Journal of Biblical Literature, Vol. 126, No. 1 (Spring 2007)

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JOURNAL OF

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Rudolf Bultmann Bultmann’s Theology is a major event in the history of biblical scholarship…The work qualifies as a classic in the history of New Testament studies. - Nils Dahl, Yale University $29.95 | 6 x 9, 648 pages | Paper ISBN 978-1-932792-93-5

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JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE

Theology of the New Testament

VOLUME 126, NO. 1 Para-mania: Beside, Before, and Beyond Bible Studies Robert A. Kraft 5–27 The Tower of Babel and the Origin of the World’s Cultures Theodore Hiebert 29–58 “So Shall God Do . . .”: Variations of an Oath Formula and Its Literary Meaning Yael Ziegler 59–81 The Deconstruction of Job’s Fundamentalism André LaCocque 83–97 Using the Master’s Tools to Shore Up Another’s House: A Postcolonial Analysis of 4 Maccabees David A. deSilva 99–127 Paul as a Child: Children and Childhood in the Letters of the Apostle Reidar Aasgaard 129–159

The Preposition ‫ מן‬in the ‫ חטאת‬Pericopes Jacob Milgrom 161–163 Bedan: A Riddle in Context Serge Frolov

164–167

Elisha’s Deceptive Prophecy in 2 Kings 3: A Response to Raymond Westbrook Jesse C. Long, Jr. 168–171 4Q225 2 i 1–2: A Possible Reconstruction and Explanation Robert Kugler 172–181 Karl Polanyi, Marshall Sahlins, and the Study of Ancient Social Relations Alan Kirk 182–191 US ISSN:0021-9231

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JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE PUBLISHED QUARTERLY BY THE

SOCIETY OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE (Constituent Member of the American Council of Learned Societies) EDITOR OF THE JOURNAL General Editor: JAMES C. VANDERKAM, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556

EDITORIAL BOARD Term Expiring 2007: MOSHE BERNSTEIN, Yeshiva University, New York, NY 10033-3201 JOHN ENDRES, Jesuit School of Theology at Berkeley, Berkeley, CA 94709 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 2008: ELLEN B. AITKEN, McGill University, Montreal, Quebec H3A 2T5 Canada MICHAEL JOSEPH BROWN, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 TERENCE L. DONALDSON, Wycliffe College, Toronto, ON M5S 1H7 Canada STEVEN FRIESEN, University of Missouri, Columbia, MO 65211 JENNIFER GLANCY, Le Moyne College, Syracuse, New York 13214 A. KATHERINE GRIEB, Virginia Theological Seminary, Alexandria, VA 22304 ARCHIE C. C. LEE, The Chinese University of Hong Kong, Shatin New Territories, Hong Kong SAR DANIEL MARGUERAT, Université de Lausanne, CH-1015 Lausanne, Switzerland 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 YVONNE SHERWOOD, University of Glasgow, Glasgow, Scotland, G12 8QQ, United Kingdom LOREN T. STUCKENBRUCK, University of Durham, Durham, England, DH1 3RS, United Kingdom PATRICIA K. TULL, Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary, Louisville, KY 40205 2009: DAVID L. BARR, Wright State University, Dayton, OH 45435 THOMAS B. DOZEMAN, United Theological Seminary, Dayton, OH 45406 CAROLE R. FONTAINE, Andover Newton Theological School, Newton Centre, MA 02459 ELIZABETH STRUTHERS MALBON, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, Blacksburg, VA 24060-0135 MARTTI NISSINEN, University of Helsinki, FIN-00014 Finland 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 LOUIS STULMAN, University of Findlay, Findlay, OH 45840 Editorial Assistant: Monica Brady, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 President of the Society: Katharine Doob Sakenfeld, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542; Vice President: Jonathan Z. Smith, University of Chicago, Chicago, IL 60637; Chair, Research and Publications Committee: Benjamin G. Wright III, Lehigh University, Bethlehem, PA 18015; 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$150.00 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 Hebrew font used in JBL is SBL Hebrew and is available from www.sbl-site.org/Resources/default.aspx. The Greek 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

“Another blockbuster from the productive pen of Richard Bauckham. . . . [He] builds an impressive case for recognition of the controlling influence of eyewitness testimony on the formulation and use of the Jesus tradition, which resulted in the Evangelists’ ‘Jesus of testimony.’ Not to be missed!”

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Journal of Biblical Literature Volume 126 2007

GENERAL EDITOR

JAMES C. VANDERKAM University of Notre Dame Notre Dame, IN 46556

A Quarterly Published by THE SOCIETY OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE

EDITORIAL BOARD Term Expiring 2007: MOSHE BERNSTEIN, Yeshiva University, New York, NY 10033-3201 JOHN ENDRES, Jesuit School of Theology at Berkeley, Berkeley, CA 94709 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 2008: ELLEN B. AITKEN, McGill University, Montreal, Quebec H3A 2T5 Canada MICHAEL JOSEPH BROWN, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 TERENCE L. DONALDSON, Wycliffe College, Toronto, ON M5S 1H7 Canada STEVEN FRIESEN, University of Missouri, Columbia, MO 65211 JENNIFER GLANCY, Le Moyne College, Syracuse, New York 13214 A. KATHERINE GRIEB, Virginia Theological Seminary, Alexandria, VA 22304 ARCHIE C. C. LEE, The Chinese University of Hong Kong, Shatin New Territories, Hong Kong SAR DANIEL MARGUERAT, Université de Lausanne, CH-1015 Lausanne, Switzerland 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 YVONNE SHERWOOD, University of Glasgow, Glasgow, Scotland, G12 8QQ, United Kingdom LOREN T. STUCKENBRUCK, University of Durham, Durham, England, DH1 3RS, United Kingdom PATRICIA K. TULL, Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary, Louisville, KY 40205 2009: DAVID L. BARR, Wright State University, Dayton, OH 45435 THOMAS B. DOZEMAN, United Theological Seminary, Dayton, OH 45406 CAROLE R. FONTAINE, Andover Newton Theological School, Newton Centre, MA 02459 ELIZABETH STRUTHERS MALBON, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, Blacksburg, VA 24060-0135 MARTTI NISSINEN, University of Helsinki, FIN-00014 Finland 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 LOUIS STULMAN, University of Findlay, Findlay, OH 45840 Editorial Assistant: Monica Brady, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 Articles are indexed in Religion Index One: Periodicals; book reviews in Index to Book Reviews in Religion, American Theological Library Association, Evanston, Illinois. Both indexes are also found in the ATLA Religion Database on CD-ROM.

EDITORIAL MATTERS OF THE JBL 1. Contributors should consult the Journal’s Instructions for Contributors (http://www.sbl-site.org/Publications/PublishingWithSBL/JBL_Instructions.pdf). 2. If a MS of an article, critical note, or book review is submitted in a form that departs in major ways from these instructions, it may be returned to the author for retyping, even before it is considered for publication. 3. Submit one hard copy of the MS of an article or critical note. Manuscripts will not be returned. 4. Manuscripts and communications regarding the content of the Journal should be addressed to James C. VanderKam at the address given on the preceding page (or correspondence only at the following e-mail address: [email protected]). 5. Permission to quote more than 500 words may be requested from the Rights and Permissions Department, Society of Biblical Literature, 825 Houston Mill Road, Suite 350, Atlanta, GA 30329, USA (E-mail: [email protected]). Please specify volume, year, and inclusive page numbers.

BUSINESS MATTERS OF THE SBL (not handled by the editors of the Journal) 1. All correspondence regarding membership in the Society, subscriptions to the Journal, change of address, renewals, missing or defective issues of the Journal, and inquiries about other publications of the Society should be addressed to Society of Biblical Literature, Customer Service Department, P.O. Box 133158. Atlanta, GA 30333. Phone: 866727-9955 (toll-free) or 404-727-9498. FAX: 404-727-2419. E-mail: [email protected]. 2. All correspondence concerning the research and publications programs, the annual meeting of the Society, and other business should be addressed to the Executive Director, Society of Biblical Literature, The Luce Center, 825 Houston Mill Road, Atlanta, GA 30329. (E-mail: [email protected]). 3. Second Class postage paid at Atlanta, Georgia, and at additional mailing offices. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Presidential Address by Robert A. Kraft President of the Society of Biblical Literature 2006 Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature November 18, 2006 Washington, D.C. Introduction given by Katharine Doob Sakenfeld Vice President, Society of Biblical Literature

Good evening, and welcome to this special occasion. It is my pleasure and honor to introduce this year’s President of the Society of Biblical Literature, Professor Robert A. Kraft, Emeritus Berg Professor of Religious Studies at the University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia. Professor Kraft grew up between two farms in Connecticut and as a young man was persuaded by his brother to try attending a liberal arts college. After doing work in philosophy and biblical literature he went on to study at Harvard, taught briefly at the University of Manchester in the United Kingdom, and upon his return to the United States in 196 joined the University of Pennsylvania faculty, where his scholarly and teaching career has been lodged ever since. Professor Kraft’s interests are wide-ranging, and that is an understatement. “Septuagint,” Philo, Josephus, pre-Constantinian Christian heterodox literature, second-century c.e. Jewish sources, papyrology, codicology, and paleography are less than half of his areas of expertise listed on his Web site, with the relation between early Judaism and early Christianity as the focal point for these diverse interests—and of course a huge list of publications in these areas. In fact, Professor Kraft’s interests are so diverse that the story is told that back in the old days, before the SBL rules limiting program participation were in place, the program committee had to work everything around his schedule to avoid scheduling conflicts. The field as a whole owes Professor Kraft a debt of gratitude not only for his prolific scholarly publications but especially for his pioneering contributions to the use of computer technology. As long ago as 1978, a year when few biblical scholars even had access to computers or imagined they would begin to use them, Professor Kraft began establishing and directing research projects on Computer Assisted Tools for Septuagint Studies. He has worked tirelessly to find new applications for computer technologies in the study of a wide range of ancient texts. He is also the recipient of many awards, including being a fellow of the Guggenheim Foundation and of the American Council of Learned Societies.

Journal of Biblical Literature 126, no. 1 (2007) Bob Kraft admits to being a “tekkie” at heart—he likes to know what makes things tick, and how to fix things rather than dispose of them and buy something new (and usually inferior). In his senior year of high school, he won the Rensselaer Institute award for science and math, and since his family lived near a farm, he had ready access to tools and materials for all sorts of do-it-yourself projects. He remembers as a teenager finding some old radio equipment discarded in a barn. That began his interest in building and repairing radios back when they used vacuum tubes; and he still owns a substantial collection of antique radios and parts thereof, for which he could probably get a nifty price on e-Bay. But who has time to look up the prices just to sell stuff—he’s letting grandchildren develop their entrepreneurial skills on that project, if they choose to do the research. For himself, he’s still into building projects. Several cars have been rebuilt, most recently a Ford Model A coupe, with a rumble seat where the grandkids love to ride, and a couple of houses, one of which, he says, still needs to be completed. As befits someone interested in history and in preserving old things, Bob is still a collector. As a youth, he collected not just radio gear but stamps, and he still does a bit of that. He inherited his grandfather’s postcard collection and has expanded it. He also inherited his grandfather’s journals, as well as his mother’s journals and her extensive photograph collection—his explorations in family history and genealogy are fun to browse on his Web site. More recently he’s been active on e-Bay not as a seller but as a buyer, collecting ancient coins (mostly Roman) and papyri scraps (being used in teaching papyrology this term, but also, as he says, “because I’m just nosey about the past”). Bob has four children and tries to get them, their spouses, and his nine grandchildren interested in all these things. At least one of the grandkids has reportedly developed into a “trash picker” who often accompanies Bob on bicycle rides the night before trash pickup. For those not inclined to become collectors, hiking and camping along the Appalachian Trail is a family joy. Or they might just take turns being chauffeured about by proud grandpa in that restored Model A. I hope you’ve enjoyed this “behind the scenes” look at our marvelously versatile president, and I’m happy to present him now to give his Presidential Address, entitled “Para-mania: Beside, Before, and Beyond Bible Studies.”

JBL 126, no. 1 (2007): 5–27

Para-mania: Beside, Before and Beyond Bible Studies robert a. kraft [email protected] University of Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, PA 1910

When I was nominated to be the 11th president of the Society of Biblical Literature1 I of course felt very honored and was not reluctant to accept, but I also felt a bit uncomfortable or unsure about the appropriateness of the choice. Normally the presidency of the SBL alternates between “OT” and “NT” scholars, and my immediate predecessor (Lyn Osiek) clearly qualified for the latter category. Although I have done some work on Greek Jewish scriptures (“LXX/OG”),2 I can hardly be considered an “OT” person; indeed, I do not think of myself at all as a “Bible scholar” in a traditional sense, even though my career has included investigations of traditionally biblical subjects such as a master’s thesis on the use of Jewish scriptures in the canonical Jesus traditions and occasional excursions into specific NT exegetical problems—Was the “Theophile” (in the vocative) to whom Presidential Address delivered on November 18, 2006, at the annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in Washington, D.C. For the title, a strong nod goes to Samuel Sandmel’s 1961 SBL presidential address “Parallelomania” (JBL 81 [1962]: 1–1), although for my purposes, the “para” and “mania” have a positive valence. I considered several other titles: “Perambulating the Perimeters/Parameters of Bible Studies,” “Bumping along the Biblical Byways: The In-Between Worlds of Scriptural Studies,” and “Along the Margins of Scriptural Studies.” Since one aim of the address is to level the field between “canonical” and extracanonical ancient literature, I will also plead presidential privilege in ignoring SBL style, which distinguishes canonical references by separating chapter and verse with a colon and by italicizing noncanonical titles. I will use roman type for titles and the simple full stop punctuation for all ancient references. Electronic addresses were valid as of the first ten days of January 2007. The full electronic version of this address, including the images that were projected when it was delivered, is available at http://ccat.sas.upenn.edu/rs/rak/publics/new2/sblpres2006-all.html. 1 Depending on how one counts: Francis Brown served two nonconsecutive terms as president (1889–90, 189–96), and thus 11 persons have served 11 presidential terms before this. 2 For my online bibliography, see http://ccat.sas.upenn.edu/rs/rak/cv.html#publications. Robert A. Kraft, “Contributions of Jesus to a Modern Discussion of Inspiration” (M.A. thesis, Wheaton College Graduate School, Wheaton, IL, 197).

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Luke-Acts is addressed a woman? Did the tradition reflected in the NT book of Acts about Paul being called “Saul” (from the tribe of Benjamin) originate with some of his opponents who identified him in an uncomplimentary manner with the Benjaminite king Saul of ancient Israel notoriety? Was Paul’s identification with “Tarsus” due to a misunderstanding on the part of the author of Acts (or its sources) of Paul’s occupational affiliation with the “Tarsian” guild of weavers in Judea? But those were unpublished exceptions, and along with some dabbling in Dead Sea Scroll studies and the aforementioned text-critical interests in that heterogeneous anthology of Old Greek translations that unfortunately has come to be known simplistically as “the Septuagint,” pretty much summed up my qualifications to be considered a “Bible scholar,” strictly speaking. A little research into the history of the SBL and its presidents, however, helped put to rest any misgivings I may have entertained.6 From the outset, its founders chose to call it the society of “biblical” literature (and exegesis), not of “Bible” literature. And from the outset, many of its representatives were, like me, travelers along the margins of Bible studies proper. The very first president, Daniel Raynes Goodwin (1811–1890) began his stint while already a near septuagenarian and held the post for seven years (1880–87); he had made his mark as a teacher and a scholar, as well as an administrator and a churchman, especially in the fields of philology and “intellectual and moral philosophy,” with some attention to NT translations and thought. Interestingly, he had served as provost at my home institution, the University of Pennsylvania, from 1860 to 1868 before accepting the deanship of the Protestant Episcopal Philadelphia Divinity School, where he also taught until his death in 1890.7 In an address in 187 to his alma mater, Bowdoin College, he pre-

Robert A. Kraft, “To Her Excellency, Theophile (Luke 1., Acts 1.1),” read “by title” (i.e., there was no room for it on the program) at the SBL Middle Atlantic Section Annual Meeting, April 26, 196; idem, “PAULOS TARSEA (Pau'lo" Tarseva): Misunderstood Traditions about Paul in the Book of Acts” (unpublished). I collaborated with Emanuel Tov and wrote the section entitled “Description of the Materials” (pp. 1–19) in The Greek Minor Prophets Scroll from Nahִ al Hi ever (8Hi evXIIgr) (DJD 8; Oxford: Clarendon, 1990); and “Pliny on Essenes, Pliny on Jews,” DSD 8 (2001) [in honor of Emanuel Tov]: 2–61. 6 Information about the history of the Society has been garnered especially from Ernest W. Saunders, Searching the Scriptures: A History of the Society of Biblical Literature, 1880–1980 (SBLBSNA 8; Chico CA: Scholars Press, 1982). See also the reviews (available on JSTOR) by Martin Marty (JBL 10 [198]: 8–88) and William R. Farmer (CH [198]: 6–6), as well as the severe critique of the SBL by Hector Avalos, “The Ideology of the Society of Biblical Literature and the Demise of an Academic Profession,” on the 2006 SBL Forum site (http://www.sbl-site.org/Article .aspx?ArticleId=20). 7 The University of Pennsylvania Archives provide a brief biography with a picture (http:// www.archives.upenn.edu/histy/people/1800s/goodwin_daniel_r.html). A lengthy obituary (with bibliography) by J. Vaughan Merrick can be found in the Proceedings of the American Philological Society 8.1 (1890): 227–1 (now available online through JSTOR).

Kra: Para-mania

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sented his concept of a Christian liberal arts education as basic to the survival of civilization: All life is progressive; the college must be progressive or die. . . . If there be any folly greater than the pretended antithesis of science and religion, it is that other folly of the antithesis of science and classical learning. Let both go on together, each helping instead of hindering the other. Let us propose no such miserable alternatives as learning or science, science or religion; rather let our watchword and battle-cry be learning and science, science and religion, “now and forever, one and inseparable.”8

The issue of the relationship between science, religion, and classical learning became a recurring motif in SBL presidential addresses and discussions.9 While I do not intend to revisit that theme directly here, it should become obvious that, for me, learning responsibly about the ancient contexts from which derives what came to be “Bible” with associated religious interests is, well, paramount. While Goodwin can hardly be classified as primarily a “Bible scholar,” many of his colleagues and successors clearly were such—J. Henry Thayer, Benjamin W. Bacon, William Rainey Harper, James Hardy Ropes, et al. Yet we also encounter rather frequently in the SBL presidential ranks archaeologists and students of the ancient Near East of various shades,10 and more occasionally those whose “Bible studies” credentials are also relatively secondary.11 Indeed, in 189—also at the University of Pennsylvania—the Society held its first meeting jointly with other humanistic groups with interests in “philology and archaeology” (including the 8 Address before the alumni of Bowdoin college, July 8, 1873 (Brunswick, ME: Joseph Griffin, 187), 2 and 29–0; online at http://www.hti.umich.edu/cgi/t/text/text-idx?c=moa;idno=AGF799 .0001.001. 9 E.g., Julian Morgenstern’s programmatic presidential address in 191 (“The Society of Biblical Literature and Exegesis,” JBL 61 [192]: 1–10), when he saw the need for broadening the perspectives of “biblical science.” See also, among others, Frank Chamberlain Porter, “The Bearing of Historical Studies on the Religious Use of the Bible,” HTR 2 (1909): 2–76; James A. Montgomery, “Present Tasks of American Biblical Scholarship,” JBL 8 (1919): 1–1; Henry J. Cadbury, “Motives of Biblical Scholarship,” JBL 6 (197): 1–16; Morton Scott Enslin, “The Future of Biblical Studies,” JBL 6 (196): 1–12. 10 E.g., among others, David G. Lyon (1910), “On the Archaeological Exploration of Palestine,” JBL 0 (1911): 1–17; Albert T. Clay (1920), “A Recent Journey through Babylonia and Assyria” [unpublished in JBL]; William Frederic Badè (190), “Ceramics and History in Palestine,” JBL 0 (191): 1–19; Elihu Grant (19), “The Philistines,” JBL (196): 17–9, not to mention the very versatile William Foxwell Albright (199), “The Ancient Near East and the Religion of Israel,” JBL 9 (190): 8–112. 11 E.g., George Foot Moore (1898; 1899), “Jewish Historical Literature” (mentioned in the minutes from 1898, JBL 18 [1899]: iii) and “The Age of the Jewish Canon of Hagiographa” (mentioned in the minutes from 1899, JBL 19 [1900]: i); Richard J. H. Gottheil (190), “Some Early Jewish Bible Criticism,” JBL 22 (190): 1–12; Robert M. Grant (199), “Two Gnostic Gospels,” JBL 79 (1960): 1– 11, among others.

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“Spelling Reform Association”!)—a practice that fortunately still continues and hopefully will continue in one form or another.12 If “biblical” means focusing only or primarily on canonical scriptures—that is, on “the Bible” in whatever version (Jewish, Catholic, Protestant, independent)—I cannot claim to be a “biblical” scholar. If, however, the “-ical” of “biblical” means something like “similar to,” “along the lines of,” “defining itself in relation to,” then I’m not totally misplaced, nor are those of you who are similarly inclined. And as it turns out, both in terms of the history of the SBL and of its current programs, I have little reason to be concerned about being marginal or marginalized. “Biblical” studies today, in the contemporary SBL environment, teems with what I’m classifying as “para-scriptural” interests in the broadest senses.1 As many of you well know, para is a good Greek preposition that serves various functions. It can mean “beside,” as in “paraklete” (one called alongside to help, a lawyer or advocate) or “paratactic” (organized in symmetry, like the successive points in an outline; OK, “parallel” serves here as well), but it can also indicate “beyond” as the Oxford English Dictionary states, perhaps extending backwards even to the sense of “before.” Here is a summary version of the online OED entry for “para”:1 “analogous or parallel to, but separate from or going beyond, what is denoted by the root word,” with examples such as parafiscal, paragnosis, paraliturgical, paraphysical, and even parareligious and parachurch. We might add paralegal, paramedic, paramilitary, parapsychotic, paranormal, and a host of others. The other day, a lurker on an e-mail discussion list referred to himself as “parascholarly.” Check it out on Google!1 Intriguing is the undeveloped entry in 12 According to Saunders, “the twenty-eighth meeting in 189, held at the University of Pennsylvania, was the initial attempt of the Society to hold its meetings jointly with other societies dedicated to the humanities. . . . Billed as a ‘Congress of American Philologists,’ the program provided for some common sessions involving the American Oriental Society, American Philological Association, Modern Language Association, American Dialect Society, Spelling Reform Association(!), and the Archaeological Institute of America. . . . In 1900 the University of Pennsylvania again convened a ‘Congress of Philological and Archaeological Societies’ made up of the same seven associations . . . and in 1918, joint meetings were held with the Archaeological Institute of America and several other associations” (Searching the Scriptures, 1). The SBL was active in the founding of the ASOR in the late 1890s (ibid., 16), and the two groups have frequently met jointly, as they still do. The American Academy of Religion had its roots within the SBL, beginning in 1909 as a “conference of biblical instructors” (later the “National Association of Biblical Instructors,” which became the AAR in 196). Except for 1966–1969, the SBL and the AAR have held joint annual meetings to the present (see ibid., 2), although this practice will be interrupted again in 2008 with the next joint meeting planned for 2011. 1 For evidence, one need only look at the lists of “groups,” “seminars,” and “consultations” in the program book for this 2006 meeting (pp. 228–29). 1 Online OED (“draft revision June 200”), “para-, prefix1”—the 1989 2nd edition has: “‘by the side of, beside’, whence ‘alongside of, by, past, beyond’, etc.” 1 Google.com shows several hits for “parascholarly” and for “parascholar,” with various senses.

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the OED for the prefix para as “Forming words with the sense ‘protection from [something or other].’” Maybe that can also apply to some of the uses I’m exploring here! A useful example of a “para” word that functions in ways similar to my use of it here is “paradigm” and its adjective “paradigmatic.” While the root idea is something “along side of ” what is being examined (deiknuvnai), the result—the paradigm or working pattern that is produced (thus resulting from, going beyond the examples)—is often used to identify and explore further instances (invoking the paradigm before examining possibly similar materials), but it is also refined and corrected by those further instances in an ongoing reciprocal relationship.16 Thus,

·

the “scriptural” identifies, but also finds its broader context in the “parascriptural,” which much later becomes the “parabiblical” when the plural scriptures come to be treated as a unit;

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the “historical” alerts us to innumerable “parahistorical” elements that shape our assumptions and understanding as well as those that shaped our subjects’ perspectives;

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the “textual” that we often take for granted is dependent on and developed from “paratextual” investigations, both in constructing the text that we take for granted and in attempting to find its meanings;

·

the “literary” derives from complex settings, and also easily shades off into the less formalized “paraliterary” worlds and examples, including excerpts, anthologies, commentaries, writings for private or limited circulation, and the like;

·

those of you who have ever attempted to define “religious” are well aware of the “parareligious” complications, which I’ll happily bypass here.

And so it goes with most of the general terms and concepts we employ—all those ambiguities and loose ends, those things that don’t quite fit, constitute this often paradoxical universe of “para.” My plan now is to take you on some brief excursions along some of those parallel roadways that together can lead to the destination of fuller understanding of 16 Since 1962, the term “paradigm shift” (a radical, if often gradually developed, “revolution” in scientific theory to replace a basic viewpoint that has proved to be inadequate) has received a great deal of attention as a result of Thomas S. Kuhn’s book The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1962, 19702, 1996). For a detailed discussion, critical of the wide appropriation of the term in other fields, see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paradigm_shift (accessed January 6, 2007); on various senses of “paradigm,” see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paradigm (same date), citing among others Margaret Masterman, “The Nature of a Paradigm,” in Criticism and the Growth of Knowledge: Proceedings of the International Colloquium in the Philosophy of Science, London, 1965 (ed. Imre Lakatos and Alan Musgrave; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970), 9–89.

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the worlds alongside of which Jewish and Christian “biblical literature” in the strict canonical senses came into existence and left its impact. I want to develop briefly the following three main foci, which sometimes necessarily intersect and overlap, couched also in terms of perceived problems (as seen here): (1) the defining subject matter (historical starting point)—“Bible”—and the tyranny of canonical assumptions; (2) pathways to understanding, and the problem of textual myopia; () achieving/communicating understanding and the seduction of “simplicity” (or the problem of applying Ockham’s razor).

I. The Tyranny of Canonical Assumptions: The Parascriptural Worlds There was no “Bible” as we know it—that is, a set of sacred writings organized into a single physical object, the codex book—until well into the fourth century of the common era.17 Constantine the Great (d. 6), whose supposed vision of the heavenly cross and involvement in the Council of Nicaea in 2 c.e. are well known, requested that Eusebius of Caesarea (famous for his Church History) speedily prepare fifty copies of “the holy scriptures” (tw'n qeivwn . . . grafw'n) for use in the new churches that Constantine and his mother, Helena, were sponsoring in the incipient Christian Roman Empire centered in Constantinople.18 Eusebius at least took steps to comply—it was an impossibly large order, in terms of both the number of hides needed for the parchment pages and the time required of numerous skilled copyists, perhaps female as well as male, to complete the task.19 Even then, if “holy scriptures” meant all of the writings listed as “scriptural” a generation or so later by Athanasius in Egypt (Paschal/Easter Letter of 67), they probably could not be bound conveniently between one set of covers. Multiple volumes almost certainly would have been required.20 17 The classic treatment of the history of the codex is the 19 article (“The Codex”) by Colin H. Roberts, revised and updated by Theodore C. Skeat, The Birth of the Codex (London: Oxford University Press for the British Academy 198, repr., 1987). 18 Letter of Constantine, reproduced by Eusebius in his Life of Constantine .6, usually dated between 0 and ; see T. C. Skeat, “The Codex Sinaiticus, the Codex Vaticanus and Constantine,” JTS 0 (1999): 8–62 (reprinted in The Collected Biblical Writings of T. C. Skeat [ed. J. K. Elliott; Leiden: Brill, 200], 19–27). Skeat thinks the letter refers to the entire canonical scriptures as defined in Athanasius’s Easter/Paschal Letter of 67, although he notes that some scholars disagree (p. 216 n. 28). Page references are to the reprint version. 19 On female involvement in copying manuscripts, see, among others, Kim Haines-Eitzen, Guardians of Letters: Literacy, Power, and the Transmitters of Early Christian Literature (Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 2000). On details of such book production, see Christopher Calderhead, Illuminating the Word: The Making of the Saint John’s Bible (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 200). Skeat provides detailed estimates on the weight and other measurements of the codices to be sent by Eusebius to Constantine (“Codex Sinaiticus,” e.g., 217–18). 20 Vaticanus consists of 1,6 vellum pages; Sinaiticus is more fragmentary, with about 00

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This move to the physical unification of Christian “scriptures” in the megacodex format ultimately did produce complete Bibles (called “pandects”),21 sometimes still in multiple volumes, and a “paradigm shift” (see n. 16 above) in how one might think about “the Bible.” Most if not all of us have been weaned on that paradigm, and we sometimes speak unthinkingly of such things as “Philo’s Bible,” or “the Bible of Jesus and the early Christians,” or “the Hebrew Bible” and “the Septuagint.”22 But prior to Constantine’s time, we lack evidence for such physically unified collections, and certainly there is no evidence of single codices containing every writing that fourth-century writers such as Eusebius or Athanasius considered authoritative. I don’t mean to suggest that people were unable to conceive of a single “Bible” collection or even to gather such materials into one place, such as a container or cabinet or library room. But the unifying factor was not how the materials were bound, in the way we might think, but how they were listed and categorized, perhaps also how they were physically juxtaposed on shelves or in containers. If Paul had a “Bible” that he carried along with him on his travels—like the memorialized Roman litterati from about the same time, with scroll in the left hand and capsa by the left foot2—it probably would have looked like a large and sturdy mail pouch or hatbox, with rather limited capacity.2 Thus, it should not surprise us to hear vellum pages known in 191 (and several more now); and Alexandrinus is now bound in two volumes, containing 778 vellum pages. Skeat supposes that book boxes were prepared for Eusebius’s shipment, in each of which a complete copy could be enclosed safely (“Codex Sinaiticus,” 220). 21 The earliest known Greek pandects include Vaticanus (= B, th c.), Sinaiticus (= S or ‫א‬, th c.), Alexandrinus (= A, th c.). Most of the others are from the twelfth century or later (e.g., Rahlfs ##10, 106, , 68, 122); in Latin, the earliest is Amiatinus (Florence): “It is now the oldest surviving complete text of the Latin Bible. Seven scribes have been identified among its writers and decorators. It runs up to 100 folios, each double thick skins measuring 27½ inches by 20½, and weighs over 7 lbs. About 10 calves were required to provide the vellum. The Amiatinus and its lost sisters . . . give some indication of the learning, skill and wealth of Monkwearmouth/Jarrow in the seventh century” (The Biographical Dictionary of the Middle Ages, cited by E. M. Makepeace, http://www.umilta .net/pandect.html). 22 These and similar phrases abound in the literature and on the Internet, as will be evident from a few probes with your favorite search program. My own current preference is to refer to (1) “Jewish scriptures” (they aren’t entirely in “Hebrew” after all), emphasizing the plurality (scriptures) as well as the transmitters (Jewish), to (2) “LXX/OG,” calling attention to the heterogeneity of the gradually growing collection(s) of Greek Jewish scriptures, and to () “Jesus traditions” (in various versions, canonical or not), “early Christian literature,” and the like. For individual writings or groups that became canonical later on, terms such as “proto-canonical” or even “pre-canonical” might be useful, with careful definition. Also “scriptures” and “scriptural“ have their shortcomings in historical contexts where perhaps simply undifferentiated “books” are in view. 2 There are numerous Roman memorial statues from the early centuries of the common era in which the deceased is depicted in this manner: see http://ccat.sas.upenn.edu/rs/rak/publics/new2/ sbl2006-pics/Slide29.JPG and http://ccat.sas.upenn.edu/rs/rak/publics/new2/sbl2006-pics/Slide0 .JPG. 2 An image of a relatively large capsa (holding about twelve scrolls) was found in the Domitilla

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those ancients speak, as did Constantine, of “the holy scriptures,” in the plural,2 or even of ta; (. . .) bibliva—“the (plural) booklets”—in the literal sense of the plural Greek diminutive word bibliva, which ultimately came to take on the singular sense of “the Bible.”26 Origen of Alexandria and Caesarea, in the early third century, is rightly credited with emphasizing that the plural scriptures are to be viewed as a single book. He notes that “the preacher” warns against “the making of many books” (Qoh 12.12) and he even tries to beg off from multiplying his own already extensive writings.27 But with regard to “the divinely inspired scripture(s),” Origen recognizes plurality and speaks not of some sort of spatial physicality but of their unity of focus, in the context of his Platonic concept of the ideal Word and his somewhat fuzzy-edged canon usage (lacking, e.g., 2 Peter, 2– John).28 Although he was quite active in attempting to overcome some of the fragmentation present in his world of scrolls and mini-codices—witness his gigantic Hexapla project, to overcome the diversity of readings in the Greek Jewish scriptures as he knew them—he was not yet possessed of the one-book technology that would permit him actually to produce a copy of the unified scripture(s) under one set of covers. Origen’s unified catacomb in Rome, dated to the fourth century c.e. It also shows a flying codex above the capsa, for whatever reason; see http://ccat.sas.upenn.edu/rs/rak/publics/new2/sbl2006-pics/Slide1.JPG. 2 The online TLG data bank lists over 2,00 occurrences of the use of “holy” and “scriptures” within one line of each other, over 9 percent of them from the fourth century or later (from which, of course, most of the surviving Christian texts come). Clement of Alexandria and Origen show a significant increase of usage compared to earlier witnesses. 26 Reference to “the books” is often found in ancient texts (about sixty-five times in texts earlier than Aristeas and the Old Greek translations), and is used specifically of special Jewish books (i.e., scrolls) in Aristeas 9. (contrast 22.2); Kgdms [2 Kgs] 19.1; and especially 1 Macc (1.6, “of law”; 12.9, “holy”) and 2 Macc 2.1 (“of kings . . . prophets . . . David”). Josephus uses it of Jewish texts several times. The famous Pauline passage in 2 Tim .1 is ambiguous (“the books, especially the parchments”). When “the books” first came to be used to designate the collection of canonical scriptures is unclear to me, but the online OED (under “Bible”) suggests that Origen may have done so in the early third century (Commentary on John . [but see n. 27 below]). “In Latin, the first appearance of biblia is not ascertained. Jerome uses bibliotheca for the scriptures, and this name continued in literary use for several centuries.” OED gives no Latin example before the ninth century. 27 Origen, in his Commentary on John at .–6, cites Qoh 12.12 (“my son, avoid making many books”) and states that “all the sacred (scriptures) are one book, but ‘many (books)’ are the ones that are outside of those.” For Origen, Christ is the one Word, written about in all the scriptures, quoting Ps 9[0].8[7]—“In the chapter of the book it is written concerning me.” Origen’s demurral about writing is a special case, since he argues that false accusations from Celsus do not require or deserve a response—after all, Jesus was silent before his accusers (Contra Celsum, prologue). 28 Origen’s canon, as reported by his admirer Eusebius (Hist. Eccl. 6.2, citing Origen’s lost Selections from Psalms), includes “22 Hebrew books” (and he gives their Hebrew names). Apparently Origen found the following works in one scroll or mini-codex: Judges and Ruth, 1 and 2 Kingdoms (= 1–2 Samuel), and Kingdoms (= 1–2 Kings), 1–2 Paraleipomena [Chronicles], 1 and 2 Esdras, Jeremiah and Lamentations with the Epistle of Jeremiah. He also mentions “the Maccabees” as “outside” books. Origin also knows and uses materials found in our “NT,” but no similar comprehensive list from him has survived.

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Bible book was an ideal, to be realized concretely through lists—such as the much later one in the codex Amiatinus29—and through collections of scrolls and minicodices. Prior to the development of the mega-codices of the fourth century and beyond, it is unusual to find more than one or two books of the size of Genesis or Matthew together under one set of codex covers.0 It is possible that at least the Pauline epistles, or even all four canonical Gospels were brought together in earlysecond-century codices, and certainly by the end of the second century, but even then, it is a far cry from having an entire NT, much less an entire Bible as we have come to know it.1 The same can be said about the Five Books of Moses, although the possibility of having them all in a single codex prior to the fourth century is probably even more remote.2 Such small collections, of course, could easily be kept together in a special container or location. Portability would be very limited. Working our way back, we come to the world of scrolls—a world that continues well beyond the time of Origen, especially outside of Christian (and perhaps Greek Jewish) circles. A single scroll might be expected to hold a work of the length of Genesis or Matthew, and although theoretically a scroll could be enlarged almost ad infinitum, in actuality the limits seem to be fairly firm. Understandably, the 29 The Latin codex Amiatinus, from the early eighth century, gives lists of scriptural books (scriptura omnia) grouped under “OT” (vetus) and “NT” (novum) (see also n. 21 above). 0 Early mini-codices containing multiple texts include P.Baden 6 (Exod and Deut, papyrus = 907, late second cent. c.e.), P.Chester Beatty 6 (Num and Deut, papyrus = 96, ca. 200 c.e.), P.Chester Beatty 2 (Pauline corpus = p6, ca. 200 c.e.), P.Chester Beatty 9 (Ezek and Daniel and Esther = 967, papyrus third cent. c.e.), P.Antinoopolis 8 (Prov and Wisdom of Solomon and Sirach = 928, papyrus third cent. c.e.), P.Michigan 662 (Matt and Acts = p, third cent. c.e.), P.Bodmer 1–1 (Luke and John = p7, third cent. c.e.), P.Chester Beatty 1 (Gospels = p, third cent. c.e.), P.Washington Freer (Minor Prophets, papyrus = W, late third cent. c.e.), P.Bodmer 6 (Thucydides and Daniel and Susannah, papyrus third/fourth cent. c.e.), P.Bodmer 7–8 (1–2 Peter and Jude = p72, third/fourth cent. c.e.). Skeat argues that the oldest manuscript of the four Gospels is represented by p (Luke) + p6 (Matthew) + p67 (Matthew), from which he reconstructs a single-quire codex dating to the last decades of the second century, while recognizing divergent scholarly judgments (“The Oldest Manuscript of the Four Gospels,” NTS [1997]: 1–; reprinted in Elliott, Collected Biblical Writings [above n. 18], 18–92). 1 Skeat has suggested that early Christians may have developed the codex to authorize the four canonical Gospels to the exclusion of other competing Gospels (“The Origin of the Christian Codex,” ZPE 102 [199]: 26–68; reprinted in Elliott, Collected Biblical Writings [above n. 18], 79– 87); David Trobisch argues that the thirteen Pauline epistles were collected into an early codex (The First Edition of the New Testament [New York: Oxford University Press, 2000]); see online his “The Oldest Extant Editions of the Letters of Paul” (http://www.religion-online.org/showarticle.asp?title= 91: 1999). 2 All of the pre–fourth-century codices are fragmentary, and thus it cannot be determined unambiguously whether we might sometimes have pieces of the same codex written in different scribal hands. But barring such problems, the evidence for possible early Jewish codices is collected in my online discussions, “Early Jewish and Early Christian Copies of Greek Jewish Scriptures” (http://ccat.sas.upenn.edu/rs/rak/earlylxx/jewishpap.html). For an attempt to determine the length of a standard papyrus roll, see T. C. Skeat, “The

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earliest codices, from the end of the first century c.e. onward, tended to replicate the contents of the existing scrolls—thus the appearance of “mini-codices” in the second century and at the time of Origen. The technological transfer from scroll to codex was more gradual in the general Greek-Roman world than in Christian circles—and probably slower yet in classical Semitic Jewish contexts, although what was happening among Greekspeaking Jews at the same time remains mostly a mystery.6 In case you hadn’t noticed, we are dealing already with “para-history”—the often unnoticed contexts in which the main lines of reconstructed history take place. So what does this all mean for the discussion of “biblical” canon and the like? Rather than thinking about “Bible” in the sense of a comprehensive codex book that could give clear definition to its unity and its contents, even Origen was faced with a plurality of writings—“scriptures”—to be listed and if possible collected for firsthand use by those who could afford them. Origen was familiar with libraries in his native Alexandria,7 and associated himself with one at Caesarea on the Palestinian coast when he relocated there. It was the setting in which Eusebius also worked over half a century later, and with great respect for Origen and his accomplishments.8 We have some evidence of scriptural lists prior to Origen and the Length of the Standard Papyrus Roll and the Cost-advantage of the Codex,” ZPE (1982): 169–7 (reprinted in Elliott, Collected Biblical Writings [above n. 18], 6–70). See n. 0 above, and E. G. Turner, The Typology of the Early Codex (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1977). The evidence for transitions from scroll to codex in the “pagan” and “Christian” worlds has been presented by Roberts and Skeat, Birth of the Codex, –—almost all remains of “Christian” writings from the second century onward are in codex form, while “pagan” literature from the second century is less than 10 percent on codices. By the early fourth century, the ratio of scroll to codex in “pagan” literature has begun to tip in favor of codices. 6 On possible early Jewish Greek codices, see also n. 2 above. The old rule of thumb that if something is in codex form, it must be Christian, requires reevaluation. The strongest candidates for early Jewish codices, using such factors as the representation of the Tetragrammaton as evidence, include P.Oxy. 66 of Gen 1–27 (second/third cent. c.e.), P.Oxy. 1007 of Gen 2– (third cent. c.e.). See http://ccat.sas.upenn.edu/rs/rak/earlylxx/jewishpap.html#earlymss and http://ccat.sas.upenn .edu/rs/rak/lxxjewpap/tetragram.jpg. The Greek fragments of Aquila in a fifth- to sixth-century Cairo Geniza palimpsest codex also deserve mention (http://ccat.sas.upenn.edu/rs/rak/publics/new2/ sbl2006-pics/Slide.JPG). See further Nicholas de Lange, Greek Jewish Texts from the Cairo Genizah (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1996). See n. below on evidence from palimpsests and reused scrolls. 7 For an extensive discussion concerning the ancient library in Alexandria, see Moustafa ElAbbadi (1998) at http://www.greece.org/alexandria/library/library1.htm. For a recreation of how the library may have looked (UNESCO), see http://www.unesco.org/webworld/worlds/stills/fullsize/ exqn.jpg (alternate site http://ccat.sas.upenn.edu/rs/rak/publics/new2/sbl2006-pics/Slide0.JPG) and (the “stacks”), http://www.unesco.org/webworld/worlds/stills/fullsize/scrolls.jpg (alternate site http://ccat.sas.upenn.edu/rs/rak/publics/new2/sbl2006-pics/Slide.JPG). 8 See Anthony Grafton and Megan Williams, Christianity and the Transformation of the Book: Origen, Eusebius, and the Library of Caesarea (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006).

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problematic “Muratorian canon.”9 Melito of Sardis in Asia Minor is reputed to have researched and made a list near the end of the second century.0 He is also reported to have created a collection of scriptural excerpts (“testimonia” ), a practice not unknown in Jewish circles, especially for the convenience of someone who did not have access to the full collection. Around the same time, or slightly earlier than Melito, Marcion also had his list of ten Pauline writings and a para-Lukan Gospel; perhaps they all could fit into a mini-codex in the late second century.1 We know little about whether the Jewish synagogues or the “associations” formed by Christians would have had libraries in this early period. In general, our knowledge about local and/or personal libraries is quite limited—of course, besides whatever the Dead Sea Scrolls represent, there is Alexandria in Egypt, and Pergamum in western Asia Minor, and Herculaneum in the shadow of Vesuvius in Italy as early examples.2 Nor do we know much about the bookselling trade, and whether there were formalized book-lending facilities.

9 The date and provenance of the “Muratorian canon” have been much discussed and debated.

If the list did indeed originate in the late second century, it would predate Origen and be roughly contemporaneous with Melito (see next note). See Geoffrey Mark Hahneman, The Muratorian Fragment and the Development of the Canon (Oxford Theological Monographs; Oxford: Clarendon, 1992); Albert C. Sundberg, Jr., “Canon Muratori: A Fourth Century List,” HTR 66 (197): 1–1. 0 Melito’s letter to Onesimos, reported in Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 26.12–1: “Since you have often requested to have extracts from the law and the prophets concerning the savior and our entire faith, and to learn accurately about the ancient books, as to their number and their order, I have hastened to do this. . . . Thus when I went east and came to the place where these things were proclaimed and done, and learned accurately the books of the old covenant, I sent this information to you. [The list follows here.] From which I also have made the extracts, dividing them into six books.” Presumably Melito was not sufficiently informed and/or confident about information available in the Sardis area and thus checked things more precisely during his trip to the “east.” 1 Literature on Marcion is extensive. Still foundational is Adolf von Harnack, Marcion: Das Evangelium vom Fremden Gott (German orig., Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1921, 1922; partial English translation by John E. Steely and Lyle D. Bierma; Marcion: The Gospel of the Alien God [Durham, NC: Labyrinth, 1990]); see also John Knox, Marcion and the New Testament: An Essay in the Early History of the Canon (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 192); E. C. Blackman, Marcion and His Influence (London: SPCK, 198); R. Joseph Hoffmann, Marcion, On the Restitution of Christianity: An Essay on the Development of Radical Paulinist Theology in the Second Century (AAR Academy Series 6; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 198); and Trobisch, First Edition, and “Oldest Extant Editions.” 2 For a recent convenient survey of the situation, see David Sider, The Library of the Villa dei Papiri at Herculaneum (Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum, 200). Other evidence is discussed in some detail by Rosa Otranto, Antiche liste di libri su papiro (Rome: Edizioni di storia e letteratura, 2000); see also Harry Y. Gamble. Books and Readers in the Early Church: A History of Early Christian Texts (New Haven: Yale University Press, 199). Research on ancient libraries is currently being conducted by George W. Houston (University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill); see, e.g., “The Smaller Libraries of Roman Egypt” (online precis from March 200 at http://www.camws.org/ meeting/ 200/abstracts200/houston.html). On booksellers and bookselling, see Eduard Stemplinger, Buchhandel im Altertum (Tusculum-Schriften 9; Munich, 19); and Tönnes Kleberg, Bokhandel och bokförlag i antiken (Ger-

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As a side note in this para-discussion, we also know little about the used papyri and parchment market, although it is clear from surviving materials that many texts (literary and documentary alike) enjoyed a second life as reused writing surfaces. Examples are a fifth/sixth-century codex of Aquila’s Greek translation of Kings overwritten with an eleventh-century Hebrew liturgical text, and a third-century scroll of Exodus reused on the other side within a couple of generations to transcribe the Apocalypse. So how do we conceptualize “the Bible” in such circumstances? Physically, even if one has some sort of list, there is lots of room for loose edges, unless the list is quite restrictive (such as, perhaps, Marcion’s seems to have been). General categories such as “law” (or perhaps “Moses”), prophets, histories, psalms, gospels, acts, letters, or apocalypses receive mention. Exactly what is contained in each is not always clear. It is unlikely that many people were in a position actually to see much of this material. Philo in Alexandria and Clement and Origen after him are probably exceptions, as also Ben Sira’s grandson the translator, also in Alexandria.6

man translation by Ernst Zunker, Buchhandel und Verlagswesen in der Antike; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1967). If the Aquila text (with the Tetragrammaton in paleo-Hebrew letters) originated in a Greek Jewish context, it would be one of the earliest known examples of a Jewish biblical codex (see n. 6 above). We are told in Justinian’s edict (sixth century) that Aquila was to be used in Jewish synagogues, but the presence of many Christian Greek texts (including fragments of Augustine) among the Cairo Geniza palimpsests complicates the picture. If the Exodus text of the P.Oxy. 107 scroll is Jewish in origin, it attests the use of the shortened Greek Tetragrammaton equivalent (KURIOU to KU overlined) in Greek Jewish circles. For other examples of similar “reuse,” see the online Duke list (http://scriptorium.lib.duke.edu/papyrus/texts/material-aspects.html). A detailed study of such phenomena would be useful. Josephus refers to “Moses” and “the prophets after Moses,” along with four other books (Ag. Ap. 1.8–1). For him, “prophetic succession” seems a crucial criterion. The translator of the Wisdom of Jesus Ben Sira three times refers to “law, prophets” and “the rest” that followed (Prologue). In Luke 2. we find “law of Moses, prophets, and the psalms.” For other listings, see Lee Martin McDonald, “Primary Sources for the Study of the Old Testament/Hebrew Bible Canon,” and “Primary Sources for the Study of the New Testament Canon,” Appendices A–B in The Canon Debate (ed. Lee Martin McDonald and James A. Sanders; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2002), 80–8; also online at http://www.bible.ca/b-canon-resource-list-macdonald.htm). The Pinakes of Callimachus (midthird century b.c.e.), of which fragments survive, includes the following categories of literature in the Alexandrian library: rhetoric, law, epic, tragedy, comedy, lyric poetry, history, medicine, mathematics, natural science, and miscellaneous (see http://www.greece.org/alexandria/library/library11.htm; also http://www.greece.org/alexandria/library/library1.htm). See Rudolf Blum, Kallimachos: The Alexandrian Library and the Origins of Bibliography (German orig., 1977; English translation by Hans H. Wellisch; Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1991). 6 We cannot assume that everyone with literary connections who lived in Alexandria actually made use of that fabled library or was somehow influenced by its presence. Still, the intellectual climate of Alexandria probably contributed to raised consciousness about books, and perhaps also increased the availability of books.

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Josephus in his privileged context in Jerusalem is likewise unusual in this regard.7 But in general, then as now, most people must have depended on secondary transmissions for what they thought they knew—public or private word of mouth, whether associated with an institution such as a school, a synagogue, or an underground church, or in social and family contexts. Those who could read and who had time and opportunity to do so might have seen some full texts, but also excerpts of various sorts (e.g., summaries of laws, or quotable sayings, or prophetic “testimonia”).8 All of these constituted “scriptures” in some sense and could be referred to as such, usually without much specificity or detail. The “tyranny of canonical assumptions” is the temptation to impose on those ancients whom we study our modern ideas about what constituted “scripture” and how it was viewed. Illustrations from contemporary literature are not difficult to find, even from those who know better. Philologically, at the micro level, how often have you seen “the Septuagint” treated as a homogenous unit from which one can draw examples as though all the texts came from the same translator at the same time? Or even “the NT,” for that matter, as though it were a single-authored lump. And, of course, there is “the Hebrew (or Masoretic) text,” referring to the heterogeneous collection itself.9 What have we learned when we find a term or expression that occurs a certain number of times in one of these? Historically responsible 7 Josephus grew up in association with the Jerusalem temple and claims that it contained writ-

ten records (see Ant. .1.7 §8: the Exod 17.6 account is found in a writing [grafhv] stored in the temple; .1.17 §61: the account of Joshua’s lengthened day [Josh 10:1] is found in the writings [gravmmata] stored in the temple). Relating to earlier times, there are references to books stored in the temple (e.g., “the book of the law” under Josiah [2 Kgs 22.8–1], which Josephus reports as “the holy books of Moses” [Ant. 10..2 §8]) or at least in the Jerusalem area (by Nehemiah and later by Judas Maccabee [2 Macc 2.1–1]) and to the destruction of such books (see Ezra .2 and 1.21). But we lack detailed information as to whether the Jerusalem temple ever housed a more extensive or formal library, or who might have had access to such. Like Alexandria, the atmosphere in Jerusalem probably encouraged knowledge of respected and/or available literature, at least while the temple was standing. 8 For a recent overview, see Martin C. Albl, And Scripture Cannot Be Broken: The Form and Function of the Early Christian Testimonia Collections (NovTSup 96; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 1999). Various types of excerpting are attested in early Jewish and early Christian contexts: e.g., QTestimonia and Florilegium, Melito (above, n. 0), Cyprian’s Ad Quirinum (ed. W. Hartel, CSEL, 1868–71), Ps.Epiphanius’s Testimony Book (ed. and trans. Robert V. Hotchkiss; SBLTT ; Early Christian Literature 1; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 197), Eusebius’s Preparation of the Gospel (ed. and trans. E. H. Gifford; 190; online at http://www.tertullian.org/fathers/eusebius_pe_00_eintro.htm). Excerpting was also practiced in the “pagan” world; see, e.g., the “logoi sofōn” discussions by James Robinson [SBL President 1981] and Helmut Koester [SBL President 1991], in Trajectories through Early Christianity (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1971). 9 Some examples: in VT 1 (1991): 20, using “the LXX” as a shorthand for the Greek of the particular passage under discussion (similarly “the MT” later in the article); or in JBL 12 (2006): 1, referring to “Biblical Hebrew” as a linguistic entity in which nuances can be sought (presumably he means the sorts of Hebrew usages attested by the biblical anthology).

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philological work, of course, does not pay attention to these boundaries, either as limits (why not also look at appropriate extracanonical materials?) or as touchstones (why should the Greek—or Hebrew—of Isaiah be uncritically lumped together with the Greek—or Hebrew—of Psalms?). Perhaps more serious, at least for historical reconstruction, is the failure to recognize that those whom we study are not necessarily playing by our rules. When they say “scripture” (or the like—they don’t say “Bible”), they might refer to literature or traditions different from those we recognize, or even to materials antecedent to or derived from what has survived for us.0 We know that some of what came to be canonical scriptures in the emerging history of “the Bible” used earlier sources. Sometimes the author-compilers even claim that they did—“such and such was written in the books of the kings of Israel and Judah,” or, “many before me have attempted to do what I’m about to do,” and the like.1 Why do we tend to assume that such sources—even if we are skeptical about the precise ones mentioned— ceased to exist once they had been used, enscripturated? It is equally likely that some of them survived, at least for a time, and exerted an influence on other users and creators of “sources.” This illustrates “parascriptural” in the sense of before (antecedent materials), and beside (alternate tellings). But there is also the “beyond” —the continued development (or metamorphosis) of our identified “scriptures” into other versions, by way of translation, or expansion and incorporation, or through excerpting and summarizing, and the like. But this brings us to my second major caveat.

II. The Problem of Textual Myopia: The Paratextual Worlds Our most direct gateway to the thoughts and perceptions of the ancient world is through the preserved texts.2 I have no argument with that observation. But too often we forget, or fail to pay attention to, the various contexts in which those texts were produced. Most of them have past histories, whether in terms of sources col0 See, e.g., the classic collection by A. Resch, Agrapha: Aussercanonische Schriftfragmente. Gesammelt und untersucht und in zweiter völlig neu bearbeiteter durch alttestamentliche Agrapha vermehrter Auflage hrsg. von Alfred Resch. Mit fünf Registern [Extra-canonical scripture fragments, collected and studied, and presented in a second fully reworked edition expanded with reference to OT Agrapha, with five indices] (1889; TUGAL 0.–, n.F. 1.–; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1906). 1 E.g., Num 21.1 (the Book of the Wars of the Lord), Josh 10.1 and 2 Sam 1.18 (the Book of Jashar), 1 Kgs 11.1 (the Book of the Acts of Solomon), 1 Kgs 1.19 et passim (the Book of the Acts of the Kings of Israel, or of Judah); Luke 1.1–; etc. 2 This section focuses on “text” in its narrower sense referring to written material. For modern theoretical discussions of what constitutes “text,” see Elizabeth A. Clark, History, Theory, Text: Historian and the Linguistic Turn (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 200), chapter 7, and n. 6 below.

