Abstract
The existence of those who do not experience sexual attraction (asexual) and those who do not experience romantic attraction (aromantic) is an underrecognized reality with implications for biblical interpretation. This article examines current interpretation of the Song of Songs, finding evidence of compulsory sexuality and amatonormativity which serve to dehumanize asexuals and aromatics respectively. I show how the highly sexual nature of Song 5.2–6 resides solely within innuendo and double entendre that is dependent on the imagination of the interpreter and moreover may not be obvious to an asexual. I then read the text without the sexual overlay to reveal a story of mismatched desire, which may include a mismatch of type of desire. I also find the actions and experiences of the woman in the text to evoke the experience of platonic abandonment. The readings developed here highlight the possibilities of an asexual aromantic perspective and contribute to the queer project of resistance to hermeneutical hegemony.
At a basic level, [the Song of Songs] reminds us that romance and sexual attraction are part of what it means to be human and are a gift from a good creator (Mathews, 2022: 29).
Song of Songs is considered the most sexual book of the bible. As a series of poems or songs wherein a male and female voice praise each other and exhibit a desire to be together, it is almost always understood—as the epigraph exemplifies—to celebrate love in its romantic and sexual forms. However the existence of asexual and aromantic people gives pause to such interpretations that valorize sexual and romantic relating as essential to the human condition. As an aromantic asexual I use that queer positionality to reveal the links between Song of Songs and the concepts of compulsory sexuality and amatonormativity. I then offer an alternative reading of Song of Songs 5.2–6 as a way of queering the tradition. It is hoped that tackling such a sexually explicit passage will demonstrate the potential of the Song to be read outside the sexual and romantic paradigm, thereby opening new ways of relating to the book, not least for aromantic asexual people.
The Asexual Visibility and Education Network (AVEN) defines an asexual as ‘a person who does not experience sexual attraction’(The Asexual Visibility and Education Network, n.d.). It can be understood as a sexual orientation alongside the allosexual ones: heterosexuality, homosexuality, and bisexuality / pansexuality. Data analysis of a national British survey revealed that approximately 1% of the population reports never having experienced sexual attraction (Bogaert, 2004: 279). As Bogaert notes, this is a ‘significant minority’ (2004: 284). Despite this, asexuality is not well-recognized, in part perhaps due to its marking an absence, an absence that is not felt as such by most of its referents (Bogaert, 2015: 368).
The assumption of the universality of sexual attraction, sexual desire, and sexual relating, and their centrality to human life and flourishing, is undermined by the existence of asexuality (Brunning and McKeever, 2021: 512). The term ‘compulsory sexuality’ was coined by Elizabeth Emens to describe the way such assumptions are embedded into social institutions such as the law (Emens, 2014: 303). Much like Adrienne Rich’s use of ‘compulsory heterosexuality’ (2003), compulsory sexuality describes the way sexuality is imposed in both overt and subtle ways. As a prescribed script, there is pressure to make one’s life fit the mould (Rich, 2003: 34). The pervasiveness of sexuality within popular culture is an example, something which has been described by asexuals as an ‘onslaught’, provoking a sense of alienation (Vares, 2022: 7, 14). Moreover, Ela Przybylo coins the term ‘sexusociety’ to ‘textually indicate the diluted omnipresence of sexuality in our western contemporary context’ (2011: 446).
Compulsory sexuality interacts with other factors such as race, gender, ability, and age to prescribe sexual desire and activity for all those deemed able (Przybylo, 2019: 16–17). Asexuality then becomes either an impossibility or a sign of deficiency. It manifests in stereotypes of asexuals as repressed, confused, or secretly gay (Brunning and McKeever, 2021: 509). Moreover, asexuals are typically perceived as immature or less than fully human (Brown and Partridge, 2021: 1006). At its worst it can result in the threat of what Emens terms ‘corrective rape’ (2014: 511).
The phenomenon of attraction is often reduced to sexual attraction, as if this were the only type of attraction that existed. However the existence of those who are aromantic—not experiencing romantic attraction—reveals that sexual and romantic attraction are separate entities and do not always align (e.g., heterosexual aromantic). For those who are both aromantic and asexual, attraction can take the form of emotional, intellectual, aesthetic, and sensual attraction (Chen, 2020: 29). It is only when the dominant categories of sexual and romantic attraction are removed that other aspects of attraction are revealed.
