ravaged by lower animal force,
salute—for your incredible uniqueness and for the solitariness of your ways.
Salute to the vulnerable ones.

by Kazimierz Dabrowski

Trans. from the Polish by Alexandra Gruszczynska, 5 August 2018

Check out my Idiocy, Ltd. and begin the long, hard reckoning.

The Triple Birth of Daniil Kharms

Daniil Kharms
If you are one who frequents some of the same Leningrad haunts I do, you may at one time or other have heard the strange rumors about my birth. I’m often asked if the story is actually true, and since I’m getting tired of talking about it, I’ve decided to clear things up once and for all. So here’s how it really happened.

As some of you know, my father at that time was working in geophysical science and was quite respected in his field. Though a man of science, he in fact was quite superstitious, and still held to a prediction about me that he’d learned from a gypsy fortune teller during his years in the navy.

“Your first son is destined to be a great man, a genius!” the blind old woman had told him. “He will be born on the first of the year.”

So after my father married my mother, in the fall of 1902, he was careful not to consummate the marriage right away. Rather, though he didn’t explain it to my mother, he decided to wait until April 1, 1903, in that way ensuring that I’d be born on the first of January, 1904 and so could fulfill the prophecy about my birth.

When April 1st finally came round, my father approached my mother and said: “I think it’s time we finally play that game, you know, that can cause a child to come about.”

My mother had been wondering for all the intervening months what her husband was waiting for, and so she said: “Okay, let’s.”

But my father had a sense of humor that sometimes got him in trouble, so he said “April Fool’s!”

Not surprisingly, my mother was very offended by this, and so, even after he explained to her that no, it wasn’t really an April Fool’s joke, that he actually intended that day to climb into bed with her, she angrily refused him.

“You are a moron!” she said, and wouldn’t let him touch her.

So my father had no choice but to wait until April 1st the following year.

But when the following April 1st came, my mother was still so angry about the previous April that she wouldn’t accede to his wishes and again called him a moron. All his pleading did him no good, she wouldn’t get into bed with him.

My father saw no hope but to wait and try again the following year.

And in fact after another year had passed, my mother had forgiven him his joke of 1903 and decided to accede to his wish. So it was that on April 1st, 1905, my parents’ marriage was finally consummated and I was conceived. Finally, my father thought, the prophecy would be fulfilled and he would go down in history as father of a great genius who benefited Russia with his brilliance and brought renown to the family name.

But things didn’t quite turn out that way. My mother went into labor prematurely, and I was delivered by an army surgeon who lived upstairs from us in mid-October, 1905.

The labor was a difficult one. The surgeon administered drugs to my mother which caused her to drift in and out of consciousness during the delivery. When I was finally born, according to those attending, I in fact showed signs of great genius by immediately upbraiding the attending doctor.

“What the hell is this all about?!” I’m told I said in perfect Russian. “I was in the middle of contemplating a very difficult problem in Kant.”

I then allegedly glared at the doctor with such withering contempt that that he didn’t know how to reply.

My father arrived home just after I uttered these words, and he was so angry to have missed my first utterance, and so upset besides that I had been born almost three months early, that he demanded I be put back into my mother’s womb until the New Year.

The army surgeon, and the midwife who was also there, claimed that it was impossible to do such a thing, but as my father threatened violence, the surgeon finally did his best and managed to get me back inside.

When my mother got over the effects of the drugs, she said: “Where is it? Where is my baby?”

But the surgeon and my father both claimed that she hadn’t actually given birth, that she was ill with fever, that the delivery was all a hallucination. She pointed to the blood and the obvious preparations for a birth, but they wouldn’t give in to her and finally, still cloudy from the drugs, she lay back her head and passed out.

The trick was no good, however, because a couple weeks later my mother went into labor once more. And this time no drugs were required and I was born premature, for the second time, on November 1st.

Again my father was so angry he started to demand I be put back in. But this time there was no fooling my mother, so he opted instead for the plan of keeping me in an incubator for the following two months until the New Year.

