"As she listened her tears
ran and her body was melted,
as the snow melts along the high places of the mountains
when the West Wind has piled it there, but the South Wind
melts it, and as it melts the rivers run full flood..."
(Homer, Odyssey, 19.204-207)
"… he emptied himself…" (Philippians 2:6)
"… I long for all of you…" (Philippians
 Quite inadvertently, three philologists have opened the
triune life of God and the ecclesial politics of Christians to the
longing of love. Each makes it possible for us to imagine a place
for desire in the Trinitarian history of God and in the body of
Christ. They do this by providing the lexical justification for a
physiological interpretation of Paul's momentous Christological
sentence "he emptied ()
himself." The A.D. 5th century lexicographer Hesychius glosses
erasai ("to pour forth," "to vomit," but also "to love")
E 5630). That the same verb might express loving and the pouring
forth of liquid is not surprising given the ancient association of
falling in love with the liquefaction and draining away of the
lover's organs, a point that will be pursued below. But to stay
with obscure sources a moment longer, we turn to another lexicon,
this one of the 13th century falsely ascribed to the 12th century
historian, Zonaras. Looking up
we find: "to drain away ();
and it is equivalent to 'to melt (()'
(Lexicon K 1196)." Last, listen to an eminent classicist
of the recent past draw what he believes to be an obvious
connection between love and liquid in the one word :
"No satisfactory etymology has been found for
["I love"]… It was, I suggest, in origin just
'I pour out (liquid)'... eramai would thus
originally mean 'I pour out myself, emit liquid' (Middle) or 'I am
poured out'..." This will be our last
use of obscure sources.
The idea, however, has been planted. Now, it is up to us to figure
out what the semantic friendship of emptying, melting, and loving
has to do with Christ's .
 Yet, why would we want to do such a thing? Despite the
vigorous debate over the meaning of the Christ Hymn, there does
seem to be broad agreement that .
is best understood, in some sense, as voluntary self-limitation.
Scholars argue more about timing than the character of the
action. If the agent is the
pre-incarnate Son of God, his kenotic action is thought to be a
matter of setting aside privileges, rights, powers, divinity and so
forth. There is a problem here. It is the presupposition that the
"self" referred to in "he emptied himself" is not actually a body
but a cipher for the things a very powerful being might own and
which he might, in condescension, part with. Were we to refocus our
attention on the physiological sense of ,
we might avoid the flight from the body that traditional exegesis
 If, on the other hand, the agent is the earthly Jesus,
kenotic action is humility in subordination to God's will.
Christ empties himself in the sense that he refuses to reproduce in
his own story the first Adam's grasping after divine status. It is
important to note that just as in the case when
starts from the position of the pre-incarnate agent, here, too, the
body disappears from view, and we are left with the
attitude of self-abnegation and subservience. Yet, so what
if the body disappears? Other than misrepresenting the linguistic
features of this Pauline text, what is the problem?
 The subtle efficiency of voluntary self-limitation as the
projection of one-sided power has not been lost on feminist critics
as Sarah Coakley has pointed out in her helpful map of the
functions in exegesis and theological systems. She is sympathetic
(as I am) to their observation that the limiting of the self, at
first glance, is a fine message, if it is delivered to those
persons who have selves to limit, but it is immoral for the elite
themselves to keep on celebrating Christ's self-limitation
universally, since it appeases the bad conscience of the powerful,
to the extent that we have one, through compensation in a fantasy
world. Moreover, praising Christ's selflessness makes it the
highest Christian virtue, perversely mixing spiritual aspiration
with self-denigration. The interests of the powerful are served
when those persons who do not have selves are persuaded that it is
the highest expression of faith not to want one. The first reason,
then, to attempt a physiological interpretation of
is to break the cycle of elitism and masculine hegemony that
self-limitation and humility in fact preserve, even if on the
surface of things it feels, mostly to men, as though power
were being critiqued. Instead of subjecting
to further refinement with hopes of purging it of these
acknowledged difficulties, I
will pursue the inadvertent hints from the philologists and place
in an entirely different web of meaning, that of bodies melting
with longing and desire.