As with asexuals in the sexusociety, aromantics suffer from the ubiquity of romantic discourses (Vares, 2022: 7, 14). The paucity of aromantic characters are stereotyped as lacking emotion, making them either sociopathic, robotic, or non-human (Chen, 2020: 125–29). Although friendships can be significant sites of deep intimacy and care, singles are often seen as having ‘empty’ lives (Brake, 2012: 93). Accordingly, Elizabeth Brake coined the term ‘amatonormativity’ to refer to the ‘disproportionate focus on marital and amorous love relationships as special sites of value, and the assumption that romantic love is a universal goal’ (2012: 88). Aromantic asexuals challenge amatonormativity by questioning the compulsion to couple, revaluing friendship, and transfiguring dyadic thinking (Przybylo, 2011: 456).
Queer theory provides a useful framework for thinking about the role of asexuals and aromantics in relation to compulsory sexuality and amatonormativity. In David Halperin’s oft-quoted definition, queer is a ‘positionality vis-à-vis the normative’; it is ‘whatever is at odds with the normal, the legitimate, the dominant’ (1995: 62). As a positionality it can also be conceptualized in terms of Sarah Ahmed’s Queer Phenomenology as being orientated ‘slantwise’ to the world (2006: 65). Which way we face impacts what we see, so being orientated ‘slantwise’ allows for different objects to come into view, and for the ability to see what is overlooked when residing within the familiar (Ahmed, 2006: 33–34).
Theological queering involves ‘the deliberate questioning of heterosexual experience and thinking which has shaped our understanding of theology, the role of the theologian and hermeneutics’ (Althaus-Reid, 2003: 2). Queer theology also questions the role of theology in supporting structures of oppression (Knauss and Mendoza-Álvarez, 2019: 8). In regard to biblical texts, the queer positionality of asexual aromantic allows a ‘slantwise’ view that will necessarily notice different elements within the text. Highlighting these allows an alternative reading that challenges the familiar, normative interpretation. An approach to Song of Songs that highlights asexual aromantic experience and thinking thereby questions compulsory sexuality and amatonormativity inherent within the heterosexual (and allosexual) readings. As a queer approach, it seeks to peel away the layers of assumption that have overlaid the text and that work to promulgate these discourses and their negative effects (Cornwall, 2011: 142). Alongside critique, it seeks to develop constructive and creative new interpretations (Knauss and Mendoza-Álvarez, 2019: 8).
Song of Songs
The epigraph is an excellent example of compulsory sexuality and amatonormativity at play within interpretation of the Song. The assumption that everyone experiences both romantic and sexual attraction underpins the linking of these with ‘what it means to be human’. As was mentioned earlier, both asexuals and aromantics suffer from dehumanization, and statements such as this serve to further such processes, giving them theological validation. Mathews’ statement, moreover, is hardly unique. Consider the following (my emphasis):
1
The Song’s lyrical contents, which, in their gushing about a torrid romance, reflect the longings of ordinary people about the most basic of human drives for love and sexual intimacy (Spencer, 2017: lxi). It is important to insist on the Song’s primary significance in relationship to an important aspect of our humanity: love and sexuality (Longman, 2001: 58). Its unapologetic depiction of rapturous, reciprocal love between a man and a woman does model an important dimension of human existence, an aspect of life that ancient Israel understood to be divinely instituted and sanctioned (Murphy, 1990: 100). The Song of Songs knows the queer truth that love, desire and sexual life are given for the full-blossoming of human persons (King, 2006: 364).
Each of these quotes associates ‘love’ with humanity, making it a marker of human personhood, and its absence, therefore, a site of the less-than-fully-human. Furthermore, they closely associate ‘love’ with the sexual, thereby conflating the two and eliminating the possibility of non-sexual forms of attraction, desire, and intimate relating.
It is also worth noting the strength of the connection in the final quote taken from The Queer Bible Commentary. Queer spaces exhibit some of the most profound examples of compulsory sexuality and amatonormativity. Whilst the hetero part of compulsory heterosexuality has been well interrogated in queer thinking, the sexuality part has for the most part gone unexamined. 2 Moreover, in seeking to establish the place of sexuality (especially homosexuality) within Christianity, many queer scholars—along with scholars of sexuality more broadly—have inscribed sexuality and sexual expression into ‘what it means to be human’. While an examination of this phenomenon is beyond the scope of this article, suffice to say it is rather unsurprising to find that a queer (homosexual) approach goes further than simply conflating love, the sexual, and humanness, instead explicitly marking the sexual as a precondition for full personhood.
The dominance in modern and contemporary scholarship of so-called ‘literal’ readings of the Song leads to claims such as ‘a celebration of human, sexual love’ (Garrett, 2004: 100). Such assertions, while emphasizing human love in contradistinction to allegorical interpretations, also equate sexual love with human love. Compulsory sexuality, however, is not only to be found in literal readings, but also inhabits allegorical ones, for the allegorical is necessarily intertwined with the literal, as only in taking the sexual seriously do allegorical readings work (Pardes, 2019: 17). Origen, for example, was clear that grasping the ‘outer’, literal meaning, was necessary to be able to perceive the ‘inner’, spiritual meaning (Murphy, 1990: 21). Thus both the literal and allegorical readings assume and require the reader to be familiar with the sexual attraction and desire that (it is claimed) underpins the literal readings.
