Action Apologetics: Charity And Social Justice As Ways Of Doing Apologetics

By Timothy S. Yoder

[Timothy S. Yoder serves as associate professor of theological studies at Dallas Theological Seminary in Dallas, Texas.]

When people speak of Christian apologetics, what they typically have in mind, I believe, is what can be termed intellectual apologetics. We conceptualize apologetics as the task of defending the faith by marshaling true and rigorous arguments to establish the existence of God, the inspiration of the Bible, the saving ministry of Jesus, and the truths of the gospel. The models we have in mind are Paul in Athens, interacting with the Stoic and Epicurean philosophers, and reasoning with the Jews in the synagogue in Thessalonica. We may think of Justin’s debates with Trypho or Matteo Ricci’s[1] use of Confucian categories to defend Christianity to Chinese scholars. We may recall Pandita Ramabai,[2] a Hindu scholar whose study of the Christian Scriptures revealed to her the superiority of the Christian religion, or Nabeel Qureshi,[3] a Muslim who came to faith in Christ after a rigorous comparison of the Quran and the Bible (Muhammad and Jesus). Books like Aquinas’s Summa contra Gentiles, Lewis’s Mere Christianity, McDowell’s Evidence that Demands a Verdict, and Keller’s The Reason for God characterize this approach.

In addition, the debates and discussions about various types of apologetics typically entail discussions between methods like evidentialism, classical apologetics, presuppositionalism, Reformed epistemology, and the like.[4] All of these methods of apologetics gather under the umbrella of intellectual apologetics. As important and necessary as intellectual apologetics is, it is important to recognize that other apologetic approaches are valid, useful, and necessary for the task of defending the faith. In this paper, I will begin by outlining five different approaches to apologetics. Then, I will focus on one of them, an approach that I call action apologetics.[5]

This reorientation of attention to apologetic approaches (as opposed to methods) is driven by a desire to pay attention to the way that people actually come to the faith. While there are many people who, like Nabeel Qureshi and Pandita Ramabai, come to saving faith because of rational considerations, there are also numerous individuals whose journey to Christ seems to hinge on elements that are not intellectual in nature.[6] Clear evidence of this assertion comes from the regular Testimony feature found in issues of Christianity Today magazine since at least 2015. Reading these accounts, I was impressed by the fact that some people testified that the most important elements in their faith journey were not an intellectual argument, but rather the lynchpin was an act of love and charity, a spiritual encounter, an individual’s faith story, or even an artistic creation. So, I began to analyze testimonies, paying attention to these broadly sociological or human factors in coming to faith to understand the apologetic task more broadly.

Some might object to this project in this way, “Well, it is clear that these sorts of sociological factors are significant for evangelism and making disciples, but this is not apologetics. Apologetics is defending the faith. It means that one must make intellectual arguments for the truth of Christianity. Not everyone who comes to faith needs apologetics, but don’t water down the notion of apologetics to include non-intellectual approaches.” My response to this objection is to argue that while this perception of the nature of apologetics may be one way to interpret Peter’s command to “always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give a reason for the hope that you have” (1 Pet 3:15), in fact, the practice of apologetics in the NT and in church history suggests that apologetics is broader than just intellectual apologetics.[7] This paper places an emphasis on stories, and I think that a consideration of actual accounts of people coming to faith reveals the need to broaden our understanding of apologetics.[8] In addition, it is noteworthy that all of these approaches are aimed at adults who already have a worldview. The conversion from one worldview to another is a kind of change. What is the impetus for this transformation? At times, it is reason and strong arguments, but at other times, the key seems to be a non-cognitive factor. Thus, I think it is fair to call it apologetics. The truth is that apologetics (unlike evangelism) is not a biblical word, so there is more liberty to stipulate its meaning and application. In the final analysis, I think that the best response to this objection is found in an overview of the five different approaches to apologetics that I have delineated, which is the next section of this article.

Five Approaches To Apologetics

1. Intellectual Apologetics is making truth claims and constructing arguments in support of the rational integrity of the gospel and the Christian worldview as a whole. Intellectual apologetics is inter-disciplinary, as the apologist can utilize evidences and truths from philosophy, science, history, archaeology and any other academic discipline in support of the gospel. The maxim that “all truth is God’s truth” is clearly relevant here. Paul’s address to the Greek philosophers in Acts 17 is perhaps the most frequently-cited biblical example of intellectual apologetics, but Jesus’ conversation with Nicodemus in John 3 exemplified this approach as Jesus drew theological implications from OT teachings that he expected Nicodemus to know. I have already given several examples of this approach in the beginning of this article. Lee Strobel’s testimony began with his attempt to examine the new Christian faith of his wife. Using the same set of reasoning tools that he employed as a successful criminal and legal journalist in Chicago unexpectedly produced in him the conviction that the claims of Christianity were true. The historicity and credibility of the Bible and Jesus convinced him that he should become a Christian.[9]

2. Cultural Apologetics is the effort to make the gospel attractive by employing music, art, and other cultural means. Since it is frequently non-propositional, cultural apologetics operates in the realm of the beautiful, as opposed to the realm of the true. It tends to be more emotional or intuitive than discursive. This approach is exemplified by Nwoye, a character in Chinua Achebe’s book Things Fall Apart about an African village that grapples with the message of Christian missionaries.

It was not the mad logic of the Trinity that captivated him. He did not understand it. It was the poetry of the new religion, something felt in the marrow. The hymn about brothers who sat in darkness and in fear seemed to answer a vague and persistent question that haunted his young soul. He felt a relief within as the hymn poured into his parched soul. The words of the hymn were like drops of frozen rain melting on the dry palate of the panting earth.[10]

Dana Gioia, a Christian poet who served on the National Endowment for the Arts, asserted, “Art provides the most immediate and useful way in which God’s voice is heard in the world. Dante, Mozart, Michelangelo, Gaudi, have brought more souls to God than any minister, because they speak to us in a way that is more fundamentally human and memorable.”[11] Perhaps the most poignant example of cultural apologetics comes from the beginning of Les Miserables when the recently-paroled Jean Valjean stays overnight at the bishop’s home. Spoiling his generosity, the desperate Valjean steals silver plates and utensils. When he was captured by the gendarmes and brought back to the church to face his crimes, the bishop took pity on Valjean and offered compassion instead of judgment. He asked Valjean why he didn’t also take the candlesticks the bishop had given him. The question was rooted in a false premise (the bishop had made no such offer) but, more importantly, it was an unexpected and shocking picture of the grace of God, and this one action completely changed Jean Valjean’s life trajectory. It is, I think, the single most dramatic account of divine forgiveness in all imaginative literature, and it is the epitome of cultural apologetics.[12] The gospel message is dramatized in an exquisitely artistic way with the result that it is made attractive, desirable, even irresistible.[13]

The strongest biblical example of cultural apologetics is the story of Bezalel and Oholiab, who were commissioned as craftsmen to make various works of art in the tabernacle. In Exodus 31 and 35, the work of these men is described. It is noteworthy that they were filled with the Holy Spirit for their work, which focused attention on its apologetic value. The tabernacle, as well as the temple later on, were purposed to proclaim the glory and character of God. Their beauty displayed the glory and majesty of God and, by extension, his message. Their various artistic works were intended to produce awe and reverence in those who saw them. Rather than an argument in favor of the truthfulness of God’s message, they made attractive the nature and person of God. They prompted belief by beauty. The glory of the Lord (that is, his beauty) filled the tabernacle (Exod 40:34).

3. Personal Apologetics uses one’s own testimony as an example of the faith commitment that is commended to others. In the Bible, Paul shared the story of his dramatic conversion before King Agrippa in Acts 26. Beginning in verse 9, he recounted the details of his testimony with the clear intent that those listening should believe as well. We know that his story made the audience squirm. Festus interrupted Paul with the bizarre comment that his great learning has driven him mad (26:24). Agrippa, showing a bit more restraint, wondered that Paul thought he could convert him in such a short time (26:28). Paul’s response revealed his apologetic intention. He wished that all of them would become as he was, a believer in Jesus. The use of testimony as a tool of evangelism and apologetics has been a mainstay of the church throughout its history. Two famous examples from the twentieth century include Chuck Colson’s Born Again and Nicky Cruz’s Run Baby Run. The best-selling account of Louis Zamperini’s imprisonment by the Japanese during World War II includes an account of his conversion at a Billy Graham rally and the life change that resulted.[14]

Personal apologetics is not intellectual apologetics as such because it is an individual account of one’s experience. Experiences can only be rational or discursive if they are generalized or universalized. Of course, one may tell one’s testimony and then present arguments why one’s own experience of being forgiven and saved can be shared by others. Thus, personal apologetics can be appended to other approaches. On its own, however, it is a subjective, experiential account. This characteristic, of course, is both its strength and weakness. It is a bold statement of the spiritual work done in one’s own life, as Paul, Colson, Cruz, and a host of others exemplify. However, the listener can determine that this story and experience is valid only for the testifier and thus conclude that it is irrelevant for him or her.

4. Power Encounter is a miraculous, spiritual event in which divine power is wielded to defeat the enemy. This exercise of divine power is an overwhelming indication of the fact of the one true God, and is, thus, a pathway to faith. Sometimes there is a human agent, as when a person exorcises a demon, while other times God acts without human causality, as in the visions and dreams that Muslims report of Jesus.[15] Power encounter is frequently detailed in the Bible: Moses before Pharaoh in Exodus 7; Elijah and the prophets of Baal in Mount Carmel in 1 Kings 18; Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the furnace of Nebuchadnezzar in Daniel 3; and, of course, the many miracles of Jesus in the Gospels. Power encounter is still a facet of life today, as people are brought to the faith by means of answered prayers, healings, and other miracles, visions of Jesus, and the kind of spiritual war that is observed in animistic and shamanistic communities.

The account of the conversion of a village of Yanomamo people in the book Spirit of the Rainforest is a contemporary example.[16] The spirits that resided in the shaman known as Jungleman begged him not to send them away in favor of the most feared spirit, known as Yai Pada. They said he was the most evil spirit, but in truth he turned out to be not only the most powerful but also the one that was truly gracious, the Spirit of the one true God. When Jungleman realized that Yai Pada was the most powerful and also the best spirit, he sent the other spirits away and became a follower of Yahweh. It should be acknowledged that power encounter often seems to operate with significantly less human agency than the other approaches I have identified. This observation raises some interesting questions about human planning and intentionality with regard to this approach.

5. Action Apologetics is the witness to the gospel done by acts of love, sacrifice, and justice. Defense of the faith in this approach is the display of the god-like virtues which overcome the evil and corruption of the world. It is the exhibition of the goodness and grace of God in the world. Personal apologetics is rooted in the experiential and subjective, and power encounter is the transcendental breaking into the natural. Intellectual apologetics is grounded in the truth of God, cultural apologetics in the beauty of God, and action apologetics reveals the goodness of God. The transformation and redemption of humans and even of institutions is a strong defense of the reality of God who loves sinful humans and wishes to redeem them. Action apologetics mirrors the nature of God and thus persuades by the conquest of love over hate, good over evil, and justice over oppression.

Having given a brief thumbnail sketch of action apologetics to round out the five different approaches to apologetics, I will proceed in the next section to give a fuller accounting of this way of doing apologetics. The reason for highlighting this specific approach in this paper is not because I think it is more important or useful than the other four. It is not a part of my concern here to rank or order the approaches by any kind of standard. I focus my attention on action apologetics because it fits well with current discussions of social justice, and also because I think it is the most underdeveloped of the five approaches.

Action Apologetics

During John the Baptist’s imprisonment, he heard accounts of Jesus’s activity and sent word asking whether Jesus was in fact the one that they were expecting or if they should look for another. I will not comment on John’s motivation for these questions, whether they arose from doubt, differing expectations, or some other factor. What is noteworthy is the manner of Jesus’s response. Luke wrote, “At that very time, Jesus cured many who had diseases, sicknesses and evil spirits, and gave sight to many who were blind. So [Jesus] replied to the messengers, ‘Go back and report to John what you have seen and heard: The blind receive sight, the lame walk, those who have leprosy are cured, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the good news is preached to the poor’” (Luke 7:21–22). Alluding in part to the prophecy of Isaiah 61, which he proclaimed to be fulfilled in Luke 4:21, Jesus provided proof of his identity as the real Messiah not in terms of the truthfulness of his message, but in terms of actions of mercy and power. The miracles of healing are matched with the gospel proclamation to the poor. The gospel is not just expressed in true propositions, but also by love in action.

