Sunday, October 18, 2020

Britannia perdere!

Currently only available to Patreon's: an essay on P**** H*******, conspiracy theories and the D**** M***  that THEY don't want you to read. 


https://www.patreon.com/posts/britannia-42829493

Friday, October 16, 2020

There is Black and There Is White

A Long Hard Look at Steve Ditko's Mr. A


Ever since finishing my year-long study of the original Spider-Man graphic novel, I have been intending to have a look at some of Steve Ditko’s latter work. I have in front of me a couple of self-published “Mr A” comics from 2016. No-one would expect these comics to have the cultural impact that Spider-Man and Doctor Strange had sixty years ago. Ditko was approaching his 90th birthday when he drew them. They may not be done well; but it is remarkable that they were done at all. 


The comics are black and white line drawings; no inker or letterer is credited. Ditko’s style seems to have been frozen in time: anyone could spot at a glance that the artist is the same guy who created the classic episodes of Spider-Man. We have extreme closeups of faces and eyes representing fear and panic; and montages of faces representing the voice of public opinion. There are some disconcertingly familiar faces: a police lieutenant has the same haircut as Norman Osborne; a singer who is being intimidated by a scary monster has the face and body language of Betty Brant and the newspaper editor is the spitting image of J.J.J. 



Some of the full page drawings have an in-your-face immediacy which recalls Ditko’s classic horror and twist-ending episodes. “The Score” begins with and image of three leering faces, half shaded in a grotesque reptilian shadow in front of a figure of a recently dead body. There is no background, but there is a network of weird black lines, possibly emanating from the faces and somewhat resembling Peter Parker’s spider-sense lines. On the other hand, there is little of the articulation and animation that gave the older comics such a sense of energy and movement. Spider-Man’s body used to twist into strange, anatomically unlikely shapes as it swung out of the panel at the reader. Mr A is clumsy and stiff, like a poorly articulated action figure — or indeed one of those posable manikins that artists often have on their desks. 


Astonishingly, Ditko created Mr A as far back as 1968 — only a couple of years after he quit Spider-Man. These two late issues make no concessions to the new reader — or indeed to any kind of reader at all. I managed to work out that Rex Graine, a journalist, is also Mr A, a vigilante. Mr A wears perfectly ordinary clothes: a double breasted jacket, a tie, and possibly a vest. Everything is white — completely unshaded in this comic — and his face is entirely expressionless which may indicate a mask. Before confronting bad guys he hands them, or sometimes throws at them, a calling card which is half black and half white. Sometimes it turns black when they pick it up — rather in the way that the text of the Shadow’s letters used to fade away a few seconds after the recipient reads them. The calling card represents the fact that black is black and white is white and black can’t be white and white can’t be black. This is a Mr A’s core belief and also, so far as I can tell, his super-power. 


The stories have the form of comic book gangster adventures. They are narratively dense, almost schematic: I felt I had to read them panel by panel to make sense of what was going on. The dialogue is often fragmentary, as if Ditko is struggling to outline his points in as few words as possible. For example, when Mr A threatens to expose an intimidation plot, we get the following exchange between two conspirators: 

“Call exploder….warn him…stop her….save myself” 

“She wouldn’t dare! Wait! Yah! Hateful enough… Loves to destroy a man #@ ruin my growing business.” 

Ditko consistently uses hashtags and “at” signs to signify swearing, which can be quite confusing: I would know how to interpret “It’s only a **** card” but “It’s only a #@ card” catches me out every time. 


And inevitably, characters make political speeches at each other, all the time. There is no attempt to provide narrative distance: everyone discloses their true motivations in single sentence soliloquies. Evil journalists proclaim “Truth is whatever serves the little people: social justice is true justice”; evil politicians say “Wrong, right, all relative.” Comforting a woman whose husband has been driven to suicide, Rex explains (deep breath)

“Jay was in a vicious frame vice. He was innocent yet he couldn’t see a way out. Truth, justice, seemed powerless, the legal, moral authorities indifferent, useless. Innocent, alone, helpless, undefended, I guess he truly believed he was sparing you and Cathy worse suffering! We can become self-trapped in the unreal. It’s hard for many especially for innocent victims to understand that in the world of objective truth evil has no power of its own. The corrupt, the seekers of the unearned, give evil its destructive power. Left to their own, the unreal — lies, evil — will self destruct. The compromisers, corruptors, grey men, feed, arm and unleash the destructive evil.” 

Aristotle said that everything which exists exists; nothing can both exist and not exist; and everything must either exist or not exist. I am certainly not going to contradict him. The first statement — that everything which exists exists — can be represented as A=A. Mr A is called Mr A because he believes that everything has a nature and an essence and that nature or essence can’t be other than what it is. He is possibly the only superhero named after a logical axiom.

Mr A sees A=A as a political statement rather than a purely logical proposition. The contemporary world is corrupt because it thinks that A does not always equal A. One “voice of the people” montage depicts a chorus of citizens with thought balloons expressing what Ditko takes to be anti-objective statements 

“Who can say what is true? No-one?” 

“Why can’t we all compromise? It’s fair… each side give in get along…” 

“x@ extremist! @# black and white thinking! Everything is gray, everyone!…No better, no worse…” 

It is absolutely taken for granted that compromise and the belief that there are moral grey areas is an absolute falsehood, a denial that A=A. 


A=A is simply a slogan; a rhetorical tool to give weight to a particular position; a way of asserting that a particular belief — your particular belief — is an absolute and not capable of being discussed. Liberal journalism, political corruption, and poor adaptations of novels into movies are all denials of the law of identity. “Stan Lee had creative input into Spider-Man #33” and “The unemployed should receive welfare payments” are equally refuted by the statement “A = A: A ≠ X: A ≠ Y.” To a very great extent “A=A” simply means “whatever I, the writer approve of.” 

I recall that Mr Dave Sim refuted liberal suggestions that the Gulf War was not a very good idea by saying “Two plus two equals four; it does not equal three or five.” 

Let’s look at one ten-page story as an example of the genre. A robot monster, “The Exploder” is seen attacking an art collector and an artist on two different occasions. It transpires that he has been independently hired by one Boris Boro, a crooked art-dealer and one Messa Jubi who works for a local arts council. Mr A goes and threatens Boro with a black and white calling card, but Boro won’t confess to hiring the Exploder. After Mr A has gone, Boro warns The Exploder that Mr A is on to him. The Exploder returns to Jubi to warn her not to expose him; but just as he is about to strangle her, Mr A intervenes with one of his terrible business cards. He knew the Exploder would go to Jubi once Boro told him Mr A was on to him; and now he has proof that the arts council committee member hired the supervillain, which will force Boro to confess as well. 


Boro, the crooked art dealer hired the Exploder to intimidate the collector simply because he wanted to buy his collection: the collector would rather sell his ceramics than see them destroyed. He also gets a black and white card from Mr A: he is just as reprehensible for giving into intimidation as Boro was for intimidating him. (Compromisers deny that things which exist exist, remember.) Jubi hired the Exploder to attack the second artist simply because she disliked his work and wanted to pressure him into making art she approved of. 

