Way Too Long: Update

It's been a little while since I posted anything here. Thankfully, it's because I've been busy. In the first few weeks of November, I was occupied with writing papers for the Society of Biblical Literature. One was sort of an introduction to reading Revelation from a queer perspective and the the other was on how two modern visionary artists, Myrtice West and Sister Gertrude Morgan, interpret Revelation's bridal imagery in their paintings. I was happy with both papers. I received some especially helpful feedback on the queer readings paper: There was a respondent, a scholar I respect immensely, who pushed me to think in some different directions and encouraged me to flesh out one piece of the paper for publication. So more work for me! The second paper, on the visionary artists, made me dive into some material for the book project, material that I hadn't thought about in awhile. It was good to move into it, as it allowed me to see that I really do have a book in my head that could see the light of day in the future! Overall, my SBL experience this year was exactly what it should be . . . an academic push forward.

Since SBL, I've been working on a bibliography about Satan. It's been a ton of work, but I've enjoyed it a great deal. I forgot how fun new research can be. I think I needed the intellectual challenge of this project, even though it has drawn me away from the book (as well as from the blog). The due date on this project is Jan 31, so Satan will be out of my hair soon enough!

In one week I'm back in the classroom--sabbatical is over. O-V-E-R. Even though it got off to a rough start, I think it was a good experience. People keep asking me if it was "productive," which makes me bristle a bit. Isn't part of the idea of sabbatical rest and regrouping? I think I was able to do that to some extent, but I wouldn't necessarily call that "productive." In fact, one of the best things about sabbatical was the opportunity to detach from the workplace. I know some people have a difficult time doing that and there were a couple instances when I let myself be pulled in, but overall I think I was successful in setting limits. What a wonderful thing: I was able to gain some perspective by pulling away my attention. I was able to realize that curriculum revision, general studies assessment, departmental events and searches are not the beginning and end of the world. Yes, all of these things are important, but they are not the only things in this world that are meaningful and worthy of my time. Moreover, I was reminded that things will move forward without me. I, personally, don't have to do everything. I'm hoping that I'll be able to maintain this perspective as I return to school.

Another great thing about sabbatical has been the flexibility to spend time with my dad, who is getting up there in years. Because I didn't have to be in the classroom, I was able to take him to his 60th high school reunion and plan and host his 80th birthday party. I'm so thankful that I had these opportunities. This makes the fact that I can't live near my dad, since I can't find a job in the area where he lives, more bearable.

Still, even though the question of productivity irritates me, I did manage to get some work done that really needed to get done. Over the summer and early fall I completed a chapter of the book and in the fall I was able to make significant headway on the second chapter. I began to see this thing as a whole, which was a first. And, as mentioned above, I was able to start tackling another chapter by writing my SBL paper on visionary artists. And, with this Satan bibliography, I'll have another publication under my belt. These aren't necessarily all the things I had hoped to get done, but I'm pretty satisfied.

So, overall, sabbatical was successful. I'm ready to get back into the classroom and into the university mix . . . although I'm sure I'll soon be looking forward to the next time away!

Writing Project Runway

Last night I was sad to see Mondo not win Project Runway. Earlier in the season I had actually liked some of Gretchen's designs and I always pull for folks from Portland, OR, but Mondo one me over with his personal quirkiness, his feelings of insecurity and, well, his designs. (Besides Gretchen, as she was portrayed, seemed so pretentious.)

As I was watching the season finale and not working on one of my various writing projects, I couldn't help but think about the similarities between the writing process and Project Runway. The different challenges parallel the different types of writing projects we do: We have the "team challenge," which involves working with collaborators and all that entails; the "making a couture gown out of garbage challenge," which might parallel revising a chapter from the dissertation into an article; we have the "design a cocktail dress for a regular gal" challenge, which might be like writing a piece for a popular audience or an audience outside of your field; there is always "design a garment for a celebrity," which reminds me of writing a piece for that eminent scholar or journal . . . even when the project might be a bit out of your league at the moment. Rarely, do the contestants get to design something completely on their own terms. The closest they probably come is at the end, when they design their own line . . . but even then there are expectations set by others. Likewise, those of us at the beginning of our careers often have projects that respond to the needs and conform to the rules of others. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, of course. At least for me, it's how it has been.

Watching the show, I also thought about how the contestants evolve and grow over the show. It takes them time to get used to working under pressure and in their new surroundings--"the workroom." Similarly, I guess I should have anticipated that moving from grad school into a full time job might also take some adjustment, but I'm not sure if really could have anticipated how much time it has taken to start getting used to "the challenges." In other words, some of my early writing pieces or projects have been hits and some have probably been misses, although I can definitely see my work evolve. Also, I can also tell that I'm starting to develop a style. Not only do my writing projects revolve around similar themes and questions (kind of like designing for a particular "type" of client), but I'm getting a sense of my voice . . . the colors and patterns that I'm most comfortable working with. In fact, putting together my tenure file last fall helped me see some of this progress and development--a good thing to see within the midst of the tenure process. (Thankfully, it was a successful process.)

Returning to Gretchen's win and Mondo's "not-win" (I can't call it a loss), I was struck by the fact that even though Mondo didn't come out on top the judges were still confident about him being a successful designer. The same with Andy and even Michael C. Wow. What a novel concept, winning isn't everything. Hopefully, I can translate that into my writing/ academic life!

Lessons from the Midpoint

So, I'm just over half way through the sabbatical. Here are some of the things I've learned so far about sabbatical, my work and Satan.

1. Change can be difficult. Even if the change is positive in nature, like having time to work and reflect, adjusting to different work patterns, different work expectations, different surroundings, etc. can be unsettling. When things change, I need to allow myself some time to adjust or even some time to flail about resisting the change before I can move forward.