 Again, why would we want to do such a thing? Not only are
Christology and Trinity at stake in the way we view emptying but
the doctrine of the church as well. Philippians is full of terms
drawn from ancient political theory. Paul is busy refashioning this
rich political vocabulary into an ecclesiology, and interpreters
have observed that Christ's
is the measure by which this creation takes place. The second
reason, then, to attempt a physiological interpretation of
is to block the understanding of the nature of the church as a set
of practices aimed at inculcating the voluntary self-limitation of
Christ. That is stated too negatively. Here is a constructive
approach: to promote the idea of the church as a collection of
political practices that embody Christ's longing for complete
communion with mortals. What follows is prolegomena to
 Where did emptying show up in antiquity? There were indeed
patterned ways of speaking about humility and self-limitation, but
is noticeably absent. Instead,
was a basic term of science, most at home in medicine both at the
theoretical and practical levels. By
practical, I mean evacuations of the stomach or bowels,
bloodletting, or other forms of physician initiated emptying
intended to return the sick body to a balanced
state. As interesting as
these may be, they will not be our concern. Rather, we will visit a
passage in the Hippocratic Nature of Man identified as one
of the two "most ancient definitions of health that can be directly
located in Greek thought, and consequently in Western thought as a
whole." Judging from the
numerous citations of it and commentaries on it up through Galen in
the second century, this very old piece also became a classic text
out of which medical minds reasoned and sick people were treated
(with those physician induced evacuations that we were not going to
 How does pain happen? The human body is composed of blood,
phlegm, yellow bile and black bile, which, when they are combined
in a balanced way, produce health.
 Pain is felt when one of
these elements is in defect or excess, or is isolated in the body
without being compounded with all the others. For when an element
is isolated and stands by itself, not only must the place where it
left become diseased, but the place where it stands in a flood
must, because of the excess, cause pain and distress. In fact when
more of an element flows out of the body than is necessary to get
rid of superfluity, the emptying ()
causes pain. If, on the other hand, it be to an inward part that
there takes place the emptying (),
the shifting and the separation from the other elements, the man
certainly must, according to what has been said, suffer from a
double pain, one in the place left, and another in the place
flooded. (Nature of Man 4; tr. is Loeb Classical
 This passage teaches us that ,
whether within the body or proceeding from the body, involves
liquids on the move. Whether it is internal inundation or a drying
out due to outward flowage,
hurts and it is, oftentimes, noticeably wet. Running on for too
is the death of the body.
 The missing piece in this Hippocratic account of pain is an
explanation for the transition from body solids to those liquids we
have little difficulty in imagining draining away. How does
liquefaction occur? Bodies melt. Organs melt. Flesh melts. The
Greek term is .
Reflecting on the divine provision for the human need for food,
Plato observes in the Timaeus, "And now that all the parts and
members of the mortal animal had come together, since its life of
necessity consisted of fire and breath, and it therefore wasted
away by dissolution ()
and depletion (kenoumenon), the gods contrived the
following remedy (77A)." The vital
heat that animates the body also melts it, empties it, and, in
short, causes it to waste away.
 Throughout the ancient period, the elite gentleman, ever
concerned to preserve a balanced bodily condition, needed to be
wary of the therapist who did not understand the melting effects of
prolonged, gentle massage. With the stakes this high, Galen faults
Theon's failure to discuss the duration of massage, but he
acknowledges that this earlier expert on gymnastics (which included
the subspecialty of massage) pretty much teaches what Hippocrates
taught. If only he would have maintained the Hippocratic
vocabulary, the exact terms of which concern us as well: "Theon,
therefore, when he says in his discussion of gentle and prolonged
massages that it dissolves (diaphorein) and liquefies
if by liquefying ()
he means emptying (to kenoun), designates nothing more
than dissolving (tou diaphorein)." This quibbling over
terms suggests a more or less standardized way of speaking about
illness and pain shared by physicians, gymnastic trainers, massage
therapists, and most likely anyone using their services. At the
core of this discourse is the belief that pain was the result of
the body melting and emptying.
 Now, forget about the doctors and all their fussy talk
about your body drying out, emptying, and wasting away. You, you
lucky duck, are on your way to the theatre! What could be more
pleasant? It is Pompeii shortly before AD 79, and you walk carefree
to the Small Theatre through its graffiti covered west
entrance gate. You notice on the wall the last line of an epigram,
the first in a series of what appears to be a poet's corner:
"incedunt tabificantque animum."
 Poetry. This is refreshing. Love poetry. Even better.
What's to keep you from making your own contribution? Others have.
Apparently, everyone is a poet nowadays. Anything is better than
that first epigram scrawled up there of Taburtinus which filches
the Greek chestnut about the fire of love that melts the soul and
the tears unable to put out the flame, "[and even they]
burn…and waste my spirit."