There is a fight and Mr A wins. The fight scene runs to two pages without dialogue; including a single page montage of Mr A and the Exploder wrestling, with no panel borders, which is quite effective. The individual panels lack dynamism, but the way in which five small panels enclose one larger one, giving the impression of the hero pushing the villain through the other pictures makes the page feel quite kinetic. 

This is by no means a dreadful plot; although its extreme brevity and sketchiness meant I had to read through it several times to follow what was going on: it wasn’t immediately clear to me that the guy getting the visiting card on page 6 was the guy who had been forced to sell his art collection on page 1, and when a radio newscast says “Maser accused Boris Boro” in the final panel, I had to back track to find out which characters they were. I was expecting there to be some revelation about the Exploder’s true identity, but it doesn’t come. Possibly he is Norman Osborne. 



But this thin storyline is wholly there to carry an ideological message. Jubi is a grotesque caricature: fat, with bad teeth and unkempt hair, wearing leopardskin flares and with abstract shading on her jacket. (Sympathetic females wear old fashioned skirts and blouses.) She is attacking the artist because she doesn’t approve of his work. He makes sculptures of “an ideal of man” whereas she “hates the human body”. And this isn’t merely a matter of artistic taste: she hates human figures because she hates humans 

“Man the unnatural animal dares to set himself up as a superior being or having some great value! He must be shown accept his true vile nature be kep down small obedient dependent a herd animal a barnyard animal no better than mindless meat without ideal as a hope a better future…” 

The artist thinks that “you can smear an ideal, but the judging mind won’t be fooled”. The arts council committee members thinks (are you ready for this) 

“Ha! Ha! The fact that there is tax supported art proves people are willing to pay to see their best noblest stature insulted degraded and willingly to accept deformity as a valid even a superior standard model, ideal, Ha! Ha! Ha! yes go your kind will soon be gone forever.” 

The main thing she believes, of course, is that A does not necessarily equal A. 

“No one is better. Only direction is down. Worse. Everything blending… No real identity. All is really nothing. Nothing deserves nothing!” 

When Mase gets his card, he realises that, by capitulating with the Exploder, he has compromised and therefore become evil. As he explains: 

“A clear division, contrast, definite, yes, absolutes! No! No diluting, greying defining, what? Hmm standards? The best, worst? Truth. Lies? Honest, dishonest? The not to be mixed…surrendered…betrayed…” 

Words. Few words. Commas… no. Logic…no. Impact....some. Message....yes. Clear message. Subtle message. Message subtle as blow to head with sledgehammer. Private art: good. Subsidised art: bad. Individuals good. Collective bad. Communism bad, very bad, oh so bad. Behind everything…communism. 


When I ran this comic past her, Louise wondered if Ditko had perhaps had a very bad run-in with a grants committee and become obsessed with the idea that grants committees are evil. This is possible. But I don’t think that he would let something as trivial as individual experience sully his perfectly logical universe. A satire of a specific New York City arts subsidy committee could hardly fail to be interesting. But what we have here is a picture of what arts committees look like in the mind of an objectivist: a model of what arts committees must logically be like, starting from the premise that only things which exist exist. 

Good art is art which enshrines an ideal: and it will always be recognized by “the judging mind”. This doesn’t appear to mean that good art will be recognized by the public, and certainly not that good art is whatever sells. Good art is recognized by people who are equipped to appreciate good art: the judging mind. Tax supported arts subsidies try to override the judging mind by giving the people the kind of art they ought to like. They justify this through circular logic: the fact that people are compelled to support this art through their tax dollars proves that they do in fact like it because otherwise they wouldn’t be paying for it. The people who decide what art should and should not be funded do so with consciously bad motives. They don’t just happen to prefer modern art to classical art or abstract art to figurative art. They are not merely philistines. They consciously disapprove of art which shows humanity in a good light and approve of art which shows humanity in a bad light, because they themselves are misanthropes. 

And behind it all — ultimately — is communism. When the story about the intimidation of artists comes on the radio, an anonymous chorus member switches channels and listens instead to “that tax funded cultural program about the benevolent dictatorship of the people’s utopian republic”. 



A good political tract should, at the very least, make the reader say “Well, I don’t agree with this, but I can see why you do.” Who said that a religious evangelist had first to show why a good man might wish that Christianity were true; and then to show that a sensible man could believe that it was true; and only then try to persuade them that as a matter a fact it is true? 

Nothing in Mr A makes objectivism seem appealing; and nothing makes it seem even remotely sensible. You can chant "A = A" as much as you like: if you have ever been in a courtroom or a mediation session you know that honest people can have honest disagreements about the truth. You can chant "A = A" as much as you like: people’s motives are often mixed; you can do a good thing for a bad reason or a bad thing for a good reason and the correct moral path may be hard to find. You can, very easily, believe that chastity is a moral good and nevertheless become a prostitute in order to buy food for your children. You can, very easily, believe that war is evil and become a soldier to defend democracy from Fascism. Choosing the lessor evil does not make you a compromiser or a gray man. “Should I tell the truth, and perhaps hurt a number of people unnecessarily; or should I lie, and perhaps be forced to maintain more and more complex deceptions for the rest of my life?” is a real question: you do not answer it by throwing a black and white calling card in my face. If Mr A had read a little more Aristotle he would have discovered that you can’t infer an “ought” from an “is”.

Half the good stories in the world turn on moral dilemas. The great tales are not about the conflict of right versus wrong but about the conflict of right versus right. You can’t derive drama from moral certainty. Mr A fails as a comic because it exists in a universe in which narrative is impossible. 


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Sunday, October 11, 2020

It Is Finished

Top Tier ($5 plus) Patreon Backers will be getting physical copies of the St Mark's Gospel Doorstop as soon as Lulu can send them out (about two weeks). 

I'll be more than happy to send copies out to anyone else who decides to pledges to support me to the tune of $5 an essay. And be extremely grateful, of course. 

People who subscribe at a lower rate get e-books, previews, and maybe even the odd video of me pontificating. 

The St Mark book will be available for purchase in Due Course. 



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Friday, October 09, 2020


This month I have published about 10,000 words on this blog. 

61 nice Patreon supporters have paid me a total of around $94 for each essay. 

Patreon supporters have had an early look at my essay on C.S. Lewis and Bulverism. 

Over the next month, Patreon supporters ought to be getting previews of my next wave of essays on Tom Baker’s third season. (Deadly Assassin; Talons of Weng Chiang: nothing too controversial.) And maybe something on comic books. 

If you think what I am doing is at all interesting or worthwhile then please consider joining Patreon. (That means promising to pay me a small amount of money each time I publish an article. Let’s face it, you have Paypal, so it’s terribly easy to set up.) If two people both pledge a dollar, that would make me one pound fifty five a month better off, depending on the exchange rate. 

Alternatively, you could just drop a few squids into the Tip Jar. 

Thank you for paying attention to my blithering.






Not as Funny As He Used To Be....

