Fish Tales

Fish-eaters

Despite their close association with the sea, the Homeric heroes do not eat fish (Beer: 57). It is difficult to determine the precise explanation for this but the absence of fish in Homer's poetry was noticed by later Greek writers such as Plato (Rep. 404b–405a), who perceived this lacuna as evidence of a grand past, when “modern” dishes such as fish and other decadences were not indulged in by those noble of soul (Davidson: 13). In classical Athens excessive consumption of fish and other delicacies indicated that one lacked self-restraint and control, and the favorite form of opsos, or relish, was made from salted or pickled fish. Therefore, often an opsophagos or “dainty eater” was understood to be a fish-lover (Thornton: 154). According to James Davidson, the opsophagos occupied a space in which eating was transformed from ingesting for sustenance to tasting for pleasure, as the opsos was the arena for experimentation and extravagance as one indulged in rare and tasty types of fish (Davidson: 25–26). Fourth and early third century bce Athenian comics, such as Philemon, describe the salivating diners of Athens in The Soldier, who snatch at platters of freshly cooked fish, and a chef who exclaims how the very smell of a fish dish returns breath to dead men (Davidson: 6). This judgment endures among later Greek writers such as Plutarch, who thought opsophagoi to be decadent, characterizing such fish-lovers as those who appear as soon as the fishmonger sounds a bell (Quaest. conv. 667f–68a) and who associates the love of fish, especially large fish, with depravity (Quaest. conv. 668a).

The consumption of such fish was clearly associated with elevated social status and wealth. On the one hand, eating these creatures could be a sign of urbanity and sophistication. The earliest extant food writer from Europe, Archestratus (350 bce), wrote a text called the Life of Luxury, which is preserved in the work of Athenaeus (200 ce). The Life of Luxury is both a parody of Homer's epics and a testament to appreciation for fish as a food. Archestratus depicts banqueters biting into tasty morsels of tuna as they listen to poetic advice about how to prepare such dishes. He includes recipes such as “Dogfish with Cumin and Oregano” (Wilkins & Hill: 94) and guidance about the buying and cooking of simple fish dishes. He describes the Milesian grey mullet and sea bass as “children of the gods” but warns his audience that when preparing such fish,

The latter comment is an indictment of those who aspire to lavish and expensive meals but who lack basic taste and culinary sophistication. In some sections of the work he impersonates the opsophagos (Frag. 15; Wilkins & Hill: 52); an impersonation which functions as a means of poking barbs at wealthy people whose feasting was sumptuous, but lacking in good taste. Archestratus presumes a rich audience, but his work

The Life of Luxury centers upon the quality of the food, and not its display (Wilkins 1993: 200). The ability to pay for such meals is evident, but this is “elegant enjoyment of social status” (Wilkins 1993: 200) based upon simple haute cuisine. High social status is manifested here by a discriminating taste, and not by the price of the fish.

On the other hand, a fixation with eating large fish, devouring vast amounts of it, or paying huge sums for the creatures, could render one the subject of derision. In Athens, large fresh fish were very expensive as not as many giant fish swam in the Mediterranean. Thus big fish were feasted upon by those who could afford them. This type of consumption became fuel for critics who wished to undermine the wealthy and who delighted in describing fish eaters’ apparently insatiable cravings which led to them to engage in reckless behavior, spending outlandish amounts of money on giant varieties (Davidson: 226). In The Frogs Aristophanes presents a rich man who dresses as a pauper in order to avoid paying taxes but who reveals his true identity when he is spied spending money at the fish stall (Davidson: 226). There are texts that indicate that the consumption of delicacies such as eels, tuna, and types of shellfish should be limited to the wealthy, and a fragment from Alexis’ The Heiress suggests that if a person low on cash attempts to buy eels he should be thrown into prison (Edmonds: 405). The evidence demonstrates that eating fish, especially large and delicious species, was not only an indicator of wealth (Purcell: 136), but was in many cases a sign of conspicuous consumption and gluttony which the poets could use in order to antagonize elite Athenians. Thus, while access to fish signified affluence, its procurement at the fish stall (often done in disguise) and consumption at banquets furnished “opportunities for comedians and orators to mark out their enemies as members of an elite group practicing an elitist lifestyle, easy targets for envy and class antagonism” (Davidson: 227). These targets of satire were not nibbling on the tastefully prepared dishes of Archestratus, but lunging after platters of food; they were stuffing their faces and squandering their fortunes on fish.