Though you thought you were escaping the dour doctors, yet even in
love it seems there is no protection from the melting that
 Whether cliché ridden or not, ancient love poetry
simply did not happen without the melted lover flowing away.
Commenting on the phenomenon in connection with her analysis of
lovesickness in the 6th century B.C. poetry of Anacreon, Monica
Silveira Cyrino explains the motif, which would live on at least
another 1200 years if not to the present day:
 The idea of erotic
melting is an indication of the physical decomposition of the
lover's body, which is related in epic poetry to the activity of
weeping and usually accompanied by a certain psychological
disintegration… the notion of melting is presented as a loss
of material form, due to the manipulation of the body by strong
emotion; erotic longing especially works itself upon the lover's
physical integrity, heating and disturbing the body until its
composure is utterly dissolved. This entire complex of ideas is
implied in the phrase when Anakreon calls his eros
 Before Anacreon, Homer set the linguistic stage with his
portrayal of Penelope melting ()
like high mountain snows in a warm wind, but the vocabulary of the
loving body's liquefaction under the force of longing would prove
to be remarkably variegated. We can convince ourselves of this if
we stand with Paulus Silentiarius looking out on the sea of kenotic
sufferers in the poetic tradition. This A.D. 6th century poet wrote
fine, even moving, erotic epigrams when he was not otherwise
occupied with praising the recently rebuilt Hagia Sophia.
Surveying the tradition from his vantage point, we would see lover
after lover melt like wax,
and just plain melt.
We would see them emptied,
sucked dry of blood,
and emaciated. We would see lovers
draining and drained until
dead. We would see lovers
grown old in a single day,
away, with hollow
eyes and empty
hearts, and chasms where
hearts used to be.
We would see lovers roasted so that all that remains is bones and
hair, lovers with innards
eaten by love, and lovers' limbs
consumed by longing.
Perhaps as a respectful gesture to Hesiod, Sappho, and Alcaeus,
Paulus himself preserves the idea of "limb-gnawing" in the most
tender of his poems (AP 5.255), which describes the longing
(pothos) of two lovers.
 We need now to apply to the Christ Hymn what we have
from the philologists, the doctors, and above all, from the poets.
Quite inadvertently, our teachers encourage us to imagine that
Christ's story is about a lover longing for communion with an
absent beloved. The longing and desire are so strong that death in
complete solidarity with the beloved is the only possible ending.
This re-reading may be a very odd experience, since, as I pointed
out above, in its long history of interpretation the Christ Hymn
has been celebrated as the great condescension of God in Christ,
the magnanimous act of humility that would be required if humankind
were to be saved.
But our teachers convince us that even odder yet is the distortion
performed on the phrase "he emptied himself." If
befalls those who long for an absent beloved, then the story of the
Christ Hymn tells not of humble condescension but of Christ's
longing for union with mortals and his desire to share with them
all that he is and has and all that they are and have, just as
lovers want to do.
 The test facing this new reading is to see if the other
elements of Phil 2:6-8 cohere with this kind of .
Can these themes, which in the past have supported the story of
Christ's humble self-limitation, now be returned to the discourse
of longing? We begin with "form of God." Philosophically minded
interpreters think it anthropomorphic to visualize God and have
into "nature" or "essence," but early audiences might have
understood that Paul begins the narrative with a comment about
Christ's uncommon beauty. It was a cliché in poetic speech
to say that a really beautiful person, who could easily make
onlookers, including gods, melt with desire, existed in the divine
form. Greek mythology had
a favorite story line: gorgeous mortal snatched by divine being
lives with gods, undying and forever young. Aristonicus, editor
of Homeric texts in the Augustan age in Alexandria, compresses
Zeus' abduction of Ganymede (Iliad 22.230-235) into this very plot
line. First, he lets us know that Ganymede was beautiful. Ganymede
was so beautiful, in fact, as to be equal to god (antitheos), a
point apparently worth repeating: "…Ganymede, who was the
most beautiful of mortal men. The gods seized him to pour wine for
Zeus on account of his beauty, in order that he might exist with
the immortals." The story is less
about abduction and more about Ganymede's good looks, that is, more
about Ganymede as the one desired by all, but only Zeus may have
him. As one perceptive interpreter of the abduction motif has
noticed, "With his Homeric reputation as the most beautiful youth
in the world, yet unattainable and fit only for a god, Ganymede
corresponds rather to the sexy, unattainable 'pinup' of the
mid-twentieth century America, the Betty Grables and the Marilyn
 Not merely titillating, the abduction motif brings together
deeply religious themes: beauty, desire, and undying life. With
this in mind and getting into the spirit of Aristonicus' plot
compression, we might re-tell the Christ Hymn in this way: "Christ
Jesus, who, although exceedingly beautiful, so beautiful in fact as
to be godlike in form and thus worthy of living in undying youth,
did not regard his existing equally with God a matter of
abduction..." Our re-telling of the story comes to a bump in the
road over the word harpagmos, a very rare word outside of
later Christian commentary on this passage. Traditional exegesis
avoids the embarrassment of erotic seizure in the Godhead by
claiming that although Paul wrote harpagmos he must have
meant the more abstract term harpagma ("something to be
held" or "something to be grasped after"), which is not rare at all
and works very nicely with
as voluntary self-limitation. While some scholars concede that
harpagmos in a treatise roughly contemporary to Paul's
letters should be given pride of place, lexicographical method in
this case, it is asserted, gives a bad result. They move on to the
convenient abstraction. Perhaps, with a deeper appreciation of the
religious and aesthetic dimensions of the abduction motif there
will come an openness to reading it in the Christ Hymn.