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lected and compiled or in relation to one or more earlier editions (“evolved literature”). Seldom do we have access to an “original” directly from its author or compiler. We see the texts in some sort of static form, usually as cleaned up and edited by a modern scholar or scholarly group. For the most part, we have little choice. Each of us cannot be expected to do everything involved in deciphering manuscripts and generating text editions. That is one fascinating aspect of paratextuality that I can only note in passing here. But even the texts we use tell us that we should be alert to the paratextual worlds. When specific sources are mentioned, as in the use of quotation formulas or with references such as “the Books of the Kings of Israel and/or Judah” in the Jewish scriptural texts of Samuel–Kings and Chronicles (n. 1 above), shouldn’t this alert us to the possibility that such materials may have existed and left their impact also on other parts of the surviving evidence? Will all sources of that nature that we can no longer identify have disappeared almost immediately once the protoscriptural books were issued? When the author of Luke informs Theophile and any other readers that “many before me have drawn up and passed along accounts that have inspired me to compile the present work” (1.1–), do we imagine that none of that material survived outside of the canonical texts? The later Greeks called the books of Chronicles “Paraleipomena,” “leftovers” or “remainders,” and it is not unlikely that other such “para” literature has been influential in the construction of some of the “extracanonical” materials of which we are aware. But those are still inscribed texts, even if later judged inferior, or if lost along the way. My concept of the paratextual extends also to nontextual transmission of traditional materials, whether originally derived from texts, or originating and surviving from the outset without reference to texts. We often hear talk about “oral traditions,” and the minstrels who would have transmitted them, even while we depend on surviving written texts to unlock such secrets (e.g., Homer, Psalms).6 On evolved literature, see Robert A. Kraft, Barnabas and The Didache: A Translation and Commentary, vol. of The Apostolic Fathers: A New Translation and Commentary (ed. R. M. Grant; New York: Nelson, 1962), 1–2 (a periodically updated version is available online at http://ccat.sas .upenn.edu/rs/rak/publics/barn/barndidintro.htm). Understanding the processes involved in creating textual editions is an important component of scholarly awareness. For a useful bibliographical introduction to these materials, see http://www.the-orb.net/wemsk/textcritwemsk.html, compiled by James Marchand (WEMSK = “What Every Medievalist Should Know”). It is not clear when and under what circumstances the Greek translations of 1–2 Chronicles came to be called “Paral(e)ipomena.” The earliest evidence of which I am aware is Melito (and Origen) according to Eusebius (n. 28 above). Nor is it clear that this was already a title in use in the Greek-speaking world at large. In Jewish and Christian circles, the title also appears for most manuscripts of “Paraleipomena Jeremiou,” and in two references in Testament of Job (0.1; 1.6). Based on content, such works as LAB or even Deuteronomy could easily be labeled “Remainders” (depending, of course, on what is assumed to be the basis of comparison). 6 See, e.g., the survey article by Robert C. Culley, “Oral Tradition and Biblical Studies,” Oral Tradition 1 (1986): 0–6 (available online; Culley’s 196 dissertation was published as Oral Formu-

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That is but the tip of a very large iceberg. Even today, with other sorts of minstrels at work, much of what we think we know comes to us in nontextual, less formalized ways, through hearing of various sorts. Grandmothers are crucial, along with teachers and newspeople, and the like. Often that material comes to the transmitters directly from texts, but also often not. It has been observed that if modern estimates about literacy in antiquity are even approximately accurate, people with the ability to read texts were few.7 Fewer still were those who could write texts. If the texts that have survived made any significant impact on groups of people in antiquity, it must have been mainly by hearing them read or recited or reported or reused. Even if the hearers had prodigious memories, as is sometimes claimed, oral transmission would be no more accurate than written transmission, and probably less so. Anyone who has dabbled seriously in text-critical matters is aware of the range of flexibility there—perhaps some of it caused by copyists remembering alternative wording they had heard or read, as well as through muddled hearing (and speaking) problems encountered when laic Language in the Biblical Psalms [Near and Middle East Series ; Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1967]), and the 1989 SBL presidential address by Paul J. Achtemeier, “Omne verbum sonat: The New Testament and the Oral Environment of Late Western Antiquity” (JBL 109 [1990]: –27). On orality in rabbinic Jewish tradition, see Martin S. Jaffee, Torah in the Mouth: Writing and Oral Tradition in Palestinian Judaism 200 BCE–400 CE (Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 200); and Elizabeth Shanks Alexander, Transmitting Mishnah: The Shaping Influence of Oral Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006). More generally, pioneers in the modern study of oral tradition include especially Milman Parry and his student Albert Bates Lord: see The Making of Homeric Verse: The Collected Papers of Milman Parry (ed. Adam Parry; Oxford: Clarendon, 1971; repr., New York: Arno, 1980); and Albert Bates Lord, The Singer of Tales (Harvard Studies in Comparative Literature 2; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1960; supplemented ed., 2000). See also Walter J. Ong, Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word (New Accents; London/New York: Methuen, 1972); John Miles Foley, The Theory of Oral Composition: History and Methodology (Folkloristics; Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1988); Rosalind Thomas, Oral Tradition and Written Record in Classical Athens (Cambridge Studies in Oral and Literate Culture 18; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989 [1992, 200]); eadem, Literacy and Orality in Ancient Greece (Key Themes in Ancient History; New York: Cambridge University Press, 1992). The Center for Studies in Oral Tradition at the University of Missouri-Columbia was founded by Foley and publishes the journal Oral Tradition (1986–), now free online (http://journal.oraltradition.org) as well as an extensive annotated bibliography (http://oraltradition.org/bibliography/). 7 See Alan K. Bowman and Greg Woolf, eds., Literacy and Power in the Ancient World (Cambridge/New York: Cambridge University Press, 199); William V. Harris, Ancient Literacy (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989 [1991]), and more generally H. I. Marrou, A History of Education in Antiquity (trans. George Lamb; New York: Sheed & Ward, 196). See also Thomas, Literacy and Orality (n. 6 above). According to Meir Bar-Ilan (“Illiteracy in the Land of Israel in the First Centuries C.E.,” in Essays in the Social Scientific Study of Judaism and Jewish Society, vol. 2 [ed. S. Fishbane, S. Schoenfeld and A. Goldschlaeger; New York: Ktav, 1992]), “under Roman rule the Jewish literacy rate improved in the Land of Israel. However, rabbinic sources support evidence that the literacy rate was less than percent” (end; online at http://faculty.biu.ac.il/~barilm/illitera.html).

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copies were made from dictation.8 For the study of Hebrew and Aramaic scriptures, the Dead Sea Scrolls have opened more widely a window that already existed through the study of the Greek translations—for those who were paying attention— as well as showing extensive parascriptural and paratextual developments from a relatively early period in Jewish history, prior to the development of restrictive canonical assumptions.9 The paratextual world, then, was (and still is) full of surprises, from minor slips in preparing copies of texts to major modifications in the construction and transmission of “new” material, or in creating variations on older themes. This should not surprise anyone who has attempted to deal with the history of Israel’s kings, or the stories about Jesus found in the NT Gospels. What is surprising is that lessons learned from those studies are not always recognized as applicable to the wider questions of information transmission. Somehow the special status given to works protected by canonical assumptions serves to blind us to the ongoing processes that were in operation in the production of proto-canonical, and postcanonical works.60 I’m not about to tell you that the newly discovered Gospel of Judas is historically accurate or that the sayings attributed to Jesus in the Coptic Gospel of Thomas reflect his very words or thoughts61 or that David and Solomon produced all the psalms and spells attributed to them.62 These materials came through various fil8 For discussions about possible dictation, see T. C. Skeat, “The Use of Dictation in Ancient Book Production,” Proceedings of the British Academy 2 (196): 179–208 (reprinted in Elliott, Collected Biblical Writings [n. 18 above], –2). 9 For recent discussions of “canon” in the light of the Dead Sea Scrolls, see James C. VanderKam, From Revelation to Canon: Studies in the Hebrew Bible and Second Temple Literature (JSJSup 62; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2002); Eugene Ulrich, “The Non-attestation of a Tripartite Canon in QMMT,” CBQ 6 (200): 202–1 (among other titles); and the collection The Canon Debate (n. above). On the question of alternate versions, the existence of the shorter form of Jeremiah in Hebrew (as in the Old Greek) is striking, as are the various collections of psalms and hymns, and the wide variety of previously known as well as unknown parascriptural texts. 60 Here I have in mind the wide range of possibilities that stand between the creation of textual material and the production of what has survived for us. Generally speaking, the “pre-canonical” texts went through the same sort of development that is so often claimed for the parascriptural. 61 E.g., Bart D. Ehrman, The Lost Gospel of Judas Iscariot: A New Look at Betrayer and Betrayed (Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 2006); Rudolphe Kasser, Marvin Meyer, and Gregor Wurst, The Gospel of Judas (Washington, DC: National Geographic Society, 2006); Herbert Krosney, The Lost Gospel: The Quest for the Gospel of Judas Iscariot (Washington, DC: National Geographic Society, 2006); Robert McQueen Grant [SBL President, 199] in collaboration with David Noel Freedman [SBL President, 1976], The Secret Sayings of Jesus, with an English translation of the Gospel of Thomas by William R. Schoedel (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1960); Marvin Meyer, Gospel of Thomas: The Hidden Sayings of Jesus, with an interpretation by Harold Bloom (San Francisco: HarperSan Francisco, 1992). 62 The claim in 11QPsalmsa 27.–11 is striking: David wrote ,600 psalms, 6 daily liturgical

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ters present in their paratextual worlds and need to be understood in those contexts. But exactly the same things are true of the canonical psalms and the fourth canonical Gospel, and, yes, even of the much studied Synoptic Gospels. All these texts have histories, go through modifications, and reflect viewpoints, Mark no less than Thomas, Deuteronomy no less than the Temple Scroll. And if, indeed, the earliest followers of Jesus through whom such traditions were transmitted, or created, were Semitic language speakers, an additional level of paratextual considerations is introduced to further complicate an already highly complex picture. The surviving texts may be our main gateway to the pasts they are thought to report, but the actual pasts are much fuller than the texts on which we initially depend. And all texts, canonical or not, have value for our attempts to reconstruct the processes that brought us the information we claim to have. For this purpose, I’ve been using “text” mainly in its restrictive sense, to refer to complete writings that we usually identify with a producer (author/compiler) and to which we ascribe titles (see n. 2 above)—published written products that have survived, as it were. But the paratextual world is much broader than those items in their various forms, embracing also the materials studied through art and archaeology, liturgy and song, communication at every level including language and idiom in its various developments. Failure to pay attention to that big picture impoverishes our research proportionately, which leads to my final warning.

III. The Seduction of “Simplicity”: The Parahistorical Worlds (Or the Problem of Applying Ockham’s Razor) My life is not simple, uncomplicated—is yours? (I’m expecting a negative response.) Nor were theirs. Most time for most people probably was taken up with the necessities—feeding the body; fending off the natural elements of sun and rain, hot and cold; defending against disease, animals, and antagonistic humans; producing/raising and protecting progeny—in short, survival, individually and also as a group (family).6 Our primary texts usually give a very unbalanced story, highlighting the unusual and assuming or ignoring the rest. Even if there was no exodus from Egypt of biblical proportions—I don’t know—there were people on the move at various times going various places.6 And when they settled down, the songs, 2 sabbath liturgical songs, 0 festal liturgical songs, and exorcistic songs — for a total of ,00—all through the spirit of prophecy. 6 On various aspects of ancient life, see Michael Grant and Rachel Kitzinger, eds., Civilization of the Ancient Mediterranean: Greece and Rome ( vols.; New York: Scribner, 1988); Jack M. Sasson et al., eds., Civilizations of the Ancient Near East ( vols.; New York: Scribner, 199); and at a less detailed level, Charles Freeman, Egypt, Greece, and Rome: Civilizations of the Ancient Mediterranean (Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 1999). 6 For recent discussions of “the exodus,” see Carol A. Redmount, “Bitter Lives: Israel in and out

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same sorts of problems were present. How did they obtain food, apart from the occasional miracle? How were they sheltered? How was clothing produced? Or implements for everyday life (utensils, containers, thread, needles, looms) or for warfare (spears, arrows, axes)? What sort of public and personal hygiene would there have been? Did people wash in the water they drank (or drink the water they washed in)? Did they even wash on any regular basis? What provisions for toilet needs were there? For birthing and nursing and menstruation? How were sicknesses and plagues handled? What sorts of foods and medicines were available, and how were they obtained and distributed?6 I don’t suppose that most of these questions need to be settled before one can read the psalms with appreciation or commiserate with Paul over the problems he encountered or imagined in Corinth. On the other hand, understanding some of the language found in the Psalms, or in somewhat different (more practical?) contexts in Proverbs or Sirach, is assisted by one’s understanding of the life settings of the authors or compilers. And knowing what life was like in Corinth, or what Paul assumed to be correct conduct, will certainly help in reading those letters intelligently. The complex parahistorical world is perhaps best represented through the imaginations of well-informed novelists, who attempt to recreate a feeling for what it may have been like “back then.” Presumably you have your favorites—and the ones you like to laugh at, or shudder at, for various reasons.66 And of course, if and when they hit the big screen, they may become topics more broadly discussed— even the focus of academic study—or joked about on late night TV.67 I’ve often

of Egypt,” ch. 2 in The Oxford History of the Biblical World (ed. Michael D. Coogan; New York: Oxford University Press, 1998); E. S. Frerichs and L. H. Lesko, eds., Exodus: The Egyptian Evidence (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1997); James K. Hoffmeier, Israel in Egypt: The Evidence for the Authenticity of the Exodus Tradition (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997). 6 On ancient technology, see Robert James Forbes, Studies in Ancient Technology (9 vols.; Leiden: Brill, 19– [2nd ed., 196–; reissued, 1997–]); also selections in the volumes edited by Grant and Kitzinger and Sasson (n. 6 above). 66 Some noteworthy novels (sometimes made into movies) are Robert Graves, I, Claudius (New York: Smith & Haas, 19); Gore Vidal, Julian [“the Apostate”] (Boston: Little, Brown, 196); Keith Hopkins, A World Full of Gods: The Strange Triumph of Christianity (New York: Free Press, Simon & Schuster, 1999); Nikos Kazantzakis, The Last Temptation of Christ (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1960). For the list from one aficianado of ancient history, see http://www.geocities.com/~betapisces/ oldtimes/oldtimes.htm. An extension of this aspect of historical imagination and representation involves pictoral representation in various forms. See David G. Burke and Lydia Lebrón-Rivera, “Transferring Biblical Narrative to Graphic Novel,” SBL Forum (http://www.sbl-site.org/Article .aspx?ArticleId=29). 67 Movies are often based on novels. For a “starter” list, see the “Internet Movie Database,” keyword “bible” (then “based-on-the-bible”—http://www.imdb.com/keyword/based-on-the-bible/), including such classics as The Ten Commandments, The Greatest Story Ever Told, The Last Temptation of Christ, as well as others less well known.

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thought about writing a novel to help capture what seem to me to be situations that have been oversimplified or misunderstood in historical treatments. Judas was on my list, but somehow now seems less pressing. But the young man and young woman struggling with adolescence in the anti-procreative community of their gnostic adoptive parents, with its quasi-sexual eucharistic rituals and its antagonistic attitude to the rule and rules of the “god of this world” still appeals.68 “Gnostic” materials are often summarily dismissed as bizarre at best, or generally opaque if not silly, yet they represent the perspectives of real people who struggled with life’s problems in a manner different from ours, and with different assumptions from most of ours. It is sometimes sobering to reflect on how silly or bizarre our perspectives would seem to them. Ignoring or simplifying them is to avoid contact with a highly significant aspect of Christian history, just as sweeping under the rug sexual practices associated with ancient temples (How did “sacred prostitutes” deal with life?), or “magical practices” in the ancient worlds at large, is to neglect looking at life as it really was for many of our predecessors, and as it impacted the traditions we have inherited.69 In trying to be clever, I’ve invoked “Ockham’s razor” as a commonly used symbol of the desire for simplification. This is doubtless unfair to William of Ockham and others before and after him who shared the same outlook, especially since this oversimplifies and misapplies the principle!70 The argument was that when faced with various explanations of a phenomenon observed in the natural world the sim68 Groups called variously Carpocratians (Clement of Alexandria, Stromateis 2.2) and Phibionites (Epiphanius, Panarion 26 and elsewhere), among other names, receive ridicule from mainstream opponents and critics, but represent significant aspects of late antique history and deserve to be understood in their historical and cultural contexts, however one may feel about their specific ideas and practices. See Stephen Benko, “The Libertine Gnostic Sect of the Phibionites according to Epiphanius,” VC 21 (1967): 10–19, for a collection of the confused and confusing evidence. 69 On ancient “magic,” see Hans Dieter Betz [SBL President, 1997], The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation, Including the Demotic Spells (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1986, 19922). Regarding “sacred prostitution,” Karel van der Toorn surveys the texts and theories while concluding that it did not exist as a cultic practice in ancient Israel (“Female Prostitution in Payment of Vows in Ancient Israel,” JBL 108 [1989]: 19–20); for a useful discussion with bibliography see also Johanna H. Stuckey, “Sacred Prostitutes,” online at http://www.matrifocus.com/SAM0/spotlight .htm. 70 Ockham’s razor is the principle popularly attributed (thanks largely to Bertrand Russell) to William of Ockham in the fourteenth century: “Pluralitas non est ponenda sine necessitate” (or similarly), which translates as “entities should not be multiplied unnecessarily” or, “keep it simple”— and perhaps, “natural”—with reference to scientific explanations. Probably Ockham never wrote those exact words, which can be traced to John of Ponce (seventeenth century), and the designation Ockham’s razor is attributed to Sir William Hamilton in the mid-nineteenth century. For a summary of the evidence, see http://uk.geocities.com/[email protected]/latin/mythofockham.htm, which reproduces the article “The Myth of Ockham’s Razor” by William Thorburn, published in Mind 27 (1918): –; on Ockham more widely, see the two-volume study by Marilyn Adams, William Ockham (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1987).

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plest, and presumably the most natural, should be chosen. If weights invariably fall when dropped, there is no need to appeal to divine intervention in each instance by way of explanation. But the proposers of such a principle weren’t intending to develop rules for studying history, and human conduct is in general quite unlike the results of “natural law.” Invoking the principle of simplicity in historical studies may be comforting, but it also is likely to leave many issues unaddressed. Students of the Synoptic Problem recognize this when they affirm the priority of Mark— that’s pretty simple—but then also introduce the Mark before our Mark, and the interpenetration of floating “Q materials” (or not!) on the developing traditions.71 Similar things occur in pentateuchal criticism, where the simplicity of the introductory textbooks dissolves in the spotlight of closer analysis.72 Or the alleged conquest of Canaan, or the success of Christianity under Constantine, or myriads of similar matters. Sometimes there are simple answers to such historical and textual issues, but my impression is that usually there are not. Of course, when we teach, we often need to simplify. But we do not need to hide from our students the fact that in doing so, we ignore or compress the “big picture” for the sake of pedagogy. The worlds we study are full of their own brands of “magic,” by which I mean those things that kept them ticking, or were intended to do so, even in times of extreme stress (see n. 69 above). From our perspectives, much of this was or borders on the irrational, even among our most rational ancestors in Greece and Rome.7 Divine forces and their opposites were pervasive for most people, reflected in the stories told, the prayers and preparations made, the processions held, the monuments erected, even the coinage issued.7 Our use of rabbits’ feet or dashboard saints pales by comparison, although similarities are also apparent. Care for the representations of the household gods was important in the world in which Jacob and the patriarchs of Israel are represented,7 and meat butchered in the context of the Greco-Roman temples was part of normal life for many of our first71 See Allan Barr (with a new introduction by James Barr), A Diagram of Synoptic Relationships (198; 2nd ed.; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 199). For a recent foray on this front—even invoking Ockham’s razor to help establish “Matthean posteriority” as the answer to the Q hypothesis, see Evan Powell, The Myth of the Lost Gospel (Las Vegas: Symposium, 2006), 10, entertainingly reviewed by Jim West in RBL (2007), http://www.bookreviews.org. The same release of RBL has a review of Richard Valantasis, The New Q: A Fresh Translation with Commentary (New York: T&T Clark, 200), by Joseph Verheyden, which simply builds on the assumed existence of Q. 72 On pentateuchal issues, see Ernest W. Nicholson, The Pentateuch in the Twentieth Century: The Legacy of Julius Wellhausen (Oxford: Clarendon, 1998). 7 Eric R. Dodds, The Greeks and the Irrational (Berkeley: University of California Press, 191 [reprinted often]); table of contents online at http://ark.cdlib.org/ark:/100/ft0x0n99vw/. 7 See Keith Hopkins’s novel A World Full of Gods (n. 66 above). For an impassioned (and perhaps exaggerated) description of a situation in the late second century c.e., see Lucian’s exposé of Alexander of Abonutichus. 7 On household gods, see Moshe Greenberg, “Another Look at Rachel’s Theft of the Teraphim,” JBL 81 (196): 29–8.

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century subjects of study.76 To challenge and ultimately to transform social attitudes to such phenomena was not an easy matter and frequently amounted to compromise rather than abandonment. Gods may become angels or abstractions, but the functions remain similar. The “Christian” emperors of the late fourth and early fifth centuries still issued coins on which the (former?) goddess Victoria/Victory appears in various functions, winged and often by name, although most other Greco-Roman deities had disappeared.77 Change is not a simple matter, then as now.

IV. Close Keeping up with it all is a gigantic challenge, pretty much impossible for any one individual. So we have our colleagues and our groupings, our mega-societies with their various subsets and interactions. And now, of course, we and our students have google.com and its competitors, bringing home the point that we live in a world where access to information has exploded exponentially—“the information age.” For ourselves as well as our students, a major question is, What or whom can I trust? What constitutes suitable authority on any given subject and how do I identify such? Of course, it is obvious that you can trust anyone chosen to be president of a prestigious academic society, especially someone who has a Germanic name,78 but can you trust them for everything? And if not (or even if so), who else? and for what? Since even the “experts” seldom agree on details, it is important to determine, as nearly as possible, the extent to which expert conclusions depend on often unexpressed, perhaps even unconsciously held assumptions. It is not only with respect to our ancient source materials and their contexts that awareness of those ancient perspectives is crucial, but also with respect to the modern scholarship on which we necessarily depend.79 But this exercise in paramethodology works both ways. Someone’s commitment to a particular modern theological or philosophical stance may call into question conclusions about ancient materials deemed important for defending that stance, but recognition of that type of problem should not result in throwing out the baby with the bathwater. While I may find that Wellhausen filtered his synthetic reconstructions through a Hegelian view of history, that does not 76 On meats sacrificed in the temple, see Bruce Winter, After Paul Left Corinth: The Influence of Secular Ethics and Social Change (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001), reviewed by Debra Bucher in Bryn Mawr Classical Review 2002.06.1. 77 On coins, see, e.g., A. R. Bellinger and M. A. Berlincourt, Victory as a Coin Type (Numismatic Notes and Monographs 19; New York: American Numismatic Society 1962). 78 Please note that the SBL president elect for 2007 is Professor Katharine Sakenfeld—a good German name! 79 For a recent discussion, see Clark, History, Theory, Text (n. 2 above).

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mean that all of his work is problematic.80 Nor does Harnack’s unsympathetic attitude to modern Judaism negate the value of his prodigious knowledge of early Christian history.81 We need to be able to discern when and in what connections scholarly conclusions are self-validating, and when they need to be taken with a grain of salt. Their, and our, firsthand acquaintance with the relevant evidence seems to me to be the beginning of such knowledge, and the main locus for trust. Of course, we will doubtless tire of “para para para” terminology—if you haven’t already!—but perhaps it can serve us well in a period of transition to more satisfying and enduring terminology. After all, our evolving perceptions of the “parabiblical“ (or as I now prefer, “parascriptural”) are really less a subcategorization than an awareness of that large body of material (both text and tradition, as well as artwork and stones and buildings) that was respected and taken seriously by the people and cultures we study. Descriptively speaking, we are, and have been from the outset, a Society of Literatures and Traditions and Realia pertaining to the ancient worlds from which Judaism and Christianity emerged and developed through late antiquity—not simply “Bible studies,” but “biblical” studies. Whatever else it may be, when done carefully and responsibly that is basically a “paramanic” endeavor! 80 A bibliography of 2 publications by Wellhausen (18–1918) was prepared by Rahlfs for the festschrift edited by Karl Marti, Studien zur semitischen Philologie und Religionsgeschichte Julius Wellhausen zum siebzigsten Geburtstag . . .(BZAW 27; Giessen: Töpelmann, 191). On Wellhausen’s treatment of Judaism, see Jon Levenson, The Hebrew Bible, the Old Testament, and Historical Criticism: Jews and Christians in Biblical Studies (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 199). 81 Some of Adolf von Harnack’s most solid synthetic historical work on early Christianity can be viewed in Die Mission und Ausbreitung des Christentums in den ersten drei Jahrhunderten (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1902, revised 1906, 191, and finally 192; the first and second editions were translated into English by James Moffatt, The Mission and Expansion of Christianity in the First Three Centuries [London: Williams & Norgate; New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1906, 1908]), and this material is now avaialble online at http://ccat.sas.upenn.edu/rs/rak/courses//Harnack/bk0-TOC.htm.

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JBL 126, no. 1 (2007): 29–58

The Tower of Babel and the Origin of the World’s Cultures theodore hiebert [email protected] McCormick Theological Seminary, Chicago, IL 60615

The tower of Babel, standing unfinished, has become a cultural icon, symbolizing the preposterous pride of its builders and the divine punishment for all such acts of arrogance. It has cast its long shadow over the entire history of interpretation of the biblical narrative in Gen 11:1– in which it is found. In this interpretive history, the “tower with its top in the heavens” (11:4 NRSV) has been adopted as the key to the story’s theme: the human attempt to assert autonomy, attack heaven, and challenge God. The division of languages and dispersion of peoples—that is, the origin of the world’s cultures—that concludes the story of Babel is inseparably linked to this iconic symbol. Differentiating the world’s peoples is the sign of God’s displeasure with the tower; it is both the penalty for human pride and the means to restrain further assertions of it. The pride-and-punishment reading of the story of Babel is already firmly fixed in the earliest extant interpretation of Gen 11:1– in the book of Jubilees (ca. 00 b.c.e.), where it is found in the author’s explanatory additions to his retelling of the biblical narrative. It has been embraced with little basic variation by both Jewish and Christian exegetes throughout the history of interpretation, and it is still dominant in recent scholarly commentaries on Genesis. Outside of biblical scholarship, this reading of the Babel story has been given broad cultural legitimacy in classics such as John Milton’s Paradise Lost, in many works of art such as Pieter Brueghel’s masterpiece, and in all children’s story Bibles.1 1

For the earliest interpreters, see James Kugel, “The Tower of Babel,” in Traditions of the Bible: A Guide to the Bible as It Was at the Start of the Common Era (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 18), 8–4. For the history of interpretation to the present, see Theodore Hiebert, “The Tower of Babel: Babble or Blueprint? Calvin, Cultural Diversity, and the Interpretation of Genesis 11:1–,” in Reformed Theology: Identity and Ecumenicity, vol. (ed. Wallace M. Alston, Jr., and Michael Welker; forthcoming). Students at McCormick Theological Seminary have written a collection of essays demonstrating the widespread cultural adaptation of the pride-and-punishment interpretation of the story, including studies on John Milton, Pieter Brueghel and M. C. Escher,

0

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Recently, a particular ancient version of this pride-and-punishment reading has become popular. This approach, defended most extensively by Christoph Uehlinger and supported by biblical scholars writing from liberation or postcolonial perspectives, such as J. Severino Croatto, views the story as a critique of empire. According to this approach, the story is about pride and punishment, yet now the pride about which it speaks is the hubris of imperial domination, and the punishment it describes is God’s judgment on the empires, in particular Babylon (Babel), that oppressed Israel and Judah. The emphasis on one language at the beginning of the story represents the imperial suppression of local languages and cultures, and God’s punishment brings down the empire with its monolithic aims, setting free the local languages and cultures to flourish. This contemporary approach builds on an ancient view, which appears first in Josephus (Ant. 1.11–14) and is adopted widely afterward, that the building of Babel in Gen 11:1– was really an imperial venture masterminded by the violent king Nimrod, who is identified with Babel in the genealogy in Gen 10:8–10. In recent years, a few interpreters have begun to question aspects of the traditional pride-and-punishment reading of the story and have given greater attention to the story’s theme of cultural origins on its own terms. This approach began with the work of Bernhard W. Anderson, who, while retaining the basic pride-andpunishment framework, also saw in the story “a conflict of centripetal and centrifugal forces” and a prominent theme of the homogeneity versus the heterogeneity of peoples. He thus gave new emphasis to the story’s explanation of the diversification of humankind after the flood.4 This shift away from the pride-andpunishment reading toward a new interest in the story’s theme of cultural Fyodor Dostoevsky, Raimundo Panikkar, Jacques Derrida, church school curricula, and children’s story Bibles (Toppling the Tower: Essays on Babel and Diversity [ed. Theodore Hiebert; Chicago: McCormick Theological Seminary, 004]). All modern critical commentaries on Genesis reflect this approach. Christoph Uehlinger, Weltreich und “eine Rede”: Eine neue Deutung der sogenannten Turmbauerzählung (Gen 11, 1–9) (Freiburg, Schweiz: Universitätsverlag; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 10); J. Severino Croatto, “A Reading of the Story of the Tower of Babel from a Perspective of Non-Identity,” in Teaching the Bible: The Discourses and Politics of Biblical Pedagogy (ed. Fernando F. Segovia and Mary Ann Tolbert; Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 18), 0–. See also, e.g., Danna Nolan Fewell, “Building Babel,” in Postmodern Interpretations of the Bible—A Reader (ed. A. K. M. Adam; St. Louis: Chalice, 001), 1–15; Modupẹ Oduyọye, The Sons of Gods and the Daughters of Men: An Afro-Asiatic Interpretation of Genesis 1–11 (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 184), 7– 8. Cf. Jonathan Sacks, The Dignity of Difference: How to Avoid the Clash of Civilizations (London: Continuum, 00), 5, 01. Christoph Uehlinger believes that the story originated in the eighth century as a Judean critique of the imperial policies of Sargon II and that its first revision in the sixth century shifted its critique to the Neo-Babylonian empire (Weltreich, 514–58). 4 Bernhard W. Anderson, “The Tower of Babel: Unity and Diversity in God’s Creation,” in From Creation to New Creation: Old Testament Perspectives (OBT; Minneapolis: Fortress, 14), 165– 78. This essay first appeared in Concilium in 177.

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diversification has subsequently been advanced by Ellen van Wolde, and it is reflected to some extent in the commentaries of Terence Fretheim and Walter Brueggemann.5 I wish to take up this recent work and extend it by arguing that the story of Babel in Gen 11:1– is exclusively about the origins of cultural difference and not about pride and punishment at all. The story’s terminology, explicit claims, and repetitive structure all focus on the tension between singularity and multiplicity with the purpose of explaining the origin and variety of the world’s cultures. The image that provoked the traditional pride-and-punishment interpretation, the “tower with its top in the sky,” has neither the central place in the story nor the ominous significance of rebellion that interpreters have traditionally believed. As we shall see, the icon of the tower standing unfinished is a product of the imagination of the story’s interpreters. The story itself contains no such picture at all. Throughout the history of interpretation, the theme of cultural origins has been recognized as an important element in the story of Babel. This theme has given the story its traditional name in Judaism, for example, where Gen 11:1– has come to be known as the story of the Generation of Division (or Dispersion), as is already the case in Genesis Rabbah (8:1–11).6 Furthermore, an occasional interpreter has suggested that God’s dispersion of cultures is not merely a response to pride and an act of punishment but the intention of God all along, in light of God’s command to “be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth” (Gen 1:8; :1). Yet no interpreter has entirely escaped the dominant pride-and-punishment reading of the story that has controlled exegetes from the beginning—with a single exception: the medieval scholar Abraham Ibn Ezra.7 With Ibn Ezra, an ancient pathfinder, I want to argue that the story of Babel is not about pride, nor about imperial power, but exclusively about the origin of the world’s cultures. Genesis 11:1– is one of two accounts of the spread of the human race across the earth after the flood, the other being the genealogical account of the descendants of Noah’s sons that immediately precedes it in ch. 10. That Genesis 10 and 11 are genuine variants of the same event, rather than one continuous account, can be seen in the chronological discontinuity between the conclusion of ch. 10—where

5 Ellen van Wolde, “The Tower of Babel as Lookout of Genesis 1–11,” in Words Become Worlds: Semantic Studies of Genesis 1–11 (Leiden: Brill, 14), 84–10; Terence Fretheim, “Genesis,” NIB 1:410–14; Walter Brueggemann, Genesis: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (Interpretation; Atlanta: John Knox, 18), 7–104. 6 For a survey of other rabbinic references, see Menachem Kasher, Encyclopedia of Biblical Interpretation (ed. and trans. Harry Freedman; New York: American Biblical Encyclopedia Society, 155), 1:8–. 7 Abraham ben Meir Ibn Ezra, Ibn Ezra’s Commentary on the Pentateuch (trans. H. Norman Strickman and Arthur M. Silver; New York: Menorah, 188), 16–45. In the collection of student essays published by McCormick Theological Seminary, Hardy H. Kim analyzed the interpretation of Ibn Ezra in its cultural context (Hiebert, Toppling the Tower, 64–74).

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the descendants of Noah have already spread abroad on the earth according to their lands, languages, families, and nations (vv. 5, 0, 1–)—and the beginning of ch. 11—where all the earth is speaking the same language and living in one place (vv. 1, 4, 6). These variants have traditionally been explained by attributing the genealogical version in ch. 10 to Priestly (P) tradition and the narrative version in ch. 11 to the Yahwist (J). Recent years have seen much debate about the sources of Genesis, including the shape and (even) the existence of the Yahwist. While I stand among those who believe that traditional source analysis still explains the shape of Genesis more ably than newer proposals, and that the story of Babel in Gen 11:1– is a classic J text, the argument here about the meaning of the story depends not on such an attribution but on the logic of the story’s form and content itself. At the same time, understanding the author as the Yahwist enriches one’s understanding of the story and, in particular, its role in Genesis as a whole.8 Some scholars have argued for the composite nature of Gen 11:1–, including Hermann Gunkel, who wished to isolate city and tower recensions behind the Yahwist’s narrative, and more recently Uehlinger, whose anti-empire interpretation depends on four discrete literary layers. Yet the majority of scholars have seen in the story a cohesive literary structure and a beautifully crafted whole, including those who have done the key studies of the literary architecture of Gen 11:1–, U. Cassuto, Isaac M. Kikawada, J. P. Fokkelman, and Ellen van Wolde.10 They are in 8 Genesis 11:1– reflects many classic J characteristics: an anthropomorphic deity, descending from heaven, referred to consistently by the divine name ‫( יהוה‬vv. 5, 6, 8, ); a concise, colorful style; an unscientific folk etymology (‫בבל‬, “Babel,” does not derive from ‫בלל‬, “mix”; cf. Gen :; :0; 4:1; 5:); and typical J terminology, including ‫וירד יהוה לראת‬, “and the Lord came down to see” (v. 5; cf. Gen 18:1; Exod :8; 4:5), the root ‫פוץ‬, “scatter” (vv. 4, 8, ; cf. Gen 10:18; Exod 5:1; Num 10:5 [‫ נפץ‬in Gen :1]), ‫הבה‬, “Come . . . !” (vv. 4, 7; cf. Gen 8:16; Exod 1:10 [“give” in Gen :1; 47:15, 16]), ‫איש אל־רעהו‬, “a man to his neighbor” (vv. , 7; cf. Gen 15:10; 1:4; 4:), the interjection ‫הן‬, “behold” (v. 6; cf. Gen :; 4:14; 15:; 1:4; 7:11, 7; 8:7; 0:4; :8; 44:; 47:), and the hiphil stem of ‫חלל‬, “begin” (v. 6; cf. Gen 4:6; 6:1; :0; 10:8; 44:1; Num 5:1). Hermann Gunkel believed that Genesis 11 incorporated a tower story about scattering and a city story about the multiplication of languages (Genesis [1; trans. Mark E. Biddle; Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 177], 4–10). Uehlinger’s four editions of the story include: an eighthcentury critique of the Assyrian Empire (vv. 1a, aα, 4aβγδ, 5–7, 8b), an exilic revision to critique the Babylonian Empire (vv. 1b, aαb, a), a further revision to link the story to the primeval narrative (v. ), and a final revision in the Persian period to introduce the concept of dispersion (vv. 4b, 8a, b; Weltreich, 514–84). For a survey of attempts to establish the composite character of ch. 11, see Claus Westermann, Genesis 1–11: A Commentary (trans. John J. Scullion; Minneapolis: Augsburg, 184), 54–40. 10 U. Cassuto, A Commentary on the Book of Genesis, part , From Noah to Abraham, Genesis VI 9–XI 32 (Jerusalem: Magnes, 164), 1–; Isaac M. Kikawada, “The Shape of Genesis 1–11,” in Rhetorical Criticism: Essays in Honor of James Muilenburg (ed. Jared J. Jackson and Martin Kessler; PTMS 1; Pittsburgh: Pickwick, 174), 18–; J. P. Fokkelman, Narrative Art in Genesis: Specimens of Stylistic and Structural Analysis (nd ed.; SSN 17; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 11), 11–45; cf. van Wolde’s survey of recent literary studies (Words Become Worlds, 84–1) and her own literary analysis (pp. 4– 104).

Hiebert: e Tower of Babel

broad agreement that the story’s unified design incorporates two parallel halves, the second of which both replicates and reverses the first. The first half focuses on human activity (vv. 1–4), while the second half, following God’s descent to inspect the human project at the midpoint of the story (v. 5), focuses on divine activity (vv. 6–). The parallel elements that replicate the structure of the halves at the same time reverse their content: human activity and divine activity move in opposite directions. In the analysis that follows, I will build on the literary conclusions in these studies, but I wish to show that these literary features provide important clues that the story is not about human pride or imperial power but about the origins of cultural difference.

I. The Human Project (Genesis 11:1–4) 1All the earth had one language and the same words. When they traveled toward the east, they found a valley in the land of Shinar, and they settled there. They said to one another, “Come, let us make bricks and let us fire them.” The bricks were stones for them, and asphalt was mortar for them. 4And they said, “Come, let us build for ourselves a city and a tower with its top in the sky, and let us make a name for ourselves, so that we will not be dispersed over the surface of all the earth.”11

Interpreters throughout history have taken a single image, the “tower with its top in the sky,” as the clue to unlock the intent and meaning of the human project described in the first part of the story of Babel. The tower does not actually appear, however, until v. 4, and, as will be seen in the analysis that follows, it is neither the center of attention in the opening episode of the story nor the purpose for which the human project is undertaken. We will consider the tower’s role in detail in a moment. In order to grasp the central theme of the story’s first part, we must start at its beginning. The theme of part 1 is stated straightforwardly in the story’s opening sentence: “All the earth had one language and the same words” (v. 1). This story is about language; in particular, it is about the existence of a single, uniform language spoken by all people. To emphasize this theme the narrator repeats it, employing the number “one” twice: “one language” (‫ )שפה אחת‬and “one (collection of) words” (‫דברים‬ ‫)אחדים‬.1 The story’s theme—one language spoken by all people—is repeated later in the story in the opening sentence of part , where God responds to the human project. God’s opening speech, just as the narrator’s opening sentence, focuses on one language spoken by all people. God, just as the narrator has done, repeats the word “one” twice: “There is now one people (‫ )עם אחד‬and they all have one lan11 All

biblical translations are my own unless otherwise noted. states: “The two expressions are combined for the sake of emphasis” (Genesis, 5).

1 Gunkel

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guage (‫( ”)שפה אחת‬v. 6). The key word, ‫שפה‬, “language,” is used five times in the story (vv. 1, 6, 7 [x], ) and its synonym, ‫דברים‬, “words,” once (v. 1). In the story’s opening sentence, the narrator identifies the people speaking a single language as ‫כל־הארץ‬, which should be understood as “all the (people of the) earth” (cf. Gen :1 [J]; Pss :8; 66:4). This is confirmed in vv. –4, where ‫כל־הארץ‬ serves as the antecedent of the plural pronouns and verb forms that are employed for the human actors in part 1. Later at the story’s midpoint, where God comes down to inspect the human project, the narrator refers to these people as ‫בני האדם‬, the human race (v. 5).1 Furthermore, the motif of dispersion in part assumes that these builders are the human ancestors of all people to follow, since it is by dispersing them that God populates the entire earth (vv. 8, ). When the story’s narrator uses ‫ כל־הארץ‬for the earth itself, rather than for all of its people, he employs the phrase ‫על־פני כל־הארץ‬, “on the surface of all the earth” (vv. 4, 8, ). The identity of the builders in part 1 has often been missed or misconstrued. On account of the etiology of Babel (Babylon) at the conclusion of the narrative, early interpreters took the story to be about the Babylonians in particular, rather than about the human race as a whole. To support this reading, they imported the figure of Nimrod from the genealogy in ch. 10, where he is identified as the king of Babel (10:8–10), and they enthroned him as the royal mastermind behind the tower of Babel and the instigator of the rebellion against God.14 Thus, the story was localized and was read as an account of the wicked Babylonians in particular, rather than as a story about the human race as a whole. As noted above, this way of reading the story is one of the earliest interpretive shifts in our sources, found already in the Antiquities of Josephus (1.11–14), and it became a fixture in the history of interpretation. It resonated well with the traditional idea that pride motivated the human project, since the arrogance of the builders could now be equated with the imperial dominion of the wicked empire that destroyed Jerusalem. The legacy of this approach can still be seen in the inclination among modern scholars to regard Gen 11:1– as a satire of Babylon rather than an account of the dispersion of the human race.15 Shifting the identity of the builders from the human race to the Babylonians is particularly important for the postcolonial reading of Gen 11:1– as a critique of empire and of the intent of one culture to impose its control on other peoples.16 1 The Yahwist uses ‫האדם‬, “humanity/the human race,” for all humankind throughout the flood story which precedes the Babel narrative (Gen 6:5, 6, 7; 8:1). 14 Kugel, Traditions, –. 15 E.g., Gerhard von Rad, Genesis: A Commentary (trans. John H. Marks; OTL; Philadephia: Westminster, 161), 148–5; Nahum M. Sarna, Genesis = Be-reshit: The Traditional Hebrew Text with the New JPS Translation (JPS Torah Commentary; Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 18), 84; Gordon J. Wenham, Genesis 1–15 (WBC 1; Waco: Word Books, 187), 44–46; Anderson, “Tower of Babel,” 1. 16 Uehlinger sees the story’s original kernel, as he reconstructs it, as an account of the Assyr-

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While a critique of empire is certainly present in the prophets and elsewhere, such an ideological perspective goes beyond the actual language of this story. It is, of course, precarious to import a Babylonian king from the genealogical traditions in Genesis 10 in order to interpret Genesis 11. This storyteller mentions no king with imperial pretensions, but attributes the project in vv. 1–4 to the people, using plural pronouns and verbs throughout. No uniquely royal or imperial language is present.17 Furthermore, empire is anachronistic within the boundaries of this story, which is about the entire human race, not about one culture imposing its will on another. The single language that all of the people speak is not imposed by an imperial edict but reflects the reality of a single family surviving the flood. The aim of the project, as we shall see immediately below, has nothing to do with extending the reach of empire but just the opposite: staying in one place (v. 4). The story, thus, is not about the suppression of difference between cultures but about the origins of difference itself. The naming of the point of origin as Babel at the end of the story (v. ), as we shall see later, derives not from its role in the Bible as the seat of empire but from its role as the cradle of civilization. The narrator thus “titles” his story at the beginning of part 1, “(The story of the time when) all the earth had one language,” a “title” that is reiterated and emphasized in God’s words at the beginning of part : “There is now one people and they all have one language.” Following this opening “title,” the narrative describes the human project itself: all the inhabitants of the earth settle in Shinar, the Mesopotamian Valley (v. ), and plan the construction of a city and a tower with fired brick, the customary material for monumental public projects (vv. –4).18 At the conclusion of the description of this grand project, the narrator explains the builders’ motive: “so that we will not be dispersed over the surface of all the earth” (v. 4b). Traditionally, of course, interpreters have taken the motive for this building project to be an arrogant attack on God—or, alternatively, imperial domination—but since the narrator says nothing about pride, defiance, dominion, or, for that matter, sin, the people’s pride had to be inferred, and the image adopted for this inference was the “tower with its top in the sky” (v. 4). In a striking exegetical feat, remarkable both for its imagination and its blindness, interpreters managed to side-

ian Empire (vv. 1a, aα, 4aβγδ, 5–7, 8b), and the story, as first revised, as an account of the Babylonian Empire (vv. 1b, aαb, a; Weltreich, 514–57). 17 Uehlinger is certainly correct that the motifs of tower building and making a name are found in Mesopotamian royal inscriptions (Weltreich, 7–6, 505–6). But in the Hebrew Bible these motifs are used in a variety of contexts and not limited to royal contexts or imperial claims, as will be seen below. 18 Fired brick was used in Mesopotamia for important public structures, sun-dried brick for less important and domestic dwellings. See Joan Goodnick Westenholz, “Babylon—Place of Creation of the Great Gods,” in Royal Cities of the Biblical World (ed. Joan Goodnick Westenholz; Jerusalem: Bible Lands Museum, 16), 04–6.

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step the narrator’s explicit statement of the builders’ motive: “so that we will not be dispersed over the surface of all the earth” (v. 4). The grammatical structure of the final sentence of part 1 makes the people’s motive absolutely clear. “And they said, ‘Come, let us build for ourselves a city and a tower with its top in the sky, and let us make a name for ourselves, so that we will not be dispersed over the surface of all the earth’” (v. 4). After the introductory clause, “And they said,” this sentence is composed of an imperative, ‫הבה‬, “Come,” and two cohortatives—‫נבנה‬, “let us build,” and ‫נעשה‬, “let us make”—followed by a final clause introduced by the negative Hebrew conjunction ‫פן‬, which may be translated “lest,” or “that not” (“so that . . . not”).1 This conjunction is employed, as Gesenius notes, “after an appeal to do or not do an action by which something may be prevented.” Thus, the appeal preceding the conjunction is not an end in itself, but simply the means “by which something may be prevented,” and that prevention represents the goal of the previous appeal. Such an appeal, as here, is customarily expressed with cohortative verbs.0 Thus, building a city and a tower and making a name are all simply means to achieve the actual goal of this activity, stated in the sentence’s final clause: “so that we will not be dispersed over the surface of all the earth.” The actual motive for the human project, stated explicitly in the narrative, is the people’s desire to stay in one place. The theme of one language, introduced in the opening words of part 1, is now supplemented by the theme of one place, introduced in the final words of part 1. Together, these themes frame the description of the human project in vv. –4 and explain its purpose. All of the inhabitants of the earth speak one language and wish to live in one place. The story is thus about the cultural homogeneity of the human race—characterized here by a single language and location—and about the desire to preserve it. As noted in the introduction, this theme has been recognized in the story and in the design of the human project throughout the history of interpretation, but it has been relegated to a subplot under the theme of human pride and defiance. Because the theme of pride has dominated past interpretation of the human project, and because the tower with its top in the sky has incited this approach, it is important to take a moment to point out the serious weaknesses in this interpretation. The basic weakness is the fact, already noted, that the narrator never uses the word “pride” or any equivalent term and that this entire idea was inferred from a single image, the “tower with its top in the sky.” But as we have just seen in the grammatical analysis of v. 4, building the tower was not the purpose of the human project at all but simply a means to achieve its ultimate aim, the people’s goal to 1 The LXX translates ‫ פן‬with prov, “before (we are scattered),” suggesting that the people knew they were to be scattered and, in the spirit of the traditional reading, making them culpable for their actions by resisting God’s plans. 0 GKC, 107q, 15w.

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stay in one place. Furthermore, two other important problems exist for basing an interpretation of the human project on its tower. First, the tower is not the narrator’s center of attention. It is mentioned only twice and then only in the stock phrase ‫עיר ומגדל‬, “a city and a tower” (vv. 4, 5). E. A. Speiser and others have seen here a hendiadys, in which the two terms are employed to represent a single idea, an urban complex incorporating a tower, “a city crowned by a tower.”1 In this sense, the tower is an aspect of the cityscape the narrator describes, rather than the primary object of attention. This is supported in the second half of the story, where the city comes to the fore and the tower falls out of the narrative entirely. In part , when the narrator describes the end of the human project—“they stopped building the city” (v. 8)—the city is mentioned alone, with no reference to the tower. The presence of “tower” after “city” in v. 8 of the LXX (and the Samaritan Pentateuch and Jubilees) is a secondary expansion. It represents a harmonizing addition typical of the LXX (cf. vv. 4, 5), as Ronald Hendel shows. It may also indicate the influence of the traditional interpretation of Genesis 11 at this early stage. Indeed, the etymology that concludes the story is concerned with the city (Babel = Babylon; v. ), not the tower. The narrator’s real interest lies in the city rather than the tower. Recognizing this, Terence Fretheim has titled his commentary on Gen 11:1–, “The City of Babel.” It is only because interpreters have for so long believed the tower to be the clue to the story’s meaning, as James Kugel has pointed out, that we now regularly refer to the whole story, as “The Tower of Babel.”4 One last problem, perhaps the most serious problem, with the traditional approach is that the phrase describing the tower, “its top in the sky” (‫)ראשו בשמים‬, turns out to be just an ancient Near Eastern cliché for height and implies neither an attempt to scale the heavens nor an arrogant revolt against divine authority. As an idiom for impressive height, this phrase appears often in descriptions of fortifications and cultic installations, both of which incorporated towers. A similar phrase is used twice in Deuteronomy to describe the fortifications (‫ )בצורת‬of the formidable Canaanite cities the Israelites encountered: ‫ערים גדלת ובצורת בשמים‬, “large cities with walls sky-high” (Deut 1:8; :1 NJPS). A variation of this idiom is used for the fortifications of the Judean city of Azekah by Sennacherib in an Assyrian text, where he describes its walls “reaching high to heaven” (ana AN-e šá-qu-u).5 1 E. A Speiser, “Word Plays on the Creation Epic’s Version of the Founding of Babylon,” Or 5 (156): . See also Robert B. Coote and David Robert Ord, The Bible’s First History (Philadelphia: Fortress, 18), 5; Westermann, Genesis 1–11, 547. Ronald S. Hendel, The Text of Genesis 1–11: Textual Studies and Critical Edition (New York: Oxford University Press, 18), 81–, 144, esp. 85–86. Fretheim, “Genesis,” 410. See also Donald E. Gowan, When Man Becomes God: Humanism and Hybris in the Old Testament (PTMS 6; Pittsburgh: Pickwick, 175), 8. 4 Kugel, Traditions, 8. 5 N. Na’aman, “Sennacherib’s ‘Letter to God’ on His Campaign to Judah,” BASOR 14 (174): 6–7.

