Journal of Biblical Literature VOLUME 124, No. 4
Winter 2005
Some Neglected Aspects of Israelite Interment Ideology SAUL M. OLYAN
601–616
The Birth of the Lemma: The Restrictive Reinterpretation of the Covenant Code’s Manumission Law by the Holiness Code (Leviticus 25:44–46) BERNARD M. LEVINSON
617–639
Questions about Eve’s Iniquity, Beauty, and Fall: The “Primal Figure” in Ezekiel 28:11–19 and Genesis Rabbah Traditions of Eve DAPHNA ARBEL
641–655
Discerning Trajectories: 4QInstruction and the Sapiential Background of the Sayings Source Q MATTHEW J. GOFF
657–673
A Woman’s Unbound Hair in the Greco-Roman World, with Special Reference to the Story of the “Sinful Woman” in Luke 7:36–50 CHARLES H. COSGROVE
675–692
Syntactical and Text-Critical Observations on John 20:30–31: One More Round on the Purpose of the Fourth Gospel D. A. CARSON
693–714
Imitatio Homeri? An Appraisal of Dennis R. MacDonald’s “Mimesis Criticism” KARL OLAV SANDNES
715–732
Psalm 22:17b: A New Guess JAMES R. LINVILLE
733–744
Where Did Noah Place the Blood? A Textual Note on Jubilees 7:4 WILLIAM K. GILDERS
745–749
Book Reviews 751 — Annual Index 795 US ISSN 0021–9231
JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE PUBLISHED QUARTERLY BY THE
SOCIETY OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE (Constituent Member of the American Council of Learned Societies) EDITORS OF THE JOURNAL General Editor: GAIL R. O’DAY, Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 Book Review Editor: CHRISTINE ROY YODER, Columbia Theological Seminary, Decatur, GA 30031 Associate Book Review Editor: TODD C. PENNER, Austin College, Sherman, TX 75090
EDITORIAL BOARD
Term Expiring 2005: BRIAN K. BLOUNT, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542 TERENCE L. DONALDSON, Wycliffe College, Toronto, ON M5S 1H7 Canada PAMELA EISENBAUM, Iliff School of Theology, Denver, CO 80210 STEVEN FRIESEN, University of Missouri, Columbia, MO 65211 A. KATHERINE GRIEB, Virginia Theological Seminary, Alexandria, VA 22304 JEFFREY KAH-JIN KUAN, Pacific School of Religion, Berkeley, CA 94709 RICHARD D. NELSON, Perkins School of Theology, So. Methodist Univ., Dallas, TX 75275 DAVID L. PETERSEN, Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 ALAN F. SEGAL, Barnard College, Columbia University, New York, NY 10027 GREGORY E. STERLING, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 PATRICIA K. TULL, Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary, Louisville, KY 40205 2006: THOMAS B. DOZEMAN, United Theological Seminary, Dayton, OH 45406 PAUL B. DUFF, George Washington University, Washington, DC 20052 CAROLE R. FONTAINE, Andover Newton Theological School, Newton Centre, MA 02459 JUDITH LIEU, King’s College London, London WC2R 2LS United Kingdom MARTTI NISSINEN, University of Helsinki, FIN-00014 Finland KATHLEEN M. O’CONNOR, Columbia Theological Seminary, Decatur, GA 30031 EUNG CHUN PARK, San Francisco Theological Seminary, San Anselmo, CA 94960 TURID KARLSEN SEIM, University of Oslo, N-0315 Oslo, Norway BENJAMIN D. SOMMER, Northwestern University, Evanston, IL 60645 VINCENT L. WIMBUSH, Claremont Graduate University, Claremont, CA 91711 2007: MOSHE BERNSTEIN, Yeshiva University, New York, NY 10033-3201 JOHN ENDRES, Jesuit School of Theology at Berkeley, Berkeley, CA 94709 JO ANN HACKETT, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA 02138 MATTHIAS HENZE, Rice University, Houston, TX 77251 ROBERT KUGLER, Lewis & Clark College, Portland, OR 97219 TIMOTHY LIM, University of Edinburgh, Edinburgh EH1 2LX Scotland STEPHEN MOORE, Drew University, Madison, NJ 07940 STEPHEN PATTERSON, Eden Theological Seminary, St. Louis, MO 63119 EMERSON POWERY, Lee University, Cleveland, TN 37312 ADELE REINHARTZ, Wilfrid Laurier University, Waterloo, ON N2L 3C5 Canada RICHARD STEINER, Yeshiva University, New York, NY 10033-3201 SZE-KAR WAN, Andover Newton Theological School, Newton Centre, MA 02459 Editorial Assistant: Christopher B. Hays, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 President of the Society: Carolyn Osiek, Brite Divinity School, Texas Christian University, Fort Worth, TX 76129; Vice President: Robert A. Kraft, University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, PA 19104-6304; Chair, Research and Publications Committee: James C. VanderKam, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556; Executive Director: Kent H. Richards, Society of Biblical Literature, 825 Houston Mill Road, Suite 350, Atlanta, GA 30329. The Journal of Biblical Literature (ISSN 0021–9231) is published quarterly. The annual subscription price is US$35.00 for members and US$125.00 for nonmembers. Institutional rates are also available. For information regarding subscriptions and membership, contact: Society of Biblical Literature, Customer Service Department, P.O. Box 133158, Atlanta, GA 30333. Phone: 866-727-9955 (toll free) or 404-727-9498. FAX: 404-727-2419. E-mail:
[email protected]. For information concerning permission to quote, editorial and business matters, please see the Spring issue, p. 2. The Greek, Hebrew, and transliteration fonts used in this work are available from www.linguistsoftware.com, 425-775-1130. 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 133158, Atlanta, GA 30333. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
JBL 124/4 (2005) 601–616
SOME NEGLECTED ASPECTS OF ISRAELITE INTERMENT IDEOLOGY
SAUL M. OLYAN
[email protected] Brown University, Providence, RI 02912
Canaanite and Israelite burial practices have been of serious interest to archaeologists and to archaeologically and contextually oriented biblical scholars of late, with significant articles, monographic studies, and essay collections appearing since the early nineties.1 Studies have typically focused on such topics as the classification of types of tombs and the contents of tombs, age/sex interment patterns, and changes in burial practice over time. A few investigators have devoted attention also to aspects of burial ideology. Grave goods have been analyzed for what they might tell us about beliefs in an afterlife or about ancestor cult practices. 2 The relationship of the tomb to Sheol has been explored through analysis of biblical texts in conjunction with material remains.3 But for all this recent interest in burial practices and the ideas that
1 See, e.g., among archaeologists, Elizabeth Bloch-Smith, Judahite Burial Practices and Beliefs about the Dead (JSOTSup 123; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992); Rivka Gonen, Burial Patterns and Cultural Diversity in Late Bronze Age Canaan (ASOR Dissertation Series 7; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1992); and the essays in Graves and Burial Practices in Israel in the Ancient Period (in Hebrew; ed. Itamar Singer; Jersualem: Yad Izhak Ben-Zvi/Israel Exploration Society, 1994), particularly Gabriel Barkay, “Burial Caves and Burial Practices in Judah in the Iron Age” (pp. 96–164). A noteworthy older survey is Ephraim Satran, hrwbq, rbq, Encyclopaedia Biblica (9 vols.; Jerusalem: Bialik, 1950–88), 7:5–24. 2 Bloch-Smith, Judahite Burial Practices, 72–108; Theodore J. Lewis, “How Far Can Texts Take Us? Evaluating Textual Sources for Reconstructing Ancient Israelite Beliefs about the Dead,” in Sacred Time, Sacred Place: Archaeology and the Religion of Israel (ed. Barry M. Gittlen; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2002), 174, 175–76; Wayne T. Pitard, “Tombs and Offerings: Archaeological Data and Comparative Methodology in the Study of Death in Israel,” in Sacred Time, Sacred Place, 149–50. A brief but useful survey is David Ilan, “Grave Goods,” in The Oxford Encyclopedia of Archaeology in the Near East (ed. Eric M. Meyers; 5 vols.; New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 2:433–34. 3 E.g., Nicholas J. Tromp, Primitive Conceptions of Death and the Nether World in the Old
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undergird them, certain aspects of interment ideology remain for the most part unexplored.4 It is my purpose in this article to bring into relief two of these neglected dimensions of Israelite burial ideology. I will begin by reconstructing a rough hierarchy of burial, from most desirable to least, based mainly on the evidence of biblical texts.5 Even a cursory review of biblical descriptions of interment suggests that an honorable burial in the family tomb was clearly the kind of entombment most to be desired, while abandonment of the corpse on the field was the worst possible outcome after death. But between these extremes biblical texts suggest a number of other possibilities: honorable burial in a substitute for the family tomb; honorable burial in someone else’s family tomb; and various forms of dishonorable burial. Drawing on various classes of evidence, I will suggest some possible explanations for why burial in the family tomb was preferable to any other outcome according to many biblical texts. I will then take up the issue of the movement of remains of the previously interred dead, and how such transportation might be viewed as salutary, innocuous, or harmful, depending on the context of the action. I will also consider what concrete effects, if any, lack of burial or hostile transfer of remains from a tomb might have been thought to have on the dead themselves. Though biblical texts are not an unproblematic window into the everyday beliefs and practices of historical Israelites, they are by far our richest resource for reconstructing a hierarchy of burial.6 They are also of importance when considering
Testament (BO 21; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1969), 139–40; Johannes Pedersen, Israel: Its Life and Culture (2 vols.; London: Humphrey Milford; Copenhagen: Povl Branner, 1926), 1:460–63. A number of scholars draw on both biblical representations of burial and material evidence to reconstruct interment ideas and practices. See, e.g., Bloch-Smith, Judahite Burial Practices; Barkay, “Burial Caves and Burial Practices,” and recently, Lewis, who argues for an approach that draws upon both material and biblical sources (“How Far Can Texts Take Us?”). See also Pitard’s characterization of eclectic scholarship, which utilizes a variety of data (“Tombs and Offerings,” 146–47), and Ron Tappy’s thoughtful discussion of the challenges inherent in using both biblical and material evidence (“Did the Dead Ever Die in Biblical Judah?” BASOR 298 [1995]: 65). 4 A full treatment of interment ideology that recognizes as much as possible regional/local and diachronic variation and draws on both material remains and texts, is still a desideratum for those who study death ways in ancient Israel. Obviously, when I speak of an Israelite interment ideology, I do not mean to suggest that a single, uniform set of ideas about burial was common to all Israelites through time and space; that the contrary was the case is suggested both by material evidence and by texts. 5 Nonliterary material evidence is, in the main, not particularly helpful for reconstructing this specific aspect of burial ideology, though it is crucial for reconstructing other aspects, as noted above. 6 On the limited utility of the biblical text as a source for reconstructing religious belief and practice, see Saul M. Olyan, Rites and Rank: Hierarchy in Biblical Representations of Cult (Princeton/London: Princeton University Press, 2000), 13–14. Unfortunately, extant biblical evidence of interment lends itself neither to the development of a diachronic perspective nor to uncovering local or regional differences in burial ideology. Thus, for a biblically dependent aspect of burial ide-
Olyan: Israelite Interment Ideology
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the range of possible meanings associated with moving the remains of the dead, and so they will be used here, in conjunction with epigraphic and other material evidence, with appropriate caution.7
I A hierarchy of burial types, from most desirable to least, may be reconstructed in rough outline from the various biblical texts that speak of entombment. I have identified five distinct ways in which a corpse might be treated after death. The first is honorable burial in the family tomb. This is clearly the outcome most to be desired for oneself or one’s family and friends. It is open to all persons, without regard to how the individual has died or the condition of the corpse.8 Texts suggest that burial in the family tomb is so important that male kin or others bound to the deceased by formal ties will expend great effort to transport the corpse to the family tomb, even if the death occurs at a distance.9 When David’s nephew Asahel dies in battle at Gibeon, David and Asahel’s brothers bring the body to the family tomb in Bethlehem (2 Sam 2:32). Similarly, the corpse of King Ahaziah of Judah, who had been killed by Jehu’s order, is conducted by his servants from Megiddo to Jerusalem for burial (2 Kgs 9:28), as is that of King Josiah by his servants after he is killed by Necho of Egypt (2 Kgs 23:30). In a fourth example, Samson’s brothers and other male kin bring his mutilated corpse up from Gaza to the family tomb in Danite territory
ology such as hierarchy of interment, only a rough reconstruction lacking local/regional and diachronic nuance is possible. 7 On the use of biblical evidence along with epigraphic data, nonliterary material evidence, and comparative data from surrounding cultures to reconstruct Israelite belief and practice with respect to burial and other aspects of death and the afterlife, see especially the balanced and helpful recent discussions of Lewis, “How Far Can Texts Take Us?” and Pitard, “Tombs and Offerings.” 8 Suicides, those who die in battle, and those who are executed are buried in the family tomb as readily as those who die of natural causes according to biblical texts (see, e.g., 2 Sam 17:23; 2:32; 1 Kgs 2:34). Likewise, mutilated corpses may be so buried (Judg 16:21, 31; cf. 2 Sam 4:12, where Eshbaal’s head is buried in the Saulide branch tomb in Hebron). On the material evidence for the interment of decapitated bodies and skulls, see Bloch-Smith, Judahite Burial Practices, 71. On suicide in biblical narrative, see Ludwig Wächter, Der Tod im Alten Testament (AzTh 8; Stuttgart: Calwer, 1967), 89–97. 9 On the burial responsibilities of the son and other male kin, see Gen 49:29–31; 50:5–6; Judg 16:31. On the obligations of non-kin bound by a formal relationship to the deceased to bury the deceased, see 2 Kgs 9:28. In 2 Sam 2:5, David describes the burial of Saul and his sons by the men of Jabesh Gilead as an act of covenant loyalty (dsj) performed by the Jabeshites for their lord Saul. The Jabeshites, however, do not inter Saul and his sons in their family tomb in Benjamin, but bury them with appropriate honors in Jabesh (e.g., the text mentions that they fasted for seven days).
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(Judg 16:31). The same behavior is represented in P’s ancestral narrative. There, Jacob charges his sons to bury him in the family tomb in Canaan, along with his male and female ancestors: “I am about to be gathered to my people. Bury me with my ancestors, in the cave that is in the field of Ephron the Hittite, in the cave that is in the field of Machpelah, which is by Mamre, in the land of Canaan, the field that Abraham acquired from Ephron the Hittite as a tomb site. There they buried Abraham and Sarah his wife; there they buried Isaac and Rebekah his wife; and there I buried Leah” (Gen 49:29–31).10 Joseph and his brothers fulfill their father’s wish, transporting his corpse from Egypt to Canaan for interment (Gen 50:13). The desire to be buried in the family tomb may shape economically significant personal decisions, as 2 Sam 19:38 illustrates. There, Barzillay the Gileadite, David’s loyal servant, refuses the king’s offer of a pension in Jerusalem with the excuse that he is old and wants to die in his city near his parents’ tomb, presumably to guarantee that he will be buried in it.11 Not to be buried in the family tomb is cast as a punishment by various texts. The disobedient man of God from Judah who eats and drinks in Bethel is told in an oracle of YHWH that as a result of his rebellion, his corpse will not be buried in the family tomb (1 Kgs 13:22). Similarly, the Chronicler makes a point of noting that sinful kings of Judah such as Jehoram, Joash, and Ahaz were not buried in the tomb of the kings in Jerusalem (2 Chr 21:20; 24:25; 28:27), in contrast to favored rulers such as Jehoshaphat and Josiah (2 Chr 21:1; 35:24). The ideal burial takes place in the family tomb and honors the dead through appropriate disposition of the body and the performance of mourning. Idioms of honor (e.g., verbal forms of the root dbk) are sometimes used to describe such rites (2 Sam 10:3; 2 Chr 32:33; Sir 38:17; cf. Isa 14:18). After burial in the family tomb, honorable interment in a substitute for the family tomb seems to be most desirable according to our texts. We learn of such arrangements in several texts. When Saul’s kinsman and military commander Abner is murdered by David’s nephew Joab, David embraces the role of lead mourner in the absence of Abner’s male kin and buries Abner with honors in a tomb in Hebron: “Then David said to Joab and to all the people who were with him: ‘Tear your garments, put on sackcloth, and lament before Abner.’ As for King David, he walked behind the bier, and they buried Abner in Hebron. The king lifted up his voice and wept toward the tomb of Abner, and all the people wept. The king sang a dirge about Abner . . .” (2 Sam 3:31–32). Abner’s tomb, though it is not located in Benjamin and has no connection to Abner’s family’s
10
All translations in this article are my own. LXXL kai tafhsomai en suggests a Hebrew Vorlage with b rbqaw, “that I might be buried in,” as noted by P. Kyle McCarter, Jr., II Samuel: A New Translation with Introduction, Notes, and Commentary (AB 9; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1984), 418n. 11
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patrimonial landholding (hljn), effectively becomes a branch of the family tomb when the head of the murdered Eshbaal, son of Saul, is buried there sometime later by David, who executes the murderers who had brought him Eshbaal’s severed head (2 Sam 4:12).12 The burial of Eshbaal’s head in Abner’s tomb suggests that it is desirable that the remains of kin be together in death, even if they are separated physically from the family tomb and patrimony. Other examples of the creation of a branch of a family tomb at a distance from the patrimony include the burial of Saul and his sons together under the tamarisk tree in Jabesh-Gilead (1 Sam 31:13) and the establishment of a royal tomb for David and his descendants in the City of David at the time of David’s death (1 Kgs 2:10). Northern kings follow the same pattern of burial in the capital city according to several texts (e.g., 1 Kgs 16:6, 28). That the honorable burial of Saul and his sons in Jabesh is clearly less desirable than their interment in the family tomb in Benjamin is indicated by 2 Sam 21:12, where David’s apologists, attempting to portray him in the best possible light, present him moving the bones of Saul and Jonathan from Jabesh to the family tomb in Benjamin.13 The royal tombs in Jerusalem and the northern capitals Tirzah and Samaria may be an exception to the pattern of family tomb priority evident in the story of the movement of Saul’s and Jonathan’s bones. After all, capitals such as Jerusalem and Samaria were royal landholdings, purchased or conquered by royal predecessors. Therefore, kings were buried on their own lands, rather than those of another, as was the case with Saul and his sons.14 When their descendants died, they would be buried with them.15 Thus, in a number of respects, the royal tomb would come to resemble the family tomb. A third type of honorable burial is attested in 1 Kgs 13:30, a text that describes the interment of the disobedient man of God in someone else’s family tomb after his violent death. YHWH had already informed the man of God through his host, the old prophet, that his corpse would not be buried in his family tomb in Judah (1 Kgs 13:22). After the man of God is killed by a lion in the countryside, the old prophet retrieves the corpse and brings it back to Bethel for burial with honors in his own family tomb: “He went and found his 12 On the probable location of the family tomb on or near the family’s landholding, see Lawrence E. Stager, “The Archaeology of the Family in Ancient Israel,” BASOR 260 (1985): 23; Bloch-Smith, Judahite Burial Practices, 115, 148; and recently J. David Schloen, The House of the Father as Fact and Symbol: Patrimonialism in Ugarit and the Ancient Near East (Studies in the Archaeology and History of the Levant 2; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2001), 346–47. Hanan Brichto brought into relief the link of tomb and inalienable patrimony (“Kin, Cult, Land and Afterlife—A Biblical Complex,” HUCA 44 [1973]: 1–54). 13 On the apologetic casting of this narrative, see McCarter, II Samuel, 445–46. 14 Note, however, that these lands acquired by rulers were not the equivalent of the family patrimony. 15 Certainly their successors would be buried in the royal tombs, if not other kin as well.
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corpse cast in the road. . . .The prophet lifted up the corpse of the man of God and laid it to rest on the ass, and brought it back to the city in order to lament [him] and to bury him. He laid the corpse to rest in his own tomb, and they lamented over him, ‘Woe, my brother’” (1 Kgs 13:28–30). As honorable as the funerary rites described clearly are, the man of God’s burial in the family tomb of the old prophet in Bethel is, nonetheless, inferior to interment in the family tomb according to this text, since it is the denial of burial in his own family tomb that constitutes the man of God’s punishment from YHWH. This burial type differs from interment in a substitute or branch of the family tomb in that the tomb in question here belongs to another family, the outsider is simply added to the family dead buried there, and (presumably), none of his own kin are buried there with him. Dishonorable forms of interment constitute a fourth burial category, inferior to all types of honorable burial, but evidently preferable to nonburial. In 2 Sam 18:17, David’s rebel son Absalom, who was killed by David’s servants, is cast (^l`, hiphil) by them into a pit in the forest, after which his corpse is piled over with stones. Several other texts from the Deuteronomistic History describe similar interment rites for dead enemies or covenant violators. In Josh 8:29, the king of Ai is hanged on a tree until evening; then his corpse is brought down and thrown (^l`, hiphil) at the opening of the city gate, where it is piled over with stones. Similarly, the corpses of five Canaanite kings are hanged for a day and then thrown (^l`, hiphil) into a cave that is sealed by a pile of large stones (Josh 10:26–27).16 There is also the narrative of the execution of Achan and his dependents after his violation of the rules of holy war. They are stoned, burned, and piled over with stones (Josh 7:25–26). Uriah the prophet’s corpse is cast (^l`, hiphil) into the “tombs of the people” after his execution by King Jehoiakim (Jer 26:23).17 King Jehoiakim himself will not be lamented at his death according to YHWH’s oracle in Jer 22:18–19; instead, “in the grave of an ass he will be buried, dragged (bjs) and cast (^l`, hiphil) outside the gates of Jerusalem.” Finally, the corpses of the northern pilgrims murdered by Ishmael ben Netanyah are cast (^l`, hiphil) into a cistern in Mizpah, apparently without any burial or mourning rites (Jer 41:9). Aside from the absence of conventional funerary honors and rites of mourning, these dishonorable forms of burial have several common characteristics. First, most of these texts speak of the corpse being thrown (^l`, hiphil) into the burial place, clearly a ritual act of disrespect and disregard; it is an act 16 In both Josh 8:29 and 10:26–27, the narrative shows Joshua and Israel following the law of Deut 21:22–23, which mandates the execution of a sinner and the hanging of his corpse on a tree until sundown, after which the corpse must be buried. 17 The expression ![h ynb yrbq occurs only one other time, in 2 Kgs 23:6. It is unclear exactly how these tombs would have differed from the tombs of the elite.
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specifically associated with animal burials in Jer 22:19.18 This is to be contrasted with use of the verb jwn in the hiphil (“to set at rest”), an idiom used several times in one narrative of honorable interment for the treatment of the corpse (1 Kgs 13:30).19 Several texts speak of the casting of stone piles over the corpses of dead enemies or rebels, evidently a dishonorable rite of burial. In addition, the burial places themselves appear to be dishonoring to different degrees. An ass’s grave—whatever this might have been—is presumably more dishonoring than a nonelite tomb, a forest pit, or a cistern. All must have been viewed as inferior to the family tomb and its honorable substitutes. Finally, the least desirable treatment of the corpse is not to bury it at all. Nonburial is a paradigmatic curse in treaty contexts: “Your corpse shall be food for all the birds of the heavens and for the beasts of the earth, with none to bury” (Deut 28:26).20 One text speaks of the throwing of the exposed corpse onto a field of symbolic significance, using language (^l`, hiphil) that is similar to that of many narratives of dishonorable burial (2 Kgs 9:25). Descriptions of nonburial frequently include the notation that the dead will not be mourned or lamented and that the corpse will be mutilated by fowl and beasts. Jeremiah 16:4 is typical of such texts: “They shall die of deadly diseases. They shall not be lamented, nor shall they be buried. Like dung upon the surface of the ground they shall be. . . . Their corpse shall become food for the birds of the heavens and for the beasts of the earth.” Though a lack of lamentation is characteristic also of biblical representations of dishonorable burial, mutilation of the corpse by birds and beasts is a uniquely horrible characteristic of nonburial, emphasized in many of its biblical and extrabiblical descriptions. While enemies expose the corpse to the depredations of beasts and fowl (Ps 79:2), family, friends, and allies do what they can to prevent mutilation (2 Sam 21:10) or at least to mitigate some of its damage through appropriate interment and mourning rites (e.g., 1 Sam 31:8–13). Why was burial in the family tomb more desirable for the corpse than any other outcome according to biblical texts? Descriptions of such interment are often accompanied by idioms such as “to be gathered to/come to/lie down with one’s ancestors/people,” suggesting that burial in the family tomb was thought 18 The act of dragging (bjs) the corpse in Jer 22:19 ought also to be understood as dishonoring. It is elsewhere associated with the behavior of dogs toward unprotected, exposed corpses (Jer 15:3). 19 See 2 Kgs 23:18, where Josiah commands that the interred bones of the man of God who prophesied Bethel’s destruction be left at rest: wytmx[ [ny la `ya wl wjynh. Not surprisingly, the verb jwn and derivatives such as the noun tjn, “repose,” are also used of the repose of the dead. See, e.g., Qoh 6:5; KAI 34:5; 35:2. 20 See similarly Esarhaddon’s succession treaty in Simo Parpola and Kazuko Watanabe, NeoAssyrian Treaties and Loyalty Oaths (SAA 2; Helsinki: Helsinki University Press, 1988), 49 (6:481– 84).
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to bring the deceased into some kind of proximity with dead kin.21 Was this simply a physical proximity (i.e., the bones of the deceased end up with the bones of other dead kin, as tombs seem to indicate),22 or do these idioms suggest something about the nature of the deceased’s afterlife? This is not a question that can be answered definitively given the evidence that survives, though I suspect that idioms of proximity to the ancestors are intended to suggest something about familial social relations in the afterlife.23 Even if my surmise is correct, it is not clear from surviving texts what exactly the nature of the relationship with the ancestors might have been for one who was buried in the family tomb, nor how that relationship might have differed with a different kind of burial (e.g., burial elsewhere, or no burial at all). We simply do not know enough about the familial dimensions of the Israelite afterlife to say very much 21 For examples of each of these expressions, often used in narratives describing a death followed by burial in the family or royal tomb, see Gen 15:15 (^ytba la awbt htaw); 25:8 (la #sayw wym[); 2 Kgs 20:21 (wytba ![ whyqzj bk`yw); 22:20 (^ytba l[ ^psa ynnh). See also Tromp’s discussion of two such idioms (Primitive Conceptions of Death, 168–71). Tromp, following B. Alfrink, believes that the P idiom wym[ la #san means that the deceased has joined dead kin in the underworld; in contrast, following G. R. Driver, he argues that the Deuteronomistic expression wytba ![ bk` means that he has died “a customary, usual death.” Wächter argues that both expressions originally meant burial in the family tomb (Tod im Alten Testament, 72). It seems unlikely to me that these expressions have a different sense, given their similarity in form and usage. Whatever their exact meaning, they speak of the recently deceased joining dead kin in some manner, whether physically or in spirit. For further discussion, see Karl-Johan Illman, Old Testament Formulas about Death (Åbo: Åbo Akademi, 1979), 43– 45. 22 On secondary burial in Judean family tombs, see the discussion of Bloch-Smith, Judahite Burial Practices, 36–37, 42– 43, with citations, and the older general survey of Eric Meyers, “Secondary Burials in Palestine,” BA 33 (1970): 2–29, esp. 10–17. Like most commentators, I assume that these tombs are for lineages, though this has not been proved (for the assumption, see, e.g., Bloch-Smith, Judahite Burial Practices, 148; Byron R. McCane, “Burial Techniques,” Oxford Encyclopedia of Archaeology in the Near East, 1:386). 23 Though these idioms occur in narratives of burial in the family tomb (e.g., Gen 25:8), it must be acknowledged that this is not exclusively the case (e.g., Deut 31:16; 32:50). Therefore, it seems unlikely that physical proximity is at issue when these idioms are used. That the afterlife has social dimensions is indicated by a variety of West Asian (including biblical) texts. In Isa 14:9–10, dead kings in the underworld receive and converse with the “King of Babylon,” apparently while the music of his funeral still plays above (^ylbn tymh ^nwag lwa` drwh). See also the various descriptions of the interactions of the underworld’s denizens in texts such as “Ishtar’s Descent to the Netherworld” (Riekele Borger, Babylonisch-assyrische Lesestücke [2nd ed.; AO 54; 2 vols.; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1979], 1:95–104); “Nergal and Ereshkigal” (Hermann Hunger, Spätbabylonische Texte aus Uruk [3 vols.; Berlin: Gebr. Mann, 1976], 1:17–18); and the Gilgamesh epic (Andrew R. George, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts [2 vols.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003], 1:634– 46 [tablet VII]; 728–34 [tablet XII]). Ruth 1:17 may suggest that burial together in the same tomb means no separation of spirits in death. As noted previously, idioms such as –tba ![ bk` and –m[ la #san, used of the deceased even when not buried in the family tomb, must suggest something other than simple physical proximity of remains with those of dead kin.
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about this issue.24 Nor do we know much about Israelite ancestral cult practices, though I believe there is sufficient evidence to assume that some combination of feeding and memorializing rites were routine after burial among at least some Israelites, perhaps at the locus of the tomb, perhaps with some regularity.25 It may well be that the importance of burial in the family tomb, evi24 Some West Asian texts, including biblical materials, suggest that aspects of the social relations of the dead in the underworld mirrored life. E.g., dead kings sit on thrones in Sheol (Isa 14:9); dead warriors descend there with their weapons (Ezek 32:27). But note other passages that seem to suggest that status in life might be lost in the afterlife (e.g., Enkidu’s dream of his death and descent to the underworld in the Gilgamesh Epic, where he sees princes transformed into servants). 25 For memorializing the dead, see 2 Sam 18:18, which suggests that it was routine for a son, after his father’s death, to set up a pillar and invoke the father’s name. However, the text neither indicates how often such invocation might have taken place, nor whether it took place at the locus of the tomb. For feeding the dead, see Deut 26:14; Tob 4:17; and Sir 30:18. The latter two—admittedly late—texts specify the tomb as the locus for delivery of food to the deceased. There is much archaeological evidence that may bear on the question of ancestral rites for the dead at the tomb. Remains of food, oil lamps, cooking pots, bowls, and other articles that might have been tied to such rites have been found in various kinds of tombs, and some of these items have even been found in individual burials (e.g., Bloch-Smith, Judahite Burial Practices, 72–81, 105–8). It is possible that some or all of these things were placed with the corpse at the time of interment, as items found with individual burials suggest; but it is also possible that food (and other?) items were deposited as offerings, possibly at intervals, later on. In any case, it seems likely that at least some of these items were intended for the dead to use or consume in the afterlife. On the interpretation of grave goods, see further the works cited in n. 2. Some cuneiform texts suggest that the place of buried remains is the locus for ancestral rites. See, e.g., Ashurbanipal’s assumption that removal of the bones of the kings of Elam from their tombs and their transportation to Assyria would result in termination of their ancestral rites (kispȵ naµq mê uzammešunuµti; for the text, see Maximilian Streck, ed., Assurbanipal und die letzten assyrischen Könige bis zum Untergange Niniveh’s [3 vols.; Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1916], 2:56 [lines 74–76]). Note that other Mesopotamian materials do not presume that such rites necessarily occurred at the place of burial. Frequently, the home is assumed to be the primary locus, even without evidence of intramural burial (on this, see the discussion of Karel van der Toorn, Family Religion in Babylonia, Syria & Israel [Leiden/New York/Cologne: Brill, 1996], 58–62). An older but still useful survey of the cuneiform evidence is Miranda Bayliss, “The Cult of Dead Kin in Assyria and Babylonia,” Iraq 35 (1973), 115–25; she summarizes evidence for both the royal and nonroyal cults. In the West Semitic cultural sphere (including Israel), ancestral rites may have occurred in local shrines as well as at the tomb (van der Toorn, Family Religion, 217–18; van der Toorn cites texts such as KAI 214:17–18 and KTU 1.17 I 25–33 to support his argument for ancestral rites at local sanctuaries in the West Semitic cultural sphere). On the Israelite and Ugaritic evidence pertaining to such cults, see especially Lewis, Cults of the Dead in Ancient Israel and Ugarit (HSM 39; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989) and more recently, “How Far Can Texts Take Us?” 186–205. Like most specialists, I understand acts such as providing the dead with food and invoking their names to constitute ancestor veneration, which itself may assume that the dead can act as benefactors or enemies of the living, depending on how well they are treated (contrast Brian B. Schmidt, Israel’s Beneficent Dead: Ancestor Cult and Necromancy in Ancient Israelite Religion and Tradition [Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1996], 10, who argues that feeding the dead assumes that they are weak rather than powerful, and so unable to affect the living). I note, however, that Israelite (including biblical) evidence for the abil-
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denced in a variety of texts, is directly related to the need to perpetuate the relationship of the deceased with kin both living and dead. It is possible that interment in the family tomb was necessary in order to allow living relations to perform ancestral rites at (regular?) intervals, given the proximity of the family tomb to the kin group and their patrimonial landholding (hljn).26 Likewise, as noted, such burial might have been required for the deceased to have uninhibited social relations with other family dead in the underworld. Other forms of honorable burial might have been less desirable because they simply could not provide the advantages of interment in the family tomb. Burial in a substitute for the family tomb, located away from the family’s property holding, might have allowed for social interaction of dead family members interred together in the afterlife if more than one family member was buried there (e.g., Abner and Eshbaal), though interactions with other dead kin buried in the family tomb might have been inhibited in some way. In addition, regular ancestral cult observances at the tomb by surviving kin would be difficult to guarantee in such a situation if kin remained settled at a distance. As for a deceased person buried in another family’s tomb, we do not know what kind of social interactions with his own kin he might have had in the afterlife, nor do we know whether he would have received any ancestral offerings from the surviving kin of the family in whose tomb he was buried.27 As with the deceased person buried in a substitute for the family tomb, it would be difficult for his own kin to perform regular ancestral cultic rites for him at the tomb, given their physical separation from it. In short, the reasons for the family tomb’s importance vis-à-vis other forms of entombment remain unclear, though some reasonable speculation is possible regarding the potential role of ancestral rites at the tomb and the social needs of the dead in the underworld in making burial in the family tomb such a priority for the dead and their survivors. But even here, we are frustrated by our ignorance, for we cannot say whether ancestral rites necessarily had to take place at the locus of burial, we do not know how frequently they occurred, nor do we know anything about how burial itself affected familial relations in the afterlife, if at all. Given the possible kin-related explanations for the importance of burial in the family tomb, we can now ask why lack of burial is cast as the worst possible ity of the dead to act beneficently or malevolently is lacking, though such data are well attested in surrounding cultures (see, e.g., Lewis, “How Far Can Texts Take Us?” 191–94, who notes examples from Egypt and Mesopotamia). 26 On the relationship of the patrimony to the family tomb, see the literature cited in n. 12. 27 Cuneiform sources bear witness to offerings by non-kin to unrelated, troublesome spirits; such offerings were apparently initiated because of the spirits’ hostility (see Bayliss, “Cult of Dead Kin,” 119).
Olyan: Israelite Interment Ideology
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outcome after death. As with dishonorable forms of burial and even individual honorable interment outside of the family tomb, lack of burial meant that the remains of the dead would never share physical proximity with those of other deceased kin. It is possible that it inhibited contact with dead kin in the afterlife, though this must remain uncertain, given our poor understanding of the familial dimensions of the Israelite afterlife. In addition, unburied remains might have proved to be an impediment for ancestral rites if such rites were required at the locus of the deceased’s remains (normally, the tomb). In contrast to all buried remains, including those interred dishonorably, unburied corpses were subject to mutilation by birds and animals, which was certainly a source of dishonor to the dead and their survivors, and may have also affected the afterlife of the dead in some way, though this too remains uncertain.28 There were probably other singular features of lack of burial that made it uniquely unappealing as an outcome after death. It is possible that at least some Israelites viewed lack of burial as an impediment to the spirit’s rest in the afterlife.29 This idea is attested in cuneiform texts, as is well known. Gilgamesh 12.151 describes the fate of the spirit of the uninterred: “His ghost is not at rest in the underworld” (et\emmašu ina ers\etim ul s\alil).30 Ashurbanipal claims to have imposed a lack of repose on the spirits of the kings of Elam by destroying their tombs and removing their remains to Assyria (et\emmeµšunu laµ s\alaµlu eµmid).31 The same idea is present in a curse in Esarhaddon’s succession treaty.32 One cannot prove that this notion of an unsettled afterlife for the unburied was current in Israel, though it would help us to make sense of the deep and abiding concern attested in many texts to bury one’s own dead and the role of exposure of the corpse on the field as a paradigmatic curse in treaty contexts.33 28 The dead in the underworld may have retained their appearance at the point of death. On this, see the medium’s description of Samuel’s ascending ghost in 1 Sam 28:14 as an old man wrapped in a robe. On spirits in the underworld with the appearance of physical mutilation, cf. Vergil, Aeneid 6.494–99. 29 Brichto seems sure that Israelites believed that the afterlife is negatively affected by lack of burial (“Kin, Cult, Land, and Afterlife,” 36–37). Unhappily, extant evidence does not recommend such confidence. 30 George, Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic, 734. 31 See Streck, ed., Assurbanipal, 2:54, 56 (lines 70–75). 32 Parpola and Watanabe, Neo-Assyrian Treaties, 57 (6:638–40). 33 This interpretation of the significance of nonburial has been rejected by some, who cite texts such as Gen 37:35, where Jacob, mourning for Joseph who he assumes is dead and unburied, speaks of him as if he were in Sheol (hla` lba ynb la dra yk; for this view, see, e.g., Samuel E. Loewenstamm, twm, Encyclopaedia Biblica, 4:758 and Moshe Greenberg, Ezekiel 21-37: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [AB 22A; New York: Doubleday, 1997] 670). Although some Israelite circles may have believed that burial was not a necessity for a settled afterlife, a view perhaps reflected in Gen 37:35, other groups might well have had the opposite view, as I have suggested. From a comparative perspective, it is interesting to note that Homer bears wit-
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Journal of Biblical Literature II
The movement of the remains of previously interred dead is the second neglected aspect of burial ideology that I would like to consider. There is textual evidence that transportation of remains may be viewed as a salutary, fully legitimate deed, as an innocuous action, or as an act of great hostility, depending on who is moving the remains and for what purpose. I would like to identify contexts in which such movement might be positively understood, contexts in which it might be seen as having no particular significance, and contexts in which it might be negatively understood. I will also consider the possible effects transfer of remains might have had on the dead themselves. It is clear that the remains of the interred dead could be moved legitimately in certain contexts by certain persons. Texts tell of the sanctioned removal of remains from one tomb to another, and material evidence attests to (apparently) legitimate movement of bones within a tomb. 2 Samuel 21:13–14 is the best biblical example of the salutary transfer of remains of the interred dead from one tomb to another. In this narrative of David’s apologists, the execution of surviving Saulides by the Gibeonites, made possible by David’s active cooperation, is cast as a necessary remedy to a three-year-long famine in the land brought on by Saul’s earlier act of oath breaking.34 For our purposes, what is significant in the story is what David does with the bones of Saul and Jonathan. After seven surviving Saulides are executed by the Gibeonites, David collects the bones of Saul and Jonathan from the elders of Jabesh-Gilead and has them transported to the family tomb in Benjamin, where they are buried, along with the remains of the Gibeonites’ victims. Given the apologetic agenda of the narrative, there can be no doubt that David’s transfer of the bones of Saul and Jonathan was intended by the author to be taken as a positive act and even an act of loyalty, not unlike his efforts to have the executed Saulides interred in their family tomb.35 As mentioned earlier, the narrative is also suggesting indirectly that honorable burial in the family tomb is a superior outcome to honorable burial in a substitute for the family tomb, possibly for reasons having to do with ancestral cult observances and the social dimensions of the afterlife. Regular ancestral observances at the site of the remains by living members of the kin group would certainly have been made possible by the transfer of Saul’s and ness to the idea that the corpse must receive burial in order for the spirit of the dead to enter the underworld (Iliad 23.82). 34 See McCarter, II Samuel, 444–46, with citations, on the apologetic cast of this narrative and its covenantal dimensions. On the type of execution described by causative of the verb [qy (![yqyw, !y[qwmh), see McCarter’s note on p. 442 and Robert Polzin, “HWQY> and Covenantal Institutions in Israel,” HTR 62 (1969): 227–40. 35 See McCarter, II Samuel, 445.
Olyan: Israelite Interment Ideology
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Jonathan’s remains to their family tomb. Perhaps such a change of locus would have improved the afterlife of Saul and Jonathan, though this must remain uncertain. In short, David’s acts as narrated in 2 Samuel 21 may have been intended to bring concrete benefits to the dead as well as make him look good and further distance him from the execution of the seven Saulides. A second example of the sanctioned movement of the remains of the interred dead is the kind of secondary disposition of bones observed in various Judean tombs from the Iron Age.36 In this case, remains are moved to a different location within a tomb, in contrast to their transfer from one tomb to another, as in 2 Samuel 21. Typically, bones in a bench or cave tomb are moved away from the locus of primary interment to another location within the tomb (e.g., under the bench or at the back or sides of the cave). Since such removal represents a fairly widespread pattern, it seems very likely that it was viewed as a legitimate act that did no harm to the dead; perhaps when it was performed with care, it was even beneficial for them in some way we do not understand. Practically speaking, it was necessary to make room for new burials.37 Those transporting the remains of the dead were very likely surviving kin, though we can only guess about this, given the nature of the evidence. It is possible that such removal of bones within the tomb was a typical familial responsibility, not unlike ancestral rites such as invoking the name of the dead or providing food offerings. Along with these examples of sanctioned and even salutary movement of remains by family and friends are cases of transfer understood as hostile acts. Jeremiah 8:1–2 prophesies the future removal of the bones of Judean leaders from their tombs as a punishment: “On that day,” oracle of YHWH, “they shall bring out the bones of the kings of Judah, and the bones of its princes, and the bones of the priests, and the bones of the prophets, and the bones of the dwellers of Jerusalem from their tombs. And they shall spread them before the sun, the moon, and all the host of heaven whom they loved and whom they served, and after whom they went, and whom they sought, and to whom they bowed down. They shall not be gathered, nor shall they be buried; they shall be like dung on the surface of the ground.”
The honorably interred elite dead of Judah shall be reduced to the status of the unburied through the exhumation and spreading of their remains outside of the tomb. This, according to the text, is a fitting punishment for their worship of 36
On this, see the citations in n. 22. Meyers notes the oddness of Judean secondary burials in light of evident concerns that the dead not be disturbed. He does not believe that moving bones in the tomb was a “harsh” act , “since emphasis is on joining one’s fathers in the very same grave” (“Secondary Burials,” 2, 15, 17). Careful secondary disposition was likely not understood as disturbing to the dead. 37
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gods other than YHWH. Isaiah 14:19–20 is similar in thrust. In this text, the previously interred “King of Babylon” shall be cast out of his tomb (tkl`h htaw ^rbqm); separated from other buried kings, he shall be like an unburied, trampled corpse, because of his acts of violence against his own people. As with Jer 8:1–2, the removal of honorably interred remains without their reburial is a hostile act understood as a punishment for dead offenders. Both texts use expressions of dishonor for the dead whose fate it is to be stripped of an honorable burial by their enemies (e.g., b[tn rxn, “an abominated shoot,” or l[ @md hmdah ynp, “dung on the surface of the ground”). As with other passages that narrate dishonorable burials, a form of the verb ^l` (passive in this instance) is used in Isa 14:19, this time to describe the act of hostile, dishonoring removal of remains from the tomb.38 A concern to protect the interred remains of the dead from unwelcome disturbance and hostile transfer by tomb robbers or enemies is widely attested in burial inscriptions from a variety of locales in West Asia, including Judah. Burial epigraphs often include a statement that there are no valuables with the dead and a warning to would be tomb robbers or others not to enter the tomb, or disturb or remove the remains of the dead. Formulaic curses typically reinforce the warnings. The fragmentary Royal Steward inscription (KAI 191), from Silwan, near Jerusalem, is not atypical of this genre.39 Dated to about 700 B.C.E. on paleographic grounds, the text, inscribed on the lintel of the tomb, reads as follows: This is [the tomb of ]yahu who was over the house. There is no silver or gold here. Only [his bones] and the bones of his female slave with him. Cursed be the person who will open this.
tmx[w [htmx[] !a yk [2] bhzw #sk hp @ya tybh l[ r`a why[. . . trbq] taz taz ta jtpy [3] r`a !dah rwra hta htma.40 To this Judean epigraph one might compare similar Phoenician or Aramaic burial inscriptions on sarcophagi or tombs from the first millennium which 38 I cannot agree with those scholars (e.g., Brichto, “Kin, Cult, Land, and Afterlife,” 25) who view the king as never having been buried. The text seems to suggest rather that his burial was reversed; that ultimately he was unburied, becoming like those never buried (e.g., sbwm rgp). The expression ^rbqm tkl`h htaw, “As for you, you have been cast out from your tomb,” suggests this rather than the idea that the king was never buried. Cf. the similar use of the hiphil of ^l` with @m in Lam 2:1 (lar`y trapt $ra !ym`m ^yl`h) and Ps 22:11 (!jrm ytkl`h ^yl[), suggesting removal from one locus to another. On this, see further my article “Was the ‘King of Babylon’ Buried before His Corpse Was Exposed? Some Thoughts on Isa 14,19,” forthcoming in ZAW. 39 On this inscription, see Nahman Avigad, “The Epitaph of a Royal Steward from Siloam Village,” IEJ 3 (1953): 137–52. 40 For the most part, my restorations follow Avigad’s sensible suggestions (“Epitaph,” 143). On issues of paleography and dating, see ibid., 149–50.
Olyan: Israelite Interment Ideology
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claim that no precious metals are present with the deceased and which curse anyone who might enter the tomb or open the sarcophagus illegitimately (e.g., KAI 13:3–8; 14:4–12, 20–22; 226:6–10; cf. KAI 1:2, which contains only the curses on those who would open the sarcophagus).41 Some of these inscriptions also curse those who would remove the remains of the dead to another place (KAI 14:5–6, 7–12; 226:8–10). The curses in such inscriptions include the death of the invader’s children, lack of burial for him, and no resting place for him among the dead. Inscriptions speak of illegitimate or hostile entry resulting in the disturbance of the dead (zgr, e.g., KAI 13:4, 6, 7), suggesting that the repose of the spirit in the underworld might be affected by unwelcome interference with physical remains and the place of burial.42 Clearly, transfer of the remains of the dead could be understood positively, neutrally, or negatively depending on who is doing the moving and why. Kin, friends, and allies may move bones or other remains if the intent is to benefit the dead in some way or at least not to harm them. Remains may be transported to a different tomb and reburied if the new burial improves on the original interment (2 Samuel 21). Bones may be collected and moved within a tomb, presumably by kin, to make room for new burials. It is possible that careful transportation of remains within the tomb was understood to benefit the dead, though this must remain uncertain. In any case, it seems unlikely that it did any harm to them, given the extent of the practice. Tomb robbers and enemies, on the other hand, were not welcome to enter the tomb, and warnings and curses in tomb epigraphs were meant to keep them out. They could dishonor the dead by removing honorably buried remains from the tomb and leaving them unburied. Worse, it is possible that their actions affected the afterlife of the dead in negative ways. Just as a lack of burial might have had concrete effects on the afterlife of the dead, so, too, might the hostile invasion of a tomb or the exhuming of its remains. Removal of remains could have resulted in the termination of ancestral rites and possibly the disruption of familial relations in the afterlife. Also, the spirit of the dead could have been made restless in some way as a result of exhuming remains. Two neglected aspects of Israelite interment ideology have been the focus of this investigation: hierarchy of types of burial and the range of meanings associated with moving the remains of the previously interred dead. A rough hierarchy of burial types, from best to worst, may be reconstructed on the basis of biblical texts. While honorable burial in the family tomb is most desirable and abandonment of the corpse to fowl and beasts is the worst possible outcome after death, a range of other possibilities, some clearly more attractive 41
Many scholars have noted these parallels. Forms of the same verb are used of disturbing or rousing the dead in the underworld in a number of biblical texts (e.g., 1 Sam 28:15; Isa 14:9). 42
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than others, emerges from a review of pertinent evidence (honorable burial in a substitute for the family tomb; honorable burial in someone else’s family tomb; various types of dishonorable burial). The reasons for the desirability of interment in the family tomb remain unclear; it is possible, however, that such burial was required for the dead to interact in an uninhibited way with dead kin in the afterlife and for ancestral rites from living kin to take place at (regular?) intervals at the site of the remains of the dead. Lack of burial would have dishonored the dead and may also have inhibited the performance of ancestral rites by living kin; in addition, it may have interfered with the relations of the dead with kin in the underworld. As for the movement of the remains of the entombed dead, it is clear that the meaning of such action is determined wholly by its context. Transportation of bones may be understood as a salutary deed, an innocuous action, or a hostile act, depending on who is doing the moving and for what purpose. It might have affected the afterlife of the dead, either positively or negatively, though this remains uncertain.
JBL 124/4 (2005) 617–639
THE BIRTH OF THE LEMMA: THE RESTRICTIVE REINTERPRETATION OF THE COVENANT CODE’S MANUMISSION LAW BY THE HOLINESS CODE (LEVITICUS 25:44– 46)
BERNARD M. LEVINSON
[email protected] University of Minnesota, Minneapolis, MN 55455
The jubilee legislation of the Holiness Code contains a previously unrecognized restrictive reinterpretation of the Covenant Code’s law requiring manumission of the Hebrew slave (yrb[ db[) after six years of service. This case has important implications for contemporary pentateuchal theory. It sheds important new light on the question of the dating of the Holiness Code relative to the other literary sources, which has been reopened during the last quarter century. The reasons why this case has, until now, escaped the attention of scholarship are equally significant. Failing to recognize the reuse of two technical idioms relevant to manumission law, the Septuagint translator of Lev 25:44–46 misconstrued the syntax and punctuation of his Hebrew Vorlage. That ancient misunderstanding has had a lasting impact on how this unit has subsequently been understood. Once the text is seen in its own light, the sophistication of its reworking of earlier law becomes evident. The techniques for legal reinterpretation employed in Leviticus 25 include the use of the Wiederaufnahme and pronominal deixis. These techniques, as well as their larger goal of textual reapplication, reveal emergent forms of methods that are commonly associated with more formal exegetical literature of the later Second Temple period. That they occur here in a text that presents itself as revelatory rather than as exegetical, however, raises a series of fascinating hermeneutical issues. This article was first presented as a guest lecture at the Faculty of Theology, University of Zurich, generously hosted by Konrad Schmid (Lehrstuhl für Alttestamentliche Wissenschaft und Spätisraelitische Religionsgeschichte), and benefited from discussion there. For very helpful comments on earlier versions of this manuscript, I would like to thank Gary Knoppers, Arie van der
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Journal of Biblical Literature I. The Citation and Restriction of the Covenant Code’s Manumission Law
As is well known, the Covenant Code begins with a law governing the manumission of male slaves (Exod 21:2–6), which is then followed immediately by a law prescribing a separate protocol for female slaves (21:7–11).1 The shared topic of both laws is the interrelation between property law (slavery and indenture) and family law (marriage, children, and inheritance).2 The protasis of the law for male slaves establishes the general legal condition (A): “If you purchase a Hebrew slave (yrb[ db[ hnqt yk), six years shall he work but in the seventh he must go free” (Exod 21:2).3 A series of subconditions then explores possible permutations of this simple condition. Was the individual involved single or married at the time of beginning his indenture? If he was single but given a wife by the master, to whom did any progeny that result from this union belong when the slave is manumitted in the seventh year (Exod 21:3–4)? Then an important alternative to the apodosis is considered, whereby the indentured slave declines manumission and elects to become a permanent member of the household (B): yTib]h'a; db,[,˝h; rm'ayo rmoa;A!ai˝w“ 5 yn:B;Ata,˝w“ y˝Tiv]aiAta, y˝nIdoa}Ata, w˝yn:doa} /˝vyGIhi˝w“ 6 .yvip]j; ax´ae alø tl,D<˝h'Ala, /˝vyGIhi˝w“ !yhiløa>h;Ala, Ata, w˝yn:doa} [x'r:˝w“ hz:WzM]˝h'Ala, /a .!l;[o˝l] /˝db;[}˝w" [˛xer“M'˝B' /˝nz“a;
5
But should the slave affirm, “I love my master, my wife, and my children: I will not go out free,” 6 then his master shall bring him to God, and he shall bring him to the door or the doorpost; and his master shall bore his ear through with an awl; and he shall serve him permanently.
Figure 1: Electing to Become a Permanent Slave (Exod 21:5–6)4 Kooij, Hindy Najman, Stephen C. Smith, Lena-Sofia Tiemeyer, James VanderKam, John Wevers, JBL’s two anonymous referees, and especially Moshe Bernstein. 1 On these two laws and their relation to the corresponding manumission law of Deuteronomy, see the important study by Norbert Lohfink, “Fortschreibung? Zur Technik vom Rechtsrevisionen im deuteronomischen Bereich, erörtert an Deuteronomium 12, Ex 21,2–11 und Dtn 15,12–18,” in Das Deuteronomium und seine Querbeziehungen (ed. Timo Veijola; Schriften der Finnischen Exegetischen Gesellschaft 62; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996), 133–81; reprinted in and cited according to idem, Studien zum Deuteronomium und zur deuteronomistischen Literatur, IV (SBAB 31; Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2000), 163–203. 2 On the binary legal logic and the syntax involved, see Bernard M. Levinson and Molly M. Zahn, “Revelation Regained: The Hermeneutics of yk and !a in the Temple Scroll,” DSD 9 (2002): 295–346, at 314–15. 3 On the meaning of the protasis, see Bernard M. Levinson, “The ‘Effected Object’ in Contractual Legal Language: The Semantics of ‘If You Purchase a Hebrew Slave’ (Exod. xxi 2),” VT 56 (2006) (in press). 4 Here and elsewhere, vocalized citations of the OT in Hebrew employ Hebrew Scriptures
Levinson: The Birth of the Lemma
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Within its ambitious and utopian program of social relief in the jubilee legislation of Leviticus 25, the Holiness Code includes a law governing manumission of slaves (Lev 25:39–44). The law is divided into two sections: (1) a unit that prohibits Israelites from holding other Israelites as slaves (vv. 39–43); and (2) a continuation that permits Israelites to hold non-Israelites “from the nations that are round about you” as slaves (vv. 44–46; citation from v. 44b). Formal criteria confirm this bipartite thematic organization: section (1) has a consistent second person singular grammatical addressee, whereas the addressee of section (2) is consistently second person plural (except for the beginning and closing formulae in vv. 44a and 46bb). Section 1 of the law differs sharply from the Covenant Code’s manumission law because it altogether rejects the notion that an Israelite can ever be a slave. While the protasis of the law establishes the general condition of impoverishment that would lead to slavery, the apodosis of the law makes a sharp disjuncture. Instead of stipulating the procedures to be followed for the specific case, the apodosis breaks the expectation of an ad hoc response to the specific situation of the third person casuistic legal protasis. Shifting into the second person, it provides instead an apodictic prohibition that categorically rejects “slavery” as a response to economic deprivation: &˝M…[i *˝yjia; &Wmy:Ayki˝w“ 39 td"bo[} /˝B dbo[}t'Aalø &˝l;ArK'm]nI˝w“ hy
39
If your brother should become impoverished and sell himself to you: you must not work him as a slave. 40 Like a hired employee or like a household worker shall he be with you. He shall serve with you until the year of the jubilee.
Figure 2: The Rejection of Slavery by the Holiness Code (Lev 25:39–40)
The prohibition of slavery extends even to the level of language. The Holiness Code avoids applying the substantive db[, “slave,” to the situation of one Israelite serving another. Instead it employs the language of indenture, marked by the formula of exegetical analogy, introduced by the double -K] clause (“like a hired employee or like a household worker”). In contrast to manumission after six years of service, as contemplated by the Covenant Code, the maximum period for such contractual labor before manumission is here integrated into the larger system of the jubilee, and thus becomes fifty years.5 for Windows® © 1993–1999 Payne Loving Trust. The Septuagint is cited according to Greek Old Testament for Windows® version 2.3 © 1992–1997 Payne Loving Trust. 5 Note the thoughtful attempt to solve the problems of dating the sabbatical and jubilee cycles by Robert S. Kawashima, “Every 49 or 50 Years?” VT 53 (2003): 117–20. He maintains that
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Section 2 of the law sanctions what section 1 prohibits—holding slaves as chattel—but restricts such slaveholding to non-Israelite slaves taken “from the nations round about you” (v. 44b). The permission to hold foreign slaves is not simple, direct, or positive law, however. Instead, the law entails sophisticated rewriting and reworking of an earlier law. Both the initial protasis of the Covenant Code’s law for male slaves (A) and its formula for permanent indenture (B) provide the textual foundation for the author of this text. Figure 3 below demonstrates the textual reworking that permits Leviticus 25 to restrict the purchase, ownership, and inheritance of slaves to the category of foreigners. B
A
. . . yrb[ db[ hnqt yk
!l[l wdb[w
B′
Exod 21:2, 6
A′
wdb[t !hb !l[l
. . . !ywgh tam ^l wyhy r`a ^tmaw ^db[w . . . hmaw db[ wnqt !hm
Lev 25:44–46
A
B
Exod 21:2, 6
If you purchase a Hebrew slave . . .
He may serve him forever as a slave.
Lev 25:44–46
As for your male slave or your female slave whom you would acquire: It is from the nations . . . From them may you purchase a (male) slave or a female slave . . .
A′
B′ Forever—them—may you make serve as slaves.
Figure 3: The Holiness Code’s Citation and Restriction to the Foreigner of the Covenant Code’s Slave Law the inconsistency between the two systems of dating is merely one of counting: whether by addition or subtraction. He properly rejects the apologetic claim that the ancients employed a different form of calculation than moderns. Still, his attempt to equate the sabbatical system (based on 7 × 7) and the jubilee system (based on fifty) gives pause. This “solution” to the vexing problem is so pragmatic that it becomes inconsistent with his own correct larger perspective: that the chapter is utopian in its assumptions. The two separate systems of responsibility to the land and to the community may operate simultaneously, alongside one another.
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The author of Leviticus 25 here cites, summarizes, and revises the older Covenant Code law. The citation references both the beginning and the conclusion of the older law so as to create a legal abstract or exegetical précis of the original manumission law. The abstract includes key terms from both the protasis, which defines the purchase condition (A/A′), and the final clause of the law, which specifies the procedure for permanent indenture (B/B′) (Exod 21:2, 6). That source is reworked and redefined so that it is now valid only for “the nations that are round about you” (Lev 25:44).6 The studied revision warrants closer examination. In reworking the Covenant Code’s manumission law, the Holiness Code cites its protasis, yrb[ db[ hnqt yk, “If you purchase a male Hebrew slave” (Exod 21:2). The key terms are cited and the verb is pluralized: db[ wnqt !hm hmaw, “From them may you purchase a male slave or a female slave” (Lev 25:44). The citation strategically suppresses the nisbe, “Hebrew,” since the point is to deny that Israelites can be slaves.7 The casus pendens fronts the anaphoric demonstrative pronoun !hm to the reworked lemma. In synchronic terms, this formulation seems prolix and syntactically awkward.8 Nonetheless it has a specific exegetical function. The anaphoric pronoun functions technically as an asyndetic gloss to its lemma. The annotation restricts the original law so that the slave purchase may now be made only “from them”: namely, the immediately preceding, “the peoples who are round about you” (Lev 25:44). The gloss assigns the lemma a completely new application, one that is at odds with its original intent. The Covenant Code’s slave law henceforth regulates the purchase of foreign, not native, slaves. The male slave law of the Covenant Code, as here reinterpreted, may now only govern non-Hebrew slaves.9
6 The reapplication of the older law to the non-Israelite population is distinguished by the use of the second person plural (Lev 25:44b– 46ba). Verse 44a, in the singular, provides a transition from the preceding verse, which is also singular. The references to hmaw db[, the male slave and the female slave (Lev 25:44b), remain in the singular form, which in each case indicates the class. The singular absolute tags the legal subjects of the two manumission laws in the Covenant Code that govern the db[ (Exod 21:2–6) and the hma (Exod 21:7–11) respectively. 7 It also extends the protasis to make it gender inclusive, thus embedding the egalitarian perspective of Deut 15:12 and 17b. 8 According to Jacob Milgrom, “[t]he otherwise unbalancing and superfluous meµhem tiqnû lays stress on ‘from them’ (the non-Israelites), implying but not from Israelites” (Leviticus 23–27: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [AB 3B; New York: Doubleday, 2001], 2228). On the next page, he repeats this analysis but adds that the same word “is also required for the chiastic structure.” The analysis of the awkwardness of the syntax and of its function in making a sharp distinction between two sets of legal protocol is astute (on the latter point, see also Ibn Ezra ad loc.). However, the suggestion that the word was added simply to complete a chiasm suggests Milgrom’s own awkwardness with so forced an explanation. The technical use of the word to gloss and redefine the source text provides a more robust explanation of the syntax. 9 There is some possibility that the legist may have recognized that the nisbe form historically
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Just as the protasis of the Covenant Code’s manumission law is reworked, so also is the law’s conclusion. The latter describes the procedure whereby the male slave can surrender the right to manumission in a judicial oath that the slave swears before his master at the local sanctuary (Exod 21:5). Thereafter: !l[l wdb[w , “he may serve him forever” (Exod 21:6). 10 As figure 3 above demonstrates, the two key terms of that concluding lemma (B) are cited chiastically (B′), with the verb pluralized and made second person, at the conclusion of the corresponding law of the Holiness Code (Lev 25:46).11 In the reworking, the original lemma gains a completely new application. It allows permanent indenture only in the case of foreign slaves: wdb[t !h˝ b !l[˝ l , “Forever— them—may you make serve as slaves” (Lev 25:46).12 Once again the ostensibly referred to a broader social class of a marginalized population in the Near East. In that case, the restrictive reinterpretation of Lev 25:44, 46 recovers the originally “non-native” meaning and application of the term, as astutely suggested by my emeritus colleague Jonathan Paradise (personal communication). This hypothesis seems difficult to defend, however. If there was any cultural memory of yrb[ serving as a sociological term rather than as a gentilic, then the formula yrb[ db[ would be a pleonasm. See Karen Engelken, Frauen im Alten Israel (BWANT 130; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1990), 149 n. 105; Ludger Schwienhorst-Schönberger, Das Bundesbuch (Ex 20,22– 23,33): Studien zu seiner Entstehung und Theologie (BZAW 188; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1990), 306; and Klaus Grünwaldt, Das Heiligkeitsgesetz Leviticus 17–26: Ursprungliche Gestalt, Tradition und Theologie (BZAW 271; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 1999), 110 n. 429. 10 Deuteronomy’s idiom for permanent indenture has a different formulation, employing a construct noun phrase, !lw[ db[, “permanent slave” (Deut 15:17a), rather than the verbal construction shared by Exod 21:5 and Lev 25:46. On that basis, the formulation in Lev 25:46 cannot be derived from Deut 15:17a. 11 The principle of chiastic or inverted citation is technically called “Seidel’s Law,” after its discoverer: M. Seidel, “Parallels between Isaiah and Psalms,” Sinai 38 (1955–56): 149–72, 229–40, 272–80, 335–55, at p. 150; reprinted in idem, Hiqrei Miqra (in Hebrew; Jerusalem: Rav Kook Institute, 1978), 1–97. Seidel’s claims are often insufficiently controlled by criteria for establishing the direction of dependence. More controlled uses include Shemaryahu Talmon, “The Textual Study of the Bible—A New Outlook,” in Qumran and the History of the Biblical Text (ed. F. M. Cross and S. Talmon; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1975), 362–63; P. Beentjes, “Inverted Quotations in the Bible: A Neglected Stylistic Pattern,” Bib 63 (1982): 506–23; and Benjamin D. Sommer, A Prophet Reads Scripture: Allusion in Isaiah 40–66 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998), 35 and 219 nn. 11–12. For a fuller discussion of this and related editorial markers, see Bernard M. Levinson, Deuteronomy and the Hermeneutics of Legal Innovation (New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 17–20. 12 Note the distinctive causative formulation: -b + db[, “to enslave” (Lev 25:39, 46). This use of propositional b- must be distinguished from the bet pretii, which also occurs with the same verb. In the latter construction, the preposition indicates the price, literal or metaphorical, for which a person works (Gen 29:18, 20, 25; cf. 30:26; 31:41; Hos 12:13 [12]; Ezek 29:20). In this case, however, there is a different construction that is distinctive. The combination of qal verb with prepositional b- becomes functionally a causative, semantically equivalent to the hip>il form of the same verb. Thus &r
il plus transitive, is summarized in the next verse using the qal with b- construction: &r
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intrusive demonstrative pronoun should be understood as intentional. It serves as a deliberate asyndetic gloss that redefines the lemma into which it has been embedded. Henceforth, the legal category of permanent indenture may apply only to foreigners; it is no longer valid for Israelites.