While the rich enjoyed their big fish, a broader spectrum of people had access to smaller fish. Many persons could feed on sardines and anchovies, for example, which could be caught en masse (Wilkins 2000: 207). Salted or dried fish, and the widely consumed fish sauce—garos in Greek and garum in Latin—were pervasive throughout the Mediterranean (Curtis 2009). Fish was a key ingredient for salsamenta, a type of condiment. For most people, fish was a supplement to a cereal diet, alongside meat, vegetables and other foods (Wilkins 2005: 22). Recent studies combining the analyses of fish bones and fishing related artefacts against a background of anthropological ideas about fishing and eating in general indicates that fishing was common in Greece from the Classical through and beyond the Roman imperial periods (Mylona). A study of fish isotope values in Greece has found that the fish was likely a very important part of the ancient Greek diet, for example (Vika & Theodoropoulou). Consumption rates could vary depending upon the geographic location, availability and price of fish, but fish was widely eaten throughout the Greek world.

Pork was more often associated with Rome, than with Greece. As Wilkins has put it, “Italy was in Greek perception the Texas of the Mediterranean” (Wilkins 1993: 193). The Romans did not think of themselves as fish eating people, but fish certainly came to Rome, and the Romans ate it. As in Greece, dining on fish, especially large specimens, was associated with wealth and status. There was also a desire for salted fish and garum which is reinforced by the remains of salt fish processing centers and other fish product factories throughout the Roman Empire (Curtis 2005). In fact, the salt-fish trade emerged as a separate kind of business with shops devoted exclusively to selling salted fish as early as the 5^th century bce in Corinth (Lytle: 292). The literary and archeological evidence for the fish industry underlines, as well, the importance of such an industry for the Roman economy and trading system.

As the Roman Empire expanded, so did the availability of luxury goods, including rare and succulent kinds of fish. Pliny, who with other writers lamented the rise in opulent lifestyles, praised certain types of fish from the Tiber (9.169), while he complained bitterly about shellfish, which he perceived to be a source of moral corruption (9.53). His grumbling about particular varieties of fish connects to his general frustration with imported goods, including fish, jewels, silks, spices and other items, even though, admittedly, obtaining such goods and “eating foreign food was a demonstration of Roman power and domination” (Wilkins 1993: 201). Pliny joins other moralists writing in Greek and Latin who mourn the decline of noble Rome, a place where the inhabitants were hard-working and content with simple food. Likewise, Ovid writes of a time long ago, when fish swam with no fear of being caught and foreign foods remained at bay (Fast. 6.172–174). Wilkins (1993: 200) observes that Plutarch (Quaest. conv. 668a–c) and Athenaeus (274f–75a) continue to associate the opsophagoi with fish-eaters, and sometimes, the import of fish and beautiful boys was discussed together, linking fish consumption with sex. In Rome, like Athens, fish was a symbol of wealth and status, but it could also signify moral decadence. Overindulging in fish, like overindulging in sex, earned suspicions of effeminacy as it was a sure sign of a lack of self-control (Beer: 61). Whether the fish was imported or caught in the Tiber could be used to demonstrate status distinctions as well. Such a distinction is evident in Juvenal's fifth Satire in which he contrasts the meals of Virro and Trebius. Virro dines on a large moray eel, imported from Sicily, while Trebius must be content with an eel that looks like a water snake or a fish from the Tiber, swollen with sewage. Here, unlike the writings of Archestratus, the message is that status is conferred based upon the origin of the fish, and not its taste or quality. Pliny thinks fish from the Tiber are good; yet Juvenal, who has different concerns, thinks they are very bad, as does Galen (3.29; see Wilkins 2003: 373). Juvenal also underscores to what extent the big fish was an important status indicator for Romans. What does the emperor receive, for example? An enormous turbot (Sat. 4. 34–71; see Wilkins 2003: 372).