What’s more, the two births had apparently traumatized me so much that I’d forgotten everything I knew about philosophy and could no longer even speak.

I still remember the incubator well. It was very warm, very clean, and I lay on a soft bed of cotton until January 1st, 1906, when they took me out into the world. Thus it is that I was born for the third time. And this story also probably explains something about the nature of my somewhat broken genius which allows me to write these tales you all complain so much about.

* * *
Daniil Kharms was a Russian writer of the pre-World War II period whose hilarious absurdist short texts and theater pieces are among the most cherished remains of the short-lived avant-garde movement OBERIU (“Association for Real Art”). The best-known collection in English of Kharms’ work so far is Today I Wrote Nothing: The Selected Writings of Daniil Kharms. The above piece is a very free adaptation of a Kharms text that can be found in “I Am a Phenomenon Quite Out of the Ordinary”, a recent translation of Kharms’ surviving journals and letters. (I did this adaptation as a creative writing prompt for my students in Taiwan, where I teach English.) Like many writers of his generation, Kharms fell foul of the Soviet authorities. Arrested in 1941, he was confined to a psychiatric prison, where he eventually died, presumably of starvation, during the brutal Nazi siege of Leningrad. --E.M.

The Homeric Hymn to Hermes (with Sabrina’s Take)

The trickster god Hermes, grown up.

Of the twelve Olympian gods, Hermes is the messenger, and is often seen in the myths bearing messages for his father Zeus. He is also the god of thieves. The following poem is one of the hymns to the gods traditionally ascribed to Homer. The Hymn to Hermes was probably written some time in the 6th century B.C. It is a humorous narrative of the god’s first days after birth.

I post the hymn here, with a bit of student homework in the middle. I handed out the text in sections, forcing students to speculate as to what would happen next. At one crucial point, where Hermes must defend his actions before a council of the gods, I asked students to write what the baby god probably would say. Sabrina Fanchiang did the best job of it.

Working from the translation of most of the hymn in Barry Powell’s Classical Myth, I simplified it for my adolescent students. E.M.

1.

Sing, Muse, a song to Hermes, son of Maia and Zeus, the helper, messenger of the gods. Maia was a fair-braided and bashful nymph and bore Hermes to Zeus, ruler of all the gods. She didn’t like the noisy company of the immortals, so hid away in a shadowy cave. But Zeus found her out and embraced her in the darkness of night, when sweet sleep held the eyes of Hera tight.

Ten months later the child sprang into light; he would bring about many wonderful things!

Maia’s child was clever--a cheater, robber, liar, cattle thief, fast talker, burglar and breaker of safes. He quickly used his tricks against the wisest immortals.

Born at the break of day, Hermes wasted no time in the cradle his mother put him in. No, as soon as he found a chance he stumbled out.

Leaving the dim light of the cave, he found a turtle crawling along. It was destined to make him famous--for Hermes would soon create the first lyre from it.

The turtle was peacefully nibbling on some grass.

“Good morning to you!” Hermes said. “How cute you are, what a good dancer you’d be, I think you’d be great fun at a party! Where did you get that great costume? Why don’t you come inside with me awhile? It’s safer indoors. Besides, I have connections in high places. Really. I can make you famous.”

Hermes grabbed up the turtle in his baby fingers and carried him into the cave. Then, without pausing more than a second to think, he had his plan. He took a sharp knife and cut out the turtle’s insides.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

He drilled holes in the empty shell. Taking some strings and other things lying round the cave, he set to work measuring and fitting things together. Finally finding a pair of goat’s horns, he attached them and pulled the seven strings neatly over his beautiful invention.

He plucked it and sweet music came out.

Now five hours old, Hermes began to sing as he played the lyre, singing of the love of his mother and father.

He sang the story of Zeus, son of Cronus, and his fair-sandaled mother Maia, their smiles and whispering to at the edge of the cave, their sweet words of secret love.