II. The False Syntagm Created by Misunderstanding the Syntax of Leviticus 25:46 This citation and exegetical restriction of the Covenant Code law have not previously been recognized.13 Part of the difficulty is that, since antiquity, the Hebrew syntax of the critical verse has often been misunderstood. The clause that refers to the transmission of slaves as part of the estate has long been misread as !l[˝l hzja t`r˝l !k˝yrja !k˝ynb˝l !˝ta !tljnth˝w, “You may bequeath them to your sons after you, to inherit as a possession for ever” (Lev 25:46a RSV).14 In this reading, !l[˝l is understood to modify hzja, as if there were an idiom here, !l[˝l hzja, that corresponded to !l[˝ tzja, which is found earlier in the chapter, in reference to the inalienability of Levitical land (Lev 25:34).15 That understanding of the syntax is incorrect. In classical Hebrew, there are sixty-six attestations of the noun hzja, “possession.”16 It occurs in the abso-
25:39, 46; Deut 15:19; 21:3 [pu>al]; Isa 14:3 [pu>al]; Jer 22:13; 25:14; 27:7; 30:8; 34:9–10; Ezek 34:27). Helmer Ringgren et al. clearly recognize the two distinct uses and provide further literature; see “db'[; >aµbad,” TWAT 5:982–1011, esp. 988–89 = TDOT 10:376– 405, at 382. See also A. W. Streane, The Double Text of Jeremiah (Massoretic and Alexandrian) Compared Together with an Appendix on the Old Latin Evidence (Cambridge: Deighton Bell; London: George Bell, 1896), 182. Surprisingly, this semantic issue was overlooked by Ingrid Riesener, Der Stamm db[ im Alten Testament: Eine Wortuntersuchung unter Berücksichtigung neuerer sprachwissenschaftlicher Methoden (BZAW 149; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 1979). 13 Other scholars have recognized the extent to which this unit sharply departs from legal precedent but have construed it more narrowly in terms of the rejection only of Deuteronomy’s manumission law (Deut 15:12–18). See Alfred Cholewinåski, Heiligkeitgesetz und Deuteronomium: Eine vergleichende Studie (AnBib 66; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1976), 245; and, incisively, Grünwaldt, Heiligkeitsgesetz, 329–30. Grünwaldt provides an excellent analysis of the extent to which Lev 25:39–43 (his reconstruction of the law’s original layer) reworks and transforms both Deut 15:12–18 and Exod 21:2–6 (pp. 329–30; and 333). He does not recognize the reuse noted here, however. 14 The Holy Bible Containing the Old and New Testaments, Revised Standard Version (New York: T. Nelson, 1952), 106 (emphasis added). 15 Note the extended discussion of this alleged syntagm by Milgrom, Leviticus 23–27, 2171–72. 16 The term hzja is fundamental to the religious conception of the land-holding as a divine grant found in both the Holiness Code and the Priestly Code. The omission of such a key term from the appropriate volume of TWAT is puzzling. It raises doubts about whether the conception of the-
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lute state twelve times.17 This is the only case where the absolute noun is followed by any form of !lw[ ( l ). 18 Conversely, there are a total of fifty-four inflected forms of hzja.19 In thirty-two of these cases, it occurs inflected with a pronominal suffix.20 Various idioms that place the noun in construct (as nomen regens to a following nomen rectum) account for the remaining twenty-two inflected forms of hzja.21 The idiom !l;/[ tZ"jua} accounts for three of these cases, with one of them in this chapter (in Lev 25:34).22 There is no other construction in Biblical Hebrew that binds the noun hzja (whether absolute or inflected) to any form of !lw[. On the basis of normal usage, it is most reasonable to expect that the idiom “permanent possession” would employ the construct phrase !lw[ tzja, as attested earlier in the chapter (Lev 25:34). The fact that the absolute noun hzja is never construed with or modified by the adverbial phrase !l[˝l, “forever,” except for this one disputed case, raises questions about whether the text has been correctly understood. The implications of this analysis are inescapable. Semantically speaking, the conjunction of the two words here represents a “non-sequence” that has been incorrectly construed as a real idiom. That nonsequence has acquired an independent life of its own, however, in the reception and interpretation of the text since antiquity. More accurately, the absolute noun hzja should conclude the clause in which it is found: !k,ynEb]li !t;ao !T,l]j}n"t]hiw“ hZ:jua} tv,r
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dren after you, to inherit as property” (Lev 25:46). The following adverbial phrase (!l[˝l) thus actually marks the beginning of a new clause, structured as a casus pendens, that chiastically cites and reworks the formula for permanent indenture from the Covenant Code: wdb[t !h˝b !l[˝l, “Forever—them—may you make work as slaves” (Lev 25:46ab). Strikingly, the correct parsing of the syntax is preserved by the Masorah, which emphasizes that this clause is independent of what precedes. The disjunctive accent, zaµqeµp qaµtô\ n, which is placed over hZ:±jua}, recognizes it as the end of the clause and clarifies that the new phrase should begin with !l[˝l. Although infrequent, there are other cases where !l(w)[l serves as the first word of a clause or verse, especially to create rhetorical emphasis.23
III. The Septuagint Translator’s Alternative Rendering and Its Repercussions The Septuagint translator did not recognize the syntax of the verse. The legal idiom in question was obscured by its chiastic inversion and the intentionally intrusive pronoun that works as an asyndetic gloss. Very understandably, he must have found the verse prolix and the formulation, with the reworked technical idiom embedded, difficult to construe. On that basis, he logically used the precedent of !lw[ tzja (Lev 25:34) as a guide to make sense of and translate v. 46.24 He did not recognize !l[˝l as introducing the inverted formula for permanent indenture contained in his Hebrew Vorlage. Instead, he took it as the conclusion of the designation of foreign slaves as permanent chattel. The implications of the false analogy for his rendering of v. 46 are shown in figure 4 below.25
23 Apart from the case under discussion, there are eight additional attestations of clause or verse initial !l(w)[l: Isa 25:2; 34:10; 47:7; 60:21; Pss 89:29; 119:89, 93; and 2 Chr 2:3. The first confirms the kind of rhetorical emphasis created by the casus pendens: hnby al !lw[l, “Never shall it [the city] be rebuilt” (Isa 25:2). The infrequency of this construction must have made it more difficult for the Septuagint translator to recognize in the case of Lev 25:46 (see below). There are a total of 174 attestations of !l(w)[l in the Hebrew Bible. In 165 of these, fully 94.8 percent, it occurs in medial or final position in the clause. Only in the nine cases cited here does it occur as the first word. 24 Similarly, Moshe A. Zipor, The Peshitta Version of Leviticus with a Commentary (in Hebrew; Jerusalem: Simor, 2003), 219. 25 The Septuagint text follows John William Wevers, ed., Leviticus (Septuaginta II.2; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1986), 275 and 278. The English translation is my own. Note also Dirk Buchner, Leviticus: Provisional Edition—A New English Translation of the Septuagint and Other Greek Translations Traditionally Included under that Title (International Organization for Septuagint and Cognate Studies, 2004; preliminary version available online at http://ccat.sas.upenn
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Lev
MT
25:34
.!h≤â˝l; aWh¡ !l…ö/[ tZ"èjua}AyKiâ For it is a permanent possession for them.
25:46
hZ:±jua} tv,r<∞˝l; . . .
LXX o{ti katavscesi" aijwniva tou'to aujtw'n ejstin. For this is a possession in perpetuity for them.
katovcimoi eij" to;n aijw'na:
W d b o = [ } T ' ! h˝ B≤¢ ; !l;ç[o˝l]
w˝yjia;˝B] vyai¢ l~aer:c]yIAynEêB] !k≤¶˝yjea'Ÿ˝b]˝W .&r
to inherit as a possession. Forever—only they—may you make serve as slaves. But as for your brothers, the sons of Israel—each man in relation to his brother—you must not oppress him through hard labor.
tw'n de; ajdelfw'n uJmw'n tw'n uiJw'n !Israh;l e{kasto" to;n ajdelfo;n aujtou' ouj katatenei' aujto;n ejn toi'" movcqoi". held in possession forever.
But of your brothers, the sons of Israel, each of them will not oppress his brother in toils.
Figure 4: The Source of the Misunderstanding of Leviticus 25:46 In light of the misunderstanding of the Septuagint translator, the omission of wdb[t !h˝b becomes inevitable. The Septuagint translator construed v. 46 as making a legal analogy between the land as inalienable (v. 34) and the right granted in this verse to transfer non-Israelite slaves as property that may be katovcimoi forever.26 “The word is a hapax legomenon in OT, and means ‘can be held in possession.’ . . .”27 The hapax form suggests the extent to which the .edu/nets/edition/; print version: New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press, forthcoming), 26 (cited December 30, 2004). 26 The legal analogy proposed here as implicit in the Septuagint rendering becomes more explicit in the subsequent history of Jewish law. The term hzja is applied to both the Canaanite slave (Lev 25:45, 46) and to real property (Lev 25:34; 27:16). On that basis, the three ways to acquire a “Canaanite slave” (m. Qidd. 1:3) correspond identically to those specified for the legal acquisition of land property (m. Qidd. 1:5): “by money or by writ or by usucaption.” In effect, both the Canaanite slave and the land are conceptualized in terms of property. Noting the analogical reasoning and for the translation, see Herbert Danby, The Mishnah: Translated from the Hebrew with Introduction and Brief Explanatory Notes (Oxford: Oxford University Pess, 1933), 321–22 and 321 n. 19. 27 John William Wevers, Notes on the Greek Text of Leviticus (SBLSCS 44; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997), 429.
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translator was straining to make sense of this verse, whose syntax and technical legal formula escaped him. Once !l[˝l was detached from the phrase it properly introduces, the two immediately following words lose their semantic function. With the technical idiom for the permanent indenture of slaves broken up and no longer recognized as an inverted citation, they become otiose. John William Wevers, in his masterly analysis, recognizes the originality of the MT and shows how the Septuagint translator either omitted the two words as intrusive or skipped over them.28 Even he, however, overlooks the technical idiom in question and, like the Septuagint translator, misconstrues the syntax of the Hebrew: “MT follows with !l[˝l hzja t`r˝l ‘to inherit as a possession forever,’ which LXX makes into a separate clause.”29 In this case, the “MT” actually envisions no such idiom, given the punctuation of the accentual system.30 The Septuagint’s leveling of v. 46 to the different formulation of v. 34 makes it impossible to recognize that !l[˝l actually introduces the technical formula for permanent indenture.31 That ancient misunderstanding of the syntax, however, in its departure from the correct punctuation preserved by the Masorah, provides the dominant model for how the verse has been interpreted since antiquity. 32 The Septuagint parsing of the syntax is evident also in
28 “This is followed in MT by wdb[t !hb ‘you may enslave them,’ but this is omitted by LXX, possibly as not quite fitting in the context. After all, the verse speaks of passing such on as an inheritance to one’s children, and the clause seems intrusive. It is also possible that the translator overlooked the clause, since wdb[t !hb is followed by a coordinate b phrase !kyjabw, i.e. it may have been a simple case of parablepsis” (Wevers, Notes, 429). 29 Ibid. 30 Similar issues arise in the discipline of classics. The failure to recognize a technical formula used by Catullus, for example, led to a long-term misunderstanding of syntax and punctuation of a line in one of his poems. Until the second decade of the twentieth century, a similar failure to recognize a technical idiom led editors of standard editions of Catullus to present a line in one of his poems as: Emathiae tutamen opis, carissime nato, “Guardian of the Emathian treasure, most dear to the son.” Among other difficulties, that rendering left the reference to the “son” unexplained and dangling. A. E. Housman first demonstrated that opis was not the genitive of a common noun “resources” or “treasure” but rather a proper noun: an epithet applied to Emathia, well known from Homer but previously unrecognized here. With that recognition, the need to repunctuate became obvious and the line began to make sense: Emathiae tutamen, Opis carissime nato, “Emathia’s guardian, most dear to the son of Ops.” The elegant solution is now universally accepted. See A. E. Housman, “Catvllus LXIV 324,” CQ 9 (1915): 229–30; and, for the correct translation, Guy Lee, The Poems of Catullus (Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 1990), 99 (emphasis added). 31 In contrast to the Septuagint, the Peshitt\ a construes the syntax as does the MT. It marks the disjunction by placing a waw before the casus pendens: wjlpt @whb !l[lw (Zipor, Peshitta Version of Leviticus, 219 [Hebrew; emphasis added]). For the text, see The Old Testament in Syriac according to the Peshitta Version, Part 1.2, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy, Joshua (ed. David J. Lane; Peshit\ta Institute; Leiden: Brill, 1991), 31. 32 Rabbinic exegesis would of course be an exception, since it is based on the MT. Here, however, other issues arise, since the reworking of the manumission law of the Covenant Code
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Jerome’s Vulgate.33 The King James (Authorized) Version is one of the few translations to recognize this issue and translate accurately, perhaps not surprisingly, informed as it was by the work of Christian Hebraists: “And ye shall take them as an inheritance for your children after you, to inherit [them for] a possession; they shall be your bondmen for ever: but over your brethren the children of Israel, ye shall not rule one over another with rigour” (Lev 25:46, emphasis added). Only a few modern translations render the phrase accurately. The most effective is the often overlooked version by the Semiticist Theophile Meek: “You may make permanent slaves of them.” 34 In contrast, the majority of modern translations have followed the translation model provided by the Septuagint. This includes the revised German Lutherbibel (1984), the Einheitsübersetzung, and the new edition of La Bible de Jérusalem.35 Both the Revised Standard Version and the New Revised Standard Version depart from the correct model provided by the King James Version.36 Even the New Jewish Publiwould not be entertained as an exegetical option, given the presupposition of the Torah’s selfconsistency and unity of authorship. 33 Note that “in aeternum” modifies “possidebitis”: et hereditario iure transmittetis ad posteros ac possidebitis in aeternum / fratres autem vestros filios Israhel ne opprimatis per potentiam (Lev 25:46). See Biblia Sacra iuxta vulgatam versionem (ed. Bonifatio Fischer et al.; 2nd ed.; 2 vols.; Stuttgart: Württembergische Bibelanstalt, 1975), 1:172. 34 Theophile Meek, “Leviticus,” in The Complete Bible: An American Translation (ed. J. M. Powis Smith, Edgar J. Goodspeed et al.; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1939), 90–117, at 115. Meek implicitly recognizes the connection between this text and the formula for permanent indenture in the Covenant Code’s manumission law, which he renders: “he shall then be his slave permanently” (Exod 21:6; p. 70). By hewing to the masoretic punctuation, several recent translations render the syntax correctly. Thus the NIV (1984) ad loc. (“and can make them slaves for life”); The Revised English Bible with the Apocrypha (Oxford/Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 106, which renders: “you may use them as slaves permanently”; and the NET Bible (New English Translation): “You may enslave them perpetually” (2nd beta version; http://www.bible.org/ netbible/index.htm). In contrast to these, the NAV attempts to have it both ways. It reduces the disjunctive independent clause to an appositional phrase that modifies the preceding noun (by replacing the finite verb with a neutral gerund): “and leave to your sons as their hereditary property, making them perpetual slaves” (The New American Bible [ed. Confraternity of Christian Doctrine; Mission Hills, CA: Benziger, 1988], 154 [emphasis added]). 35 Thus: “zum Eigentum für immer; die sollt ihr Sklaven sein lassen” (Die Bibel nach der Übersetzung Martin Luthers: mit Meisterwerken aus dem Zeitalter der Reformation [Text according to the revised edition of 1984; Stuttgart: Belser and Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 2000], 108 [emphasis added]). Similarly: “dauerndes Eigentum” (Einheitsübersetzung der Heiligen Schrift [Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1980], 133). Most recently: “pour qu’ils les possèdent à titre de propriété perpétuelle. Vous les aurez pour esclaves” (La Bible de Jérusalem: la sainte Bible traduite en français sous la direction de l’Ecole biblique de Jérusalem [2nd ed.; Paris: Zodiaque, 1994], 156). 36 The RSV renders: “to inherit as a possession for ever.” It thereby departs from the correct translation provided by its model in the KJV, which had followed the MT punctuation. This also applies to the NRSV. Although it does not render !l[˝l, it begins the next clause incorrectly with !hb: “These may you treat as slaves” (see HarperCollins Study Bible, 193).
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cation Society Tanakh— despite describing itself as a “Translation According to the Traditional Hebrew Text”—here deviates from the masoretic accentual system on which it is ostensibly based and instead renders the text according to the Septuagint’s punctuation.37 The same problem also shows up in Meir Sternberg’s extended meditation on the literary significance of the Hebrew slave laws.38 The misunderstanding of the syntax of the Hebrew appears also in the work of many scholars in their detailed historical-critical work on the chapter.39 It is evident in Sara Japhet’s analysis.40 It is implicit in the paraphrase by John 37
The NJPSV assimilates the two distinct formulae, translating them both all but identically:
!lw[ tzja, “holding for all time” (Lev 25:34) and, as if equivalent, !l[˝l hzja, “property for all time” (Lev 25:46; see Tanakh The Holy Scriptures: The New JPS Translation According to the Traditional Hebrew Text [Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1988], 197). The similarity between the two formulae is also assumed by Baruch A. Levine, even as he notes that the correct technical legal formula is found only in v. 34 (Leviticus: The JPS Torah Commentary [Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1989], 178). Milgrom distinguishes between the two formulae in terms of their application to Levitical land (v. 34) or to slaves as chattel that can be inherited (v. 46; see idem, Leviticus 23–27, 2230). He still assumes, however, that the two words represent a single phrase in each case. That v. 46 represents a completely different construction is overlooked. A similar issue arises in the exceptionally literate new translation by Robert Alter, who also renders, “to inherit a holding forever” (Lev 25:46 [sic]; see idem, The Five Books of Moses: A Translation with Commentary [New York: W. W. Norton, 2004], 658). 38 See Meir Sternberg: “to inherit as a holding forever. Them you may enslave” (Hebrews between Cultures: Group Portraits and National Literature [Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1998], 437). 39 There are a few exceptions. Recognizing the syntax correctly are Karl Elliger, Leviticus (HAT 4; Tübingen: Mohr, 1966), 337; and Andreas Ruwe, “Heiligkeitgesetz” und “Priesterschrift”: Literaturgeschichtliche und rechtssystematische Untersuchungen zu Leviticus 17,1–26,2 (FAT 26; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999), 342. Neither addresses the different traditions of translation and punctuation of the verse, or the other issues under discussion here. The syntax was correctly identified also by Solomon Mandelkern, Veteris Testamenti concordantiae hebraicae atque chaldaicae (Leipzig: Veit et comp, 1896; 11th ed., revised by Moshe Goshen-Gottstein and F. Margolin; Jerusalem: Schocken, 1978), 880. 40 Sara Japhet misconstrues the syntagm in her important article on the manumission laws. Overlooking the masoretic punctuation, which places a disjunctive accent between the two words, she cites it incorrectly as “‘ !lw[˝l hzja’” [sic], as if the text read, “permanent possession.” The same error occurs in her citation of the verse as a whole. At the critical juncture, she inserts a comma into the consonantal text to clarify her parsing of its syntax: “wdb[t !h˝b ,!l[˝l hzja t`r˝l” [to inherit as a permanent possession, them shall you enslave]. In neither case is there an accompanying note to indicate that the divergence from the punctuation of the MT is intentional. See eadem, “The Laws of Manumission of Slaves,” in Studies in Bible and the Ancient Near East: Presented to Samuel E. Loewenstamm, on his Seventieth Birthday (ed. Yitshak Avishur and Joshua Blau; 2 vols; Jerusalem: E. Rubenstein, 1978), 2:231–49, esp. 245, 240 (Hebrew; my translation). This misunderstanding of the syntax also appears in the English translation of her article, where the translator follows the modern Hebrew original, but used a semicolon: “to inherit as a possession forever; you may make slaves of them” and, similarly, “a possession forever” (eadem, “The Relationship between the Legal
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Van Seters: “they and their offspring are permanent possessions and may be inherited as property in perpetuity.”41 Only Jacob Milgrom, who also renders “property for all time,” recognizes the problem of the punctuation. To correct it, he proposes shifting the masoretic pausal accent (the zaµqeµp qaµt\ôn) from hzja to !l[˝l.42 The proposal overlooks its near conformity to the Septuagint reading (which levels v. 46 to the construction used for v. 34). Since each of these three scholars advances the manumission laws as important evidence in their recent proposals to reorder the sequence of the literary sources of the Pentateuch, this misreading of the Hebrew becomes significant.43
IV. Implications for Pentateuchal Source Criticism Once it is recognized that !l[˝ l introduces the new clause, it then becomes possible to see that the casus pendens inverts and reworks the Covenant Code’s formula for permanent indenture. If the manumission law of the Covenant Code is twice reworked by the author of Leviticus 25 (as in figure 3), that strongly suggests the priority of the former to the latter. This evidence calls into question the claim by John Van Seters that the Covenant Code’s manumission law is the latest of the pentateuchal manumission laws and draws freely on that of Deuteronomy and the Holiness Code.44 It becomes equally difficult to defend the priority of the Holiness Code to Deuteronomy, as argued on the basis of the manumission law by Sarah Japhet and Jacob Milgrom. The Holiness Code stresses that a single legal procedure applies to both ^˝db[˝w ^˝tma˝w, “your male slave and your female slave” (Lev 25:44a). The genderinclusive frame of reference is stressed by the inclusio, whereby the same two Corpora in the Pentateuch in Light of Manumission Laws,” in Studies in Bible, 1986 [ed. Sara Japhet; ScrHier 31; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1986], 63–89, at 76, 84 (emphasis added). 41 See John Van Seters, “The Law of the Hebrew Slave,” ZAW 108 (1996): 534–46, at 538; and especially idem, A Law Book for the Diaspora: Revision in the Study of the Covenant Code (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 84 (emphasis added). For an analysis, see Bernard M. Levinson, “Is the Covenant Code an Exilic Composition? A Response to John Van Seters,” in In Search of Pre-Exilic Israel: Proceedings of the Oxford Old Testament Seminar (ed. John Day; JSOTSup 406; London/New York: T&T Clark, 2004), 272–325. 42 Milgrom, following NJPSV, renders “property for all time” (Leviticus 23–27, 2148, 2217– 18, and 2230–31). Milgrom recognizes that his translation and exegesis conflict at this point with the punctuation of the MT. On that basis, he calls for an emendation of that punctuation (Leviticus 23–27, 2231). In making that proposal, however, he precludes recognition of the textual reworking of the formula from the Covenant Code, an issue to which he is elsewhere alert. 43 For an evaluation, see Bernard M. Levinson, “The Manumission of Hermeneutics: The Slave Laws of the Pentateuch as a Challenge to Contemporary Pentateuchal Theory,” in Congress Volume: Leiden 2004 (ed. André Lemaire; VTSup 109; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 282–322 (in press). 44 Van Seters, “Hebrew Slave,” 534– 46 = Law Book for the Diaspora, 272–325.
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terms (without the pronouns) are repeated at the end of the verse. Yet this gender-inclusive approach to slave law is diametrically opposed to the assumptions of the Covenant Code, which insists that the protocol for male slaves is invalid for female slaves (Exod 21:7) and details a separate procedure for them (21:8–11). In pentateuchal legislation, only Deuteronomy’s insistence on the identical treatment of male and female slaves within a single legal procedure (Deut 15:12, 17b) can account for the gender-inclusive perspective of the Holiness Code. Indeed, the insistence by Deuteronomy that the female slave falls under the same procedures to be used for male slaves, @k h`[t ^˝tma˝l #a˝w, “Even with respect to your female slave, you must do likewise” (Deut 15:17b), might help account for the similarly inflected form of the same term, with second person singular pronominal suffix, just noted: ^˝tma˝w ^˝db[˝w, “As for your male slave and your female slave” (Lev 25:44a). The form seems to reflect the author’s attention to the gender-inclusive protocol introduced by Deuteronomy in its revision of the Covenant Code’s procedures for manumission. There is extensive additional evidence for the author of the Holiness Code’s manumission law (Lev 25:39–46) drawing on Deuteronomy’s version as well as that of the Covenant Code.45 This analysis also sheds new light on a long-standing crux in scholarship concerning the Covenant Code. The focus of attention has long been the problem of the second-person formulation of the protasis: yrb[ db[ hnqt yk, “If you purchase a Hebrew slave . . .” (Exod 21:2aa). The classical form critics recognized that casuistic law creates the expectation of a third-person form in the legal protasis, consistent with the other casuistic laws of the Covenant Code.46 This standard third-person form of the protasis represents the literary heritage of cuneiform law.47 In the hands of Sara Japhet, this form-critical problem pro45
See Grünwaldt, Heiligkeitsgesetz, 329–30; and Levinson, “Manumission of Hermeneu-
tics.” 46 Referring to the predominance of the third-person formulation, Alfred Jepsen maintained: “Eine Ausnahme von dieser Regel findet sich nur [Exod] 21, 2, wo der MT lautet: hnqt yk; da die zweite Person in den Mischpatim immer Zeichen eines Einschubs oder einer Überarbeitung ist, darf man annehmen, dass auch hier der Satz begann: `ya hnqy yk” (Untersuchung zum Bundesbuch [BWANT 41; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1927], 56; see also p. 1). In his influential study, Albrecht Alt had an alternative approach. Accepting the need for the third person, he proposed instead a reconstruction that could account for the use of the nip>al form of the verb mkr attested in the corresponding manumission laws of Deuteronomy and the Holiness Code (Deut 15:12a; Lev 25:39a). On that basis, he suggested: yrb[ `ya rkmy yk, “If a Hebrew man is sold” (see idem, Die Ursprünge des israelitischen Rechts [Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 1934]; reprinted in and cited according to idem, Kleine Schriften zur Geschichte des Volkes Israel [Munich: C. H. Beck, 1953], 1:278–332, at 286–87). 47 See already the synoptic presentation of biblical law alongside the corresponding provisions of the Laws of Hammurabi, the Hittite Laws, and the Middle Assyrian Laws provided by Anton Jirku, Altorientalischer Kommentar zum Alten Testament (Leipzig: A. Deichert, 1923), 93. For the influence of cuneiform law on biblical legal syntax, with special attention to the protasis markers, see Levinson and Zahn, “Revelation Regained,” 295–346 (with bibliography).
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vided the point of departure for a much more ambitious challenge to the source-critical consensus as regards the sequence of the pentateuchal sources.48 She began with the observation that it is impossible to derive the protasis of Deuteronomy’s manumission law, hyrb[˝h wa yrb[˝h ^˝yja ^˝l rkM;yI yk, “If your brother sell himself to you, whether a male Hebrew or a female Hebrew” (Deut 15:12a), directly from the corresponding protasis of the Covenant Code’s formulation: yrb[ db[ hnqt yk, “If you purchase a Hebrew slave . . .” (Exod 21:2aa). On that basis, she maintained that the formulation in Deuteronomy must depend on a textual “missing link.” She found the latter in the protasis of the Holiness Code’s law for manumission in the jubilee, which offers both the necessary verbal root (mkr) and the necessary nip>al conjugation: ^˝yja ^wmy yk˝w ^˝l rkmn˝w ^˝m[, “If your brother becomes impoverished and sells himself to you” (Lev 25:39a). She extended that analysis into a much broader argument for the priority of the Holiness Code to the manumission law of Deuteronomy. Her hypothesis was extended further by Jacob Milgrom, who argues that the Deuteronomic legislation extensively revises the jubilee legislation of Leviticus 25.49 This entire line of reasoning is problematic. At issue are the earlier formcritical analyses, with their expectation of the third-person protasis of casuistic law.50 Equally at issue are more recent attempts to date the Holiness Code prior to Deuteronomy.51 Both overlook the clear attestation of the secondperson protasis in the exegetical restriction of hma˝w db[ wnqt !h˝m, “From them 48
Japhet, “Relationship between the Legal Corpora,” 63–89. Milgrom, Leviticus 23–27, 2212–41, 2251–57. 50 As regards the problem of the second person versus the “expected” third person in Exod 21:2a, see the astute challenge to the various emendations and their rationale provided by Van Seters, Law Book for the Diaspora, 22–23 and 86–87 (there is a minor typo in the Hebrew on p. 86). 51 For a compelling argument that Deut 15:12–18 must precede and serve as a source for Leviticus 25, see Lothar Perlitt, “‘Ein einzig Volk von Brüdern’: Zur deuteronomistischen Herkunft der biblischen Bezeichnung ‘Bruder,’” in Kirche: Festschrift für Günther Bornkamm zum 75. Geburtstag (ed. Dieter Lührmann and Georg Strecker; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1980), 27–52; reprinted in and cited according to idem, Deuteronomium-Studien (FAT 8; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1994), 50–73, at 67–69. Perlitt did not address Japhet’s article, published two years earlier. Equally compelling are the arguments by Stephen A. Kaufman, explicitly challenging Japhet’s article (and unaware of Perlitt’s analysis); see Kaufman, “Deuteronomy 15 and Recent Research on the Dating of P,” in Das Deuteronomium: Entstehung, Gestalt, und Botschaft (ed. Norbert Lohfink; BETL 68; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1985), 273–76, at 275. He gives as examples Deut 15:19; 17:2, 8; 21:1; 22:6, 22; 24:7. Note also idem, “A Reconstruction of the Social Welfare Systems of Ancient Israel,” in In the Shelter of Elyon: Essays on Ancient Palestinian Life and Literature in Honor of G. W. Ahlström (ed. W. Boyd Barrick and John R. Spencer; JSOTSup 31; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1984), 277–86. For a fuller treatment of the literary sequence and relation of the three pentateuchal slave laws, see Levinson, “Manumission of Hermeneutics.” 49
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may you purchase a male slave or a female slave” (Lev 25:44b; similarly, v. 45b). This second person plural formulation, which is also attested in the Septuagint, must presuppose yrb[ db[ hnqt yk, “If you purchase a male Hebrew slave” (Exod 21:2a). Recognizing the attestation of the Covenant Code protasis removes the point of departure for Japhet’s hypothesis.52 Her analysis understandably assumes that any reflection of the Covenant Code law’s protasis would occur right at the beginning of the appropriate laws of Deuteronomy or the Holiness Code. In this case, however, the citation of the protasis occurs in the concluding section of the slave law of Leviticus 25, in the context of polemical reworking. This evidence strongly suggests that the second-person formulation of the Covenant Code protasis (Exod 21:2) was, if not necessarily original, then already in place prior to the composition of Leviticus 25.53 52 The premise of that analysis raises another issue. An initial confusion about the grammar and syntax of a casuistic legal protasis makes the conclusions all but inevitable. Japhet rejects Alt’s proposal, which was patterned after the nip>al formulation of Deut 15:12, because it employs a passive verb (n. 46 above). She insists that the literary structure of the casuistic laws of the Covenant Code does not permit such a reconstruction: “It should be emphasized that the verb employed in the opening conditional clause is always active” (Japhet, “Relationship between the Legal Corpora,” 72). She restricts any “passive formulation” to the “continuation of the laws,” where they may occur only in secondary conditions or elaborations (p. 72 n. 26). Since the verb of Exod 21:2a “must” originally have been active, she contends that the nip>al verb in Deut 15:12a could not derive from the protasis of the Covenant Code law precisely because it carries a passive meaning: “is sold” (p. 73). The nip>al formulation in Lev 25:39a thus provides the necessary “missing link” that explains the origin of the “passive” form at Deut 15:12a. This line of reasoning must be questioned. It is essential to distinguish between morphology (the nip>al stem), on the one hand, and voice (active/passive), on the other. The bifurcation—active/passive—fails to do justice to the full semantic range of the nip>al stem: “(1) middle, (2) passive, (3) adjectival . . . , and (4) double-status (reflexive, benefactive, reciprocal, tolerative, causative-reflexive)” (IHBS §23.1h). Most scholars regard the stem’s use to express the passive voice as a secondary development. Yet, in effect, Japhet has restricted the nip>al conjugation to a passive. Her denial that there can be such verbs in the main condition of a casuistic law is open to question, given the protasis of the law of talion: Aykiw“ !yvin:a} WxN:yI, “When two men struggle” (Exod 21:22). That nip>al form expresses the reciprocal/reflexive idea that is the original semantic function of the conjugation; the passive represents a secondary development. Almost certainly at issue in the nip>al verb at Deut 15:12 (and thus in Alt’s proposal for Exod 21:2) is self-indenture: not a passive but a reflexive use of the stem. This confusion does not simply reside in the English translation of the article. It exists also in the Hebrew original: “ybysp tmw[l—ybyfqa” (“active, as opposed to passive”); similarly, the casuistic main protasis must be “dymt ybyfqa” (“always active”); see Japhet, “Laws of Manumission,” 236, 237 (Hebrew; my translation). 53 It is hard to imagine the reverse direction of literary influence: that Exod 21:2a was realigned from third person to second person under the influence of Lev 25:44. Such a move would only call attention to itself as intrusive, given the contextual expectation of the third person in the Covenant Code.
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Journal of Biblical Literature V. Does the Wiederaufnahme Bracket an “Exkurs”?
The textual reworking is striking in its sophistication. The manumission law of the Covenant Code is lemmatically cited and transformed in such a way as to give it a completely new application. The reworking of the lemma shifts its application from “in-group” (the Hebrew slave) to “out-group”: the nonIsraelite. Textual reworking here provides a means for the creation of a new legal idea that prohibits Israelites from holding one another as slaves. From that perspective, it is appropriate to consider a methodological issue. The second person plural section of the Holiness Code’s regulation for slaves (Lev 25:44b–46aa) is generally regarded as a later redactional stratum that has been superimposed on the original layer, formulated in the singular (Lev 25:39– 43).54 Existing scholarship tends to treat it as such because of three interlocking features: (1) the use of the plural address, which is inconsistent with the singular formulation of vv. 39–43; (2) the ostensible change of topic, which seems to shift from measures to lend relief to impoverished Israelites (vv. 39– 43) to measures to permit them to hold non-Israelite slaves (vv. 44– 46); and (3) the fact that the plural section (vv. 44–46) is framed by a clearly identifiable editorial device, the Wiederaufnahme.55 On that basis, even scholars who hesitate to 54 See Elliger, Leviticus, 341; and Innocenzo Cardellini, Die biblischen “Sklaven”-Gesetze im Lichte des keilschriftlichen Sklavenrechts: Ein Beitrag zur Tradition, Überlieferung und Redaktion der alttestamentlichen Rechtstexte (BBB 55; Königstein: Hanstein, 1981), 286–305. For the most recent treatment, see Grünwaldt, Heiligkeitsgesetz, 111–12. Both Elliger and Grünwaldt regard vv. 44–46 as an “Exkurs.” Strikingly, this basic approach is not restricted to scholars who date the Holiness Code late. While maintaining that the Holiness Code precedes Deuteronomy, Israel Knohl also identifies several distinct strata within the composition of Leviticus 25. He attributes all of these solely to internal developments within the Holiness School (The Sanctuary of Silence: The Priestly Torah and the Holiness School [Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995], 121). In sharp opposition to Cardellini and similar redaction-historical approaches, Adrian Schenker argues that Leviticus 25 is a larger redactional unity. There exist “no cogent linguistic reasons for the assumption of several redactional layers.” His valuable suggestion is not, however, worked out in detail (“The Biblical Legislation on the Release of Slaves: The Road from Exodus to Leviticus,” in Recht und Kult im Alten Testament: Achtzehn Studien [OBO 172; Freiburg, Switzerland: Universitätsverlag; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000], 134–49). The approach of Milgrom to this chapter is similar: “Even if the redactor had different sources before him, he welded them together in such an artistic and cogent sequence that it suffices to determine what he had in mind” (Leviticus 23–27, 2150). 55 The repetitive resumption or Wiederaufnahme already functioned as an editorial device in cuneiform literature. It is attested in the Epic of Gilgamesh as well as in the Vassal Treaty of Esarhaddon. It also occurs in Second Temple literature such as the Samaritan Pentateuch, where it functions to allow the author to expand Exod 20:22–26. On these examples, see Jeffrey H. Tigay, The Evolution of the Gilgamesh Epic (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1982), 75–76, 95; and idem, “Conflation as a Redactional Technique,” in Empirical Models for Biblical Criticism (ed. Jeffrey H. Tigay; Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1985), 53–96, at 74. A number of scholars have proposed that the device functions compositionally rather than editorially,
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employ the Numeruswechsel as an automatic tool for making literary-critical judgments nonetheless speak of this unit as a later Zusatz.56 Superficially, the argument that the plural section (Lev 25:44b–46aa) represents a secondary excursus seems compelling. After all, the unit is formally distinct (given the Numeruswechsel); it is topically distinct (in terms of the otherwise unexplained shift from the chapter’s focus on Israelite social welfare to the right of Israelites to hold foreign slaves); and it seems to be bracketed as distinct from its context by means of a specific editorial device (the Wiederaufnahme). Nonetheless, these assumptions may be challenged.57 The argument that the unit is secondary assumes (a) that it represents a change in topic, and (b) that formal criteria noted are distinctive signs of secondary literary accretion. In actuality, however, there is no change in topic whatsoever. That which is superficially extrinsic goes to the heart of the matter: the problem of dealing with a law that was clearly known but that was no longer acceptable in its original form.58 The legal hermeneutics involved are dialectical. Both the singular section of the manumission law and the plural section interlock: they share a single intentionality, which is to rework the corresponding laws of both the Covenant Code and Deuteronomy, so as to align them with the utopian and humanitarian vision of the Holiness Code. The process of legal amendment especially within biblical narrative or historiography. On this debate, and with extensive bibliography, see Bernard M. Levinson, The Hermeneutics of Legal Innovation: The Impact of Centralization upon the Structure, Sequence, and Reformulation of Legal Material in Deuteronomy (Ann Arbor: University Microfilms, 1991), 142–50; and idem, Deuteronomy and the Hermeneutics of Legal Innovation, 17–20. 56 Grünwaldt allows the possibility, properly on a case-by-case basis, that the Numeruswechsel need not automatically serve as a literary-critical criterion but may point to the reception of older traditions. Yet as regards Lev 25:44–46, he inconsistently accepts that the plural section represents a later addition (Zusatz), without considering alternative possibilities. Grünwaldt also recognizes a Wiederaufnahme as framing the manumission law (Heiligkeitsgesetz, 105–6, 111–12). 57 In a one-sentence footnote in a stimulating study, Christophe Nihan disagrees with Grünwaldt on Lev 25:44– 46, without considering the Wiederaufnahme or the Numeruswechsel. See idem, “The Holiness Code between D and P: Some Comments on the Function and Significance of Leviticus 17–26 in the Composition of the Torah,” in Das Deuteronomium zwischen Pentateuch und Deuteronomistichen Geschichtswerk (ed. Eckart Otto and Reinhard Achenbach; FRLANT 206; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2004), 81–122, at 87 n. 29. 58 A similar phenomenon is evident in the earliest stratum of Deuteronomy’s centralization law (Deut 12:13–19). Neither of the two key substantive innovations—the restriction of sacrificial worship of Yahweh to the central sanctuary and the concession for local, secular slaughter—occurs as an independent imperative or affirmation. Instead, both stipulations are shunted into dependent clauses of opposition and qualification, as if they were not the main point of the authors’ agenda. The key innovation, which is predicated on careful lemmatic citation and reinterpretation of a source text, seems not to be the central point. On this issue, see Norbert Lohfink, “Lectures on Deuteronomy 12–14,” unpublished internal course material, mimeograph copy (Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1983), 104–6; and Levinson, Deuteronomy, 30.
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that began with Deuteronomy’s revision of the Covenant Code’s law of manumission, which avoided the terms “master” and “slave” altogether, is here brought to such a sharp climax that slavery is altogether abolished. The chapter’s literary reworking of the Covenant Code is consistent across both the plural sections, as here, and sections with a singular addressee, as in the reworking of the land sabbatical legislation (Lev 25:3–7).59 The exegetical reworking that restricts the validity of the Covenant Code’s manumission law (Lev 25:44– 46) is framed by a Wiederaufnahme: hdrt al ^rp˝b w˝b, “You must not rule over them with harshness” (Lev 25:43a; 46bb).60 Within that frame, the reworking is cast in the second person plural, except for the reference to ^˝l wyhy r`a ^˝tma˝w ^˝db[˝w, “As for your male slave and your female slave whom you would possess” (Lev 25:44a). The formulation seems directly to tag the insistence in Deuteronomy’s manumission law that: #aw @k h`[t ^˝tma˝l, “Even with respect to your female slave, you must do likewise” (Deut 15:17b). As noted earlier, at issue here seems to be an exegetical blend. The singular nouns tag the Covenant Code’s separate procedures for the db[, “male slave” (Exod 21:2–6), and the hma , “female slave” (Exod 21:7–11), respectively. The key terms are cited and the verb is pluralized: db[ wnqt !hm hmaw, “From them may you purchase a male slave or a female slave” (Lev 25:44). Moreover, the two laws are read through the prism of what can only be Deuteronomy’s integration of the two into a single, gender-inclusive protocol (Deut 15:12). The evidence of Leviticus 25 thus requires a reassessment of the standard conception of the Wiederaufnahme. The standard debate about whether it should be seen primarily in synchronic terms, as a compositional device, or rather in diachronic terms, as an editorial device, does not do justice to its use here. In this case, it subsumes characteristics associated with both editing and composition. Critical is the insight that the use of the device, while marking exegetical reinterpretation of a lemma, does not constitute a secondary redactional layer.61 The writer of this text reworks, reinterprets, and recombines 59 See the astute analysis of Elliger, Leviticus, 344; Meir Paran, “Literary Features of the Priestly Code: Stylistic Patterns, Idioms, and Structures” (in Hebrew; Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University, 1983), 15–19, 259–61; idem, Forms of the Priestly Style, 29–34; Michael Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel (2nd ed.; Oxford: Clarendon, 1988), 166–69; Adrian Schenker, “Der Boden und seine Produktivität im Sabbat- und Jubeljahr: Das dominium terrae in Ex. 23:10–11 und Lev 25:2–12,” in Recht und Kult im Alten Testament: Achtzehn Studien, 123–33; Milgrom, Leviticus 23–27, 2154–62; and Grünwaldt, Heiligkeitsgesetz, 334, who here overlooks Paran’s and Fishbane’s work while reaching similar conclusions: “Das Sabbatjahr-Gestetz V.2–5 ist als Neuinterpretation des Brachjahr Gesetzes des Bundesbuches zu exegesieren.” 60 Recognizing this Wiederaufnahme, see Grünwaldt, Heiligkeitsgesetz, 111. 61 The Wiederaufnahme as a means of embedding a text that is to be interpreted or of making an exegetical statement is evident also in Second Temple literature. See M.-E. Boismard, “Un procédé rédactionnel dans le quatrième évangile: la Wiederaufnahme,” in L’Évangile de Jean:
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older law and narrative so as to make an original statement. In doing so, that writer emerges as both author and editor.
VI. Conclusions: Pronominal Deixis and Implicit Lemmatic Reinterpretation Leviticus 25 attests a sophisticated technique of citation and lemmatic reworking. The reinterpreted text is presented not in exegetical terms but as an original divine address. The deictic-identifying pronouns do not mark explicit citation of an authoritative source that is exegetically reapplied; instead, they mark implicit lemmatic reformulation. The exegetical reworking of the source presents itself as “scriptural.” It pointedly employs the same divine voice to which the original text is attributed (and is thus “theonymous”). Moreover, it presents itself, quite literally, as deriving from Mount Sinai (Lev 25:1).62 This insistence on priority and originality calls attention to itself, given that what precedes it in the book of Leviticus is staged as revealed by the divine voice speaking from the tent of meeting (Lev 1:1).63 Similar techniques of learned textual reworking also come into play. The Wiederaufnahme marks a site of significant exegetical reworking, where a lemma is embedded to be reworked. The pluralization marks the restrictive reinterpretation of the manumission law of the Covenant Code. Yet the singular frame of the Wiederaufnahme is just as much exegetical: ^rp˝b w˝b hdrt al, “You must not rule over him ruthlessly” (Lev 25:3a, 46bb). This exhortation alludes to a text from the Priestly source, addressing the narrative of the Israelite enslavement in Egypt: ^rp˝b lar`y ynb ta !yrxm wdb[y˝w, “The Egyptians enslaved the Israelites ruthlessly” (Exod 1:13; similarly, 1:14b).64 In effect, it Sources, rédaction, théologie (ed. M. de Jonge; BETL 44; Gembloux: Duculot; Leuven: University Press, 1977; repr., Leuven: University Press/Peeters, 1987), 235–41. Similarly, in Jub. 20:2, an interpretation of the two key terms of Gen 18:19 frames an embedded citation of Lev 19:18 (David Lambert, “Last Testaments in the Book of Jubilees,” DSD 11 [2004]: 82–107, at 90). There are also examples in the NT (in the Pauline Epistles, Mark, and John). See James M. Robinson, “The Johannine Trajectory,” in Trajectories through Early Christianity (ed. James M. Robinson and Helmut Koester; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1971), 244–50 (recognizing the literary technique but not identifying it as an established editorial device); and James L. Price, The New Testament: Its History and Theology (New York: Macmillan; London: Collier Macmillan, 1987), 117 (who refers to “intercalation”). 62 The literary strategy of “re-presentations of Sinai serve[s] to authorize the re-introduction of Torah into the Jewish community at times of legal reform. . . .” See Hindy Najman, Seconding Sinai: The Development of Mosaic Discourse in Second Temple Judaism (JSLSup 77; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 36. 63 On this fascinating issue, see Milgrom, Leviticus 23–27, 2151–52. 64 The adverb ^rp˝b is attested only in Leviticus 25 (vv. 25:43, 46, 53), Exod 1:13–14 (P), and
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urges that an Israelite must not become an Egyptian taskmaster to his fellow Israelite by holding him or her as a slave. This exhortation frames and motivates the exegetical restriction of the manumission law of the Covenant Code. The concatenation of the two passages makes an exegetical argument. The legal logic employs the Israelite experience of slavery as a judicial precedent for the de facto revocation of the slave law. The textual reuse—both the narrative and the legal, both the singular and the plural—shares a common purpose. While taking account of Israelite literary history, it seeks to abrogate slavery altogether. With this web of allusions, the paragraph comes close to representing a self-contained exegetical anthology. The catena of reinterpreted lemmas is drawn from disparate sources and gains a new coherence in the reworking. The whole has a chiastic structure: Leviticus 25
Reinterpreting
&r
43a
.hm…a;˝w“ db,[≤ Wn™q]Ti !h≤˝me
44b
Source of Citation
.&&r
(Exod 21:2a)
Leviticus 25 Numeruswechsel Singular A
Plural
B
Plural
B′
CC Wdbo[}T' !h≤¢˝B; ! l … [ o ˝ l ]
46a
.!l…â[o˝l] /˝db;[}˝w"
(Exod 21:6b)
CC .&r
46b
.&&r
Singular A′
P Figure 5: The Interpretive Coherence of the Numeruswechsel (Lev 25:43–46)
The Numeruswechsel cannot provide a valid basis for literary stratification of the unit, since the frame of the Wiederaufnahme is singular, while the legal reworking is plural: yet both are exegetical. Moreover, the reapplication of the lemma is introduced by the technical deixis. Identifying pronouns are used to
Ezek 34:4. The dependence is not direct; Ezekiel’s judgment oracle (34:4) against Israel’s irresponsible rulers (metaphorically, shepherds) may have served as an intertext. It brings together the specific verb + adverb string (^rp˝b + hdr) that is otherwise attested only in Lev 25:43, 46, 53. Ezekiel 34 also attests the formula of qal db[ + prepositional b-, functionally a causative, “to enslave” (Ezek 34:27), attested both in Exod 1:14 (with ^rp˝ b ) and in Lev 25:39, 46. (Similarly, Grünwaldt, Heiligkeitsgesetz, 330.) The reverse direction of allusion, with Exod 1:13–14 as a narrative implementation of the Holiness Code prohibition, is unlikely. There would be no reason for the Priestly author of Exod 1:13–14 to have changed the key verb (hdr) employed in Lev 25:43, 46 if these verses stood before him.
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link the lemma (in this case, pluralized) to its reinterpretation: db[ wnqt !h˝m hma˝w, “From them may you purchase a male slave or a female slave” (Lev 25:44). The anaphoric pronoun refers back to the Canaanites as the sole valid group to whom the reworked manumission law may now apply. The pronoun functions similarly in the following case as well: wdb[t !h˝b !l[˝l, “Forever—them—may you make serve as slaves” (Lev 25:46). The deixis transforms the lemma so as to give it a fundamentally new application. There is no abrogation, except dialectically, because the restrictive reinterpretation is now the original intention.65 Such examples challenge any simple dichotomy between composition history and reception history, between an original source and its reinterpretation, or between the intellectual models normally employed for the study of preexilic literature and those used for the literature of the Second Temple period. In this case, the author is already an interpreter. 65 Despite his attentive textual analysis, the approach of Adrian Schenker does not take into account this dialectical legal hermeneutics: “My purpose is to show that the jubilee of Leviticus 25 does not supersede the earlier biblical legislation on slaves, but implies them and completes them” (“The Biblical Legislation on the Release of Slaves: The Road from Exodus to Leviticus,” in Recht und Kult im Alten Testament: Achtzehn Studien, 134–49, at 134; similarly, 146). His rhetorical stance (“does not supersede . . . but implies and completes”) should resonate in the history of religions. The Matthean redactor has Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount make a similar claim that he comes “not to abolish but to fulfill” (Matt 5:17). No sooner is that claim of consistency with Torah made than the six antitheses immediately follow that pointedly revise and radicalize existing law (Matt 5:21–48). In point of fact, there was clearly a drive to supersede and to justify that supersession in Scripture. That example should already alert the reader that consistency with tradition is often a trope of legal hermeneutics that must be interpreted in dialectical terms. It cannot be taken simply at face value. On this issue, and with further attention to Matthew 5 as a case in point, see my earlier study, “The Hermeneutics of Tradition in Deuteronomy,” JBL 119 (2000): 269–86.
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QUESTIONS ABOUT EVE’S INIQUITY, BEAUTY, AND FALL: THE “PRIMAL FIGURE” IN EZEKIEL 28:11–19 AND GENESIS RABBAH TRADITIONS OF EVE
DAPHNA ARBEL [email protected] University of British Columbia, Vancouver, BC V6T 1Z1 Canada
The Palestinian midrash Gen. Rab. 18:1 includes a compelling teaching regarding the creation of the first woman.1 It reflects on Gen 2:22, “And the rib which the Lord God had taken from the man he built into a woman and brought her to the man,” and introduces a homily attributed to Rabbi Hama bar Hanina that correlates this verse with another scriptural citation, found in Ezek 28:13, to offer the following exegesis: He [God] ornamented her [Eve] with twenty-four ornaments and then brought her to him [Adam] as it says: “When you were in Eden, the Garden of God, every precious stone was your adornment: carnelian, chrysolite and moonstone; beryl, onyx, and jasper, sapphire, turquoise, and emerald and gold.” (Ezek 28:13)2
In its original context the verse cited from Ezekiel is part of 28:11–19, a lament addressed to the king of Tyre. The king is compared, ironically, to a mythological figure who was created by God as a wise and beautiful cherub. In the beginning, this being was placed in Eden, described as the garden and mountain of God, amid precious gems and fiery stones. After this figure was indicted for pride and violence, as well as his ambitious aim to appropriate fully 1 For a general treatment of Genesis Rabbah’s perspectives regarding biblical texts, see Jacob Neusner, Genesis and Judaism: The Perspective of Genesis Rabbah; An Analytical Anthology (BJS 108; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1985), 17–44. 2 Jehuda Theodor and Hanoch Albeck, eds., Genesis Rabbah (Jerusalem: Wahrmann, 1967), 161; Jacob Neusner, Genesis Rabbah: The Judaic Commentary to the Book of Genesis; A New American Translation (3 vols.; BJS 104–6; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1985), 1:190.
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divine privileges for himself, he was demoted from his former high status, banished from Eden, cast down to earth, and condemned to death by God. Rabbinic hermenutical principles such as “there is no before and after” and “turn it and turn it because all is in it” elucidate the general way in which Genesis Rabbah’s homily juxtaposes biblical quotations from different sources to make a point.3 This familiar exegetical method explains how Gen 2:22 is explicated by a reference to Ezek 28:13. In a typical midrashic construction, the two originally separated verses are combined into an integrated piece in Genesis Rabbah.4 The linking of these verses seems to have been determined by the reference to creation in Ezek 28:13, as well as by the shared themes found in both sources, Ezek 28:11–19 and the Yahwist Eden narrative of Genesis 2–3.5 These themes include references to the mythical time of the beginning in the garden of God, as well as the acquisition of divine knowledge, the misappropriation of Godlike qualities, and the consequences entailed by this misappropria3 On the hermenutical principles of midrash, see Daniel Boyarin, Intertextuality and the Reading of Midrash (Indiana Studies in Biblical Literature; Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990); Michael A. Fishbane, “Extra-Biblical Exegesis: The Sense of Not Reading in Rabbinic Midrash,” in The Garments of Torah: Essays in Biblical Hermeneutics (Indiana Studies in Biblical Literature; Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1989), 19–32; idem, “Midrash and the Nature of Scripture,” in The Midrashic Imagination: Jewish Exegesis, Thought, and History (ed. Michael Fishbane; Albany: State University of New York Press, 1993), 9–21; idem, Biblical Myth and Rabbinic Mythmaking (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 95–109; Steven D. Fraade, From Tradition to Commentary: Torah and Its Interpretation in the Midrash Sifre to Deuteronomy (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1991); Yonah Fraenkel, The Methods of Aggadah and Midrash (in Hebrew; 2 vols.; Givatayyim: Yad la-Talmud, 1991); James Kugel, In Potiphar’s House: The Interpretive Life of Biblical Texts (San Fransisco: Harper, 1990); Jacob Neusner, Invitation to Midrash (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1989); David Stern, Midrash and Theory: Ancient Jewish Exegesis and Contemporary Literary Studies (Rethinking Theory; Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1996), 39–44; Burton L. Visotzky, “Trinitarian Testimonies,” in Fathers of the World: Essays in Rabbinic and Patristic Literatures (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1995), 61–74; David Weiss-Halivni, Peshat and Drash: Plain and Applied Meaning in Rabbinic Exegesis (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991). 4 Critical studies of this text as well as significant questions such as its roots and meanings have been investigated by biblical scholars from a variety of perspectives. See, e.g., Walther Eichrodt, Ezekiel: A Commentary (trans. Cosslett Quin; OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1970), 392–95; Moshe Greenberg, Ezekiel 1–20: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 22; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1983), 579–93; Marvin H. Pope, El in the Ugaritic Texts (VTSup 2; Leiden: Brill, 1955), 97–103; Walther Zimmerli, A Commentary on the Book of the Prophet Ezekiel (trans. Ronald E. Clements; 2 vols.; Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1979), 2:81–96. For recent summary of scholarship on Ezekiel 28, see Terje Stordalem, Echoes of Eden: Genesis 2–3 and Symbolism of the Garden in Biblical Hebrew Literature (Leuven: Peeters, 2000), 332–35; Herbert G. May, “The King in the Garden of Eden” in Israel’s Prophetic Heritage: Essays in Honor of James Muilenburg (ed. Bernhard W. Anderson and Walter Harrelson: New York: Harper, 1962), 166–76; Hugh R. Page, The Myth of Cosmic Rebellion: A Study of Its Reflexes in Ugaritic and Biblical Literature (VTSup 65; Leiden: Brill, 1996). 5 See, e.g., Neusner, Genesis Rabbah, 1:190–91.
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tion—namely, demotion from the previous position of glory, expulsion from Eden, and the sentence of mortality. Nonetheless, these shared themes, as well as the general exegetical method of combined quotation utilized in Genesis Rabbah, do not fully explain the specific relationship between the two verses and between Eve and the dissident cherub of Ezekiel 28. Scholars have long demonstrated that the depiction of a primal protagonist in Ezek 28:11–19—a perfect being who has fallen from an initial high status because of rebellious errors—is associated with the portrayal in Genesis of the first man, Adam, or alternatively with the character of God’s enemy, the serpent, often depicted in later sources as Satan or the devil.6 The homily in Gen. Rab. 18.1, however, focuses on a feminine being— Eve. This presentation, in my mind, raises several puzzling questions. First, what are the textual elements embedded in Ezekiel 28 that may have inspired the exegete of Genesis Rabbah to explicate Gen 22:2 by a reference to Ezek 28:13 and, consequently, to associate the first woman with the archetype of God’s antagonist depicted in Ezekiel 28? Second, what are the cultural implications of this hermeneutical presentation which integrates the two figures, and what is the context of this exegetical construction? The following discussion seeks to consider possible answers to these questions. This article advances several new suggestions. First, it proposes that the gender of the “primal figure” described in Ezekiel 28 may not have been depicted as masculine alone. Rather, it will suggest that this figure is portrayed in Ezekiel by an exceptional ambiguous usage of both masculine and feminine grammatical forms, terms, and features. This depiction, in turn, could have inspired the association of Eve with the rebellious figure in the exegetical version of Gen. Rab. 18.1.7 Second, in light of gender conceptions and ideologies 6 On the identification of Adam and the “primary figure,” see, e.g., Gary A. Anderson, “Ezekiel 28: The Fall of Satan and the Adam Books,” in Literature on Adam and Eve: Collected Essays (ed. Gary Anderson, Michael Stone, and Johannes Tromp; Leiden/Boston/Cologne: Brill, 2000), 133–47; Dexter E. Callender Jr., Adam in Myth and History: Ancient Israelite Perspectives on the Primal Human (HSS 48; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2000), 87–135; Donald E. Gowan, When Man Becomes God: Humanism and Hybris in the Old Testament (Pittsburgh: Pickwick, 1975); Fishbane, Biblical Myth and Rabbinic Mythmaking, 87–88; Niel Forsyth, The Old Enemy Satan and the Combat Myth (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1987), 39–142; James L. Kugel, Traditions of the Bible: A Guide to the Bible as It Was at the Start of the Common Era (Cambridge, MA: Harvard Universitiy Press, 1998), 118–19, 121; May, “King in the Garden”; Page, Myth of Cosmic Rebellion. 7 A theoretical discussion of the dialogic relationships between these two texts is beyond the scope of this study. I do consider, however, the influence of Ezekiel 28 on Gen. Rab. 18.1 as an example of intertexual relationships, as Harold Bloom, for instance, has argued: “Influence, as I conceive it, means that there are no texts but only relationships between texts” (Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry [New York: Oxford University Press, 1973], 94, 96). For a discussion of theories related to influence and intertextuality, see Jay Clayton and Eric Rothstein, “Figures in the Corpus: Theories of Influence and Intertexuality” in Influence and Intertextuality in Literary His-
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that were often accepted in the cultural context in which Genesis Rabbah was compiled, I will discuss the several implications of this midrashic presentation.
I. The “Primal Figure” in Ezekiel 28:13–15 By applying royal and priestly imagery, Ezekiel 28 invokes, in a historicized manner, themes rooted in several ancient mythological traditions.8 On form-critical grounds the chapter is divided into two major units. The first unit, 28:1–10, is an announcement of judgment against the prince of Tyre. The second unit, 28:11–19, which is the focus of this study, is a lament (hnyq)over the king of Tyre that presents the reasons for the king’s downfall and ends with the announcement of judgment. It includes a developed presentation of details and themes, which allegorically compare the king of Tyre to a primary being in Eden, also distinguished as a “cherub” (v. 14 MT). Created by God, this figure was perfect in the primordial age, enjoying an exalted quasi-divine standing in Eden, before he violated this status. Condemned for violence, corrupted wisdom, and the hubristic ambition to partake fully in divine privileges, this being was demoted from his former high status and cast down to earth as an example to all, where he experienced a dreadful end. One of the many questions raised by this passage and which has been the subject of scholarly attention is: Who is this figure?”9 tory (ed. Jay Clayton and Eric Rothstein: Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1991), 3–36. Daniel Boyarin’s views regarding intertextuality are also relevant to this study: “Intertextuality has several different accepted senses, three of which are important in my account of Midrash. The first is that the text is always made up of conscious and unconscious citations of earlier discourse. The second is that texts may be dialogical in nature—contesting their own assertions as an essential part of the structure of their discourse—and that the Bible is a preeminent example of such a text. The third is that there are cultural codes, either conscious or unconscious, which both restrain and allow the production of new texts within the culture; these codes may be identified with the ideology of the culture, which is made up of the assumptions that people in the culture automatically make about what may or may not be true and possible, about what is natural in nature and in history” (Intertextality and the Reading of Midrash, 12). 8 On links to Mesopotamian, Ugaritic, and parallel biblical mythological traditions, see Eichrodt, Ezekiel, 392–95; Pope, El in the Ugaritic Texts, 97–103; Zimmerli, Ezekiel, 94. 9 On the identity of the primary figure, see the recent discussion and references to previous studies in Callender, Adam in Myth and History, 87–135. Compare James Barr, “Thou Art the Cherub: Ezekiel 28.14 and the Post-Ezekiel Understanding of Genesis 2–3,” in Priests, Prophets and Scribes: Essays on the Formation and Heritage of Second Temple Judaism in Honour of Joseph Blenkinsopp (ed. Eugene Ulrich, John W. Wright, Robert P. Carroll, and Philip R. Davies; JSOTSup 149; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1992), 213–23; Greenberg, Ezekiel, 582; May, “King in the Garden of Eden,” 168–70; Trygve N. D. Mettinger, King and Messiah (Lund: Gleerup, 1976), 272 n. 17; Page, Myth of Cosmic Rebellion, 149; Robert R. Wilson, “The Death of the King of Tyre: The Editorial History of Ezekiel 28,” in Love and Death in the Ancient Near East:
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Verses 13–15 of Ezekiel 28 present several details regarding the identity of this primal figure.10 They are beset, however, by many linguistic and conceptual difficulties that prevent a clear identification of this being. One of these difficulties is the exceptional usage of both masculine and feminine grammatical forms, terms, and allusions. This mixture of masculine and feminine language, present both explicitly and implicitly, has advanced various discussions and questions. One issue that has not been examined before involves the following interrelated questions: Has the usage of feminine language, however vague, helped promote the characterization of the primal dissident figure as a female being? Has this figure, in turn, been associated with the figure of Eve in later exegetical literature such as Genesis Rabbah? The following discussion will suggest that such an association is possible.
II. The “Primal Figure” in Ezekiel 28:13–15: Allusions to a Female Being? The Hebrew in the MT of Ezek 28:11–19 is difficult and uncertain. There are also frequent textual discrepancies between the MT and other versions, especially the Septuagint translation. These problems have given rise to many interpretations, readings, and scholarly debates over a number of points that are beyond the scope of this article.11 I will offer several observations, however, on the manner in which the main protagonist is depicted in vv. 13–14. These verses disclose conflicting details regarding the identity of the defiant “primal figure.”12 While the main protagonist is clearly presented as a male figure, several feminine grammatical forms and subtle allusions found in these verses may also allow for an association of this figure with a female being. Essays in Honor of Marvin H. Pope (ed. John H. Marks and Robert M. Good; Guilford, CT: Four Quarters, 1987), 211–18. 10 For ease of reference, I will henceforth refer to this being as the primary figure. I subscribe here to an identification, made in several studies, of this figure as a primal human. See, e.g., A. Bentzen, King and Messiah, 42; Geo Widengren, “Early Jewish Myth and Their Interpretations,” in Myth, Ritual and Kingship (ed. S. H. Hooke: Oxford: Clarendon, 1933), 149–203; Calllender, Adam in Myth and History, 89–91. On the primal figure as a cherub, see Barr, “Thou Art the Cherub.” Compare Wilson, “Death of the King of Tyre,” 211–18, esp. 215 n. 21; May, “King in the Garden,” 168; Callender, Adam in Myth and History, 109–11; Page, Myth of Cosmic Rebellion, 151–54. 11 See studies mentioned in n. 4 above. 12 See, e.g., Margaret Barker’s view regarding the feminine/masculine identity of this figure in her recent study The Great High Priest: The Temple Roots of Christian Liturgy (London/New York: T&T Clark, 2003), 249–55.
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Journal of Biblical Literature “Hand-Drums” and “Hollow Holes”: Feminine Implications?
Verse 13 is the first example. This verse describes the figure as placed in the divine location, Eden, adorned with precious stones of all kinds and also with gold.13 “You were in Eden, the garden of God; every precious stone was your covering: carnelian, chrysolite and moonstone; beryl, onyx, and jasper, sapphire, turquoise, and emerald and worked in gold were your settings.”14 The verse ends by the ambiguous phrase: wnnwk ^arbh !wyb ^b ^ybqnw ^ypt tkalm, “tuppêkaµ (*yP,Tu) and ne·qaµbêkaµ (*yb,q;n“) [your !yPiTu and !ybiq;n“] were on you, on the day you were created they were prepared.” The perplexing words *yP,Tu and *yb,q;n“ are evidently two attributes by which the figure is characterized. Several suggestions have been presented to explain these terms, yet a definitive explanation has not yet been reached.15 Both terms seem to be in a plural form. The word *yP,Tu was related to the term #To, a common noun that is frequently translated as “tambourine” or “timbrel.” The less conventional word *yb,q;n“ was related to the Hebrew root bqn, which parallels a similar Semitic term, normally denoting a cavity, a hole, a hollow hole, or an opening. Accordingly, the term was understood to indicate something hollowed out, such as ornaments or musical instruments. Based on these translations, several interpretations have been offered to explain the terms *yP,Tu and *yb,q;n“, including, for example, “your tambours and settings” (e.g,. Greenberg ), “[technical terms] from the industrial arts” (e.g., Zimmerli); “your earrings and your settings” (e.g., Eichrodt ); “your settings 13 Some of the readings regard the word “gold” as the first word of a new sentence. Other translators argue that “gold” must be separated from the list of stones. See Greenberg, Ezekiel, 582–83. 14 Biblical translations are based on the NRSV. As has long been observed, the verse lists nine of the twelve stones that are named in the first description of the priestly ephod in Exod 28:17–20, yet not in the same order. The LXX, on the other hand, includes the names of twelves stones, and the list matches the Greek text of the Exodus passage. Thus, it has been argued, in the LXX the figure is associated with the high priest. The MT, on the other hand, diminishes this similarity, emphasizing instead the divine characteristics attributed to the primal figure. According to this view, the bejeweled garb suggests kingship and is related to the divine characteristics of this figure. See, e.g., May, “King in the Garden,” 170; Mettinger, King and Messiah, 272 n. 17. Nor does Page see a priestly allusion here, but rather an allusion to astral deities that surround this figure as his coterie (Myth of Cosmic Rebellion, 149). According to Greenberg, it is conceivable that the MT would wish to reduce that association and deviate from the LXX in order to weaken the connection between the figure and the high priest (Ezekiel 1–20, 582). Stordalen has observed that this description is consistent with the MT depiction of the figure as a colossal heavenly cherub (Echoes of Eden, 339, 346). Compare other views that associate the list of stones with priestly traditions as listed in Stordalen, Echoes of Eden, 338-39. 15 For a survey of suggestions, see Kalman Yaron, “The Dirge over the King of Tyre,” ASTI 3 (1964): 33–43; Callender, Adam in Myth and History, 105–9; Stordalem, Echoes of Eden, 340–43.