The Joke Proper, which turns on sudden perception of incongruity, is a much more promising field. I am not thinking primarily of indecent or bawdy humour, which, though much relied upon by second-rate tempters, is often disappointing in its results. The truth is that humans are pretty clearly divided on this matter into two classes. There are some to whom "no passion is as serious as lust" and for whom an indecent story ceases to produce lasciviousness precisely in so far as it becomes funny: there are others in whom laughter and lust are excited at the same moment and by the same things. The first sort joke about sex because it gives rise to many incongruities: the second cultivate incongruities because they afford a pretext for talking about sex.

The Screwtape Letters


*

When Alf Garnett said that we should send the fuzzy-wuzzies back to fuzzy-wuzzy land, we laughed at him, because his opinion was so awful and he expressed it so badly. We were supposed to laugh at him.
 
Warren Mitchell said that people sometimes recognized him on the street and said “I enjoyed you having a go at the immigrants on TV last night”. He used to reply “I wasn’t having a go at the immigrants: I was having a go at arseholes like you.” 

You can’t satirize a bigot without actually saying bigoted things. You probably couldn’t show Till Death Us Do Part on TV today, because Alf sometimes used the kinds of words that people like Alf sometimes use. We have rightly decided to stop using those words. No one can have the slightest doubt that the Major in Fawlty Towers is a ludicrous idiot: but I think that the BBC has made the right call in dropping the episode where he uses the n-word.

*

Steve Coogan is a clever man and Alan Partridge is an idiot. But I don’t particularly enjoy the Alan Partridge shows: Coogan’s comic re-creation of the most cringe-making TV disasters actually make me cringe; his satirical caricature of dreadful TV is often, to me, simply dreadful. But there is no question about where Coogan stops and Partridge starts. 

His portrayal of Stan Laurel was more like Stan Laurel than Stan Laurel was. 

*

If a comedian tells a cock joke we don’t imagine that he doesn’t understand basic human taboos and that he would expose himself in public given half the chance. It’s often rather buttoned-up and coy people who laugh most when the man on the stage talks about men's willies: it is funny precisely because the comedian is saying things they would never say. There are no streakers on naturist beaches. But some people think that there are things (indeed, Things) that you mustn’t mention ever, ever, ever, except maybe to a doctor or a nurse when Mummy and Daddy are also in the room. There is nothing funny about Rude Words and even if there is that is no excuse. 

A lot of people would also say that about Jimmy Carr’s rape gags. Exactly that. 

*

If I say “I am showing Karloff’s Frankenstein as part of my scary movie night” I do not expect you to say “I don’t find Frankenstein scary: it’s actually pretty tame.” 

If I say “I don’t think parents should dress little girls in sexy outfits” I do not expect you to say “I certainly do not find six year olds in leotards sexy”. 

If I say “That was a racist joke” then it is not very much to the point to say “That comedian is not a racist.”

"Scary", "sexy" and "racist" are qualities that a film, a dress, or joke can possess: regardless of our reaction to them, or the intention of the film maker, dress-maker or joke-teller. 

If you grant that racist words might be a legitimate component of comedy there is a danger that racists might pretend to be comedians simply in order to say the bad words. 

Or that common or garden street bigots mights use the bad words and say “oh but I didn’t mean it I was just making a joke: you libtards don’t have a sense of humour.” 

Or that very unfunny people might think that standing up and saying bad words was funny in itself.

*

The line between a witty political speaker and a comedian who jokes about politics because politics is sometimes funny is quite a wobbly one. It used to be said that Alternative Comedians could get laughs just by standing up in front of liberal audiences and saying “That Mrs Thatcher! What a cow! Know what I mean?” You couldn’t do that nowadays. Except maybe on the Now Show. But very many comedians use comedy to make out a case that they deeply and sincerely care about. Does Nish Kumar talk about his personal experience of racism because he wants to get laughs and living in a racist country sometimes gives rise to funny situations? Or does he want to make a serious point about racism and use funny anecdotes because they help him get his point across? 

(A little from column A and a little from column B) 


Jonathan Pie is a fictional TV news reporter portrayed by (checks notes) comedian Tom Walker, who is perhaps best known for portraying a fictional TV news reporter named Jonathan Pie. His portrayal is sufficiently convincing that not everyone realises that Jonathan Pie is a fictional character. The material is either ad libbed on the spot; or else Walker sufficiently inhabits the role that his vocal mannerisms, repetitions and verbal fumbles are part of the act. 

The twist is that Pie is a news-reporter for the BBC, standing outside 10 Downing Street or Parliament, giving a very neutral, balanced report on some debate or controversy, and then handing back to the studio. Once the mic is off, he says what he really thinks, which invariably develops into an angry, sweary rant. 

Here is Pie reporting on Jeremy Corbyn’s re-election as leader of the Labour Party in 2016. He says that although Corbyn appears relatively popular with ordinary people, the media have deliberately attached the label “unelectable” to him. He says that Corbyn appears to sincerely want to change the country. He says that people who write for the papers are by definition in positions of privilige and would therefore have something to lose if the country changed. He says that the Labour Party should not sacrifice integrity and principles in order to gain power. He says that Corbyn’s opponents are supporters of Blair, and that Blair was a bad thing. He says, in fact, the kinds of things which any political pundit might say. The humour, such as it is, is in the delivery. It’s not what he says it’s the way that he says it. 

He starts out talking calmly “Who decided he’s unelectable? I’ll tell you who did, the media did, we did”. 

He becomes more and more agitated as the speech goes on “this is about missing the good old days, the good old spin-doctoring war-mongering, Bush-fellating, Tory-imitating good old days”. 

Is the joke that a person from the media is saying about the media what the rest of us think — in the way that a very boring Richard Dawkins argument would be funny if it came out of the mouth of a Vicar? Or is the joke that he gets angry about this kind of thing: is passionate political engagement funny in itself? 

At one point, contrasting Jeremy Corbyn with Tony Blair he rants “fuck honesty! fuck integrity! we just want power!” Someone might say “Yes, that is correct: power without integrity is not worth having.” Someone else might say: “No, that is not correct: principles are worth nothing if you are only ever in opposition.” These are both positions that people might, and in fact do, hold. Is the joke that an angry sweary man is saying the kinds of things we normally only hear calm, polite men saying? Or is it simply that a posh man said fuck?

As a recovering Corbynite, I cannot deny that at the time I lapped it up. I forwarded it to all my friends. Ha-ha-ha the funny man is shouting about all the people who are being horrid to nice Jezza ha-ha-ha. 


Here is a more recent video about (oh god) cancel culture.


Background: Rebecca Long-Bailey, a Labour MP, allegedly tweeted a link to an interview with an actress that allegedly referred to an Amnesty International report which allegedly drew a connection between the killing of George Floyd and techniques allegedly used by the Israeli secret service. Kier Starmer, the alleged leader of the Labour Party, judged this to be anti-Semitic and removed her from her allegedly important position as (checks notes) opposition spokesperson on Education. Some people think that Kier Starmer, by acting promptly and decisively, showed leadership and the potential to be Prime Minister, bringing to an end five years during which the anti-Semitic Jeremy Corbyn had become a greater threat to the continued existence of Jews in Europe than Hitler had been. Some people think that largely concocted accusations of anti-Semitism had been weaponised by the Right to undermine Corbyn’s Prime Ministerial ambitions, and that Starmer had opportunistically smeared Corbyn’s de facto successor with the same mud. Where you stand on the issue has everything to do with where you stand on Corbyn’s and Starmer’s leadership, and almost nothing to do with what the offending article actually said. You may not find it too challenging to work out where I stand. 

