Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 123, No. 3 (Fall 2004)

Journal of Biblical Literature VOLUME 123, No. 3

Fall 2004

The Form and Function of the Song of Moses (Deuteronomy 32:1–43) MATTHEW THIESSEN

401–424

Pozo Moro, Child Sacrifice, and the Greek Legendary Tradition JOHN S. RUNDIN

425–447

Must the Greek Text Always Be Preferred? Versional and Patristic Witnesses to the Text of Matthew 4:16 ROBERT F. SHEDINGER

449–466

Mistaken Identities but Model Faith: Rereading the Centurion, the Chap, and the Christ in Matthew 8:5–13 THEODORE W. JENNINGS, JR., and TAT-SIONG BENNY LIEW

467–494

The Survival of Mark’s Gospel: A Good Story? JOANNA DEWEY

495–507

A Question of Death: Paul’s Community-Building Language in 1 Thessalonians 4:13–18 RICHARD S. ASCOUGH

509–530

wn[dy ym awh `naw lkm blh bq[ (Jeremiah 17:9) TZVI NOVICK

531–535 Book Reviews 537 — Index 599 US ISSN 0021–9231

JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE PUBLISHED QUARTERLY BY THE

SOCIETY OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE (Constituent Member of the American Council of Learned Societies) EDITORS OF THE JOURNAL General Editor: GAIL R. O’DAY, Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 Book Review Editor: CHRISTINE ROY YODER, Columbia Theological Seminary, Decatur, GA 30031 Associate Book Review Editor: TODD C. PENNER, Austin College, Sherman, TX 75090

EDITORIAL BOARD

Term Expiring 2004: JANICE CAPEL ANDERSON, University of Idaho, Moscow, ID 83844 MOSHE BERNSTEIN, Yeshiva University, New York, NY 10033-3201 ROBERT KUGLER, Lewis & Clark College, Portland, OR 97219 BERNARD M. LEVINSON, University of Minnesota, Minneapolis, MN 55455-0125 THEODORE J. LEWIS, The Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, MD 21218 TIMOTHY LIM, University of Edinburgh, Edinburgh EH1 2LX Scotland STEPHEN PATTERSON, Eden Theological Seminary, St. Louis, MO 63119 ADELE REINHARTZ, Wilfrid Laurier University, Waterloo, OH N2L 3C5 Canada NAOMI A. STEINBERG, DePaul University, Chicago, IL 60614 SZE-KAR WAN, Andover Newton Theological School, Newton Centre, MA 02459 2005: BRIAN K. BLOUNT, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542 TERENCE L. DONALDSON, Wycliffe College, Toronto, ON M5S 1H7 Canada PAMELA EISENBAUM, Iliff School of Theology, Denver, CO 80210 STEVEN FRIESEN, University of Missouri, Columbia, MO 65211 A. KATHERINE GRIEB, Virginia Theological Seminary, Alexandria, VA 22304 JEFFREY KAH-JIN KUAN, Pacific School of Religion, Berkeley, CA 94709 RICHARD D. NELSON, Perkins School of Theology, So. Methodist Univ., Dallas, TX 75275 DAVID L. PETERSEN, Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 ALAN F. SEGAL, Barnard College, Columbia University, New York, NY 10027 GREGORY E. STERLING, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 PATRICIA K. TULL, Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary, Louisville, KY 40205 2006: F. W. DOBBS-ALLSOPP, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542 THOMAS B. DOZEMAN, United Theological Seminary, Dayton, OH 45406 PAUL B. DUFF, George Washington University, Washington, DC 20052 CAROLE R. FONTAINE, Andover Newton Theological School, Newton Centre, MA 02459 JUDITH LIEU, King’s College London, London WC2R 2LS United Kingdom MARTTI NISSINEN, University of Helsinki, FIN-00014 Finland KATHLEEN M. O’CONNOR, Columbia Theological Seminary, Decatur, GA 30031 EUNG CHUN PARK, San Francisco Theological Seminary, San Anselmo, CA 94960 TURID KARLSEN SEIM, University of Oslo, N-0315 Oslo, Norway BENJAMIN D. SOMMER, Northwestern University, Evanston, IL 60645 VINCENT L. WIMBUSH, Claremont Graduate University, Claremont, CA 91711 Editorial Assistant: Susan E. Haddox, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 President of the Society: David L. Petersen, Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322; Vice President: Carolyn Osiek, Brite Divinity School, Texas Christian University, Fort Worth, TX 76129; Chair, Research and Publications Committee: James C. VanderKam, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556; Executive Director: Kent H. Richards, Society of Biblical Literature, 825 Houston Mill Road, Suite 350, Atlanta, GA 30329. The Journal of Biblical Literature (ISSN 0021– 9231) is published quarterly. The annual subscription price is US$35.00 for members and US$75.00 for nonmembers. Institutional rates are also available. For information regarding subscriptions and membership, contact: Society of Biblical Literature, P.O. Box 2243, Williston, VT 05495-2243. Phone: 877-725-3334 (toll free) or 802-864-6185. FAX: 802-864-7626. E-mail: [email protected]. For information concerning permission to quote, editorial and business matters, please see the Spring issue, p. 2. The JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE (ISSN 0021– 9231) is published quarterly by the Society of Biblical Literature, 825 Houston Mill Road, Suite 350, Atlanta, GA 30329. Periodical postage paid at Atlanta, Georgia, and at additional mailing offices. POSTMASTER: Send address changes to Society of Biblical Literature, P.O. Box 2243, Williston, VT 05495-2243. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

JBL 123/3 (2004) 401–424

THE FORM AND FUNCTION OF THE SONG OF MOSES (DEUTERONOMY 32:1–43)

MATTHEW THIESSEN [email protected] Trinity Western University, Langley, BC, V2Y 1Y1, Canada

G. Ernest Wright has argued in “The Lawsuit of God: A Form-Critical Study of Deuteronomy 32” that the genre of the Song of Moses is that of a “covenant lawsuit” or rîb.1 This argument has been highly influential in subsequent research on the Song and is almost taken for granted by many now.2 But not all have followed Wright’s analysis. A number of criticisms have been leveled, and it has instead been argued that the Song belongs to the sphere of wisdom literature.3 In this article, I will examine Wright’s analysis of the Song, which I find wanting in regard to a number of features in the Song. I will show that the designation “covenant lawsuit” is only a partial description of the form and function of the Song, and I will argue that the Song evinces qualities of a number of different forms but that it broadly fits the category of a hymn. After demonstrating the hymnic elements that are found in the Song, I will conclude with some comments regarding the implications of these findings for the study of the Song.

1

G. Ernest Wright, “The Lawsuit of God: A Form-Critical Study of Deuteronomy 32,” in Israel’s Prophetic Heritage: Essays in Honor of James Muilenburg (ed. Bernhard W. Anderson and Walter Harrelson; New York: Harper & Brothers, 1962), 26–67. 2 See, e.g., J. A. Thompson, Deuteronomy: An Introduction and Commentary (TOTC 5; Leicester: InterVarsity Press, 1974), 296–97; A. D. H. Mayes, Deuteronomy (NCB; Greenwood, SC: Attic Press, 1979), 380–81; Patrick D. Miller, Deuteronomy (Interpretation; Louisville: John Knox, 1990), 226; Ian Cairns, Word and Presence: A Commentary on the Book of Deuteronomy (ITC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1992), 278–90; Christopher Wright, Deuteronomy (NIBC 4; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1996), 297–98. 3 Particularly, James R. Boston, “The Wisdom Influence upon the Song of Moses,” JBL 87 (1968): 198–202.

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Journal of Biblical Literature I. G. Ernest Wright’s Analysis

Wright first provides a structural analysis of the Song, dividing it into seven sections, acknowledging that his divisions are based on attempts “to identify thought units.”4 These sections are as follows: Section 1 Section 2 Section 3 Section 4 Section 5 Section 6 Section 7

Introduction (Deut 32:1–6) Kerygma: Appeal to mighty acts of God (vv. 7–14) Indictment (vv. 15–18) Sentence or penalty (vv. 19–29) Poet’s assurance of salvation (vv. 30–38) The Word of YHWH confirming poet’s hope (vv. 39–42) Poet’s final exhortation to praise (v. 43)

Based on this structure, Wright concludes that “basic to the Song is one distinguishable form which the psalmist has elaborated. This is the divine lawsuit, or rîb.”5 He argues that this pattern is central to Deut 32:1–43 as shown by three things: the summons to witnesses in v. 1, the indictment in vv. 15–18, and the judge’s verdict in vv. 19–29.6 Wright then compares the Song to Herbert B. Huffmon’s outline of the form of the covenant rîb, which is provided below. I. Description of the scene of judgment II. Speech of plaintiff A. Heaven and earth appointed judges B. Summons to defendant (or judges) C. Address in second person to the defendant 1. Accusation in question form to defendant 2. Refutation of defendant’s possible arguments 3. Specific indictment7 Wright makes two modifications of the analysis provided by Huffmon. First, he does not believe that heaven and earth function as judges in the law4

Wright, “Lawsuit,” 34–36. Ibid, 42. 6 Ibid, 43. For a description of this form, see Hermann Gunkel and Joachim Begrich, Introduction to the Psalms: The Genres of the Religious Lyric of Israel (trans. James D. Nogalski; Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1998), 279–80. This form category itself is not uncontested. Two articles have been published providing critique of this genre. Michael De Roche criticizes the term and concept of a “covenant lawsuit” as an appropriate translation for byr (“Yahweh’s Rîb Against Israel: A Reassessment of the So-Called ‘Prophetic Lawsuit’ in the Preexilic Prophets,” JBL 102 [1983]: 563–74). For a more thorough critique of the whole genre of the rîb, see Dwight R. Daniels, “Is There a ‘Prophetic Lawsuit’ Genre?” ZAW 99 (1986): 339–60. Both of these criticisms fall short in that they assume that no modification could take place within the form. 7 Herbert B. Huffmon, “The Covenant Lawsuit in the Prophets,” JBL 78 (1959): 285–95, here 285. Huffmon bases his description on the work of Gunkel, Introduction, 279–80. 5

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suit; rather, they are witnesses to it.8 Second, he adds to this outline one more section, in which God, or a prophet as his spokesperson, declares the sentence. Fitting the Song of Moses into this outline, we have the following: Outline of Lawsuit I. Description of the Scene of Judgment II. Speech of Plaintiff A. Heaven and Earth Appointed Witnesses B. Summons to Defendant C. Address in Second Person to the Defendant 1. Accusation in Question Form to Defendant 2. Refutation of Defendant’s Possible Arguments 3. Specific Indictment 4. Declaration of Sentence

Song of Moses --vv, 1–29 v. 1 --vv. 4–29 vv. 4–6 vv. 7–14 vv. 15–18 vv. 19–29

Most discussions of Wright’s argument end at this point—which is unfortunate, since they miss one of the key steps in his argument: that within the Song of Moses there are a number of expansions to the form of the covenant rîb. These two expansions are found in v. 2 and in vv. 30–43. The first expansion is the wish of the poet in v. 2: “May my teaching fall as the rain; May my word distill as the dew, as rain upon grass, and as showers upon vegetation.” Wright believes that by v. 2 the poet hints that the lawsuit form he uses is only an “instructional device.”9 This will be discussed further below. The second, lengthier expansion is the last thirteen verses of the Song. Wright views this as a hymnic section meant to convey forgiveness to the people after the lawsuit has been declared. These two expansions demonstrate to Wright that, although the lawsuit form is the primary form of the Song, it is being used only as a didactic instrument through which the people confess their sin and receive absolution.

II. Critique of Wright’s Analysis One argument in particular of Wright’s work has received criticism and should be reexamined here. He offers three reasons why he believes the Song is 8 Huffmon (“Covenant Lawsuit,” 286) does not provide argumentation for seeing a judiciary role attributed to heaven and earth; he merely agrees with Gunkel’s analysis. But Gunkel himself does not appear to argue this. He does state, somewhat ambiguously, that “heaven and earth are brought to judgment” (Introduction, 279), but then states that YHWH acts as judge (p. 280). 9 Wright, “Lawsuit,” 54.

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a lawsuit: summons of witnesses in v. 1; indictment section in vv. 15–18; verdict of judge in vv. 19–29. It is in regard to the first point that Wright has come under fire. This is so because nothing in the Song itself states that heaven and earth are meant to function as witnesses to a rîb between YHWH and his people. That this is how the editor of the book of Deuteronomy understood their function is clear both from the narrative leading up to the giving of the Song (Deut 31:28) and from the function of heaven and earth in Deuteronomy as a whole (cf. 4:26; 30:19). But to equate the understanding of the editor of Deuteronomy with the understanding of the author of the Song of Moses is tendentious. Wright knows this and thus appeals to other examples where heaven and earth are called on in Jewish Scriptures—these instances are Isa 1:2; Mic 6:2; Jer 2:4–14; and Ps 50—all of which Wright believes are examples of the divine lawsuit. The first and the last are the only two that refer to both the heaven and the earth. In Mic 6:2, the prophet calls to the mountains and foundations of the earth. In Jer 2:12, YHWH calls only to the heavens, and it is not a summons to hear, but a command for them to be appalled. James R. Boston has challenged Wright’s arguments about this summons.10 He, too, believes that the three passages in Deuteronomy (4:26; 30:19; 31:28) are from a later editor and are therefore relatively unimportant in understanding how heaven and earth function in the Song itself. He notes that Wright does not examine every invocation of the heavens and earth that appears in the Hebrew Bible.11 Boston believes that Wright has skewed the data by comparing Deut 32:1 only to these passages and to the other three passages in Deuteronomy. It might appear that Wright assumes the very thing he is attempting to prove in his comparison with the other four passages. He is attempting to demonstrate that the heavens and earth in Deut 32:1 function as witnesses, and this is an attempt to show that the Song of Moses is a lawsuit. But he compares the passage only to other passages that he believes are lawsuits, thus predetermining his conclusion. Instead, Boston argues, all passages that address the heavens and the earth (together or individually) need to be examined to determine what their function is. Only then can their role in Deut 32:1 be examined. Since Wright includes Mic 6:2, which refers not to heaven or earth but to the mountains, references to mountains ought to be included as well. But reexamining the data actually confirms Wright’s conclusion. Of the numerous summons to heaven, earth, and mountains in Scripture, the majority fall into two distinct groups: (1) texts in which heaven, earth, or mountains are invoked in a context of judgment; (2) texts in which the natural phenomena occur in the context of a redemptive message. 10

Boston, “Wisdom Influence,” 198–202. Boston himself attempts to do this but only discusses eleven such instances (“Wisdom Influence,” 198–99). 11

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In the first group there are six instances outside of Deut 32:1, all in the prophets.12 The data can be summarized in a chart: Passage

Addressee

Isa 1:2

heaven and earth

Jer 2:12

earth

Jer 6:19

earth

Ezek 6:1, 3

mountains of Israel

Mic 1:2

earth

Mic 6:2

mountains

Commands

[m`, @za !m`, r[`, brj [m` [m` b`q [m`

What is apparent from these data is that generally when heaven, earth, or mountains are invoked in a context where a message of judgment is delivered, the verbal command has to do with hearing and is usually the verb [m`. The only time a verb of hearing is not present is in Jer 2:12, where the earth is commanded to be appalled—but even this implies hearing. The earth is to be appalled once it has heard the charge leveled at YHWH’s people. There are six texts in the second group, in which the natural phenomena are summoned in the context of a redemptive message. Passage

Addressee

Commands

Isa 44:23

heaven, earth, mountains

Isa 49:13

heaven, earth, mountains

Ezek 36:1, 4

mountains

Ps 69:35 (v. 34 in Engish)

heaven and earth

@nr, [yr, jxp @nr, lyg, hnr [m` llh

Ps 96:11*

heaven and earth

Ps 148:4

heaven

jm`, lyg llh

*Also 1 Chr 16:31, which cites Ps 96:11.

As would seem most fitting, songs that summon heaven, earth, or mountains in the context of YHWH’s creative and redemptive work primarily summon them to rejoice and celebrate that work.13

12 Jeremiah 22:29 also contains a command to the land ($ra) to hear ([m`), but here “land” refers to the people of the land. Here too the context is one of judgment. 13 Many psalms could be added to this category. Multiple times in the Psalter, the “earth” is

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Finally, there are a number of anomalous passages. Isaiah 45:8 calls on the heavens and the earth themselves to provide salvific blessing to the people, as does Ps 72:3. Lastly, in two psalms, 33:8 and 114:7, the earth is commanded to tremble at the presence of YHWH. This survey shows that heaven, earth, and mountains serve a number of different functions when imperatives are addressed to them.14 In this much Boston is right, but he does not go far enough. What he fails to note is that the context in which these elements are commanded in some way dictates the imperatives used in summoning them. As the charts show quite clearly, in all but one instance of the invocation of these elements in the context of a judgment oracle, they are called to hear. And in the context of redemption, except for one instance, the commands are to rejoice. The exception is Ezek 36:1, 4 in which the mountains are called to hear ([m` ). This anomaly of the mountains being called to hear in the context of redemption is likely explained by the fact that previously, in Ezek 6:1–3, YHWH had commanded the prophet to speak a judgment oracle to the mountains of Israel calling them to hear. Thus, the command to hear in Ezek 36 has to do with bringing about a certain degree of symmetry with Ezek 6. The earlier oracle of judgment in Ezekiel governs the verb used in Ezek 36, despite the invocation taking place within the context of redemption. When Boston argues that on “the basis of this evidence of variety of function, it would seem that one should not attempt to put very much emphasis on the use of the expression as an element in any specific literary form,”15 he is right, insofar as he means a general invoking of the heavens or earth. But the combination of the invocation of these elements with the command to hear is clearly seen to belong primarily to a judgment context, to which the rîb pattern belongs. Since Deut 32 begins with the phrase “Give ear, O heavens, and I will speak, and let the earth hear the words of my mouth,” it is most naturally associated with the rîb. This, coupled with Wright’s other two points (indictment section in vv. 15–18; verdict of judge in vv. 19–29), demonstrates that the covenant lawsuit is indeed found in Deut 32. While Wright’s theory has much to commend it, a number of problems do arise from his work that must be dealt with before another overarching form designation can be suggested. One of the first and most basic criticisms is of Wright’s method of determining the structure of the Song based on “an attempt to identify thought units.”16 This method leaves the interpreter open to being paralleled to “inhabitants of the world” and called to praise. Such a meaning for earth cannot be excluded outright from these other passages. 14 Perhaps it is somewhat arbitrary to examine summons only to heaven, earth, and mountains. Other aspects of creation are also summoned in Scripture; see Pss 96:11–12 and 148:3, where the sea, field, forest, sun, moon, and stars are also invoked in the context of praise. 15 Boston, “Wisdom Influence,” 199. 16 Wright, “Lawsuit,” 34.

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swayed by her or his own preconceptions of the form and meaning of a passage instead of possibly challenging those preconceptions. Wright admits this but does not attempt a more disciplined approach,17 which would deal with aspects that are more fundamental to the Song, such as grammar and speaker, from which a different understanding of the Song might present itself. Wright realizes that his argument encounters a number of difficulties with the content of the Song—as noted above, v. 2 and vv. 30–43. He believes these are expansions of the lawsuit form that adapt it to use as a confession and absolution of the people’s sin. But this could possibly lead to relegating these portions of the Song to a position of subordinate status. 18 These latter two weaknesses with Wright’s thesis justify a reexamination of the form of the Song that pays close attention to its key grammatical features and will attempt to do justice to the covenant lawsuit as well as to aspects that do not fit that form. It is my argument that understanding the Song as a hymn with an embedded rîb does the most justice to the content and structure of the Song. Before proposing that the Song belongs to a specific form, I will first show that it belongs within a particular sphere—that of the cult. This will involve examining grammatical features of the Song, which will lead to a structural analysis of the Song different from that presented by Wright. Once this has been established, we will be in a better position to address the issue of its form.

III. The Liturgical Origin of the Song of Moses It is my contention in this article that various features of the Song of Moses are otherwise inexplicable unless it is understood to have originated in the context of liturgical worship.19 Even the fact that Deut 32:1–43 is called hry`h

17

Ibid, 33. So too Huffmon, who argues that vv. 26–43 “may be an appendix stating why Yahweh will remit the sentence” (“Covenant Lawsuit,” 289). 19 The word “liturgical” is here being used in the rather broad sense of words that accompany a public cultic ceremony. Sigmund Mowinckel’s definition of “cult”/“ritual” is apt: “The cult is, as mentioned above, the visible and audible expression of the relation between the congregation and the deity” (The Psalms in Israel’s Worship [trans. D. R. Ap-Thomas; 2 vols.; New York: Abingdon, 1967], 16). These words, according to Mowinckel, “seem originally to belong to the acts as interpretation and complement—that also being one side of the cult’s dramatic character” (ibid., 20). Such words were by nature fixed rather than spontaneous. But see Erhard S. Gerstenberger, who suggests that cult should not be confined merely to a centralized place of worship but in early Israel should be thought to be a part of clan and tribal life (Psalms: Part I with an Introduction to Cultic Poetry [FOTL 14; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans,1988], 5–9, 21–22). Others have argued that the Song is in fact liturgical, but they have not demonstrated to my satisfaction the evidence that leads to this conclusion or the implications of this conclusion. See 18

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(“The Song”) points to some liturgical use of the passage. But this is not the only evidence of the liturgical use of the Song. Perhaps the most blatant anomaly is the number of changes of person that take place throughout the Song. Within a short space Israel is referred to in a number of different grammatical persons; these shifts need some explanation to account for them. In v. 5, for instance, the people of Israel are mentioned in the third person plural (“they”), but in v. 6, Israel is addressed in the second person singular (“you”). This continues into v. 7; the following verses, however, revert back to the third person until v. 14d. In v. 14d the people are again directly addressed in the second person: “and the blood of fine wine you drank.” Again, such a shift takes place in v. 15, this time within the space of a single verse. In the first stichs of v. 15, Israel is referred to in the third person (“Jacob”/“Jeshurun”/“he”); however, in the next three verbs Israel is addressed in the second person singular (“you”).20 Just as quickly, the subject of the last two verbs reverts back to referring to Israel in the third person. Two verses later this happens again. “They sacrificed to demons” (v. 17a), to gods “whom your fathers did not fear” (v. 17d). The second person continues for the entirety of v. 18 before giving way to the speech of YHWH in vv. 19–27. After YHWH’s speech, the nation is again referred to in the third person (“they”). But in v. 31 “Israel” speaks in the first person plural: “For their rock is not as our Rock, even our enemies themselves being judges.”21 In YHWH’s third speech (Deut 32:37–42), the shift again is from the third person (v. 37) to the second person (v. 38).22 Within the span of forty-three verses, Israel is referred to in the third person, is directly addressed in the second person, and refers to itself in the first person; and these three ways of referring to the nation are woven together throughout the Song. The explanation for the shifts may be found in the cultic practices of Israel. These shifts in person with reference to Israel indicate that Umberto Cassuto, who states that the Song “[i]s to be regarded as a liturgical composition for the New Year’s festival, dating from the age of the Judges” (Biblical and Oriental Studies [trans. Israel Abrahams; 2 vols.; Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1973], 1:46). 20 The LXX apparently misses the significance of this shift in person, making the subject of all the verbs in the verse third person singular. 21 The antecedent of “their” in this verse is somewhat ambiguous. In v. 30, “their rock” is clearly YHWH, as seen from the fact that YHWH is paralleled with “their rock” in the next stich, and the antecedent is YHWH’s people, who are handed over to their enemies. Yet in v. 31 “their rock” appears to be referring to the god of the enemy nation contrasted with “our rock”—that is, Israel’s God. Even this ambiguity buttresses the argument that the Song was performed, since a change of speaker most likely took place here and notified the congregation that the two occurrences of “their rock” in vv. 30–31 refer to two different antecedents—the first Israel, the second the enemy nation. 22 Changes occur also from second person singular to second person plural and vice versa. Since such changes are not restricted to the Song of Moses itself (i.e., 32:3—“Give” [pl.]; 32:7— “Ask” [sg.]) but are a phenomenon attested throughout the book of Deuteronomy, nothing will be made of their presence within the Song.

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the Song was not merely to be read but was to be performed. The changes in person may well mark off speeches of different people in the performance of the Song. It is also clear from the references to the people in the second person that a congregation is present and is being addressed. Added to these shifts in grammatical person is the number of different speakers in the Song. Although it is unclear how many speakers there are in the first nineteen verses, it is possible that there are multiple speakers, as suggested by the shifts noted above. In v. 20, however, there is a clear change in speaker— from the narrator to YHWH himself. YHWH’s speech extends from v. 20 to v. 27. Although it is possible that vv. 28–30 continue YHWH’s speech, they may be an explanation of why he feared the nation would misunderstand him. In v. 31, the speaker is clearly a representative of Israel. Once again, it is unclear where Israel stops speaking—after v. 31 or after v. 33? Verses 34–35 contain YHWH’s second speech, after which the claim is made that he will vindicate his people. Then vv. 37–42 contain YHWH’s final speech, which is followed by a summons of praise to the heavens and gods as a result of YHWH’s actions. Once again, these changes in speaker are indicators that the Song was meant to be performed, with a number of people or groups speaking out the various sections. Further, in common with liturgical songs, there are a number of commands and interrogatives that presuppose that there is a congregation present. In v. 3 the speaker summons his hearers to “Give greatness to our God!” It is quite likely that the following verse was the choral response to this command: “The Rock, his work is perfect for all his ways are just. A God of faithfulness and without iniquity, righteous and upright is he!” In v. 6 the people are confronted with two questions that emphasize the heinousness of rebellion: “Is this how you repay YHWH? . . . Is he not your father?” In v. 7 the nation is commanded to “remember,” “consider,” and “ask your fathers/elders.” The passage that follows these imperatives may have been performed by a group of elders, acting out the answering of v. 7. In v. 30 another interrogative is directed possibly to the people but most likely to the enemy: “How did one pursue one thousand, and two cause a myriad to flee, unless their Rock sold them . . . ?” Again, YHWH asks the enemy nation about his judgment: “Is it not stored up with me, sealed up in my storehouses?” (v. 34). Then, turning back to his people, YHWH asks: “Where are their gods, the rock in whom they took refuge?” In v. 39, YHWH calls his people to “see” that he alone is God. Finally, at the end of the Song, another command is given, only this time to the heavens and the gods: “Sing for joy, O heavens, with his people, and bow down to him all gods.”23 Once again, my suggestion is

23 The textual discussion surrounding this verse is somewhat complex. The MT provides a shorter reading than the variants preserved in the LXX and at Qumran but is also the “easier” read-

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that these imperatives and interrogatives, interspersed throughout the Song, are best understood in the context of a liturgical ceremony.

IV. Rîbôt and the Song of Moses To demonstrate that these features are most likely to be associated with liturgy, it will be illuminating to examine briefly the rîbôt that Wright notes (Ps 50; Isa 1:2–3; Jer 2:4–13; and Mic 6:2–8). While a number of these features do occur in other lawsuits that are not contained in liturgical texts, at a number of points significant differences do exist. Psalm 50 Psalm 50 is a prophetic psalm containing a rîb.24 The setting of the performance of this psalm is the temple on Zion (v. 2). Verses 1 and 4 contain the summons to the heavens and earth common to the rîb: “He calls to the heavens above and to the earth” with the explicit purpose that he might “judge (@yd) his people.” As in Huffmon’s analysis of this form, the defendant is summoned (v. 5) and is addressed in the second person (vv. 7–15). The accusation, ending in v. 13, is formed in a question: “Do I eat the flesh of bulls, or the blood of goats do I drink?” The accusation is that, while the people have offered sacrifices, they have misunderstood the nature of these rites. The lawsuit ends not with a judgment, but with a warning: “Understand this, . . . lest I tear apart and there is no one to deliver” (v. 22). This psalm, like Deut 32, contains imperatives/interrogatives, multiple speakers, and grammatical shifts in person when referring to Israel. In v. 5 the people are commanded to “gather” and in v. 6 to “hear” YHWH’s charge against them. Then, in vv. 14–15 the people are commanded to “offer” sacrifices of thanksgiving, “pay” vows, and “call” on YHWH in the time of trouble. Finally, in v. 22, the wicked are commanded to understand what YHWH has told them, that they might escape his judgment. Further, there are two speakers in this psalm. In the first four verses God is addressed in the third person and the stage is set ing, since it makes no mention of gods. I believe the reading found in 4QDeutq is to be preferred based on both lectio difficilior (containing the reference to “gods” that is lacking in the MT) and on lectio brevior (being a shorter variant than the LXX). If so, the verse should read: “Rejoice, O heavens with his people; bow to him all gods. For the blood of his sons he will avenge and vengeance he will return upon his enemies, and to those who hate him he will repay, and he will atone for the land of his people.” 24 See Hans-Joachim Kraus, Psalms 1–59 (trans. Hilton C. Oswald; CC; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993), 488–89; Craig C. Broyles, Psalms (NIBC 11; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1999), 223–25.

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for his speech. The rest of the psalm is YHWH’s speech to his people and a warning to the wicked. Finally, Israel is referred to in the first person plural in v. 3— “Our God comes,” while in the remainder of the psalm is addressed in the second person. One might suggest that these parallels between Deut 32 and Ps 50 are a result of the rîb pattern, but a better explanation can be found. First, the setting of the psalm is that of the temple in Zion (v. 2).25 Second, the imperatives in the psalm, particularly those in v. 14, demand that the psalm be performed at the temple: “Offer to God thanksgiving, and pay to the Most High your vows. . . .” Finally, the very content of God’s lawsuit with his people is cultic. God’s complaint against his people is that they have misunderstood the significance of sacrifices. Since Ps 50 is a liturgical work containing a rîb, it is difficult to determine whether the features it has in common with Deut 32 are due to a lawsuit form or a liturgical context. Isaiah 1:2–3 Isaiah 1:2–3 contains another rîb against the people of YHWH. As is common in the pattern, heaven and earth are invoked to listen to YHWH’s words (v. 2a). The accusation against the people is that while he has reared them, they have rebelled (vv. 2b–3). The rîb pattern ends here and a woe oracle follows.26 Although there is a change of speaker from the prophet to YHWH, there are no imperatives addressed to any congregation, nor are there any grammatical shifts in person when referring to Israel. Thus, Isa 1:2–3 is a rîb that differs significantly from the Song of Moses, which has imperatives addressed to a congregation and multiple shifts in person when referring to Israel. Jeremiah 2:4–13 Jeremiah 2 contains another rîb, mixed with a number of other forms.27 A number of components of the lawsuit form, albeit in unexpected order, are found in vv. 4–13. The command to the heavens/earth, found in v. 12, is not “to hear” but rather to “be appalled.” The rîb begins by summoning the defendant 25 Kraus suggests that the psalm was used in a covenant renewal festival (Psalms 1–59, 490–91). So too Peter C. Craigie, Psalms 1–50 (WBC 19; Waco: Word Books, 1983), 363. Such a possibility is perhaps buttressed by the thunderstorm theophany in vv. 1–3, which Exodus associates with Mount Sinai, where the original covenant was formed. 26 See Hans Wildberger, Isaiah 1–12: A Commentary (trans. Thomas H. Trapp; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991); Joseph Blenkinsopp, Isaiah 1-39: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 19; New York: Doubleday, 2000), 182. 27 The chapter is made up of a series of oracles woven together. For a discussion of the component parts, see Peter C. Craigie et al., Jeremiah 1–25 (WBC 26; Dallas: Word Books, 1991), 20–21.

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to hear YHWH’s accusation (v. 4). A question addressed to the defendant is then asked: “What wrong did your fathers find in me that they went far from me and went after worthlessness, and became worthless?” As in the Song of Moses, the people’s sin is expressed in terms of idolatry (v. 11). No basis of accusation against YHWH can be found—he had saved them from Egypt and had brought them into a garden land. The people’s response of disobedience was undeserved. Although there is an imperative to the people in v. 4, it is in keeping with the rîb pattern—summoning the defendant to his trial. There are a number of imperatives in v. 10 to discover if another nation has abandoned their god(s) as God’s people have abandoned him. Further, the interrogatives of vv. 7 and 11 belong to the rîb pattern of asking the defendant a rhetorical question as part of the indictment. As is normal in the lawsuit, the form begins with an invocation of the prophet/narrator that introduces YHWH’s indictment speech. The rest of the passage is Y HWH ’s speech. Finally, there is a shift from Israel being addressed in the second person singular to being referred to in the third person singular (vv. 11, 13).28 Micah 6:1–8 Another example of a lawsuit is found in Micah 6:1–8.29 In v. 2 the mountains are summoned to hear God’s contention (byr) with his people. YHWH’s question to his people is: “What have I done to you, and in what have I wearied you?” Then, to demonstrate that the people have no basis for accusation against YHWH, he reminds them of his gracious provision for them in delivering them from Egypt and bringing them through the wilderness (vv. 4–5). The content of this lawsuit is in many ways similar to that of Ps 50—a misunderstanding with regard to the significance of the cult. In response to the breach of covenant that has occasioned the lawsuit of vv. 1–5, it is asked how one might enter into YHWH’s presence.30 The question is then asked whether sacrifices will help him obtain his desire (vv. 6–7). The answer of v. 8 points in a different direction. The requirement was not sacrifice, instead: “What is good, and what does YHWH 28 For a discussion of comparisons and contrasts between Jer 2 and Deut 32, see Jack Lundbom, Jeremiah 1–20: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 21A; New York: Doubleday, 1999), 109–17; William L. Holladay, “Jeremiah and Moses: Further Observations,” JBL 85 (1966): 17–27. 29 While two different forms can be detected in this passage, that of a lawsuit (vv. 1–5) and an entrance liturgy (vv. 6–8), the two are combined to form a unified composition. So too Leslie C. Allen, The Books of Joel, Obadiah, Jonah, and Micah (NICOT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1976), 363; Hans Walter Wolff, Micah: A Commentary (trans. Gary Stansell; Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1990), 166–69. 30 James Luther Mays thinks that Israel may be asking this question (Micah: A Commentary [OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1976], 137–38).

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seek from you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” The contention that God has with his people, then, is that the sacrificial system has been misunderstood and has eclipsed concerns for social justice.31 Micah 6:1–8 also contains imperatives/interrogatives (vv. 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8) and changes in speaker (vv. 1–5 [YHWH]; 6–8 [narrator]). That the rîb contains an imperative to hear and an interrogative to the defendant is part of the form and thus not surprising. Further, the imperatives and interrogatives of vv. 6–8 are in line with a liturgy of temple entry. The changes in speaker are explained by the fact that vv. 1–5 belong to the form of a rîb while vv. 6–8 are at the very least modeled after a psalm of temple entry.32 What is missing from Mic 6:1–8 is YHWH’s sentence. Instead, the passage has a didactic purpose, instructing the people of the requirements that YHWH has for them. Gratefulness for YHWH’s saving deeds is expressed not merely in sacrifices but in human relations as well.

V. Lawsuits and the Liturgical Aspects of the Song of Moses Since all of these lawsuits contain imperatives, it will be helpful to place the evidence in a table below. Imperatives will be divided into three groups: (1) imperatives to elements of nature; (2) to Israel that are not related to worship; and (3) imperatives to Israel that are worship imperatives. Imperative

Passages

To Heaven/Earth/Mountain

Ps 50:1, 4 (implicit); Mic 6:2; Isa 1:2; Jer 2:13; Deut 32:1

To People: Gather/Hear/ Remember/See

Ps 50:4; Mic 6:5; Jer 2:4, 10; Deut 32:7, 39

To People: Worship/cultic

Ps 50:14; Deut 32:3b, 43

31 Such thinking is in line with other temple entries, such as Pss 15 and 24. In both of these psalms a principal requirement for temple entry is social, not sacrificial. 32 Gunkel and Begrich suggest that Mic 6:6–8, along with Isa 33:14–16, are prophetic imitations of Torah liturgy (Psalms, 313–14). See the discussion on the cultic background to these verses in Francis I. Andersen and David Noel Freedman, Micah: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 24E; New York: Doubleday, 2000), 510–11.

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From this table we see that there is a qualitative difference between some of the commands. The first two types, those to elements of nature and those to the people to “hear” and so on, belong with the rîb pattern as discussed by Wright. The third type is not indigenous to the lawsuit pattern and is thus lacking from all but Ps 50 and Deut 32. The reason that these “imperatives of worship” are found in these two passages is that both are liturgical texts. The interrogatives found in all but Isa 1:2–3, primarily belonging to the disputation form as well, are rhetorical questions meant to demonstrate YHWH’s argument against his people. Shifts in speaker, while occurring in all rîb passages, are only a switch from the prophet/narrator to YHWH. The prophet’s speech is meant to preface YHWH’s message to his people; such a change of speaker is expected in prophetic oracles. On the other hand, as shown above, numerous changes of person occur within the Song of Moses that are not accounted for by the form of the rîb but can be explained if the Song is liturgical. Finally, grammatical shifts of person when referring to Israel likewise occur in other lawsuits–Ps 50, Mic 6:2–8, and Jer 2:4–13. Psalm 50 and Mic 6:2–8 change only once, from referring to Israel in the third person to addressing the nation in the second person. But this grammatical shift is due to the change in speaker that occurs at these points (Ps 50:3/4; Mic 6:1/2). Isaiah exhibits no such shift. Jeremiah, on the other hand, like Deut 32, has a grammatical shift within YHWH’s speech. Up until Jer 2:9 the people are addressed in the second person, but at v. 11 there is a shift to the third person singular “my people.” It is possible, though, that Jer 2:4–13 is actually composite, containing what were originally two separate oracles. 33 Nevertheless, the numerous shifts in grammatical person in Deut 32:1–43 are sufficiently distinct to suggest that the text had a liturgical purpose. This, coupled with the imperatives of worship and multiple speakers, distinguishes the Song of Moses from other lawsuits and points to a different purpose.

VI. The Liturgical Aspects of the Song and Liturgies of the Psalter Since these three factors (shifts in person, changes of speaker, and imperatives/interrogatives) lead one to conclude that in the Song we have evidence of a liturgical work of Israel, it is best to compare the Song of Moses to liturgies of 33 See Lundbom, who argues that vv. 5–9 are a discrete chiastic unit, introduced by v. 4 and demarcated by the phrases “thus said YHWH” in v. 5 and “oracle of YHWH” in v. 9 (Jeremiah, 256–57). If so, the grammatical shift that occurs between vv. 5–9 and vv. 10–13 in reference to Israel is explained.

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Scripture. These factors indicate not only that the Song was used as a liturgy in Israel’s history but that it was written with that very intention. The grammatical features examined above can be fully explained only if the Song originated with the purpose of being used in such a setting. To demonstrate that these features in Deut 32 do indeed point to the liturgical origin and use of the Song, we can compare the Song to two psalms that are widely regarded as liturgical and possess these very attributes. Psalm 24 is generally regarded as a psalm of temple entry.34 As worshipers entered the temple area to partake in the cultic activity, such a psalm ushered them into the sacred space. Although there are no shifts of person in the psalm, the other two features of Deut 32 do occur. At two points in the psalm (v. 8a/8b; v. 10a/10b) a question is asked: “Who is this king of glory?” Immediately following, the answer is given, presumably by another speaker: “YHWH, strong and mighty, YHWH, mighty in battle.” This change in speaker indicates a performance of the psalm. Further, just as Deut 32 contains imperatives and interrogatives, Ps 24 includes a mix of imperatives and interrogatives that are explicable if the psalm is performed. “Who will ascend the hill of YHWH? And who will stand in his holy place?” This question hints at an audience. To the worshiper seeking entrance to the temple grounds, such a question is of immediate importance. The cultic space was not something to be entered trivially. The imperatives and interrogatives in vv. 7–10—the imperatives to the gates and the interrogatives seeking answer to the question, Who is the king of glory?— would likely have accompanied the entrance of the ark of the covenant into the city of Jerusalem.35 The second psalm is Ps 2, a royal psalm, likely used at the enthronement of a king or at the time the kings went out to war.36 In this psalm there are numerous shifts in person when YHWH is referred to. The first verses refer to him in the third person (he/YHWH). The sixth verse, which records YHWH’s speech to the nations shifts into the first person singular. Verse 7a, however, reverts back to referring to YHWH in the third person. Again the psalm shifts back to the first person in v. 7c. Finally, in vv. 11–12, YHWH is referred to in the third person. Changes of speaker also occur in the psalm. Verses 1–2 contain a statement by the “narrator” about the kings, followed by their speech in vv. 4–5 and then by 34 See Broyles, Psalms, 127–32; Gerstenberger, Psalms, 117–19; Mowinckel, Psalms I, 5–6; Klaus Koch, The Growth of the Biblical Tradition: The Form-Critical Method (trans. S. M. Cupitt; New York: Scribner, 1969), 30. See also Gunkel and Begrich, who view Ps 24 as a Torah liturgy (Psalms, 289–92). 35 Broyles, Psalms, 131. 36 See ibid., 44–48; Mowinckel, Psalms I, 75. So too, with some reservation, Craigie, Psalms 1–50, 64–65. John H. Eaton believes that there are no changes in speaker and that the king performed the entire psalm alone (Kingship and the Psalms [SBT 32; London: SCM, 1976], 111). This conclusion does not do justice to the evidence in the psalm.

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the “narrator’s” statement about YHWH’s response. Verse 6 contains YHWH’s speech, and vv. 7–9 are likely the speech of the king, retelling YHWH’s words to him. The psalm ends with the “narrator” commanding the kings of the nations to respond appropriately to YHWH. Finally, Ps 2 contains a number of imperatives and interrogatives. The psalm begins with the question: “Why are the nations in tumult and the nations plotting in vain?” In v. 8, the king retells YHWH’s command to him: “Ask of me . . . .” Verses 10–12 contain a number of imperatives addressed to the kings of the nations (“Be wise,” “Be warned,” “Serve,” and “Kiss”). The following table shows that psalms generally regarded as liturgies contain shifts in grammatical person, multiple changes of speaker, and imperatives and interrogatives. This strengthens the argument that Deut 32 is a liturgy. Liturgical Feature

Psalm 24

Psalm 2

Person shift

—

Vv. 1–5 (3rd); 6 (1st); 7a–b (3rd); 7c–8 (1st); 11–12 (3rd)

Change in speaker

Vv. 8a/8b, 10a/10b

Vv. 2/3, 4–5/6, 7a/7b–9

Imperatives/Interrogative

Vv. 2, 3, 7, 8, 9, 10

Vv. 1, 10, 11, 12

VII. The Structure of the Song of Moses As noted in regard to Wright’s analysis, any attempt at a structural analysis of the Song should begin at the grammatical level and follow these clues in determining the shape of the work. The proposed structure of the Song is set forth below. Any attempt to reconstruct a liturgy centuries old is fraught with peril, but this can be mitigated by paying attention to the speaker and the grammatical person in which Israel is addressed. At a number of places it is uncertain where the speech of one participant in the liturgy ends and another begins. Also uncertain at times is the identity of the speaker as the Song is performed. Despite these uncertainties, the liturgical use of the Song remains a robust argument. On the following page is a hypothetical reconstruction of how the Song was performed. Granting that the identity of the speaker in each section of the Song is not necessarily clear, this is an attempted reconstruction of how the liturgy might have been performed. The speaker who performs the speeches of YHWH would most naturally be a priest or a cultic prophet. Aubrey R. Johnson has argued

Thiessen: Form and Function of the Song of Moses Verses

Content

1–3 4 5–6 7 8–14c 14d 15a–b 15c 15d–17b 17c–18 19–20a 20b–2937

Introduction Hymnic praise Indictment summary Hymnic imperative YHWH’s acts recounted People addressed in second person People indicted Condemnation of people in second person Israel’s unfaithfulness recounted Condemnation of people in second person YHWH sentences his people YHWH’s speech: judgment and mitigation

3039 31–3340 34–35

Question asked of the nations Choral response YHWH’s second speech

36–37a 37b–38b

Proclamation of salvation YHWH’s third speech

38c–d41 39–42

Confrontation of Israel in second person Conclusion of YHWH’s third speech

43

Second summons to praise

417

Speaker Officiator Choir Officiator Officiator Elders Officiator Choir Officiator Choir Officiator Choir Priest38 or Cultic Prophet Officiator Choir Priest or Cultic Prophet Choir Priest or Cultic Prophet Officiator Priest or Cultic Prophet Officiator

37 This speech may stop at v. 27. Then vv. 28–29 would belong with the speech of v. 30. With no first-person pronouns it is difficult to tell who is speaking. Perhaps since there is no clear demarcation of a new speaker it is safest to assume that vv. 28–29 continue YHWH’s speech and that v. 30 is a new speaker, since YHWH is referred to in the third person. 38 If the Song does have its origins after the inception of the monarchy, the “voice” of YHWH may well have been the king, particularly if there is truth to the claims of the Scandinavian Myth and Ritual school (John H. Eaton and others; see, e.g., Eaton, Kingship). That the king played such a central role in liturgical performances is largely speculative. 39 This verse could just as easily be understood as part of the speech of the choir that follows in vv. 31–33. 40 Once again it is unclear whether vv. 32–33 are the speech of the choir or form a new speech performed by the priest. As above, since there are no clear indicators, it will be assumed that the speech of the choir continues. 41 This may be a continuation of YHWH’s speech. The shift in person, from referring to Israel in the third person to addressing her in the second person, suggests that a change in speaker may take place here as well.

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that the entire Song is a psalm that reflects the activity of cultic prophets who were responsible for delivering oracles of Y HWH to the nation in time of national crisis.42 The director of the liturgy, who cries out the imperatives, questions, and charges directed to the congregation would be a cultic official, possibly levitical.43 The responses, whether to the officiator’s questions and commands or the speeches of YHWH, would most naturally fall to the choir. One of these choral responses (vv. 8–15a), in keeping with the director’s imperative that Israel ask its father and elders to relate the history of YHWH’s dealings with the people, might have been performed by the elders of the congregation, reminding younger generations of YHWH’s former faithfulness to them.

VIII. Liturgical Setting of Performance of the Song One of the main axioms of form criticism, as stated by Sigmund Mowinckel, is that “the different types of psalms have come into existence in connexion with different cultic situations and acts to which they originally belonged.”44 Thus, what remains to be examined with regard to the liturgical use of the Song is where and when such a liturgy would have been performed. What cultic setting gave rise to the composition of the Song of Moses? Of the classical theories with regard to use of the psalms, Artur Weiser’s proposal that the autumn festival was a covenant-renewal festival is the most promising habitat for the Song of Moses.45 Although his theory offers little evidence that such a festival existed, it would fit well with the arguments of many scholars that Deuteronomy is a covenant treaty document.46 Just as vassal treaties were periodically read to 42 Aubrey R. Johnson, The Cultic Prophet and Israel’s Psalmody (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1979), 150–65. He argues that one of the features of this prophetic style is that the cultic prophet acts as the “mouthpiece of Yahweh” (pp. 6–7). He believes that the Song of Moses was performed by the cultic prophet, but this fails to account for the liturgical aspects of the Song, which seem to point to various “actors” in its performance. See also Steven J. L. Croft, who discusses the role of the cultic prophet in the preexilic period (The Identity of the Individual in the Psalms [JSOTSup 44; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1987], 151–59). 43 See Mark S. Smith, who argues that the Levites had liturgical and scribal functions in the postexilic period and were likely responsible for the compilation of the Psalter (“The Levitical Compilation of the Psalter,” ZAW 103 [1991]: 258–63). This argument is bolstered by the fact that a number of psalms (42, 44–49, 84, 85, 87, 88) are associated with the sons of Korah, who were levitical. Such liturgical roles may have preceded this period as well. 44 Mowinckel, Psalms I, 13. 45 For Weiser’s theory of the covenant-renewal festival, see the introduction to The Psalms: A Commentary (trans. Herbert Hartwell; OTL; London: SCM, 1962), in particular, pp. 35–52. 46 See George E. Mendenhall, “Covenant Forms in Israelite Tradition,” BA 17 (1954): 50–76; and Dennis J. McCarthy, Treaty and Covenant: A Study in Form in the Ancient Oriental Documents in the Old Testament (Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1963). For studies that exam-

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renew the stipulations and the curses/blessings of the treaty, so too the covenant in early Israel was likely renewed from time to time (Deut 31). The Song of Moses may well have formed an important part of such a ceremony, which may have taken place in Shechem, as Deut 27 suggests, with one part of the nation standing on Mount Gerizim and the other on Mount Ebal.47 That the temple was not the original setting of this performance is possible, since the sacrificial system is not mentioned and none of the cultic apparatus alluded to. The sin of the people is cast in terms of idolatry, but no mention is made of the temple, the ark, Zion, and so on. Three possibilities arise: (1) The Song originated while the temple existed, but use of it was not tied to the temple cult. (2) The Song predates the establishment of the temple cult. (3) The Song was written after the destruction of the temple but before its being rebuilt. The third option seems unlikely, since no hint is made of either the exile or the destruction of the temple. Based on the silence about the temple, neither of the first two options is to be clearly favored.48 But, in light of the lack of any reference to the monarchy and the conditions of life during that period, it is possible that the Song predates both the temple and the establishment of the monarchy.49

IX. Readdressing the Question of Form We are now in a better position to return to the discussion of the form of the Song. If this liturgical understanding of Deut 32 is to be accepted, then the question of genre will be informed by other liturgies, primarily those entrenched in Israelite culture. Cultic poetry has generally been divided into the following classifications: lament (communal and individual), complaint (communal and individual), thanksgiving (communal and individual), hymns, ine Deuteronomy specifically, see Meredith G. Kline, Treaty of the Great King: The Covenant Structure of Deuteronomy: Studies and Commentary (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1963); Moshe Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomist (Oxford: Clarendon, 1972), 59–157. 47 The antiquity of some of the traditions contained in Deut 27–34 is seen particularly clearly in ch. 27. As in Exod 20:25, Deut 27:5–6 says that an altar must be of uncut stone but does not need to be at a central place of worship; Deut 12 reflects later concerns for the centralization of worship. Further, evidence for the antiquity of this tradition is that Levi is included in the tribal list, and the division of the house of Joseph into Manasseh and Ephraim had not yet happened. 48 The omission of any reference to cultic apparatus or the temple is uncommon in hymns; see Gunkel and Begrich, Introduction, 41–43; Mowinckel, Psalms I, 89–90. 49 So too, Cassuto, Biblical and Oriental Studies, 1:41. Lack of references to the temple and monarchy is an inconclusive indicator of where the Song was performed. Numerous psalms likely performed at the temple make no mention of the temple or the monarchy, e.g., Pss 33; 103; 104; 105; 113; etc.

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royal psalms, and wisdom psalms.50 Considered in terms of the established liturgies contained in the Psalter, the Song contains all the elements of the form of a hymn. Using Ps 33 as an example, we can delineate the four main components of a hymn as follows:51 1. Command to Praise/Call to Worship: Ps 33:1–3 (“Rejoice in YHWH . . .”) 2. Introductory Summary: 33:4–5 (“For the word of YHWH is upright . . .”) 3. Body: 33:6–19 (A description of God’s goodness and greatness) 4. Renewed Call to Praise or Blessing/Wish: 33:20–22 (“Let thy steadfast love . . .”) Deuteronomy 32 evinces these same elements. (1) The call to worship is in v. 3: “Give greatness to our God!” (2) The introductory summary is in the following verse: “The Rock, his work is perfect for all his ways are just. A God of faithfulness and without iniquity, righteous and upright is he!” (3) Praise of YHWH for his works, deeds, and qualities, the predominant section of a hymn as well as that of the Song of Moses, is found in 32:8–14, 30–42. The emphasis is primarily on the goodness of God to Israel, although God’s greatness is also mentioned (vv. 8, 12, 39). But it is the goodness of God in spite of the judgment that is meted out to the people that is emphasized. In a sense, the designation of Deut 32:1–43 as a “hymn” approaches Gerhard von Rad’s description of a Gerichtsdoxologie (“judgment doxology”): “The essence of this and every act of praise is that in all circumstances it declares God to be in the right.”52 Proclaiming YHWH’s righteousness and faithfulness (see v. 4) includes praise of YHWH’s just punishment of his people. That the praise in Deut 32 is primarily in narrative form is in keeping with hymns in the Psalter such as Pss 78, 105, 106.53 Finally, (4) the concluding summons to praise in v. 43 is a command not only to Israel but to the heavens and the gods. To define these aspects in the song more narrowly, three options present themselves based on the work of Frank Crüsemann, who divides this category of psalms into three groups: “imperative hymns,” “hymnic participles,” and “hymns of the individual.”54 The element of the imperatival hymn is the exhortation to praise followed by the reason to praise (often introduced by yk; see Pss 96; 98; 100; 117, 136). The two imperatival sections in the Song (vv. 3, 43) sug50

See, e.g., Gerstenberger, Psalms, 9–21; Broyles, Psalms, 9–22. Taken from Broyles, Psalms, 13–15. For similar descriptions of the form of a hymn, see also Gerstenberger, Psalms, 16–19; Mowinckel, Psalms I, 81–105. 52 Gerhard von Rad, Old Testament Theology, volume 1, The Theology of Israel’s Historical Traditions (trans. D. M. G. Stalker; London: SCM Press, 1975), 359. 53 See Gerstenberger, Psalms, 18. 54 See Frank Crüsemann, Studien zur Formgeschichte von Hymnus und Danklied in Israel (WMANT 32; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1969), 19–154, 285–306, referred to by Kraus, Psalms 1–59, 43. 51

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gest that the Song may fit into Crüsemann’s category of an “imperative hymn,” as does the declaration of praise (here not introduced by yk) in v. 4. According to Crüsemann, the Sitz im Leben of the imperative hymn “[i]s the regular cultus, its original content the experience of Yahweh’s historical treatment of Israel.”55 YHWH’s historical treatment of his people is indeed exhibited clearly in the Song of Moses. The argument here is not necessarily that every verse in the Song belongs to the category of a hymn,56 but that every component of the form of the hymn is found in the Song and that understanding the Song as hymnic will aid in the interpretation of the purpose of it.

X. A Covenant Rîb Embedded in a Hymn Combining the insights of Wright’s study with the arguments offered here, we conclude that the Song of Moses is a hymn that contains a covenant rîb. This conclusion is not altogether different from Wright’s own argument. The difference is one primarily of emphasis. Wright, and those who base their work on his essay, stress the idea of the rîb. Wright’s statement that this lawsuit is merely an “instructional device” rightly points in another direction—to the subversion of this form to the purposes of the hymnic form.57 The rîb in the context of the Song functions to underscore the hymnic introductory summary found in v. 4: “The Rock, his work is perfect, for all his ways are just. A God of faithfulness and without iniquity. Righteous and upright is he.” The choir is to give the “Amen!” to this statement, associating themselves as representatives of the nation with the sinful generation indicted in the covenant lawsuit while at the same time confirming YHWH’s character.

XI. Implications for the Study of the Song The argument here is that the Song of Moses was not only used liturgically but was crafted for that very purpose. If this is correct, a number of significant propositions can be offered with regard to the critical issues of Deut 32. 55

Crüsemann, Studien, 308, cited by Kraus, Psalms 1–59, 44. One could argue that nontraditional elements in the Song are an expansion of the hymnic form. Thus, the condemnation of the people (32:5–6) is meant to contrast with YHWH’s faithfulness, and the narrative in vv. 8–42 could be understood to reflect this faithfulness of Y HWH throughout Israel’s history. In the wilderness, YHWH provided graciously for his people. The disobedience of the people (vv. 15–18) will lead YHWH to respond with just retribution (vv. 19–25). Yet he will not allow his name to be maligned and so will both judge the nation that harmed his people and restore his people (vv. 26–42). 57 Wright, “Lawsuit,” 54. 56

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First, a liturgical setting would have important implications for the dating of the Song. A survey of the critical studies on the date of the Song shows dates ranging from the eleventh century to the sixth century B.C.E.58 Proposed dates are based on vocabulary, poetic style, and theological parallels with the prophets. The disparity between scholarly opinions, particularly those based on vocabulary and poetic style, may have some basis in the data of the text, but this can be explained. If a liturgical background is accepted, then it can be assumed that the Song was passed down orally through cultic officials. As linguistic usage evolved over time, some changes in vocabulary and style probably crept into the liturgy.59 Thus, in the Song we may have evidence of language that represents various periods. This same point is made by Weiser in regard to the cultic hymns of the Psalter: “[M]any psalms were destined to repeated use as cultic hymns; they were therefore subject to the modifications of language and style which would take place in the course of history.”60 If such is the case, then any liturgical work might evince data that point both to an early and a late dating.61 In line with the dating of many psalms, the Song of Moses is probably preexilic in origin.62 This would account for linguistic evidence that points to an early date, and modifications that would slowly have made their way into the hymn as a liturgical work would explain vocabulary and stylistic evidence for a late date. This is in keeping with the work of Otto Eissfeldt, D. A. Robertson, and Paul Sanders, who argue for an early dating. Second, an understanding that the Song originated in a liturgical context 58 This is not the place for a discussion of these arguments. The reader is referred to the following works for this analysis. For proposals of an early date, see Otto Eissfeldt, Das Lied Mose Deutronomium 32:1–43 und Das Lehrgedicht Asaphe Psalm 78: samt einer Analyse der Umgebung des Mose-Liedes (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1958); D. A. Robertson, Linguistic Evidence in Dating Early Hebrew Poetry (SBLDS 3; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1972), 153–56; Paul Sanders, The Provenance of Deuteronomy 32 (Leiden: Brill, 1996). A late date is proposed by James R. Boston, “The Song of Moses: Deuteronomy 32:1–43” (Th.D. diss., Union Theological Seminary in the City of New York, 1966); Mayes, Deuteronomy, 381–82; Gerhard von Rad, Deuteronomy: A Commentary (trans. Dorothea Barton; OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1966), 200. Solomon A. Nigosian takes a mediating position, arguing that the mixture of early and late features points to a period of transition in Hebrew poetry and that Deut 32 should be dated between the tenth and eighth centuries B.C.E. 59 One thinks of the modern example of attempting to “update” the King James Bible with the New King James Bible, primarily by replacing archaic language. While such updating took place, it in no way completely removed the evidence of an earlier style. 60 Weiser, Psalms, 25. 61 Moshe Weinfeld makes a similar point in regard to the structure of the book of Deuteronomy (Deuteronomy 1-11: An Introduction with Translation and Commentary [AB 5; New York: Doubleday, 1991], 13). 62 See Gunkel and Begrich, who argue that the genre of the hymn is preexilic, citing the Song of Deborah, Ps 89, 1 Sam 2:1–10, etc., as examples of hymns that are clearly preexilic (Introduction, 319–20).

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illuminates the relationship of Deut 32 to prophetic literature. It has been argued by many that Deut 32 is dependent on the prophetic literature for its theology (and therefore is of late origin). For example, Carl H. Cornill has described the Song as a “compendium of prophetic theology.”63 Yet, as recent scholars have argued, the primary direction of dependence between the two groups of literature is the prophets depending on the psalms, not vice versa.64 The spirituality of the prophets is informed greatly by the early liturgies of the psalms. So too are the prophets—Jeremiah and Hosea in particular—informed by the Song of Moses.65 This explanation provides a better alternative to the predominant theory that the Song is to be dated to the postexilic period based on theological similarities to the prophets. Third, any attempt to determine the historical context that occasioned the Song is wrongheaded from the start. The Song, composed for a liturgical purpose, was not written to describe the response of a certain group of the people of God to a particular catastrophe that had come upon them at a specific time. Attempts to uncover the time of writing based on historical “clues” in the text or the “no-people” of 32:21 are doomed to failure no matter what evidence is marshaled in favor of this or that theory. It is not only the modern reader who finds the language of the Song vague and the identity of the “no-people” enigmatic. The language is purposefully vague and the enemy intentionally faceless. The author’s goal was not to describe a particular historical situation but to compose a liturgical work that would not quickly become obsolete. The very nature of a liturgical work is that it lends itself to being used for recurring occasions. Thus, the only clear referents in the text are YHWH, Israel, and the election of Israel in the wilderness and the entrance into the land. The description of the covenant infidelity of the people (32:15–18),66 the resulting judgment of YHWH on his people through a foolish nation (32:19–33), and Y HWH ’s judgment against his enemies and in favor of Israel (32:34–43) lack clear historical referents. Thus, Israel can use this history of itself in different time periods. The elements of the Song are not descriptions of historical events but warnings to the

63 Cited in S. R. Driver, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Deuteronomy (ICC; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1901), 346; see also Mayes, Deuteronomy, 381. 64 See Mowinckel, Psalms I, 14; Claus Westermann, Isaiah 40–66: A Commentary (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1969), 23–27. 65 See Holladay, “Jeremiah and Moses,” 17–27, for an impressive list of parallels between the Song and Jeremiah; see also Cassuto, who states: “We shall be able to understand this entire complex of formal analogies with verses from the prophetic books much better, if we assume the song to be a very ancient text that was held in high esteem and was widely known, and that the prophets who came afterwards frequently recalled it. Since this is to be observed already in the case of Hosea, it serves to confirm the poem’s great antiquity” (Biblical and Oriental Studies, 1:44). 66 For example, it is not said which god(s) the nation chased after.

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congregation who performs the Song of what will happen to them if they forget YHWH. Fourth, and most important for dealing with the intention of the Song, is the nature of a liturgy. A liturgy is prescriptive; it is a form of Torah. As Craig C. Broyles states: Psalms are not descriptive poems; they are prescriptive liturgies. In other words, they are not private reflections of poets on a recent, private experience; they are composed as models to guide the expressions of Yahweh’s worshipers in prayer and praise. Psalms are more concerned with leading the worshipers’ experience than with following the composer’s.67

The Song of Moses, as a liturgy, functions similarly. It does not describe someone’s reaction to a historical catastrophe that has been visited upon the people of YHWH. Instead, the Song was meant to prescribe the people’s reaction, both to guard them from acting like the sinful generation of the Song and to lead them in responding to any evil that was brought upon it. Just as the psalms do not describe David’s (or anyone else’s) response to personal situations but are meant to guide the community’s thinking, worship, and response to YHWH, so too the Song of Moses. Liturgy, by its very nature, is instructive, and the Song of Moses is a command to the people of God throughout their history. Suffering will come upon them because of their covenant infidelity, and their response should be to “give greatness to our God.” They are not to accuse him of wrongdoing but to acknowledge that his work is blameless, and his ways are just. YHWH is faithful and without iniquity, righteous and upright. The congregation is called on to remember not only the past acts of YHWH on behalf of the people but also their rebellious response. The congregation is to identify itself with the sinful generation described in the Song in the same way that they are to identify themselves with the generation who was enslaved in Egypt and delivered by YHWH (Deut 26:5–9). Yet in the midst of this, there is hope. YHWH will judge his enemies; he will vindicate the blood of his servants. Thus, in v. 43 there is another command to sing joyously. Those who want to maintain covenant fidelity with God will follow the imperatives of the Song, praising and waiting in hope for YHWH to act on their behalf. The basis for this hope and the theme that runs throughout the Song is stated in v. 4: “The Rock, his work is perfect, for all his ways are just. A God of faithfulness and without iniquity. Righteous and upright is he!” 67

Broyles, Psalms, 3.

JBL 123/3 (2004) 425–447

POZO MORO, CHILD SACRIFICE, AND THE GREEK LEGENDARY TRADITION

JOHN S. RUNDIN [email protected] University of Texas at San Antonio, San Antonio, TX 78249

I. The Pozo Moro Relief Since antiquity, references in the Hebrew scriptures and remarks in ancient Greek and Roman authors have been cited to prove that various Northwest Semitic peoples practiced child sacrifice.1 These include the population whom the Hebrew Scriptures call Canaanites; the people whom modern scholars, following the Greeks, call Phoenicians; and the Phoenicians who settled in the western Mediterranean and whom modern scholars, following the Romans, call Punic. In fact, at the sites of Punic settlements have been found burial grounds that contain the cremated remains only of young children and animals. Archaeologists call such burial grounds tophets after the Hebrew term for the place where children were sacrificed. 2 Shelby Brown, who sums up the Special thanks are owed a number of people who read this article in draft and gave helpful input. They are Michael Chyet, Francine Colaço, Brien K. Garnand, Rick Hillegas, Carol Justus, Charles Kennedy, Chaddie Kruger, Jon Levenson, Darien McWhirter, Shawn O’Bryhim, and Barry Powell. The referees of JBL are to be thanked for their perceptive comments, and Stephen Sherwood, C.M.F., for his help with Hebrew. All remaining flaws are my own. 1 Remarks in Greek and Roman authors are collected in John Day, Molech: A God of Human Sacrifice in the Old Testament (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 86–91. Biblical references are collected in Shelby Brown, Late Carthaginian Child Sacrifice and Sacrificial Monuments in their Mediterranean Context (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), 26–29. Extensive analyses of the textual evidence are provided in Day, Molech; Jon D. Levenson, The Death and Resurrection of the Beloved Son: The Transformation of Child Sacrifice in Judaism and Christianity (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993); and George C. Heider, The Cult of Molek: A Reassessment (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1985). 2 The Carthaginian tophet is the best known. Others have been found at Hadrumentum in North Africa, on the small island of Motya off Sicily, and at Nora, Sulcis, and Tharros on Sardinia; while no tophet has been found, stelae of a style associated elsewhere with tophets have been discovered at Lilybaeum on Sicily (Brown, Late Carthaginian Child Sacrifice, 50–70).