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and your anchorings” (e.g., Page).16 On the basis of philological and textual evidence, Dexter E. Callender has suggested recently “your timbrels and your pipes” as a reference to musical instruments. As Callender has argued, the term *yP,Tu is clearly derived from #To. “Of the 17 times the word top occurs in the Hebrew Bible, it is conventionally rendered ‘timbrel’ and, in every case but one [Ezekiel 28], the meaning is clear and, for the most part, uncontested.”17 In contrast, Carol Meyers suggests that the English terms “timbrel” and “tambourine,” used often to translate the musical instrument top, are misleading and should be replaced by “drum” or “handdrum.”18 A clarification of the different terms has been offered by Joachim Braun in his recent study of biblical musical instruments: “The Old Testament itself nowhere really provides information about the size or shape of this type of a drum [top]. Modern interpretations, however, generally agree that it was a drum whose round frame was made out of wood and measured approximately 25–20 cm., and resembled what we today refer to as a tambourine or timbrel, though, unlike the familiar modern tambourine, the top had no metal jingles attached to its sides.”19 The term *yb,q;n“ in Ezek 28:13 has been often rendered “pipes,” as translations such as the KJV and the RV (both British and American) demonstrate. This rendition has influenced various recent studies. Callender, for instance, has recently interpreted the Hebrew term bq,n< as a synonym for lylj, a “flute pipe” or a “drilled thing.”20 As he asserts, the common term for “flute” in the Hebrew Bible is lylij;, a word semantically generated from the root llj, indicating “to bore” or “to pierce.” The word *yb,q;n“ is, most reasonably, taken from the root bqn, which in Semitic languages carries the sense “to dig,” “to tunnel,” or “to pierce.” Thus, bq,n<, like lylij;, denotes a “drilled thing” or a “flute pipe.” Textual evidence in support of this translation includes passages that place the articles #To and lylij; together in the context of a list of musical instruments (e.g., 1 Sam 10:5; Isa 5:12). This understanding of #To and lylij; as “hand-drum” and “flute” discloses, perhaps, further possibilities for the identity of the figure depicted in Ezek 28:11–19. These implications are related to a female musical tradition and the intrinsic connection between women and the specific musical instruments, 16 See Greenberg , Ezekiel, 579; Zimmerli, Ezekiel, 84; Eichrodt, Ezekiel, 389; Page, Myth of Cosmic Rebellion, 151. 17 Callender, Adam in Myth and History, 106. 18 Carol Meyers, “Miriam the Musician,” in Feminist Companion to Exodus to Deuteronomy (ed. Athalya Brenner; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994), 207–30. 19 Joachim Braun, Music in Ancient Israel/Palestine: Archaeological, Written, and Comparative Sources (trans. Douglas W. Stott; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), 29–31. 20 Callender, Adam in Myth and History, 105–9.
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namely, the #To and lyli j ; , found in both textual evidence and artifacts. As Meyers has demonstrated, these instruments were primarily associated with women and female musical traditions in the East Mediterranean in antiquity. According to Meyers’s investigation, a specific set of biblical references mentioning women playing the #To, as well as Iron Age Syro-Palestinian terra-cottas depicting women holding !yPiTu, and very similar terra-cotta figures holding a lylij;, a flute, reveal an established and long-lasting tradition of women’s performance in the ancient Near East.21 If Meyers is correct, the two explicit musical instruments specified in Ezek 28:13, #To and lylij;, “hand-drum” and “flute,” may associate the primal figure with an exclusively female tradition. Braun offers further support for this connection, suggesting that it is typically women whom we encounter playing the #To. Women play the #To in the crossing of the Reed Sea (Exod 15:20); the prophetess Miriam takes a #To in her hand and all the women go out after her with !yPiTu and with dancing. There are parallel depictions of women playing the #To in other literary sources such as Judg 11:34; 1 Sam 18:6; Jer 31:4; and Ps 68:26. According to Braun, although the #To was not exclusively a woman’s instrument, females do seem to be the only ones to play the #To as a solo instrument. Further, unlike other instruments, such as the shofar, the #To is never mentioned in connection with temple music. Rather, it is associated with women whenever cultic dances are performed (Exod 15:20; 1 Sam 18:6) and processions organized (2 Sam 6:5; 1 Chr 13:8), in which female drummers seem to have come after the singers.22 In this context, it is interesting to note the Hebrew expression t/ppe/T t/ml;[}, “girls playing tambourines” (NRSV) or “maidens playing timbrels” (NKJV), in Ps 68:26, which is probably a reference to female drummers.23 Material evidence may also provide a context for the term *yb,q;n“. This may be implied by a certain association among the flute, the tradition associated with female musicians, and the female body. In his examination of Iron Age figurines of female musicians playing the flute, Braun has directed attention to a crowned female figure, found in Megiddo, standing on a tripod playing a double-pipe. As Braun concluded, this figure may represent a deified temple priestess. In light of the woman’s instrument—the double-pipe—however, Braun suggests that she may represent instead one of the tw`dq associated with sacred prostitution during the monarchy in Israel (Deut 23:18).24 Another 21 Carol Meyers, “The Drum-Dance-Song Ensemble: Women’s Performance in Ancient Israel,” in Rediscovering the Muses: Women’s Musical Traditions (ed. Kimberly Marshall; Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1993); eadem, “Miriam the Musician,” 207–30; eadem, “Terracottas at the Harvard Semitic Museum and Disc-Holding Figures Reconsidered,” IEJ 37 (1987): 116–22. 22 Braun, Music in Ancient Israel/Palestine, 29, 112–33. 23 Ibid., 39. 24 Ibid., 134.
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double-pipe female figure, found in Achziv, has “closely cropped hair, which could mark this musician as an indecent woman,” and, Braun maintains, supports this association between the double-pipe, female musicians, and the female body as related to eroticism and prostitution.25 Another possible interpretation of *yb,q;n“ that I would like to put forward also raises questions regarding a possible association between Ezekiel’s primal figure and a female being. As I just mentioned, the term *yb,q;n“ is derived from the root bqn , which usually denotes a tunnel, a hollow hole, or something pierced. Thus it was associated in many scholarly interpretations with “something hollowed out,” such as ornaments or musical instruments. It seems significant to note, however, that the Hebrew term hbqn, “female,” is derived from the same root, bqn. Based on the anatomy of the female body, this term is used to indicate an explicitly female identity, both human and animal. The term hbqn, “female,” occurs in Gen 1:27 to indicate gender identity as well as in various biblical passages such as Gen 5:2; 6:19; 7:3, 9, 16; Lev 3:1, 6; 4:28, 32; 5:6; 12:5, 7; 15:33; 27:4, 5, 6, 7; Num 5:3; Deut 4:16; and Jer 31:21–22.26 Accordingly, the term *yb,q;n“ mentioned at the end of Ezek 28:13 could be understood to designate a feminine characteristic, established as a distinct feature of the primal figure on the day of [her] creation. Thus the reading “Your drums and your hollow holes, on the day you were created, they were prepared” seems to support this option. Taken together, the terms “drums” and “hollow holes” (as flutes or as an image of the woman’s body), both associated with the female gender, are suggestive. An indirect iconographical reference to the pair “drums” and “hollow holes” associated with females and the female body seems to be reflected also in Iron Age archaeological evidence. As Othmar Keel has observed, in several Iron Age terra-cottas, female figurines with !yPiTu, “drums,” are depicted naked, with accentuated genitalia represented as “hollow holes,” !ybiq;n“.27 Is it possible that this tradition, begun already in the Iron Age, is echoed in Ezekiel 28:13?
bWrK] T]a': Feminine Implications? Ezekiel 28:14 includes also inconsistent evidence about the identity of the primary figure in the phrase bWrK] T]a'. As has long been noted, there is an appar25
Ibid., 140. Compare a later description in the mystical Sefer ha-Bahir, which conveys a similar perception: “This relates to the female. Because of her the female was taken from Adam. This is because it is impossible for the lower world to endure without the female. And why is the female called Nekevah? Because her orifices (nekev) are wide. Also because she has more orifices than the male. What are they? They are the orifices of the breasts, the womb, and the receptacle.” In Aryeh Kaplan, The Bahir: Illumination (York Beach, ME: Samuel Weiser, 1989), 173. 27 Othmar Keel and Christoph Uehlinger, Gods, Goddesses, and Images of God in Ancient 26
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ent difference in this phrase between the MT and the LXX. The latter describes the figure as being “with the cherub” (meta; tou' ceroub). The MT, which is taken over by the Vulgate (tu cherub), however, states quite clearly that the figure is a cherub; that is, the cherub and the first human being are one and the same: “You (ta) are/were Cherub.” This discussion does not attempt to determine which version has retained the original meaning of this phrase.28 Instead, it focuses on the MT, since this Hebrew version was presumably used by the Palestinian commentators on the homily in Gen. Rab. 18.1. The MT phrase “You (ta) are/were Cherub” gives a distinct identity to the figure addressed, using the Hebrew form ta, a second person feminine singular personal pronoun.29 As has been argued, the term ta is an exceptional usage that should be read as conveying an independent masculine pronoun, normally known as hT;a'.30 This usage, in which the feminine form ta stands for a masculine pronoun, is rare. Nonetheless, it is a recognized phenomenon found also in Num 11:15 and Deut 5:25, where the feminine ta occurs in conjunction with a masculine subject.31 Moreover, there are four additional places in the Hebrew Bible where the kethib was feminine T]a' but the qere restates it as the normal hT;a' (e.g., Num 11:15; Deut 5:27; 1 Sam 24:18; Ps 6:4). I suggest, however, that it is possible that the MT term ta in its original feminine meaning has inspired an interpretation of the primary figure as a feminine being. Clearly, this notion is not a dominant one nor one presented consistently in the text. Nor does it agree grammatically with the overall Israel (trans. Thomas H. Trapp; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998), 164. See illustrations nos. 190b, 190d, 190f. 28 Several scholars have reconstructed an original text by combining features of the MT and the LXX, e.g., Zimmerli, Ezekiel; Yaron, “Dirge over the King of Tyre”; James E. Miller, “The Mælæk of Tyre (Ezechiel 28, 11–19),” ZAW 105 (1993): 497–501; Callender, Adam in Myth and History. Alternatively, scholars have argued in favor of an original MT or LXX version of Ezek 28:11–19. For the priority of the LXX, see n. 15 above. For the priority of the MT, see, e.g., Barr, “Thou Art the Cherub.” From a different perspective, the MT and the LXX have been regarded as two distinct and internally consistent versions of the oracle; see Emanuel Tov, “Recensional Differences between the MT and the LXX of Ezekiel,” ETL 62 (1986): 89–101; idem, Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible (Minneapolis: Fortress; Assen: Van Gorcum, 1992), 172, 333; Leslie C. Allen, “Annotation Clusters in Ezekiel,” ZAW 102 (1990): 408–13; P. M Bogaert, “Le Cherub de Tyr (Ez 28, 14,17), et l’hippocamp des ses monnaies,” in Prophetie und geschichtliche Wirklichkeit im Alten Israel (ed. R. Liwak and S. Wagner; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1991), 29–39. 29 Greenberg, Ezekiel, 579. 30 Barr, “Thou Art the Cherub,” 213–23. In support of his reading the feminine form T]a' as a misused or a rare feminine form that stands, in fact, for the masculine pronoun hT;a', Barr makes reference to Jerome’s reading of this verse in the Vulgate: “Thou art the anointed cherub that covereth.” As Barr contends, Jerome “certainly knew the LXX text and treated it as an alternative . . . but Jerome also knew that the syntax of the Hebrew was ‘you are the cherub’ in v. 14 and, even more striking, ‘you, O cherub’ in v. 16.” 31 Greenberg, Ezekiel, 583.
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presentation in Ezek 28:11–19. The reading of feminine T]a' as masculine hT;a' corresponds to the way the text often addresses this figure with a masculine term. The MT version, nonetheless, clearly introduces an enigmatic mixture of feminine and masculine terms, indicating in an obscure manner a conception of the primary figure as a female being. It is reasonable to ask whether the integration of feminine and masculine terms in v. 14, triggered variant later readings, such as Gen. Rab. 18.1, which integrates the image of the first woman and the rebel figure of Ezekiel 28. Genesis Rabbah, a haggadic midrash, originated and was shaped within learned, intellectual circles devoted to the critical scholarly study and interpretation of biblical texts. Its hermenutical methods involve highly sophisticated linguistic proficiency and knowledge of Hebrew language patterns, which may have contributed to this interpretation. To summarize, in Genesis Rabbah’s homily 18:1, Gen 2:22 is explicated in light of Ezek 28:13, which expands its frame of reference. It has been suggested that this juxtaposition was determined by the shared themes found in both verses. In his analysis of Gen. Rab. 18:1, Jacob Neusner has asserted: “The interpretation of Ezek 28:13 proves a natural step since the verse supplies the facts about how things were in the garden of Eden.”32 It is not at all clear, however, why Ezek 28:13, which describes a primary being who is frequently associated with the first man, Adam, was introduced to interpret the creation of the first female being. This collocation of the two verses, I have suggested, could have been triggered by the linguistic presentation of Ezek 28:13–14 and its ambiguous feminine language and imagery. As mentioned above, we do not find a systematic, coherent, or linguistically accurate usage of feminine language and imagery in Ezek 28:13–14. It is still possible, though speculative, that several suggestions and allusions included in these verses may have contributed to the characterization of the adversary primary figure as a female being. This, in turn, could have led to an identification of this dissident figure with the first woman in Eden, Eve.
III. The Integrative Image of Eve in Genesis Rabbah and the Primal Figure—A New Archetype? At the exegetical level, this integrative image of Eve and the condemned figure of Ezekiel 28 reflects a very different perception of Eve from what the biblical text portrays. The crux of the exegesis in Gen. Rab. 18:1, we have seen, is the relation between Gen 2:22 and Ezek 28:13. The homily juxtaposes the 32
Neusner, Genesis Rabbah, 1:191.
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two verses in which the creation of Eve is described, depicting her favorably— she is adorned by God to be the bride of Adam When the verse from Genesis is read in light of the text in Ezekiel, however, a subtly different perception of Eve emerges. The first woman is not merely the one who transgressed God’s command in the context of the Eden narrative. In the midrashic interpretation of Gen. Rab. 18:1, she is also united and fused with the condemned mythological rebel figure of Ezekiel 28 and thus assumes features that characterize her as God’s opposing enemy. Though this notion does not appear in any single verse, this point is implicit in Gen. Rab. 18.1 viewed as a whole.33 This conception of Eve does not stem from Genesis 2–3 and is considerably different from its framework, as has been emphasized widely in scholarly studies of the last two decades.34 It becomes clear, therefore, that beyond its exegetical purpose, the homily in Genesis Rabbah has achieved another function: it has crafted a new archetype.35 Unlike the narrative in Genesis 2–3, Genesis Rabbah’s new construction of the first woman has been conditioned by the ancient myth of rebellion and its depiction of a heretical mythological figure who came to represent God’s chief adversary. Other homiletical presentations of Eve in Genesis Rabbah do not include a clear textual link to Ezekiel 28. Several interpretations, however, associate Eve with characteristics typical of the antagonist figure in a manner that seems to connect the two characters. Is it possible to assume that particular themes included in Ezekiel 28 associated with a female being were invested with and 33 On transforming meaning by midrashic interpretations, see Moshe Halbertal, People of the Book: Canon, Meaning, Authority (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997), 11–44. 34 See, e.g., discussion and bibliography in Mieke Bal, “Sexuality, Sin, and Sorrow: The Emergence of Female Character [A Reading of Genesis 2-3],” in The Female Body in Western Culture (ed. Susan Rubin Suleiman; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986), 317–38; Tikva Frymer-Kensky, In the Wake of the Goddesses: Women Culture and the Biblical Transformation of Pagan Myth (New York: Fawcett Columbine, 1992), 108–17; Susan S. Lanser “(Feminist) Criticism in the Garden: Inferring Genesis 2–3,” Semeia 41 (1988): 67–84; Susan Niditch, Chaos to Cosmos: Studies in Biblical Patterns of Creation (Scholars Press Studies in the Humanities 6; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1984), 36–38, 40–43; Ilana Pardes, “Beyond Genesis 3: The Politics of Maternal Naming,” Countertraditions in the Bible: A Feminist Approach (Cambridge, MA/London: Harvard University Press, 1992), 39–59; Phyllis Trible, “A Love Story Gone Awry,” in God and the Rhetoric of Sexuality (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1978), 72–143; Carol Meyers, Discovering Eve: Ancient Israelite Women in Context (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), 72–121. 35 Compare similar developments in other postbiblical sources that depict the primary adversary of God as the first woman, in a manner that alters her depiction in Genesis: b. Sot\ah 9b; Sir 25:24; Vita of Adam and Eve 3.1; Philo, Her. 52; QG 1.37; Josephus, Ant. 1.40–51; Ambrose, Parad. chs. 6, 10; John Chrysostom, Homilies on Genesis 16.6; Tertullian, Cult. Fem. 1.1. On rabbinic reconstructions of Eve, see, e.g., Daniel Boyarin, Carnal Israel: Reading Sex in Talmudic Culture (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University of California Press, 1993), 77–106. For Christian interpretations, see, e.g., Elizabeth A. Clark, Women in the Early Church (Message of the Fathers of the Church 13; Collegville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1982), 27–76.
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absorbed into the common cultural conception and imagination of the sages? Could these themes have subsequently served as a viable, implicit source, which inspired a new reconstruction of Eve? Several intertextual echoes found in Genesis Rabbah’s homilies seem to allude to Ezekiel 28, including the concepts of beauty, violence, corruption, rebellion, and a fall attributed to Eve. These notions, which are distinctly absent from the depiction of Eve in Genesis, are clearly affiliated with the defiant primary figure of Ezekiel 28. For example, the quality of beauty, of which Genesis says nothing, is ascribed to Eve in Genesis Rabbah: R. >Azariah and R. Jonathan in R. Isaac’s name said: Eve’s image was transmitted to the reigning beauties of each generation. Elsewhere it is written, “and the damsel was very fair”—>ad me
The notion of evil also is associated with Eve in the midrashic presentation: The view of R. Berekiah in R. Hanan’s name is that as long as there was [only] Adam he was one, but when the rib was taken from him it was “To know good and evil.” (Gen. Rab. 21.5)
Unlike the account in Genesis 2–3, in Gen. Rab. 17.8, sin and its consequences are exclusively attributed to a female being. It was Eve who forsook the divine order and fell into transgression, which resulted in violence, inequity, corruption, and death: Why do they [the women] walk in front of the corpse [at a funeral?] Because they brought death into the world . . . And why was the precept of menstruation given to her? Because she shed the blood of Adam . . . And why was the precept of “dough” given to her? Because she corrupted Adam who was the dough (hallah) of the world. (Gen. Rab. 17.8)
Several interconnected views that link Eve and the primary figure are further found in Gen. Rab. 20.11. Interpreting the verse “and the man called his wife’s name Eve—hawwah” (Gen 3:2), this homily presents Eve as the main offender of God’s order, who betrayed her initial role and became the destroyer of many generations. The homily also explains the Hebrew name Hawwah (life) as related to the Aramaic Hiwiah (serpent), thus conjoining Eve with God’s adversary: She was given to him as the adviser, but she played the eavesdropper like the serpent. [Another interpretation]: He showed her how many generations she had destroyed. R. Aha interpreted it: The serpent was thy [Eve’s] serpent and thou wast Adam’s serpent.
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A more distinct identification between the first woman and God’s opponent, characterized as Satan, is present in Gen. Rab. 17.6: R. Hanina son of R. Adda said: From the beginning of the Book until here no samech is written, but as soon as she [Eve] was created Satan was created with her.
It is impossible to make generalizations about the entire corpus of Genesis Rabbah. As has long been demonstrated, this collection offers a profusion of multiple concerns, contradictory perspectives, and varying ideologies regarding gender, women, and Eve.36 Nonetheless, it was shaped within intellectual circles that were exclusively male, reflecting discriminating perspectives and trends at times. One example of such views is the presentation of Eve’s antagonistic attributes that is embedded in the discursive contexts of Genesis Rabbah. In these, on the one hand, the portrayal of Eve deviates from the depiction of her in Genesis 2–3; on the other hand, she is associated with notions that are connected with the defiant being of Ezekiel 28. Rooted in a broad cultural system that has traditionally marginalized women and often promoted misogynistic ideas, these depictions of Eve are supported by the appropriation of a variety of sources.37 One such source, perhaps, is Ezekiel 28. It seems plausible that the portrayal in Ezekiel 28 of the primary rebel figure in ambiguous feminine language has inspired the midrashic imagination in its reconstruction of a new integrative archetype of Eve and God’s adversary.
IV. Conclusion This article has concentrated on raising possibilities rather than on giving definite interpretations. Its initial focus has been Genesis Rabbah 18.1, which explains the creation of Eve in Gen 2:22 by reference to a mythological antagonistic figure described in Ezek 28:13. Examination of the unusual usage of both 36
See Boyarin, “Different Eves,” in Carnal Israel, 77–106. See Tal Ilan, Jewish Women in Graeco Roman Palestine (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1995); eadem, Mine and Yours Are Hers: Retrieving Women’s History from Rabbinic Literature (AGJU 41; Leiden: Brill, 1997); Miriam B. Peskowitz, Spinning Fantasies: Rabbis, Gender, and History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997); Charlotte Elisheva Fonrobert, Menstrual Purity: Rabbinic and Christian Reconstructions of Biblical Gender (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000). This is not to say that misogynistic tendencies were dominant. On both positive and negative conflicting depictions of Eve and women in postbiblical sources, see Pieter W. van der Horst, “Conflicting Images of Women in Ancient Judaism,” in Hellenisim, Judaism, Christianity: Essays on Their Interaction (CBET 8; Leuven: Peeters, 1998), 73–92; Galit Hasan-Rokem, Web of Life: Folklore and Midrash in Rabbinic Literature (trans. B. Stein; Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000). 37
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masculine and feminine terms in Ezek 28:13–14, together with significant feminine grammatical forms and words such as *yP,Tu, *yb,q;n“, and the feminine pronoun T] a ' , suggest that the primal protagonist in Ezek 28:13–14 could be understood as having both feminine and masculine features. Further, this idea may be supported by archaeological evidence. This depiction could have influenced the association between Eve and the antagonist figure in the exegetical version of Gen. Rab. 18.1. The conception of gender reflected in Genesis Rabbah suggests that its association of the image of the first woman and the primary figure of Ezekiel 28 reconstructs, indirectly, a new Eve, modified to embody the archetype of God’s enemy. The parallel homilies in the inner discourse of Genesis Rabbah may include intertextual references to Ezek 28:11–19. These references seem to resonate, with differing degrees of clarity, in several depictions of Eve, attributing to the first woman additional connotations associated with iniquity, beauty, and the fall.
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JBL 124/4 (2005) 657–673
DISCERNING TRAJECTORIES: 4QINSTRUCTION AND THE SAPIENTIAL BACKGROUND OF THE SAYINGS SOURCE Q
MATTHEW J. GOFF [email protected] Florida State University, Tallahassee, FL 32306
4QInstruction (1Q26, 4Q415–18, 423) is the largest wisdom text of the Dead Sea Scrolls.1 There has been relatively little examination of this composition in relation to the Synoptic Gospels.2 Two dominant issues in the study of Q
This is a revised version of a paper presented at the annual meeting of the Catholic Biblical Association in Halifax, Nova Scotia, in 2004. I thank Gregory Sterling, Frederick Murphy, and the other members of the Historical Jesus and His Earliest Interpreters Task Force for their feedback. I am also grateful to Clare K. Rothschild for her valuable comments on an earlier draft, and to the Faculty Development Committee of Georgia Southern University for its financial support. 1 John Strugnell and Daniel J. Harrington, Qumran Cave 4.XXIV: Sapiential Texts, Part 2, 4QInstruction (Mûsaµr Le· Meµvîn): 4Q415ff. With a re-edition of 1Q26 (DJD 34; Oxford: Clarendon, 1999) (henceforth DJD 34); Matthew J. Goff, The Worldly and Heavenly Wisdom of 4QInstruction (STDJ 50; Leiden: Brill, 2003); Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar, To Increase Learning for the Understanding Ones: Reading and Reconstructing the Fragmentary Early Jewish Sapiential Text 4QInstruction (STDJ 44; Leiden: Brill, 2001); Torleif Elgvin, “An Analysis of 4QInstruction” (Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1997). 2 For studies of 4QInstruction vis-à-vis the Gospels, see John Kampen, “Aspects of Wisdom in the Gospel of Matthew in Light of the New Qumran Evidence,” in Sapiential, Liturgical and Poetical Texts from Qumran: Proceedings of the Third Meeting of the International Organization for Qumran Studies, Oslo 1998 (ed. D. Falk et al.; STDJ 35; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 227–39. There has been substantial work comparing the Qumran wisdom text 4QBeatitudes to the Sermon on the Mount. See James H. Charlesworth, “The Qumran Beatitudes (4Q525) and the New Testament (Mt 5:3–11, Lk 6:20–26),” RHPR 80 (2000): 13–35; Joseph A. Fitzmyer, “A Palestinian Collection of Beatitudes,” in The Four Gospels 1992: Festschrift Frans Neirynck (ed. F. van Segbroeck et al.; BETL 100; Louvain: Peeters/Louvain University Press, 1992), 509–15; Émile Puech, “4Q525 et les péricopes des Béatitudes en Ben Sira et Matthieu,” RB 98 (1991): 80–106; Jean-Marie van Cangh, “Béatitudes de Qumrân et béatitudes évangéliques: Antériorité de Matthieu sur Luc?” in Wisdom and Apocalypticism in the Dead Sea Scrolls and in the Biblical Tradition (ed. F. García Martínez; BETL 168; Leuven: Peeters-Leuven University Press, 2003), 413–25; George J. Brooke, The Dead Sea Scrolls and the New Testament (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2005).
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are its relationship to the wisdom tradition and the extent to which Q itself can be understood as sapiential. In his book The Formation of Q, John Kloppenborg discusses approximately ninety ancient collections of sayings, including material from Egypt, Mesopotamia, Israel, and Greece, situating Q in a broad international sapiential context. 3 This book was published in 1987, when 4QInstruction was not available.4 In this article I will argue that 4QInstruction does not represent the redaction of distinct sapiential and apocalyptic layers. The document incorporates ideas that are alien to traditional wisdom, such as heavenly revelation, elect status, theophanic judgment, and an interest in the angelic world. 4QInstruction is a sapiential text with an apocalyptic worldview. The issue of wisdom in relation to apocalypticism in 4QInstruction has implications for the study of Q. There have been numerous studies on the relationship between these two traditions in the sayings gospel.5 Some scholars have emphasized its sapiential character.6 Others have downplayed the characterization of Q as apocalyptic, and classifying the work as sapiential has also been questioned.7 4QInstruction lends support 3 John S. Kloppenborg, The Formation of Q: Trajectories in Ancient Wisdom Collections (1987; repr., Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1999), 263–316, 329–41. See also John S. Kloppenborg Verbin, Excavating Q: The History and Setting of the Sayings Gospel (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2000); James M. Robinson et al., eds., The Critical Edition of Q (Leuven: Peeters; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2000). 4 In Kloppenborg’s more recent Excavating Q, he observes that 4QInstruction can be used to exemplify some of the issues involved in the composition of Q (p. 130), but does not pursue this line of research. 5 For overviews, see Kloppenborg, Excavating Q, 379–98; Christopher M. Tuckett, Q and the History of Early Christianity: Studies on Q (Edinburgh: T&T Clark; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1996), 326–29. See also John J. Collins, “Wisdom, Apocalypticism, and Generic Compatibility,” in Seers, Sibyls and Sages in Hellenistic-Roman Judaism (JSJSup 54; Leiden: Brill, 1997), 385–404; Adela Yarbro Collins, “The Son of Man Sayings in the Sayings Source,” in To Touch the Text: Biblical and Related Studies in Honor of Joseph A. Fitzmyer, S.J. (ed. M. P. Horgan and P. J. Kobelski; New York: Crossroad, 1989), 369–89. 6 Ronald A. Piper, Wisdom in the Q-Tradition: The Aphoristic Teaching of Jesus (SNTSMS 61; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989). See also Helmut Koester, “One Jesus and Four Primitive Gospels,” in Trajectories through Early Christianity (ed. J. M. Robinson and H. Koester; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1971), 158–204. 7 For the former view, see Arland D. Jacobson, “Apocalyptic and the Synoptic Sayings Source Q,” in The Four Gospels 1992, 403–19; Richard A. Horsely, “Logoi Propheµtoµn: Reflections on the Genre of Q,” in The Future of Early Christianity: Essays in Honor of Helmut Koester (ed. B. A. Pearson; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991), 195–209; Bernard B. Scott, “Jesus as Sage: An Innovating Voice in Common Wisdom,” in The Sage in Israel and the Ancient Near East (ed. J. G. Gammie and L. G. Perdue; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1990), 399–415, esp. 400. Note also John S. Kloppenborg, “Symbolic Eschatology and the Apocalypticism of Q,” HTR 80 (1987): 287–306. For the latter view, consult Dieter Zeller, “Eine weisheitliche Grundschrift in der Logienquelle?” in The Four Gospels 1992, 389–401. Migaku Sato argued that Q is best characterized as a prophetic, rather than a sapiential, work. See his Q und Prophetie: Studien zur Gattungs- und Traditionsgeschichte der Quelle Q (WUNT 2/29; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1988); idem, “Wisdom Statements in the
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to the opinion that Q contains sapiential material with perspectives not found in traditional wisdom. These ideas include rewards and punishments after death and an expectation of imminent punishment. 4QInstruction bolsters the view that it is not necessary to separate sapiential and apocalyptic material in Q. The sayings source can be understood as developing trends in Jewish wisdom that are found in 4QInstruction. This Qumran wisdom text should be taken into consideration when assessing the sapiential background of Q.8
I. Trajectories of Wisdom A common starting point for understanding the relationship between Q and Jewish wisdom is James M. Robinson’s article “LOGOI SOPHON.”9 He postulated the existence of a genre of “the words of the wise,” a designation for collections of sapiential sayings. The origins of the genre are rooted in biblical collections of wisdom sayings such as Prov 22:17–24:22 (LXX 22:17, lovgoi" sofw'n) and older proverb assemblages from the ancient Near East, including Amenemope and Ahikar.10 The genre is defined by the association of didactic material with named sages. The best example of this is the Gospel of Thomas, and Q also attests a quotation formula (9:58). Attribution of sayings to specific figures is also evident, Robinson argued, in earlier stages in the development of this genre. In the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs the incipit often attributes logoi to a specific patriarch (e.g., T. Dan 1:1). 1 Enoch may be introduced as the “words of the blessing of Enoch” (1:1; cf. Jub. 21:10).11 Robinson also has Sphere of Prophecy,” in The Gospel Behind the Gospels: Current Studies on Q (ed. R. A. Piper; NovTSup 75; Leiden: Brill, 1995), 139–58; Stephen J. Patterson, “Wisdom in Q and Thomas,” in In Search of Wisdom: Essays in Memory of John G. Gammie (ed. L. G. Perdue et al.; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1993), 187–221. 8 Q has also been examined in relation to Greek sapiential literature, including gnomologia and chriae collections. See Kloppenborg, Formation of Q, 263, 322–25; Alan Kirk, The Composition of the Sayings Source: Genre, Synchrony, and Wisdom Redaction in Q (NovTSup 91; Leiden: Brill, 1998); idem, “Some Compositional Conventions of Hellenistic Wisdom Texts and the Juxtaposition of 4:1–13; 6:20b–49; and 7:1–10 in Q,” JBL 116 (1997): 235–57. 9 James M. Robinson, “LOGOI SOPHON: On the Gattung of Q,” in The Future of Our Religious Past: Essays in Honour of Rudolf Bultmann (ed. J. M. Robinson; London: SCM, 1971), 84–130. This essay is a substantial revision of his “LOGOI SOFWN: Zur Gattung der Spruchquelle Q,” in Zeit und Geschichte: Dankesgabe an Rudolf Bultmann (ed. E. Dinkler; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1964), 77–96. See also Robinson, Critical Edition of Q, lix–lxvi; H. Koester, “GNOMAI DIAPHOROI: The Origin and Nature of Diversification in the History of Early Christianity,” in Trajectories through Early Christianity, 114–57. 10 Robinson, “LOGOI SOPHON,” 126–27. 11 Ibid., 124. Some manuscripts read “The word of the blessing of Enoch.” See George W. E. Nickelsburg, 1 Enoch: A Commentary on the Book of 1 Enoch, Chapters 1–36, 81–108 (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001), 135.
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claimed that the genre exhibits a “gnosticizing tendency” in which a sage who is associated with sayings over time becomes identified with Wisdom itself.12 The work of John G. Gammie has also been used to identify trajectories of Jewish wisdom in relation to Q.13 He argued that there are three topics with regard to which one can discern a shift in the wisdom tradition during the late Second Temple period—the family, the king, and Israel in relation to other nations. Whereas the family is revered in older wisdom, later texts such as the Wisdom of Solomon place less emphasis on the family (e.g., 3:13–14), favoring instead the individual and one’s life after death. Traditional wisdom is often situated in the royal court, above all in the figure of Solomon. There is minimal criticism of kingly abuses of power or the institution of kingship. Gammie argues that later wisdom texts are more willing to question the infallibility of kings (e.g., Sir 10:10; 46:20).14 Older sapiential texts consider wisdom an international commodity, a view exemplified by the appropriation of the Egyptian instruction of Amenemope by Proverbs 22–24. In later wisdom writings, however, there is a more nationalistic emphasis, often centered on the Torah, as in Sirach 24, which presents the Torah as a product of the descent of Lady Wisdom to Israel. Kloppenborg has argued that Q accords with the sapiential developments delineated by Gammie.15 It is well known that Q advocates a radical rejection of family ties. This attitude is exemplified by Q 14:26: “Whoever comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, yes, and even life itself, cannot be my disciple” (cf. 12:51–53). Q emphasizes the power and imminent arrival of the kingdom of God (10:11), showing little reverence for the state. According to 10:23–24, kings desired to see what the disciples will (cf. 12:27). In terms of the association of wisdom with national identity, Q never thematizes the Torah as a divine gift to Israel in the manner of Ben Sira. But through the association of Jesus with hypostatized wisdom, Q presents the comparable viewpoint of a unique manifestation of heavenly wisdom in a particular locale (7:35; 11:49–51).16 12
Robinson, “LOGOI SOPHON,” 129. John G. Gammie, “From Prudentialism to Apocalypticism: The Houses of the Sages amid the Varying Forms of Wisdom,” in Sage in Israel and the Ancient Near East, 479–97. 14 Ibid., 486–87. 15 Kloppenborg, Excavating Q, 385–88. 16 Christ is associated with divine wisdom also in 1 Cor 1:30 (cf. v. 24). The correspondence between Christ and hypostatized Wisdom is developed in later Christian texts that use the genre of instruction, such as the Teachings of Silvanus. See Jan Zandee, The Teachings of Silvanus (Nag Hammadi Codex VII, 4) (Leiden: Nederlands Instituut voor het Nabije Oosten, 1991); William R. Schoedel, “Jewish Wisdom and the Formation of the Christian Ascetic,” in Aspects of Wisdom in Judaism and Early Christianity (ed. R. L. Wilken; Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1975), 169–99; Kloppenborg, Formation of Q, 287–89. 13
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II. Assessing Trajectories The publication of 4QInstruction provides new evidence with which to evaluate shifts within the wisdom tradition during the late Second Temple period. 4QInstruction is often dated to the second century B.C.E.17 The work is aptly considered a sapiential text. 4QInstruction comprises statements given by a teacher to a student, who is referred to as the @ybm (meµbîn), or “understanding one.” The document contains admonitions and practical advice that are designed to improve the ordinary life of the addressee, regarding topics such as marriage (4Q416 2 iii 21–iv 13) and the prompt payment of debts (4Q417 2 i 21–23). The pedagogical ethos of 4QInstruction is evident from 4Q418 81 17: “Increase in understanding greatly, and from all of your teachers (hklyk`m) get ever more instruction” (cf. 4Q418 221 3). 4QInstruction does not fit well with the criteria of Robinson’s Gattung. The composition is not a collection of sayings akin to the Gospel of Thomas. Like Ben Sira, this Qumran wisdom text contains a variety of sapiential forms. It includes sequences of parenetic vetitives (e.g., 4Q416 2 ii 14–21) and extended discourses that are more elaborate and poetic, such as 4Q417 1 i. According to Robinson, collections of logoi sophoµn are often associated with a named sage. This is not the case with 4QInstruction. No incipit is extant. It is possible that the text originally began with a statement such as “the instruction of PN.” 4Q416 1 is generally regarded as the first column of the composition. Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar has proposed a reconstruction of the beginning of this column, which is poorly preserved, in which the first visible word of the composition is lyk`m (“Instructor”).18 He puts this idea forward as a tentative suggestion, not a conclusive reading. Even if one were to adopt this reconstruction, it does not necessarily follow that the name of a specific “instructor” was recorded. It is reasonable to doubt that 4QInstruction circulated as a text that was attributed to a named sage. In marked contrast to Ben Sira, the author of this Qumran text shows virtually no interest in providing information about himself or praising his own office of teacher (cf. Sir 24:30–34).19 4QInstruction 17
Goff, Worldly and Heavenly Wisdom, 228–32. This word is from 4Q418 238, which he suggests can be joined, along with frag. 229, to the top of 4Q416 1 on the basis of their similar appearance. See Tigchelaar, To Increase Learning, 183; idem, “Towards a Reconstruction of the Beginning of 4QInstruction (4Q416 Fragment 1 and Parallels),” in The Wisdom Texts from Qumran and the Development of Sapiential Thought (ed. C. Hempel, A. Lange, and H. Lichtenberger; BETL 159; Leuven: Leuven University Press/Peeters, 2002), 99–126. 19 No Qumran wisdom text is attributed to a specific sage. Out of this corpus 4Q298 comes closest to such an attribution. This text is entitled “Words of the Masåkîl to All Sons of Dawn.” The title is based on the opening phrase of the document; however, the term “words” has a poor material basis. In the official edition of 4Q298 this word is transcribed as y [‚ rbd]. If this reconstruction is correct, 4Q298 would be an example of wisdom sayings and admonitions classified as the “words” 18
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does not include a teacher figure who is associated with hypostatized wisdom. There is no “gnosticizing tendency” in this document. 4QInstruction does not necessarily debunk Robinson’s proposal that the genre logoi sophoµn existed. Two of the lengthiest Jewish wisdom texts from the late Second Temple period, Ben Sira and the Wisdom of Solomon, are attributed to specific sages, although it is not clear that this is a feature of their genre. But 4QInstruction by no means confirms the Gattung delineated by Robinson. He uses texts such as the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs and 1 Enoch to trace the “prehistory” of the logoi sophoµn Gattung, identifying Q and the Gospel of Thomas as full examples of this genre.20 In terms of genre, the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs and 1 Enoch are, respectively, a sequence of testaments and a collection of several apocalypses. Regarding the former, Robinson stresses that the speeches of the patriarchs are “sayings” of the “sages” and that they provide “experiential wisdom.”21 Since 1 Enoch 42 attests the Wisdom myth, he writes that with 1 Enoch “we are directed a step further back, into the wisdom literature in the narrower sense.”22 Adela Yarbro Collins has pointed out that Robinson’s formulation of the genre of logoi sophoµn emphasizes its affinities with the sapiential tradition more than with apocalypticism.23 Christopher M. Tuckett has similarly suggested that Robinson’s examples are selective, since numerous nonwisdom works are introduced as collections of “words” by a named person (e.g., Amos 1:1; LXX 2 Esd 11:1).24 None of Robinson’s examples used to illustrate the background of the genre of “words of the wise” includes a sapiential text with an apocalyptic worldview. The genre of logoi sophoµn is not a particularly helpful tool for understanding the combination of wisdom and apocalypticism in Q. A fundamental issue in the study of 4QInstruction is its relation to the wisdom and apocalyptic traditions.25 Torleif Elgvin has argued that 4QInstruction of a masåkîl, or Instructor. It is not clear if one specific teacher was intended or if this text was designed for anyone who held the office of masåkîl. For more on 4Q298, see Torleif Elgvin et al., Qumran Cave 4.XV: Sapiential Texts, Part 1 (DJD 20; Oxford: Clarendon, 1997), 1–30; Stephen J. Pfann, “4Q298: The Maskil’s Address to All Sons of Dawn,” JQR 85 (1994): 203–35; Menachem Kister, “Commentary to 4Q298,” JQR 85 (1994): 237–49; Dwight D. Swanson, “4QcrypA Words of the Maskil to All Sons of Dawn: The Path of the Virtuous Life,” in Sapiential, Liturgical, and Poetical Texts from Qumran, 49–61. 20 Robinson, “LOGOI SOPHON,” 119–25. 21 Ibid., 122. 22 Ibid., 125. 23 Yarbro Collins, “Son of Man Sayings,” 373. 24 Tuckett, Q and the History of Early Christianity, 341. 25 Florentino García Martínez, “Wisdom at Qumran: Worldly or Heavenly?” in Wisdom and Apocalypticism in the Dead Sea Scrolls, 1–15; Kasper B. Larsen, “Visdom og apokalyptik i Musar leMevin (1Q/4QInstruction)” [Wisdom and Apocalyptic in Musar leMevin (1Q/4QInstruction)], DTT 65 (2002): 1–14.
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is a composite text that “represents a conflation of two literary layers.”26 The first consists of admonitions that are reminiscent of traditional wisdom, and the second longer discourses that have an apocalyptic worldview. The document, in this formulation, circulated originally as a book of practical wisdom that was later redacted by people with an apocalyptic mind-set. It is certainly true that 4QInstruction contains parenetic admonitions that do not appeal to revelation or anything else that echoes apocalypticism. 4Q416 2 ii 18–20 reads, for example, “Do not sate yourself with food when there is no clothing, and do not drink wine when there is no food. Do not seek after delicacies when you lack (even) bread.” Further, there are longer discourses that provide little practical advice. 4Q417 1 i, for example, offers instruction on the nature of creation and history without including teachings on specific mundane topics. To evaluate Elgvin’s redaction criticism, it is necessary to examine the theme of revelation in 4QInstruction. In this document wisdom is obtained through supernatural revelation. The hyhn zr, which can be translated as the “mystery that is to be,” enables the addressee to understand the world and to lead a successful life.27 The expression hyhn zr occurs over twenty times in 4QInstruction but is attested elsewhere only three times, in the Community Rule (1QS 11:3–4) and twice in one passage of the Book of Mysteries (1Q27 1 i 3–4; par 4Q300 3 3–4). The word zr is used in apocalyptic texts and elsewhere in Second Temple literature to signify revealed knowledge (e.g., Dan 2:27–30; 4QEnc 5 ii 26–27; cf. 1 En. 106:19). In 4QInstruction the mystery that is to be refers to a comprehensive plan that orchestrates history according to God’s will, presented as a revealed truth.28 Perception of the mystery that is to be allows the addressee to understand how the created order functions: “And you, understanding son, gaze into the mystery that is to be and know [the path]s of all life. The way that one conducts himself he appoints over [his] deed[s]” (4Q417 1 i 18–19).29 This attitude reflects a deterministic mind-set that is more in keeping with apocalypticism than traditional wisdom. Through the raz nihyeh the addressee can acquire knowledge regarding a wide array of topics. The mystery that is to be provides information regarding 26 Torleif Elgvin, “Wisdom and Apocalypticism in the Early Second Century BCE—The Evidence of 4QInstruction,” in The Dead Sea Scrolls Fifty Years after Their Discovery: Proceedings of the Jerusalem Congress, July 20–25, 1997 (ed. L. H. Schiffman, E. Tov, and J. C. VanderKam; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society/Shrine of the Book, Israel Museum, 2000), 226–47, esp. 226. 27 For the translation of this phrase, see Goff, Worldly and Heavenly Wisdom, 33–34. 28 Elgvin, “Wisdom and Apocalypticism,” 235; Armin Lange, Weisheit und Prädestination: Weisheitliche Urordnung und Prädestination in den Textfunden von Qumran (STDJ 18; Leiden: Brill, 1995), 60; Daniel J. Harrington, “The Raz Nihyeh in a Qumran Wisdom Text (1Q26, 4Q415– 418, 423),” RevQ 17 (1996): 549–53. 29 For the transcription of the final phrase of this passage, see DJD 34, 152; Tigchelaar, To Increase Learning, 52.
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the eschatological future: “[Gaze upon the mystery] that is to be, and grasp the birth-times of salvation and know who is inheriting glory and who ini[qu]ity” (4Q417 2 i 10–12). The raz nihyeh allows him to attain the knowledge of good and evil (4Q417 1 i 6–8). The mystery that is to be is also associated with daily life. 4Q416 2 iii 17–19 connects this mystery to an admonition on filial piety: “And as he gave them (parents) authority over you . . . so serve them; and as he revealed to you through the mystery that is to be, honor them for the sake of your glory and with [reverence] honor them for the sake of your life and the length of your days.” This does not fit into Elgvin’s redactional schema. Nor does 4Q416 2 iii 17–19 support Gammie’s claim that in the Second Temple period the wisdom tradition moved away from its traditional endorsement of the family. 4Q423 3 2 is fragmentary but relates the mystery that is to be to a successful harvest: “. . . [through the mystery] that is to be. Thus you will walk, and al[l your] c[rops will multiply]” (cf. 1Q26 1 4–6). Both practical advice that echoes traditional wisdom and themes more in keeping with apocalypticism are combined with supernatural revelation. The mystery that is to be has the ability to provide knowledge about the natural order because it was used by God in the act of creation: “By means of the mystery that is to be he has laid out its foundation and its works” (hyhn zrb h‚y ‚`[mw ‚ hO`wµaO t‚a‚ `r‚p‚) (4Q417 1 i 8–9).30 Reflection on creation is prominent in Israelite wisdom, and in that sense 4QInstruction continues this tradition.31 But in this Qumran wisdom text, unlike Proverbs or Ben Sira, the divine creation of the world is presented as a raµz. The mystery that is to be is thus related to the primordial past. It is also connected to the future. This is clear from the nip>al portion of the raz nihyeh. The participle signifies that the divinely ordained natural order to which the raµz refers exists throughout the entire historical continuum. 4Q417 1 i 3–4 uses hyh in the nip>al three times, once in the mystery that is to be. The other two occurrences appear to refer, respectively, to the past and present, forming a tripartite division of time: “Gaze [upon the mystery that is to be and the deeds of old, from what has been to what exists through what] [will be] . . . [for]ever” (hmw hyhn hml !dq y`[mw hyhn zrb ]fOb‚h‚w ‚ !¯ l[w[] . . . [hyhy] [hmb hyhn) (cf. 4Q418 43 2–3).32 4Q418 123 ii 3–4 associates a threefold division of time with the mystery that is to be: “Everything that exists in it, from what has been to what will be in it (w‚b hyhy hmw hyh hml hb hyhnh lwk) . . . His period which God revealed to the ear of the understanding ones through the mystery that is to be.” The comprehensive plan of God that orchestrates reality is valid from creation to judgment. This explains why the raz 30
Matthew J. Goff, “The Mystery of Creation in 4QInstruction,” DSD 10 (2003): 163–86. Leo G. Perdue, Wisdom and Creation: The Theology of Wisdom Literature (Nashville: Abingdon, 1994). 32 Elgvin, “An Analysis of 4QInstruction,” 259; DJD 34, 157. 31
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nihyeh is at the root of moral instruction. The mystery that is to be provides the addressee with knowledge of the full extent of God’s dominion over the created order. 4QInstruction demands conduct from him that is in accordance with this larger truth. Heavenly revelation can be said to provide, or at least encourage, worldly wisdom.33 It is not impossible that 4QInstruction is a product of “apocalyptists” who extensively reworked a composition of practical wisdom. But it is unlikely. 4QInstruction is a very fragmentary composition, comprising several hundred small texts that are often in poor material condition.34 It is difficult enough to discern the text in its present state, much less posit different strata. The mystery that is to be is essential to the pedagogy of the document. Often in apocalypses a heavenly vision is revealed to the seer and interpreted for him by an angel. This is the case, for example, in the book of Daniel. By contrast, in 4QInstruction no angel helps the addressee understand the mystery that is to be. The addressee acquires knowledge from the study of revealed wisdom. He is exhorted to “gaze” (fbn) upon,35 “examine” (`rd), “meditate” (hgh) upon, and “grasp” (jql) this mystery.36 The theme of revelation cannot be separated from the educational and eudaemonistic goals of the document. 4QInstruction is the best example available of a Jewish wisdom text with an apocalyptic worldview.37 4QInstruction is not the only Qumran wisdom text that is reminiscent of the apocalyptic tradition. 4Q185 is a sapiential text with beatitudes (1–2 ii 8, 13).38 It exhorts one to acquire wisdom in order to have long life, as in Prov 3:16–18: “Find her and hold fast to her and get her as an inheritance. With her are [length of d]ays, fatness of bone, joy of heart, rich[es and honor]” (4Q185 1–2 ii 12). The text also reminds its addressee of judgment implemented by the angels: “Who can endure to stand before his angels? For with flaming fire 33
Contra García Martínez, “Wisdom at Qumran,” 9–10. DJD 34, 17–19; Tigchelaar, To Increase Learning, 161–71; Torleif Elgvin, “The Reconstruction of Sapiential Work A,” RevQ 16 (1995): 559–80. 35 4Q416 2 i 5 (par 4Q417 2 i 10); 4Q417 1 i 3, 18 (par 4Q418 43 2, 14). See also 4Q418 123 ii 5. 36 See 4Q416 2 iii 9 (par 4Q418 9 8), 4Q418 43 4 (par 4Q417 1 i 6), and 4Q418 77 4. See Torleif Elgvin, “The Mystery to Come: Early Essene Theology of Revelation,” in Qumran between the Old and New Testaments (ed. F. H. Cryer and T. L. Thompson; JSOTSup 290; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 113–50, esp. 133. 37 John J. Collins, “Wisdom Reconsidered, in Light of the Scrolls,” DSD 4 (1997): 265–81. 38 Daniel J. Harrington, Wisdom Texts from Qumran (London: Routledge, 1996), 35–39; Hermann Lichtenberger, “Eine weisheitliche Mahnrede in den Qumranfunden (4Q185),” in Qumrân: Sa piété, sa théologie et son milieu (ed. M. Delcor; BETL 46; Paris: Duculot, 1978), 151– 62; idem, “Der Weisheitstext 4Q185—Eine neue Edition,” in Wisdom Texts from Qumran and the Development of Sapiential Thought, 127–50; Thomas H. Tobin, “4Q185 and Jewish Wisdom Literature,” in Of Scribes and Scrolls: Studies on the Hebrew Bible, Intertestamental Judaism and Christian Origins (ed. H. W. Attridge et al.; Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1990), 145–52; Donald J. Verseput, “Wisdom, 4Q185, and the Epistle of James,” JBL 117 (1998): 691–707. 34
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[they] will judge” (1–2 i 8–9).39 The central feature of the Book of Mysteries (1Q27, 4Q299–301) is a description of eschatological judgment: “when the begotten of unrighteousness are locked up and wickedness is removed from before righteousness, as darkness is removed before light. (Then,) just as smoke wholly ceases and is no more, so shall wickedness cease forever” (1Q27 1 i 5–6).40 This composition also appeals to higher revelation (lines 3–4; 4Q299 8 6). It has been argued that Mysteries is not a wisdom text; nevertheless, it is an instruction with prominent sapiential terms (e.g., lk` and h[d in 4Q299 8; cf. 4Q300 1a ii–b) and forms, such as rhetorical questions (1Q27 1 i 8–12; 4Q299 8 5).41 The work also offers some practical advice (1Q27 1 ii 2–8). The Book of Mysteries is a wisdom text with an eschatological perspective that appeals to higher revelation.42 The Treatise on the Two Spirits (1QS 3:13–4:26) has an apocalyptic worldview, containing a highly dualistic and deterministic conceptualization of the natural order.43 The text is explicitly an instruction and in that sense can be understood as a wisdom text, or at least as influenced by the sapiential tradition: “The Instructor should instruct and teach all the sons of light about the nature of all humankind” (3:13).44 Wisdom and apocalypticism are not mutually exclusive traditions, as Kloppenborg and others have observed.45 Sapiential influence is evident in apocalypses (e.g., 1 En. 42), and the testaments draw on both traditions. The main contribution of 4QInstruction to the issue of wisdom in relation to apocalypticism is that the work establishes that in the late Second Temple period a wisdom text could have an apocalyptic worldview. Ben Sira actively discourages
39 John Strugnell, “Notes en marge du volume V des ‘Discoveries in the Judaean Desert of Jordan,’” RevQ 7 (1970): 163–276, esp. 272. 40 DJD 20, 31–123; Dominique Barthélemy and Jósef T. Milik, Qumran Cave 1 (DJD 1; Oxford: Clarendon, 1955), 102–7. See also Lange, Weisheit und Prädestination, 93–120; Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar, “Your Wisdom and Your Folly: The Case of 1–4QMysteries,” in Wisdom and Apocalypticism in the Dead Sea Scrolls, 69–88. 41 For the argument that Mysteries is not a wisdom text, see Giovanni Ibba, “Il ‘Libro dei Misteri’ (1Q27, f.1): testo escatologico,” Hen 21 (1999): 73–84. Consult further Collins, “Wisdom Reconsidered,” 276; Harrington, Wisdom Texts, 72–73. 42 This position is presented in more detail in Matthew J. Goff, Discerning Wisdom: The Sapiential Literature of the Dead Sea Scrolls (Leiden: Brill, forthcoming), ch. 2. 43 Lange, Weisheit und Prädestination, 121–70. 44 Collins, “Wisdom Reconsidered,” 277; Harrington, Wisdom Texts, 76; Jean Duhaime, “Cohérence structurelle et tensions internes dans l’Instruction sur les Deux Esprits (1QS III 13– IV 26),” in Wisdom and Apocalypticism in the Dead Sea Scrolls, 103–31. 45 Kloppenborg, Excavating Q, 145; Collins, “Wisdom, Apocalypticism, and Generic Compatibility,” in Seers, Sibyls, and Sages, 393–401. Daniel J. Harrington aptly writes regarding Q that “to isolate the sapiential elements from the apocalyptic elements and then to reconstruct the wisdom tradition shorn of apocalypticism does not fit with what we know about wisdom teachings from Qumran and elsewhere in first-century Palestine” (Wisdom Texts from Qumran, 91).
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the speculation of mysteries (3:21–24; cf. 34:5).46 4QInstruction never associates wisdom with the Torah or the national identity of Israel in the manner of the Jerusalem sage.47 4QInstruction’s differences with Ben Sira give an impression of the diversity of wisdom texts in this period.48 4QInstruction is not the only sapiential text from this era with features reminiscent of the apocalyptic tradition. 4QInstruction, Mysteries, and other late Second Temple compositions provide evidence of a sapiential trajectory that is characterized by influence from the apocalyptic tradition.49
III. Trajectories of Wisdom in Relation to 4QInstruction and Q Q contains material that can be classified as apocalyptic. The document affirms the future judgment (e.g., 3:7–9; 10:13–15) and the promise of rewards after death (6:23), exhibits a concern with the angelic and demonic realms (12:8–9; 11:14–26), and has a profound sense of imminent eschatology (10:9– 11).50 Q 17:23–37 describes the eschatological woes associated with the advent of the Son of Man. In terms of genre, some parts of Q are reminiscent of traditional wisdom. This is evident, for example, in its use of beatitudes and aphorisms (e.g., 6:20–22; 11:9–13). 51 In terms of content, influence from the sapiential tradition in Q is evident in its adaptation of personified Wisdom (7:35; 11:49–51).52 Kloppenborg has put forward the well-received thesis that the formative layer of Q is a sapiential collection of six instructions.53 This material is clearly 46
Randal A. Argall, 1 Enoch and Sirach (SBLEJL 8; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1995).
47 Therefore 4QInstruction does not accord with the shifts in the wisdom tradition laid out by
Gammie with regard to the Torah and national identity. Note, however, that the mystery that is to be has been associated with the Torah. See Lange, Weisheit und Prädestination, 48. 48 Daniel J. Harrington, “Two Early Jewish Approaches to Wisdom: Sirach and Qumran Sapiential Work A,” JSP 16 (1997): 25–38. 49 Goff, Worldly and Heavenly Wisdom, 232. 50 Kloppenborg, “Symbolic Eschatology,” 296. He grants that Q material is “consistent with apocalyptic idiom” but prefers the term “symbolic eschatology” rather than “apocalyptic.” See also idem, Excavating Q, 388–98; Tuckett, Q and the History of Early Christianity, 139–63. 51 Piper, Wisdom in the Q-Tradition, 14. 52 Ibid., 162–70; James D. G. Dunn, “Jesus: Teacher of Wisdom or Incarnate Wisdom?” in Where Shall Wisdom Be Found? Wisdom in the Bible, the Church and the Contemporary World (ed. S. C. Barton; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1999), 75–92; Patrick J. Hartin, “‘Yet Wisdom Is Justified by Her Children’ (Q 7:35): A Rhetorical and Compositional Analysis of Divine Sophia in Q,” in Conflict and Invention: Literary, Rhetorical, and Social Studies on the Sayings Gospel Q (Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International, 1995), 151–64; Hermann von Lips, Weisheitliche Traditionen im Neuen Testament (WMANT 64; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1990), 267–90. 53 Kloppenborg lists these texts as (1) 6:20b–49; (2) 9:57–62; 10:2–11, 16; (3) 11:2–4, 9–13; (4) 12:2–7, 11–12; (5) 12:22–31, 33–34; (6) 13:24; 14:26, 27; 17:33 (Formation of Q, 342–45). This
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pedagogical, containing admonitions and other sayings designed to provide instruction on various topics, including judging (6:37–38) and proper prayer (11:9–13). The later stratum of Q is characterized by interest in judgment (e.g., 11:29–32).54 This redaction criticism has led to the simplistic view that Q is the product of a “sapiential” community in line with traditional wisdom that was transformed later by apocalyptic circles.55 Kloppenborg aptly observes that distinguishing sapiential and apocalyptic elements in Q is not the key to its redactional history.56 In terms of content, both of the strata he delineates contain material that appears to be influenced by the sapiential and apocalyptic traditions.57 His six wisdom instructions include the expectation of rewards after death (6:23) and the conviction that eschatological events are imminent (11:9–11). The secondary layer, which is characterized by judgment (3:16b–17), attests the motif of personified wisdom (11:49–51). The wisdom of Q, whether one refers only to its six instructions or to the work as a whole, has an eschatological perspective.58 Kloppenborg has argued that Q contains a radical form of wisdom that is at odds with traditional wisdom, offering a rejection of the current state of the world (cf. 9:58; 14:26– 27; 17:33). This can be understood as a move from the “wisdom of order” to the “wisdom of the kingdom.”59 Tuckett has expressed caution with regard to this view, writing that classifying Q’s content as “wisdom of the kingdom” runs the risk of the term “wisdom” becoming “such an inclusive catch-all term that it encompasses almost anything.”60 list is given with minor variations in Robinson, Critical Edition of Q, lxiii; Kloppenborg, Excavating Q, 146. See also Tuckett, Q and the History of Early Christianity, 69–75. Piper has argued that there is a “wisdom redaction” of collections of aphorisms in Q. See his Wisdom in the Q-Tradition, 61–77, esp. 65. Consult further Kirk, Composition of the Sayings Source, 14–16, 61–62; Yarbro Collins, “Son of Man Sayings,” 374–75. 54 Kloppenborg, Formation of Q, 322–25. 55 This opinion is associated with Burton Mack. See his The Lost Gospel: The Book of Q and Christian Origins (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1993), 37–38; idem, The Christian Myth: Origins, Logic, and Legacy (New York: Continuum, 2001), 35. Kloppenborg has rejected this conclusion, arguing that his compositional scheme is based on literary criticism rather than subjective definitions of wisdom and apocalypticism (Excavating Q, 382). 56 Kloppenborg, Formation of Q, 379–85. 57 Dieter Lührmann, Die Redaktion der Logienquelle (WMANT 33; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1969), 103. 58 Charles E. Carlston, “Wisdom and Eschatology in Q,” in Logia: Les paroles de Jésus—The Sayings of Jesus: Mémorial Joseph Coppens (ed. J. Delobel; BETL 59; Louvain: Peeters/Louvain University Press, 1982), 101–19; Kloppenborg, Excavating Q, 379–85; idem, “Symbolic Eschatology,” 306; Tuckett, Q and the History of Early Christianity, 328; von Lips, Weisheitliche Traditionen, 197–266. 59 Kloppenborg, Formation of Q, 319; Walter Grundmann, “Weisheit im Horizont des Reiches Gottes,” in Die Kirche des Anfangs: Für Heinz Schürmann (ed. R. Schnackenburg et al.; Freiburg: Herder, 1978), 175–99. 60 Tuckett, Q and the History of Early Christianity, 353.
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The phrase “wisdom of the kingdom” is an apt designation for Q material. This assessment is supported by 4QInstruction. The relevance of this text for Q is not that the former text comprises distinguishable sapiential and apocalyptic strata.61 Rather it is that by the second century B.C.E. a wisdom text could have an apocalyptic worldview. In 4QInstruction and Q the two influences come together in compatible ways. Form critically, neither work is an apocalypse. Both draw on the wisdom tradition in terms of genre, using admonitions and other sapiential forms in relation to specific areas of life. With regard to content, the two compositions rely on both the sapiential and apocalyptic traditions. Q can be understood as shaped by a trajectory of the wisdom tradition that was influenced by the apocalyptic tradition. The best example of this kind of Jewish wisdom is 4QInstruction. The similarities between 4QInstruction and Q, however, should not be overstated. For example, they are quite different with regard to the theme of revelation. 4QInstruction constantly refers to the disclosure of the mystery that is to be. Mystery terminology is prominent in the NT, but much more so in Revelation and the letters of Paul than in the Gospels.62 In one Synoptic passage Jesus imparts the “mystery (musthvrion) of the kingdom of God” to his disciples (Mark 4:11; Matt 13:11; Luke 8:10; cf. Gos. Thom. 62).63 In Q it may be implied that Jesus’ teachings are themselves heavenly revelations, but this is never stated explicitly. In Q 11:49–51 personified Wisdom gives an oracle that is spoken by Jesus, and he continues the utterance with his own speech. But Q never emphasizes the reception of heavenly revelation in the manner of 4QInstruction.64 The eschatological perspectives of 4QInstruction and Q are also different. The former teaches that judgment will occur in the future: “From heaven he will judge over the work of wickedness. But all the sons of his truth will be accepted with favor. . . . They (the wicked) will be in terror. And all those who defiled themselves in it (wickedness) will cry out. For the heavens will be afraid. . . . The [s]eas and the depths will be in terror, and every fleshly spirit will be laid bare” (4Q416 1 10–12; cf. 4Q418 69 ii 6–9).65 This proclamation 61
Contra Kloppenborg, Excavating Q, 130. Romans 11:25; 1 Cor 15:51; Rev 10:7; 17:7. See Raymond E. Brown, The Semitic Background of the Term “Mystery” in the New Testament (Biblical Series 21; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1968); Béda Rigaux, “Révélation des Mystères et Perfection à Qumran et dans le Nouveau Testament,” NTS 4 (1958): 237–62; Markus Bockmuehl, Revelation and Mystery in Ancient Judaism and Pauline Christianity (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1990), 129–230. 63 In the verses from Matthew and Luke the word “mystery” is in the plural. 64 Piper, Wisdom in the Q-Tradition, 178. 65 John J. Collins, “The Eschatologizing of Wisdom in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” in Sapiential Perspectives: Wisdom Literature in Light of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Proceedings of the Sixth International Symposium of the Orion Center, 20–22 May 2001 (ed. G. Sterling and J. J. Collins; STDJ 51; Leiden: Brill, 2004), 49–65, esp. 50–53; Torleif Elgvin, “Early Essene Eschatology: Judgment and 62
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occurs at the beginning of 4QInstruction and establishes a framework for the rest of the instruction. Like the judgment scene of 1 Enoch 1, 4Q416 1 draws on the theophanic tradition.66 Although the composition teaches that there will be a “period of wrath” (4Q416 4 1), it has no sense of impending judgment. Q is less theophanic than 4QInstruction, although fire and sulphur will rain down from heaven when the Son of Man is revealed according to Q 17:29–30. Unlike this Qumran text, Q advocates an imminent eschatology in both of the two main layers postulated by Kloppenborg—“the kingdom of God has come near” (10:9–11; cf. 11:29–32). Both works place proclamations of judgment at the beginning, emphasizing the importance of this theme. 4QInstruction begins with the judgment scene of 4Q416 1 and the first section of the sayings source deals with the figure of John the Baptist and his eschatological proclamations (Q 3:16b–17).