The Jonathan Pie character draws a link between the sacking of Long-Bailey; the Black Rights Matter campaign; and “cancel culture” more generally. 

Once again, he makes a perfectly mainstream political argument: that it is hypocritical of the Left to complain about Long-Bailey being penalised for what was, at worst, a fairly minor deviation from the party position because the Left frequently penalise people for even more minor deviations from their own orthodoxy. Where the Corbyn monologue made the kind of case you could have found in any Guardian op-ed, the Long-Bailey video says exactly what any number of Daily Mail pundits say on any day of the week. 

Once again, I am a little puzzled as to where the “joke” occurs. What humour there is comes from rhetorical exaggeration. He starts from “people are losing their jobs for tweeting the wrong opinions” and builds up to “a society where a tiny but very vocal majority of perma-offended woke twats with an extraordinary amount of power have penetrated every aspect of our culture.” 

I know how to respond to this as an argument. It only works if you accept some pretty massive false equivalencies. It’s a common enough rhetorical device: ludicrously understate one side of the argument and therefore portray the contrary position as ludicrously extreme. “If you even suggest that there might be such a thing as biological sex you will be labelled a transphobe”. (Compare: Poor Enoch Powell only dared to suggest that maybe white people have some rights as well and he was labelled a racist.) He paints a picture of a world in which poor silenced J.K Rowling and poor martyred Graham Lineham just want to have a sensible, nuanced conversation but instead…some very bad thing has been done to them, which is somehow analogous to being put into a gas chamber. 

No-one is saying that biological sex does not exist. Some people are literally saying that trans women are male fetishists who get off on wearing women’s clothes because they have a thing about toilets. 

At one point in the piece Pie starts to shout  “I AM NOT JOKING”. Indeed. And responding to a joke as if it were an argument is obviously a category mistake: I would hardly criticise Monty Python by saying that the advertising standards authority didn’t record a single case of pet shops selling pets which were already dead in the whole of 1969. But the ludicrous Jonathan Pie is saying the same things that the perfectly serious P*t*r H*tch*ns makes in the Daily Mail on a weekly basis. “From the lockdown to the destruction of statues, these febrile weeks show the pillars of our freedom and civilization are rotten. As the Left now controls every lever of power, we face nothing less than regime change.” 

But perhaps H*tch*ns is not serious either? Perhaps The Right never are? Perhaps Conservatism is only ever a grotesque self-caricature intended mainly to annoy the libtards? Perhaps I should not be saying "Jonathan Pie is no funnier that H*tch*ns? Perhaps I should be saying "H*tch*ns is just as much a wind-up as Jonathan Pie".

Joanthan Pie is a caricature of the kind of person who says the kind of thing Jonathan Pie says, in the way that Alf Garnett was a caricature of the kind of person who says the kinds of things that Alf Garnett says. I am supposed to laugh at Jonathan Pie because he thinks that “losing your Twitter account” and “being ushered into an incinerator” are roughly the same thing, when I can see quite well that they are not. He is funny because he is wrong.  

And I now see that that was also the joke in the earlier, apparently left-wing monologue. The joke was that the Jonathan Pie character was such a big fool that he thought that Jeremy Corbyn was a good Labour Leader and that he had some chance of becoming Prime Minister. Only a big fool could believe anything so silly. Pie said “the trouble with Jeremy Corbyn is that he tells the truth…”. I reacted as if he had made a good political point. I was supposed to react in the same way I reacted when Ali G asked Buzz Aldrin if he was ever jealous of Louis Armstrong.

The joke’s on me. I forwarded the Corbyn rant to all my leftie friends because it was saying things that I agreed with; not realising that the whole joke was that they were things that only someone as stupid as me could possibly believe. I was in the same boat as the American right wing news outlet who thought that Pie was an example of what left wing British journalists were actually like. This time, the joke is on P*t*r H*tch*ns and the Daily Mail who continue to nod and say “Yes, that’s a good point” even as the rant gets more and more extreme. 

I think it was Mark Steel who stuck up his hand in a Tory fringe meeting and suggested the restoration, not just of hanging but of crucifixion, to see if anyone present would agree with him. (They did.) I think I may have walked into a similar trap. 

But this kind of thing is double edged. Alf Garnett couldn’t satirize racism without being racist. Jimmy Carr tells jokes about the ways in which audiences react to very offensive jokes as part of an act which includes jokes which are very offensive. Someone suggested that we should apply a version of the Turing Test to on-line trolls: if you can’t tell whether the poster really has ludicrously extreme views, or is merely pretending to have ludicrously extreme views then he has ludicrously extreme views. There isn’t much difference between a man yelling right wing fallacies for comic effect and a man yelling right wing fallacies. Jonathan Pie is a sufficiently clever parodist that he is no longer a parodist: he is become the thing itself.




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Sunday, September 27, 2020

MARK 16

there were also women looking on afar off:
among whom was Mary Magdalene,
and Mary the mother of James the less and of Joses, and Salome;
who also, when he was in Galilee,
followed him and ministered unto him
and many other women
which came up with him unto Jerusalem.


There is an epilogue.

It introduces four — arguably five — new characters. This is not a natural way of telling a story. But it’s the only way Mark can tell it. The hero is dead. The supporting cast have all run away.

Jesus screams. We cut to the temple. The holy curtain is hanging in shreds. We cut back to Golgotha. Jesus is dead. The Centurion sneers. And as the lights come back on, the camera slowly pans to three characters, in the background, who haven’t been mentioned before.

Of course, they are women.

There are always women in the background. Ministering; it says, like Peter’s mother-in-law. Serving. Doing the practical stuff. They had to eat didn’t they? And I suppose someone had to launder the clothes. And when the big guys with the famous names have run away, the women are still there. To clean up the mess.

Mary Magdalene we know nothing about. Her first name was Mary and her last name was Magdalene. Anyone who refers to her as “Mary the Magdalene" or "Mary of Magdala" is seeing stuff in the text which isn't actually there.

We know even less about the other Mary. She had two sons: James “the less” and Joses. Jesus definitely had two disciples called James: James the Son of Zebedee and James the Son of Alphaeus. Zebedee's son is one of the inner circle; so maybe Alphaeus's son was known as the Less Important James? But in that case why not call his mother “Mary the Wife of Alphaeus”? James the Less could just as well mean Little James or Young James. We don’t know.

It would be nice if one of the women in the epilogue turned out to be the most famous Mary of all. It would be nice to think that she had made up with her son since since she called him a crazy man back in Capernaum. Maybe a scribe wrote “Mary the Mother of Joses” when he meant to write “Mary the Mother of Jesus”? But Mark was written in Greek and Iostos / Iesous is a much less plausible typo.