Yet what happens if this is not so? What if, contrary to scholarly opinion, the woman of the Song, as a sexual figure, is not ‘a figure all of us recognize’ (Bloch and Bloch, 2006: 35). For the asexual aromantic reader recognising the woman in her sexual guise may be a difficult, if not impossible task. It is time to look afresh at the Song of Songs, this time with a ‘slantwise’ glance.
Chapters 4 and 5 of the Song are sometimes referred to as the high point of the book, for it is there that interpreters have found evidence of the consummation of the love between the man and the woman (Goulder, 1986: 3). Indeed, the first part of chapter 5 is said to have some of the most erotic imagery in the Bible (Longman, 2001: 161). This seems, then, an ideal place to queer the received interpretations of the Song with an asexual aromantic reading.
Delimiting the Pericope
The verses of chapter 5 that are claimed to be highly sexually charged occur within the pericope 5.2–8. These verses return to the woman, who recounts to the בנות ירושלם ‘daughters of Jerusalem’, her experience of a mistimed visit from the man and the brutal effects of her efforts to search after him. These women respond with a question (v. 9) that allows the woman to launch into a waṣf (vv. 10–16), a distinct descriptive poetic form, in this case applied to the man. On the basis of changes in speaker, genre, and content, the pericope can be delimited to verses 2–8.
The verses are unified through first-person narration of a distinct set of events by the woman. Utilizing a rhetorical definition of narrative as ‘somebody telling somebody else on some occasion and for some purpose(s) that something happened’ (Phelan, 2017: 2), it can be seen that, despite its poetic form, the pericope can be classified as narrative. The woman as narrator tells the story of the of the man’s visit to her narratee, the ‘daughters of Jerusalem’ in order to ‘adjure’ them (v. 8). The ‘something happened’ that she tells includes both events (the man’s knocking on the door; finding him absent when she opens the door) and her subjective experiences, or the ‘qualia’ of those events (her thought processes in relation to getting up to open the door; the feeling of loss on realizing his departure). These are integral components of ‘narrativity’, of what makes a narrative, narrative (Herman, 2007: 3). So too is conflict (the differing desires/actions of the man and the woman), while unrealized sequences (the possibility she may have let him in) aid the ‘tellability’ of the story (Ryan, 2005: 590). In this way, it can be seen that the pericope in question forms a distinct subunit of narrative within the broader lyric poetry of the Song.
My purpose here is not to embark on a full-scale narrative analysis of the poem, but rather to delimit the boundaries of the pericope and make note of its character as narrative. That character will, necessarily, impact on the asexual aromantic reading I put forward. For now though, I begin with a sexualized translation typical of contemporary interpreters. After exploring the potential shortcomings of such an approach, not least for an asexual, I provide a second translation stripped of sexual overtones from which I develop my asexual aromantic reading. Due to the constraints of space, and to keep the focus on the (supposedly) sexually explicit verses, I only examine verses 2–6 of the pericope.
Song 5.2–6
Critiquing Contemporary Readings
Commentators have found numerous allusions in the passage that they believe create ‘an overall suggestiveness’ of sexual activity (Exum, 2014: 389). Most prominent is the use of פתח ‘open’ without a direct object, taken to imply a reference to the woman opening herself sexually to the man, yet as Bloch and Bloch note, the use of this verb is not uncommon without an object (2006: 180). The context would imply it is the door on which the man has knocked that is referred to. As Exum writes, ‘an imaginative reader can find sexual innuendo and double entendre everywhere’ (2005: 10).
Certainly this has been the case, with commentators arguing over what is or is not a sexual reference. Pope, for example, argues for a phallic reference for יד ‘hand’, such that its sending into the חר ‘hole’ refers to coital intromission (1977: 519). Both Gordis (1974:90) and Murphy (1990: 171), however, argue that understanding ‘hole’ for vagina makes no sense of the preceding verses, as the man remains outside the door. Garrett is particularly imaginative, understanding ראשי נמלא־טל ‘head full of dew’ and רסיסי לילה ‘drops of the night’ as euphemisms for a penis full of semen (2004: 207). Likewise, he suggests the excess of myrrh should be read as vaginal fluids, אצבעתי ‘my fingers’ as female genitalia, and מנעול ‘bolt’ as penis (2004: 210). Garrett sees no inconsistency with the door representing the woman’s body, while later part of the door represents male genitalia, suggesting rather that the text provides a series of metaphors that do not need to be logically consistent (2004: 210).