IV. Poverty and Final Rewards in 4QInstruction and Q The theme of poverty is important in both 4QInstruction and Q. The latter work can be understood as having originated in a commonplace, agricultural setting. The putative formative layer of the document does not evoke elements of sophisticated culture but rather simple agricultural images, including the coming of rain (6:35), the cultivation of figs and grapes (6:44), house building (6:47–49), planting, and bread baking (13:18–21). Q 6:20 affirms that some of the intended addressees are poor. They are also to suffer (6:22a; cf. 11:49; 13:34), and the disciples are to refuse creature comforts (10:4).67
Salvation According to Sapiential Work A,” in Current Research and Technological Development on the Dead Sea Scrolls: Conference on the Texts from the Judean Desert, Jerusalem, 30 April 1995 (ed. D. W. Parry and S. D. Ricks; STDJ 20; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 126–65. 66 James C. VanderKam, “The Theophany of Enoch 1 3B–7, 9,” in From Revelation to Canon: Studies in the Hebrew Bible and Second Temple Literature (JSJSup 62; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 332–53. 67 It is not clear to what extent the original audience was actually poor or oppressed. See Kloppenborg, Excavating Q, 189–96; Tuckett, Q and the Early History of Christianity, 283–323, esp. 322; Ronald A. Piper, “The Language of Violence and the Aphoristic Sayings in Q: A Study of Q 6:27–36,” in Conflict and Invention, 53–72. Although Luke 6:25 is generally not considered part of Q, it is worth comparing to 4QInstruction. 4Q417 2 i 10–12 tells the addressee not to “rejoice in your mourning lest you toil in your life. . . . Is not [joy established for those contrite of spirit?] Or eternal joy for those who mourn?” Joy is contrasted with “mourning,” which is associated with the addressee’s present condition. Luke 6:25b reads: “Woe to you who are laughing now for you will mourn and weep.” In this text, unlike 4Q417 2 i 10–12, the state of mourning is promised for those who are laughing, the opposite of the promise given to the poor. See Robinson, Critical Edition of Q, 54; George W. E.
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4QInstruction grants that some members of its intended audience are poor.68 The wisdom text repeatedly reminds the meµbîn that he is “poor” (e.g., 4Q416 2 ii 20; 4Q416 2 iii 2, 8, 12). Certain texts are designed for farmers (4Q418 103 ii 2–9; 4Q423 3 2; 4Q423 5 5), and artisans who possess !ydy tmkj, “manual skill” (4Q418 81 15, 19). The addressee is recommended to accept beatings (4Q417 2 i 24–27), presumably from creditors, an attitude compatible with Q 6:29.69 For some members of the intended audience, material hardship is a real possibility: “If you lack, borrow, being without m[on]ey for what you need, for he (God) does not lack treasure” (4Q417 2 i 19). This endorses a radical dependence on God for basic material needs that is similar to the recommendation of Q that one should “consider the lilies of the field” (12:27). 4QInstruction, however, does not endorse an ascetic way of life. 70 4Q417 2 i 19 offers a temporary solution during a situation of extreme poverty. In 4QInstruction financial hardship is considered a problem that the addressee must solve. Neither the eschatological teachings of 4QInstruction nor its appeals to revelation presuppose a rejection of the “wisdom of order.” In contrast to Q 14:26–27, the revelation of the mystery that is to be is to encourage the meµbîn to practice filial piety (4Q416 2 iii 17–19). In 4QInstruction the reception of heavenly wisdom serves the eudaemonistic goal of financial and social stability, an aim fully in keeping with traditional wisdom. In both 4QInstruction and Q the eschatological rewards of the intended audience are described in relation to poverty. 4Q416 2 iii 11–12 reads: “Praise his name constantly because he has raised your head out of poverty. With the nobles (!ybydn) he has placed you, and he has given you authority over an inheritance of glory.” This text is enclosed by reminders that he is poor (lines 8, 12). This suggests, as do other teachings in 4QInstruction that deal with the economic difficulties of the addressee, that 4Q416 2 iii 11–12 should not be interpreted literally. Rather, it should be read as a symbolic description of the addressee’s ordained destiny with the angels. In the mind-set of 4QInstruction, it is fitting to describe the angels as “nobles.” The rewards of the elect status of Nickelsburg, “Riches, the Rich, and God’s Judgment in 1 Enoch 92–105 and the Gospel according to Luke,” NTS 25 (1979): 324–44. 68 Heinz-Joseph Fabry, “Die Armenfrömmigkeit in den Qumranischen Weisheitstexten,” in Weisheit in Israel (ed. D. J. A. Clines, H. Lichtenberger, and H.-P. Müller; Münster: Lit-Verlag, 2003), 145–65; Benjamin G. Wright III, “The Categories of Rich and Poor in the Qumran Sapiential Literature,” in Sapiential Perspectives, 101–23; Catherine M. Murphy, Wealth in the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Qumran Community (STDJ 40; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 163–209; Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar, “The Addressees of 4QInstruction,” in Sapiential, Liturgical and Poetical Texts from Qumran, 62–75; Goff, Worldly and Heavenly Wisdom, 127–67. 69 Joshua E. Burns, “Practical Wisdom in 4QInstruction,” DSD 11 (2004): 12–42. 70 For more on the theme of radical discipleship in Q, see Tuckett, Q and the History of Early Christianity, 355–91.
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the addressee are presented as a form of wealth, in contrast to his material poverty. His possession of an “inheritance of glory” anticipates the eternal life he will enjoy with the angels after death.71 The addressee is taught that he is in the angelic lot (4Q418 81 4–5). He is given instruction about the “spiritual people” who are in the likeness of the holy ones and distinguished from the “fleshly spirit” (4Q417 1 i 14–18).72 Similarly, the meµbîn is told that he is separated from the “fleshly spirit” (4Q418 81 1–2). In the pedagogical spirit of the composition, angels are revered as ideal students whom the addressee should emulate: “Indeed, would they say: ‘We are tired of works of truth, [we] are weary of . . .’ Do [they] not wal[k] in eternal light?” (4Q418 69 ii 13–14; cf. 4Q418 55 8–11). If the addressee imitates the angels during life he will join them after death. In Q followers are promised a “reward” (misqov") in heaven (6:23), a term that may be used in 10:7 to refer to the material “wages” received by itinerant preachers (cf. 6:35b).73 The heavenly rewards promised to the intended audience are portrayed as a reversal of their current situation, which is characterized by distress and hardship. The “reward” allocated to the poor in Q may include the prospect of joining the angels after death, as in 4QInstruction. It is possible to understand Q 6:35c in this manner: “you will be sons of the Most High (uiJoi; uJyivstou)” (cf. Luke 20:36; Matt 22:30).74 Even if this verse is interpreted in this way, the theme of eschatological fellowship with the angels is more prominent in 4QInstruction. In different ways both compositions use the theme of poverty with regard to the elect who are promised rewards after death.75
V. Conclusion The publication of 4QInstruction provides an opportunity to reassess the varieties of Jewish wisdom during the Second Temple period. This text does not fit the development of the wisdom tradition traced by Gammie. Robinson’s scholarship is useful in terms of understanding Q as a collection of sayings. But 4QInstruction does not accord well with the main criteria of the genre of logoi sophoµn. Nevertheless, this Qumran wisdom text provides an impression of the 71
See further Goff, Worldly and Heavenly Wisdom, 206–14. John J. Collins, “In the Likeness of the Holy Ones: The Creation of Humankind in a Wisdom Text from Qumran,” in The Provo International Conference on the Dead Sea Scrolls (ed. D. W. Parry and E. Ulrich; STDJ 30; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 609–19. 73 This word is used in Luke 10:7, whereas Matt 10:10 has the term trofhv. See Robinson, Critical Edition of Q, 170. 74 Matthew 5:45 uses the phrase uiJoi; tou' patro;" uJmw'n tou' ejn oujranoi'". 75 Leander E. Keck, “The Poor among the Saints in Jewish Christianity and Qumran,” ZNW 57 (1966): 54–78. 72
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Jewish sapiential background of Q. Portions of Q are aptly considered sapiential instructions, and they very well could constitute the formative stratum of the work. The “wisdom of the kingdom” of Q represents a departure from traditional wisdom. 4QInstruction suggests that Q, however, does not break from the sapiential tradition. While there are significant differences between 4QInstruction and Q, both draw on the wisdom tradition in terms of genre and the sapiential and apocalyptic traditions in terms of content. Q is in continuity with a stream of the wisdom tradition characterized by influence from the apocalyptic tradition. This trajectory is exemplified by 4QInstruction. The Book of Mysteries also attests this type of wisdom. The instructions of Q suggest that this trajectory had an impact on sapiential texts composed in the first century C.E.76 76 The Letter of James suggests that this wisdom trajectory has influenced the NT aside from Q. See Todd C. Penner, The Epistle of James and Eschatology: Re-reading an Ancient Christian Letter (JSNTSup 121; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996).
JBLP078101 PACP00290126-01 (004)
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JBL 124/4 (2005) 675–692
A WOMAN’S UNBOUND HAIR IN THE GRECO-ROMAN WORLD, WITH SPECIAL REFERENCE TO THE STORY OF THE “SINFUL WOMAN” IN LUKE 7:36–50
CHARLES H. COSGROVE [email protected] Northern Seminary, Lombard, IL 60513
In Luke 7:36–50 an unnamed woman described as “a sinner in the city” weeps on Jesus’ feet, wipes them with her hair, kisses them, and anoints them with oil from an alabaster flask. My purpose here is to clarify the social meaning of the woman’s gestures with her hair in this story.1 A first step is to set forth the stated and implied elements of the woman’s actions. She enters Simon’s house, carrying an alabaster flask of ointment, and walks over to where Jesus is reclining at table. She positions herself behind him near his feet. In view of what she does next, she must have either bent over or knelt to reach his feet. She begins to weep profusely onto his feet and to dry them with her hair. Her hair must be loose at this point to serve as a makeshift towel. For the time being, we will leave open the question of when she unbinds her hair. Kissing his feet, she anoints them with ointment. How would Luke and his readers have interpreted this scene of a woman crouched or kneeling at Jesus’ feet, with her hair undone, weeping, kissing his feet, and pouring ointment over them? 1 A complex traditio-historical nexus links Luke 7:36–50, John 12:1–8, and Mark 14:3–9. The story in John 12 also includes a statement about a woman (Mary, sister of Lazarus) anointing Jesus’ feet and wiping them with her hair. It is not my purpose here to sort out the traditio-historical relations between these stories or to comment on the narratives in Mark and John. Nevertheless, my study of the meaning of the woman’s gesture with her hair in Luke 7 should prove helpful for efforts to interpret the similar gesture in John 12. Helpful discussions of the relationship between the Lukan and Johannine stories can be found in the standard commentaries. For good summaries of the issues and scholarly debate, see Raymond E. Brown, The Gospel according to John (i–xii): Introduction, Translation, and Notes (AB 29; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1966), 449–52; John Nolland, Luke 1:1–9:20 (WBC 35A; Dallas: Word, 1989), 351–53.
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Journal of Biblical Literature I. Modern Interpretation of the Woman’s Gesture with Her Hair in Luke 7
Many commentators hold that the woman is a prostitute, and a common interpretation of the woman’s gesture with her hair is that it shows her to be a sexually promiscuous person.2 But some who are confident that she is a prostitute do not connect her loose hair with her sexual behavior. For example, Walter Radl holds that the woman is a prostitute but sees her undoing of her hair as a spontaneous action in the moment, the purpose of which is simply to dry Jesus’ feet.3 Still other interpreters are cautious or doubtful about whether the woman is a prostitute but nonetheless assume that loose hair on a woman is invariably a sign of immodesty or immorality in antiquity. These interpreters tend to see her intentions as good (she aims to express love, pious grief, gratitude, etc.), even if her actions are socially immodest. Joachim Jeremias, for example, raises doubts about whether we should assume the woman is a prostitute but envisions the scene as involving a disgraceful unbinding of the hair. He chalks this up to the woman’s absorption in the moment: “she was so shocked at having bedewed Jesus with her tears, that she entirely forgot her surroundings.”4 Joseph A. Fitzmyer cautions that the identification of the woman as a prostitute is at best only a plausible inference from the narrative (and not the only possibility). He understands the woman’s actions (tears, kisses, the anointing and wiping with her hair) as “signs of love and gratitude” for forgiveness and observes that the unbinding of her hair “does not confirm her sinfulness” but “merely gives rise to an interpretation of her” (by Simon).5 Darrel Bock sees the unbinding of the hair as an act that “some might think immodest” (in her social context) but it is part of her gestures as a whole, which express humility, devotion, reverence.6 According to Frederick Danker, the woman’s loose hair is 2 See, e.g., Alfred Plummer, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel according to S. Luke (4th ed.; ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1910), 210–11; R. K. Orchard, “On the Composition of Luke 7, 36–50,” JTS 38 (1937): 243–45; Ben Witherington III, Women in the Ministry of Jesus: A Study of Jesus’ Attitudes to Women and Their Roles as Reflected in His Earthly Life (SNTSMS 51; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 54–55. 3 Walter Radl, Das Evangelium nach Lukas: Kommentar, Erster Teil, 1.1–9.50 (Freiburg: Herder, 2003), 495 with n. 242 and 496 with n. 251. Josef Schmid identifies the woman as a prostitute but makes no mention of her loose hair (Das Evangelium nach Lukas [4th ed.; RNT 3; Regensburg: Friedrich Pustet, 1960], 147). 4 Joachim Jeremias, The Parables of Jesus (rev. ed.; New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1963), 126. 5 Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel According to Luke (I–IX): Introduction, Translation, and Notes (AB 28; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1981), 689, 687, 689. 6 Darrel L. Bock, Luke, vol. 1, 1:1–9:50 (Baker Exegetical Commentary on the NT 3; Grand Rapids: Baker Books, 1994), 696–97.
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grounds for questioning her character but her actions are “a monument of sacred affection.”7 Other commentators give the traditional interpretation of the woman’s unbound hair as immodest a more intense coloring. They see the unbound hair as part of a cluster of sexually provocative gestures by the woman. Joel Green describes her behavior as “erotic” and therefore “outrageous.” Letting down her hair “would have been on a par with appearing topless in public.” Likewise, her touching of Jesus’ feet is like the fondling that slave girls performed on guests at dinner parties as a prelude to sexual favors.8 The same or similar points are made also by Kathleen Corley (to whom Green refers), François Bovon, and others.9 These interpreters are not saying that the woman’s gestures are meant by her to be erotic, only that they would have been construed that way (e.g., by a character like Simon) and that the public connotations of her actions heighten the drama and underscore the Lukan theme that Jesus accepts the disreputables. A very different take on the story of the sinful woman is found in a retelling of the story by fourth-century church father Asterius of Amasea, who presumably had some sense of the propriety of women’s gestures with their hair in ancient Mediterranean culture: Showing her unworthiness and utmost timidity through her manner and assuming a place to the rear, she did not simply stand but took a position behind his feet, loosed her hair, and made her grieving soul a matter of public business by her actions. Shedding tears on the feet of Jesus with great feeling she begged for mercy. And she poured forth such tears that she wet his
7 Frederick W. Danker, Commentary on Luke: Jesus and the New Age (rev. ed.; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988), 169–70. Other interpreters who see the woman’s action with her hair as immodest but who are cautious about identifying her as a prostitute include Frederic Godet, A Commentary on the Gospel of St. Luke (trans. E. W. Shalders and M. D. Cusin; New York: I. K. Funk, 1881), 228 (he refers to his more detailed treatment of the quasi-parallel story in John 12; see Godet, A Commentary on the Gospel of John [trans. and ed. Timothy Dwight; New York: Funk and Wagnalls, 1886], 207); and Fernando Méndez-Moratalla, The Paradigm of Conversion in Luke (JSNTSup 252; New York: T&T Clark, 2004), 106–9. 8 Joel Green, The Gospel of Luke (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), 309, 310. He offers no evidence that party prostitutes fondled the feet of the male guests. 9 Kathleen E. Corley, Private Women, Public Meals: Social Conflict in the Synoptic Tradition (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1993), 125; François Bovon, Luke 1: A Commentary on the Gospel of Luke 1:1–9:50 (trans. Christine M. Thomas; ed. Helmut Koester; Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2002), 294–95. Keith F. Nickle imagines Simon interpreting the woman’s actions as “hanky-panky” (Preaching the Gospel of Luke: Proclaiming God’s Royal Rule [Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2000], 78).
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Journal of Biblical Literature feet. And wiping her tears with her hair she again displayed her perfectly circumspect humility. (Hom. 13.10.2–3)10
Asterius makes the woman’s act of unbinding her hair an explicit detail of the story and sees it as a gesture of grieving (displaying th;n penqou'san yuchvn11), not as a sign of her loose morals or even as an awkward but forgivable breach of decorum prompted by the unforeseen necessity of drying Jesus’ feet. This is evident not only from his praise of this action but also from the fact that in his retelling the loosing of the hair comes at the moment she places herself at Jesus’ feet but before she starts weeping. Hence, the gesture has its own independent significance as an expression of pious grief for her sin. This ancient interpretation should give us pause about whether the woman’s gesture with her hair (along with her other actions) is sexually provocative or even a lapse in etiquette by ancient Mediterranean standards. To that question we now turn.
II. The Social Symbolism of Women’s Hair and Actions Involving Women’s Hair in Antiquity The following examination of references to unbound hair/unbinding the hair covers many centuries and reveals a consistency of basic attitudes. I have not found any evidence to suggest that for first-century Jews a woman’s unbound hair carried different meanings from what it had in the wider society. Hence, when it comes to applying the results of the survey to Luke 7:36–50, I assume that general Mediterranean social codes are applicable. I am encouraged in this by two things: (1) the fact that the ancient Jewish evidence we possess jibes with general Greco-Roman conventions regarding hair; (2) the fact that Luke and his audience, representing an urban and predominantly Gentile Christianity, are likely to have understood the story in terms of general GrecoRoman social conventions. The typical women’s style throughout many centuries was to wear their hair long12 but to bind it in some way so that it did not hang down loosely.13 Often this involved plaiting or braiding.14 Cloth bands, pins, and combs were used to restrain the hair in a chaste and often ornamental way. 10 My translation. For the Greek text, see C. Datema, ed., Asterius of Amasea: Homilies I–XIV: Text, Introduction, and Notes (Leiden: Brill, 1970), 191. 11 On the use of penqevw as sorrow for one’s sins, see 1 Cor 5:2 and T. Reub. 1:10. 12 See Paul’s observation about this in 1 Cor 11:15. Shorter hairstyles are also in evidence, however, in artistic representations. 13 See “Haartracht,” DNP, 5:40–45. 14 A woman’s plaited hair with a long braid was found among the sad remains at Masada. See Yigael Yadin, Masada: Herod’s Fortress and the Zealot’s Last Stand (New York: Random House, 1966), 54, 56. See also the reference to braided hair in 1 Tim 2:9.
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In antiquity, a woman’s unbound hair (and the act of unbinding the hair) often had sexual connotations. A few examples will suffice to illustrate this. In one popular telling of the story of Medusa, Medusa’s beautiful hair attracts Poseidon, who rapes her, leaving her to be punished by her rival, Jove’s daughter (Athena), who transforms Medusa’s hair into snakes (Ovid, Met. 4.794–803). The wild, unbound hair of Medusa is beautiful, sexually seductive, and dangerous (above all to her!).15 In Shepherd of Hermas (Sim. 9.9.6 and 15.1–3) certain beautiful women dressed in black and wearing loose hair symbolize vices. A certain Phaedra, in a play of Euripides, is torn by adulterous desire. As she begins to speak of her passion, she asks her nurse to unbind her hair (Euripides, Hipp. 198–202). Even more famously, Apuleius, through the voice of Lucius, expresses a sexual fetish for women’s hair and deliciously describes the pleasure he has in watching a servant girl let down her hair for him as a prelude to their lovemaking (Apuleius, Met. 2.17). There is no need to rehearse here all the ways in which men in antiquity (and in later times) projected their own sexually aggressive urges onto women, casting the female as a threat to male virtue because of her allegedly voracious sexual appetite and weak moral nature. The sexual meaning of women’s long, free-flowing hair belongs in part to this ideology. But there are other meanings of a woman’s unbound hair and the act of unbinding the hair. A particularly interesting example is found in the actions of Callirhoe in the temple of Aphrodite in the popular ancient Greek novel Chaereas and Callirhoe. The first time Callirhoe visits Aphrodite, she prostrates herself at the feet of the goddess and prays to her (2.2.7). This is consistent with what we know of ancient Greek customs of praying in shrines: men stood and prayed with arms raised; women knelt.16 The second time, at the very end of the novel, Callirhoe’s actions are described in greater detail. Having been reunited with her husband, she now enters the shrine of Aphrodite to express her gratitude. She places her hands and face on the goddess’s feet, lets down her hair, and kisses the feet of the goddess (8.8.15).17 In this setting, the loving attention to the feet and the letting down of the hair are clearly acts of thankful veneration. A similar gesture (although it does not involve hair) appears in the resurrection-appearance story in Matthew 28, where the women 15 Molly Myerowitz Levine comments: “Transformed from golden to serpentine, Medusa’s head, once unmoored, becomes a reincarnated, infinitely more potent version of the pure female threat” (“The Gendered Grammar of Ancient Mediterranean Hair,” in Off with Her Head! The Denial of Women’s Identity in Myth, Religion, and Culture [ed. Howard Eilberg-Schwartz and Wendy Doniger; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995], 94). 16 John Stambaugh, “The Function of Roman Temples,” in ANRW 2.16.1:579. 17 Chariton, Le Roman de Chairéas et Callirhoé (ed. and trans. Georges Moline; Paris: Belles Lettres, 1979), 203.
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fleeing the empty tomb meet the risen Jesus and take hold of his feet in an act of worship (Matt 28:9). A more formal custom of women wearing their hair unbound in acts of religious devotion was part of the Andanian mysteries. According to an inscription dating to 92/91 B.C.E. that gives the rule for the celebration of these rites, female initiates are not to wear “gold, or rouge, or white make-up, or a hair band, or braided hair or shoes made of anything but felt or leather from sacrificial victims.”18 Loose hair goes here with other divestments of culture, implying that the worshipers enter the rites in a pure and natural state. Similarly, the regulations for entering the temple of the goddess Despoina at Lycosura stipulate that women are not to enter with their hair bound (and men are not to cover their heads).19 In Satyricon, Petronius has Ganymede remember the “old days” when people believed in religion and “the mothers in their best robes used to climb the hill with bare feet and loose hair, pure in spirit, and pray Jupiter to send rain” (Sat. 45).20 We also have an ancient law attributed to Numa Pompilius (716–673 B.C.E.) that should a concubine touch the altar of Juno, she must offer a ewe lamb to Juno, approaching with her hair unbound.21 From what we have seen, it appears that for a woman to unbind her hair before a god was a gesture of humility and reverence. A famous story is told, which became a subject of artistic representation, that at the festival of Poseidon in Eleusis, “in sight of the whole Greek world” a beautiful and wealthy courtesan named Phryne “removed only her outer garment, loosed her hair, and stepped into the sea” (Athenaeus, Deip. 13.590).22 This is clearly an act of symbolic self-offering to the god. Athenaeus stresses the modesty of Phryne, and one of his points here is that she does not completely disrobe. But the gesture of self-offering also seems to have sexual overtones, an impression reinforced for us through an additional comment by Athenaeus about this episode. He reports what was probably a common opinion that the artist Apelles modeled his Aphrodite Rising from the Sea on Phryne’s act at the festival of Poseidon, an event the artist is said to have witnessed. Whether he 18 Translation of Marvin W. Meyer, The Ancient Mysteries: A Sourcebook: Sacred Texts of the Mystery Religions of the Ancient Mediterranean World (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1987), 53. For the Greek text, see SIG, vol. 2, no. 736 (specific language about hair on p. 403). 19 Leges Graecorum sacrae e titulis collectae (ed. Hans Theodor Anton von Prott and Ludwig Ziehen; repr., Chicago: Ares, 1988), no. 63, pp. 197–99. 20 Petronius, with a translation by Michael Heseltine, revised by E. H. Warmington (LCL; London: William Heinemann; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987), 87. 21 Fontes Iures Romani Antejustiniani, vol. 1 (2nd ed.; ed. Salvatore Riccobono et al.; 3 vols.; Florence: G. Barbèra, 1940–43), 13 (#13). 22 My translation, following the Greek text in Athenaeus, The Deipnosophists, with an English translation by Charles Burtin Gulick, vol. 6 (LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press; London: William Heinemann, 1950), 186.
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witnessed the event or not, Apelles conceived it in erotic terms, and anyone who thought that Phryne was the model for his Aphrodite Rising from the Sea probably associated the eroticism of Apelles’ painting with Phryne’s famous dip in the sea with unbound hair. Of special interest for us is the possibility that it was customary for women to unbind their hair and step into the sea at the festival of Poseidon at Eleusis or elsewhere, but I have not found any evidence of this beyond the story about Phryne.23 The Matronalia festival honored Juno Lucina, goddess of childbirth. Only women were permitted to celebrate this festival, which required that they untie knots in their clothing and wear their hair unbound to ensure safety in childbirth (Ovid, Fast. 3.245). An ancient notion of sympatheia seems to be involved here, the idea that the untying of knots in clothing and hair will encourage an untying or loosening of the birth canal. Unmarried Roman and Greek girls wore their hair free (see Hom. Hym. 2.176–78) or restrained by a single headband (Ovid, Met. 2.413). In Heliodorus’s An Ethiopian Story, the beautiful young Charicleia, riding from the temple of Artemis in a chariot drawn by white bullocks and clad in a blouse of handmade black and gold snakes, wears her hair long down the back (but the ringlets in the front are controlled and chaste).24 Nymphs have loose hair (see Longus, Poim. 1.4; 2.23) as do maidens in idyllic seascapes (away from society).25 In these settings unbound hair is a symbol of freedom, naturalness (and in this sense freedom from the conventions of society), even wildness.26 Aristophanes portrays the free, wild maidens of Sparta, who, in their unmarried state, frolic with unbound hair like the bacchants (Lys. 1308–13). Ovid speaks of Daphne’s “lawless locks” (sine lege capillos) in Met. 1.477. Warrior women are sometimes described as having free-flowing hair,27 which may symbolize their wildness or fierceness, perhaps through association with Spartan male 23 Such a ritual would be practical only at shrines near the sea and where the geography afforded a beach. The Eleusinian mysteries included bathing in the sea as a ritual of purification. See Hans-Josef Klauck, The Religious Context of Early Christianity: A Guide to Greco-Roman Religions (trans. Brian McNeil; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2000), 100. 24 Heliodorus, Ath. 3.4. Compare the novelist Xenophon’s description of the fourteen-yearold Anthia marching in the local procession at the festival of Artemis: “Her hair was golden—a little of it plaited, but most hanging loose and blowing in the wind” (Xenophon, Anth. 1.2; translation by Graham Anderson in B. P. Reardon, ed., Collected Ancient Greek Novels [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989], 129). 25 Achilles Tatius, Leuk. 1.1.7 (describing girls in a seascape painting). 26 Seneca regarded men’s long hair as natural, belonging to a time before culture when men lived lives nearer to animals. Men shaking out their streaming hair reminded him of noble animals shaking out their manes. See Quaest. Nat. 1.17.7. 27 See Heliodorus, Ath. 1.2, describing the heroine, Charicleia, in her first appearance in a warrior-like pose.
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warriors who have free-flowing hair. Apollo, in his pursuit of Daphne, dreams of her wild hair being “arranged” (comantur; Ovid, Met. 1.498), which probably refers not only to his desire to see her made up beautifully but also to the symbolism of hair so arranged, namely, as a sign of marriage (to him).28 Marriage required a change of hairstyle for women (not for men). Married women did up their hair with headbands,29 symbolizing the sexual unavailability of the matron to any man but her husband. Accordingly, it was shameful for a married woman to appear in public with her hair unbound, except under certain circumstances to be described more fully below. Before turning to these exceptions, it is important to mention the ritual prescribed in Num 5:18–31 to test whether a woman suspected of adultery has been unfaithful. The accused woman is brought before the priest, who dishevels her hair, places in her hands a grain offering of remembrance, requires an oath from her, and makes her drink a preparation called “the water of bitterness.” The undoing of the woman’s hair looks like an act of shaming designed to mortify her and bring forth a confession. It is to be noted that although the ritual, as a quasi-legal proceeding, does not technically presume the woman’s guilt, it is cast in language strongly biased against her. We find a later version of this ritual in Sot\ah 1.5. The element of shaming is even stronger in this text, which involves not only disheveling the accused woman’s hair but ripping open her clothing to expose her breasts.30 In some social situations, however, a woman whose age or marital status required that she bind her hair and cover her head could expose her head and let down her hair in public without risking censure. Callirhoe in the temple of Aphrodite offers one example (see above). Grieving rituals offer another, as we have noted in Charicleia’s acts of mourning. Plutarch asks, “Why do sons cover their heads when they escort their parents to the grave, while daughters go uncovered and with hair unbound?”31 He finds most plausible the explana28 Metamorphoses 1.498 as translated by A. D. Melville in Ovid: Metamorphoses (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986), 16. See further Myerowitz Levine, “Gendered Grammar of Ancient Mediterranean Hair,” 82–85. 29 Varro, Ling. 7.44 (speaking of the practice of married women to wear their hair on top of their heads fixed by a woolen band). I wish to thank Jennifer Eyl for this reference, found in her paper “Sweeping Sacred Floors with Her Hair: Polybius IX.6 and the Republican Women’s Passus” (paper read at the Bryn Mawr Symposium, October 11, 2003). 30 Numbers 5:11–31 is a complicated passage reflecting a no doubt complicated tradition history. On the passage as a whole, see the contributions by various scholars in Women in the Hebrew Bible: A Reader (ed. Alice Bach; New York: Routledge, 1999), 460–522. These commentators say little about the disheveling of the woman’s hair. 31 Moralia 267 (The Roman Questions No. 14) in Plutarch’s Moralia, with an English translation by Frank Cole Babbitt (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press; London: William Heinemann, 1962), 25.
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tion that in mourning men and women do the opposite of what is usual for them.32 In Xenophon’s An Ephesian Tale, Anthia dishevels her hair in grief over her separation from her husband and his sufferings (Ath. 3.5). Vergil’s Aeneid speaks of women mourning the dead with hair unbound (Aen. 3.65). In Passion of Perpetua 20, Perpetua fixes her loosened hair after being knocked down by a bull in the arena; she does so because she regards it as unfitting that a martyr “should seem to grieve in her glory.”33 She also hastily covers her exposed thigh, a gesture of modesty. The author of this drama does not associate the rebinding of the hair with modesty, which shows how strongly unbound hair calls grief to mind. That is, Perpetua does not need to worry that people will interpret her loose hair in a sexual way because she knows they are more likely to associate her loose hair with grieving. Funerary reliefs showing families in mourning depict women with loose, disheveled hair.34 Ovid describes Aurora (Eos) going with disheveled hair to the shrine of Jove (Zeus) after leaving the funeral pyre of her son, Memnon. With streaming hair (crine soluto), she falls at the god’s feet to beg for Memnon’s safe passage to the next world and for some consolation in her grief (Met. 583–99). Eumolpus in Petronius’s Satyricon tells the story of a virtuous woman from Ephesus who in great grief mourns her husband by loosing her hair and beating her naked breast in the funeral procession. Unsatisfied with these customary expressions of grief (non contenta vulgari more), she takes up residence in her husband’s underground tomb and sets to weeping day and night (subsequently falling in love with a soldier who visits the tomb, and so forth) (Sat. 111).35 The tale is fanciful, but it reveals that for a woman to let down her hair and bare her breasts in public36 was considered fitting as an expression of grief. Here these behaviors, as her own actions in a grieving ritual, carry a very different meaning from the same actions performed on her in a violent ordeal of shaming (disheveling of an accused woman’s hair and ripping open her clothing to expose her breasts in Sot\ah 1.5; see above). Expression of grief through disheveled hair may also explain in part the practice of women to unbind their hair in times of great danger. From Polybius and Livy we have stories about extreme national crises in Rome, when the 32
Ibid., 27. W. H. Shewing’s rendering of in sua gloria plangere videretur. See The Passion of S.S. Perpetua and Felicity M.M., Together with the Sermons of Augustine upon These Saints (trans. W. H. Shewing; London: Sheed & Ward, 1931), 40 (Latin on p. 19). 34 See J. M. C. Toynbee, Death and Burial in the Roman World (London: Thames & Hudson, 1971), 44–47, with notes; plates 9, 10, and 11. 35 See Petronius, p. 268. 36 It is not clear whether the grieving woman in Eumolpus’s story exposes her breasts completely or only partially. Likewise the shaming ritual in Sot\ah 1.5 might involve full or only partial exposure of the breasts. 33
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women of the city of Rome would go from temple to temple sweeping the temple pavements and altars with their unbound hair, supplicating the gods to save the city from invasion (Polybius 9.6.3–5; Livy 26.9.7–8).37 This may suggest a kind of proleptic and supplicatory grief (see below). Or it could be a ritual cleansing of the temples to win the gods’ favor. The latter possibility has a remote parallel in an Egyptian song in which two priestesses symbolizing Isis and Nephthy invite the god Amen-Ra to wipe upon their hair the impurities of his bones when he (daily) reassembles his body.38 Of course, a ritual like that of the women sweeping the pavements and altars with their hair can have more than one meaning and, in many minds, it was no doubt simply “what we do” to avert disaster in a particular situation.39 Livy and Ovid tell us that the Sabine women of ancient Italy endeavored to stop their men from fighting by venturing into the battlefield, where they knelt with disheveled hair and begged for peace (Livy 1.13.1; Ovid, Fast. 213–22). Livy tells a similar story about the mother of Coriolanus, hair torn and disheveled, leading a parade of women to persuade her son from going to war against Rome (7.40.12 referring back to 2.40.5ff.). And Dionysius of Halicarnassus describes Roman women with loose hair beseeching the gods in an effort to ward off an attack against the city (8.22.2). Unbound hair in these passages may be understood as an exhibition of what might be called proleptic grief expressed in advance as a supplication to male warriors and/or the gods to avert war or other disaster. This impression is strengthened by the “Hymn of Demeter,” in which Demeter, upon learning that her daughter Persephone (Kore) has been abducted, unbinds her hair and goes in search of her. Similarly, in Civil War (De Bello Civili), Lucan describes a “grief of foreboding” among the people of Rome (B.C. 7.185–91) and then goes on to depict the married women of Rome, with hair disheveled, looking down from Rome’s high walls on the eve of the invasion, urging on their men (B.C. 7.369–70). We might understand these women as displaying anticipatory grief, which is also an act of supplication to the gods. Unbound hair was also associated with conjury. In the Aeneid a priestess with her hair disheveled summons subterranean powers (4.509–10). Lucan 37 Jennifer Eyl (“Sweeping Sacred Floors with Her Hair”) drew my attention to these passages and those mentioned below describing the Sabine women. 38 See E. A. Wallis Budge, The Gods of the Egyptians, vol. 1 (New York: Dover, 1959), 107. I have this reference from Loretta Dornisch, A Woman Reads the Gospel of Luke (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1996), 83. Unlike her, I don’t see here a parallel to what the woman does with her hair in Luke 7. 39 Eyl (“Sweeping Sacred Floors with Her Hair”) suggests that women’s unbound hair in these stories expresses a liminal state or situation. In the ancient world a woman’s unbound hair (and her act of unbinding the hair) could symbolize a crossing of the limen between culture and nature, order and chaos.
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portrays the witch Erictho living in deserted tombs, haggard, hair unkempt (B.C. 6.607–18). The sorceress Proselenos appears in Petronius’s Satyricon with unbound hair (Sat. 133). Ecstatic states were associated with loose hair. In both literary and visual depictions (e.g., on vases), Dionysius is typically accompanied by women (maenads) dancing in a frenzied state, their hair flying freely (Euripides, Bacch. 695, 864–65, 927–31). The church father Basil of Caesarea complains about women who celebrate the Easter vigil at the martyrs’ tombs by uncovering their heads and dancing wildly with disheveled hair.40 In the Apostolic Tradition, the instructions laid down for women about to be baptized include that they remove their jewelry and loose their hair (21.5). The Sahidic, Arabic, and Ethiopic versions all explain that the reason for the removal of jewelry is that nothing (or “nothing foreign” as one version has it) should go into the water with the baptizand (who is naked). One interpretation of this is that in the ancient world it was thought that demons took up residence in jewelry. Since bound hair is typically fixed in place with bands, pins, or combs, unbinding the hair would entail the removal of these objects, releasing the demons or at least preventing them from going into the water with the baptizand.41 This fits the parallel instruction in the Canons of Hippolytus, which gives as the reason for women to loose their hair as “for fear that something of the alien spirits should go down with them into the water.”42 A different interpretation is offered by Willem van Unnik, who sees this baptismal instruction as a Christian version of the rabbinic requirement that proselytes undergo baptismal rites in which, in the case of women, unbound hair symbolizes impurity, to be ritually cleansed.43 As he understands it, the church adopted the rabbinic idea of women’s unbound hair as impure and worked it into the meaning of baptism as cleansing from sin. Zwi Werblowsky proposes that the reasoning behind the instruction in the Apostolic Tradition is that bound hair might not receive the full effects of the baptism, parts within knotted hair perhaps remaining dry, which is a rabbinic worry mentioned in the Talmud in connection with women’s monthly postmenstrual washings.44 The regulations for the 40 Hom. 14 in hebraosus, PG 31:445; see also Basil, Sermones de moribus a Symeone Metaphrasta collecti, PG 32:1349. 41 See F. J. Dölger, Der Exorzismus im altchristlichen Taufritual (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 1909), 112–14. Dölger draws attention to the claim in Excerpts of Theodotus that in some few cases there is a danger that demons might accompany the baptizand into the water (Ex. Theod. 83), an idea that he combines with a comment in 1 Enoch that demons are the inventors of jewelry (in 1 En. 8 the invention of ornaments is attributed to the fallen angel Azaz’el). 42 Canons of Hippolytus as quoted in Paul F. Bradshaw, Maxwell E. Johnson, and L. Edward Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition: A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2002), 113. 43 W. C. van Unnik, “Les chevaux defaits des femmes baptisées: Un rite de baptême dans l’Ordre Ecclésiastique d’Hippolyte,” VC 1 (1947): 77–100, esp. 90–96. 44 R. J. Zwi Werblowsky, “On the Baptismal Rite According to St. Hippolytus,” in Studia Patristica, vol. 2 (ed. Kurt Aland and F. L. Cross; Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1955), 99.
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Andanian mysteries and those for the temple of Despoina, referred to earlier, may shed light here. At Andania makeup is also forbidden and simplicity of dress required. Simplicity of dress and absence of jewelry are insisted upon for entrance into the temple of Despoina. These rules, along with the regulation that hair be unbound, suggest that the accouterments of culture (and especially of ornament) are not to be carried into the mysteries. The concern is evidently to effect simplicity, lack of ostentation, naturalness. Many ancient Christians may have interpreted the baptismal regulations along the same lines. Moreover, Christians who reflected on these matters likely had varying understandings of the meaning of the rules about attire and hairstyle.
III. Interpreting Luke 7:36–50 in the Light of the Social Symbolism of Gestures with Hair in the Greco-Roman World My aim in what follows is to delineate reasonable interpretations of the story from an ancient readerly perspective. If the story admits more than one plausible interpretation from an ancient standpoint, then the original meaning of the story is that range of reasonable interpretations that first-century readers could have given.45 Luke’s story provides two explicit interpretations of the woman’s action: Simon the Pharisee’s interpretation followed by Jesus’ interpretation. Before Simon speaks, readers naturally form their own impressions of the woman’s actions. Hence, it may be helpful to analyze the story in terms of three successive judgments about the woman: an initial set of impressions prompted by the description of her in vv. 37–38, Simon’s interpretation of the woman’s behavior (v. 39), and Jesus’ interpretation of both Simon’s and the woman’s behaviors (vv. 40–50). I do not propose this threefold division as anything more than a heuristic approach to understanding the story. Rereading the story—studying it, preaching it, commenting upon it—naturally breaks up the sequence by bringing these three moments of interpretation into a kind of simultaneous interaction with one another. 45 I am not inquiring into Luke’s “intent” in a narrow sense. Nevertheless, for those interested in speculating about Luke’s intent, I recommend the following dictum attributed by J. Louis Martyn to Walter Bauer: “Before one inquires into the author’s intention, one must first ask how the first readers are likely to have understood the text.” See J. Louis Martyn, The Gospel of John in Christian History: Essays for Interpreters (New York: Paulist, 1978), 105–6 n. 169. In my judgment, the closest we can get to Luke’s intent is the range of reasonable interpretations that sensitive original readers/auditors gave (or could have given) his story. For those who are interested in a further elaboration of this approach to interpretation, I have treated the matter in greater detail in Elusive Israel: The Puzzle of Election in Romans (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1997), xi–xii, 1–25, and 91–96. See also Robert C. Tannehill, “Freedom and Responsibility in Scripture Interpretation, with Application to Luke,” in Literary Studies in Luke-Acts (ed. Richard P. Thompson and Thomas E. Philips; Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1998), 265–78.
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First Impressions of the Woman’s Entrance and Gesture In making sense of vv. 37–38, any ancient hearer would have formed a mental picture, just as we do, of the woman wiping Jesus’ feet with her hair. Since it is hard to envision her performing this act with her hair up, ancient hearers will have wondered when the woman let down her hair or at least why her hair is hanging loose so she can use it to wipe his feet. Would Luke and his ancient readers have assumed that she entered Simon’s house with her head covering off 46 and her hair unbound? Or would they have imagined her lowering her head covering and loosening her hair at some point during her actions at Jesus’ feet, whether at the moment when she decides to dry her tears with her hair or earlier, perhaps even at the time when she first positions herself at his feet?47 A first-century hearer could have inferred that she let down her hair as part of her approach to Jesus, or that when she saw that she was getting his feet wet with her tears she let down her hair to wipe them. Either inference is perfectly reasonable. Would some first-century hearers have imagined that her hair was down because she was a prostitute, the assumption being that prostitutes wore their hair in a provocative, sexually solicitous fashion? Little evidence exists on the subject of how prostitutes wore their hair, and the evidence I have found is mixed. Plautus describes a courtesan who impersonates a married woman by fixing her hair with hairbands (Mil. 790–93), but the story of the courtesan Phryne shows that at least some prostitutes wore their hair up and bound when they went about in public. We will see in a moment, when we come to Simon’s response, that the story implies that nothing in her appearance marks her as a prostitute or a sexually “loose” woman. Luke introduces her as “a woman of the city who was a sinner” (7:37). Readers are left to draw their own conclusions about the nature of her sin; prostitution is certainly a possibility (perhaps especially with the mention of the city), but so is adultery or one of the other senses of aJmartwlov" as a social status.48 In any case, her unbound hair does not reveal the nature of her sin. The narrative leaves the possibilities open. 46 Greek and Roman women wore an outer garment with a hood that could be raised or lowered. It covered the head; it was not a veil obscuring the face. Among Jews in the talmudic period both married and unmarried women wore head coverings in public. But there may have been more relaxed attitudes among some Jews and at earlier periods. On the whole matter, see Louis M. Epstein, Sex Laws and Customs in Judaism (New York: Ktav, 1948), 46–52. 47 As we have seen, Asterius took for granted that the woman loosed her hair when she approached Jesus but before she began to weep (Hom. 13.10.3.1). 48 Matthew Black suggests that she as a debtor (An Aramaic Approach to the Gospels and Acts [3rd ed.; Oxford: Clarendon, 1967], 181–83). Adolf Schlatter argues that she was likely the wife of a man who did not observe the law (Das Evangelium nach Lukas [2nd ed.; Stuttgart: Calwer, 1960], 259).
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First impressions would also lead first hearers to puzzle about the meaning of the woman’s gestures as a whole: the kissing of the feet, the weeping, the use of her hair to wipe Jesus’ feet, the anointing with ointment. This sequence of actions is open to at least two interpretations: the woman wants something from Jesus and is seeking his favor, or she has received something from him and is expressing her gratitude. A woman with unbound hair kissing a man’s feet at a dinner party strikes some modern interpreters as a sexually provocative display. But a first-century audience would be unlikely to form this impression of the woman for several reasons. First, the woman has not been supplied by the host. Second, the setting is a Pharisee’s dinner party, not a morally lax Greco-Roman banquet. Third, the woman is weeping. In view of the evidence for grieving rituals, expressions of gratitude, and acts of solicitation that we have surveyed, it is difficult for me to imagine the ancient audience reading the woman’s actions in a sexual way. They are far more likely to think (and wonder) along the following lines: Why is she grieving and why does she show her grief in this way? Or what kind of act of grateful devotion is this? Or is it a supplication of some kind? The quasi doublet of our story in John 12 has Mary, in her own home (where her sister Martha and her brother Lazarus are hosting Jesus), anointing Jesus’ feet with expensive perfume and wiping his feet with her hair. This act is clearly one of devotion, a gesture of loving, self-giving affection. (Jesus interprets Mary’s act prophetically as an anointing for his burial.) Let me put the preceding argument a bit differently. Given the conventional social meanings of the gestures and their appearance in the setting of a Pharisee hosting the holy man Jesus at dinner, first-century Mediterranean hearers would not be any more justified than modern readers are in construing the woman’s behavior as sexually provocative or shameful. They would be justified in construing her actions as expressions of grief, gratefulness, propitiation, or pleading. Simon’s Reading of the Woman and of Jesus One test of the preceding is whether it makes sense in the light of Simon’s response. After all, Luke must portray Simon as giving a conventional response, what a first-century Mediterranean man who is also a Pharisee might say in this situation. Simon does not comment directly about the woman; he comments about Jesus, thinking to himself, “If this man were a prophet he would have known who and what kind of woman she is, who is touching him, that she is a sinner” (v. 39). The implication is that the woman, because of who she is (a sinner), should not be touching Jesus. This tells us a lot about whether the woman’s actions are, from a conventional point of view, sexually provocative. Luke’s story implies that Simon does not think they are because Simon says, “if
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this man were a prophet. . . .” In other words, Simon’s view is that although there is nothing in the immediate actions or appearance of the woman to suggest that she is a sinner, a prophet would know her identity by clairvoyance. Assuming that Luke’s portraiture of Simon has verisimilitude (in the eyes of his audience) as a depiction of a strait-laced, morally conservative person, then it is fair to draw the following conclusion. If there is nothing in what the woman does or how she appears to suggest to a Pharisee that she is a sinner, then her behavior and appearance must not seem sexually inappropriate by ancient Mediterranean moral codes.49 And this conclusion is consistent with the way we have already read her actions in the light of our survey. Unbound hair on a weeping woman is naturally associated with grief, supplication, and gratitude. Moreover, we have seen a case where the fact that a woman’s hair is unbound (in her supplicatory grief) is not even mentioned because it presumably went without saying (in the story of the mother of Coriolanus). We learn of her unbound hair only in a later reference recalling the scene. A first-century audience could construe Luke 7 along similar lines. The reference to the woman’s tears and her use of her hair to wipe Jesus’ feet could easily prompt a retroactive picture of the woman entering the scene in a grief-stricken state with her hair unbound. Jesus’ Response The story of the sinful woman has been analyzed form-critically as a pronouncement story (vv. 36–40, 44–47) into which a parable has been inserted (vv. 41–43). Most commentators think that Luke inherited the story in this complex form from the tradition and added a conclusion (vv. 48–50). The effect of this compound is a seeming contradiction between two ways in which Jesus interprets the woman’s actions. The parable suggests that great forgiveness produces great love in the one forgiven. The pronouncement story suggests that great love wins forgiveness. The ending of the narrative asserts a standard gospel refrain, “your faith has saved you,” which restates neither of the preceding two principles, although it does not necessarily contradict either of them.50 One way of partially resolving the apparent contradiction is to take the o{ticlause in v. 47 not in an explanatory sense, as giving the reason why the woman 49 It is also worth noting that Simon does not express surprise at the woman’s presence in his house. This may reflect a custom in the ancient Mediterranean world of permitting uninvited persons to attend dinner parties so long as they remained along the walls, not at the table. For evidence in Jewish settings, see Str-B 4:611–39, 615. 50 Some interpreters think that “your faith has saved you” is closer to “her sins being many are forgiven because she loved much,” inasmuch as in both the order of reception of God’s grace begins with an act by the woman (love or faith), whereas in the parable the implication is that a divine act of forgiveness produces love on the part of the receiver.
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has been forgiven, but in an evidentiary sense, as giving the tokens attesting to a prior forgiveness she had already received. This solution conforms v. 47 to the logic of the parable. It does not, however, reconcile v. 47 to the pronouncement of forgiveness in v. 48. As we have seen, as a woman’s symbolic or ritual gesture, unbinding the hair/unbound hair can be part of grieving, including grieving solicitation of help or mercy. It can also be part of expressions of gratitude. Hence, the woman can be seen as seeking Jesus’ forgiveness or as expressing her gratitude for a forgiveness she has already received in an assumed but unnarrated part of the story. The story as it now stands in Luke concludes with Jesus pronouncing forgiveness on the woman (vv. 48–50). Looking back on the story from the standpoint of this ending, we are justified in concluding that the woman’s actions are pleadings expressing grief for her sin and a desire for mercy. If we assume that the woman knows Jesus’ reputation for accepting sinners,51 then it is also possible to interpret her tears as expressions of pious grief mixed with grateful anticipation of acceptance.52 Jesus also interprets the woman’s actions as gestures of hospitality. This is a surprising and ironic way of construing her behavior, designed to draw a contrast between the Pharisee’s failure to play the proper host to Jesus and the sinful woman’s unwitting fulfillment of Simon’s role. If there is any intrinsic connection between Jesus’ novel interpretation of her actions and the more conventional meaning those actions might carry, it is found in the association of unbinding the hair/unbound hair and kissing the feet with honorific displays toward a person of high status and with veneration of a deity. To judge from a passage in Petronius, having a guest’s feet anointed with ointment (and not merely washed) was a practice of extravagant hospitality.53 Are the woman’s actions not also expressions of love and self-offering, not in an erotic sense but as gestures of devotion? This seems plausible and leads some readers to imagine a prior, unnarrated scene in which Jesus shows mercy to the woman, after which she, once she has collected herself or found opportunity, seeks him out to show a gratitude that has already deepened into love. This 51 Jesus’ reputation for befriending sinners is mentioned right before our story (7:34). We can gather from the woman’s possession of the alabaster flask and her actions with it that she does not meet Jesus by chance at Simon’s house. Moreover, Luke is explicit: she found out (ejpignou'sa) where he was and went with her flask, and so on (7:37ff.). In these ways, the narrative makes clear that the woman sought out Jesus, the implication being that she did so on the basis of his reputation. 52 See Méndez-Moratalla, Paradigm of Conversion in Luke, 111. 53 Guests at a wealthy man’s extravagant dinner party are surprised when he has their feet anointed with ointment midway through the festivities (Sat. 70). This was against convention, the narrator says, presumably meaning that it occurred at an odd time—in the middle of the party and not when the guests first arrived.
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interpretation fits nicely with the parable Jesus tells (the one forgiven much loves much in response) but clashes with the ending of the narrative. Jesus applauds the woman’s actions. He interprets her devotion as the kind of care for him a host should have given. She thus becomes an exemplary figure. Moreover, the suggestion that the woman becomes Jesus’ host, although it is not meant literally, associates her with the women mentioned in the next narrative. They are his patrons, “providing for him out of their resources” (Luke 8:2–3).54 Both the sinful woman and these women take care of him. This construal of the story also fits best with the parable, which implies that the woman’s actions are loving expressions of devotion. It does not fit as well with the interpretation encouraged by the end of the pronouncement of forgiveness in v. 48, which leads us to see her actions as moral grief and a plea for mercy. Both interpretations are reasonable original (ancient) ways to understand Luke 7:36–50, each doing better justice to some aspects of the narrative than to others. The social symbolism of the unbound hair fits either interpretation or any combination of the two.
IV. Conclusion This study has clarified the meaning of the woman’s gesture with her hair in Luke 7:38 by describing the social symbolism of a woman’s unbound hair in the ancient Mediterranean world. When a woman wears her hair unbound/ unbinds her hair, this can be a sexually suggestive act, an expression of religious devotion, a hairstyle for unmarried girls, a sign of mourning, a symbolic expression of distress or proleptic grief in the face of impending danger (and a way of pleading with or currying the favor of those in power, whether gods or men), a hairstyle associated with conjury, a means of presenting oneself in a natural state in religious initiations, and a precaution against carrying demons or foreign objects into the waters of baptism. As these examples show, in certain social situations it is right for an ancient Mediterranean woman to unbind her hair in public, to do “the opposite” (recall Plutarch) of what is conventionally decorous, often (but not always) to express a state of extremity or liminality. These results shed light on Luke 7:38. Along with other contextual clues in the passage, they lead us to conclude that the woman’s gesture with her hair is not sexually provocative, indecent, or even a breach of etiquette. Some firstcentury auditors might have imagined that the woman makes her approach (self-presentation) to Jesus with hair undone (entering with hair unbound or 54 The manuscript tradition attests both “providing for him” and “providing for them,” that is, for the entourage as a whole.
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loosing it when she reaches Jesus’ feet) as a gesture expressing grief, gratefulness, or solicitation (or a combination of these). Other auditors might have imagined that she unbinds her hair at the moment she realizes that she has wet Jesus’ feet. For these auditors the gesture must have looked like an expedient born of the moment but not as something provocative or indecorous. Even as an unplanned act, it fits the overall deportment of the woman toward Jesus. The range of social meanings for the woman’s gesture with her hair lets us find a congruence between her action and either of two main lines of interpretation of the story: (1) that she has been forgiven antecedent to the narrative and comes to show her gratitude and devotion, or (2) that she comes weighed down by guilt, seeking forgiveness and acceptance, which she receives in the end. Perhaps these two interpretations can be combined by imagining that the woman approaches seeking acceptance from Jesus but also assuming that he will give it, that she belongs to the class of people to whom he has already extended God’s forgiveness. In that case, she is grieving, supplicating, and grateful. Whether a comprehensive interpretation of the narrative can accommodate this unifying interpretation or not,55 the woman’s gesture with her hair can reflect more than one state of mind. 55 It has not been my aim to give a comprehensive interpretation of Luke 7:36–50. I have restricted myself to illuminating the gesture of the hair and showing some of its implications for the interpretation of the story.
JBL 124/4 (2005) 693–714
SYNTACTICAL AND TEXT-CRITICAL OBSERVATIONS ON JOHN 20:30–31: ONE MORE ROUND ON THE PURPOSE OF THE FOURTH GOSPEL
D. A. CARSON Trinity Evangelical Divinity School, Deerfield, IL 60015
Debates over the purpose and audience of the Fourth Gospel turn on a plethora of interlocking texts and interpretive stances. One small but vital part is the interpretation of John 20:30–31. More than fifteen years ago, I published an essay under the title “The Purpose of the Fourth Gospel: John 20:30–31 Reconsidered.”1 Some time later that piece was criticized by Gordon Fee, and his response has been adopted in some circles as the last word on the syntactical and text-critical issues that are involved. Other interests have intruded on my attention, but it is high time I responded. I am grateful for Dr. Fee’s arguments, some of which convince me, and some of which I find rather unsatisfactory. Inevitably many will not recall the nature of the disagreement, so for the sake of clarity it seems best to summarize both my argument and Fee’s response, along with a few asides from others, before I advance a few fresh considerations.
I. The Original Essay Although the original essay lightly surveyed some of the broader arguments for the view that the Fourth Gospel was originally written for the purpose of evangelizing Jews and other biblically literate people such as proselytes and God-fearers, the heart of the argument lay in two points, one quite minor, the other major. The minor argument was that regardless of one’s text-critical 1 D. A. Carson, “The Purpose of the Fourth Gospel: John 20:30–31 Reconsidered,” JBL 106 (1987): 639–51.
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decision regarding pisteuv[s]hte (aorist subjunctive or present subjunctive) in John 20:31, very little could legitimately be made of the decision so far as determining the purpose of the book is concerned, since elsewhere in the book both the aorist and the present are used to refer to both the initial coming-to-faith and the exercise of believing on the long haul. In other words, this minor argument was merely an exercise in setting aside as largely irrelevant a frequently argued tense distinction (here complicated by textual variations) that could not be supported by John’s usage elsewhere. But the major purpose of the essay was to call attention to some linguistic work by Lane C. McGaughy and then work out some of its implications for John 20:30–31. In his monograph, McGaughy sets out to determine what is the subject and what is the complement in every instance where the verb eijmiv occurs in the NT.2 His summary is as follows, articulated in three points and four subpoints (and largely using his own words): 1. The subject is that word or cluster that agrees in person and number with the personal ending of the verb. That, of course, is true for all verbs (except where there is a breach of concord), not just for eijmiv. 2. The word or word cluster with head terms in the nominative case is the subject. Once again, of course, this is true for all verbs, except where the verb takes on the form of an infinitive, in which instance the “quasi subject” is in the accusative. Moreover, this rule, though true, is not particularly helpful in distinguishing subject and completion when the verb is a copulative. 3. The subject is determined by its antecedent—which may be linguistic, situational, or merely the topic on which comment is being made. In particular: a. Demonstrative and relative pronouns are subjects (this follows, of course, from what has just been said). b. The subject is indicated by zero anaphora—that is, the subject need not be separately expressed, but the context nevertheless tells us that yeuvsth" ejstivn means “he is a liar” and not “a liar exists.” c. The word or word cluster determined by an article is the subject. d. If both words or word clusters are determined by the article, the first one is the subject. The important rule for my original paper, as for this one, is (3c). After examining every instance of ejstivn in the NT, McGaughy says that all of them fit under these rules, except for five exceptions to (3c): John 20:31; 1 John 2:22b; 2 Lane C. McGaughy, Toward a Descriptive Analysis of EINAI as a Linking Verb in New Testament Greek (SBLDS 6; Missoula, MT: Society of Biblical Literature, 1972).
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4:15; 5:1; 5:5c. Each of these five passages makes a christological assertion, and in each instance McGaughy thinks that the anarthrous “Jesus” is the subject. In the passage that is the focus of this paper, then, McGaughy renders the relevant clause, “that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God.” In an important review of McGaughy’s book, however, Eugene Van Ness Goetchius doubts that there are adequate syntactical or contextual reasons for thinking that there are any exceptions. Compare, for instance, the christological assertions in Acts 5:42; 18:5, 28. Begin with Acts 18:5: . . . diamarturovmeno" toi'" !Ioudaivoi" ei\nai to;n cristo;n !Ihsou'n. This falls within the parameters of McGaughy’s study, and consistently McGaughy holds that Paul bore witness that “the Christ is Jesus” not that “Jesus is the Christ.” Acts 5:28 is similar, though admittedly with text-critical variations. Strictly speaking, Acts 5:42 falls outside the parameters of McGaughy’s work, since the copulative verb is omitted: . . . didavskonte" kai; eujaggelizovmenoi to;n cristo;n !Ihsou'n. Once again, however, we are faced with the need to determine which noun is the subject, and, in line with a rising number of commentators, Goetchius opts for “that the Christ is Jesus.” In each of these contexts, the “given” for the hearers is “the Christ.” The Christian witness is that “the Christ is Jesus.” Moreover, this rendering is supported not only by fair consideration of the context of Acts but by recent work on Greek syntax.3 That brings us to the five finite verbs, all in the Johannine corpus. Four of these are found in 1 John. Some kind of christological aberration stands behind the text,4 an aberration that divided “Christ” or “Son of God” from “Jesus.” Hence the four confessional statements in these verses. There is no particular contextual reason for thinking that “Jesus” must be the subject. In each pair of instances, it makes at least as much sense to understand the “true” confession to be “that the Christ is Jesus” (2:22b; 5:1) or “that the Son of God is Jesus” (4:15; 5:5c). Indeed, if “Christ” and “Son of God” constituted the locus of debate, it might make even more sense to understand them to be the head terms in the confessional utterances. That leaves only John 20:31. Here, too, I argued that Goetchius is right: McGaughy’s rule is stronger than McGaughy himself thinks it is, and so the relevant clause should be rendered, “that the Christ, the Son of God, is Jesus.” In the rest of my article, I tried to work out some of the implications of this understanding of the syntax. I offered twelve points that began with the argu3 See Henry R. Moeller and Arnold Kramer, “An Overlooked Structural Pattern in New Testament Greek,” NovT 5 (1961–62): 25–35; and especially the more linguistically compelling work of Jeffrey T. Reed, “The Infinitive with Two Substantival Accusatives,” NovT 33 (1991): 1–27. 4 Despite arguments to the contrary, I am still inclined to think that some kind of protoGnostic movement is in play. I will defend that view in my forthcoming NIGTC commentary. But none of my argument in this paper turns on this conclusion.
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ment that this reading presupposes that the answer is being cast to answer the question, Who is the Messiah? Who is the Son of God? rather than Who is Jesus? It seems to me that my twelve points are still cogent—but they turn entirely on the assumption that McGaughy, improved by Goetchius, is correct and therefore that the translation “that the Messiah, the Son of God, is Jesus” is the only acceptable rendering. If that rendering is incorrect, then my twelve observations are simply irrelevant, mere answers blowing in the wind because unattached to any textual data. Interestingly enough, my ninth point introduced, and dismissed, one of the points that Fee would eventually raise. I wrote: In private conversation, some have questioned whether it is right to rest so much weight on the article with a name, especially the name !Ihsou'" when names in general and this name in particular exhibit notorious complexities in the patterns of their articular and anarthrous occurrence. But the crucial syntactical unit is not the name, with or without the article, but all nominative nouns syntactically linked to ejstivn. The frequency of the construction and the consistent validity of McGaughy’s “rule”—especially so once his own “exceptions” have been judged unnecessary and unlikely—suggest that the syntactical argument cannot be so easily sidestepped.5
But sidestepping it, of course, is precisely what Fee has managed to do. So we must turn to a summary of his argument.
II. The Response of Gordon D. Fee Fee’s essay was first published in the Festschrift for Frans Neirynck.6 Fee tells us that his purpose is twofold: “(1) to suggest that the textual question of 20,31 can be resolved with a much greater degree of certainty than is often allowed; and (2) to propose grounds for believing that the original text (pisteuvhte present subjunctive) is meaningful grammatically for John” (p. 2193). A final lengthy footnote provides his reason for dismissing the evidence from McGaughy.
5
Carson, “Purpose,” 648–49. Gordon D. Fee, “On the Text and Meaning of John 20,30–31,” in The Four Gospels 1992: Festschrift Frans Neirynck (ed. F. van Segbroeck et al.; BETL 100; Leuven: University Press, 1992), 2193–2205. It reappears in the third collection of Fee’s essays, To What End Exegesis? Essays Textual, Exegetical, and Theological (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001). In this section, page references to Fee’s article are given in parentheses in the text, according to the page numbers of the original publication. 6
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The Text-Critical Issue On the textual question, Fee summarizes the evidence for 20:31 as follows: pisteuvhte
∏66vid a B Q 0250 892
pisteuvshte
A C D K L rell
Related to this is the reading in 19:35: pisteuvhte
∏66vid a B Y Origen
pisteuvshte
rell
Fee points out that Bruce Metzger’s Textual Commentary asserts that both readings in 20:31 “have notable early support,”7 but the extended comment that follows has little to do with textual criticism per se. It discusses neither intrinsic nor transcriptional probabilities, but shows instead the meaning each reading would have for the Fourth Gospel. By contrast, Fee points out that the videtur ∏66 is required because the word is partly lacunose, but there is no doubt that the manuscript supports the present subjunctive. That puts the reading clearly in the second century—as does the support of Origen with respect to the similar reading at 19:35. Thus only the present subjunctive actually enjoys “notable early support”; the earliest support for the aorist subjunctive is found in witnesses from the fifth century, admittedly from several textual traditions. Further, in his careful discussion of the likely options that explain the two readings, present and subjunctive, Fee makes a good case that the present subjunctive is the lectio difficilior. I need not review his findings. I think he is right, and the present subjunctive in 20:31 should be taken, by a wide margin, as the most likely reading. The Significance of the Present Subjunctive The second part of Fee’s paper seeks to answer the question, “Is the Present Subjunctive ‘meaningful’?” (pp. 2199–2205). Fee casts his discussion in terms of whether John uses Aktionsart “in a meaningful way” (p. 2199). Before considering the passages with pisteuvw, he prepares the ground by arguing more generally, along the following lines: (a) The occurrence of the aorist subjunctive is not normally very significant. After all, the aorist is the default tense (“what an author would be expected to use if he had no specific ‘kind of action’ in mind” [ibid.]). Moreover, many of the occurrences are in fixed phrases (e.g., 7 Bruce M. Metzger, A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament (New York: United Bible Societies, 1971), 256.
