For KK:Kunigunde Kreuzerin wrote:...I said that you should make your own thread about this. Because – and I say this only as an excuse - I never get the logique of your thoughts. You think that Mark 13 is about Alexander Jannaeus, but you could also claim that it is about Herod or Hannibal or the Thermopylae. I’m not able to make the jump in this thinking. It would be an adventure for me to get this.
I'm gonna start by playing "See-It-As...". We can all argue about how it might have been possible for the South to have won the American Civil War - Grant has a heart attack before a battle, Lincoln gets assassinated in 1859, "Stonewall" Jackson doesn't die, etc. Same for WW-2. What would have happened if the Spanish Armada did not get destroyed in a freak storm, etc. Let's call what's in #1 below a "Convenient Fiction" for the purpose of making the NT understandable.
1. You are Mucianus, Governor of Syria. You are at least effeminate, maybe even a Eunuch. You care deeply for Titus, the son of Vespasian. Titus intervenes in a skirmish between Mucianus and Vespasian and convinces Mucianus to throw in with Daddy Vespasian. Mucianus travels through The Pontus (Future Home of Marcion) on the way to Rome. As Mucianus, you hold complete Imperial Power in your hands, yet you turn it over to Vespasian. You are a Consul through some years of Vespasian's Reign, then you disappear. You are, however, High Verbal and you write of Titus. the Object if Your Desires, as if he were a god: "At his onset, he left the lake at Tarichiae as blood red as wine. His father could only look on as if a wine steward at a wedding feast. This was the first Sign of his Godhood..."
You are Domitian and you have just poisoned your brother Titus. You are aware of the childish musings of your former Protector and friend, Mucianus, concerning that imbecilic fool brother of yours, Titus. "My brother...a god?...Oh, please...But wait!!! I am, after all, Lord God Domitian. I should be the god around here and, of course, I am. I ALWAYS HAVE BEEN A GOD!!!...Court Scribes, I have a Project for you to begin now..." A short time later, Domitian asks, "Stephanas, would you mind...HRRRACKKK...." 'N Domitian is dead, gutted by the Piso "Stephanas". The Project,however, continues.
Vespasian, the Father. Titus, the Son. Domitian is voted Damantio Memoriae. The Project Leaders create "The Holy Spirit", a Character with no Features a Human Character would have. "How shall we Create the Godhood of the Flavians?" "Ahhh, there is a way. Amongst the Plunder brought back from the Siege of Jerusalem were some Stories and of course, we have the Reports of one of our most loyal of Political Control Officers, Nicholas of Damascus. Herod didn't take a piss without Nick telling him which way to point. Perhaps there is something there..."
2. 'N there was. There was a very Dark Story of..."What was his name...Peter? Rocky?!?? Oh yeah, the child from between Jabnit and the rocky Meiron where that big rock was that was supposed to be where somebody was supposed to blow a trumpet call declaring God for the Jews or them frickin' Hasmoneans or something...How'za bout we make that trumpet call a call for Rome, eh?" 'N so they did.
3. The Story gets dismembered and rewritten. Peter, a child, saves a Priest from a VERY certain death. If you REALLY want to understand the Story, read Slaughterhouse Five, where Billy has come unstuck in time and finds himself in a Slaughterhouse in Dresden, while above him, Dresden is being firebombed. ABSOLUTELY NO ONE who was in Dresden survived - except for Billy Pilgrim in a story and Kurt Vonnegut in real life and a few others. If you REALLY want to understand the Story, remember Catch-22, when you had that picture in your head where Snowden was bathed in light and wrapped in a white parachute while he was dying in the back. "I’m cold," Snowden said softly, "I’m cold."
"You’re going to be all right, kid," Yossarian reassured him with a grin. "You’re going to be all right."
"I’m cold," Snowden said again in a frail, childlike voice. "I’m cold."
"There, there," Yossarian said, because he did not know what else to say. "There, there."
"I’m cold," Snowden whimpered. "I’m cold."
"There, there. There, there."
Yossarian was frightened and moved more swiftly. He found a pair of scissors at last and began cutting carefully through Snowden’s coveralls high up above the wound, just below the groin. He cut through the heavy gabardine cloth all the way around the thigh in a straight line. The tiny tail gunner woke up while Yossarian was cutting with the scissors, saw him, and fainted again. Snowden rolled his head to the other side of his neck in order to stare at Yossarian more directly. A dim, sunken light glowed in his weak and listless eyes. Yossarian, puzzled, tried not to look at him. He began cutting downward through the coveralls along the inside seam. The yawning wound — was that a tube of slimy bone he saw running deep inside the gory scarlet flowed behind the twitching, startling fibers of weird muscle? — was dripping blood in several trickles, like snow melting on eaves, but viscous and red, already thickening as it dropped. Yossarian kept cutting through the coveralls to the bottom and peeled open the severed leg of the garment. It fell to the floor with a plop, exposing the hem of khaki undershorts that were soaking up blotches of blood on one side as though in thirst. Yossarian was stunned at how waxen and ghastly Snowden’s bare leg looked, how loathsome, how lifeless and esoteric the downy, fine curled blond hairs on his odd, white shin and calf. The wound, he saw now, was not nearly as large as a football, but as long and wide as his hand, and too raw and deep to see into clearly. The raw muscles inside twitched like live hamburger meat. A long sigh of relief escaped slowly through Yossarian’s mouth when he saw that Snowden was not in danger of dying. The blood was already coagulating inside the wound, and it was simply a matter of bandaging him up and keeping him calm until the plane landed. He removed some packets of sulfanilamide from the first-aid kit. Snowden quivered when Yossarian pressed against him gently to turn him up slightly on his side.