2. Personally, I am happiest with my work if I have more than one project going at a time. If I get frustrated with one project or am simply tired with reading one set of materials, it's nice to be able to change pace without having to stop work all together. That's where Satan comes in: Picking up a project on Satan (an annotated online bibliography) this month has allowed me to have something to focus upon besides Revelation's bridal imagery. Thank God, or Satan, or whoever (esp. the person who recommended me to the OUP editor) . . . because I needed a diversion.

3. Sometimes we just need to give ourselves a break, literally and figuratively. Literally, sometimes we just need a little time to relax and to let work sit for awhile. If we focus on anything too long, we have a distorted perspective on it. I had a colleague a number of years ago who used to take a mental health day once a semester. She could tell when she was pushing herself too hard and so, before she started biting heads off students and pushing colleagues out of windows, she took a day off of work just to catch up on stuff she needed to do and to relax. She was really one of the most well adjusted people I've met. Figuratively, we need to quit being so hard on ourselves. OK, I need to quit being so hard on myself. I need to give myself a break from the constant criticism and unattainable expectations. I'm not perfect and I never will be and it's not really fair that I demand that of myself at work, at home, with my friends, with my family, etc. No one else is perfect, even if they may have perfected the art of performing perfection.

4. I have some good ideas and I know some things about the Book of Revelation.

5. Writing can be hard work. Of course I knew this before sabbatical, but I'm being reminded again. I told a friend yesterday that writing, at times, is like pulling bags of wet laundry out of my brain. It takes effort and some persistence.

6. I'm who I need to be right now. The things I'm experiencing today, whether I'm struggling with feelings of inadequacy or happy about a line or two that I've written, are part of my lesson for the moment. Yes, I know that sounds like something out of a Hazelden self-help book, but . . . oh well. "It is what it is," as the chef-testants on Top Chef often say.

herod's theater box

This summer I had the opportunity to visit a number of sites related to Herodian Dynasty in Israel. One of the interesting things about Herod the Great (37 BCE-4 BCE) is his relationship to the major players involved in the emergence of the Roman Empire. Initially allied with Mark Antony, after Octavian's victory, Herod courted his favor. He met Octavian at Rhodes where he turned his loyalty to Mark Antony into a positive factor, proclaiming that his loyalty would now be directed toward Octavian. After Octavian's acceptance of his loyalty, Herod built Ceasarea Maritima in the then-named Augustus' honor.

Ceasarea wasn't the only Herodian building project reflecting Roman influence. Although Herod's building at Herodium, a hill South of Jerusalem, began prior to Herod's connections to Augustus, archeologist Ehud Netzer suggests that the building project may have been part of Herod's attempt at demonstrating his sophistication to Roman elites. The site at Herodium included a luxury palace, gardens, a large bath complex and a theater. Recently, Netzer and his team, who had been searching for Herod's tomb, discovered a private theater box at the top of theater. This box has recently been featured in the National Geographic. As the images in the article reveal, the box was sumptuously painted, including faux windows and scenes of the Nile, which were especially popular among Romans. When the group I traveled with this summer met with Netzer, he showed us the box, which Zealots later turned into a kitchen, explaining that he believed Herod had this painted especially to impress his Roman guests. These paintings, in fact, are some of the few Roman paintings in Judea with human and animal figures. Other Herodian decorative arts, such as the mosaics at Masada, refrain from depicting such figures. This is something scholars have attributed to Herod's compliance with the Jewish prohibitions against images. This box potentially challenges some of the the assumptions scholars have held about Herod and his relation to Jewish tradition.

Kiki, Herb and Grilled Cheezus

In the past few weeks, with the allegations being made against Bishop Eddie Long and the spate of gay teen suicides, the attention of many Americans has been drawn to questions of homosexuality and religion, specifically Christianity. While productions schedules suggest that the Fox network’s show Glee could not have planned the recent “Grilled Cheesus” episode as a response to these issues, the episode does reflect the current climate. In this episode, the Glee club is interested in celebrating their faiths. Kurt, a young gay man, expresses a sentiment shared by many LGBTQ individuals: “"Sorry, but if I wanted to sing about Jesus, I'd go to church. And the reason I don't go to church is because most churches don't think very much of gay people. Or women. Or science." After making his views clear, Kurt’s father suffers a serious heart attack. While his friends turn to faith for comfort and want him to do the same, Kurt is resolute in his stance. At one point, Kurt’s friend Mercedes pleads with him to believe in something. Kurt’s sadness and pain is visible in his every move, yet the expressions of the divine offered to Kurt by his friends is simply not sufficient to meet his pain. Finally, in tears by his father’s bedside, Kurt proclaims his belief in their relationship, their family. His comatose father lightly grabs Kurt’s hand, as the rest of the cast sings Joan Osborne’s “What if God Were One of Us.” The message being that the queer divine, that queer religiosity, is found in relationship.

The conclusion to Kurt’s spiritual struggle is one that many LGBTQ individuals reach: The divine is not for us; our church is in the community we create with one another. While this is a perfectly legitimate position, for some LGBTQ individuals within the Christian tradition there is a desire for a queer Christology that plumbs the depths of our experiences and even pain. In a less well known, yet critically acclaimed, drag act, Kiki and Herb’s “Year of Magical Drinking Tour” (recorded at the Knitting Factory in 2007), we are presented a theological reflection that pushes us to think about the figure of Christ in relation to queer experience.

Kiki, the drag persona created by artist and actor Justin Bond, and Herb, played by pianist Kenny Mellman, have been performing together since the late 1980’s/ early 1990’s. Kiki is the weathered and often drunk lounge singer, while Herb is her long-suffering, gay accompanist. As Kiki explains in this performance, she is the “hag” to Herb’s “fag.” Biblical or religious references comprise a recurring theme in their shows: Their off Broadway Christmas show, which won an Obie award in 2001, was entitled “Jesus Wept.” Their more recent comeback tour was called “The Second Coming” and in “Kiki and Herb Would Die For You” Kiki describes Jesus as the ultimate showbiz martyr. While the duo has toured internationally and received critical attention, their work is certainly not as mainstream Glee.