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twenty-three are passives, eight of them i{na plhrwqh'/). Others, Fee asserts, are “undoubtedly constative” (ibid.), as 1:8, where John the Baptist is said to bear witness to Jesus—certainly without any particular moment in mind. The evangelist could have used the present to indicate that the witness was borne over time, but there was no pressing need to do so. And some verbs appear in the aorist “simply because the sense of the verb is aoristic” (ibid.): Fee lists lambavnw in 6:7, bavllw in 5:7, divdwmi in 1:22; 13:29; 17:2, and the verbs “to eat,” “to die,” “and to raise up.” So even if the aorist were used in 20:31, we should be hesitant about insisting that this would be “meaningful” in some way. “If the aorist were original, it could be ingressive, of course, but it could also refer to the simple act of believing, without making a point of when” (ibid.). (b) But this is not the case with the present subjunctive. True, some verbs carry a “durative sense” (ibid.) and so can be expected to occur in the present tense (e.g., e[cein, or verbs for “to love” and “to bear fruit”). But the present tense is not the default tense, and one should expect John’s choice of it to be meaningful. (c) Strong evidence supporting the thesis that John knew the significance of tense is found in constructions where he uses both the aorist and the present, carefully distinguishing between them (e.g., i{na gnw'te kai; ginwvskhte [10:38]; a{rate . . . mh; poiei'te [5:8]). To show that “John knew the signficance of tense” does not, admittedly, demonstrate “that he therefore always used the present tense with this kind of significance” (p. 2200). So (d) Fee goes on to assert that “John shows a general sensitivity to Aktionsart (ibid.) when he chooses the present subjunctive in i{na clauses. Fee lists a number of examples, both in the Gospel at large and in the Last Supper discourse in particular. (e) That brings Fee to consider two sets of interchanges, which I here set forth as Fee does: First set: 4:34
ejmo;n brw'mav ejstin i{na poihvsw to; qevlhma tou' pevmyantov" me kai; teleiwvsw aujtou' to; e[rgon poihsw ∏66 ∏75 B C D K L N W Q Y 083 l 33 al poiw'
6:38
a A f13 Byz
o{ti katabevbhka ajpo; tou' oujranou' oujc i{na poiw' to; qevlhma to; ejmo;n ajlla; to; qevlhma tou' pevmyantov" me poiw'
∏66 ∏75 B rell
poihvsw a D L 1010 pc (p. 2201) Fee says that in 6:38 the present poiw' makes perfectly good sense, for “while it is true that a (constative) aorist could have given the same meaning” (ibid.), the present tense “suggests that the sentence has to do with Jesus’ earthly ministry
Carson: John 20:30–31
699
as a whole” (ibid.): Jesus’ words and works “constitute a continual ‘doing’ of the Father’s will” (ibid.). This way of looking at things, Fee thinks, helps to explain the Byzantine reading (the present) at 4:34. Yet in its own context, the aorist in 4:34 (which Fee thinks is most likely original) makes good sense and is “meaningful” in its own context: the presence of the parallel teleiwvsw suggests that the focus “looks forward to one specific moment, hinted at often in the Gospel, when Jesus ‘finishes’ the will of the One who sent him—namely, on the cross” (ibid). Fee admits that this reading of the pair of texts cannot be judged to be certain (after all, the aorist in 4:34 could be constative), but he thinks that it makes the most sense and respects both the tenses and their respective contexts. Second set: 13:19
14:29
ajp! a[rti levgw uJmi'n pro; tou' genevsqai, i{na pisteuvshte o{tan gevnhtai o{ti ejgwv eijmi pisteuvshte
∏66 rell
pisteuvhte
B C [∏75 lac]
kai; nu'n ei[rhka uJmi'n pri;n genevsqai, i{na o{tan gevnhtai pisteuvshte (no variation)
As UBS has it, the aorist pisteuvshte is deployed in both verses, and in that case, Fee asserts, “there is little to be said” (p. 2202), since the aorist is what one might expect after o{tan gevnhtai. But Fee argues that the UBS reading is “almost certainly wrong” (ibid.). And if the present subjunctive is in fact the correct reading in 13:19, it is entirely appropriate, Fee asserts, because of the object clause, o{ti ejgwv eijmi. “It is not the moment of believing ‘when it happens’ (which alone accounts for the textual variation) that here concerns John, but that the disciples will thereafter continue to believe that ‘I am,’ after what Jesus has said beforehand is fulfilled” (ibid.). By contrast, in 14:29, where the focus is on believing without specifying that crucial object clause, the aorist subjunctive seems most appropriate. Fee concludes: “It is not that [John] is trying to ‘make a statement’ by the use of the present in these texts, but that he shows considerable sensitivity to the subtleties of Aktionsart inherent in the language itself” (ibid.). The texts he has considered so far convince Fee that John displays “nuanced usage” whenever he deploys the present tense with i{na, so at this juncture Fee tests his results by surveying all of the i{na-clauses with pisteuvw. There are eleven of them (1:7; 6:29, 30; 9:36; 11:15, 42; 13:19; 14:29; 17:21;
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Journal of Biblical Literature
19:35; 20:31). Of these, six are aorist subjunctive, and “all refer to general or specific instances of ‘belief’ within the ‘historical’ situation of the narrative” (p. 2203). The remaining five display textual variation, but the present tense “is almost certainly original in each case” (ibid.). In each instance, Fee argues that the choice of the present tense is significant. (a) In 6:29–30, Jesus’ opponents ask him, “What should we be doing (poiw'men) so that we might be performing (ejrgazwvmeqa) the works of God?” The implication is “not that they are asking about what single thing they might do to please God, but what kind of ‘works’ over the long run should they be doing so as to be living in keeping with God’s will” (ibid.). Jesus’ answer, “This is the work of God that you believe (pisteuvhte) . . . ” is therefore not a demand for initial faith in Christ, but a lifelong belief in Jesus. (b) John 13:19 has already been considered. (c) In John 17:21, Jesus prays for those who believe in him because of the word of his disciples. He prays that they may be one, a unity patterned on the unity of the Father and the Son, “so that the world may believe (pisteuvh/) that you sent me.” “On the surface,” Fee observes, “this passage seems a bit more difficult for the position being argued here” (p. 2204). Nevertheless, he insists, once one takes into account “all of John’s linguistic subtleties and grammatical senstivities [sic]” (ibid.), the choice of the present tense fits into the same pattern. In the prayer of John 17, Fee asserts, there are three distinct groups: the disciples, their disciples, and the world. “The world is no longer the arena of salvation (as in 3,16–17), but refers to those who do not—and never will—believe in him (in the sense of having faith in Christ” (ibid.). Here Fee provides a footnote: “Although not so earlier, kovsmo" is used exclusively in a hostile sense in the Abschiedsreden (chaps. 14–17). This has been set up by the clear line of demarcation in the double conclusion to the Book of Signs in 12,37–50” (p. 2204 n. 28). So Fee argues that neither here in 17:21 nor in 17:23 (i{na ginwvskh/ oJ kovsmo" o{ti . . .) is the conversion of the world in view. “The world will continue to be the world, but on the strength of Christian unity, it will have to take seriously that the Father sent Jesus into the world” (p. 2204). This is what the world will come to believe, over time—and hence the tense is entirely appropriate. If we may then take (d) and (e) together: in 19:35 and 20:31, assuming that a present tense is original, and assuming that Johannine usage is consistent with what has already been established, it is best to think of ongoing, continuing faith in both of these passages. Fee is cautious about inferring too much from his argument. It is possible to suppose that John “has written his gospel for the believing community in order that, in light of defections or external pressures, they ‘may continue to believe’—as though the Gospel were intended to keep people from drifting away from faith in Christ” (ibid.). Fee thinks that that case could be made on other grounds, but this much weight cannot be placed on the tense alone. Rather, he is arguing that the present subjunctive in 20:31 “presupposes a doc-
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ument intended for those who are already members of the believing community” (p. 2205). Moreover, this is confirmed by the fact that “those who ‘confess’ Jesus in this Gospel in the language of this sentence (that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God) are not coming to faith, but represent those from within a context of faith, who must be encouraged to a deeper measure of that faith, in the sense of deepened understanding (e.g. Nathanael, Peter, Martha, Thomas)” (ibid.). The Response to McGaughy In his final footnote, Fee says that his conclusion stands over against my article on the purpose of the Fourth Gospel.8 The major flaw in my argument, he asserts, is my dependence on McGaughy (described above). The problem is that McGaughy drew his observations “on the basis of the verb eijnai [sic], without adequate attention to John’s own usage of the article with proper names.”9 Fee is referring to one of his earlier essays,10 where, he asserts, it was “demonstrated that Johannine usage in particular and NT usage in general favors [sic] an anarthrous personal name in o{ti-clauses when the name precedes the verb.”11 This feature has “more significance” than “syntactical links to ejstivn.”12 Subsequent discussion has only occasionally taken up these issues. Robert Gordon Maccini and Derek Tovey follow my arguments; so does Robert T. Fortna, but because he connects 20:30–31 to his reconstruction of the Signs Source, he substantially agrees with my exegesis of 20:30–31 but argues that it is only the Signs Source, and not the Fourth Gospel, that was written with evangelistic intent.13 Some today are at best only mildly interested in such matters, because the focus of their inquiry into John’s Gospel is the nature of its rhetoric, rather than with matters slanted toward historical questions.14 But it is more common, I think, to follow Fee’s arguments. 15 Still more commonly the 8
Fee “On the Text and Meaning,” 2205 n. 29. Ibid. 10 Gordon D. Fee, “The Use of the Definite Article with Personal Names in the Gospel of John,” NTS 17 (1970–71): 168–83. 11 Fee, “On the Text and Meaning,” 2205 n. 29, referring to Fee, “Use of the Definite Article,” 179. 12 Fee, “On the Text and Meaning,” 2205 n. 29. 13 Robert Gordon Maccini, Her Testimony Is True: Women as Witnesses according to John (JSNTSup 125; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 32; Derek Tovey, Narrative Art and Act in the Fourth Gospel (JSNTSup 151; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 88; Robert T. Fortna, The Fourth Gospel and Its Predecessor (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988), 201 n. 474, 323. 14 Perhaps the best example of a commentary with such commitments is Udo Schnelle, Das Evangelium nach Johannes (THKNT; Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1998). 15 So, e.g., Andrew T. Lincoln, Truth on Trial: The Lawsuit Motif in the Fourth Gospel 9
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Journal of Biblical Literature
detailed syntactical and semantic issues are simply not addressed, but opinion largely comes down on the side of the view that the Fourth Gospel is addressed to the Johannine community and thus is not evangelistic in scope or intent.16 Doubtless this is a particularly attractive approach among scholars for whom the focus of attention is on the Johannine community. If the document is primarily addressed to the Johannine community, then transparently its primary purpose cannot be evangelistic.
III. Revisiting the Issues It would not be appropriate here to canvas the evidence that has been put forward over the years for the view that John’s Gospel is primarily evangelistic.17 My purpose is narrower: to evaluate the detailed responses set out by Fee (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2000), 177; James V. Brownson, “John 20.31 and the Purpose of the Fourth Gospel,” RefR 48 (1995): 212–16. 16 For instance, the subtantial and admirable commentary on John by Craig S. Keener, The Gospel of John: A Commentary (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2003), 1215–16, asserts that the issue cannot be decided on the basis of one’s text-critical judgments (though Keener thinks the present tense is more likely), but on the basis of how one reads the entire Gospel. “Undoubtedly John would like to invite faith from his opponents; certainly he wants the closet believers among them to go public with their faith (12:42–43; 19:38–40). But by what means would John get the Gospel into the hands of unbelievers except through the preaching of believers? From the perspective of marketing strategies, the intrinsic probabilities favor a primary audience of believers. But the Gospel itself suggests the same. Throughout the Gospel, many people become initial believers, but their initial faith proves insufficient without perseverance (2:23–25; 8:30,59). John’s goal is not simply initial faith but persevering faith, discipleship (8:30–32; 15:4–7). John’s purpose is to address believers at a lesser stage of discipleship and to invite them to persevere as true disciples” (p. 1216). 17 In addition to the literature I listed in my original article, not only have there been numerous additions, but some debates have been cast in substantially new categories. For instance, if Richard Bauckham and his colleagues are even substantially right, then the canonical Gospels were initially written for a much wider intended circulation than a hermetically sealed community associated with a “Matthew,” a “Mark,” a “Luke,” or a “John” (see Richard Bauckham, ed., The Gospels for All Christians: Re-thinking the Gospel Audiences [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998]). I am inclined to think that the principal negative thesis of this book is largely correct (i.e., that the canonical Gospels were not intended to be read by discrete and rather separate individual communities), but that some of the positive theses are more doubtful. The view that the canonical Gospels were all written primarily for the widest possible Christian audience needs more testing. In particular, Bauckham’s second contribution in the book, “John for Readers of Mark” (pp. 147–71), isolates evidence that Bauckham thinks supports the view that John’s intended readers had read Mark, and that John was therefore writing not for an ostensible “Johannine community,” but for those already familiar with Mark’s Gospel, and thus for wide circulation among the churches. The response of Wendy E. Sproston North (“John for Readers of Mark? A Response to Richard Bauckham’s Proposal,” JSNT 25 [2003]: 449-68) is largely convincing—but it does not address the possibility that John’s Gospel was written primarily with evangelistic purposes in mind. To make matters yet more complicated, some have suggested that although John is writing to Christians, he is doing so to help
Carson: John 20:30–31
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(though I shall also introduce one or two collateral arguments advanced by others). The Text-Critical Issue By and large, I find Fee’s discussion of the text-critical debate on John 20:31 convincing. I suspect that in time many others will as well. With a reasonably high probability, the present subjunctive should be taken as original. I shall assume this conclusion in the ensuing discussion. I am less convinced that Fee is right when he finds the present tense in several other Johannine passages— or, to put it more carefully, Fee sometimes seems to me to overreach the evidence in these other passages in a way he is careful to avoid in 20:31. But to borrow the language of the courtroom: I will happily stipulate to the present tense in all of the relevant passages for the sake of the argument, even though the evidence is most convincing for 20:31. The Significance of the Present Subjunctive Granted the reading i{na pisteuvhte in John 20:31, what significance, if any, can be attached to the choice? (a) Fee’s discussion has, today, a very old-fashioned feel, but this is not his fault. When he wrote, detailed consideration of the relations between tense form and aspect theory was being conducted in journal articles in fairly esoteric places, or in Spanish.18 Certainly such consideration did not hit the mainstream of English-language NT scholarship until the publication of three important books, by Stanley E. Porter, Buist M. Fanning, and Kenneth L. McKay, respectively.19 For instance, Fee’s comment (above) that in 6:38 the present poiw' them, among other things, in their evangelism of their relatives and friends, not least Jews and proselytes (Ben Witherington III, John’s Wisdom: A Commentary on the Fourth Gospel [Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1995], 2, 11). 18 I am not including the sophisticated discussions of aspect theory in linguistic circles largely unconnected with koineµ Greek (e.g., Bernard Comrie, Aspect: An Introduction to the Study of Verbal Aspect and Related Problems [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977]), many of which worked out of Slav languages. Moreover, some essays a century ago focused exclusively on classical Greek texts. The Spanish volume that helped to move the discussion into the field of the NT was the rather cautious work by Juan Mateos, El Aspecto Verbal en el Nuevo Testamento (Madrid: Ediciones Cristiandad, 1977). 19 Stanley E. Porter, Verbal Aspect in the Greek of the New Testament, with Reference to Tense and Mood (Studies in Biblical Greek 1; New York: Peter Lang, 1989); Buist M. Fanning, Verbal Aspect in New Testament Greek (Oxford: Clarendon, 1990); Kenneth L. McKay, A New Syntax of the Verb in New Testament Greek: An Aspectual Approach (Studies in Biblical Greek 5; New York: Peter Lang, 1994). Discussion has moved a considerable distance beyond these seminal works, with numerous voices contributing refinements, corrections, and debate. Of the many
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Journal of Biblical Literature
makes perfectly good sense, even though an aorist could be “constative” and thus have the “same meaning,” is not the sort of opinion that anyone informed by aspect theory would make today. Again, when Fee suggests that because the aorist is the default tense, one should not expect it to be “meaningful,” whereas the present, because it is not the default tense, must be presumed to be “meaningful,” is well-nigh incoherent under aspect theory. Because the aorist under most conditions occurs more frequently than the present, it is less weighted than the present,20 but that is rather different from saying that it is intrinsically meaningless. If this were a different sort of response, it would be worth going through Fee’s essay line by line and observing the kinds of categories that have bred confusion whenever simple resort to Aktionsarten has held sway. What is the difference between a “historic present” and an aorist? If an aorist conveniently labeled “ingressive” or “constative” has the “same meaning” as a presentreferring present tense form, must one not begin to suspect, at the very least, that the labels are not very helpful? (b) Nevertheless, the tenor of Fee’s argument can be cast in categories that aspect theory would approve. Granted that one concludes, on text-critical grounds, that the present subjunctive is found in 20:31, what semantic contribution does the tense make? Aspect theory would respond by saying that, barring certain caveats,21 the present tense pisteuvhte in John 20:31 reflects the evangelist’s choice of presenting this believing as process. He might have chosen to present this belief as something else, but he chose to present it in this way. In this sense, then, the choice of tense in 20:31 is “meaningful.” Had the author chosen the aorist tense, that too would have been “meaningful,” but the meaning would have been different. (c) But then the question (for Fee’s purpose and ours) becomes this: Does John’s choice of the present tense in 20:31, that is, his decision22 to present the works, see especially Rodney J. Decker, Temporal Deixis of the Greek Verb in the Gospel of Mark with Reference to Verbal Aspect (Studies in Biblical Greek 10; New York: Peter Lang, 2001), and Stanley E. Porter and M. B. O’Donnell, “The Greek Verbal Network Viewed from a Probabilistic Standpoint: An Exercise in Hallidayan Linguistics,” Filología Neotestamentaria 14 (2001): 3-41. 20 Though weight is determined not only by relative frequency but also by morphological bulk and specificity of meaning. 21 For example, defective verbs that have no aorist, or verbs whose lexis virtually demands that they be deployed in the present or perfect or related tenses, or verbs deployed in peculiar ways owing to an author’s idolect. There are at least eight or ten such potential caveats, but none of them seems to be relevant in John 20:31. 22 Although aspect theory frequently speaks of the author’s “choice” or “decision,” this is never meant in some psychological sense, as if each author makes a self-conscious decision or choice at the occurrence of each tense. The language of choice is retained to make it clear that the tense is tied, not objectively to the kind of action (Aktionsart) such that the kind of action deter-
Carson: John 20:30–31
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believing as process, signal that he is thinking of ongoing belief among people who are already Christians (to use the generic term), as opposed to the choice of an aorist tense, which would have signaled that the author was thinking of initial conversion? This, it seems to me, is where Fee’s argument is entirely unconvincing. He mounts a plausible defense of the “meaningfulness” of the present subjunctive in 20:31 (though that defense could have been made more coherent and credible by the deployment of aspect theory), but then assumes that this meaning “presupposes a document intended for those who are already members of the believing community.”23 This is precisely where the evidence deserts him. Consider afresh Fee’s treatment of all eleven instances where the verb pisteuvw occurs after i{na. Five are present subjective, including the one in 20:31. 1. In John 6:29, Fee is quite right to think of the present subjunctive pisteuvhte as process (I shall use the categories of aspect theory from now on, unless they threaten to confuse the discussion). But the context shows that Jesus is making his demands of unbelievers, of opponents, of those who cannot in any sense be thought of as believers. 2. In John 13:19, the present subjunctive (assuming that is the correct reading) is applied to believers. 3. In the case of John 17:21, Fee’s exegesis is far from convincing. He argues that there are three groups: the disciples, their disciples, and the kovsmo"—but this “world” can never be anything other than the world, and that from the Abschiedsreden on, “world” is used in an exclusively hostile sense. Therefore the demand that the world “believe” (17:21) or “know” (17:23) that the Father has sent Jesus cannot be meant salvifically. We respond: First, almost all studies that seek to demonstrate that John makes both positive and negative use of kovsmo", or even positive, negative, and neutral use of the word, hark back to the much-quoted essay of N. H. Cassem.24 But that essay is deeply flawed. Passages such as John 3:16–17 are not positive instances of “world.” The world in such passages is still the lost world, the guilty world. That is precisely why God’s love in John 3:16 looks so good. John thinks God’s love in sending Jesus is wonderful, not because the world is so good, or even so big, but because the world is so bad. It is doubtful that there is a single passage in the Fourth Gospel where the “world” is ever thought of as intinsically and unquesmines the choice of tense, but subjectively to how an author “chooses” to portray an event or state (even if such authorial choices are very commonly non–self-conscious). 23 Fee, “On the Text and Meaning,” 2205. 24 N. H. Cassem, “A Grammatical and Contextual Inventory of the Use of kovsmo" in the Johannine Corpus with some Implications for a Johannine Cosmic Theology,” NTS 19 (1972–73): 81–91.
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Journal of Biblical Literature
tionably good. The closest one gets to the possibility is where there is a kind of dramatic “setup” in order to magnify the world’s badness—as in 1:10, where we are told that the world was made by the lovgo", but the movement of thought rushes on to the wretched conclusion: the world did not recognize him, even though it had been made by him. In other words, it is very difficult to prove that there is a darkening of the meaning of “world” from the Abschiedsreden on, if there has never been much light that is intrinsic to the world. Second, even within the Abschiedsreden, the disciples were chosen “out of ” the world (15:19). As is well known, the predestinarian strain in John’s Gospel is not of the ontological sort found, for instance, in much later Valentinian Gnostic circles. Neither the disciples nor the disciples of the disciples spring from a category other than the world. The predestinarian strand reflects Christ’s choice of them, a choice that drew them “out of” the world. He did not choose them because they were already essentially non-world. Thus, ongoing Christian witness assumes that fresh converts will come from the world: there is no other quarry. Third, it appears, then, that the Lamb’s taking away the sin of the world (1:29, 34), the Father’s love for the world (3:16), and the Spirit’s convicting of the world (16:7–11) are all of a piece: what is in view is not the salvation of the world qua world, but the salvation of those who are ultimately drawn from this quarry, for in John’s Gospel there is no other (just as in Ephesians, another document with predestinarian strains, all believers were originally children of wrath [3:3]). Fourth, all this suggests that the obvious way to take 17:21 and 23 is to see an ongoing work of witness. The disciples have their disciples, but it is important to see beyond them, and pray beyond them, for the world, so that new disciples will be drawn from this world, in ongoing outreach (as in John 10 other sheep must be drawn in, from other sheepfolds—and this is long before the Abschiedsreden). What this means, then, is that the use of the present subjunctive of pisteuvw in 17:21, though “meaningful,” insists that what is demanded of unbelievers is that they practice faith, that they show faith as process. In other words, the present tense is applied to those who are not yet believers (as in 6:29). 4. In 19:35, assuming we agree that the present tense is to be preferred, the eyewitness bears witness to the flow of blood and water. His witness is stipulated to be true, and all of this is now being passed on, the readers are told, i{na kai; uJ m ei' " pisteuv h te. But who are the “you”? Fee seems to assume that because, in his view, the preceding three instances have believers in view, it is most probably so here. But the evidence is against him, both in the premise and in the conclusion. I am not disputing that these are present-tense forms (though I am not as certain of Fee’s text-critical judgments on these verses as I am persuaded by his treatment of 20:31), nor am I disputing that the present
Carson: John 20:30–31
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tense is semantically “meaningful” (believing as process is in view). What is disputed is Fee’s claim that such belief is not demanded of unbelievers, as part of the appeal to become Christians, that is, to become genuine believers. Of the three passages, in 6:29, unbelievers are certainly in view; almost certainly the same is true in 17:21. Only in 13:19 are believers clearly in view. Whether unbelievers or believers are in view here in 19:35 will be determined by who we think the original intended readers were. It is difficult to discern any grounds on which this verse should be piled onto the “believer” side of the debate. 5. That brings us to the verse in dispute, 20:31. At this juncture, Fee’s accumulated evidence that because the present tense is “meaningful” in the other four cases, it must be “meaningful” here, and this “presupposes a document intended for those who are already members of the believing community,” is in tatters. This is not because no legitimate distinction can be made between the semantics of the aorist and the semantics of the present, but because the present tense forms, in this i{na construction, can clearly be applied to believers and unbelievers alike. With one exception, Fee does not discuss, but merely lists, the six instances of i{na + pisteuvw where the verb is in the aorist tense. Yet here too the results are diverse. 6. In 1:7, the witness of John the Baptist is to the end that all will believe (aorist): the focus is on the action itself, on the act of believing, without the author choosing to specify further the kind of action it might be. The evangelist seems to think of John the Baptist’s witness as calling people to faith in Christ, which witness presumably is addressed, in the first instance, to unbelievers (and that observation must have at least some bearing on whether or not this Gospel has evangelistic intent). 7. In 6:30, the only one of these six passages that Fee does discuss, he is quite right to note that the aorist tense is used after Jesus’ opponents ask for a sign. The only additional thing that needs to be said is that in both 6:29, where the present tense is used (as we have seen), and here, where the aorist tense is used, the people of whom faith is demanded are clearly unbelievers, indeed outright opponents. 8. In 9:36, the blind man is coming to faith; he wants to come to faith. 9. In 11:15, Jesus rejoices that he was not in Bethany when Lazarus died, “so that you [disciples] might believe”—clearly used, then, of those who are already considered to be disciples. 10. In 11:42, Jesus tells his Father that he has prayed as he has in order that the crowd (o[clo") that is standing around (presumably made up of at least some unbelievers) pisteuvswsin o{ti suv me ajpevsteila". This, surely, intends that some come to faith, and the ensuing verses show that some do, and some do not (11:45–46). (Incidentally, this object clause, o{ti suv me ajpevsteila", used here in the context of evangelism, is exactly the same as that found in another of
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Journal of Biblical Literature
Jesus’ prayers, in John 17:21, where Fee argues, as we have seen, that evangelism is not in view.) 11. Finally, in 14:29, the aorist is used of the disciples believing Jesus when the various things that Jesus predicts come to pass. This is probably more than believing certain predictions, but believing in Jesus on the basis of the fulfillment of the predictions. Even so, this is cast in the aorist tense, even though those who so believe are already disciples. In short, without wanting for a moment to deny that there is a semantic distinction between the aorist and the present of pisteuv w , the evidence emphatically shows that it is not exegetically possible to tie one tense to unbelievers who are coming to faith, and the other to believers who are going on in their faith in some durative sense. Both tenses can be applied by John to both unbelievers and believers. Fee’s discussion does not in any way threaten the “minor” point made by my original essay. (d) Fee’s concluding observation, almost off-the-cuff, that people such as Martha, Nathaniel, and Thomas do not really come to faith but “represent those from within a context of faith, who must be encouraged to a deeper measure of that faith,”25 and therefore it should not be surprising if a present tense (with his understanding of “durative” force) is applied to them, is misguided in several ways. First, we have seen aorist tenses applied to the faith of disciples. Second, even though in the historical reality these people were people of faith—that is, they were people “from within a context of faith”—the evangelist, without denying for a moment their religious heritage (see, for example, his comments on Nathaniel), theologically construes all disciples, even the Twelve, as having been chosen out of the world. The change that must take place within them springs not from the fact that they did not have a context of faith and now gain one, but from the fact that, with this turn in redemptive history, with this arrival of Jesus as the One of whom Moses wrote, genuine faith is faith in Jesus. That involves “conversion” (for want of a better generic word) in some sense. There is no way of playing down the importance of this “conversion” without doing damage to John’s theology.26
25
Fee, “On the Text and Meaning,” 2205. It is difficult not to be reminded of somewhat similar debates over Pauline theology. Convinced of Paul’s deeply Jewish religious commitments, some doubt that “conversion” is the best term to apply to whatever changes take place in him in the wake of his Damascus Road experience. But see now Peter T. O’Brien, “Was Paul Converted?” in Justification and Variegated Nomism, vol. 2, The Paradoxes of Paul (ed. D. A. Carson, Peter T. O’Brien, and Mark A. Seifrid; WUNT 181; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004), 361–91. 26
Carson: John 20:30–31
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The Response to McGaughy Fee’s dismissal of my major argument is restricted (as we have seen) to one lengthy footnote. Here, too, his argument is less than convincing. (a) To mention a rather picky point first: Fee says that the “major flaw in [Carson’s] argument . . . is his reliance on L. C. McGaughy . . . [whose] observations are made on the basis of the verb eijnai [sic], without adequate attention to John’s own usage of the article with proper names.” 27 In all fairness to McGaughy, however, in his original study he saw John 20:31, and four passages in 1 John, as exceptions to his own rule. I followed Goetchius in arguing that McGaughy’s rule is better than McGaughy himself thought it was. If Fee is right on 20:31, then I am wrong, but not McGaughy. The “major flaw” in my argument, if there is one, is not in my “reliance on L. C. McGaughy,” but in my extension beyond him. (b) The heart of Fee’s argument turns on his 1970–71 NTS article.28 I had read it many years ago, but I freely admit I did not recall it when writing my essay on John 20:30–31 and the purpose of the Fourth Gospel, and therefore did not take it into consideration. Had I done so, it would not have changed my conclusion, but it would have changed the shape of my argument here and there. This needs unpacking. Fee’s 1970–71 essay is primarily a text-critical study of the definite article with personal names in the Fourth Gospel. The essay is comprehensive and very helpful. His purpose is, first, to isolate various stylistic features where the manuscript evidence is conclusive, and, second, to discern “what appear to be Johannine tendencies where the manuscript evidence is less certain.”29 To this end he examines anaphoric usage, tendencies with certain names, compound names, personal names in oblique cases (whether “Jesus” or other names), before turning to personal names in the nominative case. This section (pp. 173–82) he breaks down into four subsections: (1) personal names in the nominative in a variety of formulae introducing direct discourse, (2) !Ihsou'" verb, (3) verb . . . oJ !Ihsou'", and (4) verb [oJ] !Ihsou'". Only the second of these four interests us, viz., the anarthrous !Ihsou'" before the verb. So we are down to considering about a page and a quarter of Fee’s article. Fee then breaks up this construction (!Ihsou'" verb) into three groups. First, he finds fourteen instances where !Ihsou'" “precedes the verb and is accompanied by a syndetic conjuntion.”30 In half of these, !Ihsou'" follows the conjunction 27
Fee, “On the Text and Meaning,” 2205 n. 29. Fee, “Use of the Definite Article.” 29 Ibid., 170. 30 Ibid., 178. 28
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Journal of Biblical Literature
(4:6; 5:13; 11:41, 54; 12:1, 23; 19:9 [perhaps also 5:17]), and in the other half !Ihsou'" precedes (6:15; 8:59; 9:33, 38; 12:44; 18:4; 19:26). Where it follows the conjunction, it is articular, following the common idiom oJ de; !Ihsou'". This is also the normal idiom in the Synoptic Gospels. But where !Ihsou'" precedes the conjunction, it is always anarthrous (seven instances), and this pattern is found in the Synoptics only in Luke 4:1; 22:48. In other words, in John, apart from the occurrence of the idiom oJ de; !Ihsou'", the name of Jesus is always anarthrous when it precedes the verb. Second, in three instances, !Ihsou'" is accompanied by the intensive aujtov", with two being clearly anarthrous (4:2, 44), and the other one, with divided textual evidence, probably so (2:24). And third, there are nine instances of !Ihsou'" before the verb within a o{ti-clause—the construction in which we are primarily interested, as that is what we find in John 20:31. The manuscript evidence “strongly favours the anarthrous text as the Johannine idiom,” Fee observes, but then adds: “It should be noted, however, that this is not the idiom of John alone, but is consistent through the New Testament.”31 The Johannine passages are 4:1, 47; 5:15; 6:24; 7:39; 9:20; 20:14, 31; 21:4. Fee notes that in each instance !Ihsou'" is the first word after o{ti.32 This, then, is the essay to which he makes reference in his later piece in the Neirynck Festschrift, and which he thinks overturns the McGaughy rule (or, as I would put it, my extension of it to rule out McGaughy’s claimed exception in John 20:31). What shall we make of this? 1. Whatever the tendencies of John’s Gospel regarding the article with proper names, the phenomenon that we are dealing with in John 20:31 is, by Fee’s own admission, “not the idiom of John alone, but is consistent throughout the New Testament.”33 So it is very difficult to see why the McGaughy rule (or my extension of it) should be dismissed on the basis of “John’s own usage of the article with proper nouns.”34 If it is to be dismissed, it will have to be dismissed, according to Fee’s own evidence, on the ground of universal NT evidence. 2. The construction that interests McGaughy is a subset of the structure that Fee is examining, and vice versa. To put the matter another way, the two scholars, McGaughy and Fee, are examining two quite different constructions with a range of substructures, and in some of these substructures there is some overlap—but the amount of overlap is very small. At this point in his argument, Fee is interested in all instances where !Ihsou'" precedes the verb within a o{ti31 Ibid., 179. The extra-Johannine passages he adduces by way of illustration are Matt 2:22; 4:12; 17:12; 19:8; 20:30; Mark 6:15; Luke 9:7, 8; Acts 9:38. 32 Ibid., 179 n. 6. 33 Ibid., 179. 34 Fee, “On the Text and Meaning,” 2205 n. 29.
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clause; McGaughy is interested in all instances of ejstivn as a linking verb that joins a subject and a complement, and, so far as John 20:31 is concerned, the subject and the complement are both substantives, and the construction occurs within a o{ti-clause. This means that of the extra-Johannine examples to which Fee refers, not one of them matches the structure of John 20:31 (though some others in the NT do, not mentioned by Fee): the only two that deploy ejstivn (of those mentioned in n. 31) are Mark 6:15 and Acts 9:38, and neither uses the ejstivn to link two substantives. 3. Similarly, of the nine examples in John’s Gospel, all listed by Fee, four are irrelevant to McGaughy’s construction because the verb is not ejstivn (4:1, 47; 7:39; 11:20). The remaining five, all with ejstivn, are as follows: 5:15 6:24 20:14 20:31 21:4
o{ti !Ihsou'" ejstin oJ poihvsa" aujto;n uJgih' o{ti !Ihsou'" oujk e[stin ejkei' o{ti !Ihsou'" ejstin o{ti !Ihsou'" ejstin oJ cristo;" oJ uiJo;" tou' qeou' o{ti !Ihsou'" ejstin
One of these five, 6:24, has a nonsubstantive as the complement (ejkeiv), so it is not particularly illuminating with regard to John 20:31. In two instances, 20:14; 21:4, Mary or the disciples did not know o{ti !Ihsou'" ejstin (“that it was Jesus”), and so !Ihsou'" is the predicate. Similarly, in 5:15 (o{ti !Ihsou'" ejstin oJ poihvsa" aujto;n uJgih') the context shows that !Ihsou'" should be read in the predicate position—that is, the healed paralytic announces to the Jews “that the one who made him well was Jesus” (or, in more contemporary idiom, “that it was Jesus who had made him well”), not “that Jesus was the one who had made him well.” Indeed, Fee himself recognizes the predicate function of !Ihsou'". In a parenthetical aside in a footnote, he writes, “!Ihsou''" is a predicate noun at v. 15; xx. 14; xxi 4.”35 So Fee acknowledges that three of these five find !Ihsou'" serving as a predicate noun. Moreover one of these three, 5:15, has a substantive for both the subject and the complement. That leaves only 20:31. Here too one finds a substantive for both the subject and the complement. What conceivable reason is there for suggesting that !Ihsou'" must in this instance be the subject term? Fee himself finds no difficulty with asserting that !Ihsou'" in 5:15 is the predicate term. Why does he have difficulty here? The fact that throughout the NT, !Ihsou''" before the verb within a o{ti-clause is anarthrous does not rule out the fact that its anarthrous status in this context also fits the constraints of the McGaughy construction, which understands it to be the predicate noun. One
35
Fee, “Use of the Definite Article,” 179 n. 6.
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Journal of Biblical Literature
could, I suppose, wonder if the construction that Fee identifies is so supervening that it is unnecessary to suppose that the McGaughy construction has had any influence in determining whether !Ihsou' " would be articular or anarthrous. Still, that argument seems a bit feeble when Fee himself happily finds !Ihsou''" to be the predicate noun in three out of the four other possible occurrences (those with ejstivn) in John’s Gospel, and when McGaughy’s construction occurs far more frequently in the NT than Fee’s does. In short, Fee’s earlier essay does not prove that !Ihsou'" in 20:31 must be taken as the subject noun. In fact, his own work shows rather conclusively that there is no good reason for denying it is a predicate noun. Then, when one recalls the strength of McGaughy’s work, with its systematic examination of every instance of ejstivn in the NT, one must advance very strong evidence indeed to set aside the universality of the pattern. That, of course, is why Goetchius, and later I, questioned whether the ostensible exceptions in John and 1 John were real exceptions. We concluded they were not. What is in any case quite clear is that none of Fee’s actual evidence (as opposed to his later claims) weakens McGaughy’s rule in the slightest, nor does it weaken the claim that John 20:31 should not be viewed as an exception to that rule. (c) If McGaughy’s rule embraces John 20:31, it is best to translate the relevant expression as “that you may believe that the Christ, the Son of God, is Jesus.” That brings back the twelve observations on what this might mean that I set forth in my earlier essay on this subject. This is not the place to review them again. But perhaps I should mention three further objections (that is, beyond what Fee has said) that have been raised against them, and briefly respond. 1. Taking !Ihsou' " as the predicate nominative in 20:31, in line with McGaughy, presupposes that the controlling question is not Who is Jesus? but Who is the Messiah? Andrew T. Lincoln objects to this thesis on the ground that the Gospel as a whole does not read as if it addresses those who already know what the titles “Christ” and “Son of God” entail and who simply need to be persuaded that Jesus is a worthy candidate for such titles. Rather, again and again, what appears to be at issue is the identity of Jesus, and the implied author is at pains to make clear what it means to claim that Jesus is the sort of Messiah who is Son of God, with all the connotations of a unique relationship to God that the latter designation bears in the discourse.36
36 Lincoln, Truth on Trial, 177–78, with particular reference to Marinus de Jonge, Jesus, Stranger from Heaven and Son of God: Jesus Christ and the Christians in Johannine Perspective (SBLSBS 11; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1977), 84.
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Fair point—provided one does not make it quite so antithetical. In other words, no one is suggesting that John’s implied audience already has a fully Christian understanding of what “Messiah” (“Christ”) and “Son of God” mean. Both categories were meaningful in Jewish circles (and therefore, presumably, also among proselytes and God-fearers), but there can be no doubt that they underwent a semantic enrichment/transformation/clarification under Christian influence. That is why Christian apologists had to demonstrate, among other things, that the Messiah had to suffer and die and rise again. But they did not say, “You folk are waiting for a Messiah. But you are waiting for the wrong category. We’d like to propose something else, an entirely new category of ‘savior.’” Rather, they were saying, “You folk are waiting for the Messiah, and rightly so. But do you not see? If you understand the Scriptures aright, you will grasp that the Messiah for whom you wait had to suffer and die and rise again.” The same sort of argument had to be made by Christians in their evangelism of Jews and proselytes not only with regard to Jesus’ death and resurrection, but also with regard to other christological claims. The same sort of thing is evident in Acts. There, we saw, the best rendering of Acts 5:42; 18:5, 28 is that “the Christ is Jesus.” But who would deny that Luke-Acts is trying to deepen and christianize the assumptions of unconverted Jews and proselytes familiar with the category of “Messiah” (“Christ”)? Thus the fact that John’s Gospel does indeed enrich the categories does not mean that the question Who is the Messiah? is ruled out of court. One cannot escape the syntactical claims of John 20:31 quite so easily. 2. The suggestion of Ben Witherington III (n. 17 above) that even if the Fourth Gospel is written for believers, one of its purposes is to help believers bear witness to Jews and proselytes, is intrinsically attractive, but it does not itself address the question of who the “you” are in 19:35 and 20:31. 3. Finally, one must recall, with Craig S. Keener (n. 16 above), how often John insists on persevering faith. Keener is quite right that this is a major Johannine theme. But in Johannine theology, short-lived faith, that is, nonpersevering faith, is not genuine faith that is sadly truncated; rather, it is not genuine faith at all (cf. 2:23–25; 8:30–31; cf. 1 John 2:19). By not persevering, this faith proves itself to be false. That is one of the reasons why, as we have seen, John’s Gospel can demand faith conceived by the author as process (i.e., cast in the present tense), even when he is demonstrably dealing with unbelievers. So it is difficult to see why the demand for persevering faith must be a sign that this book is written first and foremost for believers. As one who has addressed both believers and unbelievers throughout several decades of ministry, I find myself underscoring the importance of persevering faith to both groups.
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As far as I can see, although the text-critical studies of Gordon Fee make a strong case for the present subjunctive in John 20:31, and although he is right to argue that the present tense pisteuvhte is “meaningful,” none of his arguments weakens in the slightest the syntactical claims of McGaughy, nor the extension of those claims to cover the ostensible exceptions. Indeed, his earlier essay on the use of the definite article with proper names in John might even be taken to strengthen those claims. The questions surrounding the purpose of the Fourth Gospel are extraordinarily complex, and I do not want to leave the impression that I think that a couple of essays on one clause in John 20:30–31 settle the matter. Even with respect to these verses, a great deal more work needs to be done on their connection with 20:29, with the entire Thomas pericope (20:24–29), and with earlier signs37—quite apart from what needs to be done on thinking through the purpose of the Fourth Gospel while reading through the document as a whole. On the other hand, I fear that the objections of Fee and a few others may discourage some from reexamining the issue with fresh eyes, feeling that the possibility that John’s Gospel was written primarily with evangelistic intent has been ruled out of court by their work. This essay is first and foremost an attempt to keep the issue open. 37 On the latter, see Hanna Roose, “Joh 20,30f.: Ein (un)passender Schluss? Joh 9 und 11 als primäre Verweisstellen der Schlussnotiz des Johannesevangeliums,” Bib 84 (2003): 326–43.
JBL 124/4 (2005) 715–732
IMITATIO HOMERI? AN APPRAISAL OF DENNIS R. MACDONALD’S “MIMESIS CRITICISM”
KARL OLAV SANDNES [email protected] P.O. Box 5144 Majorstuen, N-0302 Oslo, Norway
In volume 64 of Semeia (1993), Øivind Andersen and Vernon K. Robbins wrote, “Interpreters need to investigate the Gospels in the context of Homeric literature . . . .”1 This task has not been without predecessors, among whom Günter Glockmann is especially important. His search for citations and overt allusions led him from the NT to Justin Martyr in the second century C.E. As for the NT, he stated that “das Neue Testament weder eine Äusserung über Homer noch eine bewusste oder unbewusste Benutzungen der Homerischen Dichtung enthält.”2 In the wake of the introduction of literary studies and narrative approaches in NT exegesis, the Homeric task has gained renewed interest. The scholar who has pursued Homeric influence in NT literature most consequently is Dennis R. MacDonald. He claims that the whole composition of Mark’s Gospel and parts of Acts are conscious imitations of incidents, characters, and plot patterns in the Iliad and the Odyssey.3 In this article I will focus on his presentation of Mark’s Gospel with special emphasis on method and ancient analogies. 1 Øivind Andersen and Vernon K. Robbins, “Paradigms in Homer, Pindar, the Tragedians, and the New Testament,” Semeia 64 (1993): 3–29, here 29. 2 Günter Glockmann, Homer in der frühchristlichen Literatur bis Justinus (TU 105; Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1968), 57. 3 See the following works by Dennis R. MacDonald: “The Shipwrecks of Odysseus and Paul,” NTS 45 (1999): 88–107; The Homeric Epics and the Gospel of Mark (New Haven/London: Yale University Press, 2000); Does the New Testament Imitate Homer? Four Cases from the Acts of the Apostles (New Haven/London: Yale University Press, 2003); “Paul’s Farewell to the Ephesian Elders and Hector’s Farewell to Andromache: A Strategic Imitation of Homer’s Iliad,” in Contextualizing Acts: Lukan Narrative and Greco-Roman Discourse (ed. Todd Penner and Caroline van der Stichele; SBLSymS 20; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 189–203.
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To describe his project, MacDonald has coined the term “mimesis criticism”: “No targets for imitation were more popular than the Iliad and the Odyssey, even for the writing of prose. Whereas a form critic compares a narrative in the New Testament to other tales of the same genre as a collectivity, a ‘mimesis critic’ will compare it with earlier texts, one or more of which have served the author as a model.”4 MacDonald has opened a new area of research in the field of Homeric influence on the NT. His approach and the results he claims move far beyond drawing attention to Homeric traces and vocabulary; in fact, he raises anew questions of genre and history versus fiction in NT narratives. The texts are to be viewed “not as aspiring historical reports but as fictions crafted as alternatives to those of Homer and Vergil.”5 It is the task of the present article to assess critically some aspects of MacDonald’s attempt.
I. The Accessibility of Homer The point of departure for MacDonald is the general accessibility of Homer’s writings in antiquity. I restrict myself here to sketching why I concur with him on this. The Stoic philosopher Heraclitus (first century C.E.) defended Homer against accusations leveled against his writings since Plato’s Republic: From the earliest stage of life, our infant children in their first moments of learning are suckled on him [i.e., Homer]; we are wrapped in his poems, one might also say, as babies, and nourish our minds on their milk. As the child grows and comes to manhood Homer is at his side. Homer shares his mature years, and the man is never weary of him even in old age. When we leave him, we feel the thirst again. The end of Homer is the end of life for us.6
Heraclitus here witnesses to the fundamental role played by Homer in encyclical education.7 Dio Chrysostom addresses the question of training a public speaker and recommends that the student familiarize himself with Menander and Euripides, but “Homer comes first and in the middle and last, in that he gives of himself to every boy and adult and old man just as much as each of them can take” (Or. 18.8).8 4
MacDonald, Does the New Testament Imitate Homer? 2. MacDonald, “Paul’s Farewell,” 203. 6 Quoted according to D. A. Russell, Criticism in Antiquity (Berkeley/Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1981), 191. For the Greek text, see Franciscus Oelmann, Heraclit Quaestiones Homericae (Lipsiae: Teubner, 1910). Cf. Pliny, Ep. 2.14.3, where it is stated that Homer is the first lesson in school (ab Homero in scholis). 7 Ronald F. Hock, “Homer in Graeco-Roman Education,” in Mimesis and Intertextuality in Antiquity and Christianity (ed. Dennis R. MacDonald; SAC; Harrisburg: Trinity Press International, 2001), 56–77. 8 Dio Chrysostom (trans. H. Lamar Crosby; 5 vols.; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1985). 5
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Quintilian says that Homer and Vergil were the first from whom the young boys learned to read, but also that these authors were read more than once (Inst. 1.8.5). 9 In other words, Vergil and Homer, in particular, formed a “canon” 10 of texts that the students met repeatedly and at various levels: “Homer’s epics had become the basis for Greek culture. Since classical time they were everybody’s schoolbook (to be more or less retained by memory) and companion for life.”11 Homer was the foundational text of the culture in which many NT texts came to life. This conclusion can be inferred from Philo’s extensive discussion on encyclical education,12 and is supported by Josephus’s writings as well.13 On the basis of this fundamental role of Homer, it makes sense to look for Homeric traces in the NT, and not to restrict oneself to obvious citations.
II. Mark’s Gospel—A Transvaluation of Homer? MacDonald’s reading of Mark’s Gospel in relation to Homer is not initiated by observations of details, although he claims they are numerous, but by narrative patterns, characterization, and plots. An appraisal of his Homeric reading of Mark should, therefore, start with his claim to have identified fundamental narrative patterns.14 An evaluation of all the comparisons involved is beyond the scope of this article; I restrict myself to his claim to have found “the key to Mark’s composition.”15 Like Odysseus, Jesus was a wise carpenter.16 9
The Institutio Oratoria of Quintilian (trans. H. E. Butler; 4 vols; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993). 10 It makes sense to present Homer’s role as analogous with Torah and the Bible; see, e.g., Margalit Finkelberg, “Homer as a Foundation Text,” in Homer, the Bible, and Beyond: Literary and Religious Canons in the Ancient World (ed. Margalit Finkelberg and Guy G. Stroumsa; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 75–96. 11 Folker Siegert, “Early Jewish Interpretation in a Hellenistic Style,” in Hebrew Bible/Old Testament: The History of Its Interpretation, vol. 1/1 (ed. Magne Sæbø; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996), 130–98, esp. 130–31. The fundamental role of Homer is also demonstrated by Teresa Morgan, Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). 12 Peder Borgen, “Greek Encyklical Education, Philosophy and Synagogue: Observations from Philo of Alexandria’s Writings,” in In Honour of Stig Strömholm (Uppsala: Kungl. Vetenskapssamhället i Uppsala, 2001), 61–71. 13 For Josephus, see Louis Feldman, Josephus’s Interpretation of the Bible (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University of California Press, 1998), 171–72. See also Catherine Hezser, Jewish Literacy in Roman Palestine (TSAJ 81; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 70–71, 77–78, 392–93. 14 The importance of these patterns for MacDonald can be perceived from his introductory statements in Gospel of Mark, 1: “The subsequent reading of Mark would revolutionize my understanding of the gospels, . . . it called into question much of conventional gospel scholarship. . . .” 15 Ibid., 3. 16 The table of contents in Gospel of Mark provides a complete list of the main comparisons
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Both suffered many things. Odysseus gathered his crew and Jesus called disciples; with these associates, who appear to be both foolish and treacherous, they sailed seas. Both opposed supernatural foes. The untriumphal entry of Odysseus to the city of Phaeacians accounts for important details in the story of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem: “It is in light of this literary tradition that one should read Mark’s account of Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem. Like Odysseus arriving on the shores of Scheria, Jesus arrived in Jerusalem apparently destitute and needing hospitality.”17 Jesus was anointed by an unnamed woman, and Euryclia washed the feet of Odysseus at his arrival home, and by observing his scar, she came to know that her master had returned home. As for Jesus’ death and burial, MacDonald turns to the Iliad (books 22 and 24)18 and Hector’s death: “Mark found the death of Hector and the rescue of his corpse promising prototypes for his Passion Narrative.”19 According to MacDonald, comparisons between the hypotext Homer and Mark’s hypertext are somewhat generous; they are imaginative and not exact. This is due to the “transvaluation,” which provides the perspective from which the analogies drawn must be seen. Mark transformed Homer’s writings in a kind of theological rivalry or “Kulturkampf”: “. . . New Testament narratives should include an appreciation of cultural struggle, transformative artistry, and theological playfulness.”20 Homer’s texts, persons, ideals, and plots are replaced with the more virtuous and powerful stories about Jesus. MacDonald’s interpretation of Mark’s Gospel implies that Mark is involved in a rewriting of Homeric models. Mark not only imitated his models; he emulated them as well. This allows some of the analogies to be elusive and subtle. But this also forms the “Achilles’ heel” of MacDonald’s interpretation. The concept of “subtle emulation” makes the project slippery. For if emulation is a characteristic of the analogies, how can we then be sure that the author intended this analogy, as claimed by MacDonald? With this question we turn to our comments on his exegesis of Mark’s Gospel.
involved; see also his Does the New Testament Imitate Homer? 171–72. For the criteria in use, see Gospel of Mark, 8–9; Does the New Testament Imitate Homer? 2–6; Mimesis, 2–3. 17 MacDonald, Gospel of Mark, 105. 18 The Iliad (trans. A. T. Murray; 2 vols.; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993–98). 19 MacDonald, Does the New Testament Imitate Homer? 172; cf. idem, Gospel of Mark, 135–47. 20 MacDonald, Does the New Testament Imitate Homer? 15; cf. idem, Gospel of Mark, 2–3, 187–90. MacDonald defines transvaluation in the following way: “Transvaluing occurs when characters in the hypertext (viz. the derivative text) acquire roles and attributes derived from a system of values not found in the hypotext (the targeted text)”; see his Christianizing Homer: The Odyssey, Plato, and the Acts of Andrew (New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994), 6; cf. idem, Gospel of Mark, 2.
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The Hero Returning Home? An appraisal of MacDonald’s interpretation can start with what he considers the fundamental narrative pattern discernible in both the Odyssey and Mark’s Gospel. At the center of MacDonald’s Homeric reading of Mark’s Gospel is his claim that the plot of “the returning home of the hero” in the Odyssey is found in the Gospel as well: “Both heroes return home to find it infested with murderous rivals that devour the houses of widows.”21 In Does the New Testament Imitate Homer, MacDonald puts it like this: “Like Odysseus, Jesus comes to his “house,” the Jerusalem Temple, which has fallen into the hands of his rivals, who, like Penelope’s suitors, devour widows’ houses.”22 It goes without saying that the troublesome return home is the plot of the Odyssey. This is a recurrent motif guiding the whole narrative. The story starts with Odysseus longing for his return (novsto") (Od. 1.13).23 Throughout the story he is on his way homeward (oi[kade).24 As Odysseus makes himself known to his son Telemachos, he says: “but I here, I, just as you see me, after sufferings and many wanderings, have come in the twentieth year to my native land (ej" patrivda gai'an)” (Od. 16.205–6; cf. 19.484). This plot reaches its fulfillment in book 23, where it is stated that Odysseus has now arrived at his home (oi\kon iJkavnetai) (Od. 23.7, 27, 108).25 The homecoming of the hero became a motif in ancient literature.26 Is Mark’s Gospel really a story of the hero returning home? This question holds a key position, since MacDonald’s comparisons depend on a recognizable pattern from which details can be discerned as part of an identifiable story. The motif of returning home lends itself as this crucial starting point, but some observations seriously challenge this alleged theme in Mark’s Gospel. The travel motif is embedded more deeply in Luke’s story than in Mark’s. It is true that, beginning in Mark 8, Jesus is on his way to Jerusalem, but his voyage appears less significant than in Luke, not to mention in comparison with the hero in the Odyssey. In the narrative about the so-called Cleansing of the Temple (Mark 11:15–17), Mark quotes from Isa 56:7 (and Jer 7:11): “Is it not written: My house shall be called a house of prayer for all the nations?” Jesus might, therefore, be said to call the temple his home here. It should, however, be 21
MacDonald, Gospel of Mark, e.g., 3, 17. MacDonald, Does the New Testament Imitate Homer? 172. 23 The Odyssey (trans. A. T. Murray; 2 vols.; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995). 24 See Od. 1.326–27, 350; 5.19; 12.345; 13.130–39, 305; 19.85; 24.400. 25 MacDonald fully agrees with this definition of the plot in the Odyssey; hence he frequently speaks of the nostos of Odysseus, the Greek term for returning home; see, e.g. Gospel of Mark, 21–22. 26 See MacDonald, Christianizing Homer, 113–75. 22
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noticed that this appears in a citation from the OT, which is a reminder of the context within which the author intends the reader to understand this incident. Furthermore, the motif of “my house” is not a motif embracing the whole story as it is in Luke’s Gospel. MacDonald claims that there are intriguing parallels between the Cleansing of the Temple and the Slaying of the Suitors in Odyssey book 22. In both instances tables are turned; both groups of rivals are accused of having wasted the house; and both groups are seized by fear. The suitors arm themselves to kill Odysseus, and Jesus’ rivals likewise look for an opportunity to kill him:27 “The surface parallels to the Odyssey are obvious, but, to my knowledge, have been unexplored until now.”28 MacDonald attaches significance to details because he claims that they work within a plot line sufficiently similar in both the Odyssey and Mark’s Gospel to add meaning and significance to minor details. For a person well versed in the Homeric writings, Jesus’ driving out the merchants can well be compared with the driving out of the suitors of Penelope from Odysseus’s house, but the details MacDonald points out hardly confirm that the author intended this analogy. The plot line of a hero returning home hardly works for Mark. The meaning of the incident in the Jerusalem temple is disputed among scholars, but the literary context about the withered fig tree (Mark 11:11–14 + 21) suggests, in my opinion, rather a symbolic destruction or replacement of the temple than its revival.29 If this is so, the comparison with Odysseus who finally embraces his home breaks down. The critique leveled against the temple by Jesus hardly finds an analogy in the mischief of the suitors. Penelope’s suitors took over Odysseus’s house and wasted his property. MacDonald sees here a link to Jesus’ quotation from Jer 7:11: “den of robbers.” This metaphor developed from OT texts (e.g., Jer 7:4– 11; Amos 5:21–24) implies a criticism not for having occupied the temple—as the suitors did—but for using the temple as a place of refuge, a den, when not being involved in expeditions of robbery.30 The metaphor focuses on an aspect that is not there in the Odyssey, namely, seeking refuge in the temple without altering their immoral way of living. Odysseus managed with the help of Telemachos to kill his rivals and thereby to seize his own home again. MacDonald points out that both Odysseus and Jesus were men of suffering. Odysseus was released from his sufferings as he returned home. When he arrived at his destiny, his sufferings ceased. Not so 27
MacDonald, Gospel of Mark, 34–36. Ibid., 36. 29 So also Jacob Neusner, Jews and Christians: The Myth of a Common Tradition (London: SCM; Philadelphia: Trinity Press International, 1991), 97–103; and Jostein Ådna, Jesu Stellung zum Tempel: Die Tempelaktion und das Tempelwort als Ausdruck seiner messianischen Sendung (WUNT 2/119; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000). 30 Similarly Ådna, Tempel, 274–75. 28
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with Jesus; as he reached his destiny, his sufferings culminated. When he “returned home,” Jesus was finally killed by his rivals. MacDonald claims to have found the plot line in both bodies of literature, the hero’s returning home. This plot line clearly emerges from the Odyssey, and it is Jesus’ arrival in Jerusalem and his passion story that in Mark’s Gospel form the counterpart to this plot line. When Mark reaches the climax of his story, MacDonald leaves the Odyssey and turns to the Iliad to find the proper analogy: “Jesus repeatedly imitates Hector.”31 Homer’s story of Hector’s death in the Iliad book 22 provides Mark with a popular analogy that he imitated in an artful way. In the words of Margaret Mitchell: “what began as a Jesus-Odysseus emplotment becomes a Jesus-Hector one.”32 Both heroes had their death predicted, and both were forsaken by the gods who had formerly protected them. That both were forsaken by the gods should not overrule a significant difference between the two of them. Hector was not only forsaken; he was deceived by Pallas Athene (Il. 22.226–28, 247, 276–77, 299); he was blinded by the god. Furthermore, the manner of death of Jesus and that of Hector were indeed different; in Mark’s Gospel the passion is not included in a battle scene. There is in MacDonald’s presentation of the motif of returning home a considerable wavering, which sheds doubt on his claim to authorial intention in Mark’s Homeric imitation. This can be illustrated in the following way: Odysseus Home in Ithaka Penelope’s suitors The suitors are devouring the house of Penelope
Jesus Temple in Jerusalem The rivals, Pharisees and the scribes The rivals are devouring the houses of widows (Mark 12:40)33
This comparison seems at first to be worth noticing, but on closer examination it appears to be unconvincing. In the first place, according to Mark the rivals of Jesus were not those who were driven out of the temple precincts. Jesus threw out merchants and moneychangers, not the Pharisees and scribes. Furthermore, the final point of analogy is too imaginative, the only link between them being the motif of “widow.” The accusation leveled against the Pharisees in Mark 12:40 has nothing to do with the temple, but with greed and the exploiting of widows. This is evident from the plural “houses” (oijkiva"). Mark’s readers would hardly see any connections to the temple (oJ oi\ko") in the plural. There is 31
MacDonald, Gospel of Mark, 132; for the Jesus/Hector comparison, see pp. 131–47. Margaret M. Mitchell, “Homer in the New Testament,” JR 83 (2003): 244–60, esp. 249. MacDonald claims a Jesus/Telemachos and a Jesus/Aeolus analogy as well (Gospel of Mark, 55–62). This leaves a somewhat confused picture of MacDonald’s presentation. 33 MacDonald, Gospel of Mark, 38. 32
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a considerable wavering in MacDonald’s presentation of the motif of returning home. Home is partly the temple,34 his hometown Nazareth,35 and also Jesus’ eschatological return.36 If the key motif of returning home is so slippery in Mark’s Gospel, it is difficult to think that it was part of an intentional imitation in all the passages mentioned.37 Closely connected to the motif of homecoming in the Odyssey is the revenge sought by Odysseus against the suitors in his house. This is a recurrent theme;38 hence, Odysseus’s name is explained with reference to the evil plans he had for the suitors (Od. 19.407–9).39 The way Odysseus is portrayed is thus very different from the picture given of Jesus in Mark’s Gospel.40 Emulation? The imbalances pointed out above, which could be multiplied, are easily gleaned from Mark’s text. MacDonald sometimes points out such imbalances in his comparisons; however, he accounts for the imbalances with reference to the transvaluative dimension of Mark, that is, his emulation of Homer’s writings.41 Emulation involves development of a model, an imitation that might also involve some kind of rivalry.42 The notion is taken from ancient rhetoric. Is it 34 Ibid., e.g., 42– 43, 110. Jesus’ entry into the temple is compared also to Odysseus’s entry into the palace of Alcinous, the king of the Phajacians (pp. 106–9). 35 MacDonald, Gospel of Mark, 18. 36 Ibid., 53, 113, 190. 37 MacDonald makes much out of a comparison between Eurycleia, who recognized Odysseus’s scar while washing his feet (Od. 19.349–474) and the woman anointing Jesus in Mark 14:3–9 (Gospel of Mark, 114–18). With reference to the position of this incident in the story, MacDonald says, “Particularly telling is that the anointing takes place immediately after the prediction of the hero’s return” (p. 118). The point is that this further strengthens the similarities between Homer’s epic and Mark’s story. In my view, a reference to the motif of returning home has been undermined by the inconsistent way this motif appears in MacDonald’s reading of Mark. 38 E.g., Od. 14.110, 163; 17.159, 539–40; 19.51–52; 20.5–13, 183–84. 39 There is a wordplay here on Odysseus and the Greek verb ojduvssasqai (“to be wroth against/hate”). This point is made also in Od. 5.340, 423; 16.145–47; 19.275. This etymological explanation of his name has a reference both to his being hated by the gods—as a result of which he must suffer evil—and to the evils he plans to bring to others. 40 Mitchell rightly asks what Christian writer would run the risk of associating Jesus with a figure who is depicted in such ambivalent terms (“Homer,” 254). 41 MacDonald attaches particular importance to this criterion, which he also calls interpretability; see Gospel of Mark, 6, 171–73; idem, Christianizing Homer, 6–7, 310–14. 42 See George C. Fiske, Lucilius and Horace: A Study in the Classical Theory of Imitation (University of Wisconsin Studies in Language and Literature 7; Madison: University of Wisconsin, 1920), 43–47. The rivalry involved is clearly expressed by, e.g., Pliny the Elder, Nat. Pref. 20–23, speaking of authors imitating predecessors in terms of a fight and competition (decertere/certere); cf. Cicero, De or. 2.22.90–92 and Velleius Paterculus, History of Rome 1.17.6–7. Public competitions in transmitting and reciting Homeric writings are known, and there were official texts to be
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justified to call upon emulation to bridge the imbalances between Mark’s Gospel and the Homeric epics? This is the question we now approach. Aristotle makes a distinction between emulation (zh' l o") and envy (fqov n o") (Rhet. 1388ab; cf. 1381b). Whereas the latter describes the attitude of preventing other people from possessing, emulation indicates the attitude to be inspired to gain good things for oneself. Emulation is, therefore, one of the emotions rhetoricians should arouse in the audience (Rhet. 1419b). Emulation was also given importance in rhetorical studies in relation to imitating literary works. This was often called paraphrasis. Aelius Theon includes this in his rhetorical exercises and defines it in the following way: “Paraphrasis consists of changing the form of expression while keeping the thoughts.” This happened, according to Theon, by variation in syntax, additions, subtractions, substitutions, or the combination of these (Theon, Progymnasmata 107–8; cf. 62–64, 69).43 Reading and performing exercises on poets and prose, including paraphrasing texts, constituted a large part of literate education in ancient schools.44 Quintilian urges teachers in ancient literature to teach their students to paraphrase Aesop’s fables (Inst. 1.9.1–3). He presents paraphrasis as a process of learning starting verse by verse, proceeding to render their meaning in other words, “and finally proceed to a free paraphrase (paraphrasi audacious vertere) in which they will be permitted both to abridge (breviare) and to embellish (exornare) the original, so far as this may be done without losing the poet’s meaning (salvo modo poetae sensu).” In Inst. 10.5.2–4, Quintilian contrasts paraphrasis with translation. Vertere Graeca in Latinum is a useful exercise, he says, but paraphrasis should not be restricted to the activities necessary to do this: “its duty is rather to rival and vie with the original in the expression of the same thoughts (sed circa eosdem sensus certamen atque aemulationem)” (Inst. 10.5.5).45 This implies that the original is developed and altered. Quintilian used as a control at these occasions; see P. E. Easterling and B. M. W. Knox, The Cambridge History of Classical Literature, vol. 1, Greek Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 722. Macrobius (Sat. 6.3.1) says that it is to the glory of Homer (summus laudis) that he is copied by so many striving to compete with him. 43 See George A. Kennedy, Greek Textbooks of Prose Composition and Rhetoric (SBL Writings from the Greco-Roman World 10; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003). Some of Theon’s examples refer to how Homer’s writings were paraphrased. By altering the style, Demosthenes repeated himself in such a way that his paraphrasing himself was not necessarily noticed by his hearers. According to Suetonius (Gramm. 5), exercises in paraphrasis were practiced also by grammarians who taught some rhetoric. 44 Morgan gives examples of paraphrasis (Literate Education, 198–215). From her examples we gather that paraphrasis involved considerable changes and manipulation of the texts to be emulated, but that there was still “a highly disciplined autonomy” (p. 208). 45 For the competitive element in imitation, see Longinus, Subl. 13.2–14.3; see D. A. Russell and M. Winterbottom, Ancient Literary Criticism: The Principal Texts in New Translations (Oxford: Clarendon, 1972), 475–76.