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The purpose of this idiom is to emphasize the impressive height and strength of the city’s fortifications, not to describe its inhabitants’ wish to scale heaven and attack God’s authority. Using Deut 1:8 to support his view, Ibn Ezra claimed that “a tower with its top in the sky” should be taken as an idiom for height, not a literal description, asserting, “The builders of the tower were not fools to believe that they could actually ascend the heavens.”6 Variations of the same idiom are also used to describe cultic installations in Israel and Mesopotamia. In the account of Jacob’s visit to Bethel, its ‫ סלם‬is described with the phrase ‫ראשו מגיע השמימה‬, “its top touching the sky” (Gen 8:1). Customarily translated “ladder,” ‫( ֻסָלּם‬sullām), like the related terms ‫סללה‬, “mound, siege ramp,” and ‫מסלה‬, “highway,” is probably a constructed height like the raised platform in the cultic center at Dan.7 In Mesopotamia, this idiom is ubiquitous in descriptions of the height of ziggurats and temple complexes.8 Babylon’s main temple precinct, for example, was named Esagila, “House whose head is raised high”; and the description of its construction in Enuma Elish plays on this meaning: “They raised high the head [ullū rēšišu] of Esagila equaling Apsu” (VI:6; ANET, 6). The great ziggurat in Babylon was named Etemenanki, “House that is the foundation of heaven and earth,” identifying it as a point of connection between the two realms. Another example from Babylon, from the date formulae of the reign of Hammurabi, is even closer to the biblical idiom: “He restored the temple é.me.te.ur.sag (“The Pride of the Hero”) and built the temple tower, the mighty abode of Zababa (and) Innana, whose top is sky high [sag-bi an-dím il-la] . . .” (ANET, 70). With this evidence in mind, the tower with its top in the sky (‫מגדל וראשו‬ ‫בשמים‬, v. 4) must be understood simply as a feature of the magnificence of the city in which it stands. Whether it should be viewed as a part of the city’s fortifications or one of its cultic structures is actually difficult to determine. Because the city is identified in the story as Babylon (Babel, v. ), its tower has been identified by most scholars with the great ziggurat, or temple tower, of Babylon, Etemenanki, since its excavation at the beginning of the twentieth century by the Deutsche OrientGesellschaft. However, the Hebrew term in Genesis 11 for tower, ‫מגדל‬, is used 6 Ibn

Eza, Commentary, 1. a description of the high place at Dan, see Avraham Biran’s analysis (Biblical Dan [Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 14], 181; idem, “Sacred Spaces: Of Standing Stones, High Places, and Cult Objects at Tel Dan,” BAR 4, no. 5 [September/October 18]: 8–45, 70). Sarna suggests the possibility that the Babylonian ziggurat may lie behind the image in Gen 8:1 (Genesis, 18). 8 Sarna has assembled a list of occurrences of this idiom in Mesopotamian building inscriptions (Genesis, 8–8). See also the instances discussed by Uehlinger (Weltreich, 6–4) and Coote and Ord (Bible’s First History, 6–7). Robert Koldewey, Die Tempel von Babylon und Borsippa (WVDOG 15; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 111); F. Wetzel and F. H. Weissbach, Das Hauptheiligtum des Marduk in Babylon, Esagila und Etemenanki (WVDOG 5; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 18). Early studies following this excavation which took the Babylonian ziggurat as the prototype for the biblical tower include Hugo Gressmann, The Tower 7 For

Hiebert: e Tower of Babel

consistently in biblical discourse for the towers incorporated into cities’ fortifications.0 While much energy has been spent on this debate, the tower’s precise character is not crucial for the argument here, since the narrator’s primary interest is not in the tower but in the cultural homogeneity that was the purpose of humanity’s building project as a whole. Before we can leave behind the old understanding of the human project as an act of hubris, we must deal briefly with two recent versions of it that shift the support for pride to the concepts of making a name and building a city. The former concept, “let us make a name for ourselves” (‫נעשה־לנו שם‬, v. 4), was of little importance to early interpreters who saw the tower as the proof of hubris; but, as scholars have begun to recognize the simple idiomatic nature of the “tower with its top in the sky,” some have turned to the people’s making a name for themselves for evidence of their self-centeredness and pride.1 As we have already seen, the gramof Babel (New York: Jewish Institute of Religion Press, 18); and André Parrot, Ziggurats et tour de Babel (Paris: Albin Michel, 14); idem, The Tower of Babel (New York: Philosophical Library, 155). Among recent scholars, see, e.g., the commentaries of Sarna (Genesis, 8–8) and Westermann (Genesis 1–11, 547). Speiser has proposed a variation of this view, arguing that Gen 11:4 draws its picture not from the ziggurat of Babylon itself but directly from the description of its construction in Enuma Elish (IV:60–6; Genesis: Introduction, Translation, and Notes [AB 1; New York: Doubleday, 164], 74– 76). 0 ‫ מגדל‬is often paired with “walls” (e.g., Ezek 6:4; Chr 14:6), and the towers on Jerusalem’s walls are frequently mentioned (e.g., Isa :18; Ps 48:1; Neh :5; Chr 6:). The ‫ מגדל‬was used for launching weapons ( Chr 6:, 15), for surveillance ( Kgs :17), and for protection (Judg :51). Perhaps of most interest for interpreting Gen 11:4, where one tower is mentioned, are the references to single fortified towers in the cities of Penuel (Judg 8:), Shechem (Judg :46), and Thebaz (Judg :51). Lawrence Stager, building on the archaeological work and interpretations of G. Ernest Wright, has argued that the ‫ מגדל‬of Shechem was a “fortress-temple,” a massive, towering building constructed on the acropolis of Shechem, serving as the “temple of El-/Baval-berith” (Judg :4, 46) from ca. 1600 to 1100 b.c.e. (“The Fortress-Temple at Shechem and the ‘House of El, Lord of the Covenant,’” in Realia Dei: Essays in Archaeology and Biblical Interpretation in Honor of Edward F. Campbell, Jr. at His Retirement [ed. Prescott Williams and Theodore Hiebert; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1], 8–4). If we combine with this evidence the contemporaneous “fortress-temple” discovered at Megiddo and the references to similar structures at Thebaz and Penuel, we may have the local prototype for the Israelite narrative in Genesis 11. 1 The story’s first interpreter, the author of Jubilees, was uninterested in the name. Richard E. Friedman singles out this phrase alone in the entire story for comment, connecting it with the people’s rebellion (Commentary on the Torah: With a New English Translation [San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 001], 46). In spite of their rejection of many elements of the traditional interpretation, both Anderson (“Tower of Babel,” 17, 178) and Fretheim (“Genesis,” 41) still view the people’s wish to “make a name” as problematic, more problematic than their building the tower; they associate this wish for a name with dominion and autonomy. Uehlinger identifies making a name with empire building (Weltreich, 80–86). Particularly problematic for many exegetes is the fact that the people wanted to make a name for themselves, in contrast to Abraham, whose name was made great by God (Gen 1:). See von Rad, Genesis, 160; Anderson, “Tower of Babel,” 178; Brueggemann, Genesis, 11; Wenham, Genesis 1–15, 40; and Victor P. Hamilton, The Book of Genesis: Chapters 1–17 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 10), 7.

Journal of Biblical Literature 16, no. 1 (007)

40

matical structure of v. 4 indicates that building a city and making a name are not the goals of the human project but rather the means to the end for which it was designed, the perpetuation of a single culture—the human race, speaking one language, living in one place. A thorough survey of biblical usage, in fact, shows that making a name is never used to describe self-centeredness, vanity, or insubordination. Making a name is always considered a noble venture, essentially the act of establishing an identity that will endure. The people’s wish to establish a common identity is, therefore, closely related to the larger goal of remaining together to preserve a single culture. A collective name, as sociologists point out, is one of the primary markers of a common cultural tradition. Viewed in this light, the phrase “let us make a name for ourselves” expresses no conceit or defiance but rather the impulse toward cultural homogeneity at the heart of the human project. Other scholars have fastened neither on the tower nor on the name as proofs of pride, but on the city itself as the primary symbol of human self-sufficiency, autonomy, and hubris. The story itself simply mentions the city and makes no explicit value judgment on it, so such a negative interpretation of city building demands importing a view of urban civilization from outside the narrative. But a survey of the Yahwist’s traditions, to which this story belongs, shows no anti-city polemic, and it is doubtful whether the Bible contains any true anti-urban ideology at all.4 Furthermore, as has been noted more than once above, building the city the case of Abraham in Gen 1: shows, making (‫ )עשה‬a name (‫ )שם‬is honorable, and wherever this idiom is used in biblical literature, it is used with approval. It is frequently used for God gaining stature and reputation for himself (Isa 6:1; Jer :0; Dan :15; Neh :10). In variant versions of the idiom, when “name” (‫ )שם‬is used alone or with a different verb (‫שום‬, “establish”; ‫גדל‬ [piel], “make great”; ‫ יצא‬and ‫הלך‬, “go out”), the endeavor is always endorsed. Such is the case when the expression is used for God (Josh 7:; Sam 7: = 1 Chr 17:1), Abraham (Gen 1:), Abishai ( Sam :18, ), Uzziah ( Chr 6:8, 15), Israel (Zeph :1, 0; Ezek 16:14; 4:; :1), or Israel’s leaders (Num 16:; 1 Chr 5:4; 1:1). Making a name is described with respect even when humans make names for themselves, as in Gen 11:4. Describing David’s fame with approval, the historian says once that God made a name for David ( Sam 7:) and elsewhere that David made a name for himself ( Sam 8:1). In the occasional cases when a reputation is negatively valued, it is clearly marked as such, as when Nehemiah speaks of the “bad reputation” (‫ )שם רע‬his enemies wish for him (Neh 6:1). Making a name in the Bible, that is, securing a lasting identity, can be accomplished by bearing descendants, who preserve one’s memory (e.g., Gen 1:; Sam 18:18; Isa 48:1; 56:5). A name may also be gained through enduring cultural achievements, such as military victories and building projects ( Sam :18; Chr 6:8, 15). All of this is summarized succinctly in a series of reflections on the good things in life by Ben Sira: “Children and the building of a city establish one’s name” (40:1). Frank S. Frick, The City in Ancient Israel (SBLDS 6; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 177), 08; G. Wallis, “Die Stadt in den Überlieferungen der Genesis,” ZAW 78 (166): 1–48; Gowan, When Man Becomes God, 1; Fokkelman, Narrative Art, 18 n. 1; Hamilton, Genesis 1–17, 56; cf. Brueggemann, Genesis, 101. 4 Theodore Hiebert, The Yahwist’s Landscape: Nature and Religion in Early Israel (New York: Oxford University Press, 16), 4–4, 87–1, 107–1. As

Hiebert: e Tower of Babel

41

with its tower and making a name are not ends but means to an end, namely, the concentration of the human race in one place. All defenses for reading the human project in vv. 1–4 as an expression of hubris ultimately fail, and we are thrown back on the narrative’s explicit statements themselves: all of the inhabitants of the earth, speaking a single language, found a city with a tower and construct a common identity in order to remain together in one place. The central interest in the opening part of this story is the homogeneity of human culture—exemplified by a common language and living space—and humanity’s interest in preserving it. The narrative presents this picture in a straightforward and neutral way, without taking a stand one way or the other on humanity’s project and plans. This neutrality contrasts sharply with the Yahwist’s approach in his pre-flood narratives, where the disobedience and sins of the human characters are explicitly described (Gen :16–17; :11–1; 4:6–7; 6:5–8). This narrative neutrality accounts for the continuing puzzlement among interpreters, who, while reading the story as an egregious attack on God, could not help but notice the absence of any explicit mention of such belligerence. “R. Eleazar said . . . while the evil deeds of the generation of the flood are explicitly stated, those of the generation of the Division are not” (Gen. Rab. 8). Summing up rabbinic attribution of pride to the builders of Babel, Jacob Neusner writes: “noting in the narrative little basis for God’s punishment, they have provided what was lacking.”5 The great Reformation exegete John Calvin acknowledged the same missing ingredient: “at first sight the atrocity of the evil does not appear.”6 And more recently, Bernhard Anderson concluded that the motive of the builders is “ambiguous. The builders apparently did something wrong, but this is not stated outright, nor is their sin specified.”7

II. The Divine Project (Genesis 11:6–9) 5Then Yahweh came down to see the city and the tower which the human race built. 6And Yahweh said, “There is now one people and they all have one language. This is what they have begun to do, and now all that they plan to do will be possible for them. 7Come, let us go down and let us mix there their language, that they will not understand one another’s language.” 8Then Yahweh dispersed them from there over the surface of all the earth, and they stopped building the

5 Jacob Neusner, Genesis Rabbah: The Judaic Commentary to the Book of Genesis: A New Amer-

ican Translation ( vols.; BJS 104–6; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 185), 50–51. 6 John Calvin, Commentaries on the First Book of Moses Called Genesis (trans. John King; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 148), . 7 Anderson, “Tower of Babel,” 170; cf. von Rad, Genesis, 151; Gowan, When Man Becomes God, 6–7.

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Journal of Biblical Literature 16, no. 1 (007) city. Therefore, he named it Babel, for there Yahweh mixed [Hebrew ‫ ]בלל‬the language of all the earth, and from there Yahweh dispersed them over the surface of all the earth.

The second half of the story, vv. 6–, contains God’s response to the human project described in the first half of the story. In these verses, God replaces the human race as the primary actor. The story’s second part is designed, with a kind of antithetical parallelism, both to replicate and to reverse the first, so that out of the single, uniform culture of part 1 God brings into existence the multiple, diverse cultures of part . It will become clear in the narrative’s details that God is reacting not to pride, defiance, or imperial power, but to the cultural uniformity of humanity, and that God’s response is not an act of punishment or judgment, but an intervention to introduce cultural difference. Before taking up God’s response, we must first look briefly at v. 5, the story’s turning point: “Then Yahweh came down to see the city and the tower which the human race built.” In this sentence the divine project (vv. 6–)—“Then Yahweh came down to see”—and the human project (vv. 1–4)—“the city and the tower which the human race built”—intersect. God’s descent from heaven is a characteristic of the Yahwist’s conventional language of theophany (Gen 18:1; Exod :8; 4:5). It reflects, of course, the ancient Near Eastern and biblical conception of a two-tiered universe in which the divine and human inhabit different realms, necessitating God’s descent to make contact with the human realm and to act within it (e.g., Exod 1:11; Num 11:17; Isa 6:1; Mic 1:; Ps 18:10). The conventional character of this language of descent undermines the argument of some advocates of the pride-and-punishment reading that the narrator intends by it a satire on human pretensions: the “tower with its top in the sky” was, in fact, so tiny that God had to descend to see it.8 Moreover, as we shall see, God does not respond to the tower at all but to the cultural homogeneity of its builders.

God’s Response (Verse 6) The opening verse of the story’s second part (v. 6), which contains God’s initial response to the human project, is a key to the meaning of the story as a whole, and a proper reading of it is critical for shifting the story’s interpretation from pride and punishment to cultural difference. Here more than anywhere else in the story, our English translations themselves have been influenced by the traditional interpretation, so that Gen 11:6 is now a parade example of the old dictum, “every translation is an interpretation.” Its grammar and content demand special attention. God’s response to the human project, in the first sentence of v. 6, focuses on 8 E.g., von Rad, Genesis, 14; Sarna, Genesis, 8; Wenham, Genesis 1–15, 50; Hamilton, Genesis 1–17, 54; Gowan, When Man Becomes God, 7.

Hiebert: e Tower of Babel

4

its builders’ cultural uniformity, not on their pride or imperial pretensions. God does not speak about the tower or its height, about the hubris of its builders, about their challenge to divine authority, or about their imperial power. Rather, what God notices first upon his descent and considers most remarkable is humanity’s homogeneity: “And Yahweh said, ‘There is now one people and they all have one language” (‫ויאמר יהוה הן עם אחד ושפה אחת לכלם‬, v. 6a). The opening sentence of part thus mirrors the opening sentence of part 1. God notices the precise facts described by the narrator at the beginning of the story: “All the earth had one language (‫ )שפה אחת‬and the same words” (v. 1). The new element in God’s speech, parallel to the narrator’s “All (the people of) the earth” (‫)כל־הארץ‬, at the story’s beginning, is the phrase “one people” (‫עם‬ ‫)אחד‬. With this phrase, God focuses even more directly on the cultural uniformity of the earth’s inhabitants. ‫ עם‬can mean people in a general sense, but it functions primarily as a kinship term, identifying a society tracing itself to a common ancestor. It is employed in the Bible for a distinct community sharing a common ancestry and culture, usually for Israel (Exod 1:; Num :) but also for others, such as Moab (Num 1:) and Syria (Aram; Amos 1:5). By using the phrase ‫עם אחד‬, “one people,” therefore, God characterizes humanity not as a diffuse group of individuals but as a kinship society with a common ancestry and a single, shared culture. Thus, God emphasizes the people’s cultural homogeneity by mentioning both their identity as a kinship group and their shared language (‫)שפה אחת לכלם‬. If we place this story in its larger Yahwistic or biblical narrative—although this is not necessary to make the point above—the society God describes would be all the descendants of the flood hero Noah. God’s straightforward statement about humanity’s cultural uniformity has been subtly transformed by some translators into a suspicion about human pride. Their tactic is rendering this main clause as a subordinate clause, thus making it dependent on the remainder of v. 6, where they see ominous implications of pride (a point we will take up in a moment). They achieve this by translating God’s opening word, ‫הן‬, with its less common meaning, “if ”: “If now, while they are all one people, speaking the same language, they have started to do this, nothing will later stop them from doing whatever they presume to do” (NAB, cf. NJPS, NIV).40 This Norman K. Gottwald, The Tribes of Yahweh: A Sociology of the Religion of Liberated Israel, 1250–1050 B.C.E. (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 17), 41–4; Frank Moore Cross, From Epic to Canon: History and Literature in Ancient Israel (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 18), 11–1; E. A. Speiser, “‘People’ and ‘Nation’ of Israel,” JBL 7 (160): 157–6. 40 Hamilton interprets v. 6 in this way (Genesis 1–17, 4). Wenham proposes a variation, taking ‫ הן‬to introduce a subordinate clause: “Since they are all one people and they all have one language, and this is the beginning of their activity, now lest nothing they plot to do be beyond them, come . . .” (Genesis 1–15, –4, 40). Although ‫ הנה‬may introduce subordinate clauses, this has to be determined by the precise context, and this case does not fit the subordinate patterns laid out by Lambdin, to whom Wenham refers.

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Journal of Biblical Literature 16, no. 1 (007)

rendering demotes cultural uniformity from God’s primary concern to a subordinate issue, of interest only as it contributes to the builders’ supposed insubordination in the following lines. Such a translation, however, reads ‫ הן‬against its common meaning in the Bible and against its consistent sense in Yahwistic texts. ‫ הן‬is normally used as a variant of ‫הנה‬, traditionally translated “Behold,” but better understood, following Thomas O. Lambdin, as a “predicator of existence” that “emphasizes the immediacy, the here-and-now-ness, of the situation.”41 This is, in fact, the only way the Yahwist employs it (e.g., Gen :; 4:14; 1:4; 7:11, 7). Thus I have translated: “There is now one people and they all have one language” (cf. KJV, NRSV, JB). God’s opening words are a simple statement about the current state of human life. The rest of God’s speech in v. 6 builds on God’s concern about humanity’s homogeneity expressed in its opening sentence. But it is in this second part of God’s response that interpreters have found what they believe to be particular proof of the builders’ hubris and God’s reaction to it. God’s speech continues with the words, ‫וזה‬ ‫החלם לעשות‬, a pronoun followed by two infinitives: “This/their beginning/to do.” “This” (‫)זה‬, scholars agree, refers to the building project described in part 1, which God has just seen: “the city and the tower which the people built” (v. 5). The infinitive ‫( החלם‬with a plural suffix), “their beginning,” assumes a nominal function in the sentence; it does not indicate tense, and the time to which it refers must be inferred from the context. Since God is commenting here on the building project he has just seen—that is, what the people have just accomplished—this infinitive may be rendered in the present perfect tense, “this is what they have begun to do,” as many translators in fact render it (cf. Jub. 10:, NJPS, NAB, NEB, NIV).4 God is simply acknowledging the builders’ work. This simple observation about what the people have done has been embellished by translators to imply that the people have sinister plans. To accomplish this, translators attribute to the infinitives ‫ החלם לעשות‬the future tense: “This is only the beginning of what they will do” (NRSV; cf. RSV, JB). While the future is not prohibited by the syntax, since infinitives do not have tense, it is not the most obvious inference from the context. It shifts the object of God’s observation from a concrete referent in the story, which God has just seen (“the city and the tower which the human race built,” v. 5), to a hypothetical event outside the story, for which the narrator has provided no foreshadowing. Moreover, by adding to the actual Hebrew text a word like “only” (NRSV, RSV, NJB) or “but” (“This is but the start” [JB]), the future is emphasized and turned into a threat: God now appears to fear future human challenges. If the first half of the story is not about pride, there is no reason for such a fear nor for such a translation. It is certainly not supported by the story’s context or this sentence’s syntax. 41 Thomas O. Lambdin, Introduction to Biblical Hebrew (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 171), 168–70. 4 The LXX uses aorist verb forms: tou'to h[rxanto poih'sai, “they have begun to do this.”

Hiebert: e Tower of Babel

45

The final words in v. 6 complete God’s comments about the human project: ‫ועתה לא־יבצר מהם כל אשר יזמו לעשות‬, literally, “and now not will be withheld from them all that they plan to do,” or, “all that they plan to do will be possible for them.” The key question on which the interpretation of this sentence depends is: to what does God refer by “all that they plan to do”? If we look for an answer in the context of the story itself, then a very simple and obvious solution presents itself: “all that they plan to do” refers to the human plans described in the first half of the story, that is, making bricks and building a city and a tower in hopes of not being dispersed across the earth. This meaning connects “all that they plan to do” with God’s preceding statement, “this is what they have begun to do,” so that both statements refer to the human project described in part 1. To paraphrase a bit, God makes the judgment that, based on what they have accomplished already, their plans will succeed. Those plans, of course, are to avoid dispersion by building a city. We are now in a position to grasp the meaning of God’s entire speech in v. 6 and to understand God’s response to the human project. The first thing God notices, upon encountering the human project (v. 5), is the cultural homogeneity of the human race: “There is now one people and they all have one language.” The next thing God recognizes is that based on what they have been able to achieve— “This is what they have begun to do”—they will be able to carry out their plans to remain together—“and now all that they plan to do will be possible for them.” The real sense of God’s response, rendered colloquially, could be put like this: “And Yahweh said, ‘From what they have accomplished already, it looks like their plans to remain one people with one language in one place will succeed.” God recognizes that the human race, left to itself, is intent on preserving one uniform culture, and that recognition spurs God to action in vv. 7–8. This is not the sense of God’s concluding words found in current translations and interpretations of v. 6, which perpetuate here too the traditional pride-andpunishment reading of the story. These words are universally believed to communicate God’s dread of unrestrained human pride and of humanity’s future rebellions against divine authority. Two excellent illustrations of such an understanding are the NRSV, “nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them,” and the NAB, “nothing will later stop them from doing whatever they presume to do.”4 Such translations, motivated by the traditional interpretive perspective of their authors, strain the limits of both the text and its context. This strain results, first of all, from moving the people’s planning into the future. This is grammatically possible, since the verbs ‫יזמו‬, “they plan,” and ‫יבצר‬, “be withheld,” are imperfect forms, indicating unfinished action. But such a translation faces the same problem as the 4 Contemporary scholars concur: Westermann states, “The meaning of God’s reflections in Gen 11:6 thus becomes clear; there is the fear that people could become like God . . . it is against human presumption, albeit only feared, that God must intervene” (Genesis 1–11, 551); Sarna writes, “Unless preventive measures are taken, there will be no limit to man’s arrogant schemes” (Genesis, 84). Cf. Anderson, “Tower of Babel,” 170, 178; and Fretheim, “Genesis,” 41–1.

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futuristic reading of the previous statement, “This is what they have begun to do.” It shifts the object of God’s response from the current situation in the story (vv. 1– 4), which God has just observed (v. 5), to a different, hypothetical event in the future outside the story, for which the narrator has provided no foreshadowing or context. This strain is increased by the expansive treatment of the human plans to which God refers: ‫כל אשר יזמו לעשות‬. The NAB, “whatever they presume to do,” and the NRSV, “nothing that they propose to do,” move considerably beyond the more straightforward “all that they plan to do.” The Hebrew term ‫כל‬, “all,” is a big word, opening the gates for a maximal reading. But in the story’s context, as has already been argued, it more obviously refers to the entirety of the planning described in vv. 1–4 and observed by God in v. 5, than to some event outside the story’s context. Finally, the Hebrew verb ‫)זמם( יזמו‬, “plan,” cannot be taken to connote evil scheming or plotting against God, as some have suggested. Its use in the Bible indicates that it is essentially neutral and may be used positively or negatively.44

God’s Actions (Verses 7–8) Upon viewing the human project (v. 5), recognizing the cultural uniformity of the human race (v. 6a), and acknowledging the probable success of the people’s plan to preserve it (v. 6b), God intervenes to introduce the world’s cultures. To achieve this, God takes two actions: God introduces multiple languages (v. 7) and disperses the people throughout the earth (v. 8). As we will see, the literary structure of these verses is designed so that God’s acts both mirror and reverse the people’s acts in part 1. Each part of this literary design moves the narrative from the uniform culture of the human project to the diverse cultures of the divine project. God’s first act to diversify culture, the multiplication of languages, is expressed in volitive form: ‫הבה נרדה ונבלה שם שפתם‬, “Come, let us go down and let us mix there their language” (v. 7a).45 Numerous literary techniques link God’s move toward diversification with the human project in part 1 and present it as a reversal of that project.46 The first act attributed to God, multiplying languages, alters the first characteristic attributed to the human race, a single language (v. 1). God’s call 44 Speiser maintains that this root denotes scheming (Genesis, 75), though its usage shows that it can be used for good or ill (esp. Zech 8:14–15; cf. Pss 17: [for the righteous] and 7:1 [for the wicked]). 45 By using volitive verbal forms, the story describes God’s desire to multiply languages but does not describe the act itself, a typical feature of this storyteller’s style. In part 1 too the storyteller narrates the human desire to act, but does not narrate the acts themselves (vv. , 4). Later references indicate that all of these calls to act were carried out (vv. 5, ). 46 For a detailed analysis of these literary elements, see the studies cited in n. 10 above (though these studies are, by and large, undertaken under the aegis of the traditional reading of Genesis 11).

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to the divine council to put an end to homogeneity, “Come, let us . . . mix,” mimics the people’s call to one another to preserve it, “Come, let us . . . make bricks . . . and build . . . so that we will not be dispersed” (vv. , 4). The verb expressing God’s plans, ‫נבלה‬, “let us mix (their languages),” echoes, with both alliteration and assonance, the verbs expressing the people’s plans: ‫נלבנה‬, “let us make bricks” (v. ), and ‫נבנה‬, “let us build” (v. 4). Finally, God’s use of the phrase ‫ רעהו‬. . . ‫איש‬, “one another,” in v. 7b to describe the differences between languages, ‫אשר לא ישמעו‬ ‫איש שפת רעהו‬, “that they will not understand one another’s language,” reverses the use of the same phrase in part 1 to describe the people’s use of a common language, “they said to one another” (‫ רעהו‬. . . ‫איש‬, v. ). Language, of course, is recognized by sociologists and anthropologists as one of the primary markers of a specific culture, cultural tradition, or ethnic group. It is a prominent feature by which a particular culture or ethnicity constructs its identity and distinguishes itself from others. This is certainly the belief of our storyteller, the Yahwist, who uses language as the primary characteristic of culture in this story, where a common language represents a common culture (vv. 1, 6) and multiple languages represent multiple cultures (vv. 7, ). It is also true for the Priestly writer, who, in the alternative traditions of the dispersion of humanity in Genesis 10, regards language—together with land, kinship, and nationality—as determinative of cultural distinctions (vv. 5, 0, 1). In fact, throughout the Bible the terms for language, ‫ שפה‬and its synonym ‫לשון‬, are invariably used as key markers of cultural difference (e.g., Deut 8:4; Isa 66:18; Zech 8:; Ps 81:6). The verb employed to describe God’s multiplication or division of languages is ‫בלל‬, literally “mix.” It is a little-used verb, employed elsewhere in the Bible only for mixing the ingredients fine flour and oil to make offertory cakes or bread (e.g., Exod :40; Lev 14:10; Num 6:15).47 On the basis of these biblical data, we should translate ‫נבלה שפתם‬, “let us mix their language,” signifying that God makes a polyglot world, a mixture of languages, so that the language of humanity (‫ )שפתם‬is no longer a single language but a mixture of many. The verb ‫ בלל‬strikes me as a somewhat unusual choice to depict God’s multiplication, division, or differentiation of languages. The Priestly writer, for example, uses ‫פרד‬, “divide” (Gen 10:5, ). Yet ‫ בלל‬was undoubtedly selected by the Yahwist to provide an etiology for ‫בבל‬, Babel, the name of the city it is intended to explain (v. ). The term ‫ בלל‬does not, of course, provide a proper linguistic etymology for ‫ בבל—בבל‬cannot be derived from the root ‫—בלל‬but this is typical of the Yahwist, whose etymologies rely only on a rough similarity of sounds (e.g., Gen :0; 4:1; 5:). Furthermore, as noted above, the first common plural form of ‫בלל‬, ‫נבלה‬, appears to be an intentional play on the first common plural forms ‫ נלבנה‬and ‫ נבנה‬in part 1 (vv. , 4). 47 In three instances, Isa 64:5, Hos 7:8, and Ps :11, it is unclear whether ‫ בלל‬or another root is being employed; these are difficult texts and certainly not a reliable basis for determining the meaning of ‫בלל‬. The comparative evidence from Phoenician (‫ )בלל‬and Akkadian (balālu) indicates the same usage as biblical ‫בלל‬.

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In the history of interpretation, this straightforward account of God’s intervention to introduce the world’s many languages has been represented as a divine punishment—though punishment is never mentioned in the story—by reading punitive overtones into the verb ‫ בלל‬and into the phrase “they will not understand one another’s language” (v. 7b). Since the Septuagint chose the verb sugcevw (“pour together, confound, confuse, destroy, frustrate”) to render ‫בלל‬, lexicographers (“confuse, confound” [BDB]; “verwirren” [KBL]) and translators (“confuse” [NRSV, NIV, NAB, JB]; “confound” [KJV, NJPS]) have elected to give ‫ בלל‬in Genesis 11, and only in Genesis 11, a negative spin, thereby representing God’s division of languages as a divine judgment that inflicts confusion, trouble, and conflict on the human race. Recent translators, trying to capture the play on ‫( בלל‬mix) and ‫בבל‬ (Babel) in the story, have offered more creative, though still negative, translations: “babble their language” or “baffle their language.”48 Exegetes themselves have, by and large, adopted the terms “confuse” and “confound” in order to imply divine punishment in God’s action.4 With no linguistic evidence to support these meanings, such translations of ‫ בלל‬in Genesis 11 can only be seen as theological, as the consequence of understanding the people’s project as an act of pride and defiance that demanded retribution from God. The same punitive overtone attributed to the verb ‫ בלל‬has also been attributed to the final phrase of v. 7, which states that, upon the introduction of different languages, people will not be able to understand one another. According to one approach, this inability to communicate is regarded as the source of confusion, conflict, and discord in the human race, and such conflict and discord are considered a divine judgment on humanity.50 According to another approach, the people’s 48 Friedman, Commentary on the Torah, 46; Everett Fox, The Five Books of Moses: Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy; A New Translation with Introductions, Commentary, and Notes (Schocken Bible 1; New York: Schocken, 18), 4. Compare David Rosenberg’s “baffle” (Harold Bloom, The Book of J [New York: Grove Weidenfeld, 10], 7) and Fokkelman’s “muddle” (Narrative Art, 1). It is worth investigating further whether the word “babble,” appearing in the twelfth or thirteenth century, is not in fact from the negative understanding of Babel in Genesis 11 rather than an onomatopoeic formation, as suggested in the Oxford English Dictionary. 4 Fretheim, who is otherwise critical of the traditional pride-and-punishment approach, sees vv. 5– as a “judicial inquiry” and describes the “confusion” of languages as the “sentence” on humanity imposed by the divine council (v. 7) and carried out by God as “punishment” (v. ) (“Genesis,” 41–1). 50 According to one strain of rabbinic thought, a single universal language was one of God’s twenty-four precious gifts to humanity at creation, and the division of languages led to misunderstanding, violence, and warfare (Kasher, Encyclopedia, 0, 1, 6). Martin Luther called the division of languages “the seedbed of all evils” because it caused political and economic confusion (Lectures on Genesis: Chapters 6–14, vol. of Luther’s Works [ed. Jaroslav Pelikan and Daniel E. Poellot; trans. George V. Schick; St. Louis: Concordia, 160], 15). Modern proponents of the view that linguistic diversity led to confusion and should be regarded as divine punishment include S. R. Driver, The Book of Genesis (London: Methuen, 10), 1; Sarna, Genesis, 80; Brueggemann, Genesis, 10; and Wenham, Genesis 1–15, 45.

Hiebert: e Tower of Babel

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inability to understand each other is seen as God’s plan to restrain humanity’s sins. God interrupted the people’s communication in order to stop their work and undermine their unified effort to attack God, thereby preventing this challenge and any future challenges to divine authority.51 The phrase “they will not understand one another’s language” has no such negative connotations in biblical usage. It is, in fact, the conventional way to describe a language different from the speaker’s, that is, “a language you do not understand” (Deut 8:48; cf. Isa :1; Jer 5:15; Ps 81:6). Thus, v. 7b simply spells out the result of v. 7a: upon God’s mixing of the people’s language, many distinct languages resulted. Such a conventional expression for linguistic difference can be turned into a punitive measure only if the people’s pride is assumed and its punishment, or restraint, is required. Read in light of its customary biblical usage, this phrase is a simple description of a multilingual world. God’s second action to diversify culture is to disperse the human population: “Then Yahweh dispersed them from there over the surface of all the earth” (v. 8a). Just as the narrator describes God’s creation of many languages as the reversal of the people’s one language, so here the narrator describes God’s dispersal of the people to many places as the reversal of their desire to stay in one place (v. 4). To highlight this reversal, God’s speech employs the same language as the people’s speech: both use the verb ‫פוץ‬, “be dispersed,” together with the prepositional phrase ‫על־פני‬ ‫כל־הארץ‬, “over the surface of all the earth” (vv. 4, 8). The reversal from one place to many places is further emphasized when God’s action to disperse the people in v. 8 is repeated verbatim in the final phrase in the story’s concluding etiology, so that the final words of the story’s second half, describing God’s dispersal (v. b), repeat the final words of the story’s first half, describing the people’s desire not to be dispersed (v. 4b). Here in v. 8, as in v. 7, the interpretive spin on the terminology and the conclusion of the verse have both been employed to imply that dispersion is a punitive measure. The verb ‫ פוץ‬is regularly rendered in Genesis 11 with “scatter” (NRSV, NJPS; see BDB), the English translation with the strongest negative connotations, rather than with the equally viable “dispersed,” or “spread abroad.” Translations and dictionaries invariably use “scatter” for calamitous contexts involving enemies or exiles, while “dispersed” and “spread abroad” are reserved for more benign contexts.5 The final clause of this verse, “and they stopped building the city,” as has been noted, does not even mention the tower, the crucial image for the traditional pride-and-punishment interpretation, yet scholars continue to regard this halt in construction as a judgment on the hubris of city building or the punishment of expulsion and exile.5 In fact this reference to the end of construction simply affirms 51 E.g., Cassuto, Genesis, part , 47; Westermann, Genesis 1–11, 55; Hamilton, Genesis 1–17,

55. 5 BDB, for example, suggest “scatter” for Genesis 11 but “spread abroad” for the traditions of human dispersion in Gen 10:18. 5 See n. 4 and Wenham, Genesis 1–15, 41.

50

Journal of Biblical Literature 16, no. 1 (007)

that God has effectively countered the human project: the building of the city by which the people hoped to remain in one place has, in the wake of their dispersion to many places, ceased. Geographical residence—a people’s land or territory—is closely associated, as is language, with the identity of a specific culture or ethnic group, and it is a prominent means of distinction between cultures. The Yahwist thus employs two key cultural markers, language and geography, to describe cultural uniformity, on the one hand (vv. 1–4), and cultural diversity, on the other (vv 8, ). Taken together, God’s two actions, distinguishing languages and dispersing humanity, explain the origin of the world’s cultures and provide an etiology of cultural difference. Both characteristics of culture also feature prominently in the alternative Priestly traditions of the origins of the world’s cultures (10:5, 0, 1). The close relationship between separate locations and separate languages is an important concept today in historical linguistics, in which the development of new languages is directly linked to a space-time continuum. Over time, communities living in different geographical regions develop different languages.54 The Yahwist is not a modern linguist, as his etiology of Babel in v. clearly shows, but his story does reflect an ancient observation about the relationship between different cultures, the different regions they inhabit, and the different languages they speak. The scholarly claim that language change and dispersion are separate issues deriving from separate recensions of Gen 11:1– fails to recognize the close connection in the design of the story and in the conception of the Yahwist between language and geography as components of culture.55

The Concluding Etiology (Verse 9) The story’s aim to explain the origin of the world’s cultures is summarized in its final sentence, where God’s acts to introduce cultural diversity are repeated: “there Yahweh mixed the language of all the earth, and from there Yahweh dispersed them over the surface of all the earth.” “There” in this sentence refers, of course, to the city which the people built and which here in the story’s conclusion God names Babel. While traditionally understood to represent an evil empire, the role Babel actually plays in this story is to represent the place where cultural diversity originated, that is, the cradle of civilization. 54 Anthony Arlotto, Introduction to Historical Linguistics (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 17), 6–10, –5, 5. 55 Scholars who separate these motifs into distinct recensions include Gunkel, Genesis, 4–; Westermann, Genesis 1–11, 55–5; and Uehlinger, Weltreich, 514–45, 57–84. The occasional concern about the order in which the narrative describes language change and human dispersion taking place, and whether it got the order right, goes beyond the narrator’s basic recognition of their relationship (e.g., Westermann, Genesis 1–11, 55; Hamilton, Genesis 1–17, 57–58).

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51

Babel’s role is explicit in the etiology that the story provides for its name: “Therefore, he named it Babel (‫בבל‬, bābel), for there Yahweh mixed (‫בלל‬, bālal) the language of all the earth.” Whatever the actual derivation of the name Babel, the Yahwist believes it to be derived from the verb by which God first differentiated languages, and thus cultures, from one another.56 This sense of the name Babel is emphasized by the term “therefore” (‫)על־כן‬, which links the naming of Babel to God’s two actions to diversify culture, which precede it (vv. 7–8), and by the term “for” (‫)כי‬, which links the naming to the repetition of these acts, which follows it (v. ). Babel’s role as the point of origin of the world’s cultures is emphasized in the narrative also by the repetition of the adverb ‫שם‬, “there,” each time God’s diversification of culture is mentioned: “Come, let us go down and mix there their language” (v. 7); “Then Yahweh dispersed them from there over the surface of all the earth” (v. 8); “Therefore, he named it Babel, for there Yahweh mixed the language of all the earth” (v. ); “from there Yahweh dispersed them over the surface of all the earth” (v. ). The adverb is first used, in fact, in v. to identify the site, later named Babel, where the human race settled: “they found a valley in the land of Shinar, and they settled there.”57 The conception of Babel and its environs, “the valley in the land of Shinar” (v. )—ancient Babylon and Mesopotamia—as the cradle of civilization in Genesis 11 is not unique in the Bible. It assumes a foundational place in the traditions of Israel’s ancestors, which locate Israel’s own origins in Mesopotamia. Both the Yahwist (Gen 11:8–0; 15:7) and the Priestly writer (Gen 11:1) claim that Abraham’s family, the family of Terah, originated in Ur in southern Mesopotamia, referred to by the Yahwist as “their native land” (‫ארץ מולדת‬, Gen 11:8; 4:7), and then migrated westward to Canaan. This tradition is preserved also by the Deuteronomistic Historian, who places the origin of Terah and his family in Mesopotamia, beyond the Euphrates (‫בעבר הנהר‬, “in the region beyond the river,” Josh 4:–).58 The name “Hebrew,” ‫עברי‬, may, in fact, have been understood in tradition as “one 56 The actual derivation of Babel is likely no longer recoverable, though it was interpreted commonly in Babylon according to the Akkadian bāb-ilim, “Gate of God.” See Bill T. Arnold, Who Were the Babylonians? (SBLABS 10; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 004), ; I. J. Gelb, “The Name of Babylon,” Journal of the Institute of Asian Studies 1 (155): 1–4; Burkhart Kienast, “The Name of the City of Babylon,” Sumer 5 (17): 46–48. 57 The adverb is not intended as a negative, satirical play on the word ‫שם‬, “name” (v. ), as is often claimed, so that the name (‫ )שם‬represents the place (‫ )שם‬of confusion (e.g., Fokkelman, Narrative Art, 16–17; van Wolde, Words Become Worlds, –100). To the extent that it does play on “name,” it simply reinforces the name as the place of the origins of the world’s cultures. 58 P. Kyle McCarter, Jr., “The Patriarchal Age: Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob,” in Ancient Israel: From Abraham to the Roman Destruction of the Temple (rev. ed.; ed. Hershel Shanks; rev. Ronald S. Hendel; Washington, DC: Biblical Archaeology Society, 1), 18; Robert G. Boling and G. Ernest Wright, Joshua: A New Translation with Notes and Commentary (AB 6; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 18), 54.

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Journal of Biblical Literature 16, no. 1 (007)

from beyond,” signifying Israel’s origins in Mesopotamia (‫בעבר‬, “in the region beyond [the river]”).5 This biblical conception of the role of Babylon and Mesopotamia in the origins of ancient Near Eastern culture is reflected also in the reference to Babel and the land of Shinar in the genealogical traditions in Gen 10:8–1, though these verses have been used historically to support the vilification of Babel and its pride in ch. 11. Genesis 10:8–1 concerns Nimrod, a “mighty hunter before Yahweh” (v. ), whose kingdom began at Babel, Erech, and Akkad in the land of Shinar (v. 10). These traditions, like those in ch. 11, contain no censure of Babel. Nimrod is portrayed as a Yahwistic hero, “a mighty hunter before Yahweh” (‫)גבור ציד לפני יהוה‬.60 And Babel is presented as the first great city at the origins of human culture in Mesopotamia. As early as Josephus (Ant. 1.11–14), however, interpreters have read these traditions as a condemnation of Nimrod and his imperial exploits, and they have imported him into Genesis 11, making him the tyrant who led the Babylonians in the construction of their tower and their empire.61 Neither the negative reading of Gen 10:8–1 nor its use to interpret 11:1– is warranted. Such an image of Babel in Gen 11:1– does not necessarily suggest that the story originated in Babylon, as many scholars believe it did.6 There is, in fact, no comparable story in Mesopotamian literature. Samuel Kramer’s proposed parallel contains a reference to languages in a difficult and disputed context, and, moreover, Kramer’s treatment of it has been heavily influenced by his own acceptance of the traditional pride-and-punishment reading of the biblical narrative.6 The story of Babel is so deeply indigenous in cultural detail, geographical context, literary shape, and religious perspective that it can be described only as a thoroughly Israelite narrative.64

5 McCarter states: “Whatever the ultimate origin of the term ‘Hebrews,’ this was the meaning it came to have in the tradition: The vIbrîm, ‘Hebrews,’ were those who came from vēber, ‘beyond,’ the Euphrates” (“Patriarchal Age,” 18). See also BDB, 70. 60 Karel van der Toorn and P. W. van der Horst, “Nimrod Before and After the Bible,” HTR 8 (10): 1–16. Skill in hunting is a stereotypical trait of kings (Coote and Ord, Bible’s First History, – ). 61 Nimrod is still mentioned occasionally in this role (e.g., Wenham, Genesis 1–15, ). 6 Gunkel, Genesis, 101; Gressmann, Tower of Babel, 4; Sigmund Mowinckel, “The Babylonian Matter in the Predeuteronomic Primeval History (JE) in Gen 1–11,” JBL 58 (1): 87–1; W. F. Albright, “The Babylonian Matter,” JBL 58 (1): –10; Parrot, Tower of Babel, 15; van der Toorn and van der Horst, “Nimrod,” 15. 6 Samuel N. Kramer, “Man’s Golden Age: A Sumerian Parallel to Genesis XI:1,” JAOS 6 (14): 11–; idem, “The ‘Babel of Tongues’: A Sumerian Version,” JAOS 88 (168): 108–11. See also B. Alster, “An Aspect of ‘Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta,’” RA 67 (17): 101–; M. E. Cohen, “The Incantation Hymn: Incantation or Hymn?” JAOS 5 (175): 5–611. This text was analyzed in the McCormick volume by Min Won Song, “A So-called Sumerian Parallel to the Babel Story: A Study on the Sumerian Epic ‘Enmerkar and the Lord of Aratta’” (Hiebert, Toppling the Tower, 1–). 64 Hiebert, Yahwist’s Landscape, 77–78.

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Late in Israelite history, with the rise of the Neo-Babylonian Empire in the late seventh and early sixth centuries b.c.e., Babylon takes on a new adversarial role. Babylon becomes Israel’s enemy, and, after its destruction of Jerusalem in 586, Israel’s archenemy, its enduring symbol of ruthless imperial power (Isaiah 1; 14; Jeremiah 51; Psalm 17). Read from this perspective, as scholars customarily have, Genesis 11 is regarded as a satire on Babylon and its culture: on its religion, its ziggurat, its imperial schemes, or its prideful pretensions.65 This Neo-Babylonian lens is particularly important for the newer, postcolonial reading of Genesis 11 as a critique of empire.66 But as we have seen in the analysis above, Gen 11:1– does not present Babel as the symbol of empire or critique it as such. Rather, by means of etiology and literary structure, the story describes Babel as the cradle of civilization, the point of origin of the world’s different cultures.

III. Genesis 11:1–9 in Its Biblical Context If we regard Gen 11:1– no longer as a narrative of pride and punishment but as an account of the origin of the world’s cultures, then we can no longer read the story of Babel as the climax of human sin and divine judgment in the primeval age, as it has been read since rabbinic and patristic exegesis.67 It plays an entirely different role in its biblical context. In that role, it is a foundational part of the theme of cultural differentiation that is prominent in the post-flood age. From the flood forward, the narratives of Genesis provide etiologies for the world’s increasing cultural particularity.68 In fact, at a very basic level, the book of Genesis provides a

65 E.g., Cassuto, Genesis, part , 48; von Rad, Genesis, 151; Sarna, Genesis, 84; John Van Seters, Prologue to History: The Yahwist as Historian in Genesis (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1), 18–85; and Joseph Blenkinsopp, The Pentateuch: An Introduction to the First Five Books of the Bible (ABRL; New York: Doubleday, 1), 1. 66 Uehlinger, however, argues that an anti-Babylonian polemic belongs to the story’s second stage, its earliest form originating as an anti-Assyrian narrative (Weltreich, 514–58). 67 In one strain of rabbinic thought, the generation of division, because of its direct challenge to God’s authority, is judged to be more wicked than the generation of the flood (Gen. Rab. 8:6); Kasher, Encyclopedia, 0. For patristic exegesis, see Augustine, City of God 16.11–1. See also Gunkel, Genesis, 1; von Rad, Genesis, 151, 15; Sarna, Genesis, 81; Westermann, Genesis 1–11, 18–1; Wenham, Genesis 1–15, li; Van Seters, Prologue to History, 188–; Jack M. Sasson, “The ‘Tower of Babel’ as a Clue to the Redactional Structuring of the Primal History [Gen 1–11:],” in The Bible World: Essays in Honor of Cyrus Gordon (ed. Gary Rendsburg et al.; New York: Ktav, 180), 14–1. 68 This approach to Gen 11:1– in context suggests that the flood may have a more prominent role than usually thought in defining the end of the primeval age, a thesis that deserves further investigation. See, e.g., Hiebert, Yahwist’s Landscape, 80–8; see also Rolf Rendtorff, “Genesis 8,1 und die Urgeschichte des Jahwisten,” KD 7 (161): 6–71; Malcolm Clark, “The Flood and the Structure of the Pre-Patriarchal History,” ZAW 8 (171): 04–10.

Journal of Biblical Literature 16, no. 1 (007)

54

map of the world’s growing cultural diversity and of Israel’s place within it. This is best illustrated by examining both Yahwistic and Priestly traditions. In Yahwistic material, of which the story of Babel is a part, the theme of cultural differentiation begins immediately with the disembarkation from the ark of Noah and his family: “The sons of Noah who left the ark were Shem, Ham, and Japheth, Ham being the father of Canaan. These three were Noah’s sons and from these all people of the earth were dispersed” (:18–1).6 The story of Babel, which follows this brief notice, explains how this dispersion comes about. These two J texts are linked closely by vocabulary. The verb ‫)נפץ( נפצה‬, “were dispersed,” in :1 is closely related to the verb ‫פוץ‬, which J employs for the dispersion of humanity in the Babel narrative (vv. 4, 8, ).70 Moreover, the final clause of :1, ‫נפצה כל־‬ ‫הארץ‬, “all (the people of) the earth were dispersed,” ends with the phrase ‫כל־הארץ‬, “all (the people of) the earth,” which is the same phrase with which the story of Babel begins, ‫כל־הארץ שפה אחת‬, “all (the people of) the earth had one language” (11:1). From this point on in Genesis, the Yahwist’s narratives give prominence to the theme of the dispersion of humanity and its cultural differentiation, for which Gen 11:1– provides the foundational episode. The fragmentary genealogical materials from J (10:8–1, 1, 4–0; 11:8–0), which are embedded in the Priestly genealogy that now frames the story of Babel (10:1–; 11:10–), contain select details of cultural diversification between Babel and the origins of Abraham’s family in Mesopotamia (11:8–0).71 The narratives of Israel’s ancestors that follow document the origins of new cultures in Israel’s world with increasing specificity, focusing on Israel’s closest neighbors. The Ishmaelites originate in Abraham’s generation (16:1–14); the Moabites and Ammonites in the generation of his nephew Lot (1:0–8); and the Edomites in Isaac’s generation (5:1–4; :15–18). Finally, in the generation of Jacob (Israel), which concludes Genesis, the people of Israel itself is differentiated into subcultures represented by its constituent tribes, summarized in the archaic traditions appropriated by the Yahwist (4:1–8). For the Priestly writer, as for the Yahwist, the dispersion and differentiation of the world’s peoples, languages, and cultures represent a dominant motif in the postflood period. God’s covenant with Noah following the flood introduces this theme immediately (:1–17). Dispersion is God’s first post-flood command: ‫פרו ורבו ומלאו‬, 70 The verb ‫ נפץ‬is often taken as a secondary root from the niphal of ‫( פוץ‬BDB, 65). The verb 6 Anderson,

“Tower of Babel,” 175; Van Seters, Prologue to History, 180.

‫פוץ‬, “be dispersed,” is used also in v. 18 in the genealogical material (10:8–1) customarily attributed

to the Yahwist and now embedded in a Priestly composition. The alternative Priestly verb for dispersion is consistently ‫פרד‬, “divide” (Gen 10:5, ). 71 The Yahwist’s genealogical data in Genesis 10 have been displaced chronologically by P’s editorial positioning of his genealogical record of dispersion (with its J sections) before J’s account of dispersion in the story of Babel in ch. 11. The same editorial practice can be seen in P’s positioning his creation traditions (Gen 1:1–:4a) before J’s (Gen :4b–:4).

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‫את־הארץ‬, “Be fruitful, and multiply, and fill the earth” (:1, 7), which is repeated twice in God’s opening speech. For the Priestly writer, this was God’s intent from the beginning at the creation of the world (1:8). After the flood, God’s first strategy to reconstitute the world is to disperse humanity throughout it. The Priestly genealogy that follows the covenant with Noah, commonly referred to as the “Table of Nations,” records the manner by which humanity multiplies and fills the earth. This is the Priestly “parallel” to the Yahwist’s Babel narrative. P’s genealogy is divided into three sections, one for each of Noah’s sons: Japheth (10:–5), Ham (10:6–0), and Shem (10:1–1).7 Each concludes with a summary statement describing the dispersion of peoples and the differentiation of their languages and cultures, such as the one following Japheth’s descendants: “These are the descendants of Japheth in their lands, each with its own language, by their clans, in their nations” (v. 5, cf. vv. 0, 1). Just as in the Yahwist’s story of Babel, cultural distinctiveness is characterized by P according to geographical dispersion (“in their lands”) and linguistic diversification (“each with its own language”). The entire genealogy concludes with a general summary that repeats this theme: “These are the clans of Noah’s sons according to their genealogies, in their nations. From these the nations in the earth spread out after the flood” (10:). Genealogy is the means by which the Priestly writer frames and organizes the narrative traditions in Genesis, and in the genealogies that follow the Table of Nations in Genesis 10, P records with increasing particularity the cultures of Israel’s world (e.g., 11:10–7, 1–; 5:1–0; 6:1–0; 7:; cf. Exod 1:1–7). Thus, both great traditions of the world’s beginnings after the flood place great stress on the origins of cultural difference. They do, however, present these origins from different perspectives. The Priestly writer, by introducing the world’s first new cultures in Genesis 10 with his typical tabular, genealogical form, records the spread of culture as a simple catalogue of facts, or, as Gunkel put it, “as a natural consequence of reproduction and growth.”7 The Yahwist, by contrast, presents these events in narrative form: with setting, character, and plot, and with a plot involving a conflict between opposing forces. The Yahwist’s account of the origins of difference thus includes an element of tension that is lacking in Priestly traditions: the people’s desire to stay together and preserve a single culture is juxtaposed to God’s intention to disperse them and diversify their cultures. The story’s drama springs from the tension, as Anderson put it, between the centripetal force of homogeneity and the centrifugal force of heterogeneity.74 What does the story of Babel mean to say about cultural difference by placing its origins within this tension between the people’s wish to stay together and God’s 7 As noted above, the Priestly genealogical traditions about Ham and Shem contain fragments of Yahwistic genealogical data. 7 Gunkel, Genesis, . 74 Anderson, “Tower of Babel,” 166–68.

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Journal of Biblical Literature 16, no. 1 (007)

interest in dividing them? Some answers are clear from the data analyzed above. In the first place, the story presents the people’s desire to preserve their common culture without censure. The storyteller does not claim that the people sinned, in direct contrast to the preceding stories of the Garden of Eden, Cain and Abel, and the flood. Nor, as has been shown in this analysis, are pride, defiance, or rebellion against God implied by anything the people did or by God’s own assessment of the human project in v. 6. We may not take the people’s wish to stay together in the Yahwist’s story as a transgression of God’s command to “fill the earth” in the Priestly tradition (Gen 1:8; :1, 7) as many interpreters have done.75 The story of Babel makes no reference to this command, even when God appears to diversify humanity and populate the earth. This reflects the fact that the Yahwist’s traditions arose separately from Priestly ones, with which they now stand in some tension, and Priestly perspectives may not be employed to understand the origins or values of Yahwistic traditions.76 Ibn Ezra recognized the story’s lack of censure: “The builders of the tower hoped that their city and tower would prevent them from dispersing, but this was not God’s will. However, they did not know this.”77 It is also clear from the data that the story describes God’s response to counteract the human desire for homogeneity by introducing heterogeneity without any negative connotations or consequences. God’s initial assessment of human efforts recognizes simply their initial success at preserving a common culture (v. 6). God’s subsequent introduction of cultural difference, through linguistic and geographical diversity, is presented as God’s intention for the world and narrated in a straightforward fashion. As this analysis has shown, there is no support in the story for viewing God’s actions as a punishment, judgment, or curse upon the human race, nor as a catastrophe which doomed humanity to confusion and chaos. The world’s cultural diversity is represented as the consequence of God’s design for the world, not the result of God punishment of it. Ibn Ezra, though going a bit beyond the explicit words of the story itself, understood this aspect of the story more clearly than his peers: “God scattered the people for their own benefit.”78 What we can say, then, without transgressing the limitations of the data in the story itself, is that it describes the origins of the world’s cultures through a narra-

75 Among ancient interpreters, see Josephus (Ant. 1.4.1 §10), Kimhi, and Malbim (Kasher, Encyclopedia, 4). Among modern interpreters, see Sarna, Genesis, 8; van Wolde, Words Become Worlds, 101–4; Hamilton, Genesis 1–17, 5; Fretheim, “Genesis,” 41. 76 We would expect interpreters before the critical era, who read the Bible as a single, seamless narrative, to have read Gen 11:1– in light of earlier divine commands. 77 Ibn Ezra, Commentary, 140. Ibn Ezra believed, in fact, that Israel’s righteous ancestors— Noah, Shem, and Abraham—were all present and assisted in building the tower of Babel (p. 18). This viewpoint contrasted with the primary rabbinic tradition, which developed the tale that Abraham refused to join the project and was thrown into a fiery furnace by Nimrod (van der Toorn and van der Horst, “Nimod,” 1–). 78 Ibn Ezra, Commentary, 14.