This particular show opens with Kiki dressed in a black cocktail dress covered with red-glitter explosions and a large black bow in her teased blonde hair. Kenny wears a lamé tuxedo jacket. Both of their faces are lined with “wrinkles,” obviously drawn with stage makeup. Kiki, drink in hand, explains that the “Year of Magical Drinking” celebrates their Tony nomination and the death of Jerry Fallwell. The costumes, the dramatic atmosphere, the biting humor are pure camp.

In all of their performances, Kiki offers extended monologues, seemingly alcohol infused prattle, which spin a fantastic narrative about their fictional lives. In this particular show, she explains her and Herb’s connection to Jesus. Present in the stable at Christ’s birth and a little hungry, since they were poor little Jewish urchins, they drink milk from a cow that has eaten Jesus’ afterbirth. The milk grants the duo eternal life and they grow up alongside of Jesus. Continuing the story as she drinks her cocktail, Kiki offers that both she and Herb have a “hot nut” for younger men and, consequently, have known Jesus in the “biblical sense.” In fact, Kiki had quite an affair with Jesus, who she describes as a tender lover. She then tells of Jesus’ true character, as the “first hippie,” who drove people like Fallwell out of the Temple. People today have gotten the story turned around, Kiki intones: If Jesus was still in the grave, than he’d be rolling over in it. Jesus was just coming into his sexuality when he died and had he lived he would have likely gone in “Herb’s direction.” The singer wistfully proclaims that Jesus “was bisexual, spiritual and beautiful . . . and they killed him.” It’s a cautionary tale not to “challenge the man.” She then describes how both she and Mary Magdalene plead, upon seeing Jesus on the cross, “Bring him down!” Kiki ends this monologue by explaining that she is looking forward to Christ’s supposed return and she dedicates a song, a poignant rendition of Emmylou Harris’ “From Boulder to Birmingham,” to the only man she ever loved--Jesus Christ.

One of the most striking aspects of this show is the way Kiki, or Justin Bond, appropriates the tradition of a lounge act monologue in order to collapse time, subvert the conventions of history and construct a queer history. This a-historicity, an ability to exist in the present, past, and future, is characteristic of camp: A camp queen can live in the 30’s and 40’s as the incomparable Marlene Dietrich, while drag king Murray Hill stylistically inhabits the late 60’s, early 70’s. By retelling their history into the history of Jesus’ life, Kiki and Herb point to the fact that all history, including Gospel accounts of Jesus, is story, is constructed. In some way, Kiki is a modern day Albert Schweitzer as her story reveals how interpreters weave their historical and cultural perspectives into the life of Jesus. She reminds us that even things such as Jesus’ gender and sexual identity are constructed in the stories of his life as they are told and re-told. Furthermore, Bond collapses history, taking Kiki and Herb back and time, in order to weave Jesus into queer history or the shared cultural memory of the queer community. This is arguably one of the functions of camp for queer communities, whose histories have been erased and assaulted by heteronormative constructions of history.

In her re-telling of Jesus’ life, Kiki offers a portrait of Jesus quite unlike the seemingly straight Jesus depicted in so many popular contexts (e.g. the Jesus played by Jack Black in “Prop 8: The Musical). In terms of sexuality, Jesus’ identity is fluid, having had affairs with Mary Magdalene, according to Kiki, Kiki herself, Herb, and moving in the direction of being gay. Likewise, Jesus embraces a queer gender identity, embodying characteristics typically associated with the feminine, such as tenderness, beauty, spirituality. Kiki even feminizies Jesus through her re-reading of biblical events, describing the wonderful pedicures that Jesus gave at the Last Supper. While spiked with humor, Kiki offers her audience a thoroughly queer and emphatically incarnational theology. As Marcella Althaus-Reid argued in a 2007 article, Queer Theology assumes, “God dwells in flesh and when this happens all our myopic earth-bound ideas are subject to change, the dynamic life force which is the divine erupts in diversity and the energy of it will not be inhibited by laws and statues.” (“Thinking Theology and Queer Theory.” Feminist Theology 15.3 (2007): 302-214). In this incarnational vein, Bond interprets Jesus’ death as a point of connection with those in the queer and LGBT communities who have challenged the dominant culture’s construction of gender and sexuality. It is a powerful move when you consider the violence, emotional, social, and physically, experienced by so many.

Toward the end of the show, Kiki becomes drunk and angry. No holds are barred as she explains how she was unable to protect Herb from being raped when they were both institutionalized in the ‘50s. In response, she launches into a medley of “Heroin” by Lou Reed, comparing the rush of the drug to being like Jesus’ son, “Wild Side” also by Lou Reed, highlighting the drag aspect of the song, and Radiohead’s “Creep.” Kiki screams, “But I'm a creep/ I'm a weirdo/ What the hell am I doing here?/ I don't belong here.” This medley ends and Kiki and Herb break into a frenzied rendition of “Jesus Loves Me” combined with “O Happy Day,” replete with evangelistic recitations of John 3:16 and Psalm 23. Finally, Kiki ends with the song, “Cunts Are Still Running the World” by Jarvis Cocker which offers a biting critique of social hierarchy. Interpreting this pastiche of religious allusions, queer images and raw emotion in light of Kiki’s earlier discussion of Jesus’ crucifixion, I am reminded of Mark’s depiction of Jesus on the cross. Could this be Kiki’s re-enactment of Jesus’ cry, “My God, My God why have you forsaken me?” Has she become the crucified Messiah who cannot save his close companions from the violence and social upheaval that he knows is to come, just as Kiki could not protect her beloved Herb? Is she giving voice to the sense of forsakenness felt by queers, gays, lesbians and trans-people, who have been rejected by their families, communities, governments and religions? As in the Markan narrative, it is in the midst of this forsakenness that Jesus’ identity is made known. In spite of the pain, or perhaps on account of the pain, Kiki asserts Jesus’ identity and love and proclaims the protection of the Good Shepherd: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of death, I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me; thy rod and staff, they comfort me.” Even though the privileged and well-positioned, and we would add straight, people control the world, Kiki is comforted by a queer/ embodied Jesus . . . a Good Shepherd who has a “rod.”

