Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 121, No. 4 (Winter 2002)

Journal of Biblical Literature VOLUME 121, No. 4 Winter 2002 The Circumscription of the King: Deuteronomy 17:16–17 in ...

Author: General Editor: GAIL R. O'DAY

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Journal of Biblical Literature VOLUME 121, No. 4

Winter 2002

The Circumscription of the King: Deuteronomy 17:16–17 in Its Ancient Social Context PATRICIA DUTCHER-WALLS

601–616

Ancestral Motifs in 1 Samuel 25: Intertextuality and Characterization MARK E. BIDDLE

617–638

What’s in a Name? Neo-Assyrian Designations for the Northern Kingdom and Their Implications for Israelite History and Biblical Interpretation BRAD E. KELLE

639–666

Experiments to Develop Criteria for Determining the Existence of Written Sources, and Their Potential Implications for the Synoptic Problem ROBERT K. MCIVER and MARIE CARROLL

667–687

Wisdom for the Perfect: Paul’s Challenge to the Corinthian Church (1 Corinthians 2:6–16) SIGURD GRINDHEIM

689–709

Jewish Laws on Illicit Marriage, the Defilement of Offspring, and the Holiness of the Temple: A New Halakic Interpretation of 1 Corinthians 7:14 YONDER MOYNIHAN GILLIHAN

711–744

Book Reviews 745—Annual Index 796 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: TODD C. PENNER, Austin College, Sherman, TX 75090

EDITORIAL BOARD

Term Expiring 2002: BRIAN K. BLOUNT, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542 DAVID M. CARR, Union Theological Seminary, New York, NY 10027 PAMELA EISENBAUM, Iliff School of Theology, Denver, CO 80210 JOHN S. KSELMAN, Weston Jesuit School of Theology, Cambridge, MA 02138 JEFFREY KUAN, Pacific School of Religion, Berkeley, CA 94709 STEVEN L. McKENZIE, Rhodes College, Memphis, TN 38112 ALAN F. SEGAL, Barnard College, Columbia University, New York, NY 10027-6598 GREGORY E. STERLING, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 STEPHEN WESTERHOLM, McMaster University, Hamilton, ON L8S 4K1 CANADA 2003:

SUSAN ACKERMAN, Dartmouth College, Hanover, NH 03755 MICHAEL L. BARRÉ, St. Mary’s Seminary & University, Baltimore, MD 21210 ATHALYA BRENNER, University of Amsterdam, 1012 GC Amsterdam, The Netherlands MARC BRETTLER, Brandeis University, Waltham, MA 02254-9110 WARREN CARTER, St. Paul School of Theology, Kansas City, MO 64127 PAUL DUFF, George Washington University, Washington, DC 20052 BEVERLY R. GAVENTA, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542 JUDITH LIEU, King’s College London, London WC2R 2LS United Kingdom KATHLEEN O’CONNOR, Columbia Theological Seminary, Decatur, GA 30031 C. L. SEOW, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542 VINCENT WIMBUSH, Union Theological Seminary, New York, NY 10027

2004:

JANICE CAPEL ANDERSON, University of Idaho, Moscow, ID 83844 MOSHE BERNSTEIN, Yeshiva University, New York, NY 10033-3201 ROBERT KUGLER, Gonzaga University, Spokane, WA 99258 BERNARD M. LEVINSON, University of Minnesota, Minneapolis, MN 55455-0125 THEODORE J. LEWIS, University of Georgia, Athens, GA 30602 TIMOTHY LIM, University of Edinburgh, Edinburgh EH1 2LX Scotland STEPHEN PATTERSON, Eden Theological Seminary, St. Louis, MO 63119 ADELE REINHARTZ, McMaster University, Hamilton, ON L8S 4K1 Canada NAOMI A. STEINBERG, DePaul University, Chicago, IL 60614 SZE-KAR WAN, Andover Newton Theological School, Newton Centre, MA 92459

Editorial Assistant: C. Patrick Gray, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 President of the Society: John J. Collins, Yale University, New Haven, CT 06511; Vice President: Eldon Jay Epp, Lexington, MA 02420-2827; Chair, Research and Publications Committee: David L. Petersen, Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322; 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 121/4 (2002) 601–616

THE CIRCUMSCRIPTION OF THE KING: DEUTERONOMY 17:16–17 IN ITS ANCIENT SOCIAL CONTEXT

PATRICIA DUTCHER-WALLS [email protected] Knox College, Toronto, ON M5S 2E6 Canada

The portrait of the king in Deuteronomic law (Deut 17:14–21) presents a distinctive view of kingship and royal authority. The role of a Deuteronomic king is carefully limited in ways that seem to reflect ideological interests. Various literary, redactional, and general social studies of “the law of the king” have identified key components. In particular Deut 17:16–17 sets limits on a king’s behavior that appear especially intriguing if only because they are so antithetical to usual assumptions about royal actions. But a social-scientific approach can set this part of the law into the social contexts of ancient agrarian monarchies and empires. The task of this article is, then, to ask: When we use socialscientific theories to examine the ideological circumscription of the king in Deut 17:16–17, what insights can be gained about the power politics of the social group espousing that ideology in the social context of the ancient world? Several preliminary remarks on issues of redaction, background and significance, and method are necessary. I. Preliminary Issues Redaction The focus of this article will be two verses within the law of the king, Deut 17:16–17, more specifically, vv. 16aa, 17aa, and 17b. These lines limit the king’s ability to acquire horses, wives, and riches. A compositional and redactional study of the law of the king is beyond the scope of this article, but we can This article is a major revision of a paper presented at the SBL annual meeting in 1999 for a joint session of the Biblical Law section and the Deuteronomistic History section. The theme of the session was “Royal Authority in Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic History.”

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assume the generally accepted views on such issues. Most commentators note the similarity in vv. 16aa, 17aa, and 17b, and many place them in the earliest Deuteronomic or proto-Deuteronomic layer of composition.1 Scholars then make various proposals on Deuteronomic and Deuteronomistic additions that eventually created not only these two verses but the whole law of the king and the section of laws on the offices (Deut 16:18–18:22). Commentators also propose various dates for the redactional layers ranging from pre- or protoDeuteronomic or Deuteronomistic development to exilic composition or redaction.2 Along with many scholars, we will assume that the lines in question, if not other parts of the law of the king and the laws on offices, are part of a preexilic, Deuteronomic composition.3 This assumption places the examination of 1 Among other commentaries, see Peter C. Craigie, The Book of Deuteronomy (NICOT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1976); A. D. H. Mayes, Deuteronomy (NCB; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1979); Horst Dietrich Preuss, Deuteronomium (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1982); Patrick D. Miller, Deuteronomy (IBC; Louisville: John Knox, 1990); Moshe Weinfeld, Deuteronomy 1–11 (AB 5; New York: Doubleday, 1991); Eduard Nielsen, Deuteronomium (HAT; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1995); Ronald Clements, “Deuteronomy,” NIB 2:271–538. See also more specialized studies, e.g., on the law of the king: Moshe Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School (Oxford: Clarendon, 1972; repr., Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1992); F. García López, “Le Roi d’Israel: Dt 17,14–20,” in Das Deuteronomium: Entstehung, Gestalt und Botschaft (ed. Norbert Lohfink; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1985), 277–97; Gerald Eddie Gerbrandt, Kingship According to the Deuteronomistic History (SBLDS 87; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1986); Udo Rüterswörden, Von der politischen Gemeinschaft zur Gemeinde (BBB 65; Frankfurt am Main: Athenäum, 1987); Norbert Lohfink, “Distribution of the Functions of Power: The Laws Concerning Public Offices in Deuteronomy 16:18–18:22,” in A Song of Power and the Power of Song: Essays on the Book of Deuteronomy (ed. Duane L. Christensen; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1993), 336–52 (originally, “Die Sicherung der Wirksamkeit des Gotteswortes durch das Prinzip der Schriftlichkeit der Tora und durch das Prinzip der Gewaltenteilung nach den Ämtergesetzen des Buches Deuteronomium (Dt 16,18–18,22),” in Testimonium Veritate (ed. H. Wolter; Frankfurter Theologische Studien 7; Frankfurt am Main: Knecht, 1971), 144–55; Gary N. Knoppers, Two Nations under God: The Deuteronomistic History of Solomon and the Dual Monarchies, vol. 1, The Reign of Solomon and the Rise of Jeroboam (HSM; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1993); idem, “The Deuteronomist and the Deuteronomic Law of the King: A Reexamination of a Relationship,” ZAW 108 (1996): 329–46; Bernard M. Levinson, Deuteronomy and the Hermeneutics of Legal Innovation (New York: Oxford, 1997); J. G. McConville, “King and Messiah in Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic History,” in King and Messiah in Israel and the Ancient Near East (ed. John Day; (JSOTSup 20; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 271–95; Gary N. Knoppers, “Rethinking the Relationship between Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomistic History: The Case of Kings,” CBQ 63 (2001): 393–415. 2 A related significant issue is the relationship between the view of kingship in Deuteronomy and in the Deuteronomistic History. The view that at least vv. 16aa, 17aa, and 17b are preexilic suggests that they either precede or are contemporary with Deuteronomistic portrayals of kingship. But the issues are complex and outside the scope of this paper. See especially Gerbrandt, Kingship; Knoppers, Two Nations; McConville, “King and Messiah”; and Knoppers, “Rethinking the Relationship” and the literature cited in those works. 3 See, e.g., Gerbrandt, Kingship, 103–8; Mayes, Deuteronomy, 270–71; García López, “Le

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the implications of Deut 17:16aa, 17aa, and 17b within a monarchic political situation in the seventh century B.C.E. when Judah was largely dominated by Assyria.4 Background and Significance There are various theories as to the background and significance of the limits placed on the king in Deut 17:16–17. Numerous scholars point out that these limits (and much of the law of the king) have a historical background in the sustained prophetic critiques of royal authority and royal abuses of power. A related proposal is that the origin of the limits is in the actual experiences of Israel with its kings, their powers and their excesses.5 Against this understanding of the historical background, discussion of the law of the king, as a whole and within the laws on offices, reveals two aspects of the significance of these laws. (1) Deuteronomy 16:18–18:22 is significant because it places all authorities in the nation under the authority of Yahweh and within the covenant character of law for the nation. (2) The laws on offices provide for a balance of

Roi,” 282–87; Rüterswörden, Von der politischen Gemeinschaft, 89–93; Weinfeld, Deuteronomy 1–11, 55–57; and McConville, “King and Messiah,” 276–81. Thomas C. Römer summarizes: “There may be quite a consensus in critical scholarship about the seventh century B.C.E. as the starting point of deuteronomism” (“Transformations in Deuteronomistic and Biblical Historiography,” ZAW 109 [1997]: 2). 4 While the written text of Deut 17:16aa, 17aa, and 17b will be taken as an expression of Deuteronomic ideology, positing a written format for the expression of an ideology is not strictly necessary to the task. One could posit a group within Judah’s elite classes in the seventh century that promoted such an ideology without a written expression of it because ideologies can be propagated through other material means, such as monumental architecture and ceremonial events. An examination of the role of literacy and writing in the expression of ideology, though beyond my task, is a significant, related topic. See Elizabeth DeMarrais, Luis Jaime Castillo, and Timothy Earle, “Ideology, Materialization and Power Strategies,” in Agency, Ideology, and Power in Archeological Theory, Current Anthropology 37 (1996): 15–31; and Mogens Trolle Larsen, “Introduction: Literacy and Social Complexity,” in State and Society: The Emergence and Development of Social Hierarchy and Political Centralization (ed. John Gledhill, Barbara Bender, and Mogens Trolle Larsen; London: Unwin Hyman, 1988), 173–91. For examples of articles that understand this type of expression of ideology in ancient Israel, see Carol L. Meyers, “Jachin and Boaz in Religious and Political Perspective,” CBQ 45 (1983): 167–78; and Keith W. Whitelam, “The Symbols of Power: Aspects of Royal Propaganda in the United Monarchy,” BA 49 (September 1986): 166–73. For works that focus on Assyrian influence through figurative and cultural forms, see Jane M. Cahill, “Rosette Stamp Impressions from Ancient Judah,” IEJ 45 (1995): 230–52; and Christoph Uelhinger, “Figurative Policy, Propaganda und Prophetie,” in Congress Volume: Cambridge 1995 (ed. J. A. Emerton; VTSup 66; Leiden: Brill, 1995). 5 See, e.g., Mayes, Deuteronomy, 270; Miller, Deuteronomy, 147; Clements, “Deuteronomy,” 418, 427; see also Knoppers, “Deuteronomist,” 331–34; and McConville, “King and Messiah,” 276–81, who both provide a discussion of the issues and related bibliography.

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powers among the leaders, which limits the power of all the offices, particularly the king, so that the laws work together as a “constitution” for the nation.6 For many scholars, the law of the king, more specifically, is significant in placing theological/ideological (if not actual) limitations on kingship. Scholars discuss three broad limitations. (1) The law markedly reduces the powers of the king and thereby the possibilities of abuse of power. (2) The law places kingship within the covenantal and community character of Israel as enjoined upon it by Yahweh. (3) The law reminds the king that the full allegiance and loyalty of the whole community, and in particular the king himself, are to be given to Yahweh.7 The specific clauses in the law of the king in Deut 17:16–17 concerning horses, wives, and wealth also are seen by scholars to have various types of significance. All three prohibitions fit generally within an intent to limit royal powers and thereby abuse, and to enjoin royal allegiance to Yahweh. The limit on horses signifies a limit on a professional standing army as opposed to popular militias and has related implications concerning Yahweh’s leadership in “holy war.” It also entails a limit on foreign entanglements and alliances to secure horses for military purposes. The limit on wives signifies a move to limit foreign entanglements and in particular to limit temptations to apostasy that accompany such marriages outside the community of Israel. The limit on wealth signifies a limit on commerce with foreign nations and/or a limit on the king’s accumulation of power and status above other Israelites.8 What is striking about all these discussions is how much they are oriented to understanding the background and significance of vv. 16–17 (and the law of the king by extension) almost exclusively in an internal Israelite context. As reviewed above, the law and these verses are taken to originate in Israel’s historical experience with its kings and/or in prophetic critiques of kingship. The theological/ideological significance of the law and these verses is the limitation set on royal behavior within the community of Israel and under Yahweh’s covenant, granted that for some scholars this does limit foreign entanglements symbolized by military, trade, or marriage alliances. Almost absent from these discussions is any recognition that, in the time period during which elements of the Deuteronomic law of the king were being developed (the seventh century

6 Although these authors differ on redactional issues, see in particular Miller, Deuteronomy, 141; Lohfink, “Distribution”; Preuss, Deuteronomium, 137; and Clements, “Deuteronomy,” 417. 7 Again, although these authors differ on redactional issues, see Craigie, Deuteronomy, 253–54; Mayes, Deuteronomy, 272–73; Lohfink, “Distribution,” 348; Gerbrandt, Kingship, 110; Miller, Deuteronomy, 147; Knoppers, “Deuteronomist,” 332; and Clements, “Deuteronomy,” 425–26. 8 See Craigie, Deuteronomy, 255–56; Lohfink, “Distribution,” 349; García-Lopez, “Le Roi,” 292–93; Gerbrandt, Kingship, 111–12; Rüterswörden, Von der politischen Gemeinschaft, 91; and McConville, “King and Messiah,” 276.

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B.C.E.), Judah was either a vassal of the Assyrian empire, was briefly attempting to free itself from that empire, or was attempting to avoid/react to the Babylonian empire. While this article will not seek to discount the theories on vv. 16– 17 that have been noted so far, it will attempt to expand the understanding of the internal social dynamics implied in the limitations on kingship in Deut 17:16–17 and to place the background and significance of these verses within the larger social context of the Assyrian empire.

Method In order to achieve the ends just noted, a social-scientific approach is necessary to focus on the patterns of interaction among the social actors involved, be they kings, elites, or empires. This approach will be complemented by the historical study of ancient Israel and Assyria, particularly utilizing recent work on political and ideological relationships within the Neo-Assyrian empire. In addition, because what is at issue in a law about kingship is a conceptualization or ideology of kingship rather than the action of particular historical kings, the methods used must also be sensitive to the function of ideology in social power relations. Building on the discussions of recent decades about ancient Israel’s social world and institutions,9 we will use systemic and comparative theories from the social sciences, including macrosociology and anthropology.10 Within systemic and comparative social-science theories on states and state development, two recent approaches have been especially helpful for examining social power relationships and the impact of ideology on those relationships within ancient social contexts. Both the theory of dual-processual evolution and that of coreperiphery relations are extensions and refinements of theories on early and developing states, which have been familiar in biblical scholarship especially on early Israel.11 The usefulness for our task of these two recent theories stems

9 The bibliography on sociological studies is extensive; for collections of relevant articles, see Community, Identity, and Ideology: Social Science Approaches to the Hebrew Bible (ed. Charles E. Carter and Carol L. Meyers; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1996); and Social-Scientific Old Testament Criticism (ed. David Chalcraft; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997). For a review of the field, see A. D. H. Mayes, “Sociology and the Old Testament,” in The World of Ancient Israel (ed. R. E. Clements; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 39–63. 10 See, e.g., Gerhard Lenski, Patrick Nolan, and Jean Lenski, Human Societies: An Introduction to Macrosociology (7th ed.; New York: McGraw-Hill, 1995). 11 On dual-processual evolution, see especially Richard E. Blanton, Gary M. Feinman, Stephen A. Kowalewski, and Peter N. Peregrine, “A Dual-Processual Theory for the Evolution of Mesoamerican Civilization,” in Agency, Ideology and Power in Archaeological Theory, Current Anthropology 37 (1996): 1–14; and Thomas Fillitz, “Intellectual Elites and the Production of Ideology,” in Ideology and the Formation of Early States (ed. Henri J. M. Claessen and Jarich G. Oosten;

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from their attention to several relevant factors: ancient monarchic societies, complexity within social systems, and ideology as a societal component. An ideology as a part of a culture’s socially constructed and shared meanings12 has a dual function: to provide cognitive meaning, “a more fundamental dogmatic dimension,” and to provide practical guides to action, “a more pragmatic, operative dimension.”13 Thus, ideology is a “focussed expression of different shared meanings and different interpretations of the same meanings as they are related to specific socio-economic and political interests.”14 A conflict about an ideology, or between variant ideologies, within a particular social setting will mirror conflict among or between social actors who have their own interests in power, wealth, status, and so on.15 To take these clauses in vv. 16–17 as a part of an expression of royal ideology is thus to propose that we see these lines as an expression of a particular “worldview” that had concomitant social, economic, and political implications and to propose that the ideology was fostered by a group of elites within seventh-century Judah. What is common to all the studies of agrarian states is the pattern of struggle among elites for control of the apparatus of government—either as a “state apparatus” or, in the form most common to agrarian societies, as the monarchy. 16 Thus, the circumscription of royal authority

Leiden: Brill, 1996), 67–83. On core-periphery relations, see especially Christopher Chase-Dunn and Thomas D. Hall, Core/Periphery Relations in Precapitalist Worlds (Boulder, CO: Westview, 1991); Edward M. Schortman and Patricia A. Urban, “Core/Periphery Relations in Ancient Southeastern Mesoamerica,” in Living on the Edge, Current Anthropology 35 (1994): 401–13; Centre and Periphery in the Ancient World (ed. Michael Rowlands, Mogens Larsen, and Kristian Kristiansen; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987); and Resources, Power, and Interregional Interaction (ed. Edward M. Schortman and Patricia A. Urban; New York: Plenum Press, 1992). 12 A variety of definitions of “ideology” have been used in sociological literature, and a number of conceptual debates have arisen. See, e.g., the discussion in Henri J. M. Claessen and Jarich G. Oosten, “Introduction,” in Ideology, ed. Claessen and Oosten, 1–23. 13 From Myron J. Aronoff, who uses Geertz and Berger and Luckman to formulate his definitions (Myron J. Aronoff, “Ideology and Interest: The Dialectics of Politics,” in Political Anthropology Yearbook I [New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Books, 1980], 4). 14 Ibid., 8 15 Ibid., 25. 16 Gerhard E. Lenski, Power and Privilege: A Theory of Social Stratification (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1984), 211; and Keith Whitelam, “Israelite Kingship: The Royal Ideology and Its Opponents,” in World of Ancient Israel, ed. Clements, 121. For the notion that “kingdom” is the appropriate term for ancient monarchies, see Paul Garelli, “L’État et la Légitimité Royale sous l’Empire Assyrien,” in Power and Propaganda: A Symposium on Ancient Empires (ed. Mogens Trolle Larsen; Copenhagen: Akademisk Forlag, 1979), 319. Different studies have defined the conflict as the struggles of local versus state institutions (Donald V. Kurtz, “The Legitimation of Early Inchoate States,” in The Study of the State [ed. Henri J. M. Claessen and Peter Skalník; The Hague: Mouton, 1981], 177–200), or as the struggles of kinship-based groups versus ruling elites (Shirley Ratnagar, “Ideology and the Nature of Political Consolidation and Expansion: An Archae-

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implied in Deut 17:16–17 was probably not the only definition available, and conflict over how to define kingship involved both conceptual and practical elements. Since all groups in a situation of ideological conflict claim theological validation and legitimation for their views, the various definitions of kingship each probably claimed to be upholding “true” nationalistic and Yahwistic interests.17

II. Internal Social Dynamics We begin a social-scientific examination of the “internal” implications of vv. 16aa, 17aa, and 17b by asking what are the meanings of the prohibitions against excessive horses, wives, and wealth, focusing on the “practical” or “realworld” function of the ideology—what this ideology claimed about what a king could or could not actually do in political and economic terms. Dual-processual theory was developed in reaction to evolutionary theories of state development that use a “simple stage typology to account for variation among societies of similar complexity.”18 Instead, this theory investigates “the varying strategies used by political actors to construct and maintain polities”19 that may not show a linear, evolutionary development but rather may show cycles of change, growth, contraction, and varying patterns of elite control of the state. Dual-processual theory identifies two broad types of power strategies used by elites in agrarian states. In the first, called an exclusionary strategy, “political actors aim at the development of a political system built around their monopoly control of sources of power.”20 In competition among elites for wealth, status, and power, or in competition of elites against a major power holder such as a king, an exclusionary political strategy emphasizes the building and exploitation of networks of social, economic, and political connections beyond a power holder’s local group to build prestige and power. To develop exclusionary power by networking, political actors exploit, for example, military technology and control, patrimonial rhetoric and systems of ranked clan and descent groups, and trade and control of luxury and prestige goods.21 By contrast, the second power strategy, termed a corporate power strategy, aims to distribute, structure, and control power within limits set by an elite ological Case,” in Ideology and the Formation of Early States, ed. Claessen and Oosten, 170–86), or as the struggles of rulers versus commoner communities (John Gledhill, “Introduction: The Comparative Analysis of Social and Political Transitions,” in State and Society, ed. Gledhill et al., 1–29). 17 I am indebted to Dr. Marvin Chaney for this insight. 18 Blanton et al., “Dual-Processual Theory,” 1. 19 Ibid. 20 Ibid., 2. 21 Ibid., 4–5.

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structure of corporate governance. “Power is shared across different groups and sectors of society in such a way as to inhibit exclusionary strategies.”22 Not to be confused with an egalitarian or democratic impulse, corporate power strategies emphasize the domination of society by powerful, centralized formations. Ideologically, such a strategy “always involves the establishment and maintenance of a cognitive code that emphasizes a corporate solidarity of society as an integrated whole . . . [and] . . . emphasizes collective representations and accompanying ritual.”23 Exclusionary and corporate power strategies are not mutually exclusive within any one polity. Both may be pursued by political actors in varying degrees at the same time; or one or the other may be applied to internal or external social relations; or they may be used sequentially as the goals of elites, or the elites themselves, change.24 Where do the limits on the king fit within these power strategies? First, horses are principally used for military technology, in the ancient Near East particularly to pull chariots. For elites struggling against a ruler or among themselves, the ability to control military power was the most basic form of force by which to carry out one’s own strategies. Kings in particular needed an army that could carry out commands and secure resources. 25 Other elites generally wanted to limit the king’s ability to use force, at least against them, while allowing the kingdom to have sufficient defensive power. Because horses required a large expenditure for acquisition, care, and training, the prohibition against horses may represent a limit on the king’s ability to control a professional army. Keeping military technology in the hands of either military officers separate from the king’s private forces or in the hands of a militarized elite class limited the king’s power to enforce his own strategies and decisions over against these elites.26 From a sociological perspective, marriage among elites is an arrangement of economic, social, and political import, rather than a romantic matter. The number of wives, their origins in key upper-class families or clans, and the number of children produced, were all matters of royal status. We can highlight the use of marriage by elites, and kings in particular, to gain political advantage or establish strategic political alliances.27 Limiting a king’s ability to arrange mar-

22

Ibid., 2. Ibid., 6. 24 Ibid., 8–12, where Blanton et al. apply the theory to the states of Mesoamerica. 25 Reinhard Bendix, Kings or People: Power and the Mandate to Rule (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), 219. 26 Lenski, Power and Privilege, 237. 27 Gideon Sjoberg, The Preindustrial City (New York: Free Press, 1960), 149. 23

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riages at will with key families or allies would hamper his use of an important strategic political tool.28 In a sense, “gold and silver,” or wealth, is the most transparent of the three limitations put on the king in Deut 17. In agrarian societies, control of the apparatus of government brought the possibility of enormous accumulation of wealth, since the whole economy was oriented toward extracting wealth from all productive sources and channeling it to the center, the government, monarchy, elites, and king.29 A limitation on the wealth of a king translates into curtailing the king’s control of the economic surplus by restricting his rights to taxation, trade, rents, fees, plunder and confiscation, and so on. The principal rivals to the king’s control of wealth were other elites, particularly the holders of large patrimonial or prebendal estates.30 The prohibitions against excessive horses, wives, and wealth in Deut 17:16–17 are specific limitations of the king’s abilities to use typical exclusionary power strategies. It appears that the group propagating this aspect of royal ideology knew very well the strategies a king can use to gain power against rivals to the throne and against other elites. The king was not to be allowed to seek exclusionary control through development of a large chariot force, to exploit political connections through marriage alliances, or to use trade networks and prestige goods to accumulate wealth. This sociological perspective thus reinforces the idea that the significance of these verses lies in their limitation of the king’s power within the state of ancient Judah. But this sociological perspective also emphasizes, more than most scholars have seen, the internal political struggles inherent in the propagation and application of such an ideological stance. In the background of such limits on kingship stand certain power holders who are acting against other elites to increase their power over the king by limiting his exclusionary powers.

III. External Social Dynamics Historical studies that examine the impact on Israel and Judah of the Assyrian empire in the late eighth and seventh centuries B.C.E. form the background for all further work.31 The destructiveness of Assyria’s western military 28 This dynamic was explored without the use of sociological theory in Jon D. Levenson and Baruch Halpern, “The Political Import of David’s Marriages,” JBL 99 (1980): 507–18. 29 Lenski, Power and Privilege, 212. 30 T. F. Carney, The Shape of the Past: Models and Antiquity (Lawrence, KS: Coronado Press, 1975), 61. 31 Representative works include Morton Cogan, Imperialism and Religion: Assyria, Judah,

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campaigns and the vassal status of Judah during much of the period, with the conditions that status entailed, such as payment of tribute, are well established. Numerous studies have also examined the effects of the political and cultural concomitants of Assyrian hegemony, particularly regarding the influence of genres of ancient Near Eastern and Neo-Assyrian treaties and oaths on biblical literature. These studies have focused on Deuteronomy and Deuteronomistic writing and on covenant forms and theology, covering topics ranging from the generalized study of treaty and oath formulas and structures and their impact on the Deuteronomic stream of tradition, to strict verbal parallels such as those between Assyrian and Deuteronomic curses. 32 Although the influence of ancient Near Eastern treaties on the form and theology of covenant in Deuteronomy is generally accepted, some issues remain.33 Recent articles have studied further the use of Assyrian literary genres and specific verbal parallels to biblical literature.34 Eckhart Otto has explored the far-reaching impact of the ideological, social, and economic changes that accompanied Assyrian hegemony on Deuteronomy, both on its principal conceptualizations in reactualizand Israel in the Eighth and Seventh Centuries B.C.E. (SBLMS 19; Missoula, MT: Society of Biblical Literature and Scholars Press, 1974); Moshe Elat, “The Political Status of the Kingdom of Judah within the Assyrian Empire in the 7th Century B.C.E.,” in Investigations at Lachish: The Sanctuary and the Residency (Lachish V) (ed. Yohanan Aharoni; Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University Institute of Archeology and Gateway Publishers, 1975), 61–70; Benedikt Otzen, “Israel under the Assyrians,” in Power and Propaganda, ed Larsen, 251–61; Ehud Ben Zvi, “Prelude to a Reconstruction of Historical Manassic Judah,” BN 81 (1996): 31–44; and Roy Gane, “The Role of Assyria in the Ancient Near East during the Reign of Manasseh,” Andrews University Seminary Studies 35 (1997): 21–32. Also see such varied studies as Mario Liverani, “L’Histoire de Joas,” VT 24 (1974): 438–53; Moshe Weinfeld, “Zion and Jerusalem as Religious and Political Capital: Ideology and Utopia,” in The Poet and the Historian: Essays in Literary and Historical Biblical Criticism (ed. Richard Elliott Friedman; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1983), 75–115; K. Lawson Younger, Jr., Ancient Conquest Accounts: A Study in Ancient Near Eastern and Biblical History Writing (JSOTSup 98; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1990); Antti Laato, “Second Samuel 7 and Ancient Near Eastern Royal Ideology,” CBQ 59 (1997): 244–69. 32 The bibliography is extensive, including such representatives works as William L. Moran, “The Ancient Near Eastern Background of the Love of God in Deuteronomy,” CBQ 25 (1963): 77–87; R. Frankena, “The Vassal-Treaties of Esarhaddon and the Dating of Deuteronomy,” OtSt 14 (1965): 123–54; Weinfeld, Deuteronomic School; idem, “The Loyalty Oath in the Ancient Near East,” UF 8 (1976): 379– 414; D. J. McCarthy, Treaty and Covenant (2d ed.; AnBib 21A; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1978); A. D. H. Mayes, “On Describing the Purpose of Deuteronomy,” in The Pentateuch: A Sheffield Reader (ed. John W. Rogerson; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996). 33 See Gary N. Knoppers, “Ancient Near Eastern Royal Grants and the Davidic Covenant: A Parallel?” JAOS 116 (1996): 670–97 and bibliography there. 34 William Hallo, “Jerusalem under Hezekiah: An Assyriological Perspective,” in Jerusalem: Its Sanctity and Centrality to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam (ed. Lee I. Levine, New York: Continuum, 1999), 36–50; Bernard M. Levinson, “Textual Criticism, Assyriology, and the History of Interpretation: Deuteronomy 13:7a as a Test Case in Method,” JBL 120 (2001): 211–43.

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ing older laws within a revolutionary reform program and on particular expressions and laws.35 Perspectives from the social sciences can augment such scholarship. In recent years, sociology has seen the development of a theory of core–periphery relations, that is, of relations between a dominant, core state and the secondary, peripheral states on its borders.36 This theory has identified a number of variables that must be taken into account in describing core–periphery relations. These variables include differentiation among societies at different levels of complexity, the nature of the hierarchical relationships where domination between societies exists,37 the existence of multiple power centers or cores in a system,38 the different modes of production, kinship, tributary, and so on, in the related states,39 and the variables along which core–periphery relations are measured.40 The most important factors include military, political, economic, and ideological relationships between the core and the periphery. Scholars have furthermore identified three principal variations in the political-economic structure of core–periphery systems. These are (1) a dendritic political economy, where goods flow directly from the periphery to the core; (2) a hegemonic empire, in which the core dominates its periphery by military force but does not necessarily incorporate the peripheral states directly; and (3) the territorial empire, in which the periphery is incorporated into the political system of the core through direct conquest, military occupation, and assimilation.41 The theory suggests that the Neo-Assyrian empire and its core–periphery relations can be characterized as a system in which the core dominated the periphery in certain specific ways through direct and indirect rule but which did not fully assimilate its outermost peripheral states into the core.42 Assyria 35 Eckart Otto, Das Deuteronomium: Politische Theologie und Rechtsreform in Juda und Assyrien (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1999). 36 Partially developed by theorists interested in modern world systems, core–periphery theory has also focused on ancient and premodern states with an accompanying emphasis on the use of archaeological materials as a source of data. An assumed pattern of domination and development in the core alongside passivity and underdevelopment on the periphery has proven much too simplified. See such studies as S. N. Eisenstadt, “Observations and Queries about Sociological Aspects of Imperialism in the Ancient World,” in Power and Propaganda, ed Larsen, 21–33; Chase-Dunn and Hall, Core/Periphery Relations; Christopher Chase-Dunn and Thomas D. Hall, “Comparing World-Systems: Concepts and Working Hypotheses,” Social Forces 71 (1993): 851–86; and Schortman and Urban, “Core/Periphery Relations”; and various articles in State and Society, ed. Gledhill et al. 37 Chase-Dunn and Hall, Core/Periphery Relations, 19. 38 Ibid., 12. 39 Ibid., 22. 40 Schortman and Urban, “Core/Periphery Relations,” 413. 41 Robert. S. Santley and Rani T. Alexander, “The Political Economy of Core-Periphery Systems,” in Resources, Power, and Interregional Interaction, ed. Shortman and Urban, 23–49. 42 Eisenstadt, “Observations and Queries,” 21–33; K. Ekholm and J. Friedman, “‘Capital’

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represents the type where the process of expansion involved “relatively little restructuring of the basic structural and cultural premises of the conquered and/or conquerors.”43 Historical scholarship has identified a differentiation between those areas of the periphery that remained in a vassal status and those that became provinces. Vassals retained more local political and economic structures and kept their own population and elites while being placed under explicit requirements, particularly concerning loyalty and tribute. Provinces, on the other hand, were more directly incorporated into the Assyrian political, economic, and ideological structures, with an Assyrian governor and military presence and often major deportations of local populations.44 In both cases a well-developed administrative system functioned to ensure Assyrian interests in its periphery.45 These considerations indicate that the Neo-Assyrian empire used aspects of both hegemonic and territorial structures in its core–periphery relationships. While issues remain about the impact on the periphery of the policies of the Assyrian empire, its relations in the seventh-century in Syria-Palestine can be summarized according to the primary core–periphery variables—military, political, economic, and ideological. Militarily, areas in Syria-Palestine underwent repeated invasions, vassal status, and in some cases permanent occupation, characteristics of a tighter core–periphery bond. Politically, Judah as a vassal would have experienced the typical requirements of loyalty, with the constant threat of more direct assertion of control.46 Economically, the empire Imperialism and Exploitation in Ancient World Systems,” 41–58; Mogens Trolle Larsen, “The Tradition of Empire in Mesopotamia,” 75–103; J. N. Postgate, “The Economic Structure of the Assyrian Empire,” 193–221—all in Power and Propaganda, ed. Larsen; Hayim Tadmor, “World Dominion: The Expanding Horizon of the Assyrian Empire,” in Landscapes: Territories, Frontiers and Horizons in the Ancient Near East: Papers Presented to the XLIV Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale, Venezia, 7-11, July 1997 (ed. L. Milano, S. de Martino, F. M. Fales, and G. B. Langranchi; Padua: Sargon Srl, 1999), 55–62. 43 Eisenstadt, “Social Aspects of Imperialism,” 22. 44 Moshe Elat, “The Impact of Tribute and Booty on Countries and People within the Assyrian Empire,” in Vorträge gehalten auf der 28. Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale in Wein 610 Juli 1981, AfO 19 (Horn, Austria: Verlag Ferdinand Berger & Söhne Gesellschaft, 1982), 244–51; Peter Machinist, “Assyrians on Assyria in the First Millennium B.C.,” in Anfänge politischen Denkens in der Antike: Die nahöstlichen Kulturen und die Griechen (ed. Kurt Raaflaub; Munich: R. Oldenbourg Verlag, 1993), 77–104. 45 Jana Pecirková, “The Administrative Methods of Assyrian Imperialism,” ArOr 55 (1987): 162–75; and Raija Mattila, The King’s Magnates: A Study of the Highest Officials of the Neo-Assyrian Empire (SAAS 11, Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 2000), 161–68. 46 For discussion and details, see J. Maxwell Miller and John H. Hayes, A History of Ancient Israel and Judah (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1986), 314–406; Gösta W. Ahlström, The History of Ancient Palestine from the Palaeolithic Period to Alexander’s Conquest (JSOTSup 146; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993), 607–740; Larsen, “Tradition of Empire,” 97; and Tadmor, “World Dominion,” 56–60.

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sought control over trade routes and access to raw materials, allowed certain trade and commercial entities to continue, and relied on tribute as its primary economic strategy on the periphery, all typical of a looser economic relationship with border states.47 Clearly Assyria depended on its vassals and provinces to produce wealth, and it set up economic relations to ensure that outcome. Any “extra” wealth that an area might produce was by obligation due to Assyria and was not available to the local elites themselves unless it could be “hidden” from the empire. The ongoing publication of the state archives of Assyria allows scholars to learn more detail about Assyria’s relationships with its vassals. In particular, the seventh-century B.C.E. vassal treaties specify what behaviors and factors were important to Assyria regarding its vassals.48 These treaties highlight the obligations put upon vassals—not to pursue any disloyal behavior, not to engage in treasonous behavior, not to engage in any revolt or rebellion, not to make any other oaths or treaties—and the positive requirement to pass on any reports of rumors of opposition to Assyria or its king.49 Assyrian royal inscriptions augment the study of the treaties themselves by showing how royal self-presentation and propaganda viewed disloyalty by vassals. Oath and treaty violations were perceived as breaking the oath of the gods, repudiating oath agreements, sinning against the oath, and breaking the treaty.50 Actions by vassals that were considered disloyal and were thus treaty violations were described as conspiring with an enemy; rebelling; renouncing allegiance; imploring the aid of another country; plotting with another country against Assyria; plotting defection, uprising, or revolution; and deciding not to pay tribute or suspending 47 Larsen, “Tradition of Empire,” 100; Moshe Elat, “Phoenician Overland Trade within the Mesopotamian Empires,” in Ah, Assyria: Studies in Assyrian History and Ancient Near Eastern Historiography Presented to Hayim Tadmor (ed. Mordechai Cogan and Israel Eph>al; ScrHier 33; Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1991), 21–35; J. P. J. Olivier-Stellenbosch, “Money Matters: Some Remarks on the Economic Situation in the Kingdom of Judah During the Seventh Century B.C.,” BN 73 (1994): 90–100; Seymour Gitin, “Tel Miqne-Ekron in the 7th Century B.C.E.: The Impact of Economic Innovation and Foreign Cultural Influences on a Neo-Assyrian Vassal City-State,” 61–79; and William G. Dever, “Orienting the Study of Trade in Near Eastern Archaeology,” 111– 19, both in Recent Excavations in Israel: A View to the West (ed. Seymour Gitin; Archaeological Institute of America Colloquia and Conference Papers 1; Dubuque, IA: Kendall Hunt, 1995). 48 “Treaty of Esarhaddon with Baal of Tyre,” text and translation by R. Borger; “The VassalTreaties of Esarhaddon,” text and translation by D. J. Wiseman, both in ANESTP, 533–39; A. Kirk Grayson, “Akkadian Treaties of the Seventh Century B.C.,” JCS 39 (1987): 127–60; Simo Parpola, “Neo-Assyrian Treaties from the Royal Archives of Nineveh,” JCS 39 (1987): 161–89; Simo Parpola and Kazuko Watanabe, Neo-Assyrian Treaties and Loyalty Oaths (SAAS 2, Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1988), 161–89; Bustenay Oded, War, Peace and Empire: Justifications for War in Assyrian Royal Inscriptions (Weisbaden: Reichert, 1992). 49 Parpola and Watanabe, Neo-Assyrian Treaties, xv–xxv and xxxviii–xxxix. 50 Oded, War, Peace, 87-99. 51 Ibid.

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annual tribute.51 Above all, the extant treaties witness the fanatical insistence on loyalty from vassals in the period. “[I]mposing oaths of loyalty on defeated nations was a cornerstone of Assyria’s strategy of gradual territorial expansion.”52 Ideologically, Assyria understood itself to be the center of the world order that was established for Assyria and its king by the gods. This order was to be maintained by the king and the apparatus of government.53 The non-Assyrian world was a region of chaos, disorder, and disobedience that was to be tamed and transformed by Assyrian hegemony.54 Thus, Assyrian imperialism in relation to its periphery had deep ideological justifications for the imposition of order by warfare, conquest, control, deportation, and the entire administrative and economic structures of its provinces and vassals. Core–periphery theory identifies how such military, political, economic, and ideological domination by a core can have an impact on the formation and development of ideology within a peripheral state. Even where direct imposition of various kinds of control, such as ideological coercion, are not used, peripheral states often adjust their behavior and thinking to the core’s requirements and values. Motivations of elites within the periphery for this adaptation to the core can include fear about consequences and/or a calculation of benefit for themselves in the situation.55 Recent work has modified the view that terror was the primary motivation among vassals for submission to the Assyrian empire. There is evidence that Assyrian policy regarding its periphery included an awareness of “benefits” that could be extended to vassals and provinces, such as security for local rulers and elites56 (albeit that the periphery might have chosen other “benefits” if given a true unencumbered choice). Certain factions among the elites within provinces and vassal states sought cooperation

52

Parpola, “Neo-Assyrian Treaties,” 161. The ideology of the Assyrian empire has been studied extensively in recent years. See, e.g., A. Leo Oppenheim, “Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian Empires,” in Propaganda and Communication in World History, vol. 1 of The Symbolic Instrument in Early Times (ed. Harold D. Lasswell, Daniel Lerner, and Hans Speier, East-West Center; Honolulu: University Press of Hawaii, 1979), 111–44; Mario Liverani, “The Ideology of the Assyrian Empire,” 297–317; Paul Garelli, “L’État et la Légitimité sous l’Empire Assyrien,” 319–28; and Julian Reade, “Ideology and Propaganda in Assyrian Art,” 329–43, all in Power and Propaganda, ed Larsen; H. Tadmor, “History and Ideology in the Assyrian Royal Inscriptions,” in Assyrian Royal Inscriptions: New Horizons in Literary, Ideological, and Historical Analysis (ed. F. M. Fales; Oriens antiqui collectio 17; Rome: Istituto per l’Oriente, 1981), 13–33; Machinist, “Assyrians on Assyria”; Tadmor, “World Dominion.” 54 Liverani, “Ideology,” 306–7; Oppenheim, “Neo-Assyrian and Neo-Babylonian Empires,” 120–21; Machinist, “Assyrians on Assyria,” 83–91. 55 Schortman and Urban, “Core/Periphery Relations,” 404. 56 Giovanni B. Lanfranchi, “Consensus to Empire: Some Aspects of Sargon II’s Foreign Policy,” in Assyrien im Wandel de Zeiten (Rencontre Assyriologique Internationale 39, Heidelberger Studien zum Alten Orient 6; Heidelberg: Heidelberger Orientverlag, 1997), 81–87. 53

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with Assyrian hegemony in order to secure such benefits and increase their own local power.57 This sociologically and historically informed model of core–periphery relations in the Neo-Assyrian empire highlights the international considerations that were part of the scene in seventh-century Judah—especially the military, political, and economic dominance of Assyria and its ideology of control of its periphery. The circumscription of the king in Deut 17:16–17 can now be set into this international social context. A king must not multiply horses, that is, must not increase professional military power nor seek other military alliances. This facet of ideology appears to adapt kingship to Assyria’s policy of military domination and to specific prohibitions in the vassal treaties (1) against military preparation that would threaten the Assyrian king or his successor, and (2) against any oaths or alliances with Assyria’s rivals. A king must not increase wives, that is, must not enter into political alliances through key strategic marriages. This facet of ideology appears to adapt kingship to Assyria’s policy of political domination and to specific prohibitions in the vassal treaties against any political disloyalty and against oaths or alliances beyond the established one with Assyria. A king must not increase gold and silver, that is, must not seek exclusionary control of the economic surplus. This facet of ideology appears to adapt kingship to Assyria’s policy of economic control of trade and economic wealth and to specific requirements for the payment of tribute. These findings indicate that the ideology of kingship reflected in Deut 17:16aa, 17aa, and 17b appears to have adapted its own concept of kingship to the necessary requirements of survival for a monarch on the periphery of the major world empire of its time. Externally, within the context of the periphery of the Assyrian empire, the limits on the king deny him strategies to assert military, political, and economic independence and hegemony. They thus support a strategy of acquiescence to the domination of Assyria and an ideology that strictly defines the external relationships of the kingdom. This social-scientific perspective on the external dynamics of the limits on horses, wives, and wealth adds important considerations that previous scholarship has overlooked about the background and significance of the limits. The external social context is a crucial locus for understanding the genesis and significance of the ideology implied in the limits. These findings indicate that Judah’s vassal status had a profound impact on this aspect of royal ideology. IV. Conclusion Some of the intriguing implications of both the internal and external dynamics must be considered. When both sets of dynamics are combined, 57

Ibid., 84–85.

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there is a complementarity between them that is required for both approaches used in the paper to be valid. The results indicate that the ideological limits on the king could have proceeded from a particular faction within the social context of preexilic Judah.58 With an eye to Judah’s international relationships, this faction seems to be advocating circumscriptions on kingship so that the nation will maintain a loyal vassal relationship with Assyria. At the same time, with an eye to internal power struggles, the faction also seems to be advocating these same circumscriptions in order to place the king in a less powerful position relative to other elites internally, including the faction itself. In characteristic exclusionary power strategies, this in turn gives the faction further influence over foreign policy. The suggestion that this faction would thereby have received from Assyria support and other “benefits” fits well within the picture developed here.59 Further, this addition to study of the background and significance of the limits complements other scholarship.60 Particularly intriguing is the interaction with the suggestion that these limits enjoin loyalty and allegiance to Yahweh from the king and, by extension, to the whole covenant community. The findings of this article imply that at least one faction found it possible to advocate that the king attempt a careful balance between being loyal to Yahweh and being loyal to Assyria, that is, that the king can be both a good servant of Yahweh and a good vassal to Assyria.61 That two such loyalties could be proposed by the faction as at least compatible if not fully complementary is an intriguing perspective on the ideology of ancient preexilic Judah.62 Other implications of our findings indicate avenues for further study, including integrating these findings with other parts of the law of the king and the laws on offices in Deuteronomy, comparing the portrayal of kingship in the Deuteronomistic History, and comparing the ideology of kingship in the royal and enthronement psalms. 58

This is an extension of my earlier work, “The Social Location of the Deuteronomists: A Sociological Study of Factional Politics in Late Pre-Exilic Judah,” JSOT 52 (1991): 77–94. The issues of defining the faction on the basis of Deuteronomy, the Deuteronomistic History, or Jeremiah remain to be settled, given the somewhat different approaches to kingship within these bodies of literature. See the sources cited in n. 2 above. These issues also clearly relate to the idea of “dual loyalty,” which is explored below. 59 See Lanfranchi, “Consensus to Empire,” 84–85. 60 See pp. 603–5 above. 61 This implication clearly would modify the suggestion by Otto that the adoption and redirection of the Assyrian loyalty oath from Assyria to Yahweh were anti-Assyrian strategies for Judah (Otto, Das Deuteronomium, 364–65). 62 Such “dual loyalties” may not be unique in biblical literature. Immediate and so far unexplored but intriguing parallels come to mind: Isa 30 regarding trust in Yahweh and avoiding an alliance with Egypt against Assryia, narrative sections of Jer 27–29 and 38 regarding loyal Yahwism and allegiance to Babylon, and the status of Nehemiah (and Ezra?) as Persian appointees and loyal Yahwists.

JBL 121/4 (2002) 617–638

ANCESTRAL MOTIFS IN 1 SAMUEL 25: INTERTEXTUALITY AND CHARACTERIZATION

MARK E. BIDDLE [email protected] Baptist Theological Seminary at Richmond, Richmond, VA 23227

While it is rather tenuous to speak of general consensus with respect to virtually every question of interest to biblical studies, several broad areas of agreement seem to have been reached over the past several decades concerning the narrative of David’s encounters with Nabal and Abigail recorded in 1 Sam 25. First, students of the passage usually consider it a relatively selfcontained, unified account representing a tradition predating the Deuteronomistic History (= DtrH).1 Second, a number of scholars emphasize the highly 1 K. Budde considers 1 Sam 25:2–42 to be “aus einem Gusse und vorzüglich erhalten, ein wahres Kabinetstück guter Erzählung” (Die Bücher Samuel [KHC 8; Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr, 1902], 163). The following scholars are among those who hold similar positions: O. Eissfeldt, Die Komposition der Samuelisbücher (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1931), 19; J. Mauchline, 1 and 2 Samuel (NCB; London: Oliphants, 1971), 24–26, 167; P. K. McCarter, Jr., “The Apology of David,” JBL 99 (1980): 493. With respect to the non-Deuteronomistic character of the account, I. Willi-Plein observes that the stories concerning David’s wives found in both the Narrative of David’s Rise (= NDR) and the Succession Narrative (= SN) do not betray the negative attitude characteristic of the Deuteronomist’s discussion of Solomon’s many wives, for example (“Frauen um David: Beobachtungen zur Davidshausgeschichte,” in Meilenstein: Festgabe für Herbert Donner [ed. M. Weippert and S. Timm; Ägypten und Altes Testament 30; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1995], 353). Scholars debate the possible exception of a portion of Abigail’s lengthy speech to David, which some think exhibits evidence of Deuteronomistic redaction. T. Veijola argues that Abigail’s speech redirects the tale (Die Ewige Dynastie: David und die Entstehung seiner Dynastie nach der deuteronomistischen Darstellung [AASF B 193; Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1975], 47– 48, 51; see also L. Schmidt, Menschlicher Erfolg und Jahwes Initiative: Studien zu Tradition, Interpretation und Historie in Überlieferungen von Gideon, Saul und David [WMANT 38; Neukirchen: Neukirchener Verlag, 1970], 122; McCarter, “Apology,” 493 and n. 12). It is no longer concerned with the gift but with David’s future. Veijola notes that Abigail is said to fall to the ground twice and that v. 27 contains the only occurrence of hjp` in the narrative (the usual term is hma) and concludes that vv. 21–22, 23b, 24a–26, 28–34, and 39a are Deuteronomistic additions to the account. J. Van Seters rejects as simplistic these arguments concerning the interpolation of vv. 28–31. Without this material, he suggests, the account would be “rather trivial” (In Search of History: Historiogra-

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intertextual character of the passage, especially in relation to the Ancestral Narratives (= AN).2 Third, it has become commonplace to interpret 1 Sam 25 primarily in terms of the apologetic purposes of the so-called Narrative of David’s Rise (= NDR).3 phy in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History [New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983], 267 n. 81). 2 In particular, the several examples of parallels between the vocabulary of 1 Sam 25 and of certain narratives in Genesis have led some to attribute 1 Sam 25 to the Yahwist (Budde, Bücher Samuel, 163; P. Dhorme, Les Livres de Samuel [EBib; Paris: Gabalda, 1910], 236; G. Hölscher, Geschichtsschreibung in Israel: Untersuchung zum Jahwisten und Elohisten [Lund: Gleerup, 1952], 376; and, more recently, H. Schulte, Die Entstehung der Geschichtsschreibung im Alten Israel [BZAW 128; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1972]), others to argue that the J (or JE) text was known to the author of the David account (most recently R. Alter, The World of Biblical Literature [San Francisco: Basic Books, 1992], 164), and still others even to conclude that the Yahwist and the author of the David account were personal acquaintances (H. Bloom, D. Rosenberg, and W. Golding, The Book of J [New York: Vintage, 1991] and more recently D. Rosenberg, The Book of David [New York: Harmony Books, 1997]). Many scholars note similarities between other portions of the David story in 1 and 2 Samuel and portions of the AN. The source-critical significance of these similarities is yet to be satisfactorily determined. Chiefly at issue is the question of whether the Genesis narrative influenced the author of the David story, as a conventional understanding of the composition history of Genesis would require, or the Genesis accounts are “parables” based on the Davidic history. See A. G. Auld, “Samuel and Genesis: Some Questions of John Van Seters’ ‘Yahwist,’” in Rethinking the Foundations: Historiography in the Ancient World and in the Bible: Essays in Honour of John Van Seters (ed. S. L. McKenzie and T. Römer in collaboration with H. H. Schmid; BZAW 294; New York: de Gruyter, 2000), 23–32; R. Boer, “National Allegory in the Hebrew Bible,” JSOT 74 (1997): 95–116; R.-J. Frontain, “The Trickster Tricked: Strategies of Deception and Survival in the David Narrative,” in Mappings of the Biblical Terrain: The Bible as Text (ed. V. Tollers and J. Maier; Bucknell Review 33; Lewisburg, PA: Bucknell University Press, 1990), 10–192; C. Ho, “The Stories of the Family Troubles of Judah and David: A Study in Their Literary Links,” VT 49 (1999): 514–31; J. D. Pleins, “Son-Slayers and Their Sons,” CBQ 54 (1992): 29–38; S. Prolow and V. Orel, “Isaac Unbound,” BZ 40 (1996): 84–91; G. Rendsburg, “David and His Circle in Genesis xxxviii,” VT 36 (1986): 438– 46; C. Smith, “The Story of Tamar: A Power-filled Challenge to the Structures of Power,” in Women in the Biblical Tradition (ed. G. Brooke; Studies in Women and Religion 31; Lewiston: Mellen, 1992), 24; M. Steussy, David: Biblical Portraits of Power (Studies on Personalities of the Old Testament 8; Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1999), 90; Y. Zakovitch, “Through the Looking Glass: Reflections/Inversions of Genesis Stories in the Bible,” BibInt 1 (1993): 139–52; see also J. Blenkinsopp (“Theme and Motif in the Succession History [2 Sam. XI 2ff] and the Yahwist Corpus,” in Volume du Congrès: Genève 1965 [VTSup 15; Leiden: Brill, 1966], 44–57) and W. Brueggemann (“David and His Theologian,” CBQ 30 [1968]: 156–81), who call attention to parallels between the David story and Gen 2–11. 3 According to the “classical” form of this interpretation, the NDR expresses the redactor’s concerns with efforts to consolidate the Davidic dynasty during the Solomonic period. 1 Samuel 25, too, it is argued, reflects the redactor’s tendency to avert any criticism of David and to demonstrate his chosen status. See A. Weiser, “Die Legitimation des Königs David: Zur Eigenart und Entstehung der sog. Geschichte von Davids Aufstieg,” VT 16 (1966): 337–38, 47–48. Those who regard Abigail’s second address as the product of the Dtr redactor emphasize the apologetic tendencies of this redactional material. T. Veijola, for example, sees two themes: (1) an effort to protect David from “helping himself” and incurring bloodguilt, and (2) the opportunity to prophesy his “sure

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This article will briefly examine these three perspectives on 1 Sam 25, will suggest an alternative understanding of the account, and will explore implications of this understanding for the question of the relationship between Genesis and the NDR. First, we will argue that the text displays an intricate, almost baroque structure that seems more consistent with literary artifice than oral tradition and calls into question the value of the account as a historical source. Second, we will show that the intertextual character of 1 Sam 25 seems to be almost satirical, and certainly ironic, in nature. With respect to the intriguing question of the direction of dependence, the intertextual intricacies embodied in 1 Sam 25, and in particular the resulting ironic portrayal of David, suggest that much of the account has been composed utilizing elements of the written patriarchal tradition. Third, we will suggest that the redactor responsible for including 1 Sam 25 in the NDR was not apparently motivated by an interest in exonerating David. Finally, we will reevaluate the customary early dating for 1 Sam 25. As will be shown, given the literary character, intertextual dependence on the patriarchal/matriarchal tradition, and subversive agenda of 1 Sam 25, the assumption that it predates the DtrH by several centuries must be abandoned.

EXCURSUS: ON METHOD

The term “intertextuality” finds a number of usages in the literature. In the context of the act of reading, it often refers to the implications of the observation that any reader approaches any “text” (including nonwritten texts such as films or works of art) as a component in a nexus of other “texts.” The act of reading establishes relationships between texts regardless of genetic dependence. The focus of this study, in contrast, will be on intertextualities which the author (a) intended as such and (b) expected his or her readers to recognize as such so that their reading of one or house” (Ewige Dynastie, 54). J. Conrad objects that the normal dating of this redactional effort to the Solomonic period fails to account for the fact that David’s actions would have recalled Solomon’s acts of violence and would have therefore been likely “to occasion unrest” (“Zum geschichtlichen Hintergrund der Darstellung von Davids Aufstieg,” TLZ 97 [1972]: 326–30). He argues that the account can better be understood as an implicit critique of the exchange of power in the north, especially under Jehu. J. Levenson (“1 Samuel 25 as Literature and as History,” CBQ 40 [1978]: 24–28) and B. Halpern (J. Levenson and B. Halpern, “The Political Import of David’s Marriages,” JBL 99 [1980]: 507–18) argue that 1 Sam 25 reflects David’s politically savvy consolidation of power in the south via marriage to Abigail (who may have been David’s sister; see 1 Sam 25:42; 2 Sam 17:25; 19:13; 1 Chr 2:16–17; see also Steussy, David, 75–76, 79; and S. McKenzie, King David: A Biography [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000], 55, 170–71), the wife of a Calebite chieftain, and in the north via marriage to Ahinoam, Saul’s wife. For a literarily oriented reading of this material see D. Gunn, The Fate of King Saul: An Interpretation of a Biblical Story (JSOTSup 14; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1980), 91–102.

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both of the related intertexts would be shaped.4 This study will contend that the author of 1 Sam 25 intended it to be read against the background of the AN, that the author has marked links between the two texts, and that an intertextual reading of 1 Sam 25 will reveal subtleties in the characterization of the leading figures, especially David.5 Efforts to assess the significance of the apparent intertextuality in 1 Sam 25 are complicated by the difficulty in determining whether similarities are the result of literary dependence (and, if so, the direction of the borrowing) or reflections of a common repertoire of narrative conventions. For example, as will be examined below, 1 Sam 25 displays a number of parallels with Gen 24. A significant body of scholarship argues that the Genesis text dates from a quite late period, too late to have been a source for the allusions in 1 Sam 25 if the latter does in fact predate DtrH.6 With regard to another example of linguistic parallels between the Deuteronomistic history and the book of Genesis, Y. Zakovitch explains many of the difficult features of Gen 34 (the rape of Dinah) as “assimilations” to 2 Sam 13 (the rape of Tamar).7 In contrast, R. Alter describes the phenomenon of “type-scenes” such as the annunciation and birth of the hero to a barren mother, the encounter at a well that results in a marriage, and so on.8 We will argue, however, that 1 Sam 25 depends genetically on the AN as evidenced especially (1) by Nabal’s name and function—a clear marker that the Samuel account is a literary conceit based on the Genesis accounts; (2) by the cumulative weight of the many verbal allusions, a phenomenon described by D. McDonald in relation to the relationship between the apocryphal book of Tobit 4 Compare U. Broich, “Formen der Markierung von Intertexualität,” in Intertextualität: Formen, Funktionen, anglistische Fallstudien (ed. U. Broich and M. Pfister; Konzepte der Sprachund Literaturwissenschaft 35; Tübingen: Max Niemeyer, 1985), 31: “Intertextualität [liegt] dann vor, wenn ein Autor bei der Abfassung seines Textes sich nicht nur der Verwendung anderer Texte bewußt ist, sondern auch vom Rezipienten erwartet, daß er diese Beziehung zwischen seinem Text und anderen Texten als vom Autor intendiert und als wichting für das Verständnis seines Textes erkennt.” 5 For examples of continuing interest in this more or less “diachronic” concern with genetic relationships between texts, see Intertextuality in Ugarit and Israel: Papers Read at the Tenth Joint Meeting of the Society for Old Testament Study and Het Oudtestamentisch Werkgezelschap in Nederland en Belgie (ed. J. de Moor; Leiden: Brill, 1998). 6 See H. H. Schmid, Der sogenannte Jahwist: Beobachtungen und Fragen zur Pentateuchforschung (Zurich: TVZ, 1976), 152–53; B. Diebner and H. Schult, “Alter und geschichtlicher Hintergrund von Gen 24,” DBAT 10 (1975): 10–17; M. Rose, Deuteronomist und Jahwist: Untersuchungen zu den Berührungspunkten beider Literaturwerke (ATANT 67; Zurich: TVZ, 1981), 133–41; J. Van Seters, Abraham in History and Tradition (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1975), 240–42; S. Sandmel, “Haggada within Scripture,” JBL 80 (1961): 112; F. Winnett, “Reexamining the Foundations,” JBL 84 (1965): 14; E. Blum, Die Komposition der Vätergeschichte (WMANT 57; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1984), 386–89. 7 Y. Zakovitch, “Assimilation in Biblical Narratives,” in Empirical Models for Biblical Criticism (ed. J. Tigay; Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1985), 188–92. 8 R. Alter, The Art of Biblical Narrative (New York: Basic Books, 1983), 51. See especially his discussion of the accounts of David’s marriages (p. 61).

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and Homer’s Odyssey as “density of parallels”;9 and (3) by “the capacity of details in [the pretext, in this case the MP/N] to explain the [intertext, here 1 Sam 25].”10 As a result, 1 Sam 25 invites readers to recognize links to the AN.

I. Structure 1 Samuel 25 displays an interesting parallel structure. The account begins with a dual introduction setting the events to be narrated in the context of the larger story of David (v. 1) and providing the necessary background information for the Nabal-Abigail-David story itself (v. 2). A corresponding chiastically arranged dual conclusion offers additional information concerning David’s marriages during his fugitive period (v. 43) and concerning the fortunes of David’s first wife in Saul’s court (v. 44). The placement of the se·tûmâ (s) suggests that the Massoretes may have analyzed the introduction and conclusion in a similar fashion. This dual framework raises the question of whether vv. 1, 2–3, 43, and 44 are components of the narrative or editorial elements functioning to anchor the narrative in its current context and mark it as semi-independent, a first clue to the compositional nature of the Abigail/David account.11 Several scholars note the abrupt transition from v. 1 to v. 2, the chronological and geographical difficulties presented by v. 1, and the somewhat extraneous nature of vv 43–44.12 The body of the narrative consists of three sections, roughly parallel in structure but unequal in length. All three depict the process of sending messengers,13 the delivery of messages, reactions to messages, reports of the success of the embassy, and the principles’ counterresponses. In the first act, David “hears” ([mvyw, v. 4) about Nabal’s sheep shearing and “sends” (jlvyw, v. 5) messengers seeking gifts, just as he later (act II) “hears” ([mvyw, v. 39) about 9 D. R. McDonald, “Tobit and the Odyssey,” in Mimesis and Intertextuality in Antiquity and Christianity (ed. D. McDonald; SAC; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2001), 14. G. W. E. Nickelsburg expands and refines McDonald’s criteria of density and “interpretability” in “Tobit, Genesis, and the Odyssey” in the same volume, pp. 52–54. 10 Paraphrasing McDonald, “Tobit and the Odyssey,” 14. 11 In a study of intertextuality in modern, especially belletristic, literature, U. Broich identifies several possible markers of intertextuality supplemental to the text itself (“Formen der Markierung,” 35–38). Of these, the fifth (mottoes, forewords, postscripts) calls to mind the framework structure surrounding 1 Sam 25. 12 See Budde, Bücher Samuel, 163; Dhorme, Livres de Samuel, 219–20; Eissfeldt, Composition, 19; and J. Grønbaek, Die Geschichte vom Aufstieg Davids [1. Sam. 15–2. Sam. 5]: Tradition und Komposition (ATDan 10; Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1971), 178–79. 13 David sends messengers except in the thwarted raid on Nabal’s household. Abigail acts on behalf of Nabal’s household, although without Nabal’s permission. Oddly enough, she receives her commission from “one of the !yr[n.”