He sang in praise of his mother’s beautiful home, the fine bronze pots and pans she had, the many cooking things that hung from the wall. But even as he sang, he was thinking of other things. He put the lyre down in his cradle, for a whim had entered his mind.

“A nice juicy steak really wouldn’t be bad just now,” he thought.

So he ran from the cave to see what he could find outside, plotting like a thief with each step he took.

2.

The Sun, with its chariot and horses, had set when Hermes came to the shadows of Pieria, hill of the Muses, where the cattle of the gods were shut in for the night. The clever son of Maia, Hermes, led fifty of these out of the cowpens. They mooed as they went along.

He led them by backroads and twisted lanes, trying to find out where the way was most dusty. There he led them backward, while he walked forward, having reversed his sandals. Off again he led them from their dusty lying hoofprints, down some twisted way where their passing left no trace.

An old man working in a vinyard saw him pass the meadows of Onchestus, heading down to the plain. Before he could ask the baby any questions, the son of Maia spoke to him like this: “Old man, bending your back as you dig away in the vinyard, surely you’ll have good grapes when it’s time to harvest. But listen now to my warning. If anyone asks you any questions, tell him you haven’t seen a thing, okay? Start talking nonsense, forget the truth. Or pretend to be deaf as a rock, even though now you can hear me fine. Just keep your mouth shut, if you know what’s good for you.”

The old man was astonished and didn’t know what to say or think. Hermes continued on.

Already the darkness of night, his accomplice, had been chased away by Selene’s watery light as Hermes arrived with the cattle at the river Alpheus. He drove them across and took them to a secret enclosure at the edge of a beautiful meadow.

While the cattle drank from troughs and ate their fill of grass, Hermes gathered some dry wood. Over a piece of dry laurel he spun a drill with a small bow he had made, blowing on the smoldering tinder. And so the son of Zeus invented the kindling of fire by friction.

To the fire pit he carried more wood and laid it on. The fire began to blaze, its beams scattering out into the darkness.

Then Hermes went and dragged two of the stolen cattle toward the fire. Displaying his power, the baby wrestled the panting beasts down, then twisted and rolled them over, so they lay belly-up on the ground.

Hermes cut their throats with a knife and set to butchering them. Some of the rich, fatty meat he cut and put on skewers he’d whittled from wood; the rest he stuffed in the emptied guts, thus creating the world’s first sausage.

Putting all the meat he’d prepared onto a flat stone, he divided it into twelve portions, one for each of the twelve immortals.

God though he was, Hermes drooled at the wonderful scent of the cooked meat. Still he held back from eating it, deciding instead to store it up in a cave in the hillside where no one could find it, thus proving his skill as a cattle thief.

After hiding the meat, Hermes gathered more wood to add to the fire. In the blaze he burned the heads and feet of the butchered cattle, then went and threw his trick sandals into the Alpheus.

Returning under the silvery moonlight, he carefully covered over the fire with dirt, hiding all sign of it.

Dawn was beginning to appear as he quickly made his way home. The son of Zeus met no one on the road, neither mortal nor immortal. And no dog dared bark at him, son of Zeus and bringer of luck.

Hermes squirmed his way through the keyhole, entering his mother’s cave like a mist, then tiptoed over the floor, making not a sound. Reaching his cradle, he hopped up into it and quickly covered himself over with his blanket, looking just like any innocent baby, the lyre he had made lying there next to him.

Immortal though he was, his mother gave him a sharp scolding:

“You naughty boy! Where have you been, coming home at such an hour? Apollo will certainly get you for what you’ve done! He’ll drag you away, tied up so tightly you’ll have no way to escape. Whatever you’ve stolen, take it back. Your father only created trouble begetting you on the world. You’ll be trouble for gods and men alike!”