Kiki’s Jesus, I would argue, is a Jesus of queer experience. It is a version of Jesus who shares the pain of Kurt as he sits by his father’s bedside, unable to take comfort in the churches that exclude him. It is also the Jesus who experiences the pain of bullying and violence and the despair of suicide. Behold, the Queer Jesus.

I presented a version of this paper at the 2009 meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature.

space: a place to store my thoughts

The network of connections between space, thought and persuasion/ rhetoric is something that I find fascinating. Ancient rhetoricians recommended the use of spatial imagery as a tool for remembering the parts of a speech. Just as you move through a house, so to you move through the parts of your speech. Memory was understood in spatial terms.

Similarly, in a 1994 article Bettina Bergmann suggests that actual spaces could serve as a sort of mnemonic device. In "The Roman House as Memory Theater" (The Art Bulletin 76), she argues that the wall paintings in the House of the Tragic Poet in Pompeii, which included depictions of classical marriages, were arranged to evoke particular ideas, connections and analogies in the minds of the viewer. In other words, the images and the space, which constrains to an extent how the images are viewed, activate certain ways of thinking and imagining. Fascinating. (Unfortunately, I don't recall Bergmann talking about the "Cave Canem" mosaic also found in the house.)

So, where am I going with this? (Pun intended.) I'm not completely sure, but I think that this type of understanding of space might be pertinent to thinking about Revelation, a narrative that relies upon a very structured notion of the universe: Below earth, earth, mid-heaven, heavenly throne room. Interesting things happen in relation to these spaces. For instance, the new Jerusalem seems trapped in a perpetual descent from heaven into mid-heaven toward earth. Also, the text pinpoints certain important places (e.g. Mount Zion) and shows interest in measuring space (chapter 11) and discussing the arrangement/ structure of certain spaces (e.g. throne room and the new Jerusalem). I wonder, how does this relate to space as a mnemonic and how does this relate to the way spaces were constructed/ manipulated in the ancient world.

Although Revelation was written in Asia Minor and not Israel, I can't help thinking about how Herod manipulated the natural landscape to create Herodian. The hill is artificially enhanced and into it is built a palace, including gardens. There probably would have been a structure visible at the top (I have double-check my autographed copy of Ehud Netzer's book on Herodian!) and there were structures at the base and on the sides that would have been visible from a distance. Also, I''m thinking of the connection between "recreated" spaces in villas and the like. For instance the Serapeum and Canopus at Hadrian's Villa, which seemingly evoke Alexandria.

At this point, I just using the blog as a virtual storage space . . . a place to hold my thoughts and questions about space and Revelation. Here's hoping that I can complete the growing list of current projects in order to get to this one sometime in the next ten years!

Obsessing over Revelation

A person I knew in grad school had a little game she liked to play . . . connecting people's dissertation topics to their "issues." Her theory was, we often use our dissertations to work out emotional issues, rather than strictly academic issues and questions, even if it is not intentional. I had a dissertation topic that seemed to prove the point, for in the midst of writing my dissertation on Revelation's bridal and nuptial imagery I went through a painful divorce that involved my questioning of issues pertaining to gender and marriage in general. While at the time I nodded along and agreed with her assessment, today I look at the connection differently . . . I was attracted to my topic not because of the bridal or nuptial piece, but because of the Book of Revelation and how it relates to the way I think and look at the world. Scary, I know!

When I teach my apocalyptic literature class, I often show my students a picture of myself getting ready to drive off to college. I'm leaning against my car (which I would total a couple years later) and I look happy. I tell my students that what they can't see is the effect Revelation has had on me. At that time, August 1988, I was pretty consumed with anxiety. I had spent the summer working for my church denomination, leading children's camps. A group of people that I encountered that summer had become advocates of a booklet entitled "88 Reasons Why the Rapture Could Be in 1988." While the title used the word "could," the text aimed to convince the reader that the Rapture would most definitely happen in the fall of 1988. It used biblical passages, especially drawn from Daniel and Revelation, to make its point. Of course it hedged on pinpointing a precise date, because as all good evangelical Christians know, "No one knows the day or the hour." The week, however, we can guesstimate.

Given my encounter with "88 Reasons," I started college especially anxious. I didn't completely buy into the Rapture-fever-excitement, but I had always lived with the fear of impending judgment. I had spent my days trying to live a perfect life and I spent the moments before I fell asleep praying for forgiveness even for "sins" that I may have unintentionally committed. Years later I would realize that this fear of unintentional sinning is part of obsessional thinking, something that many people with obsessive personalities do. (Unsurprisingly, there are many of us in academia!) The "88 Reasons" booklet fed into this, giving me something else to worry about. What if the authors were right? Then I was really screwed.

The week of the supposed Rapture came and went, obviously. But, I had other things to deal with as first year student, like dealing with a crazy roommate and picking a major. The roommate situation remained a little unsettled, but I happily settled into a philosophy major. And, while the philosophy major made me rethink religion, Revelation and the Rapture, I wasn't able to shake the obsessive thinking. At least the impending end of the world was no longer an issue. I no longer imagined myself under God's judgmental eye or under the eye of a Christ-coming-in-the-clouds; instead, I had internalized that eye in a different way.