Yet it is this very inconsistency, seen among the commentators and also among the possible sexual allusions themselves, that raises questions over such a reading method. The various allusions identified do more to point towards the imagination of the commentator than to illumine the text. Despite the not infrequent claims that something is ‘obviously’ or ‘clearly’ sexually suggestive (e.g., Exum, 2014: 389; Garrett, 2004: 209; Longman, 2001: 166), disagreement abounds. Clearly, the sexual references are not so clear. What appears obvious to one commentator, is not to another. Patmore points out that ‘saying ‘it is obvious’ … is really only saying “it is obvious to me”’ (2006: 248, emphasis original). Furthermore, given the influence of individual social location and context on interpretation, it would be more accurate for a commentator to say, ‘it is obvious to me as an allosexual in the “sexusociety”’.
For many (though not all) asexuals however, sexual innuendo and double entendre are not obvious. The inability to follow sexual references or to ‘get’ sexual jokes is a common topic on the forums of AVEN, the main online hub for asexuals. Such occasions are often termed ‘ace moments’. 4
What would it mean to have an ‘ace moment’ with the Song of Songs? In respect to this passage, what might happen if the euphemisms, allusions, and double entendres that fuel the sexual readings are not understood? Noegel, when discussing double entendres in ancient Near-Eastern texts, concludes that, ‘while poets often convey the literal or surface meaning of double entendres with exquisite artistry, they do not encourage listeners/readers to focus upon that reading, but instead compel them to entertain the euphemistic or risqué meaning’ (Noegel, 2021: 164). To have an ‘ace moment’ with the Song, then, will not be to fail to ‘get’ the text. Rather, it is to explore the ‘exquisite artistry’ to be found within the literal or surface meaning, that is regularly passed over in favour of the euphemistic.
The asexual perspective thus provides a unique opportunity to read the text deeply, without the ‘obvious’ sexual overlay. It thereby allows a critical assessment of the assumed sexual nature of the text. Using the partial blindness to sexual allusion, innuendo and double entendre that I experience as an asexual to build a non-sexual reading, will, I hope, spark a more critical look at how the modern ‘sexusociety’ may have influenced contemporary interpreters.
For now though, it is necessary to turn back to the passage in question for a deeper examination. The translation that follows has been stripped of double entendres and sexual allusions to allow a focus on the literal level of the text. Comparison with the earlier translation will reveal starkly different implications for the events being narrated. Through the textual analysis that follows, I hope to show not only the validity of my translation, but the richness that is inherent in the text, even at this most literal of levels. Only when strictly necessary do I make recourse to the symbolic (the woman, of course, is not literally a dove), yet even then, it must cohere with the literal level. From these elements, I seek to build a reading that makes sense of the events narrated in the passage, in light of asexual aromantic experiences.
This is not to claim that the woman of the Song is asexual and/or aromantic, or that the ancient writer(s) had awareness of such things. Surely that would be anachronistic. Rather, I seek to draw connections between the actions of the characters and the experiences of the woman in the storyworld, and the contemporary experience of asexuals and aromantics. It is these resonances I wish to explore in my reading of the text.
Developing an Asexual Aromantic Reading Translation
Textual Analysis
The woman opens with the statement אני ישׁנה ולבי ער, here translated as ‘I was asleep but my heart was awake’. The participle ער ‘awake’ could be understood to describe a past ingressive action, such that she was asleep but then was awakened from that sleep. Alternatively, as translated here, the participle is viewed as concurrent with the adjective ישנה ‘asleep’, such that she is both asleep and awake at the same time. Some understand the concurrent states to indicate the unit is a dream sequence, yet it exhibits none of the typical features of dream narratives (Bloch and Bloch, 2006: 180). It more likely describes a restless, or light sleep, in which she is still able to hear her beloved knocking (Bloch and Bloch, 2006: 180; Pope, 1977: 510).
The verb דפק occurs only three times in the Hebrew Bible. Genesis 33.13 (qal perfect) pertains to the driving of sheep; Judg. 19.22 (hithpael participle) to beating על־הדלת ‘upon the door’. Although the object of the verb is omitted in the Song, the colocation with פתח ‘open’ would imply a door being knocked upon. This supposition is strengthened by the LXX which reads κρούει ἐπὶ τὴν θύραν ‘he is knocking on the door’. It is, of course, this implied door which the man asks the woman to פתח ‘open’. Hence my translation ‘let me in’ as an alternate rendering of the imperative verb, taking account of the door as implied object.