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tive world in which people desire uniformity and God desires diversity. Since this short, spare narrative does not tell us why this was so—it offers motives neither for the people’s drive toward cultural uniformity nor for God’s introduction of cultural diversity—expanding on this brief summary takes us beyond the actual bounds of the story itself. But, in conclusion, I offer a few such personal expansions in order to explain why the story is set up in this way and what it intends to say through this tension between human and divine intentions. The story appears to be wrestling with the profound tension at the heart of human experience between identity and difference, between the power of cultural solidarity, on the one hand, and the reality of cultural diversity, on the other. In the story’s first half, the narrator acknowledges and describes the reality of cultural solidarity arising from the deep human need for identity, for belonging to a society whose members share the same language, name, and living space. In the story’s second half, the narrator acknowledges and explains the reality of cultural difference, the fact that, in spite of the human desire and need for identity and cultural solidarity, the world is actually characterized by extraordinary cultural diversity. In articulating this tension, the storyteller represents the drive toward identity and solidarity as the distinctively human impulse and the emergence of difference as the peculiarly divine ambition. Attributing difference, that is, the extravagant array of the world’s cultures, to God’s intentions may simply represent a belief on the part of the storyteller that God as creator brought everything in the world he knew into existence, including its profusion of cultures. But it may also represent an understanding of the depth of the human need for identity and cultural solidarity, so that, left to themselves, humans—in this case, the family and their descendants who survived the flood— would dedicate their efforts to preserving a common culture. How in a world in which membership in a kinship group with a common culture defined human life in all respects, and outside of which an individual had no standing, could difference ever emerge? In such a world, cultural difference may have been considered possible only as part of a larger divine design, a design implemented by God’s own initiative. It is striking that a story that embraces, as it were, both cultural solidarity and cultural difference in this open way, acknowledging their reality—and, in my opinion, their value—would be read by interpreters from the beginning as such a negative tale, in which cultural solidarity is linked to pride and cultural diversity to punishment. This, in a sense, is the primary quandary about this story and its interpretation. One simple explanation for such a shift may be found in the story’s canonical context. After reading three classic tales of crime and punishment—the Garden of Eden, Cain and Abel, and the great flood—interpreters may have been inclined to see in the story of Babel the same pattern, even though this story lacked any such language. Furthermore, combined in the canon with Priestly traditions containing the divine command to “fill the earth” (1:8; :1, 7), the human desire

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58

to stay together in this Yahwistic narrative could be regarded as a clear act of disobedience, even though the story lacked such a claim.7 An answer may also lie in the insights of the story itself into the propensity of humans for identity and cultural solidarity. Perhaps the story’s interpreters have outdone the story’s own characters in the quest for ethnic uniformity. Perhaps our interpreters have recognized not only the value of identity and belonging, as does the story itself, but have taken the next step and devalued difference, seeing it as an obstacle, a source of confusion and chaos, a catastrophe and a curse upon the human race, and, ultimately, a judgment of God. This is a step the story does not take. By contrast, it takes a step in the opposite direction, valuing difference by explaining it as God’s aspiration for the new world after the flood. 7 See

nn. 75 and 76.

JBL 126, no. 1 (2007): 59–81

“So Shall God Do . . .”: Variations of an Oath Formula and Its Literary Meaning yael ziegler [email protected] Bar Ilan University, Ramat Gan, 200 Israel

‫לזכרה של אמי מורתי‬ ‫נעמי רות זייגר ז״ל‬

In this article, I propose to examine the oath formula . . . ‫ אלהים‬. . . ‫כה יעשה‬ ‫( וכה יוסיף‬abbreviated henceforth as ‫)כה יעשה‬. My main interest is the manner in which this oath formula can be mined for its literary contributions to the biblical narratives in which it is employed. A cursory glance at the twelve biblical occurrences of the oath formula ‫ כה יעשה‬reveals minor, infrequent variations. One may be inclined simply to dismiss such differences with the valid assertion that the biblical text is favorably disposed to stylistic variation. It is my intention to demonstrate that this is not the case with regard to the different variations of the ‫ כה יעשה‬oath formula. I will attempt to establish that these minor deviations are in fact deliberate components of a narrative artistically woven to convey a particular idea, which often converges with the primary message of the narrative in which it is found.

I. Origin and Meaning of ‫כה יעשה‬

The phrase ‫ כה יעשה‬appears twelve times in the Bible in a variety of forms. 1 Sam 3:17 ‫ויאמר מה הדבר אשר דבר אליך אל־נא תכחד ממני כה יעשה־לך אלהים‬ ‫וכה יוסיף אם־תכחד ממני דבר מכל־הדבר אשר־דבר אליך׃‬ This article was completed as part of a doctorate in Bible at Bar Ilan University, under the supervision of Dr. Elie Assis. Many thanks to Dr. Assis for his invaluable feedback and wisdom.

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Journal of Biblical Literature 126, no. 1 (2007) And he said, “What is this thing which he spoke to you? Do not withhold it from me. So shall God do to you and more also, if you withhold from me anything from all of the speech which he spoke to you.

1 Sam 14:44 ‫ויאמר שאול כה־יעשה אלהים וכה יוסף כי־מות תמות יונתן׃‬ And Saul said, “So shall God do and more also, indeed you shall die, Jonathan!”

1 Sam 20:13 ‫כה־יעשה־יהוה ליהונתן וכה יסיף כי־ייטב אל־אבי את־הרעה עליך וגליתי‬ ‫את־אזנך ושלחתיך והלכת לשלום ויהי יהוה עמך כאשר היה עם־אבי׃‬ So shall the Lord do to Jonathan and more also, that if it seems good to my father to bring evil upon you, then I shall inform you and I shall send you and you will go in peace. And the Lord shall be with you just as he was with my father.

1 Sam 2:22 ‫כה־יעשה אלהים לאיבי דוד וכה יסיף אם־אשאיר מכל־אשר־לו עד־אור‬ ‫הבקר משתין בקיר׃‬ So shall God do to David’s enemies and more also if I shall leave [alive] from all that he has, before the morning light, any males.

2 Sam 3: ‫כה־יעשה אלהים לאבנר וכה יסיף לו כי כאשר נשבע יהוה לדוד כי־כן‬ ‫אעשה־לו׃‬ So shall God do to Abner and more also to him, indeed, just as the Lord swore to David, so shall I do to him.

2 Sam 3:3 ‫ויבא כל־העם להברות את־דוד לחם בעוד היום וישבע דוד לאמר כה‬ ‫יעשה־לי אלהים וכה יסיף כי אם־לפני בוא־השמש אטעם־לחם או‬ ‫כל־מאומה׃‬ Then all the people came to persuade David to eat something while it was still day; but David swore, saying “So may God do to me, and more, if I taste bread or anything else before the sun goes down!”

2 Sam 1:14 ‫ולעמשא תמרו הלוא עצמי ובשרי אתה כה יעשה־לי אלהים וכה יוסיף‬ ‫אם־לא שר־צבא תהיה לפני כל־הימים תחת יואב׃‬ And say to Amasa, “Are you not my bone and my flesh? So may God do to me, and more, if you are not the commander of my army from now on, in place of Joab.”

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1 Kgs 2:23 ‫וישבע המלך שלמה ביהוה לאמר כה יעשה־לי אלהים וכה יוסיף כי בנפשו‬ ‫דבר אדניהו את־הדבר הזה׃‬ Then King Solomon swore by the Lord, “So may God do to me, and more also, for Adonijah has devised this scheme at the risk of his life!”

1 Kgs 1:2 ‫ותשלח איזבל מלאך אל־אליהו לאמר כה־יעשון אלהים וכה יוספון כי־כעת‬ ‫מחר אשים את־נפשך כנפש אחד מהם׃‬ And Jezebel sent a messenger to Elijah, saying, “So shall the gods do and more also, for at this time tomorrow I will make your life like the life of one of them.”

1 Kgs 20:10 ‫וישלח אליו בן־הדד ויאמר כה־יעשון לי אלהים וכה יוספו אם־ישפק עפר‬ ‫שמרון לשעלים לכל־העם אשר ברגלי׃‬ Ben-hadad sent to him and said, “The gods do so to me, and more also, if the dust of Samaria will provide a handful for each of the people who follow me.”

2 Kgs 6:31 ‫ויאמר כה־יעשה־לי אלהים וכה יוסף אם־יעמד ראש אלישע בן־שפט‬ ‫עליו היום׃‬ And he said, “So may God do to me, and more also, if the head of Elisha son of Shaphat stays on his shoulders today.”

Ruth 1:17 ‫באשר תמותי אמות ושם אקבר כה־יעשה יהוה לי וכה יסיף כי המות‬ ‫יפריד ביני ובינך׃‬ Where you die, I will die—there will I be buried. So shall the Lord do to me and more also, indeed only death will separate between you and me.

On two occasions the phrase is introduced by the words ‫( וישבע לאמר‬2 Sam 3:3; 1 Kgs 2:23), constituting evidence that this rather enigmatic phrase functions biblically as an oath formula.1 Nonetheless, like other oath formulae, in most cases it is found without the introductory verb ‫שבע‬. 1

Leon Morris (“Ruth,” in Judges and Ruth [ed. D. J. Wiseman; TOTC; London: Tyndale, 168], 261 n. 2) cites D. J. Wiseman, in an oral communication, who informed him that this same oath formula is found at Mari and Alalakh in the eighteenth century b.c.e. Jack M. Sasson (Ruth [Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 17], 30) avers that it is recognized “by all authorities” that this is indeed an oath formula. Nevertheless, there may be exceptions. Unlike all of the other translations that I encountered, Soncino’s translation never explicitly identifies this formula as an oath.

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Journal of Biblical Literature 126, no. 1 (2007)

Any attempt to understand the literal meaning of this phrase is complicated by the fact that the phrase itself is meaningless, inasmuch as it is lacking an explicit direct object. It is not clear, therefore, what exactly God is going to do to the one to whom the phrase refers. Its literal formulation does not even elucidate whether this thing that God will do is positive or negative.2 Moshe Zvi Hirsch Segal, citing 1 Kgs 22:20, suggests that ‫ כה‬is a word that simply indicates that one does not wish to articulate further. Samuel E. Loewenstamm concurs with this theory, asserting that the oath taker wishes to allude to a punishment without explicitly delineating it, for fear of the words spoken aloud.3 Many scholars agree that the absence in the Bible of explicit curses accompanying this oath is a result of the fear of uttering the curses.4 Nonetheless, the word ‫ כה‬may suggest that this oath formula was accompanied by an act, speech, or gesture that suggested the manner of punishment in case of violation of this oath. In speculating on the nature of this act, scholars offer various possibilities: it is a verbal enumeration of punishments that would occur in case of its violation;6 a symbolic gesture or act intended to clarify the implied pun2 Echoes of this oath formula may be discerned in 1 Sam 17:27, in which David is told that the man who slays Goliath will be amply rewarded. The phrase used is ‫כה יעשה לאיש אשר יכנו‬. To support the connection between this phrase and the oath formula ‫ וכה יוסיף‬. . . ‫כה יעשה‬, one can cite 1 Sam 11:7, which many scholars associate with this oath formula although it contains only the words ‫כה יעשה‬. Nonetheless, whether the phrase in 1 Sam 17:27 bears any relationship to the oath formula depends on whether oath formulae can contain blessings for those who fulfill the oath. While Manfred R. Lehmann believes that they can (“Biblical Oaths,” ZAW 81 [16]: 83–84), other scholars do not even broach this as a possibility. 3 Moshe Zvi Hirsch Segal, The Books of Samuel (in Hebrew; Jerusalem: Kiryat-Sepher, 171), 36; idem, “Constructing the Phrases of the Oath and the Vow in Hebrew” (in Hebrew), Leshonenu 1 (12): 217; Samuel E. Loewenstamm, “Oath,” Biblical Encyclopedia (in Hebrew; Jerusalem: Bialik Institute, 176), 7:483. See also Sheldon H. Blank, “The Curse, Blasphemy, the Spell and the Oath,” HUCA 23 (10/1): 0–1; Shimon Bar Efrat, I Samuel (in Hebrew; Mikra LeYisrael 8a; Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 16), 84. Herbert Chanan Brichto rejects this position, suggesting that this phrase is shorthand on the part of the biblical speaker or narrator, when he does not know or is not interested in detailing the specific content of the maledictions connected to the oath (The Problem of “Curse” in the Hebrew Bible [JBL Monograph Series 13; Philadelphia: Society of Biblical Literature and Exegesis, 163], 211). 4 William E. Barnes, The First Book of the Kings (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 132), 1; William O. E. Oesterley and William F. Stinespring, “Oath,” Dictionary of the Bible (rev. ed.; ed. F. D. Grant and H. H. Rowley; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 163), 708; Frederic W. Bush, Ruth, Esther (WBC ; Dallas: Word Books, 16), 82. John Gray suggests that when one was directly involved in the adjuration, such that the curses were designed to come upon him, he may have refrained from verbalizing the curses. According to Gray, it is in this case, however, that he may have substituted a gesture for the verbal citation (Joshua, Judges and Ruth [Century Bible; London: Nelson, 167], 388). Yair Zakovitch, Ruth (in Hebrew; Mikra LeYisrael 2; Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 10), 61; Sasson, Ruth, 30. 6 Gray, Ruth, 388.

Ziegler: Variations of an Oath Formula

63

ishment in case of violation,7 such as an index finger moving across the throat8 or another gesture of threatened punishment; or a ritual act involving the slaughter of animals.10 In this situation, the slaughtered animal would represent the punishment which God is invoked to execute against the violator of the oath.11 Supporters of this theory cite 1 Sam 11:7, in which the words ‫ כה יעשה לבקרו‬refer to Saul’s symbolic act of cutting up a pair of oxen in order to indicate what will happen to anyone who does not join the battle against Ammon.12 There is no actual evidence, however, of an accompanying gesture or act, much less its nature. Even if a threatening gesture did originally accompany this oath, because of the absence of any reference to it in the Bible, some scholars doubt that this was still the practice during biblical times.13 More likely the phrase retains echoes of an earlier tradition.

7 P. Kyle McCarter, I Samuel: A New Translation with Introduction, Notes, and Commentary (AB 8; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 180), ; Lehmann, “Biblical Oaths,” 81; Ralph W. Klein, 1 Samuel (WBC 10; Waco: Word Books, 183), 34; Robert L. Hubbard, Jr., The Book of Ruth (NICOT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 188), 11; Paul Sanders, “So May God Do To Me!” Bib 8 (2004): 3. A. D. Crown tries to find philological evidence of an accompanying gesture (“Aposiopesis in the Old Testament and the Hebrew Conditional Oath,” Abr-Nahrain 4 [163–64]: 107). He argues that ‫כה‬ points to something that is to follow while something previously expressed is indicated by ‫ כן‬or ‫ככה‬. However, since this formula is conditional, the only thing it can be introducing is a gesture following or accompanying the words. 8 Edward F. Campbell, Jr., Ruth: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 7; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 17), 74; Morris, “Ruth,” 261. Sanders observes that the Akkadian phrase lapātum napištam, “to touch the throat,” is a technical term for taking an oath (“So May God,” 3). See also Paul Hoskisson, “The Nīšum ‘Oath’ in Mari,” in Mari in Retrospect: Fifty Years of Mari and Mari Studies (ed. G. D. Young; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 12), 203–10; Ingo Kottsieper, “‫שבע‬,” TDOT 14:314. Crown, “Aposiopesis,” 107. Crown’s suggestions include a gesture of ripping out one’s tongue, putting out one’s eye, or running one’s finger across one’s throat. Nonetheless, Crown theorizes that the ancient world was conscious of the dangers of a gesture of this sort, and therefore it was eventually transmuted to the mere act of raising one’s hand. 10 Evidence that covenant ratifications (which were frequently accompanied by oaths) included slaughtering and splitting animals is found in Gen 1:7–17 and Jer 34:18–20. 11 Henry Preserved Smith, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Books of Samuel (ICC 8; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 18), 2; Campbell, Ruth, 74; G. B. Caird, The First and Second Books of Samuel (IB; Nashville: Pierce & Washabaugh, 13), 8; Robert Karl Gnuse, The Dream Theophany of Samuel: Its Structure in Relation to Ancient Near Eastern Dreams and Its Theological Significance (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 184), 130. 12 While many have noted the parallels between this story and that of the concubine from Gibeah (Judges 1), Lehmann suggests that the symbolic dismemberment of the concubine may have been meant as a reminder of the curses inherent in some intertribal covenant, presumably accompanied by an oath (“Biblical Oaths,” 82). Lehmann’s argument would be much more compelling if there was any trace of the ‫ כה יעשה‬formula in that incident. 13 Sanders, “So May God,” 4.

Journal of Biblical Literature 126, no. 1 (2007)

64

II. The Nature and Fulfillment of This Oath Formula The oath formula ‫כה יעשה‬, which always explicitly invokes God, is invariably followed by a solemn pledge promising that something will take place. In other words, this formula is used not to establish truth but rather to assume personal responsibility for a particular occurrence. At its core, this phrase appears to be a conditional self-imprecation.14 The gravity of such an imprecation lies in its invocation of God to enforce it.1 Despite its self-imprecatory formula, many of the pledges associated with this oath are not upheld. Oath violators include Saul (1 Sam 14:44), David (1 Sam 2:22), Jezebel (1 Kgs 1:2), Ben-hadad (1 Kgs 20:10), and Jehoram (2 Kgs 6:31). This considerable list represents nearly half of the oaths taken. The violation of the oath appears to constitute an integral part of the story in which it appears. In fact, the breach of trust and piety conveyed by the desecration of the oath may be the very point of these stories: Jezebel, Ben-hadad, and Jehoram are each presented as negative characters that could easily be dismissive of oaths that they take in God’s name. Both Saul and David violate their oath in a narrative context in which their behavior may be interpreted as negative and consistent with the behavior of one who breaks oaths. The problem of the excessive violation of this oath is compounded by the fact that the biblical text never makes mention of a curse that takes effect as a result of the oath’s violation, nor does it ever explicitly condemn the oath breaker for this misdemeanor. The failure of some oath takers who use this formula to maintain their commitments and to do so with impunity (1 Sam 14:44; 2:22), may suggest that violation of this oath is tolerated to the extent that it does not necessarily result in an automatic punishment.16 Perhaps this is because the oath and the curse are no longer considered inextricably intertwined, or because there are circumstances in which it is deemed acceptable to break a promise. Alternatively, the curses themselves do not have to be mentioned explicitly to have been enacted. Certainly none of these biblical characters fares well in the aftermath of the broken oath.17 It is noteworthy that a common denominator of all of these oaths appears to be the intense emotions that precipitate the eruption of the self-imprecation. These 14

Albert A. Anderson, 2 Samuel (WBC 11; Dallas: Word Books, 18), 7; Crown, “Aposiopesis,” 106. 1 McCarter, I Samuel, . By interweaving the name of God into its core formulation, this oath formula seems to regard the role of God as indispensable to the maintenance of this oath. 16 Sanders observes the frequent violation of this oath formula, treating each case on its own merits. He suggests that in certain circumstances breaking a promise was considered acceptable, a leniency aided by the fact that the self-imprecation in the Bible does not take place automatically. Nevertheless, according to Sanders, the violation of this oath by the northern kings, Jezebel and Benhadad, is intended to mock their overconfidence (“So May God,” –6). 17 Perhaps with the exception of David, whose oath literally invokes a curse upon his enemies.

Ziegler: Variations of an Oath Formula

6

emotions lead to a spontaneous outburst—unplanned, powerful, and effective in its ability to persuade the listener of the speaker’s genuine desire to carry out the pledge. As an example, Jan P. Fokkelman notes that Abner’s anger when he takes this oath in 2 Sam 3: represents “months of pent-up frustration.” Likewise, Fokkelman views Solomon’s reaction to Adonijah’s request for Abishag as a release of a “great quantity of feelings” whose vehemence is somewhat of an overreaction. His conclusion is that the request touches on a negative charge already present in Solomon.18 It may be for this reason that such a large number of these oaths are violated. Five out of twelve oaths are violated despite the dire consequences intimated by the oath formula. No one can doubt the sincerity of a speaker who takes an oath that implicitly calls down divine curses upon oneself in case of violation. Nonetheless, pledges taken in the heat of the moment often prove to be not well thought out, impossible to guarantee—a hotheaded promise instead of a well-planned, implementable idea.

III. Peculiar Usages of the Phrase The Recipient of the Conditional Curse

The oath formula, ‫כה יעשה‬, contains an explicit recipient of the curse in case of its violation; however, the curse does not necessarily fall upon the violator. Instead, the oath contains a conscious assumption of responsibility on the part of the speaker for the upkeep of the oath’s pledge. The speaker’s designation of himself as the recipient of the conditional curse represents his confidence, his sincerity, and his willingness to assume personal responsibility. There are, however, instances of variances, in which this oath veers from its customary self-imprecatory formula. It is my intention to examine the anomalous oath formulae. In doing so, I endeavor to determine whether these variances are a deliberate literary phenomenon designed to underscore some component of the narrative. I will then explore the incentives or objectives for each respective deviation from the usual formula with an eye toward deciphering the meaning of this phenomenon.

Adjuring a Second Party: Eli and Samuel (1 Samuel 3:17) Samuel’s first prophecy involves the destruction of the house of Eli. It is understandable that Samuel is hesitant to relate this prophecy to his master. In order to 18 Jan P. Fokkelman, Narrative Art and Poetry in the Books of Samuel: A Full Interpretation Based on Stylistic and Structural Analyses (4 vols.; SSN 20, 23, 27, 31; Assen: Van Gorcum, 181–3), vol. 3, Throne and City, 72; vol. 1, King David, 36–7.

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Journal of Biblical Literature 126, no. 1 (2007)

induce Samuel to reveal the prophecy, Eli’s demand that Samuel reveal the content of the prophecy includes an oath (1 Sam 3:17):

‫כה יעשה־לך אלהים וכה יוסיף אם־תכחד ממני דבר מכל־הדבר אשר־דבר‬ ‫אליך‬ So shall God do to you and more also, if you withhold from me anything from all of the speech which he spoke to you.

Many scholars have noted that the centrality of this oath in Eli’s demand is underscored by the chiastic pattern in this verse, rendering the oath the central feature of Eli’s speech.1 However, attention has yet to be drawn to the unique formulation of the oath itself: Eli uses this oath formula to imprecate Samuel, thrusting responsibility for the oath upon the young Samuel, rather than himself. The singularity of this formulation is remarkable. Despite the fact that the oath formula ‫ כה יעשה‬often appears in the context of the speaker’s anger at another party, making that party the obvious recipient of the conditional curse (e.g., 1 Sam 14:44; 2 Sam 3:), this formula always involves an assumption of responsibility on the part of the speaker. The conditional curse is not even invoked upon the violator of the oath. Rather, the oath formula ‫ כה יעשה‬is self-imprecatory. Indeed, it appears that the willingness and ability to assume this type of responsibility constitute an integral aspect of this passion-filled oath. The obvious explanation for this unique formulation appears to lie in the fact that this is the only occasion in which the oath, ‫כה יעשה‬, is used in an express bid to induce someone else to act in a particular manner. While in all other usages of this oath formula the fulfillment of the pledge appears to the speaker to be under his own control—even if he does not intend to fulfill it himself—Eli knows that he cannot elicit the message that God gave to Samuel without Samuel’s assistance. It is perhaps for this reason that he flings this conditional curse against Samuel, anticipating that the fear of a curse will convince Samuel to cooperate. This conditional imprecation does indeed appear to be effective, as Samuel’s resistance withers and he instantly acquiesces to Eli’s request.20 Nevertheless, from a literary perspective, this singular formulation, which deviates from the customary self-imprecatory formula, may be intended to draw attention to the connection between its unique feature and its narrative context. This chapter marks the transference of leadership from Eli to Samuel.21 Through1 Wilfred G. E. Watson, “The Structure of 1 Sam 3,” BZ 2 (18): 3; Victor Hurowitz, “Eli’s Adjuration of Samuel in the Light of a ‘Diviner’s Protocol’ from Mari,” VT 44 (14): 488; Fokkelman, Narrative Art and Poetry in the Books of Samuel, vol. 4, Vow and Desire, 183; Bar Efrat, I Samuel, 84; Elie Assis, “Chiasmus in Biblical Narrative: Rhetoric of Characterization,” Prooftexts 22 (2002): 282– 83. 20 Smith comments that it is Eli’s adjuration that induces Samuel’s response (Samuel, 2). 21 Lyle M. Eslinger observes that the transmission of leadership in this chapter is the fulfillment

Ziegler: Variations of an Oath Formula

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out the chapter, God speaks to Samuel rather than Eli, and the chapter concludes with Samuel’s subsequent fame and the return of God’s word to the nation via Samuel. Perhaps this oath in which Eli adjures Samuel should be seen as part of the initiation of Samuel into his new role.22 The thrusting of responsibility upon the young Samuel by the experienced priest, as indicated by the unique second-person imprecation, appears to highlight this theme in the narrative. In this schema, Eli is not simply trying to induce Samuel to speak but rather is impelling Samuel toward his new role.23 Rather than Eli’s authority or Eli’s assumption of personal responsibility, the oath indicates that it is Samuel’s authority and responsibility that matter from this point forward. There are several other ideas that emerge from examining this unique phenomenon from a literary perspective. It has been suggested that the very fact that Eli is willing to call down a conditional curse upon Samuel may be indicative of his less than affectionate feelings for the young man.24 After all, the very act of uttering a curse is considered dangerous in the ancient world.2 The fact that this oath traditionally calls down the curse upon the speaker himself only increases the sense of Eli’s disregard for Samuel’s well-being. Eli’s negative feelings may be further indicated by the particular oath formula used by Eli to adjure Samuel. The

of the narratives of the first two chapters of the book of Samuel (Kingship of God in Crisis: A Close Reading of 1 Samuel 1–12 [Bible and Literature Series 10; Decatur, GA: Almond, 18], 143–4). See also Hans W. Hertzberg, I & II Samuel (OTL 8; London: SCM, 164), 43. 22 Hurowitz examines the various possible roles that this oath could have played in light of a text from Mari (“Eli’s Adjuration”). He suggests that this adjuration is given to Samuel as part of his first prophetic experience in order to remind him of his obligations in his new role as practicing prophet. 23 Whether this is a conscious attempt on Eli’s part to educate Samuel is unclear. Does Eli view Samuel as his protégé or his nemesis? Some scholars have perceived Eli’s role in this chapter as Samuel’s mentor (e.g., Assis, “Chiasmus,” 283), although others, as we shall see, detect a sharper tone in Eli’s address to Samuel. In either case, this literary phenomenon could very well underscore Eli’s conscious or unwitting acknowledgment of Samuel’s new role. 24 David Jobling, 1 Samuel (Berit Olam; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 18), 117. I admit that Eli’s address to Samuel as “Samuel, my son” (1 Sam 3:16) seems to suggest affection rather than animosity (Uriel Simon, Reading Prophetic Narratives [trans. L. J. Schramm; Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 17], 6). Nevertheless, the possibility that Eli initially placates Samuel in an effort to elicit the divine message from him cannot be discounted. A. F. Kirkpatrick observes the increasingly harsh nature of Eli’s appeal: “Eli first simply asks for an account of what had passed, then demands a complete statement, and finally adjures Samuel to conceal nothing from him” (The First and Second Books of Samuel [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 130], 67 [emphasis in original]). See also Bar Efrat, I Samuel, 84. In any case, the presence of this particular oath formula, coupled with Eli’s relentless demands on the young novice, appears to underscore Eli’s passionate response to Samuel’s impending new role. 2 Rabbinic tradition (b. Mak. 11a) maintains that the effects of this curse are still felt by Samuel, even though he complies with its conditions! Rabbinic writings attribute the wayward behavior of Samuel’s sons to the effects of this curse.

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Journal of Biblical Literature 126, no. 1 (2007)

oath ‫ כה יעשה‬is always taken in the heat of spontaneous passion.26 Aside from Ruth’s expression of love and loyalty, the accompanying emotion always involves negative feeling toward the other party. It is possible that the unique formulation of this oath is meant to reveal Eli’s latent anger toward his replacement, despite his pious acceptance of God’s decree.27 While the simple meaning underlying this unique formulation of the oath may lie in Eli’s attempt to induce Samuel to reveal God’s prophecy, the literary value of this unique formulation should not be disregarded. When read carefully in the context of the narrative, it can mirror a central theme and perhaps even disclose subtle ideas in the narrative. Indeed, this unique formulation may be a deliberate deviation from the standard formula, designed to be treated as a literary device.

Oaths That Contain No Direct Reference to a Recipient of the Curses On two occasions in the MT, the oath formula ‫ כה יעשה‬contains no address for the divine act in case of violation (1 Sam 14:44; 1 Kgs 1:2). This is unlike the customary formula, which contains an explicit indirect object, . . . ‫כה יעשה ל‬. Although many translations simply emend the text to reflect the usual formula, I believe that these omissions prove to be an integral and meaningful part of the narrative.

Saul and Jonathan (1 Samuel 14:44) The denouement of the dramatic encounter between Saul and his son, Jonathan, contains this oath formula without any indirect object (1 Sam 14:44):

‫כה־יעשה אלהים וכה יוסף כי־מות תמות יונתן‬ So shall God do and more also, indeed you shall die, Jonathan!

26 I reject Hurowitz’s argument (“Eli’s Adjuration,” 487–88) that the formulaic oath language belies the spontaneity and passion of Eli’s outburst, resulting instead in a coldly ritualistic formula. Eli’s familiarity with this oath formula may simply indicate that it is at his disposal, ready to be employed in a situation of passion. 27 Fokkelman rightly observes the textual intimation of Eli’s impotence in calling down a curse upon the innocent Samuel (Narrative Art and Poetry, 4:184). This is underscored by the irony in Eli’s employment of the customary language ‫ כה יוסיף‬in his oath. Throughout the chapter, the Lord indeed continues (‫ )ויסף‬to interact with Samuel (1 Sam 3:6, 8, 21), but in a positive fashion rather than a punitive one. See also Michael Fishbane, “I Samuel 3: Historical Narrative and Narrative Poetics,” in Literary Interpretations of Biblical Narratives (ed. K. R. R. Gros Louis; Nashville: Abingdon, 182), 2:200.

Ziegler: Variations of an Oath Formula

6

The absence of any named recipient of the conditional divine curses in case of violation of this oath is rare, occurring only here and in 1 Kgs 1:2. It is unsurprising, therefore, that some traditions do in fact contain this obviously missing indirect object. The Septuagint, Syriac, and Vulgate translations all include the word ‫ לי‬as part of the oath formula.28 S. R. Driver notes that while this is a correct rendering of the phrase, as this oath is traditionally invoked upon the speaker, it is possible that this pronoun may originally have been understood but unexpressed and is only secondarily supplied in these traditions.2 Henry Preserved Smith suggested that this omission was a deliberate act on the part of a scribe who was afraid to write an imprecation upon himself.30 Although this type of superstitious dread may well have been present, Smith’s theory fails to account for all of the occasions in which a scribe does include the personal pronoun. Perhaps Smith meant to say that because this promise of Saul is not discharged, omitting the object of God’s curses may be designed to protect Saul from receiving the curses.31 Once again, this explanation does not account for all of the occasions in which someone fails to execute this curse.32 I am inclined to argue that the very preservation of an unusual form is a compelling argument for its authenticity. Thus, I will examine the oath formula as it appears in the MT, assuming that the biblical text consciously indicates that Saul, in his actual act of oath taking, omitted the personal pronoun. This particular oath formula assumes a fair measure of confidence, selfreliance, and responsibility on the part of the speaker. By designating oneself as the recipient of a divine curse if one should fail to carry out the terms one has stipulated, the speaker exhibits these character traits, the hallmarks of a strong and competent leader. In this context, it appears that Saul does not refer to himself as the 28 Some modern commentators simply incorporate this addition into their text (e.g., Hertzberg, Samuel, 111). Yehuda Kil does not add this to the text but rather calls this oath an abbreviated formula that really should be read with the pronoun (I Samuel [in Hebrew; Da>at Mikra; Jerusalem: Mossad Harav Kook, 181], 133). 2 Samuel Rolles Driver, Notes on the Hebrew Text and the Topography of the Books of Samuel (Oxford: Clarendon, 113), 118. 30 Smith, Samuel, 12. Kirkpatrick also attributes this omission to the work of “a scrupulous scribe” (Samuel, 116). Although he does not elaborate, he most likely agrees with Smith’s theory here. 31 Smith is not clear about his meaning here. Nonetheless, his citation of 1 Sam 2:22 as evidence for this theory bears this explanation. 32 While the missing pronoun in Jezebel’s oath (1 Kgs 1:2) may also be explained by the fact that she fails to carry out the terms of her oath, it seems unlikely that any scribe would wish to protect her from the curses. By the same token, Ben-hadad (1 Kgs 20:10) and Jehoram (2 Kgs 6:31) fail to carry out the pledge associated with their oath, and the personal pronoun remains in the formula of their oath. The lack of consistency of this explanation renders it highly implausible. In explaining the unusual indirect object ‫ לאיבי דוד‬in 1 Sam 2:22, Bar Efrat also suggests that the fact that David’s oath is not executed accounts for the evasive indirect object (I Samuel, 318). As supporting evidence, he notes that the oath of 1 Sam 14:44 is also not fulfilled, thereby accounting for the missing pronoun. The lack of consistency noted previously applies to Bar Efrat’s theory as well.

70

Journal of Biblical Literature 126, no. 1 (2007)

recipient of a curse because he does not have a strong enough character to do so. Saul is characterized by weakness, lack of confidence, and poor leadership skills.33 This is especially true in the battle narrative of 1 Samuel 13–14.34 Rather than a scribal error, Saul’s omission of any recipient of his oath-curse should be understood as a deliberate indication of Saul’s inability to assume personal responsibility in leadership. This deficiency emerges as a key component of the narrative in which Saul’s rejection by God is finalized. Instead of admitting his error and attempting to make amends, Saul’s initial response is to foist responsibility upon the nation, blaming them for his own failure properly to execute God’s command (1 Sam 1:24). The anomalies in Saul’s oath formulation underscore his failures as a leader, thereby anticipating his ultimate downfall. The outcome of his ‫ כה יעשה‬oath in 1 Sam 14:44 further corroborates this theory. By leaving out a recipient of the divine curses, Saul weakens the credibility of his oath and leaves room for the people to take their own oath, forcing Saul to back down from his. Saul’s oath is never executed.

Jezebel (1 Kings 19:2) Jezebel, too, neglects to designate herself as the recipient of the conditional divine afflictions (1 Kgs 1:2):

‫ותשלח איזבל מלאך אל־אליהו לאמר כה־יעשון אלהים וכה יוספון כי־כעת‬ ‫מחר אשים את־נפשך כנפש אחד מהם‬ And Jezebel sent a messenger to Elijah, saying, “So shall the gods do and more also, for at this time tomorrow I will make your life like the life of one of them.”

Jezebel’s omission is treated by many scholars in a manner similar to that of Saul.3 The addition of the pronoun moi (‫ )לי‬in the Septuagint and the Vulgate provides a 33 Saul’s weakness as a leader is indicated by several factors, including his tendency to allow the will of the nation to trump his own (1 Sam 14:4). This causes him to make foolish decisions (1 Sam 13:8, 11) and eventually engenders his grievous error and God’s rejection (1 Sam 1:24). 34 The authentic hero in this section is not Saul but Jonathan, who repeatedly initiates courageous military action against the Philistine oppressor (1 Sam 13:3; 14:1–14, 4). Jonathan does not even inform his father of his actions, a point made explicitly by the text (1 Sam 14:1). Saul’s role in the battle narrative is either to follow Jonathan’s lead, claiming victory for himself (1 Sam 13:3–4; 14:20–24), or to initiate action that ultimately stymies his own success (13:8–14; 14:24–32). This section portrays a feeble, ineffective king. 3 Many interpreters of 1 Kgs 1:2 accept the emendation of the non-Masoretic versions, simply incorporating the pronoun into the text. Others include the word in brackets, e.g., Leo L. Honor, Book of Kings 1 (Jewish Commentary for Bible Readers; New York: Union of American Hebrew Congregations, 1), 26.

Ziegler: Variations of an Oath Formula

71

satisfying reconstruction for the sake of consistency, and most scholars simply accept this version with no further exploration.36 Nonetheless, the possible literary significance of this omission from the MT should not be disregarded. Like Saul, Jezebel’s refusal to name herself as potential recipient of divine curses from her gods may be an attempt to represent her character. Up to this point in the biblical narrative, we know very little about Jezebel. Neither her persona nor her motivations in killing God’s prophets is elucidated. In fact, Jezebel has not yet uttered a word in the biblical text. Is Jezebel a religious ideologue or a political opportunist? In 1 Kgs 1:2, Jezebel’s first words appear to expose a glaring evasion of responsibility.37 Instead of staunchly naming herself as the recipient of punishment from her gods in case of violation of her oath, she declines to endanger her future, preferring instead to issue a vague oath, in which no one is assigned responsibility for its upkeep. The omission of the indirect object upon whom the curse will fall depicts a shrewd, tyrannical Jezebel, who appears to be operating as a political opportunist rather than an ideologue who is willing to put her life on the line for her cause. In this way, the biblical narrative prepares its readers for the Jezebel of 1 Kings 21, who will shamelessly abuse the power at her disposal in order to further the personal interests of the royal family, rounding out the portrait of a tyrannical queen. Moreover, Jezebel’s anomalous oath formula offers another glimpse into the biblically contrived contrast between the evil Jezebel and her righteous opponent Elijah, whose unwavering willingness to take personal responsibility constitutes an integral part of the narrative.38 Once again, the oath’s omission of any recipient of 36 Other versions have this addition to 1 Kgs 1:2 as well; see BHK, 46; and C. F. Burney, Notes on the Hebrew Text of the Book of Kings (Oxford: Clarendon, 103), 22. 37 It is remarkable that both Elijah’s and Jezebel’s first speech in the text includes an oath, underscoring the similarities in their authoritative and confident personae. Nevertheless, Jezebel’s oath reveals a fundamental difference between her and her nemesis, namely, the willingness to assume personal responsibility even at personal risk. Phyllis Trible observes the parallel between the oath of Jezebel’s initial speech and the oath of Elijah’s opening speech, noting also that the verbal debuts of these rivals share the theme of pronouncing death (“Exegesis for Storytellers and Other Strangers,” JBL 114 [1]: 8). I would add that Elijah’s decree of drought upon the nation, from which he derives no conceivable personal gain, may be contrasted to Jezebel’s decree of death upon her rival Elijah, from which she personally stands to gain a great deal. Finally, it is noteworthy that Jezebel’s first appearance is marked by a negative oath formula, one that is defined by its threatening tone, while Elijah’s chosen formula is far more positive in nature, despite its negative content. From a biblical standpoint, Elijah’s actions are intended to have positive consequences, while Jezebel is depicted as purely evil. 38 Although Elijah does not take an oath that employs the formula ‫כה יעשה‬, his actions display an unhesitating assumption of responsibility without regard for impending danger to himself. For example, he does not rescind his decree of drought even when his own water source has run out (1 Kgs 17:7), and he does not hesitate to obey God’s decree to appear before Ahab despite Ahab’s fury (18:1–2, 1).

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Journal of Biblical Literature 126, no. 1 (2007)

the curse undermines the efficacy of the oath; Jezebel’s promise that tomorrow she will kill Elijah is never carried out.

References to Oneself by Name There are three occasions in which a speaker refers to himself by name rather than using the pronoun ‫( לי‬1 Sam 20:13; 2 Sam 3:;3 1 Sam 2:2240). Although the significance of this usage has been dismissed by some as a peculiarity of the redactor’s style, it bears further analysis.41 Fokkelman observes that the oath in this form sounds more solemn.42 The formality of referring to oneself in the third person lends this oath formula an official, almost ceremonial air. Nevertheless, I see no reason to assign these particular occasions of oath making a more authoritative, weighty nature than any of the other usages of this formula. Actually, oaths that refer to the speaker by name are consistently spoken by less established leaders; a prince (1 Sam 20:13), a renegade candidate for the throne (1 Sam 2:22), and a general of the losing side (2 Sam 3:). Indeed, it is often a king who, pronouncing royal policy, takes an oath that contains a pronoun as the indirect object (2 Sam 3:3; 1:14; 1 Kgs 2:23; 20:10; 2 Kgs 6:31).43 3 Lucianic manuscripts have the customary ‫ לי‬in this verse; other Greek manuscripts agree with the MT, ‫לאבנר‬. 40 According to a large majority of scholars, 1 Sam 2:22 should be included in this category, as the original oath or the intention of the oath is ‫ לדוד‬. . . ‫כה יעשה‬, rather than ‫( לאיבי דוד‬Driver, Notes, 2; Donald M. C. Englert, The Peshitto of Second Samuel [JBL Monograph Series 32; Philadelphia: Society of Biblical Literature and Exegesis, 14], 3; Carmel McCarthy, The Tiqqune Sopherim and Other Theological Corrections in the Masoretic Text of the Old Testament [OBO 36; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 181], 188–8; Sanders, “So May God,” ). The Septuagint lacks the word ‫לאיבי‬, while the Syriac renders “So may God do to his servant David . . . .” McCarter actually renders the text thus in his translation: “May God do thus and so to David and thus again . . .” (I Samuel, 30). See also Klein, 1 Samuel, 244; Hertzberg, Samuel, 200. Kimhi (ad loc.) states that the phrase ‫ לאיבי דוד‬is simply a euphemism for David. Many scholars assume that David’s oath in 1 Sam 2:22, which invokes God’s act against ‫ איבי דוד‬is a scribal gloss to protect David or to explain why he is not punished despite the violation of this oath (e.g., Kirkpatrick, Samuel, 200; Smith, Samuel, 226; McCarter, I Samuel, 34; Klein, I Samuel, 24; Caird, Samuel, 1014; Blank, “Curse,” 8; Segal, Samuel, 18; Kil, I Samuel, 26). Carl Friedrich Keil and Franz Delitzsch want to preserve the reading ‫לאיבי דוד‬, but they are in the minority here (Commentary on the Old Testament in Ten Volumes (repr., Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 18), 2:242. For our purposes, I assume that the literal intention with regard to the indirect object of the curses is David, without deciding whether the phrase ‫ איבי דוד‬is a euphemism or a textual emendation. In this reading, this oath corresponds to the other two cases of oaths in which the speaker refers to himself by name as the indirect object of the conditional curse. 41 Klein, I Samuel, 207, citing Timo Veijola. 42 Fokkelman, Narrative Art and Poetry, 3:74. 43 Hubbard contends that, outside of the book of Ruth, this oath formula is spoken only by

Ziegler: Variations of an Oath Formula

73

Other scholars have suggested that the reference to oneself in the third person serves to focus attention upon oneself.44 Scholars have been particularly inclined to offer this explanation in the case of Abner. In the course of uttering this oath formula, Abner refers to himself twice in the third person: once by name and once in a third-person pronoun (2 Sam 3:):

‫כה־יעשה אלהים לאבנר וכה יסיף לו‬ So shall God do to Abner and more also to him.

In addition to the double third-person reference, Abner is an apt example for this theory because of the context of his oath. The background for Abner’s oath is his excessive fury at Ishbosheth’s accusation, which he deems a personal insult. This extreme reaction, coupled with Abner’s recurrent references to himself 4 and culminating in his indignant decision to defect to David’s side, portrays him as a selfcentered, self-seeking character. He does indeed appear to be “busy hammering out the dents in his ego” during the course of this narrative.46 It would not be surprising if Abner formulated this oath in this manner in order to highlight himself, or, alternatively, if the text deliberately portrayed his egotistical nature through this rare formulation. While this theory could easily be applied to David’s self-referential oath in 1 Sam 2:22 (although I know of no scholars who do so), it is less compelling in Jonathan’s case in 1 Sam 20:13. On the contrary, Jonathan’s selflessness is the hallmark of that story. It is possible, however, that in each instance of this self-referential oath, it means something different. Nonetheless, it seems that the proposed theory cannot be consistently applied; an oath that includes the name of the speaker is not necessarily an indication of the egotistical nature of the oath. There is one feature that appears to be common to all three cases in which the speaker refers to himself by name in the pronouncement of this oath formula. In all three instances the speaker intends to do an action himself; his pledge includes a promise of a determined, personal undertaking. For this reason, each of these oaths is followed by one or several first-person verbs. leaders about weighty matters of state. Based on this assertion, he suggests that Ruth’s oath may be spoken “audaciously, as a royal figure in anticipation of 4:17.” It appears to me that Hubbard’s claim is overstated. While indeed this oath is spoken by many leaders in an official capacity, this is true about all oaths, and probably about much of biblical speech. Whether this relates specifically to the nature of oaths, or is simply a facet of the significant role of leaders in biblical narrative remains to be seen. In any case, his claim cannot be sustained in regard to this oath formula. 44 Shimon Bar Efrat notes the unusual replacement of the pronoun with the name in Abner’s oath, stating that, by using his own name, Abner “highlights himself ” (II Samuel [in Hebrew; Mikra LeYisrael 8b; Tel Aviv: Am Oved, 16], 3, my translation). 4 Note the words ‫אנכי‬, ‫עלי‬, and ‫( אעשה‬twice). 46 This is Fokkelman’s assessment of Abner’s activities during the course of this narrative (Narrative Art and Poetry, 3:74).

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Journal of Biblical Literature 126, no. 1 (2007)

Jonathan promises David that if Saul’s intentions are bad, Jonathan will himself reveal this to David and send him away in peace (1 Sam 20:13):47

‫כה־יעשה־יהוה ליהונתן וכה יסיף כי־ייטב אל־אבי את־הרעה עליך וגליתי‬ ‫את־אזנך ושלחתיך והלכת לשלום‬ So shall the Lord do to Jonathan and more also, that if it seems good to my father to bring evil upon you, then I shall inform you and I shall send you and you will go in peace.

Jonathan’s personal involvement in informing David of his father’s evil intentions must be emphasized, because it is not at all obvious that he would choose to endanger himself in this way. His hesitation to be directly involved in assisting David to escape Saul’s wrath may be indicated by the previous verse. There Jonathan seems to prefer sending a messenger to David with information.48 The significance of Jonathan’s decision to assume a direct role in this betrayal of his father is highlighted by his oath, where he utters his own name instead of the more impersonal pronoun, thereby pledging his direct personal responsibility for getting the information to David. David’s pronouncement of doom, in the form of an oath upon Nabal’s household, is also followed by a pledge containing a first-person verb (1 Sam 2:22):

‫כה־יעשה אלהים לאיבי דוד וכה יסיף אם־אשאיר מכל־אשר־לו עד־אור‬ ‫הבקר משתין בקיר‬

So shall God do to David’s enemies4 and more also if I shall leave [alive] from all that he has, before the morning light, any males.

The text has already called attention to David’s personal involvement in this murderous expedition (1 Sam 2:13):

‫ויאמר דוד לאנשיו חגרו איש את חרבו ויחגרו איש את חרבו ויחגר גם דוד‬ ‫את חרבו ויעלו אחרי דוד‬

47 Antony F. Campbell observes that “the sequence strongly suggests Jonathan’s personal involvement” (I Samuel [FOTL 7; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003], 214). 48 The contrast between these two verses is emphasized by the repetition of the words ‫וגליתי‬ ‫את אזניך‬. In 1 Sam 20:12 these words are preceded by the words ‫ואשלח אליך‬, while in 1 Sam 20:13 Jonathan clearly indicates that he intends to inform David himself. Although 1 Sam 20:12 addresses the possibility that Saul is favorably disposed toward David, Jonathan still has reason to send a messenger in order to ensure that his father does not find out that he had intended to betray him. R. Isaiah MiTrani suggests that Jonathan has to inform David personally only if the news is bad, in order to maintain secrecy. Nevertheless, my alternate explanation renders a vivid portrayal of a conflicted Jonathan, who wavers in his decision to become personally involved in colluding against his father. 4 As noted previously, I follow the majority of scholars who view the phrase ‫ איבי דוד‬as selfreferential. Moreover, the theory developed in this section may constitute further evidence that this is indeed the best reading.

Ziegler: Variations of an Oath Formula

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And David said to his men, “Gird each man his sword.” And each man girded his sword and David also girded his sword and they rose after David.

It is not surprising that David utilizes an oath formula that highlights his direct participation in the murder of Nabal’s household, as this point will emerge as the central feature of this story. The denouement of this narrative is Abigail’s persuasive bid to dissuade David, the future king of Israel, from committing any act that would leave a blight on his character. Abner’s oath is also followed by a first-person verb, in which he pledges to act personally (2 Sam 3:):

‫כה־יעשה אלהים לאבנר וכה יסיף לו כי כאשר נשבע יהוה לדוד כי־כן‬ ‫אעשה־לו‬ So shall God do to Abner and more also to him, indeed, just as the Lord swore to David, so shall I do to him.

Abner expresses his decision to change allegiance from Ishbosheth to David by using a phrase that suggests strong action, ‫כן אעשה לו‬, “so shall I do to him.” By overstating the activity necessary to switch allegiance, Abner again guarantees that he will actively and personally carry out his pledge without delay. This oath is necessary because of the precarious nature of Abner’s promise. The intended act is both a betrayal of the king whom Abner himself appointed, and a tremendous personal risk, as Abner will have to convince his enemies and rivals that he is sincere about his decision to defect to their side. He therefore employs an oath in which he refers to himself by name, thereby asserting his pledge to attend personally and directly to his defection to the enemy, David. I have suggested that each time a speaker employs his own name as the indirect object of the curse in the oath formula ‫כה יעשה‬, it is followed by the promise of direct positive actions to be performed personally by the speaker. In order to substantiate this theory, it is necessary to review the other instances in which this oath is employed, to see if this situation exists only when the speaker refers to himself by name. A cursory examination suggests that this is indeed the case. Eli’s oath (1 Sam 3:17) focuses on Samuel’s speech, not on his own action. David’s oath not to eat anything (1 Sam 3:3) contains no positive action. Ruth’s pledge of loyalty to Naomi (Ruth 1:17) also seems to have no actual action associated with it. Saul’s promise to execute his son (1 Sam 14:44) contains no first-person verb that suggests that he intends to perform the execution personally.0 Similarly, neither David’s oath that Amasa should be appointed general (2 Sam 1:14), nor Solomon’s oath that Adoniah shall pay with his life (1 Kgs 2:23), nor Ben-hadad’s 0

This is substantiated by later events in which Saul issues a nearly identical death sentence against Abimelech. This proclamation is followed by Saul’s command to his servants to carry out his decree (1 Sam 22:16–17).

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declaration of impending victory over Samaria (1 Kgs 20:10), nor Jeroham’s oath regarding Elisha’s imminent decapitation (1 Kgs 6:31) is followed by a first-person verb. This leaves open the possibility that none of these oaths is taken with the intention that the speaker intends to be personally involved with the fulfillment of the pledge. Although the speakers do assume a measure of responsibility for the realization of the promise, inasmuch as they call down the curse upon themselves in the event that the promise is not carried out, this responsibility is not as direct as that of the oaths in which a person mentions him- or herself by name. In those oaths, the personal stake is so high, that the speaker intends to carry out the promise him- or herself, in a personal, direct fashion. There is one instance of this oath formula that proves to be an exception to this rule. Jezebel does not refer to herself by name, but the pledge that follows her oath does contain a first-person verb, indicating her personal intention to perform an act executing her promise (1 Kgs 1:2; see above). Indeed, this immediate, personal action, as indicated by the first-person verb following the oath, is consistent with later events, which emphasize the highly personal nature of her rivalry with Elijah.1 It would be expected for Jezebel herself to attend to killing Elijah. For this reason, Jezebel’s omission of any reference to herself as part of the oath formula is surprising. I have already examined Jezebel’s omission of the customary indirect object indicating the speaker as the recipient of curses in case of violation. My contention that this omission is indicative of Jezebel’s evasive, unscrupulous character may be applicable here as well. While she does use the first-person verb following an oath in order to indicate her resolute determination personally to undertake the murderous act she is proposing, she is ever unwilling to stake her own personal safety on this matter. An alternate explanation of this exceptional oath may be indicated. Despite the first-person verb that follows the oath, Jezebel’s omission of her name may be designed to call attention to her actual intentions when she utters this oath. Exegetes have speculated on Jezebel’s motives for sending Elijah a warning that she intends to kill him in the morning.2 Given Elijah’s penchant for disappearing, one would assume that Jezebel would be more discreet—unless she does not really want to kill Elijah. Many scholars have commented that Jezebel’s public proclamation of her intentions is actually intended to cause Elijah to run away.3 If this is indeed the 1

For an analysis of the textual parallel drawn between Jezebel and Elijah, underscoring their rivalry, see Trible, “Exegesis,” 3–1. 2 Simon John DeVries comments that if Jezebel had actually intended to arrest Elijah, she would have sent bailiffs, not messengers (I Kings [WBC 12; Waco: Word Books, 18], 23). Arthur S. Peake states bluntly that “had she dared to strike, she would have struck without warning” (“Elijah and Jezebel: The Conflict with the Tyrian Baal,” BJRL 11 [127]: 311). 3 John Skinner, Kings (Century Bible; Edinburgh: T. C. & E. C. Jack, 104), 236; Keil and Delitzsch, Commentary, 3:22–3; Barnes, Kings, 1; Israel Wolf Slotki, Kings (London: Soncino,

Ziegler: Variations of an Oath Formula

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case, it is clear why Jezebel does not mention her name in this oath.4 The mention of the name in the oath is a promise of personal action. And Jezebel, despite her lofty pledge in which she employs the first-person verb, does not actually intend to act at all. Instead, she hopes that Elijah will escape and she can passively reap the fruits of his disappearance, which leaves her free to continue her idolatrous practices.6 This passive portrayal is supported by the fact that Jezebel never actually confronts Elijah in the biblical text, perhaps underscoring the emptiness of her swaggering threats. By using a first-person verb to guarantee her promise but nevertheless omitting her name from the oath formula itself, the text may be intent on representing Jezebel as a boastful bully, whose threats against Elijah are intended to intimidate but actually contain no substance.7

God and the Lord The oath formula ‫ כה יעשה‬employs the name ‫( אלהים‬henceforth God) in the MT, instead of the Tetragrammaton (henceforth the Lord), except on two occasions. Both Jonathan’s oath, expressing loyalty to David (1 Sam 20:13), and Ruth’s oath, expressing loyalty to Naomi (Ruth 1:17), invoke the Lord to wreak punishment upon themselves if the pledge is not realized. Scholars and translators have approached this phenomenon in various ways. Targum Jonathan consistently renders this formula with the name of the Lord in place of God, regarding this as the normative form for this oath.8 Most manuscripts of the Septuagint incorporate the name of God into the translation of 1 Sam

10), 136–37. Norman H. Snaith speculates that Jezebel must not have been in a position to kill Elijah; otherwise she would have done so rather than utter proclamations (I Kings [IB; Nashville: Abingdon, 14], 3:160). See also Choon Leong Seow, The First and Second Books of Kings (NIB; Nashville: Abingdon, 1), 3:13. 4 This would also explain why Jezebel omits any indirect object in her oath. If she has no intention of carrying out this oath, she certainly would not willingly call down a curse upon herself. Peake’s observation (“Elijah,” 311) that Jezebel, who could not even put Naboth out of the way without resorting to foul means, would not have dared to touch the heroic Elijah, holds true even if one does not accept his thesis that this narrative must have taken place earlier. 6 In this schema, Jezebel is willing to take an oath that she fully intends to violate. By omitting her name, however, she consciously evades the possibility of invoking a curse upon herself. This reading appears to be well within the range of possibility, given the biblical portrayal of a woman willing to sacrifice her integrity without remorse. 7 This approach also assumes that Jezebel has no qualms about making an oath that she has no intention of keeping, so long as she herself is not subject to the dangerous effects of the oath curse. 8 The only exceptions are when this formula is spoken by a Gentile, in which case, the Targum translates ‫דחלתא‬, meaning “the deities” (1 Kgs 1:2; 20:10). It is characteristic of the Targum that in many passages in which the text uses the name of God, the Targum instead renders the name of the Lord.