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Nabal’s death and “sends” (jlvyw, v. 39) messengers to bring Abigail. Between these two movements, Abigail is told ( dygh lbn tva lygybalw , v. 14) about David’s first embassy and Nabal’s response, and she sends the gifts David had requested.14 One of the more interesting aspects of this parallel structure15 involves the emissaries’ reports to their principles (v. 12 || vv. 36–37): David’s men return from Nabal and “tell him all these things” (!yrbdh lkk wl wdgyw hlah) motivating him to take up arms, just as Abigail, Nabal’s wife—eventually —“tells him [Nabal] these things” (hlah !yrbdhAta wtva wlAdgtw) so that “his heart dies within him.” This parallel structure is imbalanced, however. The second section, considerably longer than the other two, involves a number of duplications and narrative anachronisms. The narrator twice reports that Abigail sees David approaching (vv. 20, 23). Abigail falls twice in obeisance before David (vv. 23, 24). A superfluous parenthetical comment (vv. 21–22) makes explicit David’s inward reaction to Nabal’s insult already implied in the earlier, simpler narration of his actions (v. 13). Abigail’s servant quite ably and accurately discerns the danger for Nabal’s household inherent in the situation without benefit of the narrator’s revelation of David’s thought processes. In fact, Abigail’s servant does not even know, as the reader does, of David’s decision to arm and ride against Nabal. In the servant’s view, David’s initial message and Nabal’s insulting response contain a sufficient impetus to set into motion a very dangerous series of events indeed. The chapter also seems to have interests other than maintaining the David of the fugitive period clearly in focus. He first appears as the charismatic leader of a band of men that is not hierarchically structured. They are simply his men (wyvna), who share his fortunes, who ride with him to avenge an insult (v. 13). They owe him allegiance, but they are not members of a royal entourage . . . not yet. David always, and the narrator usually, refers to them as !yr[n (vv. 5, 8, 9, 12, etc.). Nabal, Abigail, their servant, and sometimes the narrator, however, frequently refer to them with the more officious !ydb[ or !ykalm (vv. 10, 14, 40, 41). It might be objected that these latter terms are often interchangeable and need not be understood in the technical, “bureaucratic” sense and that the narrator has employed them for the sake of variety. Two points in the narrative confirm that it does not restrict its vision to the fugitive David but foreshadows 14 Significantly, perhaps, the language varies in the middle section. Not only is Abigail “told” (instead of “hearing” for herself), but she does not formally “send” the gifts ahead. She “takes” the goods and “places” them on the pack animals, then tells her servants to “go on ahead.” The parallels in this section are thematic and not linguistic. 15 In contrast, T. Veijola notes that the encounter between David and Abigail displays a chiastic structure: Abigail speaks and offers gifts; David takes the gifts and responds (Ewige Dynastie, 50).

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him as the imperious king of a later period. Abigail describes David’s men not as comrades in arms but as courtiers and servants of the king “who walk at his feet” (David rides; his servants comprise the royal entourage). Later still, Abigail herself rides to her second meeting with David, when she becomes his wife, attended by a queenly entourage of maidservants “walking at her feet” (v. 42). Veijola points out other such anachronisms. Abigail’s speech, for example, anticipates David’s response to her (vv. 26a, 33, 34) just as it also betrays knowledge of Nabal’s impending death (v. 26b).16

II. Intertextuality 1 Samuel 25 exhibits a series of verbal similarities to three episodes in the AN: the wooing of Rebekah (Gen 24), the encounter between Jacob and his brother Esau (Gen 32–33), and Jacob’s secretive departure from Laban (Gen 30–31). These allusions, together with nuances provided by the context of 1 Sam 25 as the central component of 1 Sam 24–26, contribute significantly to the characterization of major figures in 1 Sam 25. They construct a nexus of intertextuality that results in composite portrayals of Nabal (Nabal = Laban and Nabal = Saul), Abigail (Abigail = Rebekah and Abigail = Jacob), and David (David = Jacob and David = Esau and David = Abraham/Isaac). The Composite Portrayal of Nabal The depiction of Nabal participates in an intricate system of allusions extending beyond 1 Sam 25 into much of the NDR. In this system, Nabal functions as a counterpart to Laban and, by way of comparisons between Laban and Saul, ultimately as a representative of Saul as well. Employing a literary “commutative property,” the author/redactor of 1 Samuel establishes the relationship Nabal = Laban = Saul, an equation already indicated by possible plays on Nabal’s name in Gen 31:28 and 1 Sam 26:21 (lks, cf. 1 Sam 13:13).17 16

Ibid., 49. Significantly, perhaps, the verb lks, “to act foolishly,” occurs only eight times in the Hebrew Bible: apart from the three occurrences in the Saul/Laban accounts, once in reference to Ahitophel (2 Sam 15:31) and twice in reference to David (2 Sam 24:10 || 1 Chr 21:8). Thus, the David narratives account for five of eight occurrences (the others are Isa 44:25; 2 Chr 16:9). I. Provan argues on the basis of 2 Sam 13–14 and 15–17 that the David of the SN “knows nowhere near as much in these stories as the other wise people around him” (“On ‘Seeing’ the Trees While Missing the Forest: The Wisdom of Characters and Readers in 2 Samuel and 1 Kings,” in In Search of True Wisdom: Essays in Old Testament Interpretation in Honour of Ronald E. Clements [ed. E. Ball; JSOTSup 300; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999], 153–73). David, who is regularly unable to discern the truth in a situation or to see clearly the consequences of his actions, benefits 17

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Nabal and Laban Parallels between 1 Sam 25 and the Jacob/Laban narratives are less striking and direct than those involving Abigail and her counterparts to be examined below, but no less intriguing. First, according to U. Broich, intertextuality may be marked in the “communication system outside the text” through the choice of names for characters.18 Nabal’s unusual name is clearly such a literary artifice (surely, no parent would name a son “Fool”), a palindrome, drawing attention to parallels between Laban and Nabal. M. Garsiel further confirms the paronomasia involving lbn, hlbn, l[ylbA@b, @yyAlbn, @bl, bl, and @bal in 1 Sam 25 and points out that the rabbis had already identified Nabal and Laban with one another.19 Furthermore, this choice of name indicates the direction of the genetic relationship, since it is inconceivable that “Laban” could have arisen as a play on “Nabal.” Second, both the encounter between David (through his intermediaries) and Nabal and the final encounter between Jacob and Laban involve the resolution of questions of payment for services rendered in the protection of flocks and of the possible theft of property. Like Jacob, David portrays himself as faithful in the protection of his “master’s” flock (Gen 31:6, 31–32, 36–42; 1 Sam 25:7; cf. 25:15–16), and both ask for “something” (hm;Wam], Gen 30:31, ironically; 1 Sam 25:7, cf. 25:15, 21) in payment. Laban and Nabal contend that the goods intended as payment are, in fact, their belongings, to which Jacob and David have no authentic claim (Gen 31:26–30, 43; 1 Sam 25:11). Both accounts stress the hero’s innocence of capital offense: Jacob in the matter of the stolen te·raµpîm (which were “not found,” Gen 31:32–33, 37) and David in the matter of Nabal’s death (“evil not found [in David],” 1 Sam 25:28). When Jacob departs with his wives, Laban’s daughters, Laban accuses him of “stealing his heart” (Gen 31:20, 26); when Nabal’s heart becomes stone and he dies, David takes his widow as wife. Finally, the conflicts between Laban and Jacob and Nabal and David occur in the context of sheep shearing:

/naxoAta, lm,r“K'B' /naxoAta,

zzOg“li &l'h; @b;l;w“

(Gen 31:19)

zzOg“Bi yhiy“w"

(1 Sam 25:2)

/naxoAta, lb;n: zzEgOAyKi

(1 Sam 25:4; cf. also 25:7, 11)

from the folly of his enemies (Saul, Nabal, and Ahitophel, for example) and the wisdom of members of his entourage (Abigail, Hushai, for example). In this respect, David’s “wise” posture regarding avenging himself against Saul is a remarkable exception. 18 Broich, “Formen der Markierung,” 39–40. 19 M. Garsiel, The First Book of Samuel: A Literary Study of Comparative Structures, Analogies, and Parallels (Ramat-Gan, Israel: Revivim, 1985), 127. “Rabbi Simon said, ‘Nabal is Laban—

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Surprisingly, zzg only occurs another five times in Genesis–2 Kings (Gen 38:12, 13; Deut 15:19; 2 Sam 13:23, 24). The two usages in Gen 38 concern Tamar’s deception of Judah, who has gone to shear sheep. 2 Samuel 13 recounts Absalom’s sheep-shearing celebration, at which he murders drunken Amnon.20 Saul and Laban A number of scholars have called attention to similarities in biblical depictions of Saul and Laban, especially in terms of their relationships to their sonsin-law David and Jacob.21 A number of these parallels and allusions involve intertextualities between the framework of the Abigail/Nabal narrative (1 Sam 24 and 26) and the passage (Gen 31) that is also the focal point for parallels between Laban and Nabal. Just as David protests his innocence of “insubordination” ([vp) and “sin” (afj) in his dealings with Saul (1 Sam 24:12 [Eng. 24:11]), Jacob demands that Laban specify charges of “insubordination” ([vp) and “sin” (afj) to justify Laban’s pursuit (Gen 31:36). In fact, the father-in-law’s unwarranted pursuit of the son-in-law is perhaps the major theme in both texts (#dr, 1 Sam 24:15; 26:18, 20; Gen 31:23; cf. 31:36). In both, the father-in-law seeks assurances that the son-in-law will protect the father-in-law’s progeny (1 Sam 24:22–23; Gen 31:44). Finally, Laban and David each invoke God to “judge between” the parties to the conflict (1 Sam 24:13, 16; Gen 31:53). Other parallels between Saul and Laban occur outside the complex of 1 Sam 24–26. “Deceit” characterizes dealings between Saul and Laban and their households (1 Sam 19:17; Gen 29:25; 31:20): most notably, Saul and Laban deceive their prospective sons-in-law in negotiations concerning marriage (1 Sam 18:17–29; Gen 29:15–29);22 in turn, their daughters outwit them to the advantage of their sons-in-law in instances involving te·¸raµpîm (1 Sam 19:8–17; Gen 31:29–35).23 In an “inversion” of a theme characteristic of the intertextual

just as Laban was a swindler, so was Nabal a swindler’” (Yalqut Sim>oni on 1 Sam 25, cited by Garsiel on pp. 130–31). 20 Sheep-shearing time in Hebrew narratives seems to connote deception and danger. See Ho, “Family Troubles,” 519–20. 21 Frontain, “Trickster,” 176; M. Garsiel, “Wit, Words, and a Woman: 1 Samuel 25,” in On Humour and the Comic in the Hebrew Bible (ed. Y. Radday and A. Brenner; JSOTSup 92; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1990), 163; Steussy, David, 90; and others. 22 S. McKenzie (King David) is only the most recent scholar to consider the account of Saul’s offer of Merab to David as wife (1 Sam 18:17–19) a late interpolation. Along with 18:1–5, 10–11, and 29b–30, the LXX does not attest it. Despite this likelihood, however, the interpolation—which establishes parallels between Laban’s deception in Jacob’s marriages to the sisters Leah and Rachel and Saul’s dishonesty in offering David first Merab and then Michal—evidences the interpolator’s recognition of the equation of Saul with Laban, which was manifested already in the NDR. See Frontain, “Trickster,” 176. 23 See further H. J. Stoebe, “David und Mikal: Überlegungen zur Jugendgeschichte Davids,”

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relationship between Samuel and Genesis, Jacob’s love for Rachel (Gen 29:18) and Michal’s love for David (1 Sam 18:20) mirror each other.24 The comparison tends to heighten the irony of Samuel’s portrayal of David, who shares many of Jacob’s less noble qualities but apparently does not love his wife as Jacob did. Saul and Nabal The lynchpin of this matrix of associations is the identification of Nabal with Saul evident in the inclusio surrounding 1 Sam 25. Indeed, as has been widely recognized, this identification seems to be the point of the structure of the complex. David’s sparing of Nabal comments on David’s sparing of Saul recorded in the framing doublet (1 Sam 24 || 1 Sam 26). R. P. Gordon and, especially, R. Polzin catalogue a total of five verbal/thematic features that link 1 Sam 24 to the framing chapters, thereby equating Saul with Nabal:25 (1) the concentration on the question of David’s status (compare Nabal’s question in 1 Sam 25:10 to Saul’s in 1 Sam 17:55–58) centered on the portrayal of David as Saul/Nabal’s “son” (1 Sam 24:16; 25:8; 26:17, 21, 25; cf. also 24:12); (2) the observation that Saul/Nabal repaid David evil for good (1 Sam 24:18 [Eng. 24:17]; 25:21); (3) the characterization of the disputes between Saul/Nabal and David as disputes (byr) to be adjudicated by God (1 Sam 24:16 [Eng. 24:15]; 25:39); (4) the assertion that YHWH smote (#gn, 1 Sam 25:38) or will smite (#gn, 1 Sam 26:10) David’s enemy (Laban and Saul, respectively); and (5) the motif of “seeking” David (1 Sam 24:3, 10; 26:2, 20),26 which reaches its apex in Abigail’s wish/prediction that David’s enemy, “who seeks [his] life,” may/will become “like Nabal” (1 Sam 25:26; cf. 25:29). In addition to these lexical and thematic parallels, Polzin also points out the high incidence in 1 Sam 24–26 of the terms “and now” (ht[w, over one-third of all occurrences of the term in 1 Sam appear in chaps. 24–26) and “behold” (hnh) functioning as “formal signpost[s].”27 in Von Ugarit nach Qumran: Beiträge zur alttestamentlichen und altorientalischen Forschung: Otto Eissfeldt zum 1. September 1957 dargebracht von Freunden und Schülern (ed. W. F. Albright et al.; BZAW 77; Berlin: Töpelmann, 1958), 237. 24 See Zakovitch, “Through the Looking Glass,” esp. 149–51; Ho, “Family Troubles,” 515–16. 25 R. P. Gordon, “David’s Rise and Saul’s Demise: Narrative Analogy in 1 Samuel 24–26,” TynBul 31 (1980): 37–64; R. Polzin, Samuel and the Deuteronomist: A Literary Study of the Deuteronomic History, Part Two: 1 Samuel (Indiana Studies in Biblical Literature; Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989), 205–15 (contra G. A. Nicol, “David, Abigail and Bathsheba, Nabal and Uriah: Transformations Within a Triangle,” SJOT 12 [1998]: 135). 26 The motif extends beyond 1 Sam 24–26; see 1 Sam 19:2, 10; 20:1, 16; 22:23; 23:10, 14, 15, 25; 27:1, 4. 27 Polzin, Samuel, 206.

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The Composite Portrayal of Abigail A. Bach accurately observes that “Abigail [is] the focus of her own narrative. . . . All the other characters interact only with Abigail.”28 David never meets Nabal in person. Once informed of Nabal’s rash reaction to David’s embassy, Abigail seizes the initiative, to maintain it throughout the crisis. She conceives and executes a plan to spare David from his own rash counterreaction. Ultimately, her intervention does not benefit Nabal. Instead, one can argue that she achieved revenge against Nabal on David’s behalf.29 Even her subsequent marriage to David may have been the fruit of the idea she planted in David’s mind (1 Sam 25:31; see further below). Allusions to characters in the AN, namely, the matriarch Rebekah and the patriarch Jacob, serve to enhance Abigail’s stature as the key actor in the account. Abigail and Rebekah Intriguingly, Hebrew narrative does not often describe people of either gender in terms of their physical beauty. In fact, only thirteen people are described as “good-looking” in Genesis–2 Kings with the language employed in 2 Sam 25.30 All three of Israel’s matriarchs and five of the women in David’s life are distinguished for their particular beauty. Joseph, David, Absalom, Adonijah, and an unnamed Egyptian soldier31 are the five men noted for their good 28

A. Bach, “The Pleasure of Her Text,” USQR 43 (1989): 42. that some historical kernel underlies 1 Sam 25 (given the literary artifice evident in the narrative, a debatable assumption), S. McKenzie concludes that Nabal’s death, attributed to YHWH’s intervention, may in fact be traceable to “a . . . sinister cause—murder—plotted by David but carried out by someone else. . . . In this case, the prime suspect has to be Abigail” (King David, 100) 30 In addition to the descriptions of “good-looking” people in Genesis–2 Kings, there are three references to “good-looking” cows in Gen 41 and a law concerning the attractive female prisoner of war taken as a wife in Deut 21:11. 1 Samuel 9:2 describes Saul as more b/f, often translated “handsome,” than any other man in Israel. Since it emphasizes Saul’s stature, it is unclear whether the text refers to Saul’s looks or to his fitness for battle. At any rate, the text does not employ the formulaic expression used of David, Abigail, and the matriarchs. The formulaic expression is intertextually significant in two respects. First, as P. Beentjes points out in a study of inner-biblical quotations, biblical authors employ such formulae as a means to mark intertextual relations (“Discovering a New Path of Intertextuality: Inverted Quotations and Their Dynamics,” in Literary Structure and Rhetorical Strategies in the Hebrew Bible [ed. L. de Regt, J. de Waard, and J. Fokkelman; Assen: Van Gorcum, 1996], 49). Second, of those described with versions of this formula, only Abigail and Rebekah, the matriarch whose depiction in Gen 24 represents the primary pretext for the portrayal of Abigail as David’s bride, “survive” their beauty unscathed. Joseph becomes a target of sexual predation because of his looks, as do Tamar, Bathsheba, and Abishag. Good looks also play a role in the fates of Absalom, Adonijah, and even David. Abigail’s beauty, in contrast, does not in the end endanger her; it brings ruin to Nabal. 31 harm vya yrxm vya (2 Sam 23:21 Qere). 29 Assuming

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looks. This concentration alone seems intertextually significant. Other commentators have also noted the obvious ambiguity of beauty, especially in the David stories.32 Just as Joseph’s good looks attracted unwanted attention, beauty proves a particular danger for David’s women and contributes to the arrogance and ultimate downfall of two of his sons. YHWH’s advice to Samuel not to regard the prospective king’s outward appearance (Whaer“m'Ala, fBeTeAla', 1 Sam 16:7) may be read as the moral of this theme in the story of David. Of greater interest to this study are the linguistic options.

daom] awhi

ha,r“m'Atp'y“ hp;y:

daom] ha,r“m' tb'fo ayhi ha,r“m' tb'/f ha,r“m' tp'ywI

hV;ai (Sarah, Gen 12:11) -yKi hV;aih; (Sarah, Gen 12:14) r:[}N"h'w“ (Rebekah, Gen 24:16) -yKi hq;b]rI (Rebekah, Gen 26:7)

ra'ToAtp'y“ ht;y“h; ljer:w“ (Rachel, Gen 29:17) ra'To tp'ywI . . . hV;aih;w“ (Abigail, 1 Sam 25:3)

daom]

daom]Ad['

ha,r“m' tb'/f hp;y: ha,r“m' tp'y“ hp;y:

hV;aih;w“ (Bathsheba, 2 Sam 11:2) t/ja; (Tamar II, 2 Sam 13:1) hV;ai (Tamar III, 2 Sam 14:27) hr:[}N"h'w“ (Abishag, 1 Kgs 1:4)

ha,r“m' hpeywI ra'ToAhpey“ #se/y yairo b/fw“ !yIn"y[e hpey“A![i. . . aWhw“ ha,r“m' hpey“A![i . . . r['n" hp,y: Avyai ra'ToAb/f aWh

(Joseph, Gen 39:6) (David, 1 Sam 16:12; cf. 16:18) (David, 1 Sam 17:42) (Absalom, 2 Sam 14:25) (Adonijah, 1 Kgs 1:6)

Rachel is described with the fullest form of what seems a formulaic description: (daom]) ha,r“m' / ra'To (tp'y“ or tb'/f).33 Only the descriptions of Rachel, Joseph (the 32 See especially Meir Sternberg, The Poetics of Biblical Narrative: Ideological Literature and the Drama of Reading (Indiana Literary Biblical Series; Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1985), 354–64. See also R. L. Hubbard, Jr., “The Eyes Have It: Theological Reflections on Human Beauty,” ExAud 13 (1997): 57–72. 33 Biblical Hebrew employs several terms to describe physical beauty. Most commonly a form of the root hpy (“beautiful, handsome”) appears alone (adjective: Job 42:15; Prov 11:22; Cant 1:8, 15, 16; 2:10, 13; 4:1, 7; 5:9; 6:1, 4, 10; verb: Ezek 16:13; Ps 45:3; Cant 4:10; 7:2, 7; compare Jer 4:30; Ezek 31:7). The adjective b/f (“good”), descriptive of positive qualities in a wide range of semantic fields, appears alone much less frequently in reference to physical beauty (Neh 3:4 and,

Biddle: Ancestral Motifs in 1 Samuel 25

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Hebrew Bible’s prototype of the lk,c, individual [1 Sam 25:3], although this term is not used of Joseph), and Abigail employ the optional ra'To, although other verbal parallels between 1 Sam 25 and the AN suggest that Gen 24 provides a focal intertext for the Abigail story. Incidentally, the fact that parallels between the language of 1 Sam 25 and Genesis are not limited to texts belonging to one of the classical pentateuchal sources undermines the notion that 1 Sam 25 is strictly related to J. Instead, it either knows the whole ancestral tradition, or the Genesis and the David story (both the NDR and the SN) have cross-pollinated at several stages of lengthy growth processes. Perhaps significantly, Abigail’s beauty, emphasized in the introduction, plays no overt role in the development of the plot in 1 Sam 25. Nabal’s wealth first attracts David’s attention. There is no indication in the text34 that David knew Abigail prior to the first encounter recorded in 1 Sam 25. Even in this encounter, David responds exclusively to her speech. Nothing is said of David’s reaction to her physical appearance. In fact, the only indication that he may have noted her beauty comes at the end, when he sends for her to become his wife. Unlike the others said to be beautiful, Abigail’s beauty does not precipitate the events that unfold in her story. Apparently, the allusion functions primarily to predispose the reader to regard her in matriarchal/royal light. Rebekah and Abigail may also be the two most industrious women in the Hebrew Bible, at least judged according to the haste with which they pursue tasks. The verb rhm occurs a total of forty-one times in Genesis–2 Kings. Eleven of these occurrences are feminine forms. Of these eleven, three have Rebekah as the subject (Gen 24:18, 20, 46) and four have Abigail (1 Sam 25:18, 23, 34, 42).35 Rebekah hurries to give Abraham’s servant something to drink and to water the camels. Then Rebekah graciously washes the feet of Abraham’s servant and of his companions (wta r`a !y`nah ylgrw wylgr $jrl, Gen 24:32) weary from their long journey. H. Gunkel found this aspect of Rebekah’s behavior, her extraordinary kindness and hospitality, particularly expressive of her suitability as the bride chosen for the heir of the promise.36 Abigail, in turn, hurries to perhaps, 1 Sam 9:2 and Esth 8:5). Human beings can also be characterized as “comely” (hwan, Cant 1:5; 2:14; 4:3; 6:4; compare Jer 6:2; verb form, Cant 1:10), “lovely” (!y[in:, Can 1:16; 2 Sam 1:23; ![n, 2 Sam 1:26; Ezek 32:19; Cant 7:7), and “desirable” (dm'j]m', Ezek 24:16; Cant 5:16; dm,j,, Ezek 23:6, 12, 23). Not surprisingly, the Song of Songs contains the highest concentration and widest variety of such descriptions of beauty. Interestingly, however, the formula characteristic of the AN, the NDR, and the SN does not appear in Song of Songs. 34 But see n. 9 above. 35 The remaining four are Gen 18:6 (Sarah hurries to bake bread), Exod 2:18 (Reuel inquires how his daughters have been able to finish watering the flocks so quickly), Judg 13:10 (Samson’s mother hurries to tell Maon about her encounter with the messenger), and 1 Sam 28:24 (the witch of Endor hurries to prepare food for the weakened King Saul). 36 H. Gunkel, Genesis: Translated and Interpreted (Mercer Library of Biblical Studies 1; Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1997), 251–53, 256.

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load donkeys with gifts and provisions for David and his men, and she hurries to dismount her donkey and to bow to David upon encountering him. Conversely, after graciously and humbly identifying herself as servant to David’s servants, willing even to wash their feet (ynda ydb[ ylgr $jrl hjp`l ^tma hnh, 1 Sam 25:41), she hurries to mount and ride after David’s messengers, who have come to bring her to David as his bride. Both women demonstrate their industry, graciousness, and decisiveness. Whereas Rebekah encounters Isaac only once in Gen 24, Abigail’s relationship with David develops in two movements in 1 Sam 25. As a result, echoes of Gen 24 can be heard in varying degrees in the accounts of both of the Abigail–David meetings. The description of Abigail’s initial behavior at the first meeting, which is also pressed into double duty as a parallel to the account of the encounter between Jacob and Esau, bears verbal resemblance (lygyba artw (ypal lptw rwmjh l[m drtw rhmtw dwdAta, 1 Sam 25:23) to the parallel description of Rebekah’s behavior when she first meets Isaac (artw hyny[Ata hqbr a`tw lmgh l[m lptw qjxyAta, Gen 24:64). There is an intriguing parallel between Gen 24:18, dr
vah yrja hnkltw

!ylmghAl[ hnbkrtw hytr[nw hqbr !qtw

1 Sam 25:42

dwd ykalm yrja <w Hlgrl twklhh hytr[n `mjw rwmjhAl[ bkrtw

lygyba !qtw

Abigail and Jacob 1 Samuel 25 also exhibits a number of verbal parallels to the account of Jacob’s encounter with his brother Esau. Both Jacob (yn"p;l] Wrb][i wyd:b;[}Ala, rm,aoYw",

Biddle: Ancestral Motifs in 1 Samuel 25

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Gen 32:17) and Abigail (yn"p;l] Wrb][i h;yr<[;n“li rm,aTow", 1 Sam 25:19)37 send servants ahead to greet their antagonists with gifts intended to pacify. The Jacob narrative makes a great deal of this notion of passing by or passing on ahead (rb[) in Gen 32–33 (32:17, 22, 23, 24, 32; 33:3, 14), often in phrases employing forms of the equally thematic !ynp (32:17, 22, 32; 33:3, 14). Both Jacob and Abigail greet their antagonists by bowing their faces to the ground in the fashion common when one encounters a marked superior. Both refer to “gifts” they offer their counterparts (^l tabh r`a ytkrbAta, Gen 33:11; ^tjp` aybhAr`a tazh hkrbh yndal, 1 Sam 25:27). The Composite Portrayal of David The identification of Nabal with Laban and Saul serves unambiguously to characterize Saul as a swindler, a manipulative and deceitful master (Laban), niggardly in rewarding service faithfully rendered (Nabal). Nabal’s villainy finds its counterbalance in Abigail’s virtue. She is the wise supplicant (Jacob) appeasing the wrath of the wronged warrior, David (Esau); she is the beautiful and industrious matriarch (Rebekah) who will be queen. In contrast to these portrayals of the churl and the queen, the figure of David is surprisingly ambivalent: wronged Jacob justified in seeking freedom from indentured servitude to a treacherous master and father-in-law and, at the same time, ruddy Esau, the disenfranchised, intent upon revenge. David and Jacob David’s likeness to Jacob as depicted in 1 Sam 25 has already been discussed above in the context of parallels between Laban and Nabal. The comparison is intensely ironic. Although Jacob departs from Laban’s service in a justifiable act of self-preservation, nothing Jacob does is entirely innocent. Jacob’s dealings with Laban differ from his previous dealings with his brother Esau only in that Laban, Jacob’s equal in deceit and greed, is, at least at first, able to defend himself. Similarly, the comparison underscores David’s willingness to extort property and eventually status, just as Jacob had stolen Esau’s birthright and defrauded him of blessing. David and Esau In keeping with several texts in the NDR that characterize David, like Esau, as ynI/md“a' (1 Sam 16:12; 17:42; cf. Gen 25:24), parallels to the AN in 1 Sam 25 tend paradoxically to emphasize David’s similarities to the marauder Esau, 37 K. Budde also compares 1 Sam 25:19 with Gen 32:14ff. with the comment that both stem from J (Bücher Samuel, 164).

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the converse of the Jacobean, cunning Abigail. For example, just as Esau approached his brother in the company of a band of four hundred men (^lh wm[ `ya twamA[braw ^tarql, Gen 32:7; cf. 33:1), David moved against Nabal with an equal force (`ya twam [braw dwd yrja wl[yw, 1 Sam 25:13; cf. 30:10, 17). Several passages in Genesis center on the key encounter between leading figures: Abraham’s servant runs to meet Rebekah at the well (htarql, Gen 24:17). Isaac comes to meet them both on their return (wntarql, Gen 24:65). Laban runs to meet his newly arrived kinsman, Jacob (wtarql, Gen 29:13), and Leah runs to him to inform him that he is to spend the night with her according to her bargain with Rebekah (wtarql, Gen 30:16). Again, however, the clearest parallel involves the encounters between Jacob/Abigail and Esau/David and their four hundred men (^tarql, Gen 32:7; wtarql, 33:4; htarql, 1 Sam 25:20; ytarql, 25:32, 54). Another series of phrases used in both texts to describe the focal encounter calls attention to the element of danger that characterizes the Jacob/Esau and Abigail/David encounters. The verb vgp, “to meet, encounter,” occurs fourteen times in the Hebrew Bible. Eight of them clearly refer to dangerous or disastrous encounters where the connotation seems to be “to (be) ambush(ed)” or “to fall upon (to fall prey to)” (Exod 4:24, 27, YHWH trying to kill Moses; Isa 34:14; Hos 13:8; Prov 17:12, all referring to encounters with predatory animals; Job 51:14, encountering darkness at noonday; Jer 41:6, Ishmael meeting a group of officials whom he intends to kill; 2 Sam 2:13, Joab and his men meeting with Abner’s men “to play” games that result in twenty-four dead). Three texts employ the term somewhat more happily (Ps 85:10; Prov 22:2; 29:13), although the meaning of the latter two is somewhat unclear. The verb clearly sounds the note of danger in the Jacob/Esau and Abigail/David passages (Gen 32:18; 33:8; 1 Sam 25:20). Jacob and Abigail fully expect the worst.

II. The Significance of These Parallels: Selective Narration, Narrative Gaps, and Narrative Dead Ends Narratology has called attention to the presence and function of “narrative gaps” in Hebrew literary prose. Narrators, who must selectively tell their tales, employ silences in much the same way composers of music employ rests for the sake of variety and interest and, especially, to invite the reader to speculate about what might have been narrated. Narrators either omit the unnecessary to control the pace or omit the essential to invite reader participation. 1 Samuel 25 exhibits a number of these omissions or gaps. David hears that Nabal is shearing sheep, and he sends messengers to Nabal seeking gifts (vv. 4–5). No mention is made of the necessary intermediate step—David’s going to the location of Nabal’s flocks—until that information is supplied, first

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in David’s communication to Nabal (v. 7) and later as confirmation in the servant’s conversation with Abigail (vv. 15–16). This supplementary technique, where the reader learns some significant detail at a point in the account subsequent to the introduction of the topic, characterizes 1 Sam 25. Nabal’s servant reports the outcome of David’s overtures to Abigail, stressing that the fate of all in Nabal’s household depends on her wise and decisive response. She is key because Nabal, whom the narrator has already introduced as a “hard, evil-doing Calebite” (v. 3), is beyond reason, according to the servant (wyl;ae rBeD"mi l['Y"liB]A@B, aWhw“, v. 17). This chain of supplementary information concerning Nabal continues. Since no one can reason with Nabal, Abigail does not inform him of her plan to appease David. She acts independently and, above all, quickly. Later she, too, expands the portrait of Nabal. “His name is fool and rightly so,” she tells David (v. 25). This motif climaxes when Abigail tells Nabal what she has done (v. 37) not when he is drunk but when he is “stone cold” sober.38 Given Nabal’s character, this was either a moment of danger for Abigail or a moment of defiance and possibly even aggression. She does not tell him beforehand of her plans because he may prevent her from executing them; she tells him afterward, when he is sober and able to understand clearly, presumably because she can predict his reaction. She utilized his foul temperament as a weapon against him. She killed him with his own temper just as she spared David the consequences of his. The servant’s exchange with Abigail is key in another respect, as it functions as a nexus in another chain of supplementation. David’s servants deliver David’s outwardly very respectful and peaceful message “and then they waited” (WjWnY:w", v. 9). After Nabal insults them and their leader, they simply return to David (v. 12). David’s message does not seem to convey any explicit threat, and the messengers apparently do not respond at all, with threats or otherwise, to Nabal’s insults. Yet, when they report to David, he orders them to prepare for battle. Meanwhile, Nabal’s servant, although not privy to the events now taking place in David’s camp, correctly intuits the true nature of the situation and the magnitude of the underlying threat and, as Mordecai charged Esther with the duty to deliver her people, makes Abigail aware that only she can forestall the impending crisis. Only later, just before the meeting between Abigail and David, does the narrator explicitly supply precise information concerning David’s intentions in the parenthetical remark in vv. 21–22. At least one feature of the narrative, however, resists categorization either as a narrative gap or as an example of supplementation. Abigail sends her ser38 P. Leithart has recently suggested that the phrase “when his wine was going out of him” refers to urination (“Nabal and His Wine,” JBL 120 [2001]: 525–27). The image, in Leithart’s view, “is not simply a vulgar detail,” but serves to identify further Nabal and Saul by means of the parallel between urination and defecation (1 Sam 24:3[4], Saul enters the cave “to cover his feet”).

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vants ahead of her to meet David. It is unclear whether—and if so, why—she lingers. The text (1 Sam 25:19) would seem to support either the notion that she brought up the end of the column of gift-laden donkeys or that she delayed for a time and made her way alone. The former interpretation seems to be the simpler reading of 1 Sam 25:19—“You lead the way and I will follow.” The series of statements immediately following, however, makes no mention whatsoever of the servants or of the gifts. Abigail rides alone under cover of the mountain; she sees David before he sees her, apparently in part because she is unaccompanied (vv. 20, 23). The text does not report that David encountered the servants and the donkey-laden gifts before encountering Abigail herself. In fact, only Abigail’s reference to the gifts (v. 27), which have apparently arrived at some point, although this detail goes unreported, confirms that her servants are indeed on the scene. This feature of the account raises two questions. First, why did Abigail delay her departure? Second, when did the servants and the gifts arrive? Several possibilities suggest themselves. Could it be that she felt the need to hasten the dispatch of the gifts but now paused to ready herself for meeting David? Or was she primarily concerned with ensuring her own safety? On balance, the text seems to have in mind a situation similar to Jacob’s provisions for his meeting with Esau. The gifts are sent ahead of the gift-giver in the hopes of appeasing the aggrieved party prior to an encounter with him. Yet the expectation raised by Abigail’s instructions to her servants that they go on ahead—namely, that a series of encounters between David and the servants culminating in the encounter between David and Abigail herself will be recounted—is unfulfilled. Has the narrator forgotten that Abigail sent the gifts ahead? From a narrative standpoint, what role does this feature play, since it is left incomplete? Can it properly be termed a “narrative gap”? Or is it more accurately a “narrative dead end”? Given the clear linguistic affinities between 1 Sam 25 and specific episodes in the AN, this narrative dead end, which parallels a major motif in one of these linguistically parallel passages, may provide a clue for evaluating the nature of these affinities and parallels. Since the “sending-ahead” motif plays no explicit or plausible implicit role in 1 Sam 25, it seems likely that its sole function is to allude to the Jacob–Esau encounter.

IV. The Portrayal of David in 1 Samuel 25 In terms of the function of the narrative, an analysis of these intricacies suggests that the story does not, in fact, celebrate David. Instead, the allusions to the AN, in particular, have the effect of portraying Abigail as the hero of the account. Nabal, of course, is a fool, but David is heavy-handed and loutish as

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well. Nabal is too shortsighted to realize the risk inherent in insulting David, but David is too shortsighted to recognize the risk to his future posed by rash vengeance. David is greedy and opportunistic; he “hears, sends, and takes” (cf. 1 Sam 8:10–18). Two categories of features of the narrative confirm this interpretation. First, several prominent elements have no purpose except to allude to the AN and to accounts of David’s later career. Abigail’s beauty plays no manifest role in 1 Sam 25 apart from making the reader aware that she belongs in the company of Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, Bathsheba, and the others. Similarly, the motif of “sending ahead,” a narrative dead end in 1 Sam 25, can only be understood as a not-so-subtle comparison of Abigail to Jacob and, by extension, of David to Esau. References to his four hundred men and verbal parallels with the story of Jacob’s encounter with Esau also emphasize David’s similarity to Esau and indicate the potential danger to Abigail in her initial encounter with this armed band and its angry leader.39 Several redundancies also betray the narrator’s awareness of David’s less noble traits. As the narrative insists by repeated declarations of David’s murderous intention toward Nabal, David is violent. He and his queen (Abigail is accompanied by not one, but five attendants walking at her feet) are imperious. This element surely does not belong in the context of David’s fugitive experience and must be a comment on his later behavior. He is greedy—a sender and taker. 1 Samuel 25 does not seem, then, to be a naively or simply pro-David justification of his behavior during his fugitive period. It does not exonerate him (after all, according to the logic of the narrative, Nabal’s death is a foregone conclusion).40 Instead, 1 Sam 25 is well aware of David’s shortcomings and chooses delightfully involved literary techniques to portray them. Apparently, Israel’s storytellers were very capable of depicting complex heroes. Pro-David and anti-David are insufficient categories.

V. 1 Samuel 25 and Hebrew Historiography The preceding analysis implies that several assumptions underlying the principal source-critical models concerning 1 Sam 25 merit revision. A standard approach views both the NDR (including 1 Sam 25) and the J or J/E patriarchal/matriarchal materials as only one step removed from naive folk tradition.41 39 It may be significant that the books of Samuel frequently make this comparison. Does the phenomenon imply some critique of David? 40 Cf. Gunn, Fate of King Saul, 101–2. 41 See, e.g., Stoebe, “David und Mikal,” 242.

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This aesthetic assessment, which emphasizes observable similarities between the NDR and J in style, language, and motif, complements the argument that the NDR represents Israel’s very earliest historiography, predating by several centuries the DtrH, into which it was later incorporated. This scenario places the author of 1 Sam 25, presumably identical with the author of the NDR, very near to the events themselves. This author’s purposes in narrating David’s marriage to the beautiful, cunning, and wealthy Abigail will have been to illustrate David’s cunning good fortune and, in the context of 1 Sam 24–26, his innocence of any and all disloyalty in his relationship with Saul (Nabal). More recently, a number of scholars have explained the similarities between NDR and Genesis in terms of a late date for J; that is, J is quite late since it depends on the NDR, if not indeed on DtrH. Several observations support a view of the relationship between 1 Sam 25 and Genesis that differs from either of the currently held models.42 Allusions to the AN betray dependence on the text of Genesis in an advanced stage of its development or the reverse, on the one hand, and a level of literary artifice, on the other, that seems to suggest a very deliberate literary effort. In particular, four characteristics of the Abigail-David story deserve emphasis. First, rather than representing a discrete narrative stemming from folk tradition and traceable to origins very near the events narrated, the story bears the marks of a literary creation spun from whole cloth. Nothing indicates that an existing folktale has been redacted for inclusion in the NDR. Although the intricate structure of the narrative might lead one to hypothesize the presence of multiple sources or redactions, no clear pattern of interpolations or editorial changes is evident. Further, the only reliable historical datum distillable from the account is David’s marriage to Abigail. For the purposes of the narrative, however, the author has altered even that information by changing the name of Abigail’s husband to the ridiculous Nabal/Churl, thereby personifying a major theme of the account. The placement of the story at the center of 1 Sam 24–26 and the allusions establishing the equation Nabal = Saul = Laban confirm the suspicion that the characterization of Nabal and the report of events cannot be treated as historically reliable. The story is a literary parable skillfully composed on the basis of themes and motifs derived from existing literature.43 Second, the notion that 1 Sam 25 seeks primarily to defend David against charges that he rebelled against Saul and perhaps even that he was complicit in 42 The complexity of the issue cautions against prematurely extending these conclusions to the entirety of the NDR. 43 C. Edenburg argues similarly with respect to 1 Sam 26 (“How [not] to Murder a King: Variations on a Theme in 1 Samuel 24; 26,” SJOT 12 [1998]: 64–83). In her view, the author of 1 Sam 26 (= the author of 1 Sam 25?) composed the second variation of the account of David’s refusal to exact vengeance on Saul from themes and motifs provided by existing materials.

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Saul’s death fails to account for the narrative’s hints that David exercised restraint toward Saul only by constraint or, more likely, that this restraint was only apparent, a subterfuge. In this regard, 1 Sam 25 undercuts and deconstructs the surface-level portrayal of David found in 1 Sam 24 and 26. After all, Nabal actually owed David nothing. He had not contracted for David’s protection. It is difficult to escape the conclusion that, in fact, the only threat to Nabal’s flocks had been David himself. Surely, Nabal did not owe David payment for a theft not committed. Given the parallelism between Nabal and Saul, David’s attempt to extort Nabal’s possessions compares to David’s appropriation of the throne from Saul’s household. Abigail won David’s willingness to refrain from avenging Nabal’s insult only by convincing David of the certainty of vengeance even without David’s direct intervention. As the story has it, in fact, Abigail herself turned against her husband, just as, according to the NDR, Jonathan and Michal turned against their father, Saul—and, perhaps, Ahinoam against her husband (1 Sam 14:50).44 Indeed, throughout both the NDR and the SN, David’s innocence results only from the willingness of members of his circle, chiefly Joab, to do David’s dirty work.45 If this is a Solomonic-era defense of David’s purity and thus of the integrity of Solomon and the Davidic dynasty, it is perplexingly cynical. Third, at least in the case of 1 Sam 25, it is difficult to understand, as a growing number of scholars do, similarities between Genesis and Samuel in terms of “political allegory.” 46 Such an understanding would require the assumption that, for some reason, the author(s) of the various episodes in Genesis mined 1 Sam 25 for elements to be used in the Jacob/Laban, Jacob/Esau, and Isaac/Rebekah narratives. 1 Samuel 25 would have been the source for almost the entirety of the Jacob account! Furthermore, in this view, the author(s) of the Genesis narratives would have relied on the figure of Abigail for motifs in the depiction of both Jacob and Rebekah; David would have pro44 McKenzie’s suggestion that the assumption that Saul’s wife, Ahinoam, and David’s wife, Ahinoam of Jezreel, were identical (cf. Nathan’s assertion to David that “[YHWH] gave you your master’s house and your master’s wives into your bosom,” 1 Sam 12:8)—e.g., that David took Saul’s wife, surely an act of rebellion (cf. 2 Sam 3:7; 12:11–12; 16:21–22; 1 Kgs 2:13–25)—may explain Saul’s accusation that, by siding with David, Jonathan, the “son of a perverse, rebellious woman” (Ahinoam?) has done so “to the shame of [his] mother’s nakedness” (1 Sam 20:30) (King David, 114, 160). 45 Although in some instances Joab and others of David’s circle apparently act from their own motives (the ambush of Abner, for example), in every case they accomplish for David something he cannot or will not do for himself (the assassination of Ishbaal and the execution of Absalom, for example). In at least one instance, the reality of David’s motive underlying his apparent innocence is laid bare, namely, Joab’s betrayal of Uriah. David’s deathbed recommendation to Saul concerning Joab confirms the notion that David kept Joab around largely because Joab’s violent propensities benefited the king. 46 See n. 3 above.

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vided the model for both Jacob and Esau. The latter is particularly difficult. Why would an author or authors utilize elements of the NDR’s portrayal of David to characterize Esau, the disenfranchised patriarch of the Edomites? The contrary is much more easily imagined, namely, that the author of 1 Sam 25 selected elements of the Genesis narratives in order to construct a complex, ironic, almost satirical portrait of David that foreshadows the later characterization of the David who uses Joab as his hatchet man, who takes Bathsheba, and who admonishes Solomon to settle David’s old scores. Finally, this foreshadowing of the ruthless David depicted in the SN calls attention to parallels between Abigail/Nabal and Bathsheba/Uriah and to the central role of women at key moments in David’s life. Abigail and Nabal play essentially the same role in the NDR that Bathsheba and Uriah play in the SN. Michal figures prominently in both the NDR and the SN.47 In terms of characterization, it seems appropriate, therefore, to suggest that indications of David’s later flaws already appear in the NDR.48 47

See Willi-Plein, “Frauen um David.” In terms of source analysis of Samuel, these observations suggest that it may also be appropriate to question the differentiation of NDR and SN as distinct sources. See S. Frolov, “Succession Narrative: A ‘Document’ or a Phantom?” JBL 121 (2002): 81–104, for a concise review of research and insightful critique of the “Succession Narrative” hypothesis. 48

Biblical / Classical Research Library

m in i c a

n tr e

Do

Ce

n

The newly-founded Dominican Biblical Centre for Teaching and Research, Limerick, Ireland, seeks quality books in the field of Ancient Near East, the Scriptures and the Greco-Roman world. Collections such as the Loeb Classical Library would be particularly welcome. B i b li c a l

Limerick Ireland

For further information, please contact either Thomas Brodie or Christine Farget: Tel: +353 61 410 115 Fax: +353 61 468 604 E-mail: [email protected]

JBL 121/4 (2002) 639–666

WHAT’S IN A NAME? NEO-ASSYRIAN DESIGNATIONS FOR THE NORTHERN KINGDOM AND THEIR IMPLICATIONS FOR ISRAELITE HISTORY AND BIBLICAL INTERPRETATION

BRAD E. KELLE [email protected] Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322

Nearly a decade ago, Israel Eph>al published a brief study that examined some of the Assyrian designations for the northern kingdom in the ninth and eighth centuries B.C.E.1 He operated with the basic claim that the Neo-Assyrian designations reflect various historical situations involving Israel from 853–720 B.C.E. In the course of this study, however, Eph>al reached a negative conclusion and asserted that these Assyrian designations “cannot be taken as indicative of the territorial extent (nor of the political conditions) of the kingdom of Israel.”2 This assertion represents a tradition of viewing the different designations for the northern kingdom as simple synonyms that had little, if any, relationship to Israel’s changing political circumstances throughout the ninth and eighth centuries. There are several weaknesses in Eph>al’s treatment that call for a new examination of this topic. First, he does not analyze all the appearances of northern designations. Additionally, new pieces of evidence (such as the Tel Dan inscription) and new issues have emerged in the last decade. He also deals mostly with texts that are not royal inscriptions and does not consider in an extended way the study of Israelite and Judean history. Furthermore, Eph>al’s denial of territorial and political implications for the designations ignores the specific form (including the presence of determinatives) and context of the 1 Israel Eph>al, “‘The Samarian(s)’ in the Assyrian Sources,” in Ah Assyria: Studies in Assyrian History and Ancient Near Eastern Historiography Presented to Hayim Tadmor (ed. M. Cogan and I. Eph>al; ScrHier 33; Jerusalem: Magnes Press, 1991) 36–45. 2 Ibid., 39.

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terms in the various inscriptions. Accordingly, the present article both builds upon and moves beyond Eph>al’s study in order to reexamine the designations for the northern kingdom found in Assyrian royal inscriptions from Shalmaneser III to Sargon II. This examination specifically analyzes the various designations within this corpus by focusing on the differences in the terms, their relationships to one another, their literary and historical contexts, and their implications for Israelite history and biblical interpretation. The datable Assyrian royal documents indicate that references to the northern kingdom span over 150 years. These references primarily consist of three different terms: “Bit-H… umri,” “Samaria,” and “Israel.” The term “BitH… umri,” or “house of Omri,” occurs only in Assyrian sources, while “Samaria” occurs also, but more rarely, in the Hebrew Bible (1 Kgs 21:1; 2 Kgs 1:3; Hos 10:7). Moreover, in the Assyrian texts, the term “Israel” occurs only in an inscription of Shalmaneser III, while “Samaria” and “Bit-H… umri” occur in various contexts throughout the rest of the inscriptions of this period. The occurrences of designations for the northern kingdom in the inscriptions are as follows: Assyrian King

Inscription

Shalmaneser III Shalmaneser III Adad-nirari III

Monolith Inscription (ca. 853) Black Obelisk, Calah Fragment Kurba
Adad-nirari III

Nimrud Slab (ca. 803)

Tiglath-pileser III Layard 45b+ III R 9,1 (ca. 740) Tiglath-pileser III Iran Stela (ca. 739–738) Tiglath-pileser III Layard 50a + 50b + 67a (ca. 738–737) Tiglath-pileser III Layard 66 (ca. 732–731) Tiglath-pileser III III R 10,2 (ca. 731) Tiglath-pileser III ND 4301 + 4305 (ca. 730) Shalmaneser V

Babylonian Chronicle (ca. 725)

Sargon II

Nimrud Prism Great Summary Inscription (ca. 720)

Sargon II

Designations KUR sir--H… u-um-ri-i (“the land of Bit-H… umri”) [KUR sa-me-ri-i-na-a-a] ([“land of Samaria”]) KUR sa-m[e]-ri-i-na-a-[a] (“land of Samaria”) URU sa-me-ri-na-a-a (“city of Samaria”) URU Sa-me-ri-na (“city of Samaria”) KUR É H… u-um-ri-a (“land of Bit-H… umri”) KUR É H… u-um-ri-a (“land of Bit-H… umri”) URU Sa-ma/ba-ra-<-in (“city of Samaria”) URU Sa-me-ri-na (“city of Samaria”)

Palace Door, Small Summary Inscription, Cylinder Inscription, Bull Inscription KUR Bit-H… u-um-ri-a (ca. 720) (“land of Bit-H… umri”)

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By reexamining these designations and their intersections with Israelite and Judean history, one may question Eph>al’s negative conclusion and consider the possibility that the three different designations in the Assyrian inscriptions are not synonyms for the same static geopolitical entity but rather may indicate changing historical and political situations involving Israel from 853 to 720.

I. Shalmaneser III’s Monolith Inscription The earliest known reference to the northern kingdom in Assyrian inscriptions appears in the Monolith Inscription of Shalmaneser III (858–824 B.C.E.).3 The inscription begins with an invocation of the gods and the royal epithets and genealogy and then describes Shalmaneser’s expeditions from his accession year (859–858) through his sixth regnal year (853–852). The final campaign listed for the sixth regnal year (853–852) is Shalmaneser’s first encounter with a south Syrian-Palestinian coalition (col. 2, lines 78–102). The Monolith Inscription indicates that the three major players in the anti-Assyrian coalition were Adad-idri (Hadadezer) of Aram-Damascus, Irh…uleni of Hamath, and a-h…a-ab-bu KUR sir-
3 The dates for the Assyrian and Israelite/Judean kings follow J. H. Hayes and P. K. Hooker, A New Chronology for the Kings of Israel and Judah and Its Implications for Biblical History and Literature (Atlanta: John Knox Press, 1988). 4 For example, D. D. Luckenbill reads, “Karkar, his royal city, I destroyed . . . 2,000 chariots, 10,000 soldiers of Ahab, the Israelite” (ARAB, 610–11); cf. A. K. Grayson, Assyrian Rulers of the First Millennium BC II (858–745) (RIMA 3; Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1996), 23. For a transliteration and translation of the relevant portion of the inscription, see J. Kuan, Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions and Syria-Palestine (Jian Dao Dissertation Series 1; Hong Kong: Alliance Bible Seminary, 1995), 29–31; Grayson, Assyrian Rulers, 11–24.

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the relationship of this text to the biblical material about Ahab, especially 1 Kgs 20 and 22? The question of the identity of a-h…a-ab-bu involves the fact that the other Assyrian inscriptions for 853–852 do not mention this person as a leader or participant in the coalition. They mention only Adad-idri and Irh…uleni (see Bull Inscription and Black Obelisk). This lack of any further references leads some writers to assert that one should not equate the reference on the Monolith Inscription with Ahab of Israel. For example, W. Gugler supports A. S. van der Woude’s thesis that the inscription simply refers to an unknown northwest Syrian ruler.5 Gugler’s reasons for not reading Ahab on the Monolith Inscription, however, do not involve philological or syntactical arguments. This lack of any serious philological objections indicates that one can identify this text as a reference to the northern kingdom if he or she can explain the size of Ahab’s force, the relationship to 1 Kgs 20 and 22, and the anomalous use of “Israel” as a designation.6 As noted above, the Monolith Inscription credits a-h…a-ab-bu with 2,000 chariots and 10,000 soldiers. If this country is Israel, then Hamath and Israel provided more than two-thirds of the allied forces, and Israel’s chariot force alone was equal to Assyria’s.7 N. Na’aman objects that it is inconceivable that Ahab could have a chariot force bigger than Assyria’s, since in 839, at the height of power, Assyria lists only 2,002 chariots. Accordingly, he concludes that the text does refer to Ahab, but 2,000 is a scribal error for 200, which is more suitable for the period.8 In spite of Na’aman’s arguments, another explanation, which does not require emendation, presents itself. The Monolith Inscription makes no reference to Judah, Moab, Edom, Tyre, or Sidon. Moreover, other evidence seems 5 W. Gugler, Jehu und seine Revolution (Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1996), 70–77. Some earlier readings also suggested “Ahab of Jezreel” (see Cuneiform Inscriptions of Western Asia [ed. H. Rawlinson; 5 vols.; London: British Museum, 1861–1909], 3:6). However, this no longer appears to be considered, and the most recent studies do not mention it (e.g., Grayson, Assyrian Rulers, 11–24). 6 Concerning the philological discussion of the name, Lemaire identifies sir-
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to indicate that Israel at this time acted as a dominant partner to many of these states. Concerning Judah, 1 Kgs 22:44 depicts Jehoshaphat king of Judah (877– 853) “making peace” with or “surrendering” to Ahab and functioning subserviently to the northern king (cf. 1 Kgs 22:4; 2 Kgs 3:7).9 In addition, it has been concluded that Jehoshaphat’s fortification of cities and buildup of military force would not have been possible without peaceful relations with Ahab.10 Further, Jehoshaphat came to be remembered as the Judean king who gave unqualified support to Israel (cf. 2 Chr 18:3) and only after Ahab’s death did he take any independent stance. Concerning Edom, 1 Kgs 22:47 states that during the reign of Jehoshaphat, which overlapped those of Omri and Ahab, “there was no king in Edom, and a deputy was king.” Moreover, 2 Kgs 8:20 indicates that Edom later rebelled against Judah, which apparently had control of it. This reference to Jehoshaphat’s possible control of Edom, however, is vague. One could suggest that, given the evidence that Israel dominated Judah at this time, perhaps the Edomite deputy was an Omride appointee and Jehoshaphat gained control of Edom only after Ahab’s death. Concerning Moab, the Mesha Inscription clearly indicates that Moab became subservient to Israel during the time of Omri. Specifically, Moab acknowledged Ahab’s sovereignty over Gilead-Gad and sent him tribute (2 Kgs 3:4). Concerning Phoenicia, one expects a reference to the Phoenicians in the Monolith Inscription due to their alliance with the Omride dynasty. However, Phoenicia may have at least been a nominal supporter of the coalition due to this alliance, since Shalmaneser does not mention collecting tribute from Tyre in 853, as he does earlier in 858–857 and 856–855.11 Given the preceding evidence, it seems reasonable to explain the unusual size of Israel’s force at Qarqar by asserting that it included contingents from these vassal states. Accordingly, one may also suggest that the designation “Israel” here refers to a kingdom with its capital at Samaria that included the subordinate territories of Moab, Edom, and Judah, and perhaps contingents from Phoenicia. The relationship of the events described in the Monolith Inscription to those in 1 Kgs 20 and 22 is a second major issue concerning this designation for the northern kingdom. The basic issue here is the fact that the biblical materials about Ahab (1 Kgs 16:29–33; 20; 22:1–40), which make no reference to the battle of Qarqar, present a different historical picture from the Monolith Inscription: (1) the king of Damascus contemporary with Ahab in the Bible is BenHadad not Hadadezer; (2) Aram and Israel are enemies in the biblical texts; 9 W. Hallo, “From Qarqar to Carchemish: Assyria and Israel in the Light of New Discoveries,” BA 23 (1960): 37. 10 J. M. Miller and J. H. Hayes, A History of Ancient Israel and Judah (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1986), 275. 11 Hallo, “Qarqar to Carchemish,” 37.

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and (3) the Bible describes the Israelite military as small (1 Kgs 20:15, 27) with few chariots (1 Kgs 20:23–25, 28). There are two major options for dealing with these biblical traditions. First, one could identify the Ben-Hadad in the Bible with Hadadezer and assume that relations between Israel and Aram oscillated during the time of Omri and Ahab. Elsewhere in biblical and nonbiblical texts, however, Ben-Hadad appears to be a personal name, not a title (1 Kgs 15:18; 2 Kgs 13:3, 24). A more viable way of dealing with the relationship between the Monolith Inscription and 1 Kgs 20 and 22 is to see these biblical texts as redacted incorrectly and misplaced, that is, as actually referring to events that occurred during the later, weaker Jehu dynasty.12 The animosity between Israel and Aram and Israel’s relative weakness in 1 Kgs 20 and 22 fit with what is known of the Jehu dynasty (cf. 2 Kgs 13). Moreover, several literary clues suggest that 1 Kgs 20 and 22 do not belong to the reign of Ahab. For example, the name “Ahab” occurs only three times in 1 Kgs 20:2, 13, 14 and once in 1 Kgs 22:20 in MT. Otherwise, the text simply reads “the king of Israel.” Perhaps the identification with Ahab is secondary. If one follows this view, there is no conflict with taking the Monolith Inscription as an Assyrian reference to the northern kingdom. Perhaps the most apparent obstacle to viewing this inscription as containing a reference to the northern kingdom is the anomalous designation “Israel.” As noted above, this text is the only occurrence of the term “Israel” in the Assyrian royal inscriptions. One should also note that the inscription uses the determinative KUR to indicate the name of a land or country (maµtum) as opposed to a city.13 The lack of any other occurrences of the term “Israel” in the Assyrian inscriptions invites the reader to look elsewhere for an explanation. Since the Monolith Inscription is Assyria’s first recorded contact with the northern kingdom, it seems reasonable to suggest that the scribes may have been influenced by the local designations. Accordingly, two non-Assyrian texts may help explain the anomalous designation “Israel.” 12 See A. Jepsen, “Israel und Damaskus,” AfO 14 (1941–45): 153–72; W. T. Pitard, Ancient Damascus: A Historical Study of the Syrian City-State from Earliest Times until Its Fall to the Assyrians in 732 B.C.E. (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1987), 114–25; and J. M. Miller, “The Elisha Cycle and the Accounts of the Omride Wars,” JBL 85 (1966): 441–54. 13 The issue of the use and consistency of Akkadian determinatives is a debated one. Determinatives are graphic indicators of the class of objects (see J. Huehnergard, A Grammar of Akkadian [Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997], 111). In support of the specificity of determinatives, one may note that the number of determinatives is small, about two dozen. Moreover, the determinatives KUR (land) and URU (city) are best analyzed with regard to their consistency and importance within this limited corpus of ninth- to eighth-century royal inscriptions rather than ranging widely across the entire corpus of Assyrian texts. In this restricted corpus, these two determinatives do seem to appear consistently to differentiate between cities and lands or districts. There do not appear to be any obvious anomalies. Thus, within this particular corpus, one seems to be able to trust the determinatives for different designations and thus can explore their historical implications.

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The Mesha Inscription (or Moabite Stone) reports King Mesha’s accomplishments and praises his having ended Israelite dominance over Moab and recovered from Israel the territory north of the Arnon.14 Throughout this description, the text consistently uses the designation “Israel” for the northern kingdom. This term illuminates the similar usage on the Monolith Inscription. The text is local to Syria-Palestine and concerns the interaction of a local area king with Israel. The biblical texts themselves, also reflecting the local setting of Syria-Palestine, most often designate the northern kingdom by the term “Israel.” This evidence suggests that “Israel” was the local designation for the northern kingdom centered in Samaria during the period of Omri and Ahab. The Tel Dan Inscription, apparently a memorial stela of a ninth-century Aramean king, also represents a local reference to the northern kingdom.15 This text, like the Monolith Inscription, uses the designation “Israel.” Since the inscription comes from Syria-Palestine, it again suggests that “Israel” was the local (not Assyrian) designation for the north even during the time of Ahab’s successors. Moreover, the stela still seems to envision a close and perhaps dependent relationship between the northern and southern kingdoms. Although the term “Beth-David” here appears to be a reference to the southern kingdom and the final ^ before this term is most likely a fragment of a reference to a separate king for the south (i.e., ^lm), the text nonetheless portrays Israel and Judah as basically one unit that the Aramean king dealt with in a single blow.16 The preceding evidence suggests an explanation for the anomalous usage of “Israel” on the Monolith Inscription. Since the battle of Qarqar was the first recorded Assyrian contact with the north, perhaps the royal scribes simply adopted the contemporary local name of that political entity.17 Thus, viable explanations for the size of Ahab’s forces, the relationship to 1 Kgs 20 and 22, and the term “Israel” allow one to say with confidence that the Monolith 14 For the best publication of the Mesha Inscription, see R. Dussaud, Les monuments Palestiniens et Judaiques (Paris: Musée du Louvre, 1912), 4–22. For the reconstructed text with critical notes, see K. Jackson and A. Dearman, “The Text of the Mesha Inscription,” in Studies in the Mesha Inscription and Moab (ed. A. Dearman; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989), 93–95. See also A. F. Rainey, “Mesha> and Syntax,” in The Land That I Will Show You: Essays on the History and Archaeology of the Ancient Near East in Honour of J. Maxwell Miller (ed. J. A. Dearman and M. P. Graham; JSOTSup 343; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 287–307. 15 The inscription was found in three fragments in 1993 and 1995. For the original publication of Fragment A, see A. Biran and J. Naveh, “An Aramaic Stele Fragment from Tel Dan,” IEJ 43 (1993): 81–98; for Fragments B1 and B2, see A. Biran and J. Naveh, “The Tel Dan Inscription: A New Fragment,” IEJ 45 (1995): 1–18. See also A. Demsky, “On Reading Ancient Inscriptions: The Monumental Aramaic Stele Fragment from Tel Dan,” JANES 23 (1995): 30–31. 16 See Biran and Naveh, “Aramaic Stele,” 96. Demsky asserts that lines 8–9 allude to the combined forces of Israelite and Judean kings (“On Reading,” 34). 17 N. Lemche seems to consider this a possibility (The Israelites in History and Tradition [Library of Ancient Israel; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1998], 52).

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Inscription contains the first Assyrian designation for the northern kingdom. Moreover, at this point the designation “Israel” seems to have represented an entity that included several vassal states.