What was distinctive about Roman fishing was the development of fish farms and personal fish ponds. Fish farms were created for the commercial sale of fish and eels, or sometimes they served as places where fish could be kept fresh; freshness being an ongoing concern of the discriminating fish eater. Cicero, who himself apparently refused to eat fish, was deeply critical of those who owned these ponds, and comparable to Pliny, perceives them to be a manifestation of the overall moral decline of Rome (Parad. 38). Such ponds were symbols of ostentation. Some claimed that certain fish pond owners developed highly personal and emotional relationships with their scaly friends, feeding them by hand, grieving their deaths, adorning their fish with earrings and even feeding their slaves to their pet fish (Kajava: 262–65). Such behavior was indicative of how fish served a larger ideological purpose in that it assisted in establishing and maintaining the identity of the rich and privileged few who could clearly do as they wished with their fish, to the point of inanity and savagery.

Foodways are a significant factor for demonstrating belonging to a particular group, yet when one examines the evidence for fish in Roman Palestine, it appears that the arrival of the Roman fish trade, replete with more exotic fish imports and sauces, was adopted by many Ioudaioi. Archaeological findings in Roman Palestine indicate that there was considerable acculturation, but not necessarily assimilation, to Roman dietary habits, particularly with regard to the consumption of fish. Magdala, on the shore of the Sea of Galilee, became a fish processing center, and its name changed to Tarichea, which means salted or dried fish, probably during the Hellenistic period. This means that its main industry was fish and the lake was likely “fully exploited in terms of the preservation and export of the produce” (Freyne: 20). Large quantities of saltwater fish bones have been found throughout Roman Palestine as well, even in areas far from the sea (Lev-Tov:17). There is also evidence of fish farming, introduced by the Romans, in Caesarea Maritima, and just to the north of Tel Tanninim (Lev-Tov:17). Jodi Magness thinks that fish and bread were likely the staples among the rural population at the Sea of Galilee. Roman fish sauces eventually came to be forbidden by the Talmud (y. ‘Abod. Zar. 32a; b.'Abod. Zar. 39a) (Magness: 39), meaning that people were using them. The high density of fish bones and amphorae (to hold fish sauce) indicates that Herod imported sauces and other fish products to his palaces in Masada, Jericho, Herodium, and Jerusalem, and amphorae containing fish sauces or salted fish have been discovered in Jerusalem's Jewish Quarter excavations (Magness: 39). This dietary adoption of fish did not function as a source of division or distinctiveness, but could have brought diverse groups together, and allowed many to acculturate to Roman practices without conflicting directly with their own traditions (Lev-Tov: 21).

Attitudes towards the consumption of fish in the Roman Empire mirrored earlier Greek perspectives, but Rome's political and economic expansion also played a role in how some writers characterized fish eating. Feasting upon a big fish was a decisive indicator of status. The ingestion of imported fish, as well, communicated wealth and power although writers such as Pliny decry such practices, indicative, he thought, of the laxity and overall erosion of the ancient values of simplicity, endurance, and hard work. But the emphasis upon the fish as status symbol was even more pronounced by the Roman practice of fish farming and the introduction of private fish ponds. These phenomena, again, are satirized by some writers, but they indicate that many wealthy Romans viewed the ingestion of large, fresh fish as a status symbol. As the Romans expanded their empire, they brought such practices with them so that they could enjoy their fish, even saltwater fish, even when they lived miles from the sea.