In fact, the Bible is full of passages that assert the mission of God’s people in terms of goodness and justice, and these passages can be tied to the task of apologetics and evangelism. James 1:26–27 says that true religion is the care of widows and orphans, and Micah 6:8 proclaims what the Lord requires, “To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” In the parable of the sheep and goats of Matthew 25, Jesus provocatively asserted that actions done to the poor and marginalized (to feed the hungry, to provide drink for the thirsty, to take in strangers, to clothe the naked, to take care of the sick, and to visit those in prison) are in fact actions done to him (25:35–40). A dramatic example of this kind of obedience is found in the story of Fr. Maximilian Kolbe, a Polish priest who was imprisoned in a Nazi concentration camp for his political activity. When a prisoner from the camp escaped, the Nazis declared that ten prisoners would be starved to death in response. Names were drawn at random, and one was a man who pleaded with the Nazis for his life, saying that he had a wife and children to which he longed to return. The Nazis refused, but then Fr. Kolbe stunningly offered to take the man’s place, seeing as the priest had no wife or children. The Nazis accepted this exchange. Kolbe was killed, and the other man survived the war, returned to his family and lived a full life into his 90s.[17]

The Bible frequently declares the need for justice for the poor as one of God’s primary concerns. In addition to Matthew 25 and James 1 which have already been cited, another key passage is Amos 5. Among the elements of this strongly-worded harangue are these accusations against unjust Israelites. “You trample on the poor and force him to give you his grain” (5:11). “You oppress the righteous and take bribes and you deprive the poor of justice in the courts” (5:12). “Hate evil, love good, maintain justice in the courts. Perhaps the Lord God Almighty will have mercy on the remnant of Joseph” (5:15). Acting for the sake of a just society and doing what is necessary to ensure the rights of the poor and oppressed is right because it mirrors God’s own concern for those on the margins of society (Pss 12:5; 35:10; 41:1–2; 113:5–8).

It is not enough, however, simply to establish that it is right to care for widows and orphans, the poor and oppressed to ground these requirements as action apologetics. This point is just the first of two threads in the argument. It is also necessary to show that these sorts of actions are indeed a way of defending the faith and representing the gospel. The second strand of my defense of action apologetics is to show that our love for others is an aspect of our witness. These two components together provide a solid biblical foundation for action apologetics.

In several places in Isaiah and Jeremiah, the Lord chastised the people of Israel for their lack of attention to social justice issues and stressed its importance in pleasing him (see, for instance, Isa 2; 58; and Jer 22). It is instructive to note that the beginning of Isaiah contains the prophecy of the mountain of the Lord where all peoples will come to learn his ways (2:2). God will settle disputes between the nations, and swords will be beaten into plowshares (2:4). What is hinted here is that the justice of the Lord becomes a vehicle for universal proclamation of God’s truths. In Jeremiah 22:3, the Lord commands his people, “Do what is just and right. Rescue from the hands of the oppressor the one who has been robbed. Do no wrong or violence to the alien, the fatherless, or the widow, and do not shed innocent blood in this place” (NIV). If these commands are not kept, the palace will become a ruin (22:5), and the people from many nations will notice it and wonder why the Lord did such a thing to this city. The reason will be that they were not faithful to the covenantal commands (22:8). These two instances in Isaiah and Jeremiah point to a truth that will be made more explicit in the NT. Acts of justice or injustice are a kind of proclamation. Justice and love are a way of proclaiming the Lord’s nature to the world, and a failure to do so serves as a negative testimony.

A clearer assertion that moral actions entail a proclamation of God’s gospel is found in NT passages like Matthew 5:16 where Jesus identifies his followers as the light of the world, “Let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven.” Jesus also told the twelve that if they love one another, then all men will know that they are his disciples (John 13:35). Paul instructed the Philippian church to conduct themselves in a manner worthy of the gospel (1:27), and to work out their salvation with fear and trembling (2:12). If they do so, then they can be “children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which [they] shine like stars in the universe as [they] hold out the word of life” (2:15–16). Jesus announced his ministry and dramatically proclaimed himself the Messiah in Luke 4 by reading from Isaiah 61:1–2 that the good news is preached to the poor, the imprisoned are freed, the blind are healed, and the oppressed are released (Luke 4:17–19). This passage is an important affirmation that the gospel message is closely associated with acts of love and social justice.

It is not sufficient to make only a theological case for action apologetics. We need to consider our history and, specifically, how the gospel has spread in areas and communities that were not Christian. An instructive answer comes from the way that ancient Romans were converted to Christianity. The story of how the Roman Empire, which persecuted the church so strenuously in the first two hundred years of its existence, became in fact Christian is a great historical puzzle. There is no lack of historians wishing to weigh in on it. One contemporary voice in this discussion is Rodney Stark, who uses sociological tools to bolster the traditional elements of historiography. Stark names two important factors that contributed to the success of the gospel in overcoming Roman opposition. One is how Christians cared for the sick, particularly those suffering from the plague. While the famous physician Galen escaped the plague by moving out of the city, Christians stayed to care for the sick and dying, even those without family connections. Their testimony of selfless love and altruism was a vivid contrast, and it paved a path for Romans to reject their old gods in favor of Jesus.[18] A second factor was the status of women in early Christianity as compared to pagan Rome. Stark’s chapter on the role of women in The Rise of Christianity is rich and full of interesting reflections on things like birth rates and exogamous marriages, topics that go beyond the arena of action apologetics. However, Stark is convinced that the rise in status for women in the church and the leadership roles that they played contributed significantly to the Christianization of Rome.[19] These two factors, the courageous and compassionate care of the sick and neglected, even at great personal cost, and the opportunity for women to play a more meaningful role in society, exemplify two of the aspects of action apologetics—personal sacrifice and love, and a commitment to social justice.

Two contemporary conversion stories illustrate the unique dynamic of action apologetics. The first is the story of Rosaria Butterfield, who became a Christian despite her background as a lesbian professor and outspoken advocate for the LGBTQ agenda.[20]

She published an editorial in the local paper that minced no words in affirming her political and ethical agenda. A wave of letters pro and con came in her direction, but one of them stood out. It was from a local pastor, who did not agree with her editorial but nevertheless invited her to dinner. The letter was kind and respectful, and Rosaria couldn’t get it out of her mind. Eventually, she accepted the invitation. To make a long story short, they became friends and, after many conversations, she became a Christian. The intellectual conversations were a clearly a part of her testimony but so was the loving outreach of a Christian stranger, who extended hospitality and friendship to a person whose worldview was quite different. It is easy to see in this pastor a contemporary reflection of the Good Samaritan.

A second example is also dramatic but in a different way. One of the most famous examples of Christian ministry in the 1950s and 60s was the work of David Wilkerson, a country preacher from the Midwest, in the ghettoes of New York City to violent gang leaders. Wilkerson brazenly encountered Nicky Cruz, one of the most dangerous and feared gang leaders in the city. As Wilkerson approached, Cruz immediately threatened, “You come near me, and I’ll kill you!” Just as quickly, Wilkerson responded, “Yeah, you could do that. You could cut me up into a thousand pieces and lay them in the street, and every piece will still love you.”[21] The courage and authenticity of Wilkerson broke through the tough exterior, and after a series of interactions, Cruz gave his heart to Jesus.

Two other contemporary examples are instructive. A lot of attention has been paid to two rather significant individuals who are engaged in social justice initiatives with important success. Kevin Bales has written several books highlighting the scourge of human trafficking. He founded an organization called “Free the Slaves,” which is making a real difference in our world. His work has inspired an impressive series of results, including important legislation and a small army of workers trying to rid the world of slaves. His goal is to rid the world of slavery, and he has a plan that is making a difference. Bryan Stevenson opened a small legal practice in the South, and it became his passion to work for the release of individuals (typically African Americans) who were wrongly convicted and unjustly sentenced to life sentences or the death penalty. His book Just Mercy inspired a movie of the same title, and Stevenson’s work is providing an important corrective to racist judicial decisions.[22] Both Bales and Stevenson are Christians. Bales is a Quaker, and Stevenson is an evangelical. However, neither do the work that they do explicitly in the name of Jesus. Their efforts to alleviate evil in the world are commendable, brave, and greatly needed. There is little doubt of their heroism in these regards. However, I believe that it falls short of apologetics. It is the kind of work that needs to be done but from a gospel perspective, it is missing a necessary piece. For it to be action apologetics, the work needs to be more directly linked to Jesus and presented in the context of the gospel.

Christianity Today Testimonies

I will conclude this paper on action apologetics with two testimonies from Christianity Today. They exemplify well this approach—that acts of love, charity, and social justice can prove to be a proclamation of the gospel. The first story is of David Nasser, a boy who grew up amid the Iranian Revolution under Ayatollah Khomeini in the 1970s. His family’s situation was violent and chaotic, but they managed to emigrate to the United States, settling in Texas. But their new life wasn’t much better for a teenager who didn’t fit in. David was bullied constantly and felt fragile and insecure. Things were starting to change, however. People at a local church had volunteered to help at his father’s restaurant during a moment of crisis, and he was deeply touched by their kindness. David attended a youth rally and most of his classmates ignored him, except one very popular football player who shared his Bible during the study. The youth group began to visit David, sharing their faith. These acts of love led David to read the Bible, and when he came to the story of Peter stepping out of the boat, he knew that this act of faith was what he needed to do. Eventually, his whole family became Christian. The turning point in the story was the unexpected acts of Christian kindness in a world of hurt and pain.[23]

Juliet Liu Waite’s testimony begins when her grandparents and their children (who are Juliet’s aunts, uncles, and her mom) were helicoptered out of Saigon, South Vietnam, as that city fell in 1975. Her grandmother had been a 20-year translator and assistant to the US military there, and the family made a harrowing escape from the war-torn country in the closing days of the Vietnam War. They had left with only the clothes on their back, and they suffered separation and near starvation in refugee camps before finally arriving in Indiana to start their lives over. It was there that a small church acted on their conviction that God was leading them to sponsor a refugee family. The church found them housing and provided food, clothing, and furniture. Despite not knowing the language, this refugee family loved going to church to experience the generosity and love of the church. Eventually, three generations, including Juliet (who was born in the US) became Christians. They were saved by the gospel that was first communicated to them through acts of love and charity, as this church met their physical needs in Jesus’s name. Now a pastor, Juliet marvels at the story that began before she was even born. Here are her words,

Each time I heard my aunties recount this story, in my child’s mind I pictured my mother’s family coming across the sea, journeying through the waters. These were the waters of their Exodus, the waters of their own baptism, the waters that God would part in order to show himself as their Deliverer. This was their Passover story—the night they were rescued from certain death by a God who protected them when they had no home, and numbered them among his people.

This is also my story. I grew up knowing that I existed because somewhere in the world, a group of people believed that a merciful God was asking them to show mercy to those who needed it. I grew up knowing that this sort of God was a God worth trusting. His mercy echoes down through the generations.[24]

Notes

1. Vincent Cronin, The Wise Man from the West: Matteo Ricci and His Mission to China (San Francisco: Ignatius, 2016). Another resource for the lives and contributions of important apologists is Benjamin Forrest, Joshua Chatraw and Alister McGrath (eds.), The History of Apologetics (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2020).
2. Helen Dyer, Pandita Ramabai: The Story of Her Life (public domain).
3. Nabeel Qureshi, Seeking Allah, Finding Jesus (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2014).
4. See Brian Morley, Mapping Apologetics (Downers Grove: InterVarsity, 2015) as an excellent example.
5. For clarity’s sake, I will use the word method to signify the different ways of doing intellectual apologetics (like evidentialism, presuppositionalism, etc.). I will use the term approach to highlight the different apologetic ways at the higher level of conceptualization (intellectual apologetics, actions apologetics, and the like).
6. I assert and affirm that saving faith is a gift of the Holy Spirit (Eph 2:8) and not something that happened by human work or merit. Salvation cannot be explained in purely human terms, like for instance, the logical power of an argument of natural theology. It is clear, however, that human factors are significant and play a role in the salvation process. Paul was saved due the direct revelation of Jesus on the Damascus road (Acts 9:4–5), but nearly everyone else who comes to faith in the NT (like Lydia in Acts 16:14–15 or the Philippian jailer in Acts 16:29–34) has a human who fulfills some proclamational role in their faith journey. My interests in this paper are in these sociological or human roles found in the various approaches, as opposed to the theological or divine agencies.
7. Unless otherwise noted, all Scripture quotations are from the New International Version.
8. I will employ approximately twenty stories in this paper, and they range over many years, cultures and traditions within Christianity. It is not a part of my present agenda to consider the many theological differences or to wrestle with the Catholic or Presbyterian or Pentecostal or Baptist distinctives in each testimony. Rather, I am interested in the conditions that led each individual to proclaim their faith in Christ.
9. See the preface of Lee Strobel, The Case for Christ (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1998) for a short account of Strobel’s testimony. A similar approach is found in Warner Wallace, Cold-Case Christianity (Colorado Springs: David C. Cook, 2013).
10. Chinua Achebe, Things Fall Apart (New York: Anchor Books, 1994), page 104. First published in 1959.
11. Cited in Brett McCracken, Hipster Christianity (Grand Rapids: Baker, 2010), 170.
12. An excellent recent work on this topic is Paul Gould, Cultural Apologetics (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2019).
13. Two memoirs that reveal the influence of cultural apologetics are C. S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy (New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1956) and also Holly Ordway, Not God’s Type (San Francisco: Ignatius, 2014). In both individuals, their atheistic, materialistic perspectives were challenged by beauty and artistry that could only be attributed to God.
14. Laura Hillenbrand, Unbroken (New York: Random House, 2010). It should be noted that Hillenbrand did not intend the story as apologetics, as she is not a Christian. In that her book contains an account of his testimony, however, it has that function. The Holy Spirit can use this story to draw people to himself, even though we see a difference between Hillenbrand telling Zamperini’s story and Luke recounting Paul’s.
15. Tom Doyle, Dreams and Visions: Is Jesus Awakening the Muslim World? (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2012).
16. Mark Ritchie, Spirit of the Rainforest, 3rd ed. (n.p.: Island Lake Press, 2019).
17. An account of Kolbe’s sacrifice is given by Paul Mariani in Martyrs, ed. Susan Bergman (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1996), 218–23.
18. Rodney Stark, The Rise of Christianity (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1996), 85–88.
19. Stark, The Rise of Christianity, 128.
20. Rosaria Butterfield, The Secret Thoughts of an Unlikely Convert (Pittsburgh: Crown and Covenant, 2012).
21. David Wilkerson and Elizabeth Sherrill, The Cross and the Switchblade (New York: Berkley, 1962).
22. See, for example, Bales’ most recent book Blood and Earth by Kevin Bales (New York: Spiegel & Grau, 2016) and also Just Mercy by Bryan Stevenson (New York: Spiegel & Grau, 2016).
23. David Nasser, “I Escaped from Iran, but Not from God,” Christianity Today, January/February 2019, available at https://www.christianitytoday.com /ct/2019/january-february/david-nasser-escaped-iran-not-god.html.
24. Juliet Liu Waite, “The Waters of Their Exodus,” Christianity Today, December 2018, pp. 79–80.