II. Shalmaneser III’s Black Obelisk, Calah Fragment, Kurba
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the second relief. Panel B of the reliefs depicts a figure, perhaps Jehu, bowing before the king and paying tribute. The text accompanying this panel reads as follows: The tribute of Jehu, the (Bit)-H… umrite (ma-da-tu ša ia-u-a DUMU h…u-um-rii). Silver, gold, a golden bowl, a golden vase, golden goblets, golden pitchers, tin, a h…utartu for the hand of the king, and puašh…atu, I received from him.20

Scholars widely accept the identification of ia-u-a with Jehu. P. K. McCarter raises the objection that ia-u-a represents the divine name Yaw and could refer to either Joram or Jehu. He concludes that it is more probably Joram because of the designation “son” (maµr) of Omri.21 However, M. Weippert challenges McCarter and argues that ia-u-a represents *yahuµ
See Kuan, Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions, 63. P. K. McCarter, “Yaw, Son of Omri: A Philological Note on Israelite Chronology,” BASOR 216 (1974): 5–7. 22 M. Weippert, “Jau(a) mar Humri—Joram oder Jehu von Israel?” VT 28 (1978): 115. Cf. B. Halpern, “Yaua, Son of Omri, Yet Again,” BASOR 265 (1987): 81. 23 The designation for the northern kingdom appears in lines 24-26: “At that time I received the maddattu of the Tyrians and Sidonians, and of Jehu the (Bit)-H… umrite (ša ia-u-a DUMU h…uum-ri-i).” See Kuan, Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions, 52; and ANET, 280. 24 In a manner similar to the Calah Fragment, lines 21–30 detail the king’s expedition against Hazael. The designation for the northern kingdom occurs in lines 29–30: “At that time I received tribute from the people of Tyre, Sidon, and from Jehu the (Bit)-H… umrite (ia-u-a DUMU h…u-um-rii).” For the original publication, see J. Kinnier-Wilson, “The Kurbali-ma-AN-zeµr, the Tyrian, and of Jehu, the (Bit)-H… umrite (ia-a-u DUMU h…u-um-ri-i), I received.” For the original publication, see F. Safar, “A Further Text of Shalmaneser III from Assur,” Sumer 7 (1951): 3–21. 26 Kuan, Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions, 62. 21

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that Jehu was not a descendant of Omri (2 Kgs 9:2). Accordingly, those who argue that this reference is genealogical must also argue that it is either a scribal mistake or an intentional deception by the Assyrians.27 There is strong evidence, however, for taking the phrase “maµr H…umri” as a gentilic, meaning “the (Bit)H… umrite.”28 DUMU (maµru) can function as a reference to a citizen of a city or country.29 The context of the Black Obelisk also strengthens the interpretation of maµr H… umri as a geopolitical designation. All the panels surrounding the reference to Jehu clearly contain political, not genealogical, designations.30 This evidence suggests that these inscriptions refer to the northern kingdom as “Bit-H… umri.” This term appears throughout the remainder of the inscriptions as the main Assyrian designation for the northern kingdom. None of these Assyrian texts mentions Judah. It is possible to conclude that Judah was independent yet simply not involved. However, as with the period of Ahab, the biblical texts covering this period indicate close ties between north and south and suggest that Judah remained a subordinate partner or vassal to Bit-H… umri. Thus, the political entity “Bit-H… umri” seems to designate the same general area as “Israel” on the Monolith Inscription. Nonetheless, Moab’s achievement of independence after the death of Ahab, which is reflected in the Mesha Inscription, suggests that “Bit-H… umri” no longer included the entities of Moab and, probably, Edom. This analysis raises the question of why the inscriptions switch from the designation “Israel” to “Bit-H… umri.” The reason does not seem to be that Omri was the greatest previous king, since the Assyrians do not appear to have had any recorded contact with Israel before the reign of Ahab. Additionally, the term “House of Omri” does not appear to have been a major Israelite selfdesignation. In fact, the Hebrew Bible never uses the phrase.31 As noted above, 27 T. Schneider is an exception to this generalization. She asserts that Jehu was a descendant of Omri from a different wife/line than Ahab (“Did Jehu Kill His Own Family,” BAR 21, no. 1 [1995]: 81). Na’aman argues that since Jehu reversed the Omride anti-Assyrian policy, the Assyrians tried to legitimize his reign by describing him as a “son” of the previous dynasty. See N. Na’aman, “The Contribution of Royal Inscriptions for a Re-Evaluation of the Book of Kings as a Historical Source,” JSOT 82 (1999): 7–8; idem, “Jehu Son of Omri: Legitimizing a Loyal Vassal by His Lord,” IEJ 48 (1998): 236–38. 28 See Weippert, “Jau(a),” 114; O. Keel and C. Uehlinger, “Der Assyrerkönig Salmanassar III und Jehu von Israel auf dem Schwarzen Obelisken aus Nimrud,” ZKT 116 (1994): 399; TUAT, 367. 29 CAD 10/1.315–16. For example, the Monolith Inscription designates the rulers of BitAgusi, Bit-Adini, and Bit-Dakuri as maµr Aguµsi, maµr AdÈ µni, maµr Dakuµri. Cf. the similar usage of @b, e.g., 2 Kgs 15:10; see also Na’aman, “Two Notes,” 102; and H. Tadmor, “The Historical Inscriptions of Adad-nirari III,” Iraq 35 (1973): 149. 30 For example, panel A reads, “The maddattu of Suµa, the Gilzanite (KUR gil-za-na-a-a),” and panel C reads, “The maddattu of the land of Mus\ri (ša maµt mu-us\-ri).” 31 Rather, one of Israel’s major self-designations was “House of Ahab,” which appears fifteen times in the Hebrew Bible; see 2 Kgs 8:18, 27 (2x); 9:7, 8, 9; 10:11, 30; 21:13; 2 Chr 21:6, 13; 22:3, 4, 8; Mic 6:16.

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the local designation for the northern kingdom appears to have been “Israel” not “House of Omri.” Due to a lack of specific evidence, any conclusion must remain at the level of hypothesis. Inner-Israelite politics reflected in 2 Kgs 8–9, however, may suggest a possible explanation. These texts allow the possibility that there was only one King Jehoram and that he was a southern king who came to rule in the north after the death of Ahaziah son of Ahab.32 If this was the case, then perhaps Jehu (and/or the royal scribes) adopted the term “BitH… umri” to indicate that a native northerner had been restored to the throne and to claim connection with the roots of the earlier dynasty. The change in designation could equally suggest, however, that it was the Assyrians themselves who invented the term “Bit-H… umri” as a reference to this new vassal kingdom, since there is no reason to think that “Israel” did not remain the selfdesignation of the northern kingdom. In any case, the Assyrian scribes who recorded Jehu’s submission may have adopted this designation and used it as a geographical term to refer to an entity that encompassed the states that were locally called “Israel” and “Judah.” This practice would have been in keeping with evidence from some of the Assyrian King Lists, on which the name of a king is usually followed by “son of” (DUMU) the previous king. This designation may represent a customary means of identification that served to establish legitimacy. If the previous ruler was suggested to be illegitimate, however, the scribes may have been willing to refer back to the last legitimate dynasty.33 The conditions indicated in these four Assyrian texts mark the beginning of significant historical developments that took place in the years between 841 and 805 and inform our understanding of the next Assyrian references to the northern kingdom. The various editions of Shalmaneser III’s annals gave Aram increasing prominence under Hazael’s rule. This rise of Hazael took place in the context of Assyrian decline in the last years of Shalmaneser III and the reign of Shamshi-Adad V (823–811). Hazael continually warded off campaigns of Shalmaneser III in the 840s and 830s and was able to expand unchecked by Assyrian restraints after 831.34 Accordingly, Aram eventually dominated all of Syria-Palestine.35 32 See J. Strange, “Joram, King of Israel and Judah,” VT 25 (1975): 191–201; cf. Miller and Hayes, History, 280–84; and Hayes and Hooker, New Chronology, 33–36. 33 See I. J. Gelb, “Two Assyrian King Lists,” JNES 13 (1954): 209–30; R. Hess, “The Genealogies of Genesis 1–11 and Comparative Literature,” Bib 70 (1989): 241–54. Such a usage of “son” (DUMU) may be reflected in the Khorsabad King List iii 39–iv 4, which refers to a series of kings not as “son” of the immediate predecessor but as “son of Tukulti-apil-Ešarra,” the king from line 39. However, iv 1 relates how Šamši-Adad (IV) overthrew and deposed the preceding king, who was not designated as a son of Tukulti-apil-Ešarra. Accordingly, when Šamši-Adad takes the throne, the list once again calls him a “son of Tukulti-apil-Ešarra,” since he seems to have reestablished the original line (see Gelb, “Two Assyrian King Lists,” 228). 34 See B. Mazar, “The Aramean Empire and Its Relations with Israel,” BA 25 (1962): 115. 35 Pitard, Ancient Damascus, 151; see also P. Dion, Les Araméens à l’âge du fer: Histoire politique et structurales sociales (Paris: Librairie Lecoffre, 1997), 199.

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Several biblical texts indicate that Hazael indeed subjugated SyriaPalestine after 841 B.C.E. 2 Kings 10:32–33 associates Israel’s loss of control over all the Transjordan with Hazael’s expansion. 2 Kings 16:6 suggests that Hazael’s control over the Transjordan extended as far south as the port of Elath, and 2 Kgs 12:17a states that Hazael subjugated Gath and practically all of the territory west of the Jordan. Thus, Hazael must have also controlled the Jezreel Valley and Galilee. 2 Kings 12:17b–18 indicates that Jerusalem did not fall to Hazael because Jehoash offered him payment as a vassal. Hazael’s Booty Inscriptions found in Greece state that Hazael’s campaigns reached across the “river” (rhn). While the term “river” here may refer only to the Orontes, the Bible and other ancient Near Eastern texts often use it as a designation for the Euphrates. Accordingly, these texts could suggest that Hazael campaigned in Assyrian territory. The Zakur Stela strengthens this suggestion by indicating that even after Hazael, in the time of his son Ben-Hadad, Aram’s influence extended into northern Syria and eastern Anatolia.36 Thus, P. Dion makes the relatively unique conclusion that Hazael’s expansion, which began in the last years of Shalmaneser III, even included offensive expeditions north of the Euphrates.37 Along with the biblical texts, the Tel Dan Inscription’s allusions to the Aramean king’s [Hazael’s?] power suggest the growth of that king to dominance over the region. Furthermore, on the inscription, the king claims to have killed Joram and Ahaziah. As many commentators notice, this assertion directly contradicts 2 Kgs 9, which asserts that Jehu killed these kings. Regardless of the explanation one chooses, these powerful acts fit well with other evidence for the rise of Hazael after 841.38 The above evidence favors Mazar’s conclusion that Aram came to rule all of Syria-Palestine as a unified empire during the last half of the ninth century.39 This Aramean empire included the central Palestinian hill country, the Trans36 For Hazael’s Booty Inscriptions, see F. Bron and A. Lemaire, “Les inscriptions araméennes de Hazaël,” RA 83 (1989): 35–44; and I. Eph>al and J. Naveh, “Hazael’s Booty Inscriptions,” IEJ 39 (1989): 192–200. For the Zakur Stela, see H. Pognon, Inscriptions sémitiques de la Syrie, de la Mésopotamie, et de la région de Mossoul (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1907), 156–78; photographs, pls. IX and X; facsimiles, pls. XXXV and XXXVI and KAI, no. 202. 37 Dion, Les Araméens, 201–2. For the opposing view, see E. Lipinåski, The Aramaeans: Their History, Culture, and Religion (OLA 100; Leuven: Peeters, 2000), 214, 388–89. Lipinåski argues that the mention of >Umq in Hazael’s Booty Inscriptions suggests that the “river” crossed by Hazael was the Orontes not the Euphrates (ibid., 389). 38 See S. Irvine, “The Rise of the House of Jehu,” in The Land That I Will Show You, ed. Dearman and Graham, 104–18. 39 Mazar, “Aramean Empire,” 108. For the opposing view, see Lipinåski, who argues that the various campaigns of Hazael did not amount to the creation of a united empire, since the different Aramean and Neo-Hittite states of central and northern Syria did not cease to exist (Aramaeans, 389–90). He does acknowledge, however, that the kings of these states, as well as those of Israel and Judah, probably became vassals to Hazael.

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jordan, Syria, and the Philistine coast. With the extent of Hazael’s dominance in the Transjordan, Jezreel, Galilee, and Philistia, the northern kingdom was apparently reduced to the city of Samaria and its immediate vicinity in the years after 841. Accordingly, the Bible contains two references to the “king of Samaria” (1 Kgs 21:1; 2 Kgs 1:3), and both occur in texts dated to this period of Aramean dominance after the death of Ahab. These references are anomalous in the Bible. The course of events suggested by the Assyrian inscriptions, however, indicates that these references are not purely inexplicable. They reflect a diminished or even provincial status for the northern kingdom.40 Furthermore, if 1 Kgs 20 reflects conditions under the Jehu dynasty, then the “governors of the districts” in 20:14–15 and the “commanders” that replace the kings in 20:24 may indicate that Hazael divided his dominated territories into administrative districts, one of which was Samaria.41 The preceding evidence seems to lead to the conclusion that during the time of Hazael the Arameans probably created a new administrative district called “Samaria.” Thus, the entity “Bit-H… umri,” which included Israel and Judah and existed at the time of the Black Obelisk (841), gave way to a much more restricted area. In light of this development, it is significant that, at the close of this period of Aramean dominance, the next Assyrian text that refers to the northern kingdom uses the designation “Samaria” for the first time in the inscriptions.

III. Adad-nirari III’s Rimah Stela and Nimrud Slab At the end of the years 841–810, the Assyrian king Adad-nirari III (810– 783) led a resurgence of Assyrian strength and reestablished Assyrian presence in the west. In this context, one finds the next Assyrian references to the northern kingdom in Adad-nirari III’s Rimah Stela and Nimrud Slab, which reflect the historical situation described above. The Rimah Stela (Grayson A.0.104.7) uses predominantly the first person to describe Adad-nirari’s military activity in the west, which the author states took place “in a single year.”42 The relevant portion reads as follows: 40

A. Rofé, “The Vineyard of Naboth: The Origin and Message of the Story,” VT 38 (1988): 97. There is a similar reference in Isa 7:9, where Pekah is referred to as “head of Samaria.” For this work’s purposes, one should note that the Isaiah reference also reflects a time when the northern kingdom was limited to the capital city, with the rest of the territory being controlled by Damascus. Although 1 Kgs 21:1 mentions Ahab, the literary arguments given above suggest that this identification is a later addition and probably originally denoted Jehoahaz or Joash of the Jehu dynasty. Furthermore, 2 Kgs 1:3 refers to Ahaziah son of Ahab and the period after Ahab’s death (cf. 2 Kgs 1:1). 41 Mazar makes this argument but relates the action to Hadadezer because he does not date 1 Kgs 20:24–25 to the period of the Jehu dynasty (“Aramean Empire,” 108). 42 Grayson, Assyrian Rulers, 209–10. The text switches to the third person in lines 6, 9, and

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Journal of Biblical Literature He received the tribute of Joash43 the Samarian (ia-’a-su KUR sa-me-ri-na-aa), of the land of Tyrians (KUR s\ur-a-a), and of the land of Sidonians (KUR s\i-du-na-a-a).44

The Nimrud Slab (Grayson A.0.104.8) also recounts Adad-nirari’s achievements in the east and west. However, Aram-Damascus is the focus, and it is the only place described in detail including the name of its king. The relevant portion reads as follows (lines 11–16): . . . H… atti, Amurru in its totality, Tyre, Sidon, the land of [Bit]-H… umri (KUR <É>-h…u-um-ri-i), Edom, Philistia, as far as the great sea of the setting sun, I brought to submit at my feet.45

Assyrian campaigns to the west resumed with a major campaign by Adadnirari that lasted three or four years in order to resubjugate states that had rebelled.46 According to the Eponym Chronicle, the campaigns began in Adadnirari’s sixth regnal year (805 B.C.E.). The next three locations in Syria (Arpad, H… azazi, and Ba>li) point to a single campaign that lasted about three years.47 12. See Tadmor, “Historical Inscriptions,” 141–42; and S. Page, “A Stela of Adad-nirari III and Nergal-eres from Tell el Rimah,” Iraq 30 (1968): 139–53. 43 Page uses philology to establish that ia-’a-su is Joash and not Jehoahaz (“Stela of Adadnirari III,” 148–49). 44 See Kuan, Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions, 79; and Grayson, Assyrian Rulers, 209–10. The a-a endings on the geographical names in this text are gentilic endings; hence the translation “Joash the Samarian” (see I. J. Gelb, “Comments on the Akkadian Syllabary,” Or 39 [1970]: 541). 45 See Kuan, Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions, 83. For other translations, see Pritchard, ANET, 281; and ARAB, 262–63. All of these translations read “Israel” for maµ t [Bit]-H… umri. Strangely, Grayson translates this phrase “Samaria” and thereby greatly confuses not only the larger issue but also the text’s relationship to its contemporary reference on the Rimah Stela (Assyrian Rulers, 212). This kind of loose equation of different designations is exactly the imprecision this article seeks to counter. In contrast to the Black Obelisk’s designation “maµr H… umri,” the Nimrud Slab refers to “maµt H… umri” (“land of H… umri”). However, Tadmor argues convincingly that the Black Obelisk text contains a scribal omission, since there are no instances of a toponym with the pattern “maµt Bit-PN” where the element “Bit” is missing. Accordingly, this designation is equivalent to the Black Obelisk’s designation, and both denote the entity “Bit-H… umri.” See Tadmor, “Historical Inscriptions,” 149. 46 While only two texts mention the northern kingdom, several inscriptions deal with Adadnirari III’s activities in the west (Eponym Chronicle, Antakya Stela, el-Rimah Stela, Nimrud Slab, Saba
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The defeat of Damascus is not mentioned in the Eponym Chronicle, but the battle probably began in 803, when the army moved from H… azazi.48 Accordingly, the Rimah Stela may reflect a tribute of Joash paid during the course of this three-year campaign, perhaps in 803, when the Assyrian army was in southern Syria.49 2 Kings 13:24–25 further indicates that Joash soon after moved to recover Israelite territory from Aram.50 In this context, the significant issue concerning the Rimah Stela’s and Nimrud Slab’s designations for the northern kingdom is their relationship to the rise and fall of this Aramean empire under Hazael. As noted above, the Nimrud Slab uses the common Assyrian designation “KUR(maµt) [Bit]-H… umri” for the northern kingdom. The Rimah Stela, however, introduces a new Assyrian designation “KUR(maµt) Samerina” (“the land of Samaria”). Since other entities that appear on both inscriptions have the same form on both (e.g., Tyre and Sidon), these designations do not appear simply to be synonyms for the same geopolitical entity. Moreover, the Rimah Stela’s designation of the “land” (KUR) of Samaria appears very strange indeed. The evidence of Hazael’s subjugation of Israel suggests an explanation for the new designation. As noted above, biblical and nonbiblical texts indicate that Hazael created a district of his empire called “Samaria” that encompassed the subjugated ruling house of Israel. Appropriately, when the Assyrians arrive back in the west, they record their official contact with “Joash of the land of Samaria.” If this text simply refers to the city of Samaria as the capital of Bit-H… umri, one would expect the determinative URU (aµlum), which is used consistently with cities in the text (e.g., Arwad in line 10). However, Samaria appears with the determinative KUR, as do Tyre and Sidon, which follow immediately and were most likely get of the military campaign (so A. Millard and H. Tadmor [“Adad-nirari III in Syria,” Iraq 35 (1973): 62], who suggest that the location was that of the king and his camp; Millard has clarified that the location is specifically that of the army, with or without the king [The Eponyms of the Assyrian Empire 910–612 BC (SAAS 2; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 1994), 4–5]). Accordingly, the army may have dealt with many localities in the nearby vicinity (including Damascus) throughout the course of this three-year campaign. 48 Damascus is probably not mentioned because the capture took place between Akitu festivals which appear in the Chronicle (see Millard, Eponyms, 4–5). For the movement from H… azazi, see Pazarcik Stela reverse and V. Donbaz, “Two Neo-Assyrian Stelae in the Antakya and Rahramanmaras Museums,” Annual Review of the Royal Inscriptions of Mesopotamia Project 8 (1990): 9. The Saba
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city-state territories that were also overrun by Hazael. Given this evidence, it seems reasonable to conclude that the Rimah Stela refers not to a city but to the administrative district created under Hazael, which Adad-nirari encountered when he returned to the west. The Nimrud Slab also mentions entities like Tyre, Sidon, and Philistia, which had been under Aram’s domination. In this context, one finds a reference to “[Bit]-H… umri.” The absence of Samaria and Judah here suggests that this term designates a broader geopolitical entity. Like the Black Obelisk, “[Bit]H… umri” seems to designate not simply the capital city Samaria and its surrounding territory (i.e., the district subjugated by Aram-Damascus) but the broader area of the central hill country, including Judah. Judah’s absence from Assyrian texts once again favors the conclusion that it still functioned as a vassal of Israel at this time. Indeed, 2 Kgs 14 indicates that when Joash broke with Damascus, he also asserted dominance over Judah. In summary, the inscriptions of Adad-nirari III contain two distinct designations for the northern kingdom. These terms are not synonymous but reflect the changing political situation in Syria-Palestine in the late ninth century. Aramean hegemony had introduced a new designation into the Assyrian corpus, namely, the city-state of Samaria. Nonetheless, the common term “BitH… umri” apparently continued to designate the widespread land of the northern kingdom, which includes Judah.

IV. Inscriptions of Tiglath-pileser III Several inscriptions of Tiglath-pileser III (744–727) refer to the northern kingdom.51 These references continue the use of both designations “Samaria” and “Bit-H… umri,” but they are used in describing different political situations and may possess a different meaning. In his western campaigns, Tiglath-pileser initially encountered an entity called “Samaria” and later refers to a state called “Bit-H… umri.” The historical events between Adad-nirari III and Tiglath-pileser III are important for a proper understanding of these designations. Following its resurgence under Adad-nirari III, Assyria experienced another period of decline in the reigns of Shalmaneser IV (782–773), Ashur-dan III (772–755), and Ashur-nirari V (754–745). Assyrian presence in the west at the time remained solely in the hands of the turtaµnu, Samši-ilu.52 However, the death of 51 See H. Tadmor, The Inscriptions of Tiglath-Pileser III King of Assyria (Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities, 1994), 10, 22–23. 52 See J. Kuan, “Samši-ilu and the Realpolitik of Israel and Aram-Damascus in the Eighth Century BCE,” in The Land That I Will Show You, 135–51.

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Samši-ilu not long after 752–751 (when he last served as limmu) removed any sense of a strong Assyrian presence in the west. Throughout the period 752– 745, Aram once again had the opportunity to assert dominance over SyriaPalestine under Rezin of Damascus.53 Tiglath-pileser III took the throne of Assyria in 746–745. His reign marked a resurgence of Assyrian might as he immediately conducted a series of western campaigns. The inscriptions relating to these activities provide the context for more designations for the northern kingdom and their historical implications. Layard 45b + III R 9,1 (Tadmor Ann.21) is the earliest relevant text of Tiglath-pileser. This text does not mention the northern kingdom but details the tribute of Rezin of Damascus and other area states. It is considered here, however, because some interpreters argue that one should insert the phrase “Menahem the Samarian” (mi-ni-h…i-im-me KUR sa-me-ri-i-na-a-a) on the basis of the similar Iran Stela.54 Kuan suggests that the best setting for this text is the Assyrian army’s stay at Arpad (743–740).55 This period is probably to be related to the events noted in 2 Kgs 15:19–20, which reports that Tiglathpileser provided military assistance to Menahem, who paid the Assyrian king to help confirm him on the throne.56 If one follows this textual reconstruction, the inscription uses the same designation for the northern kingdom as the Rimah Stela. This evidence favors the conclusion that the Assyrian texts continue to reflect the presence of a district called “the land (KUR) of Samaria,” which most likely denotes the city and its immediate vicinity. The first text of Tiglath-pileser that contains a direct reference to the northern kingdom is the Iran Stela. The text contains a list of kings upon whom Tiglath-pileser imposed tribute.57 The relevant portion reads as follows (lines 3–6, 20–23): Kuštašpi of the city (URU) of Kummuh…, Raqyaµn of the land (KUR) Saimeµrišu (Rezin of Damascus), Menahem of the land of the Samarians (KUR sa-m[e-]ri-i-na-a-[a]), Tubail of the city (URU) of Tyre . . . tribute and gifts . . . I imposed upon them.58

There is much debate concerning this text’s date. It must precede Layard 50a + 50b + 67a because it mentions Tubail of Tyre, whereas the annals text should read Hiram because Hiram was involved in the 734–732 campaign.59 The text 53 Amos 1, 2 Kgs 15:37, and 16:16 all indicate that Rezin was already assembling an antiAssyrian coalition as early as the 750s. 54 See Tadmor, Inscriptions, 276. 55 Kuan, Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions, 141. 56 See Tadmor, Inscriptions, 276. 57 For the original publication, see T. Levine, Two Neo-Assyrian Stelae from Iran (Toronto: Royal Ontario Museum, 1972). 58 See Kuan, Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions, 149–50. 59 See ND 4301 + 4305.

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also reflects a time when the Assyrian army was in the vicinity of Iran. Therefore, Kuan associates this stela with the Ulluba campaign in 739–738.60 For our purposes in this article, one should note that this text again refers to the northern kingdom as the “land (KUR) of Samaria.” In a context that explicitly refers to the two cities (URU) Kummuh… and Tyre, both Samaria and Aram-Damascus appear as “lands” or “territories” (KUR). In comparison with later designations, the Iran Stela seems to indicate that around 738, the northern kingdom consisted primarily of Samaria and the surrounding area. The next relevant text is the annals text Layard 50a + 50b + 67a (Tadmor Ann.13*). This inscription introduces a slight change in the Assyrian designation for the northern kingdom. The text records the king’s military and political achievements in his eighth and ninth palê (738–737 and 737–736) and is nearly identical to the Iran Stela. The relevant portion of the tribute list reads as follows (lines 150–51): . . . The tribute of Kuštašpi of the city (URU) of Kummuh…, Ra>yaµn of the land (KUR) of Ša-imeµrišu, Menahem of the city of Samaria (URU sa-me-ri-na-aa), [Hiram of the city] ([URU]) of Tyre. . . .61

The dating of this portion of the text to 738–737 (eighth palû) is indicated by the text’s later reference to the ninth palû.62 Thus, this text implies that Damascus, Samaria, and others continued to pay a token tribute to Assyria in the years leading up to Tiglath-pileser’s campaign to Syria-Palestine in 734. The historical implications of the text’s designation for the northern kingdom are especially important. For the first time, an Assyrian text designates the north as the “city” (URU) rather than the “land” (KUR) of Samaria. One should not view this change as accidental, since the surrounding entities Kummuh… and Damascus appear the same way as in the previous inscription and they do not always appear this way.63 Given the above evidence and the consistency of the determinatives, it is reasonable to suggest that there had been a change in the status of the northern kingdom. As noted above, Rezin of Damascus and his coalition partners were increasing in strength and influence throughout the period leading up to 734. It is possible that the new reference to the “city” of Samaria reflects a diminished status for the northern kingdom. Because of the 60 Kuan, Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions, 151. See also the Mila Mergi Rock Relief and the Eponym Chronicle (see Tadmor, Inscriptions, 111–16). Levine suggests the 737 campaign to Media (Two Neo-Assyrian Stelae, 14). 61 Kuan, Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions, 154–55. For other translations, see ANET, 283; ARAB, 772. These translations read “Menahem of Samaria” and insert “Hiram” of Tyre. 62 See T. Levine, “Menahem and Tiglath-Pileser: A New Synchronism,” BASOR 206 (1972): 40–42. 63 The determinative for Tyre is missing in this text, so that this entry is not relevant for the historical argument.

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encroachments of Rezin’s coalition, the central administration now seems limited to the city of Samaria itself. Although this historical conclusion seems reasonable, one cannot be certain. The conclusion seems to encounter difficulties, for instance, when one examines the determinatives for Kummuh… and Tyre in both Layard 45b + III R 9,1 (Tadmor Ann.21) and the Iran Stela. From the earlier Layard 45b + III R 9,1 to the Iran Stela, Kummuh… and Tyre undergo the same change from KUR to URU that Samaria undergoes from the Iran Stela to Layard 50a + 50b + 67a. While it is possible that these states also underwent some change in political status, there is no evidence for that course of events. In the case of Samaria, however, biblical texts like 2 Kgs 15:29 suggest that Rezin’s expansion had a direct effect on the size of the northern kingdom’s territory. Moreover, Samaria is the only geographical term to undergo a change from the Iran Stela to Layard 50a + 50b + 67a.64 The inscription II R 67 takes the reader into the context of the SyroEphraimitic War (734–731). This text has important historical implications for what is included in the designations for the northern kingdom because it contains the first reference to the southern kingdom. The relevant portion is a tribute list in line 11 of the reverse: “[Mi]tini of the land of Ashkelon, Jehoahaz of the land of Judah (ia-u-h…a-zi KUR ia-u-da-a-a), Kaušmalaka of the land of Edom. . . .”65 There is much debate concerning the date of this tribute list. However, the date must be prior to 733, since the text contains the name Mitini of Ashkelon, who was deposed by 733–732.66 This list represents the first and only Assyrian inscription prior to 720 B.C.E. that mentions Judah. Moreover, references to Aram-Damascus, Samaria, Tyre, and Arabia are noticeably absent. Accordingly, this text seems to reflect the situation in Syria-Palestine after Tiglath-pileser’s campaign to Philistia in 734, when Israel under Pekah and Damascus under Rezin were in open rebellion. The sudden appearance of Judah in texts from this historical situation favors the conclusion that Judah asserted its independence from Israel for the first time since the Omrides, when Pekah inaugurated an anti-Assyrian foreign policy. If this conclusion is correct, it also strengthens the earlier indications that Judah functioned primarily as a vassal to the north until this time. The very possibility that such a move toward independence 64 This conclusion assumes that the missing determinative for Tyre in Layard 50a + 50b + 67a should be restored as URU. Additionally, in ND 4301 + 4305, Tyre is once again referred to with the determinative KUR. This text, however, comes from the later period after the end of the war and also refers to Bit-H… umri with KUR. 65 Kuan, Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions, 161–62. For other translations, see ANET, 282; ARAB, 801. 66 Cf. Layard 29b.

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could occur also correlates well with the preceding reconstruction of steadily diminishing territory and status for Samaria. One could attempt to explain this reference by saying that it only marks Judah’s first involvement in international political affairs. The biblical pictures of the relationship between Israel and Judah in the preceding years, however, combine with the Assyrian evidence to make this explanation unlikely. Scholars debate whether one should reconstruct the next text, Layard 29b, to contain a reference to the northern kingdom. This text relates to Tiglathpileser’s actions against the Syro-Ephraimitic coalition as he departed from Philistia. After subduing Philistia, the king set out across the Galilee to subdue Israel, Arabia, and Damascus. Layard 29b describes the Galilee and affects the understanding of what is included in the various Assyrian designations. The broken text refers to the king’s capture of a certain entity’s districts (lines 230ff.): “. . . [prisoners of . . .] districts of Bit-[. . . I] took away [. . . prisoners of . . .] . . . H… inatuna . . . Aruma, Marum. . . .” There is general scholarly agreement that these cities in lines 231–34 were in the Galilee. However, there is disagreement over whether they were under the control of Israel or Damascus. The uncertainty as to who held the Galilee stems from the fragmentary toponym “Bit . . .” in line 230. Both “Bit-Hazael” and “Bit-H… umri” are possible restorations. There are several factors, however, that suggest Damascus was holding the Galilee at this time.67 The parallel line “16 districts of the land of Damascus” in Layard 72b + 73a suggests the restoration “Bit-Hazael.”68 Moreover, 2 Kgs 15:29 recounts Tiglath-pileser’s annexation of the Galilee region but does not assert that Israel held this territory. Aram’s widespread growth and Israel’s diminished status favor the conclusion that Aram held this territory. If this is the case, Layard 29b again implies that the entity called “URU Samaria” consisted of little more than the city itself. Layard 66 relates to the conclusion of the Syro-Ephraimitic War. It records the completion of Assyrian activities in the west in 732–731 and is the last of Tiglath-pileser’s direct references to the city of Samaria. The relevant portion is the last line (line 228): “. . . and Samaria (URU sa-me-ri-na) alone I le[ft . . .] their king [. . .].”69 The rest of the inscription does not relate to Samaria, and this unusual concluding reference is probably due to the special treatment afforded the city and indicates the city’s isolation. Unlike all the other 67 Contra Tadmor, who reconstructs “Bit-H… umri” and sees this area under Israel’s control (“The Southern Border of Aram,” IEJ 12 [1962]: 114–22; cf. Tadmor, Inscriptions, 80–81; and COS, 286). However, he allows that “Bit-Hazael” is epigraphically possible. 68 Contra L. Younger, who reads the line in Layard 72b + 73a as “16 di[stricts of BÈµt-H… umria (Israel)] (COS, 286). It is not clear, however, when in history Israel was organized into sixteen divisions of any kind. 69 Kuan, Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions, 174. For other translations, see Tadmor, Inscriptions, 202–3; and ANET, 283.

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anti-Assyrian opponents, the Assyrians apparently did not attack Samaria and Pekah but left them to Hoshea and his pro-Assyrian supporters (cf. 2 Kgs 15:30; Hos 2:1–3). Thus, the designation “URU sa-me-ri-na” again appears to reflect the diminished and isolated state of the northern kingdom at the end of the Syro-Ephraimitic War. The inscription designated III R 10,2 is a summary that also relates to the conclusion of the Syro-Ephraimitic War. However, it is important to note with Tadmor that this text is not arranged chronologically but geographically.70 It comes not from the period when these events were taking place but from the period after Tiglath-pileser had settled matters in Syria-Palestine in 731. This observation is important for understanding the change in designations for the northern kingdom introduced here. The two relevant portions read as follows (lines 6–7, 15–18): . . . Gal
The inscription again indicates that Tiglath-pileser did not attack Pekah but simply confirmed Hoshea as a new king. However, this is the first inscription of Tiglath-pileser that uses the designation “Bit-H… umri” rather than “Samaria.” At the close of the Syro-Ephraimitic War, Tiglath-pileser took several actions that form the background of this text. He killed Rezin, destroyed Damascus, and annexed all territory controlled by Damascus into the Assyrian provincial system. He also reorganized the remaining political entities of the region. 2 Kings 16:10a reports that King Ahaz of Judah, probably along with other rulers in the area, met with the Assyrian king in Damascus after the defeat of Rezin. One may hypothesize that Ahaz attended a general meeting at which Hoshea was also present. At this meeting, Tiglath-pileser established the new political boundaries and made the final arrangements for vassal states in Syria-Palestine.72 Moreover, the king apparently established a new pro-Assyrian political entity and recognized Hoshea as the new monarch who was yet to possess the kingdom.73 Given this evidence, it seems reasonable to suggest that 70

Tadmor, “Southern Border,” 116. Kuan, Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions, 177. For other translations, see Tadmor, Inscriptions, 140–41; ANET, 283; ARAB, 815–16. 72 For discussion and argumentation of this idea and its relationship to biblical texts, see J. H. Chong, “The Song of Moses (Deuteronomy 32:1– 43) and the Hoshea-Pekah Conflict” (Ph.D. diss., Emory University, 1990), 320 and 329. 73 See J. Hayes and J. Kuan, “The Final Years of Samaria (730–720 BC),” Bib 72 (1991): 154. 71

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the references to an entity called “Bit-H… umri” do not represent a state that was involved in the 734–731 campaign but a new geopolitical entity established by Tiglath-pileser at the end of those years. He reintroduces the old designation “Bit-H… umri” to define a newly constituted Assyrian vassal kingdom. Thus, the references to “Bit-H… umri” in III R 10,2 (and ND 4301 + 4305) may reflect the terminology of a later perspective and may not be synonymous with the references to Samaria. If Tiglath-pileser established a new political entity called “Bit-H… umri,” a question arises concerning what that entity included. As noted above, Layard 29b indicates that Damascus held the territory of Galilee at the close of the war. Thus, this territory did not revert to Israel but became an Assyrian province. Furthermore, the present text mentions several cities that are “on the border of Bit-H… umri” (line 6). Tadmor reconstructs this text so that the southern border of Aram was at Abel-Beth-Maacah and Ramoth-gilead.74 According to this reconstruction, all of Gilead south of Ramoth-gilead belonged to Israel. However, S. Irvine rightly challenges Tadmor and asserts that Aramean territory had extended deep into traditional Israelite territory.75 He argues that the border extended into the Transjordan and included Bashan, Golan, and the region of Gilead from the Yarmuk to the Jabbok and beyond. Moreover, the Aramean border west of the Jordan included not only Galilee but also the Jezreel Valley, the northern edge of the Ephraimite hill country, and the Plain of Sharon. Thus, these territories, under Aram’s control at the close of the war, did not revert to Israel but became Assyrian provinces. These observations lead one to conclude that Tiglath-pileser’s entity “BitH… umri” was limited to territory west of the Jordan and south of Jezreel. If this was the case and if “Bit-H… umri” is not the same as “(URU) Samaria” or “(KUR) Samaria,” it seems reasonable to suggest that the geographical area under the new entity’s control would have been limited to Samaria and its immediate vicinity but also again including Judah. Thus, Judean independence reflected in II R 67 would have been only temporary until Tiglath-pileser reorganized Syria-Palestine. The limitation of Bit-H… umri’s territory to the area south of Samaria and the continued absence of Judah from any Assyrian inscriptions until after the fall of the northern kingdom suggest that Israel remained the dominant partner. Overall, it seems that Tiglath-pileser actually reestablished Hosea 2:1–3 MT probably refers to the cooperative effort of Hoshea and Ahaz to overthrow Pekah. H. Cook’s suggestion for this text is similar (“Pekah,” VT 14 [1964]: 128). He removes the reference to Judah as a gloss but sees the appointment of one head as a reference to Hoshea uniting the northern kingdom. 74 Tadmor, “Southern Border,” 118–21. In his most recent work, Tadmor argues that the reading “Abel-Beth-Maacah” can no longer be sustained, and he suggests perhaps “Abel-Shittim.” However, he retains the reading “Gilead” (Inscriptions, 139). 75 S. Irvine, Isaiah, Ahaz, and the Syro-Ephraimitic Crisis (SBLDS 123; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1990), 65–67.

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the old entity “Bit-H… umri” mentioned on the Black Obelisk as a pro-Assyrian satellite, including both Israel and Judah, but with greatly reduced territory. Thus, the Assyrian texts reintroduce the term “Bit-H… umri,” a term that had earlier referred to a broader territory than just the kingdom of Samaria, because Hoshea, like Jehu before him, ruled over a pro-Assyrian state that included the territory of the southern kingdom. The final relevant text of this period is ND 4301 + 4305, which basically parallels III R 10,2.76 The relevant portion reads as follows (lines 3–4, 10): [. . .] the widespread [land of Bit-]Hazael in its entirety from [. . . which is on the bor]der of Bit-H… umri (KUR É h…u-um-ri-a), into the territory of Assyria [I brought back . . .]. [. . . Hoshea as ki]ng over them [I set . . .] Sarrabanu before me [. . .].77

This text notes Hoshea’s or his ambassadors’ appearance before Tiglathpileser at Sarrabanu in southern Babylon, most likely bearing tribute. Thus, like III R 10,2, this inscription also reflects a time after the king had settled matters in the west and Hoshea had gained control of Samaria. Accordingly, it refers not to Samaria but to the newly organized entity called “Bit-H… umri.” With this voluntary payment to Assyria, the text indicates that the northern kingdom became an Assyrian satellite state. In summary, the designations for the northern kingdom in these inscriptions seem to display the north’s movement through the changing political situations of the 740s and 730s. The designations reflect Samaria’s loss of territory and isolation. Moreover, they reflect Samaria’s subservient relationship to Damascus and Judah’s assertion of independence. Finally, after Assyria settled the situation in 731, the texts reintroduce the designation “Bit-H… umri” to refer to an Assyrian satellite state ruled from Samaria by Hoshea, which included only the southern part of the central hill country and Judah.

V. Shalmaneser V and the Babylonian Chronicle The next Assyrian king after Tiglath-pileser was Shalmaneser V (726–722). Unfortunately, there are no available Assyrian inscriptions that relate to his reign. Accordingly, scholars must depend on non-Assyrian sources. The source that contains a designation for the northern kingdom is the Babylonian Chronicle. This text notes that Shalmaneser’s only achievement of any consequence was the capture of Samaria.78 An important feature of the Chronicle is that it 76 For original publication, see D. J. Wiseman, “A Fragmentary Inscription of Tiglath-pileser III from Nimrud,” Iraq 18 (1956): 117–29. 77 This line is commonly restored on the basis of III R 10,2. 78 For original publication, see H. Winckler and J. N. Strassmaier, “The Babylonian Chroni-

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uses horizontal lines to set apart the reported events chronologically.79 This feature is evident in the relevant portion of the text which covers 728–722 (I.27–30): (27) On the 25th day of the month of Tebet Shalmaneser (V) (28) ascended the throne in Assyria . He ravaged Samaria (URU Sa-ma/ba-ra-<-in) ———————————————————————————————— (29) The fifth year: Shalmaneser (V) died in the month of Tebet (30) For five years Shalmaneser (V) ruled in Akkad and Assyria80

The arguments against identifying URU sa-ma/ba-ra-<-in with Samaria that were raised by earlier scholars no longer apply.81 As Tadmor states, this term is a good Neo-Babylonian rendering of the Aramaic form of Samaria.82 Furthermore, the horizontal lines in the text indicate that lines 27–28 form one chronological section that includes the taking of Samaria, while lines 29–30 form a different section that relates to Shalmaneser’s fifth year (722). These markings suggest that the ravaging of Samaria took place before the final year of his reign.83 2 Kings 17:3–6 relates the events that form the context for this designation. There is no consensus, however, on how to read these verses.84 A straightforward reading suggests that the whole text involves Shalmaneser V. On the basis of the Babylonian Chronicle’s placement of a ravaging of Samaria prior to 722, Hayes and Kuan suggest that these verses depict a series of Israelite rebellions and Assyrian campaigns.85 In his accession year (728–727), Shalmaneser came west to put down a rebellion initiated by a resurgent Damascus at the death of Tiglath-pileser.86 Accordingly, 2 Kgs 17:3 refers to Hoshea’s initial submission to Shalmaneser in the latter’s accession year. However, when Shalmaneser was forced to spend his first full regnal year (726–725) in Assyria because of internal conflicts (see Eponym Chronicle), Hoshea joined a rebelcle,” ZA 2 (1887): 148–68. For the best publication and study, see A. K. Grayson, Assyrian and Babylonian Chronicles (TCS 5; Locust Valley, NY: J. J. Austin, 1975). 79 See Grayson, Chronicles, 10; contra L. Younger, “The Fall of Samaria in Light of Recent Research,” CBQ 61 (1999): 466. 80 Kuan, Neo-Assyrian Historical Inscriptions, 195; see also Grayson, Chronicles, 73. 81 See Grayson, Chronicles, 73. 82 H. Tadmor, “The Campaigns of Sargon II of Assur: A Chronological-Historical Study,” JCS 12 (1958): 22–40, 77–100. Cf. Ezra 4:10. However, J. Goldberg has recently argued that the term is doubtful since it is unparalleled in either Aramaic or Akkadian and a philologically impeccable alternative is available, Sibraim between Damascus and Hamath (“Two Assyrian Campaigns Against Hezekiah and Later 8th Century Biblical Chronology,” Bib 3 [2000]: 376–77). 83 Contra Younger, “Fall,” 467. 84 See ibid., 477. 85 Hayes and Kuan, “Final Years,” 153–81. 86 For an alternative view, see Younger, “Fall,” 463.

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lion led by Egypt and Tyre (2 Kgs 17:4a).87 In response to this rebellion, Shalmaneser marched specifically against the king and capital and imprisoned Hoshea (2 Kgs 17:4b). This evidence suggests a possible correlation with the Babylonian Chronicle’s reference to a “ravaging” of Samaria prior to 722.88 If this reconstruction is correct, it sheds light on the use of “Samaria” as opposed to “Bit-H… umri.” Perhaps the Chronicle’s designation “URU Samaria” for the northern kingdom indicates that Shalmaneser’s campaign focused specifically on the capital city and did not involve the widespread land of BitH… umri. This usage finds a parallel in Adad-nirari III’s Nimrud Slab, which distinguishes between a reference to the land of Aram-Damascus (KUR ANSE-šu) and a specific move against the capital city Damascus (URU di-maaš-qi). Furthermore, there is some indication that the widespread land under northern control, especially Judah, began to move away from pure subordination and refused to cooperate with Samaria’s rebellions in the 720s. For example, Isa 15–18 and 28–29 seem to reflect this period of new rebellion from 728 to 725. The prophet makes many references to this rebellion and urges the leaders of Judah not to participate (see especially Isa 28:14–18). Additionally, Isa 31–32 implies that Judah was tempted to join in these revolts but ultimately refused official participation (see especially 32:1–8).89 These indications suggest that the Chronicle’s designation “Samaria” may also reflect this developing separation between the actions and policies of the capital city and the surrounding land under its control. Nonetheless, with Shalmaneser’s actions, the northern kingdom seems to have moved from a voluntary satellite state to a subjugated vassal state in 725.

VI. Inscriptions of Sargon II Eight different inscriptions of Sargon II refer to the taking of Samaria,90 and four of them also contain references to Bit-H… umri.91 These texts consis87 The evidence for this comes primarily from Josephus’s quotations of Menander (Ant. 9.283–87). See J. Kuan, “Hosea 9.13 and Josephus, Antiquities IX, 277–287,” PEQ 123 (1991): 103–8. 88 See N. Na’aman, “The Historical Background to the Conquest of Samaria [720 BC],” Bib 71 (1990): 211, 215–16. 89 See J. H. Hayes and S. Irvine, Isaiah: His Times and His Preaching (Nashville: Abingdon, 1987), 255, 345–60. 90 Ashur Charter, Annals, Great Summary Inscription, Nimrud Prism, Cylinder Inscription, Small Summary Inscription, Palace Door Inscription, and Bull Inscription. For a list of the most recent editions and translations of these texts, see Younger, “Fall,” 469. 91 Palace Door Inscription (IV:31–32), Small Summary Inscription (XIV:15), Cylinder Inscription (19–20), and Bull Inscription (21).

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tently refer to the “city (URU) Samaria” and the “land (KUR) of Bit-H… umri.” Because all of the texts that mention the taking of Samaria relate to the same context (720 B.C.E.), this discussion focuses on the two most important inscriptions for the history of the northern kingdom: the Great Summary Inscription and the Nimrud Prism. Events in Assyria and Syria-Palestine form the historical context for these final designations for the northern kingdom. At the start of his reign, Sargon encountered troubles outside of Syria-Palestine that occupied the Assyrian forces.92 With this Assyrian absence, a rebellious coalition led by Ilu-bi
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26: [na-ki-r(?)]-ia, “[hostile to]me,” and [aµlik paµni]-ia, “my [predecessor].” The majority of commentators follow the first reconstruction.97 Thus, the unit refers to Samaria’s participation in the revolt and Sargon’s reactions: [The inhabitants of] Samaria, who agreed with a king [hostile to]me, not to endure servitude and not to bring tribute to Aššur and who did battle, I fought against them. . . .

This designation may shed light on the identity of the unnamed king in the text. Some scholars suggest that the text refers to a non-Israelite anti-Assyrian king like the king of Hamath or Egypt. Hayes and Kuan, however, suggest that the king was a native Israelite enthroned after the city’s final provincialization in 722.98 Since the designations for Samaria in the texts relating to Shalmaneser and Sargon indicate that it existed at this time only as a province of the Assyrian empire and not as an independent vassal kingdom like Hamath and Gaza, a reference to the inhabitants of Samaria rather than an official king is what one expects. Nor is anything said in Sargonic texts of the leadership of the other provincialized territories like Damascus and Arpad. The Great Summary Inscription relates essentially the same information concerning Sargon’s actions against the city (URU) of Samaria.99 This text reaffirms the provincial reference for the term “Samaria.” The relevant portion concludes by asserting that Sargon reestablished on Samaria “the (same) tribute as the previous king (Shalmaneser V).” The reestablishment of the provincial tribute enacted under Shalmaneser V affirms Samaria’s status as a province in 722 and continues that status in 720. The final important point concerning Sargon’s inscriptions is that some of them contain two different designations for the northern kingdom. For example, the Palace Door Inscription asserts that Sargon conquered “the city of Samaria” and “the entire land of Bit-H… umri.” As with the above-mentioned rebellions of 728–725, there is some indication that the widespread land under northern control, especially Judah, did not fully cooperate with these northern rebellions in 720. For example, Isa 19 is an oracle against Egypt that probably relates to the widespread rebellion against Assyria in 720. Unlike Egypt and Samaria, who participated, the prophet asserts that Judah has not become guilty and will be rewarded (see especially 19:17–18, 24–25). Moreover, some Sargonic texts do make mention of the “land (KUR) of Judah.”100 Thus, Sargon’s inscriptions seem to distinguish among Samaria, Bit-H… umri, and Judah. Given the preceding evidence, it is reasonable to conclude that “URU Samaria” 97

See ibid., 470–71; Gadd, “Inscribed Prisms,” 179; Tadmor, “Campaigns of Sargon II,” 34. Hayes and Kuan, “Final Years,” 174. 99 For translations, see Younger, “Fall,” 469; ANET, 284–85; ARAB, 55. 100 This occurs on a building inscription dated to around 717 B.C.E. 98

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in these texts denotes an Assyrian province consisting of the central administrative city and its immediate vicinity. The designation “Bit-H… umri” appears to be a general reference to the rest of the central hill country outside of the vicinity of the capital Samaria.

VII. Conclusion An attempt to deal with all the available Neo-Assyrian designations for the northern kingdom highlights their connections with Israelite history and biblical literature. Prior to 841, the Assyrian texts refer to the northern kingdom as “Israel” or “Bit-H… umri.” While the Assyrian texts use these designations for different reasons, they both seem to refer to a geopolitical entity centered in Samaria that also included Judah. After the rise of an Aramean empire under Hazael, the next Assyrian inscriptions place the new designation “Samaria” alongside “Bit-H… umri.” This new term appears to designate a district of the Aramean empire created by Hazael to encompass the capital city and its immediate vicinity. Throughout the period of the 740s and 730s, changing Assyrian designations reflect the diminishing political status of the northern kingdom. However, at the close of Tiglath-pileser III’s activities in the west in 731, he reestablishes “Bit-H… umri” as the primary term, which designates a newly reorganized entity centered in Samaria and including the southern central hill country and Judah. From this point, the remaining Assyrian designations allow one to see the northern kingdom’s movement from Assyrian satellite to subjugated vassal to incorporated province. A thorough investigation of the various connections between the Assyrian designations and Israelite historical circumstances suggests that the different designations are not simply synonyms for the same static geopolitical entity. Rather, they closely reflect the changing historical and political situations in Syria-Palestine in the ninth and eighth centuries.101 101 I am grateful to Professor John H. Hayes for his guidance on this article. He bears no responsibility for any remaining shortcomings.

JBL 121/4 (2002) 667–687

EXPERIMENTS TO DEVELOP CRITERIA FOR DETERMINING THE EXISTENCE OF WRITTEN SOURCES, AND THEIR POTENTIAL IMPLICATIONS FOR THE SYNOPTIC PROBLEM

ROBERT K. MCIVER [email protected] Avondale College, Cooranbong, NSW 2265, Australia

MARIE CARROLL [email protected] University of Canberra, Canberra, ACT 2601, Australia

Considerations of oral transmission have long been a staple of Gospel studies.1 The experimental examination of the characteristics of human memory has likewise been a significant part of the academic discipline of psychology 1 Johann Gottfried Herder is credited with the first serious exploration of the consequences of the fact that for some time between the life of Jesus and the writing down of the Gospels, the Gospel materials existed in oral form (“Vom Erlöser der Menschen: Nach unsern drie ersten Evangelien,” in Johann Gottfried Herders Werke [Frankfurt am Main: Deutscher Klassiker, 1994], 9:609–724). Considerations of orality and oral transmission have received considerable attention in Gospel studies at different times. For example, Rudolf Bultmann’s influential History of the Synoptic Tradition (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1963) used the methodology of Formgeschichte to attempt a history of the development of Christian thought during the time that the Jesus tradition existed in oral form. This methodology dominated Gospel studies for a significant period. The revival of interest in the historical Jesus in more recent times has again put considerations of this oral period of the tradition at center stage. Of several examples, one might cite John Dominic Crossan, The Birth of Christianity (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1998), 49–89. Discussions of orality have also consistently surfaced in works dealing with the Synoptic Problem. From its first emergence as a significant issue in Gospel research to the present, explanations based on oral transmission have been advocated, albeit as a minority position. Perhaps the best known advocates of this position are Harald Riesenfeld, The Gospel Tradition and its Beginnings: A Study in the Limits of ‘Formgeschichte’ (London: Mowbray, 1957), and Birger Gerhardsson, Memory and Manuscript (Uppsala: Gleerup, 1961).

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from its inception.2 Yet, with a few notable exceptions,3 those working in the field of Gospel studies have made little use of the insights that might derive from experimental psychology. This article reports on three of a series of six experiments designed to explore some of the characteristics whereby materials copied from written texts may be distinguished from orally transmitted materials. The experimental design is the result of a collaboration between academics from the two diverse fields of Gospel studies and experimental psychology. The article will conclude with a consideration of some of the implications for the study of the Synoptic Problem that might derive from the results of the experiments.

Experiment 5 Although the penultimate experiment in the series, this experiment is perhaps the most instructive. Forty-three students chose to participate in this experiment as one option for a class requirement. They were randomly assigned to three groups based on their time of arrival at the designated room, and they signed a willingness-to-participate form after reading a brief explanation of the experiment. The participants in each group were given a list of eight subjects from which they were to choose the six that they knew most about. The eight subjects were (1) the sinking of the Titanic; (2) the presidency of John F. Kennedy; (3) the AIDS epidemic; (4) the death of Diana, princess of Wales; (5) the “coming out” of Ellen DeGeneres; (6) the Monica Lewinski affair; (7) Cathy Freeman’s sports career; and (8) the war in Kosovo. Short descriptive notes about each of these were prepared by the experimenter and made available for designated parts of the experiment. These varied in length from 217 to 336 words, with six of the eight between 240 and 290 words. Each included a number of specific facts. 2 The experiments of Hermann Ebbinghaus, reported in 1885 in Über das Gedächtnis: Untersuchungen zur experimentellen Psychologie (Leipzig: Dunker & Humblot, 1885), using nonsense syllables to investigate the characteristics of human memory, provided a significant impetus to the development of experimental psychology (see Hermann Ebbinghaus, Memory: A Contribution to Experimental Psychology [New York: Dover, 1964]). Since that time, tens of thousands of sophisticated experiments have investigated many different aspects of memory. A convenient summary of many of the significant findings of memory research can be found in Alan D. Baddeley, The Psychology of Memory (New York: Basic Books, 1976). 3 Both W. S. Taylor (“Memory and the Gospel Tradition,” ThTo 15 [1959]: 470–79) and Crossan (Birth of Christianity, 78–84) make use of the work of Frederic C. Bartlett, Remembering (1932; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1961). Nor should the article by John Bradshaw (“Oral Transmission and Human Memory,” ExpTim 92 [1980–81]: 303–7) be overlooked. But such examples are rare.

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The instructions given to the first group were as follows: First:

Write about the first two of the events on your list without any reference to sources. Please write less than 1 page on each event. Use the two forms with the title, “No Sources” (this is vital), and identify the topic about which you are writing.

Second: Please ask for summaries of the next two events on your list. You will be allowed to read them as often as you wish. But before you write about the event, give back the written summary. Now write about the events in your own words. You can mix your own material and material from the summary in order to get a fair summary of everything you would want to say about the event. Please write less than 1 page on each event. Use your own words, and you may include things about the event that are not in the summary. Use the forms with the heading “Source used but returned” (this is vital), and identify the topic about which you are writing. Third:

Please ask for summaries of the last two of these events on your list. You can read them as often as you like. Now write about the events in your own words. You do not have to return the summaries before you write. You can mix your own material and material from the summary in order to get a fair summary of everything you would want to say about the event. Please write less than 1 page on each event. Use the forms with the heading “Source used and retained” (this is vital), and identify the topic about which you are writing.

Those in the second group were asked to do these same tasks but in a different order: the first two with the sources available as they wrote, the second two without any reference to sources, and the third two after reading and then returning the sources. The third group did them in the following order: sources used but returned; sources used and retained; no sources. In analyzing the responses, participants’ written information was typed in a column parallel to a copy of the original, and the common vocabulary and phrases were underlined for each respondent. The hypothesis under test was that there should be a discernible difference in both the amount of common vocabulary and items of fact between the group that was writing purely from their own recollection of the event and the other two groups which had been provided with a summary of the event. It was further expected that those who were able to retain the summary of the event and allowed to copy freely from it would differ again—both in the amount of common vocabulary and in the number of words that were in exactly the same sequence—from the group which returned the summary. Thus, the measures of interest were (1) common vocabulary, (2) the maximum number of words in exact sequence, and (3) the number of items of fact that were recorded. The two topics chosen by most of the volunteers were the sinking of the

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Titanic (40 responses) and the death of Diana (37). The type of differences that might be observed in the three groups may be illustrated by the materials generated by volunteers D19, D10, and D13. D19, for example, wrote the following with no prompting other than “Write about” the sinking of the Titanic “without any reference to sources.”

[Summary provided to other participants]

[Response of D19—No Sources]

Advertised as unsinkable, built to be the largest ship of that time and the epitome of luxury, the Titanic struck an iceberg and sank on her maiden voyage. Conditions were calm in the Atlantic on the night of April 14, 1912. In an apparent effort to break the Trans-Atlantic record, the Titanic was travelling at a speed of 22 knots (41 km/h) when it struck the iceberg. At first passengers and crew were not aware of how serious the damage was. But the designer of the ship was on board, and was soon able to report to the captain that five of the watertight compartments had been breached, and that the ship would surely sink in the next few hours.

The Titanic was a huge cruise ship built by the British White Starline Company in Ireland. This ship was said to be unsinkable due to it’s design and it was also said to be the fastest. It was ment to be the most decidant cruize ship on the open seas and that it was but tradegy struck in the Atlantic sea. The ship hit an iceburg and the first four of the compartments of the bottom filled with water making the front top heavey and thus the ship sank. Because they had been so confident there were not enough lifeboats for everyone and ove 15000 people perished.

There were insufficient lifeboats, and a nearby ship, the California, failed to respond to radio messages and flares. Not all of the available seats in the lifeboats were used, and about 1500 passengers and crew drowned. These included the Captain. His last known words to the escaping crew and passengers were, “Be British.” He was last seen diving from the bridge into the water. In September 1985 a joint US-French scientific expedition located the remains of the Titanic at a depth of 3,962 m, about 595 Kms off the coast of Newfoundland. The ship was photographed using a deep-sea robot. The sinking of the Titanic has been made into a movie, which currently is the highest grossing movie ever produced.

[Note: Original spelling retained.]

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There were 11 words in common between the original and the response (5% of the 240 words in the original, 10% of the 107 words in the response). There were two words in exactly the same order, and 6 common elements, of which 3 were in the same sequence. No two responses were the same, but this response is nearly average on the statistics that were measured. The average number of common words for those who wrote on the sinking of the Titanic without a source was 13.9, with 2.1 as the average number of words in exactly the same sequence. It is instructive to compare the above with responses given from the other two groups: [Original Summary] Advertised as unsinkable, built to be the largest ship of that time and the epitome of luxury, the Titanic struck an iceberg and sank on her maiden voyage. Conditions were calm in the Atlantic on the night of April 14, 1912. In an apparent effort to break the Trans-Atlantic record, the Titanic was travelling at a speed of 22 knots (41 km/h) when it struck the iceberg. At first passengers and crew were not aware of how serious the damage was. But the designer of the ship was on board, and was soon able to report to the captain that five of the watertight compartments had been breached, and that the ship would surely sink in the next few hours. There were insufficient lifeboats, and a nearby ship, the California, failed to respond to radio messages and flares. Not all of the available seats in the lifeboats were used, and about 1500 passengers and crew drowned. These included the Captain. His last known words to the escaping crew and passengers were, “Be British.” He was last seen diving from the bridge into the water. In September 1985 a joint US-French scientific expedition located the remains of the Titanic at a depth of 3,962 m, about 595 Kms off the coast of Newfoundland. The ship was photographed using a deep-sea robot. The sinking of the Titanic has been made into a movie, which currently is the highest grossing movie ever produced.

[D10—Source used, but returned] The titanic was the biggest ship ever to be made—it was so luxurious ahead of its time. It was on its maiden voyage on April 14 1912 when it struck an iceberg & sunk. The crew & passengers weren’t aware of the extent of the damage but the designer was on board & he said that it was going to sink. The wasn’t enough lifeboats for everyone. The boats weren’t filled to capacity and in the end 1500 people died including the captain. In 1985 a french scientist discovered the titanic at at [sic] depth of 3,965m below sea level 595km off the coast of .... A movie was made and it is one of the biggest movies made.

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Journal of Biblical Literature [Original Summary]

Advertised as unsinkable, built to be the largest ship of that time and the epitome of luxury, the Titanic struck an iceberg and sank on her maiden voyage. Conditions were calm in the Atlantic on the night of April 14, 1912. In an apparent effort to break the Trans-Atlantic record, the Titanic was travelling at a speed of 22 knots (41 km/h) when it struck the iceberg. At first passengers and crew were not aware of how serious the damage was. But the designer of the ship was on board, and was soon able to report to the captain that five of the watertight compartments had been breached, and that the ship would surely sink in the next few hours. There were insufficient lifeboats, and a nearby ship, the California, failed to respond to radio messages and flares. Not all of the available seats in the lifeboats were used, and about 1500 passengers and crew drowned. These included the Captain. His last known words to the escaping crew and passengers were, “Be British.” He was last seen diving from the bridge into the water. In September 1985 a joint US-French scientific expedition located the remains of the Titanic at a depth of 3,962 m, about 595 Kms off the coast of Newfoundland. The ship was photographed using a deep-sea robot.

[D13—Source used and retained] The titanic was built as the largest ship of the time. It was advertised as unsinkable. On April 14 1992, in an effort to break a record the titanic was travelling at full speed when it hit the iceberg. The passengers were not sure if it was serious at first. The designer of the ship soon reported however that the 5 watertight compartments had been breached, and the ship would sink within a few hours. There were insufficient lifeboats. Not all the available seats in the lifeboats were used and about 1500 passengers drowned. In 1985 a joint US-French scientific expedition located the remains of the titanic at a depth of 3962m. The ship was photographed using a deep sea robot. Titanic has been made into a movie which is currently the highest grossing movie ever produced.

The sinking of the Titanic has been made into a movie, which currently is the highest grossing movie ever produced.

As perhaps might have been expected, the responses of D10 (Source Returned) and D13 (Source Retained) show a much greater commonality with the summary that was provided than that of D19 (no sources). This was true on all the statistics gathered: the number of common words, the percentage of common words compared to the original, the number of words in exact

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sequence, the number of common factual elements, and the number of factual elements in sequence. No. of common words

% common words Words in exact (vs. original) sequence

Common Elements in elements sequence

D19

11

5

2

6

3

D10

49

20

6

14

10

D13

112

47

18

18

14

In fact, the averages of all these measures showed the same kind of progression. Eighteen of the 43 volunteers completed six responses in the experiment, and most of the rest completed four of them. If all these responses are pooled, the average responses for the above statistics are as follows:

No sources

For all data ( n= 66, 69, 78, resp.)

For Titanic only (n = 14, 13, 13)

% common words Words in exact (vs. original) sequence

Common elements

5.00

Source returned

15.3

Source retained

28.4

2.45 5.43 12.6

5.14 15.4 15.6

Elements in sequence 3.07 9.77 12.4

These results are readily amenable to statistical analysis. All the differences were found to be statistically significant, aside from the differences in common elements and the sequence of common elements between the source returned and source retained.4 4 Starting with the null hypothesis (H ) that there was no difference between the three 0 different conditions (no source, source returned, source retained), an ANOVA analysis of the total sample for the percentage of common words vs. original yielded a P-value of 4.51E-27. Thus, if the null hypothesis is true, the probability of achieving this experimental result was 0.00000000000000000000000000451. This is so unlikely that the null hypothesis—there is no difference between the three experimental conditions—should be rejected (it is not uncommon to reject null hypotheses at a = 0.01). In other words, there is a (statistically) significant difference between the results obtained from the three experimental conditions. A two-tailed t-test assuming unequal variances was also done on the two conditions “source returned” and “source retained.” This yielded P(T<=t) = 5.48E-09. There is also a (statistically) significant difference between the experimental results from these two conditions. The analogous statistics for the words in exactly the same order are ANOVA P-value = 1E-11; t-test P(T<=t) = 1.54E-05. For the results from the responses on sinking the Titanic alone, the ANOVA statistics for the three conditions for number of common elements, and number of common elements in sequence are 3.2E-09 and 2.08E-06 resp.