The man uses four epithets to address the woman (v. 2). The first of these, אחתי ‘my sister’, is particularly interesting. The term also occurs in Egyptian love poetry as one of endearment (Fox, 2016: 15–16). The terms אח ‘brother’ and אחת ‘sister’ are often used metaphorically in biblical Hebrew to denote unrelated persons, implying a level of equality and solidarity (Jenni, 1997: 75). The intimacy of kinship relations seems to warrant its use as an endearment in love poetry. The man is expressing that he feels an intense sense of relatedness to her (Keel, 1994: 163). Coupled with רעיתי ‘my friend’, he discloses the close emotional ties he feels with this woman. The final two endearments introduce new elements into his address. The term יונתי ‘my dove’ may relate to the woman’s rounded dove-like contours (Dharamraj, 2018: 46). Alternatively, and perhaps more convincingly, Keel has demonstrated the widespread use of the dove as a symbol in the ancient world for the goddess of love, both Ishtar/Astarte, and the Graeco-Roman Aphrodite/Venus (1994: 69–71). The epithet ‘my dove’ would then carry erotic valences, by suggesting the woman is the embodiment of such love for the man. Finally, תמתי ‘my perfect one’ most likely refers to physical perfection given the recent waṣf praising her features (Barbiero, 2011: 262). These final two endearments then, represent a shift away from emotion towards aesthetics, or into the romantic-sexual.
The man claims that his head is wet with dew and uses this as a reason to seek entrance to the woman. The Hebrew states that his head is literally ‘full of dew’ (נמלא־טל), the implication being that the man is soaked through. Although the dew in Palestine could be heavy (Judg. 6.38), this seems exaggerated (Murphy, 1990: 170). The man is thus using it as an excuse to gain entry to be with her (Exum, 2005: 193).
The woman’s response is ambiguous (v. 3). It is unclear whether she speaks directly to the man at the door or is explaining later to the daughters of Jerusalem why she did not immediately arise to open the door. The interrogative איכה is used primarily in rhetorical questions, in which case it makes clear that ‘some happening or state of affairs is out of the question’ (Van der Merwe et al., 2017: 477). As the כתנת is thought to have been the main undergarment, its removal and the washing of the feet signal she had retired for the evening (Murphy, 1990: 165). She therefore perceives, or at least presents, an obstacle to opening the door too great to overcome. Among the suggestions for understanding her response are that she is teasing him (Pope, 1977: 515), lazy (Barbiero, 2011: 264), anxious (Fishbane, 2015: 136), not ready to commit (Longman, 2001: 166), or perhaps just half asleep (Goulder, 1986: 41). I discuss my own interpretation at length in the following section. For now, it will suffice to note that her hesitation is soon reversed.
Verse 4 marks a turning point in the action. The first line reads literally ‘my beloved sent his hand from the hole’. Contextually, a keyhole is most likely. Bloch and Bloch claim that a traditional door key in Near Eastern villages was made of wood and of considerable size (2006: 181). It would therefore appear that the man has put his hand through the keyhole in an attempt to slip the bolt and let himself in (Bloch and Bloch, 2006: 181). The preposition מן ‘from’ marks the point of origin from which the hand is sent, as observed by the speaker (Bloch and Bloch, 2006: 154). Thus from the woman’s perspective, his hand is coming towards her, from the hole.
The woman responds to the action: מעי המו עליו. The noun מעה has a broad range, covering the belly (Dan. 2.32), womb (Isa. 49.1), stomach (Ezek. 3.3), bowels (Num. 5.22), or other such parts of the body, generally internal to it (2 Sam. 20.10). Additionally, it is also used figuratively to refer to the seat of emotions (Isa. 63.15) (HALOT: 610). Its specific nuance then, is context dependent.
The verb המה is collocated with מעה in Song 5.4. This verb occurs 34 times in the Hebrew Bible, most commonly in Jeremiah and Psalms. It refers to the making of noise, by such entities as the sea (Jer. 6.23), waves (Isa. 51.15), waters (Ps. 46.4), bears (Isa. 59.11), dogs (Ps. 59.6), men, due to strong drink (Prov. 20.1), a city (1 Kgs 1.41), nations (Ps. 46.7), enemies (Ps. 83.3), the heart (Jer. 4.19), נפש ‘soul’ (Ps. 42.11) and מעה (Jer. 31.20). While generally pertaining to loud sound, when used figuratively it references the experience of strong emotions such as despair (Pss. 42.11; 43.5).
Jeremiah 31.20 uses המה figuratively for strong positive emotion, with מעה as the subject. The verse forms part of a declaration by God of their immense love and care for the Israelite people. The use of מעה and המה together in Jer. 31:20, the only other occurrence of these words together, within a context of strong positive emotion, inclines the usage in the Song away from a bodily experience towards a reference to positively perceived strong emotion. To the extent that emotions are embodied, the use of מעה is entirely appropriate; as a reference to female genitalia and sexual pleasure, it has no precedent. I have therefore translated מעי as ‘my emotions’, and המו as ‘grew loud’, understanding the verb to be ingressive because verse 4 marks the turning point in the woman’s action.
