A desperate plea
2500 years ago, someone understood what was at stake
Part 3 of a study on the Song of Songs (part 1, part 2, part 4).
[I]f sex is an obligation and you don’t have a choice, then sex isn’t a knowing; it’s an owing. And if one person’s needs and preferences don’t matter because of the other’s entitlement or rights, then sex won’t feel like an intimate experience. It will feel like an erasure of you as a person. Is that really God’s plan for sex in marriage?
Sheila Wray Gregoire, The Marriage You Want, p. 103
Our culture’s idealization of breathless, urgent, desperate, and therefore thoroughly depersonalized sex, is an historical aberration. The sexuality seen in ancient Sumerian poetry, where “hotness” and “availability” were banished even from the act of sex itself in order to make space for relaxed bonding and connection, appears to have been the norm for most of the time that humans have been human.
Then, around 2500 years ago, something happened.
That a cultural shift happened around 500 BC is widely accepted. Why it happened we may never know for sure. One possible cause is the rise of the conquest state. Now there were enough civilizations each accumulating wealth that it became more lucrative to take from your neighbors that to produce for yourself. The new warrior kings found a sexuality of taking and using more congenial to their concept of manhood, and dismissed the giving-and-receiving sexuality of the shepherd kings as weak, effeminate, and degenerate.1
The rise of the conquest state likely also meant that men’s initiation into sex was usually not with an equal, but with a captive on the battlefield. Theologian Walter Wink writes:
The conquest state brought about changes so fundamental as to mark a new epoch in human history. […] And plunder included the seizure of desirable females as slaves, concubines, wives, and sexual toys (male captives were unreliable and so were generally killed).2
Rabbinical writings
Israel is one nation where we can trace this cultural shift most clearly. Jewish people care deeply about what they do and how they do it, and an ongoing dialog about how to properly conduct oneself in all aspects of life can be found in rabbinical writings — the Talmud — starting after the return from the Babylonian exile around 500 BC.
The Talmud insists that the “natural” way to have sex is strictly intercourse, with the man on top; side-by-side Dumuzi-style sex is a pagan deviation. A man can’t force his wife, but for her to refuse him is a sin that will result in disabled children. Kissing or even looking at the wife’s genitals will have the same result. A righteous man performs the act as quickly as possible, as if driven by a demon. In other words, any mode of sex that provided a chance for the wife to experience pleasure has been eliminated. It is now unimaginable that a wife might ask for sex for any reason other than religious duty, and in any event it would be unseemly for her to do so.
The idea that there was a civilized and an uncivilized way to have sex was so deeply ingrained in society that it couldn’t be eliminated. However, “civilized” was redefined: now it doesn’t mean that the man prioritizes his wife’s pleasure first, but merely that he jokes and laughs with her a bit to put her at her ease before he “takes care of his needs.”
But the wonderful thing about the Talmud is that the rabbis cared more about preserving all sides of the discussion than about presenting a single correct answer. So, even there we do find dissenting voices. Here’s a passage where the disciple, Kahana, wanting to learn the righteous way to conduct oneself sexually, goes about it in the most straighforward way: by hiding under his rabbi’s bed and observing him.
Rav Kahana entered and lay beneath Rav’s bed. He heard Rav chatting and laughing with his wife, and seeing to his needs, i.e., having relations with her. Rav Kahana said to Rav: The mouth of Abba, Rav, is like one who has never eaten a cooked dish, i.e., his behavior was lustful. Rav said to him: Kahana, you are here? Leave, as this is an undesirable mode of behavior. Rav Kahana said to him: It is Torah, and I must learn. (Berakhot 62a:3)
Lustful behavior toward one’s wife, Kahana insists, is not okay. He is shocked to see his rabbi behaving “like one who has never eaten a cooked dish.” Now. Did you catch what he’s quoting there, and why it matters?