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evidence, believes that these tophets house the remains of sacrificed children and thereby support literary testimony of child sacrifice.3 In 1971, one enigmatic piece of evidence, a relief that probably illustrates the practice, was unearthed at Pozo Moro, Spain. It is carved on a stone funerary monument that dates to approximately 500–490 B.C.E. and is currently housed in the Museo Arqueológico Nacional in Madrid (figs. 1 and 2). The relief (fig. 3) depicts a banquet prepared for a monster that sits, facing right, in the left part of the image. The monster has a human body and two heads, one above the other. The heads have open mouths with lolling tongues. In its left hand it holds the rear leg of a supine pig lying on a banquet table in front of it. In its right hand, it holds a bowl. Just over the rim of the bowl can be seen the head and feet of a small person. In the background, a figure in a long garment raises a bowl in a gesture of offering. Opposite the monster is the mutilated image of a third figure. It is standing and raising in its right hand a sword with a curved blade. Its head is in the shape of a bull or horse. Its left hand is touching the head of a second small person in a bowl on a second table or a tripod near the banquet table.4 The funerary tower on which this relief is carved comes from an area that, in the period of its construction, was clearly subject to Punic or Phoenician influence and resembles monuments from Achaemenid western Asia.5 The relief itself resembles eastern Mediterranean depictions of offerings or sacrifices, and the sword with the curved blade, associated with sacrifice, supports the resemblance.6 It appears that the small figures, most likely children, are being offered in bowls to the two-headed monster. Accordingly, it is reasonable to believe that the relief, however imaginatively, represents Northwest Semitic child sacrifice.7 3 Brown, Late Carthaginian Child Sacrifice. It is important to note the more cautious opinion expressed by Jeffrey H. Schwartz, an osteologist who examined the human remains unearthed in the Carthaginian tophet. He claims that many of the remains buried there were from third trimester fetuses, perinates, and neonates (What the Bones Tell Us [New York: Henry Holt, 1993], 51–57). If he is correct, the question arises whether the deaths of these children perhaps resulted from miscarriage or natural causes or whether they were stillborn, rather than slaughtered in sacrificial ritual. The stories of child sacrifice may then represent some ritualized way of dedicating to a deity children who had died naturally. If this is so, the primary points in this article will still be valid; however, they will have to be slightly altered in their expression. 4 The relief is described in its primary publication, Martín Almagro-Gorbea, “Pozo Moro: El monumento orientalizante, su contexto socio-cultural y sus parallelos en la arquitectura funeraria ibérica,” Madrider Mitteilungen 24 (1983): 197–201; and in Charles Kennedy, “The Mythological Reliefs from Pozo Moro, Spain” in SBL Seminar Papers 1981 (SBLSP 20; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1981), 209–16, here 212. 5 Almagro-Gorbea, “Pozo Moro.” 6 Ibid., 198–99. 7 Shawn O’Bryhim, “The Cerastae and Phoenician Human Sacrifice on Cyprus,” RSF 27 (1999): 3–20, here 12–13; Levenson, Death and Resurrection, 19–20; Heider, Cult of Molek, 188–92; Kennedy, “Mythological Reliefs.”

Figure 1. Photo Archive National Archeology Museum, Madrid. Photograph by Witte.

Figure 2. Photo Archive National Archeology Museum, Madrid.

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The relief is mysterious. In her study of Carthaginian child sacrifice, Brown wrote that “the scene is more provocative than helpful.”8 The excavator of Pozo Moro, Martín Almagro-Gorbea, wrote that its interpretation is enormously complex.9 Lamentably, it is locally unique and not associated with any written text. In order to make sense of it, we must look at phenomena often equally obscure and quite distant in time and place from the milieu of Pozo Moro in the early fifth century B.C.E. This is a hazardous undertaking; if an investigator claims that the relief repeats a motif found elsewhere in the Mediterranean cultural tradition, each may be used to support the interpretation of the other, and it becomes possible to construct invalid interpretations relying solely on circular argumentation. The relief, however, presents such powerful imagery that it automatically stimulates speculation. As I hope to demonstrate in this article, a Hellenist may see in it eerie echoes of Greek legendary tradition. The body of this article will explore these possible connections between the Pozo Moro relief and the Greek legendary tradition. Section II will explore the possibility that the animal-headed figure on the right of the relief is an image associated with the Minotaur of Greek folklore. Section III will suggest a connection between the grisly feast of the monstrous creature on the left of the relief and a motif from Greek legend. In the motif, a father unknowingly is served his own children as a meal and eats them only to recognize he has done so when he sees their uneaten head, hands, and feet. Three Greek legendary figures suffer such a grotesque fate: Thyestes, Tereus, and Harpagus.

II. The Pozo Moro Relief and the Minotaur According to standard accounts of their legendary past, the Athenians, as punishment for their killing of King Minos’s son Androgeus, periodically sent groups of young men and women to Minos in Crete, where they were turned over to the Minotaur, a creature with the body of a man and the head of bull, to be devoured.10 It has long been conjectured that the legend of the Minotaur reflects Semitic child sacrifice.11 This is not unreasonable. Certainly, Crete was 8

Brown, Late Carthaginian Child Sacrifice, 72. Almagro-Gorbea, “Pozo Moro,” 199. 10 Generally, the Minotaur is portayed with the body of man and the head of a bull, but it has been suggested that one unique early representation of the Minotaur depicts him as having a bull’s body and a man’s head (Susan Woodford, “Minotauros,” LIMC 6.1:574–81, here 576, 579; Timothy Gantz, Early Greek Myth: A Guide to Literary and Artistic Sources [Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993], 265). 11 Sarah P. Morris, “The Sacrifice of Astyanax: Near Eastern Contributions to the Siege of Troy,” in The Ages of Homer (ed. Jane B. Carter and Sarah P. Morris; Austin: University of Texas 9

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Figure 3. Photo Archive National Archeology Museum, Madrid.

under Northwest Semitic influence from the Bronze Age into the Iron Age.12 Minos’s story itself connects him with the Phoenicians; legend has him the son of Europa, daughter of the Phoenician king Agenor. Crete, then, might well be a place where Northwest Semitic rituals were practiced. Furthermore, the preadult status of the victims sent to the Minotaur recalls the young age of the children sacrificed in Semitic rites. But the connection between the Minotaur and Semitic child sacrifice does not end there. The Hebrew and Christian Scriptures speak of Molech (or Moloch), who has been erroneously thought to be a god to whom children were sacrificed.13 Interestingly, medieval and modern sources represent Molech as a Press, 1995), 221–45, here 238; eadem, Daidalos and the Origins of Greek Art (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992), 113–14; Traian Mihailovici, “Der Kult und kretische Mythos vom Minotauros,” Das Altertum 20 (1974):199–205; Franz Poland, “Minotauros,” in PW 15.2:1927–34, here 1932; James G. Frazer, The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion (12 vols.; 3rd ed.; London: Macmillan, 1911), 4:74–75; Hugo Helbig, “Minotauros,” in Ausführliches Lexikon der griechischen und römischen Mythologie (ed. W. H. Roscher; 6 vols.; Leipzig: Teubner, 1890–97), 2:3004–11, here 3010; Ludwig Mercklin, Die Talos-Sage und das sardonische Lachen (St. Petersburg: Kaiserliche Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1851), 45 (9). 12 Morris, Daidalos. 13 On the basis of Punic inscriptions, Otto Eissfeldt argued convincingly that Molech was not the name of a god but rather a term for child sacrifice (Molk als Opferbegriff im Punischen und

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calf-headed, human-bodied bronze or copper idol in whose hands children were placed and then roasted or pitched into a brazier below. This tradition has no foundation in extant ancient Jewish or Hebrew sources; George Foot Moore traced it back only as far as medieval Jewish commentaries. In his view, this portrayal of Molech derives from classical sources like Diodorus Siculus 20.14, which describes a bronze idol of Cronus at which children were sacrificed in Carthage. Placed on the idol’s extended hands, which were tilted toward the ground, the children rolled off into a pit of fire.14 We are not told that Cronus’s head was bovine. Moore suggested that Molech’s calf-head derives from the Minotaur of Greek legend.15 It is true that the Minotaur had a bull’s head while Molech had a calf’s head, but this apparent discrepancy is less relevant than it appears.16 In fact, the medieval figure of Molech probably derives from a tradition that intermingles not only Cronus of Carthage and the Minotaur but at least two other sources.17 One is the legend of Talos, a creature with multiple connections to the tradition of Semitic child sacrifice.18 His is a complicated tale with many variants. He is associated with Crete and Sardinia, both likely loca for Semitic child sacrifice.19 He is said to be made of bronze or copper (Apollodorus Bibliotheca 1.9.26; Apollonius of Rhodes Argon. 4.1638–72; scholia at Plato Resp. 337a); in this he resembles the Carthaginian Cronus. He is also portrayed as hugging people in his brazen grip and killing them by jumping into a fire reminiscent of the Carthaginian Cronus’s fiery pit (scholia at Plato Resp. 337a, Suda, s.v. sardovnio" gevlw"). The figure of Talos also has connections with that of the Minotaur, who is associated with child sacrifice.20 We are told Hebräischen, und das Ende des Gottes Moloch [Halle: M. Niemeyer, 1935]). Not everyone has granted Eissfeldt’s point (Day, Molech; Heider, Cult of Molek; but see Saul M. Olyan and Mark S. Smith, review of Heider, Cult of Molek, RB 94 [1987]: 273–75). 14 See the scholia at Plato Resp. 337a and Suda, s.v. sardovnio" gevlw". 15 George Foot Moore, “The Image of Moloch,” JBL 16 (1897): 161–65. 16 In the Hebrew and Jewish tradition, words that are usually rendered into English as “calf” may sometimes be better translated as “bull in the vigor of his youth” (U. Cassuto, A Commentary of the Book of Exodus [trans. Israel Abrahams; Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1967], 412; William Foxwell Albright, From the Stone Age to Christianity [2nd ed.; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1957], 300). 17 I owe this perception to Brien K. Garnand of Stanford University. He derives the medieval type of Molech from a “cross-pollination” of sources. 18 See particularly the scholia to Plato Resp.337a. 19 Punic settlers in Sardinia, like the Carthaginians themeselves, were said to have a statue of Cronus, to which children were sacrificed (Philoxenus frg. 591 [Die Fragmente des Grammatikers Philoxenos, ed. Christos Theodoridis (Sammlung griechischer und lateinischer Grammatiker 2; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1976)]), and tophets have been found on Sardinia (Brown, Late Carthaginian Child Sacrifice, 65–70). 20 The connection between the Minotaur and Talos has been noted for more than a century. See Arthur Bernard Cook, Zeus: A Study in Ancient Religion (2 vols.; New York: Biblo & Tannen, 1964–65) 1:720, 722; Frazer, Golden Bough, 4:74–75; and Mercklin, Die Talos-Sage, 45 (9).

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on one occasion that Talos is a bull (Apollodorus Bibliotheca 1.9.26). On Crete, the home of the Minotaur, Talos is said to make three trips around the island a day to guard against strangers, at whom he is portrayed as throwing stones.21 The Minotaur is often in art depicted throwing stones.22 The other obvious tradition that feeds into the image of Molech comes from the Greek city of Acragas in Sicily. Acragas lay close to Sicilian and North African Punic settlements, where it is likely that child sacrifices occurred. A notoriously cruel tyrant, Phalaris, ruled Acragas in the sixth century B.C.E. According to one tradition, Phalaris roasted his enemies alive in a bronze bull (Pindar Pyth. 1.95; scholia in Pindarum Pyth. 1.95; Lucian Phal. 1, 2; Diodorus Siculus 9.18–20, 13.90, 19.108, 20.71). Its bronze material appears connected with the bronze Talos and the bronze Carthaginian Cronus, and its bull shape recalls the Minotaur’s bull head. It has therefore been conjectured that this story recalls Semitic child sacrifice, perhaps practiced by Phalaris or Semitic inhabitants of his city.23 An odd detail supports this notion. Clearchus, cited at Athenaeus 9.396e, claimed that Phalaris dined on suckling children. In the Greek tradition of sacrificial slaughter, humans were generally not sacrificed.24 Rather, the Greeks sacrificed animals alone and usually ate their meat—in fact, the Greek tradition fails to make a clear distinction between sacrifice and slaughter of an animal for food.25 From a Greek perspective, then, sacrifice of children might well be assumed to be followed by their consumption, and a tradition that Phalaris sacrificed children could easily be extended to assert that he 21 For both the three trips a day and stones, see Apollodorus Bibliotheca 1.9.26. For the three trips alone, see Zenobius 5.85 (cf. Plato Minos 320c). For the stone throwing alone, see Apollonius of Rhodes Argon. 4.1637, 1656, 1677–78. Some Cretan coins feature a stone-throwing Talos (George Le Rider, Monnaies Crétoises du Ve au Ier Siècle av. J.-C. [Paris: Paul Geunther, 1966], 23–24, pl. 24.15, 16, 17; 96, pl. 24.1–4). 22 Gantz, Early Greek Myth, 266; Woodford, “Minotauros,” catalogue items 2, 10, 18–20, 22, 23. 23 Th. Lenschau, “Phalaris,” PW 19.2:1651. Gideon Bohak examines the influence of the bull of Phalaris on the formation of the rabbinic picture of child sacrifice (“Classica et Rabbinica I: The Bull of Phalaris and the Tophet” JSJ 31 [2000]: 203–16). 24 Dennis D. Hughes, Human Sacrifice in Ancient Greece (London: Routledge, 1991). 25 Animals slain for food were generally slaughtered in sacrificial ritual (Paul Stengel, Die griechischen Kultusaltertümer [Handbuch der klassischen Altertumswissenschaft 5.3; Munich: Beck, 1920], 105–6). As Michael H. Jameson wrote, “A description of Greek sacrificial practice is in effect a description of Greek procurement of meat for consumption and of part of their supply of animal skins, indispensable for many purposes” (“Sacrifice and Animal Husbandry in Classical Greece,” in Pastoral Economies in Classical Antiquity [ed. C. R. Whittaker; Cambridge Philological Society Supplementary Volume 14; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988], 87–119, here 88). This point is borne out by the linguistic evidence. In fact, ancient Greek vocabulary makes no distinction between slaughtering and sacrificing an animal (Jean Casabona, Recherches sur le vocabulaire des sacrifices en grec des origines à la fin de l’époque classique [Publication des Annales de la Faculté des lettres, Aix-en-Provence, n.s. 56; Paris: Éditions Ophrys, 1966], 329, 346).

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ate infants. Accordingly, the tradition around Phalaris confirms a connection between bull imagery like that of the Minotaur and child sacrifice.26 The particular association of the Minotaur with child sacrifice gets further support from evidence involving rites on ancient Cyprus in the second and first millennia B.C.E. There, Shawn O’Bryhim has argued, bull-masked priests sacrificed children. In his view, a vague memory of this practice is present in Ovid’s account of the Cypriot Cerastae, a horned people whom Venus, outraged over their practice of human sacrifice, turned into bulls (Metamorphoses 10.220–37). The existence of bull-mask-wearing Cypriot priests is indicated by occasional Roman and Greek references and, most convincingly, by archaeological finds. In Cyprus, first-millennium B.C.E. representations of people wearing bull masks have been found as well as actual bull crania that were altered to serve as masks. The creators of these artifacts were within the cultural sphere of the Northwest Semites. Archaeology indicates that the use of bull masks was Levantine in origin: An eighth-century B.C.E. bull skull, altered for use as a mask, has been found at Megiddo, and a seventh-century B.C.E. terra-cotta figurine depicting a man wearing a bull mask has been discovered near Sidon.27 Some

26 There is one additional piece of evidence for the association of the figure of a bull with child sacrifice that is so questionable that it is best relegated to a footnote. A number of seals, some of them in Old Babylonian style, have been found in Anatolia. They depict a bull with what may be a flame in his back, worshipers, and a small figure under the bull. William H. Ward interpreted the scene as a ritual child sacrifice to Molech with the small figure as a child who is about to be sacrificed on a bull-shaped altar with some sort of fire-pit in its back (William Hayes Ward, Cylinders and Other Ancient Oriental Seals in the Library of J. Pierpont Morgan [New York: private printing, 1909], 109–11). Ward’s imaginative interpretation is examined in Alberto R. Green, The Role of Human Sacrifice in the Ancient Near East (Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1975), 38–43. 27 O’Bryhim, “Cerastae.” Images of people wearing bull masks may be found at Antoine Hermary, “Statuette d’un <<prêtre>> masqué,” BCH 103 (1979): 734–41, here 735–36; Vassos Karageorghis, “Notes on Some Cypriote Priests Wearing Bull-Masks,” HTR 64 (1971): 261–70, here 265–68; idem, Ancient Art from Cyprus: The Cesnola Collection in the Metropolitan Museum of Art (in collaboration with Joan R. Mertens and Marice E. Rose; New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2000), 130–31, 147; Morris, Daidalos, figs. 20, 21; John L. Myres, Handbook of the Cesnola Collection of Antiquities from Cyprus (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1914), 151, 340, 342. Pictures of terra-cotta bull masks (at least one of which, because of its size, must be a votive representation, not a mask for use) can be seen at Karageorghis, Ancient Art from Cyprus, 146–47. For an image of an altered bull cranium, see Karageorghis, “Notes on Some Cypriote Priests,” 270. A small image of such a cranium may be found in Emily T. Vermeulle and Florence Z. Wolsky, Toumba tou Skourou: A Bronze Age Potter’s Quarter on Morphou Bay in Cyprus (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston Cyprus Expedition,1990), 150. On the Levantine origin of bull masks, in addition to O’Bryhim, see Morris, Daidalos, 184–86. For the Megiddo bull cranium altered to be a mask, see Herbert May, Material Remains of the Megiddo Cult (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1935), 23, pl. 19. For the bull-masked terra-cotta figurine from Sidon, see Georges Conteneau, “Mission archéologique à Sidon: Quatrième article,” Syria 1 (1920): 287–317, here 306 (fig. 102), 313–14.

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have seen signs of bull-masked Semitic priests in the tradition that Moses had horns.28 It is tempting to speculate why bull imagery might play such a prominent role in child sacrifice. Unfortunately, bull iconography is so common in ancient Near Eastern religion that false hypotheses can easily find support in the large, confused mass of evidence handed down in texts or unearthed by archaeology. One possible path for exploration has been opened by Jon Levenson, who has tried to recover the ideology behind child sacrifice. He suggests that the practice is associated with a Canaanite mythological narrative pattern in which the chief god, El, in a moment of crisis, hands over one of his children for enslavement or death; in the end, El rejoices when his child is freed or resurrected. The pattern is present in the fragmentary Ugaritic text usually called Baal. In it, El turns his son Baal first over to the sea god Yamm as a slave, but Baal defeats Yamm and is saved; later in the text, Baal, defeated by Mot (that is, Death) dies and is then resurrected when his sister, Anat, rescues him.29 Levenson believes that Baal’s enslavement and death are equivalent actions, both of which involve the temporary loss of a son who will later be restored. He furthermore believes that West Semitic child sacrifice was viewed as an imitation of El’s gesture in turning over his child.30 Interestingly, there is some evidence for the representation of El as a bull. In Ugaritic mythological texts, in fact, El is often given the epithet “bull.” This 28 According to the Scriptures, after Moses came down from Mount Sinai, his face was radiant, which frightened the Israelites, and from then on he wore a veil among them and took it off only when he communed with Yahweh (Exod 34:29–34). The word that indicates the radiance of Moses’ face ought to mean “horned,” and, indeed, it was so translated in the Vulgate, and the unique word here rendered by “veil” may indicate a mask (Elias Auerbach, Moses [ed. and trans. Robert A. Barclay and Israel O. Lehman; Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1975],139). Some scholars have maintained that this episode is a murky memory of the fact that Moses, in his priestly function, wore a bull mask (Mark S. Smith, The Early History of God [New York: Harper & Row, 1990], 134–35; Karl Jaros, “Des Mose »strahlende Haut«,” ZAW 88 [1976]: 275–81; Auerbach, Moses, 137–41; A. Jirku, “Die Gesichtsmaske des Mose,” ZDPV 67 [1945]: 43–45). Arguments against these views are in Menahem Haran, “The Shining of Moses’ Face: A Case Study in Ancient Near Eastern Iconography,” in In the Shelter of Elyon: Essays on Ancient Palestinian Life and Literature in Honor of G. W. Ahlström (ed. W. Boyd Patric and John R. Spencer; JSOTsup 31; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1984), 159–73. 29 In Ugaritic texts, Baal is usually the son of Dagon, occasionally the son of El. See Conrad E. L’Heureux, Rank among the Canaanite Gods: El, Ba>al, and the Repha
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imagery may be picked up in a Ras Shamra relief, where an apparent representation of El has him wearing horns.31 The Scriptures of the Hebrews, cultural and linguistic relatives of the people of Ugarit, present Yahweh as the true name, revealed to Moses, of the God whom the patriarchs worshiped as El.32 Indeed, it has been argued that Yahweh is a cultic name of El, perhaps as patron deity of the Midianites.33 It therefore is significant that the Hebrew Scriptures call the God of the patriarchs the Bull of Jacob (often translated into English as the Mighty One of Jacob) (Gen 49:24). Exodus 32 is relevant here. In that passage, while Moses receives instruction from Yahweh on Mount Sinai, under pressure from the people, Aaron has a golden calf made, really a young bull.34 In 1 Kgs 12:28–29, Jeroboam I enshrines two golden calves, that is, young bulls, one at Bethel and one at Dan. These bulls in Exodus and in 1 Kings are identified as the gods who led the Israelites out of Egypt (Exod 32:4; 1 Kgs 12:29). Could these bulls have been images of Yahweh? These narratives, as we have received them, reflect a hostile tradition that accuses the Israelites at Sinai and King Jeroboam of apostasy. That may not be how everyone would have seen these events, which may reflect a tradition of Yahweh worship that involved images of bulls that later redactors of the Hebrew Scriptures opposed.35 If El is indeed represented as a bull and is, as Levenson maintains, a

31 Harvey Weiss, Ebla to Damascus: Art and Archaeology of Ancient Syria (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Traveling Exhibition Service, 1985), 298. 32 Wayne T. Pitard, “Before Israel: Syria-Palestine in the Bronze Age” in The Oxford History of the Biblical World (ed. Michael D. Coogan; New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), 33–77, here 73–74. 33 Frank Moore Cross, Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic: Essays in the History of the Religion of Israel (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1973), 71. 34 See n. 16 above. 35 Modern scholars tend to see in the golden calves of Exod 32 and 1 Kgs 12 a reflection of cult in honor of the storm god Baal Haddad, who is sometimes portrayed mounted on a bull’s back. In their view, Jeroboam’s young bulls were to serve as supports for Yahweh replacing the cherubim prescribed to Moses for that purpose in Exod 25:17–22; thus, just as the storm god was supported by a bull, so was Yahweh (Cassuto, Commentary, 407–8; William Foxwell Albright, Yahweh and the Gods of Canaan: A Historical Analysis of Two Contrasting Faiths [Jordan Lectures in Comparative Religion 7; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1968], 197–98; Jerome T. Walsh, 1 Kings [Berit Olam; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, Michael Glazier, 1996], 172–73; Terence E. Fretheim, First and Second Kings (Westminster Bible Companion; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1999], 75–76); Lloyd R. Bailey, in an attempt to refute this view, gives a concise and coherent account of it while making it fairly clear that its supposition that the Israelites were not worshiping a bull but rather using it as a pedestal for Yahweh is not well supported (“The Golden Calf,” HUCA 42 [1971]: 97–116). Othmar Keel and Christoph Uehlinger briefly discuss bull imagery associated with Yahweh and tentatively conclude that Jeroboam’s bull calves were associated with El, not Baal (Gods, Goddesses, and Images of God in Ancient Israel [trans. Thomas H. Trapp; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998], 191–95).

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god associated with child sacrifice, it explains the bull imagery found in connection with child sacrifice. Accordingly, bull-masked priests who conducted child sacrifice were probably representing El in his primordial sacrifice of his son Baal, and this is more or less what we see in the Pozo Moro relief. Charles Kennedy has clearly demonstrated that its two-headed monster represents Death. He points out that multiheaded creatures, such as the Greek Cerberus, the Canaanite Leviathan, and the Egyptian Seth-Horus, are associated with chaos and death. Furthermore, the gaping mouths of Pozo Moro’s two-headed monster call to mind representations of Death as insatiable. The pig on which the monster dines can be connected with Eastern Mediterranean use of pigs for funerary banquets.36 All in all, it appears as if the little people in the relief were being given over to Death, just as Baal was. And what of the sword-wielding, animalheaded figure on the right? Could it represent a bull-headed El or a bullmasked priest imitating him in the act of child sacrifice? Unfortunately, the relief is too mutilated to allow a definite characterization of the animal head. With some hesitation, Martín Almagro-Gorbea believes that it is equine.37 In this, he is guided by his belief that horses had particular connections with the netherworld in pre-Roman Iberia.38 Other scholars, however, are more interested in interpreting the relief in a Semitic rather than an Iberian cultural context; granted the Eastern Mediterranean style of its architecture and the known Phoenician influences on Spain, it is reasonable to examine it from this perspective. If we do so, it is a very attractive hypothesis that the head is taurine because that would fit with the association of bulls, bull-masked priests, and child sacrifice. Kennedy suggests the possibility that the head is that of a bull, and Shawn O’Bryhim claims that it is indeed a bull head.39 If the figure is bull-headed or bull-masked, its connection to the Minotaur is obvious. There is necessarily a certain circularity of argumentation here, however. The Pozo Moro relief and the legend of the Minotaur fit together rather like two matching pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that mutually confirm each other’s position when they are put together. The relief’s animal-headed figure,

36

Kennedy, “Mythological Reliefs.” Almagro-Gorbea describes the creature as “una . . . figura . . . al parecer equina” [an apparently equine figure] (“Pozo Moro,” 198), and elsewhere he describes it with the statement: “Il a une tête d’animal, de forme allongée, probablement une tête de cheval” (“Les reliefs orientalisants de Pozo Moro [Albcete, Espagne],” in Mythe et Personnification [Actes du Colloque du Grand Palais [Paris], 7–8 mai 1977, publiés par Jacqueline Duchemin; Paris: Belles Lettres, 1980], 123–36, here 129). Teresa Chapa Brunet identifies the figure as equine (La escultura ibérica zoomorfa [Madrid: Ministerio de Cultura, 1985], 74). 38 Almagro-Gorbea, “Pozo Moro,” 183 n. 103. 39 Kennedy, “Mythological Reliefs,” 212; O’Bryhim, “Cerastae,” 12–13. 37

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which is engaged in child sacrifice and resembles the Minotaur, helps to confirm the Minotaur’s connection with Northwest Semitic child sacrifice on Crete. The Minotaur’s connection with child sacrifice in turn helps to confirm that the figure on the Pozo Moro relief is bull-headed. Taken together, the Minotaur legend and the relief begin to form a coherent picture of child sacrifice just as a coherent image begins to emerge when the two matching puzzle pieces are joined together. The Pozo Moro relief imaginatively represents the ritual of child sacrifice. The legend of the Minotaur presents a memory of the same or a similar ritual. The memory has apparently been distorted, however, through the vagaries of the folk tradition. In the relief, which is the more direct testimonial of child sacrifice, the bull-headed creature serves as what the Greeks would call a mavgeiro" (sacrificial butcher and cook) for the creature to the left, who does the actual eating. In Greek legend, however, the Minotaur himself eats the killed youth. Moreover, the Athenian young men and women consumed by the Minotaur are generally envisioned as considerably older than the young children and infants typically sacrificed in Northwest Semitic ritual.

III. Pozo Moro and the Motif of the Cannibalistic feast The legend of the Minotaur is not the only place where the Pozo Moro relief has possible connections with the Greek legendary tradition. The relief also seems to reflect a motif present in the legends of Thyestes, Tereus, and Harpagus. A well-known story from Herodotus narrates how Harpagus was tricked into eating his son (Hist. 1.107–19). Astyages was the king of the Medes. It had been predicted that his daughter’s child would rule in his place. Accordingly, when she bore a son, Astyages instructed his trusted kinsman Harpagus to kill him. Harpagus, however, was afraid to carry out the act himself—the child was a relative, and his mother, being heir to the power of Astyages, who had no male children, was potentially dangerous. Accordingly, Harpagus did not personally oversee the child’s murder, but rather turned him over to a herdsman of Astyages to be exposed. Instead of exposing the child, however, the herdsman covertly raised the child as his own. Eventually, Astyages discovered that the grandchild whom he had ordered killed had survived. Astyages’ vengeance for Harpagus’s negligence was gruesome. He summoned Harpagus’s only son to his house and invited Harpagus to a banquet and then, in Herodotus’s words: When Harpagus’ son arrived at his place, Astyages slaughtered and dismembered him. He roasted some parts of the flesh and boiled others, and, preparing it well, held it ready. Dinnertime came, and Harpagus and the rest of the banqueters were in attendance. Tables covered with mutton were laid out for Astyages himself and everyone except Harpagus, who was served all the flesh

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of his child except for the head, the hands, and the feet. These had been hidden in a basket and laid aside. When Harpagus thought he had had enough to eat, Astyages asked him whether he had enjoyed the feast at all. When Harpagus said that he had enjoyed it greatly, the servants whose job it was brought the child’s head, hands, and feet, which were hidden, over to him, stood before him, and told him to open the basket up and take what he wanted of them. When Harpagus complied and opened it, he saw the remains of his son. He did not recoil at the sight but stayed in control of himself. Astyages asked him if he knew what animal’s meat he had eaten. He said he knew and that whatever the King did was best. (Hist. 1.119)

This passage has an obvious parallel in the Greek tales of Tereus and Thyestes. In the Thyestes tale, Atreus exiles his brother Thyestes after winning a dispute with him over the kingship of Mycenae. Pretending to want to reconcile, he invites Thyestes to a feast. At the feast, Atreus, who has secretly butchered Thyestes’ children, serves them to him. According to some versions of the story, the children’s hands, feet, and heads have been laid aside, and Thyestes, like Harpagus, realizes what he has eaten when they are shown to him after the meal. According to the story of Tereus, Tereus secretly rapes and maims Philomela, the sister of Procne, his wife. Procne eventually discovers this. To take vengeance on her husband, she kills their son, Itys, whose flesh she cooks and serves to her husband. After he has eaten his meal, he realizes what he has done when the boy’s extremities are revealed, and he attacks Procne and Philomela with a sword. The gods intervene, however, and turn Tereus, Procne, and Philomela into birds. It is unclear when the Greek tradition first expressed the motif of a father’s recognition, upon his enemy’s revelation of his offspring’s head, hands, and feet, that he has eaten his own progeny. Only in late sources is it clearly attested for Thyestes, and the same is true for Tereus.41 The first unambiguous extant 41A first-century C.E. source, Seneca Thyestes 1038 (where feet are indicated by “rupta fractis cruribus vestigia”), indicates that the heads, hands, and feet of Thyestes’ children were reserved and then displayed to him. In line 764 of the same play, only the head and hands are mentioned: “[Atreus] tantum ora servat et datas fidei manus” (Seneca may have left out the feet here to underline the clever point that the hands, symbols of fides, are now being perfidiously used by Atreus). Apollodorus Epitome 2.13, a source from sometime after the mid-first century B.C.E., and Iohannes Tzetzes Chil. 1 Hist. 18.450 of the Byzantine period refer to the a[kra, the extremities, of the children, which include head, feet, and hands. Hyginus Fabulae 8.2, perhaps from the second century C.E., mentions the heads (ora) and lower arms (bracchia) of the children. Lactantius Placidus in his commentary on Statius Thebais 4.306 and Scriptores Rerum Mythicarum Latini 1.22 mention only heads. Several brief references do not mention how Thyestes recognized that he had eaten his children (Euripides Orest. 1008; Anth. pal. 9.98; Scholia in Euripidem Orest. 15, 807, 811; Pausanias 2.18.1; Hyginus Fabulae 244.4, 246, 248; Scriptores Rerum Mythicarum Latini 2.147, 3.8.16; Servius on Virgil Aen. 1.568, 11.262). Among the extant sources for the story of Tereus (which include Apollodorus Bibl. 3.14.8;

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example of it is in Herodotus’s fifth-century B.C.E. story of Harpagus, and that could be the archetype. However, in view of Herodotus’s adoption of literary themes in his histories, he probably borrowed it from earlier but no longer extant sources. Vague references to elements of the Tereus story appear as early as Homer and Hesiod,42 and vase paintings depict recognizable versions of the events by the early fifth century B.C.E.43 It is true that Homer’s early representation of Thyestes leaves no room for the motif—Atreus and Thyestes are on good terms in the Iliad (2.100–108)—but conflict between the two is attested already in the seventh- or sixth-century B . C . E . epic poem Alcmeonis and becomes a pervasive theme in tragedy.44 Conon frg. 31 FGH; Hyginus Fabulae 45; Lactantius Placidus on Statius Thebais 5.120; Pausanias 1.5.4, 1.41.8, 10.4.9; Scriptores Rerum Mythicarum Latini 1.4, 2.217; Servius on Virgil Ecl. 6.78–81; Thucydides 2.29; Zenobius 3.14), the Byzantine author Iohannes Tzetzes indicates that the tokens of recognition are the head, hands, and feet, saying that the child was recognized through his hands, head, and “extremities” (ajkrwthrivwn, Chil. 7 Hist. 142. 472). Achilles Tatius (5.3, 5.5), writing perhaps in the third century C.E., has the recognition occur through the revelation of the boy’s head and hands in a basket. In Ovid’s version, Procne shows the head alone (Metam. 6.658–59) to provoke the recognition. The twelfth century Eustathius has Tereus discover his deed through the boy’s “small remains” (Ad Odysseam 19.518). 42 Homer describes the nightingale, the bird into which, according to some later versions of the tale, Procne metamorphosed, as mourning her child, Itylus, whom she has slain (Od. 19.517–23). Hesiod calls the swallow, the bird into which other sources say that Procne metamorphosed, the mourning daughter of Pandion, who is, in fact, Procne’s father in later versions (Op. 568). He is also reported to have referred to to; dei'pnon ejkei'no to; a[qesmon (“that unlawful feast”), for which the nightingale and swallow (i.e., Procne and Philomela) were punished (Fragmenta Hesiodea [ed. R. Merkelbach and M. L. West; Oxford: Clarendon, 1967], frg. 312). 43 Karl Schefold and Franz Jung, Die Urkönige, Perseus, Bellerophon, Herakles und Theseus in der klassischen und hellenistischen Kunst (Munich: Hirmer, 1988), 74–75. There is one striking artistic image that may be particularly relevant here: On an Attic column crater made in the period from 470 to 460 B.C.E., there appears a scene in which a man (Tereus), getting off a dining couch, threatens two fleeing women (Procne and Philomela) with a sword; before the couch under a table covered with dishes is a basket from which a child’s leg is sticking out (apparently some of Itys’s remains) (Evi Touloupa, “Procne and Philomela,” LIMC 7.1:527–29, here 527; image at Schefold and Jung, Urkönige, 74). 44 Scholia in Euripidem Orest. 995 = Alcmeonis frg. 5 Davies (Epicorum graecorum fragmenta [ed. Malcolm Davies; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht,1988], 140) = Alcmeonis frg. 6 Bernabé (Poetarum epicorum graecorum testimonia et fragmenta [ed. Albertus Bernabé; editio correctior primae editionis (MCMLXXXVII); Leipzig: Teubner, 1996], 33) = Pherecydes Atheniensis frg. 133 FGH. Tragedies entitled Thyestes were written by Agathon, Apollodorus, Chaeremon, Cleophon, and Diogenes the Cynic (Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, vol. 1 [ed. Bruno Snell and corrected and augmented by Richard Kannicht; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1986], 162, 209, 219, 247, 254). Diogenes the Cynic is supposed also to have written an Atreus; he apparently was fond of the cannibalistic theme in the Atreus and Thyestes story (Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, vol. 1, ed. Snell, 254–55). To Agathon and to Carcinus are attributed plays entitled Aerope (Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, vol. 4 [ed. Stefan Radt; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1977], 161); Aerope was Atreus’s wife, who betrayed him to Thyestes and thereby precipitated Thyestes’ exile.

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Indeed, the motif of a father’s recognition of his children after he has consumed them prospered in fifth-century B.C.E. tragedy. Certainly, the motif jibes well with its narrative conventions, which favor recognitions of identity and reversals of fortune.45 Aeschylus’s Agamemnon, dating to 458 B.C.E., probably did feature the motif.46 There, however, it is conveyed only in a narrative summary by Atreus; it is not part of the play’s action.47 This implies that it was already familiar to tragic audiences. A play by Sophocles, if we are to believe

Sophocles wrote as many as three plays entitled Thyestes and perhaps an Atreus (Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, vol. 4, ed. Radt, 162, 239). Euripides wrote a Thyestes and a Pleisthenes (Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta [ed. Augustus Nauck; 2nd ed.; Leipzig: Teubner, 1889], 480–82, 556–58). Pleisthenes was a child of Atreus who was raised by Thyestes and sent by him to kill Atreus; Atreus, believing him to be Thyestes’ child, killed him. 45 In his Poetics, Aristotle discusses recognition (ajnagnwvrisi") and reversal (peripevteia), which he considers important parts of tragedy (Poetics 1450a34). Recognition is a change from ignorance to knowledge, leading into either filiva or enmity (Poetics 1452a29-30). filiva is left untranslated because, although it is commonly translated friendship, it can also denote kinship—a fivlo" can be either a friend or a relative—and no one English word comfortably spans this semantic territory. Accordingly, Aristotelian recognition can and often does involve the realization that someone is a blood relative, as when, in Aeschylus’s Libation Bearers, Electra realizes that the stranger who has shown up in Argos is her brother. The grim feasts of Thyestes and Tereus involve recognitions into filiva (Thyestes and Tereus recognize their sons as fivloi, relatives) and into enmity (Thyestes and Tereus recognize Atreus and Procne respectively as enemies). Just as Aristotle would have wanted it (“The best recognition is when it occurs along with a reversal” [Poetics 1452a32–33]), these recognitions are simultaneous with a reversal: Thyestes’ joyous feast of reconciliation with Atreus and Tereus’s happy banquet cooked by his wife are reversed into a horrific punishment. The motif further involves fivloi, kin, doing something awful to fivloi, kin (Atreus to Thyestes, Thyestes to his children, Procne to Tereus, and Tereus to his son). Aristotle believes that such action in a tragedy is most likely to arouse dread and pity in an appropriate manner (Poetics 1453b19–23). 46 In Aesch. Agamemnon 1594–97, Aegisthus describes Atreus’s preparation of Thyestes’ children for the feast and Thyestes’ consumption of them. The passage is problematic, and it is probably best to postulate a lacuna in the text (Aeschylus, Agamemnon: Edited with a Commentary by Eduard Fraenkel [3 vols.; Oxford: Clarendon, 1950], 3:752–53; Aeschylus, Agamemnon [ed. John Dewar Denniston and Denys Page; Oxford: Clarendon, 1957], 215–16). It seems to mention some culinary processing of the children’s feet and hands, with no mention of their heads or any hiding. Fraenkel attacks those who would assimilate the passage to the feast of Harpagus in Herodotus and the feast of Thyestes in later accounts. He reconstructs the text to have Atreus mince the feet and hands over the meal. This seems improbable. More likely the passage resembled later accounts of the feast, wherein Atreus conceals the head, feet, and hands and then reveals them. Why else would Aeschylus mention the hands and feet? If Atreus hides the feet and hands, he must do the same with the head, for the hands and feet serve poorly as tokens of recognition while heads serve it best. Interestingly, the change of one letter turns Fraenkel’s “minced”(e[qrupt!) into “hid” (e[krupt!) and thereby introduces the otherwise absent theme of hiding in this passage. 47 It would have been impossible to act out the entire story of the feast of Thyestes. Tragedy could not accommodate on-stage butchery or eating. If any part were acted out, it would be the presentation of the hands, feet, and head and Thyestes’ recognition of them.

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Statilius Flaccus, certainly dealt with the feast of Thyestes.48 We cannot be sure, however, that it used the children’s head, hands, and feet as tokens by which they were recognized. Sophocles first put the story of Tereus into a tragedy, which is assumed to have put the legend into its canonical form, between 429 and 414 B.C.E., and it was the basis of many comic and tragic plots after him. None of these plays survives complete, and the few fragmentary remains do not include the motif of recognition through head, feet, and hands49 —most likely just by chance. As suited as the motif is to the conventions of Greek literature, however, there is a problem with accepting that epic, tragedy, or Herodotus spontaneously generated it to satisfy a need for piteous recognitions and reversals. Why are the feet and hands such a prominent element? The head is all that is needed for a recognition of identity. Certainly the dead Pentheus’s head is enough to bring about Agave’s recognition of him in Euripides’ Bacchae. Could some source external to Greek literature have been a source of the motif? I would like to suggest that imagery like that of Pozo Moro and associated with child sacrifice may be the source. In the Pozo Moro relief, a small figure in a bowl is offered to the two-headed monster to the left. Significantly, only the figure’s head and feet are visible above the rim of the bowl. The image is remarkably reminiscent of Harpagus’s, Tereus’s, and Thyestes’ feasts, at which children’s heads, and other extremities are revealed in a serving vessel. Could imagery like that of the Pozo Moro have influenced these accounts? The Greek tradition certainly does display subtle and recondite reflexes of Semitic child sacrifice. We have just seen two possible ones in the figure of the Minotaur and in the legends of Phalaris’s bronze bull. There are others. Shawn O’Bryhim argues that the sacrificial practices of the Taurians in Euripides’ Iphigenia at Tauris have been informed by Semitic human sacrificial practices.50 Further, in an essay published in 1995, Sarah Morris suggests that West Semitic child sacrifice influenced artistic portrayals of Astyanax’s death at the sack of Troy.51 According to the most familiar version of Astyanax’s death, he is thrown from the walls of Troy by the triumphant Achaeans, who wish to eliminate any chance that Astyanax, heir to the kingship of Troy, might live. Morris notes that motifs in the representation of Troy’s siege evoke Near Eastern motifs of besieged cities where child sacrifice was practiced to ward off conquest.52 She also points out an Egyptian representation of the siege of the 48

Anthologia palatina 9.98; see Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, vol. 4, ed. Radt, 162. Tragicorum Graecorum Fragmenta, vol. 4, ed. Radt, 435–45. 50 Shawn O’Bryhim, “The Ritual of Human Sacrifice in Euripides’ Iphigenia in Tauris,” Classical Bulletin 76 (2000): 29–37. 51 Morris, “Sacrifice of Astyanax.” 52 Othmar Keel argues that these images are not child sacrifice but the offering of children to victorious attackers as booty (“Kanaanäische Sühneriten auf ägyptischen Tempelreliefs,” VT 25 [1975]: 413–69). 49

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Levantine city of Ashkelon, in which the city’s inhabitants are shown casting the son of the ruling family off the city walls as a sacrifice to avert defeat. The implication is that literary representations of Astyanax’s death were influenced by Near Eastern representations of the fall of cities. Morris, however, also observes that depictions of Astyanax’s death in vase paintings follow a different tradition. They show him being slaughtered on a sacrificial altar—the implication being that Astyanax’s death contains some notion of sacrifice. As Morris indicates, sacrifice itself in the Greek cultural sphere shows signs of Western Semitic influence. Accordingly, these two disparate traditions of Astyanax’s death can be referred back to Near Eastern traditions of child sacrifice. At first glance, Morris’s suggestion seems unlikely. If the theme of child sacrifice has influenced the story of Astyanax, it has suffered great distortions. However, Morris’s views are supported by growing evidence that Near Eastern iconography often generated features of Greek legend—and sometimes in surprising ways. When Greeks were exposed to decorative objects manufactured in the Near East, the scenes and depictions on them inspired poets, who at times created narratives with tenuous or distorted connections to the intentions of the objects’ makers. One example of this phenomenon is Homer’s description of the depiction on Achilles’ shield of the army besieging a city. Homer tells us that two stratoiv , that is, two armies or bands of besiegers were encamped on opposite sides of a city (Homer Il. 18.509–10). It has been suggested that Homer, in describing the shield, had been inspired by some object featuring a typical Near Eastern two-dimensional representation of a siege.53 In such a representation, the besieging army is depicted on the two sides of the city, which can then be viewed from an unobstructed perspective. Homer has interpreted the separation of the army into two parts in the Near Eastern representation as an actual division between the besiegers and has preserved this interpretation in the two stratoiv (“armies”) on opposite sides of the city. Similarly, the notion of the Trojan Horse may arise from Near Eastern depictions of siege engines.54 It has even been suggested that legends of Heracles arose when poets observed Near Eastern–style representations of individuals in combat with monsters and attributed the combats to him. A particularly strong case can be made for the narrative of Heracles’ defeat of the Lernaean Hydra.55 53 Mark W. Edwards, The Iliad: A Commentary, Books 17–20 (vol. 5 of The Iliad: A Commentary [ed. G. S. Kirk; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991]), 218. 54 Barry Powell, “From Picture to Myth, from Myth to Picture,” in New Light on a Dark Age (ed. Susan Langdon; Columbia: University of Missouri Press, 1997), 154–93, here 176–77; Morris, “Sacrifice of Astyanax,” 226-31. 55 Powell suggests that Near Eastern imagery of two men who battle a serpent may have inspired tales of this labor. The fact that two men, not one man, attack the serpent in the Near Eastern iconography may explain why Iolaus accompanies Heracles on this labor when he is present in no other one; projections out of the Near Eastern serpent’s back may suggest flames, which then would inspire the idea that Heracles cauterized the Hydra’s head; finally, the odd tradition of the

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In their iconographic art, Greeks often copied Near Eastern models. Walter Burkert points out several instances where representations based on Eastern models might have influenced mythic narratives. Near Eastern iconography of Gilgamesh and Enkidu slaying Humbaba is picked up by Greek artisans representing Perseus slaying the Gorgon with the aid of Athena. On one clay plaque, the same Near Eastern imagery is the model for a scene depicting Clytemnestra’s slaying of Agamemnon. In another striking example, a Near Eastern image of a god fighting a monster is copied by a Greek artist depicting Perseus’s slaying of the sea monster and his rescue of Andromeda. In this case, the Near Eastern imagery features a group of stars; in the Greek version, the stars have been converted into stones at the feet of Perseus, who is fighting the monster with stones.56 It is not unreasonable that such representations, based on Near Eastern models, shaped the Greek narratives they represent. If one accepts that Near Eastern artistic representation was capable of generating Greek legend, it becomes more likely that imagery like that found at Pozo Moro lies behind the stories of Harpagus, Thyestes, and Tereus. Moreover, the stories do, in distorted form, thematically parallel the content of the Pozo Moro relief. This further suggests a link between Pozo Moro and the Greek narratives. The first thematic parallel is that of sacrifice. In the Greek stories, a father consumes his children. Since Greeks associated the eating of meat with sacrificial slaughter—indeed slaughter of domestic animals for consumption was generally, if not always, sacrificial—a narrative in which children are killed to be consumed by their father conjured up images of child sacrifice in the Greek mind. Thyestes’ name itself confirms the connection. Whatever its actual etymology,57 any Greek could detect in it the root of the Greek word quvw, which denotes sacrificial activity. Indeed, a folk etymology of his name may have inspired the legend that he had eaten his children after a grisly sacrifice. The theme of sacrifice in the Thyestes, Tereus, and Harpagus narratives, which usually remains latent,58 is explicit in the Pozo Moro relief. A second hostile crab that attacks Heracles during the battle may have arisen from a crab present in Near Eastern imagery (“From Picture to Myth,” 183). 56 Walter Burkert, ”Oriental and Greek Mythology: The Meeting of Parallels,” in Interpretations of Greek Mythology (ed. Jan Bremmer; London: Croom Helm, 1987), 10–40, here 26–29. 57 See Lexicon des frühgriechischen Epos, begründet von B. Snell (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1979–), s.v. Quevsth". 58 Sometimes, however, it is expressed more openly. Seneca overtly depicts the murder of Thyestes’ children as a sacrifice (Thyestes 641–88), and Apollodorus has the slaughter occur on Zeus’s altar, where the children have sat as suppliants (Epitome 2.13). There is some hint of sacrifice in Aeschylus when Aegisthus claims that Atreus pretended to be conducting a feast day (kreourgo;n h\mar [literally: “a butchering day,” i.e., a day on which sacrifice was to be performed]) when he lured Thyestes to the grisly banquet (Ag. 1592) (see Froma I. Zeitlin, “The Motif of the Corrupted Sacrifice in Aeschylus’ Oresteia,” TAPA 96 [1965]: 463–508, here 468–70).

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theme is that of a father’s destruction of his own children. In the Harpagus, Thyestes, and Tereus stories, fathers participate in the destruction of their own children. In the Pozo Moro relief, we can assume that the children being sacrificed have come to this fate through the actions of their fathers, for child sacrifice is generally portrayed as the pious act of a child’s father.59 But there remains an issue that might make us hesitate to accept that imagery such as that of Pozo Moro’s relief inspired the Greek tales. It is that the Pozo Moro relief is the sole testimony to the imagery. There are other purported representations of Semitic child sacrifice from Carthage,60 but they do not resemble the Pozo Moro relief. Why do we not find examples of it in the Near East itself? It is true that no artifact directly parallel to the relief has been found there. A few factors may be at work here. One is that representations of such sinister activities as child sacrifice are bound to be rare. Such topics are hidden under levels and levels of euphemism and indirection because it is of ill omen to mention or portray them. In addition, the Hebrew Scriptures, hostile to child sacrifice and the religious cults associated with it, approvingly record occasions on which the cultic apparatus associated with Canaanite religion was destroyed (2 Kgs 10:18–27; 11:17–18; 18:3–4; 23:1–25; 2 Chr 23:17; 29:15–16; 31:1; 33:15; 34:3–7). Intolerance of idols and even graphic images of the Jewish, Christian, and Islamic God is a recurring theme in the Near East from the first millennium B.C.E. on. Under such circumstances, it would not be surprising if imagery of child sacrifice were a particular object of believers’ outrage. Their zealous destruction of such imagery might partially explain why we do not find examples in the homeland of the Canaanites and Phoenicians. Nevertheless, at least one Near Eastern image recalls the relief. Recorded in the Hebrew Scriptures, the story involves Jezebel, the daughter of the Phoenician king Ethbaal. She marries Israel’s king Ahab, who worships Baal and has a temple constructed to him. Ahab also constructs an asherah (1 Kgs 16:32–33; 18:18). Given his dedication to such cults, it comes as no surprise that child sacrifice occurs during his reign; Jericho is sanctified with two such sacrifices (1 Kgs 16:34). Jezebel is the implacable enemy of Yahweh’s prophets; she kills many of them (1 Kgs 18:4, 13) and supports 850 prophets of Baal and Asherah (1 Kgs 18:19). Yahweh’s prophet Elijah opposes Ahab, his wife, and their religious practices, and his opposition culminates in a great contest at Mount Carmel, where Yahweh triumphs over Baal (1 Kgs 18–19). This cements Jezebel’s hatred for Elijah (1 Kgs 19:2). Ahab eventually dies from a wound in battle, and his son Ahaziah becomes king and continues his father’s practices (1 Kgs 22:37, 51–53). Elijah is carried off into heaven by a whirlwind (2 Kgs 59 60

Levenson, Death and Resurrection. Brown, Late Carthaginian Child Sacrifice, 141–42.

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2:11), but his disciple Elisha carries on his work. Eventually, Elisha foments a revolution against Ahaziah by having Jehu annointed king of Israel (2 Kgs 9:1–13). Jehu’s revolution is successful; he has Ahaziah killed in a skirmish (2 Kgs 9:27) and then goes for Jezebel herself in Jezreel. In anticipation of his arrival, she paints her eyes and adorns her head. As he enters the gate where she was staying, she looks at him from her window and greets him. He orders some eunuchs to throw her down from the window. They do so. The result is a bloody scene as she is trampled by horses and, perhaps, eaten by dogs (2 Kgs 9:30-33).61 Jehu goes in, has a meal, and then orders that Jezebel be buried; but all that can be found are her skull, her feet, and the palms of her hands (2 Kgs 9:34–35).62 If, as hypothesized here, human sacrifice in the Northwest Semitic world was associated with imagery like that of the Pozo Moro relief, where victims are portrayed as collocations of amputated heads and limbs, this indeed would have been, from the perspective of the redactors of the Hebrew Scriptures, a fitting end to Jezebel, whose religious practice would have also been associated with such imagery. This sort of mockery would be in line with their treatment of Jezebel’s religion. At the great contest at Mount Carmel between Yahweh and Baal, Baal’s priests cry out to him and beg him to ignite a fire. Baal does not, and Elijah mocks the priests, jeering, “Cry aloud! Surely he is a god; either he is meditating, or he has wandered away, or he is on a journey, or perhaps he is asleep and must be awakened” (1 Kgs 18:27). References to a journey and an awakening may be insulting references to cult and myth surrounding Baal;63 the expression “he is meditating or he has wandered away” perhaps implies that Baal has gone off to defecate.64 It would not be surprising, then, if Jezebel’s death scene itself mocked her and her cultic practices. In fact, when she primps and waits at the window for her killer, Jehu, she resembles images of a beautiful, if mysterious, ancient Near Eastern goddess who, similarly posed in a window, was immortalized in art and literature throughout the Eastern Mediterranean and beyond.65 If this is correct, Jezebel’s death satirically evokes the 61 Elisha prophesies in 2 Kgs 9:10 that “the dogs shall eat Jezebel in the territory of Jezreel, and no one shall bury her.” Indeed, as we find out in 2 Kgs 9:35, by the time anyone tries to bury her, there is not much left of her corpse, so we might conjecture that the dogs have eaten her body. 62 The palms of her hands and not her hands are left possibly because the Hebrew word for hand can mean power, and it would be ill-omened to say that Jezebel’s powers remained. 63 Roland de Vaux, “Les prophètes de Baal sur le Mont Carmel,” Bulletin du Musée de Beyrouth 5 (1941): 1–20. 64 G. R. Driver, “Problems of Interpretation in the Heptateuch,” in Mélanges bibliques rédigés en l’honneur de André Robert (Paris: Bloud et Gay, 1957), 66–68. 65 Noel Robertson, “The Ritual Background of the Dying God in Cyprus and SyroPalestine,” HTR 75 (1982): 313–59, here 317–18; Wolfgang Fauth, Aphrodite Parakyptusa: Untersuchungen zum Ersheinungsbild der vorderasiatischen Dea Prospiciens (Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur, Mainz: Geistes- und Sozialwissenschaftliche Klasse: Abhand-

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very religion she practiced.66 Indeed, with her skull, her feet, and the palms of her hands alone remaining after death, she resembles the victims portrayed on the Pozo Moro relief.67 From several centuries later, the narrative of John the Baptist’s death in Matt 14:1–12 and Mark 6:17–29 resonates with the Jezebel story. In a violation of Mosaic Law (Lev 18:16; 20:21), Herod marries Herodias, who has divorced his brother Philip. Herod imprisons John for denouncing the marriage. At Herod’s birthday party, Herodias’s daughter dances,68 and Herod is so pleased that he promises her anything she wants. Prompted by her mother, who is infuriated with John for denouncing her marriage to Herod, she requests and receives the head of John the Baptist on a platter. This story has thematic connections with the story of Jezebel. Frequently in the Hebrew Scriptures, apostasy from Yahweh is equated with the sluttish behavior of a faithless whore.69 It is therefore not surprising that Jehu accuses Jezebel of “whoredoms” (2 Kgs 9:22), and there may be some implication of whorishness in Jezebel’s primping before she meets Jehu.70 In the story of John the Baptist, the lascivious libertinlungen, Jahrg. 1966, No. 6; Mainz: Verlag der Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur, 1967), 376–77. 66 If we accept Othniel Margalith’s views (“The Kelabim of Ahab,” VT 34 [1984]: 228–32), Ahab’s death supplies a supporting parallel to such mockery. Margalith argues that, in one passage where Elijah prophesies that dogs will lick Ahab’s blood (1 Kgs 21:19) and another where this prophecy is fulfilled (1 Kgs 22:38), the word translated “dog” is better translated “servant” and refers to hierodules, who, engaging in bloody, ecstatic worship like that of 1 Kgs 18:16–29, are said to “lick blood.” If this is the case, Elijah’s prophecy is that Ahab will fall to the very cults that he is fostering. So, like the death of Jezebel, Ahab’s death enacts the ritual forms he follows in life. 67 It is tempting here to mention the Ugaritic narrative usually called Baal, which dates to many centuries before the final redaction of the Jezebel story but comes from a related Northwest Semitic tradition. Themes in both stories overlap. Anat makes herself up twice in the narrative, as Jezebel does before meeting Jehu (CTU 1.3.II.38–III.2 [translated at UNP, 109]; CTU 1.3.IV.42– 46 [translated at UNP, 114]). Robertson has tried to connect Jezebel’s window and a window that figures in the Baal narrative (“Ritual Background,” 318–19, 338). Significantly, before Anat apparently feasts on her enemies (CTU 1.3.II.17–30, cf. UNP, 167 n. 49), she is depicted destroying them in battle in this pretty image: Under her, like balls, are hea[ds,] Above her, like locusts, hands, Like locusts, heaps of warrior-hands. She fixes heads to her back, Fastens hands to her belt. (CTU 1.3.II.9-13 [trans. at UNP, 107]) The imagery of the head and hands as emblems of her victims has an odd resonance with Jezebel’s skull, palms of hands, and feet and the assemblages of extremities on the Pozo Moro relief. 68 Josephus identifies her as Salome (A.J. 18.5.4); Mark 6:22 may give her the same name as her mother, Herodias; and Matthew does not identify her by name. 69 Elaine Adler Goodfriend, “Prostitution,” ABD 5:509. 70 A long tradition assumes that, in Jezebel’s primping, the Scriptures are portraying her in the role of a sacred prostitute or the goddess of such prostitutes. The notion of Near Eastern sacred

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ism implied in Herodias’s marriage to Herod is underlined by her daughter’s pleasing dance for Herod and his friends. Herodias and her daughter, we are led to believe, are whorish women. Jezebel has Elijah to condemn her outrages; Herodias has John to condemn hers. It does not seem coincidental that both Matthew and Mark identify John as Elijah.71 Where does this all wind up? With John’s head on a platter, rather like the figures of the Pozo Moro relief, whose extremities are displayed on a serving vessel. There is a reversal of the Jezebel story here, since John is portayed positively and Jezebel negatively, yet the implication is that the authors of the Christian Scriptures gave significance to the imagery of the amputated extremities that figure in the Jezebel story. There are, then, some signs that the imagery of the Pozo Moro monument was not unique. Indeed, there are tantalizing hints here and there in the ancient Mediterranean record that, in some blood sacrifices, the head and feet or limbs of victims might be given special treatment.72 One case from the Greek sphere is interesting. A second-century C.E. inscription found in Attica records the founding, by a Lycian slave named Xanthos, of a cult in honor of the god Men.73 Line 10 of the inscription instructs that the god be presented with a victim’s feet and head on the altar, along with the right haunch, skin, and half its breast. This inscription has caused some excitement because, in its strictures on the purity of participants in the cult, it has been thought by some scholars to have a Judaizing tone and even to echo the wording of the Septuagint.74 If this

prostitution, however, is nowadays under major assault, with many scholars concluding that it did not exist (see Karel van der Toorn, “Cultic Prosititution,” ABD 5:510–13). 71 Matthew 11:14 and 17:12–13 explicitly identify him as Elijah. Mark is more coy, but he, too, identifies John as Elijah. John’s clothing is similar to Elijah’s (Mark 1:6 and 2 Kgs 1:8), and apparently Mark 9:11–13 assimilates him to the returning Elijah mentioned in Mal 4:5 (cf. Matt 17:12–13). See Walter Wink, John the Baptist in the Gospel Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1968). 72 The Greek tradition presents several examples. A law from Cyrene indicates that, in one variety of sacrifice at that settlement, the feet and the head (along with the hide) of a sacrificial victim were given to a priestess (Franciszek Sokolowski, Lois sacrées des cités grecques, Supplement [Paris: Editions de Boccard, 1962], no. 115.B.16–17). One testimony of cult regulations from Delphi prescribes special treatment for victims’ heads and feet (ibid., nos. 40.B.2–3, C.4–5). Other such testimony specifically mentions heads and feet (Franciszek Sokolowski, Lois sacrées des cités grecques [Paris: Editions de Boccard, 1969], no.166.64; idem, Lois sacrées de l’Asie Mineure [Paris: Editions de Boccard, 1955], nos. 59.3, 72.44). Demon recorded that Melanthos, who became king of the Athenians, was given the feet and head of a victim when he was being honored as a guest in Attica (frg.1 FGH). In the Homeric Hymn to Hermes 137, Hermes separately incinerates the head and hooves of cattle he sacrifices. Porphyry, as preserved by Eusebius, records a bizarre oracle that prescribes sacrificial practice and singles out victims’ heads and feet for special treatment (Eusebius Praep. ev. 4.9). Hesychius (s.v. e[ndrata) also indicates special treatment of feet and heads in sacrificial ritual. In the Semitic tradition, we might refer to Lev 1:8–9, 12–13; 4:11. 73 Sokolowski, Lois sacrées des cités grecques, no. 55. 74 Ibid., commentaire, where verbal echoes are cited.

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inscription does reflect a Semitic tradition, it may have particular relevance to the Pozo Moro relief because it involves special treatment of victims’ heads and feet. Lucian records another significant sacrifice that is definitely from the Semitic world (De syria dea 55). Preparing to go to a festival in Hieropolis on the Euphrates, a participant, Lucian tells us, shaves his head and eyebrows and sacrifices a sheep, whose flesh he eats in a banquet. He then kneels on the victim’s fleece, lifts up its feet and head against his head, prays that his present sacrifice be accepted, and promises that the next will be better. Here, in a clear context of Semitic sacrifice, is special treatment of a victim’s head and feet. We might conjecture that, in this sacrifice, the victim is a substitute for the participant, as is suggested by his gesture of kneeling on the fleece and raising the animal’s extremities to his head. That would put this ritual in a context of Semitic human sacrifice. Significantly, Lucian indicates that the practitioners of this cult also practice child sacrifice (De syria dea 58).75

IV. Conclusion There is reason to suspect that imagery like that of the Pozo Moro relief shaped the tales of Tereus, Thyestes, and Harpagus. The possibility is seductive and suggests a rather pleasing irony. Jon Levenson sees in the death of Jesus Christ a reflex of Semitic child sacrifice, wherein a father offers his son up to death. If his view is correct, the communion rituals of early Christians have a connection to child sacrifice and, indeed, resemble the feast depicted on the relief at Pozo Moro. How appropriate, then, that early Christians were accused of participating in “Thyestian feasts” by their pagan detractors who accused them of cannibalism (Eusebius Hist. eccl. 5.1). But the Pozo Moro relief is not limited to connections with the feasts of Thyestes, Tereus, and Harpagus. It may touch on other aspects of Greek legend as well. With its depiction of a bullheaded creature wielding a sacrificial knife, it appears to be related also to the legend of the Minotaur, which recalls bull-masked priests who slaughtered young children in sacrificial ritual. 75 Two other pieces of Near Eastern evidence are worth mentioning here. One is the discovery of the remains of a child perhaps sacrificed at Kedesh in Upper Galilee. In the floor of an archive dating from the mid-first millennium B.C.E. was buried a child whose hands and feet were missing, apparently amputated before interment (Sharon C. Herbert and Andrea M. Berlin, “A New Administrative Center for Persian and Hellenistic Galilee: Preliminary Report of the University of Michigan/University of Minnesota Excavations at Kedesh,” BASOR 329 [2003]: 13–59, here 24). Another is an extremely early (Uruk III) cylinder-seal depiction in which a feline with its paws cut off is apparently being offered to a god (Henri Frankfort, Cylinder Seals: A Documentary Essay on the Art and Religion of the Ancient Near East [London: MacMillan, 1939], 19; E. Douglas Van Buren, The Fauna of Ancient Mesopotamia as Represented in Art [AnOr 18; Rome: Pontificium Institutum Biblicum, 1939], 9–10).

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MUST THE GREEK TEXT ALWAYS BE PREFERRED? VERSIONAL AND PATRISTIC WITNESSES TO THE TEXT OF MATTHEW 4:16

ROBERT F. SHEDINGER [email protected] Luther College, Decorah, IA 52101

Among the many citations from the Hebrew Scriptures in the Gospel of Matthew is the apparent quotation of Isa 8:23–9:1 in Matt 4:15–16: Land of Zebulun and land of Naphtali, the way of the sea, across the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles. The people who sit in darkness have seen a great light, and to those sitting in the region and shadow of death a light has arisen.

Scholars have long recognized that this apparent quotation does not faithfully reproduce any known version of the text of Isaiah, a fact generally accounted for by an appeal to theories of Matthean editorial activity, suggesting that Matthew made changes to the text of Isaiah he was citing in order to render the Isaian text more amenable to its Gospel context (an argument considered in more detail below). In no case has this matter been considered text-critically, simply because there are no significant variants preserved for these verses either in extant Greek manuscripts of Matthew or in textual witnesses to Isaiah. It appears, then, that the form of the text preserved in the Greek manuscript tradition is the form original to Matthew, and if this form varies from the known witnesses to the text of Isaiah, such variations must be the result of ad hoc changes made to the text of Isaiah by Matthew. The unanimity of the Greek manuscript tradition does not mean, however, that there are no significant text-critical issues here. A few versional texts and An earlier version of this paper was read before the New Testament Textual Criticism section of the SBL annual meeting in 2002 in Toronto, Canada, under the title “Jewish Exegesis and the Text of Matthean Scriptural Citations: The Case of Matt. 4:16.” I would like to express my appreciation to the anonymous editorial reviewers of JBL for their many helpful comments that have strengthened this article. Of course, the responsibility for any remaining errors rests with the author.