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emphasizes this by opposing teachers who do not permit their students to do this, since they consider it impossible to improve what the poets already wrote. Quintilian is convinced that it is still possible to improve speeches of the orators: melius posse reperiri. It is thus quite clear from Quintilian that paraphrasis or emulation might well improve and change the original, but he assumes that its sensus must be kept and one must exercise control in the process of emulation.46 Quintilian follows the advice given by Isocrates in his Panegyricus, where he says that it is possible to speak about old things (ta; palaiav) in new ways (kainw'"): “it follows that one must not shun the subjects upon which others have spoken before, but must try to speak better than they (a[ m einon ejkeivnwn eijpein) (§8–10, cf. 188).47 Isocrates urges his readers to speak better than those they are imitating. Pliny the Younger wanted to have Cicero as his model in writing (aemulari in studiis cupio) (Ep. 4.7.4–5).48 Since he mentions this in a context in which he says that he took up public offices at an earlier age than Cicero, rivalry is clearly involved. He hopes that the gods will grant him Cicero’s genius (ingenium). Pliny’s practice of imitating famous orators appears also in his Ep. 1.2. Pliny writes to a friend, asking him to read and correct his speech. This speech is written with zh'lo", imitating (imitari) Demosthenes in figure of speech (figuris orationis). The subject matter (materia ipsa), however, resisted the imitation (repugnavit aemulationi) and therefore presented a particular challenge to him. In Ep. 7.9.1–6 Pliny prescribes emulation as an exercise. This exercise starts with translating Greek into Latin and vice versa. When a passage has been read sufficiently to remember both res and argumentum, Pliny urges his friend to participate in a contest (aemulum/certamina), finding out whether the original or the emulation is best (commodius/melius). In this way, authors who are imitated might be outstripped (antecessisse). This happens by leaving things out or adding to or altering the original.49 This exercise is especially difficult and thus also beneficial; it is like grafting new limbs on a finished body “without disturbing the balance (turbare) of the original” (6). 50 The role assigned to imitation and emulation in these examples is certainly more modest than the replacement of the Homeric heroes that MacDonald claims to find in Mark’s Gospel. 46
Quintilian mentions emulation also elsewhere; see, e.g., Inst. 10.2.17–19, 21–22, 25–28. Isocrates, Panegyricus (trans. George Norlin; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1928). 48 Pliny, Letters (trans. Betty Radice; 2 vols.; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997). 49 This corresponds to the modi described by Quintilian (Inst. 10.5) or by Aulus Gellius (Noct. Att. 9.9; 13.27); see Heinrich Lausberg, Handbook of Literary Rhetoric: A Foundation for Literary Study (Leiden/Boston/Cologne: Brill, 1989), 482–84. 50 Cicero says that he daily performed this kind of exercise (De or. 1.34.154–55). 47
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In theory as well as in practice, emulation often implied copying and developing or improving an original, while still retaining traces of the first document. The rivalry involved in this kind of emulation requires exactly this ambiguity to work. Clement of Alexandria bears witness to such ambiguity in his Protrep. 12 (91P).51 His point of departure is his admonition to shun custom (sunhvqeia) like a threatening Charybdis or the songs of the Sirenes (Od. 12), thereby advertising his emulation. His instruction to keep away from custom is soaked in Homeric references. The addressees are urged to flee from “an island of wickedness heaped with bones and corpses” and from the woman, that is, pleasure (hJdonhv), who sings there. The echoes from Od. 12 are obvious as well as advertised in the introduction of his chapter. Clement urges his readers to sail past the song of the Sirenes, and to remain “bound to the cross,”52 and thus to survive, as did Odysseus according to Od. 12:177–79. Then, says Clement, the word of God will guide his readers “to anchor in the harbours of heaven” (toi'" limevsi . . . tw'n oujranw'n), which is a clear echo of the nostos motif in the Odyssey. Here we see an example of Christian emulation at work. While Odysseus had himself bound to the mast of his ship while passing the island of the Sirenes, Clement speaks of being bound to the cross. He replaces the Odyssey’s ijstopevdh (cf. Od. 12.51, 162) with to; xuvlon, thus implying the cross of Christ. The phraseology “harbours of heaven” reveals a similar ambiguity; limhvn is frequently used in the Odyssey,53 while heaven being the goal of the journey implies Clement’s transvaluation. Emulation and transvaluation hardly make sense if they are not recognized. Emulation can work only within a pattern of recognizable imitation; otherwise the comparison can be neither tested nor affirmed, and rivalry can hardly work. From MacDonald’s presentation of Mark’s Gospel, I gather that the nostos motif provides a fundamental intertextual indicator guiding the readers to a Homeric reading of this literature. In order to establish this indicator, MacDonald relies on the phenomenon of emulation, and a subtle one at that. If subtle emulation is called upon already in the process of establishing this point of departure for comparing Odysseus and Jesus, the foundations are shaky. III. Seneca’s Epistulae morales 84 and Intertextuality Seneca’s Ep. 8454 is interesting because it implies imitation of a subtle and concealing kind. The text enters a discussion on exactly this point, and thus 51 The Exhortation to the Greeks (trans. G. W. Butterworth; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982). 52 Similarly Strom. 6:11/84:1–95:5. 53 LSJ, s.v. 54 Epistles 66–92 (trans. Richard Gummere; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996).
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demonstrates a contemporary debate on emulation. Furthermore, the text is of interest, since it sheds some light, from a contemporary historical perspective, on “intertextuality.” The letter depicts the philosopher spending his leisure time while journeying with literature. The social context echoes very much that of Pliny the Younger. How to deal with the literature becomes the key question in this letter. Seneca refers to a commonly held opinion (ut aiunt): “We should follow the example (debemus imitari) of the bees” (Ep. 84.3). From various flowers the bees produce honey. Seneca considers this process a helpful analogy to how one should deal with literature. He describes this as a process of producing honey by collecting (colligere/decerpere) and making (facere). The making is described in detail; it is a process of transformation made possible by conscious preserving (conditura) and careful storing (dispositio), aided by a fermentative process (fermentum). Thus, “separate elements are united into one substance (in unum diversa coalescent)” (§4). Seneca notices that he is about to enter a related topic, that of honey production, and therefore turns to applying his illustration. From §5 on, the reading of literature (ex diversa lectione) replaces the role of flowers from which the honey is collected. The key term applied now is separare, indicating a process of sifting and transformation: “we should so blend those several flowers into one delicious compound (in unum saporem varia ille libamenta confundere) that, even though it betrays its origin (unde sumptum sit), yet it nevertheless is clearly a different thing from that whence it came (aliud tamen esse quam unde sumptum est)” (§5).55 Seneca adds new illustrations on how elements from different things might form a unity. The food that is digested is changed into a unity. Similarly, members are added into a sum, and a son resembles his father. This resemblance is not in terms of copying a picture (§§6–8). These are illustrations recommending how one should deal with literature. In §8, Seneca renders an objection precisely about the possibility of identifying an imitation: cuius imiteris orationem, cuius argumentationem, cuius sententias? Seneca answers: “A true copy (imago vera) stamps its own form (forman suam inpressit) upon all the features which it has drawn from what we may call the original (exemplum), in such a way that they are combined into a unity (ut in unitatem illa conpetant)” (§8). To this he adds yet another illustration, a chorus with many voices forming a harmonious unity. Seneca’s presentation on how to deal with literature implies that authors, 55 Cf. Macrobius, Sat. Pref. 5. Christian Gnilka has demonstrated the role of the bee illustration in patristic texts (CHRESIS: Die Methode der Kirchenväter im Umgang mit der antiken Kultur: Der Begriff des “rechten Gebrauchs” [Basel/Stuttgart: Schwabe, 1984]). The bees were illustrative of both a selective, sifting, and transforming process. This they found helpful to explain how Christians could relate to the classical Greek literature.
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pieces of works, and language become very fluid.56 According to Ellen Finkelberg, Seneca’s illustrations “stress mysterious transformation, or metamorphosis, rather than copying.”57 By implication it becomes difficult to speak of authorial intention when this is so much based on creative emulation. According to Seneca, imitating authors involves a process of digestion where borrowing and idiosyncrasy are united to form a new text. Distinguishing between conscious and unconscious imitation thus becomes very difficult, unless some imitation is broadcasted. Mark’s Gospel being “the honey” of which Seneca speaks, it becomes dubious to claim conscious imitation if no advertising is found in the text.58 Seneca’s epistle demonstrates a contemporary debate on the issue of recognizing the origin of an imitation. He says that even when literature has been digested and has thus become a different thing, the origin (§5) is still betrayed. This implies that the emulation, albeit subtle, somehow is advertised. The more subtle and less advertised—or to put it in Seneca’s terms, digested—it becomes, the more difficult it is to claim authorial intention in a given imitation. This is not to deny that a reader well versed in Homer’s writings might well have found some texts in Mark’s Gospel evoking an emulation of Homeric figures and incidents. This is precisely how intertextuality works when defined in terms of interactions between texts and in relation to readers, rather than an assumed intention of authors. That there is a potential for a Homericinfluenced reading with a certain readership is demonstrated by MacDonald. I think, however, that the extensive memorization of Homer assumed with reference to both Plato (Ion)59 and Xenophon (Symp. 3.5–6)60 is exaggerated if applied generally.61 Knowledge of ancient education certainly substantiates the primary role of Homer, but not necessarily of Homer’s whole text or plot. 56 MacDonald makes a reference to Seneca Ep. 84 to support the level of sophistication of ancient emulation (Gospel of Mark, 6), but he overlooks that Seneca’s presentation seriously undermines his concept of intended emulation. 57 Ellen Finkelberg, “Pagan Traditions of Intertextuality in the Roman World,” in Mimesis, 78–90, esp. 83–84. 58 The way MacDonald addresses the phenomenon of intertextuality, it becomes a relapse into source criticism. A certain movement in MacDonald’s claim to conscious imitation in Mark’s Gospel might be discernible in Does the New Testament Imitate Homer? 6, where he answers some of his critics by referring to watching a film: “Some of the changes will be transparent, others more subtle, and others so cryptic that the viewer may never know what the screenwriter or director intended. Even so, the viewer gains a new appreciation of the work simply by being aware of the object of the parody” (cf. Christianizing Homer, 6, “when readers recognize”). This possible selfcritical assessment is not forthcoming in his most recent “Paul’s Farewell.” 59 Ion (trans. W. R. M. Lamb; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995). 60 Symposium (trans. O. J. Todd; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979). 61 With reference to these writers, MacDonald raises the question whether Mark in his relation to Homer “worked from manuscript or memory” (Gospel of Mark, 7).
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Teresa Morgan makes a distinction between the ideal portrait to be gleaned from the literary sources and educational practices as witnessed in fragments of teachers’ handbooks and pupils’ exercises. These school texts give a complex picture, suggesting that most students had “a repertoire of references and tags which would mark him as a Greek, even before he—or even if he ever— acquired a wider cultural knowledge in which to contextualize it.” 62 This implies that most students familiar with Homer treated his writings eclectically and episodically.63 Knowledge of the Homeric poems in their entirety is not easily demonstrated. Some authors quoted Homer abundantly, but they had probably never read the Iliad and the Odyssey.64 A Homeric interpretation of Mark’s Gospel should account for a more critical use of the literary sources of the elite.
IV. Advertising Hypertextuality In Christianizing Homer, MacDonald says that a “transvaluing text . . . must advertise its hypertextuality, if ever so subtly.”65 As I have pointed out above, I consider this crucial for identifying intended intertextuality, and in his reading of Mark’s Gospel, MacDonald hardly meets the requirement he himself lays down here.66 The hypotext may be advertised in various ways, some of 62 Morgan, Literate Education, 110; see also 118–19, 252–53, 261. MacDonald makes reference to Morgan’s conclusion that Il. 1–2 was by far the most popular text in schools, which he takes as proving the accessibility of Agamemnon’s dream as a point of departure for interpreting Acts 10 (Does the New Testament Imitate Homer? 26). He misses, however, that Morgan’s conclusion substantiates the fragmentary nature of Homeric knowledge among average students; thus also Raffaella Cribiore, Gymnastics of the Mind: Greek Education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt (Princeton/Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2001), 194–97. 63 See Jon Whitman, Interpretation and Allegory: Antiquity and the Modern Period (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 35–37, who says that the notion of working with the “whole text” developed later. 64 Thus Robert Lamberton, Homer the Theologian: Neoplatonist Allegorical Reading and the Growth of the Epic Tradition (Berkeley/Los Angeles/London: University of California Press, 1989), 193. This is also the conclusion of the detailed investigation of Jan Fredrik Kindstrand, Homer in der Zweiten Sophistik: Studien zu der Homerlektüre und dem Homerbild bei Dion von Prusa, Maximos von Tyros und Ailios Aristides (Studia Graeca Upsaliensia 7; Uppsala, 1973). 65 MacDonald, Christianizing Homer, 7; cf. 6, 310–14. 66 As for Acts, I think MacDonald has a somewhat better case to argue. Part of this story has its setting in geographical areas associated with both the Iliad and the Odyssey. Some distinct Homeric phraseology is discernible; see F. F. Bruce, Commentary on the Book of Acts (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1965), 498; MacDonald, “Shipwreck,” 95. But still, the methodical questions pointed out here call for a more critical use of parallels. In reading MacDonald one is reminded of the caution raised by Samuel Sandmel, “Parallelomania,” JBL 81 (1962): 1–13. The OT and Jewish background is advertised through citations, names, institutions, and problems the
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which appear in combinations. In the following I elaborate on examples that MacDonald mentions but which, in my view, militate against his reading of Mark. Vergil’s Aeneid is an outstanding example of an emulation of Homer.67 Vergil draws heavily on the Homeric poems, such as the double action in Olympus and on earth, episodes that clearly recall the adventurous experiences of Odysseus in Od. 5–8, main characters bringing to mind Homeric heroes, and a phraseology recalling Homer’s.68 Vergil’s dependence on Homer was common knowledge among most Romans, according to Macrobius (Sat. 5.18.1).69 In imaginative dialogues on matters of literature, very much in the tradition of Plato’s Symposium, Macrobius elaborates on how Vergil borrowed 70 from Homer and imitated him. Thus, Vergil’s whole work (omne opus Vergilianum) is “a mirrored reflection (speculum) of Homer” (Sat. 5.2.13). Although Vergil does not always equal the genius of Homer, he also improves Homer’s text (in transferendo densius excoluisse) (Sat. 5.11.1). He has appropriated the words of Homer so “as to make them seem to be his own (fecit ut sua esse credantur)” (Sat. 5.3.16). Vergil is making a new story (res nova) out of Homer’s old stories (Sat. 5.17.1). His story is directly linked to Homer’s by telling about Aeneas leaving the destroyed Troy behind. With his eyes fixed on Homer, Vergil emulated (aemulari) him in magnitude, simplicity, presentation, and calm dignity (Sat. 5.13.40). Macrobius presents his Vergil/Homer comparisons as common knowledge. But he is well aware that there are passages in the Aeneid where the author draws in a more sophisticated way on his predecessors71—passages understood only by those who were soaked (haurire) in Greek literature (Sat. 5.18.1). Hence, some of his borrowings are both secret and hidden (dissimulanter quasi clanculo) and therefore difficult to recognize (difficile sit cognitu). This is the practice of subtle emulation, a phenomenon MacDonald calls upon believers were struggling with, and these must be accounted for more sufficiently than MacDonald does. 67 See R. Deryck Williams, “The Aeneid,” in The Cambridge History of Classical Literature II (ed. E. J. Kenney; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 339–57. 68 For a detailed comparison, see Macrobius, Sat. book 5, chs. 2–18; Georg Nicolaus Knauer, Die Aeneis und Homer: Studien zur poetischen Technik Vergils mit Listen der Homerzitate in der Aeneis (Hypomnemata, Untersuchungen zur Antike und zu ihrem Nachleben H7; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1979). 69 Macrobius, Saturnalia (ed. J. Willis; 2 vols; Academia Scientiarum Germanica Berolinensis; Leipzig: Teubner, 1963; trans. Percival Vaughan Davies; New York/London: Columbia University Press, 1969). 70 This is described in terms of trahere (Sat. 5.2.2; 6.3.1), mutare/mutatio (Sat. 5.2.6; 3.16), transferre (Sat. 5.18.1; 6.3.1), archetypus (Sat. 5.13.40), imitatio (Sat. 5.16.5). 71 In Sat. 6.3.1 Macrobius says that some of Virgil’s emulations may be taken from Latin authors who had previously transferred texts from Homer to their own poems. This implies that tracing intertextuality might be more complex than an intended copying of one particular text.
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in his reading of Mark’s Gospel. Macrobius thinks of Vergil’s emulation in terms of a process from the obvious or broadcasted toward the subtle. With regard to MacDonald’s interpretation, it is one-sidedly dependent on subtle emulation without sufficient basis in an advertised hypotext. This makes it difficult to consider the Aeneid’s use of Homer as a relevant analogy to a Homeric reading of Mark’s Gospel. If Vergil’s Aeneid is taken as an example of the alleged Homeric emulation in Mark’s Gospel, one is more struck by the differences than by the similarities. “The best exemplar of this genre” is, however, Lucian of Samosata’s A True History.72 This is a satirical imitation of the practice of emulating Homer. Book 1.1–4 is a metatext addressing Lucian’s project. Composing stories with Homer’s Odyssey as guide and instructor (ajrchgo;" kai; didavskalo") was common practice (sunhvqe"), which Lucian now puts on a satirical display: “But my lying is far more honest than theirs, for though I tell the truth in nothing else, I shall at least be truthful in saying that I am a liar” (Ver. hist. 1.4). This introductory metatext clearly advertises the hypotext and leaves the reader well informed on this. He then proceeds to give a parody of a traveler’s tale, which draws heavily on Odysseus’s adventures as well as on other well-known texts. The traveler, who is Lucian himself, sets out on a journey that in the end will take him home. Toward the end of his voyage he approaches his home (aj f iv x esqai me; n eij " th; n patriv d a) (Ver. hist. 2.27). Homer himself, whom Lucian visited in the Elysian Fields, writes a poem in his style and phraseology, about Lucian’s voyage: “One Lucian, whom the blessed gods befriend, Beheld what’s here, and home again did wend (h\lqe . . . ej" patrivda gai'an)” (2.28). On his return home (2.35–36) he is given a letter by Odysseus about his nostos and his longing for Penelope. The two stories thus become parallels and are advertised as such (cf. 1.17). Throughout the story Homer is both cited and alluded to.73 Characters from Homer’s poems appear regularly and are given key roles in Lucian’s own voyage.74 Lucian met with the Homeric heroes in the Elysian Fields (2.14–24). He conversed with Homer about his poems, and he was given the opportunity to watch the Games of the Dead, conducted by Achilles (2.22–24). The Homeric heroes had to fight some wicked people who attempted to free themselves from their punishments among the dead. Homer gave an account of the battle, and this was given to Lucian, who renders only the first line of this poem: “This time sing me, O Muse, of the shades of the heroes in battle!” (Ver. hist. 2.24), 72 Thus MacDonald, Christianizing Homer, 311; see Lucian of Samosata, A True Story I and II (trans. A. M. Harmon; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1921). 73 See, e.g., 1.11, 17, 40; 2.32–33. 74 See, e.g., 2.6–8, 15, 17, 19, 25–26.
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echoing the opening line in the Odyssey. Lucian’s journey brings him to places formerly described by Homer, but sometimes he finds out that Homer’s description is to be corrected (Ver. hist. 2.32–33). Both the Aeneid and the True Story teach us that hypertextuality is advertised in different ways. In these writings the emulation is not modest but clearly broadcasted. When this material is taken to provide analogies to Mark’s Gospel, some fundamental differences should be emphasized. In Mark’s Gospel, no metatextual preparation for Homer’s poems, no Homeric names, no Homeric quotations are found. The crucial question is: Does it make sense to speak of subtle emulation when these characteristics of the genre are all absent? There is in Mark’s Gospel no movement from obvious to subtle emulation of Homer’s poems. This does not imply that no hypertext is advertised in Mark’s Gospel. This Gospel does indeed advertise its hypotexts in ways that are more or less identical with both the Aeneid and the True Story, but the reader is directed not to Homer but to the OT. Mark’s editorial OT citation (Mark 1:2–3) works like the metatext in Ver. hist. 1.1–4, preparing the reader for a major hypertextuality to appear in the upcoming story: “In keeping with the role of the opening sentence in literary antiquity, Mark’s sole explicit editorial citation of the OT should be expected to convey the main concerns of the prologue and, therefore, his Gospel.”75 Other OT quotations or allusions abound in the story,76 many but by no means exclusively from the book of Isaiah.77 Names from the OT appear frequently, such as Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob (Mark 12:26), Moses (7:10; 9:4, 5, 11, 12, 13; 10:3, 4; 12:19, 26), David (2:25; 10:4, 7, 8; 12:35–36, 37), Elijah (9:4, 5, 11, 12, 13), Elisha (6:15; 8:28), and Abiathar (2:26). These names capture in brief the history of the fathers, the exodus, the Law, kings, and prophets as well as the temple institution—in short, a survey of key stories in the OT. Mark aims at presenting a story that links up with the OT. In this way he brings to mind Vergil’s Aeneid, which was a development of Homer’s poem the Iliad. These are three significant ways in which Mark’s Gospel advertises hypertextuality, and the direction is certainly not to Homer, particularly if authorial intention is here included. The relationship between continuity and discontinu-
75 Rikke E. Watts, Isaiah’s New Exodus and Mark (WUNT 2/88; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1997), 90. 76 I am here dependent on the NA 27th edition’s list of quotations and allusions. 77 See 1:9–11; 4:12, 32; 7:6, 7, 10; 8:18; 9:34, 48; 10:6–8, 19; 11:9–10, 17–18; 12:10–11, 26, 29–31, 33, 36; 13:14, 24–26; 14:27, 34, 62; 15:24, 34. The importance of Isaiah is emphasized also by Joel Marcus, The Way of the Lord: Christological Exegesis of the Old Testament in the Gospel of Mark (Westminster: John Knox Press 1992) and Sharyn Dowd, Reading Mark: A Literary and Theological Commentary on the Second Gospel (Macon: Smith & Helwys, 2000).
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ity with the OT may well be labeled a theologically inspired emulation: “In Mark’s Gospel . . . a commitment to the ‘old, old story’ is retained at the same time that the story itself is transformed by being read in a new way.”78
V. Summary Glockmann was reluctant to find traces of Homeric influence in the NT. His investigation followed in the wake of Karl Ludwig Schmidt, Adolph Deissmann, and Martin Dibelius, who viewed NT literature as Kleinliteratur.79 Scholarship has since then reviewed this picture and found that most writings in the NT are consonant with other ancient literature in ways that justify comparisons and analogies between the two bodies of literature. MacDonald’s contributions are firmly rooted in this new approach. He claims that the Gospel of Mark (and Acts) consciously imitated Homeric poems and provided strategic transformations of an Ersatz Odysseus or Hector. This article questions some of his analogies, and particularly his use of the rhetorical practice of emulation to bridge the gap between the alleged Homeric hypotexts and Mark’s Gospel. I have argued that the practice of imitation and emulation was either modest, in terms of improving or altering the language and style, but still consonant with the substance, or a rewriting and replacement of the model. The Aeneid and the True Story were outstanding examples of this. In both writings, however, emulation was broadcast in ways that alerted the reader. The authors moved between advertised intertextuality and subtle emulation. MacDonald isolates subtle emulation from its advertising context. Subtle and concealed emulation without basis in a broadcast intertextuality cannot make up for slippery comparisons. His reading is fascinating and contributes to a reader-oriented exegesis. But he fails to demonstrate authorial intention while he, in fact, neglects the OT intertextuality that is broadcast in this literature. 78 79
Marcus, Way of the Lord, 203. Glockmann, Homer, 52.
JBL 124/4 (2005) 733–749
CRITICAL NOTES PSALM 22:17B: A NEW GUESS
The first word of Ps 22:17b (Eng. v. 16b) is one of the most vexed lexical problems in biblical interpretation.1 The whole verse reads: 17 aa ab b
For dogs surrounded me; A gang of criminals encircled me;2 [?] my hands and my feet.
!yblk ynwbbs yk ynwpyqh !y[rm td[ ylgrw ydy yrak
The word in question, yrak, appears to mean “like the lion.”3 As many scholars point out, however, this yields little sense for the rest of the line as there is no verb. A wide variety of solutions have been offered over the centuries. Many scholars consider the MT to be corrupt, but there is no agreement as to what the original text said. Some hold that a verb has been errantly omitted from the text, while others argue that the difficult term was originally meant to be read as any of a number of verbs.4 This article attempts a solution by recognizing multiple meanings for yrak. On the one hand, the enigmatic word reads “like a lion,” while, on the other, it may be understood as a verb. Although a number of proposed verbs fit contextually, I hold that Mitchell Dahood and R. Tournay have identified the most likely candidate, yra, with a preposition attached. Dahood translates: “because they have picked clean [my hands and my feet].”5 This makes good sense of the 1
The verse numbers of the MT will be used throughout. The first two clauses are usually called collectively v. 17a (cf.
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whole line, but finding the leonine simile in the same word adds a chilling detail to the action and a suitable subject for the verb. This combination of readings builds on another polyvalent term at the end of v. 17 ab, ynwpyqh (hip>il #qn).6 The result is a rich and mutually supporting web of meanings that, at some levels, builds on variable line divisions. This fluid and complex literary artistry links the verse closely to its context in the psalm. Following my discussion of these issues, I will briefly comment on some other wordplays in Psalm 22. These do not share the complexity of my proposed solution to v. 17b, but I do find a comparably sophisticated example of flexible meanings and sentence structures in Proverbs 31. In short, Psalm 22 offers a brilliant example of the deliberate ambiguity employed elsewhere in the Psalms.7 As is well known, the ancient versions presuppose a verb in Ps 22:17b with the subject being the “gang of criminals” of v. 17aa. The targum presupposes a missing verb: ayrak ^yh @tkn, “they bite like a lion.”8 Some commentators and translators suspect that a verb is implied that allows for the preservation of the MT. The 1917 JPS translation reads: “Like a lion, they are at my hands and feet.”9 Rashi thought that a verb such as “maul” is to be understood and he is followed by NJPS. Mark H. Heinemann, however, holds that a missing or elided verb produces an implausible image of a lion attacking nonfatal parts of its prey’s anatomy.10 This is not necessarily the case, however. Assyrian images often show a human champion attempting to wrestle lions by grabbing them close to their mouths. In one Egyptian battle image, Ramses III is aided by a lion biting the arm of an enemy whom the pharaoh is preparing to assault. When hunting prey, lions typically attack from behind, trying to disable the prey by attacking its hind legs, flanks, or back. Brent A. Strawn argues on this evidence that a reference to hands and feet in the context of a lion attack should not be unexpected. Still, he notes that the predators do not typically eat the hooves of their prey. This seems to be reflected in an image from Nineveh (probably seventh century B.C.E.) of a lion with a severed human hand beneath it (along with a human head). Strawn raises the possibility that a verb might be restored in Ps 22:17, rendering: “Like a lion (only) my hands and my feet.” For other reasons, however, he prefers restoring another verb (see below).11
17,” VT 24 (1974): 370–71; R. Tournay, “Note sur le Psaume XXVII 17,” VT 23 (1973): 111–12. They arrived at their similar, but not identical, conclusions independently. In his earlier Psalms I: 1–50: Introduction, Translation, and Notes (AB 16; New York: Doubleday, 1966), 137, 140–41, Dahood read the word as “pierced.” 6 Kristin M. Swenson also finds the key to our leonine enigma to be this other word (“Psalm 22:17: Circling around the Problem Again,” JBL 123 [2004]: 637–48), but, as will become evident below, we differ on a number of points. Swenson’s article appeared in late 2004, when the present article was still in the review process for this journal. I regret not having it at an earlier stage. 7 See especially, Paul R. Rabbe, “Deliberate Ambiguity in the Psalter,” JBL 110 (1991): 213–27. 8 Vall, “Old Guess,” 47. 9 The Jewish Publication Society translation is reproduced in A. Cohen, The Psalms: Hebrew Text, English Translation and Commentary (Hinhead, Surry: Soncino, 1945), 64. Cohen maintains instead that a verb meaning “to gnaw” was mistakenly omitted. Brent A. Strawn also suspects that a verb has been omitted (“Psalm 22:17b: More Guessing,” JBL 119 [2000]: 439–51). 10 Mark H. Heinemann, “An Exposition of Psalm 22,” BSac 147 (1990): 286–308. 11 Strawn, “More Guessing”, 442–44, and the bibliography there.
Critical Notes
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My proposed wordplay, however, has a lionlike enemy picking through the scraps of its meal, thus accommodating the references to the inedible extremities of the victim. As I will describe below, other aspects of the rich polysemy in Ps 22:17 fill in the gap between the initial encirclement (v. 17a) and the attack’s aftermath (v. 17b). Reading a verb in the place of the MT’s yrak is one of the most common ways to interpret v. 17b and there is some text-critical support for this. A minority of Hebrew manuscripts read wrak and fewer yet have wrk; the final letter in both cases is generally taken to reflect a plural verb ending. The Greek reads w[ruxan, from ojruvssw, which would be translated literally as: “they have dug my hands and feet.” The Greek seems to presuppose the Hebrew root hrk (“to dig”) and is often taken to mean in context something like “they pierced.” Christians have often understood this as a prophecy of Christ’s crucifixion.12 Outside of overt christological contexts, however, this interpretation is quite forced. Many modern scholars have explained the enigmatic Hebrew term of Ps 22:17b as a corrupt or rare form of any of a number of verbs. For instance, Peter C. Craigie explains wrk as a corruption of wlk, derived from the root hlk. He translates: “[my hands and my feet] were exhausted.”13 Other roots are sometimes proposed, one of which can be supported from ancient translations. Aquila’s second edition of his Psalter has “they have bound,” ejpevdhsan, while Symmachus has “like those who seek to bind.” Jerome’s Psalteruim iuxta Hebraeos offers vinxerunt (“they have bound”). Gregory Vall claims that such a meaning admirably fits the context of the singer’s abandonment, his encirclement, and the dislocating of all of his bones (cf. v. 15). Nevertheless, Vall is not convinced of Paulus’s explanation of 1815 for Aquila’s reading. Paulus posits a Hebrew middle weak root, rak/rwk (from an Arabic root kwr, meaning to “bind [a turban]”). Vall rejects the Arabic cognate, thinking that it means “to wind into a ball.” Vall returns to the “old guess” of H. Graetz that the original word was the plural verb wrsa.14 John Kaltner rightly objects to the lengthy series of scribal errors this implies. He also demonstrates that “to bind, tie” is integral to the meaning of Paulus’s Arabic word and asserts that the shift in medial letters to a is not unexpected.15 In v. 16, however, the singer is already laid “in the dust of death,” which suggests that a stronger image than the mere binding of hands and feet would be appropriate in v. 17. A lion appears as emblematic of the enemies in vv. 14, 22. Regardless of the strength of Kaltner’s position, therefore, a predator may still be at large in v. 17b. Strawn senses this and, as noted briefly above, discusses ancient Near Eastern iconography. Although he finds little evidence of a consistent pattern of showing prisoners bound hand and foot, the aforementioned stamp seal from Nineveh showing a lion 12 See Vall (“Old Guess,” 45–48) for a recent discussion of the text-critical data and some examples of Christian accusations that Jewish scribes emended the text to cover up a prophecy of the crucifixion. 13 Peter C. Craigie, Psalms 1–50 (WBC 19; Waco: Word Books, 1983), 196. 14 Vall, “Old Guess,” 46–50, referring to H. E. G. Paulus, Philologische Clavis über die Psalmen (Heidelberg: Mohr & Winter’schen, 1815), 120–51; and H. Graetz, Kritischer Commentar zu den Psalmen (2 vols.; Breslau: S. Schottlaender, 1882–83), 1:228. Vall proposes a metathesis of a and s. The resulting unintelligible wras was further corrupted: k replacing s. This resulted in the minority MT reading whose w was later mistaken for y. 15 John Kaltner, “Psalm 22:17b: Second Guessing ‘The Old Guess,’” JBL 117 (1998): 503–6.
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Journal of Biblical Literature
with human remains is relevant. Pictures of lions and severed animal parts, including hind limbs, have been found, but no images of the cats and human feet. Still, Strawn argues that an image from Wadi-Daliyeh showing a lion standing over the haunches and rear limb of a prey animal may be considered the iconographic equivalent of the psalm’s image, since “it is not atypical in iconographical contexts to find human and animal figures used with similar or identical connotation.”16 As noted above, Strawn reasons that a verb is probably lacking in 22:17b. Based on semantic considerations, he thinks that #rf (“to tear”) is the best candidate among several possibilities. This word makes considerable sense in the context of the later references to counting bones. He also calls attention to a resulting chiastic structure in the center of the psalm if a lion is found in v. 17, and this is a point to which I will return below.17 Strawn’s iconographical evidence, while not decisive, strongly suggests that yrak (“like a lion”) is original. Proposals of a wordplay (or two) can solve the problem of the missing verb, although some would suggest that none is needed after all (see below). In particular, Strawn’s structural observations are valuable, especially if one allows for multiple meanings for key terms. A brief look at vv. 17–19 is therefore instructive. 17 aa For dogs surrounded me ynwbbs; ab A gang of criminals encircled me ynwpyqh; b yrak my hands and my feet 18 a b
I count all my bones They stare, gawk at me ybAwary
19 a b
They divide my clothes for themselves Over my garments they cast lots.
Of initial interest is v. 18. The first three consonants of the word “[they] gawk” (wary) are the three consonants of “lion” spelled in reverse order, resulting in something of a visual pun.18 More importantly, only in v. 18a is the singer obviously the subject of a verb. All the other lines, including v. 17b, according to the most popular solutions, describe the actions of the tormentors. J. J. M. Roberts complains that this leaves v. 18a with no parallel line and makes v. 17 a tricolon whose the third member does not fit well. He proposes instead that yrak be seen as based on a new root hrk (derived from Akkadian and Syriac cognates), meaning “be shriveled.” This makes the hands and feet the verb’s subject and offers a better fit with v. 18a.19 Against this it can be argued that the reading “because they have picked clean” serves the perceived requirements of v. 18a much better and does not require positing a new root. Yet, because of the iconographical evidence presented by Strawn and the other references to lions in the psalm, “like a lion” 16
Strawn, “More Guessing,” 441– 44, 450 (quotation from 443). Ibid., 446–48. 18 This cannot go very far in suggesting that “lion” in v. 17 is original, but it is worth noting nonetheless. The plural ending on “gawk” is the same as the plural ending on the proposed verbs in v. 17b, which are based on the variant readings in Hebrew manuscripts. It is possible that these variants resulted from a copyist skipping ahead momentarily from v. 17 to v. 18 because of the other similar letters and inadvertently changing the final letter of “like a lion” to an apparent verb. 19 Roberts considers other alternatives to make of v.18b an “erratic phrase in an alien context” (“New Root,” 249). 17
Critical Notes
737
should not be abandoned. The best solution would be to see yrak as doing (at least) double duty. Another defense of “like a lion” can be built on the final word of v. 17a. The parallelism between “encircled” (ynwpyqh, from #qn) and “surrounded” (ynwbbs, from bbs) is clear. #qn in the hip>il has a similar sense in a number of other biblical passages (e.g., 1 Kgs 7:24; Isa 15:8; Lam 3:5).20 In addition, it can have the sense of circling or circumambulating something. In Josh 6:3, for instance, the Israelite men are to walk around Jericho (infinitive, and parallel with bbs) while the ark is carried around the city (Josh 6:11; cf. Ps 48:13). Back in Psalm 22, a gang of ruffians circling a victim (perhaps to strike at a weak point or to catch him off-guard) is not necessarily to be preferred over the victim being “encircled” on all sides by a (presumably large) mob. Yet, as a secondary nuance, it can make sense of “like a lion” if read all together: “circled me like a lion.” This adds an ominous detail to the imagery of v. 17a.21 Such a treatment of yrak cannot stand alone, however. For one thing, moving yrak to v. 17ab disturbs the parallelism there. More seriously, the move leaves “my hands and my feet” completely adrift. It is, however, a fitting complement to “picked clean.” Before turning to that directly, one can uncover another nuance to #qn. Standard reference works recognize two roots for this term. The first appears only in the pi>el and nip>al stems and denotes destruction. Isaiah 10:34 uses #qn to refer to the cutting down of trees (cf. Job 19:26). The second root, whose hip>il stem was discussed briefly above, also appears in the qal stem as “to go in a series” (e.g., Isa 29:1).22 What is interesting, however, is that a few attestations of the hip>il root II seem to occur in contexts in which the pi>el root I meaning of “to cut off” would fit admirably. Leviticus 19:27 employs wpqt to forbid “rounding off ” (e.g., NAB + RSV) the hair on one’s temples. Yet hip>il #qn in this place is actually in parallel with tjv “[do not] destroy” (in context, to shave one’s beard).23 Also noteworthy in this regard is the very difficult Ps 17:9: From the presence of the wicked who assaulted me my mortal enemies who (en)circle me:
ynwdv wz !y[vr ynpm yla wpyqy vpnb ybya
On the one hand, “(en)circle” finds its complement a little later with bbs, “surround,” in v. 11. On the other hand, #qn is in parallel with ynwdv, which is often understood as derived from ddv, denoting violence (hence my translation “assaulted”).24 Although the 20
A period of time and a schedule of ritual are referred to in Job 1:5 and 29:1. “Encircle” cannot fully account for being surrounded by a single lion but, in v. 14, the plural subjects of the verbs are likened to a singular lion. A similar collective singular may be found in v. 17. Moving as a group the gang may be likened to a single predatory animal. 22 See G. J. Botterweck, H. Ringgren, H.-J. Fabry, Theological Dictionary of the Old Testament (trans. D. E. Green; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 9:64–71. William L. Holladay, A Concise Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament: Based Upon the Lexical Work of Ludwig Koehler and Walter Baumgartner (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1971), 245–46; HALOT (Study Edition, 2001), 1:722. Nominal forms appear: e.g., the beating or shaking of an olive tree in Isa 17:6; 24:13. 23 Perhaps one should recognize here a hip>il of root I. 24 E.g., Hans-Joachim Kraus, Psalms 1–59: A Continental Commentary (trans. Hilton C. Oswald; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993), 244: “done violence.” 21
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Journal of Biblical Literature
word must be spelled in one stem or another, we might be justified in hearing the basic semantic ranges of both roots.25 Interestingly, the enemies who assault, encircle, and surround the singer in Ps 17:9–11 are, in v. 13, said to be “like a lion” waiting for prey. On the basis of the passages from Leviticus and Psalm 17 I propose that a wordplay between the two roots of #qn be identified in Psalm 22. There is an evocation of violence—in context, perhaps “dismember”— alongside of “(en)circle.” The result is a complex pivot pattern: #qn is parallel to bbs, while, looking forward into v. 17b, it can be both “circled me” and “dismembered me” (like a lion). With the latter, some sense could even be made of the words “my hands and my feet,” which would otherwise be left “cut off” by the removal of yrak from v. 17b and its association with v. 17a. Hence: “A gang of criminals, like a lion, has dismembered me. My hands and my feet! I can count all my bones!” This reading can actually reinforce a proposed solution for v. 17b, that is, that there is an elision of a verb in that line. As Heinemann points out, the phenomenon of elided verbs in Hebrew poetry is well known, but he comments that it is hard to see how a lion might “encircle” one’s hands and feet.26 It may be a case of “form following content,” as Gary Rendsburg puts it—the missing verb highlighting the “suddenness with which the attack comes. We experience the anguish of the psalmist; he is surrounded by enemies, and suddenly, the pounce, and the immediate cry about hands and feet under attack.”27 In my opinion, this suddenness is all the more accentuated if we hear the dismembering of the victim in the same word that reiterates the encirclement. Kristin M. Swenson also finds the key to v. 17b to lie in #qn. She, however, argues that it should be understood as “circumscribe,” based on Josh 6:3, 11 and Lam 3:5. She maintains that the psalmist is expressing terror-stricken paralysis in the face of the attack.28 Against the typical understanding that the verse has three phrases, she understands only two, and she reads #qn in the second phrase. Dogs surround me, a pack of wicked ones. Like a lion, they circumscribe my hands and feet.29 Swenson is correct in pointing out that hip>il #qn has the sense of circumscribe or constrict in Lam 3:5, but Josh 6:3 and 11 certainly have the meaning of “go around.” While the ark circling Jericho is figurative of the inhabitants being trapped inside their doomed city, the more literal sense is of the physical movement of the ark around the city. Even though the image of a fearful paralysis does have an apt contextual fit in Psalm 22, it is not the strongest image possible. In attempting to isolate a single reading for the 25 This is preferable to Jacob Leveen, “The Textual Problems of Psalm XVII,” VT 11 (1961): 48–53, who emends ynwd` to ynwrv, “they eye me balefully,” to make it fit contextually with “encircle” (p. 51). 26 Heinemann maintains that “pierced” is the least troublesome reading (“Exposition of Psalm 22,” 296). For ellipsis or “verb gapping,” he refers his readers to Robert Alter, The Art of Biblical Poetry (New York: Basic Books, 1985), 7; and M. O’Conner, Hebrew Verse Structure (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1980), 122–29. 27 Gary A. Rendsburg, “Hebrew Philological Notes (III),” HS 43 (2002): 26. 28 Swenson, “Circling Around,” 642–43. 29 Ibid., 642. She later (p. 647) discusses the first person singular suffix on the verb, which is not evident in her translation.
Critical Notes
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verse, Swenson does not notice the possible connections between “circumscribe” and proposals that yrak is really a verb meaning “to bind.” She criticizes John Kaltner because of his handling of the morphology of the Hebrew and especially the troublesome a.30 Yet peculiar spellings may be the result of a wordplay between words with relatively dissimilar spellings (something I will return to below). While “circumscribe / bind” makes for an intriguing and appropriate image, a stronger sense of violence should also be found in v. 17. Verses 13–15 end with the “dust of death.” Verses 17–19, which pick up a number of key terms and ideas from that earlier passage, end with counted bones and the gambling over clothes. Swenson understands v. 17 to refer to how terror “has effectively cut off” the singer’s options, his strength (“hands”) and ability to flee (“feet”).31 But the violent content of previous lines suggest that what is “cut off” may be far more physical. This is especially so in view of Swenson’s own structural analysis, which puts v. 17 at the center of chiastic structure spanning vv. 13–22.32 Another serious objection to Swenson’s two-line reading is that it breaks the excellent parallelism of the conventional, three-clause line division, which puts synonymous verbs in the final position of each of the first two clauses of the two lines. Rather than move the second verb, #qn, to the start of the next phrase, seeing it as a “pivot” is the better solution, especially if we see the same thing happening with the following word, yrak. As noted above, R. Tournay and Mitchell Dahood independently came to the conclusion that behind this disputed term lay the Hebrew root hra + k. They do differ, however, on a few points. Tournay understands the initial k to be the comparative preposition and the verb to be an infinitive construct of hra. He accepts the minority reading of our term (wrak) and notes that the final w is possible for such infinitives, if less common, than the usual t. He translates, “comme pour déchiqueter (mes mains et mes pieds).”33 Dahood reads the k as causal, the verb as a third person perfect plural with a final radical y, “preserved, as in Ugaritic regularly and sporadically in Phoenician and Hebrew.”34 He suggests that the text should be read as k ȵ
Ibid., 640. Ibid., 643. 32 Ibid., 644. 33 Tournay, “XXVII 17,” 111. 34 Dahood, “To Pick Clean,” 371. 35 Ibid.; Tournay, “Psaume XXVII 17.” 31
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Journal of Biblical Literature
nality of the y because of its better attestation and the ease with which it renders a reference to a lion, which is to be expected for structural and contextual reasons (cf. Ps 22:14, 22, and see below). In any case, under the premise of a wordplay, minor orthographic anomalies (i.e., the missing y in the preposition yk in Dahood’s version) are explicable by the need to indicate a variety of words and parts of speech with a single series of letters. Here, then, is how vv. 17–18a appear to me with the first word of v. 17b oscillating between v. 17ab and v. 17b. 17 aa ab ab/b 17 b 18 a
Dogs surround me, A gang of evildoers (en)circles / dismembers me like a lion / because they have picked clean my hands and my feet, I can count all my bones.36
The polysemy, then, is very complex, evoking a whole host of possibilities. There are two sequential pivot words, and the whole of v. 17b can carry multiple meanings. At the end of v. 17ab we encounter “encircle” in parallel with the preceding “surround.” That same word, #qn, can also mean “dismember.” Looking forward to v. 17b, the lion simile can complete the thought of either of the latter two meanings. This also leads in very well to reading the rest of v. 17b as a pair of short exclamations. Finding “circle” or “dismember” in v. 17ab does not depend on definitively relocating yrak to that clause, however. It may still introduce the following one and, as such, may be read as any of the verbal meanings interpreters have proposed (including “bind,” especially when following on from the possible “circumscribe” in v. 17aa). Most apt, however, is “because they have picked clean.” This reading makes all of vv. 17b–18a an intelligible sentence. Moreover, with the lion simile as another meaning, the subject of the “picking clean” is clearly identified, and this follows well from “dismember.” Even if this violent sense is the most appropriate, one should not rule out other nuances and meanings of those slippery terms. Further evidence for a wordplay in v. 17 comes from consideration of the larger literary context. I have observed already how v. 18a is at the center of a seven-line passage (vv. 17–19) that reiterates and develops much of the imagery of vv. 13–16. In v. 13 there is parallelism on the theme of encirclement (although #qn is not used) before a metaphorical reference to a lion in the next verse.37 13 Many bulls have surrounded ynwbbs me The mighty ones of Bashan encompass ynwrtk me 14 They open their mouths at me— A lion, tearing and roaring. Strikingly, v. 14 and v. 17 are each followed by reference to the body of the victim. Verses 15–16 speak of disjointed bones among other gruesome images, while vv. 17–18 36 The translation is mine up to “like a lion,” at which point I supply the translation of Dahood, “To Pick Clean,” 370. Following Tournay and Dahood is Léopold Sabourin, Le Livre des Psaumes: Traduit et interprété (Recherches n.s. 18; Montreal: Éditions Bellarmin, 1988), 145. 37 Perhaps #qn was chosen for v. 17 because of its multiple meanings, while rtk in v. 13 makes for some alliterative capital with “tear” (#rf) in v. 14.
Critical Notes
741
refer to hands and feet and the counting of bones. In v. 19 the singer, now disembodied and ghostlike, describes how his murderers gamble over his clothes: surely a complementary image to being laid in the “dust of death” in v. 16. Strawn finds a larger chiastic structure if the reading “lion” in v. 17 is accepted. The “bulls” and “strong bulls” of v. 13 form an outer frame with the “wild oxen” of v. 22. An inner frame of references to lions occurs in vv. 14 and 22. Verse 17b, with its lion, forms the central point and is flanked by references to dogs in v. 17a and v. 21.38 On structural grounds, then, there is considerable reason to find a lion simile in v. 17. Yet, by recognizing yrak as having multiple meanings, the lack of a verb for the leonine reading is overcome. If a verbal meaning denoting the aftermath of a predatory kill is accepted (and especially so if “dismember” is found in v. 17aa), there is a suitable counterpart to the “lion, tearing, roaring” from v. 14. The great skill demonstrated by the ancient Hebrew scribes in constructing polyvalent texts is now quite widely recognized.39 But is the complex polysemy proposed here “a pun too far”? Psalm 22 is a wonderfully composed example of ancient Hebrew writing. As noted above, there are chiastic structures in the psalm. Some wordplay may also be evident elsewhere in the psalm. In v. 2, for instance, one may find a Janus parallelism. This sophisticated device involves three parallel lines in which a polyvalent expression in the second holds one meaning in view of the first line and bears another in view of the third. This device is now recognized as playing a very significant (and frequent) role in the dialogues in the book of Job.40 In Ps 22:2 yt[wvym is usually read as “from my salvation.” Some commentators prefer a slight emendation to yt[wvm, which they translate as “from my cry.” John S. Kselman argues that the emendation is justified in view of the use of the root in v. 25 and the synonymy between the emendation and the following “words of my groaning.” Kselman, however, finds that “my salvation” is not impossible given the collocation of “salvation” and “abandon” in Pss 18:42; 27:10; 88:2.41 It is probably best to accept both readings in Ps 22:2: a My God, my God, why have you abandoned me? ba [why so] far from my salvation / my cry yt[wvym bb [from the] words of my roaring?
38
Strawn, “More Guessing,” 447. See, e.g., Gary A. Rendsburg, “Word Play in Biblical Hebrew: An Eclectic Collection,” in Puns and Pundits: Word Play in the Hebrew Bible and Ancient Near Eastern Literature (ed. Scott B. Noegel; Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2000), 137–62. This entire volume is an excellent introduction to the variety and scope of wordplay in the ancient Near East. On pp. 147–48, Rendsburg cites some examples of “double polysemy,” in which two words in parallel each have multiple meanings, e.g., Prov 31:19; Gen 49:6; Job 3:6. On the aforementioned “pivot” device, see, e.g., Sivan and S. Yona, “Pivot Words or Expressions in Biblical Hebrew and in Ugaritic Poetry,” VT 48 (1998): 399–400, and the bibliography there. Also see P. Auffret, “‘Pivot Pattern’: Nouveaux Exemples (Jon. ii 10; Ps xxxi 13; Is. xxiii 7),” VT 28 (1978): 103–10. 40 Scott. P. Noegel, Janus Parallelism in the Book of Job (JSOTSup 223; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996). 41 John S. Kselman, “‘Why Have You Abandoned Me?’ A Rhetorical Study of Psalm 22, ” in Art and Meaning: Rhetoric in Biblical Literature (ed. D. J. A. Clines, D. M. Gunn, and A. J. Hauser; JSOTSup 17; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1982), 172–98, esp. 174–75. 39
742
Journal of Biblical Literature One can find apparently deliberate, creative ambiguity also in the very next verse. My God,42 I cry by day and you do not answer And by night, yl hymwdAalw
The last few words may be translated as “and I have no rest,” which fits contextually but does not exactly fulfill the requirements of parallelism with “you do not answer.” As Heinemann points out, however, it may be translated as in the NIV: “[I] am not silent,” an ironic wordplay in which the psalmist’s own voice is not silent as God gives him no reply.43 The irony runs much deeper, however. It may be best to understand the line as “and there is no silence for me”—that is, despite God’s own refusal to respond. What the psalmist hears, however, would be the “praises of Israel” upon which the deity is enthroned (v. 4) and the memories of the answered cries of his ancestors, recalled explicitly in v. 6. Moreover, in v. 8 one reads, “all who see me ridicule me.” In this cacophony words seem to get confused. In v. 4, “enthroned” (bvwy) appears, but its sound echoes ironically in the closing phrase of v. 6, wvwbAalw. This word also appears to have two meanings. One is relevant to the preceding reference to the ancestors’ pleas, “they were not disappointed.” The other, with the more basic meaning of the verb, anticipates the following references to scorn: “they were not ashamed.”44 With this in mind, a wordplay (or combination of devices) in Ps 22:17 is not to be unexpected. None of the verbal alternatives for yrak in Ps 22:17 is trouble free. Each requires something of an explanation for the exact spelling in the MT or reliance on variant readings. By accepting a wordplay, however, the situation can be resolved by acknowledging that the need to effect the pun forced some compromises. Other examples of this can be found. Gary Rendsburg observes how biblical authors would often choose words based on their alliterative potential, even if a particularly rare word, or a common word with an uncommon meaning, is employed to achieve polysemy. He cites the example of Ps 137:5 in which jkv is used first according to its typical meaning of “forget” and then, at the end of the verse with the meaning of “paralyzed,” a meaning identified from a metathesized Arabic word.45 Sometimes a word’s usual spelling is changed to effect a pun, even with a word from a foreign language. Among Rendsburg’s examples is one first identified by Al Wolters. Proverbs 31:27 describes a praiseworthy woman diligently watching over her household. Here the participle hypwx is used instead of the expected third person feminine “she watches.” The effect is to evoke the sound of the Greek word sophia (“wisdom”) in describing the ways of the woman’s household.46 Wolters also points out that the morphology of the participle itself is rare and that the 42 Also note how “my God” is spelled yla twice in v. 2, whereas in this verse it is spelled yhla —an interesting comparison with the longer form of “lion” in vv. 14, 21 as opposed to the shorter form in v. 17. 43 Heinemann, “Exposition of Psalm 22,” 289. 44 Ibid., 290. Heinemann sees “ashamed” as forming a link between vv. 4–6 and vv. 7–9, but he does not entertain the wordplay. 45 Rendsburg, “Word Play,” 138. 46 Ibid., 138, 141–42; Al Wolters, “S\ôpiyyâ (Prov 31:27) as Hymnic Participle and Play on Sophia,” JBL 104 (1985): 577–86.
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wordplay is very plausible because of the association in the larger context of the woman with wisdom. Moreover, one can find another ambiguity in this verse with the woman herself not eating the “bread of idleness” nor permitting idlers to “eat bread” (cf. Prov 19:15).47 These examples, however, really provide no close match to the complex, fluid polysemy and structures I propose for Ps 22:17. Scott Noegel, however, has discovered in Job 29:20–23 no fewer than five polysemous words in what he calls a “Janus cluster.”48 Returning to Proverbs 31, an interesting comparison with Ps 22:17 can be made. Again we can build on the work of Rendsburg, who translates Prov 31:21–22 as: She does not fear for her house on account of snow, For all her house is clothed in šaµnîm Garments she has made for herself linen and purple are her clothing.49 As he explains, the term !ynv is often taken to mean “scarlet” in anticipation of “purple,” but it might also mean “two” or “double,” which fits the context of protection from the cold much better (and this is how the LXX and the Vg understand the line). The MT’s vocalization of “scarlet” as a plural is somewhat anomalous but not completely unheard of (see Isa 1:18, but cf. the singular in 1QIsaa). Rendsburg rightly finds a case of Janus parallelism here.50 There is, however, far more to it than that. There is further polyvalence and the possibility of fluid line divisions, making the passage another example of the degree of complexity I find in Ps 22:17. If our polyvalent term at the end of Prov 31:21 is moved to the start of the next line the following results: For all her house is clothed. Double (or lined?)/scarlet garments she has made for herself. Certainly, this new division cannot be construed as anything but a secondary reading. First, it breaks the parallelism between v. 21b and v. 22a by removing the modifier on “clothed” to the next line. More significantly, it breaks the acrostic structure (spanning vv. 10–31) by having v. 22a begin with a word whose initial letter is v, not the expected m. Yet there are some reasons to entertain it. Accepting a secondary line redivision does not leave v. 21 unintelligible. “Double/scarlet” is a suitable modifier for the plural garments of v. 22. Moreover, the expression “double garments” offers something of a match with “linen,” the material of the items, and the references to colors are comparable. Interestingly, there is something of a progression in detail with the new line division. The first line about the clothing, v. 21b, is left with no details. The second line now has one word describing them, but it carries two meanings, “double/scarlet.” The third line, v. 22b, has two words to describe the clothing and three meanings. The clothes are purple linen, but the word for linen, vv, can also mean “six.” This adds considerable “insulation” to the image of a family well prepared for winter. Thus, one might want to read:
47
Wolters, “Sophia,” 580–83. Noegel, Janus Parallelism, 97–98. 49 Rendsburg, “Word Play,” 146. 50 Ibid., 146–47. 48
744
Journal of Biblical Literature She does not fear for her house on account of snow For all her house is clothed. Double/scarlet garments she has made for herself Six/linen and purple are her clothes.
This reading also has the structural advantage of placing the root vbl, “to clothe,” at the very end of the two sentences. Second, it makes the first word of each of the last two parallel lines polyvalent, making this a case of “double polysemy.”51 Moreover, each of these terms embraces a numerical meaning. Finding the increasing warmth and quantity of clothes here alongside the rich colors of scarlet and purple anticipates v. 25, in which the woman is “clothed in strength and splendor” (rdhwAz[). Here too there is a combination of double meanings, as Wolters points out. The root vbl may be read as either a verb or a noun and, if the latter, as subject or object.52
Conclusion These examples can hardly do justice to the wide variety of wordplays in the Hebrew Bible. Yet they lend considerable credibility to the possibility of a combination of polysemy and fluid structures in Ps 22:17. Complexity and fluidity seem to me to be the best of all the many solutions for Ps 22:17. It is difficult to maintain that yrak must be read in v. 17b only as “like a lion,” but this fits the context so well that one should not be hasty in abandoning it entirely in favor of an exclusively verbal meaning. Allusions to a number of verbs might be recognized in yrak, but few offer as suitable a meaning as “pick clean,” and the orthography of this is relatively trouble free. The likelihood is very high that the majority MT reading is original and the others are corruptions or misunderstandings. In any case, the majority MT reading is a brilliant, multilayered passage whose range of meanings are complementary and aid in the terrible imagery of the central portion of the psalm. The gang “circles” its prey “like a lion.” But if linking yrak to v. 17a forces the reader’s mind to linger momentarily on the circling mob, the polyvalence of the two words in turn emphasizes the suddenness of the attack when it finally does come. The prey is “dismembered” and the “lion” gnaws the boney scraps of its meal. All that is left is the counting of the bones and the gambling over the clothes. The poetic form of Ps 22:17 does not merely describe the plight of the psalmist but embodies it, representing in its shifting meanings a terrible suspense and an instantaneousness violence. James R. Linville [email protected] University of Lethbridge, Lethbridge, AL T1K 3M4 Canada 51 Ibid., 148. Rendburg’s first example is Prov 31:19, but he does not notice the possible double polysemy in vv. 21–22. 52 Wolters, “Sophia,” 583; he finds also another similar case with “plunder” in v. 11. He also points to v. 29 and the double entendre of “do valiantly/gain riches.”
WHERE DID NOAH PLACE THE BLOOD? A TEXTUAL NOTE ON JUBILEES 7:4
According to biblical prescriptions and descriptions, the blood of the tafj (“sin” or “purification”) offering is applied to various furnishings of sacred space. Most commonly, the blood of this sacrificial offering is daubed onto the horns of the altar of burnt offering.1 Other ancient Jewish texts also refer to this ritual treatment of tafj sacrificial blood.2 Elaborating on Gen 9:20–21a, the book of Jubilees narrates that when Noah drank wine for the first time he celebrated a festival with sacrificial offerings: “a burnt offering to the Lord, one bull calf, one ram, seven sheep each a year old, and one goat kid so as to make expiation with it for himself and for his sons” (7:3b).3 Although not explicitly identified as such, the goat kid must be a tafj offering, as several interpreters have noted.4 Noah offered the kid first (7:4a), “and he placed some of its blood upon the flesh of the altar” (wa) (7:4b). In light of the biblical sources on the tafj, one would expect Noah to apply the blood to his altar, specifically
1 See, e.g., Leviticus 4 (esp. vv. 5–7, 16–18, 25, 30, 34); Exod 29:12; Lev 8:15; 9:9; 16:18–19; Ezek 43:20; 45:19; 2 Chr 29:24. On the tafj offering and its blood manipulations in the Hebrew Bible, see William K. Gilders, Blood Ritual in the Hebrew Bible: Meaning and Power (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004), 31–32, 109–41, 146–50, 153–55. 2 See, e.g., Philo, Spec. 1.231, 233; Josephus, Ant. 3.231, 242–43; 11QTb (11Q20) I.25–26 (Florentino García Martínez, Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar, and Adam S. van der Woude, eds., Manuscripts from Qumran Cave 11 (11Q2–18, 11Q20–30) [DJD 23; Oxford: Clarendon, 1997], 367–69; Elisha Qimron, The Temple Scroll: A Critical Edition with Extensive Reconstructions [JDS; Beer Sheva: Ben-Gurion University of the Negev Press, 1996], 25); 11QTa XVI.16–17; XXIII.11–14 (Qimron, Temple Scroll, 26, 37). 3 It is evident that the biblical source for this set of sacrifices is the list of offerings in Num 29:2, 5 for the festival of the first day of the seventh month. On this connection, see James C. VanderKam, The Book of Jubilees (CSCO 511; SA 88; Leuven: Peeters, 1989), 43; Yigael Yadin, The Temple Scroll (3 vols.; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1983), 1:89–91; 2:58; Jacques T. A. G. M. van Ruiten, Primaeval History Interpreted: The Rewriting of Genesis 1–11 in the Book of Jubilees (JSJSup 66; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 279–82. 4 Chanoch Albeck, “Das Buch der Jubiläen und die Halacha,” in Siebenundvierzigster Bericht der Hochschule für die Wissenschaft des Judentums in Berlin (Berlin, 1930), 21; Klaus Berger, Das Buch der Jubiläen (JSHRZ 2.3; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus Gerd Mohn, 1981), 362 n. 3c; Lawrence H. Schiffman, “The Sacrificial System of the Temple Scroll and the Book of Jubilees,” in SBL 1985 Seminar Papers (SBLSP 24; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1985), 222; van
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to the horns.5 However, according to the Ethiopic text of Jub. 7:4—our only extant witness for this part of Jubilees—Noah daubed blood from the tafj goat onto meat that was on the altar.6 Does Jub. 7:4 represent Noah as performing a strange cultic blood manipulation referred to nowhere in the Bible and in no other ancient Jewish text? Most scholars apparently accept that it does, but pass over the text with little or no comment. Ch. Albeck, however, suggested that we have here either a faulty translation or a textual corruption.7 As I will demonstrate below, Albeck’s basic intuition was correct. The Ethiopic diba šegaµ zamešwaµ> (“onto the meat of the altar”) in Jub. 7:4 probably does not accurately reflect the original Hebrew text. Rather, I propose that this no-longer-extant text, in line with biblical prescriptions, indicated that Noah applied blood to the horns of his altar, not to sacrificial flesh upon the altar. Before developing this proposal, however, it is appropriate to elaborate on the reasons for rejecting the present Ethiopic reading. First, as I have noted, nowhere in the Bible or elsewhere in ancient Jewish texts do we find a reference to applying tafj blood—or the blood of any other sacrifice, for that matter—to sacrificial flesh on an altar. Were Jubilees in fact proposing such an unusual treatment of tafj blood, one would expect an explanation or defense of this innovation. Jubilees is notable for its lengthy and vigorous explanations of its distinctive positions on correct Jewish practice.8 Moreover, with every other reference to cultic blood manipulation in Jubilees, it is possible to identify the biblical sources, to explain how Jubilees utilizes and interprets those sources, and to relate Jubilees’ interpretive moves to those of other ancient Jewish texts, most notably the Qumran Temple Scroll.9 This is not, however, the case with Jub. 7:4. Second, a practical objection can be raised to what the Ethiopic text seems to describe. If we accept, for the sake of argument, that the text does represent Noah as applying blood to sacrificial flesh, we must ask, what was this flesh? Lawrence Schiffman cautiously suggests that Noah applied blood to the meat of the other sacrificial animals in the set, which were brought as burnt offerings. According to this interpretation, Noah
Ruiten, Primaeval History Interpreted, 279. In Num 29:5, Jubilees’ biblical source (see n. 3 above), the goat is explicitly identified as a tafj. 5 As Albeck noted (“Das Buch der Jubiläen und die Halacha,” 21). 6 Translations universally construe the text this way. Note the following English renderings of diba šegaµ zamešwa>: R. H. Charles, The Book of Jubilees or the Little Genesis (London: A. & C. Black, 1902), 59 (“on the flesh that was on the altar”); Orval S. Wintermute, in OTP 2:69 (“on the flesh which was on the altar”); VanderKam, Book of Jubilees, 44 (“the meat [that was on] the altar”). See also Moshe Goldman, in !ynwxyjh !yrpsh (ed. Avraham Kahana; Jerusalem: Makor, 1978), 1:237 (jbzmhAl[ rva rcbhAl[). German translations are the most literal: Enno Littman, in Die Apokryphen und Pseudepigraphen des Alten Testaments (ed. Emil Kautzsch; 1900; repr., Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 1962), 2:52 (“auf das Fleisch des Altars”); Berger, Das Buch der Jubiläen, 362 (“auf das Fleisch des Altares”). 7 Albeck, “Das Buch der Jubiläen und die Halacha,” 21, 50–51 n. 139. 8 See, e.g., Jub. 2:17–33 (on Sabbath); 3:8–14 (on childbirth purification); 6:17–38 (on festivals and calendar); 15:25–34 (on circumcision). 9 See William K. Gilders, “Representation and Interpretation: Blood Manipulation in Ancient Israel and Early Judaism” (Ph.D. diss., Brown University, 2001), 337–80.
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slaughtered the goat kid and reserved its blood. He then slaughtered the burnt-offering animals and placed their flesh on the altar. Finally, he took the reserved blood of the kid and applied it to the flesh of the burnt offerings on the altar.10 Schiffman’s interpretation depends on his construal of the rest of Jub. 7:4—“And all the fat he offered upon the altar where he made (zahÚaba gabra) the burnt offering, and the bull, the ram, and the sheep, and he offered up all their flesh on the altar”—and requires translating zahÚaba gabra as “where he had made” the burnt offering. However, the Ethiopic perfect verb gabra certainly need not be read as a past perfect. Indeed, the context speaks against such a translation. We are told that Noah offered up the fat of the kid on the altar, and then we are told that he offered up the flesh of the bull, the ram, and the sheep. The reference to the altar as the one “where he made (zahÚaba gabra) the burnt offering” is simply anticipatory, indicating that all of the offerings were made on the same altar. It is also possible that the Ethiopic is simply the wordy reflection of an original Hebrew hlw[h jbzm (“altar of burnt offering”). Schiffman seems unperturbed by the strange statement that Noah placed blood on sacrificial flesh, and simply treats it as an opportunity to argue that Jubilees advocates burning the meat of burnt offerings before the blood of a tafj offering is manipulated.11 Contrary to Schiffman’s interpretation, the text indicates that the flesh of the burnt-offering animals was placed on the altar after the kid’s blood was manipulated, and after its fat had been offered.12 Thus, the flesh of the burnt-offering animals would not have been on the altar when the kid’s blood was manipulated. Jacques T. A. G. M. van Ruiten identifies the flesh on the altar as that of the goat kid itself, the flesh of the tafj, but without argument or explanation.13 His suggestion is even less compelling than Schiffman’s. Since the kid is a tafj offering, none of its flesh would have been placed on the altar. Rather, as the text indicates, only the kid’s fat was offered (Jub. 7:4b), which is what one expects in the case of a tafj, and this offering of fat took place after the blood manipulation, again what one would expect based on the biblical prescriptions Jubilees seems to assume.14 Thus, it is necessary to conclude that there was no flesh on the altar to which Noah could have applied blood. The above considerations require us to return to Albeck’s suggestion that diba šegaµ zamešwaµ> in Jub. 7:4 is either an incorrect translation or the result of a textual corruption.15 I propose that the original Hebrew reading in Jub. 7:4 was not “flesh” (rcb) but 10
Schiffman, “Sacrificial System,” 222.