It wasn't until graduate school that I had to reconsider Revelation. It wasn't my choice, but Revelation was the only option for a New Testament seminar one semester. I approached it with some trepidation, but to my surprise I was intrigued with the text. I was reminded of the text's rhetorical power and I was fascinated by the way it used imagery to further its rhetorical ends. I was also reminded of its power over me, through the guise of "88 Reasons." I was a relatively intelligent high-school and college student, why had the book gotten under my skin and made me so anxious? As I thought about my dissertation, I thought I would explore how the text's imagery, its metaphorical language, worked to persuade and to shape thought. The text, I thought, had some power to persuade reasonably intelligent individuals to think in apocalyptic ways.

While I still afford Revelation's metaphor a certain amount of rhetorical power, I am beginning to think more and more that my own thought patterns were part of what attracted me to Revelation. My tendency toward dualistic and somewhat extreme thinking means that Revelation made some sense to me. I resonated with the text. Of course, I bought into the idea of an impending judgment . . . I had been anticipating it for years in my tendency toward self-judgement and criticism. I guess I think it is a cultural cycle of sorts: Revelation and other apocalyptic texts and traditions create a culture that tends toward absolutes, dichotomies, notions of judgment. Those of us who are prone to these ways of thinking buy into and potentially perpetuate the text's apocalyptic thought patterns. On one hand my scholarship tries to disarm the text of this power. If we know how the text's metaphors work, maybe we can resist them and not be bowled over. On the other hand, I wonder if or how my scholarship perpetuates these patterns.

I Am Not Jacob

Today I had the opportunity to attend the convocation "installing" my Ph. D. director and mentor into her new role as Dean at a local divinity school. It was a nice service, especially since it gave me an opportunity to hear her preach on a biblical passage I've always loved--the story of Jacob wrestling with God.

If I would have been a boy, apparently, my parents would have named me Jacob, after my grandfather. In high school and college, I took this would-have-been-name as a sign that it was OK to wrestle with belief about God, Bible, reality, etc. As a philosophy major, in fact, I reveled in the practice of questioning norms and accepted beliefs. It was a time of pushing against what I had been taught to believe and defining myself in opposition to family, church and others. In graduate school, I followed this trajectory toward wrestling with biblical texts, especially "difficult" texts . . . hence, my focus on the Book of Revelation. When I tell the story of how I came to study Revelation, in fact, I often shape the narrative around the theme of struggle: Having been raised in a church that embraced Revelation as unfolding around us, I chose to study Revelation as a way of disarming the text of its power to create division and imbue fear. (See evidence related to scriptural-fear-mongering below.)

Today, however, my mentor argued for reading the story of Jacob in a new light, shedding the tendency to idealize struggle. She suggested that our cultural valorization of struggle makes it difficult for us to see that Jacob's tendency toward opposition and winning almost made him loose sight of the divine. We read the text as Jacob having to wrestle the one that comes to him during the night. We fail to ask, what if Jacob had not struggled, not approached the other as an opponent. So intent was Jacob on battling the stranger, that he almost missed experiencing the other, the divine.

As I sat and listened to her talk about how our culture has embraced the notion of competition, how we look for opponents and assume others as enemies, I was struck by my tendency to view my self and my work in this way. I typically think of my approach to a text in contrast to another approach or reading, usually a reading that I understand to be dominant or dominating in some way. (Of course, part of this is related to my reading texts from a feminist perspective.) At times, I even approach texts, their contexts, the material I study as things to be mastered. I imagine scholarship and even teaching as wrestling against something or someone.

But, I need to remember, I am not Jacob. So, what if I began to think of the process of writing, teaching, working with texts in other ways, as something other than wrestling and struggle? What might those metaphors be?

On Mutant Academic Ideals and Resting on Sabbath/ Sabbatical

Even though I am someone who teaches about biblical texts, I'm not a person whose thinks about how my personal life is, should be or has been shaped by the biblical texts. I've resisted the idea that the Bible is somehow a road-map for living, a compass or a guideline. This resistance comes from my gradual migration out of an evangelical Christian context, a context familiar to so many other biblical studies folk. However, over the past few years, I've thought more and more about these texts as conversation partners and as points of conversation between myself and others from the past, present and future. My work on conceptual metaphor, in particular, prompts me to think about the ways that images from these ancient writings have shaped me and my context and the ways I might be more intentional vis-a-vis that shaping. Now that I'm on sabbatical, I've entered a period of time that explicitly draws upon a biblical tradition and image--sabbath. However, as I thought about this time I never really put much thought into biblical ideas about sabbath . . .

Instead, my thinking about sabbatical centered around 1) when I could get one and 2) all the stuff I might accomplish during the sabbatical. In fact, my thinking about this period in my career was shaped by some image I have of an ideal academic who goes on sabbatical to an exotic academic locale, does a lot of heavy reading, rubs shoulders with the popular thinkers of the day, sips cocktails in the afternoon and, presto, has some product at the end of it all. This image is a very "Protestant-work-ethic-modern-multi-tasking-sexy-book-writer-theory-loving-text-geek" mash-up. I'm really not sure when this mutant creature took over my life, but now she wants to call the shots on my sabbatical and, I fear, my academic life as a whole. Blargh.

So, back to the text, as I often say in my classes. Looking at Genesis, first of all, I'm surprised that the seventh day is one of the two times that at the end of a "day" God does not see and pronounce things as good. On the other days, except for the second, the author recounts God's creation and then reports: "God saw that it was good." God does not take the time on the seventh day to look back at the creation, to muse about whether the dome in the sky looks a little wonky, to fuss over whether or not sea monsters were a good idea or not. God's not looking back seems particularly important to me now, since one of the things I'm struggling with on sabbatical is looking backwards. As I mentioned before, the luxury of time on my hands creates an opportunity to re-look at past writing and to focus on (i.e. literally obsess about) shortcomings. Double blargh.