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patristic citations do preserve interesting variants, and it is the purpose of this investigation to consider the significance of the versional and patristic textual data related specifically to Matt 4:16. It is probable that the best form of Matt 4:16 is not preserved in the Greek manuscript tradition, despite its unanimity. Rather, I will argue that the form attested in some versional and patristic witnesses has a greater claim to originality because it provides a more plausible solution to the problem of the variation of Matthew’s citation from its ostensible source in Isaiah by showing that Matthew employed the common early Jewish exegetical technique known as gezerah shavah—a technique that Matthew uses in other places—as the basis for his redactional activity.1 Versional and patristic evidence demonstrates that Matthew’s citation of Jewish Scripture in 4:16 was originally a combined citation of Isa 9:1 and Ps 107:10, and not simply a citation of Isa 9:1 that Matthew changed to suit his purposes. Such an argument has larger implications for the discipline of NT textual criticism because it raises the question of whether the Greek text tradition must always be given priority over the versional and patristic tradition in making text-critical decisions, a question that is rarely considered in the field of NT textual criticism.

I. The Citation of Isaiah 9:1 in Textual Witnesses to Matthew 4:16 When one compares the text of Matt 4:16 to the Greek and Hebrew forms of Isa 9:1, the differences are immediately apparent. First, it is clear that the Gospel of Matthew has not followed the text of the LXX here. Matthew writes: oJ lao;" oJ kaqhvmeno" ejn skovtei fw'" ei\den mevga, kai; toi'" kaqhmevnoi" ejn cwvra/ kai; skia'/ qanavtou fw'" ajnevteilen aujtoi'". The people who sit in darkness have seen a great light, and to those who sit in the region and shadow of death a light has arisen to them.

The LXX differs substantially with: oJ lao;" oJ poreuovmeno" ejn skovtei i[dete fw'" mevga: oiJ katoikou'nte" ejn cwvra/ kai; skia'/ qanavtou fw'" lavmyei ejf’ uJma'". You people who walk in darkness see a great light, those who dwell in the region and shadow of death a light shines upon you. 1 By giving priority to internal evidence I am arguing in the tradition of the text-critical method known as thoroughgoing eclecticism, associated most recently with the work of J. K. Elliott. For a summary of this method, which is characterized by an emphasis on internal arguments over external manuscript evidence in text-critical decisions, see Elliott, “The Case for Thoroughgoing Eclecticism” in Rethinking New Testament Textual Criticism (ed. David Alan Black; Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2002), 101-24.

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First, Matthew has the people “sitting” in both halves of the parallel structure against the LXX’s “walking” in the first half and “dwelling” in the second.2 Second, in the first half of the verse Matthew puts the verb in the third person (ei\den) over against the LXX, which employs the second person (i[dete). Third, in Matthew the light has “arisen to them” (ajnevteilen aujtoi'"), while in the LXX it “shines upon them” (lavmyei ejf’ uJma'"). If we turn to the Hebrew text of Isaiah for comparison, many of the problems remain. The MT reads:

!hyl[ hgn rwa twmlx $rab yb`y lwdg rwa war ^`jb !yklhh ![h The people who walk in darkness see a great light, those who dwell in the region of deep darkness a light has shined upon them.

Matthew agrees with the MT against the LXX in employing the third person in the first half of the verse, but the MT supports the LXX against Matthew in having the people “walking” (!yklh) and “dwelling” (yb`y) and in having the light “shining upon them” (!hyl[ hgn). Moreover, the MT’s twmlx $rab (“in the land of deep darkness”) differs from both Matthew and the LXX, though this difference is easily explained. The LXX’s ejn cwvra/ kai; skia'/ qanavtou (“in the region and shadow of death”) has apparently read twmlx (“deep darkness”) as the two-word phrase twm lx (“shadow of death”). This would suggest that Matthew was dependent on the LXX at least for this phrase, since ejn cwvra/ kai; skia'/ does not translate the Hebrew lx $rab very precisely.3 Thus, although Matt 4:16 agrees with the MT against the LXX in some places, in others the reverse is true; and in its use of the troublesome kaqhvmeno", it agrees with neither. So in its entirety, Matthew’s form of this citation does not follow any known version of the text of Isaiah. How might we account for this? That Matthew’s form of this citation includes a combination of Septuagintal and Masoretic elements is hardly problematic. It is likely that Matthew used both as sources and quoted freely from both, even combining elements from both texts in the same quotation when doing so was consistent with his inter-

2 Codex A of the LXX along with several other medieval manuscripts replaces poreuovmeno" with kaqhvmeno" in accordance with Matthew, almost certainly the result of assimilation of these LXX manuscripts to Matthew. In his critical edition of the LXX of Isaiah, Joseph Ziegler wrote, “Manchmal liegt auch Einwirkung von ntl. Stellen vor. So liest A mit verschiedenen anderen Hss. 9:2 kaqhvmeno" (aus Matth. 4:16) statt poreuovmeno"” (Joseph Ziegler, ed., Isaias, vol. 15 of Septuaginta: Vetus Testamentum Graecum, auctoritate Academiae Litteram Gottingensis editum [Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1939], 27). 3 Septuagintal manuscripts are divided here: a* B read ejn cwvra/ skia'/, while L reads ejn cwvra/ skia'", the latter doing better justice to the Hebrew.

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ests.4 More problematic is Matthew’s use of kaqhvmeno" in place of the MT’s ~!yklh and the LXX’s poreuovmeno", and it is here that commentators have seen evidence of Matthean redactional activity. According to Krister Stendahl, the change from “walking” to “sitting” serves to stress the “local, geographical intention of his interpretation. It was to the people actually settled there (in Zebulun and Naphtali) in such a position that the light of the Messiah came.”5 George Soares Prabhu agrees with this interpretation and sees it being reinforced by the use of the phrase cwvra/ kai; skia'/ qanavtou, which he calls a hendiadys that “unmistakably and emphatically refers the oracle to ‘the land of Zebulun and Naphtali.’”6 But such redactional arguments are valid only on the assumption that the form of the text preserved by the Greek manuscript tradition is the form original to Matthew.7 Despite the virtual unanimity of the Greek manuscript tradition, a consideration of versional and patristic evidence raises the possibility that the Greek manuscript tradition does not preserve the earliest form, leaving such redactional arguments on a questionable foundation. Consider, for example, the form of this text as it appears in the Persian Harmony, a medieval harmony of the four Gospels usually associated with the harmony tradition spawned by Tatian’s Diatessaron: an khalq ke dar taµriki nešasteh-and dar saµye marg nur >az\im didand8 4 This was the conclusion of Krister Stendahl in his seminal study, The School of St. Matthew and Its Use of the Old Testament (ASNU 20; Lund: Gleerup, 1954). 5 Ibid., 105. 6 George M. Soares Prabhu, The Formula Quotations in the Infancy Narrative of Matthew: An Enquiry into the Tradition History of Mt. 1–2 (AnBib 63; Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1976), 102. 7 I use the term “original” here in full awareness of how this term has been problematized in recent text-critical work. By “original” I mean that form of the text that resulted from the late-firstcentury compositional phase of Matthew’s Gospel, regardless of whether “Matthew” refers to an individual or a community, and regardless of whether the composition of the Gospel was a singular event or an extended process. I mean only to distinguish between the activity of the community out of which the Gospel developed and the activity of the communities that disseminated and transmitted the Gospel, though it is clear that a sharp line cannot be drawn between them. For a discussion of these issues, see the excellent article by Eldon Jay Epp, “The Multivalence of the Term ‘Original Text’ in New Testament Textual Criticism,” HTR 92 (1999): 245–81. 8 Guiseppe Messina, ed., Diatessaron Persiano (BibOr 14; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1951), 44. My English translation depends heavily on Messina’s Italian translation of the Persian (la gente, che sono seduti nell’oscurittà, nell’ombra della morte, videro una gran luce). The Persian Harmony dates from the thirteenth century and appears to have been translated from a Syriac Vorlage. For a discussion of this text, see Bruce M. Metzger, “Tatian’s Diatessaron and a Persian Harmony of the Gospels,” JBL 69 (1950): 261–80; A. J. B. Higgins, “Tatian’s Diatessaron and the Arabic and Persian Harmonies,” in Studies in New Testament Language and Text (ed. J. K. Elliott; NovTSup 44; Leiden: Brill, 1976), 246–61; Guiseppe Messina, “Un Diatessaron persiano del secolo 13 tradotto dal siriaco,” Bib 24 (1943): 59–106.

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The people who are sitting in darkness, in the shadow of death have seen a great light.

The two halves of the parallel structure have been collapsed into one, creating a significantly shorter form of the text, a form that appears also in a citation of Matt 4:16 in the writings of Augustine (Epistulae 225.5): Gentium populus qui sedebat in tenebris et in umbra mortis lucem viderit magnam9 The people of the nations who were sitting in darkness and in the shadow of death have seen a great light.

This collapsing of the two halves of the parallel structure into one creates the phrase “darkness and the shadow of death,” which, although not appearing in any Greek manuscript, does occur in two other non-Greek witnesses where the full parallel structure of the verse is preserved. For example, the Palestinian Syriac Lectionary of the Gospels reads in the second half of the parallel structure: whlyn dy dytybn bh\ šwk< wbtlwlh dmwt< nhwr dnh\ lhwn10 . . . and those who are sitting in darkness and in the shadow of death a light has arisen to them.

This is followed by the text of the Basel edition of the Ethiopic Gospels: wala<elahi yenaberu westa s\ elmat was\ elâlota mot berhân šaraqa lomu11

9 For this text, see Augustine, Epistulae (ed. A Goldbacher; CSEL 57; Leipzig: Freytag, 1911), 462. Augustine’s addition of gentium can be understood as reading the last word of v. 15 as the first word of v. 16. All Old Latin texts and the Vulgate end v. 15 with the phrase Galilaea gentium. 10 Agnes S. Lewis and Margaret D. Gibson, eds., The Palestinian Syriac Lectionary of the Gospels (London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner & Co., 1899), 268. This medieval lectionary, written in Syriac script, is actually written in the language of western Palestinian Aramaic and probably preserves a considerably older tradition than that of its ninth- and tenth-century manuscripts. See Bruce M. Metzger, “A Comparison of the Palestinian Syriac Lectionary and the Greek Gospel Lectionary,” in Neotestamentica et Semitica: Studies in Honour of Matthew Black (ed. E. E. Ellis and M. Wilcox; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1969), 209–20; Matthew Black, “The Syriac Versional Tradition,” in Die alten Übersetzungen des Neuen Testaments, die Kirchenväterzitate und Lektionare (ed. K. Aland; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1972), 120–59. 11 As cited by L. Hackspill, “Die äthiopische Evangelienübersetzung (Math. I–X),” ZA 11 (1897): 150. It is unclear how many Ethiopic manuscripts contain this reading. The Basel edition was published in 1874 and was based on a collation of manuscripts held in the Royal Library of Paris along with manuscripts owned by the British and Foreign Bible Society. The editor, Thomas Pell Platt, provides little information concerning which manuscripts he consulted, nor does he provide a critical apparatus. For more on this edition, see Bruce M. Metzger, The Early Versions of the New Testament: Their Origin, Transmission, and Limitations (New York: Oxford Universitiy Press,

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Notice should also be taken of an apparent allusion to this verse by Clement of Alexandria (Protr. 114.1): fw'" hJmi'n ejx oujranou' toi'" ejn skovtei katorwrugmevnoi" kai; ejn skia'/ qanavtou katakekleismevnoi" ejxevlaymen hJlivou kaqarwvteron12 A light from heaven brighter than the sun has shined upon us who have been buried in darkness and shut up in the shadow of death.

Clement appears to juxtapose “darkness” with “shadow of death” along with the Ethiopic Gospel, the Palestinian Syriac Lectionary, Augustine, and the Persian Harmony. The occurrence of the phrase “darkness and the shadow of death” in such a geographically and linguistically diverse group of texts could hardly be coincidental. They are almost certainly reflecting a common tradition, yet it would be difficult to find a tradition common to all of them apart from a very early form of Matthew’s Gospel.13 While the Persian Harmony and Palestinian Syriac Lectionary do have the Diatessaron in common, this is probably not the case for the Ethiopic tradition and almost certainly not the case for Clement of Alexandria. Augustine would be dependent on an Old Latin text, and the Old Latin does have connections to the Diatessaron, but no existing Old Latin text supports this reading. A very early (or original?) text of Matthew, then, appears to be the most likely point of origin for this reading. But since there is no Greek manuscript evidence and the versional and patristic witnesses are rather late 1977), 230–31. It is clear that the Ethiopic manuscripts provide a divided tradition for this verse. According to Hackspill, the thirteenth- or fourteenth-century Paris manuscript reads the even shorter form wala<elahi yenaberu westa s\elâlota mot. He suggests that the reading of the Basel edition might be the result of assimilation to the clause toi'" ejn skovtei kai; skia'/ qanavtou kaqhmevnoi" in Luke 1:79. Hackspill, however, was unaware that this same form appears in other versional and patristic witnesses to Matthew. See below for more on the possible influence of Luke 1:79 on Matt 4:16. 12 For this text, see Clement of Alexandria, Protrepticus (ed. O. Stählin; GCS 12; Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1972), 80. 13 This would be in agreement with the theory of linguistic geography articulated by the Italian classicist Giorgio Pasquali, which Bruce Metzger considers a significant idea for text critics as well. Metzger writes: “In general linguistics it is commonly acknowledged that the most ancient stages of a phenomenon are preserved best in the peripheral zones of the area of their dispersion, and the coincidence of two forms current in regions far removed from the centre and from each other constitutes a presumption in favour of their antiquity. In the same way the coincidence of particular readings in manuscripts of divergent origin often proves their originality” (The Text of the New Testament: Its Transmission, Corruption, and Restoration [New York: Oxford University Press, 1964], 174).

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(except for Clement), the classical canons of NT textual criticism would certainly rule this out as a candidate for the “original” reading of Matthew. To do so, however, abandons the crucial piece of evidence for understanding why Matthew has gone against all texts of Isaiah by reading kaqhvmeno". If Matthew’s citation of Isaiah originally contained the phrase “darkness and the shadow of death,” it is easy to see why he also went against his Isaiah source in introducing the word kaqhvmeno". But to demonstrate this will require a general consideration of Matthew’s use of the Jewish Scriptures in his Gospel.

II. Jewish Exegesis in Matthean Scriptural Citations In 1954, Krister Stendahl published his seminal study of Matthew’s use of the Jewish Scriptures, entitled The School of St. Matthew and Its Use of the Old Testament. In brief, Stendahl argued that Matthew’s citations from the Hebrew Bible resembled the work of an exegetical school not unlike the kind of exegetical work one finds among the sectarian scrolls from Qumran. According to Stendahl, one finds indelible marks of Jewish exegetical and catechetical activity in the way Matthew renders texts from the Hebrew Bible.14 If Stendahl is correct, then we should not be surprised to find in Matthew the use of specific Jewish exegetical techniques in his rendering of texts from the Hebrew Bible. Of course a word of caution is in order here. Jewish exegetical practice is best known from the later classical categories employed in rabbinic literature, and one cannot automatically retroject later rabbinic practice into the first century.15 But some scholars have begun to see evidence that rabbinic exegetical practice developed not suddenly in the classical rabbinic period but gradually, meaning that at least some form of what would later become classical rabbinic exegetical practice should be found in earlier Jewish literature. One such exegetical technique is the rabbinic practice known as gezerah shavah (identical category), the common practice of explaining one text by another when the two share a common word or phrase. That this exegetical principle operated long before the rabbinic period has been demonstrated by the studies of Elieser Slomovic and George Brooke, both of whom have documented the use of this principle in Qumran writings such as 4QFlorilegium, 14 For further support of Stendahl’s view, see my Tatian and the Jewish Scriptures: A Textual and Philological Analysis of the Old Testament Citations in Tatian’s Diatessaron (CSCO 591, subs. 109; Leuven: Peeters, 2001). 15 For a survey of rabbinic exegesis, see Rimon Kasher, “The Interpretation of Scripture in Rabbinic Literature,” in Mikra: Text, Translation, Reading, and Interpretation of the Hebrew Bible in Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity (ed. M. J. Mulder; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988), 547–94.

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the Community Rule, the War Scroll, and the Damascus Document.16 Moreover, Maarten J. J. Menken appeals to the principle of gezerah shavah to explain the form of OT citations in John’s Gospel. Menken writes: Already in pre-Christian Judaism, the connection of two analogous passages from Scripture (i.e. passages that have at least one word in common and that mostly also have a similar content) was a current practice, not only in exegesis, but also in the rendering of texts: a part of one could be used as a substitute for a part of the other, or could be added to it.17

This last point deserves emphasis. Although the use of gezerah shavah in rabbinic writings operates on the level of explanation of texts, Menken argues that in prerabbinic times, this principle was employed also in the rendering of texts. He bases this on examples that Jean Koenig gleaned from the LXX and the Qumran Isaiah manuscript.18 For example, in the Hebrew text of both Exod 15:3 and Isa 42:13, God is referred to as hmjlm `ya (“a man of war”),19 but the Septuagint translates this as the opposite, “one who breaks wars,” in both places (suntrivbwn polevmou" in Exodus, suntrivyei povlemon in Isaiah). This was done, according to Koenig, under the influence of Ps 76:4 and Hos 2:20, both of which indicate that God will abolish war from the earth.20 Here hmjlm serves as the connecting word legitimizing the rendering of one text in accordance with another.21 Having established that the principle of gezerah shavah operated on the level of rendering texts in prerabbinic Judaism, Menken then explains the form of some OT quotations in John’s Gospel on this principle. For example, the quotation in John 6:31, a[rton ejk tou' oujranou' e[dwken aujtoi'" fagei'n (“bread from heaven 16 See Elieser Slomovic, “Toward an Understanding of the Exegesis in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” RevQ 7 (1969–71): 3–15; George J. Brooke, Exegesis at Qumran: 4QFlorilegium in Its Jewish Context (JSOTSup 29; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1985). J. W. Doeve has argued that it is the rabbinic idea of the inspiration of the entire scripture down to the most seemingly insignificant of details that justifies this bringing together of analogous texts into a mutually interpretive framework. He characterizes early Jewish exegesis with the observation that “[t]here is nothing, absolutely nothing in Scripture without meaning. From everything, however slight it may seem, something may be learnt” (Jewish Hermeneutics in the Synoptic Gospels and Acts [Assen: van Gorcum, 1954], 89). 17 Maarten J. J. Menken, Old Testament Quotations in the Fourth Gospel: Studies in Textual Form (CBET 15; Kampen: Pharos, 1996), 52. 18 See Jean Koenig, L’herméneutique analogique du Judaïsme antique d’après les témoins textuels d’Isaïe (VTSup 33; Leiden: Brill, 1982). 19 twmjlm vyak (“like a man of wars”) in Isaiah. 20 Psalm 76:4 reads hmjlmw brjw @gm tvq ypvr rbv hmv (“There he broke [sunevtriye in the LXX] the flashing arrows, the shield, the sword, and war”). Hosea 2:20 reads the very similar $rah @m rwbva hmjlmw brjw tvqw (“And the bow, the sword, and war I will abolish [suntrivyw in the LXX] from the earth”). 21 For a discussion, see Koenig, L’herméneutique analogique du Judaïsme antique, 59–63; Menken, Old Testament Quotations, 52–53.

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he gave them to eat”), while it seems closest to a quotation of the LXX of Ps 77:24 (kai; a[rton oujranou' e[dwken aujtoi'" [“and the bread of heaven he gave to them”]), differs from the Psalm text in the additions of ejk tou' and fagei'n. These differences can be explained, however, on the theory that John rendered Ps 77:24 LXX in combination with Exod 16:4 and 15 on the authority of the principle of gezerah shavah. The similar text in Exod 16:4 LXX, ijdou' ejgw; u{w uJmi'n a[rtou" ejk tou' oujranou' (“Behold, I am raining upon you bread from heaven”), provides John with the phrase ejk tou', while Exod 16:15 LXX, ou|to" oJ a[rto" o}n e[dwken kuvrio" uJmi'n fagei'n (“This is the bread which the LORD gave to you to eat”), provides John with the word fagei'n. The concept of giving bread to the people ties all these texts together.22 Given that the basic principle of gezerah shavah operated widely in early Judaism, and given the likelihood that Matthew’s Gospel was formed in the context of some kind of Jewish scholastic environment, it would be surprising if Matthew’s citations from the Jewish Scriptures were not influenced by Jewish exegetical principles, especially by gezerah shavah. That this is indeed the case may be demonstrated by Matthew’s citation in 2:6 of Mic 5:1, ejk sou' ga;r ejxeleuvsetai hJgouvmeno" o{sti" poimanei' to;n laovn mou to;n !Israhvl (“for from you will come forth a ruler who will shepherd my people Israel”).23 The phrase poimanei' to;n laovn mou to;n !Israhvl in Matthew replaces the phrase tou' ei\nai eij" a[rconta ejn tw'/ !Israhvl (“to be a ruler in Israel”) in Micah, and scholars have generally recognized that Matthew has combined Mic 5:1 with 2 Sam 5:2, where David is told in the Septuagint, su; poimanei'" to;n laovn mou to;n !Israhvl (“you will shepherd my people Israel”).24 This allows Matthew to introduce a text explicitly referring to David into a text predicting the emergence of a leader from Bethlehem in a way that is based entirely on the authority of the Jewish Scriptures (presumably the word !Israhvl, common to both texts, provided the link between the two). The only redactional change necessary is to change the verb from second person (poimanei'") to third person (poimanei') in order to fit the new context. It is clear from this example that Matthew does employ the principle of gezerah shavah in the rendering of texts from the Jewish Scriptures.25 22

See the discussion in Menken, Old Testament Quotations, 49–54. It is likely that here as well the Greek manuscript tradition does not preserve the earliest form of this text. See the discussion in my Tatian and the Jewish Scriptures, 37–41; and “The Gospels and the Text of the Hebrew Bible: Micah 5:1 (Matt. 2:6) in Tatian’s Diatessaron,” in From Prophecy to Testament: The Function of the Old Testament in the New (ed. Craig A. Evans; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2004). 24 See Stendahl, School of St. Matthew, 99–101. 25 Consider also Matt 21:5, where the initial phrase, “Say to the daughter of Zion,” from Isa 62:11 replaces the phrase “Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion” of Zech 9:9, even though the remainder of the quotation (“Behold your king comes to you humble and riding on an ass, and on a 23

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Returning now to Matt 4:16, I will argue that the variant form of this citation from Isaiah preserved in the Persian Harmony, Palestinian Syriac Lectionary, Ethiopic Gospel, Augustine, and possibly Clement of Alexandria, the form of the citation containing the phrase “darkness and the shadow of death,” owes its existence to the operation of gezerah shavah at the level of Matthean composition, despite the fact that this reading is absent from the Greek manuscript tradition. In 1861, D. Rudolpho Anger, in a work on OT citations in Matthew, suggested that Matthew’s use of kaqhvmeno" for the LXX’s poreuovmeno" and MT’s !yklh was a sign that Matthew’s citation of Isaiah had been influenced by a similar text appearing in Ps 107:10.26 In the LXX, Ps 107:10 contains the phrase kaqhmevnou" ejn skovtei kai; skia'/ qanavtou (“those sitting in darkness and the shadow of death”). Because of the similarity of this phrase to what appears in Isa 9:1, Anger argued that Matthew’s kaqhvmeno" was based on the psalm text’s kaqhmevnou". What Anger did not know, however, is that this whole phrase from Ps 107:10, “those sitting in darkness and the shadow of death,” appears in an array of geographically and linguistically diverse witnesses to the text of Matt 4:16. I would argue that Anger did not know how right he was. Matthew’s citation of Isa 9:1 was not only influenced by Ps 107:10 in its use of kaqhvmeno". Rather, this entire phrase from Ps 107:10 was combined in some way with the text of Isa 9:1 according to the principle of gezerah shavah, the appearance of “darkness” and “shadow of death” in both texts linking these analogous passages together. But why would Matthew do this? What does he gain by combining Isa 9:1 with Ps 107:10, rather than simply citing either one alone? To answer this question we must consider Matthew’s purpose in citing Jewish Scripture. In a recent article in JBL, Warren Carter considered the meaning of the citations from Isaiah that appear in Matt 1:23 and 4:15–16. He argues that Matthew cites Jewish Scripture in order to evoke in his readers the larger scriptural context in which those citations are embedded. In the case of these two citations from Isaiah, namely, Isa 7:14 and 8:23–9:1, Carter argues that Matthew is trying to evoke in his audience the entire context of Isaiah 7–9.27

colt the foal of an ass”) is from Zech 9:9. Here “daughter of Zion” provides the link between the two texts. 26 D. Rudolpho Anger, Ratio, qua loci Veteris Testamenti in evangelio Matthaei laudantur, quid valeat ad illustrandam huius evangelii originem, quaeritur: Particula I (Leipzig: Litteris Edelmanni, 1861), 29. The possibility of influence from Ps 107:10 or even Isa 42:7 has also been noted by W. D. Davies and Dale C. Allison, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel according to Saint Matthew (ICC; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1988), 1:385. 27 Warren Carter, “Evoking Isaiah: Matthean Soteriology and an Intertextual Reading of Isaiah 7–9 and Matthew 1:23 and 4:15–16,” JBL 119 (2000): 503–20.

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These chapters of Isaiah deal with a situation of imperial threat, that of Assyrian power, which Carter argues establishes an analogy “with the situation of the Gospel’s authorial audience also living under imperial power, that of Rome, and also promised God’s salvation.”28 Just as the people of Judah, when they were sitting in the darkness of impending invasion by the Assyrians, saw the light of salvation, probably in the person of Hezekiah, so Matthew’s community, though sitting in the darkness of Roman domination, will see the light of salvation in the person of Jesus. It is significant for Carter that Matthew’s citation of Isaiah in 4:16 comes right at the end of the first narrative unit of the Gospel. He writes: The intertext recognizes the Gospel audience’s experience of imperial power, provides God’s perspectives on that situation, explains the present, underlines the hope of change, warns of rejection, and raises the key question at the end of the first narrative block and on the brink of the beginning of Jesus’ ministry of how God will accomplish that salvation through Jesus.29

If Carter is right that Matthew’s purpose in citing scripture is to evoke in his readers the larger context of the small units he cites, it is entirely understandable that Matthew would want to evoke not only the message of Isa 7–9 but also the entirety of Ps 107, for the latter is a song of praise for deliverance from Babylonian exile. Consider vv. 10–14 of this forty-two-verse psalm. In vv. 10–11 the psalmist writes:

lzrb yn[ yrysa twmlxw ^`j yb`y wxan @wyl[ tx[w la yrma wrmh yk Some were dwellers of darkness and deep shadows (shadow of death), prisoners in misery and in irons, for they had rebelled against the words of God, and spurned the counsel of the most high.

Here “darkness and the shadow of death” describes the misery of exile. But in vv. 13–14 the psalmist writes:

![y`wy !hytwqxmm !hl rxb hwhy la wq[zyw qtny !hytwrswmw twmlxw ^`jm !ayxwy They cried to the LORD in their trouble and he saved them from their distress; he brought them out of darkness and deep shadows (shadow of death) and tore apart their bonds. 28 29

Ibid., 507. Ibid., 520.

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Again the Psalmist invokes the phrase “darkness and the shadow of death,” this time to describe the situation from which God delivered the exiles. In the context of Ps 107, the phrase “darkness and the shadow of death” is pregnant with meaning, and it is therefore not at all surprising that Matthew would want to introduce this phrase into his citation of Isa 9:1. Doing so allows him to draw an analogy between the salvation the community will experience in Jesus and two former occasions of salvation, that of Judah from the threat of Assyrian conquest (via the Isaiah text), and that of the Judean remnant from the misery of exile (via the Psalm text).30 This point is further reinforced by the appearance of another example of this same textual combination in Luke 1:79 in the context of the song of Zechariah, which is based almost entirely on texts from Jewish Scripture. In the midst of Zechariah’s prophecy concerning the messianic age, we read ejpifa'nai toi'" ejn skovtei kai; skia'/ qanavtou kaqhmevnoi" (“to give light to those who are sitting in darkness and the shadow of death”). Given the clear Jewish background of the “songs” in the Lukan infancy narrative, it is possible that the association of Isa 9:1 with Ps 107:10 had already been made in Jewish messianic traditions and that Matthew and Luke independently adopted this already existing connection.31 We cannot altogether ignore the possibility that the appearance of the clause “those sitting in darkness and the shadow of death” in certain versional and patristic witnesses to Matthew is the result of secondary assimilation of Matthew’s text to the text of Luke 1:79 rather than the work of those who composed Matthew. But this seems unlikely. First, the odds are remote that the Persian Harmony, the Palestinian Syriac Lectionary, the Ethiopic Gospel, and Augustine would all have independently assimilated their text of Matt 4:16 to Luke 1:79. Such assimilation would have to have occurred early in the transmissional history of Matthew, a point from which it could have influenced these other texts. The likely candidate for the origin of such assimilation is Tatian’s Diatessaron. It is difficult to see, though, how Tatian could have been influenced by Luke 1:79 in his rendering of Matt 4:16, since these two texts come 30 This does not mean that the redactional arguments discussed above are entirely moot. This adoption of the verb kavqhmai from Ps 107:10 may still serve to stress the idea that it is to the people actually settled in the land that the light of the Messiah has come. What is important is to recognize that Matthew does not make this point on his own authority; he bases it on the authority of the Jewish Scriptures, and these scriptural sources serve as a constraint on the kinds of redactional changes Matthew can make. If it is not found in the text, it is out of bounds. Thus, George M. Soares Prabhu’s characterization of Matt 4:15–16 as “an ad hoc christologically oriented translation” must be rejected, if ad hoc is meant to imply that Matthew made the change on his own authority (see Soares Prabhu, Formula Quotations in the Infancy Narrative of Matthew, 104). 31 Stendahl has argued that the combination of Mal 3:1 with Exod 23:20 that occurs in the quotation in Matt 11:10 (Mark 1:2//Luke 7:27) was already a part of the Jewish milieu of the Gospel writers and not a new creation of the evangelists (School of St. Matthew, 52).

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from such different contexts in the two Gospels. Moreover, Luke 1:79 appears in the Arabic Harmony in the form “to those who are sitting in darkness and under the shadow of death.”32 The inclusion of “under” occurs neither in the Greek textual tradition nor in the Old Syriac, Peshitta, or Old Latin. When the Arabic Harmony differs from both the Greek tradition and the Peshitta, there is a good chance that it represents the original reading of the Diatessaron. If Tatian included “under” in his rendering of Luke 1:79, it is problematic that he did not include it also in his rendering of Matt 4:16—if indeed he was influenced by the former in his rendering of the latter. The supposition that the variant form of Matt 4:16 under investigation here is the result of assimilation to Luke 1:79 creates more problems than it solves, and it does not explain one additional textual anomaly found in textual witnesses to Matt 4:16, a textual anomaly that makes sense on the assumption that Matthew combined Isa 9:1 with Ps 107:10 according to the principle of gezerah shavah. The grammatically singular term laov" occurs twelve times in the Gospels in the nominative singular form, and in every case it functions as the subject of a grammatically singular verb.33 While a term like laov" could be construed as a collective singular and paired with a plural verb, this construction never occurs in the Greek Gospels except in Codex D of Matt 4:16, which reads oJ lao;" oJ kaqhvmeno" ejn skovtei fw'" ei\don mevga. This pairing of a grammatically singular noun, modified by a grammatically singular participle, with a plural verb occurs in several Syriac and Latin witnesses to Matt 4:16 and the Ethiopic Gospel as well.34 It may be that the text of Matt 4:16 underwent some type of corruption. If Matthew did employ the phrase from Ps 107:10 with its plural kaqhmevnou" (with the appropriate change in case), the plural verbs in these witnesses would be consistent with such use and may therefore be vestiges left over from this earlier form of the text that have not been “corrected” to the later form of the text that emerges in the Greek manuscript tradition. It remains now to consider how Matt 4:16 might have appeared as a citation of Jewish scripture combining Isa 9:1 with Ps 107:10. Any reconstruction 32 See A. S. Marmardji, ed., Diatessaron de Tatien (Beirut: Imprimerie Catholique, 1935), 12. The Arabic text reads al-jaµlasȵna fȵm< dytb hw< bh\ šwk< h\zw nwhr< rb<; and the Palestinian Syriac Lectionary MS B, which reads qhl< dytb bqbl< nhwr rb h\mw (MSS A and C “correct” the verb to the singular h\m<). In addition, five Old Latin texts (a,b d, g1, h) read populus qui sedabat in tenebris lucem viderunt magnam. See also the Ethiopic Gospel’s h\ezba zayenaber westa s\elmat re<eyu berhân >abida. The only other time that the grammatically singular “people” serves as the subject of a plural verb in Syriac and Latin texts of the Gospels is where laov" in the Greek is modified by either pav" or pavnte", and even in these instances the construction is not used consistently.

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must be considered tentative, given the variability in textual form among witnesses that contain the phrase “darkness and the shadow of death.” The evidence suggests that this verse went through a complicated process of textual change, and it is not at all clear that any of the witnesses containing the phrase from Ps 107:10 actually preserves the original form of the entire verse. It may well be that the original form of the verse is unrecoverable from the extant evidence, but we can make some observations and venture a tentative reconstruction. As noted earlier, Isa 9:1 contains a poetic parallelism; the clause “The people who walk in darkness have seen a great light” represents the first member of the parallel structure, and the second member consists of the nearly synonymous “those who dwell in the region of deep darkness (shadow of death), a light has shined upon them.” In their citations of Matt 4:16, the Persian Harmony and Augustine collapse this parallelism into a single entity “the people who are sitting in darkness and in the shadow of death have seen a great light.”35 The Palestinian Syriac Lectionary and Ethiopic Gospel, on the other hand, both preserve the parallelism and introduce the phrase “darkness and the shadow of death” in the second member.36 Now in MS B of the Lectionary, as well as in the other texts that preserve the grammatical incongruity between the singular subject and plural verb, this grammatical incongruity occurs in the first member of the parallelism. In each case the plural verb is the verb “see” or “have seen,” and not a form of the verb “shine,” which occurs only in the second member of the parallelism. This might suggest that if Matthew had originally taken over Ps 107:10 with its plural kaqhmevnou" (which I assume he would have changed to kaqhmevnoi), he placed it in the first member of the parallelism and made the verb “see” plural for grammatical coherence. As this verse in various texts was gradually “corrected” toward the text of Isaiah, the subject was made singular while the verb was not corrected to the singular in all cases, leaving the grammatical incongruity noted above. Notice that alone among the various witnesses, the Persian Harmony reads a plural subject (an khalq ke . . . nešastehand) along with a plural verb (didand).37 All of this evidence taken together suggests that the Persian Harmony might preserve this verse in a form closest to what Matthew composed, which may have resembled the following:

35 Although it might be argued that the phrase “darkness and the shadow of death” here arises simply from the collapsing of the parallelism and not from reference to Ps 107:10, this argument does not account for the use of kaqhvmeno". 36 I leave aside Clement of Alexandria’s reference at this point, since it is only an allusion to Matt 4:16, rendering unclear whether Clement’s text had a parallel structure or not. 37 The Persian noun khalq (“people”) is grammatically singular but should be thought of as plural in meaning, since it is modified by the grammatically plural participial phrase nešasteh-and (“are sitting”).

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oiJ laoi; oiJ kaqhmevnoi ejn skovtei kai; skia'/ qanavtou fw'" ei\don mevga38

The Palestinian Syriac Lectionary and Ethiopic Gospel have been partially conformed to the later Greek text by restoring the poetic parallelism, even while they retain the phrase from Ps 107:10 in the second member of the parallelism. This is a radically different form of the text from that in the Greek manuscript tradition and raises the question of why it is preserved (in whole or in part) in mostly late versional and patristic witnesses, but not in any Greek manuscript. Why did this reading disappear from the Greek textual tradition? The answer to this is uncertain. It would be tempting to posit an “orthodox corruption of scripture.”39 Maybe anti-Judaic tendencies in early Christianity motivated scribes to remove this evidence of specifically Jewish exegesis from the text. But I have already demonstrated that just such evidence survives in the case of Matt 2:6 in its citation of Mic 5:1 (2 Sam 5:2), so any anti-Judaic explanation must be considered speculative. Since Matt 4:15 appears to follow its Isaiah source much more closely, it might simply be that scribes did not recognize the composite nature of Matt 4:16 since it varies so considerably from Isa 9:1.They therefore corrected it back toward the text of Isaiah they knew.40 But perhaps of greater importance than why the text was changed is the larger implication of this argument: that Greek manuscript evidence cannot always take precedence over versional and patristic evidence in text-critical decisions.

III. Matthew 4:16 and the Dominance of the Greek Text in New Testament Textual Criticism For much of its history the discipline of NT textual criticism has centered on the collation and analysis of a substantial Greek manuscript tradition encompassing more than five thousand manuscripts, with the result that 38 Interestingly, Codex D reads the nominative plural oiJ kaqhmevnoi in the second half of the verse against the dative plural toi'" kaqhmevnoi", which occurs in most if not all other Greek manuscripts. Some editions of the Greek NT (von Soden, Aland’s Synopsis Quattuor Evangeliorum) seem to indicate that MS 700 agrees with D, but 700 reads with the majority, according to the work of Reuben Swanson, ed., New Testament Greek Manuscripts: Variant Readings Arranged in Horizontal Lines against Codex Vaticanus, vol. 1, Matthew (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995). 39 In the sense in which Bart D. Ehrman has articulated in The Orthodox Corruption of Scripture: The Effects of Early Christological Controversies on the Text of the New Testament (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993). 40 This would not have been as big a problem in Matt 2:6 since the variance from Mic 5:1 created by the inclusion of a phrase from 2 Sam 5:2 is not nearly as great. For several examples of NT scribes conforming OT quotations more closely to the LXX, see Metzger, Text of the New Testament, 198.

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versional and patristic evidence has been relegated to secondary status.41 Versional and patristic witnesses to a reading, while not ignored, are cited only as secondary support for the Greek manuscript evidence, and versional and/or patristic readings that diverge entirely from the Greek manuscript tradition are rarely if ever included in the apparatus of critical editions of the NT. In a recent article, Maurice Robinson states it as an unvarying principle of textual criticism that, “Isolated patristic or versional testimony is not sufficient to overturn the reading most strongly supported among the Greek manuscript base.”42 This principle and others like it presuppose that a clear and distinct separation can be made between the activities of textual composition and textual transmission. For the text we are considering here, that would mean that Matthew composed his Gospel in Greek in the latter part of the first century and disinterested scribes copied and transmitted it with minor variation thereafter. Thus, given the large number of extant Greek manuscripts, it is statistically probable that the “original” reading will always occur somewhere in the Greek tradition, especially when it is supported by versional and/or patristic evidence. Recent work, however, has begun to challenge this fundamental notion. The composition and transmission of the NT (if these can be thought of as 41 The very term “version” used to describe the Latin, Syriac, Coptic, Ethiopic, Armenian, Georgian, and other traditions has a marginalizing effect on them. Since they are all lumped together in a single category as mere versions of the NT, while the Greek tradition is something qualitatively different, the natural assumption is that the Greek is superior. Chapter 2 of Bruce Metzger’s influential introduction to NT textual criticism is entitled “Important Witnesses to the Text of the New Testament.” Greek manuscripts are treated together in the first section of the chapter, and all the versions are treated together in the second. This automatically sets up a Greek/Version hierarchy that is followed in the apparatus to all critical editions of the NT, in which Greek evidence is always cited first, followed by versional and patristic evidence as secondary support for the Greek. See Metzger, Text of the New Testament, 36–92. This neat bifurcation between the Greek and versional traditions belies a considerably more complicated picture. There is no reason to assume automatically that every Greek manuscript is a witness superior to every versional manuscript; an early Latin or Syriac text might well be a better witness than a medieval Greek text. But the current way of talking about the versions discourages this possibility from being raised. 42 Maurice A. Robinson, “New Testament Textual Criticism: The Case for Byzantine Priority,” TC: A Journal of Biblical Textual Criticism 6 (2001): par. 52, http://purl.org/TC. Note the marginalizing rhetoric in Robinson’s statement; evidence from patristic or versional sources is “isolated,” while the Greek manuscript tradition constitutes a “base”! See also his “Investigating TextCritical Dichotomy: A Critique of Modern Eclectic Praxis from a Byzantine-Priority Perspective,” Faith & Mission 16 (1999): 16–31. Robinson’s dogmatic assertion in support of the Greek textual tradition is indelibly linked to his larger view that the Byzantine textual tradition most closely resembles the original text of the NT, or what is known as the Byzantine-priority position. This is a distinctly minority viewpoint, yet even those textual critics who employ one of the more common eclectic methodologies still effectively support the priority of the Greek manuscript tradition even if they are less dogmatic about it. See, e.g., the essays in Rethinking New Testament Textual Criticism, ed. Black, where versional and patristic sources receive little attention even in the essays by scholars who employ a more common eclectic methodology.

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clearly distinct enterprises) occurred not in a vacuum but in a highly contentious polemical environment. Bart Ehrman has clearly demonstrated that early christological controversies had a significant influence on the development of the NT text.43 David C. Parker has argued convincingly that the text of the Gospels should be seen as a “living text” in the sense that seemingly small variations in a text, when viewed in isolation, may seem insignificant, yet those variations have the cumulative effect over larger portions of text of creating a substantially altered document. For Parker, the text of the Gospels in the early centuries was always in the process of becoming.44 More recently Kim HainesEitzen has created a profile of early Christian scribes that dispels any notion of their being merely disinterested copiers of the text.45 The work of all these scholars has underscored the point that the text of the NT was significantly more fluid, especially during the first two centuries of its existence, than generally recognized. This should not come as a surprise. Several scholars have observed that a fluid text should be expected in view of the doctrinal and theological fluidity of Christianity in its first two centuries. Helmut Koester even goes so far as to call textual critics naïve in this regard.46 Since Matt 4:16 is not preserved in any second- or third-century papyrus fragment, the earliest Greek witnesses to this text are the fourth-century uncials Sinaiticus and Vaticanus. It is likely that the invariable Greek manuscript tradition preserves a reading older than the fourth century, but, in the absence of any Greek manuscripts older than these two famous codices, we cannot know how much older. The texts that attest to Matthew’s combining of 43

Ehrman, Orthodox Corruption of Scripture. David C. Parker, The Living Text of the Gospels (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997). See especially Parker’s treatment of textual variation in the last three chapters of Luke and his conclusion that “the sum total (of the textual variations) provides incontrovertible evidence that the text of these chapters was not fixed, and indeed continued to grow for centuries after its composition” (p. 172). 45 Kim Haines-Eitzen, Guardians of Letters: Literacy, Power, and the Transmitters of Early Christian Literature (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000). The issue of power in textual transmission was raised also in the New Testament Textual Criticism section of the 2002 SBL annual meeting in Toronto, Canada, by the papers of William Kannaday, “The Exoneration of Pilate in the Textual Tradition of the Matthean Gospel,” and Dominika Kurek, “Some Textual Problems with Prisca and Aquila,” the latter introducing a feminist perspective into the discipline of textual criticism. 46 Helmut Koester, “The Text of the Synoptic Gospels in the Second Century,” in Gospel Traditions in the Second Century: Origins, Recensions, Text, and Transmission (ed. William L. Petersen; Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1989), 20. See also William L. Petersen, “What Text Can New Testament Textual Criticism Ultimately Reach,” in New Testament Textual Criticism, Exegesis, and Early Church History: A Discussion of Methods (ed. Barbara Aland and J. Delobel; Kampen: Pharos, 1994), 136–51; J. N. Birdsall, “The New Testament Text,” in The Cambridge History of the Bible, vol. 1, From the Beginning to Jerome (ed. P. R. Ackroyd and C. F. Evans; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970), 308–76. 44

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Isa 9:1 and Ps 107:10 are generally later, but texts such as the Persian Harmony and Palestinian Syriac Lectionary would probably not have been liable to the same kind of “orthodox correction” as the Greek manuscript tradition since they arose and functioned within quite different environments.47 If this composite citation existed in the Greek textual tradition in the middle of the second century, it could have been picked up in Tatian’s Diatessaron, through which it was transmitted to the Persian Harmony and Palestinian Syriac Lectionary, two texts generally associated with the Diatessaronic tradition.48 If Clement of Alexandria is a witness to this reading, we have further second-century support. Augustine could have gained the reading from an Old Latin tradition dependent on the second-century Greek tradition.49 So the form of the text that emerges in these versional and patristic witnesses may well have existed as early as the reading attested unanimously by the Greek text tradition. But internal evidence suggests that, in Matt 4:16, the best form of the text must be sought outside the Greek manuscript tradition, raising the provocative question of whether this might be true in other places as well.50 We should not forget that a century ago, giants in the field of textual criticism like B. F. Westcott, F. C. Burkitt, Alexander Souter, and Eberhard Nestle had come to the conclusion that a reading supported by the Siniatic Syriac manuscript and the Old Latin Codex Bobiensis (k) was probably original even in the absence of Greek manuscript support.51 Thus, the idea that the original reading of any text must invariably be sought in the Greek manuscript tradition, an idea that has come to dominate contemporary text-critical work, is a comparatively recent one and one that might be fruitfully reevaluated. It is hoped that the argument presented here will serve to spur such a reevaluation. 47 I am not arguing here that these witnesses were not subject to textual fluidity, only that the type and level of fluidity would be different from that of the Greek tradition, since these texts functioned in qualitatively different environments. 48 Elsewhere I have argued for this being the reading of the Diatessaron; see my Tatian and the Jewish Scriptures, 41–47. 49 The origin of this reading in the Ethiopic Gospel is not entirely clear, partly because the origins of this tradition are rather obscure. See Metzger, Early Versions, 215–23. 50 Investigating this question is made difficult by the Greek bias dominating the field of NT textual criticism. Since critical editions of the NT generally cite versional and patristic evidence only in support of Greek manuscript readings, there is no ready source for variants that are unique to versional and patristic witnesses. 51 For a discussion see Petersen, Tatian’s Diatessaron, 21–22.

JBL 123/3 (2004) 467–494

MISTAKEN IDENTITIES BUT MODEL FAITH: REREADING THE CENTURION, THE CHAP, AND THE CHRIST IN MATTHEW 8:5–13

THEODORE W. JENNINGS, JR. [email protected] Chicago Theological Seminary, Chicago, IL 60637 TAT-SIONG BENNY LIEW [email protected] Chicago Theological Seminary, Chicago, IL 60637

In the history of modern Matthean scholarship, interpretations of Matt 8:5–13 have generally been straightforward. The Roman centurion demonstrates his “great faith” with his “impressive” analogy of Jesus’ identity and authority; as a result, the centurion receives from Jesus a healing for his beloved “servant.” The significance of this episode has to do with, among other things, another demonstration of Jesus’ authority (7:28–29), as well as another foreshadowing of either the incorporation of the Gentiles or the replacement of the Jews by Gentiles in God’s kin-dom (8:11–12). The dominance of this interpretation can be seen in its implementation on the part of critics otherwise separated by various kinds of “divides,” such as race/ethnicity, gender, ideology, theology, and/or methodology.1 1 See, e.g., David Hill, The Gospel of Matthew (NCB; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1972), 157–59; Eduard Schweizer, The Good News according to Matthew (trans. David E. Green; Atlanta: John Knox, 1975), 211–16; Robert H. Gundry, Matthew: A Commentary on His Literary and Theological Art (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1982), 140–47; Richard A. Edwards, Matthew’s Story of Jesus (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985), 26–27; Jack Dean Kingsbury, Matthew as Story (2nd ed.; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988), 63, 151; Daniel Patte, The Gospel according to Matthew: A Structural Commentary on Matthew’s Faith (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987), 113–15; Elaine Wainwright, Towards a Feminist Critical Reading of the Gospel according to Matthew (BZNW 60; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1991), 113, 232 n. 44, 243; David E. Garland, Reading Matthew: A Literary and Theological Commentary on the First Gospel (Reading the New Testament; New York: Crossroad, 1993),

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In this article, we contend that the dominant interpretation of Matt 8:5–13 is built on two mistakes or mistaken identities.2 The first mistake has to do with the identity of the person on whose behalf the centurion approaches Jesus. The second has to do with the centurion’s understanding (based on his own selfidentification) of the identity of Jesus. In the process of clarifying these two mistakes or (mis)understandings, we will consider how our alternative interpretation of this episode would correspond to other aspects of the Gospel of Matthew as well as what it would connote for future Matthean research.

I. More than a Servant, Other than a Son Our first task is to demonstrate the plausibility of reading the centurion’s pai'" as his “boy-love” within a pederastic relationship. We first consider the semantic field within which Matthew deploys the word pai'". We will then turn to examine the use of pai'" in Greco-Roman culture, especially Roman military culture, to designate the “beloved” in a pederastic relationship. The dominance of identifying the centurion’s pai'" as “servant” can also be seen not only in its “popularity” among diverse interpreters but also in practically all “major” English versions of the NT (KJV, RSV, NAB, NASB, NIV, NJB, NRSV, REB), in which this translation is adopted without even a single hint or footnote that alternative understandings may be available. 3 As Raymond 94–97; Janice Capel Anderson, Matthew’s Narrative Web: Over, and Over, and Over Again (JSNTSup 91; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994), 184; Anthony J. Saldarini, Matthew’s Christian-Jewish Community (CSHJ; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 70–72, 171, 196; Mark Allan Powell, God With Us: A Pastoral Theology of Matthew’s Gospel (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), 36; Emily Cheney, She Can Read: Feminist Reading Strategies for Biblical Narrative (Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International, 1996), 77–78, 85–86, 115; J. Andrew Overman, Church and Community in Crisis: The Gospel according to Matthew (New Testament in Context; Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International, 1996), 113–19; Jerome H. Neyrey, Honor and Shame in the Gospel of Matthew (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1998), 136–37; Donald Senior, Matthew (ANTC; Nashville: Abingdon, 1998), 98–99; Grace Imathiu, Matthew’s Message: Good News for the New Millennium (Nashville: Abingdon, 1998), 58–59; Warren Carter, Matthew and the Margins: A Sociopolitical and Religious Reading (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 2000), 200–204; and Musa Dube, Postcolonial Feminist Interpretation of the Bible (St. Louis: Chalice, 2000), 131, 136. 2 Mistaken identities form part of the plot in many Hellenistic novels; see Robert Alter, Canon and Creativity: Modern Writing and the Authority of Scripture (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000), 93. 3 The only exception to this, as far as we know, is the NEB, which has the centurion coming to Jesus on behalf of “a boy of mine” (8:6). This translation of the NEB has, of course, now been revised to “my servant” of the REB, although the REB does retain the NEB translation of “the boy” in 8:13. The “translator’s handbook” put out by the United Bible Societies, after a brief discussion of the Greek pai'", recommends the translation “my servant” or “the man who serves me” (Barclay M. Newman and Philip C. Stine, A Translator’s Handbook on the Gospel of Matthew [New York:

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Williams insightfully points out, however, dominance is hardly ever complete; residual and emergent elements often coexist with whatever is dominant and dominating at the moment.4 Julian Sheffield follows the dominant interpretation but wonders aloud about the specific relations between the centurion and his “servant” that would cause the former, a Roman imperial army officer, to seek help from a colonized Jew.5 Amy-Jill Levine and Ulrich Luz argue explicitly that the centurion comes to Jesus on behalf of his “son” rather than his “servant.”6 Three main considerations support this argument: (1) Matthew has the centurion use the word pai'" to refer to his loved one, but uses a different word, dou'lo", to refer to his servant or slave in v. 9; (2) Matthew uses the word pai'" elsewhere (2:16; 17:18) to refer to a child rather than a servant; and (3) 8:5–13 seems to parallel three other healing stories in Matthew that involve an unnamed parent coming to Jesus on behalf of a child (9:18–26; 15:21–28; 17:14–20). United Bible Societies, 1988], 233–34). Translators/interpreters who are favorably disposed toward redaction criticism (particularly the existence of Q) tend to bring into their discussion of this episode the alternative wordings of Luke 7:1–10, where pai'" (7:7) and dou'lo" (7:2, 3, 10) are used interchangeably to refer to the object of the centurion’s care and affection. Many of these same critics suggest, however, that the Matthean version of this tradition is closer to the original. 4 Raymond Williams, “Base and Superstructure in Marxist Cultural Theory,” in The Raymond Williams Reader (ed. John Higgins; Malden: Blackwell, 2001), 158–78. This “identity question” is certainly not the only one that is being raised concerning the dominant interpretation of Matt 8:5–13. For the sake of illustration, a dissenting voice has also emerged from W. D. Davies and Dale C. Allison, Jr., regarding the focus on Jewish–Gentile relations that tends to result from the dominant interpretation. For Davies and Allison, Matt 8:11–12 has to do with less privileged and more privileged Jews, or Jews who live beyond vis-à-vis those who live within the geographical boundary of Israel (Commentary on Matthew VIII–XVIII [vol. 2 of The Gospel according to Saint Matthew; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1991], 24–30). When it comes to the two “mistaken identities” that we want to focus on in this paper, Davies and Allison are in complete agreement with the dominant interpretation. 5 Julian Sheffield, “The Father in the Gospel of Matthew,” in A Feminist Companion to Matthew (ed. Amy-Jill Levine; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 64. 6 See Amy-Jill Levine, The Social and Ethnic Dimensions of Matthean Social History: “Go nowhere among the Gentiles . . .” (Matt. 10:5b) (Lewiston: Edwin Mellen, 1988), 108, 119; and Ulrich Luz, Matthew 8–20: A Commentary (trans. James E. Crouch; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001), 8, 10 n. 17. Levine seems to be backing off a bit from this interpretation in her more recent work on Matthew. Instead of clearly articulating and arguing for a father–son relationship between the centurion and his pai'", she either leaves the question aside (“Discharging Responsibility: Matthean Jesus, Biblical Law, and Hemorrhaging Woman,” in Treasures New and Old: Recent Contributions to Matthean Studies [ed. David R. Bauer and Mark Allan Powell; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996], 381, 394–95) or simply identifies both “servant” and “son” as equally viable alternatives for the latter’s identity (“Matthew,” in The Women’s Bible Commentary [ed. Carol A. Newsom and Sharon H. Ringe; exp. ed.; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1998], 343; eadem, “Matthew’s Advice to a Divided Readership, in The Gospel of Matthew in Current Study: Studies in Memory of William G. Thompson, S.J. [ed. David Aune; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001], 29).

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Levine and Luz have given some good reasons for suspecting the validity of translating/interpreting the centurion’s pai'" as his “servant.” For servants or slaves, Matthew’s overwhelming tendency is to use the word dou'lo" (8:9; 10:24, 25; 13:27, 28; 18:23, 26, 27, 28 [twice], 29, 31, 32, 33; 20:27; 21:34, 35, 36; 22:3, 4, 6, 8, 10; 24:45, 46, 48, 49, 50; 25:14, 19, 21, 23, 26, 30; 26:51), although she does use the word diavkono" a couple of times to talk about the ironic relationship between greatness and service (20:26; 23:11).7 In contrast to these references to servants or slaves by means of dou'lo", Matthew uses the word pai'" and its diminutive, paidivon, at least twenty-six times (2:8, 9, 11, 13 [twice], 14, 16, 20 [twice], 21; 8:6, 8, 13; 11:16; 12:18; 14:2, 21; 15:38; 17:18; 18:2, 3, 4, 5; 19:13, 14; 21:15). Out of these twenty-six times, if we may bracket its three occurrences in the passage under consideration, ten of them (all in ch. 2) are used to refer to or used in connection with Jesus as a young boy, and eleven of them are used generically to refer to a child or a group of children. We will return to the two questionable cases (12:18; 14:2) later, but it is so far clear that pai'" and dou'lo" are not synonymous for Matthew. It is particularly important for our purposes to note that Matthew is rather comfortable with using pai'" or dou'lo" repeatedly within a short span (for example, ten appearances of pai'" in 2:9–21, and nine appearances of dou'lo" in 18:23–33). Her use of both words in 8:5–13 must be explained in terms other than synonymy or stylistic variation.8 The understanding of pai'" as “son,” however, entails its own share of questions and problems. While “son” (like “servant”) is a lexical possibility for the word pai'", it is well known among classicists that, around 13 B.C.E., Augustus had legally banned soldiers below the ranks of senatorial and equestrian officers from marrying, and that this ban was lifted either temporarily or permanently by Septimius Severus around 197 C.E.9 Legal prescriptions or proscriptions tend to 7 The disjunction between the feminine pronoun and the masculine name (Matthew) is our way of reminding ourselves and others that writers of this and other canonical Gospels are anonymous (as were most women in the first century C . E .) rather than famous personalities. See Theodore W. Jennings, Jr., The Insurrection of the Crucified: The “Gospel of Mark” as Theological Manifesto (Chicago: Exploration, 2003), 2–3. 8 Insisting on translating/interpreting pai'" as “servant” in 8:5–13, Gundry comes up with a couple of rather farfetched explanations for Matthew’s distinctive use of these two words within this short passage (Matthew, 142–44). He suggests that the distinction is necessary because the centurion addresses Jesus as “Lord” (kuvrie, 8:6, 8), so a distinction must be made between whether the “servant” under consideration is one of the centurion’s servants or one of Jesus’. However, not only does the centurion himself use dou'lo" to refer to his own “servant” in 8:9; he also qualifies his use of pai'" with a clear genitive of possession, “my” (oJ pai'" mou in both 8:6 and 8:8). As if grasping for the last straw, Gundry argues that pai'" in this pericope refers to the paralyzed “servant,” while dou'lo" in 8:9 refers to one who can move about to carry out the centurion’s orders. 9 See, e.g., Peter Garnsey, “Septimius Severus and the Marriage of Soldiers,” California Studies in Classical Antiquity 3 (1970): 45–53; J. Brian Campbell, “The Marriage of Soldiers under the Empire,” JRS 68 (1978): 153–66; Susan Treggiari, Roman Marriage: Iusti Coniuges from the

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lag behind historical developments and are hence more often than not different from actual practices, especially if there is a significant divergence between legal and social legitimacy.10 Even if many Roman soldiers did end up having unofficial “marriage” relations with women and fathering (legally) illegitimate children, Levine and Luz still have to answer the same critique that they make of those who mis-take the pai'" as “servant.” If pai'" should not be understood as “servant” because Matthew uses a different word for “servant” in 8:5–13, one must not fail to observe that Matthew also uses a different word for “son(s)” in this episode. As part of his response to the centurion’s suggestion for a “remote control” healing, Matthew’s Jesus uses the word uiJoiv rather than a form of pai'" or paidivon to talk about the “sons of the kingdom” (8:12). Again, if Levine and Luz are correct that one must look at Matthew’s use of the words pai'" and dou'lo" in other parts of the Gospel to decide if those two words are interchangeable, then one must do the same with the words pai'" and uiJov". If Matthew’s pai'" more often than not means a boy or a child (rather than, say, a servant), does it mean the same thing as uiJov" (in the sense of a son)? Mark Golden, a classics scholar, has suggested from his survey of ancient Greek literature that pai'", even when used to refer to a boy or a child by descent, tends to Time of Cicero to the Time of Ulpian (Oxford: Clarendon, 1991), 44, 64; and David Cherry, “Soldiers’ Marriages and Recruitment in Upper Germany and Numidia,” Ancient History Bulletin 3 (1989): 128–30. It does seem clear, judging from writings by Roman jurists, that this ban was a thing of the past by the third century C.E.. Although we do not actually have any extant literary record that refers directly to when and by whom such a ban was issued, we do have references to some kind of a marriage prohibition for Roman soldiers in the first and the second century C.E. (Dio Cassius 60.24.3 [that Claudius provided a temporary lifting of the ban in 44 C.E.]; Libanius, Or. 2.39–40 [that soldiers of the fourth century C.E., unlike those of earlier times, have become weakened by wives and children]), as well as a reference to its cancellation by Severus (Herodian 3.8.5). The existence of such a ban is also well reflected in various Greek papyri from Roman Egypt of the second century C.E. (like the Cattaoui Papyrus, or BGU 140 from Hadrian to Rammius, a prefect of Egypt). The legal illegitimacy of soldiers’ marriages is simply assumed in these papyri; thus we find in them many court disputes regarding the (in)ability of “wives” to (re)claim their “dowries” upon the soldier’s death or separation, or the (in)eligibility of “sons” for Roman citizenship and/or intestate inheritance. To our knowledge, the latest and most complete discussion of this subject can be found in Sara Elise Phang, The Marriage of Roman Soldiers (13 B.C.–A.D. 235): Law and Family in the Imperial Army (Leiden: Brill, 2001). For a cross-cultural and crosstemporal discussion of the practice (ancient Roman and twentieth-century C.E. Dutch), see Carol van Driel-Murray, “Gender in Question,” in Theoretical Roman Archaeology: Second Conference Proceedings (ed. Peter Rush; Brookfield: Avebury, 1995), 12–16. For general discussions of the roles and reward of centurions, see J. Brian Campbell, The Roman Army, 31 BC–AD 337: A Sourcebook (New York: Routledge, 1994), 48–56; and Lawrence J. Keppie, The Making of the Roman Army: From Republic to Empire (Totowa, NJ: Barnes & Noble, 1998), 170–83. 10 For example, we have in Pliny the Younger a centurion petitioning for Roman citizenship for a child who he claims is his biological child (Ep. 10.106–7). Many readers may remember at this point that the historical Jesus himself had been rumored to be an illegitimate son of a Roman soldier.

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be more generic and aloof; that is, it does not contain the emotional attachment and investment of the word tevknon.11 James Barr is correct in his warning against the assumption that biblical writers deploy unique(ly) theological understanding(s) of an otherwise ordinary word;12 at the same time, one must not fail to pay particular attention to how a specific author uses specific words. Without meaning to imply for a minute that Matthew is a “wooden” writer who knows nothing of ambiguities and synonyms, we do find her to be one who chooses and uses her words rather carefully—at least when it comes to pai'", dou'lo", and uiJov". UiJov" appears in Matthew at least ninety times (1:1 [twice], 20, 21, 23, 25; 2:15; 3:17; 4:3, 6; 5:9, 45; 7:9; 8:12, 20, 29; 9:6, 15, 27; 10:23, 37; 11:19, 27 [thrice]; 12:8, 23, 27, 32, 40; 13:37, 38 [twice], 41, 55; 14:33; 15:22; 16:13, 16, 27, 28; 17:5, 9, 12, 15, 22, 25, 26; 19:28; 20:18, 20 [twice], 21, 28, 30, 31; 21:5, 9, 15, 37 [twice], 38; 22:2, 42 [twice], 45; 23:15, 31, 35; 24:27, 30 [twice], 36, 37, 39, 44; 25:31; 26:2, 24 [twice], 37, 45, 63, 64; 27:9, 40, 43, 54, 56; 28:19); each time the word seems to denote a lineage or relationship of descent (biological or metaphorical) that is absent from Matthew’s use of pai'".13 A good example is the way Matthew uses uiJov" to refer to Jesus in reference to Mary (1:25), but pai'" to refer to Jesus in relationship to Joseph (2:13 [twice], 14, 20 [twice], 21) and the magi (2:8, 9, 11). This difference in connotation—between an emphasis on descent and an emphasis on age—also explains why Matthew switches from putting uiJov" in the mouth of the unnamed father (17:15) to using pai'" in the narration of the narrator (17:18).14 Otherwise, in a way consistent with her use of pai'" and dou'lo", Matthew has no problem with using uiJov" repeatedly within a relatively short span (e.g., seven appearances in 20:18–31 as well as in 24:27–44). If Matthew’s use of pai'" indicates neither “servant” nor “son,” what may it mean? There is another meaning of pai'" that is not found in many “standard” lexicons, 15 but it is one that is familiar to most classics scholars. Pai' " (or paidikav) is one of the words that is often used to refer to the “beloved,” or the 11 12

Mark Golden, “PAIS, ‘Child’ and ‘Slave,’” L’Antiquitae Classique 54 (1985): 95–97. James Barr, The Semantics of Biblical Language (New York: Oxford University Press,

1961). 13 Matthew seems to use tevknon in the way she uses uiJov" rather than in the way she uses pai'". The word tevknon appears fourteen times (2:18; 3:9; 7:11; 9:2; 10:21 [twice]; 15:26; 18:25; 19:29; 21:28 [twice]; 22:24; 23:37; 27:25), and it appears consistently to connote descent or kinship rather than to describe a biological or chronological stage in life. Even those who question its use in 9:2, where Jesus addresses the paralytic as tevknon, must take into consideration how Matthew may hint at lineage by identifying the location of this encounter as Jesus’ “own city” (th;n ijdivan povlin, 9:1). 14 Matthew does the same with females. To connote lineage or kinship, she uses the word qugavthr (“daughter,” 9:18, 22; 10:35, 37; 14:6; 15:22, 28; 21:5). To describe a female in terms of age, Matthew uses the word koravsion (“girl,” 9:24, 25; 14:11). Because of this difference, one will find Matthew using both words in a single episode (9:18–26). 15 E.g., BADG, 750–51; and LSJ (with rev. suppl., 1996), 1289.