11 Schiffman is concerned to identify differences between Jubilees and the Temple Scroll. His
interpretation of Jub. 7:3–4 serves this goal; see “Sacrificial System,” 222–23, 232–33. 12 For this critique of Shiffman’s interpretation, see James C. Vanderkam, “The Temple Scroll and the Book of Jubilees,” in Temple Scroll Studies: Papers Presented at the International Symposium on the Temple Scroll, Manchester, December 1987 (ed. G. J. Brooke; JSPSup 7; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1989), 229; van Ruiten, Primaeval History Interpreted, 279 n. 49. 13 Van Ruiten, Primaeval History Interpreted, 279. 14 See Lev 4:8–12, 19–21, 26, 31, 35; 6:19–23 (Eng. 6:26–30); 8:16–17; 9:10–11; Gilders, Blood Ritual, 127. 15 While he raised these possibilities, Albeck did not pursue them, adopting instead August Dillmann’s suggestion that šegaµ zamešwaµ> is an idiom with the meaning corpus altaris, “the altar itself.” The problem with this understanding is that, as Dillmann indicates, this would be the only
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“horns” (twnrq). How did “horns” end up as “flesh” in the Ethiopic version? All Ethiopic manuscripts read “flesh,” and it is difficult to see how a corruption of “horns” () presupposes a construct genitive relationship between the word for “altar” and the noun that preceded it in the Greek Vorlage. This is exactly what we find in the case of “the horns of the altar” in the Septuagint Pentateuch (ta; kevrata tou' qusiasthrivou).22 Thus, it is highly probable that the Greek version of Jub. 7:4 also originally read ta; kevrata tou' qusiasthrivou. occurrence of such an idiom (Lexicon Linguae Aethiopicae cum Indice Latino [Leipzig: T. O. Weigel, 1865], 268). 16 The only manuscript hint that the reading troubled Ethiopian readers appears in MS 9 (according to VanderKam’s listing) from the Pontifical Biblical Institute Library (catalogue #A.2.12), where what appears to be an erased word appears between damu and diba in Jub. 7:4. My thanks to an anonymous reviewer of this article, who brought this to my attention and kindly supplied a photograph of the relevant MS page. 17 On the composition of Jubilees in Hebrew, its Greek translation, and the Ethiopic translation from the Greek, see VanderKam, Book of Jubilees, vi–xiv, xviii. 18 See, e.g., Exod 12:8; 21:28; 29:34; Lev 6:20; 7:15, 17, 18, 19, 21; 8:32; 11:8, 11. On the use of kreva in a collective sense, see LSJ, 992. 19 See John W. Wevers, Notes on the Greek Text of Exodus (SBLSCS 30; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1990), 471 (on Exod 29:14); Henry St. J. Thackeray, A Grammar of the Old Testament in Greek according to the Septuagint (1909; repr., Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 1987), 149. 20 See the critical apparatus for Exod 12:8 and 29:14 in John W. Wevers and Udo Quast, eds., Septuaginta Vetus Testamentum Graecum: Exodus (Göttingen Septuagint 2.1; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1991); and for Lev 8:17 in idem, Septuaginta Vetus Testamentum Graecum: Leviticus (Göttingen Septuagint 2.2; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1986); see also Wevers, Greek Text of Exodus, 471 (on Exod 29:14). 21 See Wevers, Leviticus (Göttingen Septuagint 2.2), ad loc. My thanks to Albert Pietersma for bringing this example to my attention. 22 Exodus 29:12; Lev 4:7, 18, 25, 30, 34; 8:15; 9:9; 16:18. The Ethiopic Pentateuch renders most such occurrences with a simple construct chain () (e.g., Exod 29:12; Lev 4:7, 18, 25, 34; 8:15; 9:9). However, in Lev 4:30 we find , which is the exact grammatical equivalent of the reading in Jub. 7:4 (cf. Lev 16:18, where appears). See J. Oscar Boyd, The Octateuch in Ethiopic: According to the Text of the Paris Codex with Variants of Five Other Manuscripts (Bibliotheca Abessinica 4; Leiden: Brill, 1911), vol. 2, ad loc.
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On the basis of this evidence, I suggest that the present Ethiopic rendering reflects either a scribal error in the Ethiopian translator’s Greek Vorlage or a misreading by the Ethiopian translator: kevrata (“horns”) written or read as krevata (“flesh”). Thus, there is no need to explain or account for the unprecedented act of applying blood to the flesh of sacrificial animals. Nor must one identify an otherwise unattested idiomatic meaning of “the altar itself” for šegaµ zamešwaµ>. In the original Hebrew text, Jub. 7:4 simply indicated, quite unremarkably, that the kid’s blood was applied to the horns of the altar. This is exactly what one would expect in the case of a tafj offering. The original Hebrew likely read: jbzmh twnrq l[ (“upon the horns of the altar”).23 William K. Gilders [email protected] Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 23
In the Hebrew Bible, see Exod 29:12; Lev 4:25, 30, 34; 8:15; 9:9; 16:18.
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“An exposé of embarrassing skeletons in the Academy’s closet, Mark’s Other Gospel is the first thorough sifting of scholarship on the secret gospel since Morton Smith’s own monumental study in 1973. Brown’s readable style is always engaging…He makes a carefully argued and persuasive case that the excerpts quoted in Clement’s letter were originally part of a longer gospel written by none other than the author of the canonical Gospel of Mark—a landmark study of a now missing manuscript.” – Charles W. Hedrick, Distinguished Professor (Emeritus), Religious Studies, Southwest Missouri State University
Wilfrid Laurier University Press
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JBL 124/4 (2005) 751–785
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
The Social Roots of Biblical Yahwism, by Stephen L. Cook. SBL Studies in Biblical Literature 8. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature; Leiden: Brill, 2004. Pp. xii + 310. $39.95/$133.00. ISBN 1589830989/9004130551. While the Hebrew Bible is not easily construed as a univocal theological voice, its canonical shape reflects a strong dose of what E. P. Sanders has described as “monotheistic, covenantal, nomism.” Indeed, the Bible presents this brand of Judaism—let us call it “biblical Yahwism”—as both normative and very ancient, going back even to the Hebrew patriarchs themselves. Modern biblical scholars are predictably and understandably reluctant to comment about whether biblical Yahwism should be construed as Jewish orthodoxy in any metaphysical sense, but they have expressed serious questions about the historical accuracy of this canonical portrait of Israelite religious history. Over the course of the last century, biblical scholars have assigned the emergence of biblical Yahwism to increasingly later periods. What the Bible ascribes to the patriarchs and Moses, modern scholars would date to the late monarchy, or, more often, to the exilic and postexilic periods. The resulting history of Israel’s religion tends to look like this: Israel and its Yahwism emerged from the religious and social matrix of second-millennium Palestine. Early on, Israel’s devotion to Yahweh was henotheistic in character, but this henotheism was gradually supplanted by, or developed into, a more exclusive variety of mono-Yahwism. According to scholars, this three-stage evolutionary process—from polytheism to henotheism to monotheism—was mirrored in the development of Israel’s theological ideas (e.g., “covenant”) and also in the development of its religious institutions (e.g., the sacrificial cult). In nuce, while the Bible assumes that Jewish orthodoxy was a constant presence throughout the otherwise checkered history of Israel, historical criticism depicts biblical Yahwism as a late development in Jewish religion. Now, there are indeed many scholarly permutations when it comes to the story of Israelite religion, and it would be misleading to suggest that there is consensus on all of the relevant details. Nonetheless, the historical portrait that I have offered is, more or less, standard fare in biblical scholarship. It is against this standard perspective that Cook takes up his pen. He writes:
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Journal of Biblical Literature I disagree that biblical Yahwism evolved out of Canaanite religion and then developed through the work of the prophets and through various reforms and crises into its current form of universal monotheism. In place of this common view, I shall offer a more critical understanding of the roots of biblical Yahwism. I shall show that these roots run deep in ancient Israel’s history and society. . . . I intend to overturn the current trend that considers this “biblical Yahwism” a late invention of the Deuteronomists, of the exile, or even of postexilic times. (pp. 10, 68)
Cook’s agenda is clear. He believes that the “biblical Yahwism” that dominates the present canon of the Hebrew Bible is indeed ancient, and he believes that he can prove it. How does he pursue this aim? Cook’s first task is to define “biblical Yahwism” (ch. 2). For him, biblical Yahwism is none other than the normative, covenantal Judaism that governs the present shape of the Hebrew canon. Its primary textual witnesses include the pentateuchal Elohist, Deuteronomy, the Deuteronomistic History, the Asaphite Psalms (Pss 50; 73–83), and several prophetic books (especially Hosea, Jeremiah, and Malachi). On the basis of these admittedly Deuteronomic sources, Cook isolates the following salient features of biblical Yahwism: (1) Israel as God’s elected [covenant] vassals; (2) land as Israel’s inheritance; (3) God as sole landlord; (4) conditional tenancy [of the land]; and (5) tempered rule over the inheritance [an allowance for Israelite kings]. Because of the central role of the Mosaic covenant in this fivefold orthodoxy, Cook goes on to identify “biblical Yahwism” with what he calls “Sinai theology.” In the remainder of the book, these two terms are used interchangeably as shorthand descriptions of normative Israelite religion. Cook’s next task is to demonstrate the antiquity of this normative religion. There are many twists and turns in his thesis, but the surprising linchpin of Cook’s argument involves the little book of Micah. Why so? When it comes to preexilic Israel, modern scholars tend to distinguish pretty sharply between the religious traditions of the northern and southern Hebrew kingdoms. Northern Israelite theologies often accentuated Moses, the exodus, the law, the covenant, and a polemical mono-Yahwism, while the preexilic southern traditions of Judah tended to accentuate Zion, the Davidic dynasty, and social justice. Also, in southern contexts, mono-Yahwism tended to be assumed more than argued. As one can readily see, in this standard line of thinking, the provenance of Cook’s “Sinai theology” is observably northern. Insofar as this observation is accurate, it also implies that the Bible’s Sinai theology is not so ancient. If it were ancient, dating to or before the united monarchy, we would expect its features to appear prominently in both the northern and southern traditions. Obviously, for Cook’s thesis to hold, he needs to demonstrate that Sinai theology was at home in the south as well as in the north. He isolates some evidence for this in the historical books, which schematically describe the mono-Yahwistic reforms of Jehoiada the priest, Hezekiah, and Josiah (see ch. 3), but Cook’s primary preexilic source for Judah’s Sinai theology is the book of Micah. Cook believes that the prophetic collection of Micah attests quite unambiguously to the Sinai theology that he has isolated in his study (chs. 4–5). The key text in this regard is Mic 6:1–8, which Cook reads as a “covenantal lawsuit” in which Yahweh takes his people to task because they broke the Sinai covenant. At the same time, Cook avers what few would deny—that the northern prophet Hosea also reflects many elements of his biblical Yahwism. As a result, Cook believes that we have two eighth-century
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prophets, one each from the north and south, who are strong advocates of normative Sinai theology. If he is right, this evidence would strongly support (but not require) his contention that Sinai theology originated before the division of the Israelite kingdoms. Obviously, this possibility would be strengthened considerably if Cook could demonstrate that the views espoused by Micah and Hosea are older than the prophets themselves, and this is precisely what Cook attempts to show. According to Cook, the ancient societies of Israel and Judah were bifurcated along social lines, so that a political class of national administrators in Jerusalem and Samaria ruled over the older, kinship-based levels of society. Cook believes that the respective communities of Micah and Hosea can be located fairly easily within this two-level scheme (ch. 6). Micah was a prophet associated with the “elders of the land,” whereas Hosea was associated with the traditional Levites who were disenfranchised by Jeroboam’s heterodox reforms. Both of these groups, the elders and Levites, subsisted within the traditional, kinship-based level of Israelite society. One can easily see where this is going. While the monarchic politicians were responsible chiefly for Israel’s religious heterodoxies, the traditional, kinship-based communities of Micah and Hosea inherited and faithfully preserved the orthodox traditions of Sinai theology. Because traditional societies tend to be conservative in matters of religious tradition (see Cook’s anthropological data), this implies as well that the Sinai theologies of Hosea and Micah may be very old, going back even as far as Israel’s tribal origins (chs. 7–8). Consequently, Cook would have us outline the history of normative Israelite religion as follows: biblical Yahwism originated during the tribal era of early Israelite history, and it was faithfully preserved by a minority of mono-Yahwists until it emerged late in Israel’s history as the standard expression of Jewish orthodoxy. What are we to make of Cook’s thesis? As strategies go, his is quite sensible. He defines biblical Yahwism, attempts to demonstrate that it has preexilic roots in the northern and southern kingdoms, and then provides a rationale for the conclusion that biblical Yahwism is still older than these preexilic biblical sources. If the actual evidence is as Cook construes it, this account of things could indeed imply the relative antiquity of “biblical Yahwism.” Nevertheless, it seems to me that the soundness of his thesis suffers at several crucial points. Perhaps the most glaring weakness of Cook’s thesis is that so much of it hangs upon the tenuous thread of the book of Micah. As many readers will know, almost any approach to Micah will admit that the book has been heavily edited over the course of its history, so that the present form of the collection includes not only preexilic but also exilic and postexilic materials. If there is a secure preexilic core of the book, this seems to be mainly in the first few chapters of Micah, but Cook’s thesis demands that other parts of the book must pass as preexilic, including especially Mic 6:1–8. Given the questions about Micah, Cook’s argument for the authenticity of Mic 6:1–8 is quite inadequate: “The suppositions of the passage are authentic to the historical prophet Micah. In 6:7, with its references to lavish offerings, the prophet likely reminisces about the extravagant offerings of King Hezekiah depicted in 2 Chr 30:24” (pp. 76–77). In this instance, Cook’s argument for the authenticity of Mic 6 is doubly weak, not only because of the questions about Micah itself, but also because few scholars would take the Chronicler’s account of Hezekiah so seriously. To the extent that Mic 6:1–8 turns out to be either exilic or postexilic, to that same extent Cook has lost his witness to biblical Yahwism in preexilic Judah. And without this witness, his thesis essentially fails.
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Cook’s uncritical use of Micah is one of many instances in which his handling of the biblical sources lacks nuance. He assumes that Jehoiada’s ninth-century coup in Judah is an expression of biblical Yahwism (pp. 45–49), when the relevant portions of that story probably derive from the Deuteronomistic Historian rather than from older sources. Cook further assumes that the pentateuchal “Elohist” is northern and relatively old—now a much contested point—and he also accepts, somewhat uncritically, the theory of H. P. Nasuti that the Asaphite Psalms are northern. Now, it is certainly feasible that Jehoiada was a mono-Yahwist and that most of Micah dates to the preexilic period and that the pentateuchal E document and Asaphite Psalms are northern in provenance. But, overall, Cook is asking readers to accept quite a number of debatable points in order to support his thesis. More problematic still is Cook’s conception of “biblical Yahwism.” If Cook’s objective was to demonstrate the antiquity of normative Judaism, then he should have defined “biblical Yahwism” on the basis of the Hebrew Bible’s final canonical shape rather than on the basis of his smaller Deuteronomic “canon within a canon.” If he had done so, he would have discovered, among other things, that Hosea’s theology does not cohere so easily with “biblical Yahwism.” Whereas the Hebrew canon portrays God as sovereign over all nations, in Hosea God’s domain is in Israel alone (9:3). Whereas the Hebrew canon is unabashedly monotheistic, Hosea seems to be more henotheistic (with Yahweh and Baal in their respective lands; see 9:3, 10). Whereas the Hebrew canon accentuates the Davidic promise and leans in the direction of messianic apocalypticism, Hosea critiques the monarchy in principle (8:4; 13:11). Whereas the Hebrew canon offers many messages of hope, Hosea’s prophecies are filled with doom. How can Hosea—one of Cook’s primary sources for “biblical Yahwism”—differ so markedly from normative Judaism on such basic points? The answer to this question is clear. Because his study depended heavily (and admittedly) on Deuteronomic sources, Cook’s “biblical Yahwism” is probably better described as “Deuteronomic Yahwism.” This means, of course, that the aspect of normative Judaism that he has traced back to Hosea is not “biblical Yahwism” so much as the mono-Yahwism that many other scholars have found in the Deuteronomic and proto-Deuteronomic traditions. Consequently, if we set aside Cook’s problematic treatment of Micah, he has done little more than confirm the widely held belief that Deuteronomy’s mono-Yahwist agenda can be traced back in some measure to the eighth-century prophet Hosea. Cook’s attempt to use sociological models of ancient Israel, and extensive anthropological evidence, to trace this mono-Yahwism still further back into Israelite history is novel and suggestive but necessarily speculative. Consequently, it seems to me that we shall never know very much—apart from faith, perhaps—about the nature of ancient Yahwism or about whether it originated as the evolutionary product of Canaanite polytheism or as the theological innovation of some charismatic prophet. In sum, whether one is an antirealist or merely a critical realist, in this postmodern era it will be difficult to convince readers that the normative faith of Second Temple Judaism, itself an elusive thing to define, can be traced all the way back to the Late Bronze/Iron I period using historical-critical tools. Historical minimalism is increasingly influential in modern studies of ancient Israel and the Bible. I find this new approach to be problematic on many levels, and for that reason I am always pleased to find scholars who are looking anew at the data with a judicious rather than skeptical eye. Stephen Cook is one of those scholars, and I profited
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from reading his book, not only because he has added new strength to conventional views of Deuteronomic theology but also because he has challenged us anew to consider the possibility that this “northern theology” had genuine roots in the south. Moreover, by setting our sights on the sociological and anthropological evidence, Cook has made it more plausible to imagine how certain aspects of the Yahwistic faith might be more ancient than the Bible itself. Readers will appreciate these insightful aspects of Cook’s thesis. Kenton Sparks Eastern University, St. Davids, PA 19087
Rebuilding Identity: The Nehemiah Memoir and Its Earliest Readers, by Jacob L. Wright. BZAW 348. Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2004. Pp. xiii + 372. $137.20 (hardcover). ISBN 3110183196. This volume constitutes a distinguished contribution to the growing body of works on Ezra-Nehemiah and to the study of the formation of the Hebrew Bible. Wright’s Rebuilding Identity promises a great deal and delivers even more. Its claim, that the socalled Nehemiah Memoir (NM) emerged gradually as a creatio continua, changes the way one looks at Ezra-Nehemiah. In addition, this position contributes to contemporary discussions of broader hermeneutical and compositional questions regarding canon formation and the development of biblical texts in general. Wright’s central thesis about the NM is as follows: Nehemiah 1–13 gradually developed from a brief wall-building report that included certain small portions of Nehemiah (1–2; 3:38; 6:1, 5) to encompass a larger vision of what the reconstruction of Jerusalem and Judah entailed. Ezra-Nehemiah as a whole, according to Wright, developed in three major redactional moves. First, Nehemiah’s brief polemical wall-building report triggered another report aiming at a balance by presenting a more positive view of the priesthood in Ezra 1–6. This addition shifted importance from the walls to the temple as the first symbol of reconstruction. In the second stage, Ezra 7–8 was composed to bridge the two accounts by combining the content of Ezra 1–6 (focus on temple) with the form (“Memoir”) and time (Artaxerxes’ reign) of the Nehemiah material. In the third major stage, Ezra 9–10 and Nehemiah 8–10 were added to present Nehemiah’s work more positively and to limit the role of priests by shifting the focus from the temple to the Torah. The most detailed part of the book examines each section of the NM in order to illustrate the compositional strata within and uncovers the different voices in the text as the community rebuilds its identity after the exile. Wright offers a rich exposition of the layers that are inscribed in each unit before drawing conclusions as to how these fit into the larger frame of Ezra-Nehemiah. Rebuilding Identity is organized into four major sections: I. In Susa (1:1-11; pp. 7–66); II. From Susa to Jerusalem, examining Neh 2:1–11a, 2:11b– 4:17, 6:1–19 and 5:1–19 (pp. 67–188); III. Additional Reforms during the Work on the Wall—13:4–31 (pp. 189–269); IV. The Dedication of the Wall (12:27–13:3) and the Formation of a New Climax (7:1–12:26; pp. 271–329). These are followed by a “Concluding Survey” (pp. 330–39) and a table showing “The Primary Compositional Layers of Neh 1–13” (p. 340). The book also includes an excursus on “The Composition of Neh 10:1-40” (pp. 212–20) and another, on “Evidence of Editorial Activity in 8:1-12” (pp. 319–30).
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The demanding intricacy of Wright’s exposition is balanced by summaries and conclusions that enable readers to stay on track and that show how the pieces of the puzzle fit into the larger thesis of the book. Charts also help readers comprehend Wright’s model at a glance. See, for example, p. 74, which reproduces Neh 1:1–2:11 and highlights each stage visibly through variations in font. One important aspect of this book’s contribution is the overarching approach to the text. Wright understands the composition of Ezra-Nehemiah and the book itself to constitute “a process (a creatio continua) rather than a static entity of sources that have been shaped and molded according to the providential plan of one (or two) editor(s). The literary process in Ezra-Neh was initiated by the composition of Nehemiah’s report and continued by generations of active readers” (p. 330). The process extends into the Hellenistic period and the bulk of the work belongs to this era. Wright’s approach has ramifications for reflecting on the formation of other biblical books. He suggests that “by retracing the maturation process [of Ezra-Nehemiah], one digs deeper into the text and discovers older literary works surrounded by their first commentaries. Such investigative work is not only indispensable for a reliable assessment of the historical value of the supposed sources; it also recovers a wide array of textual witnesses illustrating how generations of readers—not just a late editor or ‘historian’ —interpreted the works of their predecessors and developed their views of the Restoration” (pp. 3–4). Wright traces his own approach to that of W. Zimmerli, O. H. Steck, and R. G. Kraatz (p. 4 n. 14). One can also see contiguity with that of M. Fishbane (Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel [Oxford: Clarendon, 1985]) and with what A. Rofé calls “The Supplementary Hypothesis.” Rofé, writing about the formation of the Hebrew Bible, contrasts his own approach with the Documentary Hypothesis. “According to the Documentary Hypothesis there originally existed independent and discrete documents, which were gathered and assembled by a later editor.” The Supplementary Hypothesis, however, “prefers to see the formation of biblical literature as a gradual developmental process: layer on layer, stratum on stratum, continuing until the works reached their canonical form” (A. Rofé, “Joshua 20: Historico-Literary Criticism Illustrated,” in Empirical Models for Biblical Criticism, ed. J. H. Tigay [Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1985], 131–48, here 141). Wright’s approach challenges the prevailing interpretations of Ezra-Nehemiah’s formation found in commentaries such as H. G. M. Williamson’s Ezra, Nehemiah (WBC 16; Waco: Word, 1985) and J. Blenkinsopp’s Ezra-Nehemiah (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1988). One hopes that this challenge would stimulate further discussion of the subject since conclusions about Ezra-Nehemiah also have an impact on theories about pentateuchal development. Yet it would be a loss to concentrate only on the theoretical claims and compositional theory that Wright proposes, because the insights embedded in the specific analysis of verses are themselves significant and compelling. Presuming that the earlier readers of the NM respected the work that they amplified and transmitted (p. 4), Wright likewise shows respect to the writings he analyzes. In retracing the layers, Wright does not dissect the text but rather unravels it so as to retain its continuity as a living legacy. He thereby shows how each contribution by later readers infuses additional meanings even while seeking to retain older voices. Thus, in examining Neh 6:1–19, which he titles “The Intimidation of the Builder” (p. 129), Wright starts with the unity of the final form
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in which antagonists resolve five times “to assassinate Nehemiah—or at least his character” (p. 130). Only after highlighting the overarching messages of the passage as a whole does he undertake a diachronic analysis. For example, concerning the first unit, Sanballat’s, Tobiah’s, and Geshem’s offer to hold a conference with Nehemiah (6:2–4), Wright points out the historical incongruity of such correspondence and suggests that it be interpreted as a later addition. Having made the case that not all the elements in the account go back to the original NM, he illustrates the manner in which the passage serves as a warning to later readers: Although the prominent representatives of Israel’s neighbors may seem to be interested in cooperation, their true aim is to cause Judah harm (p. 135). It is not necessary to accept Wright’s proposal for the history of this particular unit in order to benefit from the broadened understanding of what the passage accomplishes beyond its surface meaning (i.e., beyond an attack on Nehemiah). Wright illustrates effectively the intersection of ancient Near Eastern antecedents as well as inner-biblical exegesis that are appropriated in this text in order to present Nehemiah as an “indefatigable builder.” Going beyond this, he demonstrates how the author(s) employ(s) various strands of tradition to “expose the danger of diplomatic relations with Judah’s neighbors” (pp. 134–37), a topic of importance to subsequent generations. Given the hypothetical nature of any theory of composition, it is inevitable that scholars will challenge some of Wright claims. However, the interpretive skill with which Wright draws possible meanings from the verses he examines—and thus, the largest portion of the book—is bound to win many supporters. I found myself proposing alternate explanations on a number of occasions. For example, I think Wright dismisses the concern with land too quickly in his discussion of the conflict over intermarriage in Nehemiah 13 (“. . . the problem of intermarriage originally had nothing to do with a land-dispute initiated by those who returned from the Babylonian captivity” [p. 257]). For a position different from his, see my article “The Missions of Ezra and Nehemiah,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period, ed. O. Lipschits and M. Oeming (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2005), 505–25. However, these differences of opinion about the specifics do not diminish the value of Wright’s rich exegetical insights; even in those instances when one wishes to offer a different theory as to why a particular verse appears in a specific location, Wright’s fresh illumination of what that verse in fact conveys proves to be compelling and important. Rebuilding Identity is very well written. Its scholarly sophistication is coupled with elegant formulation as Wright illustrates how the story of Nehemiah has grown into the drama of the court-Jew who discovers his own identity in a foreign land and then moves to redirect the identity and destiny of his people. In the final form of Ezra-Nehemiah, such identity-construction develops through the reading of the Torah (Neh 8–10). It is Wright’s conclusion that this practice “of building identity through active reading is not only portrayed in Ezra-Neh, but it has also produced the book” (p. 339). Moreover, the process and practice continue for those who read and research the book of EzraNehemiah itself. One additional contribution should be noted. This volume, more fully than any other on Ezra-Nehemiah, brings scholarship from both sides of the Atlantic into a genuine dialogue. In so doing, Rebuilding Identity also forms a bridge between lines of investigation that often interact only superficially. For this and for all the other reasons noted
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above, this book is significant for biblical studies where exegetical and compositional issues are at stake, and is indispensable for the study of postexilic literature and history. Tamara Cohn Eskenazi Hebrew Union College–Jewish Institute of Religion, Los Angeles, CA 90007
The Reshaping of Ancient Israelite History in Chronicles, by Isaac Kalimi. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2005. Pp. xii + 473. $44.50 (hardcover). ISBN 1575060582. The question of how Israelite historiographical writers might have used earlier sources is an intriguing one, and an obvious place to begin examining the question is with Samuel–Kings and Chronicles. It is widely (though not universally) believed that the writer of 1–2 Chronicles used 1–2 Samuel and 1–2 Kings as his major (or even exclusive) source. One can hardly say that the relationship between these writings has been neglected, but up to now there has been no full study of how the Chronicler used Samuel–Kings. Isaac Kalimi has filled this gap with a detailed and comprehensive catalogue of the way in which the Chronicler worked. The study originally appeared in German in 1995 and in Hebrew in 2000, but the English version has been revised and expanded with additional bibliography and material and can thus be considered a new edition. Kalimi begins with an introductory chapter that explains what he is setting out to do and surveys the present state of research on the question. He also notes some methodological points, mainly focusing on the question of whether the textual version of Samuel–Kings likely to have been used by the Chronicler was the same as the MT. Although he discusses the Septuagint version to some extent, he decides to use the MT of both Samuel–Kings and Chronicles. This is a point that could be debated at greater length (especially in light of the Qumran Cave 4 material), but one has to accept that Kalimi has made a legitimate decision. Where one could have wished for greater discussion, however, concerns the relationship between Samuel–Kings and Chronicles: Is it a case of dependence of the latter on the former? A. Graeme Auld recently revived the hypothesis that both depended on a common source no longer extant (Kings without Privilege: David and Moses in the Story of the Bible’s Kings [Edinburgh: T&T Clark 1994]). Kalimi dismisses this with a single sentence in a footnote (p. 4 n. 11). Auld may be wrong—few seem to have followed him in this interpretation—but as a recent serious proposal it should have been given a proper discussion by Kalimi. After his introductory chapter, most of the rest of the study is devoted to considering the different ways in which the Chronicler has adapted the text of Samuel–Kings (chs. 1–19). Each chapter looks at a particular mode of exegesis or adaptation, such as historiographical revision, additions, omissions, harmonization, allusion, creation of chiasms, creation of inclusios, simile, and numerical patterns. A number of the chapters are further subdivided into a particular sort of the technique in question (e.g., revision, harmonization), but each type of revision is illustrated with a number of examples. These are well presented and clearly explained. The study will serve as a database of examples for further research or for teaching. It is a well-catalogued and extremely useful collection of material. Chapter 20 is different from those that precede it. Having shown the Chronicler’s mastery of his historiographical-literary method in nineteen chapters, Kalimi then
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shows where the ancient author was deficient by giving examples of “inconsistency, disharmony, and historical mistakes.” The final chapter draws a number of conclusions. A major emphasis is the literary creativity of the author: “no longer is he to be viewed as a passive scribe-copier but as an inspired artist with a variegated range of literary and historiographical talent—a skilled professional historian with sophisticated writing methods at his disposal” (p. 407). He was thus also acting in some way analogously to a historian, in that he drew on his “sources” to create a historical narrative (even if we regard his product as far removed from history in a modern sense). Although some changes were made because of his theology, more often it was literary technique that created differences from the original. Kalimi suggests that seeing how one authorredactor used his sources might help us in evaluating other historiographical sections of the Bible for which sources have been postulated but are no longer extant, but this remains to be explored. The book ends with a set of good indices; unfortunately, there is no index of topics (though the detailed table of contents partially makes up for this lack). One can always point out a missing bibliographical item or two, but on the whole Kalimi’s bibliography cannot be faulted. One useful and relevant set of studies has been omitted, however, that many others with an interest in Chronicles might also not be aware of: the works by the Finnish scholar Kai Peltonen ( History Debated: The Historical Reliability of Chronicles in Pre-critical and Critical Research [Publications of the Finnish Exegetical Society 64; Helsinki: Finnish Exegetical Society; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996]; “A Jigsaw without a Model? The Date of Chronicles,” in Did Moses Speak Attic? Jewish Historiography and Scripture in the Hellenistic Period (ed. Lester L. Grabbe; JSOTSup 317; European Seminar in Historical Methodology 3; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001], 225–71). There is, thus, much to praise in this book; however, it contains a major gap. We have all the trees, but where is the wood? Kalimi rightly notes, “This study also offers a model for the study of other parallel texts and their literary and historical variations” (p. 411). He expresses the hope that his study will have an impact on issues such as “the relationship between literary criticism and textual criticism, historical study and textual analysis” (p. 412). I hope so too, but where is this “model” that he wants us to use? What we have is a mass of examples—well organized, well presented, very useful—but we have no theoretical model explicitly laid out for us. The implications of the many different passages and the different techniques used by the ancient author have not been spelled out by the modern author, as we would expect if we were being given a “model.” Similarly, where is the discussion about the relationship between literary and textual criticism? This is an important issue that has all too often been ignored (see especially Shemaryahu Talmon, “The Textual Study of the Bible—A New Outlook,” in Qumran and the History of the Biblical Text [ed. Frank Moore Cross and Shemaryahu Talmon; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1975], 321–400; Lester L. Grabbe, “The Law, the Prophets, and the Rest: The State of the Bible in Pre-Maccabean Times,” Dead Sea Discoveries [forthcoming]). This deficiency is evident in his last chapter: Kalimi draws some general conclusions that are helpful (as noted above), but they do not constitute the structured conclusions we should expect. What do the detailed and categorized studies of individual passages tell us about the relationship between the texts? Are there any overall conclusions, with a set of broader points, about how the Chronicler worked? Did the author
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have a particular methodology that guided his use of Samuel–Kings? Or if not a systematic or mechanical procedure, were there general principles that guided him when he approached a new passage? Kalimi has stopped short of producing an orderly synthesis from his diligent collection of multiple textual examples. Kalimi has produced a very useful and needed study and made a significant contribution to Chronicles study. Let’s hope that the next time he is thinking of a journal or an article for a festschrift, he will devote it to giving us the proper synthesis that his study calls for. Lester L. Grabbe University of Hull, Hull, UK HU6 7RX
Redescribing Christian Origins, edited by Ron Cameron and Merrill P. Miller. SBLSymS 28. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature; Leiden: Brill, 2004. Pp. xvi + 539. $49.95/$235.00. ISBN 1589830881/9004130640. This is a rather unique and fascinating volume. It contains not only the papers delivered over three years of meetings of the Society of Biblical Literature’s Seminar on Ancient Myths and Modern Theories of Christian Origins but also some very honest, heart-searching reflection on the results of this, its first phase of operation. The project has been an attempt to offer a different (that is, a historically more reliable) account of Christian origins than that provided by the canonical traditions, the book of Acts in particular. Acts gives only one version of the story, a version that strains credibility beyond endurance. The documents Q and the Gospel of Thomas provide evidence of a different story, one not focused in Jerusalem and without reference to a kerygma of cross and resurrection. The task, then, is to rediscover the Christian origins that lie behind these documents, the implication being that there was no single origin of Christianity but multiple origins and that a more responsible historian must reckon with the emergence of diverse Christianities. The theoretical basis is that texts are the juncture of myth making and social formation, so that careful scrutiny of them from that perspective should provide the details that go to make up the alternative stories. Throughout the published essays, discussions, and reflections, the influence of Burton Mack and Jonathan Z. Smith is frequently acknowledged and is repeatedly evident. The first stage (when the project was still a Consultation and not yet a Seminar) was to gain a clearer perception of the Q community, or the “Galilean Jesus Association,” as Willi Braun prefers. The assumptions already at this point are rather worrying: Q is a literary document whose contents and full extent are clear; it emerged in a series of at least three chronologically successive compositional phases (with due acknowledgment to John Kloppenborg); from the content and character of Q a “Q community” can be read “as an increasingly self-conscious and fairly sophisticated research collective” (p. 48). Moreover, the compositional phases allow such a “mirror-reading” not only for Q as a whole but also for the pre-Q1 phase as well as the three compositional phases (p. 83) and even for “Q’s opponents” (p. 71). This “mirror-reading” gives “the virtually unavoidable conclusion that Q1 and certainly Q as a whole represent the intellectual/ scribal labors of people who had both competence and means for such labors” and strongly suggests that the document Q1 was the work of a social group from the ranks of an urban retainer class of “middling” status, a “Galilean small-town scribal intelligentsia”
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(p. 57). William Arnal, to whom the link between Q and village scribes is largely indebted, elaborates the social situation behind the compositional stages of Q: in particular, that Q1 was intended to address relative loss of status among village scribes (what Braun describes as “the burden of alienation and deracination” [p. 63]), an intention that failed because the persons in question had lost too much authority and were unable to exert sufficient influence to halt further loss (p. 84). I know that the Q hypothesis, or rather hypotheses, were being taken as read by the Consultation and Seminar, but I do wonder whether they provide a sufficiently secure and substantial basis for the Seminar’s undertaking. The content and extent of Q are not clear. The assumption that a Q1 not only can be discerned but can be confidently regarded as a single, coherent document is most contentious. And the suggestion that any early Christian assembly had only one document (or nothing more than some collection of Jesus’ sayings) and that the character of the community/congregation can be read off from that document/collection demands a lot more self-critical appraisal than it has so far been given. The fact that Q has come down to us only as integrated into a Markan framework can be taken as a kind of Markan imperialism and repression. But it can also indicate that there were different collections of Jesus tradition and sayings, which were recognized and used in a wide range of early Christian communities, without any sense of their being incompatible. And what is this hybris, even in an age of postmodern hermeneutics, that affirms that a socially objective reality (“the social formation behind Q”) can be confidently read off from a document, even from a hypothetical document, even from its hypothesized compositional stages, and even from individual sayings and brief collections of sayings? Ron Cameron’s critique of G. J. Riley’s deductions (pp. 94– 97) shows awareness of how hazardous the task is. And the self-reflection of the Seminar shows its members to be well aware of the danger of simply mimicking the canonical story they wish to replace (single, linear development, etc.), but the self-criticism required of such basic assumptions as those regarding Q is surely going to be necessary if the Seminar is to be persuasive much beyond its own boundaries. In the second stage, the first year of the Seminar proper, the primary concern was to problematize the canonical version of Christian origins. Two fundamental problems with the canonical account are identified from the outset: “the sayings of Jesus can account neither for his execution nor for a messianic movement of Jewish restoration after his death”; and “the problem of how to reconcile the execution of Jesus and the establishment and survival for more than a generation of a Jerusalem church as a messianic movement in that same city” (p. 142). These seem rather inadequate grounds for the Seminar’s wholesale rejection of Acts. A more obvious deduction in regard to the first problem is that Q did not after all function as the complete and sole repertoire of Jesus tradition for any or all communities who used it. The old jibe of a century ago— Why would anyone want to crucify the Jesus of liberal Protestantism?—should be considered afresh by proponents of the neo-liberal Jesus. And whatever one thinks of the early chapters of Acts, they sketch out an inherently plausible scenario, of a movement that had been decapitated and that for the most part could well be judged to pose no real political threat, despite its odd beliefs about Jesus as raised from the dead. The major attempt of part 2, to locate Christian origins away from Jerusalem, provides a fascinating example of tendentious argument: particularly attempts to play down what appear to be obvious inferences from Pauline texts and to find evidence that supports an alternative hypothesis of the decisive developments somewhere else. Antioch is
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the obvious alternative, even if it follows too closely the canonical account, but the social anthropological perspective that provides the motivating stimulus for the endeavor allows the alternative of somewhere in the Diaspora, almost anywhere, so long as it is not Jerusalem. I am all for historical speculation on the basis of plausible deduction from texts: for example, Gal 1:18 clearly implies a Peter with established residence in Jerusalem; 1 Cor 15:3–11 clearly indicates a message of the resurrection shared with “all the apostles”; Paul, whose relations with Jerusalem were evidently at best often strained, gives no hint of alternative centers of Christian origins; the influence of James in Jerusalem is clearly evident in the Antioch incident (Gal 2:12); and the collection shows just how important Paul deemed it that the churches of Asia Minor and Greece should acknowledge their indebtedness to “the saints” in Jerusalem. In contrast, Dennis Smith’s attempt to maintain “that the Jerusalem ‘church’ as a power broker in Christian origins was a mythological construct from the outset” and that “the actual ekklesia in Jerusalem, such as it was, most likely played a minor role in Christian origins” (p. 243) seems expressive more of a determination to support an alternative story, come what may. Merrill Miller puts forward a very similar thesis (e.g., p. 203) in a much lengthier and more carefully argued piece that makes several good points, but in the central section he struggles to maintain a consistent exegesis particularly of Gal 2:1–14 (e.g., pp. 210–13, 218). In consequence, the attempt to problematize the Jerusalem origins of Christianity and to relocate the determinative beginnings of Christianity from Jerusalem to the Diaspora, which is hailed as a success at the end of the Seminar (pp. 278–81), I find to be almost entirely questionable in its outcome. Consequently, the whole process runs the risk of creating a closed agenda for a self-sustaining project that becomes detached from the rest of the guild because it finds in the data only what it wants to find. The third year of the project (second year of the Seminar) took as its starting point Mack’s thesis that the kerygma of the Christ should be located exclusively in the prePauline Hellenistic congregations (p. 287). The absence of a messianic conception of Jesus from Q is deemed sufficient ground for the radical conclusion that Paul’s use of christos cannot be explained from any messianic conception of Jesus (p. 289); “‘the messianic concept’ seems to have ‘played no role at the beginning of the Christian experiment’” (p. 290, quoting Mack). The most substantial essay in the whole volume is Miller’s thorough discussion of the evidence in Second Temple Judaism concerning the expectation of a messianic figure (“The Anointed Jesus”). The recognition of a rich diversity in Jewish expectation, so that no single messianic expectation can be documented for the various strands of pre-Christian Judaism, is to be welcomed in contrast to the older, simplistic talk of Jewish hope for “the Messiah.” But to deny that there was a messianic hope, varied and by no means always consistent, is to push for too sweeping a conclusion: the term “messiah” itself was not integral to such expectation, as hope expressed in terms of the royal “branch” and Davidic “prince” attests, and that hope in terms of an “anointed one” is clear enough from Pss. Sol. 17 and several of the Dead Sea Scrolls, so it is almost impossible to deny the presence of a messianic hope within Second Temple Judaism in the period prior to Jesus. It is scarcely credible, then, that use of the term christos for Jesus would have failed to evoke this hope, and from the first usage. The alternative, argued particularly by Barry Crawford, that christos emerged first as a nickname, without such connotations, is even more incredible: given that christos inevitably carried connotations of divinely approved leadership, as Crawford allows
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(p. 340), what Jew could have used it of Jesus without consciously alluding to the variegated Jewish hope of redemption and/or a redeemer for Israel? His study has not been able to produce any substantive parallel to christos as a nickname. The supporting argument, that Paul used christos only as a proper name and without titular significance, is again too sweeping, when texts such as Rom 1:2–3 and 9:5 are considered. Miller seems to recognize the difficulty of imagining how christos could have become a name without assuming knowledge of its titular significance and readily assumes that its connotations were royal (pp. 310, 316, 326, also 452–53), but he nevertheless argues that the Pauline usage does not presuppose the messianic status of Jesus as a figure of expectation and that descent from David does not signify the messianic status of the earthly Jesus in Rom 1:3–4 (pp. 313, 326). Paul evidently operated with some kind of split personality at this point! In all this, reference is made to the important studies of Nils Dahl and Werner Kramer, but without really countering their arguments that the issue of Jesus’ messiahship must have been a or the factor in Jesus’ execution (Dahl) and that the early creedal formulations taken over by Paul show that the titular significance of christos was taken for granted (Kramer). Christopher Matthews’s acknowledgment of Kramer’s argument (p. 363) is not followed up elsewhere. In short, christos as a “mythmaking moment,” rather than as reflecting an eschatological hope (or myth) deeply rooted in Jewish history, has hardly been demonstrated. The concluding section of part 3 consists of a series of reflections on progress thus far. The contributors are content that the task of problematizing the dominant paradigm has been accomplished (as to which, as my Scottish ancestors would say, “I hae ma doots”), but beyond that there appears to be a signal lack of confidence: “our efforts to turn the data into evidence for a significant juncture of mythmaking and social formation . . . fell short” (pp. 418, 448); the social situations deemed necessary to provide the mythmaking moments of a counter version of Christian origins did not eventuate— “we are left with an intellectual blank right where the usual mystifications have been located” (p. 425); “the ethnographic reality is that we are unable to find the address of the group-in-becoming that labeled itself somehow with reference to christos. . . . Miller’s scenario . . . is so vague as to be able to stand as a supposed scenario for almost anything” (p. 435). And in the final section of the volume, entitled “Metareflections,” which does not take the project any further forward, Stanley Stowers adds the cautionary note: “If the Seminar aims to construct a narrative, it cannot be much of a narrative of extinct Jesus groups or groups about which we know almost nothing” (p. 490). All this is rather sad, since a more substantive redescription of Christian origins would have provided a welcome counterpoint to Acts and would have enabled something of a stereoscopic view of Christian origins that Acts alone, even with Paul providing the other eye-piece, cannot fully provide. Perhaps, then, the starting points provided by Mack need to be reexamined; when proposals produce less satisfactory results (in terms of the data examined) than the accounts they seek to replace, that is usually a sign that the proposals themselves need some revision. So, for example, is it really wise to assume that religion should be regarded solely as a social construct? Why the antipathy to religious experience as an explanatory factor, when it hardly needs saying that such experience was critically formative of Paul’s mission and theology? And the suggestion that each text (consisting of Jesus tradition) reveals a different group behind it separate from and at odds with other groups is surely both too naïve as to how traditions and texts
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function and too presumptuous as to the possibility of reading off the social context that gave rise to particular formulations. Sorry, guys, I find your redescription much more problematic than Acts. James D. G. Dunn University of Durham, Durham, UK DH1 4NA
The Gospel of Matthew in Its Roman Imperial Context, edited by John K. Riches and David C. Sim. Early Christianity in Context. London: T&T Clark, 2005. Pp. viii + 202. $125.00/$49.95. ISBN 0567084582/0567084485. The title accurately depicts what this volume of essays attempts. Its eight essays (apart from the brief introduction and the still briefer conclusion written, respectively, by Riches and Sim) do not focus on the broadest Greco-Roman cultural context but on the Roman imperial context: How does Matthew’s community interact with the imperial authority? At a time when postcolonialism has become a burgeoning interest, these essays aim not only to advance our understanding of Matthew’s Gospel and of the history of early Christianity (especially the trajectory that ultimately brings it to conquer the Roman world itself) but to probe the interactions of imperial power and colony, of oppressor and oppressed. With various degrees of probability, not to say conviction, all the authors suppose that Matthew’s community was located in Antioch and that the Gospel was written toward the end of the first century. The first four of the eight substantive chapters say little about Matthew or his community but paint the imperial context. Arguing that “postcolonialism” is more than a temporal category describing what takes place after (post)independence, but rather a term that has come to refer to attitudes developed even during a colonial period, Philip F. Esler (“Rome in Apocalyptic and Rabbinic Literature”) sets his treatment within the context of contemporary discussion. Acknowledging that the Roman imperial rule was “not driven or accompanied by capitalist forces” (p. 10), that rule nevertheless displayed three “essential characteristics of European colonialism”: “first, political control over subject peoples backed up by overwhelming military force; second, the voracious extraction of economic resources; and third, an ideology legitimating these processes conveyed by discourses of various kinds” (p. 10). Against this backdrop of assertions, Esler surveys the history of the interaction between Rome and the Judeans from 63 B.C.E. onward. Focusing especially on apocalyptic (esp. 4 Ezra, 2 Baruch, and the Apocalypse of Abraham) and a rather tiny selection of rabbinic texts, Esler asserts that these Jewish groups were painfully aware of the heavy taxation, of the military iron grip of Roman power, and of the public legitimation of these processes but displayed a vibrant confidence that one day Rome would be overthrown. Their discourse was largely “reliant on the myth of the four beasts in Daniel 7, to counter that of Rome” (p. 33). Although Esler does not specifically say so, the relevance of this chapter to the theme of the book depends on the assumption that Matthew’s community is akin to the Jewish community, or, alternatively, that the latter may serve as a foil for the former. James S. McLaren (“A Reluctant Prophet: Josephus and the Roman Empire in Jewish War”) argues, against prevailing opinion, that Josephus belonged neither to those who totally accepted Roman rule (which is where most scholars place him) nor to
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those who passionately rejected that rule, like the sicarii. McLaren finds evidence in Jewish War to support his conclusion that, while Josephus felt it was the part of wisdom to submit to Rome because its power was unassailable, he left plenty of clues that he was “not entirely happy with the way things had worked out” (p. 48). In other words, McLaren’s argument is nicely focused and designed to show that even Josephus was deeply conflicted about the category of empire. By contrast, Dennis C. Duling (“Empire: Theories, Methods, Models”) paints with a broad brush. After very briefly surveying a few theories regarding the emergence of empires, he summarizes “the vertical dimension” (pp. 54–60) of the Roman Empire— its social ranking—and then its “horizontal dimension“ (pp. 60–64), that is, the structures of imperial control, with elites living at the periphery of the empire in close relationship with the elites at the core and benefiting enormously from that relationship. This leads to a catalogue of the vertical and horizontal dimensions in the Gospel of Matthew (pp. 64–66), namely, a listing of every person, named and unnamed, specifying where they fit in the hierarchy, from Caesar and the “rulers of the Gentiles” down through provincial rulers, priestly aristocracy, lay aristocracy, artisans, herders, slaves, and assorted expendables. Duling then analyzes somewhat more closely the peasantry of the empire, not least their everyday resistance and occasional revolts. Duling says he has engaged in this exercise to offer “plausible scenarios for understanding the Roman Empire as the context for a single story, the Gospel of Matthew” (p. 74). Peter Oakes (“A State of Tension: Rome in the New Testament”) finds an unresolved tension between NT texts that enjoin respect for and obedience to the state (in this case, the empire) and those that picture the state in wholly negative terms. He insists that this tension cannot be “resolved” by a timeline, as if Christians first thought of the empire as benign until they themselves suffered violent persecution at the empire’s hands. After all, a single document can preserve both trends: Romans 13 enjoins respect and obedience, while “the criticism directed against the idolatrous world in Romans 1.18–32 is so comprehensive that it condemns the Roman system of thought and authority at its core” (p. 75). After surveying 1 Thessalonians, Romans, Mark, Acts, and Revelation, Oakes concludes that, whatever trajectories of thought and attitude there are, “there is a fundamental and persistent element of tension between positive and negative factors within Christian attitudes to Rome” (p. 89). Oakes does not attempt any sort of theological analysis to see why this might be the case. The four essays that focus primary attention on the Gospel of Matthew itself are highly disparate in goal and result. David C. Sim (“Rome in Matthew’s Eschatology”), building on the work of Warren Carter, expands his earlier argument that Matthew deploys a “developed dualism” (p. 93) akin to that of the Dead Sea Scrolls, a dualism best exemplified in the parable of the tares: one belongs either to the wheat or the tares, and “there is no middle ground” (p. 93). Now he takes an additional step and argues that in Matthew’s Gospel Rome is identified with Satan. “The Roman Empire stands not on the side of God and the righteous but firmly in the camp of Satan and represents his evil purposes” (p. 105). By contrast, Dorothy Jean Weaver (“‘Thus You Will Know Them by Their Fruits’: The Roman Characters of the Gospel of Matthew”) does not focus on the empire as an institution but on individuals who in some way or other represent the empire, especially soldiers, centurions, the governor, the emperor himself, and Pilate’s wife. Weaver concludes that Matthew’s narrative is “deeply polarized” (p. 125) between the good and the evil (5:45; 7:17–18; 12:35), the righteous and the unrighteous (5:45),
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the blessed and the cursed (5:1–12), and so forth. “But while other major characters or character groups consistently reflect either good or evil traits [in footnotes, she refers, for the good, to “supplicants who appeal to Jesus for healing,” and, for the bad, to “the Jewish authorities, who consistently challenge Jesus’s actions”], Matthew paints an astonishingly complex portrait of the Roman characters within his narrative” (p. 126). Matthew “consistently subverts the military might of the Roman imperial power,” but “he does not offer a monolithic condemnation of the Roman characters themselves” (p. 126). Weaver’s conclusions are thus somewhat at odds with Sim’s. Still further removed from Sim is John Riches (“Matthew’s Missionary Strategy in Colonial Perspective”), who traces out the theme of evangelizing both Jews and Gentiles—and thus Romans—in Matthew’s Gospel, culminating in the commission of 28:16–20 to make disciples of all the nations. In that sense, there is an ongoing “anti-Roman polemic” (p. 142), in that Matthew is appealing to a countercultural claim that wins Romans to Christ now, in this age, and transforms their allegiance “to an alternative mode of power and governance” (pp. 141–42) until the day of judgment at the parousia, “when his rule will be revealed to all” (p. 142). The final substantive essay, by Warren Carter (“Matthean Christology in Roman Imperial Key: Matthew 1.1”), focuses on just one verse. Carter treats the five “markers” of 1:1: book of the origins, Jesus, Christ, son of David, and son of Abraham. In each case he seeks to show an anti-Rome polemic. Methodologically, Carter relies heavily on reader-response theory: What does Matthew’s envisaged audience know and experience? Carter locates them (very firmly) in Antioch in the late first century, an audience that “interacts with the cultural knowledge and experience of Roman imperialism that was the lot of first-century audiences” (p. 148). The “book of the origins” takes readers back to Genesis and creation, with the prospect now of a new creation that relativizes the pretensions of Rome. “Jesus” is the Greek form of “Joshua” and thus evokes the national champion who overthrew competing sovereignties and gave the people the promised land: “The Joshua/Jesus echoes in 1.1 begin the process of framing the sort of salvation Jesus will effect, the deliverance of this world from Rome’s sinful control and the establishment of God’s empire (basileia) over all” (p. 157). “Christ” anticipates an anointed agent from God who will challenge pretenders, while “son of David” not only conjures up an ancient military hero but, in light of the well-established link between “son of David” and healing, clarifies his mission: “For Matthew, it is precisely from Rome’s sickness that Jesus, son of David, must heal the world” (pp. 162–63). “Abraham” evokes the promise that in Abraham and in his seed all the nations of the earth will be blessed—a reversal, Carter asserts, of the condition of “many living in and around the diseased, poverty-stricken, overcrowded and volatile city of Antioch, where life did not seem especially blessed. . . . Jesus will elaborate the blessings of God’s empire that reverse such societal injustice” (p. 164). Certainly this volume is worth reading (provided one does not have to buy it; the price is a bit high for a two-hundred-page book, even by European standards): it usefully reflects on a fair bit of the growing literature on the interactions of early Christianity with the Roman Empire, applying the findings to one NT book, the Gospel of Matthew. The appeal is obvious, not only to specialists on Matthew but also to those interested in empire theory and in the history of nascent Christianity. One might question some features of the book. The exact bearing of the first four substantive chapters on the final four substantive chapters—that is, the bearing of the material treating the Roman
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Empire on the chapters dealing with Matthew—is usually not transparent, except in the broadest and vaguest sense. The usefulness of holding up Jewish apocalyptic and rabbinic reflection on the empire, especially in its Palestinian context, needs to be probed a little harder: these Jews were aware that the empire was a foreign power exercising political and military control over a parcel of land that they regarded as theirs by right, part of their patrimony as a nation. By contrast, the Christians were aware very early that they did not constitute a nation and that their Master had not promised them (at least in this world) a designated territory. Rather, they were Messiah’s assembly, an international and multiethnic community without an earthly country, so that their stance to the empire, though doubtless it overlapped with that of Palestinian Judaism, was necessarily different. More broadly, the social analysis in some of these essays that supposes that all the colonized wanted to subvert the empire, and that does not attempt to evaluate how many were proud to be part of the empire, sounds much too much like unyielding ideology. What do we make of the fact that what became Asia Minor was actually bequeathed to the Romans? But the most serious question to be asked of the book is whether its approach is on the verge of guaranteeing a distortion of Matthew’s Gospel. The danger is most easily demonstrated by interacting briefly with several of the essays. Duling seeks to establish the Roman Empire as “the context” in which the story of Matthew unfolds. At a certain level, of course, the bare fact is indisputable: wherever Matthew was written, the site lay within the borders of the empire. But not least in the case of empires, there are concentric circles of contexts, narrowing down to the small and the particular. One lives in the Roman Empire, well and good—but within that empire one may live in a Latin-speaking part or a Greek-speaking part or in a part where the lingua franca is not widely used. Language plays a huge role in one’s self-identification. Further, one lives not simply in the empire but in some part of it, which inevitably is in support of or in conflict with or in competition with other parts. One belongs to a particular ethnos, but within, say, the Jewish ethnos, there are numerous parties and loyalties, some of which play a much more immediate role in one’s self-identity than one’s membership in the empire. By selecting the empire as “the context,” Duling and the other contributors end up making the texts respond to empire-related questions, even though it remains to be shown that such questions dominated the mind of either the author of this Gospel or its ostensible first readers. Yes, it is possible to go through Matthew’s Gospel and identify the social level of each person and party, as established by the empire. But does an artisan in Nazareth go through his day reflecting on his social status within the empire or simply living his life within his village, with his uppermost thoughts revolving around preparations for the wedding of the farmer’s daughter and how to look after his sick mother-inlaw and whether or not his son should continue in the synagogue school? What precisely is “the context” in which Jesus’ words are heard—whether in Jesus’ day or in Matthew’s book? Carter’s treatment of Matt 1:1 is especially egregious. Yes, “Jesus” is the Greek form of “Joshua,” but the connection of Joshua (as Carter acknowledges) is with “Yahweh saves” or the like, and in his first chapter the evangelist gives us the interpretation that then shapes the rest of the book: Jesus is given that name because he will save his people from their sins (1:21)—not to give relief from the societal injustices of the empire. Undoubtedly Jesus does say some things that have a strong bearing on social injustice. Yet the fact remains that Matthew does not mention urban overcrowding, but he does mention lying, marriage, lust, and arrogance, while the story line itself moves
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toward the passion and resurrection, with the words of institution thrown in to make the story line clear and show how it ties in to Jesus’ name: “This is my blood of the [new] covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins” (26:28). To tie 1:21 to the overthrow of imperial societal injustice, without tying it to the ways in which saving people from their sins is developed within the Gospel itself, feels vaguely out of touch with reality. Weaver finds it strange that people tied to the empire can be treated so differently, some positively, some negatively, while another group, such as those who petition Jesus for help, are treated only positively. But that is the point: the focus of Matthew’s interest is not on evaluating the empire and all its agents and representatives but on drawing people to Jesus. Those who approach him humbly, asking for help, are bound to be viewed positively. As for Romans—or Pharisees or peasants or any other group—the assessment will depend on how they relate to Jesus, not how they relate to the empire. Oakes insists that Rom 1:18–32 embraces a condemnation so comprehensive that little in Roman culture can stand up to the onslaught. True. On the other hand, this passage is nestled into a still larger argument that runs all the way to Rom 3:20: everyone is guilty, Jew and Gentile alike, guilty before God, such that the only way forward is the cross of Christ (3:21–26), which alone provides “a righteousness from God“ to those who believe. Undoubtedly this argument undermines the pretensions of the Roman Empire, but no more so (and no less so), in Paul’s mind, than the pretensions of barbarians or of Jews who reject Jesus. In other words, the dominating agenda of this volume lends itself, again and again, to distortion of the biblical focus—mostly, but not exclusively, Matthew’s focus. This is not to say that the book does not helpfully address some questions that have sometimes been overlooked. For that we must be grateful. But it would have been a much stronger volume if the authors, as a group, had devoted more attention to reflecting on whether or not the questions they are asking, quite legitimately, should be asked in conjunction with questions raised by quite different paradigms, the answers to which would tame some of their boldest claims. Perhaps this is one more instance where the narrowness of a specialty interest in Gospel research has the potential to mask the text as much as to shed light on it. D. A. Carson Trinity Evangelical Divinity School, Deerfield, IL 60015
Messiah, the Healer of the Sick: A Study of Jesus as the Son of David in the Gospel of Matthew, by Lidija Novakovic. WUNT 2.170. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003. Pp. xii + 231. €49 (paper). ISBN 3161481658. Novakovic’s monograph sets out to address a paradox: How is it that, although the Messiah was not generally expected to perform miracles or healings, Matthew’s portrayal of the messianic Son of David shows him doing both? And why—and how— should it have made sense to Matthew’s readers? Since Novakovic’s focus is on the transformation and reformulation of the Davidic traditions, she approaches these questions employing a tradition-historical method. Her approach also displays a certain indebtedness to the work of the late Donald Juel, who directed Novakovic’s doctoral dissertation at Princeton Theological Seminary (2001), of which this monograph is a revision. In particular, she takes as a working hypothesis the assumption originally advanced
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by Nils Dahl and further developed by Juel that “the confession of Jesus as the Messiah is the presupposition of New Testament Christology, not its content” (p. 5). Given this presupposition, therefore, which early Jewish interpretations of Scripture helped to give rise to Matthew’s therapeutic Davidid? Novakovic begins with 2 Sam 7:12–16 and related texts. After a brief discussion of the promises made to David and the expectations associated with the Davidic Messiah, Novakovic examines their interpretation in later Second Temple period writings, particularly the Psalms of Solomon, the Dead Sea Scrolls, and the NT. She establishes that these documents display an awareness of different forms of the promise, one that is unconditional, where the fulfillment of the promise is contingent on the obedience of Israel or the Davidic line, and another that is unconditional, where God will fulfill his promise regardless of human fallibility. These writings, moreover, demonstrate that in the Second Temple period such issues became the subject of increasingly intense scrutiny and speculation and even underwent a certain development. Novakovic’s next step is to consider all the occurrences of this title in Matthew’s Gospel apart from those with therapeutic associations. Matthew’s genealogy is of particular importance, given the frequency with which David is mentioned, and demonstrates that because “Jesus is a son of David and God’s son, he completely fulfills the first two elements of Nathan’s promise to David and therefore possesses both attributes expected of the Davidic Messiah” (p. 62). In a further suggestive aperçu, Novakovic establishes that the distinctive feature of Matthew’s portrayal is that he does not show how a human Son of David was divinely adopted, but the reverse—how the Son of God was adopted into the Davidic line. The question regarding David’s son (Matt 22:41–46) admits of a similar explanation: its solution is predicated on the recognition that both divine and Davidic sonship are uniquely linked in the person of Jesus. Novakovic then turns to the therapeutic Son of David. She interprets Matt 1:21 as having a programmatic function within the Gospel, where Jesus’ saving of his people from their sins encompasses both his atoning death and also his healing ministry. Yet, why Matthew should associate the Son of David with a healing ministry is far from apparent. Novakovic rightly abjures the claims made for an association between Jesus and Solomon, son of David, championed most recently by James Charlesworth (“Solomon and Jesus: The Son of David in Ante-Markan Traditions” in Biblical and Humane: A Festschrift for John F. Priest [ed. L. Bennett Elder et al.; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1996], 125–51; Novakovic does not mention Charlesworth’s companion piece “The Son of David: Solomon and Jesus” in The New Testament and Hellenistic Judaism [ed. P. Borgen and S. Giverson; Aarhus: Aarhus University Press, 1995], 72–87). She observes that the correspondences typically adduced between Jesus and Solomon are far from convincing, especially for the Gospel of Matthew, not least because the evangelist “deliberately wished to dissociate Jesus’ miraculous healings from the exorcistic connotations” (p. 104). She also (rightly) dismisses any connection between the Son of David and the Mosaic Eschatological Prophet. Matthew’s apparent reluctance to portray Jesus’ miracles as prophetic signs speaks strongly against there being an association between the Davidic Messiah and the “prophet like Moses.” Instead, Novakovic observes that Matthew seeks to interpret Jesus’ healings by means of Scripture, a move that leads her to propose that Matthew’s presentation of Jesus as the Davidic healer and thaumaturge is grounded in a midrashic understanding of Scripture, particularly of Isaiah with its references to the servant of Yahweh and the
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anointed bearer of good tidings. The fulfillment citation in Matt 8:16–17 (citing Isa 53:4a) is noteworthy because it resembles the Hebrew text in referring to physical illness and does not attempt to spiritualize the passage as the LXX does. This focus on illness suggests that Matthew favored an “atomistic” approach to Scripture that singled out individual features of a passage—in this case Jesus’ healings—rather than considering the larger context of a passage of Scripture, that is, Jesus in the role of the “suffering servant.” Matthew, therefore, does not mean to suggest that Jesus “is a sick person who voluntarily accepts the substitutionary suffering as in Isaiah 53, but a mighty healer who frees the sick from their illnesses” (p. 127). Why, then, has Matthew chosen to cite from the fourth Servant Song? Novakovic follows Juel (e.g., Messianic Exegesis: Christological Interpretation of the Old Testament in Early Christianity [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988], 119–33) in arguing that the use arose from Matthew’s belief in Jesus as the Messiah: because the Messiah is described as God’s servant at Ps 89:39 and Zech 3:8, the reference to “my servant” in Isa 52:13 must also signify the Messiah. Ezekiel 34:23 furthers this association in its linking of “my servant” with both David and the ideal shepherd—“I will set up over them one shepherd, my servant David, and he will shepherd them.” Matthew, accordingly, interprets Isa 53:4 as a messianic prophecy. The same holds true for Matthew’s second citation from the Servant Songs (Matt 12:15–21 = Isa 42:1–4), Matthew’s longest fulfillment citation. The association of “my servant” and “my beloved”—with its echoes of the baptism (Matt 3:17)—establishes the messianic character of the citation. When scrutinized in detail, it emerges that every clause of the passage alludes either to Jesus’ messianic identity or to his messianic activity, most notably in his care for the sick. Even Jesus’ injunction to silence, which immediately precedes the citation (Matt 12:16) emerges as his reaction to the hostility of the Pharisees, who object to the increasing public awareness of his messianic identity. Thus, this citation also demonstrates that Jesus’ career, especially his healings, not only fulfills prophecy but also shows him to be the Messiah. Finally Novakovic considers Jesus’ response to John the Baptist (Matt 11:2–6) and determines that it makes allusions to several salvation oracles from Isaiah (especially Isa 61:1) that in the time of the Second Temple had become associated with the messianic age. The Qumran fragment 4Q521 confirms this association, even if it does not expressly link the eschatological blessings with the Messiah (or Messiahs). Here Novakovic cautiously refrains from associating the blessings of the end-time with the person of the Messiah. She recognizes, however, that Matthew, in speaking of the “works of the Messiah” in 11:2, makes this connection explicit. Jesus’ miraculous deeds in Matthew, therefore, are replete with eschatological significance and point to Jesus’ messianic identity. On the whole, Novakovic’s thesis is plausible and advances a likely explanation for the development of Matthew’s therapeutic Son of David. In particular, it is useful as an exemplar of her working assumption that the confession of Jesus as the Messiah serves as the presupposition of Matthew’s christology. She ably demonstrates how Matthew’s therapeutic Son of David may have emerged from intensive reflection on the Scriptures. Her findings serve as instructive counterpoise to interpretations such as that by Peter Stuhlmacher (“Isaiah 53 in the Gospels and Acts,” in The Suffering Servant: Isaiah 53 in Jewish and Christian Sources [ed. B. Janowski and P. Stuhlmacher; Grand Rapids/Cambridge: Eerdmans, 2004], 147–62), which contends that the identification of Jesus with the Suffering Servant originated with Jesus himself and was constitutive of his selfunderstanding.