Aristotle And C. S. Lewis On The Moral Significance Of Friendship

By Timothy S. Yoder

[Timothy S. Yoder is associate professor of theological studies, Dallas Theological Seminary, Dallas, Texas.]

Abstract

Philosophers and theologians do not often consider the nature and importance of friendship. Aristotle and C. S. Lewis are two notable exceptions. A comparison of their accounts of friendship offers insights into the moral significance of friendship and the theological significance of having a friendship with God.

* * *

Friendship is not frequently the focus of philosophical reflection and deliberation. It seems more suited to the playground or ballfield than to rigorous analysis or weighty contemplation. Even in ethics, one rarely meets discussion of the topic. However, two significant thinkers, one Christian and one not, addressed the subject with care, consideration, and some measure of success. The great Greek thinker Aristotle (384–322 BC) devoted significant space to the topic of friendship in his famous Nicomachean Ethics.[1] Among the many books by the twentieth century’s most important Christian thinker and writer, C. S. Lewis (1898–1963), is The Four Loves,[2] in which Lewis analyzes Affection, Friendship, Eros, and Charity. The similarities and differences between their two treatments make for an interesting exercise in reflection, not to mention useful fodder for considering the moral significance of friendship. This article alternates between the two thinkers on this topic, first laying out the context of the issue, then examining the philosophical content, and finally offering a critique of both Aristotle and Lewis on friendship. It concludes with two final sections, one on the moral significance of friendship and the other on its theological significance. The goal of this project is to explore the role of friendship in the life well lived, as understood by both philosophy and theology.

Aristotle—Context

The goal of Aristotle’s ethical system is eudaimonia, a term often misleadingly translated as “happiness.”[3] As he notes in the opening lines of the book, “Every craft and every line of inquiry, and likewise every action and decision, seems to seek some good” (1.1.1). The rub is that not everyone can agree on what that good is. Some think it is health, others wealth or power or reputation and so on. Undeterred, Aristotle reasons that not all goods are complete in themselves. Some are a means to a further end. Thus, there must be a final end that all subordinate ends seek. If we must give it a name, we can call it “happiness,” but naming it does not alter the lack of agreement as to what it actually is. Aristotle is convinced of one thing, namely, that the good is not accurately defined as a Platonic Form. The good, Aristotle asserts, “is not something common corresponding to a single Idea” (1.6.11). Therefore, he cannot definitively identify what the good is, either as a matter of metaphysics or more practically in a person’s life. He can only offer a broad, philosophical description of eudaimonia as a somewhat open-ended answer to the question of what the good is for each person.

First, eudaimonia is something complete (1.7.3). It is not chosen for something else. It is the final goal. In addition, it is self-sufficient, since “all by itself it makes a life choiceworthy and lacking nothing” (1.7.6). It is also the best of all goods. It is “not one good among many,” but instead the highest good (1.7.8). It is clear, then, that what Aristotle intends by it is much different from what we usually intend by the word “happiness.” For us, happiness is a feeling, a temporary moment of elation or joy over something that gives pleasure, like making a hole-in-one. Eudaimonia, however, is the state of having fulfilled one’s purpose as a rational being, or, as Aristotle describes it, “a certain sort of activity of the soul in accord with virtue” (1.9.7). Aristotle scholar Richard Kraut argues that eudaimonia is not to be understood as an accumulation of all desirable things, but rather as the good that is the pinnacle of all goods.

Happiness is whatever lies at the top of a hierarchy of ends connected by the for-the-sake-of relation. It is the pinnacle of that hierarchy, not the combination of that pinnacle and any subordinate goods, even if those subordinate goods are desirable in themselves. It does not include honor, or pleasure, or virtue, for although these are perfect ends, they are desirable for the sake of something further. Happiness is that further thing—or those further things—for the sake of which we desire these subordinate ends.[4]

One does not slip in and out of eudaimonia based on the fortunes of one’s favorite sports team or stock portfolio. One displays eudaimonia at the end of a life well lived, a goal missed by some who seem otherwise rather successful (1.11.11). The purpose of our lives is given by our rational souls. The best kind of life is one of study (1.5.7). The pathway to eudaimonia is found in the habituation of the virtues. Thus, Aristotle’s ethical system is both teleological and aretaic. It is teleological because we habituate the virtues with a view to a greater goal, and it is aretaic because the focus is on cultivating a virtuous character, rather than following a system of rules or laws.

After the first book, much of the rest of Nicomachean Ethics is devoted to a description of the various virtues and how one acquires them. A virtue is a state (2.5.6) “which causes its possessors to be in a good state and to perform their functions well” (2.6.2). Virtues are discovered in an intermediate range between the vices, which are either excesses or deficiencies of the virtue (2.6.11). The virtues include such qualities as bravery, temperance, generosity, and the like (cf. 2.7). Generosity, as a virtue, is found in the mean between its excess, which is wastefulness, and its deficiency, stinginess. Aristotle painstakingly examines these virtues in books 3–6 of Nicomachean Ethics. However, toward the end, he devotes two books (8 and 9) to the topic of friendship. He asserts that friendship is a virtue (“or involves virtue,” 8.1.1) and that it is necessary for life. An important puzzle presents itself at this point. If friendship is a virtue and necessary for life, one may wonder what makes it so, especially since eudaimonia is complete and self-sufficient. Put another way, if virtuous people achieve eudaimonia, why do they need friends?

Lewis—Context

Lewis, not a systematician like Aristotle, is disinclined to develop a moral theory. Rather, in The Four Loves he is interested in exploring the various kinds of love that exist in the Greek mind. Lewis’s discussions are more episodic and spontaneous. The result is that, while some questions are left unaddressed, there is a freshness and newness to Lewis’s approach that repays close attention.

Despite his occasional approach, there is no doubt as to the ethical framework from which Lewis operates. The beginning of Mere Christianity reveals him to be a strong advocate of Natural Law ethics. Lewis argues that the presence of quarrels reveals the existence of a universal moral code. When we quarrel, we do so not because of individual preferences or standards, but because we all appeal to a common notion of justice and fairness. “Quarreling means trying to show that the other man is in the wrong. And there would be no sense in trying to do that unless you and he had some sort of agreement as to what Right and Wrong are.”[5] This commonality is found in all cultures around the world. Lewis asserts that all people have basically the same morality. Minor differences do not negate the basic truth that there is a universal moral standard, which all peoples of every ethnicity and religion affirm. In The Abolition of Man, Lewis critiques as unworkable the notion of subjective values and affirms the universality of basic moral requirements, a notion he names the Tao.

This thing which I have called for convenience the Tao, and which others may call Natural Law or Traditional Morality or the First Principles of Practical Reason or the First Platitudes, is not one among a series of possible systems of value. It is the sole source of all value systems.[6]

The foundation for ethics having been established, Lewis proposes in Mere Christianity that morality is concerned with three broad issues.

Firstly, with fair play and harmony among individuals. Secondly, with what might be called tidying up or harmonizing the things inside each individual. Thirdly, with the general purpose of human life as a whole: what man was made for: what course the whole fleet ought to be on: what tune the conductor of the band wants it to play.[7]

The first of these, the relationships between individuals, sets up the specific context for The Four Loves and the topic of friendship. As a Christian, Lewis understands love to be the distinct contribution of the Bible to moral philosophy. Since God is himself Love and he expressed his love to the human race prior to any human action, the consequence is to understand every relation and action on the basis of love.

Lewis begins The Four Loves with a critical distinction between what he calls Gift-Love and Need-Love. To quote Lewis, Gift-Love is that “which moves a man to work and plan and save for the future well-being of his family which he will die without sharing or seeing” (1). On the other hand, Need-Love is what “sends a lonely or frightened child to its mother’s arms” (1). Gift-Love is the love one extends to others in attempting to meet their needs, while Need-Love is the love one experiences in receiving something from another. Lewis argues that both are indeed worthy of the name “love,” even though divine love can only be described as Gift-Love and never Need-Love (1–4). Need-Love is part of human nature, and it reveals the necessity of community. Friendship, thus, is essential to ethics, because it affirms the communal aspect of society. Sharing another’s burdens, not to mention celebrating together life’s joys and triumphs—both ends of the spectrum require the community of one’s friends.

The four loves that Lewis analyzes are based on the four words from classical (not koine) Greek that are translated “love.” They are storge, which is Affection, as between a parent and a child; philia, Friendship; eros, which is Erotic or Romantic Love; and finally agape, which is usually translated as Charity. Lewis considers them in this order. In the next Lewis section, I will unpack his thoughts on philia.

Aristotle—Philosophy Of Friendship

Ironically, Aristotle never defines friendship in Nicomachean Ethics, but he does offer a definition in Rhetoric. A friend is one with whom you share “friendly feelings,” which occur when one wishes good things for another person for the sake of the other and not for oneself, and being thus inclined, one does what is possible to bring about these good things.[8] According to classicist John Cooper, this definition suggests “that the central idea contained in philia is that of doing well by someone for his own sake, out of concern for him (and not, or not merely, out of concern for oneself).”[9] Cooper also mentions that for Aristotle, friendship is a broader term than it is for contemporary Western society. For the Greeks, family relations (father to son, brother to brother) and business associations would all be included under the concept of friendship.

There are, according to Aristotle, three species of friendship. The first two have significant deficiencies but are still considered real friendships; the third kind is described as complete. The first two kinds of friendship are friendships of utility (or Advantage-Friendship) and friendships of pleasure (or Pleasure-Friendship). The friendship of utility occurs because “those who love each other for utility love the other not in his own right, but insofar as they gain some good for themselves from him” (8.3.1). The friendship of pleasure has a parallel basis. “The same is true of those who love for pleasure; for they like a witty person not because of his character, but because he is pleasant to them” (8.3.1). It is clear that these kinds of relationships do not fully meet the standard for friendship, in that they exist for some kind of self-interest. If you are friendly with the neighbors because they get the mail and watch the dog while you are away, this Advantage-Friendship is self-oriented and not for the sake of the other. Similarly, if you claim to be friends with a colleague because you like to talk sports together or because she makes you laugh, it is a Pleasure-Friendship, which seems to be more self-focused than others-focused. Aristotle describes these two kinds of friendships as “coincidental,” since one is not prized for who one is, but rather because of the help or pleasure provided (8.3.2). Consequently, these friendships are “easily dissolved” (8.3.3).

Nevertheless, friendships of pleasure and utility are still considered friendships, because both parties may receive something advantageous from the relationship. Thus, there may be some element of reciprocity found even in the friendships of “bad people” who have no virtues (8.4.2). Not every relationship needs to be perfectly symmetrical. Aristotle gives this interesting example:

For the erotic lover and his beloved do not take the same pleasure in the same things; the lover takes pleasure in seeing his beloved, but the beloved takes pleasure in being courted by his lover. When the beloved’s bloom is fading, sometimes the friendship fades too; for the lover no longer finds pleasure in seeing his beloved, and the beloved is no longer courted by the lover (8.4.1).