While God leaves the past to be the past, God also does not, according to the text, dwell on the future either. There is no suggestion that on the eighth day God might re-do some part of creation, make it better or more consistent or more witty. Neither does the text suggest that God is sitting around writing up action plans or research agendas. The day, instead, is about rest. Rest. And the day is made sacred by God. Sacred rest.

The notion that a sabbatical might be some sort of "sacred rest" is a little scary to me. It sounds a little more slacker-ish and spiritual-ish than I tend to be. However, it also makes me wonder what might come out of a sabbatical that is treated as a time to take a break from what one has done in the past, a time to think about and within the present without fear for the future. Maybe it's time for me to think about what kind of professor, scholar, person I am right now: What are my current questions, my current scholarly motivations and interests? Hmmm . . .

Personal Apocalypse: On Sabbatical

The school year is starting, but I'm not. I'm on sabbatical. Sigh.

As I hear my friends talk about their first days back--the carefully selected teaching outfits (tie or no tie? sexy heels or "I mean business" boots?), the last minute syllabus preparation, the pre-year meetings that delay the actual beginning--I feel a sense of sadness. I miss the adrenaline rush of that first day. I miss the first day discussion about how my Intro to New Testament class is NOT a Sunday School class. I miss the students who I've taught before expressing their enthusiasm about being in my class again. I miss getting my students (and myself) excited about the material I teach--it's inherent interest and significance. Instead, I'm feeling detached and depressed.

Don't get me wrong, I am (or have been) excited about sabbatical. In fact, all spring and summer I reveled in the idea of having a chance to do writing. However, the reality of a wide swath of time to myself--to be with myself, to be with my "work," is now daunting. I'm realizing, on one hand, that I like my teacher self. I'm comfortable with her and her abilities. (Of course, at the beginning of next semester, as I re-enter the classroom, I'll have to be reminded of that.) Not going into the classroom this fall reminds me that I like being in there. On the other hand, as I face an ongoing writing project and a couple of papers, I'm realizing that I'm not as sure of the scholar/ writer self. I did not expect that the so-called imposter syndrome would hit me like a ton of bricks.

Armed with the luxury of time to look at my past work, the few publications I've done, all I can see are the mistakes, the inconsistencies, the short-comings. Sitting in my re-done home office, I'm compelled to reach out to people for reassurance: "Other people make mistakes, right?" I offer myself advice on how I should have done things: "When that esteemed individual asked you to contribute an essay the first semester of your first year teaching, you should have held off until you had time to really work out the details." Instead of telling the Lynn of 20/20 hindsight to shut the hell up, I allow her the last say. Ouch.

So why share all this? It's so revealing (hence, labeling it "apocalypse"). Well, I think that revelation can lead to gaining some kind of perspective on the issue. By looking at what I am doing, thinking, saying, I see that while there are parts of me in my academic work, my writing, my work is not me. I am more than the book, the essay, the review. My sense of sadness about the semester, for instance, reminds me that I am also a teacher and a colleague. Looking at my work, I see that I am also more than what any critic or academic conversation partner, negative OR positive, says or thinks about me. (Not that this reflection was occasioned by some external criticism--it wasn't.) Luke Johnson, who was an important mentor to me in grad school, once told me that I shouldn't dwell on what others think, regardless of whether their feedback was positive or negative, since it was putting my self worth in the hands of others. I think he was right. Of course I knew all of this before sabbatical, but now I need to learn to believe it and to find strategies for living it. I need to find ways of being comfortable with putting my ideas out into the world without the paralysis that comes with perfectionism, without worrying about what others think. I need to find ways of being comfortable with my role as scholar, as someone who lends her voice to intellectual investigations and inquiries. If you have any great strategies, feel free to share of course.

I'm also sharing this because of the hype around sabbatical. It is a great thing, mind you; however, as any other stage of the profession, it has its difficulties and times for growth. I hate growth, because, damn, it hurts some times.

Now, on to sabbatical . . .

Tearing Apart and Putting Together: The Icons at Um er-Rasas

Instead of working on the next chapter of my Revelation writing project, yesterday afternoon I spent a fair amount of time labeling photos I took at Um er-Rasas (known in the ancient world as Kastrom Mefa'a) in Jordan. The site, a UNESCO heritage site, is interesting for a number reasons, including the fact that in a relatively small area 16 Byzantine churches have been uncovered. A number of these churches have incredible floor mosaics, including the Church of St. Stephen. There are a number of interesting things about the mosaics at St. Stephen, besides their detail. First, an inscription names the mosaicist. The mosaic includes an "inscription" naming the mosaicist as Staurachios Ezbontinos. It also says that his colleague Euremios paved the presbytery in March 756. Second, the mosaic includes a border section depicting ecclesiatcial cities in the region. The images begin in the right corner next to the presbytery with Kastrom Mefa'a, move on to Madaba, Philadelphia (modern Amman), etc. Opposite Kastrom Mefa'a is they "Holy City" or Jerusalem. The mosaic (see above) includes an image of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, just as the Madaba map!

Another interesting thing about these mosaics is that you can see the work of iconoclasts. While we often think of iconoclasts destroying figural art, it is interesting to see how they actually reconstructed the mosaics into non-human figures. The image to the left, for example, is a fish that has been put in the place of a human figure that was apparently riding some sea animal. You can see the blacked out human face in the upper-right corner. They also "scrambled" many human figures in the central part of the mosaic and even replaced some with symbols, such as spades. The explicitness of their work is thought provoking . . .

Questioning Categories: Roman Judea/ Galilee Was Really Roman

I had good intentions about blogging while I was in Israel and Jordan. But since my access to the internet was only occasional and since we spent a good deal of time on-site, my intentions weren't fulfilled. So, now that I am home, I will be processing some of what I learned (I learned more than I ever could have imagined), as I also begin to look at the next stage of my current writing project on Revelation.