With a crafty answer, Hermes replied to Maia his mother: “Madam, why do you scold me as if I were only a baby? Do you think I’ll whimper and cry just because my mother is angry? No, I’ll pick whatever career seems most promising. And I can tell you now--whatever I pick I’ll be thinking for the both of us. Think about it: Why should we be satisfied, we who are both divine, sitting here in this dirty cave? We are gods, mother--we should be receiving prayers and sacrifices, but we’ll get none of that here. No, I know a better future for both of us: we should be having fun with the other immortals, rich as wealthy landowners; we should be living a life of abundance and luxury. You really want to waste your time in this cave? I just don’t accept it: I want the same honors and position as Apollo. And if my father Zeus won’t give it to me, I’ll find a way to get it myself. Think of all the riches that will come to the patron god of thieves! If Apollo tries to come after me, he might regret it. I’ll go to Delphi and tunnel into the temple; I know he’s got plenty of gold and fine things in there. How will the son of Leto feel when he sees it’s all been emptied out? You’ll see, mother! You’ll see!”

Mother and son continued chatting and arguing until dawn appeared, rising from ocean’s depth.

3.

Apollo came to Onchestus, the lovely grove sacred to the Earth-shaker. By the road he found the old peasant. The son of Leto spoke to him:

“Old vinyard worker, I come here from Pieria, hunting for my cattle. This morning I found, to my amazement, that only my black bull was left, alone with my four fierce dogs: all the rest were gone. But all the cattle returned from the meadow last night, and were closed in after a day of grazing. So tell me, ancient man, have you seen a cattle rustler passing on this road, anyone driving cows before him?”

The old man answered the questions carefully:

“Friend, it’s not easy reporting everything you’ve noticed. Besides, many people travel this road, some with evil schemes, others on lawful business. How can I tell which is which? I was digging in my vinyard, all through the day, up to the hour of sunset. But, sir, I may have seen--I really can’t tell you for sure--what looked like the little moppet tending his cows. He carried a long stick and skipped from one side to the other as he drove them along, but to be honest--and I thought it was kind of strange--he seemed to have his sandals on backwards.”

Apollo listened until the old man finished, then hurried on. Consulting a bird, he learned that the thief was none other than the newborn child fathered by mighty Zeus, son of Cronus. Lord Apollo, himself Zeus’ son, wrapped a mist about his soulders for concealment, then sped quickly to Pylos, by the sandy shore, to hunt for his cattle. There he saw the tracks in the dust:

“What is this! These are definitely cattle tracks, but why are they turned the wrong way, as if headed toward the meadows? And these, what are these tracks? They look like some kind of tiny sandals, but the steps are wrong, as if the person didn’t know how to walk right. It’s all very suspicious.”

Apollo continued his journey, arriving at Cyllene, the mountain covered with forest. He came to a shadowy cave in the rock, where the nymph Maia lived, who had given birth to the child of Zeus. Apollo wasted no time, but entered the cave in all his radiance, dispelling the darkness. Maia and her child knew at once who he was, and knew why he was there: the god was enraged at the loss of his cattle. At the sight of him, Hermes bundled further into his blanket, making himself as small as possible. He lay there looking like a baby just born and washed; he held his turtle shell tightly against him.

The son of Zeus and Leto wasn’t fooled for a moment. He searched around the cave until he found a shiny key, then used it to open all the locked cabinets and storage cupboards. In fact there was plenty of gold and silver in the cave, and lots of fine dresses, all belonging to Maia. Apollo found no evidence against the baby Hermes: there was nothing one wouldn’t expect to find in the home of an immortal. Finally giving up the hunt, Apollo addressed the baby himself:

“Alright, kid, you look pretty innocent lying there in your cradle, but I know what is what. Tell me where the cows are. If you don’t talk, there will be trouble. I’ll grab you and fling you straight down to the windy darkness of hell--a terrible end, and one you’ll never be able to escape. No, neither your Mama nor your Dada will bring you back to the light. You’ll wander under the earth forever!”