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passive member (usually though not necessarily an adolescent boy) of a samesex relationship.16 For instance, Marilyn B. Skinner describes the “conventional” pai'" kalov" (a “fair” or “lovely boy”) as “the toast of the gymnasium, acclaimed by suitors who thronged his doors and decked his house with garlands.”17 Correspondingly, David Fredrick suggests that Callimachus (the chief

16 See, e.g., Kenneth J. Dover, Greek Homosexuality (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1978), 16–17; Golden, “PAIS,” 97 n. 18; and Luc Brisson, Sexual Ambivalence: Androgyny and Hermaphroditism in Graeco-Roman Antiquity (trans. Janet Lloyd; Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 65. Another word that carries the same meaning or implication is ejrwvmeno" (often translated as “beloved”). The suppression of this alternative interpretation is understandable, since studies of same-sex relations, even within the classics, have been given increasing academic legitimacy only within the last twenty years. To our knowledge (at least for publications in English), Tom Horner is the first one who made this suggestion for interpreting Matt 8:5–13 (Jonathan Loved David: Homosexuality in Biblical Times [Philadelphia: Westminster, 1978], 122), although he does not make any extensive argument to substantiate that suggestion. The same is true of Michael Gray-Fow, “Pederasty, the Scantian Law, and the Roman Army,” Journal of Psychohistory 13 (1986): 457; Gerd Theissen, The Shadow of the Galilean: The Quest of the Historical Jesus in Narrative Form (trans. John Bowden; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987), 106; and John J. McNeill, Freedom, Glorious Freedom: The Spiritual Journey to the Fullness of Life for Gays, Lesbians, and Everybody Else (Boston: Beacon, 1995), 132–36. Donald Madar argues extensively for this identification, but he does so by way of source or traditional criticism of Luke and Q (“The Entimos Pais of Matthew 8:5–13 and Luke 7:1–10,” in Homosexuality and Religion and Philosophy [ed. Wayne R. Dynes and Stephen Donaldson; New York: Garland, 1992], 223–35). Most recently, Revelation E. Velunta (“The Ho Pais Mou of Matthew 8:5–13: Contesting the Interpretations in the Name of Present-Day Paides,” Bulletin for Contextual Theology 7 [2000]: 25–32) and Thomas D. Hanks (The Subversive Gospel: A New Testament Commentary of Liberation (trans. John P. Doner; Cleveland: Pilgrim, 2000], 14) make the same claim, referring to Madar. In contrast, we will argue for this identification in Matthew by “study[ing] Matthew in terms of Matthew” (William G. Thompson, “Reflections on the Composition of Mt. 8:1-9:34,” CBQ 33 [1971]: 366). For publications in other languages that either assert or argue for this interpretation of the pai'" in Matt 8:5–13, see Madar, “Entimos Pais,” 232 n. 6. For a more detailed discussion of some of this research, see Theodore W. Jennings, Jr., The Man Jesus Loved: Homoerotic Narratives from the New Testament (Cleveland: Pilgrim, 2003), 131–44. We are indebted also to Ken Stone, our colleague at Chicago Theological Seminary, as well as to an anonymous referee of JBL for pointing us to a couple of the references above. Note also that there are various viewpoints among classicists regarding the age of such boy-loves. For instance, Eva Cantarella suggests the general range of twelve to seventeen or eighteen, with the narrower range of fourteen to eighteen as being capable of “choice” (Bisexuality in the Ancient World [trans. Cormac Ó. Cuilleanáin; New Haven: Yale University Press, 1992], 36–44). In contrast, A. W. Price argues for the range of fourteen to twenty-one (“Plato, Zeno, and the Object of Love,” in The Sleep of Reason: Erotic Experience and Sexual Ethics in Ancient Greece and Rome [ed. Martha C. Nussbaum and Juha Sihvola; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002], 92 n. 1), and Martha C. Nussbaum proposes “the age of a modern college undergraduate” (“Platonic Love and Colorado Law: The Relevance of Ancient Greek Norms to Modern Sexual Controversies,” Virginia Law Review 80 [1994]: 1551). 17 Marilyn B. Skinner, “Ego Mulier: The Construction of Male Sexuality in Catullus,” in Roman Sexualities (ed. Judith P. Hallett and Marilyn B. Skinner; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1977), 136.

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librarian of the library at Alexandria [third century B.C.E.]) not only writes about the pai'" as an object of desire, but presents the pai'" as the embodiment of “desired poetic qualities.”18 We can see this meaning of pai'" from Callimachus’s Epigrams (an example that will also partly illustrate Skinner’s and Fredrick’s claims): “Fill the cup and say again ‘to Diocles!’ And Achelous knows not of his sacred cups. Fair is the boy, O Achelous, and very fair (kalo;" oJ pai'", !Acelw'/e, livhn kalov"): and if any denies it, may I alone know how fair he is!” (31).19 Similar word forms—with or without expressions of beauty and/or desire—are used by Thucydides to refer to the (former) boy-love or boyfavorite of the Spartan king Pausanias (paidikav pote, 1.132.5), as well as by Xenophon to talk about the reason behind many “battles” of and among Greek soldiers (“a handsome boy . . . that he [a soldier] had set his heart upon” [paido;" ejpiqumhvsa" . . . tw'n eujprepw'n, Anab. 4.1.14]; “his son, who was just coming into the prime of youth . . . Episthenes, however, fell in love with the boy” [tou' uiJou' a[rti hJbavskonto" . . . !Episqevnh" de; hjravsqh tou' paido;", Anab. 4.6.1–3]; “Was it in a fight over a boy?” [ajlla; peri; paidikw'n macovmeno", Anab. 5.8.4–5; “Episthenes . . . was a lover of boys, and upon seeing a handsome boy, just in the bloom of youth and carrying a light shield . . . threw his arms around the boy and said: ‘It is time, Seuthes, for you to fight it out with me for the boy” [!Episqevnh" . . . paiderasthv", o}" ijdw;n pai'da kalo;n hJbavskonta a[rti pevlthn e[conta . . . perilabw;n to;n pai'da ei\pen: $Wra soi, w\ Seuvqh, peri; tou'dev moi diamavcesqai, Anab. 7.4.7–11]; “there was a boy of Oreus, an extremely fine lad too” [tino" tw'n !Wreitw'n paidov" . . . mavla kalou' te kajgaqou', Hell. 5.4.57]; “he [Agesilaus] loved Megabates, the handsome son of Spithridates” [Megabavtou tou' Spiqridavtou paido;" ejrasqevnta, w{sper a]n tou' kallivstou, Ages. 5.4–5]). For our purposes, Xenophon’s example leads us to the important recognition that the kind of pederastic relationship that this use of pai''" implies is, at least discursively, well attested concerning Greco-Roman military in general and Roman centurions in particular.20 The most well known example from the Greek military traditions is the so-called sacred band (iJero;" lovc") of the fourth century B.C.E., which allegedly was entirely made up of “lovers and beloveds” (e[rastai kai; ejrwvmenoi [Polyaenus 2.5.1]; ejrastw'n kai; ejrwmevnwn [Plutarch, Pel. 18.1).21 Romans are, of course, known for a “priapic” masculinity that is 18 David Fredrick, “Reading Broken Skin: Violence in Roman Elegy,” in Roman Sexualities, ed. Hallett and Skinner, 174–75. 19 Unless indicated otherwise, all English translations of Greco-Roman texts are taken from the Loeb Classical Library. English translations of Matthew are our own. 20 When it comes to ancient Greek pederasty, the conventional scholarly trail tends to focus on its relationship with philosophy and pedagogy; see, e.g., Price, “Plato”; and William Armstrong Percy, Pederasty and Pedagogy in Archaic Greece (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1996). 21 David Leitao has recently questioned the factuality concerning both the entirely pederas-

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typified by Priapus’s sexual aggression.22 Since the Roman military supposedly embodies the ideal of Roman masculinity,23 it is no surprise that Roman soldiers are (discursively and/or factually) known for what they do to their captives.24 Tacitus, for example, describes the sack of Cremona (69 C.E.) with these words: Forty thousand armed men burst into the town; the number of camp-followers and servants was even greater, and they were more ready to indulge in lust and cruelty. Neither rank nor years protected anyone; their assailants debauched and killed without distinction. Aged men and women near the end of life, though despised as booty, were dragged off to be the soldiers’ sport. Whenever a young woman or a handsome youth fell into their hands, they were torn to pieces by the violent struggles of those who tried to secure them, and this in the end drove the despoilers to kill one another. (Hist. 3.33; see also Sallust, Bell. Cat. 51.9; Cicero, Phil. 3.31; Livy 26.13.15; and Plautus, Mil. glor. 1102–14) tic makeup and the military successes of the “sacred band” (“The Legend of the Sacred Band,” in Sleep of Reason, ed. Nussbaum and Sihvola, 143–69). We are indebted to Leitao for providing helpful references regarding the pervasive presence (at least discursively speaking) of pederasty within the ancient Greek military. In his mythic epic about the manifest destiny of the Romans (out of the ashes of the Trojans), Virgil includes references to pederastic relationships among both Trojan (Nisus and Euryalus) and Roman warriors (Cupavo and Phaethon; Cydon and Clytius). For a helpful discussion of these relationships in the Aeneid, see Craig A. Williams, Roman Homosexuality: Ideologies of Masculinity in Classical Antiquity (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 116–19. See also Plutarch, Cat. Maj. 17, where we find a reference to a boy-favorite of long and influential standing within the Roman military. 22 Amy Richlin, The Garden of Priapus: Sexuality and Aggression in Roman Humor (rev. ed.; New York: Oxford University Press, 1992). 23 See Paul Veyne, “Homosexuality in Ancient Rome,” in Western Sexuality: Practice and Precept in Past and Present Time (ed. Philippe Ariès and André Béjin; trans. Anthony Forster; New York: Blackwell, 1985), 31; Cantarella, Bisexuality, 218; Williams, Roman Homosexuality, 130; and Phang, Marriage of Roman Soldiers, 292–93. 24 Since sex and power are often linked in the Greco-Roman world, the linkage between sex and the military (and by extension, between rape and colonial conquest) is often found. According to Suetonius, a soldier called Cassius Chaerea joined the conspiracy and became the first to strike a blow at the emperor Caligula to prove his manhood, because the emperor used to make fun of the soldier’s effeminate tendency (Cal. 58). Likewise, while Dover discusses how the fifth-century B.C.E. Athenian poet Eupolis equates in a comedy a dishonorable soldier to an androgyne (Greek Homosexuality, 144–45), Leslie Cahoon scrutinizes the linkages between “bed” and “battlefield” in Ovid (“The Bed as Battlefield: Erotic Conquest and Military Metaphor in Ovid’s Amores,” TAPA 118 [1988]: 293–307). In addition, when Ovid puts into Sappho’s mouth the words that even Mars (the Roman god of war) would go for her boy-love if Mars ever saw him (Her. 15.92), he seems to suggest that men who go after boys are the most masculine. In a similar train of thought, Tibullus (first century B.C.E.) has a man seeking advice from Priapus on boy chasing (1.4). For a clear and concise discussion of how Roman males and females related sexually, see Holt N. Parker, “The Teratogenic Grid,” in Roman Sexualities, ed. Hallett and Skinner, 47–59.

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In addition to the sexual aggression that Roman soldiers exercised toward both males and females, Tacitus’s passage also implies the practice of enslaving young boys and maidens not for menial but for sexual services.25 This becomes more explicit in another passage from Tacitus: At the orders of Vitellius a levy of the young Batavians was now being made. This burden, which is naturally grievous, was made the heavier by the greed and licence of those in charge of the levy: they hunted out the old and the weak that they might get a price for letting them off; again they dragged away the children to satisfy their lust, choosing the handsomest—and the Batavian children are generally tall beyond their years. (Hist. 4.14)

While we have evidence that forced pederastic relations among Roman citizens within the army were subjected to military discipline (Polybius 6.37.9) or even justified the murder of the penetrator by the penetrated (Valerius Maximus 6.1.12; Plutarch, Mor. 202b–c; Plutarch, Mar. 14; Quintilian, Inst. 3.11.12–14), such relations between a Roman soldier and a youth who was not a Roman citizen were both legally permissible and socially prevalent.26 For instance, the military coup against the Roman general Sertorius was supposedly hastened because the plan of the coup was leaked out as a consequence of the 25 For a more specific discussion about how Roman males related to male and female slaves, see Williams, Roman Homosexuality, 30–38. Besides slaves and captives, prostitutes formed the third group of socially and legally legitimate sexual objects for Roman soldiers. Livy, talking about the well-known “house-cleaning” of the Roman troops at Numantia by Scipio Aemilianus (134 B.C.E.), adds that two thousand prostitutes were thrown out of the military camps (Per. 57). 26 Here lies the main difference between ancient Greek and ancient Roman pederasty. While Greek lovers were permitted to pursue freeborn respectable boys, Roman lovers, in contrast, were supposed to avoid freeborn Roman citizen boys. See, e.g., Gray-Fow, “Pederasty,” 449–60; Phang, Marriage of Roman Soldiers, 264, 278; and Richlin, Garden of Priapus, 220–26. The Roman paradigm for pederasty (between a Roman man and a non-Roman boy), according to Williams, explains Ganymede’s subsequent appearance from Greek traditions to become the Roman archetype of a sexually desirable youth precisely because Ganymede was a “foreigner” abducted into slavery (Roman Homosexuality, 56–59). In an interesting article, Jonathan Walters, after suggesting that this firm boundary was constructed upon the Roman equation between manhood and corporeal inviolability, ponders the dilemma this equation posed for Roman soldiers. On the one hand, they were supposed to embody Roman manhood; on the other hand, they were placed in situations where they were susceptible to both physical discipline by a superior and wounds by an enemy. Walters concludes that Romans ended up dealing with this dilemma by limiting military discipline to beatings with a vine staff and by classifying war scars as a unique kind of bodily mark that signified manhood (“Invading the Roman Body: Manliness and Impenetrability in Roman Thought,” in Roman Sexualities, ed. Hallett and Skinner, 40). Despite this Roman ideal, we do have literary references to Roman soldiers who are sexually penetrated. See, e.g., Phaedrus, App. 10.1, where a sexually passive man is reported in Pompey’s army; and Suetonius, Dom. 10, where Domitian pardons a senatorial tribune and a centurion from the charge of attempting mutiny because both soldiers are able to prove their sexual “passivity,” and thus their lack of influence within the military.

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competition of various mutineers for the love of a desirable youth (Plutarch, Sert. 26). Furthermore, while Plautus (third century B.C.E.) actually has two characters in one of his comedies teasing a slave of a Roman soldier that his duties include sexual performance (Pseud. 1180–81; see also Seneca the Elder, Contr. 4.10; Martial, Epig. 13.26), Valerius Maximus (first century C.E.) talks about a centurion, C. Cornelius, who, when accused of molesting a young soldier under his command, defends himself by claiming that the boy is in fact a prostitute (6.1.10). Plautus’s later compatriot Martial (first century C.E.) also refers to pederastic relations within the Roman military (Epig. 3.91; 9.56). Some of these references involve also a centurion, Aulus Pudens, and his slave boy-lover, Encolpus: These locks, all he has from crown down, does Encolpus, the darling of his master the centurion, vow to you, Phoebus, when Pudens shall attain the rank of Chief Centurion which he wants and deserves. Cut the long tresses as soon as may be, Phoebus, while no down darkens his soft cheeks and flowing locks grace his milk-white neck. And so that master and lad may long enjoy your bounty, make him soon shorn, but late a man. (Epig. 1.31; see also 5.48)

It makes sense that centurions might have servants or slaves and “use” them for sexual as well as other types of service, since centurions were better paid and lived in larger quarters than ordinary soldiers. That is not to say, however, that a centurion’s boy-favorite must be a servant or slave. As the previous examples indicate, a boy-favorite could be a prostitute; and despite legal prohibition, he could also be another Roman soldier or citizen.27 Although we are primarily interested in the discursive link between the Roman military and pederasty, a recent archaeological study of a first-century Roman military site (Vindolanda) offers additional evidence. The number of boys’ footwear found at the site results in a comment—despite the archaeologist’s own acknowledged preference for an alternative interpretation—that some of the rooms “look . . . more like a male brothel than anything else.”28 We have already seen that Matthew’s semantic field does not warrant identifying the pai'" as merely “servant” or “son.” Given the way the word is used to refer to boy-love or boy-favorite in the broader Greco-Roman semantic field (with which Matthew at least partially overlaps), as well as the way the broader Greco-Roman discursive field links the military with pederasty, Matthean scholars should be open to the possibility that the pai'" was the cen-

27 One should remember, again, that practice and prohibition do not always coincide. For instance, the first-century B.C.E. Roman poet Catullus seems comfortable in writing about his freeborn Roman boy-love called Juventius (48, 81, 99). 28 Van Driel-Murray, “Gender in Question,” 19.

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turion’s “boy-love” or “boy-favorite” and to inquiring how this interpretation could make sense within 8:5–13 and the rest of Matthew. Not only might this interpretation of pai'" explain the urgency of the centurion’s plea (8:5–6); it also—as we shall see—may clarify the centurion’s reluctance to have Jesus come to his house (8:8).

II. When Lover and Client Become One A test of the plausibility of our thesis concerning the identity of the pai'" is the ability of this hypothesis to make sense of other aspects of this narrative. Our discussion first attends to the grammatical issue of whether Jesus’ words in 8:7 are to be understood as a question. We then turn to the assumptions concerning Matthew’s attitude toward Gentiles. This prepares the way for us to consider the bearing Greco-Roman patronage may have on the clarification of this episode. Many critics have found the interaction between Jesus and the centurion in 8:7–8 puzzling. If Jesus himself volunteers to make a trip to the centurion’s house to heal his pai'" (8:7), why is the centurion resisting Jesus’ suggestion and coming up with a countersuggestion of a “long-distance” healing instead (8:8)? Is the centurion not running the risk of offending the very person from whom he seeks help? This is especially puzzling since Jesus has already expressed his willingness to perform the healing that the centurion so desperately desires. Several critics argue that the centurion’s response in 8:8 is not a counterproposal to Jesus’ initiative but rather one that is necessitated by Jesus’ initial reluctance to answer his plea in 8:7.29 For these critics, the centurion’s response in 8:8 along with Jesus’ use of the emphatic “I” (ejgwv) to begin his words in 8:7 indicate that Jesus is asking a question (“Shall I [a Jew] come [to your house] and heal him?”) rather than making a statement (“I will come and heal him”). This interpretation of 8:7 will supposedly also result in a more consistent portrayal of Jesus in Matthew, since Matthew will have another Gentile of “great faith,” the Canaanite woman in 15:21–28, overcome Jesus’ reluctance to answer her plea for healing. The suggestion that Jesus’ emphatic “I” signifies a question is suspect, since Matthew also has the centurion use an emphatic “I” in 8:9 to make a case rather than pose a question. There are only two occasions in Matthew where an emphatic “I” is linked with the asking of a question (26:22, 25). In contrast, Matthew has various characters using the emphatic “I” numerous other times 29 E.g., Levine, Social and Ethnic Dimensions, 111–13; Wainwright, Feminist Critical Reading, 113; and Carter, Matthew and the Margins, 201–2.

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(3:11, 14b; 5:22, 28, 32, 34, 39, 44; 10:16; 11:10; 12:27a, 28; 14:27; 20:15, 22; 21:27, 30; 22:32; 23:34; 24:5; 25:27; 26:33, 39; 28:20), yet none of those usages has been interpreted as a question concerning the speaker’s own identity or action.30 In fact, Matthew seems to prefer grammatical markers that are distinct from an emphatic use of a personal pronoun in order to signify a question. These include: (1) some variations of tiv or tiv" (“who/which/what/why/whose,” 3:7; 5:13, 46b, 47b; 6:27, 28a, 31; 7:3, 9–10; 8:26, 29; 9:4, 5, 11, 14; 11:7, 8, 9, 16a; 12:11, 27, 48; 13:10; 14:31; 15:2, 3; 16:8, 15, 26; 17:10, 19, 25; 18:1, 12a; 19:7, 16, 17, 20, 25, 27; 20:6, 21a–b, 32; 21:10, 16a–b, 23c, 25c–g, 28a, 31a, 40; 22:18, 20, 28, 42; 23:17, 19; 24:3, 45; 26:8, 10, 15, 65, 66a, 68; 27:4, 17, 21, 22, 23, 46); (2) some variations of povso" or povte (“how/when/what,” 7:4; 8:27; 12:26, 29, 34; 13:27c, 54, 56b; 15:33, 34a; 16:11a; 17:17; 18:21; 19:18a–b; 21:20, 23a–b, 25a–b; 22:12, 36, 43, 45; 23:33, 37; 24:3; 25:37, 38, 39, 44; 26:17, 54); and (3) some variations of a negative (ouj or mhv) to indicate surprise or the expectation of an affirmative answer (5:46c, 47c; 6:25e, 26c, 30; 7:16b, 22; 10:29; 11:23; 12:3–4, 5, 23; 13:27b, 55, 56a; 15:17; 16:3, 9–10; 17:24; 18:12b–c, 33; 19:4; 20:13, 15; 21:16c–e, 42; 22:17, 31; 24:2a–b; 26:22, 25, 62).31 Even in those rare exceptions where these dominant “markers” are not present, Matthew has put in other obvious indicators, such as a preceding verb “question” (ejphrwvthsan, 12:10; 27:11), a follow-up reply (with “no”/ouj, 13:28–29; “yes”/naiv, 13:51; or an echo of “we are able”/dunavmeqa to “are you able”/ duvnasqe in 20:22), or an interrogative particle “if” (h[, 11:3 and 26:53; eij, 19:3).32 This is another indication of Matthew’s care as a writer. We have already seen her exact execution of vocabulary in our earlier discussion of the identity of the pai'". Now we are suggesting that she brings the same care and precision in identifying “questions” (an understandable concern for any writer in the absence of punctuation). This should not come as a surprise to us, since Matthew has Jesus warn against “every careless word” (pa'n rJh'ma ajrgovn) and 30 Matthew 3:14; 12:27; and 20:15, 22 do involve questions, but in all four cases, the questions have to do with someone else’s rather than the speaker’s own actions. 31 For examples of Matthew constructing a question with a variation of tiv/tiv" along with an emphatic personal pronoun, see 9:14 and 17:19 (both with “we”/hJmei'") as well as 15:3 and 16:15 (both with “you”/uJmei'"). For examples where she does so with a variation of a negative, see 26:22, 25 (both with “I”/ejgwv) and 11:23 (with “you”/suv). 32 Matthew 27:11 is an example of a question with a preceding verb “question” along with an emphatic use of “you”/suv ; 11:3 is a question with the interrogative particle h[ along with an emphatic use of “you”/suv; and 15:16 may be another case where Matthew signifies a question with something alongside an emphatic personal pronoun (“you”/uJmei'"), although we are less inclined to interpret the verse as a question. If one takes 15:16 as a question, the clear signifying marker will be the fact that this verse is immediately followed by another question constructed with a negative ouj (15:17).

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make “words” (lovgwn) a basis for the final judgment (12:36–37). The idea that Matthew would construct a question solely on an emphatic “I” is simply not consistent with her own semantic and syntactic habitus, particularly given the vast repertoire that she has demonstrated to be at her disposal.33 The other prop for interpreting 8:7 as a question has to do with the Matthean Jesus’ alleged attitudes toward Gentiles. As we have indicated earlier, part of the dominant interpretation of Matt 8:5–13 is to read it (particularly because of 8:10–12) as a foreshadowing of the shift that will take place from Jesus’ limited mission to Israel in Matt 10 to Jesus’ “Great Commission” to “all the nations” in ch. 28. While many scholars have spent much energy and ink arguing whether Matthew is enlarging the mission or endangering Jews, we see the issue as yet another case of mistaken or misplaced emphasis. After all, Matthew begins her “book” (1:1) with a genealogy of Jesus that contains several Gentiles (Rahab, Ruth, and Uriah, 1:5–6), as well as with a character who is notorious for his ethnic ambiguity (Herod the Great, 2:1–23).34 Since the episode of the centurion occurs at Capernaum, it is important to remember that Matthew initially identifies the city not only as Jesus’ adopted “hometown” (after Nazareth and Bethlehem) but also as part of the “Galilee of the Gentiles” and as Jesus’ first ministerial headquarters (4:12–17).35 Yet in 11:20–24, Capernaum is, along with Chorazin and Bethsaida, “reproached” by Jesus and set in contrast to the other (more?) Gentile cities of Tyre, Sidon, and Sodom. Let it suffice for us at this point to suggest that Matthew seems to be more interested in playing with the fluidity between Jews and Gentiles in order to instill a sense of instability than in promoting any kind of ethnic partition, priority, or proxy.36 The phrase “weeping and grinding of teeth” (8:12), which Jesus uses as part of his response to the centurion’s puzzling request and rationale (8:8–9), appears 33 For the same reasons, we tend not to see 15:12 and 26:55 as questions, despite the fact that most translations present them as such. In any case, nothing of substance seems to depend on whether or not these two verses are read as questions. 34 We do not include Tamar here because there have been some debates among Matthean scholars regarding the ethnic identity of Tamar. While most seem to view Tamar as a Gentile (e.g., Carter, Matthew and the Margins, 58; Gundry, Matthew, 14; and Garland, Reading Matthew, 17–19), Levine maintains consistently that Tamar’s ethnicity is ambiguous (Social and Ethnic Dimensions, 74–75, 81; “Matthew,” 340). 35 It is well known that this description, “Galilee of the Gentiles,” has been challenged by sociohistorical studies. See, e.g., Sean Freyne, Galilee from Alexander the Great to Hadrian, 323 B.C.E. to 135 C.E: A Study of Second Temple Judaism (Studies in Judaism and Christianity in Antiquity 5; Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1980). 36 Though the volume has to do with Paul rather than Matthew, see Paul beyond the Judaism/Hellenism Divide (ed. Troels Engberg-Pedersen; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2001) for a deconstruction of the “Judaism/Hellenism divide” in the first century C.E. In that volume, see especially Dale B. Martin, “Paul and the Judaism/Hellenism Dichotomy: Toward a Social History of the Question” (pp. 29–61); and Philip S. Alexander, “Hellenism and Hellenization as Problematic Historiographical Categories” (pp. 63–80).

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five more times in Matthew (13:42, 50; 22:13; 24:51; 25:30). What is consistent in these six uses of the phrase in Matthew is not the contrast between Gentiles and Jews but the contrast between those who are “in” in reality and those who are “in” only in appearance. Matthew’s rhetoric about Gentiles and Jews is but one way to underscore her concern that one’s “name” and one’s “nature” be consistent (or better yet, as we will see, that what one does not lag behind what one says).37 When statements are made that Jesus’ mission is to Israel and Israel alone (10:5–6; 15:21–24), those references to Israel seem best understood in geographical rather than sociological or theological terms.38 Not only does Matthew’s Jesus have no trouble associating with Gentiles; his statement that scribes and Pharisees would “travel about the sea and the land to make one proselyte” and then mislead the proselyte (23:15) indicates that there is little apprehension in Matthew’s narrative world about the interaction between ethnic Jews and ethnic Gentiles.39 37 Matthew’s “play” with the fluidity of Jews and Gentiles is dependent on the fluidity of these terms among their many geographical, sociological, or theological senses. One should also remember that in an ethnic or sociological sense, Jews and Gentiles were generally not visibly identifiable in the time Matthew was written. There is a passage from Epictetus (first century C.E.) that adequately illustrates the fluidity and complexity of these terms as well as the concern to match “name” and “nature”: Why, then, do you [though a student of Epicurus] call yourself a Stoic, why do you deceive the multitude, why do you act the part of a Jew, when you are a Greek? Do you not see in what sense men are severally called Jew, Syrian, or Egyptian? For example, whenever we see a man halting between two faiths, we are in the habit of saying, “He is not a Jew, he is only acting the part.” But when he adopts the attitude of mind of the man who has been baptized and has made his choice, then he both is a Jew in fact and is also called one. So we also are counterfeit “baptists,” ostensibly Jews, but in reality something else, not in sympathy with our own reason, far from applying the principles which we profess, yet priding ourselves upon them as being men who knew them. (Diatr. 2.9.19-21) The fluidity or uncertainty of Jewish identity is particularly pertinent to another Matthean episode that is set in Capernaum (17:24–27). Collectors of the temple tax (whether this is the tax before or after the first Jewish–Roman war makes no difference at this point) had to ask rather than simply demand the tax from Peter and Jesus because it was usually up to the individual to own up to or keep secret his or her Jewish identity. If ethnic identity, like sexual practice, is for the most part not visibly identifiable, then the conventional assumption by many scholars (Matthean or otherwise) that Jews and Gentiles were rigidly separable in the Greco-Roman period becomes problematic. For a helpful resource on this topic, see Shaye J. D. Cohen, The Beginnings of Jewishness: Boundaries, Varieties, Uncertainties (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 13–68, which includes a discussion of the ethnic ambiguity of Herod the Great. This lesson about ethnic identity from the past underscores the contemporary view of some scholars that race, being visibly identifiable, should never be collapsed into or confused with ethnicity; see, e.g., Michael Omi and Howard A. Winant, Racial Formation in the United States: From the 1960s to the 1990s (2nd ed.; New York: Routledge, 1994). 38 See Cohen, Beginnings of Jewishness, 69–106. 39 Martin Goodman, in his attempt to argue against any impulse among Jews to proselytize

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The weaknesses of these two supporting arguments for interpreting 8:7 as a question expose the dire necessity and the disappointing inability on the part of Matthean scholars to come to an understanding of the bewildering exchange between Jesus and the centurion in 8:7–8.40 The key to the puzzle, we propose, lies in the identity of the pai'" as the centurion’s beloved or boy-love. In order to see how this is so, we need to consider the bearing of patron– client relations on our interpretation. Ellen Oliensis begins her article on Roman sexualities by imagining the momentary coming together of lovers and clients around daybreak, when the former return home after a night at their beloveds’ and the latter leave home for the morning reception of their patrons.41 If one is willing to accept tentatively our interpretation of the centurion as a pederast or the lover of his pai'", one will find in Matthew’s centurion an episodic coming together of the two roles discussed by Oliensis.42 When the Gentiles actively before 100 C.E., suggests that the “proselyte” in Matt 23:15 is not a Gentile who converts to Judaism but a Jew joining or following the Pharisaic halakah (Mission and Conversion: Proselytizing in the Religious History of the Roman Empire [Oxford: Clarendon, 1994], 69–74). One does not have to embrace that interpretation to appreciate Goodman’s differentiations among (1) rigidly isolating from Gentiles, (2) somewhat relaxingly interacting with them, and (3) actively proselytizing them. At any rate, Jesus’ statement here in Matthew about Pharisees “traveling” to proselytize might well be a rhetorical exaggeration, since the point is really about the negative result of that “conversion” rather than the process of “converting” (the painstaking process serves only to compound the ironic and disastrous result). It is also important to point out that, if anything, Goodman’s overall thesis strengthens our argument, since Goodman not only holds that Jews became more critical of paganism only after 100 C.E. (that is, after Matthew’s conventional date of composition), but he also emphasizes the coexistence of various viewpoints among Jews in different periods of antiquity. The (mis)reading that Matthew’s Jesus has to overcome resistance against contact with Gentiles may be influenced by the Lukan account of Peter’s engagement with another centurion, Cornelius (Acts 10:28). This, along with the tendency for translators/interpreters to collapse the object of the centurion’s affection in Matt 8:5–13 and Luke 7:1–10, betray a deep-rooted tendency to read Matthew in terms of Luke rather than in terms of Matthew. 40 As Levine acknowledges, “Reading 8:7 as a question not only foreshadows the conversation with the Canaanite, it also provides the motive for the centurion’s protestation in 8:8–9” (“Matthew’s Advice,” 30). However, interpreting 8:7 on the sole basis of 15:21–28 is highly problematic, as Levine herself points out in her earlier work (Social and Ethnic Dimensions, 119). If Anderson (Matthew’s Narrative Web) is correct—and we think she is—that Matthew’s narrative is a web spun with interlocking threads, then no single episode or single aspect within an episode can have a monopoly on the interpretation of another. If one suggests that Jesus’ response to the centurion must parallel his initially reluctant response to the Canaanite woman because both supplicants are Gentile, why is it not equally valid to argue that Jesus’ response to the centurion must parallel his immediately receptive response to the paralytic’s friends in 9:1–7 because both sufferers are paralyzed? Jesus’ statement in 8:7 must be interpreted by something other than, or at least something in addition to, any single parallel episode. 41 Ellen Oliensis, “The Erotics of Amicitia: Readings in Tibullus, Propertius, and Horace,” in Roman Sexualities, ed. Hallett and Skinner, 151–71. 42 Oliensis herself proceeds to talk about how the role of the lover and that of the client come together in the person of the Roman elegiac poet. We are deeply indebted to Oliensis for triggering

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centurion comes to Jesus on behalf of his beloved, the centurion is, assuming the patronage system of the Greco-Roman world, in effect becoming a client of Jesus. Matthew indicates this not only by telling us that the centurion comes “pleading” or “begging” (parakalw'n, 8:5); Matthew further shows us this by having the centurion address Jesus as “lord” or “master” (kuvrie, 8:6, 8). With the example of Tibullus, who senses the obligation to accompany his patron on military campaigns as well as the obligation to keep his beloved company (1.1.53–58), Oliensis points out the dilemma when a lover and a client become one.43 Such a person may find himself caught in a triangle of contradictory impulses: the desire/need to please his beloved and the desire/need to please his patron. Arguably the most difficult—and, for our purposes, the most relevant—dilemma faced by such a person is the potential meeting or coming together of his patron and his beloved. Again, Oliensis points to the example of Tibullus: Hither shall come my own Messalla [Tibullus’s patron]. From chosen trees shall Delia [Tibullus’s beloved] pull him down sweet fruit. In homage to his greatness she shall give him zealous tendance, and prepare and carry him the repast, herself his waiting-maid. (1.5.31–34; emphasis added)

Although in Tibullus’s case, his beloved is a maiden rather than a boy, the dilemma, or the fear, is the same regardless of the sex of one’s beloved. In fact, Oliensis describes this dilemma as an “all-too-familiar triangle, drawn straight from the elegiac repertoire.”44 The dilemma or the fear is that upon meeting, given the triangular structure that is in place as well as the parallel between sexual and power relations, the lover/client may end up competing with his own beloved to be the choice client of the patron, as well as competing with his own patron to be the lone lover of the beloved. In light of the hierarchical structure of most patron–client relationships, this double competition is likely to result in one’s own beloved becoming the beloved of one’s own patron. Is the Roman elegist Propertius’s (first century B.C.E.) “advice” to his “patron,” Gallus, on how to keep a boy-love (1.20) predicated on the fact that Propertius has previously lost his own beloved (Cynthia) to his “patron” (1.5, 1.13)?45 The centurion’s rhetoric about not being “worthy” of a house visit by Jesus (8:8) may be

our thoughts in this section as well as for pointing us to several pertinent references in ancient Roman literature. 43 Oliensis, “Erotics,” 155. 44 Ibid., 156. 45 We are putting “patron” in quotation marks because the precise identity of this “Gallus” is unknown. Many classics scholars, including Oliensis (“Erotics,” 157–62), suspect that this is a reference to Gaius Cornelius Gallus, the purported father of Roman elegy (first century B.C.E.). If so, Propertius, as an elegist, can certainly be understood as Gallus’s client.

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the centurion’s way of avoiding an anticipated “usurpation” of his current boylove on the part of his new patron.46 Having explored the identity of the pai'" as the centurion’s “boy-love,” we turn to the mistaken identity that the centurion ascribes to Jesus.

III. What (Kind of) Authority? Whose Identity (Crisis)? The centurion’s anxiety over being a client of Jesus is further suggested in his explanation of why Jesus need not come to his house to heal his pai'" (8:9). As he describes his understanding of authority as a hierarchical type of relationship, he also discloses that he occupies but a middle rung of this ladder. While many Matthean scholars interpret his phrase “I am also a person under authority (uJpo; ejxousivan)” (8:9) as solely a tribute to Caesar,47 one should not lose 46 This may be a good place to (re)visit two other places where pai'" or paisivn is used in Matthew, but conventionally taken to mean “servant(s)” by Matthew’s translators/interpreters. The first is Matt 12:18, a “citation” of Isa 42:1–4. Although the term pai'" is often used to refer to a member or a dependent of a household in the LXX, it is intriguing how Matthew deviates from the LXX here. Matthew’s dependence (or rather apparent lack of dependence) on the LXX is a subject of considerable discussion and need not detain us here. What we want to note for our purposes is that the term pai'" seems to be paralleled in the LXX with oJ ejklektov" mou (“my chosen”), whereas in Matthew one finds the alternative parallel of oJ ajgaphtov" mou (“my beloved”). Moreover, in Matthew, the soul of the speaker (God) is “well pleased” (eujdovkhsen), while a more distant “accepted” (prosedevxato) is used in the LXX. In other words, even in this “citation” of Isaiah, Matthew’s use of the term pai'" seems to echo certain (homo)erotic attachments. Matthew 14:2 states that Herod relates his supposition that Jesus is the risen John the Baptizer to his paisivn. It is clear in its literary context that this relating or “telling” on Herod’s part is one mixed with both guilt and fear. For, according to Matthew, Herod commands the beheading of John with “grief” (luphqeiv", 14:9), and the thought that John, who had a significant following among the people (14:5), has returned from the grave cannot be either good or neutral news to his “executioner.” Those to whom Herod tells, relates, or confides his guilt and fear are most unlikely to be his mere “servants,” but some trusted or “intimate” attendants who are privy to his inner thoughts and feelings. While a hint of pederasty cannot be absolutely excluded, the plural as well as the apparent lack of any particular motivation for such a suggestion on the part of the narrator make this more difficult. 47 See, e.g., Schweizer, Good News, 213–14; Overman, Church and Community, 119; and Luz, Matthew 8–20, 10. Under the empire, the Roman army was to a very significant degree the personal army of the emperor. Soldiers took a personal oath of loyalty to the emperor (Campbell, Roman Army, 68–69), who, in turn, was their chief benefactor. The donatives, which exceeded the value of the regular pay of the soldier, were paid out of the personal funds of the emperor beginning with Augustus. In addition, the emperor, starting around 69 C.E., made direct payments out of the imperial treasury to the centurions to compensate for the money previously exacted from ordinary soldiers for their furloughs (Tacitus, Hist. 1.46). While tribunes and other higher officers had their own estates and so a certain degree of economic independence, the centurions were dependent in very direct ways on the emperor and often responded with impressive dedication (Tacitus, Hist. 1.59; 2.60: in both cases, the rebel Vitellius orders the execution of a number of centurions

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sight of the immediate context of his coming to solicit Jesus’ assistance, which, as we explained, would effectively place him as a client under the authority of Jesus’ patronage. His fear of losing his beloved to Jesus and hence his reluctance to have Jesus enter his house are entirely understandable in the context of his own understanding of authority. For the centurion, authority is unidirectional, top down, and top over bottom.48 The centurion’s new patron (Jesus) has the authority to tell him, as a client, what to do, and to order the centurion’s subordinates (including his beloved) to come to Jesus and abandon the centurion. In contrast to scholars who (mis)read the centurion’s “chain-of-command” analogy as a correct identification of Jesus’ identity, we would argue that the centurion’s view reflects more accurately his own understanding of authority and his own self-identification as a Roman military officer rather than the selfunderstanding of the Matthean Jesus.49 The problem of the centurion’s analogy becomes evident in light of a couple of parallels—one verbal and another conceptual—Matthew draws between this healing and the last healing that Jesus performs in ch. 9 (vv. 32–34).50 While the centurion’s “chain-of-command” comment about authority leads to Jesus’ amazement (ejqauvmasen) and statement about “not hav[ing] found anyone with such great faith in Israel,” and subsequently to a healing miracle in ch. 8 (vv. 9–10, 13), one finds in ch. 9 a healing miracle that leads first to the crowds saying in amazement (ejqauvmasan) that “nothing has ever happened like this in Israel,” and then to the Pharisees saying that Jesus is “casting out demons by the ruler of the demons” (9:32–34). What is stunning is that both the centurion and the Pharisees are basically who had been loyal to the emperor). When emperors looked for military personnel to entrust with important or delicate missions, it was regularly to the centurions that they looked. Thus we hear of a number of episodes in which centurions were deputized by emperors to carry out executions or assassinations of political rivals (Tacitus, Ann. 14.59; 16.9, 15). One centurion, Casperius, was even entrusted with delicate negotiations with the head of the rival Parthian empire (Tacitus, Ann. 15.5). 48 This is consistent with the presentation of centurions as notorious disciplinarians in Tacitus (Ann. 1.17–35), where a centurion uses one vine staff after another to beat his subordinates, leading to resentment and revenge on the part of the soldiers. This portrayal of centurions by Tacitus, at least when it comes to their excessive extraction of supplies from underlings for their own use (Ann. 1.17), is supported by P. Gen. Lat. 1 (first century C.E., cited by Phang, Marriage or Roman Soldiers, 182). 49 That logic can be extended to readers of Matthew, and scholars who affirm the centurion’s analogy and understanding may well be doing so out of their own understanding and identification rather than those of Matthew. It is easy for readers, like the centurion, to turn Matthew’s Jesus into a mirror image of themselves. 50 It has by now become customary within Matthean studies to see chs. 8–9 as a unit. Not only do these two chapters come between two long discourses by Jesus (chs. 5–7; ch. 10); they also contain a series of miracles demonstrating the authority that is first indicated by the narrator at the end of ch. 7 (vv. 28–29). For a survey of past scholarship that takes these two chapters as a unit, see Elaine Wainwright, “The Matthean Jesus and the Healing of Women,” in Gospel of Matthew in Current Study, ed. Aune, 75–79.

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embracing the same assumptions: authority works only within chains of command. Just as a centurion can order the coming and going of soldiers and servants under his command, the ruler of demons can cast out demons under its rule. What then is the centurion implying about Jesus’ identity? He believes that Jesus can order the coming and going of the demon that has been “torturing” his boy-love with paralysis, because he believes that Jesus is the commander or the ruler of that and other demons.51 In other words, not only are the centurion and the Pharisees in agreement about how authority operates; they further concur on the identity of Jesus as a commanding officer in the chain of demonic beings. We will find later in Matthew that Jesus explicitly dis-identifies with such an identity. After healing a demoniac who is mute in 9:32–34, Jesus heals another demoniac who is both mute and blind in 12:22–23. Again, the crowds were “surprised” or amazed by the miracle (ejxivstanto, 12:23). In response to the question of the crowds, the Pharisees affirm again that Jesus is casting out demons by the ruler of the demons, Beelzebul (12:24). This time Jesus retorts with an analogy of his own, that of the divided kingdom, city, or household (12:25–29). What Jesus’ analogy makes clear is that he is not an average or even above-average commander in a demonic chain of command; instead, he is an authoritative competitor or challenger to that chain of command. If Matthew’s Jesus does not explicitly reject the centurion’s identification, Matthew’s narrator does explicitly describe Jesus’ response with the word “amazed” (ejqauvmasen, 8:10). Most critics, however, (mis)read this verb as indicating something positive, while Matthew’s use of this term is far more ambiguous. The same term, for example, is used of the disciples’ response to Jesus’ cursing of the fig tree in 21:20. The fact that this “amazement” on the part of the disciples involves an element of disbelief is indicated not only by the question that they ask (21:20) but also by Jesus’ answer about their need for an undoubting faith (21:21–22). The same term is used again in 22:22 to describe the Pharisees’ response to Jesus’ ability to maneuver his way out of the catch-22 question about paying taxes to Caesar. Again, there are several indications that this “amazement” is less than perfectly positive. Not only do the Pharisees come back with another question to “test” (peiravzwn, 22:35) Jesus after a break (22:22, 34–36) when they are not able to answer Jesus’ counterquestion; the 51 Unlike in the case of the dumb demoniac of 9:32–34, no specific reference is made to demon possession in the paralysis suffered by the centurion’s boy-love. Matthew, however, seems to indicate with the purpose clause in 10:1 that casting out unclean spirits or demons is necessary for the cure of “every disease and every illness.” If one follows Wainwright’s tripartite division of Matt 8–9 (“Matthean Jesus,” 82), the importance of demons and their exorcism for these two chapters of miracles and healings becomes evident. With the summary statements and references to discipleship in 8:16–22 and 9:9–17 functioning as division markers, a demoniac occupies or appears at the very center (8:28–34) and the very end (9:32–34) of this unit within Matthew’s Gospel.

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narrator tells us that they become, in a sense, passive-aggressive. They want to question or challenge Jesus, but dare not because they are afraid of what Jesus may ask them in return (22:46). As if Matthew means to dispel any romantic notion of the Pharisees’ “amazement,” she immediately has Jesus begin his famous diatribe against the scribes and Pharisees in 23:1–39. Finally, the same term is used to describe Pilate’s response to Jesus’ silence. The problematic nature of Pilate’s “great amazement” (qaumavzein livan, 27:14) is perhaps best seen by the way Pilate ends up “whipping” Jesus before he surrenders Jesus to the “envy” of Jesus’ enemies (27:18, 26). The statement that Jesus is “amazed” by the centurion’s request and rationale does not necessarily imply, within Matthew’s semantic field, Jesus’ wholehearted affirmation of everything that the centurion has to say.52 If Jesus does not situate himself within a demonic chain of command as the centurion and the Pharisees suggest, does he at least embrace an authoritative or authoritarian chain of his own? In other words, if the centurion is confused over Jesus’ identity, is he at least correct in his awareness of Jesus’ authority as one that operates hierarchically? Is that why Jesus, despite his “amazement” over the centurion’s identification of him as a demonic commander of demons, praises the centurion and accepts the centurion’s proposal for a “long-distance” healing? Without arguing for a purely nonhierarchical understanding and practice on the part of Matthew’s Jesus,53 we do at least find strong hints that Jesus is not entirely at home with a “chain-of-command” type of authority. Given the repeated references to Roman colonization in Matthew (Roman taxation in 22:15–22, Pilate in 27:11–27, and another centurion in 27:54), Jesus’ denunciation of “Gentile rulers” (oiJ a[rconte" tw'n ejqnw'n, 20:24– 28) may be read as a rejection not only of Roman rule but also of the Roman— including the centurion’s—approach to authority. This is particularly so since the two words that Jesus uses to describe and denounce the hierarchical 52 Thus, the conventional “scholarly” wisdom about the “faith” of the centurion rests upon a (mis)reading of Matthew. This (mis)reading of the centurion’s analogy as a “statement of faith” (Garland, Reading Matthew, 95) is regularly repeated without being critically examined, leading ironically to a theologically conservative critic making a comment that sounds far more like the opponents of Jesus in Matthew: “As soldiers obey the authority of the centurion . . . so demons, who are assumed to be behind severe illness, will submit to the authority of Jesus’ word” (Garland, Reading Matthew, 95). Once again, Jesus is identified as the centurion of demons. 53 For example, his emphasis on the similarities rather than the differences in teacher– student and master–slave relationships is immediately undercut by his own possible self-promotion from being (accused as) Beelzebub’s lieutenant or centurion to being Beelzebul himself (10:25). The same is true when he, in contrast to scribes and Pharisees who crave honor and recognition, places everyone on an equal footing by eliminating the title of “rabbi” and the role of “father” (23:1–9); what follows immediately is his own claim to be the only teacher (23:10). Again, we find residual, dominant, and emergent elements mingling and mixing together (Williams, “Base and Superstructure”).

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assumption of Roman authority (“lord over” [katakurieuvousin] and “exercise authority” [katexousiav z ousin], 20:25) echo the centurion’s own (“lord” [kuv r ie] and “authority” [ej x ousiv a n], 8:8–9). Within that denunciation, Matthew’s Jesus proceeds to upset further the centurion’s chain-of-command by presenting the slave as primary (prw'to", 20:26–27) rather than pressuring the slave to perform (poivhson/poiei', 8:9i–j). Since Matthew closes her contrast of Jesus’ leadership style against the Romans with a reference to Jesus’ personal example or model (20:28), let us take a brief look at Jesus’ (inter)action with the centurion. Matthew concludes that episode with the clear declaration that Jesus, despite being “amazed” or appalled by the centurion’s identification of him as a demonic commander within a demonic chain of command, performs the very “long-distance” or “remote-control” healing that the centurion (counter-)proposes (8:13). If one keeps in mind the client–patron relationship that this episode implies as well as the example of “come, go, and do” that the centurion gives to depict the interaction between a superior and a subordinate, what we have here is a client or a subordinate successfully telling a patron or superior to “stay and do.” Not only does Jesus exercise his authority to combat and cast out an opposing demon; he also uses his authority over his own client in a way that is opposite to what the centurion assumes and describes.54 Finally we may note that the temptation stories supplied by Matthew (4:1–11) underline this problematization of “command-style” authority by having Jesus renounce styles of authority that would make him an imperial figure. The second temptation, for example, clearly involves the integration of Jesus into a “command form” of authority over the angels (4:6). But the most obvious is the last, where the devil takes him to a very high mountain, shows him all the glorious empires of the world, and says to him, “I will give all these to you, if you will kneel down and pay homage to me” (4:8–9). This temptation is to become a part of a “command-and-control” structure of authority. Within this structure, Jesus would have become precisely as his opponents charge and as the centurion surmises, a more or less elevated part of an imperial system of (demonic) command and control. Jesus’ rejection of this temptation indicates his desire to be a different kind of a “lord,” one with a different approach to authority. 54 Is critique of hierarchical power and might at least part of the reason that Matthew’s Jesus comments during his arrest that he could have, but would not, ask for “twelve legions of angels” from heaven to overcome his enemies (26:53)? We should also point out that while many critics do emphasize the nonhierarchical understanding and practice on the part of the Matthean Jesus, these same critics tend not to suspect the centurion’s analogy of command. See, e.g., Warren Carter, Households and Discipleship: A Study of Matthew 19–20 (JSNTSup 103; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994); and idem, Matthew and the Margins, 202–4.

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IV. Mysteries of Matthean Faith If the centurion mistakes so completely both Jesus’ identity and his authority, then why does Jesus praise him for “having such a faith as this” (tosauvthn pivstin, 8:10; also 8:13)?55 As we mentioned, Matthew uses the phrase “there will be weeping and grinding of teeth” five more times after using it first in 8:12 (13:42, 52; 22:13; 24:51; 25:30) to talk about the indeterminacy of inclusion and exclusion as well as the importance of action. Immediately after the phrase’s last appearance (25:30), we find the parable of the final separation, when “all the nations” (pavnta ta; e[qnh, 25:32) will be assembled and judged (25:31–46). Two things are unmistakable in that parable: (1) the importance of action over words, since both the sheep and the goats begin by calling Jesus “Lord” (25:37, 44); and (2) the importance of action over understanding, since both the just and the unjust express surprise about having ever seen Jesus (25:37–39, 44).56 Matthean “faith,” which is mentioned along with “justice and mercy” in 23:23, hinges more on what one does (ortho-praxy) than on what one says or knows (ortho-doxy). Jesus’ statement to the Pharisees in Matthew about “words” as the criterion of judgment (12:36–37) must be interpreted in relation to what he says to his disciples about the criterion of “actions” (16:27). More specifically, judgment hinges on what one does for the needy and those who are weaker than oneself (25:40, 45). While it is damning for one’s actions to lag behind one’s words or understanding (the problem of Matthew’s “scribes and Pharisees,” 23:2–3), it is saving or entrancing when what one does for needy and weaker folk actually exceeds what one says or knows. With this in mind, we may say that the centurion is praised for his faith because his action far exceeds his problematic rhetoric and understanding. 55 Some suggest that the greatness of the centurion’s faith has to do with his trust that Jesus can heal his pai'" from a distance. Those who make that suggestion often cite the previous healing, in which Jesus touches a leper to effect the healing (8:3). In that episode, however, Jesus is the one who initiates the physical contact; the leper does not ask Jesus to do so. The same is true in Jesus’ healing of Peter’s mother-in-law (8:14–15) and his healing of the blind man (9:27–31). When physical touch is explicitly specified by the ruler (9:18) or secretly sought by the hemorrhaging woman (9:20–21), Jesus does not respond with any complaint. Instead, he stands to follow the ruler to the ruler’s home (9:19) and affirms the hemorrhaging woman’s faith (9:22). While the healing of the Gedarene demoniacs (8:28–34), the paralytic (9:1–7), and the dumb demoniac (9:32–34) do not happen from a long distance, these healings also do not seem to involve any physical contact. If our interpretation that the centurion is proposing a long-distance healing out of his mistaken understanding of Jesus’ identity and authority is accepted, it is difficult to see distance as the measure of his “great faith.” 56 There are, of course, intense debates about how one should interpret other aspects of this parable. For example, there is much furor around the question of the identity of the “least ones” (tw'n ejlacivstwn, 25:40, 45); see Ulrich Luz, “The Final Judgment (Matt 25:31–46): An Exercise in ‘History of Influence’ Exegesis,” in Treasures New and Old, ed. Bauer and Powell, 271–310.

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First, he is willing to make himself a client of a colonized Jew because of the suffering of his boy-love;57 and second, he is willing to speak up against his new patron’s initiative to visit his house—again, in defense of his own relation to the boy-love. Whatever “worth” (iJ k anov " , 8:8) the centurion may or may not attribute to himself, his actions demonstrate that he does not live by these hierarchical views in his relationship with either his boy-love or his (new) patron(s).58 If we return to the parallel passage, where Matthew’s Jesus explicitly rejects his identification as Beelzebul’s lieutenant (12:22–32), we see that he states that his casting out of demons is a sign of God’s kin-dom. This is the case, in fact, whether Jesus is an agent of the chief demon (for then Satan’s rule is in 57 One should remember that in Roman practice, one’s boy-love may well be one’s slave (though one’s slave is not necessarily one’s boy-love, and hence the inadequacy of simply translating the centurion’s pai'" as “servant” or “slave”). If the centurion’s pai'" is indeed the centurion’s “slave boy-love” or “ex-slave boy-love,” what he does and risks on behalf of his pai'" is all the more striking in light of Cato’s recommendation that “old” and “sickly” slaves, being “superfluous” and “useless,” should simply be sold (Agr. 2.7; see also Plutarch, Cat. Maj. 4–5.2). 58 It is well known that the dominant ideology of ancient Greco-Roman sex is an ideology of domination—hence the rigid distinction between the penetrator and the penetrated, the powerful and the powerless, or the active and the passive. The centurion’s action, however, upsets this distinction and his own “chain-of-command” analogy in different ways. First, he is coming to seek Jesus’ help because his boy-love is “paralyzed” (8:6); in other words, he is dissatisfied with his boylove’s passivity. Second, while his analogy describes his ordering of soldiers and slaves to come, go, or do, in this episode the centurion himself is the one who comes to Jesus, does the pleading, and goes home. Rather than embodying Roman manhood, the centurion in this episode subordinates himself to the need of his boy-love and to the patronage of Jesus. To use the language of Oliensis, he is “doubly unmanned” (“Erotics,” 156). While we appreciate Velunta’s concern with the silencing and enslaving of ethnic others in an imperialistic context (“Ho Pais Mou”), we fear his broadbrush write-off of pederastic relationships as inherently oppressive may itself be a colonizing move (not to mention his tendency to collapse ancient and modern slavery, ancient and modern pederasty, as well as pederasty and prostitution without any critical distinction). This is particularly so given the way he completely suppresses Mader’s concluding thought that pederastic relationships, like any other type of relationship, should be judged by specific practices (“Entimos Pais,” 231–32), although Velunta is basically dependent on Mader when it comes to the argument about the identity of the pai'". The similarities that Oliensis draws between a Roman pederast and a Roman client are also helpful in further nuancing the power dynamics within pederastic relations (“Erotics,” 152–55); the same is true of the process of courtship that Cantarella details for Greek pederasty (Bisexuality, 17–27). Note that Oliensis, like Mader, nuances such dynamics without denying the potential hierarchical abuse that the beloved suffers (“Erotics,” 159, 161, 168–69). While Velunta (“Ho Pais Mou”), like Dube (Postcolonial Feminist Interpretation), reads Matthew somewhat onesidedly as a collaborator of Roman imperialism, we wonder what this “double unmanning” on the part of the centurion may also imply about Matthew’s attitude toward the Roman military. If we may play on Esther Newton’s play on words (“The Mythic Mannish Lesbian: Radclyffe Hall and the New Woman,” Signs 9 [1984]: 561), the Roman centurion in Matthew (in light of what he cannot do for his boy-love as well as his becoming a client of a colonized Jew) seems to indicate that the “imperial” and “imperious” penis of the Roman is actually somewhat impotent.

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disarray and is coming to an end, 12:25–26) or an agent of God’s spirit (for then God’s kin-dom is arriving, 12:28). When Jesus declares that “the one who is not being with me is against me, and the one who is not gathering with me scatters” (12:30), is he not implying that what is ultimately relevant is not one’s theory about the authorizing authority for the deliverance but rather one’s attitude toward the healing or exorcism? If the centurion’s view of Jesus’ identity is in many respects identical to that of Jesus’ opponents (as a lieutenant of Beelzebub), the difference comes down to the attitude toward healing. While the opponents seek to undermine and oppose the dramatic healing (12:22–24), the centurion seeks healing for another. Instead of opposing and criticizing the healing of another person, he favors and even begs for it. What the centurion does for his boy-love is even more impressive, since the one he approaches (at least in the centurion’s mind) is nothing else but a Jewish wonder-worker.59 Given what we know of certain Roman attitudes toward Jewish people, this in itself is extraordinary. The centurion risks, at a minimum, ridicule for seeking the services of one who is a powerful practitioner of an alien cult that is—if Tacitus, Juvenal, and others are to be believed —regarded as rather unsavory. Tacitus, for example, remarks: “The Jews regard as profane all that we hold sacred; on the other hand they permit all that we abhor” (Hist. 5.4). After describing some of the customs of the Jews he remarks, “the other customs of the Jews are base and abominable and owe their persistence to their depravity” (Hist. 5.5). Tacitus even alleges that “the earliest lesson they receive is to despise the gods, to disown their country, and to regard their parents, children, and brothers as of little account” (Hist. 5.5).60 Perhaps more important than these views of the Roman elites is the postwar dating of Matthew. With the first Jewish–Roman war—and the Roman propaganda of

59 We mentioned earlier that Jews in the Greco-Roman world were generally not visibly identifiable. Some, however, chose to wear tefillin and tzitzit to “out” themselves. Matthew’s Jesus, for example, criticizes the scribes and Pharisees for not only wearing these, but for “enlarging” them (23:5). Since Matthew twice uses the same word to refer to the edge of Jesus’ garment (9:20; 14:36), it is conceivable that Matthew’s Jesus does wear a tzitzit (though one of regular size) in public. For the commonality of exorcism among Jews in the first century, see Josephus, A.J. 8.45–49; and Cohen, Beginnings of Jewishness, 142 (“[t]he authors of the magical papyri routinely invoke the ‘God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob’”). 60 Tacitus’s suspicions of what is “foreign” in general and what is associated with “foreign cults” in particular also comes through indirectly in his version of the jurist Gaius Cassius’s speech concerning slaves and their punishment: To our ancestors the temper of their slaves was always suspect, even when they were born on the same estate or under the same roof, and drew in affection for their owners with their earliest breath. But now that our households comprise nations—with customs the reverse of our own, with foreign cults or with none, you will never coerce such a medley of humanity except by terror. (Ann. 4.44) For examples of Juvenal’s satirical remarks on Jewish religious practices, see 14.96–106.

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this war as “a victory against atheism on behalf of the gods”—as the backdrop,61 Matthew’s account of the centurion going to a Jewish healer for the healing of his boy-love is indeed a picture of an extraordinary and audacious act of faith. Like Joseph, who is led to pretend that he is the father of Jesus for the sake of the defenseless mother and child (1:18–25), the people whose “faith” is seen by Jesus in their bringing of another sufferer of paralysis to Jesus (9:2), and the Canaanite woman who persists and improvises in the face of humiliation on behalf of another (15:21–27), the centurion takes the risk of acting because of his love for one who is in need and under terrible torture.62

V. Sexualities and Matthew So far we have suggested that our rereading of Matt 8:5–13 is consistent with Matthew’s understanding of Jesus’ identity, with Jesus’ emphasis on faith as audacious action on behalf of the needy rather than “correct” words or beliefs, and with Jesus’ reservations concerning hierarchical authority. The way Matthew’s Jesus seems to affirm the centurion’s pederastic relationship with his pai'", we contend, may also be consistent with Matthew’s affirmation of many sexual dissidents in her Gospel.63 Many have pointed out the sexual innuendo

61

Goodman, Mission and Conversion, 44. In contrast, the disciples, known often as the ones of “little faith” (8:26; 17:20), are shown to be without compassion for little children in 18:2–6. Note also how Matthew’s Jesus cites Hos 6:6 twice in his criticism of the Pharisees and, in the process, links his healing, his association with tax collectors and sinners, and his tolerance of picking and eating grain on the Sabbath to “mercy” (9:9–13; 12:1–8). Similarly, “compassion” or “pity” is highlighted in his healing (9:36; 14:14; 20:34), as well as his miraculous feeding of people (15:32). As Matthew’s Jesus clearly indicates, love of God and love of neighbor are not separable (22:39). 63 Our interpretation of this episode directly counteracts that of John J. Pilch (Healing in the New Testament: Insights from Medical and Mediterranean Anthropology [Minneapolis: Fortress, 2000], 82–84). Pilch argues that Matthew is concerned with restoring “proper” (male) sexual behavior from being penetrated to penetrating by linking Matthew’s identification of malakivan as objects of Jesus’ healing (4:23; 9:35; 10:1) to effeminacy and (male) sexual passivity. Our interpretation of Matt 8:5–13 shows that, unlike the dominant Greco-Roman tendency to ridicule and condemn (only) the passive partner of any same-sex activity or relation, Jesus proceeds to help the centurion’s boy-love. If Matthew were indeed Jewish, this episode concerning the centurion would further indicate that Jews in the first century C.E. had differing views concerning sexual activities. Philo is, of course, well known for his aversion to same-sex activities in general and pederastic relations in particular (Spec. 3.37–39; Contempl. 59–62). It is rather doubtful, however, that Philo’s position is representative of all Jewish views and practices in his time (Goodman, Mission and Conversion, 40); otherwise, we would not find him complaining, for example, against other Alexandrian Jews who, like him, allegorized Scriptures but, unlike him, disregarded the need to observe the literal commandments (Migr. 89–92). We do have extant literary works from that period that present pictures different from those of Philo, but those writers were Roman rather than Jewish. For 62

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surrounding the women in the genealogy of Jesus (Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, and the wife of Uriah). It is clear for most critics that Tamar poses as a prostitute and sleeps with her father-in-law (Genesis 38), that Rahab is a prostitute (Joshua 2), and that Bathsheba is an adulteress (2 Samuel 11). It is also clear that most critics emphasize, in the case of Ruth, that her union with Boaz is a case of exogamy.64 What remains questionable is whether Ruth’s relationship with Naomi can be seen as one that is both intergenerational and lesbian. The opening genealogy aside, Matthew’s Jesus also makes two pronouncements that seem to affirm sexual dissidents. The meaning of his declaration that tax collectors and prostitutes will enter God’s kin-dom first (21:31) is often glanced over too quickly, as is his statement about being eunuchs for heaven’s sake (19:10–12). While the meaning of “prostitutes” may in some sense have been rather consistent since the time of the first century C . E ., the meaning of “eunuchs” is an entirely different story. “Eunuch” in the Greco-Roman world does not signify someone who is a-sexual, but rather one who is both sexually ambiguous and servile. Antony, for example, is compared to “the minion of withered eunuchs” because of his assumed subordination (sexually and otherwise) to Cleopatra (Horace, Epod. 9.11–16). In today’s terms, “eunuch” would be close to what we might term a human sex toy.65 example, Martial attacks a Jewish rival poet for denying a pederastic relationship with a slave boy (Epig. 11.94), while Tacitus claims that Jews are prone to all kinds of lusts despite their refusal to marry Gentile women (“although as a race, they are prone to lust, they abstain from intercourse with foreign women; yet among themselves nothing is unlawful” [Hist. 5.5; emphasis added]). In any case, given that Matthew’s Jesus does not seem to have trouble with the centurion’s pederastic relationship, contemporary Christians who condemn same-sex relations may turn out to be following the tactics of many Romans, who dissociate same-sex activities from their own traditions by retrojecting them solely into the past of others (Phaedrus, Fab. 4.15–16; Polybius 31.25; Cicero, Tusc. 4.33.70–71, 5.20.58). What ought not be forgotten in this discussion of military, racial/ethnic, sexual, and colonial dynamics is what Diana Fuss calls an “epidemiology of sexuality,” or how colonial discourse represents colonized areas as breeding grounds for sexual vice and disease (Identification Papers [New York: Routledge, 1995] 160). While Fuss focuses on the irony that (European) colonizers were often the ones who introduced diseases into the colonies rather than vice versa, we would like to point out that such representations could also be used as justifications of conquest. 64 An interesting question in this regard is whether one can view Matthew’s opening genealogy as a literary equivalent of a sexually enticing woman, functioning to seduce and allure her readers into the rest of her narrative body or body of narrative. In contrast to Seneca the Elder who features the incompatibility of a priestess and a prostitute by having a lictor move the latter out of the former’s way (Contr. 1.2.7–8), Matthew uses prostitutes and other “questionable” female figures to pave her way in this so-called church’s book. 65 Carter recognizes this and gives several primary source references (Josephus, A.J. 16.229–40; Josephus, J.W. 1.488–91; Pliny the Elder, Nat. 7.39; Suetonius, Tit. 7.1), but this recognition does not seem to have any impact on how he interprets these verses (Matthew and the Margins, 383). Since we have been talking about the centurion and the Roman military in this paper, it is interesting to point to a passage where Tacitus condemns a military commander, Fabius Valens, for becoming womanish himself by spending too much time with “his long effeminate train of con-

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Prostitutes, adulteresses, sexually aggressive women, sexually penetrated men, eunuchs, slaves, and condemned criminals (like Matthew’s Jesus) are all persons of infames, or “ill repute,” in Roman eyes.66 In this light, Matthew’s affirmations of these people should be read in connection with her challenge to hierarchical authority and Roman rule.67 Particularly in recent years, much has been done in Matthean studies in terms of ethnicity, gender, class, and even colonial politics. What remains to be seen is how questions of sexualities, even abject sexualities, may play a part in these investigations.68 cubines and eunuchs” (Hist. 3.40). In Roman ideology, sexually penetrating women and eunuchs demonstrates one’s masculinity, but spending too much time with women and eunuchs would compromise or corrupt one’s masculinity. 66 Catherine Edwards, “Unspeakable Professions: Public Performance and Prostitution in Ancient Rome,” in Roman Sexualities, ed. Hallett and Skinner, 66–76. 67 It is well known, for example, that the Roman military was not only highly hierarchical but also highly gendered. It was supposed to embody the ideal of Roman manhood, and this ideal explains at least partly the ban against soldiers getting married (Phang, Marriage of Roman Soldiers, 344–83). Whether Matthew’s protest against the Romans’ hierarchical approach to authority logically leads her to promote alternative views regarding gender and sexuality is a question well worth pondering. 68 Levine, for example, has suggested that Matthew’s problematization of traditional family structure as patriarchal may be related to her depictions of single and independent women in her Gospel (“Matthew,” 341, 344; “Matthew’s Advice,” 27), but Levine has not yet approached the role of sexualities in this Matthean mix. Moreover, one cannot find any foray into sexualities in the 2001 anthology Gospel of Matthew in Current Study, ed. Aune. Much intersectional investigation or intercourse surrounding sexualities has been done in the broader world of cultural studies. For examples of anthologies of these investigations, see Sexual Meanings: The Cultural Construction of Gender and Sexuality (ed. Sherry B. Ortner and Harriet Whitehead; New York: Cambridge University Press, 1981); Nationalisms and Sexualities (ed. Andrew Parker et al.; New York: Routledge, 1992); Mapping Desire: Geographies of Sexualities (ed. David Bell and Gill Valentine; New York: Routledge, 1995); and Politics of Sexuality (ed. Terrell Carver and Véronique Mottier; New York: Routledge, 1998). For examples of attempts to use sexualities as a lens to read literary texts, see Jonathan Goldberg, Sodometries: Renaissance Texts, Modern Sexualities (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1992); Novel Gazing: Queer Readings in Fiction (ed. Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick; Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1997); and Queer Commentary and the Hebrew Bible (ed. Ken Stone; Cleveland: Pilgrim, 2001). Not only does this relatively “new” focus bring about new questions; it also brings new light to old questions. Let us give just two possibilities of exploration here. First, how might Matthew’s affirmation of sexual dissidents be connected to her postwar context (the first Jewish–Roman war)? In what ways is her Gospel an identification with powerlessness and/or an articulation of protest? In other words, is this Matthew’s true affirmation of the infames, or is it just a rhetorical ploy to agitate and attack the Romans? Second, what might Matthew’s affirmation of sexual dissidents imply about the traditional view that Matthew is committed to fulfilling the Law, in light of the many prohibitions in the Torah against the very sexualities that Matthew seems to be affirming (Lev 18:22; 19:29; 20:13; Deut 22:5)?