 Yet, if one is still embarrassed by abduction within the
Godhead, one need only be reminded that the condition of having
been snatched is precisely what Christ Jesus did not
regard existing equally with God to be. It is vital we take
abduction seriously so that we do not miss the "not said" in this
denial, because beauty, desire and undying life are at stake, woven
into every one of the many instances of this myth in literature and
iconography. Let's pick up the thread of the story and face down
our fear of sexualizing the relationship of God and Christ Jesus,
who, though exceedingly beautiful, did not regard himself a
Ganymede and God a Zeus and his life with God a state of being
universally desired in undying youthfulness. He turned the table on
the usual story of desire and longing. He became the
subject of desire, no longer its object. He longed. He emptied
himself. He became our slave.
 Longing is the heart of Paul's story, too, at least in his
relation to the church at Philippi, whom he addresses as his
"beloved and longed for ones (,
4:1)": "It is right for me to think this way about all of you,
because you hold me in your heart… For God is my witness,
how I long ()
for all of you with the compassion (en splanchnois) of
Christ Jesus (Phil 1:7-8)." Phil 1:8 is a precursor of the Christ
Hymn and provides some clues for understanding the movement of the
of Christ into the body of Paul and, ultimately, into his ecclesial
politics. First, Paul and Christ have organs in common: ta
splanchna. Which organs are these? Ruth Padel writes,
Splanchna (singular splanchnon)
are the innards, the general collection of heart, liver, lungs,
gallbladder, and attendant blood vessels. English translations of
splanchna depend on context. The lexicon reaches for words like
'entrails' (in contexts of divinization) and 'bowels' (in contexts
of emotion). 'Feeling,' 'mood,' 'temper,' or 'mind' often seem more
apt. Slanchna feel. They feel anxiety, fear, grief, and sometimes
love and desire."
 Truly, they are acutely sensitive to love, as the poetic
tradition witnesses. It is possible to die from longing
(pothos) as innards are tossed by desire. This is how Paul
longs for the Philippians: in the innards. This is how Christ
longs, too, in his self-emptying. One more note about organs.
Audiences trained to hear longing and desire in such references to
the innards would have also appreciated the finely wrought
ambiguity in verse 7 where the rules of Greek grammar allow us to
translate either "I am in your heart" or "You are in my heart," or
we might do well to let the ambiguity simply sit there and express
the same mutual ecstasy and communion of organs between Paul and
the church that Paul and Christ have.
 The second thing that makes 1:8 a precursor of the Christ
Hymn is the verb which typifies Paul's relationship to the church:
("I long for"). Next to ,
pothos is the most important term in the ancient discourse
of desire. Only one thing
distinguished the two. It is
when your beloved is present; pothos when he or she is
absent. Remember that sea
of kenotic sufferers whom you and Paulus Silentiarius
looked out upon? Most had pothos. Better, pothos
had them. The
of Christ in longing for mortals has made its way via Paul's
innards to longing for the church. The consequences of this sharing
between Christ and Paul work themselves out in the letter as Paul
"kenoticizes" ancient political theory, imagining the
church's common life as a happening once again of the narrative of
longing in the Christ Hymn.