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Journal of Biblical Literature Experiments 1 and 2

Experiments 1 and 2 unexpectedly revealed significant information concerning the importance of genre in the oral transmission of material. In both of these experiments, after reading a brief description of the experiment and signing a willingness-to-participate form, volunteers were able to listen to something read to them as often as they wished. They then went into another room and repeated what they had heard as accurately as possible into a tape recorder. They were then asked to copy in writing a similar item provided to them as a written text. The experiment had been set up in the hope that it might produce results similar to the parallels found in the Synoptic Gospels. This was true of the first part of the experiment, which relied on oral memory. But the emphasis on verbatim accuracy given to the participants in their instructions produced near 100% accuracy in the copying from a written text, something not found in the parallels between the Synoptic Gospels. Exact word-for-word parallels are not found in any Synoptic parallel of 32 words or more. It was this observation from the results of experiments 1 and 2 that led to the development of the carefully constructed instructions in experiment 5, which did produce copying of a kind that can be found in some Synoptic parallels (see below). What did produce significant results in experiments 1 and 2, however, is that the genre was different for the two experiments. In the first, a joke was used; in the second, four aphorisms. Financial incentives were announced for the first volunteer to repeat what had been heard word for word.5 In the event, while most were able to reproduce the joke in a way that retained its humor, nobody came close to getting it word for word. On the other hand, several volunteers came very close to getting three of the four aphorisms word for word. It is highly instructive to compare the results obtained by the volunteers who achieved some of the results on the two tasks that came closest to reproducing the original joke or aphorisms:

The t-test for the “returned” vs. “retained” are P(T<=t) = 0.898 and P(T<=t) = 0.20 respectively (this t-test is not significant at a = 0.01). It is interesting to speculate that a larger sample might yield statistically significant results for the number of elements in sequence, but it is highly unlikely that an increased sample size would make any difference to the result of the total number of elements (without consideration of order). It was decided not to do this latter test on the total results because of the variation in the number of elements present in each of the eight sources that were provided to the volunteers. 5 For the joke, this was $20. For the aphorisms, $10 to the first volunteer to get three aphorisms word for word, and $10 for the first volunteer to get all four word for word.

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Experiment 1 [Original]

[Response from participant A15]

There’s this desert prison, with an old prisoner, resigned to his life, and a young one just arrived. The young one talks constantly of escape, and, after a few months, he makes a break. He’s gone a week, and then he’s brought back by the guards. He’s half dead. Crazy with hunger and thirst. He describes how awful it was to the old prisoner. The endless stretches of sand, no oasis, no signs of life anywhere. The old prisoner listens for a while, he says, “Yep, I know. I tried to escape myself twenty years ago.” The young prisoner says, “You did? Why didn’t you tell me, all these months I was planning my escape? Why didn’t you let me know it was impossible?” The old prisoner shrugs, and says, “So who publishes negative results?”6

There was a prison in the desert and there was an old man there who wasold prisoner there who was resigned to his fate. A young prisoner is bought in and he’s crazy about planning his escape, he escapes and after a month and a week later he’s brought back mad with hunger and thirst . . . now I’ve forgotten the next bit . . . um . . . . He . . . the old prisoner . . . he tells the old prisoner that um about the endless stretches of sand and no oasis and no signs of life he . . . the old prisoner says, “Yeah, I know, I tried to escape when I first came in.” And the young prisoner says, “Why didn’t you tell me when I was planning all those maps of my escape?” And the old prisoner says, “That they never publish negative . . . nobody publishes negative results.”

Experiment 2 [Original]

[Response from participant B7]

You are more likely to be struck by lightning than to be eaten by a shark.

You are more likely to be struck by lightning than to be eaten by a shark.

You are more likely to be infected by flesh-eating bacteria than you are to be struck by lightning

You are more likely to be infected by a flesh-eating bacteria than you are to be struck by lightning.

More people working in advertising died on the job in 1996 than died while working in petroleum refining.

More people are killed annually by donkeys than die in air crashes.

More people are killed annually by donkeys than die in air crashes.

Um… There were more people working in advertising in 1996 than work in petroleum refining.

6 Michael Crichton (writing as Jeffrey Hudson), A Case of Need (Hingham, MA: Wheeler, 1994), 217, used by permission. Other materials used as stimuli were either written specifically for the experiment, or adapted from unattributed materials from the Internet.

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The genres of the two samples used in the experiment were chosen with a deliberate eye on the materials attributed to Jesus in the Gospels. These include many aphorisms and a large number of parables. It was thought that jokes may share several of the characteristics of the parables of Jesus: they are independent units that require the preservation of a certain number of basic elements to make “sense,” even if, like joke 1 used in experiment 1, many of those who transmitted it did not understand its import. In this way parables and jokes may well be relatively resistant to change. As it turns out, while the basic meaning of the joke might be relatively resistant to change, it is not transmitted word for word. That this is a characteristic of oral transmission of material has been noted often enough.7 What is curious, though, is that the situation is different for aphorisms. They tend to be remembered nearly word for word. While volunteer B7 was one of those who most nearly achieved word-for-word transmission, most of the volunteers tended to remember parts of the aphorisms exactly, and forget the rest. Volunteer B6 provided an excellent example of this: Experiment 2 [Original]

[Response from participant B6]

You are more likely to be struck by lightning than to be eaten by a shark.

You are more likely to be struck by lightning than you are to be eaten by a shark.

You are more likely to be infected by flesh-eating bacteria than you are to be struck by lightning More people working in advertising died on the job in 1996 than died while working in petroleum refining. More people are killed annually by donkeys than die in air crashes.

You are more likely to be infected by . . . oh I’ve forgotten . . . You are more likely to be infected by a something microbiotic . . . (laughs) . . . whatever than to be struck by lightning . Um . . . More people annually die by being . . . from a donkey than . . . from an air crash. Oh I’ve completely stuffed up, but that’s all right, and then there was something about the um . . . advertising crew dying in 1996 than in . . . oh whatever.

7 For example, see summary of evidence in Ian M. L. Hunter, Memory (rev. ed.; Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1964), 143–83; cf. Walter J. Ong, Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word (1982; London/New York: Routledge, 1993), 57–68.

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The same characteristic was noted with regard to poems that were used in another experiment.8 Those parts of the poems that were remembered were usually remembered exactly, and those parts that were forgotten were forgotten entirely.

Potential Implications for the Synoptic Problem That there are strong cultural differences between the students taking part in these experiments and the anonymous writers who produced the Synoptic Gospels is self-evident, and it is a plausible if untestable supposition that some of these differences may affect the kind of characteristics that have been measured in these experiments. The Gospels arose out of a primarily oral cultural background, while tertiary students are immersed in a culture biased strongly toward written texts, and memory plays a different role in oral cultures.9 Yet anthropologists report that long verbatim recall exists in purely oral cultures only in the case of shorter poems and the words of some songs, not in the recounting of stories or jokes. What is remembered are the underlying meaning and facts, and even these have a degree of fluidity that can be disconcerting to an observer from a text-based culture.10 8 Experiment 3 used two jokes and two poems. Participants were able to read one joke and one poem, and only heard the other joke and poem. The two jokes and two poems were then reproduced from memory. The poem available for reading was transmitted better than that which was only heard, but in both cases the different lines of the poem were recalled virtually word for word or not at all. Experiment 4 used a joke that participants could read. Half were then required to return the joke, and half were able to retain it so that they could refer to it as they wrote out the joke in their own words. The results of experiment 4 parallel those reported for experiment 5 in this paper. Experiment 6 involved asking the participants of experiments 3 and 4 to recall what they could of the joke/jokes/poems after a period of a week, a month, and a year. Space considerations have precluded a fuller reporting on the results of experiments 3, 4, and 6 in this paper. 9 The first author has had several private communications stressing this fact from friends who have worked in Papua, New Guinea, or who have worked closely with Australian Aborigines. Bartlett himself recounts a remarkable case of a Swaziland herdsman with near total recall of the exact numbers and prices of cattle sold one year earlier (Remembering, 249–50). It would be interesting indeed to repeat the kind of experiments reported here in a community with a living oral culture. 10 Ong provides a useful survey of the evidence, beginning with the work of Milman Parry and Albert Lord (Orality, 57–69). While the narrative poets of Yugoslavia recorded by Parry and Lord claimed to reproduce long poems line for line and word for word, actual recordings show that the two renditions are never the same. Jack Goody reports that oral peoples do try for verbatim repetition of poems. Their success “is minimal by literate standards” (ibid., 62). Jeffrey Opland, for example, estimates that in Africa there is “at least sixty per cent in correlation with other versions” of the poem (ibid.)—a very good result, but not verbatim memorization. Music, though, can often produce verbatim reproduction of the lyrics (ibid., 63). Ian M. L. Hunter discusses the popular belief “that nonliterate cultures encourage feats of word-for-word remembering” (“Lengthy Verba-

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The basic limitations placed on memory by the abilities of the human brain are constant between these cultures, and this may explain why lengthy verbatim recall is so rare. Of particular importance are the limitations of shortterm memory. Most individuals are able to store only between four and seven items in short-term memory.11 These items in short-term memory are continually being replaced as new input arrives at the senses and need to be particularly “memorable” if they are to move to medium or long-term memory. What appears to be stored in medium and long-term memory are not usually the exact words, but the underlying meaning of the words. There are exceptions to this general observation, particularly in respect to poetry and words set to music. Furthermore, actors are able to memorize large bodies of text word for word, but this type of memorization requires much rehearsal from an unchanging written text, something not available in an oral culture.12 In the absence of such special conditions, what is remembered is the meaning, not the exact words. This can be illustrated from the experiments reported here. What is remembered from jokes and the historical accounts, for example, are not the exact words but the macro-meaning of the text. Some phrases are retained, but not long sequences of words. The long sequences of words were found to be transmitted only by means of copying from written texts.

Criteria for Determining Whether Copying Has Taken Place The experiments are able to provide a test to determine when a previously existing written text has been used as the basis of another text. That a written document underlies a certain text is not always discernible. For example, many of the volunteers who retained the written summary in experiment 5 did not produce long sequences of words. But here is the point. For the jokes and the descriptions of historical events, only those who retained the text and could copy from it produced long sequences of words that were exactly the same. It is instructive to examine the following three graphical representations of the statistics for the “largest number of words in exact sequence” from the total sample of experiment 5: tim Recall: The Role of Text,” in Progress in the Psychology of Language [ed. Andrew W. Ellis; London: Erlbaum, 1985], 1:207–36). His conclusion is that lengthy verbatim recall does not take place in nonliterature cultures. Indeed, it is only possible where there are written texts against which to test the memorized version for accuracy. 11 George A. Miller, “The Magical Number Seven, Plus or Minus Two: Some Limits on Our Capacity for Processing Information,” Psychological Review 63 (1956): 81–97; Donald E. Broadbent, “The Magic Number Seven after Fifteen Years,” in Studies in Long Term Memory (ed. Alan Kennedy and Alan Wilkes; London: Wiley, 1975), 3–18. 12 Hunter, “Lengthy Verbatim Recall,” 210, 234.

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Number of Words in Exact Sequence 70 60

Frequency

50

No source

40

Source Returned

30

Source Retained

20 10 0 0

4

8

12

16

20

24

28

32

36

40

>40

Number of words

While there is overlap between the various categories, it is clear that long sequences of 16 or more words belong exclusively to the group that retained the source and could copy from it. From the perspective of the development of a test for the presence of copying, the critical group is the group that returned the source before writing. The longest sequence of words in the exact order for almost all of them was fewer than 8. None of them had a sequence of words greater than 15.13 This result is represented graphically on the following page. The experiments have also shown that this characteristic is accurate only for narrative material, and that it is possible that longer sequences of words from poems and shorter aphorisms might be remembered exactly.14 Thus it is 13 The shape of the graph suggests that a Poisson distribution would be the most suitable approximation of the distribution. The sample average is 5.43 (n = 69). The probability that a Poisson distribution of l = 6 returning values x ≥ 16 is 0.00017. In other words, in fewer than 2 out of 10,000 times would such an event occur. Hence, 16 or more words in exact sequence is so unlikely to occur when copying has not taken place that it appears to be a sensible cutoff point to determine whether or not copying has occurred. Even 15 or more words in sequence has a low probability, although two volunteers achieved it. An explanation lies to hand for volunteer D37, who reproduced the saying “Ask not what your country can do for your—ask what you can do for your country,” as “Don’t ask what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.” In other words, this is further evidence of the memorability of aphorisms, especially one expressed as a chiasm. 14 Kenneth Bailey, in two separate articles describing informal oral traditions in modern Arab villages, distinguishes proverbs and poems from other oral material because there is no flexibility in the wording of proverbs and poems. They are always said in exactly the same manner (“Informal Controlled Oral Tradition and the Synoptic Gospels,” Asia Journal of Theology 5 [1991]: 34–54, esp. 42; idem, “Middle Eastern Oral Tradition and the Synoptic Gospels,” ExpTim 106 [1995]:

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Journal of Biblical Literature Number of Words in Exact Sequence: Source Returned 16 14

Frequency

12 10 8 6 4 2 0 0

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

>15

Number of words

now possible to state a general test to determine the existence of written sources: Any sequence of exactly the same 16 or more words that is not an aphorism, poetry, or words to a song is almost certain to have been copied from a written document.

Conclusion 1: There are at least nine parallel passages in the Synoptic Gospels where copying has almost certainly occurred. The application of this test to the Synoptic Gospels would reveal those parallels passages whose relationship can only be ascribed to copying. The first stage of applying the test is to discover the parallel passages with 16 or more words that are exactly the same in form and sequence. There are 23 such passages, which are listed in the following table:

363– 67, esp. 366). In addition, Ong notes that words set to music are usually transmitted exactly (Orality, 63). James D. G. Dunn uses Bailey’s distinction between oral material that is handed down with (a) no flexibility, (b) some flexibility, and (c) total flexibility to good effect (Dunn, “Jesus in Oral Memory: The Initial Stages of the Jesus Tradition,” in Society of Biblical Literature 2000 Seminar Papers [Atlanta: SBL, 2000], 287–326).

McIver and Carroll: Determining the Existence of Written Sources No. of words in exact sequence 31 29 28 28 26 26 24 24 24 24 23 23 23 23 22 21 20 19 17 17 16 16 16

Reference Matthew

Mark

10:16–25

13:3–13 10:13–16

11:25–30 24:45–51 1:21–28 6:24 3:1–12 7:7–12 8:18–22 12:38–42 16:21–28 24:15–28 26:17–25 11:1–19 8:5–13 15:1–20 22:41–46 8:1–4 20:20–28 15:32–39 16:21–28 24:29–35

8:31–9:1 12:38–40 13:14–23 14:12–21

Huck number15 Luke 18:15–17 10:21–24 12:41–48 4:31–37 16:10–13 3:1–20 11:9–13 9:57–62 11:29–32 20:45–47

7:18–35 7:1–10 7:1–23 12:35–37 5:12–16 10:35–45 8:1–10 9:21–27 13:24–31

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58, 59, 213–15 188 67–68, 141–42 226, 158–59 12 34, 174 1–5 38–39, 148 49, 138 87, 152 122–23 210 216–18 234–35 64–65, 81–82 46, 79 115 209 45 192 118 122–23 219–21

The second stage of applying the test to determine if copying has taken place is to discard those passages that are aphorisms, distinctive sayings, or poetry, since long sequences of words of aphorisms and distinctive sayings can be transmitted orally. Thus, the following seven parallels should be set to one side: Short aphorisms or distinctive sayings: Matt 6:24 // Luke 16:13 (“No one can serve two masters . . .”); Mark 1:24–25 // Luke 4:34–35 (the words of the demons); Matt 7:7–8 // Luke 11:9–10 (“Ask and it will be given you . . .”); Matt 15

Albert Huck, A Synopsis of the First Three Gospels (9th ed.; Tübingen: Mohr, 1935).

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8:20 // Luke 9:58 (“Foxes have holes . . .”); Mark 12:38–40 // Luke 20:45–47 (“Beware of the scribes . . .”); Matt 26:24 // Mark 14:21 (“Son of Man goes as is . . .”); Matt 20:28 // Mark 10:45 (“Son of Man did not come to be served . . .”). A further seven parallels are ambiguous from the perspective of the experimental results. These saying are distinctive, and so it is conceivable that they may have been transmitted by oral means. But they are embedded in passages that have a number of long sequences of words that are exactly the same, which would incline an observer to the supposition that copying has taken place. Nevertheless, they probably should be set aside from the list of indisputable examples of copying, because of the possibility that their form is distinctive enough that it could be remembered exactly. These passages are as follows: Longer distinctive sayings: Matt 12:41–42 // Luke 11:29–32 (“The men of Nineveh will rise up . . .”16); Mark 10:13–16 // Luke 18:15–17 (“Let the children come to me . . .”); Matt 16:24–26 // Mark 8:34–36 // Luke 9:23–25 (“If anyone would follow me, let them take up their cross . . .”); Matt 8:9 // Luke 7:8 (words of the centurion: “I say go, and he goes . . .”); Matt 15:8–9 // Mark 7:6–7 (“[This people] honors me with their lips . . .”); Matt 15:32 // Mark 8:2 (“I have compassion upon the crowd . . .”). This leaves the following passages, which, by the criteria developed above, almost certainly contain copied material: • three parallels in the apocalyptic discourse: Matt 24:15–28 // Mark 13:14–23; Matt 24:29–35 // Mark 13:24–31; Matt 10:21–22 // Mark 13:12–1317 • three narrative accounts: Matt 3:1–12 // Luke 3:1–20 (preaching of John the Baptist, particularly Matt 3:7b–12 // Luke 3:7b–9, 16–17); Matt 11:1–19 // Luke 7:18–35 (messengers from John the Baptist); Matt 8:1–4 // Luke 5:12–16 (healing of a leper) • a short discourse: Matt 11:25–30 // Luke 10:21–24 (“Father . . . you have hidden these things from the wise . . .”) • a parable: Matt 24:45–51 // Luke 12:41–48 (parable of wise and wicked servants) • a citation from Ps 110: Matt 22:41–46 // Mark 12:35–37 16 In Matt 12:41– 42 // Luke 11:29–32 the total passage with extended sequences of words extends over 53 words; while Matt 16:24–26 // Mark 8:34–36 // Luke 9:23–25 is in a total passage of 51 words. 17 Mark 13:28–31 // Luke 21:29–38, also from the apocalyptic discourse, show 15 words in exact sequence, and thus fall just outside the criteria of 16 or more words.

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Of the material that almost certainly contains copied material, it is possible to identify one common source with confidence: a Greek version of Ps 110, perhaps the LXX.18 If it was decided on other grounds that it was unlikely that one evangelist copied directly from an existing Gospel, then it would be necessary to postulate a minimum of two further sources: one, the apocalyptic discourse (Mark 13 and parallels), which all three Gospels used, and one used by both Matthew and Luke but not Mark (perhaps Q?). Indeed, once one has admitted that evidence for such a document exists, it would not be improbable that several of the passages that have been temporarily set aside may have been copied from such a document. It is instructive to compare the visual appearance of the parallels listed above as almost certainly containing copying with that given earlier in the article from volunteer D13 in experiment 5. The parable in Matt 24:45–51 // Luke 12:41–48 might serve as an example: Matt 24:45–51 (88 words in common [81% of words in the Matthean version]; longest sequence exactly the same = 28 words)

Luke 12:41–48 (88 words in common [51% of words in the Lukan version])

45 Tiv" a[ra ejsti;n oJ pisto;" dou'lo" kai; frovnimo" o}n katevsthsen oJ kuvrio" ejpi; th'" oijketeiva" aujtou' tou' dou'nai aujtoi'" th;n trofh;n ejn kairw'/ 46 makavrio" oJ dou'lo" ejkei'no" o}n ejlqw;n oJ kuvrio" aujtou' euJrhvsei ou{tw" poiou'nta: 47 ajmh;n levgw uJmi'n o{ti ejpi; pa'sin toi'" uJpavrcousin aujtou' katasthvsei aujtovn. 48 eja;n de; ei[ph/ oJ kako;" dou'lo" ejkei'no" ejn th'/ kardiva/ aujtou': cronivzei mou oJ kuvrio", 49 kai; a[rxhtai tuvptein tou;" sundouvlou" aujtou', ejsqivh/ de; kai; pivnh/ meta; tw'n mequovntwn, 50 h{xei oJ kuvrio" tou' douvlou ejkeivnou ejn hJmevra/ h|/ ouj prosdoka'/ kai; ejn w{ra/ h|/ ouj ginwvskei, 51 kai; dicotomhvsei aujto;n kai; to; mevro" aujtou' meta; tw'n uJpokritw'n qhvsei: ejkei'

41 Ei\pen de; oJ Pevtro": kuvrie, pro;" hJma'" th;n parabolh;n tauvthn levgei" h] kai; pro;" pavnta"_ 42 kai; ei\pen oJ kuvrio": tiv" a[ra ejsti;n oJ pisto;" oijkonovmo" oJ frovnimo", o}n katasthvsei oJ kuvrio" ejpi; th'" qerapeiva" aujtou' tou' didovnai ejn kairw'/ [to;] sitomevtrion_ 43 makavrio" oJ dou'lo" ejkei'no", o}n ejlqw;n oJ kuvrio" aujtou' euJrhvsei poiou'nta ou{tw". 44 ajlhqw'" levgw uJmi'n o{ti ejpi; pa'sin toi'" uJpavrcousin aujtou' katasthvsei aujtovn. 45 eja;n de; ei[ph/ oJ dou'lo" ejkei'no" ejn th'/ kardiva/ aujtou': cronivzei oJ kuvriov" mou e[rcesqai, kai; a[rxhtai tuvptein tou;" pai'da" kai; ta;" paidivska", ejsqivein te kai; pivnein kai; mequvskesqai, 46 h{xei oJ kuvrio" tou'

18 The LXX text of Ps 110:1 from Gramcord (which uses Rahlfs’s edition) is exactly the same as that found in Matt 22:44 and parallels. Note that there are a further three parallels that have 15 words in exactly the same sequence that involve parallels to Ps 110:1: Matt 22:41–46 // Luke 20:41– 44; Mark 12:35–37 // Luke 20:41–44; and Mark 13:28–31 // Luke 21:29–38.

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e[stai oJ klauqmo;" kai; oJ brugmo;" tw'n ojdovntwn.

douvlou ejkeivnou ejn hJmevra/ h|/ ouj prosdoka'/ kai; ejn w{ra/ h|/ ouj ginwvskei, kai; dicotomhvsei aujto;n kai; to; mevro" aujtou' meta; tw'n ajpivstwn qhvsei. 47 !Ekei'no" de; oJ dou'lo" oJ gnou;" to; qevlhma tou' kurivou aujtou' kai; mh; eJtoimavsa" h] poihvsa" pro;" to; qevlhma aujtou' darhvsetai pollav": 48 oJ de; mh; gnouv", poihvsa" de; a[xia plhgw'n darhvsetai ojlivga". Panti; de; w|/ ejdovqh poluv, polu; zhthqhvsetai par! aujtou', kai; w|/ parevqento poluv, perissovteron aijthvsousin aujtovn.

This parallel contains several long sequences of words that are in exactly the same order, and has a visual appearance very like that observed in those who retained their written source in experiment 5.

Characteristics of Orally Transmitted Materials The experimental results have yielded a test to determine whether copying is present. Is it further possible to use them to derive a test to show that mechanisms of memory are present? Perhaps, although such a test has to be expressed more generally than that developed for revealing whether copying is present. The response of volunteer A10 is a suitable place to begin a consideration of the characteristics of material in the transmission of which memory plays a significant part. This response contained one of the highest percentages of common material in the first part of experiment 1: 62% of words in common with the original, and a maximum of six words in sequence:19

19 The joke is different from that heard by volunteer A15, which is given earlier in the article. Two jokes were used in experiment 1, one that was heard orally, and one that was copied. The joke heard and the joke copied were randomly varied. Most volunteers did not understand the first joke cited, and all the highest frequencies of common vocabulary belonged to those who heard this second joke, which all the volunteers understood.

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Experiment 1 [Original] There was an Irishman, an Englishman and Elle sitting together in a carriage on a train going through Tasmania. Suddenly the train went through a tunnel and as it was an old style train, there were no lights in the carriages and it went completely dark. Then there was this kissing noise and the sound of a really loud slap. When the train came out of the tunnel, Elle and the Irishman were sitting as if nothing had happened, but the Englishman had his hand against his face as he had been slapped there. The Englishman was thinking: “The Irish fella must have kissed Elle and she missed him and hit me instead. Elle was thinking: “The English fella must have tried to kiss me and actually kissed the Irishman and got slapped for it.” The Irishman was thinking, “This is great! The next time the train goes through a tunnel I’ll make another kissing noise and slap that English idiot again.”

[Response from participant A10] There was an Englishman, an Irishman and Elle on a train in Tasmania and they were going through a tunnel and as it was an old train and there was no lights, it suddenly went dark. There was a kissing noise and then a slap heard. And when they came out the other side of the tunnel, the Englishman was thinking, the Irishman must have tried to kiss Elle, missed and got me. Elle was thinking, the Englishman must have tried to kiss me but kissed the Irishman instead. The Irishman was thinking, next time we go through a tunnel I’ll have to make that kissing sound again and slap that silly Irishman—the Englishman.

The following observations might be made about the parallels that can be observed in the responses of both volunteers A15 and A10: 1. It is possible that oral transmission might produce a high percentage of common vocabulary, but the words that are exactly in the same sequence tend to be found in short phrases of only a few words. 2. The common phrases are scattered throughout the text. 3. The length of the two versions need not be the same. 4. Changes may be observed in the tenses and moods of the verb (e.g., volunteer A15 [see p. 679 above] uses the past tense, while the original was in the present tense).

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Journal of Biblical Literature 5. Often synonyms are used, as well as short phrases of different words that have the same meaning (e.g., “resigned to his fate” [volunteer A15] vs. “resigned to his life” [original]). Conclusion 2: Memory plays a significant role in the relationship between the Synoptic Gospels.

The qualities listed above as typical of transmission of material where the mechanisms of memory are present are characteristic of the majority of the parallels between the Synoptic Gospels. This appears to be true of even those few parallels that exhibit a high percentage of common vocabulary. Matthew 21:23–27 and Mark 11:27–33 serve to illustrate parallel passages that have more than 50% of words in common. Matt 21:23–27 (83 common words [72% of the Matthean version]; 9 words in exact sequence)

Mark 11:27–33 (83 common words [66% of the Markan version])

23 Kai; ejlqovnto" aujtou' eij" to; iJero;n prosh'lqon aujtw'/ didavskonti oiJ ajrcierei'" kai; oiJ presbuvteroi tou' laou' levgonte": ejn poiva/ ejxousiva/ tau'ta poiei'"_ kai; tiv" soi e[dwken th;n ejxousivan tauvthn_ 24 ajpokriqei;" de; oJ !Ihsou''" ei\pen aujtoi'": ejrwthvsw uJma'" kajgw; lovgon e{na, o}n eja;n ei[phtev moi kajgw; uJmi'n ejrw' ejn poiva/ ejxousiva/ tau'ta poiw': 25 to; bavptisma to; !Iwavnnou povqen h\n_ ejx oujranou' h] ejx ajnqrwvpwn_ oiJ de; dielogivzonto ejn eJautoi''" levgonte": eja;n ei[pwmen: ejx oujranou', ejrei' hJmi'n: dia; tiv ou\n oujk ejpisteuvsate aujtw'/_ 26 eja;n de; ei[pwmen: ejx ajnqrwvpwn, fobouvmeqa to;n o[clon, pavnte" ga;r wJ" profhvthn e[cousin to;n !Iwavnnhn. 27 kai; ajpokriqevnte" tw'/ !Ihsou' ei\pan: oujk oi[damen. e[fh aujtoi'" kai; aujtov": oujde; ejgw; levgw uJmi'n ejn poiva/ ejxousiva/ tau'ta poiw'.

27 Kai; e[rcontai pavlin eij" !Ierosovluma. Kai; ejn tw'/ iJerw'/ peripatou'nto" aujtou' e[rcontai pro;" aujto;n oiJ ajrcierei'" kai; oiJ grammatei''" kai; oiJ presbuvteroi 28 kai; e[legon aujtw'/: ejn poiva/ ejxousiva/ tau'ta poiei'"_ h] tiv" soi e[dwken th;n ejxousivan tauvthn i{na tau'ta poih'/"_ 29 oJ de; !Ihsou'" ei\pen aujtoi'": ejperwthvsw uJma'" e{na lovgon, kai; ajpokrivqhtev moi kai; ejrw' uJmi'n ejn poiva/ ejxousiva/ tau'ta poiw': 30 to; bavptisma to; !Iwavnnou ejx oujranou' h\n h] ejx ajnqrwvpwn_ ajpokrivqhtev moi. 31 kai; dielogivzonto pro;" eJautou;" levgonte": eja;n ei[pwmen: ejx oujranou', ejrei': dia; tiv [ou\n] oujk ejpisteuvsate aujtw'/_ 32 ajlla; ei[pwmen: ejx ajnqrwvpwn_ — ejfobou'nto to;n o[clon: a{pante" ga;r ei\con to;n !Iwavnnhn o[ntw" o{ti profhvth" h\n. 33 kai; ajpokriqevnte" tw/' !Ihsou' levgousin: oujk oi[damen. kai; oJ !Ihsou'" levgei aujtoi'": oujde; ejgw; levgw uJmi'n ejn poiva/ ejxousiva/ tau'ta poiw'.

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These passages show all the characteristics listed for orally transmitted material: while it has a very high common vocabulary, the words that are exactly the same in form and sequence are found only in short phrases. There are mood and tense changes (e.g., levgonte" vs. e[legon in Matt 21:23 and Mark 11:28). The common vocabulary is scattered throughout the passage, and the two passages have a slightly different length. Furthermore, these passages of high common vocabulary are relatively rare in the parallels between the Synoptic Gospels. Of the 348 passages of over 60 words in the UBS Greek New Testament that have a separate subheading, only 36 have more than 50% common words. The probability that two parallels depend on some facility of memory, such as memorization of oral tradition, becomes greater for the parallel passages with much smaller percentages of common vocabulary that do not have long sequences of words in common. These types of parallels are in the vast majority in the Synoptic Gospels. It is therefore not unlikely that memory and mechanisms of oral transmission of tradition may have played a greater role in the formation of the Synoptic Gospels than has usually been thought.

Summing Up The experiments reported in this article reveal that the characteristics of human memory mean that what is remembered from jokes and historical accounts is the macro-meaning, not the exact words. On the other hand, some genres, such as aphorisms and poetry, tend to be remembered word for word or not at all. This means that it is possible to transmit longer sequences of words accurately using aphorisms, poetry, and words set to music. These observations led to the formulation of a criterion to establish the presence of copying: unless found in poetry, words set to music, or aphorisms, 16 or more words that are exactly the same in two or more documents indicate that a process of copying has taken place. Applying this criterion to the parallels in the three Synoptic Gospels reveals that there are at least nine passages where it is almost certain that a process of copying has occurred. The presence of these nine passages makes it likely that there are other passages that are also the result of copying. Nevertheless, overall, the majority of the parallels in the Synoptic Gospels have characteristics that are more typical of a process of transmission that involves memory rather than straight copying: the common vocabulary is found in short sequences of words; there are changes of mood, tense, and grammatical construction; synonyms are common; and the passages are of different length. In other words, as with the jokes and historical accounts transmitted in the experiments by means that involved memory, the macro-meaning is often the same but the words are not identical.

B O O K S for BIBLICAL SCHOLARS THE BIBLE IN A WORLD CONTEXT An Experiment in Contextual Hermeneutics Edited by Walter Dietrich and Ulrich Luz An engaging work that offers a fresh look at the subjects of Bible reading and hermeneutics from a global perspective. Three rising scholars representing three distinct geographical regions — Elsa Tamez, Justin Ukpong, and Seiichi Yagi — each contribute to the volume a programmatic essay on hermeneutics and a shorter Bible study on Luke 2:1-20. ISBN 0-8028-4988-1 · 92 pages · paperback · $12.00 D I VO RC E A N D R E M A R R I AG E I N T H E B I B L E The Social and Literary Context David Instone-Brewer Through a careful exploration of the background literature of the Old Testament, the ancient Near East, and especially ancient Judaism, David Instone-Brewer constructs a biblical view of divorce and remarriage that is wider in scope than present-day readings. ISBN 0-8028-4943-1 · 366 pages · paperback · $26.00 THE SHADOW OF THE ALMIGHTY Father, Son, and Spirit in Biblical Perspective Ben Witherington III and Laura M. Ice “A theologically insightful study that is at the same time well grounded in exegesis and historical perspective. The helpful questions at the end of each chapter further enhance the quality of the work, making it especially suitable as a textbook. I recommend it enthusiastically.” — C R A I G A . E VA N S ISBN 0-8028-3948-7 · 168 pages · paperback · $14.00 At your bookstore, or call 800-253-7521 Fax: 616-459-6540 www.eerdmans.com

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JBL 121/4 (2002) 689–709

WISDOM FOR THE PERFECT: PAUL’S CHALLENGE TO THE CORINTHIAN CHURCH (1 CORINTHIANS 2:6–16)

SIGURD GRINDHEIM [email protected] Beeson Divinity School, Birmingham, AL 35229

What was at stake when the church in Corinth was divided? Abandoning the older quest for a Corinthian heresy, recent studies have rightly tended to understand the factions in Corinth against the background of the conventions of Greco-Roman rhetoric. It should not be overlooked, however, that Paul understood these factions as symptomatic of a grave theological error in Corinth.1 The thesis of this article is that by attempting to excel by worldly stan1 The trend to focus on the factions as an ethical problem rather than a theological one seems to have started with Johannes Munck, who remarked that “the Corinthians’ wrong conception of the Gospel as wisdom is connected with their misunderstanding of other points; but there is no dogmatic controversy in the first four chapters . . . the Corinthians’ shortcomings in respect of their bickerings are regarded in this section as primarily ethical failures” (Paul and the Salvation of Mankind [London: SCM, 1959], 152). Munck also saw theological implications of the conflict, but other scholars have tended to understand the conflict in exclusively sociological terms. Laurence L. Welborn observes: “The terms with which scivsma is associated make it clear that it is neither a religious heresy nor a harmless clique that the author has in mind, but factions engaged in a struggle for power”; and he thinks that “[i]t is no longer necessary to argue against the position that the conflict which evoked 1 Corinthians 1– 4 was essentially theological in character” (“On the Discord in Corinth: 1 Corinthians 1– 4 and Ancient Politics,” JBL 106 [1987]: 87, 88). According to Stephen M. Pogoloff, “Paul is addressing an exigence of the ethical dimensions of division, not doctrinal divergence” (LOGOS AND SOPHIA: The Rhetorical Situation of 1 Corinthians [SBLDS 134; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1992], 104). The judgment of Raymond Pickett goes along the same lines: “Paul gives no indication that any theological conceptions, or misconceptions, are the cause of the dissensions” (The Cross in Corinth: The Social Significance of the Death of Jesus [JSNTSup 143; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997], 37). Similarly, Peter Marshall, Enmity in Corinth: Social Conventions in Paul’s Relations with the Corinthians (WUNT 2/23; Tübingen: MohrSiebeck, 1987), 181; David G. Horrell, The Social Ethos of the Corinthian Correspondence: Interests and Ideology from 1 Corinthians to 1 Clement (Studies of the New Testament and Its World; Edinburgh: Clark, 1996), 220. Duane Litfin emphasizes Paul’s theological interpretation of the

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dards, the Corinthians were running the risk of defining themselves as those for whom the gospel was hidden and thus forfeiting their salvation. After a brief survey of recent research on the factionalism in Corinth, we shall see how Paul’s discourse on wisdom in 1 Cor 2:6–16 serves his rhetorical purpose by undermining the basis for the factions. A true comprehension of the gospel is irreconcilable with the bickering that characterized the Corinthian church. In order to demonstrate our thesis, we will show that the divine wisdom in 1 Cor 2:6–16 is to be identified with the gospel, that this wisdom is hidden under its apparent foolishness for those who want to be wise according to the standards of this world, and that the perfect, who receive this wisdom, are all Christians. We will then see that Paul is challenging the Corinthians: Will they side with the wise of this world, or will they show themselves as being among the perfect, that is, the Christians, who have rejected the standards of the world? The factionalism, based on competition by worldly standards, indicates that the former is the case. For Paul, sociology is indicative of theology. The uniqueness of 1 Corinthians, therefore, can be fully appreciated only when the letter is examined in its theological as well as its sociological world.

I. The Factions First Corinthians 1:10–4:21 may be characterized as deliberative rhetoric, the thesis statement being found in 1:10: “Now I appeal to you, brothers and sisters, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you be in agreement and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the same mind and the same purpose.”2 The reasons for the factionalism in Corinth were issues, but he downplays the implications, insisting that there is “no indication that Paul had discovered within their midst theological error of the most grievous sort. There is not the slightest hint to suggest that the Corinthians had exchanged the Gospel Paul had preached for another, or that they were somehow vitiating its efficacy by denying or distorting some of its central tenets” (St. Paul’s Theology of Proclamation [SNTSMS 79; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994], 180). Similarly, R. Dean Anderson, Jr., Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Paul (Biblical Exegesis & Theology 18; Kampen: Kok, 1996), 248. See also Troels Engberg-Pedersen, who criticizes Gerd Theissen’s point of view for being “restricted to that of social function” (“The Gospel and Social Practice According to 1 Corinthians,” NTS 33 [1987]: 560). Similarly, William Baird and James D. G. Dunn have noted the scholarly neglect of the theological dimension of the conflict (William Baird, “‘One Against the Other’: Intra-Church Conflict in 1 Corinthians,” in The Conversation Continues: Studies in Paul & John in Honor of J. Louis Martyn [ed. Robert T. Fortna and Beverly R. Gaventa; Nashville: Abingdon, 1990], 131; James D. G. Dunn, 1 Corinthians [NTG; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1995], 43). 2 George A. Kennedy, New Testament Interpretation through Rhetorical Criticism (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1984), 87; Laurence L. Welborn, “A Conciliatory Principle in 1 Cor 4:6,” NovT 29 (1987): 334–35; Margaret M. Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Recon-

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manifold. 3 In 1:18–3:23 Paul focuses on the role of wisdom. As has been demonstrated numerous times recently, this discussion reflects contemporary discussions on rhetoric.4 His rejection of persuasive words of wisdom in 2:4, and a number of the terms employed in this context, such as peiqov", ajpovdeixi", duvnami", tevleio"5 and the correlation of “word” and “wisdom”6 are best understood in this light. The population of Corinth consisted mainly of freedmen (Strabo 8.6.23; Epict. Disc.4.1.157), a class that was known to indulge in boasting and self-display, in order to enhance their status.7 Considering that words of the kaucgroup occur with significantly increased frequency in the Corinthian letters (36 ciliation: An Exegetical Investigation of the Language and Composition of 1 Corinthians (HUT 28; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1992), 20–64, 198–225; Ben Witherington III, Conflict and Community in Corinth: A Socio-Rhetorical Commentary on 1 and 2 Corinthians (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995), 46; Raymond F. Collins, First Corinthians (SP 7; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1999), 69. How closely related 1 Corinthians as a letter actually is to the known Greco-Roman examples of deliberative rhetoric need not concern us here. Cf. the critique of R. Dean Anderson, Jr. (Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Paul, 229–38). For our purpose, it suffices to notice that 1:18–4:21 contains a unified argument for the thesis in 1:10. 3 From 1 Cor 11:21–22 we learn that tensions were caused by the differences between the poor and the rich. Laurence L. Welborn maintains that the factions in Corinth must be understood as conflicts between the upper and lower classes. The root of these conflicts was the patronage system and the way the poor became dependent on the rich (“On the Discord,” 99). Similarly, John K. Chow, Patronage and Power: A Study of Social Networks in Corinth (JSNTSup 75; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1992), 123–66. Cf. the more cautious judgment of Margaret M. Mitchell, however, maintaining that economy was only one among many reasons for the factions in Corinth (Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 94–95). Although the slogans in 1:12 resemble political slogans, their form does not warrant the conclusion that they should be labels of clearly defined parties associated with Paul, Apollos, Cephas, and Christ (ibid., 82–86). 4 This is not to deny that Jewish wisdom traditions may have influenced Paul’s language here (Gerd Theissen, Psychological Aspects of Pauline Theology [trans. John P. Galvin; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987], 353). But even Jeffrey S. Lamp, in his monograph on Jewish wisdom traditions in 1 Cor 1–4, admits that rhetoric is the primary background (First Corinthians 1–4 in Light of Jewish Wisdom Traditions: Christ, Wisdom, and Spirituality [Studies in Bible and Early Christianity 42; Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 2000], 113–14). 5 Lars Hartman, “Some Remarks on 1 Cor. 2:1–5,” SEÅ 39 (1974): 116; Timothy H. Lim, “‘Not in Persuasive Words of Wisdom, but in the Demonstration of the Spirit and Power,’” NovT 27 (1987): 145–47; Pogoloff, LOGOS AND SOPHIA, 141; Timothy B. Savage, Power through Weakness: Paul’s Understanding of the Christian Ministry in 2 Corinthians (SNTSMS 86; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 71; Bruce W. Winter, Philo and Paul among the Sophists (SNTSMS 96; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 154. 6 Hans Dieter Betz, “The Problem of Rhetoric and Theology According to the Apostle Paul,” in L’apôtre Paul: Personnalité, style et conception du ministère (ed. A. Vanhoye; BETL 73; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1986), 28–32; Welborn, “On the Discord,” 101–2; Pogoloff, LOGOS AND SOPHIA, 109–11; Litfin, St. Paul’s Theology of Proclamation, 44, 64, 72–73, 96, 119, 122; Anderson, Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Paul, 239; Collins, First Corinthians, 85. 7 Savage, Power through Weakness, 39–41.

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or 37 times) over against the other Pauline letters (fifteen times in the undisputed letters and once in Ephesians), one may assume that Paul considered boasting to be an issue that needed to be addressed particularly in Corinth. He underscored that boasting in anything save the Lord was excluded (1 Cor 1:31), as the divine election had turned the world’s status claims upside down (1:26–28).8 When Paul rejected the use of superior words of wisdom (2:1), he was likely referring to the kind of rhetoric that was concerned with self-display, boasting, and abuse of others. The modifier “superior” seems to denote a form of oratory that sought impressive display, in order to be recognized as superior.9 Is it possible to more specific? Bruce W. Winter has made a good case that the standards Paul rejects in 1 Cor 1– 4 are sophistic standards. The sophistic movement appears to have gained a significant footing in Corinth at the time of Paul. The sophists were known to recruit disciples and engage in bitter rivalry.10 It could be such a rivalry that is reflected in 1 Cor 1:12; 3:1–4.11 Possibly, Paul’s description of himself in 1 Cor 2:1–5 was designed to emphasize the contrast between his arrival in Corinth and the conventions for a sophist’s arrival in a new town. The sophist was supposed to give a sample of his eloquence, for acceptance or rejection by the city.12 Paul refused to provide such a display.13 His statement in 2:1 need not be taken as a flat rejection of rhetoric, therefore, but Paul would not allow his identity as a teacher to be determined by anything other than the cross of Christ.

II. The Wisdom To understand Paul’s discourse on the wisdom for the perfect in 2:6–16, it is important to note the rhetorical function of this passage in the wider context. At the end of the narratio (1:11–17), Paul appeals to his own example and introduces the antithesis between “word of wisdom” and “the cross of Christ” (1:17). In the first subsequent section of argument (1:18– 4:21), he elaborates 8 Dieter Sänger, “Die dunatoiv in 1 Kor 1, 26,” ZNW 76 (1985): 287–90; Winter, Philo and Paul, 191. 9 Savage, Power through Weakness, 72. 10 Winter, Philo and Paul, 116-44. 11 Ibid., 170-76. 12 Favorinus, who was associated with the Second Sophistic, reports having given a sample of his rhetoric at such an event (Dio Chrys., Or. 37.1). See also Winter, Philo and Paul, 135, 149–51. 13 In this regard, Paul’s attitude resembles that of Dio Chrysostom, who in his forty-seventh Oration provided a disclaimer that pleasure, beauty, or wisdom (sofiva) should not be expected from his speech. See Winter, Philo and Paul, 152–61; similarly Witherington, Conflict and Community, 100–101.

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on this antithesis in 1:18–3:23.14 The purpose of this section is to juxtapose two value systems, that of God and that of the world, and their opposing evaluations of the gospel. Paul’s argument throughout this section centers on the reversal of values that he introduces in 1:18: the word of the cross appears as foolishness for those who are lost, but proves to be the power of God for those who are saved. This double character of the word of the cross is then delineated in the following verses, so that the “foolish” character is elaborated on in 1:19–2:5 and the “powerful” or “wise” character in 2:6–3:23.15 In 1:19–31 Paul explains how God has turned the values of the world upside down.16 That which is considered wise in the world is foolishness for God, and vice versa (1:21, 25; cf. 2:14). Appealing again to his own example, Paul then emphasizes that he takes care to perform his ministry in accordance with the divine reversal of values. Therefore, he is not concerned to appear impressive (2:1–5). God’s wisdom, communicated to the elect, is then the focus of 2:6–16. After applying this principle to the Corinthians (3:1–4) and once more to himself and to Apollos (3:5–17), Paul gives as his concluding advice in 3:18 a call to conform to this reversal of values: “If you think that you are wise in this age, you should become fools so that you may become wise.”17 If the Corinthians could apprehend this divine standard, there would be no basis for the factionalism.18 In fact, their evaluation of their 14 It is possible to see the references to wisdom and foolishness in 1:18–19 and 3:19–20 as forming an inclusio, thus identifying 1:18–3:23 as a distinct unit (Collins, First Corinthians, 87). 15 Gerd Theissen observes the parallel structure between 1:18–2:5 and 2:6–3:23. The section 1:18–2:5 he subsumes under the heading “The preaching as foolishness,” and 2:6–3:23 under “The preaching as wisdom,” finding parallel subsections in 1:18–25 (“The word of the cross as foolishness in the world”) and 2:6–16 (“The preaching as wisdom among the perfect”); 1:26–30 and 3:1– 4 (“Application to the community”); 2:1–5 (“Application to the apostle”) and 3:5–23 (“Application to the apostles”) (Psychological Aspects, 345). 16 Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 87. Formally, Dio Chrysostom’s thirtyeighth discourse is a parallel. Advising that the Nicomedians achieve concord with the Nicaeans, Dio Chrysostom maintained that the conceived gain they would get from the conflict, “primacy,” was really no gain at all (Or. 38.32–40). 17 Contra Mitchell (Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 209), we take this to be the crucial piece of advice in 1 Cor 1–4. As we will argue, Paul understands the factions theologically, grounded in the Corinthians’ failure to allow their value system to be transformed by the message of the gospel. 18 It has frequently been suggested that Paul’s argument in chs. 1–4 is directed specifically to those of the upper classes in the Corinthian church (Gerd Theissen, The Social Setting of Pauline Christianity: Essays on Corinth [trans. John H. Schütz; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1982], 72; Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, “Rhetorical Situation and Historical Reconstruction in I Corinthians,” NTS 33 [1987]: 399; Welborn, “On the Discord,” 105). Paul seems to be just as concerned, however, to combat any notion that membership in the church should be misunderstood as a tool for climbing on the social ladder as to explain that being in Christ meant relinquishment of authority and status. The warning against treating the Christian message as a means for enhancing or maintaining one’s status seems to have a universal application, for the upper and lower classes alike. That members of

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teachers would be radically transformed. Rather than understanding themselves as “belonging to” this or that teacher, they would see the teachers as belonging to them (3:21–23), the teachers being understood in functional, rather than status terms.19 These observations lead to the conclusion that it is the same divine wisdom that is in view throughout the section,20 a conclusion that is confirmed

the lower classes are among Paul’s intended audience seems to be confirmed when he describes the Corinthians as saying “I belong to . . .” (1:12). The followers, those who wanted to enhance their own status by being associated with someone of repute, are addressed here. Likewise, it is probably not correct that while addressing the entire church, Paul’s real concern in chs. 1–4 is a faction that had claimed independence from him (N. A. Dahl, “Paul and the Church at Corinth According to 1 Corinthians 1:10–4:21,” in Christian History and Interpretation: Studies Presented to John Knox [ed. W. Farmer, C. F. D. Moule, and N. R. Niebuhr; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1967], 325). He is just as eager to dismiss a party that bears his own name (Pogoloff, LOGOS AND SOPHIA, 101–2). Moreover, the letter is characterized by deliberative rhetoric, rather than being an apology (see n. 2). See also William Baird, who thinks that Paul was not facing a single front of opposition in 1 Cor (“‘One Against the Other,’” 123; similarly Dunn, 1 Corinthians, 43). 19 Winter, Philo and Paul, 195. 20 Theissen maintains that the wisdom of 2:6–3:23 should be understood as a higher level of the wisdom mentioned in 1:18–2:5. This interpretation is based on the assumption that the “perfect” should be identified as a mature group of believers (see below) and that a new element is introduced with “the rulers of this age” (2:6, 8), but he finds it odd that 1 Cor 2 would be the only instance where we hear of a revelation restricted to a particular circle of Christians (Psychological Aspects, 346–52; similarly Angela Standhartinger, “Weisheit in Joseph und Aseneth und den paulinischen Briefen,” NTS 47 [2001]: 496). In light of the parallel structure between 1:18–2:5 and 2:6– 3:23, it would be more natural to understand the wisdom mentioned in both passages as the same divine wisdom (Sänger, “Die dunatoiv in 1 Kor 1, 26,” 287; E. Elizabeth Johnson, “The Wisdom of God as Apocalyptic Power,” in Faith and History: Essays in Honor of Paul W. Meyer [ed. John T. Carroll, Charles H. Cosgrove, and E. Elizabeth Johnson; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1990], 141). As for “the rulers of this age,” this must be a reference to the earthly authorities responsible for the crucifixion, a parallel to “the mighty” of 1:26. An identification of the rulers with demonic powers was especially popular among the commentators who explained Paul’s terminology against the background of Gnosticism (Ulrich Wilckens, Weisheit und Torheit: Eine exegetisch-religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung zu 1.Kor 1 und 2 [BHT 26; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1959], 61; Walter Schmithals, Gnosticism in Corinth: An Investigation of the Letters to the Corinthians [trans. John E. Steely; Nashville: Abingdon, 1971], 137). But that is unwarranted. Paul never makes any identification of the a[rconte" as the ajrcaiv of Col 1:16; Eph 6:12. Even though a[rcwn in the singular is used for Satan, there is no evidence before the second century that the word is used for demons (A. Wesley Carr, “The Rulers of This Age—1 Cor ii:6–8,” NTS 23 [1976]: 23–24, 28–30; Gordon D. Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians [NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1987], 104; cf. Julius Schniewind, “Die Archonten dieses Äons: 1. Kor. 2,6–8,” in Nachgelassene Reden und Aufsatze [Töpelmann Theologische Bibliothek 1; Berlin: Töpelmann, 1952], 105–7; Gene Miller, “!Arcovntwn tou' aijw'no"—A New Look at 1 Cor. 2:6–8,” JBL 91 [1972]: 525–26; Ulrich Wilckens, “Zu 1 Kor 2,1–16,” in Theologia Crucis—Signum Crucis: Festschrift für Erich Dinkler zum 70. Geburtstag [ed. Carl Andresen and Günter Klein; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1979], 508; Markus Bockmuehl, Revelation and Mystery in Ancient Judaism and Pauline Christianity [1990; reprint, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997], 163). Anthony C. Thiselton concurs that the word

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when we observe how those who appropriate this wisdom are repeatedly designated with a dative that sets them apart as an elect group (“saved” in 1:18, “called” in 1:24, and “perfect” in 2:6). In 1:18 this message is called “the power of God,” a designation that is taken up in 1:24 and identified with “the wisdom of God.” This wisdom of God is then recalled in 2:6. This wisdom is announced also to those who are not spiritual, but to them it appears to be foolishness (2:14), the same reversal of values that characterizes this wisdom in 1:23–24. The wisdom of 2:6, therefore, must be identified with the wisdom of God in 1:21, 24.21 In 1:21–24 this wisdom is paralleled with “the gospel” (1:17), “the word of the cross” (1:18), “the foolishness of the proclamation” (1:21), and “Christ crucified” (1:23).22 In 1:30 Christ Jesus is said to have become wisdom denotes secular leaders, but maintains that the connotations are of “a structural power either by cumulative inbuilt fallenness or by association with still stronger cosmic powers” (The First Epistle to the Corinthians [NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000], 238). As justification for seeing a reference to spiritual beings, Thiselton refers to the authority of Walter Wink (Naming the Powers: The Language of Power in the New Testament [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984], 44), whose evidence in turn is taken from the Ascension of Isaiah (second century C.E.), but he does not show that these traditions antedate Paul. 21 Wolfgang Schrage, Der erste Brief an die Korinther, vol. 1 (EKK 7/1; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1991), 240; Michael Wolter, “Verborgene Weisheit und Heil für die Heiden: Zur Traditionsgeschichte und Intention des ‘Revelationsschemas,’” ZTK 84 (1987): 304; Helmut Merklein, Der Erste Brief an die Korinther: Kapitel 1–4 (ÖTK; Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn, 1992), 224; Collins, First Corinthians, 123. 22 Margaret M. Mitchell, “Rhetorical Shorthand in Pauline Argumentation: The Functions of ‘the Gospel’ in the Corinthian Correspondence,” in Gospel in Paul: Studies on Corinthians, Galatians, and Romans for Richard N. Longenecker (ed. L. A. Jervis and P. Richardson; JSNTSup 108; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994), 70. Apparently 2:1–2 provides additional evidence for this identification by linking together “mystery” and “Jesus Christ crucified.” But the reading musthvrion in 2:1, although well attested (the Chester Beatty papyri and the first hand of Sinaiticus, as well as Alexandrinus and the Codex Ephraemi) and preferred by N-A27 and most translations, is probably not original. More likely to be correct is the widely attested variant martuvrion (Vaticanus, a later hand of Sinaiticus, Codex Bezae, Origen, and the Majority text). The case must be considered together with 1:6, where the two alternative readings are martuvrion tou' qeou' and martuvrion tou' Cristou'. The best way to explain all the data is to take martuvrion tou' Cristou' as original in 1:6 and martuvrion in 2:1. The variant martuvrion tou' qeou' in 1:6 is then explained as an adaption to the martuvrion tou' qeou' in 2:1. The variant musthvrion is explained as an adaption to the musthvrion in 2:7. If, on the other hand, musthvrion is considered original in 2:1, there is no adequate way of accounting for the other variants. Bruce M. Metzger insists that martuvrion in 2:1 is a copyist’s error through a recollection of 1:6, but then he cannot explain how the reading martuvrion tou' qeou' originated in 1:6 (A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament [2d ed.; Stuttgart: United Bible Societies, 1975], 545). Moreover, reading musthvrion in 2:1 would take much of the force out of its occurrence in 2:7. It is also easier to assume that a copyist had substituted musthvrion for martuvrion than vice versa. In the early church, the term musthvrion was far more commonly used for the gospel than was martuvrion (G. Zuntz, The Text of the Epistles: A Disquisition upon the Corpus Paulinum [London: Oxford University Press, 1953], 101; Gordon D. Fee, “1 Corinthians 1:2, 2:1, and 2:10,” in Scribes and Scripture: New Testament Essays in Honor of J. Harold Greenlee [ed. David Alan Black; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1992], 6–7.)

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from God for us. The most likely conclusion, therefore, is that the wisdom, which is spoken in a mystery, is the message of the death of Christ, or more comprehensively, the gospel regarding Christ (cf. 1:17a; Rom 1:16).23 This interpretation gains further confirmation when the term musthvrion recurs in the plural in 4:1, apparently as a reference to the gospel or God’s plan of salvation.24 This wisdom is not an advanced Christian teaching, therefore, such as a special message concerning eschatology. The future glory of the Christian is the goal of the wisdom, not its content. This corresponds to a telic force of the preposition eij" in the phrase eij" dovxan hJmw'n (2:7b). Sometimes it is suggested that the phrase “that which God has prepared for those who love him” (2:9) indicates that the mystery is about eschatology, about the eternal inheritance for believers.25 This phrase, however, gives a description of what the rulers of this world did not know (2:8). They are later contrasted with “us,” who have 23 Peter Stuhlmacher, “The Hermeneutical Significance of 1 Corinthians 2:6-16,” in Tradition and Interpretation in the New Testament: Essays in Honor of E. Earle Ellis for His 60th Birthday (ed. Gerald F. Hawthorne and Otto Betz; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1987), 334; Fee, First Epistle, 105–6; Schrage, Erste Brief, 227, 250–51. 24 C. K. Barrett, The First Epistle to the Corinthians (2d ed.; BNTC; London: Black, 1992), 100; Fee, First Epistle, 160; Schrage, Erste Brief, 321. 25 Based on the force of 1 Cor 2:9, Markus Bockmuehl concludes that the content of the hidden wisdom is “a deeper knowledge of the inheritance which is in store for those who love God” (Revelation and Mystery, 162–64). Similarly, Birger A. Pearson, The Pneumatikos-Psychikos Terminology in 1 Corinthians: A Study in the Theology of the Corinthian Opponents of Paul and Its Relation to Gnosticism (SBLDS 12; Missoula, MT: Society of Biblical Literature, 1973), 34–35. Robin Scroggs argues that the mystery is a teaching that Paul reserves for mature Christians, which is kept secret to the Corinthians since they are only immature, not mature (“Paul: Sofo" and pneumatiko",” NTS 14 [1967–68]: 44– 48). Based on the use of the term musthvrion in apocalyptic literature and in Rom 11:25; 1 Cor 15:51, he identifies this secret mystery as Paul’s teaching regarding eschatology. As a further argument for this interpretation, there are important parallels in apocalyptic literature to the idea of a limited revelation of the mystery of God. In 1 En. 104:12 the fact that the wise people will be given the Scriptures is called a mystery, and 2 En. 24:3 relates that the mystery is not revealed to the angels. Fourth Ezra teaches that the mystery is revealed only to the wise (12:34–38; 14:26, 46– 48), but there the idea of a limited revelation is related to the merit theology of that book (10:38–39; 12:36). Moreover, Paul understands the mystery as hidden in a way radically different from the way it is understood in the apocalyptic literature (and by Scroggs). The mystery is not kept secret, but openly proclaimed (see below). It still remains hidden to some people, however. Furthermore, Scroggs ignores the identification of the wisdom of God with the word of the cross (2:8). It was not ignorance regarding Paul’s secret teaching of the end of days that led the rulers of this world to take Jesus to the cross. Rather, it was the importance of the person of Jesus and the importance of his work; in Pauline terminology: the gospel or the word of the cross. Several scholars have espoused a comprehensive understanding of the content of the mystery, so that it includes Paul’s teaching regarding eschatology. See Raymond E. Brown, The Semitic Background of the Term ‘Mystery’ in the New Testament (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1968), 41; Wilckens, “Zu 1 Kor 2,1-16,” 510; Merklein, Der erste Brief an die Korinther: Kapitel 1–4, 229, 234. See also Markus Barth, Ephesians 1–3 (AB 34; New York: Doubleday, 1974), 125–26.

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received the spirit of God, “so that we know that which is given us from God” (2:12). The best contextual clue to what it is that “is given us from God” is found in 1:30, where Christ Jesus is referred to as God’s gift. That Christ is the beforehand planned gift of God to his people (cf. 2:9) would also be the interpretation that fits best with Paul’s teaching elsewhere. When he writes about something that is predetermined by God, it is usually the elect themselves (Rom 8:29–30; 9:23; 11:2; Eph 1:5) or the gospel of Christ (Rom 1:1–3; Gal 3:8; Eph 1:9–10).

III. Hiddenness and Revelation This divine wisdom, which is hidden in a mystery,26 is revealed by the Holy Spirit (2:10, 12). That the mysteries of divine wisdom must be revealed is a concept that is known from Jewish wisdom literature (Wis 6:22–24). Divine wisdom is also said to reveal mysteries (Sir 4:18; Wis 7:21–22). More closely related are the passages in Daniel where secrets are revealed to the prophet (Dan 2:19–23),27 not by virtue of his superior wisdom (Dan 2:30), but because the Holy Spirit is in him (Dan 4:6). The connection with Daniel prompts the question of whether Paul has a particular experience in view. Possibly Paul has in mind his experience on the road to Damascus,28 but there is no clear reference to that event in this context. Neither does the quotation from the Scriptures (v. 9) betray the source of the revelation.29 The function of this quotation is to explain the concept of hiddenness, not that of revelation. What Paul is concerned to point out in the following verses is that appropriation of divine wisdom requires a special ability. Natural human beings lack this ability (2:14), which is an exclusive attribute of the spirit of God (2:11b). Therefore, only those who have been given this spirit can understand God’s wisdom (2:12). Paul’s mention of revelation seems to be a 26 The prepositional phrase in 2:7, ejn musthrivw/, can be taken either with lalou'men or with qeou' sofivan. The latter is in line with how Paul’s argument runs in this passage (E. B. Allo, Saint Paul: Première Épître aux Corinthiens [2d ed.; EBib; Paris: Gabalda, 1934], 41; Karl Prümm, “Mystères,” DBSup 6:193; Fee, First Epistle, 104–5; Schrage, Erste Brief, 251). 27 H. H. Drake Williams III, The Wisdom of the Wise: The Presence and Function of Scripture Within 1 Cor. 1:18–3:23 (AGJU 49; Leiden: Brill, 2001), 166–68. 28 Seyoon Kim points out that it was on this occasion that Paul changed from viewing the crucified Christ as a skavndalon to viewing him as the wisdom of God (1 Cor 1:23; Gal 3:13), that the designation “Lord of glory” recalls Paul’s descriptions of how Christ appeared to him (1 Cor 9:1; 2 Cor 3:18; 4:4–6; Gal 1:16), and that in parallel mystery passages in Col 1:23c–29; Eph 3:1–13, an essential part of the mystery is the inclusion of the Gentiles, which in turn was the essence of the call Paul received when he met the risen Christ (Gal 1:16) (The Origin of Paul’s Gospel [WUNT 2/4; Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1981], 78–82). 29 Contra Gregory K. Beale, John’s Use of the Old Testament in Revelation (JSNTSup 166; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 251–52.