JBL 123/3 (2004) 495–507

THE SURVIVAL OF MARK’S GOSPEL: A GOOD STORY?

JOANNA DEWEY [email protected] Episcopal Divinity School, Cambridge, MA 02138

Ever since I began serious NT studies and learned about the hypothetical document Q, I have been intrigued by the questions, Why did the Gospel of Mark survive? Why did it not go the way of Q? Given Matthew’s and Luke’s incorporation of Mark, and given the nature of the manuscript medium, it ought to have gone the way of Q. Scholars who address the issue believe that Matthew intended his Gospel to replace Mark, and so probably did Luke. Recently, Graham Stanton has argued: When Matthew wrote his Gospel, he did not intend to supplement Mark: his incorporation of most of Mark’s Gospel is surely an indication that he intended that his Gospel should replace Mark’s, and that it should become the Gospel for Christians of his day. Similarly Luke. Luke’s Preface should not be dismissed merely as the evangelist’s way of honoring literary convention. There is little doubt that Luke expects that his more complete Gospel will displace his predecessors.1

If Matthew and Luke had had their way and replaced Mark, today we would be debating if a hypothetical “Mark” ever existed and of what exactly it consisted, and how many strata of development we could discern in it. Instead we have the Gospel of Mark. Why did Mark survive? In this article, I would like to suggest that the Gospel of Mark survived

1 Graham N. Stanton, “The Fourfold Gospel,” NTS 43 (1997): 341–42. So also B. H. Streeter, The Four Gospels: A Study of Origins (1924; repr., London: Macmillan, 1964), 10; Richard Bauckham, “For Whom Were Gospels Written?” in The Gospels for All Christians: Rethinking Gospel Audiences (ed. Richard Bauckham; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 13. My argument in general may support Bauckham’s thesis of the Gospels being composed for all Christians, not for specific communities. However, the Markan version could easily have been formulated first for a specific community or, more likely, a specific sort of audience, and then spread quickly from there.

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because it was a good story, easily learned from hearing it and easily performed, thus easily transmitted orally.2 These characteristics gave the Gospel widespread popularity. The Gospel itself, I argue, was a development and refinement of an already well-known narrative or narrative framework of Jesus’ ministry, death, and resurrection. Even after it was committed to writing around 70 C.E., it continued to be performed orally, with minimal dependence on or even connection to manuscripts. In the process of being told and retold orally during the first century or two of Christianity, it became widely known orally to Christians in diverse parts of the empire. I would argue that the reason it has survived to be part of our canon today rather than going the way of Q is because of early “orthodox” Christians’ choice around 150–175 C.E. to give authority not to a single Gospel, nor to a harmonization of the Gospels, but to the fourfold Gospel.3 Furthermore, I suggest that it is only because the Gospel according to Mark was a popular story, widely known orally, that it survived at all and that therefore we have a fourfold, not a threefold, Gospel today. The customary explanations for the survival of the Gospel of Mark have been largely discarded today. Papias’s observation that Mark was Peter’s interpreter, while quite widespread in the second century, is rejected by many scholars today. The notion of a Roman provenance is also generally rejected in favor of Syria or Galilee.4 Furthermore, even if Papias were correct, that would not in itself account for the Gospel’s survival. In the second century some connection to an apostle, such as that provided by Papias, was probably necessary for the Gospel to be included in the fourfold Gospel codex, but it would not be sufficient. Other Gospels (Peter, Thomas) were in circulation and certainly had greater apparent claims to apostolicity. Early in the last century, in part to explain the survival of Mark, B. H. Streeter developed his theory of local texts, that each of the four Gospels became well established in a particular geographical area before the other Gospels became common there (Mark in Rome). He wrote, “Again, the survival of Mark would be adequately explained if it had had time to become an established classic in one or more important churches some time before its popularity was threatened by competition with the richer Gospels produced in other centers.”5 The theory of local texts, however, has virtually been abandoned by contemporary text critics, as the manuscript and 2 “Let the reader understand” (Mark 13:14) refers not to the reader of Mark’s Gospel but to the public reader of Daniel. So also Rudolf Bultmann, “anaginoµskoµ, anagnoµi,” TDNT 1:343–44. 3 On the fourfold Gospel as a whole, see Stanton, “Fourfold Gospel,” 317–46; Harry Y. Gamble, The New Testament Canon: Its Making and Meaning (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985), 24–35. 4 For the second-century evidence, see C. Clifton Black, Images of an Apostolic Interpreter (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1994), 77–113. For a contemporary summary of arguments against Peter and Rome as the place of origin, see Joel Marcus, Mark 1–8: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 27; New York: Doubleday, 2000), 21–37. 5 Streeter, Four Gospels, 12.

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patristic evidence does not seem to support it.6 A new explanation of Mark’s survival and inclusion in the fourfold Gospel codex is needed. That explanation, I argue, is to be found in the oral/aural nature of the Gospel, which developed from an already existing oral narrative or narrative framework of Jesus’ ministry and passion and continued to circulate orally even after it was written down. The bulk of this article describes the types of evidence that suggest the likelihood that Mark was building on an already existing narrative tradition. Then I make some further remarks on the Gospel’s continued oral life and engage in a foray into textual criticism, since some aspects of the manuscript evidence seem to support the hypothesis that the ongoing oral transmission of the Gospel was important to its survival.

I I shall begin with four preliminary comments: first, on storytelling in antiquity; second, on the interaction of oral and written media; and then two comments on Mark as oral literature. First, as we are becoming increasingly aware, literacy rates were generally very low in antiquity. Official information was broadcast by public criers who were attached to all levels of government. Even more, information and cultural traditions were transmitted by storytellers.7 Four types of storytellers were common in antiquity: street performers of both sexes who eked out a marginal existence; a somewhat higher-status group who told religious and secular stories outside temples and inside and outside synagogues, entertaining and teaching; storytellers who did not earn their living at it but had local or regional reputations; and, finally, women, mothers, and nursemaids, who told stories to educate, amuse, or frighten children.8 Per-

6 Stanton, “Fourfold Gospel,” 336; The Alands’ handbook does not even mention the local text theory (Kurt Aland and Barbara Aland, The Text of the New Testament: An Introduction to the Critical Editions and to the Theory and Practice of Modern Textual Criticism [trans. Erroll F. Rhodes; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1989]). Metzger does include it in his handbook, along with some modifications, and notes in his 1992 appendix that the theory has been challenged and modified (Bruce M. Metzger, The Text of the New Testament: Its Transmission, Corruption, and Restoration [3rd enl. ed.; New York: Oxford University Press, 1992], 169–73, 287). 7 Gideon Sjoberg, The Preindustrial City: Past and Present (Glencoe, IL: Free Press, 1960), 287. 8 Alex Scobie, “Storytellers, Storytelling, and the Novel in Graeco-Roman Society,” Rhenisches Museum für Philologie 122 (1979): 229–59. This article remains the classic introduction to ancient storytelling. For a recent collection and analysis of the literary remains of storytelling in Greco-Roman, Jewish, and Christian texts, see Holly E. Hearon, The Mary Magdalene Tradition: Witness and Counter-Witness in Early Christian Communities (Collegeville, MN: Michael Glazier, 2004), 37–73, 320–36. For a new major resource on oral performance in antiquity, see

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formance of sacred stories was a major part of synagogue worship, so most likely it was important also in early Christian worship.9 Christian storytellers would have been found among most of the groups mentioned above and in most settings. Stories such as Mark’s would have been told both during and outside of Christian worship settings. Storytelling was ubiquitous in the ancient world, so it would certainly have been part—an important part—of early Christian experience. Second, writing was used in support of oral performance, and oral performance could and often did continue with little reliance on or even acquaintance with written texts. The British textual critic D. C. Parker writes, “The gospels were written rather to support than to replace the oral tradition.”10 Furthermore, in such a media world, there is continual feedback between the oral and the written: he continues, “the written texts are only a part of the process by which the traditions about Jesus were passed on. The traditions were told and retold, written and rewritten, in oral tradition and in successive versions of texts.”11 I believe Mark was composed and transmitted primarily orally, but that does not exclude earlier and later written versions. The boundaries between the two were very fluid. Third, the Gospel of Mark reflects a social milieu in which oral performance without any dependence on manuscripts would be the norm. Richard Rohrbaugh has argued persuasively that Mark’s audience consisted primarily of nonliterate peasants.12 Richard Horsley, extending Rohrbaugh’s argument and his own thesis of Mark as giving voice to subjected peoples, suggests that the Gospel’s audiences continued to be primarily rural villagers, “that its audience consists of ordinary Greek-speaking people in the eastern parts of the Roman empire, most likely villagers.”13 That the Gospel would appeal to village communities without the resources to own or read manuscripts seems quite likely, but this makes the question of the Gospel’s survival into the manuscript tradition even more improbable.

Whitney Shiner, Proclaiming the Gospel: First Century Performance of Mark (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2003). 9 Dieter Georgi, The Opponents of Paul in 2 Corinthians: A Study of Religious Propaganda in Late Antiquity (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986) 82, 86–101, 112–73; see also Richard F. Ward, “Pauline Voice and Presence as Strategic Communication,” in Orality and Textuality in Early Christian Literature, Semeia 65 (1994): 95–107. 10 D. C. Parker, The Living Text of the Gospels (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 19. 11 Ibid., 179. 12 Richard L. Rohrbaugh, “The Social Location of the Marcan Audience,” BTB 23 (1993): 114–27. 13 Richard A. Horsley, Hearing the Whole Story: The Politics of Plot in Mark’s Gospel (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2001), 51.

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Fourth, the Gospel of Mark works well as oral literature. It is of an appropriate length for oral performance. A storyteller could learn it from simply hearing it performed. As I and others have argued elsewhere, its composition consists of oral composition techniques.14 Briefly, the story consists of happenings that can be easily visualized and thus readily remembered. It consists of short episodes connected paratactically. The narrative is additive and aggregative.15 Teaching is not gathered into discourses according to topic but rather embedded in short narratives, which is the way oral cultures remember teaching. Indeed, I would suggest that it is the lack of a more literate chronological and topical order that Papias had in mind when he said Mark’s story was “not in order,” ou mentoi taxei (Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 3.39.15). It followed oral ordering procedures, not proper rhetorical form.16 The plot as well as the style is typical of oral composition.17 The structure does not build toward a linear climactic plot; the plot to kill Jesus is first introduced in Mark 3:6 but not picked up and developed until Mark 11, and it does not really get under way until Mark 14. Rather than linear plot development, the structure consists of repetitive patterns, series of three parallel episodes, concentric structures, and chiastic structures. Such structures are characteristic of oral literature, helping the performer, the audience, and new performers and audiences remember and transmit the material. From what we know of oral literature there is no reason why it could not have been composed and transmitted in oral form. Thus, it is certainly possible—I would say probable—that Mark was an orally composed narrative. As John Miles Foley, among others, has shown, it is possible to write in an oral register, and there is no foolproof way of deciding if a particular text was composed orally or in writing.18 But there is no need for writing to create the Gospel of Mark.19 Indeed, the distinguished scholar of 14 Joanna Dewey, “Oral Methods of Structuring Narrative in Mark,” Int 53 (1989): 32–44; eadem, “The Gospel of Mark as Oral/Aural Event: Implications for Interpretation,” in The New Literary Criticism and the New Testament (ed. Elizabeth Struthers Malbon and Edgar V. McKnight; JSNTSup 109; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994), 145–63; Pieter J. J. Botha, “Mark’s Story as Oral Traditional Literature: Rethinking the Transmission of Some Traditions about Jesus,” HvTSt 47 (1991): 304–31; idem, “The Historical Setting of Mark’s Gospel: Problems and Possibilities” JSNT 51 (1993): 27–55. 15 For an overview of oral composition techniques, see Walter J. Ong, Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word (London: Methuen, 1982), 36–49. 16 This has also been suggested by Josef Kürzinger and Donald H. Juel; see Juel, A Master of Surprise: Mark Interpreted (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1994), 12–13. 17 Ong, Orality and Literacy, 141, 142–43; Dewey, “Oral Methods,” 37–38. 18 John Miles Foley, Immanent Art: From Structure to Meaning in Traditional Oral Epic (Bloomington: Indiana Universtiy Press, 1991); idem, How to Read an Oral Poem (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2002). 19 I used to believe that the Gospel of Mark had to be refined in writing—and it still seems

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oral literature Albert B. Lord noted that the Synoptic Gospels seemed to him to “have the appearance of three oral traditional variants of the same narrative and non-narrative materials.”20 Whether or not it was composed orally, the Gospel of Mark was undoubtedly transmitted through oral re-performance.

II While writing was not essential for the creation of Mark, tradition was. In order to compose orally or in writing in an oral register, the composer must be able to draw on a body of tradition. So I turn to the question of the nature of the tradition Mark had available to him. Form criticism has customarily assumed that the small episodic units to be discerned in the Synoptic Gospels were the individual units of oral tradition, and that Mark composed the Gospel from these bits and pieces of oral tradition and perhaps a short written source or two. All that we know or can infer about how tradition operates suggests that this assumption of form criticism is wrong, deriving more from the critics’ own immersion in print culture than from how tradition operates. Studies from the fields of folklore, oral tradition, and oral history all suggest that traditions are likely to coalesce into a continuous narrative or narrative framework quite quickly. Tradition generally is remembered by gathering stories around a hero (fictional or real), not by remembering disparate individual episodes. On the basis of his study of folklore, Thorleif Boman introduced to NT studies the thesis that traditions typically gathered into longer continuous narratives. He concluded that no historical legend ever emerged out of individual items that circulated for decades independently, but rather grew into a narrative about the person.21 Jan Vansina, a student of African oral traditions and oral history,

probable—because of the verbal as well as structural parallels between Mark 2:1–12 and 3:1–6 at the beginning of the narrative and the two trial scenes at the end. An oral performer can remember structures but not necessarily verbal parallels widely separated in a narrative, but Whitney Shiner has suggested that the use of repeated gestures can help the performer remember particular details even when composing in performance (Proclaiming the Gospel, 139–40). 20 Albert B. Lord, “The Gospels as Oral Traditional Literature,” in The Relationships among the Gospels: An Interdisciplinary Dialogue (ed. William O. Walker, Jr.; San Antonio: Trinity University Press, 1978), 90. 21 Thorleif Boman, Die Jesus-Überlieferung im Lichte der neueren Volkskunde (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1967), 31. Both Bowman and, more recently, Samuel Byrskog (Story as History, History as Story: The Gospel Tradition in the Context of Ancient Oral History [Boston: Brill, 2002]) want to use orality to argue for greater historicity. In my opinion, orality does not support historicity; however, both books are very helpful on the subject of oral tradition.

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asserts that traditions “adhere to the ‘great man,’”22 coalescing into larger blocks of connected narratives about that person or persons. Walter Ong writes, “Most, if not all, oral cultures generate quite substantial narratives or series of narratives.”23 All agree against the form-critical assumption of transmission of disparate small episodes. Thus, what we should expect from folklore, oral history, and oral literature studies is that early oral Christianity would develop a connected oral narrative about Jesus. Individuals undoubtedly would tell particular episodes of the story on particular occasions, but storytellers would soon combine them into longer sequences. One performance would build on another performance, in each case varying and adapting to the particular audience, and the continuous narrative would grow. This is the typical way tales are developed. Vansina writes, “Such tales develop during performance. They never are invented from scratch, but develop as various bits of older tales are combined, sequences altered or improvised. . . . Unlike poetry and its sisters there is no moment at which a tale is composed. Innovation is only incremental from performance to performance.”24 This is much more likely to have happened to the traditions about Jesus than the transmission of isolated episodes. Furthermore, not only the tellers but also the audiences need to become familiar with the new tale gradually if they are to follow it themselves: “The tale must be well known to the public if the performance is to be a success, for the audience must not be overly preoccupied with the task of trying to follow painstakingly what is being told in order to enjoy the tale.”25 Vansina distinguishes between the traditions that audiences considered factual, which he calls accounts, and those they considered fictional (tales or epics). Once accounts are formed, they change less, but they still change according to the needs of the situation. And accounts tend to coalesce and solidify fairly quickly. He writes: When accounts of events have been told for a generation or so the messages then current may still represent the tenor of the original message, but in most cases the resulting story has been fused out of several accounts and has acquired a stabilized form. The plot and sequence of episodes changes only gradually after this. Nevertheless, it will be impossible to discover what the inputs into such traditions have been, even soon after the events. So there is

22

Jan Vansina, Oral Tradition as History (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1985),

108. 23

Ong, Orality and Literacy, 140. Vansina, Oral Tradition, 12. 25 Ibid., 35. 24

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Note that the plot and the general sequence of episodes become relatively stable quite quickly. It is precisely such an account with a plot and sequence of episodes developed over time that was likely to have been available to Mark. Folklorists and students of oral literature also stress the importance of the individual performer and the influence he or she has on the performance.27 J. S. Mbiti writes about storytelling in Kenya: Each person will tell the same story differently, since he has to make it personal and not simply a mechanical repetition of what he has heard or narrated before. He becomes not only a “repeater” but also a “creative” originator of each story. . . . The plot of the story and the sequence of its main parts remain the same, but the narrator has to supply meat to this skeleton. This he will do in the choice of words, the speed of reciting, the imagery he uses, the varying of his voice, the gestures. . . . The narrator puts his personality into the story, thus making it uniquely his own creation.28

Mark (whoever he may have been) was a gifted storyteller, and using “the plot of the story and the sequence of its main parts,” he made the narrative tradition or “account” of Jesus his own. His version, I suspect, fairly quickly was put into writing, dictated by him or by someone else who had learned his version of the story. It is Mark’s version that became, if you will, the standard version that was told and retold to Christians (always, of course, with variations). Such a recounting of the emergence of the Gospel of Mark is speculative, but it accords much better with what we know about how folklore, oral literature, and oral accounts develop, and about how ancient manuscript culture functioned than the usual form-critical understanding. The Gospel of Mark itself, I believe, also provides evidence that it was not the first attempt to put the story of Jesus together into a coherent narrative. Once we become accustomed to the inelegant Greek, the very episodic nature of the story, and its nonlinear, nonclimactic plot structure—all very typical of oral narrative or narrative written in an oral register—we discover that the Gospel is a coherent, wellwrought narrative, extremely well constructed. The literary work on the Gospel in the last thirty years has well demonstrated this, and productive work in this area continues.29 The Gospel of Mark continues to offer up narrative riches.

26

Ibid., 17. Ruth Finnegan, Literacy and Orality: Studies in the Technology of Communication (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1988), 69–73. 28 Quoted in ibid., 69–70. 29 See David Rhoads, Joanna Dewey, and Donald Michie, Mark as Story: An Introduction to the Narrative of a Gospel (2nd ed.; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1999), and the authors cited there. 27

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It seems to me extremely unlikely that the first attempt to put together a large variety of disparate bits and pieces of tradition would result in such an elegant story. Twenty-five years ago, Leander Keck wrote, “Thus [Mark] is assumed to have achieved three things simultaneously: create a genre (pattern) without any precedent, gain acceptance for this genre among his public, and attack the belief-structure of this same public by means of the new creation. If this is true, the author of the Second Gospel must have been some first-century Merlin!”30 It seems much more probable that Mark was building on, refining, and developing an oral tradition that had already created a continuous, moreor-less coherent narrative. Probably around 70 C.E., some version of what we know as the Gospel of Mark was put into writing. It would be possible to argue that there were no written copies of Mark until much later; we have no manuscript fragments of Mark until P45, a papyrus codex of the four Gospels dated to the third century. However, it seems to me more probable that the text became relatively fixed around 70 C.E. My opinion is based on the specific content of Mark, particularly the apparent connection to the Roman–Jewish war, and need not be detailed here. Furthermore it is quite likely—although not absolutely necessary—that Matthew and Luke each had access to a written copy of Mark. Unless somehow they used the same copy of Mark, their copies would have had differences from each other.31

III Next is the question of how the Gospel of Mark was used and transmitted, now that it existed in writing as well as oral narrative. First, a comment about manuscript traditions in general: On the one hand, the existence of a text in writing helps to fix that text. Studies of ballads printed on broadsheets in the sixteenth and following centuries show that the ballads differed more and more from the printed version, until a new printing was made, at which point the ballad text reverted to a form closer to the printed version.32 Such a process prob30 Leander E. Keck, “Oral Traditional Literature and the Gospels: The Seminar,” in Relationships among the Gospels, ed. Walker, 120. 31 Helmut Koester has proposed that Matthew and Luke used an earlier version of Mark and that what we have today is a later edition of Mark, which would explain the minor agreements (Ancient Christian Gospels: Their History and Development [London: SCM Press, 1990], 273–86). His thesis assumes a fixity of the manuscript tradition and a lack of interaction between oral and written versions that are simply not characteristic of the manuscript culture in antiquity. See Parker, Living Text, 107–10. 32 Ruth Finnegan, Oral Poetry: Its Nature, Significance, and Social Context (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977), 161–64.

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ably happened with Mark. It is unlikely that we would have anything like our Gospel of Mark if it had not been preserved in manuscript form pretty early. The written version can and often does exert some control over the oral versions. On the other hand, we need to recognize that the manuscript tradition was not yet fixed. According to textual critics, the greatest changes in texts occur in the first 100 or 150 years of manuscript transmission, after which texts tend to stabilize.33 Furthermore, textual critics indicate that “there are often as great, if not greater, variations between the manuscript copies of each Gospel” as there are between the different Synoptic Gospels.34 There was not yet an authoritative text; the Gospel was not yet scripture. The use of the papyrus codex “declared the Gospels to be neither sacred text nor high literature, but something both different and impermanent. . . . We have seen that the first generations valued the oral tradition above written documents. The mean format of their Gospels makes them aids to those memories.”35 What difference did the existence of manuscripts of Mark make to the use and transmission of the Gospel of Mark? I suspect very little. First of all, Mark was not yet Scripture. It is only when it comes to be considered Scripture that it is broken up into small segments which are then read and commented on. This transition most likely did not occur before the second half of the second century at the earliest, about the same time as the development of the four-Gospel codex. Until then, the Gospel was likely to have been performed and heard as a whole, and that pattern probably continued for decades or generations even after it began to be used in small sections for sermons. Furthermore, it was likely to be performed, not read from a manuscript. Manuscript texts without spaces between words, paragraph breaks, or editing marks are very difficult to read—let alone in low light conditions. To read a manuscript publicly, one would have to know already what it said. Professional orators performed without scripts—surely Christian storytellers did as well. The more important reason for the continuation of oral performance of the whole of Mark is that the existence of written texts does not in itself interrupt oral tradition and transmission. As Albert Lord remarked, oral literature is “not a phase but a genre.”36 Eusebius reports that “Mark was the first to be sent to preach in Egypt the Gospel which he had also put into writing” (Hist. eccl. 2.16.1–2). Regardless of historical accuracy of the reference to Mark, the 33 Helmut Koester, “The Text of the Synoptic Gospels in the Second Century,” in Gospel Traditions in the Second Century: Origins, Recensions, Text, and Transmission (ed. William L. Petersen; Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1989), 19; Parker, Living Text, 70, et passim. 34 Parker, Living Text, 197. 35 Ibid., 186. 36 Quoted by Keck, “Oral Traditional Literature,” 114.

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report does stress the importance of the person telling the story. A person, not a manuscript, was sent. There is no reason for oral transmission—recomposition in performance—to stop just because a written version exists. The traditional European fairy tales were written down—printed—by Charles Perrault at the end of the seventeenth century and by the Grimm brothers in the early nineteenth century. Yet the oral tradition continued alive and largely unaffected by the printed versions until well into the twentieth century.37 What finally brought an end to the oral versions was the increasing literacy of the population and the availability of cheap books, hardly factors in antiquity. Once again, given the way oral and written literature work in a media culture such as that of antiquity, it is highly probable that Mark as a whole continued to be performed and heard orally for a long while after the Gospel was first written and even first included in the fourfold Gospel codices. The evidence of the early manuscript fragments and patristic citations of the Gospels also suggests that Mark was less dependent on the manuscript tradition than the other Gospels. Text-critical data are often ambiguous, and I am no expert in it; but I would like to venture three ways the data suggest that Mark may have been more dependent on oral transmission than the other Gospels. First, we know that oral transmission is more variable than manuscript tradition, and that oral transmission affects the ongoing manuscript tradition and vice versa. If Mark was more dependent on oral transmission than the other Gospels were, we would expect it to have more variants than the other Gospels, and this indeed is the case.38 The quantity of variants also suggests that textual critics would have more difficulty establishing what they believe is closest to the original text of Mark. This also is true. Comparing the seven modern reconstructions of the Greek NT texts from Tischendorf’s last (1872) edition through the 25th edition of Nestle-Aland, Kurt and Barbara Aland found that the Gospel of Mark had the lowest number of variant-free verses of any NT text—45.1 percent. The figure for the entire NT is 62.9 percent, and all other NT writings show agreement of over 50 percent, with Matthew and Luke being nearer 60 percent. Another way of looking at it is to count the number of variants per printed page of Nestle-Aland, 25th ed. Here again Mark leads with 10.3 variants per page. John has 8.5, and both Matthew and Luke just under 7; the rest of the NT is lower still.39 Scholars have had greater difficulty in agreeing on the

37 Alison Lurie, Don’t Tell the Grown-ups: Subversive Children’s Literature (Boston: Little, Brown, 1990); Joanna Dewey, “From Storytelling to Written Text: The Loss of Early Christian Women’s Voices,” BTB 26 (1996): 75–76. 38 Streeter, Four Gospels, 307; G. D. Kilpatrick, The Principles and Practice of New Testament Textual Criticism: Collected Essays (ed. J. K. Elliott; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1990), 7–8. 39 Aland and Aland, Text of the New Testament, 29–30. These figures ignore orthographic dif-

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Markan text; its greater manuscript variety is most likely due to the influence of oral performances on the written tradition. Second, there is a definite scarcity of early manuscripts of Mark in comparison to the other Gospels. We have only one Markan manuscript before the turn of the third/fourth century—P45 as noted earlier—whereas there are more extant texts of the other Gospels. (Incidentally Mark is last in order in that codex. Streeter suggests that Mark was last in some codices because it was least important;40 however, there seems to be insufficient comparative data to conclude much about the order of the Gospels in codices.) The rubbish heap at Oxyrhynchus now provides 57 percent of all early manuscripts and represents all existing text-types. At Oxyrhynchus, thirteen fragments of Matthew, ten of John, two of Luke and none of Mark have been found.41 The finds also include two fragments of the Gospel of Peter, a variety of other apocryphal NT writings, and a portion of Irenaeus’s Against Heresies.42 These findings may be the result of random survival; however, the pattern is sufficiently consistent to suggest that there were, overall, fewer copies made of Mark than of the other Gospels. The third aspect of the early evidence is the incidence of patristic citations. Here we are dealing with the writings of relatively elite men, and, not surprisingly, they prefer the more literary Gospels to Mark. But what I find interesting and suggestive here is the sharp drop-off in the number of citations of Mark from the second century to the third century.43 In each case, the most cited Gospel is Matthew, with about 3,900 quotations in the second century and 3,600 in the third; the least cited is Mark. The Gospel of Mark is still prominent in the second-century writings, with about 1,400 citations, whereas in the third century there are only about 250.44 The status of Mark continued to decline, with Augustine finally declaring Mark to be merely an abbreviation of Matthew. By the third century, the fourfold Gospel was well accepted as canonical, and codices containing all four were becoming the norm. Certainly Mark was ferences; verses in which only one of the seven editions used differed by a single word are counted as agreeing completely. Additional changes have been made in the more recent edition of NestleAland, but no updated figures are available (Parker, Living Text, 197–98). 40 Streeter, Four Gospels, 307. 41 Eldon Jay Epp, “Appended Note 2 on Additional Newly-Published Oxyrhynchus Papyri of the New Testament” (October 15, 1999) for “The Codex and Literacy in Early Christianity and at Oxyrhynchus: Issues Raised by Harry Y. Gamble’s Books and Readers in the Early Church,” in Critical Review of Books in Religion 1997 (ed. Charles Prebish; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1998), 15–37. I would like to thank Eldon Epp for his assistance. 42 Epp, “Codex and Literacy,” 22. 43 The second-century figures include Clement of Alexandria and Tertullian; the thirdcentury figures exclude Origen. 44 Brenda Deen Schildgen has calculated these numbers from the lists in Biblia Patristica (Power and Prejudice: The Reception of the Gospel of Mark [Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1999], 40–41).

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included in all the great majuscules of the fourth and fifth centuries; however, it was increasingly ignored. 45 Once Mark became one more written Gospel included in a collection, it failed to interest the church, or at least its leaders. But in the second century, it was still alive as oral performance and was referred to by church leaders. I suggest that it is the widespread oral knowledge of the Gospel of Mark among Christians of all social locations that made it salient enough to be included in the fourfold Gospel. If it had not been widely known and loved on its own (not just as incorporated in Matthew), it easily could have been omitted as just a poorer rendition of Matthew. Harry Gamble writes, “The currency of so many gospels also shows that the eventual development of a collection of only four Gospels was the result of a selective process. Nothing dictated that the church should honor precisely four Gospels, or these four in particular.”46 In his attempt to defend a plurality of Gospels, Ireneaus could have as easily defended a threefold Gospel as upholding the apostolic tradition or rule of faith. He might have used the triadic formula for the divine or anthropological analogies such as spirit, soul, and body; but he did not. We have four Gospels. I suggest that the oral viability and popular support of the story of Mark may be the reason—or at least part of the reason—that Mark indeed made it into the fourfold Gospel, into the canon, and thus we have it today. 45 46

Mark was ignored in the lectionaries as well (Schildgen, Power and Prejudice, 41). Gamble, New Testament Canon, 25.

JBL 123/3 (2004) 509–530

A QUESTION OF DEATH: PAUL’S COMMUNITY-BUILDING LANGUAGE IN 1 THESSALONIANS 4:13–18

RICHARD S. ASCOUGH [email protected] Queen’s University, Kingston, ON K7L 3N6 Canada

In ancient voluntary associations, death, burial, and memorial figured prominently in the collective lives of their members.1 In light of this prominence, it is interesting to note, with Jonathan Z. Smith, that questions concerning the status of dead members of the community trigger Paul’s most extensive and earliest discussions of the resurrection of the dead (1 Thessalonians and 1 Corinthians).2 In an attempt to explore further in this article the nature of the Christian community at Thessalonica, I examine here the social context of Paul’s eschatological description in 1 Thess 4:13–18. Paul’s comments to this community and the social practices that are lurking behind his words are brought into contact with the larger database of group discourses and practices pertaining to the dead as found among voluntary associations. In particular, I will develop Burton Mack’s suggestion that the Thessalonians’ question to Paul concerning dead members was a question not about personal salvation but about belonging.3 An earlier version of this paper was presented at the Ancient Myths and Modern Theories of Christian Origins Seminar at the annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature, Denver, Colorado, November 19, 2001. I am grateful to the members of the seminar for the stimulating and helpful discussion around this paper. Part of the research for this paper was supported by funds from Queen’s University and from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. 1 Ancient voluntary associations were not formed solely for the purpose of burial of their members; see John S. Kloppenborg, “Collegia and Thiasoi: Issues in Function, Taxonomy and Membership,” in Voluntary Associations in the Graeco-Roman World (ed. John S. Kloppenborg and Stephen G. Wilson; London/New York: Routledge, 1996), 20–23. 2 Jonathan Z. Smith, Drudgery Divine: On the Comparison of Early Christianities and the Religions of Late Antiquity (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 131 n. 33. 3 Burton L. Mack, Who Wrote the New Testament? The Making of the Christian Myth (San Francisco: Harper, 1995), 110.

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Voluntary associations are well attested in Macedonia, and the city of Thessalonica provides the richest evidence of them, with at least twenty-six Greek inscriptions dating from the first to the third century C.E. showing a diversity of associations and deities worshiped. The best-attested groups are that of Dionysos and a number of professional associations, although there is also evidence for other types of associations.4 Epigraphic and papyrological evidence suggests that within associations death was not simply a matter of “not living,” nor was the primary concern about death the personal salvation of the individual. Death was inevitable but provided the opportunity for community definition. One did not cease to be a member of an association at death; rather, death was the point at which the association celebrated a person’s membership. From among the many members, the deceased individual would be isolated and celebrated as a member of the community. We will explore the nature of the issue that Paul responds to in 1 Thess 4:13–18 in light of the pervasiveness of death in the community-building discourse of the living members of associations.5

I. Burial in Associations In antiquity many people were members of one or more voluntary associations. Ramsay MacMullen estimates that one-third of the inhabitants of Rome in the second century C.E. were members of associations.6 This figure is likely reflected across the empire at that time, perhaps only slightly less at an earlier time. Modern scholarship usually identifies three broad categories of associations: religious associations, professional associations, and funerary associations.7 The funerary associations (or collegia tenuiorum/funeraticia) were organized to ensure the proper burial of their deceased members. Members paid entrance fees or regular dues, or both, that were used for the burial of 4 See Richard S. Ascough, “Voluntary Associations and Community Formation: Paul’s Macedonian Christian Communities in Context” (Ph.D. diss., University of St. Michael’s College, Toronto School of Theology, 1997), 297–307. Appendix I of the dissertation includes the texts and translations of seventy-five Macedonian inscriptions that are associated with voluntary associations. 5 I have argued elsewhere that the Thessalonian community was construed as a professional voluntary association; see Richard S. Ascough, “The Thessalonian Christian Community as a Professional Voluntary Association,” JBL 119 (2000): 311–28; also idem, Paul’s Macedonian Associations: The Social Context of Philippians and 1 Thessalonians (WUNT 2/161; Tübingen: MohrSiebeck, 2003), 162–90. 6 Ramsay MacMullen, Enemies of the Roman Order: Treason, Unrest, and Alienation in the Empire (New York/London: Routledge, 1966), 174. 7 Richard S. Ascough, “Associations, Voluntary,” Eerdmans’ Dictionary of the Bible (ed. David Noel Freedman; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 117–18.

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members. However, associations formed solely for the burial of members did not exist until the second century C.E. (from the time of Hadrian and beyond).8 Even at that time they were a “legal fiction,” a way of gaining legal recognition to meet as a group while another purpose (usually social) was the primary interest of the group. The frequent mention of associations in burial contexts indicates that associations formed for professional or religious reasons also handled the burial of their own members. In some cases, nonmembers commissioned an association to carry out certain rites at their tomb, although this was not the principal raison d’être of the association. Nevertheless, the extent to which many associations were involved in activities around death is striking: About one-third of the total epigraphic production of Roman associations in the eastern provinces records funerary activities of some sort, some inscriptions commemorating the burial of a collegium member by the association, while others mention collegia in recording the funerary arrangements of (wealthy) outsiders. It has been estimated that about one fifth of all known Italian associations were directly involved in the funerals of their members.9

The activities of associations involved in the burial of their members often included setting up inscriptions in memory of their deceased.10 In this regard, Macedonia is similar to places elsewhere in the empire: for example, the professional association of donkey-drivers from Beroea set up a memorial to one of its members,11 as did the associates of Poseidonios (set up in conjunction with the deceased’s wife and son).12 Purple-dyers in Thessalonica commemorated 8 Kloppenborg, “Collegia and Thiasoi,” 20–22. Cf. Erich G. L. Ziebarth (Das griechische Vereinswesen [Stuttgart: S. Hirzel, 1896; repr., Wiesbaden: Martin Sändig, 1969], 17) and Franz Poland (Geschichte des griechischen Vereinswesens [Leipzig: Teubner, 1909; repr., Leipzig: Zentral-Antiquariat der DDR, 1967], 56, 503–4), both of whom point out the lack of evidence for the existence of associations devoted exclusively to the burial of members Also see Peter M. Fraser, Rhodian Funerary Monuments (Oxford: Clarendon, 1977), 58-70; and Kloppenborg, “Collegia and Thiasoi,” 22, 29 nn. 41, 42. 9 Onno M. van Nijf, The Civic World of Professional Associations in the Roman East (Dutch Monographs on Ancient History and Archaeology 17; Amsterdam: Gieben, 1997), 31. 10 Kloppenborg, “Collegia and Thiasoi,” 21; Stephen G. Wilson, “Voluntary Associations,” in Voluntary Associations in the Graeco-Roman World, ed. Kloppenborg and Wilson, 13. For regulations pertaining to the actual rites associated with burial, see Lois sacrées de cités grecques (ed. Franciszek Sokolowski; EFA, Travaux et mémoires 18; Paris: De Boccard, 1955), 77 (Delphi, 4th cent. B.C.E.) and IG XII/5 593 (Ceos, 5th cent. B.C.E.). 11 A. M. Woodward, “Inscriptions from Macedonia,” Annual of the British School at Athens 18 (1911–12): 155 no. 22 (n.d.). 12 G. H. R. Horsley, New Documents Illustrating Early Christianity: A Review of the Greek Inscriptions and Papyri Published in 1979 (NewDocs 4; North Ryde, Australia: Ancient History Documentary Research Centre, Macquarie University, 1987) 215 no. 19 (dated to the imperial period).

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their deceased in a similar manner (IG X/2 291; 2nd cent. C.E.), as did the worshipers of Dionysos (IG X/2 503; 132 C.E.), Herakles (IG X/2 288 and 289; both 155 C.E.), the Asiani (IG X/2 309 and 480; both 2nd–3rd cent. C.E.),13 and a Hero cult (IG X/2 821; 2nd–3rd cent. C.E.). A more elaborate funerary practice is described in the epigram of a tomb from Amphipolis, where the dances of the Bacchants are described in detail.14 Some associations may have been involved in the actual burial of these members, as was the case with SEG XXXVII 559 (Kassandreia, n.d.) and CIG 2000f (Hagios Mamas, 2nd cent. C.E.). The extensive evidence for the connections between associations and the deceased in Philippi (and Macedonia more generally) led Francis W. Beare to conclude that, “[w]hen Paul came to Philippi, he would find ready hearers for a gospel of resurrection from the dead, and life eternal.”15 Finances were closely connected to the provision of burials and memorials. Dues collected could be designated for burial.16 In the case of some associations, members could be fined or banished, or both, from the rituals for a set time if they failed to attend the funeral of a member or if they failed to follow the etiquette of the funeral procedures.17 The commitment of an association to the burial of its deceased members went beyond informal agreement. In a number of cases inscriptions show that the arrangement was formalized and binding, and grievances were subject to the proceedings of a court of law. For example, an inscription from Lanuvium shows that when the burial of a member took place in a different town, the documents pertaining to the reimbursement of funeral arrangements required the seals of seven Roman citizens (CIL XIV 2112; 136 C.E.). In the case of suicide, the Lanuvium inscription stipulates that the right to burial has been forfeited. A papyrus from Egypt preserves the following letter from a woman appealing to King Ptolemaios on behalf of her dead brother: 13 Also Emmanuel Voutiras, “Berufs- und Kultverein: Ein DOUMOS in Thessalonike,” ZPE 90 (1992): 87–96. 14 W. R. Paton, The Greek Anthology (LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press; London: Heinemann, 1916–18), 2:264–65. 15 Francis W. Beare, A Commentary on the Epistle to the Philippians (BNTC; London: A. & C. Black, 1959), 9. Beare calls these associations “burial-clubs,” as does Paul Perdrizet, who notes the large number of funerary associations at Philippi, the first European city in which Christianity took root (“Inscriptions de Philippes: Les Rosalies,” BCH 24 [1900]: 318). Both cases indicate that the associations at Philippi are similar to the Roman collegia funeriticia. 16 See IG II2 1278 (Athens, 277/76 B.C.E.); CIL XIV 2112 (Lanuvium, 136 C.E.); Tituli Asiae Minoris Supplements III 201(Rough Cilicia, mid-1st cent. C.E.); Livy 2.33.11; Pliny NH 21.10; 33.138; Val. Max. 4.4.2; 5.2.3; 5.6.8; Nicholas K. Rauh, The Sacred Bonds of Commerce: Religion, Economy, and Trade Society at Hellenistic Roman Delos (Amsterdam: Gieben, 1993), 273 and n. 66. 17 See IG XII/1 155 (Rhodes, 2nd cent. B.C.E.); IG II2 1368 (Athens, 2nd cent. C.E.); IG II2 1275 (Pireus, 3rd–2nd cent. B.C.E.); P.Cairo.Dem. 30605 (Tebtunis, 157/56 B.C.E.), 30606 (Tebtunis, 158/57 B.C.E.); P.Mich.Tebt. 243 (Tebtunis, early 1st cent. C.E.), 244 (Tebtunis, 43 C.E.).

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I, Krateia, from Alexandrou Nesos, have been wronged by Philip and Dionysius in the following way. My brother Apolodotos was a fellow member of the association with them. . . . When my brother died, not only did they not provide a funeral for him or accompany him to the burial site, in violation of the association’s rule, but they did not reimburse me for the expenses for his funeral. (P.Enteuxeis 20; 221 B.C.E.)

Written on the papyrus in a different handwriting is this response: “After examining the association’s rule, compel them to make good and if they contest, send them to me.” In another instance, a man files a similar complaint on behalf of his sister, whose family was not reimbursed for the funeral expenses, even though she was a member and a priestess of the association (P.Enteuxeis 21; 218 B.C.E.). In each case, despite the deceased’s being a member of an association, the association did not pay for the funeral, which in the eyes of the complainant, was a breach of contract. Another significant connection between associations and funerary practices is evidenced in a number of associations that patrons founded or endowed for the purpose of commemorating the anniversary of his or her death at the family tomb. Often association membership included not only the guarantee of a decent burial but also the possibility of the annual commemoration of one’s death.18 A significant number of association inscriptions indicate funerary practices of some sort, particularly memorials for the deceased. Often an already existing association was endowed with a bequest of money or property (for example, vineyards or land), the income of which was to be used for a memorial at the tomb of the deceased. The remainder of the income went to the association for its own use, probably for social gatherings such as banquets (see IG X/2 259; Thessalonica, 1st cent. C.E.). Occasionally an association was formed in order to keep an annual memorial for the deceased, as was the case with CIL III 656 (Selian, n.d.). Many of the Macedonian association inscriptions with funerary contexts indicate that the association was involved in a festival known as the rosalia:19 from Philippi and its surrounding area we have CIL III 703, 704, 707 (all n.d.);

18

See Ernest Renan, The Apostles (New York: Carleton, 1866), 285–86. On the rosalia, see Paul Perdrizet, “Inscriptions de Philippes,” 299–333; Poland, Geschichte des griechischen Vereinswesens, 511–13; Paul Collart, Philippes, ville de Macédonia, depuis ses origines jusqu’à la fin de la l’époque romaine (Thèse, Université de Genève 85; Paris: Boccard, 1937), 474–85; A. S. Hoey, “Rosaliae Signorum,” HTR 30 (1937): 22–30; Charles Picard and Charles Avezou, “Le testament de la prêtresse Thessalonicienne,” BCH 38 (1914): 53–62. The festival was popular throughout the Roman empire (C. Robert Phillips, “Rosalia or Rosaria,” OCD, 3rd ed., 1335). Poland notes that the evidence for associations involved with the rosalia comes primarily from Bithynia in Asia Minor and around Thessalonica and Philippi “in Thrace” [sic] (see Geschichte des griechischen Vereinswesens, 511). 19

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IMakedD 920 (n.d.); Pilhofer 133 (2nd–3rd cent. C.E.), 029/1 (n.d.).20 Many viciani (associations formed of members of a particular village) participated in the celebration of the rosalia or parentalia at the tomb of the deceased.21 The rosalia is mentioned in a Thessalonian inscription, IG X/2 260 (3rd cent. C.E.), where a priestess of a qivaso" bequeaths two plethra of grapevines to ensure that festivities involving rose crowns are conducted.22 Rosalia, or “day of roses,” was also the name of the Italian feast of the dead, in which the rose played a significant role in the funeral cult.23 The rosalia had two aspects: the commemoration of the deceased and the joyous celebration of the return of spring and summer with an emphasis on banqueting and fun.24 Since there is little evidence that the connection between roses and funerary practices was indigenous to Macedonia or Thrace before the coming of the Romans, it is probable that when the Italian colonists came to Macedonia they brought many of their own practices and beliefs with them, including the rosalia. Since Macedonia was famous for its roses,25 it is no surprise that Italian settlers imported the rosalia.26 It seems that “self-commemorators who introduced rosalia into their funerary arrangements were thus making a deliberate statement of (assumed) Roman cultural identity.”27

20 The abbreviation “Pilhofer” refers to Peter Pilhofer, Philippi, Band II, Katalog der Inschriften von Philippi (Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 2001). 21 The parentalia occurred for nine days in February (13–21). Temples were closed and marriages did not take place. The days were taken up with private celebrations for the family dead. The final day was a public ceremony called the Feralia, in which a household made offerings at the graves of its deceased members (see further Herbert J. Rose, “Feralia,” OCD, 2nd ed., 434; idem, “Parentalia,” OCD, 2nd ed., 781; Jon Davies, Death, Burial, and Rebirth in the Religions of Antiquity [Religion in the First Christian Centuries; London/New York: Routledge, 1999], 145–46). For benefaction to ensure that guild members hold a banquet at a tomb of a deceased member on the day of the parentalia, see CIL XI 5047 (Ocriculum, n.d.). An example of the parentalia in Macedonia is found in CIL III 656 from Selian (n.d.); see also Collart, Philippes, 474–75 n. 3 no. 7 and pp. 479–80. 22 Perdrizet points to a large sarcophagus from Thessalonica (now in the Louvre) on the lid of which a man and wife are shown in repose (“Inscriptions de Philippes,” 323). The wife holds in her hand a crown of roses. See further bibliography in ibid., 323 nn. 1 and 2. 23 The roses symbolized the return of la belle saison, when the earth seems to burst into life. 24 Hoey, “Rosaliae Signorum,” 22. 25 Charles Edson, “Cults of Thessalonica (Macedonica III),” HTR 41 (1948): 169; Picard and Avezou, “Testament de la prêtresse,” 53–54. On the making of rose crowns in Macedonia, see Theophrastus, De Causis Plant. 1.13.11 (Dion); Hist. Plant. 6.6.4 (the region around Philippi); and Herodotus 8.138.1 (below the eastern slopes of the Bermion range). 26 It is interesting to note that, although the Italian rosalia is celebrated, the Thracian Horseman often decorates the tombstones in Macedonian villages (Perdrizet, “Inscriptions de Philippes,” 320), obviously suggesting synchronistic funerary practices; see Pilhofer 029/1 (Philippi, n.d.), IMakedD 920 (Podgora, n.d.), and CIL III 704 (Reussilova, n.d.). 27 Van Nijf, Civic World of Professional Associations, 64.

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Foundations set up through the benefaction of an association brought honor not only to the person memorialized but also to the association: “Collegia entrusted with tasks which might ideally have gone to such organizations as the boule or the gerousia had to be regarded as trustworthy and respectable organizations.”28 This trust represented a claim on the part of the association of belonging to the polis and functioned as a means of establishing status in the hierarchical order of the polis, regardless of whether those outside the association noticed.29 In other words, it was a method of showing where they belonged in the larger social order. Thus, we see a wide range of practices concerning the dead within associations, from carrying out the funeral of a member or paying the expenses for a family funeral to setting up epitaphs and maintaining tombs, burial grounds, and columbaria (collective tombs made up of niches for individual urns). In many associations a major part of the commitment of the association to its membership would include the provision of burial or memorial, or at least a contribution toward the expenses of burial. Members of some associations were expected to bequeath property to the association.30

II. The Social Implications of Burial within Associations At this point we need to examine why the burial function of associations was so pervasive in the Greco-Roman period, particularly from the first century C.E. Without doubt, the burial activities of associations were linked to the larger social context of the time. A number of studies have investigated why associations assumed the tasks of burial and memorial. For the most part, the explanation asserts the need of the destitute for an assurance of burial.31 Scholars then link the needs of the destitute to the high mortality rates and the population distribution in the empire, concluding that many persons died without a surviving family member to perform the requisite burial rites. Thus, they had to rely on an association to perform traditional funerary rites.32 28

Ibid., 66. Ibid. 30 Rauh, Sacred Bonds, 255, citing CIL 14.2112 and Jean-Pierre Waltzing, Étude historique sur les corporations professionnelles chez les Romains depuis les origines jusqu’à la chute de l’empire d’Occident (Mémoires couronne’s et autres mémoires publiée par l’Académie Royale des Sciences, des Lettres et des Beaux-Arts de Belgique 50; Brussels: F. Hayez, 1895–1900), 4:440–44. 31 E.g., Keith Hopkins, Death and Renewal (Sociological Studies in Roman History 2; New York/Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 214. 32 For descriptions of these positions, see van Nijf, Civic World of Professional Associations, 33. Hopkins describes the problems surrounding the disposal of a large number of bodies every year and cites a first-century B.C.E. boundary stone that stipulates “No burning of corpses beyond 29

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While this analysis has some merit, it does not present the full picture. Burial by an association was a “relatively expensive privilege,” 33 and the expense of association dues would have kept the really destitute from joining. The breakdown of family connections is not a satisfactory explanation, because associations in small, relatively stable villages were just as likely to bury members as those in the city. Thus, Onno M. van Nijf points out, “being buried by a collegium was less a necessity than a conscious choice.”34 There must be other reasons for the choice to be buried by an association and the emphasis given to the deceased’s membership in an association. Van Nijf’s investigation of the social context of association burial practices is instructive.35 Monuments to the dead were the first things a visitor to Rome would see.36 The presence of burial places around the outskirts of a city, and the intermingling of these with roads, garden plots, sanctuaries, workshops, and homes, reveals a mixing of the living and the dead. “The city of the dead was in many ways an extension of the city of the living, and the ‘publicity’ provided by a tomb and its inscription was intended for a wider purpose than merely mortuary use; that is, it was intended to have an effect upon the wider community of citizens.”37 For this reason, the display of inscriptions, tombs, and monuments became an extension of the “zeal for honor” seen among the living in the Greco-Roman world. Burial places were the locus for continued affirmation of one’s wealth, social status, and identity. Indeed, given the proclivity to elaboration, one’s identity, and that of one’s compatriots, might even be somewhat enhanced with one’s death.38 As van Nijf so nicely summarizes, “Elites can use conspicuous consumption in death as a source of symbolic capital,” although the potential for social status “was also recognized by individuals lower down the social scale.”39 this marker in the direction of the city. No dumping of ordure or of corpses.” Underneath is written in red letters “Take shit further on, if you want to avoid trouble” (CIL VI 31615 [Rome, n.d.]; Death and Renewal, 210). 33 Van Nijf, Civic World of Professional Associations, 33. 34 Ibid. 35 The following is summarized from van Nijf, Civic World of Professional Associations, 34–38. 36 Hopkins, Death and Renewal, 205. In some Greek cities some heroes and important individuals were buried in front of public buildings; see Robert Garland, The Greek Way of Death (London: Duckworth, 1985), 88. 37 Van Nijf, Professional Associations, 35; cf. Sandra R. Joshel, Work, Identity, and Legal Status at Rome: A Study of the Occupational Inscriptions (Norman/London: University of Oklahoma Press, 1992), 7–8. Epitaphs also allow the dead to speak to the living from beyond the grave; Davies, Death, Burial, and Rebirth, 153–54. 38 See van Nijf, Civic World of Professional Associations, 35–36; Elizabeth A. Meyer, “Explaining the Epigraphic Habit in the Roman Empire: The Evidence of Epitaphs,” JRS 80 (1990): 74–96. 39 Van Nijf, Civic World of Professional Associations, 36–37.

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Funerary monuments, including inscriptions, “seem to speak the language of belonging.”40 Funerary practices reveal a “strategy of social differentiation” insofar as the type and extravagance of one’s memorial reflect one’s status. They are also a means of “cultural integration,” since they function as symbols of one’s place within the larger social context. Mausolea, tombs, and gravestones are examples of “conspicuous consumption in death,” something “the poor attempted, in relative terms, to imitate through membership of a collegium funeraticium.”41 During the imperial period a marked increase in funerary epitaphs that identified the occupation of the deceased, suggests that some change in the sense of community which made it more socially acceptable to construct one’s identity primarily in terms of occupation. Indications of collegium membership suggest that this was not just a matter for the individual: it helped to locate the deceased within a wider community of men who, like him, defined themselves in terms of shared occupation.42

The evidence takes us beyond the individual, allowing us to see that associations could use monuments “to assert a group identity in the face of others.”43 As an illustration of the social sense of belonging that arises through funerary practices, van Nijf points to an association inscription from Thessalonica, IG X/2 824 (3rd cent. C.E.), in which there seems to be competition over whose remains would occupy a particular niche in the association’s columbarium. The epitaph reads, in part, For Tyche. I have made this niche in commemoration of my own partner out of joint efforts. If one of my brothers dares to open this niche, he shall pay. . . .44

This epitaph suggests a practice in which desirable places within the columbarium might be opened in order to replace the remains of the one interred there with the remains of another. This desire for an honorable place within the association even in death suggests that burial practices continued to reinforce the negotiation for a sense of place within an association, expressed in the honorific practices and competitions of the living members. It is probable, then, that the more general prohibition among association inscriptions against disturbing tombs may be directed to other association members rather than to outsiders.45 40

Ibid., 38. Richard Gordon, Mary Beard, Joyce Reynolds, and Charlotte Roueché, “Roman Inscriptions 1986-90,” JRS 83 (1993): 151. 42 Van Nijf, Civic World of Professional Associations, 42. 43 Ibid., 49. 44 Translation in ibid., 46. I follow van Nijf here in taking ajdelfov" as a reference to a guild member rather than an actual familial relationship (p. 46 n. 73). 45 Ibid., 46. For the more general prohibition, see Tituli Asiae Minoris Supplements III 197 and 201 (both Rough Cilicia, mid-1st cent. C.E.). For the more general regulations around association responsibility for a tomb and fines for desecration going to an association, see IEphesus 2212 41

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Other studies support the contention that burial and group belonging cannot be separated. In describing the associations, Nicholas Rauh notes that “by providing opportunities for men with common interests or backgrounds to join together in festival and camaraderie, and to share with one another peak moments of human experience (i.e., births, marriages, festivals, and funerals), they allowed for the development of commonly shared values, friendship, and familial bonds essential to the formation of ancient trade.”46 From his analysis of the burial and commemoration practices of voluntary associations on Rhodes, Peter M. Fraser notes that the “commemorative reunions at the tomb were certainly not only calculated to keep alive the memory of the departed ‘friend’ or ‘brother,’ but also in general to cement the bonds which linked the members of the koinon to each other.”47 It seems that Philip A. Harland is correct in asserting that “the cultic, social and burial functions of associations were very much interconnected.”48 The role associations played in the burial and memorial of their members cannot be separated from their sense of group identity, nor from the sense of identity that individuals would gain within the group. This connection can be seen in the honors given to a treasurer of an association in Piraeus for, among other things, paying for some members’ tombs from his own pocket “so that even though they have died they might remain noble” (IG II2 1327; 178/77 B.C.E.). Here a living member of the association is concerned that the deceased members be properly honored. Doing so, however, reflects not only on his own honor but also the honor of the deceased individuals and the overall honor of the group of living members (insofar as they take care of their own). Again, van Nijf nicely summarizes the point: “Craftsmen and traders, just like other groups in society, used funerary epigraphy to make statements about their own identity and about their acquired or desired status in civic life.”49 The concern for group identity links well with numerous studies that have suggested that the first century C.E. was a time of social disruption. The burgeoning merchant class and the need of artisans across the empire caused many

(silversmiths; mid-1st cent. C.E.); IHierapJ 227 (purple-dyers; Hierapolis, 200–250 C.E.); Pennacchietti 07 (water mill owners and operators; Hierapolis, n.d.); Pennacchietti 25 (gardeners; Hierapolis, n.d.). 46 Rauh, Sacred Bonds, 40–41, citing Waltzing, Étude historique sur les corporations professionnelles, 1:322. 47 Fraser, Rhodian Funerary Monuments, 63. This should not overlook the importance placed on the desire to have oneself remembered by others; see Davies, Death, Burial, and Renewal, 140. 48 Philip A. Harland, “Claiming a Place in Polis and Empire: The Significance of Imperial Cults and Connections among Associations, Synagogues and Christian Groups in Roman Asia (c. 27 B.C.E.–138 C.E.)” (Ph.D. diss., Centre for the Study of Religion, University of Toronto, 1999), 66. 49 Van Nijf, Civic World of Professional Associations, 68.

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to migrate to new places in order to best employ their skills. It is, to use Jonathan Z. Smith’s words, a time of “a new geography.”50 As a result, the usual expressions and experiences of religion have been detached from their roots in domestic religion, since “the extended family, the home place, as well as the burial place of the honored dead are no longer coextensive topoi.” Smith goes on to suggest that to overcome this situation the domestic religion transmutes. An association becomes the “socially constructed replacement for the family,” which is overlaid with a new myth: a true home is imagined “above” and replaces the longed-for home “down here.”51 Through such myth making, the religion of the domestic sphere becomes the religion of any sphere, transportable to new locales precisely because a person’s true connection is “on high” (cf. Paul’s claim that the Philippians’ politeuma is “in heaven” [Phil 3:20]). Smith states: “Locale, having been dis-placed, is now re-placed.”52 Burial becomes an important aspect of this social construction. For example, in imperial Rome patrons would often “construct a large tomb complex to house the remains not only of their natural families but also of their household slaves, ex-slaves and their families.”53 John R. Patterson attributes the central place of the collegia in the burial practices in imperial Rome to the association’s “humanizing” of the city by providing opportunities for social interaction as “a remedy against the anonymity of life in a city of a million people.”54 More interesting for our study is his analysis of the burial of individuals, in which cooperation is exhibited between an association and the deceased’s family members. This cooperation was worked out in both financial and social terms: The clubs therefore provided a double form of insurance. If a member died without leaving a family, he would be buried by the club and saved from the ignominy and anonymity of a pauper’s burial. If on the other hand an heir did exist at the time of his death, the club would provide a sum of money for the heir to pay for the funeral (which would otherwise be the first charge on the estate) or perhaps in some cases a niche in the club’s columbarium. The clubs provided an institution which could in normal circumstances be relied upon

50 Jonathan Z. Smith, “Here, There, and Anywhere,” unpublished keynote address to the conference entitled “Prayer, Magic, and the Stars in the Ancient and Late Antique World,” University of Washington, Department of Near Eastern Languages and Civilization (March 3–5, 2000), 14. 51 Smith, “Here, There, and Anywhere,” 14–15. 52 Ibid., 15; cf. idem, Map Is Not Territory: Studies in the History of Religions (Chicago/London: University of Chicago Press, 1978), xii–xv. 53 John R. Patterson, “Patronage, Collegia, and Burial in Imperial Rome,” in Death in Towns: Urban Responses to the Dying and the Dead 100–1600 (ed. S. Bassett; Leicester: Leicester University Press, 1992), 18 (emphasis his). 54 Ibid., 22–23.