 It has been my goal to shift the foundational narrative of
the church away from Christ's
understood as an act of voluntary self-limitation to
as the physiological result of erotic longing.
in the sense of traditional exegesis suffers from delusions of
humility. It appeases the guilt of the elite by projecting into the
Christian view of reality the ideal of selflessness, condescension,
and humility, but the truth of the matter is that the most powerful
people in this world, both spiritual and secular, hide their power,
mask it even from themselves, by describing themselves as
"servants." I fear that interpretation of the Christ Hymn too often
protects the self of the one who has a self and ridicules the one
who lacks a self but has the impudence to want one.
in the sense that I would wish to dominate (and this is the only
sense it was known to the ancients when speaking of bodies) means
melting and draining away. It is the bodily sign of longing and
desire for communion. Christians like Paul appropriated this
in order to speak the gospel. Then they appropriated the gospel of
for their ecclesial politics: "Only let your conversation
(politeuesthai) be as it becometh the gospel of Christ (Phil
1:27)." With this ancient, physiological interpretation of ,
we have begun to retrieve the Pauline polity of God.
© April 2005
Journal of Lutheran Ethics (JLE)
Volume 5, Issue 4
 Richard Broxton Onians, The Origins
of European Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1954)
202, n. 5.
 Readers might disbelieve my claim
that these are the last instances of obscure sources in this essay,
since I place Paul into conversation with two overlapping cultural
enterprises of the ancient world, medicine and erotic poetry, which
may appear foreign, recondite, and just plain irrelevant to
to longing and desire, therefore, I have selected as sources
cultural productions that had a high degree of public visibility in
the ancient world - graffiti, sculpture, engraved gem stones, poems
written for recitation at banquets and weddings, comedy, poems
written for publication but which imitated the ones written on
stone, and the "giants" whom one could quote in oratory with good
effect, Homer and Sappho, to name just two. In terms of medicine, I
have found the most illuminating material in classic texts, which
define the theoretical basis of ancient medicine, and in treatises
written for the practical needs of elite men seeking to preserve
 For the exegetical options and
their theological consequences, see Sarah Coakley, Powers and
Submissions: Spirituality, Philosophy and Gender (Oxford:
Blackwell, 2002) 3-39.
 "Kenosis: Theological Meanings and
Gender Connotations," in John Polkinghorne (ed.), The Work of Love:
Creation as Kenosis (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001) 192-210, see
 I believe this is Coakley's
proposal, and her very circumspect (because of the possibilities of
abuse) exploration of vulnerability and contemplation deserves
serious consideration (Powers and Submissions, 32-39), although
there does appear to be a gap between the meaning of kenôsis
in her proposal and the sense of the word in Paul and the ancient
definition of medicine is revealing: "For medicine may be described
as the science of what the body loves, or desires, as regards
repletion and evacuation (kenôsin)… (Symposium 186C)."
Tr. is Michael Joyce in E. Hamilton and H. Cairns, The Collected
Dialogues of Plato (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1961)
 Galen, On Prognosis 3.15-16.
 J. Jouanna, Hippocrates (tr. M. B.
DeBevoise; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999)
 For one of many examples, see
Galen, De atra bile 5.120-121. Philosophers borrowed these medical
thoughts, including the central role of kenôsis, for their
theory of pleasure and pain. See A. E. Taylor, A Commentary On
 Tr. is B. Jowett in Hamilton and
Cairns, The Collected Dialogues of Plato, 1198-1199.
 Galen, De sanitate tuenda 6.102.
Tr. is R. M. Green, A Translation of
(Springfield, Ill.: Thomas, 1951) 61.
 With apologies to David O. Ross,
Jr., "Nine Epigrams from Pompeii (CIL 4.4966-73)," Yale Classical
Studies 21 (1969) 127-142.
Poetry (Lanham, Md.: University Press of America, 1995)
 Pindar, frg. 123; AP 5.210;
 Apollonius Rhodius, Argonautica
3.724-726; Callimachus, frg. 75.12-19; Anacreontea 11.
 Theocritus, Idyll 2.55.
 Theocritus, Idyll 2.54-56.
 Cyrino, In
 Patricia A. Rosenmeyer, The
Poetics of Imitation: Anacreon and the Anacreontic Tradition
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992) 156-159.
