The Good and Evil Serpent (11 page)

This summary could be easily expanded to include others nations and regions, notably Melanesia,
²¹
Haiti,
²²
and Tanganyika.
²³

Serpent symbolism pervades human culture. When C. F. Oldham, a brigade surgeon in the British army in India, began his study of serpent worship, he thought he could focus on India and the challenging culture he had entered. But when he published his
The Sun and the Serpent: A Contribution to the History of Serpent-Worship
, he admitted that “the worship of the Sun and the Serpent” was “once well-nigh universal.”
²⁴

The list mirrors more than ophidian concerns. It discloses the commonality of the human. Does it reflect the human’s reception of meaning from another sphere or dimension? Does it help define human needs? To what extent was Jung tapping into primordial elements inherited by humans at birth? Why has virtually every culture and civilization been enamored of the serpent? Why did the ancients place this creature in accounts of creation (Aborigines, Assyrians, Babylonians, Israelites, Greeks, and others)? Surely, those who cavalierly report that the serpent is a symbol of evil or Satan need to be exposed as uninformed. Yet we have only begun to launch our own investigations.
²⁵

Figure 10
. Consort of Shiva, the Milder Parvatī or Uma. JHC Collection

The bronze statue in
Fig. 10
depicts the consort of Shiva (who is often displayed with serpents in his hair [like Medusa]), not the terrible Kali or Durga but the milder Parvati or Uma. Her tongue and mouth do not drip with blood; she has a bewitchingly attractive smile. The statue was purchased in Jerusalem in the late 1990s and is not more than one hundred years old.

As almost always, the goddess is shown dancing (but here not on the body of her lord). Note the serpents: one in the hair (with a head at each extremity), one in a left hand (reminiscent of one of the Minoan serpent goddesses), and one as an upraised cobra at her feet (with eyes and mouth depicted). Another serpent curls behind her right foot. She is the Mother Goddess in Hinduism. As R. C. Zaehner surmised, Shiva’s consort is “terrifying in her beauty, and her loveliness lies precisely in her frightfulness.”
²⁶
Shiva creates, sustains, and destroys through his “power,” his consort. Since these serpents appear within an image of a goddess, it would be unthinkable that the artist and those who saw the statue were to imagine that they denoted evil. As Ninian Smart reminds us, the depictions of Shiva and his consort symbolize the “awe-inspiring and frightening” aspect of a deity; god “in some sense (so the Hindu tradition claims)” is “beyond good and evil.”
²⁷

THE DOUBLE ENTENDRE OF EXISTENCE AND OPHIDIAN SYMBOLOGY

Why are these two paintings so important for our present quest? They each, especially the earlier
Die Sinnlichkeit
, embody the “both-and” of the phenomena that permeate our very existence and were perennially captured in ophidian symbolism. Both paintings are phenomenal and unforgettable examples of the double entendre, of symbolism that is possible, or most creatively present, in the language of iconography. That is, the alluring invitation is wedded with the venomous curse.

Thus, in this sense the language of art has an advantage over the art of music. Like Kierkegaard’s “either-or,” music can present only one or the other. It is the “either” or it is the “or.” If one chooses the “either” and grounds a concerto on G major, then one is limited by such structure and will scarcely achieve the heights of Mozart’s Konzert für Flöte, Harfe und Orchestra C-Dur. If one chooses the “or” and grounds one’s work on C major, then one will be constricted by that key and eventually become depressed by the inability to achieve what Mozart did in his Konzert für Flöte und Orchester G-Dur.

While music is bounded by such an “either-or,” art is free to present to the reader the “both-and.” That is, the good and evil can both be seen in a painting—and felt simultaneously in a somatic double entendre.

We in the West trifurcate time; thus we are too dependent on Greek and Latin grammar, failing to appreciate the subtleties of “fulfilled” or “unfulfilled” time represented by Semitic languages (as in Hebrew, Aramaic, Syriac, and Arabic). We know from our own life, and reflections on it, that the past, present, and future are not hermetically sealed categories. Existential time transcends such trifurcation. Thus, art, as in the Celtic figure with three faces,
²⁸
can in a blink confront us with past, present, and future. Michelangelo clearly had the gift to present to the viewer the Creator who reaches out to the created and, by the touch of a finger, brings both into a “both-and.”

In the history of symbolism, as in art, the serpent seems to be the quintessential image for representing life’s double entendre. We will soon see that this iconographical message extends from the present back to circa 40,000
BCE
; that is, far back into the prehistorical period. In human existence the serpent is such a multivalent symbol that it can at once symbolize opposites. It can represent, in its bite, “death,” and in its molting “new life.” That is symbolically present in the caduceus (two serpents facing each other), which signifies, sometimes, apotropaism (an object to avert evil).
²⁹
The caduceus is not only reminiscent of Numbers 21, as we shall see, but also placed by physicians and pharmacists on our prescriptions and placarded on buildings for health or health insurance in many places, notably in Amman and Jerusalem. J. B. Russell incorrectly reported that the Ouroboros is “a mythological motif of ambivalence common to the most diverse cultures.”
³⁰
The Ouroboros was not an ambivalent symbol—it showcases the dual symbolic power of the serpent.
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Figure 11
. Marble Votive Relief, Dedicated to Zeus Meilichios (Who Conflates with Asclepius). Found in Piraeus. Fourth century BCE. Athens NAM No. 1434. The image is taken from a professionally made replica in the JHC Collection.