The third kind of friendship, however, exists on a different moral plane. Aristotle says that it is the “friendship of good people similar in virtue; for they wish goods in the same way to each other insofar as they are good, and they are good for their own sake” (8.3.6). The friendship of good people takes time to develop, and while it is rare, it is also enduring (8.3.7–8). The cause of this kind of friendship is the character of the other person. There is a mutual attraction because of the virtue that is observed in the other one. “Good people will be friends because of themselves, since they are friends insofar as they are good. These, then, are friends without qualification; the others are friends coincidentally and by being similar to these” (8.4.6). Character-Friendship is formed with the other person in view. The goal is not the advantage or pleasure that can be gained. Rather, one admires and loves the friend because of the friend’s virtue, and vice versa. Therefore, this friendship has a deep and mutual reciprocity that is not found in Pleasure-Friendships and Advantage-Friendships, even those in which both parties experience similar benefits. These two kinds of friendship are self-oriented, whereas Character-Friendship is formed for the sake of the other.

“Friendship seems to consist more in loving than in being loved” (8.8.3). For this reason, it is possible for there to be friendships among “unequals”—men and women, parents and children, powerful and weak. However, for this kind of friendship to last, “the loving must be proportional; for instance, the better person, and the more beneficial . . . must be loved more than he loves” (8.7.2). Thus, it follows that unequal friendships (including marriage) can never truly be complete friendships, since they would never display full reciprocity. Marriage, for Aristotle, is always a relationship of unequals, and therefore never a paradigm example of genuine friendship.

One of Aristotle’s most intriguing assertions regarding friendship in Nicomachean Ethics is that the “defining features” of a friendship with another are “derived from features of friendship towards oneself” (9.4.1). Self-love is the root of friendship because the good friend is really a second self. “The decent person, then, has each of these features in relation to himself, and is related to his friend as he is to himself, since the friend is another himself” (9.4.5). What does Aristotle mean by this second-self assertion, and does it turn Character-Friendship into nothing more than some species of egoism?

Aristotle addresses the notion of the friend as a second self in 9.9, where he contends that life is a good thing, and further that the perception of this truth is also a good thing, especially for the virtuous person (9.9.9). The awareness of his own virtuosity is not so much an arrogance, but rather an appreciation of the good, even if (or especially if) it is found in his own person. The point is that the good person’s admiration of his friend is rooted in his admiration of his own virtuous traits. The mirroring of the admirable traits is what makes the friend a second self (9.9.10). Kraut interprets the passage in this way:

Friendship towards others “comes from” self-love in the sense that the latter provides the paradigm case of the attitudes characteristic of the former. Or, as Aristotle puts the point in IX.4, the virtuous person is a “standard of each thing.” The excellent person’s attitude towards himself provides the model for good relationships with others, and this ideal is nearly matched by the perfect friendship of two virtuous individuals.[10]

Thus, according to Kraut, Aristotle’s account of the friend as a second self is not egoistic, since the priority of self-love is simply for the sake of a model or paradigm. Whether his defense of Aristotle on this point succeeds will be addressed in the critique section.

Lewis—Philosophy Of Friendship

Lewis laments that moderns seem so uninterested in Friendship, although he might think differently in the era of social media. The evidence that Lewis presents for this claim is largely literary—a lack of poems or novels on the topic, especially in contradistinction to the ancients, like Aristotle, who seemed to prize it very highly. Lewis suspects that friendship is ignored because too few people today have experienced it (58). He admits, however, that there is another reason: Friendship is radically different in nature from both Affection and Eros.

Friendship is—in a sense not at all derogatory to it—the least natural of all loves; the least instinctive, organic, biological, gregarious and necessary. It has the least commerce with our nerves; there is nothing throaty about it; nothing which quickens the pulse or turns you red and pale. It is essentially between individuals; the moment two men are friends they have in some degree drawn apart together from the herd. Without Eros none of us would have been begotten and without

Affection none of us would have been reared; but we can live and breed without Friendship (58).

In other words, Friendship does not capture the interest of the poets of the Romantic movement, nor does it figure in the speculations of the evolutionists.[11] Thus, it is underappreciated. When it is considered, it is often in a way that provokes Lewis’s ire, namely, that “every firm and serious friendship is really homosexual” (60). Some of Lewis’s most memorable words on the subject of friendship come from this attempt to refute the reduction of friendship to some kind of latent same-sex attraction. Lewis’s strong disavowal of a link between the two is one way that he is distinguished from the Greek philosophical tradition.

Lewis does not deny that Friendship and Eros can have some commonalities. In fact, “we can have erotic love and friendship for the same person yet in some ways nothing is less like a Friendship than a love-affair” (61). Lewis pursues this distinction in the following passage:

Lovers are always talking to one another about their love; Friends hardly ever about their Friendship. Lovers are normally face to face, absorbed in each other; Friends, side by side, absorbed in some common interest. Above all, Eros (while it lasts) is necessarily between two only. But two, far from being the necessary number for Friendship, is not even the best. . . . True Friendship is the least jealous of the loves. Two friends delight to be joined by a third, and three by a fourth, if only the newcomer is qualified to become a real friend (61–62).

Thus, Friendship is not simply a subset of Eros. Lewis asserts that they are both great loves and can exist together in the same relationship. He establishes this point by supposing that one has fallen in love and married one’s friend (perhaps he is thinking of his relationship with his wife, Joy). In this state of affairs, one is faced with two possibilities: “Either you two will cease to be lovers but remain forever joint seekers of the same God, the same beauty, the same truth, or else, losing all that, you will retain as long as you live the raptures and ardours, all the wonder and the wild desire of Eros. Choose which you please” (67–68). It is obvious that either choice would be regrettable. Therefore, Lewis reasons that Eros and Friendship are distinct from each other.

Another important distinction is between Companionship and Friendship. Whereas community could survive were there no Friendship, it could not survive without Companionship. Companionship is joint cooperation on projects that are too big for a single individual to accomplish, like hunting or fighting a battle. Men and women need to come together (albeit separately, Lewis contends, according to their genders) to plan, discuss, and succeed in these sorts of endeavors. Companionship, however, is only the “matrix” of Friendship (64), although it is frequently mistaken for the real thing. Friendship is Companionship with more intensity. It occurs “when two or more companions discover that they have in common some insight or interest or even taste which the others do not share and which, till that moment, each believed to be his own unique treasure (or burden). The typical expression of opening Friendship would be something like, ‘What? You too? I thought I was the only one’ ” (65).

In analyzing the genesis of Friendship, Lewis is describing almost exactly the first moments of one of his most important friendships. When he was 15 or 16 years old and home on holiday from school, he paid a visit to a bedridden neighbor, a boy about his age. When he walked into Arthur Greeves’s room, Lewis found him sitting up in bed. Here is Lewis’s account of the meeting:

On the table beside him lay a copy of Myths of the Norsemen.

“Do you like that?” said I.

“Do you like that?” said he.

Next moment the book was in our hands, our heads were bent close together, we were pointing, quoting, talking—soon almost shouting—discovering in a torrent of questions that we liked not only the same thing, but the same parts of it and in the same way; that both knew the stab of Joy and that, for both, the arrow was shot from the North.[12]

Jack’s friendship with Arthur was to last the rest of their lives. Their initial connection over myth and “Northness” is a good example of Lewis’s contention that Friendship must be about something. By itself, the desire for a friend is not sufficient for a friendship to arise. “There would be nothing for the Friendship to be about; and Friendship must be about something, even if it were only an enthusiasm for dominoes or white mice” (66).

Lewis opines that while some measure of friendship (or at least companionship) is good for society—as some (like Aristotle) would say—“Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like arts, like the universe itself (for God did not need to create). It has no survival value: rather it is one of those things which gives value to survival” (71). His conception of perfect Friendship is found in this passage, which is no doubt inspired by memories of Inklings[13] gatherings in a local pub.

In a perfect Friendship this Appreciative love is, I think, often so great and so firmly based that each member of the circle feels, in his secret heart, humbled before all the rest. Sometimes he wonders what he is doing there among his betters. He is lucky beyond desert to be in such company. Especially when the whole group is together, each bringing out what is best, wisest or funniest in all the others. Those are the golden sessions; when four or five of us after a hard day’s walking have come to our inns; when our slippers are on, our feet spread out towards the blaze and our drinks at our elbows; when the whole world, and something beyond the world, opens itself to our minds as we talk; and no one has any claim on or any responsibility for another, but all are freemen and equals as if we had first met an hour ago, while at the same time an Affection mellowed by years enfolds us. Life—natural life—has no better gift to give. Who could deserve it? (71–72)

Two questions arise regarding Lewis’s philosophy of friendship: What is the purpose of friendship? and What is distinctively Christian about this account? Lewis praises Friendship as “something that raised us almost above humanity” (77), because it is “eminently spiritual.” It is, Lewis suggests, “the sort of love one can imagine between angels,” and maybe even a “natural Love which is Love itself” (77). However, Lewis offers a quick caution. That it is spiritual does not mean that it is necessarily good. The demons are spiritual, as are our worst sins as humans. The spirituality of friendship comes from the fact that is prone to both vices (arrogance, pride, and envy) and virtues (selflessness, gratitude, and the like), which exist even among the angelic community.

Some of these vices emerge because we believe that the wonders of friendship we enjoy arise from our efforts. We made the friendship, and we chose our friends in a way that Affection (based on kinship) and Eros (thought to be fated) do not (89). Lewis reminds us, however, that but for the accident of the year of our birth or the location of our home or a hundred other minor factors, many friendships would not come into existence. Ultimately, friendship is grounded in the providence of God. “The Friendship is not a reward for our discrimination and good taste in finding one another out. It is the instrument by which God reveals to each the beauties of all the others” (89). The beauties of our friends are grounded, as all beautiful things are, in God. The purpose of Friendship, like all the loves, is to direct our attention to the God who is the source of the true, the good, and the beautiful. Friendship is “His instrument for creating as well as revealing [beauty]. At this feast it is He who has spread the board and it is He who has chosen the guests. It is He, we may dare to hope, who sometimes does, and always should, preside” (90).

Aristotle—Critique

Of Aristotle’s account of friendship, there is much to commend. While it would perhaps be difficult to shoehorn every example of friendship into one of Aristotle’s three species, the general outline of his account rings true. One of Aristotle’s enduring qualities is that many of his ideas and assertions sound like common sense. Such, I believe, are his thoughts on the two inferior kinds of friendship and the friendship of good people. I can easily categorize many of my own acquaintances and relationships according to his schema, and readily see why the substantial, lasting friendships are so.

One obvious problem with Aristotle’s account is his elitism and chauvinism. His philosophy as a whole is marred by his condescending attitude toward women and nonaristocrats.[14] Another concern presents itself regarding the notion of self-love and the second self. Aristotle believed that our love of self is prior to our love of friends, in the sense that our love of self (if we are virtuous) is a model for Character-Friendship. Thus, the friend is a “second self.” Some scholars have defended Aristotle’s account as non-egoistical, but doubts remain. Is Aristotle really an egoist? Does his account of Character-Friendship really reflect genuine love?

If a person uses her love of herself as a model and her own cultivation of the virtues as a paradigm for virtuousness, then it is hard to see how one could learn virtues from others. Some of my most important friendships have been with people for whom I have great respect. In observing the virtues that they possess, I have discovered various lacunae in my own character. It seems that this rather common practice of patterning our lives after those we respect and admire is hard to fit into Aristotle’s account of the priority of self-love.

A defender of Aristotle, however, might mention that his account bears at least a passing resemblance to Jesus’s command to “Love your neighbor as yourself” (Matt 22:39). This comparison, I believe, gets us to the heart of Aristotle’s conception of friendship. Jesus, recognizing that we all have a great instinct to protect ourselves and care for ourselves—in short, to love ourselves—commands that we show the same concern for others that we already bear for ourselves. Paul echoes this requirement in Philippians 2:3 when he enjoins us to regard one another as more important than ourselves. The Christian principle is to perform acts of love, even sacrifice, for others, above doing things in our own self-interest. The focus is on the action of love, as Jesus highlights to the disciples in John 15:12–14.

Aristotle, however, holds that the virtuous person will love the other person because that one displays the virtues he already holds. There is a subtle but significant difference here between Jesus and Aristotle. Even a sinner instinctively protects and cares for himself, and Jesus calls him to do those same things (and more) for others. The virtuous person beholds the goodness in himself, and Aristotle urges him to befriend others who are a second self to him. It is hard not to imagine that some arrogance or self-importance would emerge from such a process. The Christian ideal is to love others more than yourself. The Aristotelian dictum is to love those who are more like yourself.

Lewis—Critique

Like Aristotle’s treatment of the topic, Lewis’s philosophy of friendship is replete with perceptive observations and distinctions. His contrast between Friendship and Eros is valuable. His opinion that Friendship is the least natural and least necessary of the four Loves provokes longer and more sustained reflection than can be done in an article like this one. Overall, there is much to applaud in his discussion. However, two problems emerge. One is minor, the other more substantial.