Iostos is Joseph and Joseph was the name of Jesus’s earth-dad and Jesus definitely had a brother called James so maybe when Mark writes "Mary the Mother of Joseph and James…" he expects us to say "…And Jesus as well!"

Maybe he does. And maybe he doesn’t. We just don’t know.

Salome we don’t know one single thing about. Christians have decided she was the wife of Zebedee and therefore the mother of Big James. James and John’s Mum gets a walk-on in Matthew, but we don't know what she was called. Salome was an incredibly common name.

Three women. Two called Mary, one not. One identified by her children; one by her surname; one not identified at all. That’s all we have to go on.

The camera turns to them. And then it turns away again. We haven’t quite got to their part of the story yet.




and now when the even was come
because it was the preparation
that is the day before the sabbath,
Joseph of Arimathaea, an honourable counseller
which also waited for the kingdom of God
came, and went in boldly unto Pilate, and craved the body of Jesus.
and Pilate marvelled if he were already dead
and calling unto him the centurion
he asked him whether he had been any while dead.
and when he knew it of the centurion, he gave the body to Joseph.





Jesus has died quickly. Pilate is surprised. Enter Joseph of Arimathea.

And exit Joseph of Arimathea, almost immediately.

If you read a certain kind of literature you know all about Joseph. He collected the blood of Jesus at the crucifixion. He hosted the Last Supper. He brought the Holy Grail to Glastonbury. He was Jesus’s Uncle and a tin-merchant and used to visit Priddy (where they hold the folk festival). His descendents were the Fisher Kings.

Mark tells us nothing about him. We don’t know where Arimathea was, or indeed if there ever was such a place.

Rich guy. Probably on the Sanhedrin. Secret follower of Jesus. Asks Pilate for the body. Pilate hands it over. Performs a hasty funeral and disappears from history.

Why does Pilate surrender the body of Jesus to Joseph? Because he doesn’t want to antagonize the people by leaving a dead body rotting on a pole during the festival? Or precisely in order to antagonize them. “I couldn’t stop you lot lynching him; but you can’t stop me giving him an honourable burial.” Or maybe Pilate was just a decent chap who thought that even criminals deserved a decent funeral. We are told that Albert Pierrepoint was rather fussy about how the authorities disposed of his clients after he had finished with them.



and he bought fine linen
and took him down
and wrapped him in the linen
and laid him in a sepulchre which was hewn out of a rock
and rolled a stone unto the door of the sepulchre
and Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Joses
beheld where he was laid.

Joseph bought the linen-cloth specially. Mark thinks that is important: something we need to know. The fine linen is sidoni: the same word Mark used for the clothes that Naked Guy lost in the garden of Gethsemane.

Mark has abandoned any pretence that Jesus literally died on Passover: Joseph is concerned about the Sabbath, but goes out and buys a linen shroud on the holy day. The women have been to the spice-market, too.

Joseph wraps Jesus in the cloth.

He put him in a sepulchre. Most modern translations say “tomb”: if we wanted to be literal we should probably say “memorial”. He rolls a stone in front of the door. He must have been a big guy. He can move a stone by himself which three grown-up ladies couldn’t move together.

And that’s it: Joseph’s part of the story is over.

And we pull back again. The three mysterious ladies are still in the background. Watching.



and when the sabbath was past,
Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and Salome,
had bought sweet spices, that they might come and anoint him.
and very early in the morning the first day of the week,
they came unto the sepulchre at the rising of the sun.
and they said among themselves,
“Who shall roll us away the stone from the door of the sepulchre?”
and when they looked, they saw that the stone was rolled away
for it was very great
and entering into the sepulchre,
they saw a young man sitting on the right side,
clothed in a long white garment;
and they were affrighted.
and he saith unto them,
be not affrighted:
“ye seek Jesus of Nazareth,
which was crucified:
he is risen;
he is not here:
behold the place where they laid him.
but go your way,
tell his disciples 
and Peter
that he goeth before you into Galilee
there shall ye see him
as he said unto you”
And they went out quickly
and fled from the sepulchre
for they trembled and were amazed
neither said they any thing to any man; for they were afraid…




And this is where Mark's story ends.

Dot. Dot. Dot.

The disciples ran away. Some women stayed. So the women first heard the news.

Jesus had no truck with the prejudices of his day. Women were crucial to his ministry and it’s silly that some churches still have a problem with women taking on pastoral roles. Mary, Mary and Salome were in a very real sense Apostles to the Apostles. Mary Magdalene became the Holy Grail…

Yes. All that. Maybe.

But also, this:

The people who were, or should have, expected the Resurrection ran away. Jesus told the disciples that he was coming back. He told them five times, at least. But Judas defected. Peter recanted. Everyone else scattered.

What happened next — according to Mark?

Not according to Matthew or John or Luke. Not according to Robert Powell or the Ladybird Book of Jesus. Not according to the Easter Morning liturgy. According to Mark.

Imagine yourself reading this book, for the first time, on what would have been Jesus’ seventieth birthday.

Dot. Dot. Dot.

What happened next?

No-one knows.

Or at any rate, Mark doesn’t know. Or if he did know, he didn’t want us to know. People who understand Greek tell us he broke off mid-sentence. Your Bible might have some verses after this: it may very well print them in [square brackets]. That’s because different manuscripts have different endings and the different endings are written in different styles and they are pretty much just summaries of John, Matthew and Luke. But the two oldest Bibles in existence break off at this point.

Dot. Dot. Dot.

It has to be girls who go to the tomb. The boy disciples, the eleven, were expecting to Jesus to come back to life. Because he told them that he would: over and over again. The three women are not expecting Jesus to wake up or stand up. They are expecting to embalm a dead body.

They are expecting to anoint him: which is probably a good thing to do with a horribly mutilated corpse, but also, ironically, the appropriate thing to do with a dead Messiah.

The people of this time practiced burial and reburial: after a year or so the bones of a dead person were exhumed and reinterred in ossuaries. We shouldn’t think of the tomb as a single cave with a single bier for a single body: it was more likely to a mausoleum or a morgue, with spaces for a number of burials and an entrance that could be sealed and unsealed. That is why the young man has to point out the place where Jesus was laid.

Yes; it is a young man.

Pretend you are reading this story for the first time.

Would you read this and say “Oh, when Marks says ‘they saw a young man in a white shirt’ he obviously means ‘two angels came down from heaven and caused an earthquake’”?

Or would you say “Oh. Some other disciple got here first.”?

Would you, perhaps, say “Oh, it’s naked guy from Gethsemane: I knew he was going to turn out to be of some importance later on?”

I think that if you were reading the story for the first time, you might say: someone got to the tomb first. And it must have been a guy, because he was strong enough to move Joseph’s stone. And that person found that Jesus’ body wasn’t there. So he waited for the other disciples to come. But they never did. Only some women.

So: Mysterious Young Guy says to Mysterious Women. “Of course his body isn’t here. Haven’t you been paying attention? He's going to meet you all back home Galilee. Go and remind the disciples. Go and remind Peter in particular. And do call him Peter. He can have his name back. That’s important.”