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general reference to the fact that knowledge of this mystery is given by revelation through the Holy Spirit, not by the use of human wisdom. This is not a matter of a revelation of things otherwise unheard of, but of the ability, by means of what is called revelation, to appropriate what is preached openly. In 1 Cor 1:23 it is clearly seen that this wisdom of God is preached to all, to those who are saved as well as to those who perish.30 Apparently, this wisdom had also been announced to the rulers of the world, but they failed to apprehend it. Had they done so, they would not have crucified Christ (2:8). When Paul says that wisdom is spoken among the perfect (2:6), the meaning must be that what is spoken is only received as wisdom by the perfect. This concept of revelation finds its closest parallel in Eph 1:17:31 “that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of glory, may give to you a spirit32 of wisdom and of revelation in the knowledge of him.” The kind of revelation that is spoken of here is related to a condition of the heart (Eph 1:18).33 The heart that is rightly disposed toward the Lord receives this revelation. Some scholars maintain that there is also a reference to redemptive history here. The thought would then be that the mystery was previously hidden but is now revealed as a consequence of the Christ-event. The “us” of v. 10 would then refer to the generations after the revelation in Jesus Christ.34 It is unlikely, 30 Prümm, “Mystères,” 190, 198; A. E. Harvey, “The Use of Mystery Language in the Bible,” JTS 31 (1980): 330; Bockmuehl, Revelation and Mystery, 160. 31 The position adopted in this essay is that of Pauline authorship of Ephesians. See Heinrich Schlier, Der Brief an die Epheser: Ein Kommentar (3d ed.; Düsseldorf: Patmos, 1962), 22–28; A. Van Roon, The Authenticity of Ephesians (NovTSup 39; Leiden: Brill, 1974), 11–29; M. D. Goulder, “The Visionaries of Laodicea,” JSNT 43 (1991): 15–39; D. A. Carson, Douglas J. Moo, and Leon Morris, An Introduction to the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1992), 305–9; Stanley E. Porter and Kent D. Clarke, “Canonical-Critical Perspective and the Relationship of Colossians and Ephesians,” Bib 78 (1997): 78–81; Peter T. O’Brien, The Letter to the Ephesians (Pillar New Testament Commentary; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), 4–41. 32 A reference to the Holy Spirit is probably intended (Joachim Gnilka, Der Epheserbrief [HTKNT; Freiburg: Herder, 1971], 90; Barth, Ephesians 1–3, 148; Andrew T. Lincoln, Ephesians [WBC 42; Dallas: Word, 1990], 57; Ernest Best, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Ephesians [ICC; Edinburgh: Clark, 1998], 163; O’Brien, Ephesians, 132), as in 1 Cor 2:10. 33 There is a debate among commentators about whether there is a reference to baptism here. At any rate, a personal transformation is in view (Gnilka, Epheserbrief, 91; Barth, Ephesians 1–3, 148, 150; Rudolf Schnackenburg, Ephesians: A Commentary [3d ed.; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1991], 74–75; Lincoln, Ephesians, 58; O’Brien, Ephesians, 134). 34 Archibald Robertson and Alfred Plummer, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the First Epistle of St. Paul to the Corinthians (2d ed.; ICC; Edinburgh: Clark, 1914), 43; Rudolf Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament (London: SCM, 1952), 1:106; Nils Alstrup Dahl, “Formgeschichtliche Beobachtungen zur Christusverkündigung in der Gemeindepredigt,” in Neutestamentliche Studien für Rudolf Bultmann zu seinem siebzigsten Geburtstag am 20. August 1954 (BZNW 21; Berlin: Töpelmann, 1954), 4; Brown, Semitic Background, 49; Barrett, First Epistle, 71; Fee, First Epistle, 105. Hans Conzelmann refers to this idea as the Revelationsschema, which he finds fully developed in the Deutero-Pauline letters. A Zwischenstufe can be observed in

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however, that any such reference is intended here. The contrast is not between the present and the past but between that which is from God and that which is of the flesh. Note how the two different systems of power and wisdom are designated by Paul: on the one hand, “of this age” (1:20; 2:6, 8), “of the world” (1:20, 21, 27, 28; 2:12), “according to the flesh” (1:26, 29), “of human beings” (1:25; 2:5, 13), and on the other hand, “of God” (1:21, 24, 25; 2:1, 7, 12), “of the Spirit” (2:10, 13, 14), and “of Christ” (2:16). These designations clearly point toward a fundamental dualism between that which is without God and that which belongs to God, rather than to a dualism between the before and the now.35 Moreover, the “us” of v. 10 recalls the “we” of v. 6, who speak wisdom among the perfect. In the immediate context this group is contrasted with “the rulers of this age,”36 who were responsible for the crucifixion of the Lord.37 The opposing groups in question both have the privilege of living in the decisive age in redemptive history, but only one of the groups has received divine revelation through the Spirit. As recipients of divine revelation, the “us” of v. 10 are identified as an elect group, and, in the larger context, this picks up the motif of the divine calling and election of 1:24–28. This elect group is set over against those who appear to be wise, mighty, of noble descent, and powerful according to the standards of this world, not over against a group of any other period. Paul teaches a reversal of values that is made manifest through divine revelation. Certainly, there is ample evidence for connecting the term “mystery” with the idea of a divine plan that was previously hidden but has been revealed at the coming of Christ (Rom 16:25–26; Eph 3:4–5, 9–10; Col 1:26–27). But this seems to be a later development of the term. There is no certain evidence of this connotation in the early Pauline letters.38 1 Corinthians (Der erste Brief and die Korinther [KEK; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1969], 80). Chantal Reynier points out the parallels to Rom 16:25–26 and Col 1:26, but concedes that the pattern of temporality that he finds in those verses is not so clearly manifest in this passage (Évangile et mystère: Les enjeux théologiques de l’épître aux Éphésiens [LD 149; Paris: Cerf, 1992], 142). Walter Grundmann further notes the parallel to the immature in Gal 3:23–4:11 and observes that the coming of Christ brings humanity to maturity (“Die nhvpioi in der urchristlichen Paränese,” NTS 5 [1958–59]: 190–91). But the fact that the metaphor in Gal 3:23– 4:11 is the same does not necessarily mean that the referent is the same. While in 1 Cor 3:1–3 the characterization of the Corinthians as immature is used as a rebuke, in Gal 3:23– 4:11 it is not implied that those who were immature before the coming of Christ are to be scolded. It is unwarranted to see a reference to the progress of redemptive history based on the fact that the same metaphor is used as in Gal 3:23–4:11. 35 Litfin, St. Paul’s Theology of Proclamation, 175. 36 See n. 20 above. 37 Fee explains that the mystery “remains hidden” from the rulers of this world (First Epistle, 105). But the inference of the categories “hidden from all,” “revealed to some,” and “hidden from others” is based on eisegesis. 38 Wolter, “Verborgene Weisheit,” 305; Bockmuehl, Revelation and Mystery, 209.

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The time marker “before the ages” (v. 7b) refers not to a time when the divine wisdom was hidden (as is the case in Rom 16:25; Eph 3:9) but to a time when it was being prepared.39 Nor does this time marker refer to past history, as in the parallel expression in Eph 3:9. In Eph 3:9 the preposition is ajpov, which can refer to past ages, but here the preposition is prov, which has to be translated “before the ages,” that is, referring to eternity, as it does in the only NT parallel, Jude 25. A different “redemption historical” view has been proposed by James A. Davis. He maintains that Paul in this passage sets divine wisdom against the wisdom of the Torah.40 The negative descriptions in 1:26–29 refer to the Jews, who seek wisdom in the Torah. With the coming of Christ the law is set aside as something that belonged to an earlier period.41 There are several problems with this interpretation, however. It is remarkable that Paul would call the wisdom of the Torah a wisdom of this age and a wisdom of the world.42 Davis thinks that the Torah can be identified with the wisdom of this age because it was designed for a prior world order. As we have seen, however, the force of Paul’s argument is not that this wisdom is of the prior world order but of this world order. The close association of the wisdom of the law with the flesh that this interpretation implies (1:26) is also problematic. In Rom 7:7–25 it is pointed out how the law can function as an opportunity for sin (vv. 7, 11), but Paul takes care to guard against a flat identification of the law and the flesh (v. 14). If Paul in 1 Cor 1:26 were saying that the wisdom of the law is a wisdom of the flesh, we would expect a modification similar to that in Rom 7:14. True, Paul may call a confidence in the righteousness of the law a confidence in the flesh (Phil 3:4, 6), but he never makes a similar statement regarding the wisdom of the law. It is intrinsically unlikely that he would do so, while insisting that the gospel he preached was found in the Torah (Rom 3:21b, 31; Gal 3:8; 4:21).43 39

Similarly Thiselton, First Epistle, 242; contra Reynier, Évangile et mystère, 142. A. Davis, Wisdom and Spirit: An Investigation of 1 Corinthians 1.18–3.20 Against the Background of Jewish Sapiential Traditions in the Greco-Roman Period (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1984), 89. Similarly Stuhlmacher, “Hermeneutical Significance,” 341. Angela Standhartinger has proposed that the wisdom in 1 Cor 1:17–3:4 should be understood against the background of Joseph and Aseneth. As Joseph, to whom wisdom is attributed (Jos. Asen. 4:7; 13:14–15), is given to Aseneth (Jos. Asen 15.6), so the crucified Christ, the divine wisdom, is given to the church (Standhartinger, “Weisheit,” 496). The parallel is very remote at best. The wedding motif, essential in Joseph and Aseneth, is missing from 1 Corinthians. 41 Davis, Wisdom and Spirit, 72–73, 77–78, 94. 42 Litfin, St. Paul’s Theology of Proclamation, 206. 43 Davis observes that the terms used for the rejected wise persons (1:20) could be taken to refer to Jewish scribes and wise persons. Even though this may be correct, it shows only that Paul is polemical toward contemporary Jewish wisdom; it does not say why. Martin Hengel, one of the scholars on whom Davis relies, observes that the predicates given to Christ in 1 Cor 1:30—wisdom, 40 James

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Michael Goulder has attempted to revive F. C. Baur’s hypothesis that 1 Corinthians reflects the conflict between the Petrine and Pauline forms of Christianity. According to this view, the false wisdom is the halakic interpretation of the Torah, and Paul’s reply is that one should “not go beyond what is written” (4:6), a case in point being the kosher laws discussed in chs. 8–10.44 The advantages over James A. Davis’s interpretation are obvious. It would be in keeping with Paul’s teaching elsewhere to identify a particular Jewish approach to the law, not the Torah as such, with the flesh and this world order, as opposed to that which comes from God. A main obstacle to this interpretation too, however, is that it can only poorly account for the licentiousness Paul addresses in Corinth (chs. 5-7).45 It is also doubtful that Paul’s opponents would concede that their halakic interpretation of the Torah was merely “words taught by human wisdom” (2:13), as these rulings were clearly understood to be established by divine authority. Containing no likely reference to redemptive history, the connotations of the term “mystery” in this context are therefore best understood as being something that is inaccessible. The hidden wisdom, which is the word of the cross, appears to the wise person of this world as weakness and foolishness. Although it is proclaimed openly, it remains hidden from those who want to be wise according to the standards of this world.46 One can come to know this wisdom only if one abandons any claim to what is regarded as credentials in this world (1 Cor 3:18; cf. 1:26–29) and appropriates for oneself the reversal of values that characterizes the message of the cross. This is the paradoxical nature of the gospel.47 righteousness, sanctification, and redemption—correspond to the salvific gifts that a pious Jew would ascribe to the Torah (The Son of God [London: SCM, 1976], 74). This observation can equally well be related to the idea that Paul believed that the effect of his message was that the law was fulfilled (Rom 3:31; 8:4). William Baird (review of Wisdom and Spirit: An Investigation of 1 Corinthians 1:18–3:20 Against the Background of Jewish Sapiential Traditions in the GrecoRoman Period by James A. Davis,” JBL 106 [1987]: 150–51) also points out that Davis’s study lacks any serious attempt at understanding 1 Corinthians in its historical context and that his hypothesis cannot explain the practices Paul goes on to address in chs. 5–10. 44 Michael D. Goulder, “SOFIA in 1 Corinthains,” NTS 37 (1991): 516–21. Cf. C. K. Barrett, who identifies a Peter-party but also stresses the difference between a party who claimed allegiance to Peter and Peter himself (“Cephas and Corinth,” in Essays on Paul [Philadelphia: Westminster, 1982], 33, 37). 45 Richard Hays, “The Conversion of the Imagination: Scripture and Eschatology in 1 Corinthians,” NTS 45 (1999): 397. 46 Wolter, “Verborgene Weisheit,” 304; Romano Penna, “The Wisdom of the Cross and Its Foolishness as Foundation of the Church,” in Wisdom and Folly of the Cross, vol. 2 of Paul the Apostle: A Theological and Exegetical Study (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1996), 54–55. 47 Gerhard Sellin, “Das ‘Geheimnis’ der Weisheit und das Rätsel der ‘Christuspartei’ (zu 1 Kor 1–4),” ZNW 73 (1982): 81, 89–90; Stuhlmacher, “Hermeneutical Significance,” 339– 40; Reynier, Évangile et mystère, 154–55; Merklein, Der erste Brief an die Korinther: Kapitel 1–4, 228;

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The wisdom that is in a mystery is something Paul speaks among the perfect.48 Who are these? Did Paul count the Corinthians among the perfect? Another way of putting this question is whether all Christians,49 or only some of them,50 are counted among the perfect or the spiritual (pneumatikov"), which is used synonymously. The antithesis between pneumatikov" and yucikov" is puzzling, as Paul’s usual antonym for pneumatikov" is savrkino". Much energy has been expended explaining the background for this terminology. The previously popular view that this terminology reflects early Gnosticism has generally been abandoned.51 Jean-Noël Aletti, “Sagesse et Mystère chez Paul: Réflexions sur le rapprochement de deux champs lexicograpiques,” in La Sagesse Biblique: De l’Ancien au Nouveau Testament (ed. Jacques Trublet; LD 160; Paris: Cerf, 1995), 366–67; Thiselton, First Epistle, 231, 241; Standhartinger, “Weisheit,” 494. Dismissing the older assumption that the Corinthians held to an “over-realized eschatology,” E. Earle Ellis correctly observes that the Corinthians had a misguided conception of how the believer shared in the glory of Christ (“‘Christ Crucified,’” in Prophecy and Hermeneutic in Early Christianity [1974; WUNT 18; reprint, Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1978], 78; similarly Wilckens, Weisheit und Torheit, 20). They thought that they already in this life should experience their participation in the resurrection. Paul shows them, however, that a true apprehension of God’s wisdom manifested itself in a sharing in the crucifixion of Christ in this life. Thus, a true apprehension of the wisdom of God manifested itself in what for the world appeared as weakness and foolishness. 48 Tevleio" is variously translated. The basic idea of its Hebrew equivalent, !mt, is that of wholeness and completeness (B. Kedar-Kopfstein, “!mt,” TWAT 8:691), a meaning that also can be observed in the Greek tevleio" (cf. 1 Cor 13:10). In opposition to nhvpio", it is used with the meaning “mature,” the thought being that of someone who is fully grown. When used in an ethical sense it has the connotations of integrity and undividedness (Gerhard Delling, “tevlo" ktl.,” TDNT 8:67–77). 49 Günther Bornkamm, “musthvrion ktl.,” TDNT 4:819; P. J. Du Plessis, TELEIOS: The Idea of Perfection in the New Testament (Kampen: Kok, 1959), 184; Martin Winter, Pneumatiker und Psychiker in Korinth: Zum religionsgeschichlichen Hintergrund von 1. Kor. 2,6–3,4 (Marburger Theologische Studien 12; Marburg: Elwert, 1975), 214; Fee, First Epistle, 100–103; Johnson, “Wisdom of God,” 142; Schrage, Erste Brief, 249; Merklein, Der erste Brief an die Korinther: Kapitel 1– 4, 225, 234; Christian Wolff, Der erste Brief des Paulus an die Korinther (THKNT 8; Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1996), 54; Collins, First Corinthians, 129; Thiselton, First Epistle, 233, 267–68. 50 Allo, Première Épître aux Corinthiens, 40; Hugo Odeberg, Pauli brev till korintierna (Tolkning av Nya Testamentet 7; Stockholm: Svenska Kyrkans Diakonistyrelses Bokförlag, 1944), 66; Wilckens, Weisheit und Torheit, 53; Rudolf Schnackenburg, “Christian Adulthood According to the Apostle Paul,” CBQ 25 (1963): 357–58; Margaret E. Thrall, The First and Second Letters of Paul to the Corinthians (CBC; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1965), 24; Scroggs, “Paul,” 44–48; Brown, Semitic Background, 42; Stuhlmacher, “Hermeneutical Significance,” 334; Theissen, Psychological Aspects, 352; Barrett, First Epistle, 69; Witherington, Conflict and Community, 126; Bockmuehl, Revelation and Mystery, 164–65; Standhartinger, “Weisheit,” 496. These scholars typically stress that insight into the wisdom that only the perfect can apprehend is potentially available to all Christians since they have received the Spirit. Similarly Karl Prümm, who stresses that the appropriation of the mystery is gradual (“Mystères,” 191, 197–98). 51 Schmithals, Gnosticism in Corinth, 138; Winter, Pneumatiker und Psychiker, 210, 230;

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Instead it has become more common, alongside the tendency to find roots of later full-blown Gnosticism in Hellenistic Judaism, to look for the background for this terminology in a Hellenistic-Jewish context.52 More specifically, it is often considered to be dependent on the Hellenistic-Jewish exegesis of Gen 2:7. Philo finds here a contrast between the heavenly person and the earthly person. His terminology is somewhat confusing, but may be summarized as follows: In Gen 1:26–27 Philo sees the creation of the heavenly, immortal part of the soul, the nou''", created, or rather breathed, by God, according to the image of the Logos. In Gen 2:7, however, the heavenly part was joined with the earthly, mortal part, the sw'ma (Opif. 134–35; Leg. 3.161; Somn. 1.34; Her. 56). This dichotomy can in turn be seen to correspond to two different types of human beings, the heavenly and the earthly (Leg. 1.31–32), one that lives by reason, by the divine spirit (qeivw/ pneuvmati), and one that lives by blood and the pleasures of the flesh (Her. 57).53 Against the Corinthian understanding of spirituality as a nature given by God, Paul presumably emphasizes that true spiritu-

John Painter, “Paul and the pneumatikoiv at Corinth,” in Paul and Paulinism: Essays in Honor of C. K. Barrett (ed. M. D. Hooker and S. G. Wilson; London: SPCK, 1982), 245; Theissen, Psychological Aspects, 353–54. Wilckens, in his earlier work, concluded that in 1 Cor 2:6–16 Paul had adapted to the terminology of his Gnostic opponents to such a degree that he had betrayed his own theology (Weisheit und Torheit, 60), but Wilckens later abandoned this position (“Zu 1 Kor 2,1–16,” 524–26, 529). The hypothesis of Gnostic terminology has been taken up by Schrage, who, anachronistically, assumes that Paul has been influenced by the language of the Nag Hammadi writings (Erste Brief, 263). 52 See C. K. Barrett, “Christianity at Corinth,” in Essays on Paul, 12, 24; R. McL. Wilson, “Gnosis at Corinth,” in Paul and Paulinism, ed. Hooker and Wilson, 110–12. 53 Pearson, Pneumatikos-Psychikos Terminology, 17–21; Richard A. Horsley, “Pneumatikos Vs. Psychikos: Distinctions of Spiritual Status Among the Corinthians,” HTR 69 (1976): 275–78; idem, “Wisdom of Word and Words of Wisdom in Corinth,” CBQ 39 (1977): 233; Wilckens, “Zu 1 Kor 2,1–16,” 531; Gregory E. Sterling, “‘Wisdom Among the Perfect’: Creation Traditions in Alexandrian Judaism and Corinthian Christianity,” NovT 37 (1995): 362–65; Thiselton, First Epistle, 268–69. It is maintained that in 1 Cor 15:42–49 Paul gives his alternative interpretation of Gen 2:7. Over against the Philonic interpretation Paul stresses that the earthly person Adam in time is the primary, and the heavenly person, who is Christ, in time is the secondary. Moreover, he rejects the idea of two parts of human beings as created by God. Thus, Paul overturns the Corinthians’ idea of spiritual existence as something attainable for human beings by cultivating the heavenly part of himself, and he replaces it with a dualism between “the present age” and “the age to come” (Pearson, Pneumatikos-Psychikos Terminology, 24–26; Horsley, “Pneumatikos Vs. Psychikos,” 274; Wilckens, “Zu 1 Kor 2,1–16,” 532; Sterling, “‘Wisdom Among the Perfect,’” 360-61). It is unlikely that in 1 Cor 15:42–49 Paul is concerned to combat the Philonic interpretation of Gen 2:7, however. Paul insists that the natural (yucikov") person was the first and the spiritual (pneumatikov") person was the second, but Philo does not see any temporal sequence in the creation account; rather it presents a logical order. Hence, there is no temporal priority of the heavenly person over the first actual person in the Philonic interpretation of Gen 1:26–27; 2:7. Neither is there any contrast between the heavenly person and the first actual person (Robin Scroggs, The Last Adam: A Study in Pauline Anthropology [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1966], 120–22).

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ality is not something inherent in human beings, but something that must be given by the Holy Spirit.54 The explanatory value of this reconstruction of the theology of Paul’s opponents is very sparse, however. As we have seen, the problem that Paul is concerned with here is the tendency among the Corinthian Christians to evaluate their teachers by the standards of rhetoric. There is no need to identify a deliberately anti-Pauline teaching in Corinth. Neither is the Philo-hypothesis really helpful in explaining the specific pneumatikov"–yucikov" terminology, as this contrast does not occur in Philo. Nor does Philo ever use the term pneumatikov" for the heavenly part of human beings or this kind of human being.55 Richard A. Horsley, who is one of the main proponents for this hypothesis, is forced to conjecture that this terminology originated among the Corinthians themselves and that they associated it with the Philonic distinction between the heavenly and the earthly person.56 It must be admitted, however, that Paul’s choice of the term yucikov" is somewhat mysterious.57 The term yucikov" is relatively rare in first-century Greek, but in all its NT occurrences it denotes something in absolute antithesis to that which is of God and God’s spirit (1 Cor 15:44, 46; Jas 3:15; Jude 19). It is possible that Paul chose this term in this context in order to denote a more absolute opposition to pneumatikov" than what he intended with the word savrkino"/sarkikov" (see our discussion of 3:1–4 below). The way Paul’s argument runs in 1 Cor 1–3 leads us to think that the “perfect” must be identified with all believers. We have seen that the content of wisdom is the gospel and that the revelation of this wisdom comes about by the Holy Spirit through a reversal of values on the recipient’s part: that which appears to be foolishness is acknowledged as divine wisdom. The “perfect,” those who appropriate this wisdom (2:6), seem to be all those who accept the gospel, all Christians. 54 Egon Brandenburger, Fleisch und Geist: Paulus und die dualistische Weisheit (WMANT 29; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1968), 135; Pearson, Pneumatikos-Psychikos Terminology, 38–39; Wilckens, “Zu 1 Kor 2,1–16,” 515; Sterling, “‘Wisdom Among the Perfect,’” 371–72. Similarly Joachim Theis, Paulus als Weisheitslehrer: Der Gekreuzigte und die Weisheit in 1 Kor 1–4 (BU 22; Regensburg: Pustet, 1991), 497. 55 According to a search in the TLG data base. See Horsley, “Pneumatikos Vs. Psychikos,” 271. 56 Horsley, “Pneumatikos Vs. Psychikos,” 284. 57 According to a search in the TLG data base there is no parallel in contemporary literature to the contrast between persons who are yucikoiv and pneumatikoiv. Fee suggests that Paul’s use of pneumatikov" is based on the LXX use of yuchv for “natural human being” (First Epistle, 116; cf. Thiselton, First Epistle, 267). In accordance with his tendency to support simultaneously almost all hypotheses regarding the background for Paul’s terminology in 1 Cor 2, Thiselton also suggests that Stoic terminology may have influenced Paul, but he does not provide any evidence that shows why yucikov" would be an apt term as an antonym for pneumatikov" (First Epistle, 270).

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The recipients of the revelation, hJmi'n dev of 2:10, which refers to the same group as the immediately preceding toi'" ajgapw'sin aujtovn (v. 9), must be taken as an inclusive reference, with which Paul also intends the Corinthians.58 The perfect are also called the spiritual, those who have received the spirit of God (v. 12), and these understand that which comes from God. The opposite of being a pneumatikov" is being a yucikov", which means to be unreceptive to what comes from the spirit of God. The antithesis that has been prominent all the way since 1:18 is that between the believers and those who are lost:59 “those who are saved” vs. “those who are lost” (1:18) “those who believe” vs. “Jews demand signs and Greeks desire wisdom” (1:21–22) “those who are called” vs. “the wise” (1:24, 27) “the perfect” vs. “the rulers” (2:6) “for our glory” vs. “those who perish” (2:7, 6) “to us God has revealed” vs. “none of the rulers of this world knew” (2:10, 8) “those who love him” vs. “they crucified the lord of glory” (2:9, 8) “the Spirit that is from God” vs. “the spirit of the world” (2:12) “spiritual” vs. “natural human being” (2:15, 14) “the mind of Christ” vs. “foolishness for them” (2:16, 14) An identification of the perfect with all those who have come to faith in Christ would correspond to a Jewish background for the term tevleio". In the OT (Gen 6:9; 2 Sam 22:24; Job 1:1; Ps 15:2; 18:24; Prov 11:5), as well as in Qumran (1QS 2:2; 4:22; 1QH 9:36) and in Jewish wisdom literature (Sir 39:24; 44:17), !mt is used for someone who is righteous.60 The Qumran literature also attests to the thought that divine wisdom was a prerogative of the Qumran group (1QS 4:22; 9:18; 11:6–7; 1QH 10:13–14; 20:11–12). As weighty evidence for not taking the Corinthians as being among the perfect, however, we note that they are referred to as fleshly and immature in 58 Schrage, Erste Brief, 256; Merklein, Der erste Brief an die Korinther: Kapitel 1–4, 234; Wolff, Erste Brief, 58. Allo concedes that the hJmi'n dev must be taken inclusively and refer to all Christians but maintains that in v.13 Paul goes on to talk about a limited group, the perfect and spiritual (Première Épître aux Corinthiens, 45). This distinction is untenable. The object of revelation in v. 10 must be the wisdom of vv. 6-10, the wisdom spoken among the perfect (v. 6). 59 Plessis, TELEIOS, 179. 60 Kedar-Kopfstein, “ !mt ,” 696, 700; R. B. Y. Scott, “Wise and Foolish, Righteous and Wicked,” in Studies in the Religion of Ancient Israel (VTSup 23; Leiden: Brill, 1972), 160–61. Scott notes, however, that even though there is an absolute distinction in wisdom literature between the righteous (qdx, which is a correlate of !mt) and the wicked, the acquisition of wisdom is understood more as a gradual process.

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3:1–4. The contrast between the tevleio" and the nhvpio" is well attested.61 Paul says that he had to speak to the Corinthians as fleshly and that he could not speak to them as spiritual, which is a precondition for understanding the wisdom that comes from God (2:13–15). Paul’s use of the term tevleio" in other contexts also seems to militate against taking the term as a referent for the Corinthians. Tevleio" usually refers to a state that is seen as a goal for believers. Apart from here, this adjective is used seven times in the canonical Pauline letters, five times referring to the believers or the church as a whole. In four of those instances it seems to describe a state not yet fully achieved: The Corinthians are urged to strive for perfection in understanding (1 Cor 14:2, where tevleio" also is set over against nhvpio"). The goal of the different ministries in the church is to establish the church as a perfect person (Eph 4:13). It is the goal of the teaching of Paul to present every person perfect in Christ (Col 1:28), and Epaphras prays that the Colossians will stay perfect (Col 4:12). In the fifth instance, Paul encourages those who are perfect to share his attitude in pressing toward the goal (Phil 3:15). The identification of “those who are perfect” is a major exegetical problem in Philippians. Observing that o{soi in Paul is commonly used inclusively (cf. Rom 6:3; 8:14; 2 Cor 1:20; Gal 3:27; 6:16), so as to refer to all (at least potentially), Peter T. O’Brien rightly concludes that “o{soi ou\n tevleioi is openended: it does not assert that every believer at Philippi is ‘mature,’ but it leaves the way open for the ‘conscientious judgment of every reader’ whether he or she fits the description. Paul is skillfully seeking to draw all his readers into this group.”62 This use of the term “perfect” also reflects the paradoxical nature of the gospel. Paul has just waived all claims of perfection for himself (3:12) and is now in effect saying that Christian perfection is bound up with the acknowledgment that one is lacking in perfection.63 The parallel in Eph 4:13 is particularly interesting. The perfection is there linked with knowledge of the Son of God and unity in faith. Turning to Corinth, 61

Delling, tevlo", 69. Peter T. O’Brien, The Epistle to the Philippians (NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1991), 436–37. Similarly Jean-François Collange, The Epistle of Saint Paul to the Philippians (London: Epworth, 1979), 135; Gordon D. Fee, Paul’s Letter to the Philippians (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995), 356; Markus Bockmuehl, The Epistle to the Philippians (BNTC; London: Black, 1998), 225–26. 63 Francis W. Beare, The Epistle to the Philippians (2d ed.; BNTC; London: Black, 1969), 131; Ulrich B. Müller, Der Brief des Paulus and die Philipper (THKNT; Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1993), 171. Paul’s denial of his own perfection in 3:12 need not be understood as militating against taking o{soi inclusively (contra Gerald F. Hawthorne, Philippians [WBC 43; Waco: Word, 1983], 156; Wolfgang Schenk, Die Philipperbriefe des Paulus [Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1984], 267). 62

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we note that the believers there are scolded for their lack of unity; the church is characterized by schism and strife (1 Cor 3:3). These observations lead to the conclusion that the Corinthians, by virtue of their disunity, demonstrate that they are not among the perfect. Perfection, on the other hand, is a state toward which Christians should strive, an effort in which the Corinthians are regrettably lacking. The instance in Col 1:28 seems to confirm this conclusion.64 In this passage as well, perfection is not a present reality for every Christian but rather an eschatological reality.65 We note also that the concept of revelation in this passage parallels Eph 1:17, where the thought is of a gradual progress in insight.66 These findings, then, seem to concur with the impression we get from Heb 5:11–6:3, where the author complains that the recipients of his letter still needed milk and could not take solid food, and therefore must be characterized as immature. The solid food, more advanced biblical teaching, is reserved for the perfect, that is, those who because of practice have trained their senses to distinguish (diavkrisin, cf. sugkrivnonte" in 1 Cor 2:13 and ajnakrivnei in 2:15) between good and evil. 1 Corinthians 3:1–4 is puzzling. Paul now says that the Corinthians are fleshly and walk in a human fashion. Although he introduces the terms nhvpio", a well-known antonym for tevleio", and savrkino"/sarkikov", his own favorite antonym for pneumatikov " , he does not recall the key negative term from 2:6–16, yucikov". Nor does he flatly deny that the Corinthians are spiritual, but 64 For Pauline authorship of Colossians, see Werner G. Kümmel, Introduction to the New Testament (Nashville: Abingdon, 1975), 340– 48; Peter T. O’Brien, Colossians, Philemon (WBC 44; Waco: Word, 1982), xli–liv; Carson, Moo, and Morris, Introduction, 331–34; Porter and Clarke, “Canonical-Critical Perspective,” 78–81; Bockmuehl, Revelation and Mystery, 178–79. Jean-Noël Aletti concludes that the letter “est très probablement de Paul” (Saint Paul Épitre aux Colossiens [EBib 20; Paris: Gabalda, 1993], 22–30, 208–9, 277–80). See also John M. G. Barclay, who maintains that if Colossians were not by Paul it must have been from someone so close to him that it still is a “Pauline” letter (Colossians and Philemon [NTG; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997], 35). Similarly James D. G. Dunn, who thinks that Paul authorized Timothy to write the letter (The Epistles to the Colossians and to Philemon [NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996], 38). 65 O’Brien, Colossians, Philemon, 89–90; Murray J. Harris, Colossians & Philemon (Exegetical Guide to the Greek New Testament; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1991), 73; Dunn, Epistles, 126. Eduard Schweizer notes that the word parivsthmi can be used both for installation into office and presentation before God’s judgment (The Letter to the Colossians [London: SPCK, 1976], 111). Some scholars understand this as a perfection attainable in the present life for which Christians are encouraged to aim (Eduard Lohse, Die Briefe an die Kolosser und an Philemon [2d ed.; KEK; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1977], 124–25; Joachim Gnilka, Der Kolosserbrief [HTKNT; Freiburg: Herder, 1980], 104; Aletti, Colossiens, 146). If this interpretation is correct it would be in even better accordance with our general argument here, “perfection” being a goal for believers. 66 Barth, Ephesians 1–3, 150.

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with strong censure he observes that he could not speak to them as such (3:1).67 There seems to be a different perspective here. Whereas Paul in 2:6–16 thought in terms of an absolute dualism, in 3:1–4 the perspective is of a distinction between mature and immature Christians.68 As the terminological links show, however, the absolute dualism is not forgotten. The maturity that Paul wants the Corinthians to reach is characterized by nothing else than a realization of the implications of the state they had already reached as Christians. Their value system and consequent behavior, however, are indicative of a lack of conformity with the gospel. In an attempt to account for all the evidence,69 our conclusion must run along similar lines as Peter T. O’Brien’s interpretation of the tevleioi in Phil 3:15 (see above). There seems to be an intentional ambiguity on Paul’s part. Paul is challenging the Corinthians to define themselves in relation to his gospel. The wisdom he preaches appears as foolishness for those who pursue wisdom by the standards of sophistic rhetoric, but for the spiritual, or perfect, it is the wisdom of God. Where do the Corinthians fall down? This interpretation seems to be confirmed by the two instances outside this context where Paul uses the term pneumatikov" as an attribute of persons. In 1 Cor 14:37 and Gal 6:1 Paul implies that the qualities of the spiritual person are to be expected from every believer, but he still sees the need to encourage it. To be spiritual is thus at the same time a status bestowed upon every Christian and a goal for which every Christian must strive. In 1 Cor 2:14–16 the Corinthians are challenged to show themselves as spiritual. This does not mean that Paul wants them to reach a state previously completely unknown to them. Rather, they are urged to make use of the gift they received when they came to faith in Christ. They received the spirit of God and became spiritual. Let them now show themselves as such. The effect of our interpretation is that one becomes perfect in the same way as one becomes a Christian: by accepting the word of the cross in faith, which amounts to a reversal of the values of the world.70 To be spiritual, then, is to have apprehended the word of the cross in such a way that it has transformed the entire existence of 67 Fee finds a Pauline irony here. Even though the Corinthians are among the perfect, Paul still has to talk to them as immature (First Epistle, 102–3). Similarly, J. Christiaan Beker, Paul the Apostle: The Triumph of God in Life and Thought (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1980), 218; Johnson, “Wisdom of God,” 143. 68 Davis, Wisdom and Spirit, 125–30. 69 Cf. Schrage, who speaks of a “doppelte Linienführung” (Erste Brief, 249). Schnackenburg observes concerning the Corinthians that “they are pneumatics and yet they are not” (“Christian Adulthood,” 358). 70 Similarly Delling, “tevlo",” 76; Barrett, First Epistle, 69; and Pearson, who observes that anyone who has received the gift of the spirit can be called spiritual, but that the full realization of this existence still lies in the future (Pneumatikos-Psychikos Terminology, 41).

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the believer into its image—to a cruciform life, a life characterized by self-sacrificing love, and where power is manifest through weakness.71 By expecting of the Christian preachers that they excel by means of sophistic rhetoric, the Corinthians side with the rulers of this world and thus put themselves in a position where they are unable to receive the gospel. Hence, Paul cannot speak to them as spiritual, but he has to speak to them as fleshly and immature. They are in danger of forfeiting the divine gift they have received.72

V. Conclusion We have seen that, although there is no identifiable heterodox teaching Paul is combating in 1 Cor 1–4, his evaluation of the schisms is profoundly theological. The factionalism is rooted in a misapprehension of the gospel. Instead of having their self-identity in the word of the cross, the Corinthians rely on a kind of rhetoric that was supposed to allow them to excel in personal status, to the detriment of others. This is a characteristic of worldly wisdom, which stands in an antithetical relationship to God’s wisdom. Divine wisdom, identified with the gospel, remains hidden under its apparent foolishness for those who want to be wise according to the standards of this world, even though it is proclaimed openly. By pursuing worldly status, the Corinthians are running the risk of defining themselves among those for whom the gospel is hidden and thus forfeiting the divine gift. The divisions are therefore indicative of the fact that the Corinthians are jeopardizing their salvation. Paul has to challenge them to show themselves as what they already are, as spiritual. Only as such can they apprehend divine wisdom. Paul therefore renews the call to abandon all claims to what is impressive in this world and rather to identify with the cross of Christ, in self-sacrificing love, and with the power of God, which is manifest in weakness. The fruit of this will be the unity of the church. 71

Aída Besançon Spencer and William David Spencer, “The Truly Spiritual in Paul: Biblical Background Paper on 1 Corinthians 2:6–16,” in Conflict and Context: Hermeneutics in the Americas (ed. Mark Lau Branson and C. René Padilla; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1986), 245–48. 72 Similarly Wilckens, “Zu 1 Kor 2,1–16,” 511–13; C. C. Newman, Paul’s Glory Christology: Tradition and Rhetoric (NovTSup 69; Leiden: Brill, 1992), 239; Thiselton, First Epistle, 247.

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JBL 121/4 (2002) 711–744

JEWISH LAWS ON ILLICIT MARRIAGE, THE DEFILEMENT OF OFFSPRING, AND THE HOLINESS OF THE TEMPLE: A NEW HALAKIC INTERPRETATION OF 1 CORINTHIANS 7:14

YONDER MOYNIHAN GILLIHAN [email protected] 99 Augur Street, Hamden, CT 06517

I. A New Halakic Interpretation In 1 Cor 7:12–13 Paul rules that no believer married to an unbeliever should initiate divorce. The next verse provides justification for the ruling in two parts: first Paul sets forth the principle that grounds the ruling, hJgivastai ga;r oJ ajnh;r oJ a[pisto" ejn th'/ gunaiki; kai; hJgivastai hJ gunh; hJ a[pisto" ejn tw'/ ajdelfw'/, “for the unbelieving husband is sanctified by the wife, and the unbelieving wife is sanctified by the brother.”1 In v. 14b this grounding principle is substantiated by the proof, ejpei; a[ra ta; tevkna uJmw'n ajkavqartav ejstin, nu'n de; a{giav ejstin, “otherwise your children would be impure, but as it is they are holy.”2 The modern interpreter must answer a number of questions: What does

I would like to thank Adela Yarbro Collins for her careful readings and improvements of several drafts of this article. Christine Hayes generously made available the manuscript of her forthcoming book Gentile Impurities and Jewish Identities: Intermarriage and Conversion from the Bible to the Talmud (Oxford University Press). Richard Saller gave guidance regarding pagan family mores. Thanks also to participants in the 2001 New England SBL conference, especially H. Attridge, D. Martin, S. Berg, M. Goff, and K. Wilkinson, who provided challenging feedback to an earlier presentation of this research. 1 The gavr is argumentative, and the ejn phrases are instrumental. Paul similarly uses instrumental ejn phrases with hJgivasqai in Rom 15:16, where he calls the offering of the Gentiles “sanctified by the Holy Spirit” (hJgiasmevnh ejn pneuvmati aJgivw/). 2 Conzelmann rightly points out that the present indicative is rare in the principal clause of an unreal condition, which evpei; a[ra introduces (Hans Conzelmann, I Corinthians [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1975], 123 n. 36). Nu'n dev marks “reality in contrast to an assumed case,” and should be

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Paul mean when he claims that an unbelieving spouse (a[pisto") is sanctified (hJgivastai) by the believing spouse? What relationship between impurity and holiness does the children’s status presuppose? Why would the Corinthians have accepted Paul’s identification of their children as holy? How is the impurity or holiness of the children related to the sanctification of the spouse? How does the holiness of the children prove that the unbelieving spouse is made holy by the believing spouse? Unfortunately no “handbook of ancient Corinthian sexuality and social status” is extant, nor do we have access to the instruction contained in Paul’s earlier letter mentioned in 5:9,3 or to the letter to Paul in which the Corinthians asked about sexual conduct and marriage (7:1).4 To what, therefore, may we turn for illumination on the logic underlying the ruling? Some scholars have turned to ancient halakot in an attempt to understand Paul’s argument in 1 Cor 7:12–16, and with justification.5 There is strong evidence in the NT and other ancient literary and archaeological sources for a sizable and influential community of Jews at Corinth.6 The Christian community translated “but as it is,” or even “but in reality.” See H. Smyth, Greek Grammar (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1984) §2924. 3 Walter Schmithals proposed that Paul’s first letter consisted of 2 Cor 6:14–7:1 + 1 Cor 6:12–20; 9:24–10:22; 11:2–34; 15; 16:13–24 (Gnosticism at Corinth [Nashville: Abingdon, 1971], 95). In light of more recent arguments for the unity of 1 Corinthians (e.g., Conzelmann, I Corinthians, 2–5; Margaret Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation [Louisville: Westminster/John Knox, 1992], 184–295), this elaborate rearrangement seems unlikely, but the idea that Paul’s invective against “unequal yoking” in 2 Cor 6:14–7:1 provoked the questions about marriage between believers and nonbelievers that 1 Cor 7:12–16 answers is attractive, if ultimately not demonstrable. Many scholars have, however, argued against the authenticity of 2 Cor 6:14–7:1, most notably Joseph A. Fitzmyer (“Qumran and the Interpolated Fragment in 2 Cor 6:14–7:1,” CBQ 23 [1961]: 271–80) and Joachim Gnilka (“2 Cor 6:14–7:1 in the Light of the Qumran Texts and the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs,” in Paul and the Dead Sea Scrolls [ed. Jerome Murphy-O’Connor et al.; New York: Crossroad, 1990], 48–68). Hans Dieter Betz has gone so far as to identify the passage as “anti-Pauline” (“2 Cor 6:14–7:1: An Anti-Pauline Fragment?,” in idem, Paulinische Studien [Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1994], 20– 45). For a summary of scholarly debate and an argument for authenticity, see Jan Lambrecht, “The Fragment 2 Corinthians 6:14–7:1: A Plea for Its Authenticity,” in R. Bieringer and J. Lambrecht, Studies on 2 Corinthians (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1994), 531–49. 4 In addition, the Corinthians were concerned about food sacrificed to idols (8:1), spiritual gifts (12:1), and the collection for the churches (16:1); likewise we must infer the details of their debates concerning these issues. For discussion of Paul’s response to written questions in a letter from Corinth, see Conzelmann, I Corinthians, 114–15; C. K. Barrett, A Commentary on the First Epistle to the Corinthians (London: A. & C. Black, 1968), 154; Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 225. 5 Most notably, Joachim Jeremias, Infant Baptism in the First Four Centuries (London: SCM, 1960), 37– 40, 44– 48; Peter J. Tomson, Paul and the Jewish Law (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), 103–24; also J. Massyngberde Ford, “‘Hast Thou Tithed Thy Meal’ and ‘Is Thy Child Kosher?’” JTS 17 (1966): 71–79. 6 In Acts 18:8–17 the Corinthian synagogue leader, Crispus, becomes a believer during Paul’s

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there had a number of prominent Jewish members and was familiar with certain aspects of Jewish law. If the Crispus and Sosthenes mentioned in 1 Corinthians are the same as the synagogue leaders who appear in Acts 18, then the Corinthian congregation would have been under the influence of JewishChristian leaders from the beginning. Paul, a self-described @Ebrai' o " ej x @Ebraivwn and a Farisai'o" (Phil 3:5), knew Jewish law thoroughly and would have been able to advise concerned believers about halakic issues and to expect at least some of them to understand halakic argumentation when he made it. It is clear that our passage is halakic: Paul’s goal in writing the instruction in 7:12–16 is to apply the commandment of the Lord against divorce casuistically to “mixed” marriages in which one partner is a believer and the other is not.7 Like the halakic interpreters behind 4QMMT, who distinguish between what is bwtk and what !yb`j wnjna, and the rabbis named in the Mishnah, whose interpretations are clearly distinguished from key verses of Torah,8 Paul distinmission to the city, and another leader, Sosthenes, is beaten by a crowd of Jews after Paul appeared before the proconsul Gallio on charges of worshiping God contrary to Jewish law. Men with these names appear in 1 Corinthians: Sosthenes addresses the congregation with Paul in 1:1, and in 1:14 Paul refers to Crispus as one of the only Corinthians whom Paul had baptized. Acts depicts Paul preaching to the Jews at Corinth (18:1–5, 8) and residing with Titius Justus, a sebomevno" to;n qeovn—probably a Gentile who worshiped in the synagogue and followed some Jewish regulations—who lived next to the synagogue (18:7). The centurion Cornelius is similarly described in Acts 10:2, 22 (eujsebh;" kai; fobouvmeno" to;n qeovn). Ernst Haenchen writes that such descriptions “may . . . imply membership of the group of Gentiles who took part in synagogue services without, by adopting the whole of the law, becoming really proshvlutoi, i.e., fully entitled members of the Jewish religious community” (The Acts of the Apostles [Louisville: Westminster, 1971], 346). In Acts, Paul ultimately directs his greatest evangelical energy to the Gentiles after the Jews opposed him (18:5–6). Evidence from 1 Corinthians supports Luke’s picture of a mixed group of converts: in 1:18–25 Paul contrasts the message of the gospel to the traditional desires of Jews for miracles and Greeks for wisdom, emphasizing that the cross, God’s power and wisdom, is able to bring salvation to both peoples. The Corinthian community may have been concerned about circumcision (7:18); concern about food purity (8:1–6) is consistent with the Jewish community, and the fact that some at Corinth observed stricter purity regulations than others suggests a mixture of ethnic or religious background that would lead naturally to varying “strengths” of conscience (8:7–13). The presence of a sizable Jewish community at Corinth is evidenced also in Philo’s Legatio ad Gaium, in which he mentions Corinth among those towns in which the Jews have established colonies (§281). In addition an inscription over a door of a Corinthian building, dated between 100 B.C.E. and 200 C.E., reads . . . GwGHEBR . . . , which scholars reconstruct as [suna]gwgh; @Ebr[aivwn]; it marked a modest synagogue. See A. Deissmann, Light from the Ancient East (New York: George H. Doran, 1927), 16–17 n. 7. 7 Jesus’ commandment occurs in the oldest traditions, Mark 10:1–12 and Q (Luke 16:18); Matt 5:32 (from Q) and 19:9 (from Mark) both add the exception of porneiva. 8 See, e.g., 4QMMT B 27–29, 64–66, 70, 76–77. All citations of 4QMMT will be from the edition of John Strugnell and Elisha Qimron, Qumran Cave 4.V: Miqs\at Ma>asåe Ha-Torah (DJD 10; Oxford: Clarendon, 1994). In the Mishnah, citations of Scripture are not typically marked, but the names of various rabbis are attached to debated rulings. For example, in m. Yeb. 12:6 the rite of

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guishes between the revealed commandment, which he identifies as coming from oJ kuvrio" (7:10–11), and his interpretation, which he introduces with levgw ej g wv ouj c oJ kuv r io" (7:12). 9 The commandment of the Lord in 7:10–11 is addressed to toi'" gegamhkovsin and binds both spouses; clearly the addressees are believers married to believers, since both are expected to recognize the authority of a commandment “from the Lord,” and to obey. In 7:12–16, however, only one spouse is obligated to observe the commandment, while the a[pisto" is entitled to consent to remain living with the believer or to divorce (see 1 Cor 7:15a). There is no hint that the living arrangement will bring about belief in the unbeliever. In 7:14 Paul gives the principle that justifies the ruling: the unbelieving spouse is sanctified by the believing spouse. As evidence that this principle is true Paul points to the fact that the children are holy, not h\a·lîs\â is described with verbatim citations of Deut 25:7–10 interspersed with notes about how various rabbis performed portions of the ceremony. In 13:1 legal opinions about which women are entitled to refuse levirate marriage are given, preceded by the name of the rabbinic school or teacher responsible for the opinion. Citations of the Mishnah are from Mishnayoth, vols. 1–7 (ed. P. Blackman; Gateshead: Judaica Press, 1983). 9 When Paul distinguishes between his interpretation of a commandment and the commandment, he is simply following halakic form and considers his interpretation binding: in 7:20 he claims that his rulings direct the congregation toward the commandments of God, and in 7:25 and 40 Paul describes himself as “one on whom the Lord has conferred the mercy of being trustworthy,” and as one who has “the Spirit of God” (trans. Conzelmann). The binding authority of Paul’s interpretation is also apparent in his explanation of his ruling that all should remain as they were when they were called by God (1 Cor 7:17): after exhorting the circumcised and uncircumcised to remain as they are he writes, “thus I ordain in all the congregations.” It is interesting that Paul applies halakic exegetical method to a new authoritative legal source: Jesus’ recollected words. Paul’s exegetical method reveals the authority that Jesus’ teaching had already acquired, since here it bears the same authority as the Torah. See Raymond F. Collins’s generally good discussion, Divorce in the New Testament (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1992), 34–35, 42–46. Collins’s statement that Paul’s halakic treatment of divorce is “rather comprehensive, though non-legalistic” (p. 40), however, seems like special theological pleading: How is casuistic rule-making not legalistic? What does “legalistic” mean? The interpretive voices of pre- and post-Pauline halakot, such as the “we” of 4QMMT and the various named rabbis of the Mishnah, similarly assumed for themselves authority to prescribe and proscribe behavior, and to judge purity and protect holiness among the people of Israel. Although “rabbinic discussions [in the tannaitic literature] are characterized by differences of opinions, disputes, and debates,” it is often clear in the Mishnah whose views were rejected and whose were regarded as authoritative (Gary Porton, “Halakah,” ABD 3:27). The concluding lines of 4QMMT illustrate the Qumran sect’s assessment of their interpretive authority: “Consider all these things and ask Him that He strengthen your will and remove from you the plans of evil and the device of Belial so that you may rejoice at the end of time, finding that some of our practices are correct. And this will be counted as a virtuous deed of yours, since you will be doing what is righteous and good in His eyes, for your own welfare and for the welfare of Israel” (C 28–32). While both Paul and the authors of MMT claimed responsibility for interpretations of revealed law, both believed that their interpretations were uniquely able to bring their adherents into conformity with the commandments of God.

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impure. The children’s present holiness proves that the unbeliever is already sanctified, and that the sanctification does not refer to a future act of entering the community. If the unbelieving spouse were not already sanctified, then the children would be impure. As it now stands, they are holy; thus the a[pisto" is somehow already sanctified, even though remaining an unbeliever. What logic is at work here? First, it is apparent that the holiness of the children depends solely on the sanctification of both parents. If both parents are sanctified, the children are holy; were one spouse not sanctified, then the children would be impure.10 The relationship between impurity and holiness here is strikingly different from that found in other Pauline passages, where “impurity” (aj k aqarsiv a ) is a species of immoral activity, while “holiness” (aJgiasmov", aJgiwsuvnh) is manifested in activity that is moral and pleasing to God.11 There is no hint of a moral judgment of the children in Paul’s claim that they are holy instead of impure. Rather, their holiness is a status that the children attain solely on the basis of their parents’ sanctification. Now, while Paul must argue that the unbelieving spouse is sanctified, he takes for granted that the Corinthians will agree with his assertion that the children are holy.12 What warrants the Corinthians’ acceptance of Paul’s identification of the children as holy? Paul’s argumentative proof is presented e concessu and seems most naturally to depend on the children’s participation in the life of the community, whom Paul regularly calls a{gioi.13 Because the children come and go and interact freely with the holy community, their holy status must be recognized and accepted; were they not holy, they presumably could not be counted among the a{gioi, on account of their impu10 Against speculation that the sanctification of the children must include baptism, not only is baptism nowhere to be found as a requirement for the children’s holiness, but a definite requirement is given: both parents must be sanctified. Within the context of Paul’s argument in 7:12–16, only the sanctification of both parents may be identified as the cause of the children’s holiness. Although it is likely that children were baptized when an entire household converted, such as in Acts 18:8, such an act of sanctification is not crucial for Paul’s judgment that they are holy. In Paul’s argument their holiness depends on the sanctification of both parents; indeed, if baptism were considered to be the cause of the children’s holiness, Paul could not adduce their holiness as proof that the unbeliever is sanctified by the believer. See A. Robertson and A. Plummer, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the First Epistle of St Paul to the Corinthians (ICC; 2d ed.; Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1914), 142, and section 2, below, for further discussion. 11 In 1 Thess 4:7 Paul writes: ouj ga;r ejkavlesen hJma'" oJ qeo;" ejpi; ajkaqarsiva/ ajll! ejn aJgiasmw'/, and in 2 Cor 7:1, kaqarivswmen eJautou;" ajpo; panto;" molusmou' sarko;" kai; pneuvmato", ejpitelou'nte" aJgiwsuvnhn ejn fovbw/ qeou'. Similarly in Eph 5:3, moral impurity is of the same order as porneiva and pleonexiva, none of which are fitting among toi'" aJgivoi". Paul also identifies impurity as a category of immoral activity in Rom 1:24; 6:19; 2 Cor 6:17; 12:21; Gal 5:19; 1 Thess 2:3; so also Col 3:5; Eph 4:19; 5:5; Rev 17:4. 12 Jeremias, Infant Baptism, 45. 13 Rom 1:7; 8:27; 12:3; 15:25, 26, 31; 16:2, 15; 1 Cor 1:2; 6:1, 2; 14:33; 16:1, 15; 2 Cor 1:1; 8:4; 9:1, 12; 13:12; Phil 1:1; 4:22; Phlm 5, 7; 2 Thess 1:10.

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rity. It seems most likely that the children in question are being raised as believers, or at least have full access to the religious life of the community. Otherwise it is difficult to imagine how their holiness could function as an argumentative proof.14 In 7:15 Paul allows the believing spouse to be divorced if the unbeliever initiates it. If the unbeliever initiates divorce, then clearly she or he persists in unbelief, yet the status of the children is not mentioned and is assumed to remain one of holiness. Thus, while the unbeliever remains in the marriage, she or he is sanctified by the believing spouse. In 7:16 Paul introduces the possibility that the believing spouse may save the unbeliever, that is, that under the influence of the believing spouse the unbeliever will believe in Christ and enter the community. This is unrelated to the fact that the unbeliever is sanctified by his or her relationship to the believer. The fact that Paul presents this possibility in ambiguous terms—to paraphrase, “For how do you know whether you will save your unbelieving spouse?”15—confirms that the unbeliever’s sanctification does not imply salvation.16 If this is true then the sanctification of the unbeliever has less import for the unbeliever, and more for the marriage. A pressing concern of the members of the Corinthian congregation seems to have been that they not be in forbidden marriages; for this to happen both partners had to be sanctified, that is, legally eligible. By ruling that the unbelieving spouse is sanctified by the believer, Paul effectively ruled that mixed marriages are, in fact, licit. Thus, in 7:14 the meaning of hJgivastai is “is sanctified” in the sense of “is eligible” for licit marriage to a believer.17 That the unbeliever may initiate 14 Whether we may infer that 1 Cor 7:12–16 solely addressed the concerns of believers married to unbelievers whose children were brought up within the community is not completely clear, but this social situation would fit Paul’s argument most closely, contra Gerhard Delling, who claims that the children are grown adults who have rejected baptism and faith in Christ (Delling, “Nun aber sind sie heilig,” in Gott und die Götter: Festgabe für Erich Fascher zum 60. Geburtstag [Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1958], 84–93). See Conzelmann, I Corinthians, 123, for a persuasive argument against Delling. 15 tiv ga;r oi\da" guvnai, eij to;n a[ndra swvsei"_ h} tiv oi\da" a[ner eij th;n gunai'ka swvsei"_ 16 Paul’s ruling addresses two specific questions: (1) What is the force of the Lord’s commandment for a believer married to an a[pisto"? (2) What is the status of a believer whose a[pisto" spouse secures a divorce? The possibility exists that the believer may influence the unbeliever, but this is not a certainty; if the unbeliever divorces, it is in the best interest of the believer to accept the divorce and to be free of the former obligations of the marriage. Paul’s justification for this, “for God has called you for peace” (v. 15), suggests that the strife that would result from refusing divorce, either by insisting that the commandment of the Lord was binding upon both parties or by pursuing a lawsuit in the public court, would be inconsistent with the principle that the community of believers should not engage in public conflict with or attempt to judge unbelievers. See 1 Cor 5:12; 6:1–8; Rom 12:18–13:7. 17 Calvin’s interpretation of this aspect of the verse remains valuable: “Tametsi autem hanc sanctificationem varie accipiunt, ego simpliciter ad coniugium refero, hoc sensu: videri in speciem posset fidelis uxor contagionem ducere ab infideli marito, ut sit illicita societas: sed aliter res habet.

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divorce suggests that the power of the sanctification is limited to the duration of the marriage; thus it appears that the effect of the sanctification is limited to causing the marriage, while it lasts, to be between mutually eligible partners.18 Paul’s use of sanctification language is further illuminated by halakot concerning marriage in m. Qiddushin. Here @yviWDyqi, “sanctifications,” refers to a man’s betrothal of a woman; @yviWDyqi also refers to the betrothal gift, and to the act of licit betrothal itself. The noun @yviWDyqi is derived from the piel verb vDEq', one idiomatic meaning of which is “to betroth.”19 In m. Qidd. 2:120 we find a striking linguistic parallel to 1 Cor 7:14 as the verb to sanctify is used consistently to describe an act of licit betrothal: A man betroths (`dqm) [a woman] by himself (wb) or through his agent. A woman is betrothed (t`dqtm) by herself (hb) or through her representative. A man betroths (`dqm) his daughter [to another] . . . either by himself or through his representative.

If we translate the piel and hithpael participles in this ruling more literally, its relationship to Paul’s ruling becomes unmistakable: the rabbis recognized that a man sanctifies a woman for licit marital union when he gives her the @y`wdq; a woman is sanctified by her fiancé for licit marital union when she accepts the @y`wdq, and so forth. The rabbis’ Hebrew, like Paul’s Greek, makes the object of sanctification the spouse, and both use instrumental prepositions to express agency: hJgivastai ejn appears to be a faithful appropriation of b `dqm/t`dqtm.21 Pluris enim est pietas unius ad coniugium sanctificandum quam alterius impietas ad inquinandum. Pura igitur conscientia habitare potest fidelis cum infideli: nam quoad usum et communionem tori ac totius vitae, sanctificatur, ne sua immunditia fidelem inquinet” (Commentarius in Epistolam Pauli ad Corinthios I [ed. G. Baum et al.; Brunsvigae: C. A. Schwetschke et Filium, 1892], 411–12). 18 Paul concludes by addressing the situation of an believer whose unconverted spouse divorces: ouj dedouvlwtai oJ ajdelfo;" h] hJ ajdelfh; ejn toi'" toiouvtoi" (v. 15b). The believer is forbidden to initiate divorce, but, as Conzelmann writes, “is not subjected to any constraint because of the pagan’s behavior. He can marry again,” if the a[pisto" divorces (I Corinthians, 123). This passage exemplifies Paul’s rule in 1 Cor 5:12 that believers have judicial authority over other believers, but not over unbelieving outsiders: were the a[pisto" a believer, then Paul would have had authority to command him or her to remain married and to pronounce judgment on violators of the commandment. (Compare 1 Cor 5:3–5, where the offender obviously claims membership in the community of believers. In addition, 6:1–8 illustrates Paul’s conception of the community as having judicial authority in disputes between members, an authority entirely independent of the legal structures operative outside of the community.) In the eschatological future, however, Paul anticipates o{ti oiJ a{gioi to;n kovsmon krinou'sin (1 Cor 6:2). See Conzelmann, I Corinthians, 102, 104–5 for comment. 19 See P. Blackman’s discussion in Mishnayoth vol. 3, Seder Nashim, 449. 20 The piel of `dq is used identically throughout the tractate; for another example, see m. Keth. 7:7. 21 Note, however, that the use of the preposition b to identify the personal agency by which betrothal occurs is unusual. Most frequently, as Hayes points out, the object of the preposition is “the mechanism—the object or act—by which the betrothal becomes valid: an act of cohabitation,

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It is significant that Paul uses the passive of aJgiavzw to describe the sanctification of the unbeliever, male or female, given that the Mishnah (esp. b. Qidd. 2.1–3.11) distinguishes between the male act of betrothing (piel `dqm) and the female act of being betrothed (hithpael t`dqtm or, more usually, pual t`dwqm). Paul’s usage puts the believer, male or female, in the more powerful “male” role of sanctifying/causing licit betrothal, while the unbeliever implicitly becomes “feminized.”22 The rabbis assumed that the act of betrothal, or “sanctification,” implied the licitness of the marital union.23 This is precisely what Paul implies in 1 Cor 7:14—the marital union is licit because the unbelieving spouse is “sanctified”— a legal status typically associated with the female spouse. Paul seems to be using the Greek equivalent of a Pharisaic-rabbinic betrothal idiom. It is apparent that he must introduce a new literalness into the idiom aJgivasqai ejn / Ab `dq in order to argue that the unbeliever is sanctified for licit marital union. When the rabbis wrote that a man `dqm his future spouse, the “sanctification” presupposed the licitness of the marital union on the basis of the pre-betrothal status of both spouses. The meaning of `dq is “to betroth” rather than literally “to sanctify,” since the eligibility of the betrothed was assumed. In contrast, Paul wrote his ruling to address the status of already existing marriages.24 When he a gift of a certain minimal value, or a written document” (“Paul on Mixed Marriages,” in Gentile Impurities). 22 Obviously some precision in the translation is lacking: in m. Qidd. 2:13 the object of the preposition is the subject of the verb, so that the idiom is reflexive: “a man betroths (a woman) by himself or through his agent”; “a woman becomes betrothed (to a man) by herself or through her representative.” The Ab phrases identify the independent agency of both parties in the betrothal agreement, who act in their own behalf, respectively: the man as he offers and the woman as she accepts the betrothal gift to secure the marriage contract. In 1 Cor 7:14 the objects of the ejn phrases are the spouses of the sanctified, and these phrases identify the agency of each spouse to guarantee that the partner is sanctified and that the betrothal is licit. The Jewish custom of ascribing independent agency to both parties in a marriage contract makes Paul’s ruling possible: because a man may offer a betrothal gift to a woman by himself, he has the ability to identify her formally as a licit, “sanctified” partner; likewise because a woman may accept a betrothal gift from a man by herself, she has the formal ability to identify him as a licit partner. While it is not clear that such careful thought preceded Paul’s usage of this idiom, it seems clear enough that the idiom would have been available to the former Pharisee, and that he found it convenient and appropriate for his argument. 23 In m. Yeb. 2:3–4 we find similar language of holiness used to describe prohibitions: a childless brother’s widow may be prohibited from marrying a brother-in-law because of h`wdq—that is, because he is a high priest, a mamzer, or a Gibeonite. In each case holiness is violated: in the former, that of the high priest, who should not marry a widow; in the last two, that of the Israelite woman, who must not marry a mamzer or Gibeonite. 24 This is apparent from the location of 1 Cor 7:12–16, immediately before Paul’s commands to “remain as you are” in 7:17–24. Most importantly, in v. 25 he changes subjects and begins speaking peri; tw'n parqevnwn, “about the unmarried.” Thus, the rulings in 7:10–16 pertained to those already married, and those in 7:25–38 to the unmarried. It is unlikely that Paul would have recom-

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wrote that one spouse hJgivastai by the other, he meant that the act or state of being married to a believer, and not the premarital status of the spouses, literally sanctifies the unbelieving spouse as an eligible partner and effects the licitness of the union. We might say that the Pharisaic/rabbinic betrothal idiom has come under the influence of the commandment of the Lord against divorce, so that licitness of marriage is now judged on the basis of the indissolubility of the marital bond (by the believer) rather than on the basis of the premarital status of each spouse.25 M.Qiddushin 3:12 illuminates the significance of the children’s status in 1 Cor 7:14. This passage treats the status of the children of licit and illicit sexual unions. The rabbis ruled as follows: @y`wdq `y` !wqm lkw . . . .rkzh rja ^lwh dlwh hryb[ @yaw @y`wdq `y` !wqm-lk fwydh @hkl hxwljw h`wrg lwdg @hkl hnmla wz .hzyaw !wgph rja ^lwh dlwh hryb[ `yw `y lba @y`wdq wyl[ hl @ya` ymAlkw .@ytnlw rzmml lar`y tb lar`yl hnytnw trzmm . . . .hrwtb` twyr[h lkm tja l[ abh hz .hzyaw rzmm dlwh @y`wdq !yrja l[ hl In every case in which there is holiness26 [in the marriage arrangement] and there is no transgression, the offspring follows the father [in status]. . . . And in every case in which there is holiness but there is transgression, the offspring follows the parent of inferior status. . . . And in the case of any woman whose marriage to such is not holiness, but with others would be holy, the offspring is a mamzer. And which is such? In the case of a man who has sexual intercourse with one of the prohibited degrees of marriage in the Law. . . .

Two degrees of licit marriages are recognized here: in the superior, both spouses are eligible to marry each other; in these cases the status of the offmended or even allowed believers to marry nonbelievers. It is likely that his insistence that widows remarry movnon ejn kurivw/ (7:39) means that they may marry only those within the believing community. 25 It is not correct to call Paul’s ruling a “concession” for which he creates the legal fiction of the unbeliever’s sanctification, pace Christine Hayes, who writes, “Paul is lenient and willing to view the unbeliever as if eligible for marriage with the believer and to view the marriage as if licit and valid” (Gentile Impurities). First, Paul forbids Corinthian believers from divorcing unbelievers, against the apparent wishes of some to separate themselves from all nonbelievers (e.g., 1 Cor 5:9–10). This is an imposition of stricter law, not a concession to believers’ desires (although to those upon whom divorce from a beloved but unbelieving spouse was urged, Paul’s ruling would have come as a relief!). Second, in Paul’s view, the Lord’s prohibition against divorce binds any believer to any existing marriage and necessarily makes any believer’s spouse a licit partner. Paul’s legal fiction is limited to making explicit the basis of the unbeliever’s status as a licit partner, which the prohibition against divorce already implies. The principle of sanctification by marriage was created not in order to justify an exception to the rule against believer–unbeliever intermarriage, as Hayes claims, but to add weight to Paul’s ruling against divorce in the case of mixed marriages. 26 Blackman translates @y`wdq as “licit betrothal.” My translation emphasizes, however, that licit marriage is described as “holy” in the Mishnah.