"Did I hurt you?"
"I’m cold," Snowden whimpered. "I’m cold."
"There, there," Yossarian said. "There, there."
"I’m cold. I’m cold."
"There, there. There, there."
"It’s starting to hurt me," Snowden cried out with a plaintive, urgent wince.
Yossarian scrambled through the first-aid kit in search of morphine again and found only Milo’s note and a bottle of aspirin, He cursed Milo and held two aspirin tablets out to Snowden. He had no water to offer. Snowden rejected the aspirin with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. His face was pale and pasty. Yossarian removed Snowden’s flak helmet and lowered his head to the floor.
"I’m cold," Snowden moaned with half-closed eyes. "I’m cold."
The edges of his mouth were turning blue. Yossarian was petrified. He wondered whether to pull the rip cord of Snowden’s parachute and cover him with the nylon folds. It was very warm in the plane. Glancing up unexpectedly, Snowden gave him a wan, cooperative smile and shifted the position of his hips a bit so that Yossarian could begin salting the wound with sulfanilamide. Yossarian worked with renewed confidence and optimism. The plane bounced hard inside an airpocket, and he remembered with a start that he had left his own parachute up front in the nose. There was nothing to be done about that. He poured envelope after envelope of the white crystalline powder in the bloody oval wound until nothing red could be seen and then drew a deep, apprehensive breath, steeling himself with gritted teeth as he touched his bare hands to the dangling shreds of drying flesh to tuck them up inside the wound. Quickly he covered the whole wound with a large compress and jerked his hand away. He smiled nervously when his brief ordeal had ended. The actual contact with dead flesh had not been nearly as repulsive as he had anticipated, and he found excuse to caress the wound with his fingers again and again to convince himself of his own courage.
"I’m cold," Snowden moaned. "I’m cold."
"You’re going to be all right, kid," Yossarian assured him, patting his arm comfortingly. "Everything’s under control."
Snowden shook his head feebly. "I’m cold," he repeated, with eyes as dull and blind as stone. "I’m cold."
"There, there," Yossarian, with growing doubt and trepidation. "There, there. In a little while we’ll be back on the ground and Doc Daneeka will take care of you."
But Snowden kept shaking his head and pointed at last, with just the barest movement of his chin, down to his armpit. Yossarian bent forward to peer and saw a strangely colored stain seeping through the coverall just above the armhole of Snowden’s flak suit. Yossarian felt his heart stop, then pound so violently he found it difficult to breathe. Snowden was wounded inside his flak suit. Yossarian ripped open the snaps of Snowden’s flak suit and heard himself scream wildly as Snowden’s insides slithered down to the floor in a soggy pile and just kept dripping out. A chunk of flak more than three inches big had shot into his other side just underneath the arm and blasted all the way through, drawing whole mottled quarts of Snowden along with it through the gigantic hole in his ribs it made as it blasted out. Yossarian screamed a second time and squeezed both hands over his eyes. His teeth were chattering in horror. He forced himself to look again. Here was God’s plenty, all right, he thought bitterly as he stared — liver, lungs, kidneys, ribs, stomach and bits of the stewed tomatoes Snowden had eaten that day for lunch. Yossarian hated stewed tomatoes and turned away dizzily and began to vomit, clutching his burning throat. The tail gunner woke up while Yossarian was vomiting, saw him, and fainted again.
Yossarian was limp with exhaustion, pain and despair when he finished. He turned back weakly to Snowden, whose breath had grown softer and more rapid, and whose face had grown paler. He wondered how in the world to begin to save him.
"I’m cold." Snowden whimpered, "I’m cold."
"There, there. Yossarian mumbled mechanically in a voice too low to be heard. "There, there."
Yossarian was cold, too, and shivering uncontrollably. He felt goose pimples clacking all over him as he gazed down despondently at the grim secret Snowden had spilled all over the messy floor. It was easy to read the message in his entrails. Man was matter, that was Snowden’s secret. Drop him out a window and he’ll fall. Set fire to him and he’ll burn. Bury him and he’ll rot, like other kinds of garbage. The spirit gone, man is garbage. That was Snowden’s secret. Ripeness was all.
"I'm cold, Snowden said. "I'm cold"
"There, there", said Yossarian. "There, there." He pulled the rip cord of Snowden's parachute and covered his body with the white nylon sheets.
"I'm cold."
"There, there."
***
This is the inversion of Ecclesiastes:
Ecclesiastes 9: 7 - 10 (RSV):
[7] Go, eat your bread with enjoyment, and drink your wine with a merry heart; for God has already approved what you do.
[8] Let your garments be always white; let not oil be lacking on your head.
[9] Enjoy life with the wife whom you love, all the days of your vain life which he has given you under the sun, because that is your portion in life and in your toil at which you toil under the sun.
[10] Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with your might; for there is no work or thought or knowledge or wisdom in Sheol, to which you are going.
The Priest who Peter saves is intercepted on the way to Passover, 12 years after the Miracle that saved him. He is crucified. On the cross he exclaims, "My God, my God, for this was I spared?" Peter, or someone close to him goes back to the Priesthood, to finish his days...
Matthew 5: 23 - 24 (RSV):
[23] So if you are offering your gift at the altar, and there remember that your brother has something against you,
[24] leave your gift there before the altar and go; first be reconciled to your brother, and then come and offer your gift.
The End.
It's late. I'm tired. First up: Early Mark.
CW