Dot. Dot. Dot.

The women panic. They run away. The don’t pass the message on. They vanish from the story.

They never tell no-one, so no-one never knowed.

Dot. Dot. Dot.

That is the story. That is not Matthew’s story or Luke’s story or John’s story, and it isn’t the church’s story. But it is Mark’s story.

The boys ran away. The girls heard that Jesus had come back to life. But they never passed on the message. The disciples were meant to meet Jesus back in the Galilee. But they never went. They missed the appointment.

Dot. Dot. Dot.

Matthew changes the story. The young man is now an angel who has come down from heaven and created an earthquake. He is waiting for the women outside the tomb. But there is still an odd emphasis on his clothing: white as snow. The women run out of the tomb to tell the disciples, but they bump into Jesus himself, who repeats the angels instructions: tell the disciples to meet me in Galilee. The disciples do indeed go back to Galilee; where they do indeed see Jesus: he tells them to pass his teachings on and then goes back to heaven.

Luke changes the story. The young man in a white robe is now two men in dazzlingly shiny garments. The women go and tell the disciples straight away. Peter checks out the tomb, and what do you think convinces him that the story is true? Linen cloth. Eventually, they all see Jesus: the meet him one last time in Bethany and he goes back to heaven. But they don’t return to Galilee. They stay in Jerusalem. Jesus specifically tells them to.

John changes the story. A group of women go to the tomb and encounter no young men and no angels: only — what do you think? — linen garments, folded up. They go and get John and Peter. John goes into the tomb but Peter doesn’t. John is convinced that Jesus has come back to life but Peter less so. Mary stays behind and sees the resurrected Jesus. Then all the disciples apart from Thomas see him. Then Thomas does. Everyone drifts back to Galilee and take up fishing again, where they see Jesus one last time.

But we are reading Mark’s version.

Dot. Dot. Dot.

“And that is what happened; forty years ago. And only now is the truth coming out. Jesus told Peter and Peter told me and I am telling you. He knew all this would happen. The thousands of bodies hung up on crosses. Pigs in the Holy of Holies. The temple reduced to a pile of rubble. Jesus warned us in advance. And he said that when that happened — that would be the proof that he had gone back to his Papa, and his Papa had put him in charge of the universe. And he’ll be back. Any day now. So hang in there. Don’t fumble the ball this time. Don’t fall asleep like you did in Gethsemane. Don’t say you never met Jesus. Don’t lose your shirt and run away naked. Don’t fail to pass on the message. We have another another chance. Don’t blow it….”

That, it seems to me, is Mark’s understanding of the Gospel. A secret that got out; a message that didn’t get passed on. It is how we would read Mark’s Gospel if we were truly reading it for the…

Friday, September 25, 2020

Mark 15


and straightway in the morning 
the chief priests held a consultation with the elders and scribes and the whole council 
and bound Jesus 
and carried him away 
and delivered him to Pilate 
and Pilate asked him, 
“art thou the King of the Jews?” 
and he answering said unto him, 
“thou sayest it” 
and the chief priests accused him of many things: 
but he answered nothing. 
and Pilate asked him again, saying, 
“answerest thou nothing? 
behold how many things they witness against thee” 
but Jesus yet answered nothing 
so that Pilate marvelled
now at that feast he released unto them one prisoner 
whomsoever they desired
and there was one named Barabbas 
which lay bound with them that had made insurrection with him 
who had committed murder in the insurrection 
and the multitude crying aloud 
began to desire him to do as he had ever done unto them. 
but Pilate answered them, saying, 
"will ye that I release unto you the King of the Jews?" 
for he knew that the chief priests had delivered him for envy. 
but the chief priests moved the people 
that he should rather release Barabbas unto them. 
and Pilate answered and said again unto them, 
"what will ye then that I shall do unto him whom ye call the King of the Jews?" 
and they cried out again, "crucify him" 
then Pilate said unto them, 
why, what evil hath he done? 
and they cried out the more exceedingly, "crucify him" 
and so Pilate, willing to content the people, released Barabbas unto them, 
and delivered Jesus, when he had scourged him, to be crucified. 

I am trying to make sense of Mark as a storyteller. But this part of Mark’s story does not make sense to me. 

Mark has painted a picture of Jesus’s conflict with the Temple. Mark has shown Jesus blaspheming in front of the supreme court. I understand why Mark thinks the Priests wanted Jesus dead. 

But now a new character enters the story. You probably have a picture of him in your head. He’s dressed in a Roman toga with a wreath on his head; or perhaps dressed as a Roman legionnaire, with a face oddly reminiscent of Michael Palin. (Be honest.) A brooding figure; prone to symbolic gestures, who sings one enigmatic song in the first act. 

Mark doesn’t introduce Pilate. If we were really reading the story for the first time it wouldn’t be completely clear who he was: clearly a judge or figure of authority; someone whose power the Jews reluctantly acknowledge; with the power to have a man killed. 

Next comes someone called Bar-Abbas. We have seen that “Abba” is what little kids call their fathers, so he name means Son of His Papa. I guess that means he was a bastard. He’s some kind of revolutionary or terrorist; but here Mark is strangely evasive. He says that he has been imprisoned with some rebels; and that those rebels killed someone during an the uprising. He doesn’t say that Dad’s-Son himself is a revolutionary or a murderer. About the failed revolution he tells us nothing. 

And then there is a crowd. Outside Pilate’s residence, early in the morning — after cock-crow but before 9AM — on (allegedly) Passover morning. Where did they come from? Where do they go? And why does Pilate involve then in events? 

Pilate calls Jesus “King of the Jews”. He uses the phrase four times, and puts a sign “King of the Jews” above the Cross. He has heard of Jesus; he knows that people are calling him Messiah; and he has a pretty shrewd idea about that word means. But he doesn’t think that letting people call you Anointed amounts to a capital offence. If he did the trial would have been very short. 

We know what happens. It is the maybe the most famous story in the world. Pilate asks Jesus if he is King. Niether Pilate nor the Priests take “You say so” to be an admission of guilt. If they did the trial would have been very short. The Priests run through their charge list; presumably the same accusations they made an hour ago in the High Priest’s house. Jesus doesn’t answer. Pilate repeats the question about whether or not Jesus is king: still no answer. 

And suddenly, from nowhere, there is a crowd. (An ochlos: a multitude; a rabble; a riot.) And they petition Pilate to grant an amnesty to a prisoner. Apparently this was a local custom. Pilate offers to release Jesus: the crowd ask him to release Daddy’s-Son. Pilate acquiesces; and hands Jesus over — that word again — to be executed. Without pronouncing him guilty of anything. 

What does Mark think just happened? 

There is no reason to assume that Barabas is a thug. He might be an heroic figure. He could also be a hard-luck case, on death row because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. People do get killed by despotic governments because they happened to be adjacent to the place where a bad thing happened. "Common purpose" they call it. "Let him have it, Chris".  

There must have been a plan for a mass crucifixion. There are other rebels in prison: at least two people go to their deaths at the same time as Jesus. No-one suggests that Pilate might release one of the “two bandits”; no-one suggests that he free the other rebels. Barabbas is a special case. 