If before she was unsure about whether she wanted to open to him, the sight of the man’s hand seems to have changed that, for she now rises to let him in (v. 5). The physical presence of the man entering her space has elicited a strong and positive emotional reaction from the woman that leads to her actions and her later disappointment. How exactly the sight of the man’s hand has changed her from hesitancy to action can only be surmised. I wish to suggest that the sight of the man (or part of him) has served as a visual reminder to the woman of their previous interactions. The positive nature of their relationship thus far elicits a genuine desire for further time spent together. The visual reminder of the past and the desire it generates in the present, overcome her earlier uncertainty. The woman’s intention to now open the door, however, is thwarted by the presence of myrrh on her hands and the mechanism of the doorlatch.
It is unclear where the myrrh came from or why it is there. Commentators such as Murphy and Berlin have considered the possibility that the man has anointed the door, by drawing links with the Classical motif of the exclusus amator (Murphy, 1990: 169; Berlin, 2025: 122). Lucretius in De rerum natura speaks of ‘the tearful lover, shut out from the presence, heaps the threshold with flowers and garlands, anoints the disdainful doorposts with perfume, and plants rueful kisses on the door’ (Latham, 1951: 167). The excluded lover is described as anointing the doorposts (postis), not latch, although the anointing of other parts of the door is not inconceivable within the motif. Neither does the man weep or place flowers in the Song. Murphy ultimately discounts the possibility because the paraklausithyron, ‘a lover’s complaint sung at his mistress’s door’ is missing (LSJ: 1132; Plut. Amat. 753b). Indeed, despite some common elements (nighttime, urban setting, refusal of the door to open), the focus in the Song is markedly different. It is not a tale of a frustrated, excluded male lover, but the narration of the woman’s experience of unfulfilled desire. Even Berlin, who argues for understanding the passage as a paraklausithyron, acknowledges the extensive differences, far beyond any variation in Greek examples. Therefore, the possibility that the woman is responsible for the myrrh must be considered.
The woman introduces the myrrh as being present on her hands. She narrates over three lines that ידי נטפו־מור ‘my hands dripped with myrrh’, אצבעתי מור עבר ‘my fingers with flowing myrrh’, על כפות המנעול ‘upon the handles of the doorlatch’. The audience visualizes first the liquid myrrh on her hands, then it dripping off her fingers (literally ‘passing over’), and finally the doorlatch, wet with myrrh, and her fingers slipping on it. The progression of images in the mind creates a sequence of events. The conclusion for the reader/hearer is that the myrrh has transferred from her hands onto the lock, not the other way round.
This raises the question as to why the woman should have myrrh on her hands. The most natural explanation is that she has anointed herself, and in her rush to open the door, some has either spilt, or remains, on her hands. The act of anointing has been seen as evidence of sexual intention on the part of the woman (Exum, 2005: 191), but I see no reason why it has to read as a sexual act. It could just as easily be part of getting dressed and the social mores of entertaining a guest. It is also important to note how the myrrh slows down the narrative tempo. The tension builds while the reader waits for the door to open.
When the woman finally opens the door, he has חמק עבר ‘turned, gone’ (v. 6). The first of these verbs, חמק, only occurs twice in the Hebrew Bible. The other occurrence is a hithpael in Jer. 31.22, with a meaning of moral and spiritual wavering (Longman, 2001: 163). A noun form, חמוק, also occurs in Song 7.2 [Eng 7.1] referring to the curve of the woman’s body. Despite the man’s earlier actions, he now wavers in his intent to visit the woman and leaves. The two verbs occur in quick succession, emphasising his quick departure (Dharamraj, 2018: 49). The asyndetic construction was evidently understood as a hendiadys by the LXX which translates with a single verb παρῆλθεν.
The woman’s response reads ‘my נפש went forth’. This phrase is used elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible in relation to death (Gen. 35.18; cf. Ps. 146.4). Context precludes the woman dying here; rather she has experienced something akin to death—she is heartbroken (Barbiero, 2011: 273).
Her heartbreak occurs בְדַבְּרוֺ ‘when he spoke’. The man however is not present to respond, having already departed. His speech occurred earlier (v. 2), so why would she now refer back to this (Exum, 2005: 196)? Furthermore, her sense of loss comes after discovering his departure. The first option is to understand דבר to mean ‘turn’, ‘flee’, partly on the basis of Akkadian duppuru ‘go away’, ‘absent oneself’ (see especially Murphy, 1990: 165; Pope, 1977: 525–26). Another option is to revocalize as בִדְבַּרוֺ ‘because of him’ (Exum, 2005: 196; Fishbane, 2015: 8). I have followed the first option to translate ‘at his departure’, as this follows naturally from the preceding line ‘turned, gone’.