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spring follows that of the father. The inferior form of licit marriage involved some transgression of eligibility laws and resulted in the higher-status spouse having children of lower status.27 A harsher penalty fell upon those whose union was with absolutely forbidden partners, namely, the near-of-kin and others specified in Lev 18:6–18.28 Offspring of such unions were mamzerim.29 Mamzerim were impure and posed a threat to the holiness of the land of Israel, especially to the temple. Biblical and postbiblical Jewish legislators emphatically stressed their exclusion: Deut 23:3 forbids them and their descendants, to the tenth generation, from entering the holy assembly of Yahweh.30 27 The transgressions of the law allowed here are even punishable by scourging, according to m. Mak. 3:1. No one of priestly lineage was allowed to marry a divorced woman, a widow, or a person of mamzer or Gibeonite status or descent. This includes, of course, a woman who has performed h\a·lîs\â. If a person of priestly descent married one of these lower statuses, that one was penalized by a diminishing of the status of the offspring. For a similar ruling, see m. Yeb. 2:4. The rationale for this ruling was that the [rz, “seed,” of the holy priestly line would be profaned (Lev 21:7; cf. Ezek 44:22). 28 The rabbis described these, vis-à-vis the woman, as @y`wdq wyl[ hl @ya`, “in which there is not for her licit betrothal (or ‘sanctification’) regarding them.” Those forbidden were, specifically, hrwtb twyr[h, “the (ones whose) nakednesses (are forbidden) in the Torah.” See also m. Yeb. 2:3. 29 For an excellent discussion of ancient Jewish rulings on marriage and the status of offspring, see Christine Hayes, “Intermarriage and Impurity in Ancient Jewish Sources,” HTR 92 (1999): 3–36. Hayes traces the development of prohibitions against Jewish–Gentile intermarriage beginning with those in Leviticus and Deuteronomy, which were limited to the seven Canaanite nations and motivated both by the fear that the Gentile spouse would alienate the Jewish spouse from the Israelite religion (e.g., Deut 7:2– 4) and by specific interethnic enmities (Deut 23). The later rulings in Ezra 9:1–2; 10:19; Nehemiah; Mal 2:11–12; 4QMMT; and Jubilees, which prohibit all Jewish–Gentile intermarriage, were motivated or justified by the “novel reason that marital union with a Gentile profanes (that is, renders nonholy) the holy seed” of the Jewish people (ibid., 10). See Hayes’s expanded discussion in Gentile Impurities. B. Schereschewsky provides a handy survey of the rabbinic passages (“Mamzer,” EncJud 11:840–42); for philological analysis, see A. Geiger, Urschrift (Breslau, 1857), 52–55; A. Büchler, “Familienreinheit und Familienmakel in Jerusalem,” in Festschrift Adolf Schwarz zum siebzigsten Geburtstage 15. Juli 1916 (ed. Samuel Krauss; Berlin: R. Lèowit, 1917), 133–62; and L. Freund, “Über Genealogien und Familienreinheit,” in ibid., 163–92. Geiger argues that rzmm derived from rz ![m and meant, in the biblical texts (Deut 23:3; Zech 9:6), a child born of a mixed marriage. Against this view, see L. Epstein, Marriage Laws in the Bible and the Talmud (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1942), 160, 184, and the extended discussion, 279–90. Epstein argues that mamzer could not have meant “of a mixed marriage” because the Deuteronomist “had not yet issued a general prohibition against such marriages.” Epstein concludes, without philological analysis, that the term mamzer in Deut 23:3 appears to be racial, and most likely refers to an ethnic group that occupied the city of Ashdod, knowledge about which perished at an early stage (p. 184). Space does not permit full discussion, but see n. 48 below. 30 “Even to the tenth generation” (yrIyci[} r/D !G") in Deut 23:3 originally meant “forever,” as the gloss !l;/[Ad[' after yrIyci[} r/D !G" in 23:4 proves. See below, n. 48, for discussion of the redaction of Deut 23:3–5. The holiness of the camp of Israelites is given as the reason for these exclusions in Deut 23:14. In m. Yeb. 8:3 the mamzer, whether male or female, is eternally forbidden to marry an Israelite.

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Similarly, in 4QFlor 1 i 2–4 the mamzer is forbidden to enter the temple, ayk !` w`wdq. The dangers and legal consequences of marriages between unequal partners and other forbidden sexual unions occupied Jewish thinkers in the centuries preceding and following Paul’s career.31 The earliest extant postbiblical halakot on mixed marriages are found in 4QMMT, which the editors identify as a composition of the Essenes written between 159 and 152 B . C . E ., 32 and Jubilees, which should be dated ca. 170–140 B.C.E.33 If we date the final redaction of the Mishnah to around 200 C.E. and accept that it contains earlier rulings that originated with the Pharisees, then we have a selection of halakot concerning mixed marriages from a variety of Jewish groups writing over three and a half centuries. Roughly in the middle of this period, between 53 and 55 C.E., Paul handed down his ruling in 1 Cor 7:12–16.34 Two sections of MMT are germane. The first, B 39–49, identifies forbidden sexual unions within the context of regulations aimed at maintaining the purity of the temple.35 Two prohibitions pertaining to impure males, including mamzerim, appear here: first, they were prohibited from marrying Israelites; 31 This concern stands in stark contrast to the apparent lack of concern for the illegitimate status of children born of forbidden marriages in Roman society. While Augustus’s reforms forbade illegitimate children from enrollment in the registry of freeborn citizens, this law was not applied consistently. It was possible for freeborn citizens to be identified as illegitimate offspring with little social stigma. See S. Dixon, The Roman Family (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992), 124–26. 32 On the composition of the document, see the remarks of Qimron and Strugnell, Qumran Cave 4.V, 116–21, 131–32, 161–62; also Lawrence H. Schiffman, Reclaiming the Dead Sea Scrolls (New York: Doubleday, 1995), 83–95, 245–55; and idem, “The Sadducean Origins of the Dead Sea Sect,” in Understanding the Dead Sea Scrolls (ed. H. Schanks; New York: Random House, 1992), 35– 49; also James C. VanderKam’s answer to this article, “The People of the Dead Sea Scrolls: Essenes or Sadducees?” in the same volume, pp. 50–62. On the dating of 4QMMT, see Qimron and Strugnell, Qumran Cave 4.V, 121. See A. Yardeni’s analysis of the paleography and dating of the manuscripts of MMT in Qimron and Strugnell, 3–25. For a cogent challenge to the common identification of MMT as a letter addressed to the opponents of the Essenes, see S. Fraade, “To Whom It May Concern: 4QMMT and its Addressee(s),” RevQ 76 (2000): 507–26. Fraade argues that MMT most likely “was composed with intramural study as its function, but in the form of a communication between the leadership of the community and its extramural opponents” (pp. 524–25). 33 James C. VanderKam, “Jubilees, Book of,” ABD 3:1030–31. 34 Hans Dieter Betz and Margaret Mitchell, “Corinthians, First Epistle to the,” ABD 1:1140. 35 39 [And concerning the Ammonite] and the Moabite and the mamzer [and him whose testicles] have been crushed [and him] whose male member [has been cut off], who (nevertheless) enter 40 the congregations [ . . . and] take [wives to be]come one bone 41 [and enter the sanctuary . . . ] 42 [ . . . ] impurities. . . . 44 [ . . . and] one must not let them be united (with an Israelite) and make them 45 [one bone . . . and one must not] let them en[ter] 46 [the sanctuary. . . . 48 [For all the sons of Israel should beware] of any forbidden unions 49 and be full of reverence for the sanctuary. (Trans. Qimron and Strugnell, Qumran Cave 4.V, 50–51).

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second, they were prohibited from entering the holy temple because of their defiling impurities. In MMT the two prohibitions seem to stand in some formal relationship.36 The text refers to violation of the prohibition against intermarriage thrice, and each time alongside the prohibition against impure statuses entering the temple: in B 39–40 the prohibited status groups are said to enter the congregation, take (Israelite) wives, and enter the sanctuary. The only extant word from the immediately following sentence(s) is twamf (B 42), which certainly refers to the impurities associated with the prohibited statuses and implies the defilement of the people and temple. B 43–46 continue this thought by presenting in quick succession prohibitions against cohabitation, intermarriage, and entering the sanctuary. While the details of the relationship between unlawful marriage and entrance into the temple in these lines are lost, B 48–49 stress that reverence for the sanctuary should motivate observance of marriage restrictions. What relationship between illicit marriage and temple purity underlies this exhortation? First, the authors worried that impure spouses would enter the holy temple; second, illegal sexual unions generated moral impurity, which defiled the people and threatened the land; third, the fact that the offspring of such illegal marriages were impure mamzerim, worried them.37 Were the authorities to fail to stop the practice of illegal marriage 36

See also 1QS 4:10, which juxtaposes twnz jwrb hb[wh y`[m @wdz tanq with tdwb[b hdn ykrd

hamf. 37 Rulings on the illegal unions that produce mamzerim vary in the Mishnah: in m. Yeb. 4:12 the rabbis rule that any child born of a remarriage or a marriage between a brother-in-law and a woman to whom he had submitted to h\a·lîs\â, or her near kin, is a mamzer. The Sages agree only that children of those who married the near of kin of one’s divorced wife are mamzerin; all other children are not. In 4:13 the following positions are described regarding who is a mamzer: R. Akiba, the offspring of every case of prohibited near-kin marriage; Simon the Temanite, any born of a sexual union punishable by death at the hands of heaven; R. Joshua, any born of a sexual union punishable by death at the hands of the court. In 10:1 the rabbis rule that any children born to a woman who mistakenly believes her husband to be dead and marries another, are mamzerim; 10:3, 4 elaborate this scenario. It is clear is that status as a mamzer could also be expressed as “defilement of seed,” as in MMT B 81; in some illegal marriages the rabbis ruled that seed was not defiled—that is, the offspring were not mamzerim—but the status of children followed that of the lesser party in the marriage. Given the “radicalization” of the law that we find in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Jubilees, it is reasonable to infer that the offspring of illegal marriage, which Yahweh pledges to destroy, was thoroughly defiled—mamzer—and not merely compromised in status. See below for a discussion of the relevant passages. It should be noted that the rabbis never advocate the execution of innocent mamzerim. Indeed, m. Hor. 3:8 concludes, $rah ![ lwdg @hkl !dwq !kj dymlt rzmm, “(if) a mamzer be a scholar, he ranks above the high priest that is an ignorant man.” While we recognize in the rabbis’ rulings on mamzeruth a distinction between moral and ritual impurity—the mamzer is ritually impure but not morally guilty— the mamzer’s ritual impurity is more problematic than the ritual impurity of the maimed or leprous, since mamzer impurity is a direct product of morally impure sexual activity. Solutions to their existence could never be comprehensive and satisfactory, as rab-

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among the people, the impurity38 of mamzerim would be multiplied throughout Israel, defiling the temple.39 Thus we recognize that the impure status of the mamzer precluded his or her access to that which was holy, namely, the temple, and that recognition of this principle motivated Jews to avoid illegal marriages. MMT B 75–82 confirms that the author had the status of offspring in mind when he ruled against certain unions: 75 Concerning the practice of zenuth that exists among the people: (this practice exists) despite their being so[ns] of holy [seed] . . . Because they (Israel) are holy, and the sons of Aaron are [most holy.] 80 And you know that some of the priests and the people intermarry 81 and mix and defile the holy seed and also 82 their own seed, with female outsiders.40 binic debate over their status proves. See Epstein, Marriage Laws, 279–90; and Hayes, Gentile Impurities, ch. 7. Jubilees idealized Yahweh’s divine eradication of defiled seed from the face of the earth (see below). 38 The specifically “impure” status of a mamzer is recognized by R. Tarfon in m. Qidd. 3:13, where he rules that it is possible “to purify” (rhfyl) the offspring of a mamzer. 39 Qimron and Strugnell emphasize that “in early Judaism, contaminating the Temple was considered the most severe sin” (Qumran Cave 4.V, 131). The Essenes’ distress at its defilement appears in CD 4:12–18, where `dqmh amf appears as one of the three “nets of Belial” that have ensnared Israel. The others are arrogance and twnz, illegal sexual union. Again, illegal sexual union is paired with defilement of the temple. CD 4:20–5:2 elaborates on the species of zenuth. See Joseph A. Fitzmyer’s discussion in “The Matthean Divorce Texts and Some New Palestinian Evidence,” in To Advance the Gospel (2d ed.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 91–97. 40 The translated text is as follows:

. . . lar`y `dwq bwtk`m `dq 76 [[rz yn]b hmhw ![h ^wtb hs[nh twnwzh l[w 75 !ynhkh txqm` !y[dwy !t[aw] 80 [!y`wdq y`wd]q @wtha ynbw !y`wdq hmh` llg[b] 79 twnwzh ![ ![[rz] ta 82 [#aw `dwqh ][rz ta[ !]yamfmw !ykkwtm[ !hw] 81 [!ybr[tm ![h]w This translation draws upon that of Christine Hayes and reflects Hayes’s argument that the type of intermarriage against which MMT legislates is not priestly–lay (as Qimron argues [Qumran Cave 4.V, 171–75]) but Israelite–Gentile (Hayes, “Intermarriage and Impurity,” 27–29). Hayes’s argument makes four points: (1) B 79 distinguishes between the “holy” seed of the laity of Israel and the “most holy” seed of the priests. “Contamination of holy seed [l. 81] must thus refer to contamination of ordinary Israelites.” (2) The ![ in the phrase ![h ^wtb in line 75 refers specifically to the laity of Israel, as in line 80, and not generally to the nation. This claim is supported by the assertion that ![ means “lay Israelites” as opposed to “priests” throughout MMT, “a fact duly acknowledged by Qimron.” (3) The term twnz does not generally refer to priestly–lay intermarriage in the Dead Sea Scrolls but to incest, polygamy, intercourse with a menstruant, and marriage to a Gentile (CD 4:17, 20–21; 7:1). It is, therefore, “at least equally possible” that twnz here means “intermarriage with Gentiles.” (4) Finally, “the mixture of holy seed and most holy seed (which is what intermarriage of Israelite and priest would be) would in no way impair the status of the holy seed, though it may reduce the status of the most holy. Yet lines 81–82 make it clear that both the seed of the priests and the seed of the Israelites are being harmed. In order to account for the profanation [sic] of both holy and most holy seed, the zenut mentioned here must involve a third party.” The third party, whose profane seed can defile both holy and most holy seed, must therefore be that of the Gentiles.

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The Essenes recognized that illegal marriage resulted in the defilement of holy seed—their concern is not merely that the status of offspring is lowered through intermarriage, but that the holy seed is actually defiled, resulting in the proliferation of impure mamzerim, whose presence threatened the temple. The same relationship between illegal marriage, mamzerim, and the defilement of the temple appears in Jubilees.41 In Jub. 16:8–9 Yahweh vows to eradicate the seed of Lot from the face of the earth, because they came through incest with his daughters. In 16:9 this judgment is justified thus: “they were polluting themselves and they were fornicating in their flesh and they were causing pollution upon the earth” (16:5).42 This pollution, first, came from moral impurity that defiled the holy people: as the author writes, “Israel is a holy nation to Yahweh his God, . . . there is nothing which appears which is as defiled as [sexual immorality] among the holy people” (33:20). If allowed to survive, the presence of the mamzerim might suggest that Yahweh ignored or even blessed the incest of Lot and his daughters.43 However, Yahweh’s vow to obliterate the mamzerim suggests that their impure status was a primary pollutant: the polluted and polluting offspring of twnz must be destroyed—the parents’ repentance from moral impurity was not enough. Concern for the holiness of Israel also warranted execution for Israelites who married foreigners and committed adultery (30:7–17) or incest (41:25–28).44 The swift execution of the offenders—especially women—was likely intended to prevent conception from producing mamzerim. It is important to note that Jubilees, like the rabbis, does not advocate the execution of mamzerim by a human court. However, Jubilees 41 Similarities between the rulings in MMT and Jubilees are not surprising, given that numerous copies of Jubilees were found at Qumran in several caves and an explicit reference to it seems to be made in CD 16:3–4. 4Q384 frag. 9.2 also refers to a [!y]t[h twqlj[m rps], which seems to be the same book mentioned in CD 16:3–4 (!hytw[wb`b !hylbwyl !yt[h twqljm rps). The rest of the title, if it was present, is now lost. Copies of Jubilees were found in caves 1, 2, 3, 4, and 11. 42 The translation is from O. S. Wintermute, “Jubilees: A New Translation and Introduction,” OTP 2:35–142; see also the translation by James C. VanderKam, The Book of Jubilees (2 vols.; CSCO 510, 511; Louvain: Peeters, 1989), 94–95. 43 See the discussion of Jacob Neusner on different conceptions of impurity and purity in the Second Temple period in his The Idea of Purity in Ancient Judaism (New York: Brill, 1973), 114–16. Jubilees appears to attribute the existence and effects of sin and impurity to the influence of demons. For example, in his “testament,” Noah warns his sons that “the demons have begun to mislead you and your children” to disobey the commandments of Yahweh (7:27). This same view is clearly articulated in the “discourse on the two spirits” in 1QS 3:13–4:26. This may be contrasted to the Levitical view of impurity, which divests it of demonic origins. See Jacob Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 3A; New York: Doubleday, 1991), 43. 44 Jubilees 30:15–16 makes explicit the idea that anyone who sins sexually or allows sexual sin to persist unchallenged is guilty of defiling the sanctuary of Yahweh; curses come upon the entire land until the sin is properly punished (cf. 41:26).

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idealizes their destruction at the hands of Yahweh as preferable to their being allowed to live and threaten Israel’s holiness. It did not escape the author of Jubilees that in Gen 38 the twin sons Zerah and Perez, born from the father-in-law–daughter-in-law incest of Judah and Tamar, were not destroyed or even regarded as unclean.45 Indeed, the Davidic monarchy came through Perez’s descendants, who should have been regarded as mamzerim! That this problem was recognized by the author of Jubilees is demonstrated by his solution in 41:27: the angels tell Moses, “And we told Judah that his two sons had not lain with [Tamar] and therefore his seed stood for a second generation and would not be uprooted.” In Gen 38:6, Judah betrothed his son Er to Tamar, but Er was destroyed by Yahweh for evildoing. His brother Onan famously avoided providing offspring for Er by “spilling his seed upon the ground”; for this sin Yahweh put him to death as well (38:10). The author of Jubilees seems to believe either that Er was killed before he had sexual intercourse with Tamar, or, as the rabbis interpreted, that both Er and Onan were punished for the sin of masturbation, and neither one of them actually consummated the marriage or levirate duty by having sexual intercourse with Tamar.46 However the failure of Er and Onan to consummate the marriage and levirate duty with Tamar was understood, it seems that the author of Jubilees decided that the sexual union of Judah and Tamar was not actually illegal, since she had only been betrothed to Er and had not actually completed the marriage bond by having sexual intercourse with him. By removing Tamar from consummated marriage to Er, and by making Onan’s sin masturbation instead of coitus interruptus, the author of Jubilees effectively ruled that Tamar’s union with Judah was only apparently incestuous, but not actually, since without sexual intercourse with Judah’s sons, Tamar was not actually Judah’s daughter-in-law. As a result of this logic, Zerah and Perez were judged not to be mamzerim and therefore not to present a polluted and polluting threat to the holiness of Israel’s land, people, and sanctuary. Therefore Yahweh did not destroy them from the face of the earth as he destroyed the offspring of Lot.47 Most impor45 For a thorough analysis of the interpretation of Gen 38 in ancient Jewish literature, see E. Menn, Judah and Tamar (Genesis 38) in Ancient Jewish Exegesis: Studies in Literary Form and Hermeneutics (Leiden: Brill, 1997). 46 The rabbinic description of “onanism,” which is severely condemned, is “having sexual intercourse in secret” (twngb `rwj) and “trampling (or ‘threshing’; both are metaphors for coitus) away from face-to-face and scattering (semen) on the outside” ($wjbm hrwzw !ynpbm `d). The first phrase of the second expression refers to masturbation, while the latter refers to coitus interruptus. For rabbinic discussion, see especially b. Nid. 13a; references are from Louis Ginzberg, The Legends of the Jews, vol. 5 (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society of America, 1925), 333. 47 If my interpretation of Jubilees is correct, it appears that the author conveniently ignores the law in Deut 22:23–24, which stipulates that a man who rapes a betrothed virgin (hl;WtB]) is guilty

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tantly, the ancestors of David—and perhaps even more importantly Solomon— who built the temple, remained “demonstrably” unpolluted.48 of violating his neighbor’s wife ( hV; a i ) . At least in this species of illegal sexual intercourse, a betrothed virgin has full legal status as a wife; if she does not call out for help then she is to be stoned for adultery along with her rapist. 48 In light of the Deuteronomic prohibition against mamzerim entering the sanctuary, r/D !G" yrIyci[} (Deut 23:3), it is interesting that David represents the tenth generation of the offspring of Judah and Tamar (1 Chr 2:3–3:9; Ruth 4:18–22; also Matt 1:2–6; cf. Luke 3:31–33). Solomon was born in the eleventh generation, and under his reign the temple was finally built. If the Davidic genealogy was reconstructed with the Deuteronomic ruling in mind, then we have evidence that Jewish theologians as early as the turn of the fourth century B.C.E. (see Ralph Klein, “Chronicles, Book of 1–2,” ABD 1:994–95; also idem, “Ezra-Nehemiah, Books of,” ABD 2:732) perceived the sexual union of Judah and Tamar as twnz, and Perez’s status as mamzer. Only after the impurity of mamzeruth had departed from the family line—that is, in the eleventh generation—could the temple be built. In order for Deut 23:3 to support the purity of the Davidic line after the tenth generation, the Chronicler was required to distinguish the prohibitions against the Ammonite and Moabite from entering the assembly of Yahweh (Deut 23:4–5) from the prohibition against the mamzer (Deut 23:3): the mamzer must be excluded only for ten generations, but the Ammonite and Moabite forever. Two aspects of Deut 23:3–5 appear to make such a distinction difficult: first, while the mamzer is excluded “even unto the tenth generation,” it appears that this phrase means “forever,” since the same phrase is thus glossed in the prohibition against the Ammonite and Moabite in v. 4. Second, the wording of vv. 3 and 4 is perfectly identical, except for the names of and pronouns referring to the excluded parties, and the addition of !lw[ d[ in v. 4. It appears that Deut 23:4 is intended to complement or refine 23:3; in any case, the grouping of the prohibitions is a natural one, given that the Ammonites and Moabites were mamzer races, offspring of the incestuous union of Lot and his daughters (Gen 19:30–38). (Contra Epstein [Marriage Laws, 184], mamzer in Deut 23:3 refers not to an ethnic group but to progeny of transgressive sexual intercourse. In support of this, the only other biblical occurrence of mamzer is in Zech 9:6, which describes the destruction of Philistine cities. That a mamzer will occupy Ashdod seems to mean that those whom the Philistines regarded as legitimate heirs and rulers of the land will be overrun by another race [LXX, ajllogenei'"] in war, and the “pride of Philistia,” its wealth, cities, and people, will belong to the conquerors. Understood is that Philistine women will become the wives of the victors, thus producing, in the eyes of the Philistines, illegitimate or “mixed” offspring. The conclusion of the curse against Philistia, “Ekron shall become like the Jebusites,” is significant: after David conquered the Jebusites, he “took more concubines and wives,” apparently from among them [2 Sam 5:13 NRSV].) It appears, however, that the Chronicler’s requirement to distinguish between the mamzer and the Ammonite and Moabite was already fulfilled by Deut 23:5: this verse obfuscates the mamzer status of the Ammonites and Moabites by providing an alternative reason for their exclusion: “because they did not meet you with food and water on your journey out of Egypt, and because they hired against you Balaam son of Beor, from Pethor of Mesopotamia, to curse you” (NRSV). I would argue that Deut 23:5 was appended to vv. 3– 4 precisely in order to distinguish between the exclusions of the mamzer and of the Ammonite and Moabite, with the result that the mamzer could be excluded only for ten generations, while the others were excluded forever. With this distinction in place it became possible to identify Solomon as legally pure from mamzer status, since he was the eleventh generation after the mamzer Perez, and eligible to enter the hw:hy“ lh'q— ] that is, to build the temple. Were the Ammonite and Moabite excluded on account of their mamzer

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The Jewish communities that produced these rulings were concerned to define and promote licit marital unions among the people of Israel; the people’s concern for the status of their children enabled these laws to be enforced. While the rabbis disagreed with the authors of MMT and Jubilees about the types of marriage that would create impure offspring, all of these communities assumed a general relationship between holiness and impurity within the context of marriage: illegal sexual unions and marriages generated moral impurity that threatened the holiness of the temple. Children of absolutely forbidden sexual unions were mamzerim and were forbidden to enter the holy temple where the holy people worshiped their holy God.49 Paul perceived that certain members of the Corinthian community—perhaps Jewish believers, or pagan believers who shared Jewish concerns—wished to avoid impure marriages, and he recognized that their motivation for seeking divorce from an unbeliever might be concern for the holiness of the community status, as Deut 23:3–4 alone suggests, then the Davidic line would have been forever defiled and denied access to the temple. Thus, Deut 23:5 guaranteed the purity of the line after Solomon, most importantly insofar as access to the temple was concerned. It is reasonable to date Deut 23:3–4 to the earlier stage of the text, that is, the seventh–sixth centuries B.C.E. (see Joseph Blenkinsopp, “Deuteronomy,” NJBC, 95), and v. 5 to the later, postexilic stage, most likely during the time of Ezra and Nehemiah, when anxieties over intermarriage were first expressed in terms of the holiness of Israelite seed. Both the genealogy of 1 Chr 2–3, which contains too few generations for the time between Judah and David (see S. Japhet, I and II Chronicles [Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1992], 76–77) and the law of the mamzer in Deut 23 appear to have been manipulated. It is likely that the schematic arrangement of the genealogy from Perez to Solomon into eleven generations was based on the mamzer law that we find in Deuteronomy, and that both this law and the Davidic genealogy were worked out in the context of the reforms of Ezra and Nehemiah. For a summary of debate about the relationship between Ezra and the Chronicler, see Robert North, “The Chronicler: 1–2 Chronicles, Ezra, Nehemiah,” NJBC, 362–63. Later the rabbis also renarrated the story of Judah and Tamar to eliminate the taint of incest. Ginzberg focuses on the legends that treat Tamar and Judah as extremely pious (Legends, 2:33–37): she is a prophet who knew that David and the Messiah would come through her offspring, and he is compelled to have sexual intercourse with her by “the angel that is appointed over the passion of love” (p. 34). After the trial, absolute absolution is granted by a heavenly voice which proclaims, “Ye are both innocent! It was the will of God that it should happen!” (p. 36) See Ginzberg’s notes for references to the rabbinic sources (Legends, 5:332–36). 49 The rulings of the rabbis differ from those of MMT and Jubilees in some important ways: for one thing, the rabbis were more systematic and detailed in their descriptions of what precisely constituted an illegal marriage. Unlike the other communities, they recognized degrees of transgression and did not consider every illegal marriage unholy, and the offspring thereof mamzer. It is difficult to imagine the author of Jubilees, who found it necessary to contrive the rather counterintuitive reconstruction of the details of the union of Judah and Tamar in order to explain why Zerah and Perez were legitimate offspring, allowing that a marriage between mutually ineligible partners ever could possess the quality of holiness. Despite such differences in ancient conceptions of illegal marriage, we find striking consistency in the communities’ concerns about marriage and in their assumptions about the threat to holiness that impure unions and their offspring represented.

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(he himself had introduced such concerns!). Paul speaks exclusively in the Corinthian letters about the community as the temple whose holiness must be guarded. In 2 Cor 6:16 he writes, “What agreement has the temple of God with idols? For we are the temple of the living God . . .” (RSV). If the letter fragment 2 Cor 6:14–7:1 came to the Corinthian community before 1 Corinthians was written, then it is likely that the community understood the commandment to avoid “being unequally yoked with unbelievers (ajpivstoi")” in 6:14 as against mixed marriage, and that they perceived the impurity that mixed marriage brought as a threat against the “temple” of the community. Paul obviously understood these convictions. In 1 Cor 6:19 he calls the individual body of a believer a temple of the Holy Spirit; if one sins sexually, then this temple is defiled.50 As Adela Yarbro Collins has argued, Paul’s “excommunication” of the incestuous man in 1 Cor 5:3–5 represents an attempt to guard the holiness of the believing community against the impurity generated by sexual sin.51 Paul recognized the threat to the holiness of the temple—now the community of believers—that sexual sin posed, but when ruling on the licitness of marriage between believers and unbelievers, he was more influenced by the legal authority of the prohibition of the Lord against divorce than by the thought that believer–nonbeliever intermarriage might generate impurity that would threaten the “temple.”52 50 Cf. 1 Cor 3:16–17, in which Paul warns that any who destroy God’s temple—the community of believers—would be destroyed by God. While this warning refers to instigating factionalism, it confirms that Paul’s identification of the community as the temple functioned as a deterrent to behavior that would compromise its integrity. Paul assumed that reverence for the temple would motivate the Corinthians’ obedience. 51 Adela Yarbro Collins, “The Function of ‘Excommunication’ in Paul,” HTR 73 (1980): 251–63. 52 Pace Hayes, it does not seem necessary to identify a principle of “carnal impurity” underlying Paul’s rulings on believer–unbeliever intermarriage and the status of their offspring. Paul does not anywhere suggest that sexual intercourse with an unbeliever is sufficient to transmit impurity to the believer and into the body of Christ. Instead, impurity comes into the community through specific impure sexual acts, such as intercourse with a prostitute (povrnh, 1 Cor 6:15–16) or incest (1 Cor 5:1–5). Were impurity contracted by contact with unbelievers, then the community would have to withdraw from all contact with outsiders—and this is precisely what Paul argues is not the case in 1 Cor 5:9–13. Instead, the main source of impurity against which believers must guard is the actions of believers: “Do not associate with the immoral” means “Do not tolerate believers who behave immorally,” not “Do not have dealings with unbelievers.” In Paul’s view, then, unbelievers are not inherently impure, although they engage in activities that are morally impure. Paul’s desire for unmarried or widowed believers to remain celibate or to marry only other believers stems from his desire for the community to avoid the influence of unbelievers, and the appearance that unbelievers have the approval of the community. Hayes’s analysis of later interpretations of Paul’s rulings is excellent: not only the patristic writers but also the Corinthians themselves detected something akin to the principle of “carnal impurity” in Paul’s letters, but this principle is a postPauline inference, and one against which Paul argued in his lifetime. It seems to me that Paul’s concern with impurity is virtually identical to that in Jub. 30:15–16; see n. 44 above.

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Paul used Jewish betrothal language in a new way when he ruled that an unbeliever is “sanctified” by a believing spouse. Given the prohibition of Jesus against divorce, any marriage in which there was a believer was ruled to be licit, and Jewish language of betrothal provided a linguistic proof that the sanctification of the spouse and the licitness of the union were guaranteed. Paul’s legal stance toward intermarriage more closely resembles that of the Mishnah than MMT or Jubilees. While he recognizes a boundary separating the community of believers from unbelievers, analogous to the boundary between Jews and Gentiles,53 he does not agree with MMT and Jubilees that insider–outsider marriage results in the ritual defilement of offspring. Instead, like the rabbis, Paul allows that (at least preexisting) marriage between an insider and an outsider may be sanctified—that is, licit—although it is not the superior form of licit marriage.54 Paul differs from the rabbis, however, in his stance toward the status of the offspring of exogamy: he does not rule that offspring born within an exogamous marriage take on the status of the inferior spouse (see m. Qidd. 3:12); instead he affirms that the children are “holy,” that is, have full access to the temple constituted by the sanctified community. Finally, it is worth noting that the two species of sexual sin that Paul addresses at greatest length in 1 Corinthians—incest (5:1–5) and other forms of porneiva such as prostitution (6:15–20)—appear to be condemned entirely on the grounds that they generate moral impurity which defiles the body of Christ, not mamzer offspring whose ritual impurity threatens the holiness of the community. This does not exclude the possibility that Paul, like the rabbis, might have regarded the offspring of incest and other “severe” forms of porneiva as ritually impure mamzerim. We may only point out that Paul emphasizes moral impurity much more strongly than ritual impurity, and his only statement on mamzeruth denies that exogamy automatically results in ritually impure children. It is completely possible, however, that Paul would have agreed with the Jewish consensus that the 53 In Romans Paul explicitly reorients the Jew–Gentile ethnic boundary to mark the boundary between the morally and soteriologically defined groups: the “circumcised” are any, Jew or Gentile, who are obedient to God’s commandments, and the “Jew” is one who inwardly and spiritually follows God (Rom 2:27–29). The “children of Abraham” are any, Jew or Gentile, who participate in the patriarch’s archetypal faith in God’s promises (Rom 4). True “Israel” consists of all of the “children of the promise,” Jew and Gentile, chosen by God (Rom 9:6–18), who persist in faith (11:13–24). When Paul proclaims that “all Israel will be saved” (Rom 11:26), he has in mind the promises to ethnic Israel as they apply to the newly defined community of believers, since he seems to maintain that ethnic Jews who “persist in unbelief” (ejpimevnwsin th'/ ajpistiva/) will not be included in the community of God’s people (11:23). 54 The superior form Paul identifies as that which occurs ejn kurivw/, that is, between two believers (1 Cor 7:39). See Conzelmann’s comments on 1 Cor 7:10, 39 (I Corinthians). Clearly a marriage ejn kurivw/ is one in which both spouses have come under the authority of Jesus Christ and so observe the commandments of “the Lord” against divorce (7:10–11), etc.

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children of incest and other forms of porneiva were mamzer, and that he would have excluded such children from the holy community.55 We have answered the questions posed at the beginning: (1) What does Paul mean when he asserts that a nonbeliever is “sanctified” by the believing spouse? The marriage is between two people of “sanctified” status, so the marriage is licit. The commandment of the Lord against divorce may be observed in mixed marriages without fear that the marriage is forbidden. (2) How does the sanctification occur? It appears that the prohibition of Jesus against divorce effected the sanctification of all marriages in which at least one spouse was a believer. In mixed marriages the prohibition implied that the unbeliever was, for the believing spouse, a licit partner. (3) How is the impurity or holiness of the children related to the sanctification of the spouse? And (4) how does the holiness of the children prove that the unbelieving spouse is made holy by the believing spouse? Paul proves that believer–unbeliever intermarriages were licit by pointing out that their children are not mamzerim, impure offspring of illegal marriage, but holy. The children of such intermarriages were allowed into the holy space of the temple; that is, they were allowed to participate fully in the religious life of the community of a{gioi. If their parents’ marriage were not licit, or, as Paul and the rabbis put it, if the unbelieving spouse were not “sanctified,” then the impurity of the children would exclude them from the “temple.” With this proof Paul points to the Corinthians’ practice of including the children of mixed marriages in the life of the community, aiming to persuade them by presenting their own actions as confirmation that they already knew and acted in accordance with the truth that he proclaimed. It is interesting that in 1 Cor 7:14 Paul’s conception of the threat to holiness that the offspring of sexual impurity posed did not differ much from that of other Jewish interpreters of the law in the centuries preceding and following his career. For his contrast between the children’s potential statuses as impure or holy to work, Paul had to accept that certain kinds of nonmoral impurity legitimately should exclude individuals from participating in the worship of the community.56 It is questionable whether Paul would have enforced such exclu55 Would Paul have included a mamzer in the life of the community? What stance would Paul have taken toward the offspring of the stepmother–stepson incest condemned in 1 Cor 5:1–5? Acceptance or rejection are both conceivable; I suspect that the latter is likely, given that it would have been difficult to admit mamzer offspring into the community without appearing to approve of the sexual union whence the child came, and that Paul applies the principle of mamzer exclusion in 1 Cor 7:14. It is possible that elsewhere Paul might have argued that while the sexual sin was morally defiling, the offspring were not ritually defiled and could become full members of the holy community, but there is no direct evidence to support this view. Possibly Paul could have conceived of a person who was ajkavqarto" kata; savrka ajlla; a{giazovmeno" ejn Cristw'/ !Ihsou'. Such speculation lacks historical precision, but makes good theological and ethical sense in communities that continue to esteem Paul’s writings as authoritative. 56 Paul’s ruling does not leave open the possibility that the offspring of illicit marriages should

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sion, since he argues at length elsewhere that other traditionally excluded statuses, for example, uncircumcised Gentiles, are not to be excluded from full participation in the holy community of believers.57 If Paul would have included a mamzer in the community just as he included the uncircumcised, as we might hope that he would, then we may perceive an ad hoc quality in Paul’s argument in 1 Cor 7:12–16 and an inconsistency in his interpretation of Jewish law. He uses Torah positively when he anticipates that it might be effective rhetorically, given a particular audience with Jewish concerns, and elsewhere negates it when it is more useful. This might, however, be too hasty a judgment and perhaps should be phrased more positively: Paul employs legal language that suits his rhetorical context and is free to vary his interpretation of the law in order to maximize his persuasiveness. In the apostle’s own words, To the Jews I became as a Jew, in order to win Jews; to those under the law I became as one under the law—though not being myself under the law—that I might win those under the law. To those outside the law I became as one outside the law—not being without law toward God but under the law of Christ—that I might win those outside the law. (1 Cor 9:20–21 RSV)

II. Interpretations of 1 Corinthians 7:14 among Moderns and Ancients The logic underlying Paul’s ruling has been described as “inscrutable” by many modern scholars, and attempts to discern the reasoning have produced amazing varieties of interpretations. Gerhard Delling provides an appropriate maxim: “so viele Köpfe, so viele Sinne.”58 The range of modern scholarly opinions surveyed by Delling and many other interpreters after him confirms the near opacity of Paul’s logic.59 Modern attempts to contextualize Paul’s language and logic within various social and linguistic environments have produced readings that cohere with certain strands of thought about sanctification and impurity, but coherence is gained by violating the grammar and syntax of the words or at the cost of the integrity of Paul’s argument: problematic terms in 1 Cor 7:14, especially “holiness” and “purity,” are ignored or altered, or statements elsewhere in 1 Corinthians that contradict a proposed interpretation are be freed from mamzer status as a general rule: if this were the case, then his argument that the unbeliever is a licit partner for the believer would have no proof. 57 See, e.g., Rom 2:28–29; 3:29–30; 1 Cor 7:18; Gal 2:11–3:28. 58 Delling, “Nun aber sind die heilig,” 84. 59 Ibid., 84–87; see also, e.g., Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, “Works without faith in I Cor., vii, 14,” RB 84 (1977): 349–52; Raymond F. Collins, Divorce in the New Testament (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1992), 40–64.

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ignored. Such coherence-producing innovations occur with equal frequency when scholars use comparative material in rabbinic and pagan sources, or no comparative material at all. I would like to suggest that the various approaches of contemporary scholars to Paul should be understood as analogous to the various backgrounds of Paul’s Corinthian contemporaries: Paul’s contemporaries at Corinth most likely had as much difficulty understanding Paul’s language and logic as modern interpreters do. The varieties of interpretation fall into three broad categories. In the first group are scholars who argue that the sanctification of the unbelieving spouse can mean only that the unbeliever becomes one of the a{gioi by coming under the influence of the believing spouse. J. C. O’Neil takes the perfect verb hJgivastai “to refer to a future event,” citing such usage in classical literature and other parts of the NT, including Rom 14:23.60 On the basis of these parallels he concludes that “Paul means to signify by these words that there is hope for the salvation of the unbelieving partner,” since, for Paul, sanctification occurs only through baptism and entry into the community of believers.61 The same logic convinces him that the children’s holiness could only have come through baptism.62 Margaret Mitchell proceeds similarly, arguing, “Because a{gio" is the specific term for a Christian insider, if an unbeliever becomes ‘sanctified’ [aJgiavzesqai], this means that they join the community. . . . Their contact with ‘the body of Christ’ through their spouse may bring sanctification.”63 In a bolder formulation, W. D. Davies cites 1 Cor 7:14 as evidence that “[a] Christian husband or wife can make his or her partner Christian.”64 The physical 60 See J. C. O’Neil, “1 Corinthians 7,14 and Infant Baptism,” in L’Apôtre Paul: Personnalité, Style, et Conception du Ministère (ed. A. Vanhoye; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1986), 358–59. 61 Ibid., 360, 358. As proof that the sanctification of the unbelieving spouse and the holiness of the children come through baptism, O’Neil points to 1 Cor 1:13, in which Paul seems to argue that the salvation of the Corinthians came only through Christ’s crucifixion and the believers’ baptism in his name. 62 Ibid., 360–61. 63 Mitchell, Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 123 n. 352. Mitchell adduces Heb 10:14; Acts 20:32; 26:18; and 1 Cor 6:11 as proof that the sanctification of unbelievers must mean that they join the community. Against claims that Paul consistently uses forms of aJgiavzw to mean “sanctified through baptism,” or “sanctified by joining the community” it should be recognized that the verb occurs only five times in the undisputed Pauline letters, and only in 1 Cor 6:11 does it seem to have a connection to baptism. Even there it is not clear that the sanctification is a concomitant of baptism. Elsewhere it means “consecrated” in a quasi-cultic sense as an offering to God (Rom 15:16), “made holy” by Christ Jesus, without reference to baptism (1 Cor 1:2), and “made holy” by God, not Jesus Christ or baptism (1 Thess 5:23). To be sure, these uses presuppose that the sanctified are oiJ a{gioi, the body of believers, most of whom had been baptized, but the verb is rare and has a range of meanings that precludes simple identification with a result of baptism or even faith in Christ. 64 W. D. Davies, Paul and Rabbinic Judaism: Some Rabbinic Elements in Pauline Theology (2d ed.; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1955) 56. It is surprising that Davies does not note the halakic

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union of the unbeliever with the believer within the marriage results in the unbeliever’s inclusion into the “quite physical” unity of the body of Christ.65 A close reading of 1 Cor 7:12–16—especially the doubtfulness of the unbeliever’s salvation expressed in v. 16—demonstrates that these interpretations are wrong. In Calvin’s still-insightful words, “Interea nihil prodest haec sanctificatio coniugi infideli: tantum eo valet, ne eius copula fidelis inquinetur, et profanetur ipsum matrimonium.”66 The second approach is by far the commonest: most scholars analyze the act of sanctification as the transmission of an “objective,” or dinglich, nonsoteriological holiness, as though in this situation Paul used or invented a conception of holiness not found elsewhere in his letters. It is a thing or quality transferred from one person to another, in a way identical to ancient conceptions of impurity. These scholars argue that the holiness of the children is a result of the same process that sanctifies the spouse. Paul’s argument is, in effect, that if the principle that sanctified the spouse were not active, then the children could not possibly be sanctified. But because they are holy—and somehow the Corinthians agree that they are—then the unbelieving spouse must also be affected by the sanctifying process. G. R. Beasley-Murray puts it thus: Above all it is to be recognized that the holiness of the child is commensurate with that of the unbelieving parent; a valid explanation of the former must also account for the latter. ‘The unbelieving husband has become consecrated (hJgivastai) in the wife . . . as may be understood from the fact that your children are consecrated (a{gioi). It is impermissible to draw a distinction between two conceptions of holiness here, on the grounds that the parent is said to be only hJgivastai, whereas the child is a{gio".67

nature of 1 Cor 7:12–16 in his study of “rabbinic elements” in Paul’s thought. Almost equally surprising is the omission of any discusion of the relationship between the children’s status and the sanctification of unbelieving spouse in Peter J. Tomson, Paul and the Jewish Law. His explanation of the unbeliever’s sanctification is similar to that of Davies: “Apparently de facto union with a Christian constituted de facto union with the body of Christ” (p. 119). See his analysis of “Paul’s divorce halakha” (1 Cor 7:12–16) (pp. 116–22). 65 Davies, Paul and Rabbinic Judaism, 56. Richard Hays argues almost identically: “Or, to put it a bit more provocatively, holiness is—as it were—a venereal disease, passed from one spouse to the other. . . . [Paul] deduces that the unbelieving spouse is sanctified through the believing spouse. This line of thought leads naturally to the idea expressed in verse 16, that perhaps the unbelieving spouse will be saved through the believer. . . . It is usually assumed that Paul refers here to the hope that the unbeliever will be converted through the love and witness of the believer; however, given Paul’s mysterious notion of quasi-physical vicarious sanctification (v. 14), it seems equally possible that he holds out the hope for God somehow to save even the unbeliever on the soteriological coattails of the believer” (The Moral Vision of the New Testament [San Francisco: HarperCollins, 1996], 360). 66 Calvin, Commentarius in Epistolam Pauli ad Corinthios I, 412. 67 G. R. Beasley-Murray, Baptism in the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1962),

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Because he insists on equating the unbeliever’s sanctification with the children’s holiness, Beasley-Murray must conclude that Paul uses a conception of holiness that differs markedly from that which occurs regularly in his epistles: it is not the result of baptism, nor does it refer to the inclusion of the children or the unbeliever in the people of God, either by conversion or by vicarious participation in the believer’s sanctification.68 Instead Paul conceives of holiness as a quality setting apart the entire family through the sanctification of a single member, just as the ajparch; furavmato" consecrates the entire fuvrama in the Jewish sacrificial system.69 Beasley-Murray appeals to Paul’s use of this sacrificial analogy with reference to Israel in Rom 11:16–20: while that which is specially set apart for God might persist in unbelief, the possiblity exists that the consecrated people will come to believe, and thereby become fully sanctified in Christ. In the same way the unbelieving children and spouse become consecrated to God as a result of the believing spouse’s sanctification, and the possibility exists that these unbelievers will attain salvation as a result of the believer’s influence.70 This appealing—and very Lutheran 71 —explanation fails on several 193. Beasley-Murray cites with approval the paraphrastic NEB: “The heathen husband now belongs to God through his Christian wife . . . otherwise your children would not belong to God, whereas in fact they do” (p. 193 n. 3). 68 Ibid., 194. See also his polemic against the notion that holiness is transmitted to family members through physical contact, both sexual union and childbirth (pp. 194–95). 69 Ibid., 195–96; see Num 15:20 (LXX); Rom 11:16. 70 Ibid., 196–97, 199. Raymond F. Collins argues similarly: the unbelieving spouse and the children “are not separated from God; rather they belong to God because of the holiness of their parents. Paul’s argument is analogous to the Jewish understanding of the family. In traditional Judaism, the family was subsumed into a covenantal relationship with Yahweh because of the father. . . . “Since children of mixed marriages have been drawn into the holiness sphere of their Christian parent, there is no need to assume that these children are called holy because they have adopted a mode of conduct similar to that of their parents. There is certainly an ethical implication in Paul’s use of ‘holy’ and its congates (hagi-) but there does not seem to be any reason to assume that in verse 14cd ‘holy’ has a denotation that is principally ethical, whereas, in the first part of the verse (v. 14ab), its principal meaning was ‘belonging to God’” (Divorce, 53). 71 Beasley-Murray repeats the basic argument set forth by Delling (“Nun aber sind sie heilig,” 91–92) four years prior to Beasley-Murray’s Baptism: “die [erwachsene] ‘Kinder’ selbst lehnten die Taufe ab,” in the same way as the unbelieving parent. The aim of Paul’s instruction in 1 Cor 7:14 is to address the believing spouse’s fears “daß der Verkehr mit ungetauften Kindern verunreinigen könnte (und natürlich so verunreinigen könnte, daß die christliche Existenz der Eltern dadurch gefährdet wäre). ‘Von euren Kindern trennt ihr euch ja auch nicht!’” As Delling acknowledges (p. 91), his argument closely follows that of Martin Luther. Luther writes: “Wenn ein christlich Gemahl große Kinder hätte mit einem unchristlichen Gemahl (wie es dazumal oft geschah), und die Kinder sich noch nicht wollten taufen lassen, noch Christen werden; sintemal niemand soll zum Glauben gezwungen, sondern von Gott williglich gezogen werden durchs Evangelium: so soll darum die Mutter oder der Vater die Kinder nicht lassen, noch mütter-

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grounds, the first of which is grammatical: ejpei; a[ra is an emphatic subordinating conjunctive phrase introducing the causal clause that provides the warrant for the claim that the unbelieving spouse is sanctified:72 “because then” (if the unbeliever were not sanctified) the children would be impure, but in fact they are holy. Beasley-Murray interprets the passage as though ejpei; a[ra were wJ", ou{tw", or kaqwv": “just as” or “in the same manner that” the children are holy. Paul’s Greek identifies a causal, not an analogous, relationship between the unbeliever’s sanctification and the children’s holiness. The two statuses exist in some relationship; indeed, Paul’s Greek makes clear that the children’s holiness proceeds out of the unbeliever’s sanctified status. Paul, however, also makes clear that the unbeliever is sanctified by the believing spouse—and so the statuses of the unbelieving spouse and of the children are clearly of different origins. Further, if we affirm a causal relationship between the unbeliever’s sanctification and the children’s holiness, then we need not identify the statuses as perfectly equal. The holiness of the children and the unbelieving spouse provided both with access to the community. The forms in which the unbelieving parent and the children exercised this access, however, might have differed dramatically. The unbeliever may have been eligible for @y`wdq, licit marriage to a member of the believing community, without being sanctified in Christ through faith and baptism, while the holy children may have been raised as believers; it is also possible that the sanctified unbeliever may have been saved through the believing spouse by becoming a believer, while the holy children may have abandoned faith in Christ as adults. The strength of Paul’s argument lies in the fact that the offspring of licit marriages were holy, that is, eligible to participate in the religious life of the community. Doubtless many children of believer–unbeliever mixed marriages did thus participate, which provided Paul with proof that such marriages were licit. Conzelmann implies that Jewish conceptions of impurity and holiness have been transformed by the eschatological framework of Paul’s thought. Following Delling, Conzelmann argues that Paul subtly corrects the Corinthians’ conception of holiness and impurity as transmitted by a purely material fashion, and introduces the idea that both are communicated by “ascription” (Zuordnung).73 While formerly holiness was constantly threatened by impurity that liche oder väterliche Pflicht entziehen oder versagen, als thäten sie Sünde daran, und sich verunreinigten an den ungläubigen Kindern, sondern sollen ihnen leiblich vorstehen und sie versorgen, eben sowohl, als wären sie die allerheiligsten Christen. Denn sie sind nicht unrein noch unheilig (spricht er), das ist, dein Glaube kann sich an ihnen üben, daß er rein und heilig bleibe” (Martin Luther, Auslegungen des siebenten Capitels der ersten Epistel St. Pauli an die Corinther, in idem Sämtliche Schriften, Band 8 (ed. J. G. Walch; Groß Oesingen: Verlag der Lutherischen Buchhandlung, 1987], 1061). 72 See Smyth, Greek Grammar, §2240–41. 73 See Delling, “Nun aber sind sie heilig,” 93.

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could be transferred by physical contact, Paul reveals that, through Christ, the holiness of the “saints” now overcomes impurity and renders all relationships— and therefore all participants therein—sanctified for the believer: the “world” is denied any power of its own; in concrete terms, this means any such power over believers. The world is desacralized. . . . Through the believing partner, the marriage between a pagan and a Christian is withdrawn from the control of the powers of the world. In living together with the world, the ‘saints’ are the stronger party.74

Conzelmann equates the sanctification of the unbeliever with the children’s holiness by asserting that “the understanding of holiness (and uncleanness) in v. 14b is the same as in v. 14a,” and he then contributes two suggestive questions, which he answers with tentative affirmation: “Is Paul . . . simply appealing to actual views and to facts, that is, that the Christians do not as a matter of fact regard their children born of mixed marriages as unclean? Not even the unbaptized?”75 Conzelmann suggests that the relationship between the holiness of the unbelieving spouse and the children is that of analogy: just as the children of believers are holy and undefiled/undefiling to the believer, so also holy/sanctified status is ascribed to the unbelieving spouse, who remains undefiling to the believer. Jerome Murphy-O’Connor proceeds similarly but protests that the sanctification of the unbeliever must mean something equivalent to other discussions of sanctification in Paul.76 He concludes that the unbeliever’s act of remaining in the marriage must justify Paul’s assessment of her or him as “holy,” since the unbeliever acts in accordance with the commandment of the Lord against divorce. His or her behavior is marked by a certain uprightness, as is that of the children, which makes the analogy between their holiness and the unbeliever’s sanctification perfect: just as children whose conduct has been formed according to Christian standards grow naturally into the act of faith, so there is hope that the unbeliever, whose conduct (at least in one area) already conforms to Christian standards, will also come to accept Christ one day.77

Similarly O. Larry Yarbrough and Dale Martin argue that Paul viewed the statuses of the children and the unbelieving spouse as the result of the same 74

Conzelmann, I Corinthians, 122. Ibid., 123. Conzelmann provides some guidance: the children are born of mixed, not Christian, marriages, and were most likely not baptized; if they were baptized, “the whole problem becomes unintelligible,” since the baptismal source of their holiness would make the unbelieving parent’s status irrelevant (pp. 123 nn. 39, 41). 76 Murphy-O’Connor, “Works without faith in I Cor., vii, 14,” 352–56. 77 Ibid., 361. 75

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sanctifying or purifying force radiating out from the believer. Yarbrough argues that Paul inferred from the holy status of the children, whom the Corinthians agreed became holy “because of the believing parent,” that the believing partner also sanctifies the non-believing partner, because otherwise (ejpei; a[ra) the children would also be unholy (lit. “unclean”). That is, what the believing partner accomplishes for the child he also accomplishes for the non-believing spouse.78

Martin’s argument is similar: Paul claims that the unbelieving partner is made holy “in” the believing partner (7:14). That is why their children, who would otherwise be “unclean” (akatharta) are now “holy” (hagia). In Greek, “holiness” language does not always function in opposition to “uncleanness” or pollution; but here it obviously does, as indicated by Paul’s opposition of hagia and akatharta in verse 14 (hagioteµs is the solution to the problem of akatharsia). Paul extends the boundaries of purity to include even the unbelieving partner and the children in a marriage. Whereas we often think about contamination as resulting from proximity, Paul here allows that the opposite of contamination, cleansing, may also work by proximity.79

This approach leaves the logic of holiness and impurity in the passage unclear; indeed, both Yarbrough and Martin attempt to clarify the opposition between ajkavqarta and a{gia in v. 14b by glossing the terms as perfect antitheses: holy versus unholy (Yarbrough) or pure versus impure (Martin).80 Finally, Martin interprets the preposition ejn in the phrases ejn tw'/ ajdelfw'/ and ejn th'/ gunaikiv as a marker of location or association, as in the phrase ejn Cristw'/ !Ihsou' (e.g., Rom 8:1): Paul extends the boundaries of purity to include even the unbelieving partner and the children in the marriage. . . . He insists that the purity of Christ holds such power that it may, in certain situations, purify even nonbelievers. The Christian is purified by his or her location “in” Christ; by extension, the 78 O. Larry Yarbrough, Not Like the Gentiles: Marriage Rules in the Letters of Paul (Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1984), 112. 79 Dale Martin, The Corinthian Body (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995), 218. 80 Compare Luther’s claim that Paul says that the children “sind nicht unrein noch unheilig” (Auslegungen, 1061). The identification of holiness and impurity as opposites is not without support, since Paul opposes holiness or sanctification and impurity in 1 Thess 4:7 and Rom 6:19 (cf. also 2 Cor 6:17). (Neither Yarbrough nor Martin cites these parallels.) However, in these passages the opposition is between categories of moral activity, whereas in 1 Cor 7:14 the impure or holy status of the children is not related to their moral activity, but is strictly legal insofar as it is determined entirely by the legal status of the parents’ marriage. Therefore the opposition in 1 Cor 7:14 is not directly parallel to the oppositions in 1 Thess 4:7 and Rom 6:19. Discussions about licit marriage and the status of offspring in the literature of the rabbis, Qumran, and Jubilees provide the most illuminating parallels.

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As Martin acknowledges, this reading leaves a major problem unresolved: if the unbeliever is sanctified by location and contact within the believing community, how is it that she or he remains without salvation? What concept of sanctification does not include salvation?82 If we understand the phrase hJgivasqai ejn instrumentally and recognize it as a Greek appropriation of the Pharisaic/rabbinic betrothal idiom Ab `dq, then the problem is resolved: Paul simply means that the marriage is licit, since by Jewish convention the eligible status of one spouse was confirmed by the other’s act of entering into a “holy” or licit marriage contract. Attempts to interpret the sanctification of the unbeliever and the holiness of his children as results of the same process create as many problems as they solve. For one thing, the glosses required to turn holiness and impurity into a perfect antithesis obscure the logic of the legal formula behind Paul’s ruling,83 and the relationship between the spouse’s sanctification and the children’s holy status becomes merely an analogy. The children’s holiness is not dependent on the unbeliever’s sanctified status, nor is it clear how their impurity would be related to the unbeliever’s lack of sanctification. The logic underlying Paul’s ruling, as I have argued, is best expressed in a formula that retains his categories: “saint” (male or female member of the holy community) + legal (“sanctified”) partner → holy offspring; “saint” + illegal partner → defiled, impure offspring, mamzerim.84 This formula was hardly an innovation, as its appearance in other 81

Martin, Corinthian Body, 218. Ibid., 218–19. 83 See Hayes’s discussion of the relationship between the categories holy/profane and pure/impure (“Intermarriage and Impurity,” 5). See also Jacob Milgrom, “Priestly (‘P’) Source,” ABD 5:454–61; D. Wright, “Holiness (OT),” ABD 3:237–49. 84 Martin argues that Paul introduced the idea that holiness, like impurity, may result “from proximity,” citing the rabbinic idea that purity could be transferred from pure water to impure water “simply by contact . . . before being introduced into a miqveh” as an analogy to Paul’s ideas in 1 Cor 7:14 (Corinthian Body, 293 n. 57). This reading is flawed in that the rabbis did not believe that purity could be transferred from one body of water to another “simply by contact.” Martin cites only E. P. Sanders’s discussion of rabbinic/Pharisaic conceptions of purity in Judaism: Practice and Belief 63 BCE-66 CE (Philadelphia: Trinity Press International, 1992), 226; it is worth examining the Pharisaic practice and belief in m. Miqwa
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halakic literature proves. Paul’s innovation, as most commentators rightly stress, was in the extension of the terms of sanctification to outsiders, his sanctioning of a species of exogamy, that is, that which preceded one of the partner’s joining the community of believers. Other scholars attempt to understand 1 Cor 7:14 within the context of other halakot regarding marriage. Joachim Jeremias contextualizes our passage within rabbinic debates about proselyte baptism and the question of how children born to proselytes were initiated ritually into the Jewish community. He identifies “the language of Jewish ritual” in Paul’s unusual usage of aJgiavzesqai, and notes: Judaism distinguishes between children who were begotten and born “not in holiness” (i.e. before conversion to Judaism), and children who were begotten and born “in holiness” (i.e. after conversion to Judaism). The former were baptized when the parents changed their religion; the latter were not. . . . Anyone who was born “in holiness” did not need the baptismal bath. This terminology of the law concerning proselytes is adopted in I Cor. 7.14c, when Paul says that the children of Christian parents are not “unclean,” but “holy.”85

However, he argues, this does not mean, as might appear, that the Pauline church did not baptize infants born to Christian parents: in Col 2:11 “Paul . . . names baptism ‘the Christian circumcision’ (hJ peritomh; tou' Cristou')”; thus it is likely that the holiness of the children in 1 Cor 7:14 depends on baptism, which, as a new form of circumcision, could very well have been administered on the eighth day after birth.86 struction of a connecting hole (hbwqn) (m. Miqw. 6:1) or by the use of a pipe (@wls) full of pure water joining their surfaces (m. Miqw. 6:8). (See the translation and comments of P. Kehati, Tohorot, vol. 4 [Jerusalem: Maor Wallach, 1986], 75–76.) It is important to note that the drawn water was not purified simply by contact; rather it was considered to be mixed into the pure water and to have acquired its properties completely. If the pure water was less than forty seahs, then the mingling procedure would not work unless the drawn water were less than three logs, but a miqweh containing forty or more seahs of pure water could not be rendered impure by any amount of drawn water. The miqweh water analogy is misleading, therefore, for two reasons: first, neither Paul nor the rabbis behind m. Miqwa
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Several shortcomings mark Jeremias’s study. Relatively minor problems are the doubtfulness that Colossians is a genuine letter of Paul,87 and Jeremias’s simplistic identification of the “circumcision of Christ” in Col 2:11 with the description of baptism in 2:12.88 A more important methodological problem is that Jeremias does not quote the rabbinic literature that he cites at any length, and he makes no linguistic comparisons between “similar” concepts and rulings expressed in the rabbis’ Hebrew and Aramaic, and Paul’s Greek. He points to “the language of the Levitical purification ceremonies” to explain Paul’s use of ajkavqarta in 1 Cor 7:14, but cites no examples.89 The reader is left to wonder what Levitical law or context Jeremias had in mind. Further, he identifies “holiness” as defining the state into which children are born; this state is determined on the basis of the parents’ conversion to Judaism, but Jeremias does not attempt in any way to relate this holiness to the concept of impurity that Paul uses. Perhaps of greatest detriment to his comparative task, the halakot that Jeremias cites discuss the status of children born after their parents converted to Judaism. His parallels do not pertain specifically to true “mixed marriages,” and are therefore inappropriate for comparison with 1 Cor 7:12–16.90 J. Massyngberde Ford attempted another halakic interpretation of our passage, suggesting that it answers the concerns of a “brotherhood of Pharisees” at Corinth. These “‘Pharisee-Christians’ regarded themselves as a ‘chosen race,’ a ‘royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people’ (1 Pet. ii. 9) and began to adopt priestly genealogical rules on account of this.”91 Ford’s thesis requires at least one exceedingly dubious interpretation of the text: she must argue that an a[pisto" husband or wife is not one who does not believe in the gospel of Christ; rather an a[pisto" is the equivalent of a member of the ![ $rah, one “who through ignorance was careless in the observance of laws of Levitical purity and of those relating to the priestly and Levitical gifts,” or a 87

See Eduard Lohse, Colossians and Philemon (Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1971),

177–83. 88 Even if we accept the letter as authentic, Col 2:11 does not make explicit the identification of baptism with circumcision, let alone the idea that baptism had come to replace circumcision in the Pauline churches (contra Lohse, Colossians and Philemon, 101–2). It makes perfect sense to understand circumcision as a metaphor for spiritual or moral transformation; such metaphor was familiar among Jewish communities. This transformation, done “without hands”—that is, by the spiritual power of Christ—was accompanied by the physical act of baptism, done in the community by community members. It makes less sense to identify spiritual circumcision with physical baptism (which, like circumcision, was done “by human hands”) than to recognize that the two are separate and complementary aspects of coming under the authority and power of God by entering into the community of believers. For metaphorical uses of circumcision in Jewish literature, see Deut 10:16; 30:6; Jer 4:4; 1QS 5:5. 89 Jeremias, Infant Baptism, 46. 90 So also Ford, “‘Hast Thou Tithed Thy Meal?’” 76. 91 Ibid., 79.

