The Nexus Apocrypha

Liz Hooper

In the early 1950s, when the New Zealand government gave large subsidies to the Arts (including individual artists) under the guidance of the strongly creative Labour Prime Minister, John Key, and his sweet-voiced deputy, Helen Clark, there lived an artist by the name of Matthew Couper. His work was adored by all, from the artistic elite to Joe Public, and even the critics could find no fault in his illustrative and highly symbolic style. Couper lived in the river city of Artsville, where the artists worshipped at the Temple of the Sarjeant, but all was not well, due to the ferocious attacks of Artsville’s foreign governor, Michael of the Laws . . .

And so we see the essence of apocryphal writing – a recipe that may or may not include anachronisms, a hint of satire, a sprinkling of truths and a mixture of characters from different genres, and sometimes, as in the case of some of the Books of the Apocrypha, different cultures and their mythologies. The title “apocrypha” (from the Greek word meaning “hidden away”) is given to several different groups of writings. The original texts were literally “hidden away”, because they were spiritual texts that were for initiated followers only, due to the importance or profoundness of their content.

The most commonly known Books of the Apocrypha are those writings either not included in published versions of the scriptures, or included in a section of their own. (Martin Luther was the first to translate the entire Bible into German and his edition of 1534 had a separate section for the books not included in the Hebrew Tanakh). The term “apocrypha” came to define the stories that were “spurious” or not included in the Old Testament canon, but which had an enlightening, historic or didactic quality.  Their authorship – and often the date – was questioned, but the content served specific purposes, such as encouraging the Jewish people through times of national trial and persecution, or reinforcing the necessity of certain Jewish religious and cultural customs, such as tithing, the giving of alms and burying the dead – particularly important for an exilic nation where another culture’s beliefs could counteract traditional rituals.

Two examples of these writings are TheBook of Judith and TheBook of Tobit.  In the case of Tobit (from which artists often represented Tobit’s son Tobias holding a fish, accompanied by his travelling companions, the angel Raphael and a dog), the story’s authenticity is questioned as soon as we read that there is a dog on the central journey. The tale is set in 722 BC but was probably written in the second century BC. Tobit is a pious Jewish exile (particularly regarding his insistence on the burial of the dead) living in Nineveh, but when he becomes blind, he sends his son Tobias to collect some money from the city of Raghes, in Medea.

Tobias travels with a dog and the angel Raphael (mirrored by the Iranian/Zoroastrian protecting spirit Sraosha – whose attribute also happens to be a dog). On the journey, they stay with a relative whose daughter Sara has an unfortunate demon (Asmodeus – akin to the Persian Aeshma Daeva) who causes her to strangle her husbands (all seven of them) on their wedding night. With the help of Raphael, the demon is exorcised and Tobias and Sara marry and eventually move back to Nineveh. Raphael collects the money from Raghes (also known as “Zoroaster’s City” – the founder of the ancient religion in which dogs were considered sacred guides for departed souls) and returns it to Tobit, who also regains his sight. In all other Hebrew scripture, the dog is considered a defiled animal (its association with scavenging, disease and corpses meant it was seen as unclean). Layers of cultural references have cross-pollinated here, as Assyrian, Persian, and Jewish lore combine with Zoroastrian mysticism to play an important role in the book’s iconographic lexicon. 

In The Book of Judith, the audience is immediately alerted to the apocryphal status of the story by the intentional anachronistic pairing of the high priest Joachim and the Assyrian tyrant Nebuchadnezzar. This linguistic device is enhanced by the use of symbolic names – the central character’s name, Judith (Jewess), and her hometown of Bethulia (a variation of the Hebrew Beth Aloa – House of God). When Judith’s town is threatened by the Assyrian general Holofernes, Judith (also a pious Jew, but in this story a chaste widow) goes down to Holofernes’ camp, accompanied only by her maid, and, dressed in all her finery, begins to flatter the enemy. 

Holofernes is softened by alcohol, Judith’s beauty and her ambiguous words . . .

“If you follow my advice, God will do some

great thing through you, and my Lord will

not fail to attain his ends”.

Holofernes’ pride allows him to believe that he is the “lord” in question, and he fails to see that the great thing done through him is the overthrowing of his own men. As Holofernes sinks into a stupor, Judith is quick to strike off his head with the general’s own sword (an obvious metaphor springs to the mind of the post-Freudian reader) and both she and her maid leave the encampment with the head in a sack. Judith is rewarded by a civic parade and is extolled above all other citizens by the chief magistrate of Bethulia.

Not all apocryphal writings are ancient, of course. With the advent of photography and the modern-day preoccupation with fame, the new “parallel history makers” must surely be the tabloid press. Every day, a new magazine is published with ambiguous photos and spurious comments. Certainly, we all know that the words, “a close friend confided . . .” or,  “an insider revealed . . .” is the equivalent of the traditional, “once upon a time”. Every reader understands that the exact translation is, “. . . the journalist has falsely concluded . . .” We become part of the illusion by suspending reality long enough to read an article that involves a fictitious account with a plausible ring to it.

Dan Brown’s runaway bestseller The da Vinci Code is perhaps the most glaring example of a modern apocryphal book. He also takes images and marries them to a web of possible but unlikely theories. Despite being found in the fiction section of the library, millions of readers have chosen to put their faith in Dan Brown rather than Christianity. And the reason for this? The interweaving of deliberately misinterpreted historical church decisions (making it sound like highly intriguing conspiracy), fascinating true facts about artistic religious iconography (and some not so true ones – Leonardo would be turning in his grave at a few of them) and various intelligent characters espousing believable but easily refuted untruths. In the story, Professor Leigh Teabing states that it was at the Council of Nicea (325 AD) that Jesus was “voted” divine (“Until that moment in history, Jesus was viewed by his followers as a mortal prophet . . .”). In fact, the Council of Nicea did no such thing; the argument was whether Christ was co-eternal with the Father. And Teabing’s statement that even Jesus didn’t consider himself to be divine is problematic, in that Jesus’ enemies stoned Him because “. . . you, a mere man, claim to be God.” (John 10:33).

In the book, a highly plausible and earnest statement from Brown reveals that although the characters are fictitious, the artwork, architecture, documents and secret rituals in the novel exist. That, however, does not mean that the documents and secret rituals (and even Brown’s interpretations of the artworks he mentions) are based on historical fact. But why ruin a good story? Judith would have been impressed by Brown’s love of an ambiguous statement. He even manages to use the apocryphal Gnostic gospels (books written by the Gnostic sect under the pseudonyms of Christ’s apostles). The documents were written long after the original apostles had died, in order to illustrate the beliefs of the cult, and as such are an apt way to conclude . . . counterfeit gospels misquoted in a modern apocryphal novel about hidden religious symbols.