Is the crowd a delegation of Barabbas’s friends and supporters? Perhaps they have come specifically to try to claim the amnesty on his behalf? In which case they wouldn’t know who Jesus was: it's a foregone conclusion they’ll ask Pilate to free the popular freedom fighter, not the religious nutter from up north.

So why does Pilate go through the motions of offering to release Jesus? He understands that the Priests have a grievance against Jesus. Perhaps he has a Machiavellian plan to put the priests in his debt by killing their enemy for them? But he doesn’t have a good legal basis to proceed. 

So perhaps he is being sneaky. Perhaps he is saying “Let’s put it to a vote. And let’s ask these good people who have specifically come to ask for the release of Bar-Abbas. We are going to commute one sentence today: shall it perchance be this popular and unfortunate local hero; or shall it be this Northern preacher who only arrived in town three days ago. Oh, really? Is that your final word? Then I am afraid there is nothing I can do about it. It’s out of my hands.” 

This makes some sense. But the story, as Mark tells it, is very obscure. 


and the soldiers led him away into the hall, 
called Praetorium 
and they call together the whole band. 
and they clothed him with purple 
and platted a crown of thorns 
and put it about his head, 
and began to salute him, Hail, King of the Jews! 
and they smote him on the head with a reed 
and did spit upon him 
and bowing their knees worshipped him. 
and when they had mocked him 
they took off the purple from him 
and put his own clothes on him 
and led him out to crucify him 

It sometimes happens in a fairy tale that the Prince disguises himself as a peasant or a servant. And if the tale is told in the form of a pantomime, there will likely be a scene in which the nagging old cook or the cruel school mistress says “Who do you think you are, the King of England?” or “Well, just sit down and eat your gruel, your Majesty”. (Cakes often get burned at the same time.) 

The terrible climax of Mark’s story is full of this kind of irony. Pilate has called Jesus “Jewish King” five times; the soldiers now take up the joke. Jew-King, Jew-King! They even dress him up as a carnival King and stage a mock coronation. Religious artwork usually depicts the crown of thorns as an instrument of torture; but I am not sure how you would go about plaiting a thorny branch. Maybe it just means “a silly fake crown like kids would wear if they were playing kings and queens”. 

We are not supposed to think “How ironic! They are calling him a King in jest, but if they but knew it, he really is secretly a king.” We are supposed to think: “This is King Jesus: this is what he looks like. The first are last and the last are first. He is the very last. Being hurt and spat on and laughed is the ultimate glorification.” 



and they compel one Simon, a Cyrenian 
who passed by 
coming out of the country 
the father of Alexander and Rufus 
to bear his cross 

Simon of Cyrene is another mysterious, random figure. Some people say that the sons of the man who carried the cross must have been afforded a special status in the ancient Church. There would be no point is calling Simon “the father of Alexander and Rufus” if Mark’s readers didn’t know who Alexander and Rufus were. That might be true: but it’s no help to us

Cyrene is in Libya. This shows that race is no barrier to love: Simon, an African, helped Jesus, a Jew, when no-one else would. 

Or else it proves that white people have always thought it is the job of black people to carry their stuff.




and they bring him unto the place Golgotha 
which is, being interpreted, the place of a skull. 

The Hebrew word gulgolet mostly means “head”: for example in the sense of a “head count”. But it sometimes means “skull”: when Samson crushes the skull of one of his enemies, he crushes their gulgolet. Mark says that the name Golgotha means Kraniou Topos: place of a skull. (Compare our word cranium.) The Latin translators left Golgotha as it was, but kraniou topos became calvariae locus, which is why you still get churches, hills and sentimental hymns locating Jesus death at a place called Calvary. 

Mark does not say that Kraniou Topos is a hill, green or otherwise. 




and they gave him to drink wine 
mingled with myrrh 
but he received it not 

We sometimes read that a condemned man is offered a blindfold but refuses to wear it: I am told that modern American prisons have the charming custom of offering inmates valium before killing them. Jesus told his disciples in the upper room that he would never drink wine again: Mark wants us to know that he kept his vow.




and when they had crucified him, 
they parted his garments, 
casting lots upon them, 
what every man should take

We don’t seem to be able to get away from clothes. Perhaps Mark wants to allude to; but not dwell on, a secondary but still unpleasant fact. Jesus is not merely bound to stake: he is on public display mother-naked. 

In her novel To The Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf famously relegates the First World War to a parenthesis. Mark puts the climax of his story in a subordinate clause: it is as if we look away from the stake and look at the soldiers instead. They take him to the killing ground. They offer him a sedative. And after they have executed him, they take his clothes. It’s as if you had said: They went for a nice walk in the park. The roses were pretty. He had a strawberry lolly, she had an ice-cream. After he had murdered her, he put the wrappers in the bin. 

It is not at all unlikely that an execution party should be allowed to keep the condemned man’s possessions. We don’t need to imagine them shooting craps for Jesus’ robe: quite possibly they flipped a denarius or just did the Roman equivalent of chartam, forfex, lapis. But the casting of lots is a callback to the Old Testament: to another one of King David’s hymns. A man — we don’t know who — is going though his ultimate time of trouble; rejected by everyone for no reason: 

all my bones are on display 
people stare and gloat over me 
they divide my clothes among them 
and cast lots for my garment 

A majority of Christians would say that this is simply and straightforwardly an oracle; describing the exact circumstances of the death of Jesus a thousand years before it happened. David looked into a magic mirror, saw the death of his remote descendant, described it in a poem; and set it to a tune called the Doe of the Morning. The more militant kind of sceptic would say that the Psalm came first and the story came afterwards. There was no Jesus and no crucifixion: Mark’s Gospel is a patchwork of Old Testament quotes. 

The truth lies somewhere in between, as the truth usually does. Maybe the Romans really played a game of chance to see who took Jesus’ clothes and maybe they didn’t: it doesn’t matter either way. What does matter is that Mark made a conscious choice to write about the crucifixion of Jesus in the words of the old, old poem. It’s like a spiritual hyperlink. "When you read this story", says Mark, "I want you to think of the twenty second Psalm."  

Would Roman torturers really have nailed their victims to stakes? Or would they have just tied them up and left them to the weather and the insects? Certainly, Mark doesn’t mention nails. If they did use nails, they would have gone through ankles and wrists. But almost every Christian painting and almost every Christian play shows Jesus with nails in his hands and feet. That comes, not from Mark’s text, but from David’s poem: 

dogs surround me 
a pack of vultures encircles me 
they pierce my hands and my feet



and it was the third hour, and they crucified him. 
and the superscription of his accusation was written over 
THE KING OF THE JEWS. 
and with him they crucify two thieves; 
the one on his right hand, and the other on his left 

A week ago, James and John asked if they could be placed on Jesus left hand and right hand when he became King. And here he is hanging from a stake, half-dead, with a sign above his head saying "this is what happens to so-called Jew-Kings". 

And who are on his left and his right? Two other naked dying guys. 