 Cyrino, In
 Clayton Zimmerman, The Pastoral
Narcissus: A Study in the First Idyll of Theocritus (Lanham, Md.:
Rowan & Littlefield, 1994) 41, 60-70. Zimmerman joins a good
number of scholars who draw attention to Plutarch, Quaestionum
convivalium 681B: "Vision provides access to the first impulse of
love, that most powerful and violent experience of the soul, and
causes the lover to melt (rein) and be dissolved (leibesthai) when
he looks at those who are beautiful, as if he were pouring forth
(ekcheomenon) his whole being towards them."
 Apollonius Rhodius, Argonautica
 Apollonius Rhodius, Argonautica
 Theocritus, Idyll 1.140-41.
 Theocritus, Idyll 12.2.
 AP 5.5; 5.154; 12.166.
 Theocritus, Idyll 3.17; AP
 Donald A. Beecher and Massimo
Ciavollela, A Treatise on Lovesickness: Jacques Ferrand (Syracuse,
N.Y.: Syracuse University Press, 1990) 270-271, 276-277; Peter
Toohy, Melancholy, Love, and Time: Boundaries of the Self in
Ancient Literature (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press)
 Theocritus, Idyll 1.37, 88, 92;
 AP 5.278.
 Heliodorus, Aethiopica
 AP 12.71.
 AP 5.288; 5.239.
 Hesiod, Works and Days 66; AP
 Humankind becomes the object of
re-assigned, turned away from humans directly and subordinated to
the goal of saving them. This can be seen in the earliest comment
on "he emptied himself." Clement of Alexandria (Protrepticus 1.8.4)
employs a term (glichomai) which in fact does honor the overtones
of longing in ekenôsen, but he does not allow this verb to
describe the connection between Christ and humans. Instead, he
subordinates it to a purpose clause: sosai ton anthropon
glichomenos. This is the fate of kenosis in the patristic era.
 Leah Rissman, Love as War:
Homeric Allusion in the Poetry of Sappho (Königstein/Ts.;
Hain, 1983) 69-87.
 Mary K. Lefkowitz, "Seduction and
Rape in Greek Myth," in Angeliki E. Laiou (ed.), Consent and
Coercion to Sex and Marriage in Ancient and Medieval Societies
(Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection,
 Tr. is mine.
 H. A. Shapiro, "Eros in Love:
Pederasty and Pornography in Ancient Greece," in Amy Richlin (ed.),
Pornography and Representation in Ancient Rome (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1992) 63.
 Peter T.
Commentary on the Greek Text (Grand Rapids: Eerdmanns, 1991)
211-216. The erotic aspect of the word is obvious in the
non-Christian occurrences of harpagmos (Ps.-Plutarch, De liberalis
educandis 12A; Vettius Valens, Anthologiarum 9.122; Hephaestion,
Apotelesmatica 210. The instance in Phrynichus is a morphological
note from which no semantic conclusions can be drawn.
 For one more analysis of the
"usual story," see Andrew Stewart, "Rape?" in Ellen D. Reeder
(ed.), Pandora: Women in Classical Greece (Princeton: Trustees of
the Walters Art Gallery /Princeton University Press, 1995)
 The poetic motif of "the slavery
of love" is in play here. For its sense of "extravagant devotion,"
see P. Murgatroyd, "Servitium amoris and the Roman Elegists,"
Latomus 40 (1980) 589-606.
 In and Out of the Mind: Greek
Images of the Tragic Self (Princeton: Princeton University Press,
 Herodas, Mime 1.55-60. See Daniel
Garrison, Mild Frenzy: A Reading of the Hellenistic Love Epigram
(Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1978) 75-76.
 This is but a small sampling from
a huge pool: AP 2.255 and Catullus 45.20.
 Pothos is literally next to
Erôs in ancient sculpture and other visual representation.
See James H. Schwartz, "Engraved Gems in the Collection of the
American Numismatic Society: Intaglios with Eros," American Journal
of Numismatics 11 (1999) 13-45.
 The ramifications of pothos in
ancient culture have been revealed brilliantly and often touchingly
by Maurizio Bettini, The Portrait of the Lover (tr. Laura Gibbs;
Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999). Other traces of
longing in Philippians must wait for another day.
 The development of this theme
will appear in a book I am presently co-authoring with my
colleague, Gary Simpson. The working title is Communicative Body.
appropriation of ancient political theory, without fully
appreciating the centrality of longing and desire, see "Free Speech
in Pauline Political Theology," Word & World 12 (1992) 345-351
and "Pauline Ethics: Congregations as Communities of Moral
Deliberation," in Karen L. Bloomquist and John R. Stumme (eds.),
The Promise of Lutheran Ethics (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998)