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20:13, thereby retaining only one exception to the rule that this formula ordinarily employs the name of God (Ruth 1:17).60 Martin J. Mulder points out that on one occasion, even though this oath formula employs the name of God, it is introduced as “an oath in the name of the Lord” (1 Kgs 2:23: ‫וישבע המלך שלמה ביהוה‬ ‫) לאמר כה יעשה לי אלהים וכה יוסיף‬. His suggestion that this is an indication that the author lived in a period in which uttering the name of the Lord was avoided may be employed to explain the exceptional cases in which the name of the Lord is employed in the oath formula.61 Nevertheless, based on the scattered appearances of the variances of this oath formula in the books of Samuel, Kings, and Ruth, this hypothesis is difficult to sustain. Despite the loose attempts to restore the name of God instead of the Lord in these instances, many translations preserve these exceptions. As a result, some scholars have expounded on the reason for the distinctive usage of the oath formula that appeals to the Lord, instead of God.62

Ruth 1:17 Ruth’s extraordinary oath of loyalty to Naomi is the conclusion of a long speech regarding her devotion to Naomi (Ruth 1:17):

‫כה־יעשה יהוה לי וכה יסיף כי המות יפריד ביני ובינך‬ So shall the Lord do to me and more also, indeed only death will separate between you and me.

In explaining Ruth’s exceptional utilization of the name of the Lord in this verse,63 scholars have focused on the context of the narrative. Ruth is speaking in an attempt

One version has an interesting doublet, kuvrio" oJ qeov". Many scholars accept the LXX reading of God in 1 Sam 20:13 (e.g., Smith, Samuel, 188–8; McCarter, I Samuel, 333, 336). 61 Martin J. Mulder, I Kings 1–11 (trans. J. Vriend; Leuven: Peeters, 18), 111. Mulder does note, however, that one Greek manuscript has Solomon including the name of the Lord in the oath formula. This certainly may be viewed as a secondary emendation, designed to resolve the difficulty presented by the variant usages of the name of God associated with the oath in 1 Kgs 2:23. 62 Scholarly treatment of the various names borne by the God of Israel is vast. The impact of these discussions for understanding biblical theology cannot be overestimated. For a summary, review, and bibliography of many of the issues, see, e.g., Aimo Edward Murtonen, A Philological and Literary Treatise on the Old Testament Divine Names (StudOr 18:1; Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seuran Kirjapainon Oy, 12); Walther Eichrodt, Theology of the Old Testament (trans. J. A. Baker; 2 vols.; OTL; London: SCM, 161), 1:178–20. For our purposes, it is significant that the name ‫ אלהים‬is considered to be a general designation of the deity, while the Tetragrammaton is widely regarded as a specifically Israelite designation of the deity, marking Israel as different from all other nations (e.g., Eichrodt, Theology, 1:178, 187). 63 As noted previously, even the LXX preserves this exception. 60

Ziegler: Variations of an Oath Formula

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to persuade Naomi that she intends to remain with Naomi and embrace wholeheartedly her norms and culture. Many scholars note that Ruth’s deliberate decision to employ the name of the Lord, rather than the general usage of the name of God, underscores her active and total acceptance of the personal God of Israel.64 At the same time, it is a deliberate and conscious rejection of any other god.6

Jonathan’s Oath (1 Samuel 20:13) Few scholars concern themselves with Jonathan’s employment of the name of the Lord in his oath to David. Perhaps this is because the oath appears in its usual form in many Greek translations. Yehuda Kil is one of the few scholars who address this irregularity in the MT. He suggests that the use of the name of the Lord is an indication of the gravity of the oath.66 He further theorizes that this usage hints at the covenant between Jonathan and David, which was made in the name of the Lord. Kil’s approach falls short of being compelling. As it stands, there is no reason to assume that the oaths taken by Ruth and Jonathan in the name of the Lord are any more weighty than oaths taken in the name of God. Consider, for example, the oath of Saul, condemning his son and heir to death, or that of David, swearing to decimate the house of Nabal. This theory is difficult to sustain or confirm. Kil’s second hypothesis is perhaps more appealing, inasmuch as it creates a literary reason why the name of the Lord would be employed in Jonathan’s oath. Nevertheless, the name of the Lord appears in different contexts throughout this narrative, and there is no reason to assume that it is used in this oath in order to refer to the covenant.

Ruth and Jonathan It may be prudent to explore whether a relationship exists between the two characters that use the name of the Lord in their oaths. There is little doubt that those who are party to these two oaths represent some of the most incongruous relationships in the Bible. Jonathan chooses allegiance to David rather than to his 64 Campbell, Ruth, 7; Louise P. Smith, The Book of Ruth (IB; Nashville: Pierce & Washabaugh, 13), 837; Morris, “Ruth,” 261; Zakovitch, Ruth, 62; Wesley J. Fuerst, The Books of Ruth, Esther, Ecclesiastes, The Song of Songs, Lamentations (CBC; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 17), 14; George Albert Cooke, The Book of Ruth (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 118), . 6 Strictly speaking, ‫ אלהים‬is a general term that can be used of any deity. The Lord is always a personal name, denoting the God of Israel. Nonetheless, ‫ אלהים‬can also be used to designate the God of Israel specifically, casting him as the absolute God. See Helmer Ringgren, “‫אלהים‬,” TDOT 1:276–77, 284. 66 Kil, I Samuel, 20. He compares this oath to the one in Ruth 1:17, observing that there too the oath sustains a particular gravity.

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father, despite the fact that David’s ultimate success will result in the usurpation of Jonathan’s rightful position as heir. Ruth cleaves to her mother-in-law despite Naomi’s urging and persuasive arguments regarding Ruth’s bleak future in Bethlehem. Jonathan’s oath and Ruth’s oath go against all logic; indeed, they seem to undermine the future of these individuals. It is perhaps for this reason that these figures employ the name of the Lord in their oaths.67 In attempting to convince the other party that they are committed to their pledge of loyalty, they use the most persuasive means at their disposal. The name of the Lord, the personal God of Israel, cannot be taken lightly. At the same time, the use of the name of the Lord in their oaths may be an attempt to explain their respective decisions. The only factor that could motivate Jonathan to give up his kingship is his belief that this is in fact what the Lord of Israel requires of him. In the Lord’s direct involvement in and manipulation of Israel’s history, he has determined that David will be king, and Jonathan has no choice but to comply with the Lord’s will. It is this message that Jonathan conveys by taking this extraordinary oath of allegiance to David, employing an invocation of the name of the Lord that is unusual for this oath formula. The same may be said for Ruth’s resolution. The perplexity of Ruth’s choice to abandon all hope of a future family is mitigated by her pronouncing the name of the Lord in explaining her actions. She too asserts her belief that her decision is a result of her understanding of what the personal deity of the people of Israel requires of her. In fact, both of these characters account for their unusual decision by in essence declaring that they believe that it is the will of the Lord of Israel that they do so. On a final note, it is striking that both of these decisions ultimately lead to the creation of the Davidic dynasty, an institution that is established and endorsed by the Lord, the personal God of the history of the Israelites. That this particular formula of oath making occurs in only two stories may be intended to indicate that the narratives are consciously alluding to each other.68 This allusion is borne out by the similarity of some of the plot components that trigger the oaths in these stories. This usage, then, seems to reflect a purposeful design that aims to compel readers to analyze the two stories in light of each other.

IV. Conclusion Although the expression ‫ כה יעשה‬does appear to contain a standard oath formula, there are some notable deviations. An analysis of these variations reveals a 67

Campbell avers that the fact that the name of the Lord appears in these two cases rather than the more general name of the deity suggests that there is an “important emphasis on [the Lord] in these passages” (Ruth, 74). While he does offer an explanation in the case of Ruth 1:17, he does not elaborate further on any connection between these two passages. 68 Segal, Samuel, 164; Kathleen Ann Robertson Farmer, The Book of Ruth (NIB; Nashville: Abingdon, 18), 2:07.

Ziegler: Variations of an Oath Formula

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deliberate attempt to express or mirror themes and ideas present in the context of the narrative. This oath formula has been carefully and deliberately arranged in this manner, and any deviation from a standard formulation should be regarded as deliberate and further examined to determine its meaning. When one pays careful attention to oaths and their formulations, biblical passages come into focus, revealing their rich subtext and disclosing the primary message of the narrative in which the oath is found.

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JBL 126, no. 1 (2007): 83–97

The Deconstruction of Job’s Fundamentalism andré lacocque [email protected] Chicago Theological Seminary, Chicago, IL 60634

The book of Job deals without compromise with the universal problem of human suffering. Remarkable is its ability to give to all of its characters their own voices with integrity. Such plurivocity in a work of fiction will be fully represented again only in very rare occurrences until Dostoevsky’s mastership, more than two thousand years after Job’s composition. The last chapters of the book, however, although without relaxation in the literary genius of the author, come as a surprise. Yhwh, at long last, responds to Job’s complaint—with what appears to be a crushing demonstration of power through a divine display of the creation’s wonders. Job, already overburdened by bereavement, malady, deprivation, and despair, seems to be exposed to yet more aggravation. God appears more cruel even than the tormenting friends in the dialogical part. Job was able to refute their arguments, yet he is reduced to silence before God (40:4–5, “what shall I answer to you?”). My thesis is that this “firework” of the divine discourse in Job 38–41 does as much to reveal flaws in the created universe as to celebrate the wisdom of the Creator. Such wisdom is actually subversive to wisdom.1 That is why the sapiential framework of these chapters is broken—already by presenting the speech as a theophany—and allows for the untrue-to-form acknowledgment of an uncanny divine weakness. In this article, I argue that the grand divine demonstration is highly ambiguous. It reveals—to the extent that the creation does mirror the Creator’s design—an originally all-powerful God who has chosen to struggle and suffer with the creation over against Job’s expectations that God is fully in control and thus 1 That

wisdom-like texts may be subversive to wisdom in general is abundantly illustrated in Job’s replies to his wise friends (see further Job 42:8). This phenomenon is also found elsewhere. William P. Brown forcefully advances the idea that J “drives a wedge deep into the heart of wisdom” by rending life and wisdom asunder, thus “bankrupt[ing] sapiential discourse” (The Ethos of the Cosmos: The Genesis of Moral Imagination in the Bible [Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999], 155). (In noncreation texts, see also Qoheleth; Isa 5:21; 29:13–14; Jer 8:8–9; cf. Deut 4:5–8.)

83

Journal of Biblical Literature 126, no. 1 (2007)

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guilty of allowing evil to proliferate in the world. Job’s rigid assessment of the divine is thereby challenged, and his ultimate response is appropriately one of repentance (42:6). From out of a faulty theological construct, Job is now invited to realize that God is not the omnipotent cosmocrator who manipulates at will the fate of creation as a whole, and the fate of Job in particular. A divine pathos permeates the “promenade in the garden.” Creation is unfinished, in the sense that this creatio continua is striving toward perfection by elimination of all manifestations of evil—whose presence in the world, by the way, is the very condition for divine nonmanipulation and human freedom. Room for a divine–human synergism is secured to fight against the persistent evil. Yhwh’s response to Job and his suffering is most relevant and universal after all. The reader of Job 38–41 is time and again struck by the apparent irrelevance of the divine discourse in response to Job’s predicament. The taxonomic cortège of creatures, from the inanimate to the familiar animal world, and eventually to the more or less mythical monsters, seems to marginalize the suffering of the human. Is the display of Yhwh’s creation merely ostentatious and vain? If it is just that, then it can be said that the poet suddenly has lost much of his poetic ingenuity after reaching a literary summit in the dialogical part of the book.2 Although such a stylistic or ideological failure remains within the range of possibilities, a closer reading of those enigmatic chapters may shed some light on God’s retort that, I argue, has nothing to do with either divine ostentation or thematic irrelevance. Although the dialogical part of the book is clearly sapiential, Job 38–41 constitutes a literary genre sui generis as it distances itself from the customary pattern of wisdom literature. True, God’s address is also akin to wisdom but only partially so, if only because we are dealing with a theophany and, with Dermot Cox, we must stress that “theophanies have no real function in wisdom literature, where reason and experience, not revelation, are normative.”3 In this respect, the divine discourse is framed with the same report that the dialogical deployment of sapience on the part of Job (and a fortiori the friends) has been “without knowledge,” that is, without real wisdom. So, Job 38:2–4 states, “Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge?” Furthermore, at the other end of the literary development, Job’s reaction in 42:2–3 is a penitential confession (paralleling Ps 119:75, for instance): “I know that you can do all things, and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted. Who is he that hides counsel without knowledge?” thus signaling the

2 This

is certainly not the opinion of the literary critic Robert Alter. He writes, “If the poetry of Job . . . looms above all other biblical poetry in virtuosity and sheer expressive power, [Yhwh’s discourse] soars beyond everything that has preceded it in the book . . . [thus] pushing poetic expression toward its own upper limits” (The Art of Biblical Poetry [New York: Basic Books, 1985], 87). 3 Dermot Cox, “Structure and Function of the Final Challenge: Job 20–31,” PIBA 5 (1981): 55– 71, esp. 65.

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failure of wisdom in dealing with Job’s plight. The same applies to Job 42:4a, which quotes God’s challenge in 38:3: “‘Hear, and I will speak; I will question you and you declare to me.’ ”4 If readers fail to make this decisive stylistic distinction from the usual biblical wisdom, they force Yhwh’s discourse into a preconceived, rigid sapiential mold. Robert Alter appears to me wiser when he repeatedly calls Job 38–41 a “poem.” It “reflects the sequential and focusing strategies of development that are generally characteristic of biblical poetry.” The poem, he says, brilliantly reverses “the great death-wish poem that takes up all of Chapter 3,” that is, Job’s lament. So, to “Job’s initial poem,” God responds with a poem of God’s own, and Alter underscores at length the stylistic and ideological parallels between the two. “In both structure and thematic assertion, Chapters 38–41 are a great diastolic movement, responding to the systolic movement of Chapter 3.”5 The tone of Yhwh’s discourse is strikingly ironic from the outset. Yhwh starts addressing Job as if the cause of his problem was his lack of appreciation for the creation’s greatness and, in consequence, his belittling the Creator’s “honor and majesty” (cf. Ps 104:1). This type of argumentation would better fit a chiding response to a Nietzschean “superman” basking in the excess of his hubris. Then it would make sense to remind the human that she/he was not a demiurge helping God at the genesis of the universe. But the present demonstration is actually a great deal more ambiguous,6 and God’s ironic statements may hardly be construed as directed against some kind of arrogant hero. Let us review the divine discourse. The world exists at all because God has granted it life (see ch. 38), but its existence is not carefree. There is in the created world an uncanny negative power that needs to be reined in. The cosmic laws in the hands of God continuously prevent the universe from sinking back into chaos (38:8–11: “bounds, prescription, bars and doors, commandment”). The truth of the matter is that there is lawlessness in creation. The text, however, does not deal with its origin and confronts its nature only indirectly. There is wickedness, but it is not unbounded. Morning and dawn, for instance, are working against its predilection for darkness: “so that [dawn] might take hold of the skirts of the earth, and the wicked be shaken out of it?” (see 38:12– 15). Conversely, the underground mysteries of creation are awesome in their tremendous power, but they are ambiguous for they ominously contain the shadows of death in their abysmal hideouts (see 38:16–17: “Have you entered into the springs of the sea or walked in the recesses of the deep? Have the gates of death been revealed to you, or have you seen the gates of deep darkness?” [NRSV]). The earth’s immensity accommodates both light and darkness, but their mutual com4 See

Ps 27:7; 54:4; 64:2a; 84:9; 88:3; etc. Art of Biblical Poetry, 93–110; quotations from 94, 96, 97, 103. 6 Yhwh’s discourse does not finalize the dialogical part of the book. It obviously brings about something significantly different but carefully said with ambiguity so as to keep the “conversation” open. 5 Alter,

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Journal of Biblical Literature 126, no. 1 (2007)

petition must be arbitrated by God, who imposes limits to their respective realms: “Where is the way of the dwelling of light, and where is the place of darkness?” (see 38:18–21). God creates snow and hail to cool off violence in times of war and distress, and thus he emphasizes another polarity in the universe: [snow and hail] “which I have reserved for the time of trouble, for the day of battle and war?” (see 38:22–23). Again, the text does not discuss human lawless destructiveness and the origin of wars in God’s world, but the author makes the point that they are not unchallenged by the Creator. Yhwh seems to concur with Job’s assessment in the dialogical part of the book, where he “postulates an overwhelming cosmic absurdity.”7 The following development on the rainfalls brings the ambiguity of the universe to a crescendo. Generally, rain is a blessing, especially after the east wind (‫ קדים‬or ‫)חמסין‬, but this rain falls on arid uninhabited lands to little avail: “to bring rain on a land where no one lives, on the desert, which is empty of human life, to satisfy the waste and desolate land, and to make the ground put forth grass?” (see 38:24–27). It frustrates the expectations of humans who see the revitalizing downpour miss their fields and uselessly drench the desert. What the water from above germinates is not the human food staple but some short-lived grass in the sand. Besides, the rain may not fall at all and remain frozen stiff in the sky: “The waters become hard like stone and the face of the deep is frozen” (see 38:28–30). The astral cycles are humanly unpredictable, although they so much influence life on earth: “Do you know the ordinances of the heavens? Can you establish their rule on the earth?” (see 38:31– 33). In short, the display of God’s works shows a creation that, at least from a human standpoint, appears flawed—and emphatically so—as the text repeatedly insists on the humans’ absence (see 38:26, quoted above).8 One central motif in this article is a meditation on the meaning of that absence. Carol Newsom calls attention to the contrasting spatial imagination in the divine discourse.9 The spatial references evoked by the text are as remote as can be from human selfcenteredness: “the foundations of the earth, the doors of the primordial sea, the horizon of dawn, the recesses of the sea and the gates of death, the home from which night and darkness emerge, the storage places of snow, hail, rain, and wind.

7 Thomas F. Dailey, The Repentant Job: A Ricoeurian Icon for Biblical Theology (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1994). Only now the “absurdity” is changed into a challenge to God and Job together. 8 See Alter, Art of Biblical Poetry, 102: “one of the most unsentimental poetic treatments of the animal world in the Western literary tradition. . . . The animal realm is a nonmoral realm.” The evocation of the warhorse, for example, belongs to “an imposing vision of a harmonious order to which violence is nevertheless intrinsic and where destruction is part of creation” (p. 106). 9 Carol A. Newsom, The Book of Job: A Contest of Moral Imaginations (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 240.

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. . . the contrast between the way space is imagined could not be more radical.”10 It is, as it were, a Copernican perspective! Note with Newsom, that earlier on Job had described the peripherical space (the desert, for example) as a “place of punishment, utterly ‘outside.’ ”11 Space here dwarfs the human infinitesimal smallness. Job’s quest has been to find a way to be present to a world that seems so devoid of humanity. It is the same question that the creation narratives raised in Genesis,12 only the quest here is made more personal and more existential, coming from a person puzzled by the reason and the purpose of his suffering. Facing the it-ness of the world, Job asks where he fits. The rhetorical questions “Where were you?,” “Do you know?,” “Can you?,” “Who?” highlight Job’s (and everyone else’s) physical absence. The universe is not at his service. And this is the greatest challenge facing our human condition. There is a clear grandeur in Yhwh’s discourse, even an “exorbitance of the sublime and its assault on the imagination.”13 But is the provocative absence of the human from the grand fresco meant to belittle the human to nothing? In the context of the baleful presence of the negative everywhere in the created universe, the human truancy re-evokes the vacuum that J mentions in Gen 2:5, before creation is peopled, that is, before the fulfillment of the work of creation. Job’s absence is not only Job’s humbling but, as we shall see, God’s beckoning (“for the Lord God had not caused it to rain upon the earth, and there was no human to till the ground”). The negative side of the universe is in need of both divine and human healing intervention.14 As a matter of fact, the sublimity in God’s display of his creation is redefined by the admission that he merely holds back chaos, death, and darkness.15 True, God is not expressly described here as battling with the sea, for instance, but the latter is all the same “violent and aggressive,” and the animals evoked “almost all belong to the hostile and alien realm of the desert wilderness.”16 10 Ibid. 11 Ibid. 12 In Genesis 1, the human comes last, and in chs. 2–3, the universe is potentially (2:9, 15, 17), then actually (3:1, 15, 17–19) hostile. 13 Newsom, Book of Job, 241. 14 See my book on Genesis 2–3, The Trial of Innocence: Adam, Eve, and the Yahwist (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2006). 15 Sublimity is “Greek”; it is here redefined in a definitely Hebraic way. The sublime has been resurrected by the Romantics, but reappears today in writings that are a far cry from Romanticism; see, e.g., Terry Eagleton, Holy Terror (Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 2005), 42–67 (his ch. 2, entitled “States of Sublimity”); Newsom, Book of Job; Tod Linafelt, “The Undecidability of ‫ברך‬ in the Prologue of Job and Beyond” (BibInt 4, no. 2 [1996]: 170–71); Lynn Poland, “The Bible and the Rhetorical Sublime” in The Bible as Rhetoric: Studies in Biblical Persuasion and Credibility (ed. MartinWarner; Warwick Studies in Philosophy and Literature; London/New York: Routledge, 1990), 29–47 (in this book Warner defines the “sublime” as “that which arouses amazement and awe, overwhelming the imagination through its resistance to the limits and categories within which we seek to contain it” [p. 13]); etc. 16 Newsom, Book of Job, 244, 245.

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So, the Leviathan as an example of such foes (described at length in Job 40) is a monster whose mention recurs in texts such as 3:8, “Let those curse [that night] who curse the Sea, those who are skilled to rouse up Leviathan” (cf. Isa 27:1; Ps 74:14). In 7:12, Job wonders whether God considers him a chaos dragon, “Am I the Sea, or the Dragon [‫]תנין‬, that you set a guard over me?” In 9:13 and 26:12–13, another such monster, called Rahab, is struck down by God: “By his power he stilled the Sea; by his understanding he struck down Rahab . . . his hand pierced the fleeing serpent” (cf. Isa 51:9–10), while in 26:7 it is described as “chaos” and “nothingness.” In all this, the main point is that the chaotic juggernaut is restricted and contained, as we already saw (“He prescribed bounds for it, and set bars and doors . . .” [38:8–11]).17 As in the case of the rain falling uselessly upon the sand, God feeding the wild animals illustrates that the negative side of creation is not to be construed as a rival god, as it would be in mythologies. There is here no dualism; God is creator of light and darkness, weal and woe. God allows “the persistence of evil”18 in a creation under containment. With this conclusion, we have reached a high point in Yhwh’s discourse. Since the not-good that Job experiences in his flesh permeates the universe as a whole (on this, he has been right all along), the individual ordeal of the just also has a cosmic dimension.19 Why that is so is not expressly stated. As Job will soon learn, however, the very existence (and persistence) of the negative demands not only God’s control over it but Job’s involvement in engaging evil. In short, the very opposition or conflict between good and evil in the universe is a guarantee that the divine–human relationship is characterized by freedom (versus manipulation) and by love/caritas (versus the love of “Big Brother”). The paradox embedded in the world is that its dark side is both creation by God and invitation to a dual responsibility in fighting part of that creation, which is in truth anti-creation. There is a kind of divine complicity with the inhuman in the universe.20 In other words, the “hollow side” (chaos, evil)21 of creation did not just “happen.” It is divinely intentional and has a purpose. Such is, I believe, the lesson that Job needed to learn. His own suffering is 17 Cf. Jer 5:20–22: “a perpetual barrier that it cannot pass”; Prov 8:29: “He assigned to the sea its limit, so that the waters might not transgress his command.” 18 See Jon D. Levenson, Creation and the Persistence of Evil: The Jewish Drama of Divine Omnipotence (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1988). 19 A remarkable haggadic story tells about R. Meir’s utter poverty and his request for a divine intervention. God’s answer is that the petition’s satisfaction would require the cancellation of the present creation and its replacement with another one. 20 See Job 41:2, about Leviathan, “he is Mine!” 21 In The Trial of Innocence, I develop the idea that the J creation narrative follows a pattern of “embossed ” and “hollow” sides of the same reality (the tree of life and the tree of knowledge, for instance).

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not meaningless. There is, as Pascal said, “un bon usage de la maladie,” or, as Susan Sontag said, “Illness is the night-side of life.”22 Until now, God’s ironic tone has been laced with sternness, perhaps even with sadness.23 In the text that follows (Job 38:34–39:30), the style becomes even more bitterly ironic as the address is made more ad hominem, “Can you lift up your voice to the clouds, so that a flood of waters may cover you? Can you . . . ?” Then a discursive shift occurs from natural phenomena to the animal kingdom, “Can you hunt the prey for the lion?” (38:30). This turn is consistent with the development discussed above, but God’s arrows fly closer to the human’s immediate and animate world.24 The narrative now presents lions, ravens, wild goats, wild asses, wild oxen, ostriches, horses, and hawks. A realm of the free—but nature is where the stronger devours the weaker, “[Can you] satisfy the appetite of the young lions . . . or lie in wait in their covert?” (38:39–40). The author mentions the bloodthirsty lions and their cubs, ravens and their fledglings. When those cannot find their prey to feed on, they are desperate and famished (see Ps 104:29). God must provide their food, but at the cost of life for how many (cf. Ps 104:21, 27)? Deer are more peaceful animals and they are not carnivorous, but their fate is not enviable (39:4–7). Not only do they carry their young in their wombs for months on end, but they give birth in pain only to have their offspring estranged soon after: “they go forth and do not return to them.” The lot of the wild ass is not any better. It lives in the desert and on salted land and has a hard time finding a scarce pasture (39:8–11). Here again the uselessness of the beast is stressed; elsewhere, the plight of the wild ass is a symbol of punishment.25 The buffalo is strong, but to no human benefit (39:12–15). As to the ostrich, its carelessness toward its eggs is a mixture of stupidity and callousness (39:16–21). In a similar category, the horse is hardly more clever. It is merely an instrument of war; its very existence as a tool for fighting is a threat to world peace (“It laughs at 22 Susan

Sontag, Illness as Metaphor (New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1978), preface. are a far cry from David Penchansky’s characterization of God’s discourse as “Yhwh’s blistering attack” (The Betrayal of God: Ideological Conflict in Job [Literary Currents in Biblical Interpretation; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1990], 54). The same applies to James L. Crenshaw’s statement that the theophany here is “the shattering of every human illusion of occupying a special place in God’s sight” (“When Form and Content Clash: The Theology of Job 38:1–40:5,” in Creation in the Biblical Traditions [ed. Richard J. Clifford and John J. Collins; CBQMS 24; Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1992], 70). The gravest misunderstanding perhaps comes under the pen of John B. Curtis: “A Yhwh, so conceived as loftier than all the man’s thoughts and ways, simply cannot be bothered by so human a problem as the unmerited suffering of the innocent” (“On Job’s Response to Yhwh,” JBL 98 [1979]: 497–511, esp. 511). 24 Incidentally, note the constant reference to the Creator as El(ohim), not Yhwh (see 38:41; 40:19); more on this below. 25 See Ps 107:34; Jer 17:6: “[Those who trust in mortals] shall live in the parched places of the wilderness, in an uninhabited salt land.” 23 We

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fear, and is not dismayed; it does not turn back from the sword” [see 39:22–28; also Ps 33:17]). The great winged raptors’ flight is majestic, but they are on the lookout for the kill and “their young ones suck up blood” (39:29–30). As can be expected, at the end of this first part in the divine discourse, Job by now is spellbound. But what impresses him? Is it the fireworks of the display, or is it the realization of God’s struggle, patching, as it were, multiple leaks lest the vessel sink altogether? At this point Job needs to look through the inventiveness, yea the wisdom of creation (40:2–5; see also Ps 104:24) to see that God invites him in partnership to defeat the negative. Job eventually does not fault God for the presence of the dark side in the world (40:1-4), because Yhwh is fighting against it (“And Yhwh said to Job: Would a faultfinder contend with the Almighty [‫ ?]שדי‬Does the one who’d argue with Eloah have an answer?” [40:1–2]). Were Shadday or Eloah the divine “face” turned toward Job, or rather away from him, where would the answer to his quest to be found? Who can argue or contend with the Almighty? It is only when God turns to Job as Yhwh that the creation’s “perfectness” (signified in Genesis 1 by, e.g., the form of the verb ‫ )ברא‬is shown to be merely on its way to perfection and is, for all practical purposes, “imperfect” as God must still contain the sea, pour rain, feed the wild animals, hold the leash of cosmic monsters—God’s work is unfinished. In conformity with the earlier development about fauna, where God hovered in ever narrowing circles around Job, he now hones in on him most directly: “Will you condemn me that you may be justified?” (40:8). God now directly defies Job, “I shall interrogate you . . . will you condemn me? . . . Abase those who are proud . . . bring them low; tread down the wicked where they stand; bind their faces in the world below. Then, I will acknowledge . . .” (40:6-14). Job realizes that he has been engulfed in the dark side of the universe (cf. Isa 58:6–7). His suffering is now put in a staggering new perspective. It belongs with the divine struggle against evil (40:12). The realization of this overwhelms him. He says, no more self-pity, no more blame (40:3–5). “What shall I answer you? I lay my hand on my mouth . . . I will not proceed further.” I disagree with the many who see mere redundancy in the divine discourse of these chs. 40–41of Job. There is a progression in the demonstration, and in its second part, which now begins, this idea takes a sharper focus. The renewed vigor in the speech, emphasized by the redundant “And Yhwh said to Job” (40:1; see also 38:1), further attests to this fact. In Job 40:15, God starts over again with a challenging, even sarcastic, tone. Job is directly put on the spot when God invites him to participate in the taming of the monsters in creation (see Ps 104:35). God has never concealed their existence. Although Behemoth and Leviathan are his creation and can even be his playmates (40:15), the Creator has not finished fighting them (see 40:15, 24; cf. Ps 104:26). Their monstrosity is staggering in that their “hearts are hard as stone” (41:16), and they were created “to fear nothing” (41:25). Now, let it be said again, the evocation of the great predators does not have the purpose of dwarfing Job’s

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suffering. If this were its object, God would lack the most elementary sensitivity. Terrifying details of a dinosaur’s physiology have no impact whatsoever on human suffering. But, if harnessing the dinosaur is a token of God’s partial victory over the “dark side,” then Behemoth and Leviathan do interest Job. So does the divine control over the wicked ones who are roaming in the night and are “lifting their arm” to mug or kill (38:15).26 Job is confounded not by a vain and arrogant inventory of created items but by his own shortsightedness in blaming a god he believed omnipotent and whimsical. Job realizes that Yhwh is fully involved in his creatures’ suffering and struggle. This is precisely why the text has shifted from the use of divine nonpersonal designations such as El, Elohim, Eloah, El Shadday, to the proper name, Yhwh. Yhwh himself stresses the meaning of the shift in 40:2: “Shall a faultfinder contend with Shadday? Anyone who argues with Eloah must respond.” As we have seen, God challenges Job. He is telling Job that as long as he engages him as omnipotent Elohim, he, Job, is insignificant and his suffering is lost in the void. The dialogue becomes meaningful when God is the personal respondent that the name Yhwh signifies. Yhwh stresses the inanity of disputing with Eloah or Shadday and the necessity for him to reveal himself as the human’s intimate engaged in the fight against evil.27 Job’s reply is the dawning of an insight: “I have uttered what I did not understand” (42:3). Indeed, as long as he tried to contend with the distant deity, he elicited no answer, made no progress, and ended up as a “faultfinder.” Job’s earlier misconception about the role of the governor in his creation was possible so long as he was dealing with “God” in general. In that perspective, Job’s personal fate was lost in an unresponsive infinite. But this understanding becomes impossible to maintain as soon as God is personalized as Yhwh.28 In 42:6a, Job’s ‫( נחמה‬contrition) is a veritable ‫( תשובה‬repentance) in the sense of a total reversal.29 God ironically had declared his readiness to be instructed by Job (38:3b: “I will 26 On

Leviathan as a power that opposes God, see Job 26:12–13; Isa 27:1. in P’s creation narrative in Genesis 1, it is better to understand God’s commands as rather “invitations to enter the grand creative sweep of God’s designs” (Brown, Ethos of the Cosmos, 28). As there was no coercion in the primordial process of creation but an enticement of the chaotic to a synergism with God, so there is in Job’s theophany no coercion that would only add to Job’s torments an eventual coup de grace. This would be “adding nothing theologically [to the friends’ smugness] but the bully power of omnipotence” (Catherine Keller, Face of the Deep: A Theology of Becoming [New York: Routledge, 2003], 135). 28 I stressed this point in a previous article: “Job and Religion at Its Best,” BibInt 4, no. 2 (1996): 131–53. There I also emphasize the theme of the final repentance of Job. While previously he would not budge from his firm conviction about the prevailing injustice in the world, he now repents and asks for forgiveness (see esp. p. 132). 29 The term ‫ תשובה‬is avoided here because it would indicate the eradication by Job of his own proclamation of innocence in the dialogical part. Yhwh himself says that Job spoke ‫“( נכונה‬rightly,” 42:7–8). Job’s contrition comes after realizing God’s pathos. It is not about his own finitude. Newsom speaks of “emotional resonances” (Book of Job, 236). There is no retributive justice in the world that is neither a chaos nor a cosmos (in the etymological sense of the word). 27 Also

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question you, and you shall declare to me”); now Job reverses the terms and asks God for his instruction (42:4: “I [Job] will question you, and you shall declare to me”). From “hearsay” about God (like a sage), Job now sees Yhwh, “now my eye sees you” (42:5b), (like Moses, like the prophets).30 The hearing stresses the distance between the protagonists; the seeing emphasizes the immediacy of the dialogue. To hear about God is “religion at its best”; it deals with Elohim. But to see God is to come face to face with Yhwh.31 Earlier, in the dialogical part, Job had experienced in his own flesh that evil is not a retributive punishment for a specific breach of cosmic justice. With the final theophany, Job learns two things: first, that the world is no “clockwork of distributive justice”;32 second, that the alleged otiose god is in fact a covenantal God, Yhwh, and is, therefore, vulnerable because he is intimately and historically committed to the care of the universe and its people, both created with an existential need for such care.33 It is on this score that the kinship between the prologue and the theophanic divine discourse becomes clear. I quote here what I wrote in 1996: In both [prologue and theophany], God tests his covenantal partner, as if unsure of his fidelity (h ִesed), and such insecurity makes God the first one to lose in the process; he is the first to raise questions, the first to be in need of being reassured, the first to beg that his sovereign initiative find an echo “on the earth” (see 1:6– 8; 38:3; 40:2, 7–8). There is a voice whispering in God’s ear, “Does Job fear God ִhinnam, for nought?” (1:9), that is, in spite of all evil and suffering that such fear entails, for in their absence it would not be, evidently, “for nought.” This is, I contend, the question at the heart of the book of Job. Chapters 38–41 give it its 30 See Job 19:26, “In my flesh, I will see God.” Cf. Exod 33:20–23; Num 12:8; Isa 6:1; Amos 9:1; Ezekiel 1; 11; etc. 31 See Norman C. Habel, The Book of Job: A Commentary (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1985), 582. 32 LaCocque, “Job and Religion,” 133. Of note is Dailey’s study of the natural phenomena that accompany the biblical theophanies. He shows that the storm in 38:1 (‫ )סערה‬is unusual and does not connote “horrific proportions”; rather it emphasizes a meeting between the divine and the human (Repentant Job, 88; see 90–93). Dailey adds (about 38:3), “Job is implored to enter into the full partnership of an ‘I-Thou’ dialogue.” Furthermore, he writes, “Job has come to understand the divine design more in terms of potential than as a fixed plan” (p. 176). Unfortunately, Job’s appropriation of God’s wisdom remains for Dailey on an intellectual plane (see p. 103), while, in reality, Job is subjected not to a classroom demonstration but to a plea. Here lies the “superabundance of meaning” of which Paul Ricoeur speaks. Significantly, Dailey understands Job’s “repentance” (always in quotation marks except in the title of the book and twice in the last two pages) as a “mystical event,” a “culminating experience,” apprehended by Job’s “contemplative consciousness” (see, e.g., p. 176). In short, for him, there is human drama but no divine pathos. 33 See below and n. 43. David Clines writes, “[T]he reason for Job’s suffering lies not in Job, not in the way the world works, nor in the principle of retribution, nor in any dogma, but deep in God and his need to know the truth about humankind and thus about himself ” (“Deconstructing the Book of Job,” in Bible as Rhetoric, ed. Warner, 74).

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sharpest expression and, paradoxically, Job will be the one compelled to answer it. All the terms of the problematic are reversed. Job the questioner is questioned; Job the beggar for justice must render justice to someone more in need of justice than himself!34

God’s response to Job in the form of a series of questions had to hark back to the beginning of the world and its creation, because Job’s problem is fundamentally theological and cosmological. Job needs to discover who exactly God is, in order for the friends’ malicious folly to be exposed and redressed (42:8). Rather than God as the Almighty, the genesis of the world reveals a very different side of the divine, namely, God’s vulnerability as demonstrated in his self-defining act of creation. All creatures manifest the Creator’s glory and magnificence as well as their own fallibility and their capacity of questioning God’s power over them. True, as Genesis 6–8 tells us, God could destroy everything and start all over again. What God rather chooses to do is to put a check on the creatures’ rebellion: “thus far and no farther” (Job 38:11). The divine display of the creation’s wonders falls very much in parallel with other creation narratives, such as Genesis 1; Genesis 2–3; or Psalm 104, as we saw above. The tally indeed goes even further than being just literary. In all these texts, including the Joban, the divine glorious creation appears with breathtaking cracks in the wall.35 When the reader’s “eyes are open” to realize that “the emperor is naked,” as it were, this transforms the whole picture’s aspect. There is a worm in the fruit; a serpent and a “bad” tree in the park; a Behemoth that God “approaches with a sword” (Job 40:19); a Sea to be harnessed and a “thick darkness” to be bounded (38:8–11). Job now is caught in an awesome drama that tests the very bond between the divine and the human. Is God indeed feeling insecure, and is thus the human trust in crisis? “Does Job fear God for nought (‫חנם‬, hiinnam)?” (1:9; see vv. 7–12). Is his fear grounded on the false assumption that God is the omnipotent deity touting the system of distributive justice? Job’s trust might be especially tested if he discovered that God needs to be reassured through a wager with the Satan (see 2:3-6), at a catastrophic cost to himself, losing everyone and everything. For, if God is not the pantocrator of religious ideology, the question arises: Is it still worthwhile to fear God? (see 34:9; 35:3). It is a double-pronged question. First, is God really to be feared? Second, is there any advantage in fearing God? Job 1 has already offered an implicit response: the whole thing is ‫חנם‬. It is hiinnam, we may explicate, because “Job and Religion,” 136–37. Of course, the prologue to Job is not necessarily of the same hand as the dialogues in verse, but common themes bind them together, among which ‫חנם‬ (h ִinnam) occupies a prime position. This problem, ever relevant as it is, was particularly questioning the exiles’ despair in Babylon. I take exception to Clines’s faulty logic: “Job’s case is unique” (“Deconstructing,” 75). 35 See my Trial of Innocence. 34 LaCocque,

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God-the-Creator has chosen to manifest power through weakness,36 that is, through shedding off abscondence and becoming involved in a two-way communication with creatures. Once the misconception about omnipotence is set aside, Job’s reoriented trust will consist in working with God to “complete what is lacking” to the perfection of the universe,37 in other words participating in God’s work of redemption. This is, I claim, the key to understanding the grand display of creatures in Job 38–41. Job is invited to engage in a synergism with the Creator, for his need parallels the need of God. Job 42:7–9 is still divine discourse but this time addressed to Eliphaz of Teman and his “two friends.” I shall return to this text below, but it is to be noted that Job has here become an actual collaborator with God in correcting the wrongs committed by foolish people, against whom God’s “wrath is kindled” (42:7). “My servant Job shall pray for you, for I will accept his prayer” (42:8). In reality, Job now is God’s delegate, a kind of viceroy whose intercession is acknowledged and honored on high. From being a “patient,” a victim, a scapegoat, Job is now God’s minister or angel. Oedipus and the scapegoats in general accept the public verdict of guilt, and they “repent” in front of all; they go so far as to ask for their own condemnation and chastisement. Job is an anti-Oedipus. At no point does he agree with others’ accusation and ostracism (cf. 34:37, where Elihu says of Job that “he adds rebellion to his sin . . . and multiplies his words against God”). The “Stockholm syndrome” (hostages adopting their captors’ or tormentors’ demeanor by mimesis) has no impact on him. True, Job repents (42:6: “I repent in dust and ashes”), but not before the crowd or the friends; he is relenting before Yhwh. His repentance is an acknowledgment not of legal culpability in the eyes of others but of having believed in a faulty theological construct. Job confesses his own lack of sensitivity and, finally, of love.38 Now, instead of blaming God for his personal predicament, Job espouses God’s cause, that is, God’s ongoing creative act. He realizes that he was never God’s target, but, in a still unaccomplished creation, he was unwittingly swept into the whirlwind of its dark side.39 36 See 1 Cor 1:25: “God’s weakness is stronger than human strength”; 2 Cor 12:9: “power is made perfect in weakness.” B. Meg. 31a reads, “Wherever you find the greatness of God, there you find his humility.” Augustine says, “[I know of no] writings so apt to persuade me to bow my neck to your yoke and take service with you for nothing” (Confessions 13.15, quoted by Poland, “Bible and the Rhetorical Sublime,” 38). 37 See Col 1:24 for the expression, and Rom 8:22–23 for the idea. 38 I developed this point in “Job and Religion.” To the theodicy defended by his “friends,” Job had opposed some sort of an “anthropodicy” (an expression coined by the [anonymous] authors of the “Introduction au livre de Job” in La Traduction Œcuménique de la Bible [TOB][Paris: Alliances biblique universelle, 1988], 1470), thus demonstrating that he did not “fear God for nought” (1:9). 39 This happened with the permission of God, as the prologue in prose says, anxious not to give the impression that anything on earth could happen “behind the back” of God.

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Indeed, there is a “persistence of evil” in the world. As I said above, the book of Job does not directly address the issue of what causes it, apparently content with stressing the limits imposed by God to the evils flooding upon the earth. Indirectly, however, the book tackles the problem of causation. The lion, the ostrich, and the buffalo follow natural laws; they cannot be blamed for their blood thirst or their stupidity. Nor can God be blamed; the lion exists with the characteristics of a lion, but its natural law is a “bad law,” as Ezekiel would say (20:25). It is, so to speak, a “denatured” natural law in a perturbed creation. “In the beginning, it was not so,” Jesus says (Matt 19:8). Had Job been the target of an unjust and wrathful God (“Why have you made me your target? Why have I become a burden to you?” [Job 7:20]), the friends would be right in their attempt to convince him that God’s decisions are without appeal. In their minds, Job must be somehow guilty, for no one is innocent before him (“Shall someone be more pure than his maker?” [4:17]). Job would then merely follow the rules of that game by disputing the verdict and by demanding that God relent. But now that he realizes that God was from the beginning on the side of the victim rather than of the victimizers, there occurs a total reversal on the ethical plane.40 The friends—ironically great defenders of the ethical—are unmasked as the guilty parties, and Job, two times victim, physically and morally, is the innocent one. The culprits are guilty not just of constructing a twisted theology but, more gravely, of contributing to the persistence of evil, the evil that has led Job into suffering in the first place. That is why they need his forgiveness (“I will accept his prayer not to deal with you according to your folly” [42:8]). The friends have come with the “best” theology seems to offer. It is the all-too-common seductive and damaging ideological construct repeated throughout history. It attempts to justify evil and victimizes others by being judgmental and condemnatory. For one thing, the more Job’s friends accumulate arguments against his proclaimed innocence, the more they build by contrast a high opinion of themselves.41 Now, their newly discovered need to repent entails their rejection of the former tenet of their theology, namely, retributive justice. Its supporters generally range themselves among the recipients of divine rewards for their shining virtues. But this precisely sounds the death knell for a fundamental failure. The friends too must discover with Job that the human problem is not ideological but existential. Were it a philosophical problem, it could perhaps find some kind of resolution in wisdom. But the human condition demands much more than an intellectually satisfying construction à la Elihu (Job 32–37). No dogmatic system is able to make even the slightest dent in Job’s 40 Dailey says that Job has gone through “a transformation from rational discordance to existential concordance” (Repentant Job, 159). 41 A good example is given by young Elihu giving Job orders to keep silent, so that he will speak (see 33:31, 33). Pointedly, the TOB’s introduction to Job says that all theodicy is in fact anthropodicy (see 1469–70).

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ordeal.42 The book’s main purpose is to reveal God as destroyer of a fundamentalist and closed-minded worldview. The friends’ arguments are exposed as a vain exercise because, in truth, they are revealed as merely a sophisticated way to escape the necessary commitment to fight evil. An ostentatious display of creative achievements would have come from a selfabsorbed god. What we find in Job 38–41 is much more insightful and arresting. The whole creation is permeated with a persistent evil, and God is no Almighty basking in self-complacency. Rather, God is partner in the struggle against forces that impede the (originally intended) perfection of the universe. One of the tenets of dogmatic theology, divine omnipotence, is anachronistic. God before the creation was omnipotent; but once there is a creation beside God, the divine attribute shifts to the relational.43 Omnipotence becomes obsolete, lest it annihilate the universe as Job would do if he had divine power (see 40:10–14).44 Inasmuch as “El(ohim)” conveys a message of power and justice (potentially all-destructive), the divine rigor is counterbalanced by kinship and compassion, as revealed in the text by God’s use of his personal name. So it is already in Genesis 22, where Elohim orders the sacrifice of Isaac—not a righteous punishment but a legitimate demand in the ancient Near Eastern conception of the divine—while Yhwh (or his angel) stops the murderous arm of Abraham. It is still more clear in Gen 28:20–21, with the tremendous shift from “God” to “Yhwh.” In Isaiah 40 (perhaps contemporary with the book of Job), the alternation of the use of “Yhwh” (in parallel with expressions such as “your/our God”), on the one hand, and mainly “Elohim” in vv. 12–26 (where “all/the nations” are mentioned), on the other hand, is striking. The thematic parallel with Job 38–41 is evident, and here again the Isaian text is hymnic, almost liturgical.45 42 Keller speaks of “the untranslatability of YHWH’s big speech into theological concepts” (Face of the Deep, 126). 43 The tautest and most central biblical paradox is that God is “on high” and one “whom the heaven of heavens cannot contain,” but who lives with the humans on earth. When I say that God was omnipotent before the act of creation, this must be understood in a nonchronological way. It is the manner by which we may say in the same breath that he is in the heaven of heavens and on earth with Moses or Jesus and the like. 44 I draw here from this point a vastly different conclusion from that of Athalya Brenner (“God’s Answer to Job,” VT 32 [1981]: 129–37). For her, the lack of God’s omnipotence means that he “has little or no control over evil” (p. 133). I rather agree with Keller when she writes, “From the protest tradition of psalms and prophets, Job voices the most sharply focused grievance of them all. For he unmasks the contradiction growing in the heart of monotheism: if the god of justice is to be counted all-powerful, that God must be held accountable for all injustice” (Face of the Deep, 127). She adds, “A polytonal co-creativity could take the place of the monotone of absolute transcendence” (p. 117). 45 See also Josh 3:7; Judg 6:12. Yhwh is linked with the ark of the covenant (2 Sam 6:2; 7:26), for he is “the god of the covenant. Yhwh created, maintains, and sustains the natural world, which includes humanity,” as Henry O. Thompson says (ABD 6:1012). George E. Mendenhall and Gary A. Herion also emphasize the link with covenantal history. They write, “The identification of the deity thus became synonymous with the historical prologue [of the Sinai covenant]” (ABD 1:1183).

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“Does Job fear God ‫חנם‬, for nought?” As long as one posits the omnipotence of God as a dogma, this deus ex machina just cannot be feared “for nothing.” Such positing belongs to magical thinking. It means to empty human existence of its tragic condition, and the divine/human relationship of its drama. Job’s repentance before the “tragic sublimity” (Newsom) of God’s speech is his realization of the divine pathos.46 God’s creation is not art for art’s sake. As Jewish mysticism beautifully explains, God creating is God going through the “shrinkage” (‫ )צמצום‬of God’s Being. Making “room” for the other entails self-limitation, hence self-stripping, and allowance even for the negative, the questioning, and the threatening.47 Job’s dereliction cannot be split off as a personal and private problem. On this Job has been right from the beginning. But his “blessed rage for order”48 in the world never envisaged that God would be personally involved in the disorder, affected by it and struggling with it. The epilogue (42:7–17) is “post-tragic.”49 It is so not only regarding Job and his glorious restoration, but regarding God, who triumphantly mentions “my servant Job” four times, thus reaffirming on the foundation of experiential reality what he had said to the Satan in the prologue: “There is no one like him on the earth, a blameless and upright man who fears God and turns away from evil” (1:8). To the Satan’s innuendo “Is it for nothing that Job fears God?” the answer is: now it is. 46 What a contrast with “the constant presence of the divine participants in the Iliad . . .

of their remoteness and irony [which] reduces the personal human problem . . . to an ephemeral and . . . nearly abstract role” (Hermann Broch in Simone Weil and Rachel Bespaloff, War and the Iliad, introduction by Christopher Benfey [New York: New York Review Books, 2005], 111). See Job 7:20–21 with Job’s misconception of God as “watcher of humanity.” 47 So the Kabbalist Isaac ben Solomon Luria (sixteenth century), but the idea already belongs to rabbinic literature; see, e.g., Pesiq. Rab Kah. 20a; Midr. Shir Hashirim 15b. 48 See David Tracy, Blessed Rage for Order: The New Pluralism in Theology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996). 49 Newsom, Book of Job, 257.

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JBL 126, no. 1 (2007): 99–127

Using the Master’s Tools to Shore Up Another’s House: A Postcolonial Analysis of 4 Maccabees david a. desilva [email protected] Ashland Theological Seminary, Ashland, OH 44805

The past ﬁeen years have witnessed an explosion of studies in biblical criticism and criticism of the history of interpretation that are generally held together under the rubric of “postcolonial studies” or “postcolonial criticism.”1 ese are written largely, though by no means exclusively, by biblical scholars who belong to a minority group in a Western culture or who live in a country not considered part of the dominant culture of the “Western world,” such as Asia, Africa, or Latin America. at it is a “hermeneutic” rather than another exegetical “method” is clear

1 Susan V. Gallagher, ed., Postcolonial Literature and the Biblical Call for Justice (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 14); Rasiah S. Sugirtharajah, ed., Voices from the Margins: Interpreting the Bible in the ird World (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 11); idem, ed., e Postcolonial Bible (Sheﬃeld: Sheﬃeld Academic Press, 18); idem, Postcolonial Criticism and Biblical Interpretation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002); idem, Postcolonial Reconﬁgurations: An Alternative Way of Reading the Bible and Doing eology (St. Louis: Chalice, 2003); Cain Hope Felder, ed., Stony the Road We Trod: African American Biblical Interpretation (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 11); Jon R. Levison and Priscilla Pope-Levison, Jesus in Global Contexts (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 12); John S. Pobee, ed., Exploring Afro-Christology (New York/Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 12); Fernando F. Segovia and Mary Ann Tolbert, eds., Reading from is Place (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 14); Fernando F. Segovia, Decolonizing Biblical Studies: A View from the Margins (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2000); Musa Dube, Postcolonial Feminist Interpretation of the Bible (St. Louis: Chalice, 2000); Randall C. Bailey, ed., Yet with a Steady Beat: Contemporary U.S. Afrocentric Biblical Interpretation (SemeiaSt; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003); Judith E. McKinlay, Reframing Her: Biblical Women in Postcolonial Focus (Sheﬃeld: Sheﬃeld Phoenix, 2004); Uriah Yong-Hwang Kim, Decolonizing Josiah: Toward a Postcolonial Reading of the Deuteronomistic History (Sheﬃeld: Sheﬃeld Phoenix, 2005); Kwok Pui-Lan, Postcolonial Imagination and Feminist eology (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2005); Caroline Vander Stichele and Todd Penner, eds., Her Master’s Tools: Feminist and Postcolonial Engagements of Historical-Critical Discourse (Global Perspectives on Biblical Scholarship ; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2005).

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from the ways in which some of its most noted practitioners describe the approach.2 Postcolonial interpretation has been described as “a mental attitude rather than a method, more a subversive stance towards the dominant knowledge than a school of thought.”3 Another of its prominent practitioners has described it metaphorically as an optic, a lens through which to take a new look at Scripture and the way it has been, and can be, interpreted and used in real-life political and social situations.4 is lens has most frequently been employed to examine the use of the Bible and its interpretation as a means of advancing Eurocentric agendas and legitimating the hegemony of Western Europe and its partners, both in situations of formal imperialism and in the lingering aermath of “empire.”5 e “mental attitude” has also contributed greatly to the reversal of the devaluation of indigenous cultures that accompanies imperialism, and to the construction of an alternative hermeneutics that honors the culture, experience, and reading and interpretative strategies of non-Western peoples.6 While many practitioners focus the postcolonial lens on the analysis of how Scripture has been read and interpreted in particular situations, and on the analysis of particular readers of Scripture, I do not want to lose sight of the ﬁrst level of analysis that, according to Fernando Segovia, postcolonial interpretation invites, namely, the analysis of imperialism or colonialism in the Jewish and Christian Scriptures (and related literature) themselves.7 How does the author of the text depict “empire”? How does the author present the “colonized” peoples? Does the author speak from the margins or from the center of power? Does the author speak on behalf of empire, legitimating it or advancing its interests (e.g., in the OT conquest and monarchical narratives), or creating spaces for resistance and the aﬃrmation of an alternative set of interests (e.g., in the extreme, Revelation)?