Hermes replied to this with words that were carefully chosen:

“Tell me, great son of Leto, why are you talking so tough? And why have you come into a house looking for beasts that live outdoors? I never saw them, never heard of them, nobody told me about them. I couldn’t tell you who stole them, even if you paid me to. Do I look like a cattle thief? Do I look like the brawny type who runs about at night? No, that isn’t my style. I’m too busy with other important things, like sleeping, and drinking milk from my mother’s breasts, and having blankets round my shoulders, and splashing in nice warm baths. I hope nobody asks you how this argument started, because even the gods would wonder, if you told them a newborn baby walked into his house through the front door with a herd of stolen cattle. You claim things that don’t make sense! I was just born yesterday, my feet are so soft and the ground is so rough. Alright, if you insist I will take an oath, by the head of my father, and swear I am not guilty, nor have I seen anyone else stealing your cattle away--whatever ‘cattle’ are, because I don’t really know, having only heard about them from my mother.”

So Hermes spoke, but kept glancing from under his half-closed eyelids, watching how his words were affecting his audience. Apollo laughed gently and answered as follows:

“Rascal, liar, and knave--how good you are at persuasion! But I know how you have spent the last night: you’ve been stealing! I see you’re going to be the god of robbers. You’ll bring terrible suffering to many--those poor shepherds living out in the mountains, those who lose their cattle or wooly sheep to thieves that come in the night! But now, unless you really want to take the longest and deepest possible sleep, you’ll get out of that cradle quick, you creature of the inky night!”

And Apollo grabbed the baby Hermes and lifted him up out of the cradle, ready to carry him off. But Hermes had his way of fighting back, for the moment he felt he was lifted up, he let out a terrible portent, a hard-pressed slave of the belly, an impolite messenger.

Apollo heard with disgust, and dropped the newborn immortal to the ground. Then the son of Leto squatted down by the child, and said the following to him:

“Listen, my diaper-wearing friend, son of Zeus and Maia, don’t think your bad manners will scare me away. No, you will lead me to my stolen cattle one way or another, and you will do it today. You will take me to them or you will regret the day you were born!”

At this the baby Hermes indignantly threw his blanket from his shoulders and sat up to ask:

“Where will you take me, you hottest-tempered of the gods? Just because your cattle were stolen, you feel you have to take it out on me, a newborn? I tell you honestly, I don’t care anything about cattle, I wish the whole species of cattle would just disappear--anyhow, I’m not even very sure what they look like because I’ve never even seen one and have only heard about them. So why are you attacking me, you bully? If you want to cause trouble, let’s just take this matter to court. Let’s take it to Zeus, son of Cronus.”

4.

On the way to Olympus, the baby Hermes and the glorious son of Leto argued about their case. Apollo, speaking the truth, did his best to trap Hermes in his lies, but Hermes employed all the tricks of rhetoric to escape Apollo’s traps.

The two finally reached the fragrant peak of Olympus, the home of their father, Cronus’ son. The balance of justice was set before the pair, and the deathless gods assembled just after golden-throned dawn.

Hermes and Apollo came forward and stood at the knees of Zeus.

Zeus who thunders on high addressed his glorious son:

“Phoebus, from where have you come, bringing such a prodigious booty, this newly born child, who looks more like a wise ambassador than a child? It seems there is some important case being brought before the council of the gods.”

Lord Phoebus replied:

“Father, it is true that soon you will hear an important matter. Do not reproach me for being the only one greedy for booty. This little child, who in truth is really a cunning bandit, I found him at the end of a tedious trip in the hills of Cyllene. He’s a cheat more crafty than any I’ve ever seen walking the face of the earth, divine or human. He stole my cattle at evening from the meadow, then drove them over backroads and dusty ways, making them walk backwards to confuse me and he himself leaving lying tracks. The little bandit had tied his sandals on in reverse! As long as he took the cattle along dirt-covered roads, I could follow his path, but once he got to harder ground, rocky ways as hard as iron, the path was lost. Only one poor farmer saw him hurrying along, straight down the road to Pylos, driving my precious herd. Finally he hid them somewhere, then hurried home and jumped in his cradle. When I arrived he was there rubbing his eyes with two chubby fists, trying to look like an innocent baby just woken up. When I accused him, he looked me straight in the eye and lied like an experienced thief: ‘I never saw them, never heard of them, nobody has told me about them. Cattle--what is that?’”