Lewis was fond of calling himself a dinosaur, and sometimes it is hard to remember that he was a twentieth-century writer, so much does he inhabit the mentality of earlier ages. The problem with this mentality is that sometimes it results in stale discussions, such as his analysis of male-female relationships, the roles that they inhabit in society and the possibility of mixed-gender friendships. Large parts of the chapter on Friendship are, quite frankly, dated. For much of his life, Lewis lived a very isolated, male-dominated existence, and occasionally it shows.[15]

A more significant concern is whether Lewis has correctly identified what Friendship truly is. While some of what he says about the theological significance of Friendship is rewarding, his discussion of the spirituality of Friendship is not convincing. In addition, I am not convinced that friendship must be about something. I favor Aristotle’s analysis that a genuine friendship is rooted in our admiration of the other, not in what likes or passions we share. In considering each of the loves separately, Lewis seems to have erred in emphasizing their distinctive traits at the expense of what unites them. All loves are rooted in putting the other first. While Lewis makes a good case for the distinctiveness of Eros and Friendship, at the end of the day, they are still loves. Friends say to each other, “We used to be closer. Are you mad at me?” or “Your friendship means a lot to me. Thanks for encouraging me.” The natural loves are closer to each other than Lewis sometimes makes them seem.

This imbalance is subtly corrected in the last chapter of The Four Loves, which examines Charity. Lewis acknowledges that the three natural loves (Affection, Eros, and Friendship) are insufficient (116). They need the completion that only comes from divine Gift-Love, which is Charity. Some have held that the insufficiency is due to the fact that the natural loves are rivals of divine love. Eros is inferior because it distracts from love of God. While there is certainly truth in this conclusion, Lewis argues that the real problem lies in the other extreme. We don’t love enough.

Recalling the story of Augustine’s grief over the death of his friend Nebridius, Lewis reminds us of Augustine’s resolution. “This is what comes, [Augustine] says, of giving one’s heart to anything but God. All human beings pass away. Do not let your happiness depend on something you may lose” (120). Forcefully rejecting this perspective, Lewis asserts that there can be no “safe investments” of love. “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will surely be wrung, and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one” (121). His final word on the attempt to avoid all loves save for God is this classic line: “The only safe place outside of Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell” (121).

The natural loves are not so much inordinate as they are insufficient. They are completed by divine love, which is always Gift-Love. There are three ways our natural loves receive the grace of divine love to complete them. We receive a portion of divine Gift-Love in order to love the unlovely, like lepers and criminals. Our natural Gift-Love inclines us to love the lovable, but this divine Gift-Love takes on a decidedly altruistic mentality (128). The Father had love for us while we were still hopelessly in our sins and definitely unlovely (Rom 5:6–8). It is a gift of the Spirit that our natural Gift-Love is completed such that we can love after the manner of God. In addition, we receive supernatural Need-Love both for God and for others. In both cases, this Need-Love helps us take joy in our dependence on the love we receive so that we may not become embittered or jealous. Lewis gives a stirring example of a handicapped husband who must daily rely on his wife for everything. Suppose the kindness of his wife is inexhaustible. Lewis’s point is that it is not only the wife’s Gift-Love that is transformed by divine charity, but also the husband’s Need-Love.

The man who can take this sweetly, who can receive all and give nothing without resentment, who can abstain even from those tiresome self-depreciations which are really only a demand for petting and reassurance, is doing something which Need-Love in its merely natural condition could not attain (132).

This Charity does not replace the inferior loves; it completes and transforms them into something they could never be alone. The third grace is an infusion of supernatural Appreciation-Love toward God, which can only be tasted or sampled in this life. Lewis clearly has in mind the elevation of our ability to love in the life to come. This love is the one most to be desired, but Lewis (and the rest of us) are ill-equipped to describe it, save to say that “all experience merely defines, so to speak, the shape of that gap where our love of God ought to be” (140).

The previous paragraph represents Lewis’s closing thoughts in The Four Loves. These go a long way toward answering an earlier question about what makes Lewis’s account of the loves Christian. Being more comfortable in literature and philosophy than systematic theology, Lewis does not use the typical language of sanctification and glorification or refer to the relevant passages of the New Testament. Even so, the general direction of his comments points us in fruitful directions.

A problem remains, though. In the last chapter on Charity, in which the natural loves become transformed into divine loves, Lewis’s account seems to conflate all the loves into one amorphous “Love.” Earlier, Lewis’s account of the loves seemed too disparate, but by completing them all in Charity, Lewis erases important distinctions between them, especially with regard to Friendship. How does the infusion of divine Charity affect Friendship in particular? How does Friendship operate in the divine sphere? To answer these questions (at least in part), we must enlist the help of another thinker who profoundly influenced both philosophy and Christian theology, namely, Thomas Aquinas. Before moving to these issues, however, it would be good to summarize what has been established about the moral significance of friendship.

The Moral Significance Of Friendship

Points of similarity exist in Aristotle’s and Lewis’s accounts of friendship. Both think that friendship is important and that life would be less sweet without friends. Both address the relationship of Friendship to Eros and conclude that one does not reduce to the other. Both also recognize that friendship exists because of some commonality. Aristotle attributes it to the friend being a second self, while Lewis holds that the friendship exists because it is about something.

From the perspective of Aristotle’s aretaic system of ethics, friendship is a virtue, and it is the habituation of virtues that produces eudaimonia. If one thinks that the virtues are in competition with eudaimonia, then one misunderstands their nature. The virtues are means to the final goal of eudaimonia. The virtue of friendship indicates that one is on the path to eudaimonia.

Cooper notes two reasons why friendship is essential to eudaimonia. First, one must know virtue to acquire it. Genuine knowledge of virtue comes from observing it in oneself and in one’s second self—a friend of good character. Second, human life does not flourish in isolation. Friends must partake in shared activities.[16] Aristotle notes that friends must “live together” (8.5.1). It is appropriate to recall that for Aristotle, ethics is a species of political science. The moral life is a component of life in the polis (1.2.4). Therefore, friendship connects the individual with the broader community. The virtues of the good person are shared with the friend for the good of the society. “For in every community there seems to be some sort of justice, and some type of friendship also” (8.9.1). An important passage is this one toward the end of book 9:

It is also absurd to make the blessed person solitary. For no one would choose to have all other goods and yet to be alone, since a human being is a political animal, tending by nature to live together with others. This will also be true, then, of the happy person; for he has the natural goods, and clearly it is better to spend his days with decent friends than with strangers of just any character. Hence the happy person needs friends (9.9.3).

Friendship, for Aristotle, is the necessary social context from which happiness emerges. It is a mark of eudaimonia. It would be worthless to habituate all the other virtues and then to live alone. One could summarize these conclusions into two principles about the necessity of friendship in the moral context of this life.

1. People are made for community, and friends make the good things of life sweeter and the bad things of life bearable.

2. Since friendship is a virtue, having good friends is a kind of moral barometer. One is on the path to a life well-lived if he or she has friends.

Nothing in our study of Lewis on friendship would undermine these principles. However, there is something missing. For Lewis, friendship is ultimately intended to point us to God. It is insufficient by itself, but this incompleteness is necessary. Love your friends deeply, but recognize that true Charity is a divine grace, and all of our loves are poor images of the divine Gift-Love. Love is ordained by God, and it is kept by God, and it is beautiful, as God is. This perspective is what makes friendship Christian. It is a love that rises above the possibility of sin to become a godly entity. It is ethical because it is love. Thus, a third principle needs to be added:

3. Friendship with God is possible (John 15:15; Jas 4:4). It is not simply a metaphor, but a reality.

The Theological Significance Of Friendship

The notion that we can enjoy friendship with God invites a number of questions. Specifically, how does what is special and unique about the love of human friendship become transformed into a relationship with the divine? How can divine love and human love operate in the same relationship? Does friendship somehow operate in the divine sphere?

The best way to briefly explore these questions is to invite another voice into the conversation. Thomas Aquinas heavily relied on Aristotle (“the Philosopher”), and C. S. Lewis, in turn, greatly admired the medieval tradition. Thus, Aquinas, the great synthesizer, is a natural choice to take this discussion to the next level. His contributions are especially evident where he carries Aristotle’s teaching as far as it can go, and then he supplies from the resources of Christian thought what is missing. In the treatise on theological virtues in the Summa Theologiae, Aquinas takes up the nature of charity. He concludes, on the strength of Jesus’s declaration in John 15:15, that charity is nothing less than friendship, even friendship with God.[17] His reasoning path is worth following.

It begins with the Philosopher’s three kinds of friendship and the observation that not every type of charity (or love) can be friendship, but only those loves that involve benevolence. If we love something for ourselves and not for its own sake, this kind of love can never be friendship. Aquinas helpfully suggests the examples of a horse or some wine. One can say that he loves his horse or his wine, but this love is purely for his own sake. “For it would be absurd to speak of having friendship for wine or for a horse.”[18] Friendship also must be more than well-wishing, since some degree of mutuality must be present. This interaction Aquinas calls “communication,” and he concludes that since there is communication between man and God, it follows that there is “some kind of friendship” that obtains between human and deity. He cites 1 Corinthians 1:9: we are called into fellowship with the Son, and the love based on this communication is nothing less than the friendship of man for God.[19]

Aquinas scholar Brian Davies helpfully points out that an underlying theological commitment elucidates this divine/human friendship. “God’s love is simply a matter of him being drawn to himself as the perfect or ultimate good. And that, so Aquinas also thinks, is what is at issue when it comes to the love that is charity. Those with charity, he says, are drawn to God purely and simply for the goodness that God is. . . . This, in turn, means that those with charity aim for God as God aims for himself in willing himself. They are attracted to God, not as a means to an end, but as an end in itself.”[20] Hence the desire that underlies both God’s love and a human’s love, inasmuch as it is charity, must be directed toward the highest good, which is God. The inequity of the friendship relationship between God and an individual human is remedied because they both desire the highest good, namely, the very nature of God.

God’s love for himself in this regard is not as strange as it might sound, since the Godhead is a Trinity. The Father loves the Son and the Spirit, the Son loves the Father and the Spirit, and the Spirit loves the Father and the Son. Justified human beings are adopted into this fellowship. We are joint heirs with Jesus (Rom 8:17). It is no accident that Jesus’s teaching that we are his friends is offered in the context of his great Trinitarian discussions of John 14–16. Our adoption as sons and daughters of the Father so elevates our eternal status that we are no longer just servants of the triune God. We are friends with the Almighty. This indeed is the deepest of all the truths about friendship, and one of the most profound of all theological revelations about our human situation. Aristotle argued that having the highest quality of friendships is a mark of a life well lived. The words and work of Jesus point to an even deeper truth, that humans can have a genuine friendship, a true love relationship, with the members of the Trinity. This eternal truth elevates the notion of friendship far beyond the playground or ballfield. We are not just worshipers of God, as from a distance, but we are brought near to be his friends. Our friendship is rooted in our mutual love for each other and also in our mutual love of the good that is found in God. Thus James can write, “Come near to God and he will come near to you” (Jas 4:8). Thus we walk the paths of life, confident that we do so shoulder-to-shoulder with the Almighty.

Notes

1. Quotations are from the second edition of the Nicomachean Ethics, edited by Terence Irwin (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1999). Citations note the book, chapter, and paragraph, and are placed in parentheses in the text.
2. The Four Loves (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich) was originally published in 1960; a new Harcourt edition, with new pagination, was released in 1991 and is used in this article.
3. Translation of eudaimonia is difficult. Most frequently, translators choose “happiness,” but some prefer to speak of “human flourishing,” which is perhaps more accurate, but rather clumsy to use. Whatever word is used to gloss it, the reader will get an accurate sense only if the term is unpacked and delineated. I prefer to leave it untranslated.
4. Richard Kraut, Aristotle on the Human Good (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989), 273.
5. C. S. Lewis, Mere Christianity (New York: Touchstone, 1996), 18.
6. C. S. Lewis, The Abolition of Man (New York: Touchstone, 1996), 55. All italics found in quotations are from the original source.
7. Lewis, Mere Christianity, 71.
8. Aristotle, Rhetoric 2.4 (1380b35–1381a1).
9. John Cooper, “Aristotle on Friendship,” in Essays on Aristotle’s Ethics, ed. Amelie Rorty (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980), 302. Cooper makes the point that Aristotle has this same conception of friendship in Nicomachean Ethics.
10. Kraut, Aristotle on the Human Good, 132.
11. One can certainly dispute Lewis’s conclusion of modern disinterest in Friendship or his analysis of the reason for it. I think Lewis is probably wrong on both accounts, but this does not greatly undermine his overall treatment of Friendship. It is also noteworthy that contemporary Darwinists have paid quite a bit more attention to friendship than those who lived during Lewis’s lifetime. See Jerry Coyne’s defense of an evolutionary account of altruism in Faith vs. Fact: Why Science and Religion Are Incompatible (New York: Penguin, 2015), 172–77.
12. C. S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy (San Diego: Harcourt Brace and Company, 1956), 130.
13. Lewis, his brother Warren, J. R. R. Tolkien, Charles Williams, and a small number of other men met regularly to read from their writings, to talk, and to laugh. They called themselves “the Inklings.” Without this group, it is doubtful that the Chronicles of Narnia and Lord of the Rings books would have been published.
14. A full-scale interaction with the sexism in the work of Aristotle (and others) is well beyond the bounds of this article, but it deserves careful consideration. I will proceed under the assumption that the main points of Aristotle’s philosophy of friendship can be salvaged despite this glaring weakness.
15. A similar conclusion is reached by Alan Jacobs in The Narnian (New York: HarperCollins, 2005), 255–57.
16. Cooper, “Aristotle on Friendship,” 330–31.
17. Aquinas, Summa Theologiae 2a.23.1, trans. the Fathers of the English Dominican Province, in The Great Books of the Western World, vol. 20, ed. Robert Maynard Hutchins (Chicago: Encyclopedia Britannica, 1952). All quotations are taken from this version.
18. Ibid.
19. In asserting that there is a friendship with God, Aquinas goes well beyond and even disagrees with Aristotle. In Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle restricts friendship to the human context. It is not possible to envision a friendship with a deity, since gods, having no needs, cannot have friends (cf. 8.7.6).
20. Brian Davies, The Thought of Thomas Aquinas (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), 291.