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Journal of Biblical Literature to provide a cash sum to pay for a funeral without (much) danger of misappropriation or loss.55

Thus, the associations became an aspect of familial funerary duties within the social fabric of the time.56 Certainly voluntary associations are implicated in the social construction of fictive kinship. Fictive kin language such as that of “brotherhood” can be found in associations. For example, a monument from Sinope, Pontus, refers to oiJ ajdelfoi; eujxavmenoi,57 and another in Tanais refers to itself as ijsopoihtoi; ajdelfoi; sebovmenoi qeo;n u{yiston (“the adopted brothers worshiping god Hypsistos”).58 Associations in Rome “tended to have a columbarium together with a portico or garden where funeral feasts could be eaten.”59 Such associative practices replace the more traditional custom of having a family meal. Outside of Rome, associations often had a field or enclosure that they used as a burial ground and a place for the communal meal. Such communal post-funerary meals served “to reunite all the surviving members of the group with each other, and sometimes also with the deceased, in the same way that a chain which has been broken by the disappearance of one of its links must be rejoined.”60

III. Social Issues behind 1 Thessalonians 4:13–18 We have examined how the burial of association members functioned as a means of community formation and an affirmation of social belonging. We now turn our attention to the issue of the dead in 1 Thess 4:13–18. When Paul writes to the Thessalonians, he is aware of at least two questions that are under discussion among them: a question of proper conduct for Christians (4:1–12) and a question about “those who had died” (4:13). Burton Mack suggests that “the exhortation to a life of holiness was Paul’s answer to the question about proper conduct. The apocalyptic instruction was Paul’s answer to the question about those who had died.”61 However, Paul’s answer is more than theological. All four units of this section of the body of 1 Thessalonians (4:1–8; 4:9–12; 4:13–18; 55

Ibid., 23. Cf. Davies, Death, Burial, and Rebirth, 142. 57 G. Doublet, “Inscriptions de Paphlagonie,” BCH 13 (1889): 303–4, no. 7. 58 IPontEux II 449–52, 456 (Bosphorus, 3rd cent. C.E.); Harland, “Claiming a Place,” 33. See further Ascough, “Voluntary Associations and Community Formation,” 324–25; S. Scott Bartchy, “Undermining Ancient Patriarchy: The Apostle Paul’s Vision of a Society of Siblings,” BTB 29 (1999): 68–71. 59 Patterson, “Patronage, Collegia, and Burial,” 21. 60 A. van Gennep, The Rites of Passage (London: Routledge, 1960), 164, quoted in Garland, Greek Way of Death, 39. 61 Mack, Who Wrote the New Testament, 108. 56

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5:1–11) not only provide the Thessalonians with indications for their life of faith but serve as opportunities for Paul to prove what he states earlier, that their faithfulness in the life of belief will be the source of his honor at Jesus’ parousia (1 Thess 2:19–20). Thus, Paul links questions of faith and belief to his own status in the community, and he links the translation of that status to something greater at a future, divine event. His concern is a matter not of his credibility but of his honor as founder and (spiritual) representative of the community. At the same time, Paul uses his eschatological thoughts as the basis for hope, which determines the nature of corporate life for those who worship Jesus. The apocalyptic instruction is as much a part of community building as is the exhortation to a life of holiness. Paul begins his comments by linking the death of individuals to the broader community issue of grief. Paul is not simply addressing one or two individuals who are grieving the loss of a loved one. Paul’s use of fictive kinship terminology (ajdelfoiv) to appeal to the Thessalonians emphasizes the corporate nature of the issue. Yet Paul is not reiterating preestablished teachings; this issue is new territory for Paul, and “[w]e can almost see Paul working it out on the spot, desperately trying to find a way to answer the question about those who have died.”62 Some scholars suggest that Paul failed to convey to the Thessalonians that some of their members might die before the parousia of Jesus and that he must now face that issue in light of the death of some.63 However, “it is unlikely that Paul had failed to encountered [sic] Christians who had experienced the death of fellow believers” during the course of his ministry.64 Thus, another concern must lie behind the question of grieving over dead members.65 We suggest that it is a concern over belonging in the community. In his opening remark in 1 Thess 4:13–18 Paul seems to contrast Christian and pagan grief, expressing his hope that the Thessalonians “may not grieve as others do who have no hope” (4:13). This “grief without hope” is expressed in

62

Ibid., 111. Other scholars suggest that “Gnostic interlopers” have infiltrated the community, although, as Charles A. Wanamaker points out, such suggestions caricature Gnosticism and do not recognize the absence of anti-Gnostic polemic in the letter (The Epistles to the Thessalonians: A Commentary on the Greek Text [NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1990], 165). At the same time, an alternative suggestion that some of the Thessalonians lost confidence in the parousia “runs up against the fact that Paul nowhere in the letter seeks to reassure, let alone prove, that the parousia would take place” (ibid., 165.) Some scholars suggest that the Thessalonians did not fully understand Paul’s view of the parousia and believed it to be only for the living, not the dead. 64 Wanamaker, Thessalonians, 165. 65 For a discussion of the various proposals that have been put forth by scholars, see Earl J. Richard, First and Second Thessalonians (SP 11; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1995), 232; Abraham J. Malherbe, The Letter to the Thessalonians: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 32B; New York: Doubleday, 2000), 264; Wanamaker, Thessalonians, 164–66. 63

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the many ancient tombstones from across the Roman empire that attest to the notion that death was simply the cessation of life and that with death there was little hope for the future. For example, a Latin inscription from Beneventum, Italy, reads, “If you want to know who I am, the answer is ash and burnt embers” (CIL IX 1837; n.d.).66 Another records this statement: We are nothing. See, reader, how quickly we mortals return from nothing to nothing. (CIL VI 26003; Rome, n.d.)

There is the more perfunctory, “I didn’t exist, I existed, I don’t exist, I don’t care” (CIL V 2283; Altinum, n.d.),67 while other inscriptions offer practical advice for living: Friends, who read this, listen to my advice: mix wine, tie the garlands around your head, drink deep. And do not deny pretty girls the sweets of love. When death comes, earth and fire consume everything. (CIL VI 17985a; Rome, n.d.)

However, not all pagans had “no hope.”68 For example, a father expresses grief for his nine-year-old daughter along with hope of reunion in the afterlife: The cruel Fates have left me a sad old age. I shall always be searching for you, my darling Asiatica. Sadly shall I often imagine your face to comfort myself. My consolation will be that soon I shall see you, when my own life is done, and my shadow is joined with yours. (CIL XI 3711; Phrygia, time of Severus)

Survival after death is indicated in the many goods that were buried with an individual, which were intended to make the person’s life after death more pleasant.69 In some cases, pipes were built into the tombs so that food and drink could be delivered to the dead.70 We see, then, that it would be incorrect simply to assume that in 1 Thess 4:13 Paul’s injunction against grieving like those who have no hope is contrasting Christians with all non-Christians. Some non-Christians did hold onto a hope for postmortem reunion with loved ones. Mack raises some important considerations for determining the context of the Thessalonians’ questions around those who have died. He places these questions into the context of the 66

Translations of these Latin epitaphs are found in Hopkins, Death and Renewal, 227–30. Hopkins notes that this is so common that it is sometimes expressed simply by the initials nf f ns nc (non fui, fui, non sum, non curo) (Death and Renewal, 230). 68 For examples of epitaphs that reflect a belief in the future life, see Richmond Lattimore, Themes in Greek and Latin Epitaphs (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1942), 45–74, 208–9. 69 Hopkins, Death and Renewal, 229. 70 Ibid., 234; Davies, Death, Burial, and Rebirth, 152. 67

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Thessalonians’ joining a new “family,” suggesting that they are struggling with their responsibilities toward those who have died. They are wrestling with whether the dead members of the family are incorporated into the larger family of God and God’s kingdom. As Mack writes, “they were asking, do our dead still belong to us and we to them?”71 Similarly, Earl Richard states, “careful reading of 4:13–18 suggests that it is not the resurrection of the dead which is at issue, but the status of those who die before the Lord’s return,” particularly “the status of the Christian dead and living vis-à-vis the returning Lord.”72 Abraham Malherbe likewise locates the underlying issue of the passage in terms of how living and dead Christians would each participate in the events marking the end of this world and “how their experience would affect their relationship with each other.”73 Mack poses some other important questions including: What if joining the Christ cult exacerbated the problem instead of solving it? What if joining the Christ cult had inadvertently threatened one’s sense of belonging to the ancestral traditions lodged in the local cult of the dead? Could that have been the occasion for the question in Thessalonica about those who had died?

From our earlier investigation of burial practices within associations, other questions can be raised, such as, “What if adherence to the Christ-deliverer disrupted a pattern of burial practices without offering anything in its stead?” or “What impact did the death of members have on the social cohesion of the Thessalonian Christian community?”74 When Paul first began speaking with those living and working in Thessalonica, he probably brought them a message that defined death as the “enemy” of the living. We know from 1 Cor 15:21–22 that Paul linked death to the result of sin, brought into this world through Adam. It is death that will be overcome in the triumphal return of Jesus (1 Cor 15:54–55). Death is the last enemy to be destroyed (1 Cor 15:26) in the conflagration that is the coming wrath (1 Thess 1:10, cf. 4:6; Phil 3:20).75 71

Mack, Who Wrote the New Testament, 110. Richard, Thessalonians, 231–32. 73 Malherbe, Thessalonians, 275. 74 I have argued elsewhere that there is evidence that the Thessalonians’ turning to God from idols (1 Thess 1:9) was a collective experience (Ascough, “Thessalonian Christian Community,” 322–24). If this is the case, the prevailing issue for the Thessalonians is a matter of how an already existing group would redefine itself through its alliance with this new patron deity named Jesus Christ. 75 See Judith L. Hill, “Establishing the Church in Thessalonica” (diss., Duke University, 1990), 177: “While it is unlikely that Paul elaborated greatly on eschatology to unbelievers in Thessalonica, his message to prospective converts did include mention of a coming judgment (1 Thess. 1:10; 5:9), a distinct part of apocalyptic writings. The message of impending wrath had to be given 72

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Having accepted Paul’s preaching about deliverance from the coming wrath,76 the Thessalonians may have felt some consternation, even betrayal, that some of their members died before that deliverance arrived. Normally, the living members of an association would have ensured both a proper burial and a pattern of commemoration for the deceased. However, such practices would need no planning in light of the immanent appearance of the deity.77 The Thessalonians’ question to Paul over the dead members may be linked to a practice that they thought could be suspended, the practice of burial and memorial. Paul’s words on this issue indicate that the Thessalonians are not engaging in unacceptable practices (as were the Galatians) or engaging in inner-group disputes (as were the Corinthians). Rather, Paul treats the issue as one of ignorance on the part of the Thessalonians—ouj qevlomen de; uJma'" ajgnoei'n (1 Thess 4:13). Their thinking has led to an attitude of grieving (lupevw). Paul links their thinking to “those who have no hope.” As we have seen, however, the category of those without hope does not include all pagans. Many persons in antiquity did hold out hope for an afterlife for the dead, a hope that was expressed in their funerary practices. The context of Paul’s comments in 1 Thess 4:13–18 is Paul’s response to a number of issues raised by the Thessalonians, including brotherly love (4:9–11) and the timing of Jesus’ return (5:1–11).78 That they are concerned over their deceased members and that they may be aligned with the hopeless suggest that, in their former belief system, they did have hope for those who died. Their thinking has changed as a result of their acceptance of Jesus as their patron deity. by Paul in order to differentiate his God from others and to prepare the Thessalonians to make a commitment to the true and living God who provided a Deliverer (1 Thess. 1:9–10). Yet among the Gentile population Paul did not highlight any aspects of apocalypticism that gave predominance to the Jews or that might have had offensive overtones.” 76 Abraham J. Malherbe, Paul and the Thessalonians: The Philosophic Tradition of Pastoral Care (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987), 30; John M. G. Barclay, “Thessalonica and Corinth: Social Contrasts in Pauline Christianity,” JSNT 47 (1992): 50; idem, “Conflict in Thessalonica,” CBQ 55 (1993): 516; Charles A. Wanamaker, “‘Like a Father Treats His Own Children’: Paul and the Conversion of the Thessalonians,” JTSA 92 (1995): 52. 77 Pushing the historical imagination further, it may be that they have also ceased their practice of collecting regular dues that go into the common chest in order to pay for burial. Indeed, perhaps the funds were even diverted to Paul, since he acknowledges the financial support of the Macedonians (2 Cor 8:1–3), although I think he is specifying the Philippians. Perhaps the grumbling over his hasty departure with these funds is behind his self-defense in 1 Thess 2:1–12. 78 Paul’s opening peri; dev constructions in 4:9 and 5:1 suggest that Paul is responding to questions posed by the Thessalonians, either in writing or through Timothy, and thus the section in between these two verses, 4:13–18, is also a response to the Thessalonians’ questions; see Abraham J. Malherbe, “Did the Thessalonians Write to Paul?” in The Conversation Continues: Studies in Paul and John in Honor of J. Louis Martyn, ed. Robert T. Fortna and Beverly Roberts Gaventa (Nashville: Abingdon, 1990), 246–57.

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Such a change in thinking would naturally result in a change of practice—in this case, a cessation of the usual commemorative rituals. Doing so, however, results in a greater feeling of loss for the Thessalonian community members. Thus, underlying the Thessalonians’ question to Paul seems to be the issue of whether the dead members can still be considered part of the community— clearly an issue of belonging and identity. The Thessalonians’ cessation of the forum of funerary epigraphy and commemoration, resulting from Paul’s preaching, is perceived by them to indicate that any member who dies is no longer part of the association. For the Thessalonians, the dead no longer have hope for the salvation found in Jesus’ return. In his response to the Thessalonians’ concern, Paul makes an interesting choice of words to describe the state of deceased Christians. For Paul, these Christians have not died; rather, they have “fallen asleep” (koimavomai, 1 Thess 4:13).79 Whereas his initial preaching about sin causing death might have led the Thessalonians to conclude that those who have died are no longer qualified to be with Jesus when he returns, Paul carefully refers to the dead Christians as “sleeping.” In such a state they are still very much a part of the community. For Paul, their death does not indicate that they have “sinned.” Thus, there is no need for the living Christians to dissociate themselves from the dead members. Rather, it is their state of sleeping that requires the Thessalonians to include them in their definition of community. As Wayne Meeks puts it, Paul is not offering any general theodicy, any general “solution” to the problem of death. It is not the problem of death as a universal phenomenon that is addressed here, but just the power of death to shatter the unique bonds of intimate new community.80

The Thessalonian Christian community can continue to include their dead members who, according to Paul, not only are considered members of the association but also will hold a privileged position at the parousia of Jesus—“we who are alive, who are left until the coming of the Lord, will by no means precede those who have died” (1 Thess 4:15).81 79 It is in contexts of speaking about Christians who have died that Paul uses the verb koimavomai (1 Cor 7:39; 11:30; 15:6, 18, 20, 51; 1 Thess 4:13, 14, 15). Paul uses qanatovw in contexts where death is metaphorical (Rom 7:4; 8:13, 36; 2 Cor 6:9) and “the dead” (nekroiv) include Christians and non-Christians. I am not suggesting that Paul coins the metaphor koimavomai for death, as the word koimavomai was used for death before Paul. However, we do want to note his interesting word choice. 80 Wayne A. Meeks, “Social Functions of Apocalyptic Language in Pauline Christianity,” in Apocalypticism in the Mediterranean World and the Near East: Proceedings of the International Colloquium on Apocalypticism, Uppsala, August 12–17, 1979 (ed. David Hellholm; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1983), 693. 81 For the Corinthians, the presenting situation—the membership of dead members—is the same as for the Thessalonians; however, their response is different. Whereas the Thessalonians

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Having assured the Thessalonians that those who have died are still members of Christ’s community, Paul turns his attention to how the dead will take priority over the living at the return of Christ (1 Thess 4:16–17). Paul turns to the language and imagery familiar to him through Jewish apocalyptic literature. Numerous studies have examined the background of Paul’s thinking in these verses. For example, in his survey of views on the origins of the parousia, final judgment, and the Day of the Lord in Paul’s writings, Larry Kreitzer emphasizes the Hebrew Bible and Jewish pseudepigrapha as the originating point for Paul’s ideas.82 There has been little attention paid, however, to how Paul’s audiences would have understood these images. The Thessalonian Christians were predominantly Gentile83 and thus not likely to be familiar with Jewish apocalypticism. Nor is it likely that they were thoroughly taught it by Paul while he lived and worked among them, since Paul seems to be introducing new concepts in 1 Thessalonians. Therefore, rather than explore the theology of Jewish apocalyptic literature, we are better served grieved and worried about the status of dead members, for the Corinthians the dead members were not considered “lost” but were still to be included in the larger associative community. This belief works itself out in the practice of the Corinthians being baptized on behalf of the dead (1 Cor 15:29). Since at least some of the Corinthians were already moving toward a philosophy that would later become “Gnosticism,” they were able to incorporate the recently departed into their larger mythic framework. Paul’s response to the Corinthians, on the other hand, represents an alternative process of myth making, one that builds on a process already employed in addressing a similar situation at Thessalonica. He affirms a bodily resurrection of the dead Christians as a means of affirming their continued inclusion in the association. In 1 Thessalonians and 1 Corinthians we see the reflection of two similar situations concerning the question of the status of dead members. It is most likely that the questions arose from a similar sociocultural milieu. Although each community has a somewhat different response, Paul’s own response is consistent but develops as part of his own myth making for each community. 82 Larry J. Kreitzer, Jesus and God in Paul’s Eschatology (JSNTSup 19; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1987), 93–129; see also M. C. de Boer, The Defeat of Death: Apocalyptic Eschatology in 1 Corinthians 15 and Romans 5 (JSNTSup 22; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1988), 181–83. After a detailed study of “echoes” of LXX texts in the words of Paul, particularly the text of Psalm 46 (LXX), Craig A. Evans asserts that “it is clear that Paul has pulled together a variety of traditions in forming 1 Thess. 4.13–5.11” (“Ascending and Descending with a Shout: Psalm 47.6 and 1 Thessalonians 4.16,” in Paul and the Scriptures of Israel (ed. Craig A. Evans and James A. Sanders; JSOTSup 83; Studies in Scripture in Early Judaism and Christianity 1; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993], 251). He then suggests that the material had taken shape before Paul’s usage: “it is not necessary, therefore, to suppose that Paul was conscious of the precise biblical origin of each tradition.” Evans concludes that Paul “may or may not have been conscious” of the inherited biblical material. This being so, one might then ask, what difference does it make to know the precise origin of the texts (the “echoes”)? Is it not more informative to examine how the text functions in its context for the intended audience? 83 See Ascough, “Thessalonian Christian Community,” 311–13; idem, Paul’s Macedonian Associations, 191–212.

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to focus attention on how Paul employed apocalyptic images in support of social practices at Thessalonica.84 We need to examine how the Thessalonians might have heard Paul’s apocalyptic language in light of their shared community practices. To do so, we turn again to the wider social context of the GrecoRoman world.85 Despite frequent claims to the contrary, eschatological and apocalyptic ideas were not limited to Jews in the first century C.E. As Hubert Cancik documents, “eschatological ideas appear in various forms and genres,” not only in Judaism but also “in the fine literature of the Greeks—their epics, their wisdom, and their natural philosophy.”86 Nevertheless, “discussions of Jewish and then Christian cosmic, universal eschatology have mostly ignored contemporary pagan ideas, or mentioned them only in contrast.”87 This notion needs rectification through attention to the pagan ideas. In some philosophical traditions, particularly those of the Epicureans and the Stoics, there was a belief that this world would come to an end.88 Pliny the Elder echoed an Epicurean view when he wrote, “You can almost see that the stature of the whole human race is decreasing daily, with few men taller than

84 Although Christianity and its myths have much in common with the Hebrew Bible and other Jewish writings, Jonathan Z. Smith, in his book Drudgery Divine, has adequately documented the extent to which this reality is used to insulate Christianity from its pagan surroundings. Nevertheless, many scholars still maintain that all things Christian originate in things Jewish. For example, Martin Hengel argued recently that “early Christianity grew entirely out of Jewish soil” and that “whatever pagan influences have been suspected in the origins of Christianity were mediated without exception by Judaism” even in the Diaspora (“Early Christianity as a JewishMessianic, Universalistic Movement,” in Conflicts and Challenges in Early Christianity (ed. Donald A. Hagner; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1999], 1–3, 14). 85 John S. Kloppenborg has framed well the context when he writes, “much of the conceptual apparatus employed in the description of Pauline communities derives either from Acts, according to which Pauline groups are offshoots of synagogues, or from Paul’s own rhetoric, according to which Paul ‘founded’ churches and claimed responsibility for their organization and orientation. This is to confuse rhetorical statement and its persuasive goals with a description of Pauline communities and assumes, implausibly, that peoples in the cities of the Empire, who had been organizing themselves as thiasotai, eranistai, orgeones, collegia, and syssitoi for more than four centuries were somehow at a loss when it came to organizing a cult group devoted to Christ” (“Critical Histories and Theories of Religion: A Response to Ron Cameron and Burton Mack,” MTSR 8 [1996]: 282–83). 86 Hubert Cancik, “The End of the World, of History, and of the Individual in Greek and Roman Antiquity,” in The Encyclopedia of Apocalypticism, vol. 1, The Origins of Apocalypticism in Judaism and Christianity (ed. John J. Collins; New York/London: Continuum, 2000), 84–85. 87 F. Gerald Downing, “Common Strands in Pagan, Jewish and Christian Eschatologies in the First Christian Centuries,” in Making Sense in (and of) the First Christian Century (ed. F. Gerald Downing; JSNTSup 197; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 170. 88 The following examples can be found in Downing, “Common Strands,” 174.

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their fathers, as the crucial conflagration which our age is approaching exhausts the fertility of human semen” (Nat. 7.16.73). A similar idea is found in Lucretius: “Even now, indeed, the power of life is broken, and earth, exhausted, scarce produces tiny creatures, she who once produced all kinds, and gave birth to the huge bodies of wild beasts” (De rerum natura 2.1150–52). Such sentiments reflect a belief not only in the decline of the natural world but also in the expectation of a cataclysmic ending. Other writers of the time such as Pliny the Younger and Seneca had similar notions.89 F. Gerald Downing concludes, “The way the end, the final destruction, is pictured, seems very similar in various pagan, Jewish and Christian writings.” More to the point, “much of the same range of views as were available to Jews in Palestine were readily available and current and certainly comprehensible in the Greco-Roman world cultural context—where a fair number of them probably originated, anyway.”90 In the face of such an ending, the gods were not marginalized. Cancik notes: [t]he proliferation of signs of misfortune gives rise to fear that “eternal night” will darken the world and the hope for a savior: “do not prevent this young man from coming to the aid of the overthrown world” (Virgil, Georgica 1.500f., 468ff., 493). In the schema of question and answer and with an instruction discourse, Apollo answers the question whether the soul endures after death or is dissolved. The visionary women of Dodona, as the first women, say: “Zeus was, Zeus is, Zeus will be, O great Zeus!” (Pausanias 10.12.5).91

An inscription from Asia Minor records an oracle of the foundation of a cult of Poseidon in Tralles: “Gentle Earth-shaker, enwreathed by a seawater altar, set us free from the wrath (mhv n ima) of Father Zeus for one thousand years” (ITralleis 1; 2nd or 3rd cent. C.E.). It seems that there was an earthquake that the city escaped. Since Poseidon himself was given the epithet of “earthshaker” (Seisichton), he was given thanks for protecting the city from the wrath of Zeus, which was manifested in the earthquake. In pagan eschatology the world, or parts of it, comes under threat, even threat of annihilation, and it is the gods who can either provoke it or prevent it. Neither Jewish nor Christian apocalyptic thinking influenced the philosophers and epigraphers who discuss eschatology. This is not to say that Paul was not influenced by Jewish apocalypticism—it is likely that he was. The point is that the Thessalonians need not have been aware of Jewish apocalyptic thought for Paul’s words to make sense. 89

Ibid., 177. See further Lattimore, Greek and Latin Epitaphs, 44–48. Downing, “Common Strands,” 180, 185. 91 Cancik, “End of the World,” 91. 90

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Paul’s first preaching at Thessalonica did not arise out of a communal feeling of isolation and oppression,92 as is often the case with apocalyptic. However, to convince the Thessalonians to “turn” from their gods, Paul needed a rhetorical device to convince them of their need. It is unlikely that Paul’s device was the sheer attraction of “monotheism” or the attraction of “Judaism sans circumcision,” which are the usual suggestions, bolstered by the Acts account. Rather, Paul needed to convince his audience of the superiority of his God. How better to instill superiority than to threaten destruction? When one announces a coming cataclysmic destruction and then promises “deliverance” only to those who align themselves with this God, and this God alone, it plays well in a community already used to such discussions. This does not make them “apocalyptic” or millenarian, just scared of destruction. No matter where Paul derived the seeds of this fledgling myth (i.e., Jewish apocalyptic), it plays in a unique way for his Thessalonian audience. The pagan context provides enough evidence that belief in an afterlife and fear of a divinely mandated cataclysm were widely known. However, the problem is not that “the Greek Thessalonians found it difficult to bring the apocalyptic expectations of resurrection and Parousia together into a systematic whole.”93 Rather, it is the death of some members before the expected wrath that causes them to raise social questions, not theological questions, about who is considered a member of the association.94

IV. Conclusion For many people in the Greco-Roman world, associations provided opportunities for seeking personal and corporate meaning for one’s life. Paul’s contribution to the formative stages of this social grouping includes both his assurance of deliverance from the wrath of God and his words on the place that the dead members will have in the events unfolding around the return of Jesus. 92 Mack, Who Wrote the New Testament, 109; contra the thesis of Todd D. Still, Conflict at Thessalonica: A Pauline Church and Its Neighbours (JSNTSup 183; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999). 93 Malherbe, Thessalonians, 284. He suggests that although both concepts are Jewish apocalyptic ideas that were present in pre-Pauline Christianity, “they were brought together for the first time in 1 Thess 4:13-18.” 94 Meeks seems to link Paul’s use of “apocalyptic” to moral admonition for the overall health of the community by pointing to the parenetic section of 5:13–22 (“Social Functions,” 694). However, this latter section takes up a new issue within the letter and thus need not be linked. It is not clear how Meeks thinks “internal discipline” and “obedience of leaders” can be linked to questions about those who have died.

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Paul reassures the Thessalonians that the dead members of the Christian association still belong to the community and will have a part in the anticipated return of their patron deity. There is no reason for them to give up hope, any more than there is reason for them to give up burial practices. The burial practices reaffirm, as they always did within associations, the continuing membership of the deceased in the community of the living. They, too, will participate in the return of Jesus. Thus, Paul can exhort the Thessalonians to “encourage one another with these words” (1 Thess 4:18).

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CRITICAL NOTE wn[dy ym awh `naw lkm blh bq[ (JEREMIAH 17:9)

What does Jeremiah mean when he asserts that the heart is “crooked” (bq[)?1 Many commentators take the prophet to be bemoaning the heart’s deceitfulness. According to William McKane, for example, Jer 17:9 expounds “the incurable sickness of perversity and deceit with which it [the heart] is afflicted.”2 The verse thus attests a popular biblical motif, the universality of sin.3 This approach to Jer 17:9, which I shall

I thank Dr. Richard Steiner, Professor John Collins, and Aaron Koller for their comments on earlier drafts of this note. 1 The LXX renders the first word of the verse as baqei'a, “deep.” This may be an interpretation of bq[. Alternatively, the LXX’s Vorlage may have contained qm[, “deep,” rather than bq[. Bernhard Duhm assumes the latter and cites Ps 64:7 (blh qm[) as evidence that qm[ is original in Jer 17:9 (Das Buch Jeremia [KHC 11; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1901], 146). Further support for a Vorlage with qm[ may come from the Peshitta, which translates >ashiyn, “strong.” This rendering is elucidated by Ugaritic, which employs two homonymous roots >mq, one meaning “deep” and the other “strong.” See John Huehnergard, Ugaritic Vocabulary in Syllabic Transcription (HSS 32; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987), 160. Biblical Hebrew attests the latter in Job 39:21 and perhaps in Jer 47:5. According to Jonas C. Greenfield, the Peshitta sees the root qm[, “strong,” in the phrase hrs wqym[h (Isa 31:6), which it translates as dshenton marduta<, “for you have been strongly rebellious” (“Ugaritic Lexicographical Notes,” JCS 21 [1967]: 89). It is therefore possible that the Peshitta here, too, witnesses a Vorlage with qm[. However, the evidence from the Peshitta is undermined by Michael Weitzman’s observation on the Peshitta’s translation technique: “Vague guesses often involve the use of a ‘drudge word’. The commonest root so used is >shn” (The Syriac Version of the Old Testament [University of Cambridge Oriental Publications 56; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999], 41). Two scrolls from Qumran evidence qm[. In the fragmentary 4QJera, the first word of Jer 17:9 ends with a b. See Emanuel Tov, Qumran Cave 4, X: The Prophets (DJD 15; Oxford: Clarendon, 1997), 163. 4Q418 frag. 8 line 12 , evidently quoting from Jer 17:9, reads: [lk]m blh bwq[. See John Strugnell and Daniel J. Harrington, eds., Qumran Cave 4, XXIV: Sapiental Texts, Part 2 (DJD 34; Oxford: Clarendon, 1999), 232. The MT is also bolstered by Sir 36:25 (MS B), which speaks of the bwq[ bl. Tg. Neb. (lykn, “deceitful”) and Vulg. (pravum) also witness bq[. 2 William McKane, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Jeremiah (2 vols.; ICC; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1986), 1:398. 3 See, e.g., Gen 6:5; 8:21; 1 Kgs 8:46; Ps 143:2; Prov 20:9; Qoh 7:20. Jeremiah 17:9, on the above interpretation, strengthens the claim of universal sin in two ways. First, wickedness is characteristic not merely of people’s deeds (as in, e.g., 1 Kgs 8:46; Ps 143:2), or of the imagination (rxy) of their heart (as in Gen 6:5; 8:21), but of the heart itself. Second, the heart is not merely evil, but the most evil thing. Jean Calvin is sensitive to the latter point: “God is not content merely to say that there is some perversity in man, but that when one searches high and low, one will find such rebellion only in the human heart” (Sermons on Jeremiah [trans. Blair Reynolds; Texts and Studies in Religion 46; Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 1990], 179).

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call the ontological, relies on the well-attested link between the root bq[ and the notion of deceit.4 Moreover, deceitfulness is the sort of moral illness that `na, “mortally sick,” the other adjective modifying bl in the verse, could figuratively describe.5 The ontological approach has difficulty explaining the transition to the question wn[dy ym, “Who will know it?” since the talk to this point has been about the heart’s wickedness, not its unknowability. It is not incoherent that the prophet should, in this context, wonder who can know the heart—a deceitful heart of course eludes easy comprehension—but it is beside the point. What matters about the heart’s crookedness is not that it impedes understanding but that it manifests human beings’ sinfulness.6 Moreover, the context of the verse seems both to highlight the heart’s unknowability and implicitly to preclude the notion of universal sinfulness. That God, in Jer 17:10, answers the question posed in Jer 17:9, argues, against the ontological approach, for the centrality of the question. That God must examine the heart suggests, further, that the heart may turn out bad or good, that wickedness is not assumed. 7 This inference becomes still more compelling if the interpretive context is widened to include Jer 17:5–8,8 since these verses clearly entertain the possibility of a praiseworthy person. 4 See, e.g., M. Malul, “>Aµqeµb ‘Heel’ and >Aµqab ‘To Supplant’ and the Concept of Succession in the Jacob-Esau Narratives,” VT 46 (1996): 211–12. 5 It is noteworthy, however, that nowhere in the Bible does the root `na carry a moral connotation. Evil deeds often give rise to `na pains, e.g., Jer 30:12; 30:15, but nowhere are evil deeds themselves `na. In other instances of biblical heart-sickness, the heart is never sinful but rather aggrieved (1 Sam 1:8), pained (Isa 1:5), sorrowful (Jer 8:18; Lam 1:22), or dejected (Prov 13:12). 6 One plausible response is to render the question a rhetorical flourish that reinforces the preceding statement. “‘Who can know it?’ is not so much a reference to unexplored depths (to the unknowability of the heart), as it is to its immeasurable capacity for wickedness and the deepseated disease which grips it” (McKane, Jeremiah, 1:398). William L. Holladay similarly identifies a rhetorical function for wn[dy ym: “[The heart of his people] is a bl which needs washing . . . , a bl on whose tablet the sin of Judah is deeply incised: who could grasp such a situation?” (Jeremiah 1: A Commentary on the Book of the Prophet Jeremiah [2 vols.; Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986], 1:495). On Holladay’s reading, and probably also on McKane’s, the antecedent of the suffixed pronoun in wn[dy is not the object, blh, but the proposition awh `naw lkm blh bq[. Consequently, the verb must be understood not as kennen but as wissen. 7 None of the terms employed in Jer 17:10 to describe God’s judgments and the consequences thereof necessarily carries the implication that evildoing is being punished. The verbs @jb and rqj more often describe the probing of the righteous than of the wicked. In Ps 7:10 God tests (@jb) the reins of both the good and the bad person. In Jer 11:20 and 20:12, God is asked to test (@jb) the heart and reins of the righteous Jeremiah and reward him by coming to his aid. Again in Jer 12:3 (ybl tnjbw); Pss 17:3 (ybl tnjb); 26:2 (ynnjb); 139:1 (yntrqj); 139:23 (ynnjb/ynrqj), the speaker either invites God to test him or declares that he has been tested, with the implication, respectively, that the speaker will prove or has proven righteous. The second half of 17:10 (ttl wyll[m yrpk wkrdk `yal, “to repay every person according to his ways, and with the fruit of his deeds”) recurs in Jer 32:19 with no suggestion that the evil person alone will experience such a fate. The expression wyll[m yrp, alone, can be used in connection with evil deeds (Mic 7:13) or good deeds (Isa 3:10). 8 In favor of treating Jer 17:5–8 together with Jer 17: 9–10, consider that the MT does not section off Jer 17:8 from Jer 17:9. 4QJera, however, does insert a section break between the verses. See Tov, Qumran Cave 4, X, 148, 163. Moreover, the shared vocabulary of the two sections (cf. bl in Jer 17:5, 9–10 and yrp in Jer 17:8, 10) should probably be construed not as evidence that the

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In stark contrast to the ontological position, the approach that I shall call the epistemological makes wn[dy ym its exegetical cynosure: the verse speaks not of the heart’s perversity but of its unfathomability. Naphtali H. Tur-Sinai is the most forceful advocate of this position. Translating bq[ in v. 9 as “closely kept,” he makes the prophet say, at the concrete level, that the heart is an interior organ invisible to the eye and, at the figurative level, that the mind is difficult to understand. Tur-Sinai repoints `nUa; in the MT to `nO a> and thus emerges with the following reading of the verse: “The heart is more closely kept than anything, and humanity—what human being can know it?”9 Jeremiah 17:10 then follows naturally: while the heart indeed surpasses people’s understanding, God can examine it. The sense of the verses, on the epistemological approach, is basically equivalent to that of the request in Solomon’s dedicatory prayer: “render to each according to his ways, as You know his heart to be—for You alone know the heart of all men” (1 Kgs 8:39 JPS).10 Although Tur-Sinai’s translation creatively identifies a basis in physical fact for the metaphorical claim that the heart is unknowable, it rests on an idiosyncratic interpretation of bq[ for which he provides only dubious evidence.11 But the same result can be reached by assuming that the prophet sees the heart’s crookedness as a metaphor for its serpentine complexity.12 An overlooked and hitherto imperfectly understood element of Jer 17:9 provides strong evidence for the epistemological understanding of the verse. The prepositional phrase lkm is analyzed by all commentators into @m, “than,” and lk, “everything.” This approach is, however, doubly problematic. First, outside of lkm lwdg, “wealthier than them all” (Dan 11:2 JPS), lk governed by comparative @m occurs only in the construct state.13 As William L. Holladay observes, “the expression here, general in the extreme, is verses constitute a single pericope but as an explanation for the juxtaposition of two distinct pericopes. 9 Naphtali H. Tur-Sinai, hml` yl`m (Tel Aviv: Yavneh, 1947), 43. Tur-Sinai’s repointing of `nUa; to `Ona> is supported by the LXX and the Peshitta. Note also the suggestive appearance of `wna, “man,” immediately before the quotation from the first half of Jer 17:9 in 4Q418 frag. 8 line 12. However, Tur-Sinai’s vocalization of `na in 17:9 does not have room for the pronoun awh that immediately follows. On his approach, the verse should read: yn[dy ym `naw, “and humanity, who (among human beings) will know (the heart)?” 10 See also James M. Lindenberger, The Aramaic Proverbs of Ahiqar (JHNES; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1983), l:163 (“No one knows what is in the heart of another”). 11 Tur-Sinai cites Pss 19:12; 119:33; 119:112, but acknowledges that he reads these verses gwhnh !`wrypk al`, “not as they are usually understood.” 12 Yair Hoffman, who cites Isa 40:4, understands the metaphor in this fashion: awh blh !dah ta lybwy @kyhl t[dl @yaw rja rbd lkm rtwy ltltp, “the heart is more convoluted than any other thing, and one cannot know where it will lead a person” (whymry [2 vols.; lar`yl arqm; Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 2001], 1:398). 13 Daniel 11:2 is, moreover, itself a dubious parallel, since “the quality of Hebrew in this chapter (Dan 11:2–12:4) is exceptionally poor” (John J. Collins, Daniel [Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993], 377). Tur-Sinai finds another instance of the absolute lk governed by comparative @m in the Aramaic of Ahiqar. The text, which is fragmentary at this point, reads [ ]m @y`l qyqr. (Lindenberger, Aramaic Proverbs, line 105b). Tur-Sinai fills the gap with alk n, so that the line reads: “the tongue is softer than anything” (Tur-Sinai, hml` yl`m, 41). Lindenberger, however, supplies ^l to yield: “the king’s tongue is gentle” (Lindenberger, Aramaic Proverbs, 91). In light of the context, which speaks of the king generally (lines 100–108) and, in particular, of the (apparent)

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striking.”14 Given Jeremiah’s predilection for open-ended expressions involving lk, the absence of precedent might, by itself, be too flimsy a basis on which to justify a reanalysis of lkm.15 Structural considerations, however, furnish a second reason. Of Jer 17:9 Holladay observes that “it is hard to know its structure. Is it prose? If it is poetry, is it a tricolon?”16 Among those who treat the verse as poetry, some see a bicolon that divides the first two clauses (lkm blh bq[ and awh `naw) from the third (wn[dy ym); others a bicolon that sets off the first clause against the last two; and still others a tricolon divided according to the clausal boundaries.17 Thus the reigning understanding of the verse has yielded no consensus with regard to its structure. It is possible, however, both to avoid the poorly attested absolute lkm and to discern a parallelistic structure in Jer 17:9 by reading lk not as the noun lk, “everything,” but as the infinitive construct of the Qal form of the root lwk, “to measure, to mete.” The Qal is attested once elsewhere in Biblical Hebrew: $rah rp[ `l`b lkw, “and meted earth’s dust with a measure” (Isa 40:12 JPS). It also occurs once in the Gezer Calendar (10th cent. B.C.E.) and twice (possibly thrice) in the Mets\ad H\ashavyahu letter (late 7th cent. B . C . E .). 18 The proposed construal of lk in Jer 17:9 requires no consonantal changes in the MT, since the regular infinitive, lWk, can be represented defectively as lku.19 The vocalization of the MT may also be retained if one assumes either that here, as elsewhere, the infinitive construct of the II-weak takes oµ rather than uµ,20 or that, as elsewhere, the II-weak form has been contaminated by the corresponding geminate root, here llk.21 On this approach, Jer 17:9 employs the verb lwk in the figurative sense of “to comprehend.” Such a figurative usage is attested in Biblical Hebrew for other words within the same semantic field, for example, @kt (Piel), “to measure,” which parallels lwk in Isa 40:12. In the very next verse, @kt occurs in a figurative sense: “Who has plumbed (@kt) the mind of the Lord (hwhy jwr), what man could tell Him (wn[ydwy) His plan” (Isa 40:13 JPS). Here, as in Jer 17:9, a form of the verb [dy parallels the verb of measurement. The phrase bl @kt, basically synonymous with the phrase bl lwk identified here, occurs twice gentleness of the king’s words (line 100), Lindenberger’s reconstruction is to be preferred. For examples of the comparative lkm in the construct, see, e.g., Gen 37:3; Exod 18:11; Deut 7:7. 14 Holladay, Jeremiah, 1:495. 15 See, e.g., Jer 2:12, 34; 3:7; 6:6, 13 (twice); 8:10 (twice); 13:19; 14:22; 15:10. 16 Holladay, Jeremiah, 1:494. 17 W. T. W. Cloete, Versification and Syntax in Jeremiah 2–25: Syntactical Constraints in Hebrew Colometry (SBLDS 117; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989), 184. 18 See KAI 1:34 (no. 182), 36 (no. 200). Derived forms from lk in the Bible and Qumran are collected by Alexander Rofé, “A Neglected Meaning of the Verb lwk and the Text of 1QS VI:11–13,” in Sha‘arei Talmon: Studies in the Bible, Qumran, and the Ancient Near East Presented to Shemaryahu Talmon (ed. Michael Fishbane and Emanuel Tov; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1992), 315–21. 19 For instances of II-weak infinitive constructs spelled defectively, see, e.g., Gen 19:33 (!wq) and 19:35 (!q); Job 1:7 (fw`) and 2:2 (f`). 20 See Joüon-Muraoka §80k. See, e.g., Josh 2:16 (b`); Ps 38:17 (fwmb). The choice of oµ may have been dictated here by the desire to pun on lk, “everything.” For another instance in which literary considerations may underlie the use of oµ in the infinitive construct, see Isa 30:2, where zw[ assonates with the neighboring zw[m. 21 See Joüon-Muraoka §80o. See, e.g., Ezek 6:9 (wfqnw); 10:17 (wmwry).

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in the Bible: “All the ways (^rd) of a man seem right (r`y) to him, but the Lord probes the mind (hwhy twbl @ktw)” (Prov 21:2 JPS); “He who fathoms hearts (twbl @kt) will discern [the truth], He who watches over your life will know it ([dy), and He will pay each man as he deserves” (Prov 24:12 JPS).22 Other words of measurement that are grouped with lwk in Isa 40:12 take on figurative meanings in Prov 4:26 (slp); Job 6:2 (lq`, !ynzam); 31:6 (lq`, !ynzam). The phrase lkm blh bq[ thus means: the heart is too serpentine to comprehend. The proposed reading finds an exact syntactic parallel in aw`nm ynw[ lwdg, “my punishment is too great to bear” (Gen 4:13 JPS).23 A near syntactic and semantic parallel is hp` yqm[ [wm`m, “speech too obscure to comprehend” (Isa 33:19 JPS). The reinterpreted verse divides neatly into two parallel cola: The heart is too serpentine to comprehend. And it is sick (?); who will know it?

lkm blh bq[ wn[dy ym awh `naw

The parallel structure, by aligning bq[ with `na, provides a starting point (which shall not be pursued here) for interpreting the contextual meaning of the latter word. This structure also makes readily discernible the wordplay in wn[dy ym. When the reader hears /mi/ in the second colon, she is led by the parallelism to anticipate the preposition @m and is therefore surprised by the interrogative pronoun ym. The understanding advanced here supports the epistemological approach to the verse in two ways. First, and most obviously, the verb that it identifies points to the heart’s unknowability rather than to its wickedness. More subtly, though proponents of the ontological approach do not directly say so, their understanding of the verse seems driven in part by the sense of pained desperation that both the absolute lkm and the unbalanced meter evoke. By eliminating the absolute lkm and identifying a parallelistic structure, the proposed interpretation undermines the literary sensibilities that inform the ontological approach. Tzvi Novick [email protected] 73 Pearl Street New Haven, CT 06511 22 Though @kt, in these two verses, occurs in the Qal and not, as in Isa 40:12–13, in the Piel, a comparison of Isa 40:13 with Prov 16:2 indicates that the two forms are semantically equivalent. 23 The construction is composed of three elements in order: an adjective; a noun modified by the adjective; and a clause in which the preposition @m governs an infinitive construct, and in which the infinitive construct takes the noun as its implied object. The construction conveys that the action represented by the infinitive construct cannot be performed upon the object represented by the noun. The sense is nicely illustrated by two other closely related constructions. In Hab 1:13, the phrase [r twarm !yny[ rwhf is followed by the phrase lkwt al lm[ la fybhw. The clause hyh yk wdjy tb`m br !`wkr in Gen 36:7 is synonymous with the clause wdjy tb`l wlky alw br !`wkr hyh yk in Gen 13:6.

JBL 123/3 (2004) 537–587

BOOK REVIEWS

Book reviews are also published online at the Society of Biblical Literature’s WWW site: http://www.bookreviews.org. For a list of books received by the Journal, see http://www.bookreviews.org/books-received.html

Amarna Studies: Collected Writings, by William L. Moran. Edited by John Huehnergard and Shlomo Izre’el. HSS 54. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2003. Pp. xxxi + 363. $44.95 (hardcover). ISBN 1575069067. This book is a tribute to the memory of the dominant scholar in Amarna studies during the second half of the twentieth century. The editors seek to present all of the major essays on the grammar and contents of the Amarna correspondence that Moran wrote and published. They begin with his Ph.D. dissertation, “A Syntactical Study of the Dialect of Byblos as Reflected in the Amarna Tablets,” completed under William F. Albright in 1950. Described by the editors as “one of the most oft-cited unpublished works in the field of Near Eastern studies,” the publication of this work fifty-three years after its completion attests to the groundbreaking nature of Moran’s study and its ongoing importance for research. It is the most important single service that the editors perform. They make easily accessible a previously unpublished work that within its 130 pages provides the syntactical distinctives of this important dialect, and thereby presents the major single corpus of linguistic information for antecedents to biblical Hebrew, Ugaritic, and the West Semitic languages of the Iron Age. To this may be added the value of the dissertation as a model for the study of the whole collection of West Semitic dialects as represented in the corpus of the Amarna correspondence, the fourteenthcentury B.C.E. cuneiform letters exchanged between the princes and administrators of Canaan and the pharaohs of Egypt. In the period before Moran’s work, the general perspective on the language of the Amarna correspondence was that it reflected poorly trained scribes or, at best, made use of mixed dialects that confused interpretation. Moran chose to study the largest collection of Amarna letters from one geographic site, that of Byblos. In this manner, he was able to define a dialect from a single city over a relatively short period. Moran identified significant features in the particles, verbal morphology, and clause syntax that demonstrated a meaningful and distinct dialect. He argued that this dialect consistently reflected West Semitic grammar and syntax, distinct from the Old Babylonian language, which appeared in the script and vocabulary that the scribe used. One example of a major breakthrough in Moran’s study was his identification of modal congruence in pur-

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pose clauses. By this he meant that indicative verbal forms in the protasis would take indicatives in the purpose clause and that volitive forms in the protasis (i.e., jussive, imperative, or yaqtula) would require volitive forms in the apodosis. Along with new readings of the Amarna texts themselves, Moran provided new interpretations and satisfactory translations of previously obscure passages of these texts. He laid the foundation on which the editors of the volume as well as others, such as A. F. Rainey, have built, and he provided for a better understanding of more than three hundred of the Amarna letters from Canaan and elsewhere. The remaining twenty-six articles in the book have appeared elsewhere. However, it is convenient to have them available in a single volume. The first eleven of these exemplify how Moran built upon the results of his dissertation in the fifteen years after its appearance. They consider new interpretations of specific Byblian letters as well as further the analysis of the grammatical study of the corpus. The one exception is his 1959 JNES study on the “great sin” (adultery) at Ugarit. This alone makes no mention of the Amarna correspondence, although it illustrates a broader interest in the interpretation of their dialects and of Western Peripheral Akkadian in general. Over the following thirty years, Moran continued to publish articles analyzing the grammar of the Amarna letters. However, as the world authority on this subject, he began to write on other facets of the corpus: lexicography, history, culture, and a grammatical examination of the much smaller Jerusalem corpus of Amarna letters. This latter study and several others capture another interest of Moran’s, that of editing the Amarna tablets themselves. Further examples may be found in his article “Amarna Glosses,” and in his publication of new editions of the two Amarna texts in the Metropolitan Museum. Indexes of Amarna texts, other Akkadian texts, biblical texts, Ugaritic texts, and other Northwest Semitic texts conclude the volume. For the first time they provide immediate access to relevant discussions of specific texts and grammar in Moran’s dissertation and in the most important articles that he published on Amarna. The editors are to be congratulated for making this important collection available within a single volume. Richard S. Hess Denver Seminary, Denver, CO 80250 Die Tora des Mose: Die Geschichte der literarischen Vermittlung von Recht, Religion und Politik durch die Mosegestalt, by Eckart Otto. Berichte aus den Sitzungen der Joachim Jungius-Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften E.V., Hamburg 19/2. Hamburg: Joachim Jungius-Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2001. Pp. 74. €12.90 (paper). ISBN 352586311X. Eckart Otto, respected for his stimulating books and essays on the Pentateuch and its connections to the ancient Near Eastern intellectual and political world, offers in this too brief tract a persuasive argument that the image of Moses served the various tradents of the Pentateuch, in part, as a device for political opposition to Assyrian, Babylonian, and Persian rule. Standing in the central European (primarily German) tradition of redactional analysis of the Pentateuch, Otto moves from questions of the purely literary development of the text to larger historical ones. Framing the discussion are a brief introduction to the idea of the book (pp. 5–6, which includes a disavowal of the search for the historical Moses) and an abbreviated

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conclusion that connects the political speculation of the Pentateuch’s tradents to early modern political philosophy and the birth of the idea of human rights (pp. 58–60). An excellent bibliography, chiefly of German works, closes the volume. The core of the book consists of four lengthier chapters exploring “literaturhistorische Voraussetzungen einer Geschichte des literarischen Mose im Pentateuch” (pp. 6–11), “Mose als Antitypus zum neuassyrischen Großkönig im spätvorexilischen Juda” (pp. 11–33), “Mose als Kristallisationsgestalt judäischer Identität in spätbabylonischer Zeit” (pp. 33–48), and “die Vermittlung von Recht, Religion und Politik durch die Mosegestalt in persischer Zeit” (pp. 49–58). Working with texts identified as belonging to each period by previous scholarship (going back at least to Martin Noth), Otto locates each stratum of the Moses tradition within the ideological contests of the geopolitics of its day. This approach, which is promising and deserves to be worked out in much greater detail than Otto can do in such a circumscribed format (but see his Das Deuteronomium: Politische Theologie und Rechtsreform in Juda und Assyrien [BZAW 284; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1999]), offers an important corrective to English-language scholarship that overemphasizes the Achaemenid-era influence on the Pentateuch’s final form to the detriment of readily isolable earlier connections to extra-Israelite events. Moreover, Otto’s effort to ground the argument in Near Eastern texts and other data, rather than in speculation about the life of postexilic Yehud, should exert a salutary influence on future research. Now to the details of the case. Otto is most convincing when he treats the Assyrianperiod evidence. He persuasively argues both that the well-known parallel of the birth story of Moses to that of Sargon of Akkad is the result of an Israelite cooptation of the older story, that is, a political statement, and that Assyrian propaganda (notably Esarhaddon’s Vassal Treaty) influenced the Moses tradition more broadly. While one might wish for an exploration of possible elements of the tradition antedating contact with Assyria (after all, the Zadokite priests chose Moses as the vehicle for their theological work, a fact that presupposes his earlier importance in the culture), the case that the seventh century B.C.E. marks a watershed in the Israelite treatment of the Moses legend seems irrefutable. Otto’s work on Babylon and Persia does not quite rise to this high standard. In part this is because the political discourses of these states are less well known than those of Neo-Assyria (though Pierre Briant’s Histoire de l’Empire perse de Cyrus à Alexandre [Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten, 1996], surprisingly not cited by Otto, helps close the gap). The assumption that texts have political dimensions may at times lead Otto to find them when they are not there, or at least to work with a shifting set of definitions of the word “political.” For example, Otto interprets Josh 24 as a response to the claims of specifically Achaemenid royal self-presentation, despite the fact that to a great degree the Achaemenids appropriated older political ideologies, styles of royal self-presentation, and even iconography. However, Otto’s argument is convincing on the whole in that the necessity of dealing with the claims of each of these empires demanded appropriate theologico-political responses. To his credit, Otto does not fall into the trap of so much (especially American) pentateuchal scholarship of seeing everything as political, or even attributing the final editing of the Torah to the politics of the decentralized Achaemenid state. Indeed, I would argue, the last layers of the Pentateuch (or Hexateuch, for Otto) are striking precisely for the relative paucity of obviously extra-Israelite connections.

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As this survey indicates, then, Otto’s investigation breaks new ground and, on the whole, shows convincingly that the development of the Moses tradition was not simply a response to developments in Israelite religious traditions. Still, some problems appear. The book’s failure to engage significant American (and other English-language) scholarship creates an imbalance in the presentation. For example, George W. Coats’s thesis in The Moses Tradition (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993) that the Moses story arose from “the folk” and contains the self-reflections of various “offices” within the society deserves more attention, as does the (undoubtedly too narrow) view of F. M. Cross and his students that the image of Moses unfolded as a way of delegitimating rivals of the Zadokite priesthood. The much-discussed problem of the date, nature, and setting of J or JE receives little attention, though one’s conclusions about this “source” could substantially impinge on Otto’s project. Moreover, granted that the tradition critiques the religiopolitical claims of the successive empires, as Otto shows, further research is needed to explore the interrelationships between internal and external stimuli in the development of the Mosegestalt. Professor Otto deserves our thanks for this eminently readable, well-argued book. He has set the stage for a line of inquiry that should occupy the field for some time to come. Mark W. Hamilton Abilene Christian University, Abilene, TX 79699

Piety and Politics: The Dynamics of Royal Authority in Homeric Greece, Biblical Israel, and Old Babylonian Mesopotamia, by Dale Launderville. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003. Pp. xvii + 407. $75.00 (hardcover). ISBN 0802839940. Launderville’s thesis is that the religious warrants for royal authority in early Greece and the ancient Near East, Israel included, were fundamentally similar. Kings were believed to rule at the behest of the gods and were regarded as accountable to the gods for sustaining justice, peace, and prosperity within their kingdoms. Launderville demonstrates this “traditional pattern” for legitimating royalty by focusing on the Greek Archaic age (articulated in the Iliad and the Odyssey), the united monarchy of Israel (expressed chiefly in Samuel, Kings, and the Psalms), and Old Babylonian Mesopotamia (as voiced in the Code of Hammurabi and royal inscriptions). He recognizes that beyond a shared pattern of religious validation for monarchy, credited variously to Zeus, Yahweh, or Enlil, each of the three political cultures had its own distinctive version of the traditional pattern. Launderville characterizes the religious legitimation of monarchy as a “traditional pattern” that is articulated in metaphor, symbol, and narrative rather than in logical discourse. Nonetheless, the rhetoric for legitimating kingship is a rudimentary form of political theory, even as it assumes the shape of “political theology.” For instance, a controlling metaphor that Launderville finds in all three political cultures is that of the king as “shepherd” of his people, with its associations of feeding, guiding, and protecting those in his charge. Since all three of these ancient states were based far more on agriculture than on herding, one wonders about the preference for the sheep metaphor over an agricultural metaphor such as “gardener” or “vintner.” Actually, in the Hebrew Bible

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Yahweh is pictured metaphorically as a vineyard planter and caretaker, but it is unclear if such a figure of speech is applied to the relation of king and people. Since Launderville does not catalogue the full range and incidence of political metaphors in the texts he examines, we are obliged to take his word that the shepherd metaphor stands at the top of the list. Launderville undertakes political exegeses of the narratives in the Iliad and the Odyssey, the histories of Saul and David, the Gilgamesh Epic, and the autobiographical assertions of Hammurabi in the prologue and epilogue to his “code” of laws. Assuming that Launderville’s critical understanding of the Greek and Mesopotamian texts is as sound as his perspective on the biblical narratives, he makes good on his claim that we can see something of how these ancients thought about politics by attending closely to their narratives as well as to their more symbolic texts such as the biblical Psalms and the Mesopotamian royal inscriptions. Much as I enjoyed this guided journey through the royal rhetoric of three ancient political cultures, I had difficulties with the book on a number of points. Launderville defends his choice of the three cultures for his cross-cultural study not only because they have ample literary evidence, but also because each displays a circumscribed form of monarchy that is not assertively imperialistic. This may be the case with the Israelite example, but the Greek example appears to be a relatively weak instance of monarchy, and the Old Babylonian example typified by Hammurabi was, according to most historians of the period, a serious attempt at imperial control of Sumeria and the upper TigrisEuphrates region, following in the path of Sargon of the Akkadian Empire. To be more specific, if the Greek kings of the Archaic period could not raise taxes and did not have full authority to coerce their subjects, to what extent are they monarchs comparable to David and Hammurabi? And if Hammurabi was able to undertake imperial campaigns and projects, even though they fell short of the developed imperial administration of the Neo-Assyrians and Persians, should he be compared to Archaic Greek kings or even to David, whose wars on neighboring states were either defensive or aimed at booty and tribute rather than the establishment of a full-fledged empire? In short, there seems a certain arbitrariness in choosing these three slices of political culture as representative examples of the traditional pattern of kingship when many other choices might have been just as suitable. What is noticeably lacking in this book is an attempt to correlate the ideology of kingship with the dynamics of state organization and the imperatives and constraints that the political system imposed on the performance of kings largely independent of religious ideology. One really needs to read Launderville alongside or in tandem with the sociopolitical history and institutional structures of ancient states to ascertain how pervasive and influential the religious ideology of kingship may actually have been in the rough and tumble of what the author calls “hard-nosed” politics. As it is, Launderville puts the best face possible on ancient monarchies. He employs religious language of his own to picture the authoritative community-building actions of kings as “moments of grace” that “brought the community into harmony with the larger world order,” and as an “epiphanic moment . . . (that) could shape the outlook of the king and the people to work for the common good over the long term” (pp. 4–5). Launderville wants to believe that the traditional pattern of royal authority validated by the gods was for the most part effective in inducing monarchs to act more humanely or

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altruistically than they would have without the prompting of this ideology. This may well have been the case with certain rulers, but by largely eliding the historical record of these states from his study, Launderville has little basis for assessing the role of religious ideology in the actual course of political history. Using Launderville’s template of political theology, constructed by taking its rhetoric at near face value, one is virtually reduced to highly subjective speculations about the alleged “opportunistic” or “altruistic” motives and intentions of particular rulers. Launderville’s upbeat assessment of ancient monarchies derives, as he notes in the preface, from his experience as a Benedictine monk living in community under the benign rule of an abbot, which leads him to say, “I have learned that obedience to a monarch works best when there are engagement and care by all parties involved” (p. xi). It is, however, a very big leap to transfer the dynamics of leadership in a small voluntary community to the dynamics of leadership in a large involuntary state apparatus. Launderville claims that political obedience is necessarily “a freely chosen response,” whereas political compliance due to coercion is not obedience. But just as we cannot easily penetrate the motives and intentions of rulers, we cannot readily determine whether the agreement of subjects to do as the king commands is freely chosen or coerced or some combination of the two. What we can ascertain is that wherever we encounter protest, rebellion, and regicide in the record we know that a fair number of subjects of the state were neither obedient nor compliant in Launderville’s sense of the terms. He devotes considerable space to the critique of kings voiced by prophets and popular assemblies. The scope of these criticisms of royal regimes demonstrates that the religious ideology of the just king was not automatically operational in the affairs of state. Moreover, under monarchy there was no independent arm of government that could pass judgment on the king’s adherence to the religious warrant for his rule. The cited popular assemblies are problematic as a significant “check and balance” to royal power. I do not know the current evidence for the existence of popular assemblies in Archaic Greece and Old Babylonia, but I do claim that the assemblies of people reported in monarchic Israel were ad hoc pressure groups or crowds of concerned subjects rather than a formal ongoing structure of governance. Lastly, I am confused by the organization of the book. In his introduction, Launderville sets forth “five recurring aspects of kingship,” which he identifies as: (1) the king as the chief redistributor of material and symbolic goods in the community; (2) the king as a symbol centralizing the community; (3) the king’s responsibility to be attentive to the divine world; (4) the justice of royal rule according to the ethical world order; and (5) the role of the prophet and the popular assembly in challenging the king and promoting just royal rule. He states that these themes will “thread their way horizontally through the seven chapters of this study,” functioning as “a backdrop” to an exposition of the distinctive aspects of kingship in each culture. In his conclusion, Launderville returns to these five rubrics to sum up similarities and differences in the royal ideologies of the three societies. It is puzzling, however, that the body of the book is not organized according to these five rubrics, which, as far as I can see, would have served as a perfectly adequate division of the subject matter. As it stands, chs. 1–7 proceed on a course that is never satisfactorily related to the previously asserted aspects of kingship announced in the intro-

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duction. I am able to see certain links between those five themes and the contents of chs. 1–7, but they are not carried through consistently or in recognizable order. In the end, I cannot see how ch. 2 on the speech acts of kings relates to the categories of the introduction, and ch. 7 on visions of the ideal king does not line up with any of the five recurring themes of kingship. In short, I found it difficult to follow Launderville’s way of “unpacking” his thesis insofar as he seems to operate with two unreconciled organizational schemes. Moreover, although each chapter introduces a distinctive aspect of kingship, the attending exposition sometimes goes over old ground without providing new information or understanding. In my view, Launderville’s case could have been made more effectively by a tidier organization and a greater economy of expression. Although I am inclined toward a cynical assessment of the manipulative use of religious rhetoric in ancient politics, I realize that there are branches of political theory that view the state and its ideology favorably as providers of law and order and as bearers of cultural continuity. Launderville’s study is a forceful articulation of ancient political theology as a definitive communal good. He knows his textual sources well and interprets them insightfully. This book can be read with great profit when put into dialogue with studies of ancient states that detail their history and modes of governance. Norman K. Gottwald Pacific School of Religion, Berkeley, CA 94709

King Saul’s Asking, by Barbara Green, O.P. Interfaces. Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2003. Pp. xxii + 129. $14.95 (paper). ISBN 0814651097. Barbara Green offers a brief narrative commentary on 1 Sam 1– 2 Sam 1 that focuses on the character Saul (not to the exclusion, but certainly with much lighter treatment of other characters). In 2003, Green also published another book on Saul of close to five hundred pages (How Are the Mighty Fallen? A Dialogical Study of King Saul in 1 Samuel [JSOTSup 365; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press]). But King Saul’s Asking is far from being a mere condensation. It belongs to a very interesting Liturgical Press series on biblical characters, entitled Interfaces, in which two other volumes have already been published (Gina Hens-Piazza, Nameless, Blameless, and Without Shame [on the “cannibal mothers” in 2 Kgs 6]; John Kaltner, Inquiring of Joseph [comparing the biblical with the Quranic Joseph]), as well as a companion survey booklet (From Earth’s Creation to John’s Revelation, by Green and others). A reader wishing to know what makes this book tick should turn first to the conclusion. There Green asserts the fundamental aims of her book (and the Interfaces series), namely, to write with students and the classroom setting in view and to persuade undergraduates that biblical texts are worth reading. She engages the students’ religious and theological interests: the Bible is “one of the most privileged places for God’s self-disclosure.” But she prepares them for difficulties in reading: “The storyteller does not make it easy for us.” She states as her main thesis that the character Saul “embodies” Israel’s whole experience with kings. Perhaps best of all, she tells in an autobiographical way what drew her to Saul (“the human enigma”). I was impressed throughout with the palpable “presence” of students as the implicit addressees of the book. When she speaks of “sharing our scholarly passions with” stu-

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dents, she means it. She repeatedly checks on the students’ “sense of engagement with the story.” She reminds them that they will have to decide the difficult questions for themselves, for example, the not always admirable or comprehensible attitudes of the character “God.” Yet she does not talk down; when she introduces difficult concepts (like those of Mikhail Bakhtin), she introduces them as difficult concepts before showing how they can be useful. This is a book to be put with confidence in the hands of undergraduates or seminarians. In a way that is both respectful and challenging, it will get them into deep issues in the current debate over biblical interpretation, and it will invite them develop their own positions. I finished the book feeling (and I intend this in the most positive way) that I had read only the teacher’s class notes, which needed to be filled out with a transcript of what actually happened in the classroom. This book is too short (as the guidelines for the series compel it to be) to provide an adequate introduction to any kind of narrative theory. It teaches about Bakhtin much more by the Bakhtinian way in which Green proceeds than by the brief paragraphs on particular Bakhtinian terms. Students who want to go deeper have available Green’s own Mikhail Bakhtin and Biblical Scholarship: An Introduction (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2000) and Robert Polzin’s Moses and the Deuteronomist: Deuteronomy, Joshua, Judges (Literary Study of the Deuteronomic History 1; New York: Seabury, 1980). In terms of narratology generally, as well as in her use of Bakhtin, Green mostly follows Polzin (especially Samuel and the Deuteronomist [New York: Harper & Row, 1989]). Among her many valuable insights into the reading of biblical narrative, I highlight a few: the consistent interrogation of the text’s manifold references to “sons”—e.g., Samuel, Hannah’s son but also Eli’s (1 Sam 3:6, etc.)—as potential pointers to the hereditary character of kingship; the interest in Saul’s inner dialogue (“talking to himself”) and the observation that the narrator takes us “inside” Saul much more than David (p. xviii); the contrast of secular Jonathan with religious Saul (p. 53); the sense of narrative necessity—“Saul must die, but David must not kill him” (p. 92); and the Abigail story as “a sort of (day)dream” (p. 100). The list could be extended indefinitely. I have a number of basic disagreements with Green’s reading (for my own approach, see my 1 Samuel, 1998, also from Liturgical Press). She wants to write a commentary on a biblical book which is also a study of one particular character. This seems to me (to borrow an anonymous expression) “impossible but not difficult.” Saul is a wonderful character who has attracted all kinds of study, and Green enters beautifully and brilliantly into this tradition. She understands and leads students into the dynamics of Saul’s early inability to grasp what kingship is about, his over-compensation into tyranny, his disintegration but emergence into heroism at the end. But she fails to see that all this strong characterization undermines her thesis that Saul “embodies” Israel’s experience with kings (p. 119). I agree that 1 Samuel is a debate about monarchy, in which Saul is one of the terms. But I disagree with Green’s solution in two ways. First, Saul is only one of the terms in the debate. He indicates kingship as a failure–but only in dialogical relation to other characters who indicate other possibilities, especially David (kingship as, at least possibly, a success) and Samuel (an alternative system of government antithetical to kingship). So a study of a single character must inevitably fail to comprehend the whole book. Second, the characters, Saul’s above all, are developed in so interesting a human way in order to (appear to) reduce the intractable problem of kingship as a system to the graspable dynamics of human personality.