The Fishing Industry

One might surmise that given the demand for fish throughout the Greco-Roman world, the fishing profession would be one of some esteem. But fishers were dependent upon the chance arrival of a shoal or big fish that would command a significant price. The admiration that toiling manly farmers received, especially in contrast to flabby urbanites (see Horace, Sat. 2; Columella, Rust. 1), does not apply to fishers. Writers such as Plautus (Rud.), Ovid (Meta. 3.583–591) and others describe the fisher's life as impoverished and miserable (Corcoran: 101–02). In some cases, men who fished were characterized as unmasculine, as their trade meant that they earned their keep by serving the indulgent pleasures of others, particularly rich fish eaters. Literary evidence portrays those who fished the seas and rivers as comparable to fishmongers, who generally only dealt in fresh fish (Lytle), and were sometimes resented for over-pricing and potentially cheating their customers (Athenaeus 6.224b–228c). Unlike hunters, those who fished the seas were in many cases providing luxury foods. Moreover, fishing meant setting traps and sinking lines; activities viewed to be much less manly than those that demanded consistent toil and physical exertion (Charles).

Yet fishing constituted an important industry throughout the Mediterranean and Black Sea, and fishing associations are evident in many regions (Horsley: 101–02; Ascough, Harland, Kloppenborg: 61), although not all fishers had guilds. In Rome the fish market burned to the ground in 210 bce but was rebuilt in 179 (Livy 40.51.5), and the intervening 30-year gap did not cause the industry to collapse or weaken. G. H. R. Horsley points out that although Plautus regarded fishers as constituting a significant part of the urban poor in Rome, there is epigraphical evidence indicating that a fishing association provided free fish for sacrifice at the Vulcanalia (Horsley: 99–100). Despite the negative assessments of fishers within much of the literary evidence, the number and vitality of fishing guilds indicate that at least some fishing communities had the economic strength to dedicate monuments, celebrate ceremonies, and possibly influence elections (Corcoran: 98).

In some cases fishers could sell their own catch at market and thereby see more of a profit. A Roman fisher who caught a big fish in the Tiber, such as a bass, could make a lot of money, as this fish was particularly prized. Martial complains, for example, that his girlfriend was making greedy demands, including a wish for a big bass which Martial compares in price to fancy perfume (9.26.6). He indicates that such fish were so cherished that a banqueter stole a whopper right off the serving plate (2.37.4; see Corcoran: 100).

But because fish prices could sometimes be so exorbitant, political bodies were interested in regulating the fish business. This could be done in a variety of ways. The Romans would farm out the work to publicani (telωnai). In some areas, fishing rights in lakes and rivers were owned by cities and temples which came into conflict with the publicani who wanted to tax the fishers’ catch. As Rome expanded, it interceded in some of these disputes, sometimes siding with the local town or community (Horsley: 104). Fishing associations were therefore important in assisting fishers who often only saw a small fraction of the profits from their haul. Sometimes the existence and activities of these groups would have tempered the otherwise exploitative aspects of the fishing industry, whether the exploitation was through taxation, or the intervention by middle people and fish mongers, the latter whom were especially despised by consumers for jacking up prices and selling false goods, such as a fish that was not truly fresh (Wilkins 1993: 195).

The material conditions of fishers, therefore, were variable, depending upon their location, the time, and the particular constellation of the political and administrative state of affairs. Based upon archaeological evidence, it is clear, as mentioned earlier, that fishing was important to the local economies around the Sea of Galilee (Freyne: 20). K. C. Hanson and D. E. Oakman (see Hanson and Hanson & Oakman) have paid considerable attention to the fishing industry, and rightly so, given the number of references to fish, fishers, and fishing in in both canonical and extra-canonical Jesus traditions (Hanson: 107–108). They stress how highly regulated and controlled this industry was. The ruling elites controlled fishing, and sold fishing rights to brokers or tax collectors (telωnai) who contracted with the fishers (Wuellner: 24). Matthew's (or Levi's) toll office was in Capernaum (Matt 9:9), for example, which was a significant site for fishing (Hanson & Oakman: 99). He may well have been a fishing broker. The actual fishers were not “middle class” or “entrepreneurial,” even though many would have owned their own boats (Hanson: 108; Hanson & Oakman: 100). Rather, any surplus would have gone to the brokers and rulers, which explains why we find so much hostility directed towards tax collectors in many ancient sources. Hanson and Oakman (100–01) think that among the fishers themselves a distinction could be made between fishing families who sometimes formed collectives, and hired laborers who worked for them (see, for example, Mark 1:19–20). These hired workers “represent the bottom of the social scale in the fishing sub-system” (Hanson: 106; Wuellner: 24).