The man has left and the woman’s נפש has literally ‘gone forth’ after him. In parallel lines, verse 6 concludes her response with action: She seeks him and calls after him, but he is neither found, nor replies. Whereas he previously sought her, now she seeks him.
Spencer has noted that some commentators veer close to ‘victim blaming’ in suggesting that her teasing or dawdling made him leave (Spencer, 2017: 126). Keel meanwhile observes that it would be equally valid to emphasize the man as inconsiderate or impatient (1994: 194). The point rather is in describing an experience of unsynchronized feelings (Barbiero, 2011: 271). When the man wanted to enter, she was either unsure of him, or not ready; now that she does want his company, he has departed. There has been a missed opportunity for relationship (Keel, 1994: 194).
Implications
The passage reels with unfulfilled desire. The man desires entrance to the woman but does not gain it, for by the time the woman desires his company, he has departed and she suffers the loss of his presence. Both the man and the woman, then, are left with unfulfilled desire as the result of their mistimed interaction. It has been argued that the text represents an experience of unsynchronized feelings that results in a missed opportunity for relationship. While this could occur purely on the platonic or friendship level, I wish to consider the possibility that it is the type of feelings that is mismatched and the cause of the dilemma.
When the man comes to the woman’s door, he uses four endearments. The first two (my sister, my friend) reflect close ties that are not necessarily sexual nor romantic in nature, reflecting rather kinship and friendship bonds. However, the second two (my dove, my perfect one) reflect a shift to aesthetic pleasure, perhaps even to romance or the sexual. This is then followed by his somewhat flimsy excuse for requesting entrance. If one assumes a late hour, given that the woman has undressed and gone to bed, then the intent of the man is called into question.
The woman’s response to his request, as mentioned earlier, is ambiguous and may reflect her own uncertainty. Her hesitation to open the door could well be because she senses that he might be seeking a sexual encounter which she does not desire. The first warning of this is the possible subtle change in tone between the first two endearments and the second two, which has the potential to put her on alert. Followed by a reason which reads as a pretence to get inside, and in combination with the late hour, it is not unreasonable for her to be suspicious of the man’s intentions or desires.
The asexual community is all too familiar with the difficulties of negotiating differences of desire, as witnessed by the frequency of this topic within the AVEN discussion forums. Far too often, acts undertaken to establish or further a friendship are misconstrued as reflecting a desire for something else. Suddenly the person is met with a sexual or romantic gesture with which they are uncomfortable. While anyone can find themselves in the awkwardness of this situation, it is heightened for asexuals who may not think in sexual terms or be slow to recognize it until it is too late. The fear of such situations, can result in the premature ending of relationships, especially of those with the opposite sex, either as a general avoidance mechanism, or at the slightest possible hint of a sexual advance. However, due to the difficulty of perceiving the sexual desire of the other, this can result in an overreaction by asexuals.
The woman’s hesitancy to open the door to the man can be understood in light of the above. Having detected the possibility of a sexual tone to his visit (whether this is accurate of his intentions or not), her fear of him making an unwanted sexual advance towards her dictates her actions. She cuts him off before he has a chance to act. Only when the man tries to enter despite her earlier rebuff of him, does she reevaluate his desires and remember, through her past positive interaction with the man, her own desire to spend time with him. However, by this point he has departed.
The man initially sought the woman, but by the time she opens the door to him he has gone. The woman experiences a profound sense of loss at his absence that can be understood in terms of abandonment. Here I want to think specifically about how the actions and experiences of the characters within the storyworld resonate with the phenomenon of ‘platonic abandonment’.
Platonic abandonment occurs as a result of the attitudes of amatonormativity. What Brake observed in the legal sphere—how marriage and romantic relationships are given special status that undermines other forms of caring relationships—is borne out in the everyday lives of aromantic asexuals in particular. There is much anecdotal evidence amongst the asexual community of the loss or downgrading of a friendship upon one person entering a romantic-sexual relationship (Costello and Kaszyca, 2023: 50). It is as if the friendship only had value while they were single. Whether conscious or unconscious, the habitual prioritization of couples to spend time with other couples, of families with other families, can leave single people bereft of the social ties they once had (Costello and Kaszyca, 2023: 54). 5 Repeated experiences of platonic abandonment can result in the fear of further rejection, and the possibility of missing out on intimate connection because others are unable to prioritize the platonic relationships in their lives (Costello and Kaszyca, 2023: 54).