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mamzer, offspring of forbidden sexual union or uncertain parentage; both were “non-pure Jewish-Christian[s],” believing members of the Corinthian community but ineligible to be married to those of priestly status.92 The impossibility of this interpretation is evident when one reads the immediately following verses: clearly the a[pisto" is not a member of the believing community, since Paul indicates that he or she is not saved, that is, a “convert” who has believed in Christ and been baptized, nor is it possible to know whether he or she will be, even through the influence of the believing spouse (1 Cor 7:16). It is thoroughly unclear whether the Corinthians would have understood Paul’s argumentation in 1 Cor 7:14. I suggested at the beginning of this article that some members of the congregation were familiar with Jewish ideas about mixed marriages and the status of offspring; certain prominent members of the synagogue such as Crispus and Sosthenes might have understood Paul’s language and ideas fully, while others would have missed the Hebrew-based betrothal idiom and the logic of marriage laws altogether. If his audience misunderstood Paul and, like so many modern interpreters, made sense of the ruling without any knowledge of the Hebrew idiom and the rules governing the status of offspring of mixed marriages, this would not have been the first time Paul failed to get his point across. Throughout the Corinthian correspondence we witness Paul correcting interpretations and developments of ideas and practices that he himself had introduced to the community.93 Dale Martin argues that Paul’s disputants probably found his argument in 1 Cor 7:14 unpersuasive, since Paul’s claims that sexual intercourse with a prostitute pollutes the body of Christ (1 Cor 6:15–20) while a believer sanctifies an unbelieving sexual partner through marriage seem contradictory.94 To those without an adequate knowledge of Jewish law Paul’s logic is inscrutable;95 we may safely assume that those who understood his argumentation fully in ancient times, as today, were in the minority—if any may ever make such claim! This study supports the old notion that Jewish and pagan groups had different linguistic and logical structures governing certain aspects of sociality and 92

Ibid., 77, 74–75. See especially 1 Cor 5:9–13. Many scholars argue that problems with libertinism, ecstatic worship, and emphases on knowledge and wisdom at Corinth arose out of teachings and practices that Paul himself introduced. First Corinthians was written to correct a sort of “hyper-Paulinism” by introducing greater theological emphasis on the cross. See, e.g, Conzelmann, I Corinthians, 15–16. Further, as Mitchell rightly observes, when judged by its effectiveness in resolving the problems at Corinth, “1 Corinthians was a failure.” Not only were the factions not reconciled, Paul also managed to incur the enmity of both sides, as is evident from the strife in 2 Corinthians (Paul and the Rhetoric of Reconciliation, 303; cf. Martin, Corinthian Body, 251). Compare Paul’s protests in Rom 3:3-8 against the claim that he taught antinomianism. 94 Martin, Corinthian Body, 250–51. 95 As Martin notes (Corinthian Body, 218). 93

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that such structures were not always mutually intelligible—but it also confirms that local logic and linguistic symbols describing social relationships could take on new meanings when transferred to and interpreted within new cultural contexts. This reading of 1 Cor 7:14 illustrates the opacity of one culture’s language and logic (ancient Jewish) to another (modern Western) in a way that should suggest the range of difficulties that pagan readers of Paul encountered in firstcentury Corinth. At the same time that our verse reveals differences between ancient Jewish and pagan ways of thinking about the world and human sociality, it also illustrates the powerful penetration of Jewish culture into Greco-Roman culture. In our verse is embedded, in Greek language, a virtually unassimilable fragment of Hebrew legal thought. Its presence in the Pauline corpus, however, which has been authoritative for all Christian communities since the second century, has demanded its assimilation, and generations of Christian interpreters have struggled and managed to find, innovate, or supply, and then apply its meaning within their various communities, despite their ignorance of the ancient Jewish legal logic upon which 1 Cor 7:14 depends.96 Their success—however limited—confirms that a text’s coherence, or at least its appropriation within a system of thought, does not always depend on the author’s intention. This is, of course, old news to scholars of religion.97 Tracing the history of the interpretation of this text among the ancients is a task worthy of fuller treatment than is possible here.98 In conclusion, we should take careful notice of the fact that in 1 Cor 7:12–16 Paul used language that held different meanings for pagan and Jewish readers, that he did so in a way that enabled both to understand his message in terms that seemed familiar. Much has been written about the cultural context in which Paul’s prohibitions of men’s and women’s initiation of divorce would have made most sense. Some interpreters, most importantly Joseph A. Fitzmyer, Peter J. Tomson, and E. P. Sanders, and M. Davies, observe that in 1 Cor 7:10–11 Paul followed Jewish law when he wrote that a man may not divorce (ajfivenai) his wife, but a woman 96 The same could be said for the obscure “Hebrew” thought in 1 Cor 10:4: Would pagan readers have had any context at all for interpreting Paul’s reference to the ajkolouvqousa pevtra from which the wandering Israelites drank in the wilderness? As Conzelmann notes, in this verse “Paul sets out from a Jewish haggadic tradition,” namely, that of the peripatetic rock described also in t. Sukkah 3:11 (I Corinthians, 166 n. 25, 167). 97 See, e.g., Krister Stendahl’s dry summary of his seminal essay, “Paul and the Introspective Conscience of the West”: “We may have wasted too much time in trying to demonstrate a fact well known in human history—and especially in the history of religions: that sayings which originally meant one thing later on were interpreted to mean something else, something which was felt to be more relevant to human conditions of later times” (Paul among Jews and Gentiles [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1976], 94). 98 Now see Hayes, “Mixed Marriages in Patristic Writings,” in Gentile Impurities (ch. 5), for a good survey of the topic.

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must not be separated (cwrisqh'nai) from her husband,99 since Jewish law did not allow women to initiate divorce.100 At the same time Paul’s language clearly makes sense within a pagan context, since both verbs mean “to divorce” in common usage,101 and both Greek and Roman law allowed wives or husbands to initiate divorce. Indeed, in the second prohibition against divorce in 1 Cor 7:12–13 Paul uses ajfivenai to refer to the action of either the husband or the wife, which conforms to pagan, not Jewish, custom. Within Paul’s “divorce halakah” we encounter a fascinating blend of language and logic drawn from both Jewish and pagan cultures. Paul phrased his prohibition of divorce in a way that both Jewish and Gentile readers could understand, despite the different legal norms of the two groups.102 In 1 Cor 7:12–16, I suggest, we encounter Paul—self-consciously or not—performing as mediator between two cultures and transformer of both. 99 Fitzmyer, “Matthean Divorce Texts,” 80–82, 89–91; Tomson, Paul and the Jewish Law, 117; E. P. Sanders and Margaret Davies, Studying the Synoptic Gospels (London: SCM, 1989), 327. For an argument against Fitzmyer et al., see Collins, Divorce, 16–22. Collins’s demonstration that Paul’s language makes best sense when understood from a Greco-Roman perspective, in which women could initiate divorce, does not eliminate the possibility that Paul deliberately chose language that would make sense to both Jewish and pagan believers. As Collins himself concludes, “Paul’s words are general enough to cover any legal situation” (Divorce, 22). More importantly, Paul’s use of ajfivenai and cwrisqh'nai in vv. 10–11 is precise enough to cover the legal concerns of Jewish believers, while remaining intelligible to pagans. 100 See, e.g., M. Keth. 7:10. Ancient evidence shows that some Jewish women divorced their husbands, but the most common legal practice allowed only males to divorce. See John J. Collins, “Marriage, Divorce, and Family in Second Temple Judaism,” in Families in Ancient Israel (ed. L. Perdue et al.; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1997), 119–21. 101 See Fitzmyer, “Matthean Divorce Texts” for divorce language in the ancient Greek literature. 102 The same might be argued for Paul’s use of hJgivastai ejn. While readers or hearers familiar with Pharisaic law might recognize the betrothal idiom Ab `dq and interpret ejn in a strictly instrumental way, others might have interpreted ejn as denoting proximity or relationship: the unbeliever is sanctified in the believing spouse, so that within the entire scope of interactions expected for a married couple, including sexual intercourse, there is no risk of defilement. So, e.g., Delling, “Nun aber sind sie heilig,” 92; Martin, Corinthian Body, 218. The possibility of reading ejn as instrumental and as spatial/relational in 1 Cor 7:14 could support a portrait of Paul as a careful and clever writer who constantly recognized and negotiated the disconnections, tensions, and connections between Jewish and Greco-Roman ways of thinking. This was not, of course, a skill invented only after the birth of Christianity—as Elias Bickerman, Martin Hengel, Saul Lieberman, and others have shown, Jewish peoples interacted with their Greek and Roman neighbors for centuries preceding the turn of the era. (For more recent discussions, see Hellenism in the Land of Israel [ed. John J. Collins and Gregory Sterling; Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2001]; Erich Gruen, Heritage and Hellenism: The Reinvention of Jewish Tradition [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998]; Tessa Rajak, The Jewish Dialogue with Greece and Rome: Studies in Cultural and Social Interaction [Leiden: Brill, 2001].) Doubtless the Pharisee from Tarsus was well practiced and skilled in negotiating between the cultures by the time of his “conversion” to the Jesus movement.

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While Paul was without doubt the apostle to the Gentiles, he remained rooted in Pharisaic traditions. The transformation of classical culture through the introduction of elements from the east103 can be clearly witnessed in our passage: here the Jewish–Greek boundary is at its most porous, as a former Pharisee writes in Greek to a primarily pagan audience in a prosperous city and introduces an utterly foreign logic of sociality in deceptively familiar terms. Pagan culture deeply penetrated the apostle’s psyche, as recent analyses of his texts against the backgrounds of pagan thought have shown,104 but, as Paul’s letters prove, Jewish culture also penetrated the pagan world. The symbols and logic of both cultures were transformed, often violently, by the encounter, as the analogy of modern interpretation and appropriation suggests. The implications of pre-Pauline, pre-Christian pagan-Jewish cultural interpenetration fascinated the earliest chroniclers of Christian history. Eusebius saw such moments as evidence of God’s divine hand preparing the world for the gospel of Christ. Others had different opinions, but analysis of such speculations is another project altogether. 103 As classically described, e.g., by Peter Brown, The World of Late Antiquity: AD 150–750 (London: Thames & Hudson, 1971). 104 See, e.g., the recent work of Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Paul and the Stoics (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2000), and the essays edited by idem, Paul in His Hellenistic Context (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995). Other outstanding work has been done by Hans Dieter Betz, H. Maccoby, Abraham Malherbe, Dale Martin, Margaret Mitchell, and Jerome Murphy-O’Connor.

JBL 121/4 (2002) 745–783

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

Dictionary of Biblical Interpretation, ed. John H. Hayes. 2 vols. Nashville: Abingdon, 1999. Pp. l + 653; xxxii + 675. $195.00. As everyone in the field of biblical studies has probably noted, ours is a time of dictionaries and encyclopedias (and there is even a short entry in this work on Bible dictionaries and encyclopedias across the centuries). This recent contribution to the genre provides a wealth of concisely expressed information and will surely be a handy addition to the reference section of any library serving the needs of students in biblical studies, whether at the undergraduate or graduate level, and the scholars who teach them. (It is unfortunate, however, that the title is the same as a slightly earlier work edited by R. J. Coggins and J. L. Houlden [London: SCM, 1990, 1994].) It is not possible in this review to do much more than give some basic description of the coverage and to offer a few comments by way of appraisal. There are three basic types of entries dealing with (1) the history of the interpretation of writings treated as Scripture by various faith communities, (2) biographies of figures important in the history of biblical studies, and (3) “methods and movements.” Each entry has a bibliography and cross-references to other relevant entries. Moreover, entries devoted to important figures also have lists of their works. A number of the entries on figures and on methods and movements provide handy information that is not so readily accessible elsewhere (but cf. Historical Handbook of Major Biblical Interpreters [ed. Donald K. McKim; Downers Grove, IL /Leicester, UK: InterVarsity Press, 1998]). For those such as this reviewer with a particular curiosity about the people who have contributed to the field, there are many entries on figures across the ages, from the ancient world (e.g., Hillel, Akiba, Philo, Justin Martyr, Origen, Eusebius, Augustine, Theodoret, Theodore of Mopsuestia) on through the medieval period (e.g., Ibn Ezra, Maimonides, Aquinas) and into later centuries down to the present, including some on still-living figures (e.g., Brevard Childs, James Barr, Moshe Greenberg, William Farmer, Martin Hengel). With all that is provided, it is almost churlish to complain about what is omitted. But it is not readily clear why there are certain omissions, both among topics and among figures treated. For example, among my own illustrious predecessors in Edinburgh we

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have William Manson, but not H. A. A. Kennedy (whose studies on the influence of the LXX upon NT language, on the relevance of Philo, and on the mystery cults as background for Pauline Christianity were pioneering and remain noteworthy). There are entries on figures in classical studies whose contribution was essentially to the study of the background of the NT, such as A. D. Nock and Eduard Norden, but no entry on Franz Dölger or Erik Peterson. We have entries on M.-J. Lagrange and J. Bonsirven, but no entry on Jean Daniélou, and there are entries on L. Goppelt, H. Lietzmann, and J. Jeremias, but none on Ethelbert Stauffer. Among major Evangelical figures, we have Merrill Tenney, but, very curiously, no entry on G. E. Ladd, arguably one of the most important figures in the post–World War II American Evangelical effort to enter and engage the scholarly mainstream in biblical studies. Among entries on modern Jewish figures, we have, for example, H. Montefiore and S. Sandmel, but Joseph Klausner does not appear. Missing figures from the ancient world include Valentinus, Heracleon (apparently the earliest commentary on the Gospel of John), and the second-century Christian Ptolemy (whose Letter to Flora is a remarkably noteworthy hermeneutical statement), although there is a modest-sized entry on “Gnostic” interpretation (which mainly consists of observations based on the Nag Hammadi texts). Likewise, I find no entries on Qumran or Pesher; and I cannot divine where else to look in the work for discussion of what is rather widely recognized as an important body of texts in the history of biblical reception/interpretation. As for “methods and movements,” there is a panoply of entries that comprises an impressive scope. But, again, there are curious absences. To illustrate, there are entries on biblical interpretation labeled as Afrocentric, Feminist, Hispanic, Asian, Gay/Lesbian, Liberation, Post-Colonial, Psychoanalytic (and another entry on “Psychology and Biblical Studies”), Womanist, Mujerista, Orthodox (Eastern Christian), and Evangelical (North American, white). Yet I can find no entry on the use of the Bible in the AfricanAmerican tradition or in Pentecostalism. Other illustrative entries introduce “Electronic Hermeneutics” (the impact of digital technology), “Quranic and Islamic Interpretation,” “Post-Modern Biblical Interpretation” (advocative, but conveying little as to rationale or results), “Ethiopian Biblical Interpretation,” and on the many modern methods and approaches, such as Form Criticism, Redaction Criticism, Rhetorical Criticism, Literary Theory and Literary Criticism, Social-Scientific Criticism, Intertextuality, Canonical Criticism, two entries on “InnerBiblical Interpretation,” and a three-part entry on “Mythology and Biblical Studies.” David Jeffrey’s entry on the Bible in “Western Literature” offers an overview of a vast field for which the dictionary that he edited is an essential reference work (A Dictionary of Biblical Tradition in English Literature [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1992]). Yet, to mention other things absent, although there are entries on a number of Jewish interpreters down through the centuries, as well as on Midrash and Hasidism, there is no entry on Jewish biblical interpretation. Nor does one find an entry on Gematria. Likewise, while there are entries on Luther, Melanchthon, Calvin, and other Reformation figures, there is no entry on Reformation exegesis. We have an entry on C. I. Scofield, which mentions his famous annotated edition of the Bible, but otherwise nothing on Dispensational interpretation (a massively influential type among millions from

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the late nineteenth century to the present). Nor does one find an entry on Dialectical/Neo-orthodox, or Existentialist interpretation (though, to be sure, one finds entries on key relevant figures such as K. Barth and R. Bultmann). Very curiously, there is also no entry on Exegesis, Allegorical Interpretation, or Typology (the last happening to be the dominant interpretative mode in the first few centuries of Christianity!), although, by contrast, there is an entry on Cultural Studies. Now, in some cases there are entries that speak in some measure to what is missing. For example, the entry on “Alexandrian School” begins by noting that it is “particularly associated with the practice of allegorical interpretation.” At the very least, we should expect a bare entry on allegorical interpretation that, if nothing else, refers us to other relevant entries. The same can be said for a number of other matters. There is an entry on Hermeneutics; but it is almost totally devoted to developments of the last couple of centuries, after two sentences each on Philo, Augustine, and Luther! And it is no good replying that these three all have separate entries. So do all the modern figures from Schleiermacher onward, to whom the entry is almost wholly devoted. To be fair, we are indeed a cut-flower age intellectually, and the entry only reflects our somewhat adolescent outlook that our age is when things worth noting happened. The entry on Augustine does mention that De doctrina christiana was “much concerned with principles of scriptural interpretation,” but we get little as to what this, perhaps the most important classical Christian text on biblical interpretation, had to offer. We expect that in this particular dictionary the entries on individual biblical and deutero-canonical writings should focus on the history of their interpretation and influence/reception through the centuries, showing how faith communities have appropriated the text in question as Scripture. Some entries do this well, e.g., the entries on Song of Songs, Romans, Revelation, and Tobit. John Sawyer’s entry on Isaiah distills a fascinating story of reception-history laid out more fully in his recent study, The Fifth Gospel: Isaiah in the History of Christianity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996). Other entries are disappointing, however. For example, given that 1 Enoch is treated as Scripture in Ethiopian Christianity, one would hope to learn how it is interpreted; but the entry merely reviews critical introductory studies. Indeed, a number of entries on individual canonical/deutero-canonical writings are virtually indistinguishable from what one can find in other Bible dictionaries or in the introductions to commentaries, the discussion limited to scholarly opinions on date, authorship, provenance, literary integrity, textual transmission, and so on. However, anyone who has been involved in producing such a major reference work will surely agree that the dominant notes to sound are gratitude at what is given, rather than carping at what was overlooked or forgotten, and pleasure in the entries that extend and complement what one can find in other reference works, rather than disappointment in those that fail to do so. Students and others (such as this reviewer) whose curiosity exceeds the limits of their education will find here a useful first port-of-call for basic introductions to, and further leads on, a wide variety of people and phenomena that make up the history and practice of biblical interpretation. The price, however, may make it mainly an acquisition for libraries. Larry W. Hurtado, University of Edinburgh, Edinburgh EH1 2LX, UK

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History of Biblical Israel: Major Problems and Minor Issues, by Abraham Malamat. Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 7. Leiden: Brill, 2001. Pp. xv + 476. $99.00. This collection of twenty-six articles and papers, two of which appear for the first time, represents over fifty years of research by an internationally respected scholar in the field. The focus of the volume, aptly identified as the starting point and chief source for this treatment of Israel’s history, is the biblical text, often examined in connection with comparative epigraphic sources and, in some instances, in relationship to archaeological evidence or to social-scientific analysis. The author discusses the historical implications of a variety of aspects of the biblical portrayal of Israel, beginning with the ancestral traditions and extending to the fall of Jerusalem. The volume is divided into five parts. The first two, “The Dawn of Israel” and “Forming a Nation,” comprise nine essays, all within the scope of what Malamat calls the “proto-history” of Israel, terminology which he prefers either to “pre-history” or to “history” in describing the span of time conventionally associated with the biblical traditions of the ancestral narratives, the exodus, Sinai, the wilderness, conquest and settlement, and, in part, the “judges.” The volume’s opening essay, “The Proto-History of Israel: A Study in Method” (originally published in 1983), addresses the question of whether the biblical traditions of the premonarchic era are amenable to the historian’s purposes and offers Malamat’s own approach as a middle way between, on the one hand, a scholarly “neofundamentalism” which gives uncritical acceptance to the biblical portrayal as history and, on the other, a “hypercritical” skepticism, which he (in 1983) associates with the work of scholars such as J. A. Soggin, T.L. Thompson, and J. Van Seters. Malamat’s position is that the biblical sources can be exploited for the purposes of historical reconstruction provided the historian takes into account the “reflection” and “telescoping” that were integral to their production and which resulted in a tendency toward schematization. For the historian, a key to overcoming the limitations imposed by such nonhistorical contours of the portrayal of this period in the biblical documents is to correlate the latter with sources from elsewhere in the ancient Near East, a task which Malamat takes up in the next two essays, “Mari and Early Israel” and “Pre-monarchical Social Institutions in Israel in the Light of Mari” (originally published in 1985 and 1988, respectively). Malamat’s comparison of the documents preserved from ancient Israel and from Mari posits common origins, though not necessarily direct relations, between the two, supporting what Malamat calls a “typological” or “phenomenological” comparison (as opposed to a “genetic” one). The fourth essay, “Tribal Societies: Biblical Genealogies and African Lineage Systems,” brings the methods and results of social anthropologists to bear on the use of biblical kinship and settlement traditions as historical sources. In ch. 5, “The Exodus: Egyptian Analogies,” Malamat argues that a number of episodes mentioned in various Egyptian texts dating to the thirteenth and early twelfth centuries are analogous to the exodus tradition and that these support Malamat’s view of the biblical exodus tradition as a “telescoped” or “punctual” account of what was a more “durative” historical occurrence (pp. 56–67). Chapters 6–9 consist of four essays treating the historical era represented by the books of Joshua and Judges, during which time the territorial holdings of the Israelite tribes became solidified for the succeeding centuries and Israel passed from “proto-history” to history (pp. 5–6). In the first of these articles, “Conquest of Canaan: Israelite Conduct of War According to Biblical Traditions,” Malamat argues that these traditions, once stripped of their “theological varnish” and examined from the viewpoint of military science, reflect

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tactics and maneuvers of warfare that would have belonged to the historical period depicted (the thirteenth to eleventh centuries B.C.E.). Similarly in the following essay, “The Period of the Judges,” Malamat looks behind the surface depiction of a united Israel (though repudiating the common tendency of scholars to associate each tradition narrowly with only one or two tribes) to discern specific events involving cooperation among several member tribes within a larger Israelite confederation, in some cases even positing historical interrelationships among discrete traditions (e.g., Israelite advances and setbacks over against Transjordanian rivals, as reflected in the traditions of Ehud, Gideon, Abimelech, and Jephthah; pp. 129–40). Part 3, “The Rise of the Davidic Dynasty” contains three essays dealing chiefly with the institutions of diplomatic marriage and covenant in the attainment and consolidation of power under David and Solomon, as well as a lecture and discussion that took place in the home of Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion in 1963 (ch. 13, “Organs of Statecraft in the Israelite Monarchy”). Part 4, “Twilight of Judah and the Destruction of the First Temple” consists of two articles described best by their titles—“The Historical Background of the Assassination of Amon, King of Judah” and “Josiah’s Bid for Armageddon: The Background of the Judaean-Egyptian Encounter in 609 B.C.”—along with two essays on the international political factors operative in the fall of Judah (chs. 16 and 17). Part 5 contains essays on a variety of “Historical Episodes in the Former Prophets and in the Prophetical Books”: “Doctrines of Causality in Hittite and Biblical Historiography: A Parallel”; “Military Rationing in Papyrus Anastasi I and the Bible”; “Foot-Runners in Israel and Egypt in the Third Intermediate Period”; “Amos 1:5 in the Light of the Til Barsip Inscriptions”; “The Historical Background of Two Prophecies of the Nations”; and “Jeremiah and the Last Two Kings of Judah.” Three additional essays, which do not fall readily under any of these headings, are located in an excursus section, which is followed by a section of addenda providing updates for most of the essays in the form of bibliography and some discussion. Next follows an index of primary sources (including biblical, ancient Near Eastern, and Greco-Roman sources) and a subject index. Notwithstanding the inclusion of some essays of early date (two having been published originally in 1951), much of the discussion in this volume is of a very timely nature in addressing methodological issues still being worked out in the use of biblical documents as historical sources; cf., for instance, the discussion of Israel’s “proto-history” with R. Hendel’s recent use of the category “mnemohistory” in dealing with historical and nonhistorical elements of biblical tradition (“The Exodus in Biblical Memory,” JBL 120 [2001]: 601–22]). This mention of timeliness also applies to the discussion of the Mari texts in relation to early Israel’s tribal social institutions (for a recent discussion of the latter, see F. M. Cross, From Epic to Canon: History and Literature in Ancient Israel [Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998], esp. 3–70). Malamat’s treatment of these and other issues makes a valid contribution to current discussion. Intriguing and often persuasive is Malamat’s frequent “teasing out” of possibilities from the biblical and extrabiblical evidence: e.g., implications of ties between the House of David and the Ammonite royal house during the early monarchy; “good (things)” as a reference to covenant in biblical and extrabiblical usage (pp. 272, 305 n. 12); a suggested reading of Arad Ostracon no. 88 as a “prophetic-political text, where God speaks through his prophets, apparently encouraging Josiah to go war [sic] against Egypt” (p. 327); and a suggested relationship between the anti-Babylonian summit hosted by

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Zedekiah in Jerusalem (Jer 27) and “increased prophetic activities,” including the call of Ezekiel (p. 313). In places, Malamat provides brilliant synthesis (see especially ch. 16, “The Twilight of Judah: In the Egyptian-Babylonian Maelstrom”). On the latter point, it should be noted that the volume is not offered as a synthetic and complete history in the manner of Gösta Ahlström’s The History of Ancient Palestine (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993). Nonetheless, the combination of an uneven coverage of Israelite history—the divided monarchy is represented only sparsely—and occasional redundancy (e.g., ch. 16, “The Twilight of Judah: In the Egyptian-Babylonian Malestrom,” and ch. 17, “The Kingdom of Judah between Egypt and Babylon: A Small State within a Great Power Confrontation”) found in the volume is somewhat disappointing. The degree to which Malamat takes for granted certain aspects of the biblical portrayal of Israel as historically reliable, especially as regards premonarchic times and the reigns of David and Solomon, will certainly be contested in the current climate of discussion. Furthermore, Malamat’s assumptions at certain points—such as his inclination to view the “military” details of the book of Joshua, even the marching around Jericho (pp. 84–85), as indicative of historical realities as opposed to theological or narrative elements—seem to overlook more obvious or likely explanations, and at times more restraint is warranted in drawing conclusions (e.g., where Egyptian military failure at Harran in 610 B.C.E. is inferred from a restored reading of “Eg[ypt]” in the Babylonian Chronicle [pp. 292–93] or, where Malamat, in explaining Jer 12:5, acknowledges the absolute dearth of evidence for competitive athletics in ancient Israel and still argues for the existence of “Foot-runners in Israel and Egypt,” based on Egyptian Taharqa stele, which (as Malamat indicates) refers to running as military training along a road not as sport on a “racetrack” [pp. 362–65]). Both the cohesiveness of the volume and the reader’s ease in making use of it could have been enhanced by the adoption of a single format for annotations and of consistent spellings for proper names and technical terms (see, e.g., Psamtik [pp. 300–321] vs. Psammetich [p. 325]; Ascelon [p. 281] vs. Ashkelon [p. 331]; Jehoahaz [pp. 302–3] vs. Jehoachaz [p. 375]; Accadian [p. 357 n. 18] vs. Akkadian [p. 398]), though the indexes are thorough and helpful in this regard. The shortcomings identified are more than outweighed by the numerous insights the author provides into the “major problems and minor issues” involved in the biblical traditions of Israel’s monarchic and premonarchic history. The collection and publication of these essays in a single volume serves not only as a monument to Professor Malamat’s impact on the field through five decades, but also as a significant contribution to the ongoing scholarly debate regarding the history of ancient Israel. Joel S. Burnett, Baylor University, Waco, TX 76798 Ringen um die Verfassung Judas: Eine Studie zu den theologisch-politischen Vorstellungen im Esra-Nehemia Buch, by Christiane Karrer. BZAW 308. Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2001. Pp. x + 488. €108.00. The Covenant Renewal in Ezra-Nehemiah (Neh 7:72B–10:40): An Exegetical, Literary and Theological Study, by Michael W. Duggan. SBLDS 164. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2001. Pp. xii + 372. $49.95. The two monographs reviewed here are recent contributions to the growing field of Persian-period studies in general, focusing in particular on the community of Yehud

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as described and envisioned by Ezra-Nehemiah in particular. Ever since interest in the fifth and fourth centuries began to rise over a decade ago, the kind of research that characterized many Persian-period studies tended to be deliberately conscious of ideological factors and often utilized social-scientific insights and methods. In general, there has been an overall shift away from concerns with individuals (Ezra, Nehemiah, Zerubbabel, etc.) and their achievements or even the historical origin of specific conflicts toward the rhetorical representation of social structures or constitutive elements in the religious and political infrastructure of Persian Yehud. Similarly, the two studies at hand—both of which are revised versions of dissertations written at the University of Kiel and the Catholic University of America respectively—also exemplify the general trend toward social structures and rhetorical representation, while making significant unique contributions to the study of the society and literature of Yehud in the Persian period. Karrer utilizes sociological and political theory in her exegesis to discuss the concept of Yehud’s sociopolitical structure or “constitution” (Verfassung) in Ezra-Nehemiah, while Duggan offers a close literary reading of the covenant renewal (Neh 7:72b–10:40) as a key text for the literary and theological program of Ezra-Nehemiah. Christiane Karrer advances the thesis that the political structure that characterized in either a real or desired form the society of postexilic Yehud had a significant impact on the development of the book of Ezra-Nehemiah, and that different segments of the book reflect different stages of composition as well as different interpretations of the idea of Yehud’s social and political constitution (p. 1). Two central ideas emerge from this thesis. First, the book of Ezra-Nehemiah can and should be read diachronically; the different segments of the text not only point to different authors or editors for the book’s literary sources but also propose different social and theological ideologies. As a point of comparison for the negotiation of different ideologies within a single text, Karrer refers to the origins of the monarchy as described in 1 Sam 7–12 (pp. 16–19). Second, Karrer utilizes the semantic ambivalence inherent in term “constitution” (Verfassung), which signifies both a prescriptive (ideal) state of existence of a community (constitution in the legal sense) and a concrete, descriptive one (the actual state or constitution that characterized a community; pp. 2–6). Rather than trying to resolve this ambivalence, she proposes an exploration of the semantic potential of this term by juxtaposing the tensions that emerge between the ideal and the concrete in Ezra-Nehemiah. Thus, the text both describes what constitutes the community of postexilic Yehud, while also advocating a specific vision of what should constitute the ideal community. Significantly, this vision is not uniform throughout Ezra-Nehemiah, which contains at least three different sociopolitical ideologies that are negotiated within the canonical text of the book. Following an extensive review of scholarship (pp. 21–63), Karrer’s analysis proceeds in two main stages. The first stage (ch. 2) describes the impossibility of constructing a consistent image of Yehud’s sociopolitical constitution through a linear reading of the text. Karrer begins her analysis with a lexical analysis of the key terms used to describe political or social entities in Ezra-Nehemiah. Her analysis of these terms correlates to a comprehensive schematization of Ezra-Nehemiah on the basis of grammatical agency (Aktantenanalyse) provided in the appendix of Karrer’s book (pp. 379–456), designed to facilitate a careful analysis of the Hebrew and Aramaic terminology. Karrer concludes that such an analysis reveals the existence of different conceptions regarding the people of Judah or Jerusalem as well as the understanding of other social and ethnic groups or political offices. A subsequent review of the text in its entirety (pp. 107–24)

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also suggests that a linear reading of the book does not lead to a consistent understanding of these social and political entities and that a more diachronically oriented approach to the topic may be required to identify the existence of more coherent ideological systems regarding the idea of constitution in Ezra-Nehemiah. This conclusion opens the way for the second stage of Karrer’s analysis, which is subdivided into three distinct sections (chs. 3, 4, and 5) and which demonstrates the existence of three distinct ideological visions represented respectively by the Nehemiah source, the Ezra source, and the editorial framework unifying these two components. Central to her reading is a clear definition of the textual basis for each of these literary components, which is followed in each case by an examination of their respective sociopolitical structures. Beginning with the Nehemiah source, which she understands to be the earliest of the three texts and to which she assigns Neh 1:1–75b, 12:27–43, 13:4–31, she notes that within this text certain coherent features do in fact emerge. Specifically, the designation of the people as Judahites (!ydwhy) includes both people within and outside the boundaries of Yehud (p. 152). Furthermore, she observes that there is no exclusive understanding of the gôlâ as the sole representatives of the community, since there is no reference to a return of exiles in the Nehemiah source (p. 153). Ethnicity thus emerges as a defining parameter for the people of Yehud (pp. 154–61) and interaction with foreigners is kept to a minimum (p. 189). Regarding the distribution of power, Karrer notes that the governor (hjp) is the only one whose rights are specifically defined, and the position is presented as the highest political office, occupied by Nehemiah himself (p, 165). The two main themes of the Nehemiah source are therefore the external separation of Judah from non-Judahites and the internal centralization of power in the office and person of Nehemiah (p. 195). Karrer’s discussion of the Ezra source includes Ezra 7:6a–c, 7:28b–d, 8:15–34, 9:1–10:44, Neh 8:1–18, but is primarily focused on Ezra 9–10 and Neh 8 (p. 240). Contrary to the Nehemiah source, it understands the community exclusively as the returning gôlâ and refers to it typically as “Israel” (pp. 240–43), while its presentation of the distribution of power suggests a more decentralized system of administration, highlighting the position of the !yrc (officials, leaders, pp. 241–42). Karrer proposes that Ezra 9–10 (the mixed marriage crisis) can be read as a paradigmatic protocol for the resolution of conflict facing the community in which problems are addressed by a skilled expert (Ezra the scribe), solutions are proposed by the people’s officials (!yrc), and the resolution is executed by the people’s assembly (lhq; pp. 243–51). According to this theory of Yehud’s sociopolitical constitution, political power moves out from the office of an authoritative individual to a representative body that acts on the recommendation of a legal/religious expert, skilled in the book of Torah, who assumes the foremost legislative authority in the ideological system of the Ezra source (p. 265). Even the identity of foreigners is primarily defined in religious terms (p. 271). Given the centrality of religious terminology in this textual segment, Karrer appropriately concludes her analysis of the Ezra source with a discussion of J. P. Weinberg’s theory of the citizen-temple community as well as J. Blenkinsopp’s revision of this theory (pp. 282–83). She argues that such a hypothesis could indeed match her assessment of Ezra-Nehemiah and that her reading of the Ezra source in particular may indeed suggest an attempted counter-argument to the sociopolitical ideology of the Nehemiah source by returning members of the gôlâ who attempted to establish a temple-based citizen community. In any case, the text of

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Ezra-Nehemiah suggests that the realization of such a community did not proceed without conflicts (p. 283). The last chapter of Karrer’s analysis concerns the editorial framework as well as the overarching ideology of the text of Ezra-Nehemiah in its entirety (Gesamtkomposition) independent of the sociopolitical structures envisioned by the Nehemiah and Ezra sources (pp. 284–378). The textual basis for this analysis is in effect the entire book of Ezra-Nehemiah, including the lists found in Ezra 2, Neh 7:6–72b, 11:21–12:26, which match the ideology represented by the Hebrew narrative frame of Ezra 1–6 (Ezra 1:1–4:6; 6:16–22). As one might expect, the sociopolitical structure that emerges here is one that mediates between the two positions represented by the two main sources. The integration of the Nehemiah and Ezra sources into the larger narrative structure effects an expanded image of the community as comprised of returning exiles (erweiterte Rückkehrergemeinschaft), including both secular and cultic sectors, a diarchy, so to speak, which is further reflected in the combined leadership of Jeshua and Zerubbabel in Ezra 1–6 (p. 317). As the text unfolds, the significance of these two figures moves into the background and the leadership is gradually shifted toward the people in general (p. 322). The temple (i.e., the sacrificial cult) emerges as the institutional medium between the community and the Achaemenid rulers, signifying Yehud’s autonomy with regard to its neighbors as Persian imperial representation (p. 333), establishing important symbolic links to the preexilic institutions of temple and monarchy, while presenting these two themes in an entirely new way (p. 351). In doing so, the overarching sociopolitical structure of Ezra-Nehemiah suggests a very specific view of history which takes into account the uniqueness implicit in the political situation of Yehud as a province in the larger Persian empire, while maintaining the element of continuity with Judah’s past (p. 374). Karrer’s most significant contribution to the interpretation of Ezra-Nehemiah lies in her appreciation of the book’s ideological complexity. Her rejection of a single coherent sociopolitical structure characterizing the book is well argued, and her reading of the text as a negotiation of two separate political visions through the mediation of an overarching editorial framework responds positively to the ideological tensions contained in Ezra-Nehemiah. Perhaps the greatest danger inherent in such an approach is a potential circular logic with regard to the division of sources, which could be defined on the basis of a particular ideological structure and in turn used to support the idea of a coherent ideology characteristic of a particular textual segment. However, Karrer’s discussion is nuanced and well placed within the context of contemporary interpretations, thus generally avoiding this particular problem. Only her definition of the Ezra source appears somewhat forced, but her conclusions regarding the Ezra material as a text that is critical of centralized political power, which can be read as a counterposition to the Nehemiah story, is cogently argued and matches the conclusions of, e.g., T. C. Eskenazi, whose name is perhaps surprisingly absent from this particular part of Karrer’s analysis. One aspect that should have received more attention is the influence of Persian imperial policies on social and religious developments in postexilic Yehud. Karrer acknowledges the imperial context of Achaemenid hegemony over Yehud, presupposing a certain amount of flexibility (Freiraum) for the development of local, political organization (p. 14), and she discusses the contributions of other studies to this subject, (e.g., T. Willi, P. Frei, and Rütterswörden on the German scene and K. C. Hoglund and E. Stern in the

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English-language literature; pp. 26–49). Nevertheless, insights from these discussions have relatively little representation in the exegetical portion of her book. With regard to methodology, an insightful aspect of Karrer’s study is the underlying understanding of the sociopolitical structure or Verfassung of Yehud as both descriptive and prescriptive. Her attempt to engage rather than overcome this inherent semantic ambiguity (which is perhaps somewhat more effective in German than it is in English) bears much potential and to some extent parallels similar approaches in the discipline of cultural studies, in particular the interpretation of states and nations as imagined communities, a discourse that is not addressed in this book. This idea could have received more explicit attention in the analytic sections of Karrer’s discussion. It is specifically discussed only in the introduction of the book, although it contributes to the methodological assumptions that govern the study as a whole. While Karrer’s study is decidedly diachronic in its reading of Ezra-Nehemiah, Duggan’s analysis of the covenant renewal ceremony in Neh 7:72b–10:40 is explicitly synchronic and literary in its orientation. He suggests that the text in question provides a hermeneutical key to the book of Ezra-Nehemiah as a whole. Methodologically, Duggan’s approach is still relatively rare in Ezra-Nehemiah studies, which has prompted significantly more social-scientific studies and which has not experienced the same proliferation of literary interpretations as other parts of the biblical canon. Duggan points out that while several studies incorporate elements of synchronic analysis (pp. 38– 48), diachronic approaches clearly dominate the field, and Eskenazi’s study (published now almost fifteen years ago) is still the most significant engagement of EzraNehemiah as literature (pp. 48–56). The reluctance to engage Neh 7:72b–10:40 synchronically is directly tied to the traditional inclusion of Neh 8 with a hypothetical Ezra source, since it deals with the character of Ezra and interrupts the story of Nehemiah’s reforms. Furthermore, the penitential (historical) Psalm of Neh 9 (called “the Levites’ prayer” in Duggan’s study) has often been seen as having a distinct compositional origin from other material in Ezra-Nehemiah, and shifts from first-person memoir to third-person narrative in the text have generally been seen as literary ruptures indicating seams at which the different components of the text have been patched together. Duggan does not deny the value of such diachronic speculations and provides an extensive discussion of existing theories (pp. 1–37). Nevertheless, he suggests that much can be gained from a synchronic reading of the text as well and points out that “[n]either the memoir nor the narrative account constitutes a complete story in itself. Only the combination of the two provides a narrative whole. The problem of marriage with foreigners that first arises in the autobiographical section (9:1–4) is resolved in the narrative section (10:9– 44)” (p. 14). Before beginning his analysis of the covenant renewal account, Duggan presents an outline of the book of Ezra-Nehemiah as a whole in order to contextualize his subsequent analysis. He notes that the joint appearance of Ezra and Nehemiah suggested by Neh 8:9, which has always presented a problem for historical analyses of the text and which has prompted the association of Neh 8 with the Ezra source, fulfills an important literary function in a synchronic reading of the text. It serves to highlight the central importance of the covenant renewal account for the book as a whole, and serves as the defining moment for the postexilic community. “The mission of Ezra and Nehemiah

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converge precisely at this point when they are mentioned together for the first time” (p. 67). Duggan then discusses the delimitation as well as the overall structure of the covenant renewal account, which he suggests proceeds in three distinct stages, of which the last is again subdivided into two subunits (p. 75): (A) Ezra reads the Torah (7:72b– 8:12); (B) the leaders study the Torah (8:13–18); (C.1) the people read the Torah (9:1– 37); (C.2) the people express commitment to the Torah (10:1– 40). This structure, he argues, indicates the linear progression from Ezra to the community’s leaders and finally to the people of the community, which Duggan goes on to demonstrate in greater detail for each of the text’s subunits. Duggan’s analysis is structured as a careful reading of the text divided on the basis of its individual subunits: the public reading of the law by Ezra (Neh 7:72b–8:12) and the celebration of the Festival of Booths (8:13–18), the penitential rite initiated by the Levites (9:1–5), the Levites’ Prayer (9:6–37), and the covenant commitment (10:1–40). Each section is introduced by a translation with textual critical notes, followed by a literary analysis focused on the text’s internal structure, which notes chiastic patterns, parallel formulations and dynamic progressions, and a lexical examination, which considers significant key terms and expressions, often with reference to intertextual connections to other parts of the biblical canon. Since the covenant renewal account involves a public reading of the law, Duggan is particularly interested in the links between this text and the legal material of the Pentateuch. Each section is concluded by a thematic summary. The only exception to this procedural pattern is found in Duggan’s reading of the Levites’ Psalm, the longest and most pivotal subsection of the covenant renewal account. Here the lexical examination is replaced by a careful line by line analysis of every significant expression of the prayer (pp. 200–225) and a comparative form-critical analysis of the prayer in light of other historical as well as penitential psalms in the Hebrew Bible. By uniting these two genres, Duggan suggests, Neh 9 effects a particular view of history, largely infused by Deuteronomic theology, which contextualizes the need for penance in a larger historical scheme. This is achieved most significantly by reaching back “beyond the origins of trouble in the land to the wilderness era, the exodus, the covenant with Abraham and ultimately the beginning of creation” (p. 229). The prayer thus serves to expand the historical understanding of the people and to bring about a new, positive vision of the future. “[T]he exile is no longer the central event for defining the people in terms of their history, past and present (Neh 9:30–31, 32–37; cf. Ezra 9:7–8, 14–15); the covenant with Abraham (9:8a; cf. 32b)—including its promise of the land (9:8b–d, cf. 9:15c–d, 22–25, 36b)—is now the focal point of history” (p. 229). The natural conclusion of this development is the ratification of the new covenant by the people, as described in Neh 10:1– 40, which marks a conscious turning away from the rebellious patterns of the people’s ancestors (p. 289). Duggan’s analysis suggests a dynamic unfolding of theological themes throughout the covenant renewal account. He draws special attention to three conclusions that emerge from his analysis. The first relates to the people’s relationship to the Torah, which is marked by a developing acquaintance and increasing appropriation. The people hear the Torah in an oral reading (8:12), the leaders study the Torah (8:13–18), the people read the Torah in their attempt at communal self-definition (9:1–5), and the people commit to the Torah’s principles and stipulations (10:1– 40) (pp. 295–96). Second,

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Duggan argues that the covenant renewal account signifies the growth of democracy, unity, and autonomy for the community, especially as the community separates itself from all foreigners (9:2) (p. 296). Finally, the covenant renewal account marks a change in leadership, which is decentralized from Ezra to the community leaders, resulting in a “commingling of secular and clerical categories among the eighty-four signatories” (p. 297). Related to the last two points is an earlier observation, which is not specifically singled out in the conclusion, namely, the decrease of Persian authority over the affairs of the community. Duggan notes that following the covenant renewal account “the Persian kings do not issue edicts that determine the course of history in Judah (cf. Neh 13:6–7). Instead, the stipulations that the community proclaims provide the basis for Nehemiah’s subsequent work of reform (10:31–40; cf. 13:4–31)” (p. 289). This idea is intriguing, although the fact that this text appears toward the end of Ezra-Nehemiah does not leave a very large textual basis on which to base such a conclusion. The covenant renewal account could be seen not only as a pivotal event, but also as the culmination of the book’s plot development, in which case the idea of a decrease in Persian hegemony after the covenant renewal account is not entirely convincing. Given the relative lack of literary approaches to Ezra-Nehemiah, Duggan’s study is a welcome contribution to the study of this text. However, his claim that the covenant renewal account is the crux of interpretation for the whole work (p. 1, emphasis added) may be exaggerated. Depending on what questions one brings to the text, one’s expectations as well as one’s methodology will necessarily differ. Certainly for studies with a more historical or sociological orientation, such a reading may not necessarily be appropriate, and some studies may benefit from a more diachronic approach to the text (as, e.g., Karrer’s book demonstrates). For example, it would be rather misleading if one were to reconstruct historical developments (e.g., a possible decline in Persian authority in Yehud at a given point in history) on the basis of this analysis. However, these are not the questions Duggan brings to the text, and given the parameters he provides for his study, his exegesis emerges as a cogent and well-crafted reading. If anything, his reading could be seen as somewhat too neat and coherent. He himself suggests in his critical appreciation of Eskenazi’s contribution to the study of Ezra-Nehemiah: “. . . the very tidiness of Eskenazi’s work alerts the critic to its limitations, namely, of imposing a predetermined construct upon the text” (p. 54). While the charge of imposing a predetermined structure cannot be applied to Duggan’s reading, which does exhibit much literary flexibility and attentiveness to the text, there are places where one might expect a few more loose ends or a greater allowance for ideological complexity. In particular, Duggan’s view of Judahite ethnicity, which plays a relatively significant part in the unification of the community during the covenant renewal account, is more stable than many recent studies of ethnicity would allow, ones that suggest that identity is always a highly contested discourse. Nevertheless, the book is an extremely valuable study of the covenant renewal account in Nehemiah, which demonstrates successfully that a synchronic reading of Ezra-Nehemiah is possible, albeit not exclusively binding, and that the shifts and ruptures of the text need not present obstacles, but can indeed be used constructively in the interpretation of the book. As such, Duggan’s study is one of the most significant literary contributions to the study of Ezra-Nehemiah since Eskenazi’s In an Age of Prose (Scholars Press, 1988). Armin Siedlecki, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322

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Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus: A Re-examination of the Evidence, by Jonathan L. Reed. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2000. Pp. xiii + 253. $30.00. Crossing Galilee: Architectures of Contact in the Occupied Land of Jesus, by Marianne Sawicki. Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2000. Pp. vii + 260. $23.00. Jesus and the Village Scribes: Galilean Conflicts and the Setting of Q, by William E. Arnal. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001. Pp. xiv + 290. $26.00. This review examines three books in the field of Christian origins that employ recent archaeological discoveries and modern sociological theories in their respective historical reconstructions of the setting of Jesus. Integral to each book is the common interest in the ways in which the Herodian building projects, especially the establishment of the cities of Sepphoris and Tiberias in Galilee, could have impacted Jesus and his movement in the region. Based on the work of Reed, Sawicki, and Arnal, scholars interested in questions related to historical Jesus studies are compelled to be as aware of the material culture of Roman Galilee as the textual remains of the Gospels, Josephus, and the Mishnah. Each volume makes a persuasive argument for the necessity of integrating archaeological and literary studies and illustrates the role that anthropological and sociological theories play in this process. The authors provide a multitude of compelling, sometimes contentious analyses of the setting of Jesus that demonstrate the indispensable role that interdisciplinary studies will play in any serious attempt to reconstruct the earliest phase of Christian origins. Owing in part to his extensive field experience at Capernaum and Sepphoris, Jonathan L. Reed’s Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus demonstrates the contribution archaeology has made to our reconstructions of the setting of Jesus. By beginning with questions generated from Galilean archaeology, rather than starting with questions that arise from the textual material, Reed often provides innovative and insightful reconstructions of the setting of Jesus. Except for the introductory and concluding chapters, each chapter integrates textual studies with the material culture remains excavated in Galilee in order to answer specific questions about the setting of Jesus. Reed deliberately and “unabashedly” favors the archaeological data and describes the basic pattern of each chapter as first examining “an archaeological profile” before sketching “the implications for the Gospel and historical Jesus research” (p. 20). Reed’s conscious attempt to begin with questions that derive from archaeology makes this book an important contribution to historical Jesus studies. Chapter 1 serves as the introduction and provides an excursus on how archaeological material from early Roman Galilee has the potential further to impact our reconstructions of the historical Jesus. After examining the earlier “quests,” Reed situates his project clearly within the bounds of the “third wave” of Jesus research, in which the sociopolitical environment of Galilee is central to the interpretation of Jesus. Owing to the inability of ancient texts to provide a reliable picture of the early Roman Galilean context, archaeological evidence must be used to fill in our reconstruction of everyday life in antiquity. Chapters 2 and 3 comprise the largest section of the book and establish Reed’s position regarding several contentious issues about the demography of Galilee. In ch. 2, Reed begins his more detailed analysis of the setting of Jesus with questions about the ethnic and religious identity of the Galileans. By observing settlement patterns and spe-

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cific elements from the material culture that suggest links to Judea (especially Jerusalem), he argues that Judean colonizers who moved to Galilee during the early Roman period were the primary occupants of Galilee. Relying heavily on the archaeological survey of Lower Galilee conducted by Zvi Gal (The Lower Galilee during the Iron Age, 1992), he shows that Galilee was virtually abandoned during the seventh and sixth centuries B.C.E. The Assyrian conquest, followed by mass deportations, appears to be confirmed by the rare material remains for at least two centuries after 732 B.C.E. This archaeological evidence suggests that there was no continuous “Israelite” culture in the region from which Jesus and his first followers were descended (contra A. Alt and, more recently, R. Horsley and M. Sawicki). Reed also dismisses the theory of E. Schürer, who posited that the Galileans were Gentiles (most likely Itureans) converted to Judaism under the Hasmoneans. By observing the settlement types and pottery that are extant from the Persian through Late Hellenistic periods, Reed argues that there is no evidence for an Iturean population moving into the area of Galilee. Rather, based on four “indicators of Jewish religious identity” that have been found in both Galilean and Judean domestic space([1] chalk (stone) vessels; [2] stepped, plastered pools [identified as miqwaµ<ôt]; [3] secondary burial with ossuaries in loculi tombs; and [4] bone profiles that lack pork [pp. 44– 49]), he concludes that the inhabitants were mostly transplants from the region of Judea. Reed closes the chapter with several interesting probes into the consequences of this information for “the Jesus tradition.” For example, regarding “purity and Jesus,” Reed observes that in both the sayings attributed to Q and Mark, Jesus does not censure any of the practices associated with the above-mentioned religious indicators. In a section entitled “The Temple and Jesus in Jerusalem,” he points out that for Galileans a pilgrimage to Jerusalem may have been more than “a religious phenomenon.” Since they were descended from Judeans, a pilgrimage “may also have renewed kinship ties; it is not unreasonable to assume that many Galileans stayed with kin in Jerusalem” (p. 58). While the arguments of this chapter are well developed and convincing, they will not be without their detractors. For example, some readers might question the identification of stepped, plastered pools in Galilee as Jewish ritual baths. On a more significant note, Reed’s use of material remains to determine ethnic and religious identity, and linking groups genealogically to each other based on similar ritual practices, are not without their theoretical challenges. A more detailed description of the theoretical issues that arise when artifacts are so employed would benefit the reader. Chapter 3 makes a major contribution to NT studies by providing (for the first time) a careful analysis of the population numbers for many of the Galilean sites mentioned in the Gospels and other early Jewish literature. Reed observes that establishing these numbers is important because scholars have all too often connected the urbanization of Galilee with the “Hellenization” of the region. Using the problematic (yet popular) dichotomy between “Hellenistic” and “Jewish,” scholars have connected the growth of the urban centers in Galilee with the importation of Hellenism, while assuming the rural sites maintained their “Jewish” character. For example, if a population estimate for the site of Capernaum suggests that there were 25,000 people living there in the early Roman period, then one might argue that Capernaum was a “cosmopolitan and urban milieu” with many Hellenistic features, rather than a Jewish fishing village. In order to counter this scholarly trend, Reed seeks not only to determine appropriate population

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estimates, but also to establish the notion “that high population numbers are not a cipher for Hellenism” (p. 66). After a thorough explanation of the methodology used to determine population numbers in antiquity (pp. 69–77), Reed deduces the population figures for Sepphoris (8,000–12,000), Tiberias (6,000–12,000), Capernaum (maximum 1,700), Nazareth (maximum 400), and several other Galilean sites. The estimates are very reasonable and should become the scholarly standard. Since both Sepphoris and Tiberias underwent the majority of their growth in the Herodian period (at the time Jesus was in the region), the remainder of the chapter deals with what the implications of the urban development would have been for the traditional peasant population living in the rural villages, and what the implications might be for historical Jesus studies. The development of the Herodian centers has become the dominant point of discussion for scholars interested in the setting of Jesus (this is also recognized in the work of Sawicki and Arnal below). Reed’s evidence for the urban centers causing a worse condition for the “peasants’ relative state of deprivation” (p. 97) is meticulous, and sets the bar high for anyone who wants to argue that the rise of large urban centers was of benefit to the rural peasants. He summarizes this condition as follows, “This placed an economic strain on Galilean peasants, added stress to families and challenged current values, and created new ruralurban dynamics” (p. 96). Based on this conclusion, Reed examines numerous sayings of Jesus that appear to appeal directly to the peasants’ economic state and ideological worldview. Chapter 4 examines a wide array of arguments concerned with the issue of how the rise of Sepphoris could have impacted the Galilee, with particular attention to the relationship between the city and the teachings of Jesus. Since the full archaeological reports from the excavations at Sepphoris are yet to be published, Reed’s summary of the ancient city in this chapter provides a plethora of useful information. He notes that scholars have often associated the city with “Hellenism” and thus considered it to be at odds with the “Judaism” of Jesus. For the remainder of the chapter, Reed argues against this rigid dichotomy and aims to advance the discussion beyond the basic questions of Jesus’ itinerary by stressing exploration related to topographical, political, economic, and ethnic factors related to the growth of the city and its impact on the Galileans. In conclusion, he returns to the question of Jesus’ relation to the city and proposes two theories: (1) “it is likely that Jesus on occasion ventured into Sepphoris during his youth,” and (2) “if anything, it would have been Antipas’s power that kept him from Sepphoris during his ministry” (p. 138). These intriguing conclusions leave the door open for scholars to explore this topic further. Chapter 5 provides a detailed analysis of the Roman-period city of Capernaum. Since Capernaum is so frequently mentioned in the Gospels, yet virtually unknown outside of the NT, it is on the opposite end of the spectrum from Sepphoris. Rather than ask why Jesus is not linked to the city, Reed now must be concerned with why Jesus selected this site as his operational center. Capernaum is characterized by Reed as “a slight step up from Nazareth,” in that it would have contained a wider spectrum of economic possibilities (from low-level bureaucrats to beggars) than a small peasant village. With access to the lake and an interregional road connecting it to Tiberias, Caesarea Philippi, and Damascus, the site would have been well situated for some trade and traffic connections. Nevertheless, Reed stresses that Capernaum was not well suited for

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major international contacts, since most of the traffic would have used the King’s Highway that passed on the East side of Lake Kinneret. Similarly, Capernaum is found to be a rather “unimportant and peripheral” political participant in Galilee. Thus, as to why Jesus may have used this site as his “hub,” Reed concludes that Capernaum offered more opportunities than a small peasant village (like Nazareth), without the social and political pressures that were found in the large urban centers (like Sepphoris and Tiberias). The final two studies included in the book are more directly related to understanding the context and message of the “Sayings Gospel Q” within early Roman Galilee. Based on his study of the place-names, urban and spatial imagery, ideological stance toward Tyre and Jerusalem, and various theological themes found in Q, in ch. 6 Reed concludes that the most likely setting for Q was the villages of early Roman Galilee. Chapter 7 is a detailed analysis on the Sign of Jonah saying from Q (Matt 12:40–42 and Luke 11:29–32) within a Galilean setting. In this chapter, Reed provides a thought-provoking study of why a comparison between Jonah and Jesus would have been particularly fitting in Galilee, the homeland of both “prophets.” Reed concludes, “there are tantalizing hints that in Galilee the comparison with Jonah included both a component of openness to Gentiles and a critical edge toward Jerusalem, both important themes in Q’s theology” (p. 211). While these two chapters use a different methodology (focusing primarily on literary material and using archaeology secondarily), they provide further examples of the potential that this interdisciplinary approach can have for historical Jesus studies. One of the advantages of reading Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus in conjunction with the work of Sawicki and Arnal is the possibility for comparison of both their methodologies and results. Reed’s ability to construct an archaeological profile of several of the key sites from early Roman Galilee has supplied scholars with a wealth of material to use in their reconstructions of the setting of Jesus. Yet, while Reed acknowledges the need for and consistently utilizes sociological and anthropological theories in interpreting his archaeological data (pp. 20–21), some readers will be disappointed to find a relatively modest discussion of the models he employs. In distinction from Reed’s routinely implicit use of models, Marianne Sawicki’s work is primarily focused on the explication and development of models that will allow for the interpretation of the archaeological and literary data. In fact, in many respects the present contribution of Sawicki is a challenge to NT scholars to continue to develop theoretical models that can account for the rise of Christianity. Crossing Galilee: Architectures of Contact in the Occupied Land of Jesus is a thorough attempt to clarify the theoretical model that Sawicki has been developing for at least a decade (five of the nine chapters have appeared earlier in various forms). Sawicki provides a thought-provoking and often controversial reconstruction of life in the Galilee during the early Roman period. In ch. 1, Sawicki calls for those who are interested in the “meanings of Jesus,” to use an “indigenous Israelite logic of circulation and containment.” The latter phrase, while never succinctly defined, is the uniting element of the following eight chapters. Rather than develop and use theories that have been refined by studying cultures from other times and places, Sawicki argues that those interested in the historical Jesus must apply a theory that derives primarily from the “Galilean built environment.” The cultural theory that will best describe the actual setting of first-century Galilee is one that

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“may be read off of urban, village, and lakeside ruins, in doorsteps, highways, fortifications, and floor plans.” While encouraging the use of cross-cultural comparison in our reconstructions of first-century Galilee, Sawicki is quick to warn against using sociological theories that are too similar to our own modern backgrounds. In this regard she is critical of attempts by NT scholars to impose models such as the Mediterranean “honorshame template” on life in the villages visited by Jesus. Chapter 2, “Containment Designs in the Kinneret Region,” begins the explanation of the author’s indigenous circulation model. Sawicki suggests that by studying the archaeological remains one can begin to reconstruct the “perceived reality” of the firstcentury Galileans. By observing the material culture of the “built environment,” such as the way a door to a house worked in ancient Galilee, the way water was contained and circulated, and the location of the harbors on Lake Kinneret, Sawicki argues that there is a certain congruence that is observable. Close scrutiny of the architecture and city/village planning reveals “an indigenous logic of containment and selective opening.” In ch. 3, Sawicki expands the field of investigation to include ideas of kinship found in the Mishnah and circulation patterns found in the Jerusalem temple. She concludes that there is a reconstructable pattern of circulation, founded in ancient Israel on the concepts of stableness and fluidity, that was significantly disrupted during the Herodian-led Roman colonization of Palestine. Architectural and literary remains suggest an indigenous concern to ground or stabilize containers so that they would not go wrong. Patterns of movement and containment in the house, temple, and village were directed by rules and pathways that grounded everything, including open pots, married and unmarried women, lineages, priests, and water. In ch. 4, Sawicki reviews in detail the positive and negative consequences of constructing and using models. The chapter contains a helpful summary of the main goal of the book: “a spatial interpretation of Galilee, couched in terms of the indigenous logic of circulation, supplies something that is lacking in all three of the predominant ‘modeling’ strategies: . . . economic-conflict models, gender-ideological conflict models, and honorshame models. None of those earlier modeling programs has been able to show how human beings, including Jesus of Nazareth, were able to exert individual and collective agency by means of their common built environment, through competent and creative use of their common spaces” (pp. 61–62). In chs. 5 and 6, Sawicki returns to her description of the indigenous circulation patterns and begins to show how they were disrupted by the colonial efforts of the firstcentury Romans and then rebuilt by the rabbis of the later centuries. The many Herodian building projects, the development of the Roman road system, the construction of baths and markets in the cities, and the rebuilding of the Jerusalem temple are examples of the ways the Romans attempted to reorganize the indigenous patterns as they “physically and psychologically colonized the land.” In response, the indigenous Jewish leaders developed new architectural formats that served as a means of resistance to the colonizers. The bet midrash, the miqveh, and the synagogue zodiac are understood by Sawicki to have been innovations that offered “symbolic resistance to the incursions of empire.” The next three chapters offer the reader the most speculative, controversial, yet often thought-provoking aspects of the book. Sawicki proposes several theories regarding the way that women in particular were influential in the rise and spread of early Christianity. Often working with very scarce literary evidence, Sawicki proposes various

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theories regarding the family background of Jesus, the relationship between Mary and Joanna, the key role of Joanna (“Herodian dignitary”) and Mary Magdalene (a traveling, anti-Herodian businesswoman) in the Jesus movement. Even more speculative, Sawicki suggests the possibility that Jesus was employed in the Herodian building projects of Tiberias, that he “may have first functioned as an exorcist under the sponsorship of the Herodians,” and, based on the Gospel of Luke, that he “was taken for a Herodian protégé, or at least a Herodian subject, by the civil authority in Jerusalem.” The most unconvincing suggestion proposes a context for the theory that a Roman soldier raped Mary prior to her marriage to Joseph. Interjected into these reconstructions of the life of Jesus and his first followers in Galilee and Jerusalem, Sawicki provides several interesting ideas about the way in which the Jesus movement, in contrast to the rabbis spoken of in the Mishnah, responded to the colonizing pressures of the Romans. Some readers may find the final chapter, “Bibliographical Commentary,” to be of great benefit. While the reader may often be frustrated with the lack of direct references to recent scholarship (author’s names are provided, but no titles or dates appear in the body of the work, except in ch. 4), the bibliography is a useful resource for identifying not only the sources, but what Sawicki understands to be the value or problem with the secondary material. In this regard, the final chapter is not without its own controversies due to often harsh critiques of scholars who have used other anthropological and sociological models in their reconstructions of earliest Christianity. Due to Sawicki’s keen interest in the theoretical issues surrounding the reconstruction of the setting of Jesus, this study is a noteworthy addition to the literature on early Roman Galilee. There are several shortfalls in the study, mainly related to the difficulties involved in developing a “new” model that both derives from and seeks to explain the Galilean setting when there is still relatively little published evidence about daily life in the region. Sawicki’s work would likely be of more value if she had available all the data that is presented in Reed’s Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus. For instance, rather than rely on evidence that is not from the early first century in Galilee as data for her model (for example: the Jerusalem temple, the Mishnah, and a sixth-century C.E. village house at Qatzrin), more detailed evidence from first-century Capernaum would strengthen the argument. Sawicki’s discussion of travel patterns in the region and the often referenced “indigenous,” “Israelite” inhabitants of Galilee would also benefit from more careful analysis. For instance, how is the term “Israelite” meaningful in the early Roman Galilean context in light of Reed’s convincing critique of an indigenous Israelite population in the region? Nevertheless, by providing a study that is so profoundly explicit about the need for and use of models in our reconstructions of the setting of Jesus, Sawicki presents a significant challenge to anyone interested in the so-called “third quest” for the historical Jesus. The final work on early Roman Galilee is William E. Arnal’s Jesus and the Village Scribes: Galilean Conflicts and the Setting of Q. The study is an updated version of Arnal’s 1997 University of Toronto dissertation, completed under the supervision of John Kloppenborg. Like Reed and Sawicki, Arnal is heavily indebted to recent archaeological discoveries in the Galilee. The key component of his reconstruction of early Roman Galilee is the socioeconomic impact of the Herodian building projects. While the main thesis of the book is more confined than those of Reed and Sawicki, he provides a useful example of how careful attention to the social, political, and economic