If you read my previous post, you may recognize this as a reference to the wild man Enkidu from the Epic of Gilgamesh — a poem that at this point was three thousand years old, written in a language that had been dead for two thousand years. It seems that recognition of the Enkidu-Dumuzi distinction was still deeply embedded in the culture, even as the religious leaders were trying to establish Enkidu as the new norm.
A prophetic response
The story of ancient Israel is a story of three powers. The political leaders, pursuing prosperity and safety. The religious leaders, pursuing order and purity. And the prophets, who, when necessary, defy the other two in order to articulate a radically different vision of human flourishing.
That vision is called shalom: a word which is often translated “peace”, but has many other meanings wrapped up in it: right relationship, wholeness, health, human flourishing.3 It’s a vision of human life where wellbeing is not achieved by being in control, but by being in community.
In 500 BC, when the political leaders were embracing a sexuality and a worldview of taking and using, and the religious leaders were redefining sex as a male need and a female obligation, this dissenting prophetic tradition was not silent. A prophetic work about sex appeared, narrated primarily in the powerful voice of “the Shulammite” — literally, the “woman from Shalom.” Until Jesus started going around calling himself God, this may have been the most audacious title any prophet had ever claimed. Shalom is God’s perfect world, and she is claiming that as her home town. She is an emissary from the land of wholeness.
And this prophetic work — the Song of Songs — is also a Sumerian erotic poem. The last and greatest entry in the genre, and one that breaks the rules of that genre in shocking ways.
The big picture
There’s a lot going on in the Song of Songs. But the author intentionally clues the reader to focus on one particular part.
A common device used in Hebrew writing is chiasm, where words or phrases within a passage are repeated in an ABCCBA order. A careful reader who notices the chiasm can look to the “center” of it to find hidden treasure — some extra insight into the text.4 Many familiar stories, like the creation story or the flood story, contain lessons highlighted by subtle use of chiasm.
The Song of Songs is not subtle.
It contains at least three5 lengthy and prominent repeated passages arranged concentrically:
“Oh, that his left hand were under my head and his right hand embracing me! Daughters of Jerusalem, swear to me, by the gazelles and by the does of the field, that you will never awaken, never arouse love until it desires.” (2:6-7 and 8:3-4).
“My beloved is mine and I am his; he pastures among the lilies” (2:14 and 6:3).
“I looked for him, but did not find him. The watchmen found me as they made their rounds in the city.” (3:2-3 and 5:6-7)
At the center of the chiasm, tightly bookended by the third pair of passages, we find two sex scenes. Two scenes that seem to be in deliberate contrast.
An emphatic charge to the audience
In the first scene, the Shulammite, lying awake at night longing for her lover, gets up and wanders about the city looking for him. When she finally finds him, she grabs him and literally drags him back to her bedroom. A rather unseemly forwardness in a woman, by the rabbinical reckoning! Then she turns and addresses the women in the audience:
Daughters of Jerusalem, swear to me, by the gazelles and by the does of the field, that you will never awaken, never arouse love until it desires. (3:5)
This is the third repetition of this charge to the audience (the other two are in the framing chiasm), and the language is over-the-top emphatic, a solemn oath. The Shulammite is clearly really, really serious about this. But what exactly is she saying?
“Easy!” says the study Bible I got as a teen. It means, “never ever have sex until you are married!”
Except that’s not what it actually says, is it?
It is pretty clear that she’s talking about when it’s okay to decide to have sex. In 3:5 she has just dragged her lover into her bedroom, and in the other two, “left hand under my head and right hand caressing me” is the standard description of Dumuzi-style side-by-side turn-taking sex. But what exactly is she warning us not to do?
Never, ever have sex… unless you want to, in which case, sure, go for it! The “until it desires” seems to sabotage the solemn charge she is trying to give. The only way this could possibly make sense, as written, would be if, for some bizarre reason, women were having sex… that they didn’t want.
Which, of course, is precisely what was happening in Jewish culture at the time the Song of Songs was written. That’s bad. But what’s worse is that this is also precisely what has been happening in Christian culture today.