Platonic abandonment provides another way to understand the interaction of the man and the woman within the storyworld of the text. The man initially seeks the woman, showing by his words, and then his actions, his valuing of their friendship and desire to be in her company. However, when the woman does not immediately open the door (or her heart), he disappears, abandoning her both physically and emotionally. He fails to follow through with the relationship, and when she seeks him, he is nowhere to be found. While the text does not state why the man left, one way of understanding his actions is that he does not sufficiently value his platonic relationships to pursue them deeply. This may well be on account of the romantic-sexual relationship(s) within his life.
The actions and experiences of the woman in the text evoke strongly the experience, and fear of, platonic abandonment. Her hesitation to open up to the man can be read as a hesitation to deepen a friendship, a hesitation that comes through repeated experience of platonic abandonment, and the accompanying fear that this relationship too, may simply be abandoned later on. This is indeed her experience, for when she does open to him, he has turned away and she experiences a profound loss on discovering his absence. From her perspective he has abandoned her; her hesitancy to open up to him was indeed justified. She seeks him but cannot find him; she calls to him, but he does not answer. The man has shut his heart to her, and efforts by the woman cannot reawaken the friendship. This is the experience of platonic abandonment.
The readings provided here, as all interpretation, seek to make sense of the actions and experiences of the characters within its storyworld. They necessarily fill the ambiguities and gaps in the text with supposition. The uniqueness of the readings comes from my doing so in ways that draw explicitly upon asexual aromantic experience; as such, there is a self-consciousness to the readings that other interpretations often lack.
One may ask how the readings I have given fit into the Song more broadly. Certainly a sustained asexual aromantic reading of the Song is difficult. The opening line (after the superscription to Solomon, Song 1.2) ‘let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth’, for example, presents difficulties. Yet, even here the asexual aromantic perspective has something to offer, for it serves to remind the reader of what is, or is not, explicit in the book.
Further, the readings I have presented, while only covering a small section of the total Song, allows an aromantic asexual a way ‘in’ to the text —a way to connect with the characters and enter the storyworld of the text. This can be described in terms of narrative immersion, as providing the narrative cues that will activate an aromantic asexual’s self-schemas or possible selves (Martínez, 2014: 119). Once a connection is made, the broader text is more easily engaged, even when the asexual aromantic cannot be sustained. Indeed, undertaking the work I have presented here has resulted in my own connection to a part of scripture that previously felt inaccessible.
The readings presented are by no means intended to provide a definitive approach, but rather contribute to the queer project of resistance to hermeneutical hegemony (Cornwall, 2011: 141). Given the current status of asexuals and aromantics as not just unseen but largely unknown within theology, the importance of developing asexual and aromantic readings cannot be overstated. My hope is that the readings developed here can contribute to the visibility, validation, and valuing of our experiences and existence. Only then can we read and think in ways beyond compulsory sexuality and amatonormativity.
Conclusion
The Song of Songs may not prima facie seem to offer much for an asexual aromantic reader. Yet when the sexual assumptions are stripped away, the text is opened to new possibilities. Song 5.2–6 is revealed as a story of mismatched and unmet desire, desire that may be of different kinds. The woman’s hesitancy to open up can be read as a result of her fear that the man, despite acknowledging their hitherto intimate friendship, now desires her sexually. Additionally, the experiences of the woman in the storyworld of the text resonate strongly with the experience of platonic abandonment. When interpreted through this lens, the woman’s hesitancy reveals her fear of deepening a relationship that may simply be discarded by the man later on, should he desire and enter into a romantic-sexual partnership with another. Indeed, the woman does suffer the heartbreak of an abandonment.
An asexual aromantic reading such as the one offered here demonstrates the ability of the Song to be read outside the normative sexual and romantic paradigm. Queering the sexual heart of the Song enables a disruption of the compulsory sexuality and amatonormativity that lead to the dehumanisation of asexuals and aromantics respectively. Moreover, such a reading expands ‘what it means to be human’ beyond the specific forms of romantic and sexual relating (contra Mathews), to the broader, more inclusive category of relationship.
Footnotes
Acknowledgements
This paper began as a capstone project for a BTh with the University of Divinity. I acknowledge and thank Matthew Anstey for his supervision of the project.
Declaration of conflicting interests
The author declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
Funding
The author received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.
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1.
Note, too, the use of adjectives that tend to magnify the connotations: ‘rapturous’, ‘torrid’, ‘gushing’, words rarely found in biblical commentaries on other texts.
2.
Asexuals thus remain on the edges of queer spaces; they are queer even to the queer community. See further Cerankowski and Milks, 2010.
3.
All translations are my own.
4.
‘Ace’ is an informal shorthand for asexual, derived aurally from the initial part of the word, much like ‘trans’ for transgender.
5.
This phenomenon has also been reported by those who find themselves suddenly single—divorced or widowed—and outside the social circles they once inhabited.