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Another side of this problem can be seen in Green’s choice of what precise biblical text to write about. She starts at the beginning of 1 Samuel, though Saul does not appear before ch. 9. This is surely to admit that the “debate” of 1 Samuel cannot be accounted for adequately by reading only the textual section defined by the character Saul. Green rightly points out anticipations of the Saul story in 1 Sam 1–8 (especially the “confusion” of names between Saul and Samuel), but largely ignores the more important anticipation in the last chapters of Judges, namely, the negativity toward Saul’s home town of Gibeah. Where does Saul’s story begin? In Judges. More importantly, where does the debate over kingship begin? In Deuteronomy. One of my few criticisms of Green’s treatment of her student readers is that she invites them to develop and answer, on the basis only of 1 Samuel, questions that they need the whole Deuteronomistic History to answer adequately. My last problem lies in the area of political reading of biblical texts. For Green, following Polzin, it was in the exile that the story of Saul became a vital one for Jewish readers. She conjures a picture of exiles debating whether a resumption of kingship would be a good or a bad idea, and reading the story of Saul to help them decide. This seems to me ridiculous. Surely there was no time (before the Hasmonean period, when kingship was resumed) in which such a debate could have occurred realistically. Whether in exile or the postexilic period (in my view, a likelier setting for the Deuteronomistic History), Israel was under the power of kings other than its own, and it was they who decided how Israel should be governed. Judaism’s choice was over the identity it would assume in its constrained situation—accepting the reality of its life “among the nations” or living on fantasies of past glory—and how the scriptures would help determine that choice. The Deuteronomistic History, which I (against Green and Polzin) see as unable finally to decide whether monarchy is good or bad, offers possibilities for either of these identity choices. The book is well and engagingly written, though I winced a couple of times before I was far into it. First, at “Abraham and Sarah, whose descendants had refugeed to Egypt . . .” (p. xiii). Students are all too ready to produce sentences like that without being taught to. Second, at “Bakhtin . . . lived his life under Soviet domination” (p. xiv). Most of this generation of undergraduates have no personal memory of a time when there was a serious alternative to global capitalism. If they are to decide for themselves (as Green herself so often demands), they must not be fed little hints as to the “correct” way of assessing things like the history of the twentieth century. David Jobling St. Andrew’s College, Saskatoon, SK, S7N OW3 Canada

Isaiah 56–66: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary, by Joseph Blenkinsopp. AB 19B. New York: Doubleday, 2003. Pp. xvi + 348. $45.00 (hardcover). ISBN 0385501749. In the preface to this final volume of his three-volume Anchor Bible commentary on Isaiah, Joseph Blenkinsopp apologizes for having written the volume in the space of only one year. His apology is unnecessary. The commentary is a polished and deeply coherent work written by a master scholar in command of his subject matter.

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What kind of writing is Isa 56–66? “Isaiah 56–66 does not constitute what most people today would recognize as a literary work. . . . It is what we might call extreme writing, a product of critical situations of which it was a part and to which it contributed. . . . Whatever opinion we form on their literary quality, it remains true that these chapters are not belles lettres. They fall into the category of polemical writing, produced to advance particular causes and to make an impact on the course of events” (pp. 37, 41). A significant component of Blenkinsopp’s commentary is devoted to an explication of the relationship between Isa 56–66 and earlier prophecy (especially Isa 40–55) and to the development of a plausible hypothesis to account for the polemical aspect of these final chapters of Isaiah. In spite of occasional but persistent challenges to the contrary, Blenkinsopp argues that it still makes the most sense to speak of Trito or Third Isaiah, although he finds no authorial unity in Isa 56–66. Numerous authorial hands can be detected, and the chapters are best understood as an example of Fortschreibung, or “ongoing writing.” Chapters 56–66 are distinct but nevertheless closely related to chs. 40–55, and the authors who produced these chapters are identified as “the bearers of the Deutero-Isaianic prophetic tradition.” The relationship to chs. 1–39 is not nearly as strong. The continuity of 56–66 with 1–39 is in terms of the great general themes of the book of Isaiah, but the specifics of 56–66 reveal much closer knowledge of Jeremiah, especially Jer 1–12, than of Isa 1–39. Here Blenkinsopp argues directly against Childs and Seitz. In terms of setting, Blenkinsopp reads most of Isa 56–66 against the general historical background of the first century of Persian rule in Yehud, roughly 522–424 B.C.E., and his summary of the Persian period is exceptional (pp. 42–54). The book of Isaiah does not reach its final form until the Hellenistic period, and 1:27–31 and 66:17–24 date to this point. These twin passages are part of a “bracketing or enveloping editorial procedure” designed to unify the book of Isaiah “in some sense” (p. 35). Blenkinsopp argues at length that, though lacking authorial unity, Isa 56–66 has not been thrown together haphazardly but rather reveals an intentional pyramid-like structure: a-b-a. The corresponding chs. are 56–59, 60–62, 63–66. Chapters 60–62 (which also have the closest affinity to 40–55) are at the top of the pyramid and describe the ideal community scenario, while chs. 56–59 and 63–66 describe the actual conditions within the postexilic community. The central section, chs. 60–62, also reveals an a-b-a structure: 60:1–22; 61:1–3; 61:4–62:12. This makes 61:1–3 the “exact center” of 60–62, and “61:1–3 is, in effect, the signature of the prophetic author of chapters 60–62” (p. 39). As is so often the case in Blenkinsopp’s work, he is interested in reconstructing the social reality both reflected and concealed by the biblical text. Behind Isa 40–66 he posits an original charismatic prophetic individual (“the Servant”) who attracted disciples (“the Servants”). These disciples then formed something like a prophetic and scribal school in the wake of the death of the leader. The school would eventually develop into a full-blown sect. Blenkinsopp regards this social and religious phenomenon as a recurring feature of Second Temple Judaism, directly analogous to what would later occur at Qumran and in the early Christian movement. Blenkinsopp’s overarching thesis with respect to Isa 56–66 thus looks like this: Isa 56–66 is the work of a Deuteronomistically influenced prophetic-eschatological sect of mid-fifth-century B.C.E. Yehud. The roots of the sect are to be found in the anonymous prophet responsible for the core of Isa 40–55, whose death is described in Isa 53 and perhaps alluded to

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in 57:1. This group came to be highly antagonistic toward the religious authorities in charge of the Jerusalem temple and would eventually be excluded or excommunicated from the cult community. Throughout the commentary, Blenkinsopp resists traditional misleading dichotomies such as priestly/prophetic, universalist/integrationist, legal/eschatological, legal/ prophetic, and so forth. He reminds the reader that sectarianism, prophetic-eschatological consciousness, and legal rigorism often go together. This is crucial for Blenkinsopp, for he draws a direct connection between the “Servants” referred to in several places in Third Isaiah and the “Tremblers” of Isa 66: these are one and the same group. In addition, the “Tremblers” of Isa 66 and the “Tremblers” of Ezra 9–10 are also one and the same group. These Servants/Tremblers combine in one group two things that have often been considered mutually exclusive: rigorist legal interpretation and intense expectation of an “imminent and catastrophic divine intervention in human history” (p. 52). Though Isa 65–66 and Ezra 9–10 refer to the same group, then, the texts reflect different stages in its history: the Servants/Tremblers are persecuted and out of power in Isa 65–66, but the Tremblers of Ezra 9–10 are in power and in position to dictate policy in the community. Blenkinsopp considers it possible that the exclusion or excommunication of the Servants/Tremblers from the community, as reflected in Isa 65–66, may have resulted from the negative reaction on the part of the “priestly and lay aristocracy” to Ezra’s “drastic solution to intermarriage” (p. 54). Together with 56:1–8 (which reflects opposition to Nehemiah’s program), chs. 65–66 represent the latest material in Third Isaiah (excepting 66:17–24), as well as the latest stage in the development of the group that can be detected. These “bearers of the Deutero-Isaianic tradition,” to whom we owe Isa 56–66, were characterized by “fierce opposition to any kind of syncretism” and by “an uncompromising ‘YHVH alone’ theology” (p. 37). Blenkinsopp regards these characteristics, as well as the redefinition of the prophets as “servants of YHVH,” as the surest evidence that the group has been thoroughly influenced by “post-disaster Deuteronomists” (p. 79). With regard to the overall outlook of Isa 56–66, two questions are hotly debated in Third Isaiah scholarship: (1) Is Third Isaiah antitemple? (2) Can Third Isaiah be described as apocalyptic writing? Blenkinsopp answers the first question with a resounding no. On the whole, Blenkinsopp views Third Isaiah’s attitude toward the temple as consistent with that of the Deuteronomists. On the specific issue of 66:1ff., he argues that “the gravamen was . . . not against the temple itself . . . it was instigated by opposition to those who controlled, or were about to control, the operations of the temple” (p. 296). The issue opposed in 66:1ff. is the same as that opposed elsewhere in chs. 56–66: “the involvement of temple personnel in syncretistic cult practices” (p. 297), an involvement that was a carryover from known preexilic practices. With regard to the apocalyptic character of chs. 56–66, Blenkinsopp provides a nuanced answer. On the one hand, Isa 56–66 lacks many of the fundamental attributes of apocalyptic texts such as Daniel and Enoch: clear dualism, belief in two ages, periodization of history, a narrative framework, mediation of revelation through a supernatural being, mythical motifs, and pseudonymity. On the other hand, “everything in 56–66 is decisively oriented to the future” (p. 89), and the future that is anticipated is sharply discontinuous with the present. Thus, “the world view of chs. 56–66 is best described as

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that of prophetic eschatology but with elements that serve as material for the divinely scripted apocalyptic dramas of the Greco-Roman period” (p. 89). Blenkinsopp’s style is clear and concise, which is a major accomplishment in itself given the nature of the texts that he is interpreting. He is never mean-spirited in his dialogue with other scholars, whether living or dead. The commentary satisfies all of the standard and mundane requirements of a biblical commentary as well as provides numerous examples of truly brilliant exegesis of difficult passages (see, e.g., 57:1–2). In addition, Blenkinsopp formulates bold hypotheses that will shape Third Isaiah studies for the foreseeable future. Brooks Schramm Lutheran Theological Seminary, Gettysburg, PA 17325

“The Earth Mourns”: Prophetic Metaphor and Oral Aesthetic, by Katherine M. Hayes. Academia Biblica 8. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2002. Pp. 286. $39.95 (paper). ISBN 1589830342. This study is a revised version of Hayes’s doctoral thesis, directed by Douglas Gropp at the Catholic University of America. It is a fascinating study of a metaphor of immediate relevance to those of us living in lands the health of which is under threat because of the actions of human beings. Hayes considers the metaphor of the earth mourning as it occurs in these passages in the biblical tradition: Amos 1:2; Jer 4:23–28; 12:1–4, 7–13; 23:9–12; Isa 24:1–20; 33:7–9; and Joel 1:5–20. In examining each text Hayes also looks at six other related themes: “the response of the earth, sin or punishment, social or natural disorder, the pollution of the earth, mourning as stripping, and the disintegration of the created order” (p. 2). Hayes begins her study with a brief summary of previous research and considerations about the meaning of the verb lba. Next she analyzes the passages, each of which constitutes a chapter of the book. She then has a chapter on the interrelationships between the passages and their shared use of the metaphor of the earth mourning. A summarizing chapter concludes the book. In each of the passages the verb lba is linked with $ra or a related word. In her discussion of the meaning of the root lba, Hayes argues that two meanings derive from it, namely, “to mourn” and “to dry up.” She takes the former as its primary meaning and the latter as secondary, but maintains that both meanings may be found in the one passage. In this review it is not possible to look at her treatment of all the texts, so I will direct my comments to three passages from the book of Jeremiah: 4:23–28; 12:1–4, 7–13. Hayes argues that Jer 4:23–28 is a distinct unit (although not necessarily all composed by Jeremiah) and divides it into a prophetic vision (vv. 23–26) and a divine speech (vv. 27–28) that “affirms or explains the vision” (p. 69). In vv. 23–26 the earth is barely responsive, and there is no indication of human activity. In this way the passage differs significantly from, for example, Hos 4:1–3, where the earth mourns because of the behavior of its inhabitants. Verses 23–26 emphasize the state of the earth, and make only passing reference to actions such as the quaking of mountains and the shaking of hills. In vv. 27–28, however, the earth is a more active figure. Now the earth mourns, the heavens become dark, and the earth becomes a desolation. Hayes points to the presence of

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similar language about the earth’s distress in Nah 1:5–6, where the desolation is the result of the activity of the divine warrior, and concludes that divine warrior imagery is also operative in vv. 23–28. Her insight here is important because it helps us better understand the relationship of 4:23–28 to its larger context (chs. 4–6), which is dominated by the imagery of warfare and invasion. In Jer 4:23–28 the earth mourns not specifically because of the behavior of its inhabitants, but because human life may become extinct and the cosmos reduced to desolation. In Jer 12:1–4 the picture is different, and the role of human behavior is central. The destruction of birds and animals is linked to the behavior of the earth’s inhabitants. Here the punitive action of YHWH is a secondary theme, whereas in 4:23–28 the immediate cause of the earth’s mourning is not the evil behavior of the people but rather the devastating action of YHWH. In 12:1–4 the imagery of the earth mourning is not related to the past and a catastrophe that has already happened, but points to both the present and the future. With regard to the present, the imagery is symptomatic of what is already happening: the withering of the earth and the flourishing of the wicked. With regard to the future, it is a warning of what lies ahead, when the evildoers will be culled and slaughtered like sheep. In Jer 12:7–13 the mourning of the earth is a response to YHWH’s punishment. In this way the imagery functions differently than in 12:1–4, but similarly to that in 4:23–28. In 12:7–13 the destruction is not complete. The earth is an active figure that mourns. The earth’s relationship with YHWH is in contrast to that between the people and YHWH. The earth almost becomes a human figure, mourning to YHWH, who is in turn reduced to tears. The people, however, are likened to hyenas and birds of prey who seek the destruction of YHWH’s heritage. The metaphor of the earth mourning is “a figure of distress” and “reflects a state of disaster that is about to befall the human community” (p. 238). It also allows the introduction of “a contrasting perspective, as the state of the earth is held up as a silent witness against the state of its inhabitants” (p. 235). By reading these texts together, Hayes draws out patterns that are not apparent when they are read in isolation. Drawing on the studies of oral traditional works by scholars such as John M. Foley and Albert B. Lord, Hayes concludes that the language and images in the texts emerge from “a common stream of poetic language in the prophetic tradition” (p. 236). Hayes is not implying a dependence of one text on another, but rather that each text draws upon a common reservoir of imagery, phraseology, and themes that has itself evolved over a period of time. Each passage was probably “composed and heard in reference to shared modes of expression above and beyond any written literary dependence” (p. 237). Variations in the use of the metaphor reflect the different historical contexts in which the relevant passages were composed. In the preexilic passages the mourning of the earth is linked to the imminent judgment on Judah and Israel. In the postexilic texts (Isa 24:1– 20; 33:7–9; Joel 1:5–20), the metaphor is used to represent a world devastated but awaiting in hope its restoration. Hayes’s study shows that the metaphor of the earth mourning communicates an understanding of the relationships between God, humanity, and the cosmos. It provides a means by which the human audience can see the situation in which they are immersed. The use of the earth as one actor serves to broaden the audience’s horizon so

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they can understand that their behavior has consequences that extend beyond the human community to affect the life of the earth itself. Hayes’s study contains a careful analysis of each text. While every detail of her exegesis may not always command the agreement of the reader, she has produced a work that offers important insights. Over recent years, there has been an increasing interest in the theme of the land in the Hebrew Bible. Hayes’s monograph should be considered an important contribution to scholarly research on this fascinating and critical theme. John Hill Yarra Theological Union, Melbourne, Australia 3101

Thematic Threads in the Book of the Twelve, edited by Paul L. Redditt and Aaron Schart. BZAW 325. Berlin: de Gruyter, 2003. Pp. xv + 376. €98.00 (hardcover). ISBN 3110175940. This volume contains papers presented between 1999 and 2002 in the “Formation of the Book of the Twelve Seminar” of the Society of Biblical Literature. As such it represents very different views about and interests in the overall subject and the questions: Is it meaningful to read the Book of the Twelve (i.e., the Minor Prophets) as one book, as, for example, the books of Isaiah or Jeremiah? If so, what does the scholarly community gain from such a reading strategy? It is no wonder that the first question receives an almost unanimous affirmative answer by the authors, even if several of the contributors mention hesitations about the project by Ehud Ben Zvi and John Barton. As for the second question, the majority of the articles are very instructive; there is indeed something to gain from a synchronic and coherent reading of the Book of the Twelve. It should be said from the outset that this well-edited volume is an adequate starting point for new scholarly readers on these questions, not least due to co-editor Paul L. Redditt’s instructive research review that introduces the collection. Here Redditt treats five issues raised by the members of the seminar: (1) the challenge to demonstrate coherence within the Book of Twelve, including the question of how to understand such a coherence (Which types of coherence do we find? How far can coherence be demonstrated? Which coherence? Is it intentional or not?); (2) redactional techniques such as catchwords, inclusion, and chiasmus; (3) stages of growth (three or more, admitting that “these differences . . . show how difficult it can be to reconstruct a lengthy redactional process” [p. 17] and even mentioning E. W. Conrad’s view that such studies are speculative and unnecessary); (4) the question of the relationship of the Book of Twelve to other (mainly prophetic) corpora such as Ezekiel, Chronicles, and Isaiah; and (5) the advantages of reading the Twelve as a book. After this introduction the volume is divided into three main sections. I confine myself here to commenting on but a few of the essays in each to illustrate the contributors’ scholarly aims and methodologies. The first four articles deal with method: “The Ties That Bind: Intertextuality, the Identification of Verbal Parallels, and Reading Strategies in the Book of the Twelve” (Richard L. Schulz); “The Fifth Vision of Amos in Context” (Aaron Schart); “Psalms in the Book of the Twelve: How Misplaced Are They?” (Erhard S. Gerstenberger); and “Forming the Twelve and Forming Canon” (Edgar W. Conrad). Schulz discusses criteria for the fragile discipline of intertextual analyses. Far too

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often intertextual connections between texts and corpora have been (and are) urged without sufficient methodological care and, in my view, Schulz’s criteria seem welcome and well balanced: “In seeking significant verbal parallels, one should look for verbal and syntactical correspondence that goes beyond one key or uncommon term or even a series of commonly occurring terms, also evaluating whether the expression is simply formulaic or idiomatic” (p. 32). Using this and other criteria, Schulz identifies intertextual links both within the Book of the Twelve and between the Twelve and the Pentateuch and Isaiah, respectively. Such links, then, serve to connect the individual Minor Prophets and to emphasize larger theological subjects. (But what happened to the notes on p. 39?) Schart, in his turn, takes his readers on a veritable redaction-critical tour de force through the growing process of the fifth vision in Amos 9, from layer 1, the oldest literary layer (Amos 9:1– 4*), to layer 8, the Christian redaction of Amos 9. These two essays read together demonstrate how different methodologies supplement each other and add to the overall picture. Part 2 treats the canonical order in the Book of the Twelve: “Hosea’s Land Theme in the Book of the Twelve” (Laurie L. Braaten); “The Place and Function of Joel in the Book of the Twelve” (Marvin A. Sweeney); “The Repentance of Nineveh in the Story of Jonah and Nahum’s Prophecy of the City’s Destruction—A Coherent Reading of the Book of the Twelve as Reflected in the Aggada” (Beate Ego); and “The Canonical Location of Habakkuk” (Joseph A. Everson). Braaten shows quite convincingly the inclusion between the opening and the closing of the Twelve (MT): Hosea-Joel and Malachi. He follows the semantic thread of the connection between the land and its fertility god who sows and harvests for good and for bad throughout these books. Moreover, Braaten demonstrates the function of the “scroll of remembrance” in Mal 3:16 as “a means of beginning the reversal of the situation in Hosea,” and, following Nogalski, he argues that the scroll functions as both “torah” and as “the words of the prophets.” As such it has served both as public exhortatory speech and in the familial torah instruction. As a bonus the reader is presented an inspiring reading of Hosea and instructive notes that can lead one deeply into this puzzling book. Sweeney considers the meaning of the different redactions of the Twelve in MT, LXX, and Qumran (4QXIIa), taking his point of departure in the placing of the late book of Joel and drawing lines to the historical setting of not only the Twelve but also the books of Isaiah and Jeremiah. Part 3, “Thematic Threads,” is the most substantial with its eight articles: “Theodicy in the Book of the Twelve” (James L. Crenshaw); “The Day(s) of YHWH in the Book of the Twelve” (James D. Nogalski); “Die prophetische Ehemetaphorik und die Bewertung der Prophetie im Zwölfprophetenbuch” (Gerlinde Baumann); “Exile as Purification: Reconstructing the ‘Book of the Four’” (Rainer Albertz); “Futurism in the Pre-exilic Minor Prophets compared with That of the Postexilic Minor Prophets” (Simon J. De Vries); “Haggai-Zechariah: Prophecy after the Manner of Ezekiel” (Stephen S. Tuell); “The Perspective of the Nations in the Book of Micah as a ‘Systematization’ on the Nations’ Role in Joel, Jonah, and Nahum? Reflections on a Context-Oriented Exegesis” (Burkhard M. Zapff); and “Endings as New Beginnings: Returning to the Lord, the Day of the Lord, and Renewal in the Book of the Twelve” (Paul R. House). By and large the essays seem to be divided into two parts: the diachronic and the synchronic. Baumann, one of only two female contributors to the volume (and both are German), combines these two methodologies in a reading where she describes the

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Twelve as a patchwork made up of already completed units. On the one hand, the meaning of each little text unit is important in itself but, on the other hand, these units are put into lines and patterns that add yet another meaning to the original meaning (p. 215). Baumann illustrates her methodology by following two very different threads (Längsschnitte) through the Twelve: the marriage metaphor and the assessment of prophecy. The metaphor of the marriage between Yahweh and Israel/Judah—or the motif of Yahweh’s love for Israel/Judah—frames the Book of the Twelve from the marriage and divorce in Hosea, through the punishment of daughter Zion in Micah (1:5–7; 4:9–15) and of Nineveh in Nah 3:4–7, to the joy and restoration of daughter Zion in Zeph 3:14–17; Zech 2:14; 9:9, ending with Yahweh’s eternal love for Israel in Malachi. Baumann uses this line to draw conclusions about the textual history of the Twelve where the early “marriage” texts are found in the beginning of the scroll, the late texts at the end. From this she also draws conclusions about the canonical history of the Hebrew Bible, especially the prophetic books. She then follows the second thread and reaches the conclusion that the completed piece of art of the Book of the Twelve hides many patterns waiting to be unveiled. As usual, I am amazed (and perplexed) by the confidence of German scholars in the ability of redaction-critical studies to reveal textual history, but on her own methodological conditions Baumann presents a meticulous analysis that brings the scholarly dialogue a step forward. The closing essay is by Paul R. House, who presents a synchronic reading of the books in the Book of the Twelve in order to “grasp certain elements of literary unity that divulge theological themes” (p. 314). These elements form a pattern, also well known from other parts of the Hebrew Bible, and include “threats brought about by covenant disobedience, calls for change, promises associated with change, larger threats for rejecting the opportunity to change, and promises of eventual renewal” (p. 318). The overall theme of the twelve prophetic books is the sin of Israel and its neighbors and God’s reaction to this sinfulness in punishment and in forgiveness, when the sinners repent. He concludes that the Book of the Twelve “offers a post-exilic readership a clear choice based on their spiritual heritage. Those who first held the whole corpus in their hands lived between the day of the Lord that brought exile and the day of the Lord that would bring them final security” (p. 338). It is no surprise to any reader that the main theme for the Old Testament prophets, including the Twelve, is sin and what to do about it. However, House’s essay adds new meanings to this truism through his demonstration of intertextuality and a theological thread in the Minor Prophets. He thus demonstrates that there is an epistemological surplus to be gained from a coherent, synchronic reading of the Book of the Twelve. The volume is supplied with two indices, one of works cited and a Scripture index; misprints are few, and the publishers have made a fine and durable binding that, unfortunately, is not too common these days. The book is warmly recommended, even if new readers in the field perhaps should consider not beginning here but with this book’s predecessor, Reading and Hearing the Book of the Twelve (ed. James D. Nogalski and Marvin A. Sweeney; SBLSymS 15; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2000). But that is only in order to begin with the beginning. Else K. Holt University of Aarhus, DK 8000 Aarhus C, Denmark

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Qoheleth, by Norbert Lohfink. Translated by Sean McEvenue. CC. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003. Pp. xviii + 158. $23.00 (hardcover). ISBN 0800696042. The 1980 German original of this commentary received a brief review in JBL 102 (1983): 322. That brief eighty-six-page commentary grew out of the author’s translation of Qoheleth for Die Einheitsübersetzung and was partly intended as an explanation of that translation’s renderings. It was intended for nonscholars and did not explicitly interact with other research; it rarely gave clues as to the bases for its often intriguing suggestions. The present English version of the commentary is expanded by a new preface and by additions and other changes that do not appear in the published German Vorlage but were completed about 1990 for a revision that did not appear in German. “So this English translation is now a new, and henceforth the only, authentic version” (p. ix). The changes are sometimes significant, though the book’s basic approach is unaltered. For instance, helpful diagrams of literary and thematic structures that were not in the original appear throughout. The book adds a selective bibliography up to 2000, though the commentary, like its Vorlage, does not engage the works listed and is of course uninfluenced by the important work of recent decades. A few characteristic features of the commentary should be noted. Under the influence of the “New Criticism,” the commentary pays particular attention to literary structures and patterns, though diverging considerably from A. G. Wright’s famous attempts to explain “The Riddle of the Sphinx.” To my mind this remains one of the more helpful features of the work: it forces the reader to look at the book as literature and to weigh his or her own outline of the book and its sections carefully. The commentary is further characterized by the thesis of Rainer Braun (Kohelet und die frühhellenistische Popularphilosophie [BZAW 130; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1973]) that Qoheleth was heavily influenced by Hellenistic philosophical thought. The comparative material adduced is virtually all Greek, while the literary setting of Qoheleth in the ancient Near East is virtually ignored, except for the usual nod to Siduri the alewife and a “Song of the Harper” at 9:7–10. For Lohfink, Qoheleth is set in the Ptolemaic Hellenistic period before the Maccabean revolt, and upper-class economic issues and terms weigh heavily in his account. Alexandria is as important as Jerusalem (pp. 103–4, 118). The following telling paragraph on the translation of 5:12–15 is lacking in the published German original. Our translation follows the hypothesis that this section employs technical phrases from business and banking—phrases that are sometimes not known from other sources, but whose meaning can be surmised. The telltale clue that leads to this view is the technical meaning of beyaµdoµ, which occurs twice here. Normally it means “in his hand”; but we have a Hebrew text from the same historical period that uses the phrase in a business context with the technical meaning “on his account.” (p. 83) For Lohfink these verses now concern wealth that “is lost in bankruptcy” (wt[rl, 5:12) so that there remains nothing “in his accounts” (wdyb). The German original had the more accurate and multivalent “Durch ein schlechtes Geschäft ging ihm dieser Reichtum verloren . . . aber jetzt hat er nichts mehr, das ihm gehört” (pp. 44–45). The change to far greater specificity (here “banking”) is typical of the new English version: the sociohistorical explanation of the text has become more specific, with a consequent loss of interpretative possibilities open to the reader of Qoheleth. The full argument for

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this interpretation of 5:12–16 cannot be found in the commentary but appeared as an article, now conveniently collected along with much else, in his Studien zu Kohelet ([SBAB 26; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1998], 143–50). There is always a tension in a semipopular work by a distinguished scholar between the idiosyncrasies of his or her own interpretation (often based on much learning) and the duty to present to laypersons the main results of scholarship, especially in a book as contested as Qoheleth. The problem is exacerbated when the interpretation enters the translation of the biblical text so as to restrict the interpretive possibilities open to the reader. It is one thing to say that wt[rl (5:12) refers to bankruptcy or wdyb to bank “accounts”; it is another to translate it thus. Such moves confuse translation with commentary, so that lay readers can think only of bankruptcy and banks as they are known from the modern world, since the commentary does not explain the relevant features of the presumed “banking” system in Qoheleth’s day. Similarly, the account of two competing agricultural policies (pp. 80–81) seems to presume a level of socioeconomic certainty that leads to circular arguments about the text and its presumed setting. It is instructive to contrast Lohfink’s appeal to a Greek-speaking Hellenistic economic world to Choon-Leong Seow’s appeal to Aramaic texts from the Persian period. For Lohfink, Qoheleth presents a new worldview that seeks to overthrow the inadequate “ideology” or worldview of traditional wisdom as represented in Proverbs (pp. 90, 97, 117–18). I no longer believe such a paradigm for the relation of Qoheleth to Proverbs is valid, for it ignores the very nature of proverbial literature. Proverbs require contradictions to function, so that they may encompass the range of human experiences, even while they focus on the salient general patterns of reality that humans need to function. One such general pattern, easily caricatured in both ancient and modern times, is the “deed-consequence” pattern. Wisdom scholarship has, at least in part, become more aware of the subtlety of proverbs with regard to the limits of wisdom, and the uncertain consequences that attend the generalizing statements of traditional proverbs and their opposites. According to Lohfink, Qoheleth is much like a modern existentialist in worldview. While he does not specify Heidegger (appealing rather to Karl Jaspers), readers may hear echoes of the Marburg professor. “The essential discovery that constitutes us as fully human is when we realize that we are that being which is headed toward death. . . . To know that we will die is the achievement that, above all, the book of Qoheleth desires for its readers” (pp. 110, 112). Also interesting is Lohfink’s move to psychologize the concept of “good” (bwf), which is reflected in the regular translation “happiness.” “The good is, therefore, an ecstasy that unites consciousness around one point” (p. 85). This quasi-mystical, inward move seems to me a Western, post-Augustinian development, foreign to the concrete enjoyment (within limits) of creation and created goods advocated by Qoheleth and the Hebrew Bible/Old Testament in general. Some words about the English translation are called for. McEvenue not only translated Lohfink’s unpublished German revision but also retranslated Qoheleth from Hebrew, with an eye to Lohfink’s translation and commentary. While the commentary itself contains an occasional Germanism (“With him every activity is bathed in the light of freedom” [p. 75]), it is in the biblical translation that I find the results mixed and sometimes confusing. On the one hand, there is a literalizing tendency (admirable in itself) that renders

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the metaphoric keyword lbh by a comparable English metaphor, “breath.” Unfortunately, this translation does not always work in English. For example, 6:11 reads, “There happen many words that only multiply breath” (p. 89), with the subsequent explanation that the “many words” are “sayings as they are cited and deconstructed in 7:1ff.” (p. 91). On the other hand, sometimes the translation of the biblical text seems too loose and interpretive or does not parse well in English. Thus, qdxw fp`m (5:7, originally “Gericht und Gerechtigkeit”) becomes “justice and law-abiding,” with the later term functioning oddly as a gerund. Stylistically, I often felt that the book would have profited from a careful editing, for instance, excising unnecessary infinitival constructions that make Qoheleth’s literary masterpiece seem a chore to read. In spite of my caveats, it is good to have Lohfink’s thought-provoking commentary in English, an accomplishment that begs for Lohfink’s collected essays on Qoheleth to follow. Raymond C. Van Leeuwen Eastern University, St. Davids, PA 19087

Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period, edited by Oded Lipschits and Joseph Blenkinsopp. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2003. Pp. xii + 612. $49.50 (hardcover). ISBN 1575060736. This inspiring collection of essays is the fruit of a coincidental cooperation. The essays were read at an international conference held at the University of Tel Aviv in May 2001. The idea to organize this conference rose at the Transeuphratène colloquy at Paris, 2000, where the two editors of the present volume met and discussed the assumed “gap of the exile.” Their decision to organize the Tel Aviv meeting and to publish the papers needs to be applauded for two reasons: (1) biblical scholars tend to treat the exilic period as an empty hole about which little can be said, and this turns out not to be the case; and (2) the volume is the fruit of a real encounter of scholars from different branches, such as biblical scholars, historians, and archaeologists. I am of the opinion that this kind of interdisciplinary research can be very fruitful for biblical studies. The volume contains five parts that are interrelated; the reader can easily observe discussion between the sections. The first section is entitled “The Myth of the Empty Land Revisited” and focuses on the intriguing ideas developed by Hans M. Barstad. Barstad opens the discussion (“After the ‘Myth of the Empty Land’: Major Challenges in the Study of Neo-Babylonian Judah” [pp. 3–20]) with a comprehensive summary of his 1996 monograph. His position is challenged by Lisbeth S. Fried (“The Land lay Desolate: Conquest and Restoration in the Ancient Near East” [pp. 21–54]). She agrees with Barstad that Judah was not a space empty of people during the “exilic” period but argues that Judah was empty of its God. Bustenay Oded (“Where Is the ‘Myth of the Empty Land’ to be Found? History versus Myth” [pp. 55–74]), on the other hand, defends the thesis of radical discontinuity. His argument, however, is rather weak and far from convincing. Quite different is the approach in the essay by Sara Japhet (“Periodization: Between History and Ideology. The Neo-Babylonian Period in Historiography” [pp. 75–89]), who studies the view on the period under consideration in four historiographic works—the book of

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Kings, Ezra-Nehemiah, the book of Chronicles and 1 Esdras. She concludes that although these four works narrate different views on the past, they share a lack of interest in Judah’s fate in the Babylonian period. The second part deals with “Cult, Priesthood, and Temple,” or phrased otherwise: What do we know about the cult in the time that the Jerusalem temple laid waste? On the basis of archaeological and biblical data, Joseph Blenkinsopp (“Bethel in the NeoBabylonian Period” [pp. 93–107]) argues that for most of the “exilic” period Bethel served as the alternative sanctuary. Bethel seems to have been sponsored by the Babylonians, especially since the administrative center Mizpah was nearby. Gary Knoppers (“The Relationship of the Priestly Genealogies to the History of the High Priesthood in Jerusalem” [pp. 109–33]) discusses the priestly genealogies in the book of Chronicles. In his opinion these lists are not archival notes but reflections of conflicts, trade-offs, and compromises between priestly families in and around Jerusalem in the Persian period. A close reading of the genealogies reveals several inner-Judean polemics. In a strictly literary analysis, Yairah Amit (“Epoch and Genre: The Sixth Century and the Growth of Hidden Polemics” [pp. 135–51]) argues that several texts that can be read as a reflection of inner-Judean polemics. In her view, narrators chose this genre because they may not have been in a position to address these polemics in the open. A nice example of such a polemic is produced by Diana Vikander Edelman (“Gibeon and the Gibeonites Revisited” [pp. 153–67]), who reads stories about the Gibeonites against the background of an assumed conflict in the Babylonian-Persian period regarding power over and possession of the Israelite heartland. In his contribution, Yair Hoffman (“The Fasts in the Book of Zechariah and the Fashioning of National Remembrance” [pp. 169–218]) brings to the fore a set of cross-cultural data for noncalendrical rituals in which disasters are remembered. In doing so he supplies the reader of the book of Zechariah a model for understanding the different dates for fasts referred to in that book. The third part deals with military and governmental aspects. One of the intriguing questions closely related to the fate of the Judeans is whether or not the politics of the Babylonians toward conquered people differed from the harsh approach of the Assyrians. Ronald H. Sack (“Nebuchadnezzar II and the Old Testament: History versus Ideology” [pp. 221–33]) defends the view that the Babylonians mainly took over the Assyrian attitude. David Vanderhooft (“Babylonian Strategies of Imperial Control in the West” [pp. 235–62]) argues for the opposite view. As far as I can see, the balance of the evidence favors the Vanderhooft position. This is more or less underscored by John W. Betlyon (“Neo-Babylonian Operations Other Than War” [pp. 263–83]), who, applying a present-day classification, makes clear that the Babylonians failed to profit from their conquest by the fact that they did not properly garrison conquered territories, as had been the case with the Assyrians. André Lemaire (“Nabonidus in Arabia and Judah in the Neo-Babylonian Period” [pp. 285–98]) discusses some recently published epigraphic evidence for the reign of this tragic last king of the Babylonians: (1) the “Sela>”sculpture from the Edom-plateau; (2) a set of North Arabic, Taymanite graffiti that mention the king; and (3) two enigmatic inscriptions from Tell en-Nasbeh. The fourth part contains “Archaeological Perspectives.” In a well-written article, Charles E. Carter (“Ideology and Archaeology in the Neo-Babylonian Period: Excavating Text and Tell” [pp. 301–22]) makes an important remark as to the fundamental uncertainty of the archaeological evidence as a basis for historical reconstruction. The

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present scarcity of material from the Neo-Babylonian period in Judah cannot prima facie be construed as evidence for an “empty land hypothesis.” The scarcity is explained by the fact that previous generations of excavators were in great haste to reach strata that could be connected to the “monarchic period” or earlier. In addition, archaeologists have too often been looking for the remains of monumental architecture, thereby neglecting more subtle hints of human existence. Shifts in demographic patterns are the subject of the inquiry by Oded Lipschits (“Demographic Changes in Judah between the Seventh and the Sixth Centuries B.C.E.” [pp. 323–76]). He estimates the decrease of population after the Babylonian capture of Jerusalem at some 65 to 70 percent. Interestingly, the shift has been less drastic in the regions of Benjamin and the northern Judean hills. This observation might underscore the assumption that the Bethel-Mizpah area functioned as a religious-administrative center during the “exilic” period. Adam Zertal (“The Province of Samaria [Assyrian samerina] in the Late Iron Age [Iron Age III]” [pp. 377–412]) surveys the territory of the former Israelite kingdom and concludes that during the Assyrian rule a few fortifications and other relics of power can be traced, and that this administrative and military presence decreased only slightly after the regime change. In his view, Samaria was the capital of the entire Israelite and Judean country during the Babylonian period. The fifth and final part contains two interesting essays on geographically distant localities. Bezalel Porten (“Settlement of the Jews at Elephantine and the Arameans at Syene” [pp. 451–70]) highlights the origin of the “Jewish” colony in southern Egypt in the fifth century, defending the thesis that the Elephantines are the descendants of northern Israelites and that their religion might reflect the religious conditions of eighth-century northern Israel. In a very detailed paper—almost a monograph on its own—Ran Zadok (“The Representation of Foreigners in Neo- and Late-Babylonian Legal Documents [Eighth through Second Centuries B.C.E.]” [pp. 471–589]) discusses the epigraphic evidence from Mesopotamia in connection to the position of mainly West Semitic foreigners. This book is an important contribution to discussion of the “exilic period.” The contributions are well written, and the various indexes are very helpful. It should not be neglected by biblical scholars or historians. Unfortunately, there is hardly any discussion with Rainer Albertz, who recently published an important monograph on the “exilic period” (Israel in Exile: The History and Literature of the Sixth Century B.C.E. [Studies in Biblical Literature; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003]). Hopefully, the volume will be continued with Judah and the Judaeans in the Persian Period. Bob Becking Utrecht University, Woerden, Netherlands NL-3448 XH

Qumran Cave 4 XVI: Calendrical Texts, by Shemaryahu Talmon, Jonathan Ben-Dov, and Uwe Glessmer. DJD 21. Oxford: Clarendon, 2001. Pp. xii + 263 + 13 plates. $90.00 (hardcover). ISBN 019827016X. Scholars have long recognized that the Qumran sect employed a solar calendar that differed markedly from the lunar-based calendar used by Pharisaic/rabbinic circles in Judaism during the Second Temple period. Indeed, differences in reckoning the

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times of the festivals play a major role in discussion of the conflict between the Righteous Teacher and the Wicked Priest in Jerusalem. Likewise, the solar calendar is clearly represented in the Temple Scroll and other texts. Scholars will therefore welcome this volume, which presents the diplomatic publication of the 4QCalendrical Documents and Mishmarot texts (4Q320–330, 337, 394.1–2) by Shemaryahu Talmon with the assistance of Jonathan Ben Dov; the 4QOrdo text (4Q334) by Uwe Glessmer; and the 4QOtot text (4Q319) by Ben Dov. In addition to introduction, transcription, reconstruction, translation, and textual commentary for each text, the volume includes a complete concordance for all texts published herein and plates for study of the original manuscript fragments. Talmon begins his discussion with a substantive introduction to the calendrical texts published in this volume. He observes the use of a 364-day solar calendar at Qumran that corresponds to the calendar systems represented in the Book of the Heavenly Luminaries (1 En. 72–82) and the book of Jubilees (chs. 6 and 2). By contrast, the Jerusalem temple employed a 354-day lunar calendar during this period to reckon time and the observance of festivals. Such a difference in calendrical reckoning precludes participation in the temple ritual by the Qumran group; indeed, a shift in use of calendrical systems plays a major role in explaining the origins of the Qumran group. The solar calendar presents a relatively symmetrical system that included 364 days divided into fifty-two weeks for each year. This allowed for a division of the year into four equal quarters of thirteen weeks each, which in turn correspond to the four major agricultural seasons (mo>adim; i.e., qsyr, qys, zr>, and dš>), which coincide with the astronomical seasons, including the vernal equinox, summer solstice, autumnal equinox, and winter solstice. The first two months of each quarter include thirty days each, whereas the last month of each quarter includes thirty-one days. The symmetry of this system entails a calendar in which all festivals always fall on the same day of the week each year. Therefore, the first and fifteenth day of the first month of each quarter always fall on the fourth day of the week (Wednesday), the day that God created the sun and the moon that determine time, according to Gen 1:14–19. Talmon notes rabbinic tradition, which denies special status to the fourth day, so that the first day of the Mazzoth festival never falls on a Monday, Wednesday, or Friday; Rosh Hashanah never falls on a Sunday, Wednesday, or Friday; and Yom Kippur never falls on a Friday (which is always the case in the Qumran solar calendar). Unfortunately, extant documents do not tell us how the Qumran group practiced the necessary intercalation that would account for the additional 1.25 days each year necessary to maintain the seasonal balance of this idealized solar calendar. Talmon speculates that it must have been based on the periodic insertion of additional weeks. Talmon classifies his calendrical texts under three main categories: (1) calendrical documents, which comprise simple enumerations of the months together with the numbers of days for each month and itemized schedules of the annual holy seasons; (2) mishmarot registers, which stipulate a six-year cycle of priestly watches by which the twenty-four priestly houses will officiate at the temple (although the Qumran solar calendar calls for twenty-six such watches during the year); and (3) mixed-type rosters, which combine such registers and tables. Talmon notes that the Qumran group was committed to the observance of biblical prototypes and explains that they adapted the twenty-four-course biblical system (see 1 Chr 24:7–18; cf. b. >Arak. 12b) with a staggered system of mishmarot; that is, four houses would stand an additional week’s watch

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(cf. 1QM 2:1–2). He notes talmudic references to the changing of the priestly mishmarot but argues correctly that the accounts of the revolts against Athaliah in 2 Kgs 11:4–16 and 2 Chr 23:1–11 provide examples as to how the mishmarot would change their shifts. Because the Kings account depicts a watch of military personnel and Chronicles depicts priestly personnel, he speculates that the Kings account must have borrowed the technical priestly terminology tb`h yab, “the beginning of the Shabbat,” and tb`h yaxwy, “the conclusion of the Shabbat,” from the Chronicler’s account. Such a view overlooks the fact that the Chronicler typically reworks the text of Kings (it is especially known for converting secular figures into Levites) and that terminology concerning cultic practice is entirely appropriate in this particular context in Kings, which otherwise gives us little information concerning the inner workings of Temple ritual or scheduling. Talmon’s discussion of the enigmatic term duqah rejects the common understanding of the term as a reference to the “new moon” and instead concludes that it refers to the night following the full moon, when the moon begins to wane in the middle of the month. This conclusion is based on the appearance of the term in 4Q321 and 4Q321a, which place the duqah on the sixteenth or seventeenth day following the new moon. Talmon maintains that the term is derived from the root, dqq, “to be thin,” rather than the root dwq, “to examine, observe,” as J. T. Milik maintains. Talmon’s edition of 4QCalendrical Document D (4Q394.1–2) is a re-edition of a text originally published as part of 4QMMT. John Strugnell, one of the original editors of this text, recognized that it did not belong with 4QMMT (4Q394.3–7) in an appendix to the earlier publication of 4QMMT. It is instead a self-standing roster of the fifty-two Sabbaths in the solar calendar. Glessmer’s edition of 4QOrdo (4Q334) presents nine manuscript fragments that apparently constitute a register of liturgical hymns to be sung night and day. Although Glessmer provides exhaustive discussion of the liturgical orders in biblical, Qumran, rabbinic, and other Second Temple period literature, he can only rely on 1 Chr 9:33, which refers to Levitical singers who were on duty night and day, to provide an indication of the setting for this “order of divine office.” The surviving fragments provide no information concerning the calendrical basis that they presuppose other than enigmatic references to the eighth and sixteenth days. Ben Dov’s edition of 4QOtot (4Q319) appears to have originated from the same scroll as 4QSe (Serekh ha-Yahad), although it is a distinct document. The register of “signs” (
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interpreters to understand the liturgical workings of the solar calendar system as understood by the Qumran community. Marvin A. Sweeney Claremont School of Theology and Claremont Graduate University, Claremont, CA 91711

Der historische Jesus: Tendenzen und Perspektiven der gegenwärtigen Forschung, edited by Jens Schröter and Ralph Brucker. BZNW 114. Berlin: de Gruyter, 2002. Pp. viii + 472. €118.00 (hardcover). ISBN 3110175118. This collection of essays on historical Jesus research consists of two parts. The aim of the first part is to systematize the often unspoken methodological and epistemological presuppositions behind recent historical Jesus research. The second part focuses on specific themes that arose from the fields of interest of the exegetes. The idea to publish this collection was born when Dr. Werner Kelber addressed members of the Faculty of Theology at the University of Hamburg (Germany) in 1999. A symposium on the topic was held in Hamburg in November 2001, and these papers are included in the collection together with others presented at different occasions. In his contribution, Werner Kelber (“Der historische Jesus: Bedenken zur gegenwärtigen Diskussion aus der Perspektive mittelalterlicher, moderner und postmoderner Hermeneutik”) considers the hermeneutical approaches to the Bible from the patristic era until the present. According to Kelber, the history of interpretation represents a development from a search for meaning (sensus spiritualis) to a search for information (sensus literalis). The outcome of this process is that the “historical Jesus” has become the “real Jesus.” This leads to a radical reduction of the pluriform world of the NT and of the multifaceted images of Jesus found in the Gospels. In cases where the theologian prefers the Jesus of the Gospels above the Jesus behind the texts, the notion of the resurrection attains theological priority over the “life, work and death” of Jesus. If one prefers the alternative, an unnecessary tension between two types of Christianity is created, namely, a “love for sarx” (the Jesus movement) over against a “hate of sarx” (the Pauline movement). This tension relates to the classic distinction between the “historical Jesus” and the “kerygmatic Christ,” a distinction first made by Martin Kähler in 1896. Kelber proposes a different angle. He takes the development from orality to literacy in the Jesus tradition seriously and prefers to speak of a “present memory” (“vergegenwärtigende Erinnerung”). Jesus is relevant for today because our present encounters with him are grounded in the orientation of people in the past. To me, this is what James Dunn suggests with the subtitle of the first volume of his Jesus book, Jesus Remembered (vol. 1 of Christianity in the Making; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003). The essay by Michael Moxter (“Erzählung und Ereignis: Über den Spielraum historischen Repräsentation”) links to the contribution of William Wrede, who has prompted interpreters of the Jesus tradition to separate faith in Jesus as Messiah in the post-Easter period (“Messiasdogmatik”) from the historical foundation of the life of Jesus in the pre-Easter period. According to Moxter, this has caused an antagonism between event (“Ereignis”) and narrative (“Erzählung”) that neglects “event” in favor of “narrative.” Bultmann’s dialectical distinction between “Historie” (= “event”) and

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“Geschichte” (= “narrative”) is an endeavor to overcome this dualism in an existential way. The existential hermeneutical approach understands the historical event of Jesus’ coming in the past (“das kontingente historische Ereignis des Gekommenseins Jesu”) as a present “eschatological” happening through the kerygma (i.e., because the “event” is existentially proclaimed in the present). However, according to Moxter, Bultmann failed to relate “event” with “narrative.” What Bultmann did was to draw the “event” into the present by means of the kerygma and not to relate the proclaiming (pre-Easter) Jesus with the proclaimed (post-Easter) Christ. Moxter rather elaborates on Paul Ricoeur’s narrative theory of prefiguration, refiguration, and configuration. According to this theory, an interpreter of history does not regard the historical narrative only as something of the past, but re-presents it in a re-created present narrative (“schöpferische Nachahmung”). In such a way “event” keeps its validity and is not replaced by “narrative.” David du Toit (“Der unähnliche Jesus: Eine kritische Evaluierung der Entstehung des Differenzkriteriums und seiner geschichts- und erkenntnistheoretischen Voraussetzungen”) focuses on the so-called criterion of dissimilarity (“Differenzkriterium”). In the early stages of historical Jesus research, sayings of Jesus reflecting an Israelite environment were distinguished from a later Hellenistic development. Jesus sayings that reflect the convictions of the Jesus movement in the Israelite as well as in the GrecoRoman environment were not regarded as authentic. The criterion of dissimilarity was applied in such a way that probable authentic Jesus traditions were distinguished from, on the one hand, post-Easter Jesus movements and, on the other hand, from the conventional Israelite tradition. However, du Toit is not only concerned with a distinction between Jesus and the contexts of Jesus movements but also with the commonalities. He criticizes the overemphasis on individualism in the nineteenth century because it led to a negative portrayal of ancient Judaism and to the separation of Jesus and Judaism. He sees this tendency in the work of Bultmann. By taking the “original oral” context of Jesus more seriously, du Toit tries to illustrate continuity between the world of Jesus and that of the early Christians. James D. G. Dunn (“All That Glitters Is Not Gold: In Quest of the Right Key to Unlock the Way to the Historical Jesus”) is particularly critical about tendencies in North American historical Jesus scholarship. He disagrees with those (e.g., members of the Jesus Seminar) who distinguish between an earlier sapiential and a later apocalyptic stage in the Jesus tradition. He also argues against what he calls “grand narratives” in terms of which “historical data” are interpreted. Jesus as a “Mediterranean Jewish peasant” (John Dominic Crossan) or as a “Restorer of Israel” (N. T. Wright) are examples of such “grand narratives.” An important perspective of Dunn is his emphasis on the oral medium of Jesus’ teaching as the origin of the written tradition. He pays attention to the typical features of the teaching of Jesus. Examples are Jesus’ announcement of God’s kingdom as both a present and future event, his Son of Man sayings, his calling God “Father,” and his exorcisms. A plausible historical construction of Jesus can be developed by focusing on these characteristics. Jens Schröter (“Von der Historizität der Evangelien: Ein Beitrag zur gegenwärtigen Diskussion um den historischen Jesus”) challenges historical Jesus scholars to respond to the question why modern constructs of Jesus would be historically more reliable than those found in the Gospels. He does not accept the opinion of historical-

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critical exegetes that certain individual sayings of Jesus could be more historical than the frameworks (“Rahmen”) of the Gospels in which they occur. Using the Gospel of Mark as a case study, Schröter appraises the historical value of the Gospels as narratives that re-present (see Ricoeur’s concept of “Repräsentanz”) a past reality (“vergangene Wirklichkeit”). Christopher M. Tuckett (“Q and the Historical Jesus”) agrees with the thesis of John Kloppenborg that the interpreter should attribute the same “status” to the Jesus profile in Q as in Mark. Tuckett applies this thesis also to the material peculiar to Matthew (Matthean Sondergut) and the material peculiar to Luke (Lukan Sondergut). The image of Jesus in each of these (reconstructed) documents appears for the first time in the particular document. With regard to Q, both the contents and the formal characteristics of a saying are controversial because of the subjective impact of an interpreter’s reconstruction of the Q text. Another complex issue is the scholarly opinion that the Q tradition represents an evolution of multiple literary stages (“Stratigraphiemodell”). According to Tuckett, those who separate “Redaktion” from “Tradition” see the first stratification as mirroring the sayings of the historical Jesus. Tuckett sees the development as an evolutionary process and not as the activity of a redactor. Therefore, different images of Jesus cannot be distinguished in different layers. David E. Aune (“Assessing the Historical Value of the Apocryphal Jesus Traditions: A Critique of Conflicting Methodologies”) positions himself between two opposite opinions with regard to the use of apocryphal material: avoiding such material completely or allowing extracanonical material to play a central role (John Dominic Crossan). Using the Gospel of Thomas as an example, Aune would not like to exclude apocryphal material for theological reasons (Paul Meier). He would also not like to include it on account of the application of the criterion of multiple attestations and Thomas’s so-called independence of the canonical tradition (Crossan). Historically seen, evaluations such as “late” or “dependent” should rather not be used, so that documents that are both late and dependent are excluded. The problem is that Aune is unclear as to his historical method(s) for arguing for authenticity. Jörg Frey, Hermut Löhr, Michael Wolter, Petr Pokorný, Ulrich Luz, and Andreas Lindemann contribute to the second part of the collection, which focuses on individual topics. Jörg Frey (“Der historische Jesus und der Christus der Evangelien”) pays attention to the continuity/discontinuity between Jesus’ vocation and mission and the titles Christ and Son of God that his followers attributed to him. According to Frey, the messianic attribution relates to their experience of Jesus’ exorcisms and healings. The attribution Son of God, on the other hand, passed through a filter of the engagement with the Easter event. Hermut Löhr (“Jesus und der Nomos aus der Sicht des entstehenden Christentums: Zum Jesus-Bild im ersten Jahrhundert n.Chr. und zu unserem JesusBild”) notes that Jesus did not refute the validity of the Torah in principle. Paul’s dictum “Christ is the end of the law” in Rom 10:4 does not unveil Jesus’ approach to the law but explains Paul’s theological perspective on the meaning of Easter and of salvation. The point of departure in the essay of Michael Wolter (“‘Gericht’ und ‘Heil’ bei Jesus von Nazareth und Johannes dem Taufer: Semantische und pragmatische Beobachtungen”) is the so-called disagreement between Jesus and John the Baptist with regard to judgment and salvation. The Baptizer would be an advocate of apocalyptic judgment over against the emphasis of Jesus on God’s saving acts. Wolter sees judgment and salvation

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not in opposition but as integral to how God saves. The audiences whom Jesus addressed with both words of judgment and salvation were the disciples and the righteous in general. They received judgment and salvation as integral parts of the “Heilshandeln” of God. Petr Pokorný (“Stilistische und rhetorische Eigentumlichkeiten der ältesten Jesustradition”) focuses on lexical peculiarities of words such as “kingdom of God” and the related terms “coming near” and “going into” the kingdom. From the perspective that “kingdom of God” is a root metaphor (Paul Ricoeur and Eberhard Jüngel), Pokorný argues that these related terms should be interpreted in a metaphorical way. He further pays attention to other concepts that he regards as part of the oldest Jesus tradition. Propelled by Albert Schweitzer, Ulrich Luz (“Warum zog Jesus nach Jerusalem”) investigates Jesus’ view on Jerusalem and his journey to the city, which Luz believes was undertaken intentionally. He argues that Jesus’ view was consciously influenced by the prophetic notion that “Jerusalem is a dangerous place for the prophets.” From this perspective Luz makes a case that Jesus was aware of his coming death and saw it as connected to an imminent end time. However, Luz is cautious to accept that the Eucharist tradition, linked with Jesus’ last meal with his disciples, goes directly back to Jesus. The same discretion applies to Jesus’ being aware that his suffering implied a vicarious death. Andreas Lindemann (“Jesus als der Christus bei Paulus und Lukas: Erwägungen zum Verhältnis von Bekenntnis und historischer Erkenntnis in der neutestamentlichen Christologie”) considers whether confessional expressions regarding the resurrection are rooted in the resurrection as a historical event. He concentrates on Rom 10:9 and Acts 2:14–16. Lindemann maintains that these confessions were authentic, attested to by “subjective” witnesses to the resurrection. This insight does not lead to a conclusion that the resurrection itself is an “objective” aspect of factual reality (“Ebene einer Faktenwirklichkeit”). The “material content” (“sachliche Inhalt”) of the confessions is as follows: “the Crucified whom God resurrected is Kurios.” This confession of faith relativizes all human and demonic attempts to gain power in order to rule. The power of God is to encounter humans in their vulnerability. In the final analysis, this book reflects on the plausibility of both continuity and discontinuity between the Jesus of history and the Jesus of faith. It breathes an antagonism against trends of research in North America (especially those linked with the Jesus Seminar). However, this collection of essays engages the agenda of North American scholarship with respect to the epistemological and methodological discussion in the post-Bultmann period. The book fails to propose an epistemological and methodological perspective according to which one can argue for both continuity and discontinuity. Given that the book concentrates only on research done in Germany, it is remarkable that Gerd Theissen and Dagmar Winter’s Die Kriterienfrage in der Jesusforschung: Vom Differenzkriterium zum Plausibalitätskriterium (NTOA; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1997) was not referred to by any of the contributors. Even the book of Gerd Theissen and Antoinette Merz, Der historische Jesus: Ein Lehrbuch (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996), was consulted only superficially (see especially the essays of du Toit and Schröter). Theissen’s contribution was to replace the “criterion of dissimilarity” with the “criterion of historical plausibility.” By so doing, he pointed out that Jesus was both in continuity and in discontinuity with the Israelite tradition of his day (and, I would add, the Greco-Roman tradition as well). This kind of approach creates the possibility of describing and explaining Jesus’ subversive wisdom

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within the context of his time, including when one focuses on lexical and semantic issues of individual aspects, as it was done in some of the essays in the book. Theissen uses the terms “Jesus’ Jewish world” (i.e., the Israelite tradition) and “Judaism” (i.e., conventional Judean legalism). The distinction opens up the possibility of applying what I call the “environmental criterion.” This criterion can assist in identifying the similarities and differences, the continuity and discontinuity, between the words and deeds of Jesus and the tradition. This tradition passes through different phases: the earliest Jesus faction in Jerusalem, those in Galilee and Syria, and beyond. In other words, this criterion is not only about the distinction between conventional Israelite legalism and conventional Greco-Roman culture but also about the similarities and differences between Jesus, embedded in a Galilean and Judean context, and the Jesus groups embedded in a more Israelite or Greco-Roman context. In this regard, insights into the domestic, social, political economic agricultural, urban, and religious structures of the various environments will assist in distinguishing the words and deeds of Jesus from the interpretations of Jesus by his followers. Andries G. van Aarde University of Pretoria, Pretoria, South Africa 0043

The Message and the Kingdom: How Jesus and Paul Ignited a Revolution and Transformed the Ancient World, by Richard A. Horsley and Neil Asher Silberman. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2002. Pp. xii + 290. $18.00 (paper). ISBN 0800634675. This book describes the “revolution” the early Jesus movement brought to the ancient world primarily by analyzing the ministries of Jesus and Paul within their sociopolitical contexts. Its main thesis is that what started in Galilee as a political reform movement to restore Israel and its Mosaic values finally developed into a new and independent Christ-religion thanks to its criticism of the patron-client system that dominated the imperial society. The method Horsley and Silberman used for their analysis is a combination of sound historical scholarship (especially as far as the socioreligious context of the early movement is concerned) and a healthy commonsense reading of early Christian texts that reflect the development they noted. The question they ask first is an important one that is often overlooked: What influence did political circumstances in the early imperial age have on the development of Christianity as an independent religion? The starting point for Horsley and Silberman is the fact that the early Christian writings do not reflect the views of the ruling class but of those who held a far lower position on the social ladder: “History has almost always been written from the viewpoint of those who build cities and conquer empires, but in the New Testament and the early Christian tradition we may be able to catch a rare glimpse at the hopes, dreams, and utopian visions of those who suddenly find themselves at the bottom of a new civilization’s social heap” (p. 5). This observation forms the foundation of the entire reconstruction offered in this book. Indeed, the views we encounter in these early Christian writings are not those of the rulers but of the ruled. Chapter 1 (“Heavenly Visions”) introduces early Christianity as “a down-to-earth

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response to an oppressive ideology of earthly power” (p. 10). It describes the conflict between the Jesus movement and the Herodian and imperial systems of rulership. The authors present the tensions between the “potent messianic story” contained in the writings of Isaiah, Haggai, Micah, and the Psalms of Solomon, on the one hand, and the claims of authority held by Augustus, Herod, and their ilk, on the other. In ch. 2 (“Remaking the Galilee”), Horsley and Silberman reconstruct Jesus’ ministry within its Galilean context. The division of Herod’s territories between his sons did not alter the impact of Herodian ideology on the countryside. On the contrary, Antipas actively tried to implement the imperial ideology throughout the country. He had Sepphoris-Autocratoris built, started a new garum-center in Magdala, and laid heavy tax burdens on the inhabitants of Galilee. Antipas’s rule of Galilee and Perea thus aimed at installing the imperial system. Antipas regarded the emperor as his patron, and an imperial restructuring of his territories would prove valuable in his relationship with Tiberius. This even led him to build a new city for the emperor, namely, Tiberias. It is this cultural imperialism that John the Baptist eventually spoke out against when he protested Antipas’s marriage with his brother’s wife, Herodias. Seen from this perspective, John was not just a religious figure; he was a political activist. Jesus is presented in ch. 3 as a “Faith Healer.” He started out on a mission in Galilee and evoked a massive following. By this movement Jesus tried to create a “program of community renewal” (p. 57). According to Horsley and Silberman, this program is to be characterized as “political-religious” (p. 59). Jesus’ program aimed at restoring the Torah as the center of Israel’s identity. Jesus preached this restored Israel not just in words but most of all in actions: through healings and exorcisms. However, the strange thing is that his message was not simply a matter of God’s ultimate judgment being at hand. It was, above all, a “joyful, life-affirming message.” Jesus’ apocalyptic language should be interpreted as “hyperbolic”: the kingdom he spoke of was that of a social revolution. Chapter 4 (“Power and Public Order”) discusses Jesus’ death in Jerusalem. He entered the city on one of the days before Passover and did so by symbolically acting out a prophecy of Zechariah. Sitting on a donkey, the former carpenter mocked the political authorities: “could there be anything but ridicule of Antipas when the followers of Jesus called out in acclamation to their donkey-riding ‘king’ and covered his path with the same messianic palm fronds that Herod Antipas so conspicuously inscribed on his coins?” (p. 72). Jesus subsequently undertook a serious action against the Jerusalem temple, and this action ultimately led to his death. The ruling priests defended their positions by joining with the Romans in a military suppression of Jesus and his movement. By executing the leader in the cruelest way possible, they reckoned to have extinguished his movement along with him. They were wrong. Chapter 5 (“Preaching the Word”) describes how the movement went on as before. Notwithstanding the added element of Jesus’ death, his Galilean followers kept proclaiming his message. The disciples in Jerusalem somehow experienced a vindication of Jesus and his message. His followers in Jerusalem claimed to have been in contact with Jesus after his death and found a new impulse in this contact to keep his message alive. The authors present the Q-community in Galilee as a congregation of another type: these followers of Jesus did not speak about his death or resurrection but transmitted his teachings and thereby sharply criticized the ruling elite. The authors obviously

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have trouble explaining the divinization of Jesus: for them it is “something of a puzzle . . . how and why at least some of the Jesus communities so quickly symbolized his vindication in messianic terms, as the heavenly enthronement of one to whom royal titles should be ascribed” (p. 111). The strange experience of the vindication of Jesus the martyr nevertheless resulted in a reinforcement of his followers, who continued to spread his message. Chapter 6 (“Reviving the Nations”) deals with the way in which this movement spread to the Gentiles. Through the filter of the Jesus community in Antioch the movement reached out to the Greco-Roman world. In Judea, King Agrippa presented himself as a messianic savior-like ruler, and the Jesus movement was sharply critical of his claims. At the same time, new communities came into existence formed by Jews and Gentiles alike. This Jewish movement came to attract God-fearers and members of other religious cults by its promise of sharing in the kingdom of God. This sharing consisted in the egalitarian principles of the movement: its disregard for the patron–client principle that was fundamental to the imperial system as well as to the whole of GrecoRoman society. Paul’s part in the development of Christianity as an independent religion is described starting in ch. 7 (“Assemblies of Saints”). The authors present Paul as an organizer of communities who was greatly able to adapt his message to the circumstances of the towns in which he worked. He raised new assemblies as a revival of the reform communities Jesus had started in Galilee. Paul’s genius is shown in the fact that he even used imperial images for Jesus when in 1 Thessalonians he describes the coming of Christ in terms of an imperial parousia. Thus Paul comes to use the terminology of kyrios for Jesus, transforming the patron-client language used in Greco-Roman society to the relation of Jesus communities with their “king.” In ch. 8 (“Spirits in Conflict”), Horsley and Silberman reconstruct Paul’s problems with the Corinthian congregation. They argue that the spiritualists in Corinth tried to adapt the set of egalitarian house-assemblies to the patron–client system by claiming leading positions within these congregations. Their religious behavior was actually a form of social imperialism. The conflict in Corinth was therefore an attack on the core of the Jesus movement: its communal principles of “no Greek nor Jew, no slave nor free, no male and female.” The fact that Paul sought to guard this vision is illustrated, Horsley and Silberman contend, by the letter to Philemon. Even in prison Paul aimed at undermining Caesar’s imperialism: he challenged the entire institution of slavery. Chapter 9 (“Storming the Kingdom”) describes Paul’s initiative relating to the collection on behalf of the Jerusalem saints as an attempt to evoke God’s ultimate intervention in history. By bringing the collection to Jerusalem, Paul hoped to fulfill the prophecies of Isaiah according to which God would intervene after the Gentiles had brought gifts to the city. In this reconstruction Paul may even have presented his gifts to the Jerusalem temple, thereby introducing Gentiles into a forbidden territory. This kind of provocation would inevitably lead to Paul’s imprisonment as it is described in Acts. It was thus Paul’s apocalyptic dream that made him bring the collection to Jerusalem. He hoped to evoke God’s wrath on Caesar by this action. This initiative turned out to be wrong. Chapter 10 (“The Triumph of Caesar”) describes how three crises had their impact on the development of Christianity: Nero’s

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madness led to the fire in Rome and the subsequent death of numerous Christians (probably including Peter and Paul); the instability resulting from Nero’s behavior caused his downfall and eventually the rise of Vespasian and his sons; and, finally, the Jewish War resulted in the destruction of Jerusalem and a final victory for Caesar. It is in this context that we should read the Gospels of Mark, Matthew, and John, and it is to these circumstances that especially these three Gospels critically respond, though in divergent manners. The final chapter (“Keeping the Faith”) tells how the movement continued. It was the genius of the author of Luke-Acts finally to incorporate imperial imagery in his picture of Jesus and his movement. This proved to be the final stage of a development that had started out as a rural counter-movement in Galilee against the imperial system. The fact that the initial dream had not died out is shown by the Didache, which was long in use as a manual for rural as well as urban communities living out the principles of communal sharing and egalitarianism. The hermeneutical conclusion to the book as a whole is telling: “those who today fancy themselves to be faithful followers of Jesus should be constantly reminded of the painful struggle of the saints against Caesar in which the Christian faith was born” (pp. 231–32). Horsley and Silberman have written a compelling and important book. They present their argument in line with social historians of early Christianity such as Wayne Meeks and Gerd Theissen and develop the political argument also pursued by John Dominic Crossan. Horsley and Silberman’s analysis shows a tremendous knowledge of the historical circumstances in which the movement originated. Furthermore, the book reads like a novel; even though the story is familiar, it is told in such a way as to hold the reader’s attention. The political focus of the argument developed in this book is extremely important because it is often overlooked. When interpreted today, the early Christian writings function as part of the Christian Bible, and therefore they are often read as primarily religious writings. The context in which they were written, however, does give them an important political accent. Notwithstanding the importance of the book, there is also reason to be critical. Most important, the strictly political interpretation of Jesus and his followers almost leaves out of consideration his genuinely religious focus. True, it is hardly possible to separate politics and religion in antiquity, but Horsley and Silberman do not convince this reviewer of the fact that the religious Jesus movement found its focus primarily in political polemics against the imperial system. It seems that the authors have overstated their case to some extent. Could it be that this has to do with their interpretation of apocalyptic language as hyperbolic (e.g., p. 53)? It could be that this analysis says more about Horsley, Silberman, and their context than about Jesus and his world. The focus of the book very much seems to be on the hermeneutical principles mentioned in the conclusion. Could it be that present-day discussions in the United States have blurred the authors’ sight to some degree and held them back from interpreting this apocalyptic language as a genuine expression of the hope and expectation that God would actually intervene in history? Such hopes were surely present in first-century Galilee and Judea. This criticism does not diminish the significance of this book. It should be used in classrooms and discussion groups, and its argument should be heard also by politicians. Even though Horsley and Silberman seem to overstress the political dimension of early

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Christianity, it was definitely there. It is a major achievement by these authors to have shown that one of the leading religions of Western civilization started out on a very different basis than the rulers of this age now seem to think. Bert Jan Lietaert Peerbolte Kampen Theological University, 8260GA Kampen, The Netherlands Reading Mark: Engaging the Gospel, by David Rhoads. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2004. Pp. 240. $20.00 (paper). ISBN 080063649X. The eight articles collected in Reading Mark: Engaging the Gospel focus primarily on narrative criticism, the relationship between narrative criticism and the social sciences, and the way these approaches shed light on the Gospel of Mark. Though all but one are reprints, the compilation will assist beginning and advanced Bible students in understanding the methods in question, while also offering them an insightful perspective on what is arguably the most ambiguous Gospel in the New Testament. The final two articles deal with more general hermeneutical issues. Chapters 1 and 2, which should be read together, introduce students to the guiding questions of narrative criticism. The oldest of the eight articles, ch. 1 (from JAAR 50 [1982]: 411–34) was written initially to introduce the biblical guild to what was then a much newer interpretive approach. As such, it deals primarily with the narrative critic’s “standard areas of investigation,” making the now common distinction between story (e.g., events/conflict/plot, characters, settings) and discourse (e.g., narrator, point of view, standards of judgment, implied author, reader, rhetoric). Written seventeen years later, ch. 2 (from pp. 254–85 in Characterization in the Gospels: Reconceiving Narrative Criticism [JSNTSup 184; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999]) is a different kind of apologia, concentrating less on the nuts and bolts of narrative criticism and more on the questions it raised while taking root in academic circles. For instance, Rhoads offers a more nuanced view of narrative coherence as “a working hypothesis, a heuristic device to discern fully the coherent patterns of storytelling . . . without forcing [the narrative] into a straitjacket of coherence” (pp. 26–27). He also qualifies the notion of textual autonomy vis-à-vis historical context, noting that “a Gospel narrative is a historical artifact” (p. 27) and that narrative critics should use other approaches to supplement their interpretations. Thus Rhoads concludes ch. 2 with a survey of more recent “criticisms” that, in his view, “sharpen and broaden” (p. 30) narrative criticism (e.g., reader-response, speech-act, performance, social-science). Especially for beginning Bible students, these first two chapters complement each other well: ch. 1 needs the more nuanced hermeneutical perspective of ch. 2, while ch. 2 serves as a kind of response to ch. 1. Chapters 3 and 4 apply narrative criticism directly to the Gospel of Mark, yielding two insightful examples of its exegetical potential. Chapter 3 (from Int 47 [1993]: 258–69) offers a holistic interpretation of the Gospel from the perspective of what Rhoads considers Mark’s governing “standard of judgment,” namely, the command to serve others even to the point of losing one’s life. Chapter 4 (from JAAR 62 [1994]: 343–75) focuses on the smaller pericope of Mark 7:24–30 (the Syrophoenician woman) and its role in advancing the Gospel’s view of a universal (pro-Gentile) mission.