The picture above shows many of the bestselling Christian books on sex and marriage from the last few decades. All of them say, in some form or another: Men need sex, and their wives have to give it to them, whenever they want it, so that the men won’t be tempted into getting what they need somewhere else.
This “obligation sex” message arose as a response to women’s liberation, the sexual revolution, and the rising tide of pornography. Terrified at the dangers besetting men, who now had to be faced with the presence of attractive women even in their workplaces, Christian leaders seized upon a simple solution: If we made sure all men were getting tons of sex from their wives, they wouldn’t feel tempted to get it from… unsanctified sources.
Except that’s not how it works, right? You don’t get a man to stop behaving like Enkidu by ensuring there is a body always available for him to use. You get a man to stop behaving like Enkidu by teaching him to not use people’s bodies.
So, it’s unsurprising that churches that teach this sort of message have significantly higher rates of porn use, adultery, and sexual abuse. If you’ve ever wondered why there’s a sex scandal involving a prominent Evangelical roughly every other Tuesday — well, this message is a big part of it. But that is far from the worst harm caused by this message.
In trying to persuade wives to make themselves unconditionally available, these books all say something to the effect of, “why wouldn’t you do something that costs you so little effort and makes him so happy?” Well, what does it cost someone when their body is treated as an object for someone else to use? The answer is that it destroys their ability to enjoy their own sexuality, and it ruins any chance for either partner to experience sex as something intimate, as a context for connection.
So, hot tip #1 from the Bible about sex: Never ever do it unless you both want to.
More intentional structure
The rest of the first sex scene proceeds very much in the Dumuzi-Innana style, but with some important nuances that I will tackle in the next post. The split between “her turn” and “his turn” happens at the end of chapter 4, which is rather close to the exact center of the book. In fact, if you omit verses 9-13 from the first chapter, then we find:
4 chapters on her side, 4 on his
56 verses on her side, 56 on his
611 Hebrew words on her side, 612 on his
2516 Hebrew characters on her side, 2516 on his
I have a strong suspicion that someone, with characteristic Jewish obsessiveness, balanced this poem perfectly between her and him. And that some later editor who didn’t know the scheme messed it up by splicing in another little poem.
The point to understand, from both this and the chiastic structure, is that the Song of Songs is not a poem that was casually thrown together, or a random compilation of unrelated songs. It was carefully, meticulously crafted with great intentionality and purpose.
After the first sex scene, still inside the chiasm, we find a second, parallel sex scene, set up in deliberate contrast to the first one. A scene so disturbing it is often explained as a nightmare. A scene that is located entirely on the man’s side of the balance. If upon reading that you feel dread clenching you in the stomach, I totally understand if you stop reading now. But I hope you’ll stay with me, because I want you to witness the fierce courage and determination of the Shulammite.
The lock-picking lover
The Shulammite says:
I slept but my heart was awake. Listen! My beloved is knocking: “Open to me, my sister, my darling, my dove, my flawless one. My head is drenched with dew, my hair with the dampness of the night.” I have taken off my robe— must I put it on again? I have washed my feet— must I soil them again? My beloved thrust his hand through the latch-opening; my innards stirred for him. (5:2-4)
The original audience would have expected this to develop into a comic scene. The lover is urgent and impatient. “My head is drenched with dew” is almost certainly innuendo of some sort. And this is clearly setting up for a well-established trope in Sumerian poetry, where the man is waiting outside the door, and the woman takes her time getting ready before welcoming him in her own time.
Then we get to the last line here, and the audience would have gone silent with shock. Oh no, he didn’t! Because reaching through the latch-hole of a door, where the key was supposed to go, meant you were attempting to force the lock.
Into that silence, the poet drop a few stark lines:
I arose to open for my beloved, and my hands dripped with myrrh, my fingers with flowing myrrh, on the handles of the bolt. I opened for my beloved, but my beloved had left; he was gone. My heart sank at his departure. I looked for him but did not find him. I called him but he did not answer. (5:5-6, NIV)
She gets out of bed, grabs the door handle (which he has just been fumbling with), flings the door open… and where did he go? And why is my hand sticky? Why is there goo all over the latch?