Taking into account a range of ancient sources, including many papyri, Facundo Troche concurs that the fishing industry in the Galilee would have been highly regulated and hierarchical, and fishers would have been considered poor in comparison to the elites. He differs from Hanson and Oakman, however, in that he thinks that some fishers who possessed their own boats may well have lived above subsistence level (Troche 2015). But life would still have been difficult, unpredictable, and dangerous for fishers and no doubt the power and exploitation of the elites garnered resentment from those actually doing the labor. Clearly some were benefiting greatly from the fishing industry in the Galilee, as evident in the fish motifs found in a villa in Tarichea. Here is clear evidence of “an affluent lifestyle, more Greco-Roman than Jewish, and … indicative of the possibility for generating wealth that the fish industry in this place provided” (Freyne: 26). If the fishing industry was lucrative, no doubt the luxury loving Herod Antipas (Josephus, Ant. 18. 245) was profiting from it as well (Troche). Thus far, we have no evidence for the kinds of influential fishing associations such as the one at Ephesus (Horsley) or Odessos (Ascough, Harland, and Kloppenborg: 61), and Sean Freyne thinks that Galilean fishers were “certainly” not in a position to erect, dedicate, and contribute to a toll building (Freyne: 24). However, we cannot completely rule out the possibility that such associations existed. While the fishers that we encounter in the gospels may not all have been starving, there is good reason to think that they were burdened by strict regulations, taxes, and tolls, only to see much of the profits fall into the hands of tax collectors and rulers.

Fish Tales

These dimensions of fish-consumption and the fishing industry may shed light on aspects of some of the fish tales found in ancient gospel literature, both canonical and extra-canonical. Here I will not attempt to be exhaustive or thorough, but simply raise a few questions.

First, sources indicate that the size and freshness of the fish matter. Big, fresh fish could fetch a premium price, as they were caught individually, their availability was unpredictable, and they would not remain fresh for long. These features meant that it was generally the wealthy only who could afford to farm or buy such fish, and we have seen some evidence of a perception that it was only the affluent who even had a right to eat them. Nicholas Purcell cites an anecdote from Macrobius’ Saturnalia (3.16.3) in which a wealthy patron, Scipio, shares portions of a giant and tasty fish, brought to him by a man named Pontius, with all of the clients who came for morning greetings. Pontius is appalled by Scipio's generosity, and whispers in the patron's ear that such a fish was appropriate for only a select few (Purcell: 143).

This notion that big fish were for the elites has implications for such stories as the miraculous catch of fish in John 21. There is much going on in this story, and finding the meaning of the number of fish caught—153—will not be attempted here (there have been over a dozen explanations put forward thus far [Kiley]). However, the mysterious number may have distracted many scholars from the fact that the Fourth Gospel makes it plain that Peter hauls a net ashore of 153 “large fish” (ichthuωn megalωn). Earlier and later in John 21 there are references to fish as opsarion (John 21:9, 13) but as Davidson points out, by the early centuries of the Common Era, opsarion had simply become another word for fish (Davidson: 27). This is not dried or salted fish as the fish are lying on a fire (John 21:9). It is hard to determine exactly all the species of fish that swam in the lake in the first century, but there is no evidence that there were any giant creatures (Troche). No doubt the indication of the size and number of fish highlights the miraculous nature of this story, but might there also be a transgressive dimension? After all, it is the disciples of relatively humble background who not only bring the fish ashore, but who are then invited to dine on this sumptuous breakfast with the risen Jesus on the beach. They are now the select few, enjoying large, tasty fish. They are not characterized as depraved gobblers, or opsophagoi, found in Athenian comedy. We do not know where the Gospel was composed, or whether the author was in close proximity to actual fishers. However, surely the gospel writer was aware that it was generally wealthy people who had access to substantially sized fish. Furthermore, upon accumulating such a haul, fishers would typically be anxious to get their prized catch to the market immediately to maximize a potential income. Yet here it is the lowly fishers whose morning meal consists of the fish they had just caught; they do not take it off to market. As Purcell observes, such an account turns the ideology of the big fish for big people on its head (Purcell: 143).