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Given the complexity of Novakovic’s topic, it is perhaps not surprising that she leaves some alternative possibilities unexamined. For instance, although Novakovic does touch on the role of Ezekiel 34 and 37 in her discussion (pp. 131–32), she likely underestimates their implications. That these passages associate a coming Davidid with the beleaguered flock of Israel is highly suggestive, especially in light of the actions that can be attributed to the Davidic shepherd, who, as God’s representative, was to heal the sick, strengthen the weak, bind up the injured, seek after the lost, and bring back the strayed (Ezek 34:16; cf. 34:4, 23). Novakovic recognizes some of these associations, but merely [and cryptically] remarks that Matthew “betray[s] the influence of traditions based on Ezekiel 34” (p. 189). Yet, if Matthew is aware of passages or traditions that expressly associate healing with a descendant of David, does one need to look further afield? It is certainly true that Matthew has emphasized the Isaiah passages, but given the prominence Matthew has also accorded to the figure of David and to the sheep/ shepherd imagery in the Gospel, one would suppose that Matthew was more immediately indebted to Ezekiel rather than Isaiah for his understanding of the therapeutic Son of David. That Novakovic needs to appeal to Ezekiel 34 to buttress her views about the interpretation of Isaiah 53 is particularly revealing. While much of her scholarship is up-to-date, Novakovic nevertheless makes some puzzling bibliographical omissions. William Schniedewind’s 1999 volume, Society and the Promise to David: The Reception History of 2 Samuel 7:1-17, is nowhere to be found in the bibliography, nor are any of Graham Stanton’s works on Matthew, several of which address Matthew’s Son of David christology. And it is a pity that a work of this importance has been so carelessly edited. While there is not quite an error per page, their presence is legion. Grammatical solecisms apart, spelling mistakes abound and, in the case of the misspelling of authors’ names or book titles, these errors tend to recur throughout the bibliography and author index (e.g., Van Tillborg [sic]). More seriously, there are frequent faults in the Greek, including haplography in passages transcribed from the NT and Josephus (e.g., pp. 92, 115), as well as some disconcerting factual discrepancies. One notes with surprise, for instance, a new translator for Bultmann’s History of the Synoptic Tradition; instead of John Marsh it is given as “K. Grovel” (presumably a corruption of Kendrick Grobel, the translator of Bultmann’s Theology of the New Testament). Errors of this kind tend to undermine one’s confidence in the overall quality of the book, but to overlook its essential contribution would be a mistake, as Novakovic has produced a thoughtful and considered response to issues posed by Matthew’s therapeutic christology. J. R. C. Cousland University of British Columbia, Vancouver, BC V6T 1Z1, Canada
Women in Their Place: Paul and the Corinthian Discourse of Gender and Sanctuary Space, by Jorunn Økland. JSNTSup 269. London: T&T Clark, 2005. Pp. x + 328. $150.00/$69.95. ISBN 0567080757/0567084078. In this revision of her 2000 doctoral thesis (from the University of Oslo), Økland offers an often refreshing and useful analysis of not only Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians but also a wider set of texts that reflect and construct an ancient discourse of gender and sanctuary space. These two links are not incidental, but crucial for Økland’s
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study. Her understanding of a particular text (1 Cor 11–14) cannot be divorced from a careful analysis of a range of material texts, while the discourse of sanctuary space cannot be explained without recourse to its interconnections with ancient gender discourse. This highlights how space is gendered in antiquity, particularly as it is related to conceptions of the greater order of the cosmos. The first chapter (“Introduction”) briefly charts the course of this study, quickly introducing its topics and main ideas. Økland straightforwardly presents the reader with her thesis that “Paul’s exhortations concerning women’s ritual roles and ritual clothing in 1 Corinthians 11–14 structure and gender the Christian gathering as a particular kind of space constructed through ritual, a ‘sanctuary space’” (p. 1). Thus, the main point of this section of the letter is not women’s veiling or covering but the production and maintenance of a gendered order of the ritual space in the community. The second chapter (“From Woman to ‘Woman’, From Church to Ekklesia Space, From Text to Context”) contextualizes the study within scholarly discussions of several topics: the feminist interpretation of the relevant passages, the conceptual difficulty in the use of the term “woman,” the role of the subject and text in discourse, and the place of ritual theory in constructions of space. It is on these last two topics that Økland’s study stands out. For Økland, a comprehension of the ritual framework for Paul’s letter allows for and explains whatever tensions and contradictions one might find between 11:2–16 and 14:33b–36, as this would be the clearest sign of how Paul converges with and participates within the larger discourses. Because the category of woman is far from obvious, uniform, or stable, discovering and describing these gendered discourses becomes Økland’s main task. In ch. 3 (“Gender Aetiologies and the Discursive Construction of Spaces”), Økland begins by providing a general characterization of four models of gender in the ancient Mediterranean: Adam and Eve, Pandora, woman as fertile soil, and one-sex. This overview proves to be effective at labeling and teasing out the implications of and contradictions between these four discourses. These accounts of beginnings also communicate about cosmological realities for ancient authors; thus, the examination can ascertain how both cosmic and urban spaces had particularly gendered associations. The divide between the private and public sphere becomes especially relevant in this analysis, as Økland maintains that sanctuary space should not be treated as a subcategory of public space, but as its own separate category (p. 58). In treating the ancient gender system of space, Økland borrows historian Yvonne Hirdman’s description of two dynamics of gender distinction, a dichotomy that separates and a hierarchy that integrates. Økland will have frequent reason to return to the logics of this system throughout her analysis, since, even when the Romans or Paul begin to include women and men in similar spaces, the gendered power relations can still be maintained by hierarchical measures. Moving from the general ancient Mediterranean context to the particular spaces of early Roman Corinth, ch. 4 (“Places for Women in Early Roman Corinth’s Ritual and Sanctuary Spaces”) carefully sketches how women are constructed in ritual space. Focusing on the period of 44 B.C.E. to 100 C.E., Økland surveys a full variety of sanctuary spaces in early Roman Corinth, including those associated with Demeter and Kore, Aphrodite, Isis and Sarapis, Asklepius, Hera/Juno, Dionysus and the story of Glauke and Medea, and the imperial cult. Though she seems especially skilled in her review of architecture, Økland identifies the specifics of the Corinthian discourse of gender and sanctuary space through an examination of many available “texts”: statues, inscriptions,
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coins, portrait sculptures, votive offerings, and literature, as well as sanctuary buildings themselves. After such an expansive endeavor, the close of the chapter offers some welcome, initial points of analytic integration, noting how the discourse sought either to contain the roles of female figures or to integrate the genders by differentiating their ritual functions. Demonstrating a nuanced grasp of the rhetoricity of this process, Økland is quick to emphasize that the discourse is less an accurate social description than an attempt to produce meaning. Just because buildings can be viewed as vehicles of communication does not mean that they are neutral repositories for such information. Having established that the above discourse contains “the options available” to Paul and the readers of that time, ch. 5 (“Placing the Christian Gatherings: Paul and the Discourse of Sanctuary Space”) attempts to position 1 Corinthians 11–14 within these argumentative possibilities. Given the unusual amount of cultic references in this letter, Økland posits that chs. 11–14 serve as Paul’s model for an ideal ritual gathering. Paul constructs a different kind of space, his own ekkleµsia space, by differentiating the appropriate ritual practices from those in other sanctuary and household spaces. In passages like 11:17–34 and 14:34–35, the difference is a matter of space (between oikia and ekkleµsia). Yet the importance of this space does not precede the ritual practices; rather, the different, repetitive practices of time, people, clothing, and ritual construct the space as sacred. In this contrastive strategy, Økland argues, Paul is adapting the Jerusalem sanctuary space as paradigmatic for a unified, communal practice exclusive of other sanctuary spaces in Corinth. Whereas ch. 5 details how Paul sought to create boundaries between his audience and other, external groups, ch. 6 (“Corinthian Order”) focuses on the internal organization of the community. Gender remains central for how Paul structures the ritual gatherings, as 1 Corinthians 11–14 both begins and ends with passages that produce gendered differentiation(s). The ritual space is not only tied to a gender structure, but it is thoroughly connected to a cosmological hierarchy. Thus, the internal order of the ekkleµsia is defined via a gendered cosmology that opposes chaos, disorder and mortality (feminine) to unity, order, reason, identity, and peace (masculine). Paul’s discourse of gender and sanctuary space, then, has two tendencies evocative of the two-pronged gender dynamics highlighted above. The first and more dominant one (as in 11:1–16 and 14:33–37) involves a gendered hierarchy: since women are integrated in the communal space, the boundaries must be maintained by differentiation. The second and less common tendency excludes women from representation in the letter, defining the community in male terms (including body of Christ, brotherhood, and ekkleµsia). The final chapter (“Paul in the early Roman Corinthian Discourse of Gender and Sanctuary Spaces: Obedient and Subversive”) summarizes and reflects on the content of the preceding chapters. Rather than posing these communities as representing opportunities for women distinctive from the wider Greco-Roman world, Økland shows how Paul’s arguments are typical of the gendered spatial discourse of the time. Indeed, for Økland such observations are the only kind of “historical situation” her analysis can provide, with the exception coming in this chapter’s tentative notes of a few possibilities for how “actual” Corinthians may have held views different from Paul’s or the wider discourse. The study is supplemented by three effective, if too brief, appendices (“More About the Various Sanctuary Spaces,” “More About the Various Types of Texts,” and “Illustrations”). While the position maintained in the second of these (the treatment of
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excavated material as text) is by all means justified, Økland’s “trust” of the traditional archaeological resources seems less so. A suspicious stance and further analysis of how the material data available to her were likely conditioned by tendencies of the field might have been merited. It is striking that one so attentive to the rhetorics of materiality is not so with the rhetoricity of material data prepared by others. Økland’s book has much to recommend a careful reading. By deliberately and perceptively analyzing the relevant material and biblical texts together as products of a common discourse, Økland shows that such a dual focus need not be presented solely on the grounds of offering an appropriate “background” for one aspect via the other. In this vein the separate chapters mesh together quite well, highlighting the gaps in both rhetorical interpretations of Paul’s letters and the analysis of material culture. That Økland finds not merely new, but valuable and illuminating, ways for interpreting such oft-debated passages in the history of Pauline scholarship and feminist hermeneutics is, by itself, a truly impressive feat. Yet the utility of her approach is also independent of this feature, as the survey of materials in ch. 4 alone functions as an excellent resource for the study of ancient Corinth or either of the letters to the Corinthians. Despite the many strengths of the study, this recommendation is not without some minor (and slightly less so) reservations about the procedure and results. While Økland’s treatment of the spatial construction is particularly strong throughout the analysis of ancient Mediterranean, early Roman Corinthian, and Pauline discourses, the contributions of ritual analysis to the study seem, by comparison, far less compelling or clear. The occasional typographical error (at least a dozen) and the rather small reproduction of illustration 4 are also relatively minor problems for the reader. Other concerns are more considerable and might represent next steps or important supplements to Økland’s approach here. The analysis of such discourse would certainly benefit from further consideration of the imperial power relations of both the letter and the material culture. On the latter topic, the work of Paul Zanker (of which Økland seems not to be aware) would be of immediate use. For most of the study, the imperial context seems only to be a temporal distinction, instead of its own structure interconnected with the series of gendered, cosmological, spatial and hierarchical discourses. Økland’s interest in the instability of the term “woman” and her insistent avoidance of any reconstruction of women’s historical roles are also striking, given the current state of feminist biblical scholarship. Økland’s critique of Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, for example, seems unaware of the latter’s own rhetorical practice of writing the word as “wo/man” (since 1994) to indicate just such an instability and the exclusionary history of the function of the term. In addition, Økland’s analysis of “women” seems unnecessarily bound to the gendered discourse she is able to reconstruct. She frequently and confidently maintains that Paul is less concerned with women in the community than with the creation of clear gender boundaries. Yet these need not be mutually exclusive foci for Paul, nor does her analysis have to be so clearly disciplined by the perspective of the discourse she finds here. In fact, many elements of her approach could serve as strong starting points for working beyond this perspective. Though she clearly values Antoinette Clark Wire’s rhetorical analysis of the letter (drawing upon it with regularity), she chooses not to follow Wire’s procedure for reading against and through these rhetorics for any possible hints about women’s roles in the community at Corinth. In terms of bridging material and literary study with such a feminist purpose in mind, the
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work of Tal Ilan (whom Økland also does not cite in her study) might also prove to be instructive. Despite these concerns, the study is strongly recommended for scholars in a wide range of fields (Pauline studies, feminist interpretation, and Roman era material culture, among others). Økland’s work could prove to be foundational for a renewed engagement with these texts and ancient gender discourse broadly conceived. It marks a step forward in the effective integration of a variety of approaches and materials, while demonstrating the explanatory potential of just such an integration. Joseph A. Marchal Austin College, Sherman, TX 75090
Paul, Monotheism and the People of God: The Significance of Abraham Traditions for Early Judaism and Christianity, by Nancy Calvert-Koyzis. JSNTSup 273. London: T&T Clark, 2005. Pp. xiv + 173. $115.00 (hardcover). ISBN 0567083780. This investigation of the figure of Abraham in early Jewish and Pauline texts represents a revised version of the author’s 1993 dissertation at the University of Sheffield, supervised by Philip R. Davies and Andrew T. Lincoln. In traditional form, the first 60 percent of the research surveys Jewish texts, and the balance applies the conclusions to the interpretation of texts from Paul. The investigation of Jewish texts includes chapters devoted to Jubilees, several writings by Philo, Pseudo-Philo’s Biblical Antiquities, Josephus’s Antiquities of the Jews, and the Apocalypse of Abraham. The Pauline texts studied are Galatians and Romans, and the book closes with a brief conclusion. The price per page for this volume is remarkable. Nancy Calvert-Koyzis uses “monotheism” to denote “the doctrine or belief that there is only one God.” She cites Larry Hurtado for this language decision and otherwise eschews discussion of the current debates about the appropriateness of the terminology and concepts associated with this language. One of the results of this decision is that she begins from Paul’s “redefinition of monotheism and thereby Abraham” (pp. 3–5, italics added), instead of considering a redefinition of the contemporary scholar’s taxonomy and conceptualization of belief in the one God for Paul and other Jews of his period. Calvert-Koyzis sets out to show that Jewish traditions built around Abraham’s rejection of idolatry and turning to faith in the one God provide the basis for understanding Paul’s arguments as well as the matters at issue in the communities to which he writes. Rabbinic texts are not discussed, because Calvert-Koyzis wants to work with traditions she can be reasonably certain were active for Paul. Moreover, she undertakes to understand these texts “from the standpoint of Jewish concerns rather than from the standpoint of Pauline categories” (p. 4). The endeavor to listen to Jewish texts “in their own right” is to be applauded, of course, although one notes here that this introductory language is set already in contrast to “Pauline categories.” Does this language not reveal a working assumption that adumbrates a traditional portrait of the “Christian” Paul of later “Paulinism” with which she will work? From the start can one know that Paul’s categories are not shaped by Jewish concerns, in contrast to the other (Jewish) writings she explores? After all, are not the “Pauline” categories to which Calvert-Koyzis refers the product of later (non-Jewish) Christian traditions, which themselves should be subject to criticism, rather than fixed
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in the traditional ways they have been approached by interpreters? Should not the texts of Paul also be listened to “in their own right,” and not first (and only) in later Christian, bifurcated categories? Should one not at least hypothesize that the Jewish arguments about Abraham and the one God upon which Paul depends might arise because of Jewish concerns that still guide him and his communities? Could they be his and their own, and not simply arise in order to address the categories and concerns he is (supposedly) forced to deal with—and thus to seek to subvert—because they are essential to his supposed Jewish opponents’ arguments? What Calvert-Koyzis finds in the Jewish texts is that Abraham is the ideal example of a person who forsakes idolatry for faith in the one God, exemplified by obedience to the Mosaic legislation. She discusses the way the figure of Abraham is shaped and used by the various authors to express each one’s rhetorical concerns. In Jubilees, Abraham is the ideal Jew, worshiping the Creator God, willing to destroy idols at the risk of losing his life. He is the one who remains faithful to God in the midst of the surrounding Gentile idolaters, even in the midst of other Jews who compromise faith and Torah observance. He is not seduced by astrological reasoning. The reader is encouraged to suffer persecution to the point of death to remain faithful in the face of the compromises of the Hasmonean period. Philo’s Abraham is the prototypical proselyte, forsaking idolatry expressed in astrological determinism to turn to the one God. Before the Mosaic legislation was given, Abraham observed what it codified as (the only true) natural law, and was himself a living law. Looking to Abraham, the Alexandrian Jews are not to compromise their faith in the one God or observance of Torah, which exemplify the philosophical aspirations of the Gentiles among whom they are tempted to seek Greek citizenship status at the price of practicing civic idolatry, which also would shield them from certain taxes. In Biblical Antiquities, Abraham exemplifies a good leader in contrast to bad ones. He stands against idolatry and is true to his faith in the one God. He will thus be rewarded according to the covenant God made with him, along with his descendants. The leaders of the people should adopt Abraham’s behavior and resist assimilation to the surrounding Gentile nations and their practice of idolatry, in this case, the self-serving Romans who rule over them, regardless of the cost. Such idolatry involves abandoning allegiance to God and spurning God’s covenant claim to them; it is the root of sin. For Josephus, Abraham exemplifies a Hellenistic philosopher, indeed, the first one to proclaim the one God by means of popular philosophic proofs. Writing for Gentiles, Josephus does not so much condemn idolatry as its presuppositions, which fail to recognize the existence and work of the one Creator God. Any Greek can see that this Jewish viewpoint is reasonable. Abraham’s virtuous lifestyle expresses the essence of Torah; he becomes the vehicle for defining the attractiveness of Judaism. The people of God are defined by faithfulness to the one God. Circumcision sets apart those who follow Abraham’s example. In the Apocalypse of Abraham, Abraham becomes the model for the faithful of Israel who resist idolatry, unlike the priests whom the author portrays as complicit. Ultimately, the people of God are those who resist the idolatrous oppressors (such as the Romans, who destroyed the temple in response to such resistance when mounted). But by keeping hope in the one Creator God, the faithful ones will be vindicated, as was Abraham. Paul also appeals to the figure of Abraham to identify the people of God. But according to Calvert-Koyzis, Paul does so for different reasons. He seeks to subvert the surveyed Jewish claims that Abraham represents faithfulness to the one God by way of a
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lifestyle exemplifying Torah-observance. In Galatians, Paul’s appeal to Abraham arises because he must counter the claims of his opponents. They appeal to Abraham’s obedience to the Torah as concomitant with his faith in the one God to persuade these Christbelieving Gentiles to undertake Torah observance in addition to faith in order to gain standing as members of God’s people (apparently overlooked by Calvert-Koyzis is the implication that Paul warns the addressees that the price of proselyte conversion under consideration involved full Torah observance thereafter in order to surprise them, which suggests that those he opposes are not teaching Torah observance, just conversion [cf. 5:3]). Paul argues that God’s promise to Abraham that Gentiles would be included in the people of God is being now realized through the inclusion of the Gentiles who believe in Christ without “taking on” Torah. Requiring Gentiles to observe Jewish laws like circumcision and festival days is not in keeping with Abraham’s faith in the one God, but a modification thereof, because it means that they become Jews first and thus are not Gentiles who by faith are receiving what was promised. (And yet, is not Paul’s argument rather that after having become children of Abraham by faith they are not later to become members of Israel by proselyte conversion, because that would undermine their claim to receipt of the Spirit already by faith in/of Christ?) For Paul, obedience to the law signifies living according to the former era of law, which CalvertKoyzis analogizes with pagan astrological idolatry of the kind that Abraham rejected instead (based on her interpretation of 4:8–10). (I have argued that the calendrical reference is to the Roman calendar [drawing on Troy Martin’s work], which is idolatrous. Missing from Paul’s list is the distinctive feature of a Jewish calendar: weeks! If a Roman calendar is in view, this undermines Calvert-Koyzis’s whole line of argument. Like some of the Jewish texts surveyed, Paul is calling for resistance to [re]turning to the practice of Roman civic cult being urged upon them since they are unwilling to become proselytes and thereby excused. They are, like Christ crucified and Paul bearing stripes, to pay the price that may be required for this deviance, because now they know the Creator God, or rather, God knows them, and God will provide vindication.) Moreover, CalvertKoyzis understands the language of 3:19–20 to indicate a plurality of mediators in contrast to Abraham’s encounter with the one God. But reading Abraham’s encounter with the divine figure[s] in Genesis alone would undermine this contrast; in addition, note that Paul does not write that there are multiple mediators, but that a mediator indicates that there are multiple parties and thus competing interests to be mediated, whereas God is one party, with one interest—in all of humanity, whether circumcised or not. According to the Paul of Calvert-Koyzis, obedience to the Torah is a contradiction of God’s oneness. Those who continue to live and teach Jewish law reject the claim that the promise made to Abraham has been fulfilled in Christ. Consequently, they are excluded from the people of God. So while in Galatians Paul appeals to Abraham’s monotheistic faith, he does so unlike other Jews, for Abraham was righteous apart from acts of Torah, as should be those who believe in Christ, since Torah observance represents idolatry of the sort that Abraham refused. I do not see where Paul treats Abraham as Torah observant, as might be important for Jews within other Judaisms engaged in polemics against other Jews (or later, against Christians), and thus nowhere that he treats Torah observance as analogous to idolatry. Rather, he deals with Abraham as preMosaic legislation, as should be those who join Abraham’s family from among the nations other than Israel, to whom alone the Mosaic covenant applies. In Romans, Calvert-Koyzis understands Paul to analogize the idolatry of the Gen-
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tiles in spite of God’s revelation to all of creation with Jewish Christians’ observance of Torah practices such as Sabbaths and festivals and dietary regulations. When they engage in such activities, ironically, they practice idolatry rather than avoid idolatry as intended, because then Torah observance is combined with faith in the one God. But faith should instead be the sole criterion for membership. (This interpretation depends on taking the “weak in faith” to be Christ-believing Jews who are understood to fail to be free of Torah, as Paul is supposed to be, and thus “strong.”) To be persuaded to undertake Jewish practices would be to behave unlike Abraham, although he is upheld by the Jews with whom they interact as the example of both faith and obedience to the Torah. “Paul turns the law, which was formerly a characteristic of God’s people, into the idolatry that God’s people are now to avoid” (p. 144). I cannot find anything resembling this point in Paul’s language. Calvert-Koyzis’s treatment of Abraham by Paul is as the introduction led me to expect. His is not a Jewish approach comparable to (other) approaches of the period but serves as a contrast, a redefinition of terms, indeed, what is better described as emptying them of meaning. Paul mines Jewish texts when forced to in order to express a new and superior religious identity and sensibilities that would hardly make sense to the writers of the (other) Jewish texts examined. This seems to be a Paul who would hardly write that Torah is spiritual (Rom 7:14) or that faith in the one God works through love of the neighbor, which exemplifies the very essence of Torah (Gal 5:6, 13–14), or who would make essential “keeping the commandments of God” (1 Cor 7:19). I do not understand how Calvert-Koyzis’s Paul thought this made sense to Jewish people of his time or how it makes sense of Paul’s language today. Mark D. Nanos Rockhurst University, Kansas City, MO 64110
Heralds of the Good News: Isaiah and Paul “in Concert” in the Letter to the Romans, by J. Ross Wagner. NovTSup 101. Leiden/Boston/Cologne: Brill, 2002. Pp. xxii + 440. $192.00/$57.00. ISBN 9004116915/0391042041. The publication three years ago of Ross Wagner’s study of Paul’s use of Isaiah in the letter to the Romans showed how the movement inspired by Richard Hays fifteen years ago in Echoes of Scripture in the Letters of Paul (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989) continues to mature and develop. Wagner, who studied under Richard Hays at Duke University, has written an impressive book that makes judicious use of Hays’s methods and conclusions while moving beyond Hays at many key points. The quality of the argumentation is high throughout; indeed, the book sounds more like the work of a seasoned scholar than a recent Ph.D. student. Wagner’s study is essential reading not only for scholars interested in Paul’s use of Scripture but for anyone involved in the study of Paul’s thought. The bulk of Wagner’s book is devoted to a detailed exposition of key passages in Romans 9–11, where Paul quotes or alludes to the book of Isaiah. In each case he starts by comparing the Pauline version of the text with its original form in Isaiah, then shifts into an examination of how Paul interprets the Isaianic text and how this interpretation fits into Paul’s developing argument. Wagner argues that Paul took the contexts of his quotations and allusions seriously, since he believes that Paul knew the entire Greek text
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of Isaiah by memory. At the same time, he parts company with scholars who have insisted that Paul faithfully reproduced the ideas of his source text. Instead, he claims that Paul engaged in a “radical rereading” of the book of Isaiah (pp. 154, 271) through the eyes of Christian faith. This Christian reinterpretation of Isaiah led Paul to engage in “shocking” interpretive moves (p. 82) and “stunning misreading[s]” (p. 205; cf. p. 89) of the prophetic text. On the whole, Wagner seems sympathetic to Paul’s reading strategy, but he is no naïve apologist for Paul. While acknowledging that many of Paul’s readings of the biblical text appear tendentious, Wagner rejects the claim that Paul simply plundered the Jewish Scriptures for verses that would lend weight to his own arguments. When he compares Paul’s quotations of Isaiah with their original contexts, Wagner finds evidence that Paul paid careful attention to the language and ideas not only of the individual passages that he cites but of the book as a whole. Again and again he points to places where, in his view, Paul brings together ideas from different parts of Isaiah to form a “web of intratextual connection” (p. 184) that can be unraveled by those who are familiar with the content of the book. Sometimes these “intratextual fields” included verses from outside the book of Isaiah, such as the Song of Moses in Deuteronomy 32. Uncovering this network of textual connections not only helps us to see how Paul read the book of Isaiah but also leads us to a richer understanding of what Paul was trying to communicate in his letter to the Romans, since Wagner believes that Paul expected his audience to be able to hear many of the textual resonances and echoes that remain unstated in his letter. According to Wagner, a careful review of Paul’s references to the book of Isaiah in Romans shows that Paul studied Isaiah to find answers to questions that arose from his missionary experience. In particular, Paul needed to make sense of the inexplicable rejection of his message by his fellow Jews at the same time that it was being embraced by an increasing number of non-Jews. Paul was attracted to the book of Isaiah because he found in the prophet a “fellow preacher of the good news” (p. 1), one who spoke about God bringing his salvation to Gentiles as well as to Jews. Through reading Isaiah, Paul learned of a divine pattern of action that involved “the surprising reversal wrought by God’s grace, in which those apparently outside the scope of God’s mercy are included among the people God has redeemed for himself” (p. 83). As a result, Paul came to view his own mission to the Gentiles as an actualization of this pattern, a vital stage in the realization of God’s eschatological plan of salvation. A closer reading of Isaiah, reinforced by similar verses from Deuteronomy and the Psalms, revealed to Paul a divine plan whereby God intended to harden the hearts of the people of Israel so that the message of God’s saving acts (i.e., Paul’s preaching about the death and resurrection of Jesus) would be carried to the Gentiles. At some point their willing acceptance of God’s gift of salvation would cause God’s covenant people to become jealous to receive a similar blessing. In the end, Jews and Gentiles would live together as God’s people and rejoice in God’s goodness. This, according to Wagner, is the message that Paul sought to communicate to the Christians in Rome through his frequent references to the book of Isaiah. Wagner’s view of Paul’s reliance on the book of Isaiah has much to commend it. Clearly the book was important to Paul—he refers to it more than any other part of the Jewish Scriptures—and Wagner has made a solid case that Paul depended on Isaiah even more than can be learned from his explicit quotations. The question of how Paul arrived at his two-stage theory of the divine “hardening” and eventual “salvation” of
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Israel has long troubled interpreters, and Wagner’s explanation that the theory arose from Paul’s reading of particular passages of Scripture is worthy of serious attention. Wagner’s contention that Paul read the Jewish Scriptures in the light of his missionary experience and vice versa also rings true, since as Richard Hays has shown, the bulk of Paul’s quotations and allusions pertain in some way to the identity and conduct of the Christian community. Finally, Wagner’s proposition that Paul found his own mission prefigured in the prophecies of Isaiah helps to explain several of Paul’s more obscure references to Isaiah in his letter to the Romans. Contemporary readers might dismiss such a reading of Scripture as presumptuous, but Paul’s view is no more arrogant than the claims of the Qumran community that the words of the prophets anticipated the experiences of their own community. Despite the many strengths of his study, Wagner’s work does have a few notable weaknesses. Wagner is not alone in most of these areas; similar problems can be seen in virtually all recent studies of Paul’s use of Scripture. Like many others who have tried to retrace the reasoning behind Paul’s biblical references, Wagner’s study suffers from a lack of clear criteria for evaluating the validity of his reconstructions of Paul’s thought patterns. Wagner is more judicious than most in his efforts to identify biblical allusions and echoes in Paul’s letters, and nothing significant hinges on the few cases where his judgment might be questioned. He even includes a list and discussion of the criteria that he used to guide his decisions (pp. 11–13). By contrast, Wagner says almost nothing about how he arrived at his views concerning the way Paul read the text of Isaiah or how his readings might be tested. His comments on this point are limited to the oft-repeated assertion that the value of his reconstruction “will have to be measured by its ability to make sense of what Paul actually does with these texts in his letters” (p. 32; cf. p. 13). But “sense” is in the eye of the beholder, and other scholars have offered different readings of Paul’s biblical reasoning that conflict at many points with Wagner’s views. How are we to judge between them? How do we decide whether Paul did or did not take the context of a particular quotation or allusion seriously? How do we evaluate claims that Paul identified an unstated link between two verses that he quotes in his letter, or that his thinking was influenced by a verse or passage of Scripture that he neither quotes nor mentions? Questions such as these arise repeatedly as one wades through Wagner’s detailed reconstructions of Paul’s thought. On the whole, Wagner’s interpretations are as plausible as those of many other scholars who have worked in this area, though he has to strain at times to maintain his position that Paul took seriously the context of his quotations, as in his handling of Rom 10:18–21. But the fact that a reading sounds plausible to contemporary scholars does not mean that Paul actually thought in the manner described. In the end, we have no way of knowing for certain the reasoning that lay behind Paul’s references to the Jewish Scriptures. But this does not excuse scholars from indicating clearly their reasons for thinking that their readings at least approximate what Paul might have been thinking rather than simply revealing the literary creativity of the contemporary reader. Wagner is clearly a creative reader, but is it possible that he might be more clever than Paul? Additional problems arise from Wagner’s ambivalence about the importance of the audience in determining the meaning of Paul’s direct and indirect references to the Jewish Scriptures. In the opening chapter of his book, Wagner states, “My focus will primarily be on Paul’s reading of Isaiah—to the extent that it can be discerned from the
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text of Romans itself—not, in most cases, on what the first hearers of Paul’s letters might have picked up from his use of Isaiah in Romans” (p. 19; emphasis his). In general, he maintains this focus on Paul’s reading strategies throughout his book. Here and there, however, he suggests that an ancient reader who had “ears to hear” might have noticed points that Paul left unstated in his reading of a particular biblical passage or heard echoes of verses that Paul does not explicitly mention in his letter. Occasionally he questions whether an audience that knew the Jewish Scriptures would have been able to recognize an allusion or discern the links that he believes Paul saw between the verses that he cites. In the end, however, these questions have no visible effect on Wagner’s analysis of Paul’s use of Scripture in Romans. His study seems to envision Paul sitting at a table with a scroll open before him looking for answers to his personal questions. Nothing is said about how Paul’s use of Scripture in Romans might have been influenced by the rhetorical purposes that led him to compose the letter. This is a serious omission, since it leaves unanswered the crucial question of why Paul referred so often to the Jewish Scriptures in a letter written to a group of people whom he had never met. As with all of his letters, Paul had a reason for writing as he did. Wagner’s study leaves Paul in splendid isolation. Wagner does evince awareness that his analysis of Paul’s engagement with Scripture might be compromised if the initial recipients of Paul’s letters, like 80 to 90 percent of the people in the ancient world, were illiterate and did not know the biblical text well enough to follow Paul’s arguments or recall the broader context of his quotations. To address this problem, Wagner suggests that Paul expected the more biblically literate members of his Roman audience to explain his reasoning to those who were incapable of reading the biblical text for themselves. But this proposal is fraught with problems. In the first place, Paul had no way of knowing which passages of Scripture the literate Roman Christians could recall from memory, and it seems unlikely that he would have presumed that they had ready access to expensive biblical scrolls and sufficient leisure time to find and study the context of the less familiar verses that he cites in his letters. Second, it strains credulity to suppose that Paul expected the more literate Roman Christians to figure out the reasoning behind his often allusive references to Scripture when Pauline scholars with all of their resources have been unable to reach agreement on what Paul was doing in many cases. Finally, if Paul’s readings of the book of Isaiah were as shocking and tendentious as Wagner says, it seems virtually certain that some of Paul’s biblically literate Roman readers would have objected to some of his readings. Would Paul have taken such a risk at a time when he was seeking to overcome Roman suspicions of his message and solicit the Romans’ support for his upcoming mission to Spain? Fortunately, the Christians in Rome did not have to retrace and approve all of Paul’s implicit interpretations of the Jewish Scriptures in order to be impressed by his ability to ground his arguments in the biblical text. Paul may indeed have developed his ideas in dialogue with the text of Isaiah and other biblical books as Wagner argues, but only rarely do his arguments presuppose that the audience has a solid knowledge of a particular passage of Scripture (e.g., Rom 4:1–25; 9:6–18; 1 Cor 10:1–11; Gal 4:21–31). (For more on these points, see Christopher D. Stanley, Arguing With Scripture: The Rhetoric of Quotations in the Letters of Paul [T&T Clark, 2004].) In closing, it should be noted once again that none of these criticisms is peculiar to
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Wagner’s work; they represent challenges that must be addressed by every scholar who works in this field. In the end, Wagner’s book remains one of the best books to appear in many years on Paul’s use of the Jewish Scriptures. Christopher D. Stanley St. Bonaventure University, St. Bonaventure, NY 14778
Die Rezeption des Propheten Ezechiel in der Offenbarung des Johannes, by Beate Kowalski. SBB 52. Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk, 2004. Pp. xi + 529. €42.10 (paper). ISBN 3460005211. More than twenty years ago I began to notice the haphazard way in which allusions to the OT in Revelation were cited in commentaries, lists of allusions, and even critical articles (see Jon Paulien, “Decoding Revelation’s Trumpets: Literary Allusions and the Interpretation of Rev 8:7–12” [doctoral diss., Andrews University Seminary 11; Berrien Springs, MI: Andrews University Press, 1988], 121–54; and idem, “Elusive Allusions: The Problematic Use of the OT in Revelation,” BibRes 33 [1988]: 37–53). Among the defects I noted were the lack of systematic search for possible allusions, a casualness in laying out the evidence upon which allusions were chosen, and the lack of a clear distinction between “allusions” and “echos.” I challenged scholarship at that time to more careful analysis on the basis of words, themes, and structures. I invited classification of potential allusions according to the likelihood of authorial intention. I encouraged making a clear distinction between allusions (where authorial intention was reasonably clear) and echos (where it was unlikely or nonexistent). And I invited interpreters to be more systematic in laying out the evidence for their assessments of when John was alluding to previous literature and when he was not. Beate Kowlaski’s book on the use of Ezekiel in Revelation is the best available example of the approach I was calling for in my dissertation. She canvasses all major predecessors for potential allusions to Ezekiel in Revelation. She uses tools like BibleWorks for Windows to uncover possibilities that have not yet been dealt with in the literature. She assesses all of these possibilities in terms of words, themes, and structures, utilizing both the Greek and the Hebrew of the OT. She carefully lays out the grounds upon which she decides when John is alluding to the OT and when he is not. I, therefore, consider her book the state of the art on assessment of allusions in biblical studies. Her method should be a starting point for future work on the use of the OT in the book of Revelation. It is a general consensus in NT scholarship that Revelation makes extensive use of the OT. As a result, specialized studies of the use of various OT books in Revelation have been undertaken in recent years. Kowalski felt, however, that a thorough verbal and structural analysis of the use of Ezekiel in the Apocalypse was lacking. This has been particularly true in German-language scholarship, where her work is something of a first. Kowalski begins with a survey of earlier attempts to understand John’s use of Ezekiel, such as those by A. Vanhoye, Jeffrey Vogelgesang and Jean-Pierre Ruiz. None of these scholars offers the kind of extensive and detailed focus she attempts in her book, however. She then surveys the major attempts to establish a method for assessing
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allusions to the OT in Revelation. Among others, these include works by G. K. Beale, Stanley Porter, J. van Ruiten, Sverre Bøe, and myself. Building on these earlier attempts, Kowalski organizes her book into two main parts, each about two hundred pages long. In the first part she examines the verbal evidence for allusions to Ezekiel in the book of Revelation. In the second part she examines in depth the clusters of allusions between Revelation and Ezekiel, examining their implications for the structure and theology of Revelation. There is a concluding section in which she explores the implications of her work for the current discussion on intertextuality. Kowalski’s assessment of allusions to Ezekiel in Revelation begins at the level of words. She lays out in parallel the text of Revelation in the Greek and also the texts of the LXX and the MT for the suggested allusions. She identifies not only verbal parallels, but the frequency of such parallels and also instances where the word order and/or the grammatical constructions are the same. She also explores whether a given allusion is based on knowledge of the Hebrew or that of a Greek translation. Her goal is to provide evidence for “all possible allusions to Ezekiel” (p. 250: “aller möglichen Anspielungen auf Ez”). The evidence is presented on a verse by verse basis throughout the book of Revelation. Her findings indicate that the author of Revelation made verbal use of at least 135 verses in Ezekiel in 126 verses of Revelation. She also draws the conclusion that five of these verbal allusions should be considered “quotations” rather than merely allusions. These five are found in Rev 2:7 (Ezek 31:8); 7:1 (Ezek 7:2); 10:10 (Ezek 3:3); 18:18 (Ezek 27:32) and 21:7 (Ezek 11:20). She defines a “quotation” as occurring when the number (six to eight words in these five cases) and order of words, and their grammatical form are so unique between Ezekiel and Revelation that chance can be ruled out as an explanation for their overlap (pp. 264–65). From this detailed and thorough work she draws a number of interesting and useful conclusions. When she orders the allusions according to the text of Revelation, she finds that there is a relative absence of allusions to Ezekiel in the seven letters and in the central part of the book (chs. 12–15). On the other hand, allusions to Ezekiel are heavily clustered in chs. 4, 7, 10 and 17–21 (each chapter contains allusions to Ezekiel in 30 to 70 percent of the verses). When she orders the allusions according to the text of Ezekiel, on the other hand, she discovers that they are primarily clustered in Ezekiel 1–3, 8–11, 16, 23–27, and 37–48. Particular focus is on the visions in Ezekiel 1, 8–11, 37 and 40–48. Kowalski also notes that eighteen verbal allusions seem drawn from the MT and eleven from the LXX, but in most instances it is impossible to tell which form of the OT is favored in the allusion. The upshot of this evidence is that John used the OT out of memory rather than by direct reference to a written exemplar. There is no decisive evidence that he favored the Greek or the Hebrew of the OT. The second major section of the book raises the question whether the very structure of Revelation is dependent on the structure of Ezekiel. Kowalski determines that seven major sections of Ezekiel have significant structural parallels to sections of Revelation. She also determines that five major themes of Revelation are strongly parallel to Ezekiel. These five themes are (1) the way “prophets” and “prophetesses” are handled, (2) women representing cities, (3) the specific signs of theophany, (4) the way “scroll” is used, and (5) divine plagues. This structural work supports twenty-seven specific allusions to the OT. Since there is considerable overlap between the lists based on verbal and structural research, the total number of verses in Revelation that contain allusions
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to Ezekiel, according to an appendix at the end of the book, is 139. Many of these, however, are allusions to multiple locations in Ezekiel, so the actual number of assumed allusions is quite a bit higher (while this type of count is problematic, the total number of allusions listed is around 200). The final chapter explores how Kowalski’s research affects some of the major issues in the current debate about Revelation’s use of the OT. There is space here to list only a few of her major conclusions: 1. While Ezekiel is a major background text for Revelation, she finds that there is no single verse in Revelation that is totally dependent on Ezekiel and Ezekiel alone. Throughout the book of Revelation the influence of a variety of OT documents is continually observable. No one OT book provides the definitive source for any part of Revelation. 2. The images and motifs of Revelation are extremely fluid; one cannot take a basic meaning and project it throughout the text. No major word is used with exactly the same meaning in every context. The fluidity of the images is more reminiscent of poetry than of narrative. 3. Revelation is not so much a “re-reading” (Wiederlesen) of the OT as it is a “further-reading” (Weiterlesen) of the OT. While there is both continuity and discontinuity between Ezekiel and Revelation, John seems to expand the meaning of the OT text in light of his vision of the Christ. On the other hand, so critical is the usage of the OT to the meaning of the vision that the book cannot be understood apart from these allusions. 4. Regarding the question of whether Revelation is primarily based on a vision or on literary research, Kowalski’s findings lead her to the conclusion that the vision is the dominant factor. John’s literary efforts are in service of the vision rather than the reverse. In spite of the many allusions, there is much in Revelation that is completely original. None of the existent Jewish methods of exegesis are consistently utilized in Revelation. Revelation is much more than simply a mosaic of OT texts and motifs, it is a work of powerful originality. In this conclusion she seems to side more with Steve Moyise than with Greg Beale. This book is thorough and useful throughout. Particularly helpful are numerous charts in which the textual evidence is laid out in detail. These charts enable the reader to review her work quickly and to evaluate her judgments on the basis of the same evidence she has unearthed. This is the very kind of thoroughness I think is needed in order to move the assessment of allusions beyond intuition and occasional rigor to a systematic evaluation of the evidence. In my mind Kowalski’s book sets a new standard for the field. Further, her decision to separate the examination of words and structures is an interesting one. In my own work, I distinguished between verbal and structural parallels, but I examined them on a text by text basis rather than as distinct entities for the book as a whole. Since Kowalski is comparing two specific books (instead of examining the OT as a whole), however, her approach makes sense to me in this case. On the other hand, I believe this approach caused her to underplay the value of structural parallels for the assessment of specific verbal evidence. It would have been preferable had she returned to the verbal evidence at the end and reexamined her verbal judgments in light of the structural work. If she had done this she might have nuanced her support for some of the allusions that lack structural evidence. When I compared Kowalski’s statistics with a weighted list of allusions drawn from major Revelation scholars of the last century, I found some interesting data. The
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weighted list totals 823 possible or probable allusions to the OT, of which less than half are cited by the majority of commentators. Of the 823, 116 are to Ezekiel, about 14 percent. Projecting Kowalski’s statistics for Ezekiel to the entire OT would result in roughly one thousand to fifteen hundred total intentional allusions. This total is considerably higher than most listings of the past. In spite of the quantity and weight of her detailed work, therefore, I cannot avoid the feeling that she has implemented some bias toward Ezekiel where the evidence is less than perfectly clear. On the other hand, the weighted list produced a clustering of allusions to Ezekiel in Revelation 1, 4, 6–7, 11, and 18–21. These results are close enough to hers that I find her overall conclusions with regard to structure quite convincing. I would have liked to have seen more emphasis on the concept of “echo” (Autoreflexion), however. John often utilizes themes that can be traced to the OT as a source but not by way of an intentional use of specific texts. While Kowalski mentions the category of “Autoreflexion,” it does not seem to play a major role in this book. This lack of emphasis may have caused her to put more allusions into the “certain” category than should actually be the case. Defining some parallels as “echos” allows one to consider the parallel without insisting that the author intentionally created the parallel. To illustrate this problem I would point to Ezek 1:26. According to Kowalski, John alludes to Ezek 1:26 13 times in Revelation (p. 272). But is John consciously coming back to this specific verse over and over or is it more likely he is reflecting a general awareness of elements of Ezekiel’s vision? For example, in Rev 4:9–10 the phrase “the one sitting on the throne” occurs twice. Are both phrases a specific invitation for the reader to consider the text of Ezek 1:26 in its context or do they represent a general recollection of the whole passage (something Kowalski is quite prepared to accept in the case of Ezekiel 16 and 23 in Revelation 17)? I agree with Kowalski that the primary ground for a parallel here is a recurring motif (pp. 117–18). But such a recurring motif is more likely an echo of OT awareness than a consciously repeated allusion to Ezek 1:26. Another illustration of the problem is her listing Rev 11:1 as alluding to Ezek 40:3, 5, 47; 41:1; 42:16–19; and 43:13. While the verbal connections between these texts are impressive and carefully worked out, is it likely that John was intentionally alluding to each of these specific locations in that particular verse? Is it not more likely in this case that his vision steered him in the general direction of Ezekiel’s account, thereby “echoing” a wide variety elements in the earlier account without requiring a conscious intention? I must say, in her defense, that the text of her book is much more nuanced than a mere listing can suggest. But it does seem to me that a consistent use of the category of echo would cast doubt on the validity of some of her judgments. There seems to be a slight bias toward a full listing of Ezekiel’s influence. It will thus be interesting to see how future studies will relate to her assessments of specific allusions. Finally, while I heard a lot of German growing up in New York City, reading German is definitely a second language for me. So I grant that for most scholars in Englishspeaking countries, this book will be a tough read. Yet I found the rewards well worth the struggle. This is a book I would have explored carefully, even if I had not been asked to do this review. I believe its content is significant enough that it deserves to be made available in English translation, where it can exert a wider influence on the scholarly study of Revelation. Jon Paulien Andrews University, Berrien Springs, MI 49103
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in BIBLICAL STUDIES Old Testament Turning Points Victor H. Matthews 0801027748 • 208 pp. • $18.99p “Readers of the Old Testament often find it difficult to keep the big picture in mind because of the myriad of details covered in the text. Victor Matthews has helpfully reminded us all of the big picture in his treatment of the major turning points in ancient Israel’s story. His attention to both literary structure and historical context in ancient Israel and in the broader ancient Near East is most enlightening. Those who make the effort to read this volume will be richly rewarded with a storehouse of information to help in understanding the Old Testament.”—W. H. Bellinger Jr., Baylor University
Invitation to the Septuagint Karen H. Jobes and Moisés Silva 080103115X • 352 pp. • $27.99p “Both Jobes and Silva have experience as students, instructors, and researchers in the Septuagint. They have seamlessly combined their individual insights and interests to produce a pedagogically sound volume that is accessible to those with little prior knowledge of the Septuagint. . . . In the 2,300 or so years of its existence, the Septuagint has never before been the subject of such an attractive introduction. It is sincerely hoped that at least a few young scholars, accepting this invitation, will due course join the ranks of Septuagint specialists.”—Leonard J. Greenspoon, Religious Studies Review
Handbook on the Wisdom Books and Psalms Daniel J. Estes 0801026997 • 448 pp. • $34.99c “In this handbook Estes takes his readers by the hand to guide them through some of the more difficult books of the Old Testament. The introductory sections provide excellent orientation to their contents and to appropriate reading strategies, while the commentary explains the thought flow of the biblical writers and, importantly, the sometimes apparent breaks in thought flow. Estes writes lucidly and informs his discussion from his acquaintance with a wide range of current biblical scholarship. This is a first-class study aid that anyone could read with profit.”—Robert P. Gordon, University of Cambridge
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A Concordance to the Septuagint, 2nd ed. • Edwin Hatch and Henry A. Redpath 0801021413 • 1,896 pp. • $175.00c
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in NEW TESTAMENT STUDIES Studies in Matthew Dale C. Allison Jr.
0801027918 • 288 pp. • $34.99c
“Dale Allison, author of the finest English commentary on Matthew, here supplements that monumental work with thirteen studies on the Gospel, marked throughout by the same patient, perceptive scholarship. In part one he shows—in at times surprising ways—why contemporary interpreters cannot afford to neglect the exegetical past. Part two reminds us why his own are among the shoulders on which subsequent interpreters of Matthew must stand. This will make rewarding reading for all students of the Gospel.”—Stephen Westerholm, McMaster University “These erudite essays by one of the foremost Matthean scholars of our day show how illuminating it can be to consult the history of interpretation and, in particular, the patristic commentators when it comes to the exegesis of the Gospel of Matthew. We can find fresh insights and new understandings by looking back to how earlier interpreters dealt with the material. These stimulating essays provide abundant hermeneutical insights into the interpretive process itself—all under the wise and mature judgment of a seasoned exegete. This book is therefore not only for Matthean specialists but will prove rewarding for all who are interested in biblical interpretation.”—Donald A. Hagner, Fuller Theological Seminary
Narrative Criticism of the New Testament James L. Resseguie
0801027896 • 288 pp. • $22.99p
Readers will discover here a particularly well-balanced introduction to narative criticism. Resseguie offers a thorough survey of methodology, critical concepts, and the significance of literary devices. Numerous examples illustrate the fruitfulness of literary approaches for interpreting particular texts. Resseguie points out that narrative criticism has the advantage of dealing with the text as a self-contained unit, avoiding the fragmentation often produced by other methodologies. This accessible introduction is ideal for seminarians, M.A. students, upper-divisional undergraduates, and pastors who want to learn how narrative interpretation can open up the New Testament texts.
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STARRING: THE NEW TESTAMENT FINDING ST. PAUL IN FILM Richard Walsh Why haven’t we seen St. Paul in our movies? Or have we? With insight and originality, Richard Walsh embarks on a quest to discover just this, turning up Pauline themes and motifs in movies as unsuspected as Donnie Darko and Being John Malkovich. Combining an intensive knowledge of film with an expertise in Pauline studies, this revelatory work will have scholars, students and curious movie-goers alike reevaluating some of their favorite films. 0-567-02850-X PB 224 pp $22.00 November 2005 T & T Clark SCANDALIZING JESUS? Kazantzakis’s The Last Temptation of Christ Fifty Years On
Darren J.N. Middleton, Ed. Once placed on the Vatican’s list of Forbidden Texts, and denounced widely as blasphemous, Nikos Kazantzakis’s The Last Temptation of Christ was undoubtedly one of the most important books of the twentieth century. Now, for the book’s fiftieth anniversary, such esteemed figures as Martin Scorsese and film critic Peter Chattaway reassess the novel and its film adaptation in a series of incisive, thought-provoking essays. Kazantzakis fans and foes alike must read this book to reconsider what it means to recast Jesus in the world as we know it today. 0-8264-1607-1 PB 288 pp $29.95 October 2005 Continuum Available from all good booksellers
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HENDRICKSON PUBLISHERS Ancient Texts for New Testament Studies A Guide to the Background Literature CRAIG A. EVANS
This skillful survey of primary source materials amasses the requisite details of date, language, text, translation, and general bibliography—and evaluates exegetical relevance for NT interpretation. Six appendices save the interpreter precious time.
Johannine Discipleship as a Covenant Relationship REKHA M. CHENNATTU
Chennattu provides a detailed exegetical analysis of the discipleship narratives and discourses in John’s gospel. Investigating the OT motifs behind the presentation of discipleship, and defining Johannine discipleship as a covenant relationship, she assesses the function and relevance of the discipleship paradigm for the Johannine community.
Scripture An Ecumenical Introduction to the Bible and Its Interpretation MICHAEL J. GORMAN, EDITOR
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Interpreting the Bible A Handbook of Terms and Methods W. RANDOLPH TATE
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The Gospel According to St. John Black's New Testament Commentary, Vol. IV ANDREW T. LINCOLN
A reliable and enlightening exposition based on Lincoln’s own translation. Introducing the historical, literary, and theological backgrounds of John’s gospel, he leads the reader on a pericope-by-pericope study of the text. Available through Hendrickson Publishers only in the U.S. and its dependencies and Canada
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Praying with the Desert Mothers Fourth- and fifth-century desert mothers in the Mediterranean region, known as ammas (spiritual mothers), were the founders of Christian community in the early church. Praying with the Desert Mothers introduces the lives, sayings, and stories of these remarkable spiritual elders. It enriches readers’ lives and compels them to return again and again in meditation and prayer. For each topic a true story is drawn from a modern person’s experience of seeking God. This tapestry of stories of the desert ammas is woven together with theological insights, discussion of genres of literature, historical views on women, and reflective approaches to the wisdom tradition. S0-8146-1522-8
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THE BIBLE AND THE DEAD SEA SCROLLS C. D. Elledge The Dead Sea Scrolls have revolutionized our understanding of the literature of the Hebrew Bible, Second Temple Judaism, and the New Testament. As the importance of the Scrolls has increased over the past decades, the scholarly literature has increased exponentially. This brief yet thorough book highlights the most important contributions the Scrolls have made to the study of the Bible and charts new territory for future research into the Scrolls and the Qumran community. After reading The Bible and the Dead Sea Scrolls, students and scholars alike will have the basic understanding of the Scrolls necessary for pondering even deeper questions regarding the history, literature, and theology of the Bible. Paper $15.95 1-58983-183-7 Archaeology and Biblical Studies
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ANNUAL INDEX Volume 124 (2005)
I. Articles and Critical Notes Arbel, Daphna, “Questions about Eve’s Iniquity, Beauty, and Fall: The ‘Primal Figure’ in Ezekiel 28:11–19 and Genesis Rabbah Traditions of Eve,” 641 Bergsma, John Sietze, and Scott Walker Hahn, “Noah’s Nakedness and the Curse on Canaan (Genesis 9:20–27),” 25 Carson, D. A., “Syntactical and Text-Critical Observations on John 20:30–31: One More Round on the Purpose of the Fourth Gospel,” 693 Choi, Hung-Sik, “PISTIS in Galatians 5:5–6: Neglected Evidence for the Faithfulness of Christ,” 467 Cosgrove, Charles H., “A Woman’s Unbound Hair in the Greco-Roman World, with Special Reference to the Story of the ‘Sinful Woman’ in Luke 7:36–50,” 675 Croatto , J. Severino, “Jesus, Prophet like Elijah, and Prophet-Teacher like Moses in LukeActs,” 451 Crook, Zeba A., “Reflections on Culture and Social-Scientific Models,” 515 Friedrichsen, Timothy A., “The Temple, a Pharisee, a Tax Collector, and the Kingdom of God: Rereading a Jesus Parable (Luke 18:10–14a),” 89 Gilders, William K., “Where Did Noah Place the Blood? A Textual Note on Jubilees 7:4,” 745 Goff, Matthew J., “Discerning Trajectories: 4QInstruction and the Sapiential Background of the Sayings Source Q,” 657 Hahn, Scott Walker. See Bergsma, John Sietze Harland, Philip A., “Familial Dimensions of Group Identity: ‘Brothers’ (!Adelfoiv) in Associations of the Greek East,” 491 Irvine, Stuart A., “The Last Battle of Hadadezer,” 341 Kloppenborg, John S., “Evocatio deorum and the Date of Mark,” 419 Levinson, Bernard M., “The Birth of the Lemma: The Restrictive Reinterpretation of the Covenant Code’s Manumission Law by the Holiness Code (Leviticus 25:44–46),” 617 Linville, James R., “Psalm 22:17b: A New Guess,” 733 Magness, Jodi, “Ossuaries and the Burials of Jesus and James,” 121 Martin, Michael Wade, “Defending the ‘Western Non-Interpolations’: The Case for an AntiSeparationist Tendenz in the Longer Alexandrian Readings,” 269 McGarry, Eugene P., “The Ambidextrous Angel (Daniel 12:7 and Deuteronomy 32:40): Inner-biblical Exegesis and Textual Criticism in Counterpoint,” 211 Mount, Christopher, “1 Corinthians 11:3–16: Spirit Possession and Authority in a NonPauline Interpolation,” 313 Olyan, Saul M., “Exodus 31:12–17: The Sabbath according to H, or the Sabbath according to P and H?” 201 ———, “Some Neglected Aspects of Israelite Interment Ideology,” 601
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Parsons, Mikeal C., “The Character of the Lame Man in Acts 3–4,” 295 Petersen, David L., “Genesis and Family Values,” 5 Sandnes, Karl Olav, “Imitatio Homeri? An Appraisal of Dennis R. MacDonald’s ‘Mimesis Criticism,’” 715 Schipper, Jeremy, “‘Significant Resonances’ with Mephibosheth in 2 Kings 25:27–30: A Response to Donald F. Murray,” 521 Schofield, Alison, and James C. VanderKam, “Were the Hasmoneans Zadokites?” 73 Steiner, Richard C., “On the Dating of Hebrew Sound Changes (*HÚ > H\ and *G≥ > >) and Greek Translations (2 Esdras and Judith),” 229 VanderKam, James C. See Schofield, Alison Watts, James W., “Ritual Legitimacy and Scriptural Authority,” 401 Wells, Bruce, “Sex, Lies, and Virginal Rape: The Slandered Bride and False Accusation in Deuteronomy,” 41 Westbrook, Raymond, “Elisha’s True Prophecy in 2 Kings 3,” 530 II. Book Reviews
Aasgaard, Reidar, “My Beloved Brothers and Sisters!” Christian Siblingship in Paul (Matthew W. Mitchell) 565 Albertz, Rainer, Israel in Exile: The History and Literature of the Sixth Century B.C.E. (Lester L. Grabbe) 544 Bautch, Richard J., Developments in Genre between Post-Exilic Penitential Prayers and the Psalms of Communal Lament (Jacob L. Wright) 167 Blickenstaff, Marianne. See Levine, Amy-Jill Blount, Brian K., Can I Get a Witness? Reading Revelation through African American Culture (Danielle Brune Sigler) 575 Bolt, Peter G., Jesus’ Defeat of Death: Persuading Mark’s Early Readers (William Sanger Campbell) 558 Brown, Michael Joseph, Blackening the Bible: The Aims of African American Biblical Scholarship (Danielle Brune Sigler) 575 Calvert-Koyzis, Nancy, Paul, Monotheism and the People of God: The Significance of Abraham Traditions for Early Judaism and Christianity (Mark D. Nanos) 775 Cameron, Ron, and Merrill P. Miller, eds., Redescribing Christian Origins (James D. G. Dunn) 760 Clark, Elizabeth A., History, Theory, Text: Historians and the Linguistic Turn (Willemien Otten) 582 Conrad, Edgar, Reading the Latter Prophets: Toward a New Canonical Criticism (Mark J. Boda) 365 Cook, Stephen L., The Social Roots of Biblical Yahwism (Kenton Sparks) 751 Ehrensperger, Kathy, That We May Be Mutually Encouraged: Feminism and the New Perspective in Pauline Studies (Heike Omerzu) 386 Fischer, Alexander Achilles, Von Hebron nach Jerusalem: Eine redaktionsgeschichtliche Studie zur Erzählung von König David in II Sam 1–5 (Mark W. Hamilton) 163 Fitzpatrick, Paul E., The Disarmament of God: Ezekiel 38–39 in Its Mythic Context (Françoise Smyth) 165 Fried, Lisbeth S., The Priest and the Great King: Temple–Palace Relations in the Persian Empire (Kenneth A. Ristau) 546 Frilingos, Christopher A., Spectacles of Empire: Monsters, Martyrs, and the Book of Revelation (Robert M. Royalty, Jr.) 571
Annual Index
797
Frolov, Serge, The Turn of the Cycle: 1 Samuel 1–8 in Synchronic and Diachronic Perspectives (Bill T. Arnold) 533 Goff, Matthew J., The Worldly and Heavenly Wisdom of 4QInstruction (Ian Werrett), 173; (Benjamin G. Wright III) 548 Grätz, Sebastian, Das Edikt des Artaxerxes: Eine Untersuchung zum religionspolitischen und historischen Umfeld von Esra 7,12–26 (Armin Siedlecki) 541 Gray, Patrick, Godly Fear: The Epistle to the Hebrews and Greco-Roman Critiques of Superstition (John A. Bertone) 182 Hill, Charles E., The Johannine Corpus in the Early Church (Kyle Keefer) 187 Ilan, Tal, Lexicon of Jewish Names in Late Antiquity: Part 1, Palestine 330 BCE–200 CE (Rivka B. Kern-Ulmer) 376 Incigneri, Brian J., The Gospel to the Romans: The Setting and Rhetoric of Mark’s Gospel (Zeba A. Crook) 553 Johns, Loren L., The Lamb Christology of the Apocalypse of John: An Investigation into Its Origins and Rhetorical Force (Robert M. Royalty, Jr.) 571 Kalimi, Isaac, The Reshaping of Ancient Israelite History in Chronicles (Lester L. Grabbe) 758 Kaminouchi, Alberto de Mingo, “But It Is Not So Among You”: Echoes of Power in Mark 10:32–45 (William Sanger Campbell) 558 Kannaday, Wayne C., Apologetic Discourse and the Scribal Tradition: Evidence of the Influence of Apologetic Interests on the Text of the Canonical Gospels (Kim Haines-Eitzen) 381 Kessler, Edward, Bound by the Bible: Jews, Christians and the Sacrifice of Isaac (Isaac Kalimi) 371 Kowalski, Beate, Die Rezeption des Propheten Ezechiel in der Offenbarung des Johannes (Jon Paulien) 782 Levine, Amy-Jill, ed., with Marianne Blickenstaff, A Feminist Companion to Luke (Davina C. Lopez) 562 Lundbom, Jack R., Jeremiah 21–36: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (Carolyn J. Sharp) 361 MacDonald, Dennis R., Does the New Testament Imitate Homer? Four Cases from the Acts of the Apostles (Stan Harstine) 383 Manning, Gary T., Jr., Echoes of a Prophet: The Use of Ezekiel in the Gospel of John and in Literature of the Second Temple Period (David Miller) 368 Miller, Merril P. See Cameron, Ron Müller, Reinhard, Königtum und Gottesherrschaft: Untersuchungen zur alttestamentlichen Monarchiekritik (Mark W. Hamilton) 536 Mykytiuk, Lawrence J., Identifying Biblical Persons in Northwest Semitic Inscriptions of 1200–539 B.C.E. (Paul Sanders) 354 Newsom, Carol A., The Self as Symbolic Space: Constructing Identity and Community at Qumran (John J. Collins) 170 Nickelsburg, George W. E., Ancient Judaism and Christian Origins: Diversity, Continuity, and Transformation (Pieter W. van der Horst) 176 Nissinen, Martti, Prophets and Prophecy in the Ancient Near East (Marvin A. Sweeney) 155 Novakovic, Lidija, Messiah, the Healer of the Sick: A Study of Jesus as the Son of David in the Gospel of Matthew (J. R. C. Cousland) 768
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Økland, Jorunn, Women in Their Place: Paul and the Corinthian Discourse of Gender and Sanctuary Space (Joseph A. Marchal) 771 Olyan, Saul M., Biblical Mourning: Ritual and Social Dimensions (Louise J. Lawrence) 158 Porter, Stanley E., The Pauline Canon (Ron Fay) 569 Riches, John K., and David C. Sim, eds., The Gospel of Matthew in Its Roman Imperial Context (D. A. Carson) 764 Roskam, Hendrika N., The Purpose of the Gospel of Mark in Its Historical and Social Context (Zeba A. Crook) 553 Shields, Mary, Circumscribing the Prostitute: The Rhetorics of Intertextuality, Metaphor and Gender in Jeremiah 3.1–4.4 (Louis Stulman) 538 Sim, David C. See Riches, John K. Smith, Jonathan Z., Relating Religion: Essays in the Study of Religion (Karel van der Toorn) 584 Stanton, Graham N., Jesus and Gospel (Tobias Nicklas) 179 Sticher, Claudia, Die Rettung der Guten durch Gott und die Selbstzerstörung der Bösen: Ein theologisches Denkmuster im Psalter (Gerald A. Klingbeil) 160 Taylor, Joan E., Jewish Women Philosophers of First-Century Alexandria: Philo’s “Therapeutae” Reconsidered (Jorunn Økland) 378 Wagner, J. Ross, Heralds of the Good News: Isaiah and Paul “in Concert” in the Letter to the Romans (Christopher D. Stanley) 778 Wellhausen, Julius, Prolegomena to the History of Israel, with a reprint of the article “Israel” from the Encyclopaedia Britannica (Roland T. Boer) 349 Wright, Jacob L., Rebuilding Identity: The Nehemiah Memoir and Its Earliest Readers (Tamara Cohn Eskenazi) 755 Yadin, Azzan, Scripture as Logos: Rabbi Ishmael and the Origins of Midrash (Joshua Kulp) 184 Yee, Gale A., Poor Banished Children of Eve: Woman as Evil in the Hebrew Bible (David Jobling) 359
III. Reviewers Arnold, Bill T., 533 Bertone, John A., 182 Boda, Mark J., 365 Boer, Roland T., 349 Campbell, William Sanger, 558 Carson, D. A., 764 Collins, John J., 170 Cousland, J. R. C., 768 Crook, Zeba A., 553 Dunn, James D. G., 760 Eskenazi, Tamara Cohn, 755 Fay, Ron, 569 Grabbe, Lester L., 544, 758 Haines-Eitzen, Kim, 381 Hamilton, Mark W., 163, 536
Harstine, Stan, 383 Jobling, David, 359 Kalimi, Isaac, 371 Keefer, Kyle, 187 Kern-Ulmer, Rivka B., 376 Klingbeil, Gerald A., 160 Kulp, Joshua, 184 Lawrence, Louise J., 158 Lopez, Davina C., 562 Marchal, Joseph A., 771 Miller, David, 368 Mitchell, Matthew W., 565 Nanos, Mark D., 775 Nicklas, Tobias, 179 Økland, Jorunn, 378
Annual Index Omerzu, Heike, 386 Otten, Willemien, 582 Paulien, Jon, 782 Ristau, Kenneth A., 546 Royalty, Robert M., Jr., 571 Sanders, Paul, 354 Sharp, Carolyn J., 361 Siedlecki, Armin, 541 Sigler, Danielle Brune, 575 Smyth, Françoise, 165
Sparks, Kenton, 751 Stanley, Christopher D., 778 Stulman, Louis, 538 Sweeney, Marvin A., 155 van der Horst, Pieter W., 176 van der Toorn, Karel, 584 Werrett, Ian, 173 Wright, Benjamin G., III, 548 Wright, Jacob L., 167
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