2 By “hermeneutic,” I mean an overall orientation to the text and the ways in which it will be investigated and expected to yield its meaning (e.g., a feminist hermeneutic; even “devotional reading” would qualify here as a particular orientation to the text and trajectory for investigation). By “method,” I mean a discrete reading skill or set of skills employed to get at the meaning of a text (e.g., textual criticism, investigation of intertexture, redaction criticism, literary modes of analysis, and the like). Whatever one’s “hermeneutic,” one will employ several of a common stock of “methods” to investigate the text with a view to answering the questions pertinent to that hermeneutic. 3 Rasiah S. Sugirtharajah, “A Postcolonial Exploration of Collusion and Construction in Biblical Interpretation,” in e Postcolonial Bible (ed. Rasiah S. Sugirtharajah; Sheﬃeld: Sheﬃeld Academic Press, 18), 1–117, esp. 3. 4 Fernando F. Segovia, “Biblical Criticism and Postcolonial Studies: Toward a Postcolonial Optic,” in Postcolonial Bible, ed. Sugirtharajah, 4–65, esp. 52. 5 On the former, see, for example, Sugirtharajah’s exploration of the use of the Bible as a symbol of Europeans bringing culture, knowledge, and morality to the “savages” (“Biblical Studies aer the Empire,” in Postcolonial Bible, ed. Sugirtharajah, 12–22, esp. 14–15); on the latter, see Segovia, “Biblical Criticism,” 51 n. 3. 6 Sugirtharajah, “Biblical Studies,” 16. 7 Segovia, “Biblical Criticism,” 57–63.

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is study holds 4 Maccabees beneath this lens and asks these questions of its author, who appears at ﬁrst blush to be so fully accommodated to the dominant culture that he cannot think about his own heritage apart from the master’s categories but on closer inspection reveals himself to be an author of resistance literature, subjecting empire to trenchant critique, opposing the devaluing of the culture and way of life of the colonized ethnos of which he is a member, and promoting a model for eﬀective resistance in his narration of the victory of the nine martyrs over the foreign king for widespread imitation by his audience.

I. In a Greek City of a Roman Empire: The Author in His Setting e author and addressees share the experience of Roman imperialism in the midst of a region long exposed to Greek cultural imperialism. ey are members of an ethnos that had been subjected to the control of one empire or another for almost seven centuries.8 Even the period of so-called political independence enjoyed by the Hasmonean dynasty was an independence granted and maintained through negotiation with imperial powers, and marked by the ongoing experience of cultural imperialism as hellenization continued throughout Judea and the eastern Mediterranean as a whole. e formal arrangements of Roman imperialism overlay this older and thoroughly pervasive cultural imperialism throughout the region from which this text originates.10 8 e exact determination of the date of the work remains contested, and the evidence so far adduced is inconclusive. All positions currently advocated fall within the period of the early Principate, between Augustus and Hadrian. See David A. deSilva, 4 Maccabees: Introduction and Commentary on the Greek Text of Codex Sinaiticus (SBLSCS; Leiden: Brill, 2006), xiv–xvii, for a discussion of date. Although this prevents the absolute historical speciﬁcity preferred for postcolonial interpretation (e.g., a study of how 4 Maccabees responds to Roman imperialism in the immediate wake of Titus’s destruction of Jerusalem, or how 4 Maccabees contributes to or opposes the stirrings of revolt in the Diaspora under Trajan), we are still able to pursue a slightly less contextualized examination of the basic questions that drive this study: How is “empire” represented in 4 Maccabees? How do the representatives of empire and other pressures of the presence of empire impinge on the life, culture, well-being, and choices of members of the subaltern culture? How are members of the subaltern culture positioned to view their indigenous way of life and to respond to the pressures imposed by imperial forces to conform? See Martin Hengel, Judaism and Hellenism (2 vols.; Philadelphia: Fortress, 174), on the degree to which Greek culture reshaped Judea during the period of Greek imperialism; and idem, Jews, Greeks, and Barbarians: Aspects of the Hellenization of Judaism in the pre-Christian Period (Philadelphia: Fortress, 180), for the ongoing experience of cultural imperialism during the early Roman period. 10 Once again, the determination of the precise location within the Roman Empire eludes scholars. To date, Jan Willem van Henten has advanced the most cogent arguments for a provenance between Asia Minor and Syrian Antioch (“A Jewish Epitaph in a Literary Text: 4 Macc 17:8–10,” in

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e author, moreover, presents himself as a person who is fully competent to speak in a Greek city under Roman domination. He possesses mastery of the Greek language, which is the ﬁrst necessary step to being a participant and conversation partner in the dominant culture. His Greek is free from Semitisms, except perhaps for the occurrence of “giving glory” in 4 Macc 1:12, an echo of Jewish liturgical expression.11 He has a penchant for the complex subordination of clauses rather than the paratactic sentence structure that oen betrays a lack of facility in a language.12 He employs neologisms throughout, includes poetic forms (like proufavnhsan for proefavnhsan in 4 Macc 4:10), and makes frequent use of the optative mood.13 He displays more than a passing acquaintance with Greek rhetorical forms and argumentative strategies. e opening section of the work (4 Macc 1:1–12) fulﬁlls the basic functions of a classical exordium.14 It states the principal theme (1:1a), employing a topic of ampliﬁcation to augment audience attention (1:1b–2); it appropriately announces the blend of epideixis (“demonstration”) and epainos (“praise,” “encomium”) that will occupy the remainder of the discourse; and it identiﬁes the ways in which the extended examination of historical examples will contribute to the demonstration of the thesis. Even the inclusion of an “objection” within this exordium suggests the author’s awareness of standard practices of thematic elaboration of a thesis, oﬀering a statement of the thesis (1:1), ampliﬁcation (1:2), an expanded restatement of the thesis (1:3–4), and an objection that allows a restatement from the contrary (1:5–6).15 In greatly expanded form, the author Studies in Early Jewish Epigraphy [ed. Jan Willem van Henten and Pieter Willem van der Horst; AGJU 21; Leiden: Brill, 14], 44–6), conﬁrming (and somewhat widening) the scholarly consensus that looks to this region (particularly Antioch) as the most likely provenance. See deSilva, 4 Maccabees: Introduction and Commentary, xvii–xx, for a survey of research on this question. In the present investigation, I must content myself with the more general issues of how the author depicts imperialism and positions the audience to respond to its pressures and presence in the northeast Mediterranean Diaspora during the Principate. 11 Stanley K. Stowers, “4 Maccabees,” in e HarperCollins Bible Commentary (ed. James L. Mays; San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2000), 844–55, esp. 845. R. B. Townshend notes the sole Semitism (“e Fourth Book of Maccabees,” APOT 2:653–85, esp. 667). 12 Urs Breitenstein, Beobachtungen zu Sprache, Stil und Gedankengut des Vierten Makkabäerbuchs (Basel/Stuttgart: Schwabe, 178), 177–78. 13 Neologisms include, e.g., miarofagh'sai (5:3); ajntirhtoreuvsanto" (6:1); periagkwnivsante" (6:3); paqokratei'sqai (7:20); prosemeidivasen (8:4); ajntefilosovfhsan (8:15); etc.; Breitenstein lists twenty-six hapax legomena (Beobachtungen, 28 n. 2). On the use of the optative, see ibid., 53– 56; on vocabulary and style, see further André Dupont-Sommer, Le Quatrième Livre des Machabées (Paris: Librairie Ancienne Honoré Champion, 13), 57–66. 14 Hans-Josef Klauck, “Hellenistiche Rhetorik im Diasporajudentum: Das Exordium des vierten Makkabäerbuchs (4 Makk 1.1-12),” NTS 35 (18): 451–65. 15 On the exercise of elaboration, see Ronald F. Hock and Edward N. O'Neil, e Chreia in Ancient Rhetoric, vol. 1, e Progymnasmata (SBLTT 27; Graeco-Roman Religion ; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 186); also Rhet. Her. 4.43.56–4.44.57.

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will continue to use the basic argumentative strategies taught as part of this pattern as he considers authoritative texts (particularly in 1:33–2:14) and historical examples, oﬀering a “narrative demonstration”—an intricately developed argument from historical example—as the largest portion of his discourse. He is skilled in the rhetorical art of prosopopoiia, creating speeches appropriate for a tyrant, for courageous martyrs from diﬀerent stages in life and of different genders, and for the hypothetically fainthearted brothers and lamenting mother (several of these incidentally showing his mastery of the deliberative speech). He is familiar with devices such as the proposed epitaph in 17:–10 and other topics reminiscent of the epitaphios logos, and all too accomplished in ekphrasis, “vivid description” (executed so well that audiences still squirm when reading or hearing the text, even as the author anticipates in 14:).16 He shows facility in the use of rhetorical ornaments such as metaphor in the encomiastic sections, the device of apostrophe (see 7:6, 7, 10, 15; 14:2, 3, 7; 15:1, 13, 16, 17, 2, 32; 16:14; 17:2–6), and the ﬁgure of “correction” (w\ pikra'" th'" tovte hJmevra" kai; ouj pikra'", “O bitter was that day, and not bitter” [18:20]). Beyond his competency in Greek language and oratory, the author displays a remarkable facility in Greco-Roman philosophical ethics. In the nineteenth century, Emil Schürer had branded the author a philosophical dilettante, but this verdict has been appropriately overturned upon closer examination by Robert Renehan, who aﬃrms the author as an eclectic philosopher in his own right, far surpassing the achievement of the author of the Wisdom of Solomon.17 e author addresses a thesis that is at the center of Greco-Roman philosophical ethics, namely, that “reason is absolute master of the passions” (1:1, 7, 30, etc.), and his awareness of the contemporary debates concerning mastery versus extirpation of the passions (see especially 2:21– 22; 3:3–18) makes him an informed and worthy conversation partner.18 e author shows an awareness of Greek philosophical discussions concern16 On features of the epitaphios logos in 4 Maccabees, see Jurgen C. H. Lebram, “Die literarische Form des vierten Makkabäerbuches,” VC 28 (174): 81–6, esp. 82, 84–85; van Henten, “Jewish Epitaph,” 58–5; idem, e Maccabean Martyrs as Saviors of the Jewish People: A Study of 2 & 4 Maccabees (JSJSup 57; Leiden: Brill, 17), 64–65. 17 Emil Schürer, e History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ (175 B.C.–A.D. 135): A New English Version, vol. 3, div. 1 (ed. Geza Vermes, Fergus Millar, and Martin Goodman; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 186), 50; Robert Renehan, “e Greek Philosophic Background of Fourth Maccabees,” Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 115 (172): 223–38. 18 See deSilva, 4 Maccabees: Introduction and Commentary, 67–71, 76–77, 104–6. It would be an interesting further study to examine the implications of the author’s using a model of domination (the domination of the passions by “reason”) in a text that sets out to resist another kind of domination (the domination of one’s commitment to one’s ancestral way of life and customs by the presence and representatives of imperialism). Where “reason” is ultimately equated with the motivations associated with maintaining the Jewish way of life, and “passions” with those leanings and motivations associated with exploring alternatives, is another kind of “imperialism” being inscribed, in this case the domination of one’s (ancestral) culture over the individual’s inclinations in an attempt to curtail his or her “freedom” to move into a new cultural location?

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ing the classiﬁcation of the passions (ta; paqhv), as well as discussions about the inclinations (ta; h[qh) peculiar to the various developmental stages of life.1 e author also employs the familiar scenario of the tyrant confronting the philosopher-sage (the tyrant applying arguments, enticements, and coercive measures, while the sage proves the mettle of his philosophy by resisting rather than acquiescing to the tyrant’s demands) as the vehicle for demonstrating the mettle of the Jewish way of life (chs. 5–6; 8–12).20 He brings together a constellation of topics familiar from Greco-Roman philosophical literature delineating the ideal sage who is free (4 Macc 14:2; see, e.g., Epictetus, Diatr. 4.1.152), whose will cannot be controlled by external means or internal weakness (Epictetus, Diatr. 1.25.21; 3.24.71; 4.1.1, 60-87; Cicero, Parad. 5.1.34; Seneca, De constantia sapientis 5.6-6.8), who remains master of the self, and hence “king” (4 Macc 14:2; see, e.g., Diogenes Laertius, Vitae Philosophorum 7.122; Stobaeus, Eth. 2.222). e sage refuses to allow the body to become a means of access to the will, to the integrity of the inner person (4 Macc :17; 10:4; see Diogenes Laertius, Vit. .28; .5); the sage acknowledges no injury beyond the damage he or she can inﬂict upon his or her own virtue (4 Macc :7; 13:14; see Plato, Apol. 18 [30C]; Epictetus, Ench. 53.4; Diatr. 1.2.18; 2.2.15; 3.23.21; Plutarch, Tranq. an. 17 [Mor. 475E]; Seneca, Constant. 2.1, 3). e sage thus remains invincible (4 Macc :18; 11:21, 27; Seneca, Ep. 67.16) and engages hardships as a means of proving his or her achievement of virtue (4 Macc 11:12; Seneca, Constant. 3.4; .3; De providentia 5.10; Epictetus, Diatr. 1.6.37). e author is thoroughly familiar with Greco-Roman conversations about filadelfiva (“love of siblings”), common topics concerning filostorgiva (“love of oﬀspring”), the dramatic laments of bereaved mothers in Greek tragedy, and traditions about the bravery of mothers in the face of loss.21 In all these ways, the author shows himself to be quite “hellenized.” He has 1 See

deSilva, 4 Maccabees: Introduction and Commentary, 87–0. is scenario, historical or ﬁctive, appears in Seneca, De constantia sapientis; Diogenes Laertius, Vit. .26–28, 58–5; Cicero, Tusc. 2.22.52; Philo, Prob. 106–7; Epictetus, Diatr. 1.1.7–10; 1.2.5– 8; 4.1.132–35; and Iamblichus, Vit. Pyth. 215–22, persisting in the resistance literature of Christian and non-Christian authors of late antiquity. See Ton Hilhorst, “Fourth Maccabees in Christian Martyrdom Texts,” in Ultima Aetas: Time, Tense and Transience in the Ancient World (ed. Caroline Kroon and Daan den Hengst; Amsterdam: VU University Press, 2000), 107–21, esp. 111–12 on early Christian martyrologies; and Jan W. van Henten and Friedrich Avemarie, Martyrdom and Noble Death: Selected texts from Graeco-Roman, Jewish and Christian Antiquity (London/New York: Routledge, 2002), 38–41 for the Acts of the Alexandrian Martyrs. 21 See Hans-Josef Klauck, “Brotherly Love in Plutarch and in 4 Maccabees,” in Greeks, Romans, and Christians: Essays in Honor of Abraham J. Malherbe (ed. David L. Balch, Everett Ferguson, and Wayne A. Meeks; Minneapolis: Fortress, 10), 144–56; David A. deSilva, “e Perfection of ‘Love for Oﬀspring’: Greek Representations of Maternal Aﬀection and the Achievement of the Heroine of 4 Maccabees,” NTS 52, no. 2 (2006): 251–68. e presence and rhetorical deployment of topics of “aﬀection among siblings” in 4 Maccabees is discussed also in deSilva, 4 Maccabees: Introduction and Commentary, 210–17. 20

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been thoroughly schooled but not persuaded to regard the schoolmaster’s culture as superior or more desirable. He does not go the way of a Tiberius Julius Alexander or a Dositheus, abandoning the distinctive practices of his ancestral way of life that keep him acting and “looking” diﬀerent from the schoolmaster in many ways, and moving in diﬀerent circles (e.g., not moving in and among the schoolmaster and his colleagues in an idol’s temple). Rather, like Philo, he uses his literary skill, facility in Greek rhetoric, and familiarity with ethical philosophy to promote continued adherence to the distinctive way of life practiced by the Jews for centuries before the rise of Hellenism. e author has admittedly gone so far as to adopt the empire’s language, argumentative strategies, literary forms, and philosophical and axiological categories and has accepted these as the proper vehicles for speaking about the value of Judaism. e author’s “philosophy,” however, remains thoroughly the way of life and the values taught by the Torah, and his point of reference is always the Jewish Scriptures, texts that speak from, and keep the author steeped in, his people’s precolonial heritage. e language and rhetorical forms of the dominant culture are utilized to make a place at the table for the way of life of the subjugated culture and to defend the value of the colonized culture’s historic and distinctive way of life. e author has mastered the master’s tools and uses them expertly to claim the right to speak (he speaks on a par with the spokespersons of the dominant culture), to cast doubt on the public image of “empire,” and to empower his Jewish audience to reject the dominant culture’s devaluation of their way of life, proclaiming it instead by word and example as a way of life on a par with, even superior to, the ﬁnest philosophies embraced by members of the dominant culture.

II. The Character of Empire in 4 Maccabees Imperialism takes on ﬂesh in 4 Maccabees in the person of Antiochus IV, whom the author presents from the very outset as a “tyrant” imposing “tyranny” on the Judean people (1:11). is is an appropriate announcement of a major constellation of topics by means of which the legitimacy of Seleucid imperialism—and, by extension, all Gentile imperialist intrusions into the life of the Jewish ethnos— would be weighed in the balance and found wanting. e author indulges in biting irony as he labels Antiochus “the tyrant of the Hellenes” (@Ellhvnwn tuvranno" [18:20]). e Greeks had been the ones to pride themselves on nurturing a political environment in which freedom and openness of speech were valued, but now ﬁnd themselves in the opposite role of the tyrant and bearer of tyranny rather than “democracy” into other lands.22 22 Tyranny was, to be sure, far from unknown in classical Greece, but the fall of the irty Tyrants and the development of Athenian democracy was seen to usher in a far more enlightened constitutional government. Aristotle would discuss tyranny as a form of government, though always

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Bernhard Heininger has demonstrated the ways in which the author paints Antiochus as the stereotypical tyrant.23 e portrait drawn by Lucian of Samosata of the tyrant Megapenthes (Cat. 26) could be applied with only the slightest modiﬁcation to Antiochus in 4 Maccabees. Antiochus uses his position to ﬁll his coﬀers, taking bribes from Jason (as his brother Seleucus had tried to enrich himself by raiding the Temple). He displays savagery in his invention of tortures (4 Macc 10:16; 11:23; 18:20), appearing throughout as the ringmaster in the arena where the martyrs are brutalized.24 He indulges in the corruption of boys, here at least in the sense of trying to lure the seven away from piety and justice, renouncing their ancestral way of life (4 Macc 8:12–14), the way of life so carefully instilled in them by their parents (cf. 4 Macc 18:10–1).25 Antiochus exudes pride and arrogance (4 Macc 4:15; :30; 12:11–14), and the author invites us to consider Antiochus as the embodiment of “the arrogant logic of tyranny” (:30). Arrogance involves an inﬂated sense of one’s worth and what is due one, enacted at the expense of the honor due others. e author suggests, by his choice of Antiochus as the manifestation of imperialism, that arrogance lies at the heart of imperialistic intrusions tout court. How the “arrogant logic of tyranny” works can ﬁrst be seen in the author’s reconstruction of the logical argument presented by Antiochus to Eleazar as a case for leaving behind the way of life of the subjugated culture and assimilating to the dominant culture. e arrogance here is particularly visible in the tyrant’s failure to exercise himself suﬃciently to understand the “reasonableness” of the way of life practiced by a subjugated culture, the author of 4 Maccabees having collected an impressive array of topics and models familiar to dominant cultural discourse by means of which Greeks and Romans could readily come to such an understanding. Rather, the arrogant voice of imperialism moves too quickly to the response of diminishing the value of the indigenous way of life, a response that makes it easier for the imperialist powers to impose changes on that way of life, whether minimal or radical. us, Antiochus regards following “the religious observances of the Jews” to be contrary to “exercising philosophical reasoning” (filosofei'n [5:7]); they coninferior to a legitimate kingship or a democracy (Pol. 5.11 1313a24–1315b10). e best he could hold out for the tyrant was to try to conduct himself more like a king and in ways that set limits and checks on his power, so as to diminish the potential for evil (Pol. 5.11.1 1313a18–33). Antiochus will behave in many of the ways that Aristotle identiﬁes as inferior in the tyrant. 23 Bernhard Heininger, “Der böse Antiochus: Eine Studie zur Erzähltechnik des 4. Makkabäerbuchs,” BZ n.F. 33 (18): 43–5, esp. 50–53. On tyranny in Greece, see Helmut Berve, Die Tyrannis bei den Griechen (2 vols.; Munich: Beck, 167). 24 On the use of torture by tyrants, who rely on force rather than legitimate authority, see Seneca, Ira 2.23.1; ucydides, Hist. 6.57.4; Aristotle, Ath. pol. 18.4; Diogenes Laertius, Vit. .26, 58– 60; Cicero, Tusc. 2.52; Lucian, Phal. 11–12; Cat. 26; Heininger, “Der böse Antiochus,” 50–51. 25 Heininger reminds us, however, that the brothers’ handsome appearance does not escape Antiochus’s notice (4 Macc 8:3–5) (“Der böse Antiochus,” 52).

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stitute, instead, a “foolish philosophy” (th'" fluavrou filosofiva" [5:11]) and “empty talk” (to;n lh'ron [5:11]) that leads a person into “senseless” and “unjust” behaviors (ajnovhton . . . kai; a[dikon [5:]). Ultimately, he will deﬁne that way of life as “stupidity” or “madness” as he advises the seven brothers “not to rave with the same madness” as had Eleazar (mh; mani'nai th;n aujth;n . . . manivan [8:5]), and he later advises the fourth brother not to cling to his elder siblings’ folly (mh; manh'/" . . . th;n aujth;n manivan [10:13]). Finally, he will point out to the last surviving brother the result of his siblings’ “madness” (ajponoiva [12:3]). Being socialized into the subjugated culture represents, for him, a mental sleep from which Antiochus intends to rouse the aged Eleazar (“will you not awaken?” oujk ejxupnwvsei"_ [5:11]). We are not told how old Antiochus is, but one would assume him to be considerably younger than Eleazar, to whose old age and gray hairs Antiochus points as a sign that Eleazar ought to know better by now than to live like a Jew (5:7), thus belying Antiochus’s early claim that he, indeed, “had respect” for the age of this Jew. is image of the younger Antiochus presuming to stand in judgment over the wisdom of the older Eleazar and trying to teach him a “better way” here at the twilight of his life well exempliﬁes the “arrogant logic of tyranny.” According to this logic, the party with the greater military and political power acquires on that basis the right to pronounce judgment on the value of other ways of life. e “arrogance” of this logic is particularly evident when the adherents of those other ways have had considerably longer to test and examine the meaningfulness of the same. e foundational premise of the “arrogant logic of tyranny” (:30) is the argument from inﬂicting pain. At the same time that Antiochus oﬀers rational arguments in support of capitulation, he brings out his guards and the instruments of coercion to remind the seven brothers—as Antiochus explicitly intends (8:12–14)— that the ultimate expression of arrogance by imperialism is that it will make the subject people adopt a “better way of life” whether they wish or do not wish. According to this “arrogant logic of tyranny” (as explicated by the partisans of empire in 6:12–15), the colonized bring upon themselves the pains and degradations inﬂicted by the dominant culture’s organs of repression. “Why are you destroying yourself irrationally (ajlogivstw")?” they ask Eleazar (6:14), as if the aged priest is the one responsible for the mistreatment and ruin of his body, and as if he has no good reason for the losses he is inviting. e colonizing power does not question its responsibility or its correctness in proceeding as it does. e tyrant’s actions are shielded by an unquestionable and irresistible “necessity” (5:13; 8:14), an immunity to moral self-examination. is becomes an important role for the seven brothers in their witness, as they summon the tyrant to this self-examination by their indictments of him (see esp. :15; 10:10; 11:4–6; 12:11–14). Another facet of the author’s critique of the arrogance of imperialism is seen in the author’s depiction of the way Antiochus tries to act generously toward the colonized. To Antiochus, it seems “beneﬁcial” indeed for the colonized to submit to the way of life being imposed on them (5:11b–12). But in inviting Eleazar to

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“prostrate yourself before my philanthropic comfort” (5:13), he calls for subjugation in a way that is foreign to true generosity. He is ugly—kakov"—even when trying to act like a patron! When Antiochus will attempt again in 8:7 to oﬀer his personal patronage, his “generosity” has a speciﬁc price—the brothers’ renunciation of their identity as members of a diﬀerent culture whose way of life merited respect and ongoing maintenance on a par with the culture of the Greeks. Greco-Roman ethicists distinguished sharply between the noble benefactor, who gave on the basis of positive regard for the beneﬁciaries out of a desire to help them for their own sake and not for oneself, and the ignoble “benefactor” who used patronage to manipulate.26 Antiochus presents empire acting in line with the latter category, using the oﬀer of patronage as a bargaining chip by means of which to get what he wants out of the brothers, namely, a public renunciation of Judaism that will counteract Eleazar’s devastating example (8:7-8). e “arrogant logic of tyranny” was not a matter merely of historical interest for the author and his audience. Adherents of the Jewish way of life faced ongoing disdain from the representatives of the dominant culture throughout the Roman period.27 e author’s contemporaries could indeed have enjoyed considerably less trouble and distress in their existence as a minority culture in the Greco-Roman world if they had relaxed those observances that drew the charges of atheism and misanthropy that fueled anti-Jewish slander and suspicion.28 Implicit in the author’s challenge to the audience to embody the same devotion to the Torah that was embodied in the martyrs, and in the craing of their noble example for imitation is a depiction of the audience embroiled also in a struggle to resist “the arrogant logic of tyranny.” e spokespersons of the dominant culture, like Antiochus, do not take suﬃcient trouble to understand the inner logic and “reasonableness” of the way of life they so readily ridicule and marginalize. Members of the dominant culture similarly exert pressure on the minority culture’s commitment to their ancestral laws and heritage, using promises of favor to lure and coercive measures (from steady shaming to the occasional anti-Jewish pogrom) to goad, the colonized to renounce their way of life and to act against their own conscience, formed in line with the norms and values of the subjugated culture.2 e author’s depiction of Antiochus and his soldiers—the most visible means 26 Aristotle, Rhet. 2.7.5; Seneca, Ben. 1.2.3; 3.15.4; 4.4.3; see David A. deSilva, Honor, Patronage, Kinship & Purity: Unlocking New Testament Culture (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 2000), 106–. 27 See, e.g., Tacitus, Hist. 5.4.3; Juvenal, Sat. 14.8–; Josephus, Ag. Ap. 2.137; Plutarch, Superst. 8 (Mor. 16C) for near-contemporary witnesses to Greco-Roman disdain for the Jewish way of life. 28 Dio Cassius, Roman History 67.14.2; Diodorus Siculus, Bibliotheca Historia 34.1–4; 40.3.4; Tacitus, Hist. 5.5; Josephus, Ag. Ap. 2.121, 258; 3 Macc 3:3–7. 2 is is particularly prominent in Eleazar’s contest (4 Macc 5:27, 38; note the use of turannikovn and turannhvsei" in those verses). Aristotle (Eth. nic. 3.1.4 1110a5–) speaks of physical force as the means by which tyrants typically make people act against their conscience.

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by which empire imposes its will—calls into question the legitimacy of empire from still another important angle, and that is empire’s ability to live up to its own press. One would expect the Greco-Syrian king and his party, as missionaries of civilization among the barbarians and savages (8:8), to embody the civility that the Greek dominant culture vaunted as its legitimate claim to rule over others. Greek ethical philosophers claimed that self-mastery was prerequisite to exercising just and virtuous rule over subjects. Plato wrote that a good king must be “temperate and master of himself, and ruler of his own pleasures and passions” (Gorg. 41D).30 Centuries later, Dio Chrysostom would write that “if a person is not competent to govern a single man . . . and if, again, he cannot guide a single soul, and that his own, how could he be king . . . over unnumbered thousands scattered everywhere?” (Regn. Tyr. [Or. 62] 1; see also Xenophon, Oec. 21.12). e author consistently presents Antiochus as a ruler who cannot rule himself, and thus lodges a major criticism of the Greco-Syrian king’s rule.31 is emerges in several ways. First, when condensing the material from his source (2 Macc 4:18–6:17), the author removes Antiochus’s primary defense for his assault on Jerusalem and violent suppression of the population. Here he is no longer responding to armed rebellion, as in 2 Macc 5:5, 11, but merely reacting heatedly against the population’s expression of joy at the rumor that the monarch had died in battle. Second, aer the tyrant was publicly defeated by Eleazar (all of his coercive measures could not break a geriatric!), Antiochus moves forward sfovdra peripaqw'", “exceedingly full of passion” (8:2). e tyrant’s raging emotions are once again the impetus for his acts of oppression and brutality against the indigenous population of Jerusalem. at the passions, particularly those of anger, drive Antiochus is underscored for a third time in :10–11. While the extravagant tortures will give the subjugated people an opportunity to demonstrate their self-mastery, “the torture itself, characterized by excess, is occasioned by the inability of Antiochus to control his own passions, especially his rage.”32 Even though the Judeans cannot be compelled by all his tortures to act contrary to their consciences, their brave refusal to betray their native way of life does have the power to compel Antiochus: “if by disobedience you arouse my anger, you will compel me (ajnagkavsetev me) to destroy each and every one of you” (8:). He is thus less “free” than his subjects, whose self-mastery prevents anyone from compelling them to act (cf. Epictetus, Ench. 1.3). Finally, Antiochus’s subordinates are also driven by their passions in 10:5, as their experience of being “enraged” spurs them on to more acts of brutality, to the point that they lose their human(e)ness and are transformed into vicious animals by their own donning and 30 In this regard, Moses the lawgiver and ruler acquits himself admirably, controlling his anger rather than giving it license (2:16–18). 31 us, rightly, Stephen D. Moore and Janice C. Anderson, “Taking It Like a Man: Masculinity in 4 Maccabees,” JBL 117 (18): 24–73, esp. 253–54. 32 Ibid., 254.

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employment of the instruments of torture (e.g., becoming “leopard-like beasts” in :28, as they put on their clawed gauntlets).33 According to the dominant culture’s ideology, the barbarians—the colonized —constituted a class of people who were driven by their passions and were therefore inferior.34 In a striking reversal, the author shows the representatives of imperialism to be, in fact, the “barbarians,” while the colonized prove themselves to be more “Greek” than the Greco-Syrian king, who earns the epithets wjmovfrwn (“crude-minded,” “savage-minded,” “uncivilized ” [:15]), wjmovtate tuvranne (“most uncivilized tyrant” [:30]), and, ultimately, qhriwdevstate (“most beastlike” [12:13]). It is the tyrant’s bodyguards who embody barbarism, scalping the third brother like Scythians (ajpeskuvqizon), while the Judean enacts the Greek ideal of “frank speech” (parrhsiva [10:5]) that so repels the “Greek” imperialists.35 If “hellenizing” means “becoming like the Greek imperialists” (8:8), the author surely makes the way of life that produces an Antiochus or the kind of lackeys that one ﬁnds around him unattractive indeed. e distance the author creates between the Greek ideals of free speech, self-mastery, and the like and the depiction of the representatives of Greek culture is an important feature of his ideological critique of empire, further enhancing his attempt to demonstrate that to remain true to the Torah is, in fact, also to “be Greek” in the best sense, that of the Greek philosophers and their loy ideals of morality.

III. The “Benefits” of Empire in 4 Maccabees e author of 4 Maccabees begins his “narrative demonstration” (th;n ajpovdeixin th'" iJstoriva" [3:1]) of the philosophical thesis with a story about the escalating intrusion of the Seleucid imperial presence in Judea. Most noteworthy in this regard is his picture of Jerusalem as a city that exhibited Greek civic virtues before the attempts to hellenize arose from within (i.e., before its transformation into a Greek city). Under the high priest Onias, Jerusalem enjoyed profound “peace” (oJmovnoia) and observance of the Torah (eujnomiva [3:21]). oJmovnoia and eujnomiva are highly prized civic virtues in classical and Hellenistic literature. Greek politicians aimed to nurture a harmonious state, governed by just laws, which was

33 Ibid.; Moore and Anderson rightly observe that the passions drive Antiochus’s subordinates as well as himself. 34 Edith Hall, Inventing the Barbarian: Greek Self-Deﬁnition through Tragedy (Oxford: Clarendon, 18), 80–84, 124–33. 35 Herodotus documents the practice of scalping among Scythians (Hist. 4.64.3). On the proverbial barbarism of the Scythians, see 2 Macc 4:47; 3 Macc 7:5; van Henten, Maccabean Martyrs, 10.

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the context for the enjoyment of peace (eijrhvnh).36 e transformation of Jerusalem into a Greek city, however, overthrows the noble state of peace, concord, and compliance with the rule of law in that city. Antiochus, in fact, acts most tyrannically in his attempts to destroy the eujnomiva of the Judeans (4:24), the eujnomiva that Eleazar embodies (7:) and that the martyrs restored among the people by their resistance unto death (18:4). e author thus creates a picture wherein the “barbarians” living in accordance with their “barbaric” Law actually fulﬁll the political virtues lauded by the “civilized” dominant culture. On the other hand, the forces that push for assimilation to the dominant culture from within (Simon, then Jason) and without (Antiochus) embody the political vices despised by the “civilized” dominant culture. Notable here are the political vices of disturbance of “the general concord” by introducing “innovations” (3:21, looking ahead to Jason), factiousness (4:1, looking to Simon’s personal rivalry against Onias; see Dio, In cont. [Or. 48], denouncing the civic vice of factionalism), and, in the person of Antiochus, tyranny. ose parties pushing for hellenization and the erosion of commitment to indigenous customs and institutions would regard themselves as acting in the best interests of the colonized population.37 e author’s message, on the other hand, is one that would be echoed in many other colonized regions: “we were doing just ﬁne before the advent of the empire; the intrusion of empire brought with it the deterioration of our civic life; the balance and harmony of our state was restored only aer the expulsion of the imperial power, and that at great cost and loss.” What does empire bring, according to the author? e ﬁrst extended picture of a Greco-Syrian ruler in 4 Maccabees is that of a temple robber, a sacrilegiously penetrating intrusion into the sacred spaces of the colonized ordered by Seleucus IV and carried out by his agent Apollonius (4:1–14).38 is is a particularly ugly act to which Seleucid monarchs are frequently driven by the machinations of imperialism (for example, the imposition of a heavy tribute on the Seleucid Empire by the mightier Roman Empire, as well as the need to ﬁnance the ambitions of the Seleucids against their neighbors to the south, the Ptolemaic Empire). e practice 36 Van Henten, Maccabean Martyrs, 25, referring to Aristotle, Eth. nic. 3.5 1112b; Eth. eud. 1.5 1216b; see further Arthur W. H. Adkins, Moral Values and Political Behaviour in Ancient Greece: From Homer to the End of the Fih Century (London: Chatto & Windus, 172), 46–57. On the necessary context for enjoying “peace,” see Josephus, A.J. 7.341; and Philo, Spec. 3.131 (cited in van Henten, Maccabean Martyrs, 260–62). 37 Hengel, Jews, Greeks, and Barbarians, 62–63. 38 e fact that Seleucus IV is ﬁrst presented as honoring the temple with bequests (3:20b) hardly compensates for the fact that he later tries to rob the sacred treasury. e earlier notice is not an endorsement of an imperialist ﬁgure but a topic of ampliﬁcation serving the goal of promoting the colonized nation’s adherence to its indigenous way of life (3:20a). is is entirely in keeping with the author’s posture of resistance to assimilation for the sake of the vaunted beneﬁts of becoming more “like” the imperialists.

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of imperialism, moreover, opens up the way for this practice all too easily by giving the Seleucid kings access to, and a “claim” to authority over, the temple treasuries of peoples they have themselves subjugated.3 Imperialism introduces additional opportunities for instability and factionalism to disturb the peace of the ethnos. e accession of Antiochus IV aﬀords Jason an opportunity to supplant his brother as high priest, forming an alliance with the new regime in order to advance the interests of his faction (4:15–18). Such collusion, especially as it adversely aﬀects the stability and eujnomiva of the ethnos, is consistently held up for censure by this author. is leads, in turn, to the debasing of the institutions of the subjugated culture (here, the oﬃce of the high priesthood) for the sake of exploiting the resources of the colonized (here, increasing tribute). e oﬃce of the high priesthood, formerly held “for life” (4:1), is now an oﬃce to be purchased, in eﬀect (4:17–18). It is probably no accident that at the center of the innovations stands the gymnasium, an institution for the (re-)education of the young. e high priest Jason (who holds his power only by reason of collusion), with Antiochus’s support, introduces the gymnasium (4:1–20) as a replacement for the kind of “home schooling” the brothers received from their parents (18:10–1). e gymnasium is the vehicle by means of which the young would be alienated from their ancestral heritage and socialized into the dominant culture. Rather than act like Simon, Jason, and other censurable, factious people who “introduce innovations against the general concord” (3:21) and use their authority to loosen and destroy commitment to Torah observance, the author directs “administrators of the Law” to imitate Eleazar, reinforcing observance of the ancestral way of life with their own blood (7:8), working to ensure the community’s commitment to the Torah through their own example.

IV. The Author’s Strategy for Effective Resistance One of the ﬁnal images of imperialism in 4 Maccabees is the image of deﬁlement. Driving out the tyrant and his forces is equated with the “cleansing” or “purifying” of the homeland (17:21). Such an image crystallizes the author’s interpretation of empire and understanding of the proper response to empire—resist its deﬁlement and cleanse the land of its pollution. is cleansing begins within as members of the subjugated culture resist empire’s evaluations of their native way of life and the value of the colonized based on the degree of their assimilation or nonassimilation to the imperial culture. It proceeds thence through resistance in the spoken word to resistance in action and example, lending credibility to the words of resistance that were spoken and actualizing the positive valuation of the native way of life in refusing to relinquish it, even at the cost of death. 3 See

further deSilva, 4 Maccabees: Introduction and Commentary, 114–1.

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Valuing as Resistance In the narratives of the encounters between the representative of empire and the representative of the local culture, resistance begins as the colonized refuse to accept the dominant culture’s marginalization and diminishment of the subjugated culture’s way of life. Antiochus’s ﬁrst assault on Eleazar is not the physical assault on his body but the ideological assault on his honor insofar as he remains connected with an allegedly inferior way of life (5:6–13), as discussed in the previous section. Eleazar, however, resists Antiochus’s labeling of the Jewish way of life as “not in accordance with right reasoning” (ouj meta; eujlogistiva" [5:22]; Antiochus had used the word “senseless,” ajnovhton [5:]). Indeed, he takes Antiochus to task for his lack of insight: “You scoﬀ at our philosophy as though living by it were irrational, but (gavr) it teaches us self-control, so that we master all pleasures and desires, and it also trains us in courage, . . . in justice, . . . and piety” (5:22–24 NRSV). It is oen diﬃcult to hear the tone of the written word, but if we give full weight to gavr in 5:23 as introducing a proposed rationale for Antiochus’s sneering at the Jewish philosophy, we cannot help but hear a mocking irony as Eleazar lists the “reasons” Antiochus might have for his disdain, as if saying, “Fine reasons you have for your prejudice against the Jewish way of life!”40 e author joins Philo in focusing on the educative and morally formative functions of Torah (see Philo, Mos. 2.215– 16; Prob. 80), justifying the attention given to Torah in Jewish culture by the ethical fruits that it produces in the lives of Torah’s devotees. Notably, these remain cardinal virtues lauded by the dominant culture itself (frovnhsi" kai; dikaiosuvnh kai; ajndreiva kai; swfrosuvnh, “prudence and justice and courage and moderation” [1:18]; swfrosuvnhn te . . . kai; ajndreivan . . . kai; dikaiosuvnhn . . . kai; eujsevbeian, “moderation . . . and courage . . . and justice . . . and piety” [5:23–24]), though demonstrated never so well as by the faithful Jewish martyrs. e author, on Eleazar’s behalf, refuses to accept the degradation in status implied in the treatment of his body by the dominant culture’s representatives. e way bodies are treated signals the honor due, or not due, the person. Changes in status are thus marked by physical actions that signal the change, such as the crowning or anointing of a king or priest (signaling the elevation of dignity).41 e tyrant’s guards subject Eleazar’s body to every manner of indignity precisely in order to eradicate Eleazar’s honor, to press upon him and upon those who witness the spectacle the dominant culture’s judgment that he is a person of no worth as long as he 40 Carl L. W. Grimm, “Viertes Buch der Maccabaër,” in Kurzgefasstes exegetisches Handbuch zu

den Apokryphen des Alten Testaments (Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 1857), 283–370, esp. 322; Dupont-Sommer, Quatrième Livre, 108. 41 See Bruce J. Malina and Jerome H. Neyrey, “Conﬂict in Luke-Acts: Labeling and Deviance eory,” in e Social World of Luke-Acts: Models for Interpretation (ed. Jerome H. Neyrey; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 11), 7–122.

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resists assimilation. e rough treatment as he is dragged oﬀ (6:1), the stripping of Eleazar’s clothing (the garments both providing some indication of former status and hiding the shame of his nakedness [6:2]), and the beating down of his body into a prone position at the feet of his torturers and the kicking of the fallen Eleazar with the foot (6:7, 8) all serve this end. e author, however, explicitly undermines these images of degradation with an alternative interpretation that creates room for the maintenance of self-respect and aﬃrmation of the honor of the representative of the indigenous culture. Honor is located not in the treatment of the body but in the state of the inner person and in his or her ability to maintain the integrity of his or her life in the face of coercion.42 Eleazar remained clothed with “the seemliness of piety” even aer he was stripped (6:2), and he kept his reasoning faculty “erect and unbending” (ojrqo;n ei\cen kai; ajklinh' to;n logismovn) even as his body fell to the ground under the blows (6:7).43 Indeed, the collapse of his body becomes a testament to his inner integrity, the real location of self-respect and recognition of honor. Eleazar himself refuses to accept the judgment that his stubborn resistance, resulting in the ruin of his body and eventually loss of life, is an irrational course of action. Against the courtiers’ ascription of irrational behavior to him (destroying himself ajlogivstw" [6:14]), he retorts that the truly irrational thing (ajlovgiston [6:18]) would be to betray himself and his lifelong convictions now at the tail end of life. e author underscores this point in the hypothetical speeches craed to display the reasoning in which the martyrs might have indulged but refused. e ﬁrst of these prominently displays the seven brothers accepting and internalizing the dominant culture’s assessment of their way of life. ey accept that resistance is “senseless” (ajnovhtoi [8:16]; this is the same term that is applied by Antiochus in 5:–10 to Eleazar’s way of life and potential resistance). ey accept that their commitment to their ancestral way of life amounts indeed to “empty opinion” (th;n kenodoxivan tauvthn [8:1]) and that their rationales for resistance constitute “empty reasonings” (boulhvmasin kenoi'" [8:18]) and “thinking hollowly” (kenodoxhvswmen [8:24]; see Antiochus’s use of kenodoxw'n to describe the kind of reasoning that would lead Eleazar to cling to his native customs to his own hurt in 5:10). ey accept the dominant culture’s claim to cultural superiority as they denigrate any persistence in their own convictions as mere “arrogance” (ajlazoneivan [8:1]).44 42 e author’s strategy is very much in line with Plato’s Gorgias (523D–525A), where Socrates insists that God is concerned with the state of the soul rather than the state of the body, and that the ﬁne trappings of the latter oen obscure the wretchedness of the former. 43 Once again the author recalls—this time even more directly—the language and ideals of Greco-Roman philosophical ethics. “To hold reason straight (correct, upright, to; ojrqo;n e[cein to;n lovgon)” is the goal of the true philosopher, according to Epictetus (Diatr. 4.8.12), even as it is for Eleazar. 44 e Roman governor Pliny—the representative of Roman imperialism—would similarly assess as contumacia (Ep. 10.6) the resistance of Bithynian Christians to his demand for oﬀering sacriﬁce to the emperor and traditional gods.

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But to accept the dominant culture’s assessment of the indigenous culture’s way of life as inferior and of the colonized’s attempts to preserve that way of life as hollow arrogance is, the author avers, to take the coward’s path. Allowing the dominant culture’s negative assessments to inﬁltrate one’s own valuing of one’s native way of life undermines resistance. It is the leaven that must be kept out lest it leaven the whole lump, the inner deﬁlement that would eventually allow the deﬁlement of imperialism to remain in the land. In fact, however, the brothers’ response is quite the opposite. e ﬁrst brother will not internalize the ascription of dishonor—the label of “deviant criminal”— that the tyrant intends by the physical assaults. Like Seneca’s sage, he examines himself, conﬁrms that he has done nothing unjust, and declares his integrity (see Seneca, Constant. 16:3–4). With his protestations of innocence of any genuine crime, he makes his death a vocal witness to the injustice of Antiochus’s imperialism. Similarly, the ﬁh brother conﬁrms his own innocence of wrongdoing, aﬃrming that his refusal of the king’s tyrannical command to transgress the Torah attests rather to his virtue. He accuses Antiochus of failing to understand what is virtuous and what is truly vicious, thus miring himself in a life of injustice.45 e fourth brother responds to the tyrant’s assessment of his elder brothers’ deaths as “madness” (manivan [10:13]) with an assertion that their passing was in fact “enviable” (makavrion [10:15]), since they were privileged to have maintained their integrity to the end. Within the narrative world created by the author, resistance to the dominant culture’s ideological assaults leads, in the end, to forcing the imperialist powers to come to a new respect for the colonized, modifying their earlier assessments of the colonized as “senseless” (a process that begins subtly in :26). Rather, “looking at their courage born of moral excellence and their endurance in the tortures, the tyrant Antiochus proclaimed the endurance of those people to his own soldiers for an example” (17:23), in awe of “their moral excellence and endurance” (th;n ajreth;n kai; th;n uJpomonhvn [17:17]). 4 Maccabees itself represents the author’s own attempt to give his audience every reason to value their ancestral way of life and, therefore, to continue to resist the dominant culture’s representatives’ ongoing assaults on the value of that life.46 Promoting the value of the Jewish way of life in terms of Greek value structures and patterning the Jewish heroes aer Greek champions of freedom—even if this never makes an impact on the dominant culture—will eﬀectively insulate the audi45 See Plato, Gorg. 472C; 477B; Dio Chrysostom, 1 Serv. lib. [Or. 14] 18; see also LXX Prov 17:15, 26; in this regard, the confrontation between the ﬁh brother and Antiochus resembles that between Haemon and Creon in Sophocles, Ant. 62–. 46 Jan W. van Henten, “e Martyrs as Heroes of the Christian People,” in Martyrium in Multidisciplinary Perspective (ed. Mathijs Lamberigts and Peter van Deun; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 15), 303–22, esp. 317; idem, “Jewish Epitaph,” 6; deSilva, 4 Maccabees: Introduction and Commentary, 26–27; idem, 4 Maccabees (Guides to Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha; Sheﬃeld: Sheﬃeld Academic Press, 18), 43–46, 74, 76–7, 105–11.

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ence further from those ideological assaults as their native way of life is seen to nurture the dominant culture’s loiest ideals. If the Greeks fail to recognize this, it is a judgment upon them, not the Jews. us, training in Torah is to be valued as a most suitable paideiva (“educative discipline”), productive of the virtues prized by the dominant culture (e.g., 1:17– 18; 5:22–24; this is thematic throughout the text).47 e speciﬁc regulations of Torah outline a form of a[skhsi" (“training”) comparable to that which was practiced by the Spartans or prescribed by Epictetus and Galen for the mastery of particular vices or weaknesses of character (1:31–2:14).48 Aristotle’s characterization of the young (Rhet. 2.12) provides a helpful background. e young are unable, by nature, to control their urges toward pleasure, especially sexual pleasure (Rhet. 2.12.3). ey are “carried away by impulse and inferior to (h{ttou") their passion” (Rhet. 2.12.5). For the Jewish youths, then, to display a mature and fully formed ethical character, such that they can master the passions, is an astounding achievement and speaks to the superiority of the education, the paideiva, that Torah provides. e value of Torah is seen in its fruits, namely, the exhibition of kalokajgaqiva (“nobility and goodness” [1:10; 3:17–18; 11:22; 13:25; 15:]) and ajrethv (“moral excellence” [1:8, 10; 7:21–22; :8, 18, 31; 10:10; 11:2; 12:14; 13:24, 27; 17:12, 25]), terms that embody the Greek ideal of excellence in character formation and moral achievement, by those trained by Torah. Indeed, it is notably in their resistance to cultural imperialism that the heroes of 4 Maccabees display the highest Greek values (kalokajgaqiva [see 15:–10]). e formative experiences of Torah’s paideiva give the observant Jew the potential to match the Greek philosophical ideal of the “sage” (see discussion of the author’s deployment of these topics above), in whom the ethical ideal of mastery of the passions is most securely imprinted (even more securely than among non-Jews; see 7:18–1). e author has thus devoted considerable attention to helping the audience value their own heritage and continue to ground their self-respect in their living well in line with that heritage rather than accepting the labels of the dominant culture. He inculcates resistance as he leads them away from asking, “How can I

47 See

further deSilva, 4 Maccabees, 5–74, 80–85. am inclined to pleasure; I will betake myself to the opposite side of the rolling ship, and that beyond measure, so as to train myself. I am inclined to avoid hard work; I will strain and exercise my sense-impressions to this end, so that my aversion from everything of this kind will cease. For who is the man in training? He is the man who . . . practices particularly in the things that are diﬃcult to master. . . . Practice, if you are arrogant, to submit when you are reviled, not to be disturbed when you are insulted. . . . Next, train yourself to use wine with discretion” (Epictetus, Diatr. 3.12.7– 11). Galen also underscored the need to attend to constant practice of speciﬁc exercises targeting vices (in his “On the Passions and Errors of the Soul,” discussed in Renehan, “Philosophic Background,” 235–36). 48 “I

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achieve honor in the eyes of the dominant culture?” toward asking, “How can I prove myself worthy of kinship with the ‘oﬀspring of Abraham’?” (13:2; 18:1).

Speech as Resistance A second prominent strategy of resistance exhibited throughout 4 Maccabees is speech—the speech of the colonized expressing the value of their way of life, challenging the aggressive acts (ideological, physical, and otherwise) of empire, and nurturing commitment to the subjugated culture in one another (against the summons of the voices of the dominant culture). e martyrs exercise “frank speech” (parrhsiva [10:5]), an ideal of Greek democracy. e exercise of parrhsiva was especially important where democracy was threatened by, or replaced by, monarchy or tyranny.4 In such situations, as is manifestly the case in 4 Maccabees, parrhsiva denotes speech uttered at some degree of risk to oneself.50 But in precisely those situations, the exercise of frank speech is central to the preservation of the integrity of the dominated. By speaking, Eleazar and the other martyrs remain true to themselves, rather than become a “living being who is false to himself.”51 us Eleazar uses speech to deﬂect the devaluation of his life lived in accordance with Torah and declare his intent to preserve the integrity of that long life (5:14–38; 6:17–21), and the brothers use speech to declare their innocence and virtue in the face of the tyrant’s attempts to impose the label “deviant” upon them (:15, 18, 31; 10:10; 11:4–6, 16, 22, 27; 12:14) and to remind one another of their identity and convictions, which are directly at stake but worth preserving (:23; 10:2–3, 16; 11:14–15; 12:16; 13:13–18). Speaking truth to power, or at least commitment to one’s convictions in the face of power, is an act of courage that gives consistency to thought, speech, and action, preferable to “the security of a life where the truth goes unspoken.”52 e exercise of parrhsiva also oﬀers honest, potentially reformative criticism of those in power.53 e seven brothers use speech to summon the imperial power to moral self-examination by witnessing to the injustices of its actions against the colonized (see especially :15; 10:10; 11:4–6; 12:11–14). e martyrs give Antiochus and his court opportunities to change their view of Judeans, to examine the justice of their own actions, and to question the political virtue of their practice of 4 Arnaldo Momigliano, “Freedom of Speech in Antiquity,” in e Dictionary of the History of Ideas: Studies of Selected Pivotal Ideas (ed. Philip P. Wiener; New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 173– 74), 2:252–63, esp. 262; see also Dio Chrysostom, Tyr. [Or. 6] 57; Alex. [32] 26. 50 Michel Foucault, Fearless Speech (ed. Joseph Pearson; Boston: Semiotext[e], 2001), 1–20. 51 Ibid., 17. 52 Ibid. 53 Ibid., 1–20.

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torture and coercion. By articulating their position clearly and bravely, they reject the dominant culture’s position that the recalcitrant colonials are “destroying themselves irrationally (ajlogivstw")” (6:14), forcing again and again the question that the representatives of the imperial power are the ones behaving irrationally and viciously, creating the opportunity for self-examination and the reform on the part of those representatives, if they will hear. But in situations of imperialist intrusions into other cultures, there is another audience. In presenting Eleazar’s request for an opportunity to “address the assembly” (dhmhgorei'n [5:16]) in response to Antiochus, the author invites the hearers to imagine Eleazar speaking not only for his own beneﬁt nor only the beneﬁt of Antiochus but also—and even more so—for the beneﬁt of the other Jewish captives who need to have their own commitment to their way of life shored up at this critical juncture. His deﬂection of Antiochus’s critique insulates his fellow colonials from the same and provides a rationale for resistance (5:14–26). His declaration of the consequences of his own capitulation outlines for other Jews what is at stake in their own decisions to acquiesce or resist (5:28–38; 6:17, 20–21). Finally, he subtly includes his fellow Judeans in his stalwart resistance and preservation of integrity (“Never may we feign a role unbecoming to us” [6:17]) and explicitly summons them to join him in resistance (6:22). e author continues to drill home through the following episodes of martyrdom that speech, followed by action that puts one’s body where one’s convictions are, empowers resistance in a situation of domination. us, the brothers’ speech prominently features encouragement directed toward each other to remain faithful to their shared heritage rather than defect individually (:23–24; 13:–18; 14:1). e author, moreover, demonstrates the eﬃcacy of such speech to empower and multiply resistance. e ﬁrst brother’s summons not to “renounce our courageous family ties” (:23) is internalized and revocalized by the third, fourth, sixth, and seventh brothers (10:2–3, 15; 11:15, 22; 12:16). e utterance has a powerful impact and escalates commitment to defend the native way of life against the assaults of empire. e mother is the undoubted hero of 4 Maccabees, enduring greater pains than each of the brothers since she had to endure the pains of all, and undergirding each son’s ability to resist with her own strength. e author develops her contest at length (chieﬂy, it is admitted, to provide the clinching evidence for his argument concerning the unparalleled ability of Torah to instill commitment to virtue, when it can do so to such an extent “even” in a woman [14:11]).54 He emphasizes her active role spurring her sons on in their costly acts of resistance and giv54 e NRSV transposes the intensive “even” to the phrase “even more diverse agonies” rather than translating it as part of the phrase “even a woman’s mind.” is represents wishful thinking on the part of the translators: the Greek o{pou ge kai; gunaiko;" nou'" polutropwtevrwn uJperefrovnhsen ajlghdovnwn is unambiguously sexist at this point.

