New Wine, Old Vessels.
Hello,
This is the first in a series of short essays exploring topics close to my heart, especially the translations and mistranslations of ancient texts, Roman Stoicism, and Jewish biblical interpretation. I plan to publish an essay every two weeks. These musings are connected to my academic life and research, but not at all bound to the standard practices of that world.
Thank you for reading!
I’ve chosen the title “new wine, old vessels” for my Substack because it neatly summarizes my mind, my life and in some ways my scholarly destiny. Much of my intellectual sustenance these days comes from daily immersion in Greek literature and Jewish classics. Even my name reflects this dual inheritance: Andrew is Greek for “brave” or “manly”, and Daniel, my middle name, means “God is my judge.” It’s as if my parents gave me a name that would be both prediction and aspiration.
The phrase “new wine, old vessels” draws from two distinct traditions—the Hellenic world of the New Testament, and the Hebraic world of rabbinic literature. In the case of the latter, consider the following famous passage of Pirqe avot (the Ethics of the Fathers, part of the Mishnah).
Rabbi Yose ben Judah of Kefar Ha-babli said: He who learns from the young, to what is he compared? To one who eats unripe grapes, and drinks wine from his vat; And he who learns from the old, to what is he compared? To one who eats ripe grapes, and drinks old wine. Rabbi said: look not at the vessel but at what it contains: many new vessels are full of old wine, and many old vessels don’t even contain new wine.
If learning from the young is compared to eating tart grapes, and communing with the elderly to drinking old wine, my cup runneth over. One of the blessings of my life is the constant presence of the young and the old. I am a professor, and I routinely teach eighteen year-olds, some of whom stretch my mind with their ideas, enthusiasm, and the “newness” of their perspective. I also teach septuagenarians: several of them are in my classes this semester.
In the past week, I've had the chance to experience both. Last weekend, I found myself at High Acres Farm in Vermont, playing on the floor with Lazlah, the five-month-old daughter of our friends Scott and Ssong, multi-talented magicians and clockmakers. The baby was happy to percuss several wooden spoons onto a soft play block. Together, she and I drummed a four-four and three-four rhythm, and I got to watch her alert eyes respond to the different paces. Less than twenty-four hours later I was teaching a graduate seminar on Katharine Park’s brilliant book Secrets of Women. One of the students in the class is a seventy-five year old retired healthcare professional. He spoke movingly of how much influence institutions have on our understanding of the human body— from the Catholic Church in medieval Italy to insurance behemoths in the twenty-first century.
Metaphors about “old wine in new vessels” were part of the culture of the ancient Near East, a culture that expressed itself in Greek, Hebrew, and Aramaic— the language of Jesus, his disciples, and their social world. In antiquity both Hellenism and Judaism addressed the dynamic relationship between the old and the new. The mainstream assumption is that Jesus and his followers struck out on an entirely new path, rebelling against Judaism tout court. The truth is more complicated: Jesus was of course a Jew, and many of his parables are based on rabbinic sayings. Thanks to the pioneering work of scholars like Amy-Jill Levine, we’re better able to understand how central Judaism was to the world of early Christianity.
In the New Testament, the metaphor of "new wine in old wineskins" appears three times: Matthew (9:17), Mark (2:22), and Luke (5:37-38). In these passages, Jesus explains that “new wine” (representing his teachings) cannot be poured into “old wineskins” (symbolizing old religious practices and traditions). The old vessels, no longer flexible, would burst under the pressure of fermenting new wine. Clinging to old structures would hinder the growth and vitality of Jesus’s advancing ideas.
The rabbinic passage quoted at the top of this essay uses a similar metaphor to champion a completely different idea: the rabbis stress the quality of content rather than the age of its container. New vessels may contain wisdom of great value, while an old vessel’s contents may have putrefied into vinegar. The new and the old are not only compatible; they are braided in an eternal weave. Neither, the rabbis seem to say, can stand on its own. New life can activate an old vessel, and old vessels can breed new life.
A five month-old can teach me that rhythm is a wonder; a seventy-five year old can spark connections between the medieval past and our challenging moment.
In my view, the mishnaic teaching highlights the potential for harmony between new and old. Both the New Testament metaphor and its elder Jewish cousin constitute a rich dialogue on the complexities of integrating new wisdom into existing structures. In spite of their differences, Jesus and the rabbis alike claim that innovation should not be hampered by old structures; ancient wisdom can spark transformation.
As I’m new not only to Substack, but even to the idea of sharing my work in a casual, relatable fashion, the image of “new vessels” is even more poignant. Trust that I’ll continue to offer timeless drafts of the sort of old wine that nourishes me, drawn from vessels both old and new.
Thank you so much for these kind words, MCK. Stay tuned for more writing!
Congratulations, Andrew! Nice to feel your voice coming through, and very much looking forward to learning from and with you!