The main thing I learned while in Israel was that Roman Judea/ Galilee was saturated with Roman influence. I expected Roman influence, as suggested in previous posts, yet I had no idea of how pervasive Hellenistic/ Roman culture was in ancient Judea. In graduate school, my instructors spent a significant amount of time trying to dispel the myth of an ancient Judaism that was hermetically sealed off from Hellenistic and later Roman influence. I've continued this refrain in my teaching, for example, highlighting the portions of 1 & 2 Maccabees which suggest that it was Jewish sects that embraced and promoted Hellenism (e.g. the gymnasium) rather than having it foisted upon them by Antiochus IV. Yet, I had never fully realized the number of temples dedicated to Hellenistic/ Roman deities in the region, nor had I realized all the ways that the upper classes (Herod in particular) seemed to emulate Hellenistic/ Roman trends. In other words, I think I have been holding on to the Jewish-Hellenistic/ Roman dichotomy more than I realized. It's not that the ancient forms of Judaism do not have some particularities. However, I think I'm seeing more clearly how these particularities can fit within the range of what it means to be Roman. In fact, I'm beginning to realize that my past notion of Roman-ness was not as nuanced as it could have been.


One of the things that struck me while visiting ancient sites was how marking something as Jewish had the effect of suggesting that something was religious. This was initially made clear at Massada, when we visited an area described as a "synagogue." While the term synagogue signifies to us a religious function, Jodi Magness (see above) pointed out to us that we really have no idea of whether or not the room served a religious purpose. The space does include a structure seemingly functioning as a genizah (some scroll fragments were found buried there). Other than this, there is nothing that suggests this was more or less than an assembly hall. It may have been used for religious functions, but also for political or other communal gatherings. To mark the space primarily as religious has a significance for us that might not have been present in the ancient world.

Similarly, I was curious about the labeling of mikvot as "ritual baths." Many of the sites we visited had these stepped baths which were used for immersion. Traditionally, these were used to rid oneself of ritual impurity. There is at least one extant mikvah by the Temple Mount and the cisterns from around the Temple suggest that there could have been many more. The homes in Herodian quarter in Jerusalem had numerous mikvot, since these homes were likely inhabited by priests or priestly families. Yet, in one of these homes, the mikvah was close to and looked similar to a bathing area, which included a seating area. This made me wonder why we describe the use of mikvot as ritualistic, which suggests a special significance, and not Roman baths. The importance and complexity of baths in Roman cities suggests that they were for more than hygiene and health, that they served important social and communal functions. Did they have functions that could be understood as "ritualistic" or "religious"? How do the functions of these baths relate to the functions of the mikvot? Clearly, I need to read Fagan's Bathing in Public in the Roman World to start getting a sense of the issue. The point is, for me, how we mark supposedly Jewish things as "religious" in a way that we don't when it comes to non-Jewish things or spaces. Ultimately, it raises the question of what constitutes religion . . .

teaching material . . . strategies

One of my motivations for putting together a digital archive of images from "Roman Judea" is to find new ways of incorporating material culture into my teaching. Currently, I use images of material objects (e.g. monuments, votives, statues, coins) to illustrate the points I make in class lecture and discussions. I show these using power point, because it is easy to use, although I only use minimal text. (I've noticed a number of my teaching colleagues proudly proclaim their dislike of PP or happily point to the fact that students praise them for not using it. I find it helpful for showing images, but like other tools it takes time to use it in effective manner.) I think using images as illustrations is important and my students often comment that it makes things "more real." Seeing, for many of them, is believing and if I can help them that Rome celebrated the destruction of the Temple by showing images of the Arch of Titus, than I've done something pedagogically important. Or, to reference one of my favorite images, if I can show my students that ancient Romans looked to the gods for healing, which can help understand Jesus' healing ministry, by showing pictures of votive uterii (see above), I've had a good day!

While material culture can be used for illustration, I'm interested in other ways it might be used pedagogically. This interest is related to how I use visual art images to prompt student to think about biblical texts. Dan Clanton and I actually cowrote an essay on using art to teach the Bible an edited volume entitled The Bible and Popular Culture and the Arts: Resources for Instructors (Roncase and Gray, eds., SBL) which outlines different models for using images to teach texts. An excerpted version of the essay can be found at the SBL forum. One of the models we propose is using art as illumination. By this we mean that images can be used to prompt students to engage complex ideas. Images can be used as entry ways into abstract thinking about texts and interpretative issues. I offer some examples of this in the Roncase and Gray volume.

Now that I'm thinking about material culture, I want to find ways of using material culture in a similar way . . . as more than illustration. I'm interested in thinking about ways that the things I see and experience in Roman Judea might be used to develop case studies for students to use in conjunction with class readings or a type of problem based learning that focuses on the past. I can imagine using material culture images to get students to discover for themselves that the boundary between "Judaism" and "Hellenism" was blurry to non-existent. Or, perhaps, I can put together a set of images and readings that allow students to see the complex ways that space and gender interact, complicating the simple notion that female space was private and male space was public. I guess one of the things that I need to think about now is how to collect images (i.e. take pictures) in a thoughtful enough manner to facilitate this. I'm sure I'll be talking about this more as I actually begin my archive.

Also, a topic for the future . . . teaching students to read material culture objects. I've worked on guides for teaching students to read images in a way that is analogous to texts, but now I need to think more carefully about reading stones and bones!

looking for acanthus and meander

As I mentioned before, one set of questions I'm taking with me as I experience Roman Judea is how first-century (BCE and CE) Judean architecture may have signaled Roman patronage. Herod the Great had an interesting relationship to Roman power, as I'm learning in Martin Goodman's Rome and Jerusalem (2008). Although this book is over 600 pages, pointing to Goodman's detail, it really is interesting. In fact, I'm finding it very hard to put down. Goodman's style is clear and interesting as he explores the political realities of Rome and Jerusalem and their complex inter-relations in the first centuries BCE and CE. His driving question is what led to the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple in 70. You can find a review of the book here. But back to Herod, he was a supporter of Mark Antony and Cleopatra, yet after Actium he was able to develop a relationship with Octavian. Octavian even expanded the territory under Herod's control and Herod honored him by dedicating the new port Caesarea to the Emperor--a prime example of the patron-client relationship if ever there was one. Of course, the relationship between Rome and Jerusalem didn't end with Herod (d. 4BCE) . . .