One might try to dismiss this as more comic ridiculousness. Oh, ha ha, right at the very moment that her “innards” finally started to “stir”, he was so desperate that he lost control and ejaculated all over the door. But I don’t think anyone is laughing.
The NIV here utterly fails to capture the weight of the original Hebrew language. The phrase “he had left; he was gone” implies utter abandonment. “My heart sank” would be more accurately rendered as “my spirit left my body,” and elsewhere in the Bible always describes literal death.6
And the real reason no one is laughing is that it’s pretty clear than her house is not a house and the latch-hole is not a latch-hole. We’re talking about her body. What this scene is depicting, poetically, is him fumbling around trying to have intercourse when she is half-asleep.
What is this doing here? No way, no how did someone compose this intricately beautiful poem, full of wonder and delight, and then say, “But what would really push it over the top would be if I inserted a marital rape scene right in the middle.”
I can only read this as the desperate plea of someone who knew what was at stake. Who understood what it would mean if Enkidu became the default and only male sexuality, if reciprocal giving and receiving was replaced by taking and using. Someone who dared to use shocking, offensive imagery because they could see the looming darkness and were hoping desperately to avert it.
More radical than consent
Reading through the lens of our own culture’s sexual ethics, we might be awed by the courage of the Shulammite but think that she has nothing to tell us in our more enlightened times. After all, we modern people generally agree that sex requires both partners to be interested. So, we might breathe a sigh of relief that the darkness she was defying has finally lifted.
But the Shulammite isn’t simply insisting on consent in sex. We’re given the deliberately repugnant example of the lock-picking lover not so that we can set the bar at “don’t be like that,” but so that we will see the repugnance of that entire mode of sexuality. The Shulammite wants us to not be Enkidu. And the uncomfortable truth is that a lot of what our culture accepts as normal male sexual behavior looks more like Enkidu than Dumuzi.
Sex driven by male lust is inherently coercive and inherently depersonalized. Even if she says “yes.” Even if she orgasms too. Even if it superficially features woman-friendly sex technique. If he “needs” sex — if she cannot say “no” without believing this will cause him distress — then she cannot freely say “yes.” And if he is operating in “make that happen right now” mode, then he is, by definition, not connecting with her as a person but using her as an object.
So, yes, we should empower and encourage women to say “no.” We should teach men to embrace technique that makes room for quiet connection. But we won’t get anywhere unless we can figure out how to banish lust from the bedroom. And, luckily for us, the Song of Songs is packed with practical advice on how to do that. It all comes down to Relinquishing control.
See Jerrold S. Cooper, Female trouble and troubled males (2017).
The Powers That Be, page 40.
In the words of theologian Walter Brueggemann: “The central vision of world history in the Bible is that all of creation is one, every creature in community with every other, living in harmony and security toward the joy and well-being of every other creature. That persistent vision of joy, well-being, harmony and prosperity is not captured in any single word or idea in the Bible; a cluster of words is required to express its many dimensions and subtle nuances: love, loyalty, truth, grace, salvation, justice, blessings, righteousness. But the term that in recent discussions has been used to summarize that controlling vision is shalom. Both in such discussion and in the Bible itself, it bears tremendous freight — the freight of a dream of God that resists all our tendencies to division, hostility, fear, drivenness, and misery. Shalom is the substance of the biblical vision of one community embracing all creation.” (Living Toward a Vision, p. 13)
I learned about chiasm from the amazing Bema podcast, which unpacks the extraordinary complexity of Biblical texts that non-Jews tend to completely miss because we haven’t been trained in how to read it.
The reference to “my own vineyard” in the first and last chapter is probably a fourth layer of the chiasm.
See The Song of Songs, by Ariel Bloch and Chana Bloch, p. 182 in the 1995 edition, for both these insights on the Hebrew language of these verses.