The curled serpent found on Zea Island in the Cyclades probably dates from the fourth century
BCE
, but its identification has been disputed.
³²
The serpent reminds one of the numerous reliefs depicting Asclepius as a snake—especially the relief found at Piraeus and dating from the fourth century
BCE
. B. Johnson too readily announces that the serpent is Zeus Meilichios.
³³
Such an identification may seem beyond question because the Greek above the figure identifies the relief as δII MEIΛIXIΩI. That would mean, perhaps, Zeus Milik,
³⁴
or “Zeus, King (of the universe).” It may not be wise to declare that the figure is simply Zeus. Those who made the image and perhaps those who revered the figure many centuries later may well have imagined that the figure represented Zeus Asclepius. It is imperative to remember that by the time of the Fourth Evangelist Asclepius was equated with Zeus.

Thus, the relief is not to be identified as either Asclepius or Zeus, as too many authors and scholars have struggled to prove. It is both, as Hunger has seen,
³⁵
and the image was made at a time when Asclepius was being perceived as Zeus. Both represent iconographically and mythologically “the king of the universe.”

Another example of the language of symbolism brings forward the problems of deciding between an “either-or” and even whether such a distinction might be meaningful. In 1562, Jacopo Tintoretto painted for the citizens of Venice the recovery of the corpse of St. Mark. He depicted the Alexandrians as fleeing, except for one Egyptian. At the Egyptian’s side is depicted a man who is behind an aged Venetian holding a camel, which will transport the corpse. The man from Alexandria lifts up his left hand. In it is apparently an asp that is about to bite the elder statesman in his buttock.
³⁶

Is the serpent a good or bad symbol? For the Alexandrian man, the serpent is the means chosen to achieve an end, so the serpent is a positive image. Does the serpent depict immortality? And how is the serpent image related to St. Mark’s corpse?

Perhaps the paradigm of good or bad is not the appropriate one suggested by this picture. The proper approach may be to think about the asp in the history of Egypt. It both administers death and transports one into eternity. Is not St. Mark also then seen as the one who symbolizes the promise of eternity—of resurrection with Christ?

Ophidian iconography is often a double entendre; that is, there is an intentional paronomasia linking at least two concepts at the same time. The artist thereby brings together concepts that are related but often separated by distinguishing categories with too rigid boundaries.

There is no greater iconographical symbol than the serpent for presenting the undulating vagaries of human existence. The serpent can embody both evil and good, not only sickness but also health; and—most important—the selfsame iconographical representation. The serpents often depicted beside Anat (a fierce goddess warrior worshipped in the Middle East as early as 2500
BCE
) may signify in one image her role as both creator and destroyer. As with Ouroboros, one is all and all is one. In the fifteenth-century manuscripts of
Aurora consurgens
we are shown, inter alia, an Ouroboros dragon boiling in a flask. Above the monster, sitting on its tail, is an eagle above which is a dove.
³⁷
The Ouroboros can be an androgynous symbol, with the tail as the phallus and the mouth as the womb. Also, with Ouroboros, our two conceptual philosophical paradigms meet: cosmos and chronos. Not only these two concepts, but also many others, are present in one symbol: the serpent.

THE LOST LANGUAGE OF SYMBOLISM AND OUR DISTANCE FROM NATURE

Pondering the symbols of the ancients, we enter an “inner world” and begin to grasp, as D. Fontana states in
The Secret Language of Symbols
, that “a symbol can represent some deep intuitive wisdom that eludes direct expression.”
³⁸
In writing this book, and while discussing the meaning of ophidian symbolism with established experts, I periodically reflected on how far removed we now are from nature and our earth. The snake once represented the earth and water. The dragon came to symbolize the four cardinal elements according to the Greeks: earth, air, fire, and water.

Except in special locations,
³⁹
as in the Snake Temple in Malaya where numerous venomous snakes are fed by monks, or in rare ceremonies, as in the cult of San Domenico at Cocullo,
⁴⁰
the snake is now feared and avoided. In seeking to recover the lost language of symbolism, we might remember that “language is fossil poetry” and that a “close and intimate relation exists between symbolism and philology.”
⁴¹

Most of the images we examine will challenge interpretation. While many are clearly positive, the exact meaning of the symbol is shrouded in opaqueness. Fortunately, we now may employ more than “author-criticism,” which is the search for what the one who made an image may have intended to denote to his or her viewers. We also may utilize “audience-criticism,” which opens new possibilities for seeking to comprehend what those viewing the image might think. As an example of the difficulty in interpreting ophidian symbolism, I cite the fourth-century
BCE
golden headstall of a horse’s bridle that was found south of St. Petersburg and north of the Black Sea (near Cimbalka). A serpent goddess is clearly depicted. Her head, arms, and body are those of a woman, but the feet are two bearded serpents. One is reminded of the anguipede giants depicted on the Pergamum altar (now on public display in Berlin)
⁴²
and the Etruscan depictions of sea demons with snake heads for legs.
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The serpents—and the whole image—clearly denote positive meanings, perhaps royalty, power, beauty, invincibility, magic, and mystery. The interpretation of the image should not be limited to its elements (she is holding two lions); it was placed on the forehead of a horse, probably a majestic stallion, and it is crafted in gold. One is reminded of the uraeus on the gold mask of Tutankhamen.