Given this, I'm interested in looking for decorative patterns that might signal this patronage. In particular, I'm going to be keeping my eyes open for the acanthus plant and the meander pattern, two motifs that have a prominent place on the Ara Pacis, which was dedicated in 9BCE in Rome. These decorative patterns suggest the abundance and life that comes along with the peace of the Empire, as our Italy study abroad students know oh so well. (My co-teacher and I have students sit and "read" the Ara Pacis, encouraging them to attend as closely to the lower panels as the figurative panels of the upper half of the monument.)



That these patterns signaled patronage is evident in Pompeii, where the Fuller's Building, which sits right on the Forum, is decorated with a boarder of acanthus and little animals (e.g. frogs, birds) like the Ara Pacis. Unfortunately, I don't think I have a picture of this . . . clearly, I need to go back to Italy to take one!

More about the meander pattern later . . . perhaps.

thinking about next steps: material culture and the NT

I'm currently in the midst of what I'll call a research/ writing gap. I just finished a draft of chapter for my current project and I need to move on to the next chapter. I'd like to start this chapter now, however, I'm going to be traveling for a couple of weeks. I'll be on a research trip to Israel and Jordan where I'll be working on a project related to my teaching and not a project related to my writing. Unfortunately, I'm not quite sure how to navigate this gap. I took a couple days to write a book review, but now that's completed and I am at loose ends again . . .

Maybe this is a good time to sit back and think about what I want out of the research trip. The program requires that each participant have a project that relates to the trip, which focuses on the area ruled by the Herodian dynasty during the Roman and Late Antique periods. It would be nice to have something publishable out of this, in fact.

I have proposed a project related to teaching the NT through material culture. I have articulated two specific foci within this broad topic.

The first set of research questions is related to a course I am currently developing entitled “Messiahs and Martyrs.” This course is intended to replace and improve upon a catalog course on “Jesus and the Gospels,” by offering an examination of first-century Messianic movements, an understanding that situates written texts within their historical and material milieu. The course will naturally address issues related to the Qumran community, as well as the controversies surrounding the events at Massada; however, it will also attend to the presence of the Roman Empire within Galilee and Jerusalem as way of encouraging students to think about Messianic movements as responses to other political/ religious/ social discourses. In particular, I am curious about the ways in which people living within the Herodian period may have imitated and appropriated aspects of Roman and/ or Hellenistic culture.

The second set of questions involves the ways in which gender, masculine and feminine, is regulated and represented in ancient Judea/ Galilee. I am curious to see the ways that space may have reflected gender norms and how images may or may not have been used to communicate particular gender ideals. I would try to think about the ways that this is similar to or different from what we see in Roman Italy. Additionally, I would be looking for visual clues to how people might have embraced and resisted such ideals. These types of questions would be incorporated into both my future research on gender in the ancient world and in my teaching, specifically a course I teach on gender, sex and family in early Christianity.

In addition to using material culture to explore these questions, I plan on working on a digital archive of images for teaching. In order to receive funding from my institution, I needed to put together a proposal related to my work in the classroom. Since I use images to teach, this seemed like a natural project.

My question in a nutshell is how material culture can be used to engage students in critical thinking about apocalyptic movements and gender construction?

exploring the apocalypse one puppy at a time

I enjoy reading blogs. I think they are an interesting way for both author and audience to think about different ideas. I've never kept a personal blog myself, although I've used blogs for teaching. I was afraid a personal blog might make me appear self-absorbed. However, I never think others who have blogs are self-absorbed. It makes me think that my assumption that others would interpret a blog as self-absorbed is actually a self-important assumption. Oh my. So, here I am starting my own blog. And, yes, I am probably self-absorbed. So what?

I hope this will be a place for me to record and possibly share my thoughts on teaching, writing, researching and working within the field of biblical studies. I approach these activities from the perspective of a newly tenured, feminist professor at a mid-size university that values both teaching and scholarship. (Of course, I should include the caveat that nothing I say reflects the opinions of my university: My ideas, in theory, are my own.)

My academic interests are anchored by the Book of Revelation, a book with which I have a long and somewhat ambivalent relationship. (More on that later, I'm sure.) I am especially interested in the ways that Revelation's imagery captures the imaginations of audiences across time and my current research/ writing project examines how certain late-medieval and modern visionary women appropriate the text's bridal imagery. I also have done work on the ways that Revelation participates with Roman social discourse about family, sexuality and gender and I'd love to work this into a book length project. However, I have to remember, "One major project at a time."

My teaching is much more broad than my research. I teach introductory courses on religious studies and the New Testament, both of which I truly enjoy. I love introducing students to the critical study of religion and religious texts. I also have the opportunity to teach a number of more specialized courses, including courses on ancient apocalyptic literature and its interpretations, ancient messianic/ martyr traditions, gender and sexuality in the New Testament and early Christianity, contemporary biblical hermeneutics (e.g. feminist and queer criticism, postcolonial interpretation) and the like. I also regularly co-teach a course in Italy on the ways that Italy's ancient traditions (including religious and artistic traditions) continue to shape the present. I've had the opportunity to write quite a bit about teaching and enjoy thinking about pedagogy. I'm especially interested in using images to engage students in critical thinking about biblical texts and ancient traditions.

I know none of this relates directly to puppies, but I can't imagine not referencing dogs. I'm sure I'll find some way of tying them into the conversation--I'm good at that.