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Women As “Model Readers” In Mark’s Gospel

By Nicoletta Gatti

[Nicoletta Gatti is senior lecturer in the Department for the Study of Religions, University of Ghana, Legon, Ghana.]

Abstract

The Gospel according to Mark seems to give special attention to women. Female characters are present in key narrative moments, and they are described in positive terms in contrast to the negative portrayal of the Twelve. Employing Eco’s category of “model reader,” this article explores the literary function of female characters in the second Gospel through the narrative analysis of six portraits of women, who from the beginning (1:29–31) to the end of the Gospel (16:8) walk by the side of the readers, guiding them in a journey of revelation for transformation.

Introduction

Since the publication of Mark as Story by Rhoads and Michie in 1982, much attention has been given to the “little people,” minor characters who “consistently exemplify the value and rule of God,” in contrast to the opponents of Jesus and to his male disciples.[1]

Among the “little people,” women seem to receive special attention from the evangelist Mark. The first miracle of Jesus has a woman as protagonist (1:29–31); two women are praised for their faith (cf. 5:34; 7:29); an anonymous widow is indicated to the disciples as an example of radical self-giving (12:41); and the prophetic gesture of one of them will be told wherever the gospel is announced (cf. 14:9). Women are present in the key moments of Jesus’s life as witnesses of his death (15:40–41), burial (15:47), and resurrection (16:1–8). For some scholars, women represent a positive paradigm of discipleship, in contrast to Mark’s portrayal of the Twelve, which underlines their lack of faith (4:40; 9:19), inability to understand and hardness of heart (8:17–21), betrayal (14:18, 30), and final abandonment (14:50).[2]

The positive portrayal of women in Mark has attracted the attention of many scholars, as the numerous monographs[3] and articles[4] on the topic testify. However, the consistent presence of female characters in key narrative moments suggests a “beyond,” a surplus of meaning: they appear, in fact, at the beginning of the narrative (1:29–31) and they are the last human characters present in the Gospel (16:1–8). Their hasty departure leaves the reader alone, face-to-face with “a young man in a white robe” (v. 5) proclaiming a powerful message of resurrection and new beginning.[5]

Against this background, this article asks whether it is possible to discover a didactic journey, a journey of revelation for conversion, offered to readers through the female characters present in the narrative of the second Gospel.[6] In other words, is it possible that the female characters embody the literary strategy defined by Eco as “model reader”? Can they represent the ideal reader in whom the intention of the text reaches its realization, the “model” whom every generation of readers-disciples needs to decode and with whom they need to identify?[7] According to Eco, understanding a text means decoding the narrative strategy—the processes, the techniques, the signals, the procedures—that the author employed to construct his ideal reader. Allusions and ellipses certainly respond to stylistic rules and aesthetic beauty, but they respond above all to the relationship that the author wants to create with his “model reader.” Every work envisages (and constructs) its ideal reader, but this idea is especially relevant for the Bible, because the human’s response constitutes an element of the saving experience.

Looking for an answer, the article undertakes a journey led by some of Mark’s women: Simon’s mother-in-law (1:29–31), the woman suffering from a hemorrhage (5:24–34), the Syrophoenician (7:24–30), the poor widow (12:41–44), the woman from Bethany (14:3–9), and the women present at the crucifixion and burial of Jesus (15:40–41, 47).[8] The narrative journey starts from the end, from the moment in which the identity of Jesus as Messiah and Son of God (1:1) is finally revealed (15:39).

Mary Magdalene And The Others (15:40–41)

The cross represents the narrative climax of the Gospel, the moment when the full identity of Jesus, Messiah and Son of God (1:1), is revealed in a disfigured body, dying utterly alone (14:50; 15:34). In contrast to the “great signs” of Matthew (27:51–54), Mark directs attention to three things: the tearing of the veil of the temple (15:38), the words of a Roman centurion (15:39), and the presence of a group of women “watching from a distance” (15:40).[9]

Three are singled out—Mary of Magdala, Mary the mother of James the younger and Joses, and Salome. Mark says of them, αἳ ὅτε ἦν ἐν τῇ Γαλιλαίᾳ ἠκολούθουν αὐτῷ καὶ διηκόνουν αὐτῷ, καὶ ἄλλαι πολλαὶ αἱ συναναβᾶσαι αὐτῷ εἰς Ἱεροσόλυμα (15:41). The author indicates to his reader:[10]

a) The presence of a significant number of women (ἄλλαι πολλαί) walking with Jesus on his way to Jerusalem;

b) The presence of three specific women who, from the beginning, from Galilee, have been with Jesus (cf. 3:14).

Some scholars highlight a parallelism with the group of the Twelve, where three disciples—Peter, James, and John—are particularly close to the master (5:37; 9:2; 15:33).[11] The correlation is reinforced by the verbs employed to define the relationship between the three women and Jesus:

a) ἠκολούθουν αὐτῷ: The verb ἀκολουθέω (“to follow”) is used to indicate the response of the first disciples (1:18) and Levi (2:14, 15) to the call of Jesus. The verb returns in 8:34 in the first of the three teachings concerning discipleship (8:34–38; 9:35–37; 10:42–45) that follow the three announcements of the passion (8:31; 9:30–32; 10:32–34): “If anyone wants to follow me [ὀπίσω μου ἀκολουθεῖν], let him renounce himself and take up his cross and follow me.” In 15:41, the imperfect form underlines continuity: the three women started a path of discipleship in Galilee, at the beginning of the public ministry of Jesus, and they have continued to faithfully follow him up to Calvary.[12]

b) διηκόνουν αὐτῷ: Some scholars, in light of Luke 8:1–3, have interpreted the verb as referring to domestic service.[13] In fact, Mark specifies that they served him,[14] suggesting a further meaning, for which the reader must search. The verb διακονέω is rare in Mark: in fact, it is used only four times (1:13, 31; 10:45; 15:41). It indicates: 

Service toward Jesus by angels (1:13) and women: Simon’s mother-in-law (1:31) and the three women mentioned in 15:40; 

The self-understanding of Jesus in regard to his own identity and mission: καὶ γὰρ ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ ἀνθρώπου οὐκ ἦλθεν διακονηθῆναι ἀλλὰ διακονῆσαι καὶ δοῦναι τὴν ψυχὴν αὐτοῦ λύτρον ἀντὶ πολλῶν (10:45).

The reason for the incarnation and mission of the Messiah and Son of God (1:1) is expressed by Mark with the verb διακονέω, interpreted as “to give his life.” For the sake of completeness, we can add that the noun διάκονος is used by Mark exclusively in relation to discipleship (9:35; 10:43). Being a disciple of Jesus, therefore, means becoming a servant: it is a radical service that identifies those who belong to him and distinguishes his community from any other human reality (cf. 10:42–44).[15]

Moreover, following Jesus, serving him, and ascending with him to Jerusalem are the key elements of discipleship in the theology of the second Gospel (cf. 8:34; 9:52). Therefore, on Calvary, as Gnilka rightly points out, “The presence of the women becomes the necessary integration of the Centurion’s profession of faith.”[16] To the right profession of faith (orthodoxy) a daily choice must be added (orthopraxy) that includes the service of love and acceptance of the cross.

The women witnesses to the death and burial of Jesus seem to offer to the reader a model of discipleship incarnated in everyday life. To explore it, we resume our journey from the beginning, reading the narrative of the first miracle of Jesus, which has a woman as a protagonist.

Simon’s Mother-In-Law (1:29–31)

A synoptic comparison of the healing narrative discloses the theological focus of the three evangelists. Matthew describes the healing as an intimate contact with a powerful Lord (8:14–15), the Messiah sent to heal “all who were sick,” and to fulfill “what was spoken by Isaiah the prophet . . . : ‘He took our weaknesses and carried our diseases’ ” (v. 17); Luke describes an exorcism by the Savior, who rebukes the “strong fever” to leave its prey (4:38–39). Mark seems to offer a more ecclesiological reading, emphasizing the role of the new community, constituted by Jesus, to follow him on the way of the cross.

The evangelist, in fact, located the miracle after the call of the first four disciples (1:16–20); with them Jesus leaves the synagogue, where he has just conducted an exorcism, and enters the house of Simon. However, even in this house evil manifests itself: Simon’s mother-in-law lies in bed feverish (1:29).

The change started when someone presented the woman’s situation to Jesus: εὐθὺς λέγουσιν αὐτῷ περὶ αὐτῆς (v. 30). The narrator does not specify the identity of the speakers; the plural λέγουσιν allows the reader to hypothesize different faces: the four disciples, some relatives, or perhaps neighbors. The indeterminacy helps the reader understand the meaning of the gesture: there is someone who spoke about her, who built a bridge between the need of the person and the salvific power of Jesus. The verb λέγω has a generic meaning, “say/speak”; it does not indicate pleading/praying as does ἐρωτάω used in Luke 4:38. Some exegetes assume that respect for the Sabbath restrained those present from asking explicitly for the intervention of Jesus.[17]

But Jesus acts (cf. Mark 2:28) as the verbal chain demonstrates: καὶ προσελθὼν ἤγειρεν αὐτὴν κρατήσας τῆς χειρός (1:31). The last action, “grasping the hand,” assumes a particular significance if it is read with the backdrop of the other two occurrences of the syntagma (5:41; 9:27). It is employed by Mark elsewhere only in reference to the action of Jesus toward a dead girl, for whom the funeral rite had already started (5:38) and a child considered dead by those present (9:26).[18] Some scholars have also interpreted the healing of Simon’s mother-in-law as a resurrection—a narrative anticipation of what will happen to Jesus himself[19]—or as reference to baptism, accentuating the symbolic value of the miracle.[20] Without entering into the debate, it is important to emphasize the nuance of restoration to life, to a full life, that is indicated by Mark with the verb διακονέω.[21]

Reading the miracle’s account with this hermeneutic key, the reader realizes that Jesus takes the initiative, as he did for the calling of the first disciples (1:16, 18). The woman experiences a situation of immobility, of closeness with death from which no one can set her free; only Jesus can restore her to life. It is a new life, received as a gift, and defined by the category of διακονία, which, as we have analyzed, seals her full membership in the new community, gathered by the Christ to follow him on his way to Jerusalem.

The personal pronoun αὐτοῖς clarifies that the service of the woman is not only toward the person of Jesus but also toward the community gathered in the house of Simon and beyond.[22] Her healing elicits, in fact, a movement of people in need of salvation, sick and oppressed, toward the house: “and Jesus healed many who had various diseases. He also drove out many demons” (v. 34).

The Woman With Hemorrhage (5:24–34)

With a narrative technique typical of Mark,[23] the healing of the second woman is inserted in the narrative of the restoration to life of the twelve-year-old daughter of Jairus (5:21–24, 35–43).[24] A ruler of the synagogue approached Jesus; his attitude and his words testify that he recognized the power of the rabbi and believed that he could heal his daughter. The detail of the crowd that “followed him and thronged about him” on the way to Jairus’s house (5:24) anticipates the gesture of the anonymous woman, one in the multitude. The detailed description of the narrator elicits the emphathy of the reader: “Now a woman was there who had been suffering from a hemorrhage for twelve years. She had endured a great deal under the care of many doctors and had spent all that she had. Yet instead of getting better, she grew worse” (vv. 25–26).