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ing them her strength as she maintains eye contact with them throughout their pains (15:1 is quite a powerful image in this regard), showing that women can indeed exhibit greater courage than males (the mother is ajndrw'n . . . ajndreiotevra [15:30]) in this mode of resistance. eir participation in armed resistance (for example, the Maccabean revolution) would be limited indeed, but they are not thereby excluded—nor excused—from participating in eﬀective and costly resistance of other kinds.55 e mother’s speech—her principal instrument of resistance—is almost exclusively devoted to promoting resistance among her fellow Judeans, particularly her sons. Renouncing the self-pitying speech that looks only at the personal cost of resistance (16:6–11), she chooses instead to use her speech to spur her sons on to resistance unto death (16:13, 16–24). Aside from her own acquittal in regard to preserving her feminine virtue intact (18:6–), her remaining speech also positions her sons for resistance, reminding them of the foundational convictions taught by their ancestral heritage that make resistance unto death bearable and, ultimately, assure them that resisting leads to the transcendence of their own deaths (18:10– 1).56 e author retains the speciﬁc detail that the mother speaks in Hebrew (16:15)—the language of the subjugated group—although he omits the rationale given in 2 Macc 7:27 (where it is a means by which to keep Antiochus from understanding her true intent).57 Here, as she calls her boys to live in line with the examples drawn from their Jewish heritage, she gives consistency to speech and thought by using the language of the subjugated culture. In her situation of cultural and political hegemony, language itself represents group boundaries, group ideology, and is itself a form of resistance, rejecting the language of the dominating, intruding culture. e author himself participates in speech-as-resistance as he calls his own audience to “obey this law and exercise piety in every way” (18:1), that is, to remain ﬁrmly committed to the distinctive way of life handed on by their ancestors rather than the way of life imposed by imperialism (whether by enticement or coercion). at the very Greek-sounding opening exhortation to “pay earnest attention to philosophy” (1:1) could be modulated to the very Jewish exhortation to the “children of Abraham” to follow Torah as closely as possible is another evidence of the author’s mastery of the master’s tools and employment of the same to nurture resistance to being at home in the master’s house. 55 Plutarch’s collection of tales entitled “e Bravery of Women” (De virtutibus mulierum) is rather the anthology of exceptions that prove the rule that women did not participate in armed resistance. e military titles that the author applies to the mother (“shield-bearer of piety” [15:2]; “soldier, elder, and woman” [16:14]; “conqueror of a tyrant” [16:14]; destroyer of “the violence of the tyrant” [17:2]) aﬃrm that eﬀective resistance is in no way, however, the province of males alone. 56 See deSilva, 4 Maccabees: Introduction and Commentary, 258–65. 57 Dupont-Sommer, Quatrième Livre, 131.

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Exemplary Action as Resistance e design of the story inexorably drives the audience to consider a third layer of resistance, in which action must be added to valuing and speaking. e encounter between the tyrant and the martyr is a public one in which the dynamics of honor and shame are clearly in play, in which the colonized are called upon to give a public defense of the value of their way of life by means of action.58 Eﬀective action will spell defeat for the imperial powers and public vindication of the value of the indigenous way of life (as Eleazar defeated Antiochus perifanw'", “openly, publicly” [8:2]). Capitulation, on the other hand, would testify to the ability of people to be reformed by the presence of empire if the right pressures are applied (to paraphrase Pliny the Younger’s perspective on the success of his eﬀorts to impose conformity to the demands of empire upon Christian “deviants” in Ep. 10.6). Resistance-in-action is the bringing forward of “evidence on behalf of the nation” (diamarturiva [16:16]), just as hardships provided Epictetus’s Stoic with an opportunity to make visible through action the truth of what his or her philosophy promises (Diatr. 1.2.44–4).5 In an extended athletic metaphor, the author places the “manner of life of people” alongside the “world” in the spectator stands, witnessing the bout between empire and subjugated people. e martyrs’ contest, whether to give up their manner of living or die because any other manner of living was not to be accounted worth living, would publicly decide its value. In such a setting resistance-in-action means “enduring”—publicly enduring the coercive measures of imperialism. “Endurance” (uJpomonhv) is a species of “courage,” the virtue by means of which a person endures “fearful things for the sake of what is noble” (Aristotle, Eth. nic. 3.7.2 1115b12; see also Rhet. Her. 3.3.5), sometimes even submitting “to some disgrace or pain as the price of some great and noble object” (Eth. nic. 3.1.7 1110a20–22). Aristotle, however, regarded the battleﬁeld as the place where courage exhibited itself most plainly (Eth. nic. 3.6.8 1115a33–34), not the torture chamber. Where the body is acted upon, endurance could be seen quite negatively: “silence, passivity, submissiveness, openness, suﬀering—the shame of allowing oneself to be wounded, to be penetrated, and of simply enduring all that—were castigated as weak, womanish, slavish, and therefore morally bad.”60 e historical 58 On the dynamics of honor and shame, see Moore and Anderson, “Taking It Like a Man,” 264;

David A. deSilva, “e Noble Contest: Honor, Shame, and the Rhetorical Strategy of 4 Maccabees,” JSP 13 (15): 31–57. For the martyrs’ awareness of the possibility of putting themselves and their ancestors to shame by failure to resist in action, see 5:18, 27b, 28, 35; :1–2. 5 Angelo O’Hagan, “e Martyr in the Fourth Book of Maccabees,” SBFLA 24 (174): 4– 120, here 5. 60 Brent D. Shaw, “Body/Power/Identity: Passions of the Martyrs,” JECS 4 (16): 26–312, here 27.

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experience of aggressive Greek males ﬁnding themselves confronted by a superior power (e.g., a tyrant who defeats their city-state in a war), and of philosopher-sages being tested by tyrants, provided a context in which “manliness” could be enacted from a position of relative powerlessness through bold and committed—but passive—resistance.61 Despite an etymology suggestive of “remaining under” another person or power, hence in a stereotypically feminine and inferior position (the converse of ajndreiva, “manliness”), uJpomonhv (“endurance”) becomes the means by which those “on the bottom” in terms of political and physical power can come out “on top.”62 In the particular setting of the martyrs, the object of the tyrant is to gain access to the will of the colonized by whatever means necessary. e location of resistance is within, with the result that endurance of torture without capitulation constitutes the eﬀective and courageous action required. While being torn apart, the sixth brother can therefore rightly claim to have defeated the tyrant: “we six boys have paralyzed your tyranny. Since you have not been able to persuade us to change our mind or to force us to eat deﬁling food, is not this your downfall?” (11:24–25 NRSV). Nevertheless, even in such situations of powerlessness, the author suggests that there are ways to seize back some degree of power, autonomy, initiative. e ﬁh brother rejects wearing the demeaning role of victim. Rather than wait to be escorted to the instruments by the guards, he comes forward “on his own” (11:1– 3). e small space aﬀorded him to seize back the initiative turns him into an empowered equal who engages the tyrant rather than a subaltern to be abused against his will. e seventh brother also makes full use of the narrow space given to him for freedom, using it to speak the truth and to seize control over his own body out of the tyrant’s hands by means of his self-immolation (12:1). e same 61 Ibid., 287. Military and athletic imagery played an important role in turning passive “endurance” into a form of “manliness” or “courage,” especially in Greco-Roman philosophical literature (see Dio Chrysostom, Virt. [Or. 8]; Epictetus, Diatr. 1.18.21; 1.24.1–2; 3.20.; 3.22.56; Seneca, Prov. 2.2–4); see further discussions in Victor C. Pﬁtzner, Paul and the Agon Motif: Traditional Athletic Imagery in the Pauline Literature (NovTSup 16; Leiden: Brill, 167); N. Clayton Croy, Endurance in Suﬀering: Hebrews 12.1–13 in Its Rhetorical, Religious, and Philosophical Context (SNTSMS 8; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 18), 43–76; David A. deSilva, Perseverance in Gratitude: A Socio-rhetorical Commentary on the Epistle “to the Hebrews” (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 361–64; Moore and Anderson, “Taking It Like a Man,” 25–61. e author of 4 Maccabees stands within a long tradition of painting the person who resists a more powerful person (like the martyr who resists a tyrant’s attempts at coercion) as the pugilist or wrestler who wins by wearing out the opponent or absorbing more blows than the opponent can dish out (6:10; :12; see Seneca, Constant. .4; Philo, Prob. 26–27; T. Job 27.3–5), such that even the endurance of torture is ennobled if endured “bravely” (Seneca, Ep. 67.4, 6). He uses military imagery to interpret the resistance of the martyrs in 7:4–5; :23–24; 11:22. His use of athletic imagery is considerably more extensive (6:10; :23; 11:20; 12:11, 14; 13:13, 15; 16:16; 17:11–16). 62 Shaw, “Body/Power/Identity,” 287–88.

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can be said of the mother, who similarly takes her own life by throwing herself into the ﬁre (17:1). But there is a second, even more important facet to the public nature of the encounter. roughout his contest, Eleazar is supremely aware that he is being watched not only by the tyrant and his party but also by other members of the subjugated culture. He is aware of the impact his actions now will have on the commitment of his fellow Judeans. He knows that, if he is seen to eat the pork, he will weaken the resolve of other Judeans by his own acquiescence to the demands of the dominant culture, which would constitute his public testimony that their ancestral way of life is not worth dying for (6:12–1). He cannot preserve his private virtue, only pretending to eat the pork without really putting it in his mouth, without maintaining his public testimony to the value of unﬂagging commitment to live by the Torah.63 In such a setting, speech must be conﬁrmed by deeds, as the author conﬁrms that Eleazar in fact did: “by your deeds you made your words of divine philosophy credible” (7:7). A distinctive feature of the way the author of 4 Maccabees tells the tale of Antiochus’s invasion of Judea is that he never mentions Judas Maccabeus and his revolutionary forces, even obliquely.64 e author focuses instead entirely on the 63 Eleazar is thus made to resemble Socrates, the patron saint of Greek philosophy, who submitted to an unjust death so as to provide an example of courage in the face of death, liberating human beings from the fear of death that frequently undermines perseverance in virtue (see Seneca, Ep. 24.4; Epictetus, Diatr. 4.1.168–6). 64 is is a matter of some debate, with Townshend (“Fourth Book,” 684) and Sam K. Williams (Jesus’ Death as Saving Event: e Background and Origin of a Concept [HDR 2; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 175], 171) attempting to make room for the Hasmoneans in the author’s narrative. e striking lack of any explicit mention of the revolutionaries, however, provides strong evidence for the view that the author does not wish to share the martyrs’ achievement with anyone else (thus DupontSommer, Quatrième Livre, 150; O’Hagan, “Martyr,” 111–12; deSilva, 4 Maccabees: Introduction and Commentary, 82–83, 254–55; David Seeley, e Noble Death: Graeco-Roman Martyrology and Paul’s Concept of Salvation [JSNTSup 28; Sheﬃeld: Sheﬃeld Academic Press, 10], 3). Why not give place to the Maccabean revolution in such a text? It is surely not because the author opposes their attempt, in principle, to throw oﬀ imperial domination, nor a sign that he harbors imperialist inclinations. Like the author of 1 Maccabees (the most pro-Hasmonean text extant), he also celebrates the defeat and expulsion of the tyrant (“the destruction of the tyranny” [4 Macc 1:11]; “because of them, our enemies did not rule over our nation” [17:20; see also 18:4–5]). However, the author seeks to demonstrate that the essential lessons about eﬀective resistance are already learned from the martyrs’ acts, and that learning these lessons must precede (axiologically, if not temporally) the taking up of arms against an invader. More centrally, the political setting of the Diaspora calls not for armed resistance (as the tragic Diaspora Rebellion under Trajan would prove) but for ﬁdelity to the Torah whether in the face of mild disdain or overt hostility. e martyrs demonstrate the eﬃcacy of this form of resistance, even as models of nonviolent resistance have continued to demonstrate in the modern period. It might also be that the author shares the disillusionment with the Hasmonean dynasty that is seen in other texts (e.g., Psalms of Solomon), particularly the Hasmoneans’ corruption aer their attempt to throw oﬀ “the yoke of the Gentiles” and their consolidation of their power through collusion with various imperialists.

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eﬀectiveness of the martyrs’ resistance, an eﬃcacy that works chieﬂy through example and imitation. Eleazar calls upon the other “children of Abraham” to “die nobly for the sake of piety” (6:22), and his exemplary death inspires the seven brothers to stand ﬁrm. e author again conﬁrms the impact of resistance-in-action by depicting the brothers explicitly recalling Eleazar’s actions as setting the mark to which they, the young, must also attain (:5–6). Each of the brothers, in turn, urges his surviving brothers to follow his example (:23–24; 13:8) and keep his elder brothers’ actions in view as his own guiding compass (12:16). Finally, their collective example of resistance through endurance, defeating the tyrant’s attempts to destroy their commitment to their ancestral way of life, leads to the revival of obedience to the Torah throughout Judea, and thus to the utter defeat of Antiochus’s plans (18:4–5). Dying as an example of resistance and as a witness to the value of the indigenous culture becomes the ﬁrst cause of the eventual expulsion of the imperialist intruders, the instigation of a “mimetic process” that ultimately stops empire’s incursion into Judea.65 e author contemporizes the struggle in two ways. First, he calls upon contemporary leaders in the Jewish community to embody resistance-in-action, as did Eleazar, as the proper work for “administrators of the law” (7:8). Second, he aﬃrms that Eleazar’s death is having the same eﬀect on himself and his own audience as he delivers the oration, strengthening their commitment to the divine Law (7:). ose who respond to his closing summons (18:1–2) will themselves become examples of commitment to the Jewish way of life, and thus of resistance against assimilation.

Effective Resistance Requires Solidarity Perhaps no quality more prominently characterized the seven brothers and their mother in 4 Maccabees than their harmonious agreement with one another in their commitment to their ancestral way of life (8:2b; :23; 10:2–3, 15; 11:14– 15, 22; 12:16; 13:6–, 11, 13, 18; 13:1–14:1, 3-8; 15:–10, 12; 16:12–13; 17:2–3, 5).66 ey were “of one mind” (8:2), which was held to be a characteristic of “good people” who remain constant and consistent because they all strive together for “what is just and what is advantageous” (Aristotle, Eth. nic. 1167b3–; see also Dio, In cont. [Or. 48]). Aristotle held such concord to be especially appropriate between friends (Aristotle, Eth. nic. 1155a23) and, therefore, among siblings (the aﬀection of siblings being a type of friendship). 65 us, rightly, Jan W. van Henten, “e Tradition-Historical Background of Romans 3.25: A

Search for Pagan and Jewish Parallels,” in From Jesus to John: Essays on Jesus and New Testament Christology in Honor of Marinus de Jonge (ed. Martinus C. De Boer; JSNTSup 84; Sheﬃeld: Sheﬃeld Academic Press, 13), 101–28, esp. 123; Seeley, Noble Death, 8–7. 66 See discussion in Klauck, “Brotherly Love,” 152–55; deSilva, 4 Maccabees: Introduction and Commentary, 204–17.

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is solidarity expresses itself in speech designed to keep one another heading toward the shared goal of virtue. e author frequently speaks of the brothers as a chorus (8:4), a group of people who spoke with, essentially, a single voice to those outside (see 8:2; 13:8; 14:7–8) and who speak to one another in ways that consistently uphold the value of their ancestral way of life and the advantage of ongoing commitment to it. e author, indeed, gives signiﬁcant attention to the role each brother played in helping his remaining brothers remain steadfast (see, e.g., :23–24; 13:8–18; 14:1), a role reprised by the mother (12:7; 16:12–13). By means of such solidarity, the brothers together formed a fortiﬁed harbor supported by seven pillars, able on the basis of their combined strength to bear the onslaught of the waves of the ocean of passions, making a safe haven for their virtue (13:6–7; see also 17:3). e author thus consistently emphasizes throughout the second half of his work the importance of corporate harmony, solidarity, and mutual support for the ability of individual members of the subjugated culture to resist the onslaught of the dominant culture. is kind of harmony—this unison testimony—invests the values of the subjugated culture with a greater degree of absoluteness, as all the members of the community unite “in conferring both censure and praise, bearing for both classes, the good and the bad, a testimony in which each can have conﬁdence” (Dio, In cont. [Or. 48] 6). It is instructive that the possibility of weakness, portrayed in the hypothetical response to Antiochus (8:16–26), enters the situation through lack of unanimity, where “some of them” (tine") begin to waver in their commitment and spread the seeds of uncertainty (8:16). For the members of the minority culture to speak with diﬀerent voices would be to replicate the confusion within the individual, torn between what he or she believes about his or her native way of life and the evaluations of the same being imposed by the powerful voices of the dominant culture. Lack of solidarity in speech fails to provide the external, objectivizing support required for resistance. Such solidarity could easily become oppressive if the individual forgets that he or she does in fact have a choice, but it also becomes a principal source of empowerment insofar as it reminds the individual facing the seemingly irresistible coercive measures of the dominant culture that he or she has a choice.67 Breaches of solidarity are singularly damaging to resistance. e tyrant’s desperation to gain a victory over the last surviving brother, both addressing him individually himself and bringing his mother forward to “persuade” him to capitulate, is a signal here, as is the way in which Antiochus and his party “relish” the prospect of the seventh brother’s declaration of capitulation (12:). If Antiochus can succeed here, he will wipe away the eﬀects of the seven conspicuous defeats he had already suﬀered (a cumulative defeat exacerbated by the sixth brother’s explicit declaration 67 See further the discussion of alienation in Peter L. Berger, e Sacred Canopy: Elements of a Sociological eory of Religion (New York: Doubleday, 167), 81–101.

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of victory in 11:24–25). Because of this, breaches of solidarity become heinous acts of betrayal of one’s own. Great damage is done by every single person who capitulates to the imperial power, both in terms of feeding the latter’s commitment to remain and in terms of weakening the witness of those who resisted previously (and thus the wills of those who continue to resist). e author therefore oﬀers the depiction of the brothers, nobly united by a common commitment to justice and piety, as the model for the extended kinship group constituted by his audience, promoting solidarity as an essential resource for eﬀective resistance.

Resistance Is Not Futile e author frankly acknowledges that resistance oen costs dearly and hurts tremendously, both in terms of physical pain and emotional pain and bereavement (6:7, 11, 27; 13:27–14:1, 10, 12–13; 15:7, 14–22; 16:3). Nevertheless, he aﬃrms that resistance, even against seemingly insurmountable pressures, is both possible and eﬀective. Without drawing a sword, without organizing a guerilla force, without the material resources necessary for military action, these martyrs “became the cause of the downfall of tyranny” and “conquered the tyrant” (1:11; see also 8:15; 11:24–25). Because of their resistance, empire could not stamp out the way of life of the colonized and eventually could not even continue to occupy their territory (17:20–21; 18:4–5). What might have appeared to be failure on the part of the colonized constituted, in fact, the defeat of the tyrant’s power and the successful resistance of his imposition of a foreign way of life. It is a genuine victory because the tyrant is indeed “powerless” to get what he wants out of them. Where military action or other venues for coercive resistance (e.g., economic embargoes) are unavailable, the battle against totalitarian regimes must oen be fought and won in the bodies of those who would resist. ese martyrs become a precedent and a symbol that resistance of this kind is no less eﬀective for loosening and unraveling the cords of tyranny than the other kinds. Resistance is not only possible and eﬀective but also necessary. What is truly “compelling” for Eleazar (5:16) is the preservation of his integrity in regard to his inviolable values (5:28–38).68 Eleazar can maintain his self-respect, and his sole legitimate claim to honor, only by resistance unto death.6 To do otherwise would be to betray himself, to betray the reputation for virtue (piety) gained through a long life of living in accordance with the way of life valued by the subjugated culture (5:18, 2, 34–37; 6:17–1). It would be to take on an unmanly disposition, sug-

68 e heroine Antigone in Sophocles’ tragedy is a stunning embodiment of this, contrasted with Ismene, who ﬁnds external pressures to be more compelling (Ant. 58–68). 6 In so doing, he walks in line with the canons of nobility lauded by Greek culture (see, e.g., Pseudo-Isocrates, Demon. 43; Epictetus, Diatr. 3.20.4–6).

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gested by the neologism malakoyuchvsanta" (6:17). e adjective malakov" served “to diﬀerentiate women, girls, boys, youths, eﬀeminate males, catamites, and eunuchs from ‘true men.’”70 Eleazar must resist, or else morally de-sex himself, allowing Antiochus to “force” him and thus impose an inappropriate feminine posture on him. e path of resistance is not the path of self-negation; it is the actualization of valuing oneself rather than devaluing the self. Eleazar refuses to eat deﬁling food out of a regard for the value of his own body and his responsibility to it. As the author expresses it in his encomiastic reﬂections on Eleazar’s steadfast resistance, “you neither deﬁled your sacred teeth nor profaned your stomach, which had room only for reverence and purity” (7:6). Eleazar cannot brutalize himself in this fashion, betraying his own body by ingesting unclean food. Epictetus had sought to empower resistance against coercion from without by regarding the body and its constituent parts as somehow not “him” (Diatr. 1.1.23–24; 1.2.5–8; Ench. 18). e author of 4 Maccabees, on the other hand, interprets Eleazar’s endurance of torture as a dimension of his respect for his own body, not denigration of or alienation from the same. Taking the long view is necessary for eﬀective resistance. e mother’s deliberations bring this out most forcefully, as she weighs the “temporary” well-being of her sons (swthriva" proskaivrou, “temporary deliverance” [15:2]; th;n provskairon swthrivan, “the temporary deliverance” [15:8]; pro;" ojlivgon crovnon swthrivan, “for a deliverance that lasts a short while” [15:27]) against their “eternal” well-being (eij" aijwnivan zwhvn, “for age-long life” [15:3]), but it appears in the brothers’ deliberations as well (13:14–15).71 e martyrs consistently show the necessity of looking beyond their current circumstances to the larger cause that their resistance advances (5:18; 6:1–21, 28–2; :24; 10:21; 11:3; 12:17–18) or to the forces beyond death that would vindicate their stance and compensate their pains (:8–, 32; 10:11, 15; 12:12, 14; 13:14–15, 17).72 e author certainly aﬃrms the reality of the 70 Moore

and Anderson, “Taking It Like a Man,” 263.

71 It is oen the case that hope for vindication beyond death allows “empire” to continue. Belief

in rewards in the “sweet by and by” becomes a compensator for enduring violence, undermining the energy needed to support resistance and eﬀect change in the present. is is not the case in 4 Maccabees, however. e martyrs’ belief in postmortem rewards and punishment is a motivation for not yielding to compulsions, not for enduring violence tout court, and in fact becomes a factor in empowering them to resist the tyrant’s compulsions. Enduring violence is a consequence of resisting imperialism by outspoken critique and refusal to comply. From another angle, belief in postmortem judgment also provides the members of the subaltern culture with a vantage point from which to critique the imperialist powers. Sub specie aeternitatis, the martyrs are able to assert the ultimacy of their own cultural values and overturn Antiochus’s pretensions to wield “ultimate power” over the lives of the colonized. e availability of a “higher court” relativizes the court of “empire” and its judgments upon members of the colonized ethnos. 72 Even though several of these are couched in the language of anticipating divine intervention, the object of this divine intervention is a decisive change in the political aﬀairs of their native land and in the situation of imperialism.

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former (1:11; 17:10, 20–21; 18:4–5), though he believes the latter to be true as well (16:13, 25; 17:2–6, 17–18; 18:3, 23).

V. Conclusion One of poet Audre Lorde’s most celebrated quotations claims that “the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house.” 4 Maccabees at the very least demonstrates how many of those tools, in the use of which he is highly and visibly skilled, could be employed to shore up the house of the subjugated culture colonized by the imperialist masters. But the author of this strange book may in fact go further, using those tools indeed to strike against the ideological foundations of the house of the cultural imperialism of the Hellenistic kingdoms. As the author challenges the projected image of Greeks as cultured, virtuous masters of themselves, he challenges their attempts to legitimate their empire and calls attention to the underside of empire’s “gis.” As the author examines his own ancestral heritage, he summons his audience—the colonized who are now largely expatriate—to renew their commitment to live in their own house, to value that house, to talk bravely about the meaningfulness and desirability of inhabiting such a house, and to defend that house with exemplary action that solidiﬁes and unites their fellow Jews in devotion to that house. Surely the master would have regretted teaching that colonial the use of his tools.

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JBL 126, no. 1 (2007): 129–159

Paul as a Child: Children and Childhood in the Letters of the Apostle reidar aasgaard [email protected] University of Oslo, N-0315 Oslo, Norway

Little is known about what the childhood of the apostle Paul was like,1 or about how he related to children in Christian families and in his communities.2 Considerably more can be known, however, about his views of children and of childhood as a phase of life.3 In addition, we can observe how he employed these ideas in his strategies toward his addressees. In this article I examine Paul’s ideas on children and childhood and the way he employs them in his letters. My aim is twofold: to offer a systematic presentation of Paul’s language concerning children and childhood, and to show—contrary to several scholars—that his use of this language is considerably more nuanced and distinctive in character than has been realized. During recent years several scholars have drawn attention to the widespread use of kinship language in Paul, especially the sibling (brother/sister) and the parThis article is a revised version of a paper presented at the international conference entitled “Curriculum Vitae: Life Stages and Identity Construction in Early Christianity” held at the Faculty of Theology, University of Oslo, September 16–17, 2004, in honor of the sixtieth birthday of Professor Halvor Moxnes. I am grateful for the valuable suggestions offered by the participants and especially by the respondent Tor Vegge. 1 The NT and much classical material have been dealt with in detail in Martin Hengel and Anna Maria Schwemer, Paul between Damascus and Antioch: The Unknown Years (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1997); Rainer Riesner, Paul’s Early Period: Chronology, Mission Strategy, Theology (1991; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998); Tor Vegge, Paulus und das antike Schulwesen, Band 1, Schule und Bildung des Paulus (BZNW 134; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2006). 2 Apart from a few texts (1 Cor 7:14; 13:11; Gal 4:1); see the respective discussions below. 3 This does not mean that we have access to what Paul “really” thought about these matters. What will be dealt with are the ideas displayed by Paul as an “implied author”; these ideas may very much concur with that of the “real” Paul, but this is impossible to confirm. In the following, I employ material only from the seven undisputed Pauline letters (Romans, 1–2 Corinthians, Galatians, Philippians, 1 Thessalonians, and Philemon).

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ent/child terminology.4 In this kind of language, which is usually employed metaphorically of Christians, many see a reflection of ideas and ideals associated with the family in antiquity: Christians are to relate to one another in ways similar to those of the family, with its structures and mentalities.5 Many of these scholars have focused on how Paul uses such kinship language as a rhetorical means to regulate his relations to his fellow Christians, and in particular to further his own authority.6 Several maintain that Paul by this language exercises a strong control over his communities. This has particularly been emphasized by scholars studying Paul from the perspectives of power and of gender. For instance, Elizabeth A. Castelli has brought attention to Paul’s idea of imitation in 1 Corinthians, and of the Corinthians imitating Paul as children to a father (4:16– 21), and she argues that this forms part of a discourse of power that aims at leaving his authority uncontested and at securing sameness instead of difference.7 4 See particularly Daniel von Allmen, La famille de Dieu: la symbolique familiale dans le pauli-

nisme (Fribourg: Éditions Universitaires; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1981); Klaus Schäfer, Gemeinde als “Bruderschaft”: Ein Beitrag zum Kirchenverständnis des Paulus (Europäische Hochschulschriften 23.333; Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 1989); Peter Müller, In der Mitte der Gemeinde: Kinder im Neuen Testament (Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1992); Karl Olav Sandnes, A New Family: Conversion and Ecclesiology in the Early Church with Cross-Cultural Comparisons (Studies in the Intercultural History of Christianity 91; Bern: Peter Lang, 1994); William A. Strange, Children in the Early Church: Children in the Ancient World, the New Testament and the Early Church (Carlisle: Paternoster, 1996); Halvor Moxnes, ed., Constructing Early Christian Families: Family as Social Reality and Metaphor (London: Routledge, 1997); Carolyn Osiek and David Balch, Families in the New Testament World (Family, Religion, and Culture; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1997); Joseph H. Hellerman, The Ancient Church as Family (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001); Peter Balla, The Child-Parent Relationship in the New Testament and Its Environment (WUNT 135; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003); Trevor J. Burke, Family Matters: A Socio-Historical Study of Kinship Metaphors in 1 Thessalonians (JSNTSup 247; London/New York: T&T Clark International/Continuum, 2003); Reidar Aasgaard, “My Beloved Brothers and Sisters!” Christian Siblingship in Paul (JSNTSup 265, Early Christianity in Context 2; London/New York: T&T Clark International/Continuum, 2004). 5 I use the terms “metaphor” and “metaphorical” here in a general and rather nontechnical sense, on a level with “figurative,” “transferred,” and “imagery”; see the discussion of “metaphorical” below. On the use of kinship metaphors in Paul, see Aasgaard, My Beloved Brothers and Sisters, 23– 31, 118–36, in which I apply the metaphor theory of George Lakoff and Mark Johnson to the material. Burke (Family Matters, 18–28) builds on my presentation. 6 Clearly, Paul employs a broad range of literary means in order to further his strategies, including metaphors and language taken from other areas such as the body and various social relations, and there is a close interplay between these usages. The kinship language, however, plays a very important part in this system; see Aasgaard, My Beloved Brothers and Sisters, 285–87, 292–95. 7 Elizabeth A. Castelli, Imitating Paul: A Discourse of Power (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1991), esp. 98–111, 115–17. Castelli takes her point of departure from Michel Foucault’s understanding of power. Her view is also supported by Vernon K. Robbins, The Tapestry of Early Christian Discourse: Rhetoric, Society and Ideology (London: Routledge, 1996), 195–99; and Sandra Hack Polaski, Paul and the Discourse of Power (Gender, Culture, Theory 8, The Biblical Seminar 62; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 12–13, 14–15.

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Similarly in the case of 1 Thessalonians, Lone Fatum maintains that Paul employs parent/child metaphors in the letter to strengthen his authority and further male prominence, with the effect that women become only associate members of the Thessalonian “brotherhood,” viz., through their men.8 Below I argue, however, that such readings are highly problematic. Considerable energy has been expended on Paul’s parent/child language, particularly his metaphorical use of it.9 Usually, however, scholars have paid attention only to the parent side—for example, Paul as father. Far less effort has been put into the study of the place of children.10 Thus, my focus here will be on Paul’s language referring to childhood. Although some scholars have dealt with aspects of this, none has discussed its character and function in a systematic fashion. Since Paul’s language pertaining to parents/children is closely related to his language referring to childhood, some of this material will be included in the discussions below. All along, I shall also be attentive to how Paul conforms to or deviates from general attitudes in antiquity toward children and childhood. Owing to the limited space, I can refer only briefly to characteristic features concerning these matters.11 8 Lone Fatum, “Brotherhood in Christ: A Gender Hermeneutical Reading of 1 Thessalonians,” in Constructing Early Christian Families, ed. Moxnes, 183–97; also eadem, “Tro, håb og gode gerninger: Kristusfællesskabet som social konstruktion,” in Den nye Paulus og hans betydning (ed. Troels Engberg-Pedersen; Copenhagen: Gyldendal, 2003), 120–55, esp. 131–33. 9 Particularly by von Allmen, La famille de Dieu; Norman R. Petersen, Rediscovering Paul: Philemon and the Sociology of Paul’s Narrative World (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985); John L. White, “God’s Paternity as Root Metaphor in Paul’s Conception of Community,” Forum 8 (1992): 271–95; Hellerman, Ancient Church as Family; S. Scott Bartchy, “Who Should Be Called Father? Paul of Tarsus between the Jesus Tradition and Patria Potestas,” BTB 33 (2003): 135–47. 10 A few of the scholars have—to an extent—employed this perspective, particularly Müller, In der Mitte der Gemeinde (NT in general); Strange, Children in the Early Church (NT in general); Balla, Child-Parent Relationship (the obedience of children); Burke, Family Matters (1 Thessalonians); Aasgaard, My Beloved Brothers and Sisters (Paul). 11 Although there were clearly some cultural and regional differences, one can nonetheless speak of certain general attitudes. There has been a steadily growing scholarly interest in children and childhood in antiquity. For a survey of this, see Reidar Aasgaard, “Children in Antiquity and Early Christianity: Research History and Central Issues,” Familia [Salamanca, Spain] 33 (2006): 23–46. Important full-length monographs include Thomas Wiedemann, Adults and Children in the Roman Empire (New Haven/London: Yale University Press, 1989); Mark Golden, Children and Childhood in Classical Athens (Ancient Society and History; Baltimore/London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1990); Beryl Rawson, Children and Childhood in Roman Italy (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003); Jenifer Neils and John H. Oakley, Coming of Age in Ancient Greece: Images of Childhood from the Classical Past (New Haven/London: Yale University Press, 2003); Christian Laes, Kinderen bij de Romeinen: Zees eeuwen dagelijks leven (Leuven: Davidsfonds, 2006). The following contributions also have much material on the topic: W. K. Lacey, The Family in Classical Greece (London: Thames & Hudson, 1968); Beryl Rawson, ed., The Family in Ancient Rome: New Perspectives (London/Sydney: Croom Helm, 1986); Keith R. Bradley, Discovering the Roman

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Paul’s childhood terminology can be categorized in various ways.12 One is to distinguish between a concrete and a metaphorical usage. For instance, Paul speaks of children in a social-biological sense in 1 Cor 7:14 (children with parents of mixed faith); 1 Cor 13:11 (of himself as a child); Gal 1:15 (of himself as a fetus); and Gal 4:1 (of children as heirs).13 Metaphorical usage outweighs the concrete by far, however. For example, Paul repeatedly speaks of Christians as children of God (Rom 8:16–17, 21; 9:7–8; etc.) or as his own children (e.g., 1 Cor 4:14–21; Phil 2:22; Phlm 10). This distinction between concrete and metaphorical is not very fruitful for our purposes, however, since Paul’s attitudes toward children and childhood are reflected in both usages, and in a parallel way: notions connected with being a child of God are not likely to differ much from those of being a child of a human being.14 Besides, the distinction between concrete and metaphorical in Paul is by no means unproblematic: Is the idea that Christians are adopted as sons of God (uiJoqesiva)— a notion that occurs both in Romans (8:15, 23) and Galatians (4:5)—only meta-

Family: Studies in Roman Social History (New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991); Beryl Rawson, ed., Marriage, Divorce, and Children in Ancient Rome (Canberra: Humanities Research Centre; Oxford: Clarendon, 1991); David I. Kertzer and Richard P. Saller, The Family in Italy from Antiquity to the Present (New Haven/London: Yale University Press, 1991); Suzanne Dixon, The Roman Family (Ancient Society and History; Baltimore/London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992); Shaye J. D. Cohen, ed., The Jewish Family in Antiquity (BJS 289; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1993); Carla Fayer, La familia Romana: aspetti giuridici ed antiquari, parte prima (Problemi e ricerche di storia antica 16; Rome: Bretschneider, 1994); Richard P. Saller, Patriarchy, Property and Death in the Roman Family (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994); Beryl Rawson and Paul Weaver, eds., The Roman Family in Italy: Status, Sentiment, Space (Canberra: Humanities Research Centre, 1997); Leo G. Perdue et al., eds., Families in Ancient Israel (Family, Religion, and Culture; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1997); Cynthia B. Patterson, The Family in Greek History (Cambridge, MA/London: Harvard University Press, 1998); Cheryl Anne Cox, Household Interests: Property, Marriage Strategies, and Family Dynamics in Ancient Athens (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1998); Geoffrey S. Nathan, The Family in Late Antiquity: The Rise of Christianity and the Endurance of Tradition (London/New York: Routledge, 2000); Jan Willem van Henten and Athalya Brenner, eds., Families and Family Relations in Early Judaisms and Early Christianities: Texts and Fictions (Studies in Theology and Religion 2; Leiden: Deo, 2000); Suzanne Dixon, ed., Childhood, Class and Kin in the Roman World (London/New York: Routledge, 2001); Marc Kleijwegt and Rita Amedick, “Kind,” RAC Supplement (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 2004), 20:865–947. 12 For a survey of Paul’s children/childhood terminology, see tables 1–2; see also von Allmen, La famille de Dieu, XV–LIV; Müller, In der Mitte der Gemeinde, 165–200, esp. 174–75, 188, 191, 196– 200. 13 In addition, concerning adult children, see Rom 16:13 (Rufus and his mother); 1 Cor 5:1–5 (the man living with his “father’s wife”, probably his stepmother); and possibly Phlm 2 (Archippus as son of Apphia and Philemon?); also Rom 16:15. See O. Larry Yarbrough, “Parents and Children in the Letters of Paul,” in The Social World of the First Christians: Essays in Honor of Wayne A. Meeks (ed. L. Michael White and O. Larry Yarbrough; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), 127–29. Most other occurrences have to do with the past, particularly with children mentioned in Scripture. 14 For discussions of this, see Aasgaard, My Beloved Brothers and Sisters, 24–29, 306–12; Burke, Family Matters, 27–28, 250–56.

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phorical? Or does it in fact imply that Christians—in a more real sense—have received a new father, for example, in a manner compatible with the practice of adoption in the Greco-Roman societies?15 Another way of categorizing is to distinguish between a relational and a lifestage usage of the childhood terminology.16 In the former, the focus is on familial relationships, particularly the parent–child relationship (e.g., God as father) or the sibling relationship (Christians as brothers and sisters). Here age is often an element of minor relevance, for example, when Christians are described as children of God. In several cases, however, the child is obviously construed as an adult, for example, in Phil 2:22, where Paul speaks of Timothy as a tevknon. Further, when Christians are said to be one another’s siblings, the relationship described is not that of minors, but of grown-up brothers and sisters. Very many instances in Paul are of such a relational kind. In the life-stage usage, however, childhood terminology clearly refers to children proper, that is, to children as minors. Such usage also occurs often in Paul, for example, of the Corinthians as “infants in Christ” (1 Cor 3:1) or of an underage child as heir (nhvpio" [Gal 4:1]). The latter example shows that it is not always possible to distinguish between the two: life-stage usage may intersect with relational usage. Although the relational/life stage distinction is not very productive in the analysis of Paul, it is nonetheless necessary as an aid to prevent confusion; thus, it will be utilized on some occasions below. A third approach will be particularly important here, however, namely, categorizing according to semantic fields. Peter Müller has very usefully outlined the word field “child” in the NT as a whole by dividing the field into four main areas: kinship, social position, formation, and belonging.17 This kind of sorting allows for a far more adequate and precise, yet flexible analysis of the material than the categorizations above, not least since the four areas (with subareas) are much in keeping with the main dimensions of children’s life in antiquity. As they are also clearly helpful for analyzing the Pauline material more specifically, I employ this division below, with emphasis on the first three areas, addressing the most important texts. See tables 1–2 for fairly complete surveys.

15 James M. Scott, Adoption as Sons of God: An Exegetical Investigation into the Background of UIOQESIA in the Pauline Corpus (WUNT 2/48; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1992), esp. 267–70. 16 This distinction is particularly elucidated by Müller (In der Mitte der Gemeinde) and Balla (Child-Parent Relationship). Andreas Michel has expanded on this theoretically and as concerns children in the Hebrew Bible (Gott und Gewalt gegen Kinder im Alten Testament [FAT 37; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003]). Even though he deals exclusively with children in a concrete sense, his distinctions are nevertheless fully applicable to the NT material. Stephen Bertman deals extensively with parent–youth relationships (The Conflict of Generations in Ancient Greece and Rome (ed. Stephen Bertman; Amsterdam: Grüner, 1976). 17 “Verwandschaft,” “Gesellschaftliche Stellung,” “Erziehung,” and “Zugehörigkeit,” respectively. See the map in Müller, In der Mitte der Gemeinde, 197; for a detailed survey, see ibid., 165–200, esp. 197–200.

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Journal of Biblical Literature 126, no. 1 (2007) Table 1 Children- and Childhood-related Terms and Expressions in Paul, Alphabetically Sorted

a[mwma, Phil 2:15 ajpeiqhv", Rom 1:30 ajporfanivzw, 1 Thess 2:17 a[frwn, Rom 2:20 gavla, 1 Cor 3:2 gasthvr, 1 Thess 5:3 geneav, Phil 2:15 gennavw, Rom 9:11; 1 Cor 4:15; Gal 4:23, 24, 29; Phlm 10 genovmenon ejk gunaikov", Gal 4:4 goneuv", Rom 1:30; 2 Cor 12:14 (2x) gunai'kav . . . tou' patrov", 1 Cor 5:1 didavskalo", Rom 2:20; 1 Cor 12:28, 29 e[ktrwma, 1 Cor 15:8 ejpivtropo", Gal 4:2 qhsaurivzw, 2 Cor 12, 14 qugavthr, 2 Cor 6:18 klhronomevw, 1 Cor 6:9, 10; 15:50 (2x); Gal 4:30; 5:21 klhronomiva, Gal 3:18 klhronovmo", Rom 4:13, 14; 8:17 (2x); Gal 3:29; 4:1, 7 koiliva, Gal 1:15 mevro" (ejk mevrou"), 1 Cor 13:9 (2x), 10, 12 mhvthr, Rom 16:13; Gal 1:15; 4:26 mimhthv", 1 Cor 4:16 morfovomai, Gal 4:19 nhpiavzw, 1 Cor 14:20 nhvpio", Rom 2:20; 1 Cor 3:1; 13:11 (5x); Gal 4:1, 3; 1 Thess 2:7 nouqetevw, 1 Cor 4:14 oijkonovmo", Gal 4:2 paidagwgov", 1 Cor 4:15; Gal 3:24, 25 paideuthv", Rom 2:20 paideuvw, 1 Cor 11:32; 2 Cor 6:9

paidivon,1 Cor 14:20 parakalevw, 1 Cor 4:16; 2 Cor 1:4 (3x), 6; Phlm 9, 10 paravklhsi", 2 Cor 1:3, 4, 5, 6 (2x), 7 pathvr, Rom 4:11, 12 (2x), 16, 17, 18; 6:4; 8:15; 9:5, 10; 11:28; 15:6, 8; 1 Cor 1:3; 4:15; 5:1; 8:6; 10:1; 15:24; 2 Cor 1:2, 3 (2x); 6:18; 11:31; Gal 1:3, 4; 4:2, 6; Phil 1:2; 2:11, 22; 4:20; 1 Thess 1:1, 3; 2:11; 3:11, 13; Phlm 3 pistov", 1 Cor 4:17 propavtwr, Rom 4:1 prwtovtoko", Rom 8:29 rJavbdo", 1 Cor 4:21 spevrma, Rom 1:3; 4:13, 16, 18; 9:7 (2x), 8, 29; 11:1; 2 Cor 11:22; Gal 3:16 (3x), 19, 29 stei'ra, Gal 4:27 sugklhronovmo", Rom 8:17 suvmmorfo", Rom 8:29 sunwdivnw, Rom 8:22 tevknon, Rom 8:16, 17, 21; 9:7, 8 (3x); 1 Cor 4:14, 17; 7:14; 2 Cor 6:13; 12:14 (2x); Gal 4:19, 25, 27, 28, 31; Phil 2:15, 22; 1 Thess 2:7, 11; Phlm 10 tevleio", 1 Cor 13:10; 14:20 tivktw, Gal 4:27 uiJoqesiva, Rom 8:15, 23; 9:4; Gal 4:5 uiJov", Rom 1:3, 4, 9; 5:10; 8:3, 14, 19, 29, 32; 9:9, 26, 27; 1 Cor 1:9; 15:28; 2 Cor 1:19; 3:7, 13; 6:18; Gal 1:16; 2:20; 3:7, 26; 4:4, 6 (2x), 7 (2x), 22, 30 (3x); 1 Thess 1:10; 5:5 (2x) wjdivn, 1 Thess 5:3 wjdivnw, Gal 4:19, 27

Some of these terms occur also elsewhere, but with less, or no, relevance to the issue of children/childhood. In addition, a few other terms may be relevant; see didaskaliva, didavskw, didachv, paidivskh, paivzw, prokophv, summorfivzomai, sustenavzw, teleiovw.

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Table 2 Children/Childhood Terminology in Paul, Thematically Sorted The classifications are a matter of judgment. When a verse number is repeated, each entry refers to a different Greek term. An asterisk (*) indicates that the word also has an entry in another group.

I. Kinship Succession Birth gennavw, gasthvr, genovmenon ejk gunaikov", koiliva, prwtovtoko", stei'ra, sunwdivnw, tivktw, wjdivn, wjdivnw Rom 8:22, 29; Gal 1:15*; 4:4*, 19*, 4:27, 27, 27; 1 Thess 5:3; Phlm 10 Son of God (Jesus Christ) uiJov" Rom 1:3, 4, 9; 5:10; 8:3, 29, 32; 1 Cor 1:9; 15:28; 2 Cor 1:19; Gal 1:16; 2:20; 4:4; 4:6; 1 Thess 1:10 Children of God (Christians) qugavthr, tevknon, uiJov" Rom 8:14, 16, 17*, 19, 21; 9:8, 26; 2 Cor 6:18, 18; Gal 3:26; 4:6, 7* (2x), 28; Phil 2:15* Children of forefathers spevrma, tevknon, uiJov" Rom 1:3; 4:13, 16, 18; 9:7, 7, 8, 9, 27, 29; 11:1; 2 Cor 3:7, 13; 11:22; Gal 3:7, 16 (3x), 19, 29; 4:22, 25, 27, 31

Child(ren) of Paul pathvr, tevknon, wjdivnw 1 Cor 4:14*, 17*; Gal 4:19*, 19*; Phil 2:22; 1 Thess 2:11*; Phlm 10 Paul as son/child ajporfanivzw, e[ktrwma, koiliva, mhvthr, tevknon Rom 16:13*; 1 Cor 13:11* (4x); 15:8*; Gal 1:15*; 1 Thess 2:7*, 17* Children of “others” genovmenon ejk gunaikov", pathvr, tevknon Rom 9:8 (2x); 1 Cor 4:15*; 2 Cor 12:14* (2x); Gal 4:4*; 1 Thess 5:5 (2x) Transfer of property qhsaurivzw, klhronomevw, klhronomiva, klhronovmo", sugklhronovmo", tevknon, uiJoqesiva Rom 4:13, 14; 8:15, 17* (2x), 17, 23; 9:4; 1 Cor 6:9, 10; 15:50 (2x); 2 Cor 12:14* (2x), 14; Gal 3:18, 29; 4:1*, 5, 7*, 30; 5:21 Divorce tevknon 1 Cor 7:14*

II. Social position ajporfanivzw, a[frwn, e[ktrwma, gavla, klhronovmo", koiliva, mhvthr, nhpiavzw, nhvpio", paidivon, tevknon, uiJov" Rom 2:20*, 20*; 16:13*; 1 Cor 3:1*, 2*; 4:14*, 17*; 5:1; 13:11* (4x); 14:20*, 20*; 15:8*; 2 Cor 6:13*; 12:14* (2x); Gal 1:15*; 4:1*, 3, 7* (2x), 7*; Phil 2:15*; 1 Thess 2:7*, 7*, 17* III. Formation a[frwn, gavla, nhpiavzw, nhvpio", paidagwgov", paideuvw, paidivon, pathvr, rJavbdo", tevknon Rom 2:20*, 20*; 1 Cor 3:1*, 2*; 4:15*, 15, 21; 11:32; 13:11* (4x); 14:20*, 20*; 2 Cor 6:9, 13*; Gal 3:24, 25; 4:19*; 1 Thess 2:7*, 11* IV. Belonging See also Children of God, Children of forefathers tevknon 1 Cor 7:14*

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I. Kinship A majority of the instances of childhood terminology in Paul belong to this group, and they are often stereotypical in character.18 They deal only with a few interconnected yet still distinguishable issues. Most occurrences have traditionally been termed metaphorical (e.g., God as father/Christians as children) and may also be regarded as relational (dealing with parent–child relationships without reference to age, though often with an eye to the interest of adults). Both in frequency and in character, this parent/child language reflects central concerns in antiquity: producing children was a means of securing succession (regeneration, descendants) and of transferring property (material inheritance and cultural heritage).19 The former was also very much seen as a measure taken by parents in order to secure their own safety in old age.20

Succession In Paul, succession is by far the most common category. It can be divided into four subgroups. The first three generally give little information beyond stating a particular relationship: (1) Jesus as Son of God (e.g., Rom 1:3–4; 1 Cor 1:9; Gal 2:20); (2) believers as children of God (e.g., Rom 8:14–21; Gal 3:26); and (3) believers as descendants of Israel generally (e.g., 2 Cor 3:7, 13), of Abraham (e.g., Rom 9:7–9; Gal 3:15–18), and of Sara and Hagar (Gal 4:21–31). Here (2) and (3) are mainly traditional notions taken over from the Hebrew Bible; see, for example, 2 Cor 6:18. In this system of succession Jesus occupies an in-between position: he is God’s “Son, born of a woman” (Gal 4:4) and also descended from David (Rom 1:3–4). In addition, he is viewed as “the firstborn among many siblings” (aujto;n prwtovtokon ejn polloi'" ajdelfoi'").21 The last subdivision—Christians as children of Paul—yields some more information. In Phil 2:22, Paul presents himself as the father of Timothy, his (adult) “son,” who obeys and supports his father, in accordance with common expectations.22 In Phlm 10, the runaway slave Onesimus is called Paul’s child (tou' ejmou' 18 In

addition, the high frequency of sibling language serves to make this group numerically even more dominating; see Aasgaard, My Beloved Brothers and Sisters, 3–4, 130–36. 19 Aasgaard, My Beloved Brothers and Sisters, 45–46. 20 Tim G. Parkin, Old Age in the Roman World: A Cultural and Social History (Ancient Society and History; Baltimore/London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003), 203–36, esp. 205–15. 21 See Aasgaard, My Beloved Brothers and Sisters, 137–50. 22 Balla, Child-Parent Relationship, 196 n. 60; Carolyn Osiek, Philippians, Philemon (ANTC; Nashville: Abingdon, 2000), 76–77.

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tevknou), whom he has born, or “fathered,” “begotten” (ejgevnnhsa).23 If ejgevnnhsa is here to be interpreted as a general reference to parent–child relations, Onesimus is depicted as an adult child, and the usage is primarily relational.24 However, if ejgevnnhsa refers to giving birth, Onesimus is in the position of a small child, a “newborn.” The noun used, tevknon, gives no clue to what Paul means, but the latter understanding seems the most likely. This finds support in Paul’s mention of the Galatians as children to whom he—like a woman—must once more give birth: “My little children (tevkna mou), for whom I am again in the pain of childbirth” (Gal 4:19). Paul’s use here of himself as a birth-giving mother is striking.25 In both texts, he appears to focus on the burdensome part of childbirth: in Philemon, he is giving birth “in chains” (ejn toi'" desmoi'"; cf. also v. 13),26 in Galatians, he is “in . . . pain” (wjdivnw).27 The final example to be mentioned is 1 Cor 4:14–16. In this passage, Paul describes the Corinthians as his children (tevkna mou), whom he has “fathered” (ejgevnnhsa) in Christ—here ejgevnnhsa is explicitly male oriented (cf. v. 15b, patevra")—and over whom he has a right that goes far beyond that of “pedagogues” 23 See Markus Barth and Helmut Blanke, The Letter to Philemon: A New Translation with Notes and Commentary (Eerdmans Critical Commentary; Grand Rapids/Cambridge: Eerdmans, 2000), 324–29, 336–38, 329–35 (excursus) for a discussion of the meaning of this term. 24 Ronald F. Hock, “A Support for His Old Age: Paul’s Plea on Behalf of Onesimus,” in Social World of the First Christians, ed White and Yarbrough, 78–80. Hock holds that Paul is here playing on ideas of children’s responsibilities for taking care of parents in their old age. 25 Beverly Roberts Gaventa, “The Maternity of Paul: An Exegetical Study of Galatians 4:19,” in The Conversation Continues: Studies in Paul and John in Honor of J. Louis Martyn (ed. Robert T. Fortna and Beverly Roberts Gaventa; Nashville: Abingdon, 1990), 191–94, 198–99. Gaventa holds that the metaphor of birth in Gal 4:19 reflects Paul’s apocalyptic thinking: the text “employs a conventional metaphor—that of the anguish of a woman in labor—to identify Paul’s apostolic work with the apocalyptic expectation of the whole created order” (p. 191); see also Rom 8:22. To an extent I agree in this; however, I also think that Paul’s use of the metaphor—not least because of its noncosmic, individualistic use here—is very closely related to its original source domain, the social world with its birth-giving women. See also Beverly Roberts Gaventa, “Our Mother St. Paul: Toward the Recovery of a Neglected Theme,” PSB 17 (1996): 37–39, reprinted in A Feminist Companion to Paul (ed. AmyJill Levine and Marianne Blickenstaff; Cleveland: Pilgrim, 2004), 85–97; also J. Louis Martyn, Galatians: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 33A; New York: Doubleday, 1998), 423–25, 426–30. Strictly speaking, it is not the Galatians who are being born (again), but Christ who “is formed (morfwqh'/)” in them; a transformation is to take place in them. See also section below under “The Aim of Formation.” See also Gaventa, “Maternity of Paul,” 194–97; I only partly agree with her conclusion but this cannot be developed here. 26 It is likely that Paul not only is using a technical term for being in prison, but also underscores the burdensome nature of this birth. See Barth and Blanke, Letter to Philemon, 336. 27 On the use of wjdivnw in connection with birth, see Gaventa, “The Maternity of Paul,” 19294. A metaphor of birthing is also employed in Rom 8:22-23 (sunwdivnei, of creation “groaning in labor pains”), see Luzia Sutter Rehman, “To Turn the Groaning into Labor: Romans 8.22–23,” in Levine and Blickenstaff, A Feminist Companion to Paul, 74–84. Rehman emphasizes that Paul’s use of the metaphor does not imply passive suffering, but action: giving birth as active work.