The size of fish also has implications for understanding the Parable of the Fisher in the Gospel of Thomas 8. Here a wise fisher drags in his net full of little fish as well as one large and good fish. He throws all of the small fish back but keeps the whopper. The parable is comparable to the Matthean parable of the fish net (Matt 13:47–50) (Patterson: 363) although the latter does not refer to a large fish, but to many fish—some good, some bad—which will be separated at the final judgment. If these parables are connected, Thomas’ version is likely older, as it is consistent with other parables of spectacular discovery such as the treasure (GThom 109; Matt 13:44) and the pearl (GThom 76; Matt 13:45–46), but Matthew transforms the story into an allegory about judgment (Patterson: 370). Thomas's version no doubt bears editorial shifts, but as Stephen Patterson has argued, it likely bases itself upon an earlier version that did not refer to the fisher as “wise,” nor was it a parable about a person but about the kingdom, as are the parables about the treasure and pearl in both Matthew and Thomas (Patterson). Patterson thinks that the reference to the fish as “large” may be an instance of redaction, as Thomas uses this adjective elsewhere (GThom 20; 96; 107), or it may “reflect something specific in the history of the Thomas tradition, or it may be that big fish are simply better” (Patterson: 371). As Patterson argues that essential to the meaning of the story is the element of surprise and discovery, the qualification of at least “good” or “large” must be there, as otherwise the parable makes little sense. I would contend that the reference to the fish as “large” is very important, given the value of big fish in antiquity. This is a parable of a chance catch of a giant fine fish. The enormity of such a “windfall” would not be lost on ancient ears, especially those of fishers who may have only dreamt of such luck. Perhaps it is the reference to this big fish that prompted the addition of “large” to other parables in Thomas?

Second, as we have seen, although a wide spectrum of people fed upon fish in antiquity, especially salted or dried fish, or types of salsamenta or garum, fish was in many instances associated with status and wealth. This observation is pertinent not only to the miraculous catch of fish in John 21, but to the feeding of the 5000 story. Here, I will focus on Mark's version (Mark 6:30–44) as Matthew and Luke are likely using Mark as a source and they reduce the references to fish in their respective Gospels. Mark, moreover, clearly presents the story as a banquet or symposium (symposia). In fact, the only place where the word symposia appears in the New Testament is in Mark 6:39.

It is clear that the fish play a subordinate role to the bread (Marcus: 407) during this banquet on the green grass, but fish are present nonetheless. Earlier in Mark 6, the Gospel recalls the banquet of Herod Antipas for his courtiers and the leading men of Galilee during which John the Baptist's head is served up on a platter (Mark 6:14–29). In contrast, Jesus holds a banquet in a lonely place for thousands, where he serves bread and fish. At both gatherings, people “recline” (synanakeimenois [Mark 6:22]; anaklinai [Mark 6:39]; anepesan [Mark 6: 40]) and the same verb (epetaxen) appears both when Herod commands the soldier to bring the head of John the Baptist and when Jesus instructs the crowd to sit down (Mark 6:27, 39). Dennis Smith maintains that these two banquets are intentionally juxtaposed (Smith: 241). If so, what purpose might such juxtaposition serve?

Many Galileans relied upon fish for their diet, but might Mark, or a tradition he inherits, be up to something in describing this as a true symposia during which ordinary people dine on fresh fish, in contrast to Herod's grisly affair (which is not called a symposia) for the rich, where a bloody human head arrives on a plate? Granted, the fish meal by the lake may recall the image of Leviathan, the sea monster, which would become a meal for the remnant of Israel as depicted in 4 Ezra 6:52, and is part of the messianic banquet tradition (Marcus: 411). But Joel Marcus is unsure why there is a reference to two fish here, other than to say that two fish plus five loaves of bread add up to seven, the number of divine perfection (Marcus: 411). The text does not say that Jesus multiplied the two fish, but simply that the two fish were enough for 5000 people to consume. This suggests that somehow they were turned into massive fish. Without downplaying the eschatological significance of this scene, is it possible to imagine that the juxtaposition of these two stories has a political angle whereby the gathering for the wealthy at the palace of Herod Antipas is revealed in all its horror while the poor Galileans enjoy a true banquet, replete with fish fresh from the sea? Does the unit function perhaps as parody, even satire, of the luxury loving Herod and his minions, who were profiting so greatly from the Galilean fishing industry?