The sickness probably made her incapable of generating life. Furthermore, according to the Torah, contact with a woman affected by “blood flow” makes a person unclean (cf. Lev 15:25), to the point that bleeding is used in the prophetic literature as an image of sin (cf. Ezek 36:17).[25] By this Mark informs the reader that the woman is excluded from religious and social life, considered impure and cursed by God because she is unable to conceive.[26]

In contrast to Simon’s mother-in-law, the woman takes the initiative. However, aware of her status, she decides to touch Jesus secretly (5:27–28). The woman believes that a healing power dwells in Jesus, and she has no doubt that it can operate also in her (cf. 3:10; 6:56). Using one of his favorite words, εὐθύς, Mark informs the reader that the healing happened “immediately” (εὐθὺς): “And immediately the flow of blood dried up, and she felt in her body that she was healed of her suffering.” The term μάστιξ, translated by the different versions as “disease,” “evil,” “suffering,” or “affliction,” also sometimes means “scourge, plague” (Acts 22:24; Heb 11:36), a term that in its severity summarizes all the suffering—psycho-physical, socioeconomic, ethnic-religious—that she had endured.

Jesus perceived that “power had gone out from him” and searched the crowd to see “who had done this” (5:32). The disciples, and the reader with them, do not understand his insistence. It is important to notice that if the first question is open (τίς μου ἥψατο τῶν ἱματίων; [v. 30]), the narrator’s comment and the feminine article (καὶ περιεβλέπετο ἰδεῖν τὴν τοῦτο ποιήσασαν [v. 32]) signal to the reader that Jesus knows “who”: his eyes search for a specific face. When his gaze meets the woman, it pushes her to come out of anonymity to testify, “fearful and trembling,” what had happened in her.

Why does Jesus act in this way? The text suggests a double motivation:

a) To complete the journey of liberation that has already started in her;

b) To transform a personal experience into an educational moment for the disciples.[27]

The transition from a hidden touch to “come before—prostrate—telling the whole truth” marks steps toward the acquisition of a new identity: from marginalization to rediscovery of her original dignity as a “daughter” of the heavenly Father; from shame over a stolen healing to revelation of her unconditional faith, a faith that raised her from a social and religious death to life, in anticipation of what is going to happen physically to the daughter of Jairus (5:42).[28] At the same time, as it happens with other miracles narrated by Mark (cf. 2:5; 3:4–5), the outcast woman is introduced in the narrative to encourage the Twelve, still uncertain and doubtful (4:10, 41), to believe in their rabbi and to follow him “on the way” with the same trust.

The Syrophoenician Mother (7:24–30)

After a lengthy discussion of purity and impurity (7:1–23), Jesus departs to “the regions of Tyre and Sidon,” in a pagan territory. The verb ἀπέρχομαι (v. 24) prompts readers to ask, Why does the Christ, sent to gather the chosen nation, take refuge in a “foreign house” in the land of the historical enemies of Israel? Perhaps he wants to continue the formation of his disciples far from the crowd and the Jewish leaders. However, he is found by a Greek woman, of Syrophoenician origin, who throws herself at his feet, begging him to free her daughter from a demon (v. 26).[29]

The reaction of Jesus is unusual, out of character: ἄφες πρῶτον χορτασθῆναι τὰ τέκνα, οὐ γάρ ἐστιν καλὸν λαβεῖν τὸν ἄρτον τῶν τέκνων καὶ τοῖς κυναρίοις βαλεῖν (7:27).[30] Even if the use of a diminutive in some way sweetens the term “dog,” the reader is likely puzzled by hearing an offensive term uttered by Jesus and must conjecture about its purpose. Does he want to state unequivocally the priority of Israel in his mission?[31] Is he repeating a common Jewish saying?[32] Or, perhaps, is he challenging the woman because he recognizes her faith and intelligence?[33]

The mother apparently accepts the perspective of exclusion. She recognizes that she has no right, but with a witty remark that reveals a great intuition of faith declares her availability to receive just the “crumbs” of bread destined for the children: κύριε·καὶ τὰ κυνάρια ὑποκάτω τῆς τραπέζης ἐσθίουσιν ἀπὸ τῶν ψιχίων τῶν παιδίων (v. 28). In a paradoxical way, the woman seems to understand better than Jesus himself the potentialities and the purpose of the kingdom he is announcing, and for that reason she challenges him to overcome prejudices and mental and cultural boundaries.[34] She perceives, in fact, that at the banquet of the kingdom the bread is superabundant. Readers can embrace her argument by recalling the outcome of the multiplication of bread: “They collected twelve basketfuls of scraps of bread and pieces of fish. Those who had eaten the loaves numbered five thousand men” (6:43–44).[35] The word κύριος, a title used in direct address (κύριε) only in this context in the Gospel of Mark, reveals the source of her certainty:[36] she not only “listens” (4:3, 9, 12, 23; 7:14) but understands Jesus (7:16; 8:17, 21) to an extent that his disciples have yet to reach. That is why she does not hesitate to obey Jesus’s words: she returns home, where she finds her daughter healed, free from the evil power that used to torment her.

It is important to note how Jesus describes the agency of the healing: διὰ τοῦτον τὸν λόγον (v. 29). The perceptive, insistent, and courageous faith of the Syrophoenician is recognized by Jesus as “an authentic reflection of the word of which he is bearer.”[37] It is a word that opens new horizons, that challenges the hearer to understand that the time has come even for outsiders to enter the banquet hall and to share the table with the children.[38] For this reason, Jesus praises the “word” of the woman: it is her word, witness to the presence of the kingdom, that heals her daughter, snatching her from the jaws of evil, from the power of darkness (v. 30).

The same word brings Jesus to overcome new borders[39]—“And again he left the district of Tyre and went by way of Sidon to the Sea of Galilee, into the district of the Decapolis (v. 31)—so that every ear can hear and every mouth proclaim the liberating coming of the one who “has done everything well. He even makes the deaf hear and the mute speak” (7:37).

The Widow (12:41–44) And The Woman Of Bethany (14:3–9)

The meetings with the last two women occur in a particular narrative context on the threshold of Jesus’s Passover. With the first scene, located in the temple, Mark concludes the public teachings of Jesus and introduces the eschatological discourse directed exclusively at his disciples (13:1–37). The second episode links this section with the passion narrative.

The widow’s account is peculiar. The woman neither searches for nor meets Jesus; she does not interact with him and she is not aware of being observed and made the focus of Jesus’s teaching to his disciples. The scene opens with Jesus sitting in the temple to observe (ἐθεώρει, 12:41). The imperfect indicative suggests a careful and protracted observation, something more intense and purposive than just “seeing”—a penetrating glance aware of the condition and situation of the person. The direct object of the gaze of Jesus is the behavior of the crowd that throws money into the treasury of the temple. The narrator does not comment on the donors’ intent—whether love, faith, habit, obligation, ostentation—but on the “many” rich people and the “many” coins tossed in the treasury.

From the crowd the reader’s attention is focused on the arrival of the woman, described as a poor widow, and the “insignificant” value of her offering: λεπτὰ δύο, ὅ ἐστιν κοδράντης (12:42). Jesus gathers the disciples and using a solemn expression—ἀμὴν λέγω ὑμῖν (v. 43)—reveals the true value of her contribution: “This poor widow has put more in than all who have contributed to the treasury; for they have all put in money they could spare, but she in her poverty has put in everything she possessed, all she had to live on” (vv. 43–44). The literal translation of πάντες γὰρ ἐκ τοῦ περισσεύοντος αὐτοῖς . . . ἔβαλεν ὅλον τὸν βίον αὐτῆς reminds the readers of other teachings of Jesus: “He called the people and his disciples to him and said, ‘If anyone wants to be a follower of mine, let him renounce himself and take up his cross and follow me. Anyone who wants to save his life will lose it; but anyone who loses his life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it’ ” (8:34–35); or even the commandment to love God “with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength” (12:30).[40]

In the radicality of the gift of the widow the reader sees a concretization of the teaching of the Christ: to follow means to give one’s life. It means an unconditional adherence not to a religious theory, but to a person: Jesus. The eschatological discourse that follows will deepen this change of perspective. Even though the temple, the historical place of the revelation of God, will be destroyed, the proclamation of his salvific presence in human history will be testified to all nations through the self-giving of the disciples (13:10). In spite of persecution, rejection, affective and effective poverty, they will continue to believe that the time of the fruits will come if they preserve the word of their Master in their heart, in an attitude of vigilance and faith (13:11–13, 33–37). The collocation of the pericope on the threshold of the passion narrative further emphasizes its proleptic value: the gift of the woman opens the reader’s eyes toward the future, toward the total gift of Jesus, when in rejection and solitude he will offer his life on the cross.

This interpretation is strengthened by the narrative of anointing at Bethany that closes the eschatological discourse and opens the passion narrative. The death of Jesus anticipated by the donation of the widow is proclaimed by the anonymous woman of Bethany with her anointing. Unlike the widow, the woman in chapter 14 offers a precious gift of pure nard kept in an alabaster jar (v. 3). Breaking the jar and pouring the ointment, she declares that she does not want to hold anything for herself. The gesture provokes the disdain of those present, for the inconceivable “waste” of more than 300 denarii, the annual income of a worker.[41] For the second time, Jesus intervenes to move the attention of his disciples from appearance to reality: “What she has done for me is a good action. You have the poor with you always, and you can do well to them whenever you wish, but you will not always have me. She has done what she could: she has anointed my body beforehand for its burial” (vv. 6–8). The syntagm καλὸν ἔργον (v. 6) refers to the Jewish description of acts of love, gestures that require personal effort and have the character of grace, such as feeding the poor, offering hospitality, freeing prisoners, visiting the sick, and, relevant for our context, burying the dead.

Finally, regarding the ambiguous words πάντοτε γὰρ τοὺς πτωχοὺς ἔχετε μεθ᾽ ἑαυτῶν . . . , ἐμὲ δὲ οὐ πάντοτε ἔχετε (v. 7), Pesch notes that Jesus does not oppose himself to the poor but identifies with them. On the eve of his passion Jesus is the poor, and the woman’s act of love is welcomed and praised by him.[42]

The anointing takes on a particular significance in its immediate context. Sandwiched between the conspiracy of the high priests and the scribes (vv. 1–2) and the readiness of one of the Twelve to hand Jesus over to them (v. 10), the woman reveals the right attitude with which disciples must participate in the passion of their Lord. For this reason, the pericope ends with an astonishing command: ἀμὴν δὲ λέγω ὑμῖν, ὅπου ἐὰν κηρυχθῇ τὸ εὐαγγέλιον εἰς ὅλον τὸν κόσμον, καὶ ὃ ἐποίησεν αὕτη λαληθήσεται εἰς μνημόσυνον αὐτῆς (v. 9).

The proclamation of the gospel will therefore include not only the gesture of Jesus offering his life and pouring out his own blood for “the many” (vv. 22–24), but also the gesture of the anonymous woman who breaks a precious vase at the feet of Jesus and pours on her Lord everything she possesses. They are two gestures that will be told everywhere because they are actually a single gesture: the willingness of God to love humanity in the Son and the possibility for humanity, expressed in the gesture of the woman, to give up everything to respond to his unconditional love.

Conclusion

The female figures presented in the Gospel of Mark are offered as models of radical faith, unconditional trust, self-giving, and discipleship without fear.[43] If we consider their placement in the narrative structure of the Gospel, we can notice an important strategy: in the chapters that precede the confession of Peter in 8:29, women are introduced as those who receive something from Jesus, whether healing or liberation from evil. In the second section of the Gospel, characterized by the journey toward the cross, women are presented as those who offer what they are and possess to him. Women, therefore, are conceived by Mark as journey companions for the readers, revealing to them something about the identity of Jesus and their own identity as disciples. In Galilee, women teach readers to believe in Christ without conditions; during the journey to the cross they inspire them to offer their lives for the same purpose for which the Son of God is going up to Jerusalem: a gift of love and salvation.

By offering his readers these travelling companions, Mark offers a sort of “identity card” of a disciple:

• A disciple is one who experiences the liberating power of Jesus (5:30; 7:30).
• A disciple is one who unconditionally adheres to the master to be sent out to announce that experience (16:7, 10).
• A disciple is one who follows Jesus in the path of the cross and seals with the disciple’s own presence the profession of faith (15:40).
• A disciple is one who educates and brings back the disheartened brethren to discipleship (16:7).
• A disciple is one who recognizes existence as a gift and radically transforms it into service molded on the life of him who “did not come to be served but to serve and give his life as ransom for many” (10:45).

After walking by the reader’s side from Galilee to the empty tomb, the women can now leave the scene. After hearing the proclamation of faith (1:1), and experiencing it “on the way,” reader-disciples are called to make their own choice: either to abandon discipleship or to accept the commission of the “young man,” to overcome fear, to wear the disciple’s robe, and to write with their lives a page of the gospel of salvation.