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As with any interpretation, some arguments prove less convincing than others. Especially in ch. 3, I find Rhoads’s understanding of the significance of Jesus’ death somewhat deficient theologically. He rightly notes that, for Mark, “Jesus does not die so that sins might be forgiven” (Mark 5:9); and he makes a good case for viewing Jesus’ death as the empowering of his followers “to change and transform their society” (p. 59). With the word “empowerment,” however, Rhoads limits himself to the idea of inspiration, encouragement, and ethical example (ibid). Nowhere does he consider how Mark’s depiction of the crucifixion might tell us something about the God whose kingdom Jesus proclaims (1:14–15) and inaugurates (4:1–20). Since Mark insists that Jesus is not just a uniquely self-giving individual but the crucified Messiah of Yahweh, the God of Israel, the Jesus-as-example model only takes us so far in appreciating the violent climax of Mark’s story. One could omit the many references to Israel’s God and scriptures—not to mention Jesus’ own resurrection—and still arrive at Rhoads’s understanding of Jesus’ mission. Though advanced students could read chs. 3 and 4 independently of chs. 1 and 2, beginning students will find that they complement the earlier chapters, providing two examples of the way narrative criticism works. In particular, they offer succinct and insightful discussions of conflict, standards of judgment, characterization, and setting. The more holistic ch. 3 could serve as a good introductory essay to the Gospel as a whole, while ch. 4 is a model for how narrative criticism approaches individual pericopae—always with an eye toward developments within the larger narrative. Although Rhoads’s penchant for literary detail can prove repetitive (several passages echo ch. 1) and even draining (on pp. 74–75 the discussion of parallelisms offers no interpretive insight), ch. 4 is one of the best I have found at articulating how Mark 7:24–30 advances the theme of Gentile inclusion, how it does so through a conflict that Jesus “loses,” and how the resolution of this conflict comes to bear on other issues in the story (women and men, purity and defilement, serving and being served). In keeping with the acknowledgment in ch. 2 of the limitations of narrative criticism, chs. 5 and 6 employ categories from the social sciences to supplement Rhoads’s narrative approach. Chapter 5 (from pp. 1692–729 in ANRW 2.26.2 [1995]) uses these categories to describe the basic contours of the “Jesus network” (i.e., the mission spearheaded by Jesus). Here Rhoads introduces some interesting terms (e.g., network of interaction, horizontal mobility, boundary mechanism, ritual of affiliation), but he does not explain how such terms actually inform his narrative approach to Mark. He does explain how Jesus’ mission spreads through the narrative world via various types of characters and how its universal trajectory results in permeable boundaries with little communal formation. Such insights, however, are hardly dependent upon a technical social-science vocabulary. Rather, Rhoads seems to have dressed a very solid interpretation of the Markan narrative in that vocabulary. When combined with ch. 3, then, this essay will offer beginning students a good introduction to the Gospel as a whole. It is not, however, the best tool for illustrating the benefits of social-science criticism. Fortunately, ch. 6 (from pp. 135–61 in Mark and Method [Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992]) makes up for these shortcomings. It outlines four basic approaches to the social study of the NT: social description, social history, sociology of knowledge and models from cultural anthropology. It then applies each of these approaches to the issue of

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purity and defilement in Mark, thus illustrating more clearly how the social sciences can shed light on the biblical text. Students will find a significant amount of overlap with ch. 5, but here the attempt to introduce social-science criticism is more finely tuned. The two chapters should have been combined into a more precise and coherent essay. Dealing with more general hermeneutical issues, chs. 7 and 8 stand apart from the rest of the book. Chapter 7 (from pp. 135–61 in Body and Bible [Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1992]) documents Rhoads’s journey as a performer of Mark and the many insights he has gained since embarking on that journey in the late 1970s. Here students will learn that performance is just like interpretation, only more so, since “the demands of performance press upon one the need to make decisions that exegetes might not otherwise make” (p. 194). Given the scarcity of gospel performance in the classroom, this article may not resonate with nonseminary students. Teachers, however, will find it an inspiration to use performance, or the assigning of performance, as a teaching method. The only new essay in the book, ch. 8 gives Rhoads’s perspective on the “ethics of reading” and the many social contingencies at work in interpretation (e.g., nationality, gender, race, community, etc.). For Rhoads, the ethics of reading involves the “two quite interrelated foci of the act of reading: interpreting the potential meanings of a text in its original context and appropriating a text for its relevance to a contemporary time and place” (p. 202). This is a well-balanced perspective, emphasizing the necessity of historical interpretation, the impossibility of perfect objectivity, and the need for openness to other views. Students of all levels will find it a good introduction to the task of interpretation and may even want to read it first. There are three kinds of courses that could benefit from reading all eight essays: a course on the Gospel of Mark, a course on the Synoptic Gospels that emphasizes narrative criticism, or, depending on the teacher’s objectives, a course in biblical hermeneutics. The biggest drawback to reading all eight essays is the significant amount of overlap in chs. 3 through 6. To a large extent these chapters simply recast a handful of exegetical arguments (though they are solid arguments) in different methodological terms. To the extent that one wishes to teach both narrative and social-science approaches, however, such repetition may be seen as a benefit. Indeed, the beauty of these core exegetical chapters is that they serve multiple purposes, teaching Mark and method simultaneously. With the addition of chs. 7 and 8 this collection becomes a more diverse and therefore more useful collection for teachers who, like Rhoads, find reflection on the task of interpretation an indispensable part of biblical exegesis. Ira Brent Driggers Pfeiffer University, Misenheimer, NC 28109

Lukas und Q: Studien zur lukanischen Redaktion des Spruchevangeliums Q, by Christoph Heil. BZNW 111. Berlin: de Gruyter, 2003. Pp. x + 444. €98.00 (hardcover). ISBN 3110174340. After the epoch-making publication of The Critical Edition of Q, edited by James M. Robinson, Paul Hoffmann, and John S. Kloppenborg (Leuven and Minneapolis,

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2000), NT exegesis is looking forward to a new generation of studies clarifying the redactional processes that generated Matthew and Luke. Heil gives us such a study for Q and Luke, making use of the most sophisticated advances in redaction criticism. His methodology is essentially conservative, but by careful, detailed analysis and a very good grasp of everything we already know about the Gospels, he manages to add significantly to our overall view of how Luke interpreted Q. His soberness of approach, inherited perhaps from his teacher Paul Hoffmann, may disappoint those who have come to see Q research as a field of rather free reimaginings of early Christianity, but his concentration on facts of redactional history seems to me very welcome in our task of verifying and falsifying the large number of theories proposed in the last twenty years. On the other side, Heil vehemently, and I think rightly, takes a stand against those who confine themselves to a synchronic perspective: “Werden Texte allein synchron untersucht, endet dies meist in einer mehr oder weniger geistreichen ‘Nacherzählung’” (p. 30). Heil concentrates in the first half of his book on texts from the latter part of Q (Q 13:18–22:30), giving a detailed analysis of seventeen sayings and parables. This is a wise choice, as texts such as Q 6:20–23 have been treated quite fully by others, but we have only a smaller number of studies on these later traditions of Q. So Heil both adds to research in Q and Luke and summarizes it, always taking as his main point of reference the Critical Edition and the work of the International Q Project (of which he is a member). In his second major part Heil outlines similarities and differences between Q and Luke in the following areas: “Women,” “Rich and Poor,” “Town and Countryside,” “John the Baptist,” “God,” “Jesus,” “Kingdom of God,” “Son of Man,” “Wisdom,” “Spirit,” “Scripture and Law,” “Israel, the Jews,” “Gentiles,” “Imminent Expectation of the End, Delay of the End, Judgment,” and last but not least “Ethics.” Heil also discusses the genre of Q and Luke (see especially pp. 231–32, where he characterizes Luke as a “Jesusbiographie” “mit gewissem historiographischem Anspruch . . . mit unterhaltendromanhaften Elementen”) and outlines some conclusions for the author of the Gospel of Luke, whom he sees as a Gentile Christian (p. 366), writing perhaps in Ephesus (pp. 24, 257). No theories about different forms of Q (QMt and QLk) are deemed necessary (p. 9). Like Hoffmann, Heil sees the final redaction of Q taking place rather late, during the Jewish war (pace G. Theißen and others [p. 9]). Sometimes Heil contradicts much-cherished theories (see especially pp. 237–38 on women in Q and Luke and also his many passing remarks on cynicism and Q, as on pp. 102, 241, 286, and 302). Both near future eschatology and realized eschatology are seen as part of the original Jesus tradition that found its way into Q (pp. 284–85). Though Q usually uses the LXX, Q 7:27 shows some contact with Masoretic textual traditions (p. 312 n. 5). Luke, on the other hand, uses his Bible “einmal detailverliebt und ein andermal hastig” (p. 317). Of course, every scholar participating in Q research will disagree with one point or another made by Heil, but Heil’s position is always well argued. I do not see, for example, any necessity for separating Q 13:24–25 and 26–27 (p. 50): the two sayings are put together by catch-word connection, a phenomenon usually much underrated for Q that can also be observed in Thomas. I do not believe that Q 16:16 followed directly after 7:28 (p. 266) but see 16:16–18 as a rather late addition put by the final redactor into its place of only loosely connected sayings just before the concluding eschatological

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compositional unit of Q 17:20ff. Also, I think the Gentile world is rather far removed from the social and cultural reality of Q, so that the old question whether Q supports the Gentile mission is not really appropriate (pace p. 334, where not only any active mission to Gentiles by the Q community is denied but even a positive evaluation of Gentiles). And can we really say that Lukan individual eschatology is a later development compared with Q (p. 346, arguing mainly from the Lukan redaction of Q 12:4–5)? Might this not have its reason simply in the broader thematic outlook of the larger Gospel? Q 15:3–7 is seen as part of Q (p. 151; denied by U. Luz and others). No localization for Q 13:30 seems possible (p. 60). In one case Heil is not quite consistent: Does Luke rate his Q traditions higher than his Markan material (as already Harnack and later J. Kloppenborg and C. M. Tuckett argued)? On pp. 263–64 he seems to agree to this theory (which I also share), but on pp. 356–57 he leaves the question open. This is of some importance for the possibility that Luke received Q as a book composed by (i.e., using the by-line of) Matthew (as Thomas was believed to be written by the apostle of that name). According to Luke 1:2, Luke must have had at least one source giving an apostolic authority (i.e., an autoptes “eyewitness”) as the author’s name, something never claimed by any tradition for Mark, his second major source. If he saw Q as a collection of sayings compiled by one from the Twelve, it is understandable he used it as his highest authority. But Heil does not discuss this question, though he observes that “Lukas hat aber erkennbar kaum ein Q-Logion ausgelassen, wahrscheinlich nur Mt 5, 41” also seeing it as probable that only in ten cases has Luke changed the basic sequence of Q (pp. 355–56). Lukas und Q is not a dissertation but a study by an already established and experienced scholar who has a good grasp also of the history of research (this is, e.g., the only recent monograph I know that quotes quite regularly from that forgotten masterpiece of nineteenth-century liberal exegesis, H. J. Holtzmann, Lehrbuch der neutestamentlichen Theologie [2nd ed.; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1911], and similar works). Heil very seldom polemicizes (but cf. p. 27 n. 3, where he remarks against the increasing biblicism of Klaus Berger and his circle), though he quietly and unobtrusively corrects some common mistakes about Q and also makes good use of sound Greek philology, something (speaking a bit frankly) not very common in Q studies. He clearly sees the “armselige literarische Ausführung” (p. 191) of Q but seems to me to underrate the sheer peculiarity of Q’s language (for which, see my forthcoming Q-Studien). For those reading only a little German I might add that Heil has a clear and easy style, making his monograph accessible also to those who might shrink from reading more voluminous or heavy German writing. The two main desiderata in Q research at the moment, as I see it, are a really comprehensive study of possible Q texts preserved only by Luke or Matthew (even a history of research would be welcome as a first step) and a study of all possible traces of Q outside of Matthew and Luke (as, e.g., in Thomas, James, Didache, Paul, and other sources). Heil’s study is a good example of how Q studies can profitably be done in the coming years, taking full advantage of the Critical Edition, the Documenta Q series, and the international network of Q research. Marco Frenschkowski University of Duisburg-Essen, Hofheim (Ts.), Germany D-65719

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Paul: The Letter Writer, by M. Luther Stirewalt, Jr. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003. Pp. v + 159. $22.00 (paper). ISBN 0802860885. This book is a small volume of 159 pages, including an appendix of translated letters, a bibliography of 254 entries, and a scripture reference index. Stirewalt has written in his area of expertise, which shows in the primary resources he accessed and the breadth of scholarship he engaged. His footnotes are extensive and show strong interaction with the literature related to his subject. The bibliography is current. His foundational work is Studies in Ancient Greek Epistolography (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 1993). In addition, Stirewalt has contributed valuable essays in different volumes on aspects of ancient letter writing. This new work presents a reasoned thesis maturing from Stirewalt’s study of Paul’s letter-writing paradigm. Stirewalt’s style is clear, lucid, and concise. This book easily can be read in an afternoon, but that is not to say the book is lightweight. In ch. 1, “The Logistics of Ancient Letter Writing,” Stirewalt presents his thesis that Paul patterned the preparation, delivery, and reception (the “logistics”) of his letters on the basis of his adaptation of official administrative correspondence of Hellenistic kings and Roman emperors that suited his purposes more readily than did the actual parameters of personal letters. Official letters were memorialized all over the GrecoRoman world in a multitude of inscriptions and monuments along Roman roads and within Roman cities. This official correspondence, which, according to Stirewalt, is generally ignored by ancient and modern commentators, had well-defined protocols of presentation, public reading, and accompanying oral reports that fit well the notations readers encounter within the Pauline correspondence (Hauptbriefe). Official correspondence included preparation by trained, skilled letter writers officially designated for the task and delivery by appointed envoys who guaranteed reception, gave the necessary and authoritative oral interpretation of the document, and answered questions arising from its content. Stirewalt argues that such official protocols had been in place for centuries. Stirewalt asserts that even the letter coming out of the Jerusalem conference of Acts 15 shows that Christians in general, not just Paul, observed these protocols of official correspondence as well. Stirewalt’s argument is that Paul’s model for the logistics of his letter-writing ministry to his churches follows the official pattern. Paul writes to definable communities with whom he assumes an authoritative role and responsibility. Those surrounding him—co-senders, greeters, and mentioned groups—“provided a kind of voluntary ad hoc secretariat” (p. 10). The problem of secured delivery, not often explored as a conundrum besetting personal letters, had a built-in solution for Paul: those surrounding the apostle, invested in his ministry and personally contributing to its administration, delivered his letters. Titus particularly stands out in this role. The public reading of Paul’s letters seems to have been the designated responsibility of a prominent member of the local congregation. The advantage to Paul of using this official model was control of the entire letter setting from start to finish. At the same time, Stirewalt recognizes that Paul was not slavishly dependent on the model in form, function, or style. Paul was innovative, and these innovations can be illustrated in each correspondence. Paul was creative, adaptive, and

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always structuring his writing according to need. Thus, the end result was that “[t]he Pauline letters arose in a unique epistolary setting and may be said to constitute an addition to the epistolary corpus” (p. 26). While acknowledging that Paul would be aware of Jewish letter-writing conventions, Stirewalt contends that the evidence in Paul’s letters primarily shows the influence of the official Roman model. The reason probably lies within the distinctive character of Christian communities, which were related but politically independent of one another, unlike Jewish synagogues with their authoritative ties to Jerusalem’s religious establishment. In ch. 2, “The Official Letter Form and the Pauline Letters,” Stirewalt lays out the form for the official letter. This form is given as (p. 33): 1. Salutation a. identification of the primary sender b. naming of co-senders c. address to multiple recipients 2. Body a. background (can be divided past/present) b. basis or explanation for the message c. message: order, request, commendation d. promise 3. Subscription The salutation most identifies Paul’s form as derived from the official category, according to Stirewalt. Paul did modify this part to suit the special characteristics of the Christian setting within a community of believers. Paul’s typical expansions beyond simply identifying his name (completely superfluous in personal letters, Stirewalt points out) follow the Roman pattern of an administrative officer addressing his constituents. For example, for the standard genealogical lineage notation Paul substituted reference to spiritual inheritance; for the vocational notation he used his distinctive apostolic categories. Identifying co-senders, as in official correspondence, is much more than circumstantially spelling out those who happened to be around Paul at the time of the letter’s composition or who may have experienced the accident of a shared itinerary. Cosenders functioned to designate officially those who shared responsibility for the “letter event” and who would vouchsafe the letter’s message. This official function of cosenders provides a much better context for Paul’s frequent mention of co-senders in his letters. The Pauline letter body shows the most variation, with elements of personal history, biography, apology, and defense appearing variously within Paul’s sophisticated rhetorical maneuvers. The official pattern, however, is not unrecognizable in its basic structure. Paul’s subscriptions also follow official form. These sections are crucial in official correspondence for confirming the sender’s identity and authenticating the message (p. 55). In addition, these subscriptions themselves show a “sub-letter form,” meaning the subscription is comprised of its own salutation, body, greeting, and farewell structure (p. 48). After surveying this form for the official letter, Stirewalt concludes: “The new and

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unique epistolary arm of Paul’s ministry required innovative approaches for communication. His innovations were made by a creative synthesis of epistolary settings, forms, and conventions available to him, and these were in turn imbued with his own theological convictions” (p. 55). In ch. 3, “The Letters,” Stirewalt chronicles what he determines to be an evolution in Paul’s use of the letter form as a constituent part of Paul’s ministry. Using Jürgen Becker’s chronology (1 Thessalonians, 1–2 Corinthians, Philippians, Philemon, Galatians, Romans), outlined in Paul, Apostle to the Gentiles (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1993), Stirewalt attempts to show Paul moving from his early, tentative soundings in using the letter as a venue for remote ministry in 1 Thessalonians to the eventual robust confidence of the form’s efficaciousness in letters such as Philemon and Galatians. Romans is treated separately as an example of the “letter-essay,” an epistolary category Stirewalt enumerated earlier in the Society of Biblical Literature Epistolography Seminar but had not specifically applied to Romans. In ch. 4, “Paul and His Apostolic, Epistolary Ministry,” Stirewalt provides a synthetic comparison of Paul’s official epistolary conventions with those of the personal letter. Official conventions served the formal needs of authority structure within Paul’s apostolic ministry to local communities. Personal conventions served the needs of identification, commitment, and pastoral concern. As personal, the letters were meant to maintain relationships and “were sent as gifts” (p. 114). On the other hand, the official conventions lent an air of authority. Stirewalt speculates that the official form also spoke to the sense of worthiness of all believers regardless of social-economic status. On letter writing versus speech writing (i.e., on how Paul approached his task), Stirewalt is clear: “between the writing of 1 Thessalonians and Romans Paul had learned to depend on letters not simply because the separation could not be conveniently bridged, but also because on occasion it proved to be a preferable means of meeting the problems and needs of the assemblies” (p. 117). This observation would be especially true of Philemon, 1–2 Corinthians, Galatians, and Romans. For the itinerant apostle, the official letter was the premier venue for administrating his geographically dispersed congregations and projecting his personal presence to them. Thus, “his use of ‘the locutions of an orator’ is enclosed in epistolary forms, functions, and settings as required by the nature and context of his ministry” (p. 120). Stirewalt points out that Paul even chose the letter of recommendation as a paradigm of his ministry (2 Cor 3:1–2). “At the crucial point of his writing, at the heart of this joyous letter, he finds an image capable of expressing the very essence of this ministry—both its theological basis and its present material agency: the letter. That Paul relies on such a metaphor reveals the high regard he has gained for letter writing and the integral part it plays in his ministry” (p. 125). What are the contributions of Stirewalt’s book? First, Stirewalt strongly anchors the genre of Pauline documents as letters first and foremost, not speeches. The abuses of an overly zealous rhetorical analysis, especially those of species orientation, could be mitigated by serious attention to this careful work that situates the Pauline letters in their historical framework and allows Paul’s own self-descriptions to be more determinative of their form and function than superficial species analysis that tries to impose an alien spoken form only by ignoring the actual written form. Second, specific epistolary elements, such as the notations of co-senders or the expansion of identification of

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sender, no longer need be relegated to literary insignificance by commentators, ignored as simply the circumstantial accident of intersecting itineraries or the author’s rhetorical flourishes warming up before the real fireworks begin. A possible historical context, for example, for mention of the “brothers” at the beginning of Galatians might be teased out by Stirewalt’s analysis. Third, the actual significance of the letter form itself for the conduct of Paul’s ministry has been given a solid presentation. Paul’s choice of this venue is presented as intentional and crucial to Paul’s success. Fourth, the book is accessible even to the nonspecialist. The Greek is transliterated. The letters supplied in the appendix are given in English translation. Ancillary discussion is relegated to the footnotes. The text itself is brief and to the point. Illustrative material is used frequently for side-by-side comparisons. What are the criticisms? First, in part, the success of ch. 3 will be evaluated variously based upon the initial assumption of Becker’s chronology. An early date for Galatians certainly would make havoc of this theory of development. Second, the use of footnotes helps contain the text discussion; however, valuable material is encountered in the footnotes. I often found myself wishing the footnote was text, since now I constantly will have to point out to my students not to miss note so-and-so on page so-and-so. Third, a more distinct role for the ubiquitous Pauline paraenetic sections in Paul’s letters needs to be established. While Stirewalt points out that the letter body had multiple variations, the regularity of the appearance of paraenetic material in Pauline letters perhaps has not been adequately accounted for within Stirewalt’s official form. Fourth, other Paulines (2 Thessalonians, Ephesians, Colossians, 1–2 Timothy, Titus) were left out of the analysis by design, a habit of modern analysis that I understand at the presuppositional level but that impoverishes our historical analysis. Even if presupposed as secondary literature not genuinely Pauline, what about historical trajectories? The question still arises, what of the official epistolary form applied to this body of literature? Close but no cigar? Not even in the same ballpark? Not only do I think these documents are in the same ballpark in form, but I further suspect that analysis using this official form may generate valuable insight for this literature as well. One certainly would be justified in considering these documents simply because they are in the orbit of the Pauline solar system. Lopping off the so-called Deutero-Paulines makes for shorter work consistent with presuppositions. At the same time, this process may not be necessary in the present study, which is genre oriented and leaves us with a less complete historical analysis of the literature visible within our NT horizons of interest. I am grateful for this small but significant book in which Stirewalt has worked to situate the Pauline letters into their proper literary context in the ancient world. The analysis is sound. The contribution to Pauline studies is solid. I have been helped in my reading of Paul and anticipate future benefits of further development of the thesis. A scholar’s journey through the primary material is combined with a thoughtful and helpful analysis of the Pauline letter form. Our understanding of the literary form and function of Paul’s letters is enriched. Gerald L. Stevens New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary, New Orleans, LA 70131

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Where Is Boasting? Early Jewish Soteriology and Paul’s Response in Romans 1–5, by Simon J. Gathercole. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002. Pp. xii + 311. $32.00 (paper). ISBN 0802839916. In this recent work, Simon J. Gathercole, lecturer in NT at the University of Aberdeen, Scotland, offers an examination of the theme of boasting in early Judaism and in Rom 1–5 against the eschatological backdrop of the final judgment. This study also provides the occasion for a critical examination of the relative strengths and weaknesses of the New Perspective on Paul. In a wide-ranging introduction, Gathercole first establishes the need for his study, noting that the theme of boasting has not received the sustained attention in recent scholarship that it deserves. The study that has been done, however, raises key questions about the nature of boasting (feeling of superiority or vindication at the eschaton) and its focus (whether boasting is in relation to God or the Gentiles). Gathercole seeks to examine the role of boasting in early Jewish soteriology as a criterion for vindication of the righteous at the final judgment, particularly the connection with regard to the role of obedience as a condition of and basis for final vindication and salvation at the eschaton. He likewise intends to focus on Paul’s understanding of the role that the “works of the law” play in justification, seeking to address whether these works function as identity markers (the New Perspective) or as a criterion for final salvation (critics of the New Perspective). Gathercole’s principal sparing partners in evaluating the New Perspective are E. P. Sanders, James D. G. Dunn, and N. T. Wright. In terms of methodology, Gathercole proposes to approach this study by employing eight criteria: (1) balanced treatment of the issues, attempting to avoid highly polemical statements and misinterpretation; (2) a holistic approach to broad patterns of thought rather than a vocabularycentered focus; (3) a reestablishment of the importance of eschatology as a conceptual backdrop, particularly the final judgment; (4) multiple attestation, that is, the employment of as wide a range of relevant texts as possible; (5) a comparison of Paul and Judaism on their own terms; (6) the employment of Jewish texts from both Hellenistic and Palestinian provenances, especially given the penetration of Hellenism in Palestine; (7) focus on the Jewish texts that originate before 70 C.E.; and (8) careful use of the term “legalism.” The study proper is composed of two unequal portions that span eight chapters. Part 1 focuses on obedience and final vindication in early Judaism (chs. 1–5; pp. 37– 194). In chs. 1–4 Gathercole examines a broad range of Jewish texts, including successive chapters on pre-70 C.E. (OT) Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha, Qumran literature, selective (non-Pauline and Pauline) NT texts, and post-70 C.E. Jewish texts. While recognizing wide differences in orientation, emphasis, and even in the nature of the understanding of soteriology reflected, Gathercole contends in these respective chapters that Jewish soteriology (God saving his people at the eschaton) was by and large predicted not only on divine election (as the New Perspective emphasizes) but also on the basis of obedience. Gathercole further notes that Paul shared the common framework of Jewish eschatology (pp. 124–34). Every individual will be judged according to deeds (resulting in either condemnation or eternal life). Paul differs principally with regard to the content of the deeds done in Christian obedience and in the divine empowering involved, namely, the Holy Spirit.

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In the remaining portion of part 1 (ch. 5), Gathercole examines the theme of boasting in Jewish texts, exploring whether Jewish confidence was eschatological in orientation and whether it was in relation to God or the Gentiles. He suggests that the “traditional” portrait of Judaism as lacking the assurance of salvation and the New Perspective’s view of vindication at the final judgment on the basis of God’s faithfulness require significant correction. Gathercole maintains that a number of Jewish groups of the Second Temple period expressed confidence (directed toward both God and the Gentiles) that God would vindicate Israel in the face of the Gentiles either by destroying them or protecting Israel from them. Israel’s ground of confidence in this regard is based not only on election (a position emphasized by proponents of the New Perspective) but also on obedience to the Torah (a point downplayed by the New Perspective). In part 2 Gathercole provides an exegesis of selected portions of Rom 1–5 relative to the theme of boasting (chs. 6–8; pp. 197–262). In ch. 6 Gathercole examines Paul’s opposition to Jewish boasting in Rom 1:18–3:20, with particular focus on 2:1–3:20. He interprets Paul’s fictional interlocutor in Rom 2 to be a non-Christian Jew who is representative of the nation. Paul portrays him as insufficiently conscious of his sin, judgmental (2:1, 3), unrepentant (2:4–5), and guilty of what he criticizes in others (2:1–3). In this condition the interlocutor has a false confidence in his boast of eschatological vindication before God, predicated on election and the presumed obedient fulfillment of the Torah. Paul’s argument intends to demonstrate that the interlocutor’s sin is deeper than he thinks and that his obedience is not comprehensive enough to warrant any basis for boasting with regard to eschatological vindication. In his unrepentant state, rather, he stores up eschatological wrath (Rom 2:5). Gathercole thus concludes that Paul’s opposition to Jewish boasting portrayed in Rom 2:1–3:20 is not confined to confidence in ethnic privileges and national status based on divine election, as proponents of the New Perspective contend, but is directed against “Jewish confidence at the final judgment that is based on election in conjunction with obedient fulfillment of Torah” (pp. 214–15). In the next chapter (p. 7) Gathercole examines Paul’s reevaluation of Torah, Abraham, and David in Rom 3:27– 4:8 against the backdrop of New Perspective assumptions. In contrast to one assumption of the New Perspective regarding Rom 3:27–28—namely, that Paul is opposing national privilege and exclusivism, not legalistic works-righteousness—Gathercole contends that in these verses, which he views as a recapitulation of Rom 3:20–21, Paul reiterates the anthropological basis for the exclusion of boasting (righteousness comes through faith and is independent of the Torah, because the flesh is incapable of obeying it sufficiently to warrant justification). In Rom 3:29–30, by contrast, Paul denies the idea that if righteousness comes through Torah, Gentiles, who had not received the Torah as Israel had, would be excluded from righteousness, and hence God could not be the God of both Jew and Gentile. Gathercole then takes up the second New Perspective assumption relative to Rom 4:1–5: Paul is not opposing a legalistic Abraham but an Abraham faithful to the covenant and marked out as a member of the covenant community by circumcision (hence his hypothetical boast in Rom 4:2 is not a self-righteous one) and that the work-repayment motif in the commercial metaphor of Rom 4:4–5 is not reflective of the theology of Paul’s contemporaries. Over against these interpretations, Gathercole contends that Paul’s argument indicates, first, that Abraham is not a model of faithfulness (works lead-

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ing to justification) but of faith (trust in God and God’s action alone). Second, Paul takes issue with a widely attested sequence in postbiblical Jewish literature (“works” > justification > boasting) and reestablishes against it the biblical sequence of “faith, then justification, then obedience to the commandments” (p. 243). Third, Paul indicates that justification and forgiveness are a divine decision on the basis of faith, and no role is attributed to obedience to the Torah in securing justification. Justification is rather God’s declarative act: “both an act of creation, where righteousness is positively counted to the one who believes, but also an act of forgiveness, where sin is not reckoned but covered” (p. 251). Fourth, in Rom 4:4–5 Paul indicates that no one is justified on the basis of obligation. Thus, Jewish thought erred in conforming Abraham to its soteriology based on commutative justice, rather than conforming its pattern to that of Abraham. Had the pattern of Abraham been followed, the role of the law would have been understood correctly in revealing to Israel the knowledge of sin (p. 251), for, as Rom 3:20 and 8:3 indicate, the Mosaic law itself reveals the anthropological issue of the weakness of the flesh (see p. 232). In a brief remaining chapter (ch. 8), Gathercole concentrates on Rom 5:1–11, which he describes as the climax of Paul’s argument about boasting. In contrast to the fictional Jewish interlocutor in Rom 2, who is representative of the Jewish boast rooted in obedience to the Torah that leads to final justification, which Paul opposes, the boast exemplified in Rom 5:1–11 is the Christian’s confidence in God’s action in Christ, which excludes any reliance on obedience to the Torah as a basis for final justification. Gathercole’s work is a fresh contribution to an important area of scholarly debate in several ways. First, it brings back into focus several important themes in Second Temple Judaism that proponents of the New Perspective have not given the attention they deserve: the eschatological backdrop of the final judgment, and widespread conceptions of Jewish soteriology that were predicated not only on the principle of election but on the principle of obedience with respect to final justification. Second, Gathercole offers a fresh analysis of the Pauline theme of boasting against the broad backdrop of Jewish soteriology. This theme has surprisingly not received much focused attention in recent decades, despite its acknowledged importance and clear connection to Paul’s views of the law and justification. Third, Gathercole offers a carefully formulated and civil critique of aspects of the New Perspective paradigm that shows appreciation for some of its historical insights in correcting the lack of historical particularism in some traditional portraits of both Paul and Judaism but nonetheless exposes several areas of weakness in the paradigm that its proponents will have to address in future debate. There are some weaknesses in the study. For example, in contrast to his detailed examination of the views of three leading proponents of the New Perspective (Sanders, Dunn, Wright), Gathercole often sets these clearly defined proponents over against a much vaguer counterposition, described variously as “the ‘traditional’ understanding” (p. 161), “some traditional positions” (p. 162), and even “most traditional constructions” (p. 263). At some points, however, particularly in his conclusion, it is clear that Gathercole principally has in mind “some forms of Lutheran theology” (p. 134), “Lutheran theology” (p. 264), and “Lutheran exegesis” (p. 266). Hence, in summarizing the defects in the exegesis of Rom 3–4 by proponents of the New Perspective, for example, Gathercole notes that they have significantly downplayed Paul’s arguments for the impossibility

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of justification by works of Torah on anthropological grounds. He goes on to explain that Paul sees the sinfulness of the “flesh” as the culprit, for it made Torah obedience impossible. He then observes, “This does not permit a return tout simple to Lutheran theology. . . but neither is the New Perspective’s interpretation adequate” (pp. 264–65). While the foregoing statement might be taken to imply that the only available choices at present are between Lutheran theology and the New Perspective, it is clear from other comments that Gathercole does not believe this. However, in spelling out the broad findings of his study, it is unclear what sort of model he believes would best accommodate the structure of Paul’s thinking. Moreover, it is also less than clear whether Gathercole believes that the predominant paradigm of covenantal nomism as a description of Second Temple Judaism requires not only correction (as he seems to imply on p. 266) or also some measure of reconstruction so as better to account for the need of obedience to the Torah emphasized in a broad range of Second Temple Jewish literature. He does acknowledge, however, that there is a need to develop a new vocabulary in place of terms such as “legalism” and “work-righteousness.” While Gathercole has admittedly not written the final word on an important topic (boasting) and on an influential interpretive paradigm (the New Perspective on Paul; see pp. 265–66), he has offered a stimulating study that makes an important contribution to an ongoing debate that may perhaps, with the aid of commendable efforts like his own, enter into new and more fruitful stages of discussion. James P. Sweeney Immanuel Church, Chelmsford, MA 01824

Sethian Gnosticism and the Platonic Tradition, by John D. Turner. Bibliothèque Copte de Nag Hammadi Section «Études» 6. Québec: Les Presses de l’ Université Laval; Paris: Peeters, 2001. Pp. xix + 844. €80.00 (paper). ISBN 2763778348 (Laval); 9042910887 (Peeters). John Turner (University of Nebraska-Lincoln) is no stranger to students of ancient Gnosticism. Indeed, he has been one of the leading scholars in this field for almost three decades, perhaps best known for his translation work of Nag Hammadi Codices as well as his work on Sethian Gnosticism. In this monumental and exhaustive work, Turner continues to add to our understanding of Sethianism, especially as it is discernible in the Nag Hammadi material. As indicated by the title, Turner sets out to explore the relationship between Sethianism and Platonism. Turner is not the first to see a strong connection between Gnosticism and Platonism. In the first chapter he lays out three explanations of such a connection posited by earlier scholars: Gnosticism as a form of Platonism (i.e., Platonism “run wild”); Platonism as incipient Gnosticism; and Gnosticism and Platonism as interdependent, indices of the social and conceptual development of each tradition (e.g., Sethianism as an index for the reemergence of a Speusippian four-level metaphysic). Turner’s work would fall under this third alternative. After the introductory chapter, the book falls into three major parts. Part 1 offers a delimitation of the Sethian tradition. Part 2 lays out the development of Platonism from

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Plato to Plotinus. Part 3 explicitly compares the Sethian tradition with Middle Platonism and Neoplatonism. Following H. M. Schenke’s lead, Turner claims that the presence of key mythologoumena, along with the witness of the church fathers and Plotinian material collected by Porphyry, indicates that Sethianism actually existed in the second to fourth centuries as a viable alternative to Christianity. The features identifying Sethianism, as Schenke had suggested, are: (1) a pneumatic seed of Seth; (2) Seth as heavenly redeemer; (3) the trinity of Father (Invisible Spirit), Mother (Barbelo), and Son (Autogenes); (4) Barbelo as triadic Kalyptos, Protophanes, and Autogenes; (5) the Four Luminaries (Harmozel, Oroiael, Daveithai, and Eleleth); (6) the demiurge Yaldaboath as opponent of the seed of Seth; (7) the three ages of history with the appearance of a savior figure in each; (8) a special prayer; (9) a negative theology; (10) a specific philosophical terminology; (11) a secondary Christianization; (12) a triad or tetrad of “ministers” of the Four Luminaries (Gamaliel, Gabriel, Samblo, Abrasax); (13) the Coptic designation of “Pigeradamas” for Adamas; and, added to Schenke’s list, (14) the baptismal rite of the Five Seals (pp. 63–64). Turner’s own historical analysis, however, explicates this religious tradition in more depth. He begins by establishing the literary evidence for Sethianism, placing a strong emphasis upon the sources underlying and interconnecting the Nag Hammadi material, including the following texts: the Apocryphon of John (longer and shorter versions); the Hypostasis of the Archons; Gospel of the Egyptians; the Apocalypse of Adam; the Three Steles of Seth; Zostrianos; Marsanes; Melchizedek; the Thought of Norea; Allogenes; and the Trimorphic Protennoia. (Other possible candidates for a Sethian corpus might also include the Thunder, Perfect Mind, On the Origin of the World, Hypsiphrone, and the Untitled Treatise of the Bruce Codex.) Turner divides the Sethian material into two broad categories: those of the ascent pattern and those of the descent pattern. Those of the descent pattern highlight the descent of a revelatory figure (such as Pronoia/Barbelo in the Providence Monologue) in three divine epiphanies (during the molding of the earthly Adam; spiritual light to Eve initially hidden in Adam, birth of Seth, Noah escaping the flood; resurrected Christ who reveals the entirety of Sethian history). Strong emphasis is placed on the historical origins and development of the Sethian sacred history, including cosmogony and anthropogony. The ascent pattern, however, is nontemporal in focus. Rather than mythical history and a descending savior figure, texts following the ascent pattern emphasize the adherents’ visionary ascent and purification to higher realms, moving through ritual performance from the world of multiplicity to that of unity or simplicity, that is, toward the supreme divinity. Four texts fit into this ascent pattern: Allogenes, The Three Steles of Seth, Zostrianos, and Marsanes. This distinction between descent and ascent patterns of salvation is central for Turner’s reconstruction of the historical development of Sethianism. Antecedents for Sethian thought are apparent in five sources: Hellenistic Jewish wisdom speculations (now a central point of study among scholars of Gnosticism); midrashic interpretations of Genesis; baptismal practices; christology in the early church; and Neopythagorean and Middle Platonic metaphysical and epistemological thought. Although all five building blocks are dealt with in this book and are reflective of the historical development of Sethianism, most of the comparative analysis is placed on the fifth element. For Turner there are six phases that constitute the history of Sethianism. The first of the six phases of Sethian history consists of two distinct early second-century groups,

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the Barbeloites referred to in Irenaeus (Haer. 1.29) and the Sethites (perhaps designated as the Ophites in Irenaeus, Haer. 1.30). The former emphasize priestly traditions and baptismal practices, specifically the Five Seals of Sethianism, and are likely active in the Johannine debates reflected in the Johannine Epistles, with the production of the Providence Monologue and the aretalogies of the Trimorphic Protennoia. The latter Sethites developed a sacred history as a “seed of Seth.” The second phase, in the midsecond century, finds the Barbeloites identifying with Christian baptismal traditions, resulting in a christological development of Christ as the Autogenes and an overall Christianization of the Sethian tradition. The third phase has the Barbeloites and Sethites amalgamate into Sethianism in the late second century. It is at this stage that the final versions of the Trimorphic Protennoia and the Apocryphon of John are produced. The fourth phase, running from the late second into the early third century, finds the Sethian movement under attack from Christians, resulting in a gradual movement away from Christianity. The fifth and sixth phases, the most important for Turner, find Sethianism first becoming attractive to and accepted by third-century Platonists, but then estranged from Platonism by Plotinus and other Neoplatonists, while finally resulting in Sethianism by the mid-fourth century and dwindling into diverse fragments that eventually died out (Archontics, Audians, Borborites, Phibionites, etc.). During the fifth phase, Sethianism left behind much of the descent-pattern ideas to embrace a more full-scale Platonic tradition of the ascent pattern. Technical Platonic terminology and concepts became the norm at this stage. Turner claims that during the fifth phase, the Sethians produced the Three Steles of Seth, Zostrianos, and Allogenes. Debate over Middle Platonic commentaries on Plato’s Parmenides, including the Turin commentary (Turner follows K. Corrigan’s argument for a pre-Plotinian date), and, for Plotinus (who seems to be reacting specifically to Zostrianos), the debate over nature of the Intellect, matter, demiurge, and ritual incantations, all lead to conflict between Sethians and Platonists. On the Sethian side, Marsanes and the Bruce Codex’s Untitled Treatise were produced in response, offering a reworking of some aspects of the other Sethian platonizing treatises. On the Platonist side, Plotinus seems to have “tightened up on his own interpretation of Plato’s Timaeus (esp. 39E), for example, in Ennead III, 9 [13] where he toys with a tripartition of the divine Intellect very similar to that of Numenius and the Sethian Barbelo Aeon (but which he explicitly rejects in Ennead II, 9 [33] 6)” (pp. 718–19). Similar adjustments in Plotinus’s thought are evident in his discussion of the Soul or Sophia and her image in matter (Ennead V, 8 [31] 3,1–3), which contradicts Ennead III, 9 [13] 3) (p. 712). Cross-fertilization between Platonists and Sethians occurs, albeit within the context of social affiliation and social estrangement. Most of parts 2 and 3 of this book explicate, at great length and in intense detail, the systemic parallels and nuances of both Platonic and Sethian systems. Most of the analysis is placed on the Sethian platonizing treatise of the fifth and sixth historical phases, and there is, in regard to most of the Sethian corpus, serious attention given to the various redactional layers within the treatises (linking these layers to differing points along the historical development of the Sethian tradition). This book stands on par with such seminal and foundational works on Sethian Gnosticism as those by Schenke, G. Stroumsa, and J.-M. Sevrin. Although the basic thesis of Turner’s book can be found in his earlier works on Sethianism (specifically his clas-

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sic essay, “Sethian Gnosticism: A Literary History,” in Nag Hammadi, Gnosticism and Early Christianity [ed. C. W. Hedrick and R. Hodgson; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1986], 55–86), Sethian Gnosticism and the Platonic Tradition offers a full-scale analysis of both the historical/literary development of Sethianism and of the Sethian sources themselves (primarily those from Nag Hammadi). The explication of the Platonic tradition, tracing its development from Plato and his early Academy through Middle Platonic speculations and finally to Neoplatonic reworkings or interpretations of the Neopythagorean and Middle Platonic systems, is so extensive and valuable that it could easily have been a separate book. Indeed, students of early Christianity will likely find this part very useful even beyond the study of Gnosticism. Turner should also be commended for his proposal for the development of Sethianism. Not only has he effectively noted strong parallels between the Platonic and Sethian traditions; he has helped to make sense of how they might fit into the broader developments of the second to fourth centuries. The interconnected literary relations between the Sethian material is sensitive and challenging, offering plausible dates and stages for Sethianism. I especially appreciated his willingness to see both continuity and diversity within these sources, allowing them to serve as indicators of shifts and changes within the Sethian movement. The cross-fertilization he has noted is a more viable model for noting how religious “innovations” (building on M. A. Williams’s now classic treatment of the category Gnosticism entitled Rethinking Gnosticism: An Argument for Dismantling a Dubious Category [Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996]) might emerge and develop through social and intellectual engagement. Sethianism is not rendered a static tradition but rather a dynamic and engaging one. Turner’s proposal, however, is not without difficulties. The first lies in the very nature of the sources themselves. Many of the Nag Hammadi tractates most emphasized in this study (e.g., Marsanes and Zostrianos) are so fragmentary and full of reconstructions that one may question the confidence with which Turner reads them. Second, other possible historical reconstructions could be offered in place of Turner’s six phases. For example, rather than seeing a shift in the tradition from a predominantly descent pattern to an ascent pattern in the third century, perhaps we have two contemporaneous Sethian traditions, one emphasizing ascent and the other descent (with the Apocryphon of John’s longer version indicative of overlap between the two wings of the movement). Third, the hypothetical Sethites and Barbeloites, and especially their relation to the Johannine community, need further substantiation and explication in order to move this first historical phase out of the realm of speculation. Indeed, we could even ask if the Christianization of the Sethian material might not have emerged out of Barbeloite debates with Johannine Christians. (This, of course, returns us to the perennial debate over the origins of Gnosticism: Jewish, Christian, or an innovation from within both?) Fourth, it might have been insightful to explore the interaction of Platonism with Christianity. Origen, for example, develops a platonizing theology (e.g., in De Principiis, which is perhaps his most systematic presentation of a Platonic Christian theology) and even opposes “Gnostics” on similar grounds as Plotinus. Exploring other instances of cross-fertilization may not negate Turner’s thesis, but might add complexity to what seems like a very linear shift in Sethianism. Fifth, although ritual is addressed, the focus tends to be on conceptual (metaphysical and epistemological) points of connection and

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development. I would have welcomed the application of more in-depth social analysis (e.g., did the Sethian movement alter its social structure, perhaps to that of a philosophical school, with the estrangement from Christianity and attraction toward Platonism). Sixth, and finally, we might question the very size of this book. Could parts 2 and 3 (the presentation of the Platonic tradition and then the comparison of those traditions to Sethianism) have been handled together in a more concise section? These six difficulties or questions do not detract from the importance of this book. Rather, they offer challenges for Turner to continue pushing his research and thereby our insights into Sethianism. A further caveat relates to the production of the book. Throughout, there are typographical errors, gender-exclusive language crops up, repeated words, phrases, and occasionally even sentences appear, and the press has reprinted pp. 413–20 between pp. 420 and 421. A careful, final copy edit just prior to production should have caught most of these problems, the number of which is shocking for such a prestigious series. These problems tarnish an otherwise monumental and invaluable book, which is likely the most important work to have appeared on Sethianism in the past decade, written by one of the leading academic voices in this field, and published within one of the most prestigious series in the study of Gnosticism. Sethian Gnosticism and the Platonic Tradition offers a coherent, challenging picture of Sethianism and its literary sources. Our knowledge of Sethianism, as well as the importance of Platonism in the development of early Christianity, is greatly enhanced by Turner’s efforts. Philip L. Tite McGill University, Montreal, QC, H3A 2A7 Canada

Early Jewish Exegesis and Theological Controversy: Studies on Scriptures in the Shadow of Internal and External Controversies, by Isaac Kalimi. Jewish and Christian Heritage Series 2. Assen: Van Gorcum, 2002. Pp. xvi + 209. $47.00 (hardcover). ISBN 9023237137. This book is a collection of seven essays dealing with two principal subjects: (1) theological controversies reflected both within Hebrew Scripture and in ancient biblical exegesis (pp. 9–103); and (2) Kalimi’s plea that both Jewish and Christian scholars investigate and expound biblical theology (pp. 107–59). The nexus between the two topics, which are treated in chs. 1–5 and 6–7 respectively, is explicated by Kalimi in his epilogue (pp. 160–63). There Kalimi argues that Hebrew Scripture ought to be studied not in isolation but rather “as part of a long-range internal and external historical background.” Moreover, he explains, “Jewish literature—in the larger meaning of the term—flourished as a result of its dialectical contacts with different encircling cultures, religious identities as well as in diversity of thoughts and beliefs among the Jews themselves” (p. 160). In so arguing, Kalimi seeks to apply to the analysis of the ideas in biblical narrative, prophecy, and law a methodology analogous to what Robert Gordis called “the vertical method of biblical philology.” Horizontal biblical philology would employ only Iron Age Semitic texts for analyzing biblical texts presumed to have been written in the Iron Age, while vertical philology would make use of the full range of Semitic texts from the third

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millennium B.C.E. through the Middle Ages to shed light on words, idioms, grammar, and syntax in Biblical Hebrew and Aramaic. Mutatis mutandis, Kalimi attempts to show by means of his vertical biblical theology that by comparing the designation of the site of the binding of Isaac (Gen 22) as the Temple Mount in Jerusalem and Mount Gerizim in Jewish and Samaritan exegesis, respectively, one can understand that the explicit designation of the Temple Mount as Mount Moriah in 2 Chr 3:1 may “possibly contain a hidden polemic with the Samaritan sacred place on Mount Gerizim” (p. 32). The latter sentence serves as the prologue, as it were, to ch. 2, “The Affiliation of Abraham and the Aqedah with Zion/Gerizim in Jewish and Samaritan Sources” (p. 33). Here Kalimi reiterates his location of 2 Chr 3:1 within the history of Jewish–Samaritan controversy concerning the idealization of the exclusive chosen holy place referred to in Deuteronomy. Kalimi then traces the history of this argument through late antiquity and into the Middle Ages. This essay is enhanced by the full citation in Greek and English of the presumably second-century B.C.E. Samaritan theologian PseudoEupolemus. Kalimi enhances his discussion by providing a series of four pictorial illustrations: (1) silver coins of Bar Kokhba (132–135 C.E.; p. 41); (2) a fresco from the Dura-Europas synagogue (244–245 C.E.; p. 43); and (3) the mosaic floor of the BethAlpha synagogue (sixth century C.E.; p. 53). The use of lucid black-and-white illustrations, for which both author and publisher should be commended, probably reflects Kalimi’s having earned his doctorate at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem in the field of biblical history, where the study of ancient texts in tandem with ancient art and artifacts is taken for granted. In chs. 3 and 4, Kalimi goes beyond the vertical history of ideas and deals with two specific debates that took place within a very short time span in late antiquity. The first of these, which is discussed in ch. 3 (pp. 61–76), is the series of rabbinic traditions concerning thirteen culture heroes who were said to have been born circumcised. Kalimi argues that the backdrop for this assertion in Avot deRabbi Natan is the Nag Hammadi Gospel of Thomas (70–80 C.E.) in which the disciples ask Jesus, “Is circumcision beneficial or not?” to which Jesus replies, “If it were beneficial, their father would beget them already circumcised from their mother.” Nevertheless, Kalimi shows that the virtue of being born circumcised is first mentioned in Jub. 15, whose backdrop is Antiochus IV’s outlawing of circumcision. In addition, Kalimi argues that the impetus for the stressing of the virtue of being born circumcised was the Roman emperor Hadrian’s outlawing circumcision around 135 C.E. In the same vein, Kalimi suggests in ch. 4 (“Joseph’s Slander of His Brethren,” pp. 77–87) that midrashim that condemn Joseph’s slandering of his brothers may well be addressing Jews of the Hadrianic era, when some Jews betrayed other Jews to the Roman authorities. In ch. 5, “Joseph between Potiphar and His Wife” (pp. 88–103), Kalimi returns once again to what I called “the vertical history of ideas.” He shows that the question of the extent of Joseph’s guilt in letting himself be seduced by Potiphar’s wife Zuleicha (as she is called in Islamic tradition and subsequently in modern Hebrew literature, which revive a Second Temple era practice of naming characters whom Hebrew Scripture treated as nameless) appears in Jewish literature from the second century B.C.E. through Genesis Rabbah, the Babylonian Talmud, the Midrash on Psalms and Tanchuma. Kalimi seems to suggest that we can learn as much about what a given biblical nar-

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rative says and leaves unsaid from ancient and medieval Jewish ruminations as we can from our own close reading or from any of the late twentieth century C.E. treatises on biblical narrative. By now Isaac Kalimi is recognized the world over as one of the last of the vanishing breed of biblical historians and as one of a handful of experts in the biblical books of Chronicles. Kalimi demonstrates in the first five chapters of Early Jewish Exegesis and Theological Controversy that he is also fully grounded in Second Temple literature and qualified to discuss the exegesis of Hebrew Scripture reflected in rabbinic literature, Samaritan lore, the New Testament, and the Nag Hammadi library. The message conveyed by prefacing five important studies on ancient exegesis—Jewish, Christian, and Samaritan—to his two essays on biblical theology at the dawn of the twenty-first century is that Kalimi’s mastery of all relevant dialects of Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek and his unquestioned competence as a historian of both events and ideas qualifies him to offer some very original and timely advice to the world community of biblical scholars concerning biblical theology. On p. 113 Kalimi reveals the main goal of this book: There is nothing wrong in dealing with Biblical theology research. On the contrary, it is necessary to know what the theological lines are that control the Biblical corpus. It is essential to read the Bible for its religious messages and for the moral promotion of humanity. It is important to discover the values of the Scriptures for our generation, since each generation has its own unique values, interpretations and theologies. By no means can research on “History of Israelite Religion” replace “Biblical Theology” research, nor can the latter replace the former. In this programmatic statement Kalimi enters into debate both with Jon D. Levenson, “Why Jews Are Not Interested in Biblical Theology” (first published in Judaic Perspectives on Ancient Israel [ed. Jacob Neusner, Baruch A. Levine, and Ernest S. Frerichs; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987], 281–307) and with Moshe H. Goshen-Gottstein, “Jewish Biblical Theology and the Study of Biblical Religion” (Tarbiz 50 [1980/81]: 37–52). As Kalimi explains, much biblical theology done by Christians involves reading both Hebrew Scripture and the NT, “as a witness to the one Lord Jesus Christ,” in the words of Brevard Childs (Kalimi, p. 115). Levenson suggested that the untenable Jewish counterpart would be “an uncritical repetition of medieval Rabbinic interpretation” (Levenson, “Why Jews,” 285). In fact, Kalimi, rooted as he is in the Hebrew University tradition of Scriptural exegesis, offers a positive alternative that he argues should be embraced by both Jews and Christians. The exciting alternative that Kalimi proposes is to examine critically the variety of theologies present in the corpus of Hebrew Scripture such as those of the Priestly Code, the Holiness Code, the Deuteronomic Code, the book of Proverbs, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, not only with respect to their relative and exact position in the history of ideas but also with respect to their value to modern women and men, whether Christian, Jewish, Hindu, Shinto, or unaffiliated. Kalimi notes that what is common to most (p. 113 almost suggests “all,” but “all” would include for consideration such passages as the passionate and well-articulated plea for return to the worship of the Queen of Heaven in Jer 44:15–19) theologies present in Hebrew Scripture is that they voice the broad consensus of what I would call “the Yahweh-alone coalition” (Morton

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Smith, a citizen of a two-party nation, mislabeled this coalition “the Yahweh-alone party”). Kalimi holds that each and every one of these theologies properly analyzed might have much to contribute to humans both individually and collectively. This reviewer enthusiastically concurs. Moreover, Kalimi points out that in fact much of Israeli biblical scholarship is concerned with understanding biblical ideas and their relevance to modern women and men. Consequently, he is able to demonstrate that the great lights of Israeli biblical scholarship—Martin Buber, Yehezkel Kaufmann, Menahem Haran, Yair Hoffman, Alexander Rofé, Moshe Weinfeld, inter alia—have had as much to contribute to biblical theology as to the history of Israelite religion. Ultimately, the final sentences of Early Jewish Exegesis call upon Jewish and Israeli biblical scholars to go beyond treating biblical theology and its relevance to modern people in short essays and in asides included in biblical commentaries and histories of Israelite worship and to write comprehensive works dealing explicitly and unashamedly with the theology or theologies of Hebrew Scriptures. Moreover, he suggests that just as Jewish and Christian scholars have been able to cooperate in the study of the history of ancient Israel and biblical languages, so should they be able to cooperate in the uncovering of the ideas of ancient Israel, some of which (see p. 162) may or may not be useful to contemporary Judaism or Christianity. Unquestionably, this challenge to biblical scholars is all the more credible because Kalimi prefaces it by demonstrating his own thorough grounding in the history of ancient Israel, the history of Israelite thought, and the history of biblical interpretation from antiquity to the present day. Again, only a scholar rooted in the Israeli study of the Bible in the light of ancient art and artifacts could have graced an essay on “The Task of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Theology” with a sixteenth-century C.E. German woodcut depicting a biblically based theological debate between three European Christian clerics and three Jewish rabbis. While two of the rabbis are bearded and all of the Christian clerics are clean-shaven, the most obvious distinction between the representatives of the two faiths is the Jew’s hat, which the Christian host culture imposed upon the members of the minority faith. The optimistic message, which this illustration conveys in the context of Kalimi’s book, is that both Christians and Jews dedicated or not dedicated to the beliefs of their ancestral communities can now address each other as equals devoted to uncovering the truth for the benefit of all humankind. Without a doubt this book will inspire many students, scholars, clergy, and laypersons to study, to teach, and to write biblical theology. Professor Kalimi is to be commended for providing this challenge to twenty-first-century biblical scholarship. Mayer I. Gruber Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, Beersheva, 84105 Israel

JBL 123/3 (2004) 599–600

INDEX OF BOOK REVIEWS

Ben-Dov, Jonathan, Shemaryahu Talmon, and Uwe Glessmer, Qumran Cave 4 XVI: Calendrical Texts (Marvin A. Sweeney) 557 Blenkinsopp, Joseph, Isaiah 56–66: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (Brooks Schramm) 545 Blenkinsopp, Joseph, and Oded Lipschits, eds., Judah and the Judeans in the NeoBabylonian Period (Bob Becking) 555 Brucker, Ralph, and Jens Schröter, eds., Der historische Jesus: Tendenzen und Perspektiven der gegenwärtigen Forschung (Andries G. van Aarde) 560 Gathercole, Simon J., Where Is Boasting? Early Jewish Soteriology and Paul’s Response in Romans 1–5 (James P. Sweeney) 577 Glessmer, Uwe, Shemaryahu Talmon, and Jonathan Ben-Dov, Qumran Cave 4 XVI: Calendrical Texts (Marvin A. Sweeney) 557 Green, Barbara, O.P., King Saul’s Asking (David Jobling) 543 Hayes, Katherine M., “The Earth Mourns”: Prophetic Metaphor and Oral Aesthetic (John Hill) 548 Heil, Christoph, Lukas und Q: Studien zur lukanischen Redaktion des Spruchevangeliums (Marco Frenschkowski) 570 Horsley, Richard A., and Neil Asher Silberman, The Message and the Kingdom: How Jesus and Paul Ignited a Revolution and Transformed the Ancient World (Bert Jan Lietaert Peerbolte) 564 Huehnergard, John, and Shlomo Izre’el, eds., Amarna Studies: Collected Writings, by William L. Moran (Richard S. Hess) 537 Izre’el, Shlomo, and John Huehnergard, eds., Amarna Studies: Collected Writings, by William L. Moran (Richard S. Hess) 537 Kalimi, Isaac, Early Jewish Exegesis and Theological Controversy: Studies on Scriptures in the Shadow of Internal and External Controversies (Mayer I. Gruber) 584 Launderville, Dale, Piety and Politics: The Dynamics of Royal Authority in Homeric Greece, Biblical Israel, and Old Babylonian Mesopotamia (Norman K. Gottwald) 540 Lipschits, Oded, and Joseph Blenkinsopp, eds., Judah and the Judeans in the NeoBabylonian Period (Bob Becking) 555 Lohfink, Norbert, Qoheleth (Raymond C. Van Leeuwen) 553 Moran, William L., Amarna Studies: Collected Writings, edited by John Huehnergard and Shlomo Izre’el (Richard S. Hess) 537 Otto, Eckart, Die Tora des Mose: Die Geschichte der literarischen Vermittlung von Recht, Religion und Politik durch die Mosegestalt (Mark W. Hamilton) 538 Redditt, Paul L., and Aaron Schart, eds., Thematic Threads in the Book of the Twelve (Else K. Holt) 550

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Rhoads, David, Reading Mark: Engaging the Gospel (Ira Brent Driggers) 568 Schart, Aaron, and Paul L. Redditt, eds., Thematic Threads in the Book of the Twelve (Else K. Holt) 550 Schröter, Jens, and Ralph Brucker, eds., Der historische Jesus: Tendenzen und Perspektiven der gegenwärtigen Forschung (Andries G. van Aarde) 560 Silberman, Neil Asher, and Richard A. Horsley, The Message and the Kingdom: How Jesus and Paul Ignited a Revolution and Transformed the Ancient World (Bert Jan Lietaert Peerbolte) 564 Stirewalt, M. Luther, Jr., Paul: The Letter Writer (Gerald L. Stevens) 573 Talmon, Shemaryahu, Jonathan Ben-Dov, and Uwe Glessmer, Qumran Cave 4 XVI: Calendrical Texts (Marvin A. Sweeney) 557 Turner, John D., Sethian Gnosticism and the Platonic Tradition (Philip L. Tite) 580