A final example also draws upon the association of fish with status, but in a different manner. In Luke 24:41–43 the risen Jesus asks for something to eat and is offered a piece of grilled or broiled fish (ichthyos optoy meros) by the disciples, which he consumes in front of them. It is agreed that presenting Jesus as eating something here demonstrates the reality of the resurrection, which is what Luke wants to do. But why a piece of broiled fish? This is no mere modest snack of salted fish, dried fish, or a spoonful of fish sauce. Jesus receives a fine piece of grilled fish, which means that the fish itself must have been of some substance, and the fact that it was grilled or broiled means that it was likely fresh. As we have seen, Jerusalemites ate fish sauce, salted fish, and dried fish. But a nice piece of fish, ready for grilling, means one thing: expensive (McGowan: 137). François Bovon has argued that by eating fish here, the risen Jesus consumes the same food as his disciples who ate fish with others during the provision of the loaves and fishes in Luke 9:13–17, and therefore the story suggests “the commensality, the fellowship, and even the eucharistic liturgy” (Bovon: 392). Bovon's interpretation has merit, especially given that some manuscripts add a reference to honeycomb (Fitzmyer: 1577) to the portion of fish. (Honey often appeared on ancient communion tables.) Yet it is worthwhile to consider this reference to fish in light of attitudes towards fish more generally. As is well known, Jesus eats quite a bit throughout the Gospel of Luke. He is not a gourmand, but he is often at table, consuming food and conversing with all sorts of people. But there is a sophistication and composure to Jesus that is unique to Luke's characterization. Jesus is comparable to a philosopher and prophet; he does not desperately fling himself to the ground in the garden as he does in Matthew and Mark (see Luke 22: 39–46 and parallels). He remains poised. The consumption of fresh fish, as we saw, was associated with status and sophistication in some sources. Perhaps this final meal of grilled fish is intended, in part, to accent the urbane and elegant image of Jesus that we encounter elsewhere throughout the Gospel?

Conclusion

There are a variety of other fish tales within the Gospels that deserve attention in light of what we know about fish eating and the fishing industry in antiquity. For example, the story of the coin in the fish's mouth in Matthew 17:27 may well have an economic and political significance that has thus far not gained much attention (see Tuzlak). And there are many others (see Hanson: 107–108). It is reasonable to argue that these many fish stories presume knowledge of attitudes towards ancient fish consumption and the fishing industry; contextual information about which most contemporaries readers are not aware. But the gospel writers, or the authors of the traditions from which they drew, were familiar with the social meanings of fish, whether it was big fish versus little ones, or fresh fish versus dried, just as many today are attuned to the social meanings of consuming particular kinds of foods. What is intriguing to me is that some of these stories seemingly turn the big fish, or fresh fish, ideologies upside down, suggesting that a subversive element may be at play. Even the seemingly random detail of the risen Jesus eating a morsel of grilled fish may be a deliberate attempt to accent the urbane and sophisticated character of Jesus in the Gospel of Luke.

In late antiquity, fishers were deemed unsuitable for military service because their profession was associated with a lack of manly virtue (Charles). Why, therefore, would some people have found these gospel stories and traditions about fishers and fishing appealing within the context of Roman constructs of masculinity and prowess? We know that a variety of Christian males in the late antique period grew their hair long, and wore flowing clothes as a means of rejecting the short hair and masculine clothing of mainstream Roman male society (Kuefler). These men seem to have deliberately adopted an effeminate identity. Perhaps these fish stories contributed, in some ways, to adopting such an identity? At any rate, I hope that this short study prompts others to raise further questions about these curious fish tales that we find within gospel traditions.