Having finished his speech, Phoebus Apollo sat down. Then Hermes stood up and spoke these words in reply:

>>>>[At this point I asked my Creative Mythology students at ZEI to write what they thought Hermes’ reply would be. Sabrina Fanchiang, one of my wittiest students in recent years (certainly a promising young smart alec in the Hermetic tradition) did a great job of it. She described the scene as follows:

Sabrina Fanchiang
Hermes grabbed the lyre and hit the road to Olympus. Then Zeus, son of Cronus, sat on his throne and saw these two boys glaring at each other. He knew all the things that had happened.

Zeus liked Hermes so much because Hermes was as cunning as he. But he was also scared--what if Hermes would steal one of Zeus’ girlfriends next time instead of cattle? Or even more his throne? Zeus quivered.

So he decided to force Hermes to return the cattle. But Hermes knew what Zeus was thinking. He disguised himself sheepishly and drooped his head. He said to Apollo:

“My smart handsome brother. . . Hmm. . . I am terribly sorry to make you upset. But what are you going to do with those cattle? You don’t even eat them--they are smelly and silly. Can the cattle respect you and love you? Can the cattle listen to you and dance for you? I want to give you my lyre for apology. It’s handy and unplugged: you can bring it with you any time.”

Lonely Apollo took his word. And he really like this lyre. So he forgot about the cattle, took the lyre, and flew off into the sky.

Apollo became a splendid rock superstar with many crazy girl fans. As for Hermes, he kept the cattle very carefully, so he could make fine leather from them and open up a luxury handbag boutique for Zeus’ girlfriends and rich ladies. The boutique was named with his name.


Excellent take, Sabrina! I especially like how you showed Hermes’ persuasive power in action, and your explanation of the real origin of the handbag line.

Following is how the ancient poet presented Hermes’ reply and the rest of the story of his conflict with Apollo:]

Having finished his speech, Phoebus Apollo sat down. Then Hermes stood up and spoke these words in reply:

“O Zeus, my father, I promise to tell the truth, plain and simple. I am an innocent child, with no training in lies and deceit. Early this morning, just as the sun was rising, this guy came to our house to hunt for his cattle. He had no witnesses, not one of the other gods came with him, and he tried to make me admit what he wanted by threatening to hurl me to the lowest depths of Hades. Though he himself is obviously in the flower of handsome and glorious youth, he should be able to see that I--well, I’m sure he knows I was born yesterday morning. Do I look like a cattle rustler, the kind of brawny type that goes around and night? So please believe my story, if your claim to be my father is true. I didn’t drive off his cattle--and if I’m lying, may I never be wealthy! I never even left my mother’s cave--that's the truth! I have the greatest respect for Helius and all the immortals, and you, indeed, I love. But Apollo here terrifies me. You yourself can see how harmless I am, and I’m ready to take a great oath to prove it! I swear it by all these terribly expensive surroundings you have here. I swear I’m not guilty! Mark you, some day he will pay for harassing me like this. But for now, be clement to me in your judgment, me a poor infant.”

So the slayer of Argus spoke, glancing to left and right to measure the effect of his words, all the while holding his blanket around his shoulders. Zeus laughed aloud at the lies of his child, at how well he had defended himself against Apollo. Like a good father, he then told them to stop arguing and to behave like brothers. They were to go find the missing cattle together, Hermes leading the way. Hermes was told to stop with his trickery and show Apollo the secret place in which, not long before, he had hidden the stolen cows. So the son of Cronus ordered, and Hermes obeyed him, for though he was just newly born, he knew the will of Zeus could not be refused.