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conditions of Galilee can improve our reconstructions of Jesus’ early followers. For Arnal, the main question concerns the makeup of the group responsible for Q. The book is essentially divided into two parts. Chapters 1 through 3 provide a detailed analysis (and discrediting) of the hypothesis that Q (or any early Christian literature) attests to the presence of itinerant preachers in the nascent Jesus movement. Chapters 4 and 5 present an insightful argument for Arnal’s alternative hypothesis: that Q is the product of a group of Galilean village scribes, a theory first proposed by Kloppenborg a decade ago. On the whole, the book is well conceived as a model of interdisciplinary work. Arnal combines archaeology, literary criticism, and sociological theory in order to produce a timely contribution to the field of Christian origins. In the introduction, Arnal not only establishes the basic tenets of the study; he offers a justification for NT scholars to give more weight to Q scholarship. That the existence of Q is a hypothesis should not detract from its value to the study of Christian origins. All NT scholarship is based on hypotheses; they are the guiding principles of all scientific research. Thus, Arnal observes, “The problem with Q is not that it does not exist but that it tends to call into question some of the cherished historical conclusions of the last four or five decades of New Testament scholarship” (p. 4). Similarly, Arnal explains and defends his use of a stratified model of Q that is based on the work of Kloppenborg (Q1: formative stratum, Q2: redactional stratum, and Q3: late additions and glosses). He notes that the criticism of the stratification thesis is not based on a difficulty with its methodology or results, “but rather its implications for the historical Jesus and the earliest development of Christianity” (p. 7). Since most of the sayings with which Arnal is concerned (those containing the “rhetoric of uprootedness”) are found in the formative stratum of Q, the theory of Q-stratigraphy is a central tenet of his thesis. The body of the study begins with several investigations into the origins and proliferation of the itinerancy hypothesis. Tracing the hypothesis to A. von Harnack’s 1884 commentary on the Didache, Arnal connects the idea that itinerant prophets were central figures in the earliest period of Christianity to the late-nineteenth-century “concerns of the Age of Progress.” Using “an incipiently structural-functionalist model,” Harnack understood the references to apostles, prophets, and teachers (Did. 11–15) to delineate specific “offices” in earliest Christianity. The designations “apostles” and “prophets” were understood as itinerant “offices,” while the “teachers” were characterized as settled, local officials of the church. According to Harnack, the Didache bears witness to the transition that was occurring from mainly itinerant “offices” (“charismatics”) to “local offices,” represented by the references to “bishops and deacons” (“monarchical episcopate”). In ch. 3, Arnal provides a critique of this interpretation by analyzing the text of the Didache in detail (pp. 73–91); in ch. 1, his interest is in the affinities between Harnack’s late-nineteenth-century setting and the itinerancy hypothesis in general. Arnal illustrates how Harnack may have “unconsciously” constructed his scheme of Christian origins to fit with the notions of “process” and “culture,” as well as the “sense of progress that characterized the age” (p. 18). He suggests, “In placing a great wandering at the foot of ecclesiastical history, Harnack is merely replicating what his own culture thinks about history: that it is the playing out of the process by which a fiery and vibrant genius comes to temporal incarnation” (p. 20). Similarly, in ch. 2, Arnal describes the widespread acceptance and various manifestations of the theory by scholars in the past four decades. He also seeks to explain the

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trend by examining the Sitz im Leben of the scholars who have defended it. Following Harnack, in the 1970s Gerd Theissen became the most influential proponent of the itinerancy hypothesis when he linked the concept of itinerant charismatics to the formative level of the Jesus movement and the Synoptic tradition (see, e.g., The First Followers of Jesus: A Sociological Analysis of the Earliest Christians, 1978). “Jesus himself, Theissen claims, did not intend to found communities but to call into being a movement of wandering charismatics” (p. 24). Arnal describes how Theissen, as a “structural-functionalist,” developed a theory of Christian origins in which the Jesus movement, with its itinerant preachers, “functioned” as a renewal movement that responded to the social crises created by the political, cultural, socioeconomic, and “socio-ecological” pressures from the urban-based aristocracy. Because of their radical ethics and explicit apocalypticism, the teachings of the itinerant followers of Jesus “served the function of containing the aggression fostered by the various forces of social disruption” (p. 29). Since his publications in the 1970s, Arnal observes, “Theissen’s work has been formative for nearly all subsequent research and has set the agenda for social inquiry into earliest Christianity even among those who disagree with his conclusions” (p. 29). He concludes this section with a lengthy review of a recent variation on the itinerancy theory, the so-called “Cynic hypothesis.” Arnal notes that a comparison of the Q sayings and the sayings of the Cynics is not valuable when simply used to provide a social description of Jesus or the earliest Jesus movement. While Arnal observes several “intellectually progressive” results from the Cynic comparison, he argues that it should not be used to defend the idea that the Jesus movement was itinerant. In the conclusion to the chapter, Arnal turns to the question of why the itinerancy hypothesis has been given such a predominant place in recent reconstructions of Christian origins. Like the possible affinities between Harnack’s “Age of Progress” and his notion of early Christianity, Arnal argues “that the main intellectual impulse behind the resurgence of the itinerancy hypothesis is its contemporary resonance (and, indeed, relevance)” (p. 59). This “resonance” is explained in a variety of ways, for example: as a desire to see the rise of Christianity as exceptional, charismatic, and/or unique; as part of a “modern focus on defiance of convention as a truly revolutionary stance” (p. 60); “because it manifests and posits the characteristics of postmodernity” (p. 62); and as “self referential … of the loss of prestige suffered by most academics in recent times” (p. 64). While this critique of the scholars who have recently used the itinerancy hypothesis may not be groundless (anthropologists have used similar critiques to describe their cultural biases for decades), it is problematic when applied on a very general level to explain a wide variety of scholars and their work. Arnal’s analysis at the end of ch. 2 boarders on being so broadly conceived that it is inadequate as an explanation. For example, to conjecture that those scholars who use the itinerancy thesis do so because of the general loss of prestige academics experienced at the end of the twentieth century is unhelpful unless accompanied by concrete examples. Additionally, some readers may be disappointed to find that Arnal does not provide a thorough critique of his own selfreferential proclivities and does not explore the “retrojections of contemporary cultural concerns” that are present in his study. In ch. 3, Arnal turns to a detailed analysis of the ancient texts that have been used as evidence for the existence of early Christian itinerants: the Didache and Q. Readers interested in the redaction and social-historical context of the Didache and the growth

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of church “offices” in the first century will be interested in Arnal’s study. His primary arguments are: (1) Theissen’s “tripartite order of charismatics” (apostles, prophets, and teachers) is not attested in the text as referring to distinct offices, (2) itinerancy and travel are not clearly defining features of their activity, and (3) even if one argues that itinerancy is indicated in the text, it is only possible after “an organized, communitybased, and translocal set of churches” had been established. After a careful analysis of its redactional elements, Arnal relates the offices mentioned in the Didache to the development of early Christian leadership roles found in the Pauline letters and the pseudoPauline Pastorals. He argues that Theissen’s reconstruction (beginning with itinerants and moving toward settled church offices) should be turned on its head. Thus, any hint of itinerant charismatics in the text should not be ascribed to the early period, but to the latest period of development. In the next section, Arnal observes that any references to travel and uprootedness in Q must be grounded in the social description of Q’s context in early Roman Galilee. Q’s Mission Speech (as the main source for the idea that the text provides evidence for itinerant, wandering charismatics) is found to lack proof that itinerancy was practiced by the people behind Q. Rather, the references to travel need to be understood both in the larger context of all the sayings of Q, where the “realities of settled village life” are of primary concern, and in the social, political, and economic setting of Galilee, where the Mission Speech makes better sense as part of a “local agenda involving short trips,” rather than as describing a wandering charismatic lifestyle. The remainder of the book is a detailed analysis of the people responsible for Q. If not itinerant charismatics, then who? Chapter 4 examines the effects of the RomanHerodian policies on the Galilean villages and argues that the most likely group responsible for Q was the “small class of literate administrators” (village scribes) who would have been required in the many autonomous towns of early Roman Galilee. The conclusion of his socioeconomic survey suggests that with the building of Tiberias there was “a more effective incorporation of the region to the immediate west of the lake into the economic orbit of the Roman Empire. The result for the smallholders in that hitherto relatively autonomous area was a more effective collection of taxes, a progressive monetization of the economy, increased trade, increased cash cropping, and increased consolidation of holdings and consequent tenancy” (p. 158). With these observations about the social impact of the Herodian policies, Arnal argues that the village scribes were the “most affected by,” “most resentful of,” and “most inclined to react to” the new socioeconomic conditions imposed by the Roman administration. He concludes, “While perhaps alienated from the populace by virtue of their involuntary complicity in the new order, what sources exist suggest that there was enough general resentment of the social, economic, and cultural changes enforced by the new regime for these scribes to imagine that their indignation was generally shared by their fellow villagers and thus that their response to the situation would be shared as well” (pp. 154–55). Chapter 5 links Arnal’s reconstruction of the social setting of Galilee and the village scribes with the “rhetoric of uprootedness” found in the sayings of Q (in particular, the earliest phase: Q1). Arnal maintains that the Q group was located in the region of Capernaum (in agreement with Reed), and, regarding the date of the sayings, contends that Q1 derives from “an extremely early and rather isolated phase of the Jesus movement as a whole” (p. 168). Considering that Q was a written text, that the authors were familiar with literary traditions and rhetorical techniques, and that the language, style,

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and imagery of Q suggest familiarity with administrative (delegating) and teaching situations, Arnal supports his contention that the people behind Q should be located within the context of a village-based scribal tradition. He then observes the details of several Q sayings, especially the Beatitudes, in order to illustrate how Q’s “inversionary rhetoric” could have communicated a repudiation of the Galilean social hierarchy. In light of the shifts in socioeconomic conditions that accompanied the Herodian incursions into Galilee, the group behind Q is characterized as promoting “an ethos of communalism” that encouraged the wealthy “to cease their predatory behavior” (p. 195). Arnal’s book is innovative and challenging. His careful attention to the archaeological data is a valuable addition to Reed’s study (reviewed above). Like Sawicki, Arnal consistently references the benefits and shortfalls of various sociological theories; his use of models is critical and well informed. No doubt some readers will be unable to follow his carefully constructed proposal of a Q1 community, yet even the reader who is not convinced of the existence of Q or its redactional stratigraphy will learn much from Arnal’s dedication to logic and his critique of scholarly conventions. Reed, Sawicki, and Arnal have pushed the analysis of the historical Jesus into the twenty-first century with credible, interdisciplinary studies that reflect a growing awareness of the benefits of archaeology for biblical scholars. Since most Galilean sites are either unexcavated or only partially excavated, the future remains very bright for more studies of this nature to press our old reconstructions of Christian origins in new directions. Any reader interested in the current state of historical Jesus research will do well to begin the quest with these studies. Milton Moreland, Huntingdon College, Montgomery, AL 36106

Matthew 8–20, by Ulrich Luz. Trans. James E. Crouch. Hermeneia. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001. Pp. xxxvii + 606. $69.00. At long last we have more of Ulrich Luz’s brilliant Matthew commentary available in English translation. The history is a little complicated. Chapters 1–7 of the commentary in English translation had already been published by Augsburg in 1989 (German, 1985), long before Luz’s commentary was co-opted for the Hermeneia series. In an editor’s note at the beginning of the present volume, Helmut Koester promises a new volume 1 (chs. 1–7) for Hermeneia, to be produced after the publication of volume 3 in the Hermeneia series (covering chs. 21–28). The new volume 1 will be a “a revised edition . . . reflecting the author’s changes and including full bibliographic information as well as indices for the entire work” (p. xxxvii). The present volume contains all of volume 2 of the German EKK (EvangelischKatholischer Kommentar zum Neuen Testament) together with about one-third of volume 3 (which covers chs. 18–25). Although volume 2 of the German edition was published in 1990 and is hence twelve years old, there is unfortunately no updating in the present volume and hence its bibliography is outmoded by more than a decade. It seems a pity that it was not brought up to date when the obvious occasion of putting it into the Hermeneia format presented itself, but this may well be due to the fact that when the present volume was being produced Luz was still busy working on the fourth volume. Since volume 3 of the German was published in 1997, the bibliography for chs. 18–20 in

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the present volume is not quite so badly out of date. Volume 4 of the German has recently been published and contains the commentary on chs. 26–28, adding now yet another dimension, namely, extensive treatment of the influence of Matthew’s passion and resurrection narratives in the history of art (including many pictures) and even music. Unquestionably the most unusual and remarkable trait of this commentary is the extensive space given to Wirkungsgeschichte, “history of influence,” that is, examination of the way in which each pericope has been interpreted throughout the history of the church and the cumulative effect of earlier interpretations upon later ones. This provides exceptionally rich insight into what might be called the interpretive potential of each passage. Indeed, it was this aspect of the commentary, as Luz worked through the text, that impacted him in the most significant way. What became increasingly apparent to him in the study of Wirkungsgeschichte was the openness or multivalency of texts and the extent of the role that the interpreter’s own setting and presuppositions play in the interpretation of texts. The revolutionary implications for traditional, historical-critical exegesis in its quest of a single, objective meaning—the intention of the author—have been spelled out by Luz in his Matthew as History: Interpretation, Influence and Effects (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1994), which can serve as a companion volume to the commentary. The history of interpretation demonstrates that texts can have different meanings in different contexts. The range of constructive uses of a pericope is in effect virtually unlimited. This does not mean for Luz, however, that any or every interpretation of a text is acceptable. He advocates the use of two criteria that can be used in separating valid interpretations from false ones: correspondence with the essential elements of the history of Jesus and congruence with an expression of love. Because of our inability to arrive at a final, definitive interpretation of any passage, Luz rightly insists upon the importance of humility and dialogue. The amount of attention to Wirkungsgeschichte and its significance for interpretation makes this commentary unique. Working my way through it, I was repeatedly struck by its distinctiveness. Unlike the typical commentator, Luz does not feel obligated to comment on every detail of the text in more or less equal depth. Thus at specific points one can be surprised, and perhaps even disappointed, by the thinness of treatment. One is more than compensated, however, by the fact that Luz effectively cuts through to the heart of a passage in such a thought-provoking and productive way. He furthermore often provides what amount to mini-essays on the crucial questions raised by the text. Without exaggeration I can say that Luz’s commentary must certainly be one of the most interesting commentaries ever written. Others seem dry by comparison. It is not a scholar’s commentary written for other scholars, although unquestionably there is plenty of scholarly detail: three sizes of type are employed; excursuses, detailed discussions, and footnotes abound. But this commentary will primarily be a boon to all who teach or preach, and who are concerned with the application of the text to the present. As much as I admire and value this wonderful commentary, I must mention two misgivings. First, despite his lengthy discussion of the subject of miracles in the Gospel (pp. 52–58), to my mind Luz is unconvincing when he concludes that the miracle stories that imply a breaking of natural law cannot be understood as referring to what actually happened. They are instead to be understood, he argues, as “designed to make some-

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thing happen” in us (p. 58). Undeniably there is much truth in this latter observation, but what finally are we to make of the narratives themselves? Luz seems controlled by the enlightenment notion of a closed system of cause and effect that cannot allow for transcendent or supernatural events. Thus he concludes that whereas “all of the synoptic healing miracles and exorcisms are conceivable (which does not mean that historically they happened) . . . it is a different matter with nature miracles and raisings of the dead that at the present time probably have to be described as not (not yet?) conceivable” (p. 58 n. 34; parentheses are Luz’s). We are thus bound by the principle of analogy, according to Luz, with the result that nothing that is unparalleled in our experience can be accepted as historical. This view is reminiscent of the old modernist perspective that is no longer quite as persuasive in our post-Newtonian era as it used to be. Unfortunately, such a perspective hardly helps the reader to know what to make of the remarkable story of Jesus as recorded by Matthew, which at so many key points is without analogy. On this point Luz ends up sounding rather like R. Bultmann, with the Gospel in the last analysis amounting to a mythological or symbolic story that somehow has relevance to our experience in the present: in Luz’s language, “events that want to happen again in our understanding” (p. 58). My other misgiving is that the history of interpretation and the influence of the text take on an inordinate importance in the commentary. Luz’s understandable fascination with Wirkungsgeschichte is what drives the commentary and ultimately dominates the discussion more than the actual exegesis of the text of Matthew. The reason for this is not hard to see, given Luz’s remark that “the principle of the history of effects seems to render impossible an authoritative function of its original meaning” (Matthew as History [p. 76], cited above). Luz’s philosophy is spelled out in his discussion of 16:13–20, where he writes the following: “In this commentary, as a Protestant struggling with the predominance of ‘sola scriptura,’ I advocate a hermeneutics of the ‘trajectory’ of biblical texts and repeatedly have made myself the advocate of new discoveries of the potential of biblical texts in new situations. The meaning of a biblical text for me consists not merely in the reproduction of its original sense but in the production of new meanings in new situations guided by the trajectory of the texts and supported by the totality of the Christian faith” (p. 372; italics are Luz’s). What concerns me is that Luz puts the “new meanings” of a text on the same level as the “original sense.” The result is that what the author may have intended or, more exactly, what the implied author attempts to say in the text, is regarded as having no special importance but as merely one option among others for the interpretation of a text. Like a work of art, the text has a life and meaning of its own apart from its creator. In keeping with this poststructuralist perspective, Luz does not distinguish between meaning and significance, i.e., between what the text meant and what the text means, or between interpretation and application. They are one and the same to him. Texts, to be sure, can often be read in more than one way, as Luz shows us. But to my mind it is still worth attempting to establish the original sense of a passage—with all the admitted problems in so doing—and then to discuss the degree to which applications of a text in different, later situations may or may not be valid, and the extent to which the text may remain polyvalent to our present understanding. It is of course naive to suggest that any interpreter can be neutral in approaching a

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text, or to deny that the meaning of a text is to some extent constituted in the very act of reading itself. But even with the admission of these important caveats, it seems unfortunate to suggest that we have no access to the original sense of a passage or, that even if we do, what the implied author wants to say has no privilege in the interpretation of a text. Should not the attempted exegesis of the text in its original historical meaning have primacy in a commentary rather than how the text has been understood over the past two millennia of church history, as enriching as such insights can be? For those who want a commentary that attempts to exegete the text itself rather than exploring the history of interpretation of the text, Luz may therefore at times disappoint. Paradoxically, therefore, it may be that the very strength of the commentary is at the same time its Achilles’ heel. Because of its heavy emphasis on Wirkungsgeschichte, Luz’s commentary is revolutionary. It is not saying too much to conclude that it virtually redefines the genre of commentary altogether. It is at the same time, however, deeply perceptive, highly informative, even entertaining. It is full of wisdom and mature insight, as well as respect for the Christian faith as manifested through the centuries. It is, in short, a masterpiece, and it will rightly take its place as indispensable in the study of the Gospel of Matthew. Donald A. Hagner, Fuller Theological Seminary, Pasadena, CA 91182

Corinth, The First City of Greece: An Urban History of Late Antique Cult and Religion, by Richard M. Rothaus. Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 139. Leiden: Brill, 2000. Pp. x + 173. $75.00 (cloth). Readers may well wonder whether a book whose subject matter lies outside the ordinary purview of NT studies deserves notice. Rothaus looks at Corinth in the fourth through sixth centuries, only occasionally touching on earlier centuries. Yet the book merits attention, and not simply because its geographical focus is near and dear to the hearts of those interested in the first urban Christians. What the author undertakes has obvious ramifications for NT scholars: he writes a history of religion in Corinth and its environs (Kenchreai, Isthmia, Lechaion), focusing on the interaction between polytheism and Christianity; he bases this history on the rich archaeological record of the Corinthia and attempts to integrate it with the literary record; and, as he leads readers through the many categories of archaeological data, he evaluates excavation reports and challenges many of the reigning interpretations of the data. Thus, the book, which is not without serious flaws, is significant to NT scholars for several reasons. First, Rothaus offers synthetic and integrative treatment of a topic that lacks such studies. Second, he models the kind of history writing NT scholars would do well to emulate as they situate early Christian communities socially. In addition, the book is a serviceable map both to Corinth’s archaeological record and to the excavations that unearthed and assembled it, making it as relevant to scholars of early Roman Corinth as to scholars of late antiquity. The book has nine chapters, the first two of which serve as an introduction to the body of the study in chs. 3–8. Chapter 1, “Reconsidering Late Antique Religion,” offers a seven-page statement of how Rothaus approaches his subject. The book’s focus is cultic practice, because the material record speaks more directly about religious activity than about religious beliefs. From this perspective, Rothaus finds the labels Christian

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and pagan understood as mutually exclusive categories inappropriate. For at Corinth there appears to be a range of cultic activities, some of which both Christians and polytheists could perform. The second introductory chapter, “The Late Antique City,” introduces us to Corinth in the late Roman period. There, in twenty-one pages, Rothaus characterizes the social and political realities of late antique Roman Greece generally. Then he turns to the archaeological record to document the Corinthian situation. From the fourth to the sixth centuries, the city suffered significant damage on occasion, brought about by seismic or (perhaps) barbarian activity, and its civic center underwent major alteration. Yet Rothaus also finds evidence of its resilience, general prosperity, and remarkable continuity with earlier centuries. For instance, he finds little evidence for the building of rural villas and thus no sign of the decentralization that overtook the western empire at this time. The next six chapters, the heart of the book, use Corinth’s considerable (though fragmentary) material record to characterize the changing religious topography of Corinth and other nearby sites in the late Roman period. The major religious change of the time was the christianization of the empire and the concomitant decline of polytheism, and Rothaus is keen to characterize that shift on Corinthian soil. Contrary to what the growing hegemony of Christianity might suggest, Rothaus sees polytheism maintaining its vitality in Corinth, although it does change. Thus, Rothaus seeks to show throughout the body of the book that it is most accurate to speak of Christianity and polytheism coexisting, not of the former superseding or wiping out the latter, in late Roman Corinth. Two chapters, the third and the eighth, articulate this position the most clearly and fully. In ch 3, “Broken Temples,” Rothaus observes that Corinth’s many temples had been demolished or destroyed by the late fourth or early fifth century. The demise of the temples did not signal the Christian conquest of pagan Corinth, however. Rothaus offers evidence of traditional cultic practices surviving at several sites, albeit on a diminished scale, documenting this continuity most fully at the Asklepios temple. At the same time, Christian burials were taking place at the perimeter of these former temple sites, which suggests to Rothaus some level of interaction between Christian and polytheistic Corinthians. More complex was the situation at a bath structure just west of the Asklepios temple, which Rothaus explores in ch. 8, “Nymphs and Angels.” The bath, which had collapsed by 400 C.E. but still had a water supply, attracted a variety of cultic activities in the fifth and sixth centuries. What excavators called the Fountain of Lamps contained, among other things, curse tablets invoking the Nymphs and lamps with Christian graffiti invoking angels. In this case, Rothaus concludes, either Christians and devotees of the Nymphs (and perhaps Pan) were rubbing elbows as they performed their respective rituals or the same individuals were engaged in both Christian and polytheistic cultic practices. Signs of tolerance notwithstanding, Christianity did gain the upper hand in late Roman Corinth, and Rothaus devotes several chapters to describing what form that ascendancy took. In ch. 7, “Images and Power,” he considers the mutilation and burial of statues as evidence of Christians taking action against polytheism. Chapter 6, “Christianizing the City,” treats evidence for extensive Christian basilica construction in the fifth and sixth centuries, not in Corinth’s civic center but at main approaches to the city,

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places Rothaus regards as strategically and symbolically important. These chapters stress the ambiguity of the material record, for Rothaus is not convinced that monumental church building marked the mass conversion of Corinthians to the new faith. Rather, he sees basilica construction as evidence of imperial determination to christianize the empire. Chapter 9, the book’s conclusion, reiterates this last point and sets it alongside the evidence presented in other chapters for the long cohabitation of Christians and polytheists in Corinth. Rothaus stresses that christianization, which did eventually help to displace polytheism, came from the top down. No local groundswell for Christianity pushed the process along, for the Corinthians seemed to carry out Christian and polytheistic practices side by side, and likely did not distinguish between them. A critique of the book begins by noting that this summary of Rothaus’s main argument lends a coherence and clarity to the book that it often lacks. The source of these deficiencies is twofold, the first being the book’s poor organization. Chapter 1, for instance, which considers the relationship between polytheistic and Christian cultic practices, gives some idea of the book’s approach, but is much too brief to serve as a theoretical preface to the entire study. These seven pages logically belong at the beginning of ch. 8, a very short chapter, as a methodological introduction to Rothaus’s treatment of the finds at the Fountain of Lamps, where the issue of the overlap between Christian and polytheistic cultic activity is central. Clarity and coherence also suffer from an ill-considered employment of theory that ranges from superfluous to inadequate. The book’s opening pages introduce mathematical set theory to define the relationship between polytheistic and Christian cultic practices, but such a framework is hardly needed to describe the relationship between them. In fact, it clouds the issue instead of clarifying it. On the other hand, at several points Rothaus needs to ground his discussion in a theoretical framework but fails to do so, at least adequately. His speculation in ch. 7 about what prompted Christians to mutilate statues rests on the claim that ancients attributed power to them, an assertion he repeats several times without defining the term “power” or exploring why art of this sort would have attracted it. Likewise, when he discusses Christian basilica construction and their location in ch. 6, he talks about the control of liminal areas and sacralizing the landscape with little explanation of what he means and why such notions are relevant. Better organization and thorough treatment of method at the start could have brought the book greater unity and saved it from being theoretically scattered. (On a related note, closer editing would have caught the book’s numerous typographical errors, missing bibliographical entries, and a serious lacuna between pages 18 and 19.) The book also seems dated, even to a reviewer who does not specialize in late antiquity. Rothaus distinguishes his understanding of Christian–polytheistic relations from interpretive positions that no longer rule the field; he sets up his picture of an evolving but nevertheless vital polytheism displaced only gradually by Christianity against the view that Christianity overwhelmed a moribund paganism or that imperial disfavor meant its quick demise. Two decades of scholarship have taken issue with these views, however, and it is telling that Rothaus makes no reference to important recent studies, such as Pierre Chuvin’s A Chronicle of the Last Pagans (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1990), Peter Brown’s Authority and the Sacred: Aspects of the Christianisation of the Roman World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995),

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and Ramsay Macmullen’s Christianity and Paganism in the Fourth to Eighth Centuries (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997). The book is based on a 1993 dissertation, but that hardly excuses it from such major bibliographical gaps and inattention to the state of late antique scholarship. If Rothaus’s study deserves to be read, it is not because it is a magisterial and compelling study of late antiquity. It does offer valuable insights into the local religious situation in late Roman Corinth, but what NT scholars will find useful is its informed, critical, and self-deprecating viewpoint—that of an archaeologically savvy historian who knows his way around Corinth’s material record and offers frank assessments of the published reports and the excavations that produced them, who at the same time is honest about the merits of his own speculative reconstructions of religious life in the ancient Mediterranean world. Although the book is methodologically flawed, there exists no historical study of religion at Corinth so well informed by the archaeological record. The treatment of religion in Donald Engels’s study of Roman Corinth, for instance, is perhaps the weakest chapter (5) in a book that was not well received by historians or Corinthian archaeologists (Roman Corinth: An Alternative for the Classical City [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990]). (Rothaus finds Engels full of factual errors and off base in his use of archaeological data.) Oddly, what promised to be the definitive study of Corinthian religion in the Roman era, an article by archaeologist James Wiseman for Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt II.18.2 (delayed to 18.4, then 18.6), will never appear. We must depend on Rothaus to correlate data from various sites and to compare the material and literary records, so as to reach a synthetic and integrated view of Corinthian religion. This is no easy undertaking, and what Rothaus comes up with, while illuminating and usually worth considering, is not always convincing. Yet when he is convincing, such as his treatment of religion at Kenchreai (ch. 4), NT scholars should take note. Pausanias mentioned sanctuaries of Aphrodite and Isis there, and the chief excavator of the site, Robert Scranton, identified these with buildings in two excavation areas. Rothaus rejects these identifications, contending that Pausanias’s brief account “cannot be used to identify the structures excavated at Kenchreai” (p. 66), and he makes a strong case for the so-called sanctuaries actually being a urban villa and nymphaeum, respectively. In so doing, he offers an instructive lesson in the hazards of fitting the material record to ancient literature. Moreover, if Rothaus’s alternative interpretation is correct, existing portraits of Egyptian religion in the Corinthia, such as Dennis Smith’s article in HTR 70 (1977): 201–31 on Egyptian cults at Corinth, need revision. As these last comments indicate, what makes Corinth: The First City of Greece invaluable to NT scholars is not only the close attention it gives to coordinating the ancient literary and archaeological records and its serviceability as a guide to the latter. The book also voices much needed judgments about existing archaeological interpretations and about the quality and reliability of final reports and the excavations that produced them. The Corinth Excavations recently celebrated a century of excavation at ancient Corinth and has produced eighteen sizable volumes of final reports (many with several parts) since 1929. Excavations at Kenchreai and Isthmia have a shorter history but have also published many substantial volumes. All told, preliminary and final reports along with numerous specialized studies constitute a vast material record in print, to say nothing of the materials yet to be published. Naturally, these publications vary in qual-

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ity, as did the excavation work behind them. Furthermore, decades of research subsequent to the earliest volumes have sometimes rendered their interpretive sections partly or largely out of date. Unfortunately but understandably, contemporary Corinthian archaeologists are reticent to draw attention to flaws in final reports—sometimes the major scholarly achievement of their mentors or colleagues—so Rothaus’s knowledgeable and candid assessments are indispensable. For example, it is important for NT scholars to know that Corinth’s Asklepios temple was well dug and well published, whereas the forum’s Temple E was not (which may account for the ongoing dispute among archaeologists as to whether it was a temple to the imperial cult or a capitolium). What Rothaus offers, then, is not simply a roadmap to the Corinthian archaeological record but also a Michelin guide that evaluates it. Rothaus’s competence in many categories of archaeological data—topography, architecture, pottery, lamps, sculpture—makes the book a fine primer for NT scholars, who generally know little about the subject. His book will be of obvious interest to students of Paul and the Corinthian correspondence. While many scholars have tapped Corinth’s epigraphical record, as limited as it is (e.g., Andrew D. Clarke, Secular and Christian Leadership in Corinth: A Socio-Historical and Exegetical Study of 1 Corinthians 1-6 [AGJU 18; Leiden: Brill, 1993]), such is not the case with other types of data. We have begun to see studies using a fuller range of data, such as Peter Gooch’s study of cultic dining in Corinth (Dangerous Food: 1 Corinthians 8-10 in Its Context [Studies in Christianity and Judaism 5; Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 1993]). Yet most NT scholarship, even recent social-historical and sociological studies of Paul and the Christian community at Corinth, continues to pay insufficient attention to archaeology, even though it is a rich source of information about the social realities of the city in the early Roman era (e.g., Robert M. Grant, Paul in the Roman World: The Conflict at Corinth [Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2001]; Bruce W. Winter, After Paul Left Corinth: The Influence of Secular Ethics and Social Change [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001]). It is especially disappointing to see a new and exhaustive commentary (1,146 pages!) on 1 Corinthians (Anthony Thiselton, The First Epistle to the Corinthians: A Commentary on the Greek Text [NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000]) give lip service to Corinth’s archaeological record after the appearance sixteen years ago of Victor Paul Furnish’s commentary on 2 Corinthians, which made Corinth’s material record widely known and showed its importance (II Corinthians [AB 32A; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1984]). Perhaps Rothaus can help remedy this lamentable situation. Why such inconsistency in NT scholarship’s use of Corinthian archaeology? Comments in Rothaus’s book make it clear that this spotty attention to the material record may not result solely from NT scholarship’s failing. At several points Rothaus reports the difficulty he had gaining access to excavation notebooks and excavated material—even getting responses to straightforward questions and simple requests. As the book opens, he condemns the proprietary disposition of many Corinthian archaeologists, which has resulted in the closeting of data and stifling of open inquiry. If a relative insider encountered such resistance, it would not be surprising to learn of NT scholars with archaeological interests snubbed by excavators who have no scruples about restricting access to—hence controlling interpretation of—“their” data. Here again Rothaus proves a knowing guide to those uninformed about the world of Corinthian archaeology. Richard E. DeMaris, Valparaiso University, Valparaiso, IN 46383

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The Religion of Paul the Apostle, by John Ashton. New Haven/London: Yale University Press, 2000. Pp. x + 261. $28.50 The Oxford scholar John Ashton is well known for his work on the Fourth Gospel. With this book, Ashton turns his attention to Paul. Ashton attempts to understand the apostle’s religious life by comparing Paul’s experiences with shamanism. In so doing, Ashton hopes to shed light not only on Paul’s religion but also on the genesis and early growth of the Christian religion as a whole. Following an initial chapter that defends his comparative approach, Ashton’s chapters examine “Paul the Enigma,” “Paul the Convert,” “Paul the Mystic,” “Paul the Apostle,” “Paul the Prophet,” and “Paul the Possessed.” Ashton also includes excursuses on Jesus as a shaman, merkabah mysticism, Albert Schweitzer’s Mysticism of Paul the Apostle, and the historicity of Acts. Together the chapters and excursuses make the argument that (1) we need an approach to Paul that does justice to the distinctively mystical and religious character of his career; (2) a comparison with shamanism provides such a method; and (3) the application of this method reveals that Paul’s effectiveness and Christianity’s early growth were largely due to demonstrations of spiritual power. Ashton is uneasy with a tendency among NT scholars to overlook the specifically religious dimension of Paul’s writings and career. Ashton positions himself in line with Adolf Deissmann’s claim that scholars of his day had transferred Paul from his primary sphere of vital religion to the secondary sphere of theology. Ashton builds upon Hermann Gunkel’s theory that Paul’s own life must provide the key to his teaching on the spiritual life. The author laments that even when scholars attempt to describe Paul’s religion, such as Albert Schweitzer’s Mysticism of Paul the Apostle and E. P. Sanders’s Paul and Palestinian Judaism, they still tend to focus on his theology and on Paul as a theologian. In the case of Schweitzer and Sanders, Ashton relies somewhat heavily upon their interpretations of Paul’s thought, but he faults these scholars for concentrating their arguments too exclusively on what Paul believed instead of what he experienced. In agreement with Schweitzer’s Mysticism of Paul the Apostle, to which Ashton’s title alludes, Ashton wants to steer away from the theological categories of the Reformation. But Ashton complains that “Schweitzer’s mysticism is curiously cerebral” and decries how Schweitzer starts with Paul’s conceptual framework instead of his life. Ashton concurs with Schweitzer and Sanders that being “in Christ” is a more important expression in Paul’s thought than justification by faith. However, whereas Schweitzer characterized the center of Paulinism as “the mystical doctrine of redemption through the being-inChrist,” Ashton says the center is “the mystical sense of glorification through transformation in Christ.” The change from doctrine to sense is essential for Ashton. Ashton also criticizes Sanders’s comparison of Paul’s pattern of religion with that of Palestinian Judaism, suggesting that Sanders “takes the confusion even further” than Schweitzer. Ashton complains that Paul’s pattern of religion turns out to be, in Sanders’s work, Paul’s theology of salvation instead of his religious experiences. Sanders contends that we must be content with concentrating on how religion appears in Jewish and Pauline thought, but this does not satisfy Ashton. We may note that Ashton’s approach to the religious dimension is a noteworthy contrast to Troels Engberg-Pederson’s recent book, Paul and the Stoics (Louisville: John Knox, 2000). Engberg-Pederson acknowledges both the religious and theological aspects of the texts but consciously chooses the theological route because he declares it to be the only one available. By contrast, Ashton

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argues that the religious and experiential domain is the one that merits attention and takes us to the essence of the apostle’s work. Asserting that he has found a method to examine the experiences that lie beneath Paul’s thought, Ashton takes up the comparison with shamanism. The author anticipates the concern that many scholars might not take seriously a book that compares Paul’s religion with shamanism. He readily acknowledges that Paul was not himself a shaman; unlike a shaman, Paul was a missionary whose authority went beyond a local community. The book includes no case for a causal connection between the apostle and shamanism, although the author explores the possibility. Instead, the comparison with shamanism is a heuristic device for entering imaginatively into Paul’s life and world. Using descriptions of shamans’ careers supplied by Mircea Eliade and Ioan Lewis, Ashton places his finger on numerous similarities between what we know about such figures across a variety of cultures and what we learn of Paul’s experiences through his letters and Acts. Shamans, like Paul, usually receive a call through a traumatic experience. The author also notes the frequency of otherworldly journeys, much like Paul’s in 2 Cor 12:2–4 and 1 Cor 5:3–4 (which Ashton calls experiences of merkabah mysticism). Also, for shamans and Paul, a career of power and authority over spirits follows the call. Ashton detects a picture shared by Acts and Paul’s letters of the apostle as a miracle worker and master of spiritual powers. For Ashton’s argument, the key similarities between Paul’s religious experience and shamanism are the traumatic call and the spiritual power that follows the distress of the call. Ashton gives what happened to Paul on the Damascus road a pride of place and makes it the starting point for all of Paul’s experience and teaching. Ashton calls Paul’s Damascus experience “a shamanistic type of initiation” and “a kind of dying and rising” that was determinative for the rest of Paul’s experience and thought. Despite Paul’s infrequent allusions to this occurrence, Ashton declares that Paul’s experience of his call or conversion was the principal subject of his letters’ reflections. A word about Ashton’s use of Acts will lead us to the third part of his argument. Ashton calls “purists” those who will not use Paul’s descriptions of his call in Acts. He argues that in Acts we find the precious testimony of what Paul’s call meant to his fellow believers, some of whom may have been Paul’s personal friends. Ashton argues that such an interpretation of Paul’s call is valid alongside Paul’s own letters. It is not that Ashton takes Acts at face value. He gives more historical weight to those elements that do not fit Acts’ chief theological agendas. A case in point is Paul’s practice of proving that Jesus is the Messiah by means of Scripture, which Ashton considers part of Luke’s theological project. Whereas Acts 18:4 says that Paul continually persuaded Jews and Greeks in the synagogue at Corinth, Ashton finds it historically unlikely that a stranger from abroad would turn anyone into a convert through theological arguments. Moreover, Paul himself says in 1 Cor 2:4 and 2 Cor 12:12 that instead of persuasive words, he used a display of spiritual power, which fits Luke’s description of Paul’s ministry in Ephesus and elsewhere. In contrast to historians who limit themselves to Paul’s letters and the nonmagical parts of Acts, Ashton finds the miraculous feats of particular importance for finding the key to Paul’s evangelistic success. Ashton argues that Paul’s exorcisms and magical cures drew attention to his message. Supporting the general picture supplied by Ramsay Macmullen and Peter Brown, Ashton argues that exorcisms and prodigious feats brought about Christianity’s expansion. The author suggests that we must suspend

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not only disbelief but also distaste if we want to understand Paul’s effectiveness as an apostle and the growth of the early church. While Ashton is likely correct that Paul’s experience on the Damascus road colored the whole of his subsequent life, he pushes the limits too far regarding how much we can know about Paul’s experience before his call and how Paul understood this pivotal occurrence. Building upon Ioan Lewis’s supposition that the shaman’s vocation follows a royal road from affliction to cure, Ashton suggests that Paul went through a troubled period immediately preceding his conversion and thinks that we can know a good deal about it. The upshot of this approach is too much hypothetical psychologizing without a secure basis in historical data. I could not help wondering if the author had, in at least some measure, contrived Paul’s experiences before his call so as to fit Lewis’s account of the typical shaman’s career. It is for good reason that scholars like Schweitzer and Sanders have focused their attention on Paul’s thought in order to describe his religion. We simply have far more data available for that. It is difficult to decide if Ashton wages a polemic against theological readings of Paul’s letters or if he primarily seeks to offer a corrective to what he perceives to be a one-sided emphasis on Paul’s theology. The author argues that to understand Paul, we need to give clear primacy to his religious experience over his theology. Ashton believes that Paul’s life is the best means for understanding his thought, and he frequently states that he only desires to offer an alternative means for understanding the apostle. However, at other times he also places the study of religious experience and theology at almost opposite poles. One might ask whether the latter is necessary. Paul was, of course, not a systematic theologian. For Paul, God had intervened in the world and continued to do so. Such events provoked experiences, feelings, and theological reflection. Must we place these in opposition to one another? When the book comes across as a polemic against theology, one wonders how much this is due to Ashton’s own theological position: “Paul clearly thinks of Christ as a kind of spiritual presence. Most of this is, strictly speaking, nonsense” (p. 138). When the book appears to offer a supplementary means for understanding the apostle, Ashton’s work is frequently enlightening and sometimes profound. Despite the caveats, the book has its genius. The portrait of Paul’s religious life and the comparison with shamanism enable us to enter imaginatively into Paul’s life and world. Ashton provides a window to help us witness the historical Paul as a real firstcentury missionary who was possessed by Jesus Christ. Even if Ashton occasionally exaggerates the comparison with shamanism, he succeeds in making the case that the comparison is fruitful. Ashton’s study leads the reader down a path to understanding Paul’s relation to the realm of spirits in a world where belief in such beings pervaded people’s lives. In Ashton’s case, the descriptions bring a freshness to Paul’s way of experiencing his religious life. For example, the Spirit is like electric power imparted through the gospel, and the Spirit is the key to Paul’s mastery of other spirits in his evangelistic work. Moreover, the phenomenon of spirit possession sheds light on Paul’s language of occupation (Rom 6–8) and what he meant by being “in Christ.” Finally, Ashton presents a forceful case when he argues that Paul’s mastery in the realm of spirits was the key to his effectiveness as a missionary. Even if readers do not completely accept this claim, Ashton’s argument will persuade readers that this aspect of Paul’s ministry was at least a fundamental ingredient of Paul’s success.

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The Religion of Paul the Apostle is a significant book because it makes strides toward doing justice to the specifically religious character of the Pauline writings. This type of endeavor deserves more attention. We may recognize that the apostle Paul was possessed by Jesus Christ, but how can we best describe this? The words of Meister Eckhart, whom Ashton quotes, get at the difficulty: “If I have spoken of it, I have not spoken of it, for it is ineffable.” The enduring appreciation of Schweitzer’s Mysticism is a tribute to the worthiness of this attempt to describe the religious dimension of Paul’s career. While Ashton’s book manifests limitations that go along with trying to describe and label matters that are somewhat beyond reach, the author is a learned historian and interpreter who is to be commended for his bold, lively, and well-written book. Dustin W. Ellington, Duke University, Durham, NC 27708

Paul and the Salvation of the Individual, by Gary W. Burnett. Biblical Interpretation Series 57. Leiden: Brill, 2001. Pp. vii + 246. $89.00. The purpose of this volume is to redress a perceived imbalance in Pauline scholarship. Burnett believes that both the New Perspective on Paul and social-scientific interpretation, while sometimes helpfully illuminating Paul’s concern for groups (e.g., Jews, Gentiles), neglect or deny Paul’s valuation of the individual. I am sympathetic with Burnett’s charge that recent studies have sometimes erased the individual in an attempt to understand early Christianity, but this agreement only heightens my disappointment in his failure to address the issue clearly, thoroughly, and fruitfully. Unfortunately, Burnett’s inadequate definition of “individual” hampers the project from the start, limiting the scope of the project and preventing him from engaging with Paul fully. In the introductory chapter he explains that he seeks to understand Paul’s concern for “the individual qua individual, irrespective of social or, indeed, historical identity” (p. 10). Thus, Burnett does not seek to uncover Paul’s attitude toward the individual in relationship with others and how the individual acts as a creative force (either negatively or positively) in shaping society and culture; rather, he wants to know Paul’s attitude toward the individual without regard to the individual’s relationship with others, the “individual qua individual.” This reaction against group-focused studies is far too extreme, however, and the disappointing but unsurprising result is that Paul’s concern for the “individual qua individual” is discovered only in the universality of the gospel: all persons are individually responsible for sin and all persons are individually saved by faith. He states, “The fact, however, that faith has now been removed from an ethnic or strictly community setting . . . and can be exercised by any person . . . throws the spotlight on the individual and his or her personal response” (p. 165). And again, “the universality of his gospel gives it an a priori emphasis on the individual” (p.167). The book is in two parts. Part 1 seeks to provide a social-scientific (ch. 2) and historical (chs. 3–5) basis for the exegesis of three texts in Romans in part 2. The survey of contemporary social-scientific thought on the individual is brief but adequate. He correctly draws attention to Anthony Cohen’s critique of the tendency in the social sciences to submerge the individual and to reify culture, and he is correct that the same tendency exists among some biblical scholars. Cohen’s “primacy of the self” thesis properly highlights the self-consciousness and individuality of persons, which rightly regards them as

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agents of culture. Burnett summarizes, “For Cohen, culture is quite simply the product of thinking selves, which filter and process their social experiences through their own perceptions” (p. 24). However, Burnett fails to maintain Cohen’s concern for the individual as an agent of culture, as well as his careful definitions. Three chapters that survey the “increase in individualism” in the Hellenistic world as seen in ancient philosophy and religion follow. This shift highlights the need for definitions. Since the terms “individual” and “individuality” and “individualism” (as well as “individualist” and “individualistic”) can easily become confusing, clear definitions would have helped the reader, especially since even Burnett appears to confuse the terms at times (cf. pp. 87, 159). Given his repeated assertions that individualism was “on the increase” (e.g., pp. 57, 218), it would be helpful to know what specifically was increasing. It is also unclear what he means when he speaks of ancient persons having “a lively sense of the individual” (p. 57) or there being “high degrees of individuality” in Mediterranean society (p. 52). Furthermore, and perhaps more significantly, he fails to engage satisfactorily contemporary scholarship on the discussion of individualism in the ancient world, limiting his concern to signs or suggestions of its existence rather than to a discussion of its meaning and value to ancient persons. Attention to this matter might have rescued the project. At least since the early 1980s with Michel Foucault’s Histoire de la sexualité, Le souci de soi (Paris: Gallimard, 1984) scholarly discussion of the individual and individualism in the ancient world has focused its attention on the various attitudes expressed by ancient persons regarding the value of the individual and individualism. Luther Martin, for example, has claimed that ancient attitudes (expressed in religion and philosophy) toward individualism were predominantly negative, stating, “the emergence of individualism . . . presented rather a problematic to be solved” (Technologies of the Self [Amherst: University of Massachusetts, 1988], 50). The difference in approach can be seen in the different examples they cite. Burnett cites the atypical individualistic exploits of Achilles in the Iliad in order to demonstrate the existence of individualism in the ancient world; whereas Martin cites the wanderings of Lucius, the “Hellenistic Everyman,” in Apuleius’s Golden Ass, wandering in search of salvation from his unique identity, in order to understand a typical attitude toward individualism. Martin does not deny that individualism existed in the ancient world; his concern is to understand the value placed on it, but Burnett fails to appreciate this point and dismisses his anti-individualism thesis as irrelevant (pp. 7–8). A similar lack of engagement is reflected in Burnett’s use of Christopher Pelling’s study of Thucydides (“Conclusion,” in Characterisation and Individuality in Greek Literature [ed. C. Pelling; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990]). He cites Pelling’s conclusions as evidence for the existence of individualism in Athens (pp. 33ff.), failing to notice, however, that Pelling had emphasized Thucydides’ moralizing treatment of individualism as a negative cultural characteristic that led to the fall of Athens. This failure to interact with contemporary scholarship is most unfortunate, however, in his treatment of Christopher Gill, who, during the past twenty years, has produced an impressive and important body of work on the subject of ancient persons, theorizing that the ancient Greek notion of the self was more “objective-participant” than “subjective-individualist.” Burnett distorts and dismisses Gill in little more than one page (pp. 34f.), which is especially ironic given the potential of Gill’s “objective-participant” view for illuminating and clarifying Burnett’s categorization of the Mediterranean as an essen-

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tially “collectivist society” with individualistic behavior becoming more pronounced (p. 56). In particular, Gill’s study of the four-personae theory of Cicero in de Officiis might well have benefited Burnett’s work. Finally, Burnett treats Bruce Malina’s work on the dyadic nature of ancient persons with contempt: “What are we to make of Malina’s first century individual . . . ? Such a person would be a shell of a human being, a social drone incapable of the behaviour that makes us truly human” (p. 45). Admittedly Malina sometimes states his views in an unguarded fashion, but this absurd distortion of his ideas is inappropriate. This decision to ignore the dyadic quality of human existence, rather than to consider it fairly, further hastens Burnett down the wrong road. In part 2 Burnett intends to apply the conclusions of part 1 to Paul, but it is apparent that only Cohen’s “primacy of the self” thesis finds use here, unfortunately, however, only in truncated form. The failure in chapters 3 through 5 to grapple with ancient attitudes toward the meaning and value of the individual and individualism leaves Burnett without a significant contextual entry point for discerning Paul’s valuation, resulting in a short-circuited effort that ultimately offers little more than confirmation that Paul recognized the individuality of persons (p. 138) (that is, that persons are self-conscious, creative agents), without any analysis of Paul’s valuation of the specific expressions of that individuality in the creative shaping of culture. Burnett might have examined, for example, 1 Corinthians, which provides an abundance of material for such a study, with Paul promoting the creative agency of individuals to shape their culture in specific ways (e.g., 1 Cor 12–14), while also recognizing that this same individuality can be expressed in negative ways (e.g., 1 Cor 5–11). Romans too provides potent examples for analysis (5:12–21; 12:1–15:13). Instead, however, he restricts his study to three salvation passages in Romans. Before analyzing these passages, by which he seeks to demonstrate that Paul had a “lively interest” in the individual (p. 215), Burnett surveys the field of Romans studies (ch. 8), demonstrating the overwhelming interest in corporate matters in Paul (e.g., the relationship between Jew and Gentile) among contemporary scholars, including Tom Wright, James Dunn, E. P. Sanders, Will Campbell, A. J. M. Wedderburn, J. C. Beker, Francis Watson, Mark Nanos, Stanley Stowers, and Neil Elliott. Burnett does not deny that Paul has corporate concerns, he claims instead that the consensus view exceeds Paul’s corporate concerns and neglects his concern for the individual. Again, I agree with this assessment of the state of Pauline scholarship; however, the more balanced assessment Burnett desires (p. 221) eludes him, as a result of his concern only for the “individual qua individual” and not for the individual as a creative agent shaping the collective. Chapter 7, a study of Rom 1:16–17, argues that Paul understood salvation to be a personal matter of faith, realized by the deliberate choice of a self-conscious individual. “The defining criterion of the new community of ‘faith’ of necessity puts the spotlight firmly on the individual. Faith implies a personal, cognitive response on the part of individuals, and necessitates individual and deliberate choice” (p. 147). Similarly, in ch. 8 Burnett argues that Rom 3:21–28 reveals Paul’s concern for individuals because there he identifies the human problem (sin) and the divine solution (faith) as directed toward the individual. Again, however, Burnett offers no more than recognition of individuality in truncated form. He states, “Response to God by a people operates first and foremost at the level of the individual—trust and confidence are mental, cognitive processes that originate in individual brains—and faithful obedience is carried out by individuals as deliberate, willful action” (p. 154). Undoubtedly it is true that faith,

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trust, and faithfulness are the acts of a self-conscious individual, but they are always acts of an individual in relationship with others. This discussion of faith cries out for attention to Paul’s regard for the value of the individual in relationship and in community. The covenantal, communal, corporate nature of faith surfaces repeatedly in the discussion of the relevant texts, and Burnett is well aware of this, as his discussion of faith in the OT reveals (pp. 149–54), yet he steadfastly refuses to allow these passages to “deflect” him from his purpose and influence his understanding of the individual as viewed in Scripture and in Paul. He can write, “The fact that the covenant underpins Paul’s theological reflection and what he has to say about faith should not deflect us from recognizing the individual relevance of his theology” (sic, p. 167). Finally (ch. 9), according to Burnett, Rom 7:7–25 demonstrates Paul’s concern for the “individual qua individual,” because the experience expressed there is necessarily the experience of an individual person not a group. According to Burnett the passage describes the experience of any individual person whose life is lived by the law and is, therefore, a “grave warning” to his readers, “both Jew and Gentile . . . of the dangers of slipping back into a law-observant religion” (p. 212). “Paul’s argument works primarily at the level of the individual, where it is the individual who struggles with sin within and the sense of what he ought to do . . . Paul once again has the individual and personal aspects of salvation clearly in mind” (p. 214). Since Burnett purports to offer a critique of the New Perspective on Paul regarding its neglect of the individual, and given his emphasis on the salvation of the individual, it is striking that he takes no position on or even discusses James D. G. Dunn’s influential claims concerning justification, righteousness, and “works of the law.” Do these works refer to an individual’s attempt to attain righteousness by legal obedience, as the traditional view maintains, or do they refer to a group’s attempt to preserve national righteousness through the maintenance of group boundaries, as the New Perspective avers? Does Burnett agree with Dunn that “the need to attain one’s own righteousness was no part of traditional Jewish teaching” (Theology of Paul [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998], 369)? Or does he agree with the critics of the New Perspective who claim that Paul reveals the existence of elements of works-righteousness within the general covenantal nomism of first-century Judaism (e.g., Rom 9:30–10:4; Gal 3:10–14; Phil 3:2–11)? Sadly, Burnett missed a significant opportunity to offer a valuable assessment and critique of the New Perspective’s view of the individual on the matter of salvation. Paul and the Salvation of the Individual does not achieve its author’s worthy goal of restoring balance to Pauline studies by revealing the importance of the individual in Paul’s thought. In fact Paul’s interest in the individual person is far greater than this study reveals and goes well beyond an interest in personal salvation. For Paul each individual has unique and creative gifts to be exercised enthusiastically for the benefit and shaping of the community of Christ’s followers. Burnett’s imposition of the category “individual qua individual” appears to be entirely alien to Paul’s thought and ultimately the cause of his inability to engage with Paul. Ironically, by imposing this category on Paul rather than following Paul’s own creative shaping of categories for the individual (e.g., the individual in-Christ, in-Adam, or in the Christian community), Burnett has ignored in Paul the very individuality he sought to reveal. Robert Keay, St Marys College, University of St Andrews, KY16 9JU UK

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Polycarp and the New Testament: The Occasion, Rhetoric, Theme, and Unity of the Epistle to the Philippians and Its Allusions to New Testament Literature, by Paul Hartog. WUNT 2.134. Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 2002. Pp. x + 281. €49.00 (paper). By any standard Polycarp of Smyrna must be reckoned as one of the most notable figures in the early postapostolic church. Yet despite his importance for the history of the church in the early second century, Polycarp’s one surviving letter has seldom been given attention for its own sake, as scholarship has tended to discuss it primarily in terms of its significance for other matters (such as the authenticity of the Ignatian letters). This book declares its intention to rectify this state of affairs by examining Polycarp’s letter to the Philippians on its own terms and for its own sake, and only then with regard to what it may contribute to other important questions—in this case, Polycarp’s contribution to our understanding of the early formation of the NT. Chapter 1 offers a nice review of past scholarship. Noting the way that most previous research was driven by extrinsic concerns, Hartog embraces the recent call to treat documents such as Polycarp’s letter first in terms of its own circumstances and situation. He therefore properly directs attention to matters of introduction and prolegomena. Chapter 2 reviews and assesses the sources of (and the information they preserve about) the life of Polycarp, while the third surveys Smyrna, Philippi, and the churches there. He then turns to the letter itself as he discusses the text and authenticity of Philippians (ch. 4) and investigates the background of the letter, especially the indications of previous contact between Polycarp and the Philippian congregation (ch. 5). In ch. 6 he turns to the identity and role of the heresy mentioned in Philippians 7. He rightly rejects P. N. Harrison’s claim that the primary focus of the letter is a crisis sparked by Marcion (or his followers). He also critiques H. O. Maier’s “twin problem” view that the letter deals with two separate and largely unrelated problems, docetic heresy and avarice of the presbyter Valens. Yet his own proposal—that Polycarp’s response to the problem of Valens is the letter’s primary focus, that the Valens incident reveals a failure of leadership at Philippi that leaves the congregation vulnerable to false teachers, and thus the reference to heresy is a generic anti-docetic exhortation—seems to differ from Maier only with respect to secondary details. Chapters 7 and 8 survey (rather cursorily) epistolary and rhetorical features of the letter, ch. 9 analyzes the theme of “righteousness” and its function in the letter, and ch. 10 addresses the question of the document’s integrity (is it one letter or two?). The stated topic of the book is the focus of the remaining three chapters. These address NT allusions in Philippians (ch. 11), Polycarp and Scripture, including Polycarp’s alleged Marcionite leanings and questions related to the development of the NT canon (ch. 12), and Polycarp and Paul (ch. 13). A conclusion, bibliography, and three indices conclude the volume. Chapters 9 and 10 constitute the book’s major contribution to the study of Philippians. In his investigation of the theme of “righteousness” (ch. 9), Hartog pays close attention not only to the meaning of the term—confirming earlier studies that indicated that Polycarp used “righteousness” in “the ethical sense of morality rather than in a theological notion of ‘justification’” (p. 145)—but also to the theme’s function in the letter. Polycarp employs the theme not only to deal with the matter of Valen’s sin, but also to

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shape what he hopes will be the congregation’s response: “forgiveness instead of vengeance or anger,” and “patient endurance even in unfortunate circumstances.” Whereas previous investigations have paid primary attention only to the letter’s content, Hartog integrates his discussion of content with observations about the letter’s form, function, and purpose, and does so fruitfully. In the process, he paints a portrait of Polycarp as a creative and dynamic pastor quite at odds with the traditional view that he was a rather colorless and marginal figure. The proposal put forth by P. N. Harrison in his 1936 monograph—that Philippians is really two letters, the first (comprising chs. 13–14) written shortly before the death of Ignatius, and the second (chs. 1–12) written some twenty or more years later, in the late 130s C.E.—has dominated research on the topic ever since, with many scholars simply taking his proposal as an established fact. Shorn of its rhetorical flourishes and special pleading, however, Harrison’s case is really quite weak, and at its core depends almost entirely on Harrison’s estimation of what a “sensible man” would have done in Polycarp’s circumstances. Drawing together previous critiques and utilizing the results of his own discussion of the letter’s epistolary features and rhetorical situation, Hartog presents in ch. 10 a convincing rebuttal of Harrison’s two letter hypothesis and a persuasive case for the unity of the letter. Chapter 11, “New Testament Allusions” (which one would anticipate, in view of the book’s title, to be the heart of the book) is a major disappointment. An initial awareness of a central problem—“one must ask whether [Polycarp] is using New Testament literature or oral, catechetical materials”—appears to have little impact on the following discussion. Recognizing the need for “objective criteria” to help identify quotations and allusions, Hartog proposes—after a one-paragraph discussion of previous approaches (e.g., R. Hays, M. Fishbane)—his own methodology. It consists of five “tests for demonstrating instances of use” of the NT: verbal quantity, density, recurrence, singularity, and formulaic introduction. But there is no rationale given for this method, nor is there any discussion of how these “tests” are to be applied: does an alleged instance of use, for example, need to pass just one test or more than one of these five tests? If more, how many? Nothing at all is said in this regard, and the following discussion leaves the impression of an ad hoc rather than systematic application of the tests. The situation does not improve when the discussion turns to the examination of specific passages in Philippians. The discussion of the Pauline material, apart from the Pastorals, occupies the equivalent of one printed page. One is informed that 1 Cor 6:2 is “clearly referred to” in Phil 11.2, and that Rom 14:10–12 is “clearly used” in Phil 6.2— but no evidence is presented to support these statements. It is said that “various other minor correspondences with 1 Corinthians and Romans are found throughout Phil”— but no information is given. With regard to Galatians, Hartog states that “Polycarp begins a quotation . . . from Galatians with eijdovte" o{ti (5.3).” But there is no such introductory phrase in Phil 5.3; presumably he means 5.1, where the formula introduces a proverbial statement (“God is not mocked”) that also occurs in Gal 6:7. But no evidence or arguments are offered to indicate why one should conclude in favor of Polycarp’s dependence on Galatians rather than traditional or catechetical materials. The discussion of Polycarp’s possible use of other portions of the NT is similarly superficial and incomplete. One example from the treatment of the Synoptic Gospels

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must suffice. The discussion of Phil 2.3 and its possible links to the Sermon on the Mount and 1 Clem. 13 (with which Polycarp apparently is familiar) oversimplifies the complexity of the matter (e.g., the four clauses in Phil 2.3 are part of a differently ordered seven-clause series in 1 Clem. 13) and neglects significant data (e.g., the reader is not informed that the modifications Polycarp allegedly makes to Matt 7:2 result in a text that is identical with Luke 6:38). Furthermore, there is no discussion of the possible significance of the introductory formula, in this instance, “remembering what the Lord taught when he said.” The contrast in quality between chs. 9–10 and ch. 11 is also observable in chs. 12 (“Polycarp and Scripture”) and 13 (“Polycarp and Paul”). These chapters essentially set out answers or responses to the series of ten questions raised on the first page of the introduction. When Hartog is able to draw upon and extend the insights reached in chs. 2–10 (as in ch. 12, points 1, 2, and 3, or ch. 13, points 1, and 4) he makes some well-taken observations. At other points, however, the weaknesses evident in ch. 11 recur. Again, one example is offered, this one involving one of most contentious and significant historical questions regarding Polycarp: did he consider texts now found in the NT to be Scripture? Hartog rightly recognizes that the interpretation of Phil 12.1 (“Only, as it is said in these scriptures, ‘Be angry and do not sin’ [= Ps 4:5 LXX, cited in Eph 4:26a] and ‘Let not the sun set on your wrath’ [= Eph 4:26b]”)—a passage that he did not discuss in ch. 11—is crucial for answering the question. Following a listing of six possible ways to understand the passage, he eventually concludes: “In sum, Polycarp seems to have used the label ‘Scriptures’ for Ephesians.” But other than citing three scholars who share his view of the matter, Hartog provides no evidence or arguments to support his opinion, nor does he interact with some significant contrary estimations of the matter (e.g., D. Rensberger, whose work Hartog cites elsewhere). Thus the reader never learns why or on what basis Hartog embraces the view he adopts. If one may utilize a food analogy, this book is like a meal in which the appetizer proves to be more nourishing than the main course. Chapters 2–10 offer a very good introduction to Polycarp’s letter. The main topic, however, remains in need of a definitive treatment. Michael W. Holmes, Bethel College, St. Paul, MN 55112

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 126, No. 4 (Winter 2007)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 126, No. 4 (Winter 2007)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 120, No. 4 (Winter 2001)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 120, No. 4 (Winter 2001)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 124, No. 4 (Winter 2005)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 124, No. 4 (Winter 2005)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 129, No. 4 (Winter 2010)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 129, No. 4 (Winter 2010)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 127, No. 4 (Winter 2008)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 127, No. 4 (Winter 2008)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 125, No. 4 (Winter 2006)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 125, No. 4 (Winter 2006)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 123, No. 4 (Winter 2004)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 123, No. 4 (Winter 2004)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 128, No. 4 (Winter 2009)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 128, No. 4 (Winter 2009)

Journal of Biblical Literature Winter 2011

Journal of Biblical Literature Winter 2011

Journal of Biblical Literature 1938-4

Journal of Biblical Literature 1938-4

Journal of Biblical Literature 1939-4

Journal of Biblical Literature 1939-4

Journal of Biblical Literature 1937-4

Journal of Biblical Literature 1937-4

Journal of Biblical Literature 1933-4

Journal of Biblical Literature 1933-4

Journal of Biblical Literature 1934-4

Journal of Biblical Literature 1934-4

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 122, No. 1 (Spring 2003)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 122, No. 1 (Spring 2003)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 124, No. 1 (Spring 2005)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 124, No. 1 (Spring 2005)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 126, No. 2 (Summer 2007)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 126, No. 2 (Summer 2007)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 125, No. 1 (Spring 2006)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 125, No. 1 (Spring 2006)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 128, No. 1 (Spring 2009)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 128, No. 1 (Spring 2009)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 124, No. 3 (Fall 2005)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 124, No. 3 (Fall 2005)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 123, No. 2 (Summer 2004)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 123, No. 2 (Summer 2004)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 129, No. 2 (Summer 2010)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 129, No. 2 (Summer 2010)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 126, No. 3 (Fall 2007)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 126, No. 3 (Fall 2007)

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

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

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 123, No. 1 (Spring 2004)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 123, No. 1 (Spring 2004)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 129, No. 3 (Fall 2010)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 129, No. 3 (Fall 2010)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 124, No. 2 (Summer 2005)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 124, No. 2 (Summer 2005)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 127, No. 2 (Summer 2008)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 127, No. 2 (Summer 2008)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 120, No. 3 (Fall 2001)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 120, No. 3 (Fall 2001)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 127, No. 1 (Spring 2008)

Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 127, No. 1 (Spring 2008)

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