People at the top are at the bottom. You want to be with me in my glory? You don’t what that means. But now you do. 



and they that passed by railed on him, 
wagging their heads, and saying, 
“Ah, thou that destroyest the temple, 
and buildest it in three days, 
save thyself, and come down from the cross.” 
likewise also the chief priests mocking 
said among themselves with the scribes, “He saved others; 
himself he cannot save. 
let Christ the King of Israel 
descend now from the cross, 
that we may see and believe.” 
and they that were crucified with him reviled him. 

The people who are mocking Jesus are the ones who happen to be passing by: the mob who were screaming for his blood outside Pilate’s palace have vanished from the story. Golgotha sounds as if it was by a public road: if you wanted to send a message about what happened to Jewish Kings, you probably wouldn’t put the stake at the top of a hill. Despite the sign, the passers-by seem to understand that Jesus is really being killed because he is the enemy of the temple. 

Mark is treating Psalm 22 pretty much as a shooting script. 

all they that see me laugh me to scorn: 
they shoot out the lip, 
they shake the head, saying, 
he trusted on the Lord that he would deliver him 
let him deliver him, seeing he delighted in him. 


and when the sixth hour was come 
there was darkness over the whole land 
until the ninth hour. 

English teachers talk about the Pathetic Fallacy: writers have a tendency to make the natural world reflect the emotional state of their main character. Thunderstorms when he is sad; warm spring sunshine when he is in a good mood. Thomas Hardy does it all the time. It is such a cliche that modern movies tend to go for the Antipathetic Fallacy: how many rainy weddings and sunny funerals have you seen? 

But when the hero is God it is not a fallacy. You’d expect his suffering to result in a supernatural darkness. 

Many people have spotted that the Jewish Passover runs on a lunar calendar: and Christians have decided that it is very important that Easter should be celebrated during a full moon. (The first Sunday after the first full moon after the Vernal equinox, since you asked.) Whatever happened on that Friday, it definitely was not an eclipse. 




and at the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, 
“Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?” 
which is, being interpreted, 
“My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” 

Anyone with a religious background knows that Jesus spoke five times from the cross. But those five “words” are a conflation of four different versions of the story. In Mark’s version, Jesus speaks only once. 

And we are still in the Psalms: “My god, my god why hast thou forsaken me” is the first line of Pslam 22. David’s poem ends with God coming to help the suffering man; or at least, with the hope that he will do so. So if Jesus died quoting the psalm, then he died crying out for God’s help — not despairing because God would not help him. 

But it is strange that he quotes it in Aramaic. If he had been quoting scripture, surely he would have quoted it either in Hebrew or in Greek? You would expect an Muslim to quote the Koran in Arabic or a Catholic to quote the Bible in Latin, not in a vernacular translation. So perhaps Jesus really did blurt out something desperate in his mother tongue? 




and some of them that stood by, 
when they heard it, said, 
“Behold, he calleth Elias” 
and one ran and filled a sponge full of vinegar, 
and put it on a reed, 
and gave him to drink, 
saying, “Let alone; 
let us see whether Elias will come to take him down” 

Elijah, Elijah, Elijah. 

John the Baptist was kind of like Elijah; many people thought Jesus literally was Elijah. The inner circle of disciples saw Jesus talking with Elijah. And some of the witnesses to his death thought that Jesus called for Elijah at the end. 

Just suppose. 

Jesus is dying: he screams out something in his own language. And the people present — either the ones who were paid to hurt him, or the ones who had turned up because they liked seeing people being hurt — decide to offer him a drink to give him a few second’s relief. (We are told that hangmen used to use softer ropes for their favourite murders.) Vinegar is not our condiment, of course: it just means cheap wine, very probably what a Roman soldier might have in his provisions pouch. A reed is just a rod or a stick. No-one actually thinks that Elijah is going to come down from heaven in a chariot of fire and rescue Jesus. It must be a cruel joke. Let’s see if Elijah comes: and then we can wait for Santa and the Tooth Fairy as well. 

Just suppose. Jesus really did call for Elijah. There was a close connection between the Son of Man and Elijah. Suppose he hoped, even at that moment, that God’s top prophet was going to come and save him and they could inaugurate the Messianic age side by side. 

Suppose Jesus' last words were “Elijah… Elijah…” And suppose Mark, unable to make sense of them, after four decades of mediation, decided that he must have been quoting an Aramaic version of an old Hebrew Psalm. 




and Jesus cried with a loud voice 
and gave up the ghost

The word is exepneusen. We have seen that pneuma is both “breath” and “spirit”; and that what Mark calls the pneuma haggio our Bible renders as “holy ghost”. So perhaps’ Jesus spirit departed his body at this moment. It’s even possible that the pneuma haggio, God’s dove, left him and went back to heaven through the hole in the sky. 

But the most probable explanation is the simplest one. Jesus expired. He breathed his last. He quit breathing. 




and the veil of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom 

Mark is quite clear that this is the veil of the temple; not merely “one of the temple curtains”. He must surely mean the curtain that separated the innermost temple, where God lived, from the rest of the place. 

This is as close as Mark comes to providing a theology of the Crucifixion. He doesn’t say why or how. He just says that Jesus died: and the boundary between the sacred and the secular — or at any rate between the Holy and the Even More Holy — fell away. 

Evangelicals will tell us that this means that Jesus has torn down the barrier — sin — which separates Man from God. But in the light of everything else which Mark has said, I wonder if the primary meaning is simpler. The temple is over; the special office of the priests is ended. In a sense, Jesus did what he was accused of. He has destroyed the Temple. 




and when the centurion, 
which stood over against him, 
saw that he so cried out, 
and gave up the ghost, 
he said, 
"truly this man was the Son of God" 

“That he so cried out” seems to be a translator’s gloss. The Greek appears to say that Centurion said what he said “having see that thus he breathed his last”. He sees Jesus stop breathing: and he says that Jesus alethos — surely or certainly — was the Son of God. It’s the same word the serving woman used to Peter. Surely you were with him. You were with him, weren’t you? 

This is often taken as an upbeat ending: a ray of light in the desolation. But I am afraid it is one last twist of the knife. Everything in this chapter has been bitter and ironic. There is a sign over the cross. JEWISH KING. Pilate put it there, not because he thinks Jesus is king, but because he doesn’t. The Priests have asked him to prophesy to them, not because they think he is a prophet, but because they think he isn’t. The passers-by have challenged him to come down from the cross, not because they think he can, but because they think the can’t. And finally, his executioner says that he was the son of God: not because he thinks he is, but because he thinks he isn’t. 

A few hours ago, Jesus was praying: “Daddy: please get me out of this. But no, Daddy: please don’t answer that prayer.” Now he says "Jehovah! Why did you desert me?” screams, and dies. 

And in one way, that is the end of the story. It has to end like that; in complete desolation and despair; because that is the whole of the message. The high is the low. The big is the small. I can only be the highest by becoming the lowest. You will know that I am the ultimate king when I become the ultimate pariah. 

So naturally, that has to be the final line. 

“Yeah. Right. This you call the Son of God?” 




But that isn’t quite the end of the story. There is an epilogue. And the epilogue is the strangest thing in this very strange book. 










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