The pair then hurried away, these handsome sons of Zeus, and came to sandy Pylos, by the ford of the river Alpheus. At last they reached the pastures and high-roofed barn where Hermes had hidden the cattle for the night. Hermes went into the cave to start driving the cows out into the light, when Apollo noticed two cowhides on the face of a rock. He demanded of Hermes:

“How were you able, just an infant, to butcher these two cows? Didn’t you tell me before how you weren’t the brawny type? You won’t need to grow very big, you little thief, if you’re already so strong!”

At that Apollo grabbed some willow branches and began to braid a strong cord with them. He planned to tie up Hermes as a punishment for his crime. But the willow cord wouldn’t stay wrapped around the young god. Instead it fell off and snaked away from him, instantly rooting itself in the ground near the herd of cows and becoming a whole new stand of trees. The trees formed themselves into a shelter round the stolen cattle, so one couldn’t see the beasts through the leaves.

Apollo watched this trick with amazement. Where one minute earlier he could see his herd of cattle, now all he could see was a thick growth of willow branches. The mighty son of Leto pretended to stare down at the ground in annoyance, but his eyes were twinkling with fire, . . . trying to hide [the Greek manuscript is missing some words here] . . . .

Hermes easily softened the heart of Leto’s glorious son, strong though he was. With the lyre on his left elbow, he plucked each string with a pick so that it resounded clearly. At the sound of the pure music delight stirred in Apollo’s heart and he laughed. The great son of Maia, plucking away on the lyre, took courage and stood to the left of his older brother. He lifted up his voice sweetly, melodiously, and began a song of the creation of all things, of Earth and the immortal gods, how first they came into being and how each was given his share. First his song honored Mnemosyne, mother of the Muses, who had inspired him to sing. Then he sang of each of the immortals in the order of their generation, honoring each with words fit perfectly to music. As he listened, a passionate longing began to attack the heart of Apollo. Finally opening his mouth, he addressed his brother like this:

“Cow-killer, trickster, operator, a joy at a banquet, this song of yours is worth far more than fifty fat cattle! What’s more, I’m sure our silly quarrel can be settled one way or another. But tell me, son of Maia, you of so many talents, have you been able to play like this from birth? Or is this the gift of some god, or even of some mortal man? Either way, it’s amazing. I’ve never heard such beautiful music. Nothing like it has ever been played either on earth or Olympus. It is a perfect charm for incurable sorrow--to hear it one feels one only has three paths from which to choose: joy, sleep, or the sweetness of love. I too am a faithful servant of the Muses, whose greatest delight is the dance and the shining pathways opened by song, the complex joy of rhythm, the passionate thunder of pipes. But nothing I’ve ever heard has ever shaken my heart like this. It’s amazing really! You are just a moppet after all, where could you get such skill? But listen to me, just listen. I’m willing to be a wise older brother for you. From now on, you will be praised as famous among the immortals, you and your mother both. I will make you a glorious leader among the gods; you’ll have fortune too. Listen to me, son of Maia, and I shall bring you many glorious gifts! I promise not to deceive you.”

Hermes responded to this with his usual cunning:

“How tactfully, son of Zeus, you make your suggestion to me! I have no objection giving you a share in my music, and I’ll prove this very day that I want us to be friends. As you sit with the gods, you can collect all kinds of information. You are powerful, and our father is right to shower favors on you. They tell me that you learn right from his mouth the proper ritual owed each god, you hear all the secret pronouncements of Zeus. With inside information like this, I imagine you collect enormous amounts of blackmail. But now, since your heart is eager to master the lyre’s sweet music, take it from me as a gift. Go right ahead: play and sing as much as you like; I promise you’ll get great enjoyment from it. You’ll warble a wonderful song to this party girl in your arms, because you already know all the answers, you always say the right thing. Take her along to a dance or a dinner gathering, or even a wild party, where nighttime is turned to day. If anyone asks the right questions, in a way both clever and wise, she will teach him curious things, a joy for his heart. Be sure, though, that you handle her gently, because she hates dull serious force. If any common fool comes to bother her with stubborn or stupid questions, she’ll give him stupid answers in return: her reply will be chatter and nonsense. But you’re not like that at all: you immediately learn whatever you want to, so this lyre is just the gift for you, O glorious son of Zeus. The two of us, brother, on mountain or wide meadow, will graze our wandering cattle on whatever pasture we choose. The lusty bulls will cover the cows, and abundance of calves will be born. You see, there’s no reason to fly into a temper. You are far too wise a bargainer for that.”