Notes

1. David Rhoads and Donald Michie, Mark as Story: An Introduction to the Narrative of a Gospel (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1982), 130; cf., for example, Gianattilio Boni-facio, Personaggi minori e discepoli in Marco 4–8: La funzione degli episodi dei personaggi minori nell’interazione con la storia dei protagonisti, Analecta Biblica 173 (Rome: Editrice Pontificio Istituto Biblico, 2008); Joel F. Williams, Other Followers of Jesus: Minor Characters as Major Figures in Mark’s Gospel, Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement 102 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1994); Joel F. Williams, “Discipleship and Minor Characters in Mark’s Gospel,” Bibliotheca Sacra 153 (1996): 332–43; Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, The Major Importance of the Minor Characters in Mark (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994); David E. Malick, “Simon’s Mother-in-Law as a Minor Character in the Gospel of Mark: A Narrative Analysis,” Priscilla Papers 31 (2017): 4–9.
2. Cf. Elizabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, In Memory of Her: A Feminist Theological Reconstruction of Christian Origins (New York: Crossroad, 1985), 320–22; Joachim Gnilka, Marco, 2nd ed., Commenti e studi biblici (Assisi: Cittadella, 1991), 752; cf. Rhoads and Michie, Mark as Story, 129–35; Winsome Munro, “Women Disciples in Mark?,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 44 (1982): 236–37.
3. For example, Monika Fander, Die Stellung der Frau im Markusevangelium: Unter besonderer Berücksichtigung kultur- und religionsgeschichtlicher Hintergründe (Altenberge: Telos, 1989); Hisako Kinukawa, Women and Jesus in Mark: A Japanese Feminist Perspective (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1994); Joan L. Mitchell, Beyond Fear and Silence: A Feminist-Literary Approach to the Gospel of Mark (London: Continuum, 2001); and Susan Miller, Women in Mark’s Gospel, Journal for the Study of the New Testament Supplement 259 (London: T&T Clark, 2004).
4. John J. Schmitt, “Women in Mark’s Gospel: An Early Christian View of Women’s Role,” Bible Today 19 (1981): 228–33; Mary Ann Beavis, “Women as Models of Faith in Mark,” Biblical Theology Bulletin 18 (1988): 3–9; Jane Kopas, “Jesus and Women in Mark’s Gospel,” Review for Religious 44 (1985): 912–20; Willard M. Swartley, “The Role of Women in Mark’s Gospel: A Narrative Analysis,” Biblical Theology Bulletin 27 (1997): 16–22.
5. The ending of Mark’s Gospel (v. 8) has generated a wide debate on the role of the women. Some scholars compare the “flight of the women from the tomb . . . to the cowardly flight of the disciples” (Williams, “Discipleship and Minor Characters in Mark’s Gospel,” 343). Cf. James A. Kelhoffer, “A Tale of Two Markan Characterizations: The Exemplary Woman Who Anointed Jesus’ Body for Burial (14:3–9) and the Silent Trio Who Fled the Empty Tomb (Mark 16:1–8),” in Women and Gender in Ancient Religions: Interdisciplinary Approaches, ed. Stephen P. Ahearne-Kroll, Paul A. Holloway, and James A. Kelhoffer, Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament 263 (Tubingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2010), 85–98; Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “Fallible Followers: Women and Men in the Gospel of Mark,” Semeia 28 (1983): 29–48; Francis J. Moloney, The Gospel of Mark (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2002), 349; Mary Ann Tolbert, Sowing the Gospel: Mark’s World in Literary-Historical Perspective (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1989), 288–99. I share the view of Lincoln that the open ending allows readers to enter into the narrative of the Gospel and determine whether they want to live out the way of the cross, reversing the action of the women and proclaiming with their own lives the gospel of the crucified and risen Lord. Andrew T. Lincoln, “The Promise and the Failure: Mark 16:7–8, ” Journal of Biblical Literature 108 (1989): 283–300. See also Joan L. Mitchell, Beyond Fear and Silence, 66–115; Norman R. Peterson, “When Is the End Not the End? Literary Reflections on the Ending of Mark’s Narrative,” Interpretation 34 (1980): 151–66.
6. For an introduction to reading the text as a communicative event, see Massimo Grilli, L’impotenza che salva: Il mistero della croce in Mc 8, 27–10, 52 (Bologna: EDB, 2009), 12–21.
7. Umberto Eco, Lector in fabula: La cooperazione interpretativa nei testi narrativi, Tascabili Bompiani 27 (Milan: Bompiani, 2002), 53–66.
8. For an in-depth analysis of the female characters in Mark, see Miller, Women in Mark’s Gospel.
9. Jeffrey W. Aernie, “Cruciform Discipleship: The Narrative Function of the Women in Mark 15–16, ” Journal of Biblical Literature 135 (2016): 779–97.
10. Cf. Stephen P. Ahearne-Kroll, “Audience Inclusion and Exclusion as Rhetorical Technique in the Gospel of Mark,” Journal of Biblical Literature 129 (2010): 717–35; Elizabeth Struthers Malbon, “Narrative Criticism: How Does a Story Mean?,” in Mark and Method: New Approaches in Biblical Studies, ed. Janice Capel Anderson and Stephen D. Moore, 2nd ed. (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2008), 29–58.
11. Cf. Munro, “Women Disciples in Mark?,” 230.
12. Aernie, “Cruciform Discipleship,” 794: “Discipleship means following Jesus in the way of the cross. . . . These women are the only narrative figures who persist with Jesus in the course of these climatic events. Their persistent presence demonstrates their commitment to the shameful paradox of the cruciform nature of Jesus’s gospel.” Cf. M. Perroni, “Discepole di Gesù,” in Donne e Bibbia: Storia ed esegesi, ed. Adriana Valerio (Bologna: EDB, 2006), 203–15; Miller, Women in Mark’s Gospel, 184.
13. Cf. C. Leslie Mitton, The Gospel according to St Mark (London: Epworth, 1947), 133; Philip Carrington, According to Mark (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1960), 331; Howard Clark Kee, Community of the New Age: Studies in Mark’s Gospel (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1977), 91, 152. It is interesting to note the verbs used by the different English versions: “look after him” (NJB); “provided for him” (NRSV); “ministered to him” (RSV).
14. Perroni, “Discepole di Gesù,” 205.
15. Aernie, “Cruciform Discipleship,” 794.
16. Gnilka, Mark, 896.
17. See Maria Luisa Rigato, “Tradizione e redazione in Marco 1, 29–31: La guarigione della suocera di Pietro,” Rivista Biblica 17 (1969): 152.
18. Cf. Marie Sabin, “Women Transformed: The Ending of Mark Is the Beginning of Wisdom,” Cross Currents 48 (1998): 150–52.
19. Cf. Paul Lamarche, “La guérison de la belle-mère de Pierre et le genre littéraire des évangiles,” La nouvelle revue théologique 88 (1965): 519.
20. Cf. Xavier Léon-Dufour, “La guérison de la belle-mère de Simon-Pierre,” Estudios Bíblicos 24 (1965): 206–7.
21. Malick, “Simon’s Mother-in-Law as a Minor Character in the Gospel of Mark,” 4–9.
22. “In terms of Markan narrative, she is the first to act like Jesus himself ” (Sabin, Women Transformed, 151).
23. Cf. Mario DiCicco, “What Can One Give in Exchange for One’s Life? A Narrative-Critical Study of the Widow and Her Offering, Mark 12:41–44,” Currents in Theology and Mission 25 (1998): 446.
24. Cf. Miller, Women in Mark’s Gospel, 56.
25. Cf. Maria J. Selvidge, “Mark 5:25–34 and Leviticus 15:19–20: A Reaction to Restrictive Purity Regulations,” Journal of Biblical Literature 103 (1984): 619–23.
26. Cf. M. Navarro Puerto, “Tendenze attuali nell’esegesi femminista: Mc 5, ” in Donne e Bibbia: Storia ed esegesi, ed. Adriana Valerio (Bologna: EDB, 2006), 348–61.
27. Cf. Clementina Mazzucco, “Gesù e la donna sirofenicia (Mc 7, 24–30): Un dibattito con due vincitori,” in Mysterium Regni Ministerium Verbi: Scritti in onore di mons. Vittorio Fusco, ed. Ettore Franco, Supplementi alla Rivista Biblica 38 (Bologna: EDB, 2000), 428.
28. Christopher D. Marshall, Faith as Theme in Mark’s Narrative (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 106–7.
29. The peculiarity of the text has led to interpretations of the Syrophoenician as (1) an example of faith: Matthew L. Skinner, “ ‘She Departed to Her House’: Another Dimension of the Mother’s Faith in Mark 7:24–30, ” Word & World 26 (2006): 14–21; Adela Yarbro Collins, Mark: A Commentary, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2007), 365–68; (2) paradigmatic of those who are marginalized in society: Richard A. Horsley, Hearing the Whole Story: The Politics of Plot in Mark’s Gospel (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2001), 213–15; Gerd Theissen, The Gospels in Context: Social and Political History in the Synoptic Tradition, trans. Linda M. Maloney (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991), 68–80; Sharon H. Ringe, “A Gentile Woman’s Story, Revisited: Rereading Mark 7.24–31a, ” in A Feminist Companion to Mark, ed. Amy-Jill Levine with Marianne Blickenstaff, Feminist Companion to the New Testament and Early Christian Writings (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 2:79–100; (3) someone able to challenge Jesus: Jim Perkinson, “A Canaanitic Word in the Logos of Christ; or the Difference the Syro-Phoenician Woman Makes to Jesus,” Semeia 5 (1996): 68; Aruna Gnanadason, “Jesus and the Asian Woman: A Post-Colonial Look at the Syro-Phoenician Woman/Canaanite Woman from an Indian Perspective,” Studies in World Christianity 7 (2001): 162–77; Ched Myers, Binding the Strong Man: A Political Reading of Mark’s Story of Jesus (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 1988); David M. Rhoads, “Jesus and the Syrophoenician Woman in Mark: A Narrative Critical Study,” Journal of the American Academy of Religion 62 (1994): 343–75; Surekha Nelavala, “Smart Syrophoenician Woman: A Dalit Feminist Reading of Mark 7:24–31, ” Expository Times 118 (2006): 69.
30. Julien C. H. Smith, “The Construction of Identity in Mark 7:24–30: The Syrophoenician Woman and the Problem of Ethnicity,” Biblical Interpretation 20 (2012): 458–81.
31. See Hugh Anderson, The Gospel of Mark (London: Morgan & Scott, 1976), 191; Rudolf Pesch, Il vangelo di Marco (Brescia: Paideia, 1982), 1:606. Markan narrative shows none of the stress on the priority of Israel present in Matthew’s Gospel. Sacchi, after noting that Jesus heals people coming from Idumea, from beyond the Jordan and from Tyre and Sidon (3:8, 10), and transforms a man possessed by an evil spirit into an apostle (5:20), says, “Salvation is no longer reserved for Israel but is now available to all humanity in the person of Jesus.” Alessandro Sacchi, “ ‘Lascia prima che si sazino i figli . . .’ (Mc 7, 24–30): Gesù e i gentili nel vangelo di Marco,” in “La parola di Dio cresceva” (At 12, 24): Scritti in onore di Carlo Maria Martini nel suo 70° compleanno, ed. Rinaldo Fabris (Bologna: EDB, 1998), 146.
32. Cf. James A. Brooks, Mark, New American Commentary (Nashville: Broadman, 1991), 121; Vincent Taylor, Marco: Commento al vangelo messianico (Assisi: Cittadella, 1977), 402. This hypothesis is difficult to justify in light of the context in which the pericope is inserted. It follows a discussion of purity/impurity, in which Jesus criticizes tradition that tends to manipulate God and subordinate the person to the religious structure (7:13). His last words, “What comes out of a person defiles him. For from within, out of the human heart, come evil ideas, sexual immorality, theft, murder, adultery, greed, evil, deceit, debauchery, envy, slander, pride, and folly. All these evils come from within and defile a person” (7:20–23), seem to prepare the reader to listen to the words of a pagan woman as the manifestation of the purity of her believing heart.
33. See Mazzucco, “Gesù e la donna sirofenicia,” 414–19.
34. Cf. Skinner, “She Departed to Her House,” 17–18.
35. Cf. Pesch, Il vangelo di Marco, 1:391; Robert H. Gundry, Mark: A Commentary on His Apology for the Cross (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1993), 377.
36. Cf. Lawrence D. Hart, “The Canaanite Woman: Meeting Jesus as Sage and Lord: Matthew 15:21–28 and Mark 7:24–30, ” Expository Times 122 (2010): 20–25.
37. Mazzucco, “Gesù e la donna sirofenicia,” 429.
38. Cf. Kinukawa, Women and Jesus in Mark, 51–61; Ringe, “A Gentile Woman’s Story, Revisited,” 91–92.
39. Cf. William Loader, “Challenged at the Boundaries: A Conservative Jesus in Mark’s Tradition,” Journal for the Study of the New Testament 63 (1996): 45–51.
40. DiCicco, What One Can Give, 441–49.
41. Cf. Pesch, Il vangelo di Marco, 2:494.
42. Ibid.
43. Cf. DiCicco, What Can One Give, 445.