Then side by side the pair drove the cattle back home, to the holy meadow, then hurried to snowy Olympus, these handsome sons of Zeus.

Zeus, the giver of counsel, rejoiced to see them made comrades. Still today Apollo, son of Leto, and Hermes are friends, which can be seen by the gift of the lyre that Hermes gave the Archer God, the wondrous instrument Apollo strums so skillfully, embracing it in his arms. And Hermes had another clever invention, the Pan-pipes, whose reedy notes echo far.

John the Baptist: Troublesome Translations

He said to the people who were coming to be plunged, "You offspring of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the coming fury? Change your ways if you have changed your minds." --Burton Mack's translation of Luke 3:7-8

Enough already with this John the Baptizer or John the Dipper or John the Plunger or John the Dishwasher. Let the man remain John the Baptist.

I agree that defamiliarizing biblical terms may be useful in some cases. Yes, it is instructive to point out that the New Testament Greek word we normally translate "church" actually meant, more simply, "gathering." Likewise that the Greek apostolos did not quite refer to what is invoked when we speak of "the Twelve Apostles": the Greek term meant simply emissary, and so Jesus sent out his "emissaries." That the tradition misconstrued apostolos as an office of sorts, a title applicable only to "the Twelve," has led to much confusion. Paul, after all, uses the term to refer to others besides the twelve, and used it to refer to the woman Junia, which fact was not well received in the medieval Church.

Another example can be taken from my epigraph above. I do dislike the use of plunge for baptize, but notice the last sentence: "Change your ways if you have changed your minds." In the NIV, this verse is rendered: "Produce fruit in keeping with repentance." It is the term repent or repentance that concerns me. Mack has done well to defamiliarize the concept because the English word repent carries a heavy baggage that may not really be there in the Greek, which meant something closer to change your mind or even, simply, turn, as Reynolds Price often renders it in his brilliant, stripped down translation of the Gospel of Mark:

After John was handed over Jesus came into Galilee declaring God's good news and saying "The time has ripened and the reign of God has approached. Turn and trust the good news."

This is Price's version of Mark 1:14-15. The NIV has it like this:

After John was put in prison, Jesus went into Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God. "The time has come," he said. "The kingdom of God is near. Repent and believe the good news!"

As one can see by comparing the passages, Price's goal is to reproduce the starkness of the original Greek. Such efforts may bring us closer to what the Gospels are telling us.

Yes, it is indeed useful to point out what Greek terms really meant in the Greek of the time. It helps us recognize how our own reading of Christian roots may be skewed by centuries of doctrinal accretion. But an integrity should be recognized in the English names of biblical figures, and Jesus become Yeshua does nothing, in my mind, to help us rethink Jesus' meaning. Even worse, John the Baptist become Yohannan the Plunger risks pushing the biblical text to impertinence. Baptism needn't be so defamiliarized, and a plunger, for me at least, is something to unstop a clogged toilet, not the man who was for a time Jesus' mentor.

As for a dipper, another term that has been used for John, I'm not sure if that's a constellation or a rich retiree wading into his lukewarm pool, or if it's maybe somehow meant to echo the adjective dippy, as in: "I think crystal healing is pretty dippy."

And what's the sense of a scholar like Marcus Borg renaming John the Baptist as John the Baptizer? Really what's the sense? Baptizer simply means baptist--using the word gains nothing in terms of striking readers with a more primal sense of John's practice. It's merely a cumbersome novelty.

We've learned much from recent scholarly translations of the Bible. But translators must always balance the need to bring out the strangeness of the ancient text against the need for a readable text in English. John the Jordanian Splasher? John the Remedial Swim Coach? Let the man remain John the Baptist.