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(paidagwgouv"; also Gal 3:24–25). We shall return to this passage later (see “Children as Beloved” below). In addition, Paul reflects awareness of problems concerning succession, namely, the common threat of childlessness; see the reference in Gal 4:27 to Isa 54:1 LXX: “Rejoice, you childless one, you who bear no children . . . you who endure no birthpangs.”28

Transfer of Property The group of texts on transfer of property is numerically the second largest.29 Usually, Paul deals with this in a metaphorical sense, that is, with reference to his Jewish and Christian heritage: he speaks of being heirs of Abraham (Gal 3:29) and God (Rom 8:17), and of inheriting the kingdom of God (1 Cor 6:9–10; 15:50; Gal 3:21). However, he can also on occasion address issues of material inheritance: 1 Cor 6:1–11 may be about Christians taking one another to court over inheritance matters.30 Generally, Paul’s use of this terminology shows that he shares current notions about inheritance and transfers and exploits them in the religious—that is, Christian—domain. Galatians 4:1–7 is characteristic; here Paul speaks of the position of a child in the household and also introduces the concept of adoption (uiJoqesiva). This is one of very few examples in the category of kinship in which Paul has a child proper in view: such a child (nhvpio") is equivalent to a slave in terms of rights, and “remain[s] under guardians (ejpitrovpou") and trustees (oijkonovmou") until the date set (proqesmiva) by the father” (v. 2). Here Paul employs near-technical terms related to inheritance laws and the making of wills,31 and the picture he presents of childhood is a period of dependency and inferiority. However, he also considers Christians to be beyond this: in Christ they are no longer in a slavish position (v. 3: dedoulwmevnoi) under evil powers; rather, they have become adult children (v. 6: uiJoiv). As heirs of God they will “receive adoption” (v. 5), and they have already— 28 For a survey of the views of antiquity, see Peter Thrams and Wolfram Drews, “Kinderlosigkeit,” RAC Supplement, 20:947–64, with numerous references; see also Rawson, Children and Childhood, 119. The state of childlessness was often connected with a “horror of intestacy”; see Aasgaard, My Beloved Brothers and Sisters, 79. 29 Surprisingly, Müller has not included inheritance within the semantic field of kinship, even though it is one of the most important elements, see Aasgaard, My Beloved Brothers and Sisters, 66– 70, 77–81, 89–92, also 144–45, 224–26. 30 Aasgaard, My Beloved Brothers and Sisters, 222–26, 235–36. 31 Frank J. Matera, Galatians (SP 9; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press), 148–49, with references; also Hans Dieter Betz, Galatians: A Commentary on Paul’s Letter to the Churches in Galatia (Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1979), 203–4; Derek R. Moore-Crispin, “Galatians 4:1–9: The Use and Abuse of Parallels,” EvQ 60 (1989): 203–23.

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as a deposit—been gifted with the Spirit (v. 6). The idea of adoption recurs in more detail in Romans, applied to Christians (8:15, 23) and to Israel (9:4).32 Paul also displays awareness of a problem familiar in antiquity, namely, illegitimate inheritance. This he hints at in Gal 4:30: “Drive out the slave and her child; for the child of the slave will not share the inheritance with the child of the free woman” (cf. Gen 21:9).33 It is important that Paul not only focuses on the position of children as heirs but also consciously turns the tables. In his self-presentation to the Corinthians in 2 Cor 12:14–15, he underscores his obligation as their spiritual father. He is to give and not to take from them: “for children ought (ojfeivlei) not to lay up for their parents, but parents for their children.” Thus, Paul views the relationship from the perspective of the “weaker” party: it is the older generation who must act for the benefit of their descendants, who are relieved from such a burden. Although Paul is probably echoing a traditional saying in antiquity, it is nonetheless striking that he emphasizes such a thought so strongly here.34 He even develops this idea of parental renunciation by stating subsequently that he himself “will most gladly spend and be spent for you [i.e. the Corinthians].”

Children and Divorce In his letters Paul deals only once with an issue in which children are directly involved. This is in 1 Cor 7:14, where he addresses an instance of (potential or experienced) family conflict, viz., the enigmatic statement about children with parents of mixed faith. In vv. 12–16, he discusses whether a believer should remain in marriage with a nonbeliever. In Paul’s opinion, the Christian should stay married, since an unbelieving spouse is “made holy” (hJgivastai) through the believer, and—as an additional result—the children are no longer “unclean” (ajkavqarta), but “holy” (a{gia).35 Although the precise meaning of the statement is uncertain, Paul here has a view to the welfare of children: the marriage serves to secure their religious standing, as “holy.” At the same time, however, children are obviously not Paul’s primary concern; they are only mentioned ad hoc. This becomes clear in v. 15, in

32 For a detailed discussion of the meaning of uiJoqesiva in these texts, see Scott, Adoption as Sons of God, esp. chs. 3 and 5; for adoption, foster children, and displaced children in general, see Rawson, Children and Childhood, 250–63, with references. See also Müller, In der Mitte der Gemeinde, 300. 33 Aasgaard, My Beloved Brothers and Sisters, 79, with references. 34 See Yarbrough, “Parents and Children in the Letters of Paul,” 131, 134–36, with references. 35 Paul’s formulations may here indicate that he thinks of children who are not baptized; see Müller, In der Mitte der Gemeinde, 358.

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which he permits divorce if this is the wish of the nonbeliever,36 and in v. 16, where he appeals to the believing spouse’s concern for the partner. In neither case are the children mentioned: focus is clearly on the interests and religious responsibilities of adult Christians.37 Paul may have had an idea that children in cases of divorce would stay holy if they remained with the Christian parent.38 In light of v. 14b, however, it seems more likely that he views the holiness of children as depending on two elements: that the parents are married and that at least one of them is a believer. It is nonetheless worth noting that he does not develop further the implications for the children of a divorce; such a perspective is obviously not the first to come to his mind.

II. Social Position The second main group of texts has to do with the position of children in society and family life. Usually the texts refer to children proper (life stage), although a relational element is sometimes involved. The texts are relatively few but are of considerable interest, since they generally have more to say on the issue of children and childhood than did the kinship material and they present a more complex picture of Paul’s attitudes and strategies.

The Premature Child Twice Paul refers to a prenatal child, a fetus—in both cases himself. In the first, Gal 1:15, he speaks of himself as already chosen by God in his mother’s womb. The statement echoes Ps 139:13, the psalmist being “knit . . . together in . . . (his) mother’s womb,” and also alludes to Isa 49:1, 5–6, thus implying that Paul’s calling is parallel to that of Isaiah. In this way, Paul skillfully employs Scripture to support his claim to true apostleship. Implicitly, although this is not an issue per se, he also gives expression to certain ideas about a fetus: that it is formed (“knit”) by God, that it is human (at least potentially; see “Children as Immature” below), and that 36 On Paul’s restrictive view of divorce, see O. Larry Yarbrough, Not Like the Gentiles: Marriage Rules in the Letters of Paul (SBLDS 80; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1985), 112–14; also idem, “Parents and Children in the Letters of Paul,” 139–40. 37 Yarbrough, “Parents and Children in the Letters of Paul,” 129–30; also J. Dorcas Gordon, Sister or Wife? 1 Corinthians 7 and Cultural Anthropology (JSNTSup 149; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 123–24, with references. 38 They would thus also remain part of the local Christian community (“the holy”); see Müller, In der Mitte der Gemeinde, 360–61; L. William Countryman, Dirt, Greed, and Sex: Sexual Ethics in the New Testament and Their Implications for Today (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1988), 209–10. Normally, the father and his family of origin would have the right to children in case of divorce.

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its “person” is already present in core (see “The Aim of Formation” below). With this, Paul very much mirrors Jewish notions about a fetus. Though differences should not be overstated, the Jewish idea about human beings being created in the likeness of God (Gen 1:26) appears to have contributed to a higher status for the fetus than was typical in antiquity, for example, with more restrictive attitudes toward abortion.39 Although it is clearly beyond the scope of his thought in Gal 1:15, Paul nonetheless indirectly reflects such a valuation of the fetus here. The other mention of a prenatal child is the striking utterance in 1 Cor 15:8, where, at the end of his description of Christ’s post-Easter appearances, Paul tells about his own calling: “Last of all, as to one untimely born (wJsperei; tw'/ ejktrwvmati), he appeared also to me.” The way Paul expresses himself, as an e[ktrwma, is both unusual and unexpected. The word can also be translated “miscarriage” or “aborted child.” The phenomenon of premature birth was very common in antiquity.40 As a result of the general living conditions, a great number of infants died, and the status of a newborn was very low.41 A premature child would be even more vulnerable and socially marginal, in view of its small chances of survival. The word e[ktrwma, which occurs only here in the NT, is extremely rare in nonbiblical classical sources.42 It is used only three times in the Septuagint, each time referring to a state of great unhappiness: Num 12:12 says of the leprosy of Miriam: “Do not let her be like one stillborn, whose flesh is half consumed when it comes out of its mother’s womb”; the Ecclesiast in Qoh 6:3 bewails that the human being who “does not enjoy life’s good things, or has no burial” is worse off than an e[ktrwma; and the ill-fated Job in 3:16 curses the day that he was born. Both Job and 39 For abortion practice and views in antiquity, see Andreas Lindemann, “‘Do Not Let a Woman Destroy the Unborn Babe in Her Belly’: Abortion in Ancient Judaism and Christianity,” ST 49 (1995): 253–71; O. M. Bakke, When Children Became People: The Birth of Childhood in Early Christianity (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2005), 110–39, 149–51. 40 Rawson, Children and Childhood, 103, 116–17. 41 This is reflected inter alia in the (occasional) practice that fathers at birth would lift the child up from the ground as a sign of acceptance and of the child’s right to enter into the society of human beings; see, e.g., Eva Marie Lassen, “The Roman Family: Ideal and Metaphor,” in Constructing Early Christian Families, ed. Moxnes, 104–5, esp. n. 5, with references; Mireille Corbier, “Child Exposure and Abandonment,” in Childhood, Class and Kin, ed. Dixon, 58–60. For the living conditions of children in antiquity, see, e.g., Aasgaard, My Beloved Brothers and Sisters, 37–39, with references. 42 According to TLG, the term occurs before Paul (in securely datable sources) only once in Aristotle (384–322 b.c.e.), Gen. an. 4.5.18 (LCL), in the sense of “abortion,” and twice in Philo (20 b.c.e.–40 c.e.), Leg. 1.76 (LCL), in the sense of “miscarriage” or “stillborn.” The passage in Philo, which is an interpretation of Num 12:12, has some features in common with Paul. See also BDAG, 3rd ed., s.v., e[ktrwma, p. 311, with references. For discussions of various interpretations of Paul’s use of the word, see George W. E. Nickelsburg, “An e[ktrwma, Though Appointed from the Womb: Paul’s Apostolic Self-Description in 1 Corinthians 15 and Galatians 1,” in Christians among Jews and Gentiles (ed. George W. E. Nickelsburg and George W. MacRae; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986), 198–205; Markus Schaefer, “Paulus, ‘Fehlgeburt’ oder ‘unvernünftiges Kind’?” ZNW 85 (1994): 209–17 (who sees in 1 Cor 15:8 a reference to Hos 13:13).

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the author of Qoheleth conclude that they would have been better off being a “stillborn child.” Paul’s usage probably echoes texts such as these, although he does not, as they do, use the term in the sense of stillborn, but rather to mean prematurely born, or possibly born with some kind of physical deficit.43 In any case, the harshness of his expression is obvious, and the question becomes pressing: Why is Paul describing himself in this way? One answer to this is to say that he is here simply making use of a very striking metaphor to refer to his apostolic call at Damascus (9:1). A more contextually related—and more likely—explanation, however, is that he is here responding to opposition in Corinth. As part of their criticism, the opponents have characterized him as an e[ktrwma, that is, as lacking a calling that could legitimate his apostleship. Instead of protesting, Paul adopts their derogatory description but uses it positively, in favor of himself and his message, possibly modeled on the practice of selfderogation known from the prophets of the Hebrew Bible (e.g., Isa 6:5; Jer 1:6).44 According to such an interpretation, Paul employs a consciously drafted strategy by which he defends his position as an apostle.45 Whatever the explanation, it must nonetheless be said that Paul’s use of e[ktrwma here is daring—indeed, so daring that the question must be raised whether the idea of such a strategy is tenable (this is a matter to which I shall return in the final discussion). In any case, the expression emphasizes the contrast between what he himself is and what he has attained, that is, between his own humble position and the magnitude of his message and of God’s grace: “But by the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace toward me has not been in vain. On the contrary” (1 Cor 15:10).46 Thus, he is not to be judged on the basis of what he or others say about him, but on what he has achieved, among other things, by making the Corinthians into believers (v. 11).47

Orphaned Children In 1 Thess 2:17 Paul mentions his brief but sorrowful separation from the Thessalonians and describes this as being “orphaned” (ajporfanisqevnte"), the only occurrence of this word in the NT. The term has been read in two different ways. 43 If the latter is the case, Paul may be referring to his “thorn . . . in the flesh (skovloy th'/ sarkiv)” (2 Cor 12:7), or that he may have been small in stature (Latin paullus, “small”). 44 See Nickelsburg, “e[ktrwma,” 198–99; Raymond F. Collins, First Corinthians (SP 7; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1999), 537. 45 For such an interpretation, see Collins, First Corinthians, 532–33. 46 Nickelsburg, “e[ktrwma,” 204–5; Schaefer, “Paulus, ‘Fehlgeburt’ oder ‘unvernünftiges Kind’,” 216–17. 47 This “turning of the tables” does not necessarily imply that Paul here intends to upgrade the status of an e[ktrwma; rather, he bases his argument on its low position. In effect, however, the use of this metaphor may enhance the status of such a child.

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Traditionally it has been understood in a general sense, as Paul being “bereft of ” or “taken/torn away from” the Thessalonians.48 According to this interpretation, Paul depicts himself as being separated from them, or even—in the position of a father— as being made childless.49 If, however, ajporfanisqevnte" is read instead in accordance with its basic meaning, with a more pregnant sense, Paul appears in the position of a child who has been orphaned. The former interpretation seems usually to take its point of departure in a general idea of Paul’s superiority as apostle, or in the description in 2:11 (and elsewhere) of him as father. The notion of Paul as orphan has been viewed as incompatible with this, but for several reasons it appears to be the more likely interpretation.50 In other Greek sources, the word ajporfanisqevnte" is always used to mean “orphaned.”51 It also seems strange that Paul would employ such a special term unless in its more pregnant sense. Moreover, Paul is not fully consistent in his use of metaphors; he often—sometimes all of a sudden—changes perspective.52 An example occurs even in the present context, in the abrupt shift from child (or nurse) in 2:7 to father in 2:11. Consequently, Paul here characterizes himself (and probably his co-senders— note the first person plural) from the perspective of a child, and—again—of a child in a particularly vulnerable position in antiquity, a parentless child. His way of expressing himself in 2:17—and in much of the passage—appears strongly emotionally colored,53 and the metaphor must have been intended, and perceived, as striking.54 Thus, Paul presents himself not as a father longing for his children but as an orphan yearning—hopelessly—for its parents. What is conveyed through the metaphor in terms of power is not parental care or authority but the helplessness and marginalization of an orphaned child.55 48 See the brief presentation in Earl J. Richard, First and Second Thessalonians (SP 11; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1995), 128–29; and the discussion in Burke, Family Matters, 157–60. For the former understanding, see the translations in NASB, Amplified Bible, NAB; for the latter, see the KJV and the NIV. 49 This is the interpretation of, e.g., Traugott Holtz, Der erste Brief an die Thessalonicher (EKKNT 13; Zurich: Benziger; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1986), 115; Richard, First and Second Thessalonians, 128–29. 50 This is also the interpretation of a growing number of scholars. See Abraham J. Malherbe, The Letters to the Thessalonians: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 32B; New York: Doubleday, 2000), 187–88; Burke, Family Matters, 158–60, with references; Aasgaard, My Beloved Brothers and Sisters, 288–89. 51 On the basis of an analysis of the occurrences of the term in Greek literature, this has been argued convincingly by John B. Faulkenberry Miller, “Infants and Orphans in 1 Thess. 2.7” (paper delivered November 20, 1999, at the annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature, Boston, Massachusetts). 52 See Aasgaard, My Beloved Brothers and Sisters, 287–89; also 29–31. 53 Also emphasized by Burke, Family Matters, 159, and others. 54 This is the opinion of Beverly Roberts Gaventa, First and Second Thessalonians (Interpretation; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1998), 41; Burke, Family Matters, 159–60. 55 Paul may, however, also have had ideas from the OT and OT Apocrypha in mind, with their

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Children as Immature In antiquity, children were viewed as immature: they were physical in character, bodily weak, emotionally unstable, and intellectually deficient and were thus unable to reach the standard of the ideal human being, which was the fully grown (male) adult. Although people had an understanding of childhood as a life stage with its own characteristics and value, children were nevertheless perceived to be unfinished: they were humans-to-be.56 Paul very much conforms to this pattern. Interestingly, the imagery of the immature child surfaces particularly in his advice to the Christians in Corinth. In 1 Cor 2:6–3:4 he addresses their misperception of wisdom and their internal strife. He characterizes this as a lack of maturity: they risk being “un-spiritual” or “natural” (yucikov" [2:14]), and even being “as people of the flesh” (wJ" sarkivnoi" [3:1]). They fall short of the ideal, which is to be “spiritual” (oJ . . . pneumatikov" [2:15]) or “perfect” (teleivoi" [2:6]), and to have the mind of Christ (nou'" [2:16b]), that is, the spiritual faculties and attitudes characteristic of him. In sum, they are for Paul like children. Even more, he has to communicate with them as if they were babies (wJ" nhpivoi" [3:1]). He must again feed them with milk, instead of solid food (v. 2). Here infancy is employed as an illustration of religious inadequacy: the Corinthians have fallen down to a stage below what is required. Putting himself in a position of power, Paul is the one able to nurture them. It is nonetheless conspicuous that he also here (see “Succession” above; Gal 4:19) views himself in a female role, as a breastfeeding mother or a nursemaid. This metaphor signals not primarily authority and correction but rather care and provision.57 In 1 Cor 14:20, Paul strikes a similar note: when criticizing the misuse of spiritual gifts, he admonishes the Corinthians not to “be children (paidiva) in . . . thinking (fresivn); rather, be infants (nhpiavzete) in evil, but in thinking be adults (tevleioi).” Again, they are likened to children, and even infants, and the ideal is to become adults, mature. Paul here employs the same term as in 2:6, tevlei- (“perfect”). Frhvn is a hapax legomenon in the NT and connotes mature reflection and insight as opposed to childish emotionality.58 In the same way, Paul in Rom 2:20 speaks about the law-abiding Jew as viewing himself as “a corrector of the foolish (paideuth;n ajfrovnwn), a teacher of children (didavskalon nhpivwn), having in the law the embodiment of knowledge.” Here

emphasis on God’s special concern for widows and orphans (Exod 22:22; Deut 10:18; etc.; also John 14:18; Jas 1:27). If so, Paul is also as an orphan under the protection of God. 56 See, e.g., Wiedemann, Adults and Children, 17–25; Golden, Children and Childhood, 1–12. 57 Müller, In der Mitte der Gemeinde, 298–99; Gaventa, “Our Mother St. Paul,” 32–33; Collins, First Corinthians, 140–41, 143; Balla, Child-Parent Relationship, 183–84, 191–92. See also below under “Formation as a Process.” 58 Collins, First Corinthians, 507; also Müller, In der Mitte der Gemeinde, 297–98.

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his “students” are compared to children, who are depicted as lacking good judgment (a[frwn) and knowledge. The idea of the child as unfinished is developed in greatest detail, however, in 1 Corinthians 13, the “love hymn.” In v. 11, Paul follows up the “I”-perspective introduced in 12:31b–13:3. It is a matter of discussion whether the first person singular refers to Paul or to humans more generally. In 12:31b, however, he is clearly referring to himself, and it seems reasonable that this also is the case in the following, but as an archetypal model for human—and Christian—development. If so, Paul is here explicitly speaking of his own childhood experience. By referring to his own maturing, he shows the Corinthians a “way” (cf. 12:31b) from childishness to adult maturity. Once again, the latter is described as a state of perfection: to; tevleion, whereas the former is depicted as fragmentary, partial: to; ejk mevrou" (v. 10). In the course of ch. 13, Paul develops the idea of love in a way that goes beyond human limits and turns love into a divine and eschatological entity. It is to describe the contrast between what is and what will be that he employs the metaphors of childhood and adulthood.59 In v. 11, childhood and adult age are contrasted with regard to speech, thinking, and reasoning: “When I was a child, I spoke . . . thought . . . reasoned like a child.” Here the child is—in a positive manner—viewed as having rational faculties similar to those of an adult. At the same time, however, the child’s ability to utilize these faculties falls short of what is required, and Paul underscores the deplorable state of the child—and of the immature human being—by his triple repetition of “like a child” (wJ" nhvpio"). The transition from the one state to the other he describes as to “nullify” or “do away with” (katarghqhvsetai) what is childish (ta; tou' nhpivou). Katargevw occurs frequently elsewhere in 1 Corinthians (see also 13:8 and 10) and in other Pauline letters. The term is often, as here, used emphatically, marking a drastic difference between what was and what is.60 Although he is primarily concerned with contrasting the present human state with what is to come—and thus may overstate his case concerning the relation between child and adult—the contrast between the two nonetheless appears very marked. In v. 12, Paul expounds on the preparatory and imperfect character of childhood, now with a particular view to knowledge, the special interest of the Corinthians: being a child implies seeing “in a mirror, dimly,” and having only fragmentary knowledge (ginwvskw ejk mevrou"), as opposed to the adult state of seeing “face to face” and having a full understanding (ejpignwvsomai).

59 This

seems to have a parallel in Philo (Fug. 172–73), who in a context of formation and learning holds that only God is able to provide supreme perfection. See also below under “The Aim of Formation.” 60 In other contexts it refers to being “cut off from” Christ (Gal 5:4; cf. also 5:11) and from God’s promises (Rom 4:14; also Gal 3:17) or—more positively—to be “discharged from the law” (Rom 7:6), or the destruction of death (1 Cor 15:26; cf. also 1:28) and of the “body of sin” (Rom 6:6).

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Such characterizations do not in themselves imply that Paul downgrades childhood in terms of value; these passages can be read as his attempt at a matterof-fact description of a small child (nhvpio").61 But in the context of the letter—the Corinthians’ “childish” claim about their “mature” wisdom—and of ch. 13—the contrast between a former imperfect and a present/future perfect stage—the state of childhood emerges primarily as something negative, although Paul also seems aware of children’s potential (see v. 11). The opposite of the childish state is maturity, or more precisely, the mature man (v. 11: ajnhvr). It seems likely that Paul here has himself as a male adult in view (see above), although he may also indirectly refer to human beings in general, both male and female, but from the perspective of maturity as a male characteristic.62 As for his presentation of himself (provided that “I” is self-referential), Paul’s point in vv. 11–12 is to communicate that his childish state is in the past and that he now possesses the qualities of an adult. He has moved beyond the childish ways (e.g., of the Corinthians) and can speak to the Corinthians with the authority of a mature man.

Children as Beloved In antiquity, children were looked upon as objects of care and affection, although often in a sentimentalizing way,63 and this view can also be observed in Paul. Although the occurrences are not many, they nonetheless show that he shared similar ideas. In 1 Cor 4:14–16, Paul’s attitude toward the Corinthians is as a father’s should be: they are “beloved” (ajgaphtav [v. 14]).64 Similarly in v. 17, the co-worker Timothy is described as his “beloved and faithful child” (mou tevknon ajgaphto;n kai; pistovn). Thus, Paul presents himself as a loving father of both the addressees and Timothy, his co-worker. It may be that Paul here has the relationship of a father and grown-up children in mind. However, although Timothy is presented as a loyal son performing an adult commission as messenger, it seems more likely that Paul primarily views the Corinthians in terms of underage children; this will become clear below (see “The Agents and Means of Formation”). An interesting instance in which Paul depicts himself as a child is the greet61 This

is the view of, e.g., Collins, First Corinthians, 486. e.g., Collins, First Corinthians, 486; Colleen M. Conway, “‘Behold the Man!’ Masculine Christology and the Fourth Gospel,” in New Testament Masculinities (ed. Stephen D. Moore and Janice Capel Anderson; SemeiaSt 45; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 164–67. 63 See, e.g., Emiel Eyben, “Fathers and Sons,” in Marriage, Divorce, and Children, ed. Rawson, 116–21; Dixon, Roman Family, 98–108. 64 For discussions of this passage, see above, pp. 137–38; see also Yarbrough, “Parents and Children in the Letters of Paul,” 131–32. 62 See,

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ing in Rom 16:13 to Rufus’s mother, who has also been (like) a mother to Paul (th;n mhtevra aujtou' kai; ejmou'). What she has done to be so highly praised Paul does not say, but it is clear that she has given him a sense of being cared for. Since Paul’s main point in the greeting is to underscore the mutual, loving relationship, he does not develop the issue of age; but the setting may imply that he is here thinking in terms of a mother and an adult son.65 A conspicuous case of parental concern for underage children occurs in the much-debated 1 Thess 2:7: here Paul likens the relationship between the Thessalonians and himself to “a nurse tenderly caring for her own children” (trofo;" qavlph/ ta; eJauth'" tevkna). The parent–child relationship is described with a metaphor signaling a strong bond of affection: trofov" may refer to a (breast-feeding) mother, but more likely is employed with its specific meaning, viz., nurse.66 Thus, Paul here visualizes the care shown by a nurse toward her own children, a care that goes beyond the professional care that she is expected to display toward the children of others. The verb qavlph/, which connotes warmth, cherishing, and comfort, also emphasizes this.67 In the following verse, Paul again underscores this same loving relationship: he deeply cares for them (eujdokou'men), and they have “become dear” (ajgaphtoiv) to him. The main reason for the intense scholarly discussion of 1 Thess 2:7, however, is the textual problem in v. 7b. Should the original text be read: “But we were gentle among you” (ejgenhvqhmen h[pioi) or “But we were babies among you” (ejgenhvqhmen nhvpioi)?68 The answer to this question is of little consequence for understanding the metaphor itself, though reading “gentle” enhances the tenderness of the statement. What is significantly altered, however, is the allocation of roles within the relationship. Does Paul see himself as a nurse and the Thessalonians as his small children? Or does he put himself as a baby in their motherly arms? If the former is the case, the metaphor is, for antiquity, a conspicuous one: Paul, a man, depicts himself in the position of a woman.69 If the latter is the case, however, the metaphor is even more striking: Paul presents himself as a helpless baby, dependent on the (likely) goodwill of a mother! Although both interpretations are possible, I am strongly inclined to opt for the latter: Paul here depicts himself as a baby in his relationship with the Thessalonians. Text-critically, external attestation is clearly in 65 For

a brief discussion of this passage, see Balla, Child-Parent Relationship, 182–83.

66 For the former view, see, e.g., Burke, Family Matters, 151–52; for the latter, see, e.g., Malherbe,

Letters to the Thessalonians, 146, with whom I agree. See also the discussion in Abraham J. Malherbe, Paul and the Popular Philosophers (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1989), 35–48. 67 Malherbe, Letters to the Thessalonians, 146; BDAG, 3rd ed., 442, s.v., qavlpw; Burke, Family Matters, 152; see also Eph 5:29. 68 For the former view, see NA25 and the translations in NRSV, NIV, NASB, Amplified Bible, NAB, KJV; for the latter, see NA27 and the alternative translations in the notes of NRSV and NASB. 69 See the discussion in Burke, Family Matters, 154–57 (with references), with whom I agree; also Balla, Child-Parent Relationship, 191–92.

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favor of nhvpioi, with broad support by texts such as p65 ‫ *א‬B C* D* F I. The many corrections of nhvpioi to h[pioi also point in the direction of “gentle” as a later polishing of a more original textual stratum. Internal evidence is more divided. On the one hand, h[pio" occurs elsewhere in the NT only in 2 Tim 2:24 and may thus be regarded as original from the point of view of the lectio difficilior. However, nhvpio" can also be considered the lectio difficilior, since it makes Paul’s use of metaphor more clumsy and maybe even embarrassing. In addition, nhvpio" is a favorite word generally in Paul and also fits very well with the metaphor here (familial care). Thus, internal evidence also weighs in favor of nhvpioi as original.70 This conclusion has, rhetorically considered, considerable consequences for Paul’s construction of his own role and of his relationship to the Thessalonians: according to this interpretation, in 1 Thess 2:7 Paul is putting himself at their mercy.71 Although he is here appealing to the emotions of his addressees, he is clearly not ironic or manipulative. In view of the positive relationship Paul has with the Thessalonians, he has nothing to gain from being manipulative. Rather, Paul appears to be sincere and straightforward. He does not appeal to paternal authority or to maternal care: instead, he strips himself of power and renounces a position in a hierarchy above them (see also v. 7a). The strategy seems drastic indeed, and will be the subject of closer scrutiny later (section V).

Children as Obedient Obedience was regarded in antiquity as a central virtue at all stages of life, but particularly in children’s relations with parents. The obligation of obedience was due both parents, but especially the father, as household leader (kuvrio", paterfamilias). The appropriate virtue was piety (pietas), which in both Greek and Roman traditions implied a considerable degree of subservience. There were also important limits to the obligation, however, though more so in a Greek setting than in a Roman one.72 70 I here support the argument and conclusions of Timothy B. Sailors, “Wedding Textual and Rhetorical Criticism to Understand the Text of 1 Thessalonians 2.7,” JSNT 80 (2000): 81–92; Jeffrey D. Weima, “‘But We Became Infants among You’: The Case for NHPIOI in 1 Thess 2.7,” NTS 46 (2001): 547–64; see also Burke, Family Matters, 154–57; Bruce M. Metzger, A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament, Second Edition (Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 1994), 561–62. Sailors (“Wedding Textual and Rhetorical Criticism,” 92–97) and Burke (Family Matters, 155–56) also argue well in favor of a different punctuation (with full stop after “among you” and with vv. 7c– 8 as one period). 71 The first person plural form of the verb may imply the Paul is here also including his coworkers; nonetheless, the focus is primarily on the role of Paul himself. 72 Eyben, “Fathers and Sons,” 142–43; Saller, Patriarchy, Property and Death, 102–32, esp. 130– 32; Balla, Child-Parent Relationship, esp. 76–79, 109–11; Aasgaard, My Beloved Brothers and Sisters, 49–51.

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For Paul, too, obedience is a self-evident and basic value. In this he clearly reflects contemporary attitudes, although he does not deal with the issue extensively. He views disobedience toward parents as a hallmark of ungodliness (Rom 1:30: goneu'sin ajpeiqei'").73 He emphasizes his “child” Timothy’s faithfulness (1 Cor 4:17: mou tevknon . . . pisto;n ejn kurivw)/ and expects the Corinthians to comply with Timothy’s teaching of Paul’s “ways in Christ” (ibid.). Similarly, his extensive use of moral exhortation in the letters presupposes obedience as a commonly accepted virtue.74 Finally, he expects children to accept as a matter of course the conditions set by a father concerning inheritance (Gal 4:2).

Children as Innocent In antiquity, not only were children regarded as weak and helpless compared to adults, but childhood was thought to have qualities that other stages of life lacked. Children were innocent and pure, not yet tainted by human affairs. As marginal beings they were perceived to have special contact with the “other world” and could on occasion mediate divine messages, for example, as oracles.75 A reflection of this kind of thinking may be found in Phil 2:14–15. Here Paul describes how he expects the children of God to behave: they are to “do all things without murmuring and arguing” and thus be “blameless and innocent” (a[memptoi kai; ajkevraioi), “children of God without blemish (a[mwma) in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation.”76 The following phrase, “in which you shine like stars in the world,” may support the idea of children as mediators of the divine world: as “children of God” they portend the heavenly time to come.77 Although Paul probably here refers primarily to adults, not underage children, his characterizations have much in common with the occasional idealization of childhood in classical sources: children are clean and without guilt and have not (yet) been corrupted by this swiftly deteriorating world.

III. Formation Since children were imperfect and immature, they were also in need of formation. Such formation had to be rendered in a way adapted to their skills, and children were expected to go through a process that would eventually turn them 73 Yarbrough,

“Parents and Children in the Letters of Paul,” 130–31. Child-Parent Relationship, 76–79, 109–11, 229–32. 75 Wiedemann, Adults and Children, 176–86; also Golden, Children and Childhood, 46, 49–50. 76 In this passage, Paul obviously makes a play on the murmuring of the Israelites in the desert; see Exod 16:1–12 LXX; also, e.g., Osiek, Philippians, Philemon, 70–71. 77 On the eschatological element, see, e.g., Osiek, Philippians, Philemon, 71–72. 74 Balla,

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into adults.78 Paul often refers to elements of this process through verbs and nouns containing the root paid-.

Formation as a Process Formation was from early childhood seen as an ongoing process. Antiquity’s view on character development was more static than is common today: people were thought to show their personality—for good or for bad—from early on, and continuity in character was emphasized more than change.79 Nevertheless, great importance was placed on cultivation of one’s personality, on training (paideiva), and on the need for progress (prokophv).80 To this purpose, several pedagogical manuals were produced.81 To reach full maturity, people—even grown-ups—had to be led; they were in need of “soul-guidance” (psychagogy).82 Elements of such thinking are also reflected in Paul. He has to speak to the recalcitrant Corinthians as to infants (1 Cor 3:1: wJ" nhpivoi") and as to children (2 Cor 6:13: wJ" tevknoi"). They have again to be nourished with (breast-fed) milk, before they can go on with solid food (1 Cor 3:2).83 Such metaphors are known from philosophical texts on formation, and the occurrences in Paul are likely to be parallel or even to reflect this usage.84 He approves the ideal of progress (Phil 1:25; also Gal 1:14). The Corinthians have to mature from being children “in thinking” to being adults (1 Cor 14:20).85 The process of maturing involves not only minor children or relapsing Christians (see also 1 Cor 4:14–21) but Christians in general. They have to receive teaching (Rom 16:17; Phil 4:9); they all need to be disciplined (1 Cor 11:32: paideuovmeqa);86 and they even need to be trained through chastising hardships (2 Cor 6:9: paideuovmenoi).

78 Wiedemann,

Adults and Children, 143–75; Vegge, Schule und Bildung des Paulus, 233–50.

79 See, e.g., Bruce J. Malina and Jerome H. Neyrey, Portraits of Paul: An Archaeology of Ancient

Personality (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1996), esp. 1–18. 80 Rawson, Children and Childhood, 136–38; Vegge, Schule und Bildung des Paulus, 312–29. 81 See, e.g., Vegge, Schule und Bildung des Paulus, 190–228; Abraham J. Malherbe, Moral Exhortation: A Greco-Roman Sourcebook (LEC; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1986), 85–109. 82 Clarence E. Glad, Paul and Philodemus: Adaptability in Epicurean and Early Christian Psychagogy (NovTSup 81; Leiden: Brill, 1995), 17–23, 53–69. 83 Yarbrough, “Parents and Children in the Letters of Paul,” 132–33; see also the comments above on 1 Cor 13:11–12 (pp. 145–46). 84 For references, see, e.g., Collins, First Corinthians, 143; Vegge, Schule und Bildung des Paulus, 326–29. 85 See pp. 144–46 above. 86 The text can be translated both “when we are judged by the Lord, we are disciplined” and “when we are judged, we are being disciplined by the Lord” (cf. NRSV). The notion of the need for discipline is the same in both cases, however.

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The Agents and Means of Formation The professional formation of children was usually the task of teachers. Sometimes, a pedagogue (paidagwgov"), often a slave, was responsible for following children to school or for themselves giving them their basic education.87 On a more advanced level, guidance of the soul was the task of the educated person, in particular the philosopher.88 Usually, however, education was the responsibility of parents, particularly as far as character formation was concerned. Fathers and mothers were viewed as role models for boys and girls respectively, but with a special focus on the role of the father.89 Similar features recur in Paul: the Corinthians need to have pedagogues in Christ (1 Cor 4:15: paidagwgouv"). In the history of God’s people, the law served for a long period as such a guardian (Gal 4:24–25: paidagwgov"). Just like children, non-Jews are lacking in knowledge and truth and need the teaching of the lawabiding Jew (Rom 2:20) to grasp the fullness of the law. Clearly, Paul is here also dependent on common philosophical-religious language.90 Guidance of children in antiquity could be carried out in a hortatory way.91 Similarly, Paul, like a father, would be “urging”, “encouraging,” and “pleading with” the Thessalonians “to lead a life worthy of God” (1 Thess 2:11–12). And as the father of the Corinthians, he does not want to shame them, but to admonish them. In 1 Cor 4:14, nouqetw'n implies firm admonition (see also Rom 15:14; 1 Thess 5:12, 14). In return, he expects the Corinthians to do the duty of children, which is to cherish him as their main authority figure (4:15), as their only father in Christ, and as a model person: “Be imitators of me” (4:16: mimhtaiv mou).92 According to the ancients, even stricter measures were often needed in the formation of children: they had to be controlled.93 Paul mentions such discipline 87 Bradley, Discovering the Roman Family, 37–43, 49–55; Vegge, Schule und Bildung des Paulus,

22–29. 88 Malherbe,

Moral Exhortation, 30–47. e.g., Eyben, “Fathers and Sons,” in Rawson, Marriage, Divorce, and Children, 112–43; Rawson, Children and Childhood in Roman Italy, 157–68, 187–88, 197–98; O. Larry Yarbrough, “Parents and Children in the Jewish Family of Antiquity,” in Jewish Family in Antiquity, ed. Cohen, 41– 49; John M. G. Barclay, “The Family as the Bearer of Religion in Judaism and Early Christianity,” in Constructing Early Christian Families, ed. Moxnes, 66–72; Balla, Child-Parent Relationship, 62–73, 86– 104, with references. 90 See, e.g., Malherbe, Moral Exhortation, 57, 80, 136; Vegge, Schule und Bildung des Paulus, 326–29. See pp. 144–46 above. 91 Malherbe, Moral Exhortation, 23–29; Balla, Child-Parent Relationship, 102–3. 92 Castelli, Imitating Paul, 97–103; Collins, First Corinthians, 193–94; Balla, Child-Parent Relationship, 184. 93 Saller, Patriarchy, Property and Death, 133–53; also Richard P. Saller, “Corporal Punishment, Authority, and Obedience in the Roman Household,” in Marriage, Divorce, and Children, ed. Rawson, 144–65. 89 See,

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on a number of occasions—more frequently than milder forms of guidance.94 In Gal 3:23–26 he speaks of believers as formerly under a guardian, viz., the law. Here believers are viewed as minor children. With the breaking in of the new age and with faith in Christ, they are still children, that is, sons of God (v. 26: uiJoi; qeou'). However, they are no longer underage but have the rights of adult children: they are heirs (cf. 4:1–7) no longer dependent on the protection of a pedagogue (3:25: oujkevti uJpo; paidagwgovn [NRSV “disciplinarian”]). Discipline in antiquity was often performed by physical means, which was regarded as a natural and necessary part of children’s formation.95 Paul appears to have shared such attitudes; however, only on one occasion does he mention physical punishment of children explicitly, in 1 Cor 4:21. Here, at the end of his fatherly admonition of the Corinthian Christians, he warns them: should he come with love and gentleness, or “with a stick” (ejn rJavbdw/). @Ravbdo" was the traditional instrument for punishing small children at home and in school, and was a main metaphor for paideia in the sense of discipline.96 By speaking of the stick, Paul discloses that he views the Corinthians not as children in a relational sense but as children who are minors, either as his own underage children or possibly—if “father” is to be understood as meaning “teacher”—as his primary school pupils.97 Although he prefers to abstain from using the stick, he is prepared to employ it if necessary.

The Aim of Formation As noted above, a child was viewed in antiquity as unfinished, on its way toward full humanity—the state of the mature person, able to speak, feel, reason, and act in a way not partial but perfect (tevleio" [see 1 Cor 13:10–12; 14:20]).98 To reach such maturity, the person under formation should strive to conform to current ideals, particularly the models presented by religion or philosophy, for example the ideal of “the wise man.”99 On several occasions Paul refers to himself as a 94 His language of discipline is sometimes employed in adult contexts, in which notions of childhood seem not to be prominent (e.g., 1 Cor 11:32). In 2 Cor 6:9, he describes the hardships of the servants of God: they are not being killed, but they experience punishment (paideuovmenoi). 95 Eyben, “Fathers and Sons,” 121–24; Saller, “Corporal Punishment,” 144–65; idem, Patriarchy, Property and Death, 133–53, esp. 151–53; also Rawson, Children and Childhood, 175–77. 96 Collins, First Corinthians, 202; BDAG, 3rd ed., 902, s.v. rJavbdo"; cf., e.g., Prov 22:15 LXX. See also the interpretation of Bartchy, “Who Should Be Called Father,” 142–43. 97 For references, see Wolfgang Schrage, Der erste Brief an die Korinther (EKK 7/1; Zurich: Benziger; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1991), 353–57. 98 The idea of a mirror (1 Cor 13:12) in the context of formation is used also in Philo, Fug. 213 (LCL); see Vegge, Schule und Bildung des Paulus, 243–44, 305–12. 99 Vegge, Schule und Bildung des Paulus, 233–301. For a presentation of, e.g., Stoic views on this, see Troels Engberg-Pedersen, Paul and the Stoics (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2000), 45–79; for Epicurean views, see Glad, Paul and Philodemus, 60–88. See also Malherbe, Paul and the Popular Philosophers.

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model for imitation (1 Thess 1:6–7; 2:14; Phil 3:17; 1 Cor 4:16; 11:1; Gal 4:12; also 1 Cor 13:11–12).100 However, the singularly most important model of human maturity for Paul is Christ: the aim of Christian formation is to become like him. Paul sees this not only as an outward matter but as an inner change, in which the character of the Christian is radically transformed, in body and mind, into the likeness of Christ. This will reach its ultimate goal only in the world to come (see Rom 8:29; also 1 Cor 13:11– 12; Phil 3:21).101 But Paul also views this as a process at work in the present. In Gal 4:19, he says that he, like a mother, must again deliver (pavlin wjdivnw) the Galatians, his “little children,” if they are to receive formation.102 However, they are not only to be formed “in Christ.” Paul goes a considerable step further: Christ is to be formed in them (morfwqh'/ Cristo;" ejn uJmi'n).103 Thus, the aim is not only imitation but integration: believers are to be shaped into the maturity of Christ. What this formation implies Paul hints at in Phil 3:10–11: it is “becoming like” (summorfizovmeno") Christ in his sufferings and death. Thus, Paul depicts Christian maturing very much in accordance with his understanding of Christ as crucified and resurrected (see also Rom 6:1–11). Although Paul shares a general idea about the aim of human formation with his contemporaries, this idea has also taken on a distinctive Christian shape: the mature man is Christ, the one who gave his life in the service of all human beings—an ideal that would deviate considerably from other ideals of human perfection in antiquity.104

IV. Belonging Peter Müller’s fourth semantic domain is that of belonging, which comprises elements such as religious affiliation, loyalty, and identification. Many of the childhood metaphors in Paul can be sorted into this group, such as Christians as “children of God” and as “descendants of Abraham.” These have already been dealt with as part of the kinship category and are nearly exclusively of a relational kind. In the fourth category, however, Müller includes belonging to a community, that is, the place of children in the local churches. Surprisingly, Paul deals with children in such a setting in only one instance. The single passage is 1 Cor 7:14, on 100 These

passages are discussed by Castelli, Imitating Paul, 89–117. Byrne, Romans (SP 6; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1996), 268–69, 272–73; Andrzej Gieniusz, Romans 8:18–30, “Suffering Does Not Thwart the Future Glory” (University of South Florida International Studies in Formative Christianity and Judaism 9; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1999), 266–76; also Aasgaard, My Beloved Brothers and Sisters, 139–41, with references. 102 See p. 137 above. 103 See the discussion of this passage in Gaventa, “Maternity of Paul,” 194–97. “In” (ejn) may here, however, be interpreted as “among” and may refer to the relations among the Galatians; see Matera, Galatians, 162, 166. 104 See the brief discussion in Osiek, Philippians, Philemon, 93–95. 101 Brendan

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children in mixed marriages.105 Clearly, Paul is attentive to children and to their place in the church, signaled by their holiness (a{gia). But he does not here, or elsewhere, indicate the kind of status they would have. Considering Paul’s frequent use of childhood terminology and his strong interest in practical community life—and also the focus on children in the later household codes—this is striking. Consequently, the issue of the place of children in the communities is almost untouched by Paul. Why this is so we can only guess. It may be that this issue was beyond Paul’s horizon as a male and a person of relatively high standing—although this is hard to believe, considering his frequent use of childhood terminology. It may also be that it was beyond the general horizon of his churches, in view of the manifold other challenges they had to face. Or it could be that no sufficiently serious problem concerning children had turned up, at least in the eyes of Paul—with the possible exception of 1 Cor 7:14. Whatever the reasons for this lack, it indicates a limited attention on the part of Paul as far as children and community life are concerned.

V. Children and Childhood in Paul: Attitudes and Strategies It is now time to synthesize and to reflect on Paul’s ideas about children and childhood and how he employs his ideas rhetorically and theologically. The first thing to be noted is the omnipresence of childhood terminology: its use is conspicuous in both frequency and variety. Judged from this viewpoint, the topic of childhood appears to play a noticeable role in the apostle’s thinking. For a male, middleto upper-class person in antiquity this is not exceptional, but it is nonetheless far from usual. In comparison to others writing about children—for example, family men such as Cicero (106–43 b.c.e.), Plutarch (ca. 46–121 c.e.), and Pliny the Younger (61–ca. 112 c.e.), Paul as a single and childless man appears to have an above average interest in the issue.106 At the same time there appears to be an incongruity in Paul’s use of this terminology. Considering the frequency of terms relating to childhood, it is striking that Paul speaks so little of real children. His letters display a near lack of issues regarding children—whether concerning their familial or their ecclesial position. Paul never addresses children directly, so as to single them out as a distinct group or to assign to them a specific autonomy or position. There is little in the letters to suggest that he has an interest in changing the living conditions of children or in influencing people’s notions and evaluation of them. 105

See pp. 139–40 above. do not claim to be able to prove this, however. See particularly Cicero Att., Fam., and De or.; Plutarch Lib. ed. and Frat. amor.; and Pliny Ep. 106 I

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Regardless of the reasons for this incongruity, it nonetheless forms a contrast to the focus on children proper in the Gospels’ depiction of Jesus (Mark 9:33–37 par.; 10:13–16 par.) and in the deutero-Paulines and the Pastoral epistles (Col 3:20– 21; Eph 6:1–4; 1 Tim 3:4–5). Whereas children are made an explicit topic there, they are at most an ad hoc issue in Paul. Instead, childhood terminology is employed for other means, viz., for addressing adults and for dealing with more general matters, such as human development, Christian maturing, and interpersonal relations. Furthermore, it is clear that Paul in many respects strongly conforms to contemporary ideas about childhood. Indeed, some of his notions may stem from his own childhood experiences (e.g., 1 Cor 13:11) or from his general observation of children. Regrettably, there is not sufficient material to confirm this. What is far easier to document, however, is Paul’s dependence on a common mentality and on philosophical and literary topoi—both biblical and non-Christian—concerning children. These topoi, his cultural frame of reference, and his own rhetorical education are likely to be the most important sources for his childhood terminology. Paul’s presentation of the matter shows that he sees children from the perspective of ancient patriarchy. He shares antiquity’s views of the place of children in kinship structures in regard to succession and inheritance; on their social position concerning qualities and shortcomings, and on their formation, both its means and its general ends. This is not surprising, but it is still important to note, since it demonstrates Paul’s dependence on current social structures and mentalities. In fact, if Paul’s childhood terminology is to be rhetorically effective at all, it is vital that it take its point of departure in common and mutually accepted notions about children’s life, both when he employs them in conventional ways, and in ways that are less conventional. Paul’s conformity to such patterns can be observed in his theological use of childhood terminology; this is particularly visible in his parent/child metaphors. For example, he employs this image to place Christians in the history of the people of God: they are children of God, their Father (Rom 8:14–17 etc.), and offspring of Abraham, their forefather (Gal 3:29 etc.). Similarly, Christ is the Son of God and the descendant of David (Rom 1:3–4). Consequently, both Christians and Christ are heirs—and even the true heirs—of the kingdom of God (Rom 8:17 etc.). Paul clearly shows an ability to exploit current notions theologically: for instance, in Galatians he develops ideas of inheritance and depicts Christians as minor children growing up to become of age, ready to receive their heavenly patrimony (3:23–4:7). Here, the metaphors contribute in a fundamental way to shaping Christian self-understanding and belonging in competition with traditional Jewish thinking (see also Gal 4:21–31). The frequency of these parent/child metaphors indicates their importance for establishing Christian identity in Paul. Similarly important is Paul’s use of childhood metaphors as theological and rhetorical means to regulate the relations between himself and his co-Christians.

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Rhetorically, Paul appears to adapt his childhood (and family/kinship) language to the situation of each letter and to his general relations to his addressees. Such language is far less common in Romans, which reflects a more distant relationship between him and the addressees, than in his close and very positive interaction with the recipients of 1 Thessalonians.107 This usage, however, is characterized by a notable tension. On the one hand, Paul conforms to patriarchal patterns: he often employs the metaphors to depict Christians in an inferior position to himself. He is their father; they are his children. And as children, whether minors or adults, they are to obey and imitate him (1 Cor 2:6–3:4; 4:14–16; 1 Thess 2:11–12) and to reach the same maturity as he has (1 Cor 13:11–12). Occasionally, he rebukes them: the Corinthians turn out to be as immature as babies, needing to be breast-fed (1 Cor 3:1–3). Very often, then, Paul deals with Christians with the traditional authority of a paterfamilias, even threatening them with physical punishment if they disobey (1 Cor 4:21). On the other hand, the nuanced way in which he portrays himself as father is also worth noting. What emerges is not the picture of the harsh, authoritarian father. Rather, it is of one who is concerned with his children and attentive to their abilities and needs: he communicates with them according to their level (2 Cor 6:13), acts lovingly toward them (1 Cor 4:14–17), strives to increase (“heap up”) their inheritance (2 Cor 12:14), and exhorts them in a benevolent manner, as a firm yet loving father (1 Cor 4:14; 1 Thess 2:11–12). Such attitudes do not necessarily imply that Paul differs from current ideals of father–child relations. Rather, his attitudes are likely to be in keeping with them: the father’s role in antiquity was more flexible than has often been suggested, and Paul appears to utilize the whole spectrum of the nuances for this role in how he relates to his Christian “children.”108 Indeed, his focus appears to be more frequently on an understanding and supportive type of father than on an authoritarian one. Another central part of the picture is displayed in Paul’s use of mother/child metaphors. In the maternal images Paul puts himself in a female role, as a birthgiving mother (Gal 4:19; possibly also Phlm 10), a breast-feeding mother (1 Cor 3:1), and—possibly, though less likely—a nurse (1 Thess 2:7). Paul uses metaphors of himself as a mother as often as, or even more frequently than, the image of father.109 Although maternal metaphors may belong to a set of stock rhetorical or philosophical topoi, they nonetheless evidence ability on the part of Paul to identify with such a role and to view parent–child relations from the perspective of a 107 See the analysis in Aasgaard, My Beloved Brothers and Sisters, 261–84 (esp. 283–84), 285– 95 (esp. 292–95). 108 See, e.g., the variation described by Eyben, “Fathers and Sons,” 112–43; Saller, Patriarchy, Property and Death, 102–33, esp. 131–33; also Balla, Child-Parent Relationship, chs. 1–3. 109 Gaventa, “Our Mother St. Paul,” 30–37. Some of the father/child terminology mentioned in the preceding paragraph can also be classified as maternal; see 2 Cor 6:13; 12:14; Phlm 10; also Balla, Child-Parent Relationship, 194–95.

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female parent.110 This impression is strengthened by the fact that these metaphors occur in several of his letters. Together, they make this a truly conspicuous feature in Paul.111 Of special interest here, however, is Paul’s use of metaphors related to childhood as a phase of life. Once again, certain tensions become visible. On the one hand, Paul—in keeping with general views—seems to idealize children proper as innocent, as untouched by the world (Phil 2:15). He also ascribes to them considerable shortcomings: they are not (yet) equipped with the required mental and physical capacities. On the other hand, he appears to assess children’s intellectual capability positively, maybe even more so than many of his contemporaries (1 Cor 13:11). And, more important, although he shares the goal of children’s formation into mature adults, his view of the contents of this maturity is significantly different: it is shaped not by current philosophical-religious ideals but by the model of Christ giving himself for the sake of others (Rom 8:29; Gal 4:10; Phil 3:10). Deserving particular attention here are the texts in which Paul depicts himself as a child. One of them is primarily relational in kind—his mention of Rufus’s mother as his own mother too (Rom 16:13). In the other instances, he speaks of himself as an underage child, and in quite drastic ways: in Galatians as a fetus (1:15), in 1 Corinthians as prematurely born (15:8), in 1 Thessalonians as a child depending on its nurse-mother (2:7) and as an orphan (2:17). Clearly, these “Paul-as-child” metaphors are so striking that they, like the parent/child metaphors, need to be accounted for. There are several ways in which this can be done. One way is to view the metaphors primarily in light of the rhetorical situation of each letter: for example, in 1 Corinthians Paul turns criticism to his own benefit; and in 1 Thessalonians his authority is uncontested in view of the amiable relations between him and his addressees.112 This is saying far too little about the metaphors, however. Although such an approach can make them more understandable, it falls short of accounting sufficiently for their usage. They should not be viewed as employed only ad hoc; rather, such metaphors must be seen as playing a more central part in Paul’s letters. This is clear from his frequent, thoroughgoing, varied, and often conspicuous use of them. Thus, another way of accounting for the Paul-as-child metaphors and the 110 See, e.g., Gaventa, “Maternity of Paul,” 191–94, with references; Malherbe, Paul and the Popular Philosophers, 35–48. 111 See also Gaventa, “Our Mother St. Paul,” 35; Gaventa, First and Second Thessalonians, 31– 34. Paul uses maternal metaphors when he refers to his ongoing “nurturing” of his communities, but paternal metaphors when characterizing the initial (momentary) stages of Christian preaching and conversion (see ibid., 34, 36, 41–42). 112 As for 1 Thessalonians, I basically agree with Burke, Family Matters, 157. For a broader discussion of Paul’s rhetorical strategies in his use of kinship metaphors, see Aasgaard, My Beloved Brothers and Sisters, 285–95.

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parent/child metaphors is to see them as part of a more general strategy in Paul.113 This is, as noted in my introductory remarks, what several scholars do, particularly some of those dealing with Paul from the perspective of power and gender. They give their interpretation a particular twist, however. In their view, even Paul’s more “gentle” metaphors become means of strengthening his power: his strategies are seen as consistently authoritarian when it comes to childhood and the parent/child metaphors, and as inescapably male biased regarding mother/child metaphors. For example, the parent/child metaphors aim at displaying his graciousness; the metaphor of the untimely born is a deft rhetorical counterstrike in defense of his apostleship; and the modesty in his self-presentation as a baby and an orphan is pretense or pandering to the Thessalonians in order to gain their goodwill. Even the theological motivations given, whether implicitly or explicitly, can be made victim to such readings: Paul’s meekness toward God, the gospel, his apostolic calling, or his fellow Christians may all be unmasked as the apostle seeking to secure his authority by a claim to live up to his message. The problems with such interpretations are manifold, however. They often take their point of departure in specific models that make them systematically downplay texts or interpretations that do not fit.114 For example, Paul is depicted in 1 Thessalonians—usually without the exegetical problems being taken into consideration—in the roles of a nurse and an orphaned father, not as a child.115 Some commentators also seek to reinforce their views with a simplistic understanding of the sociohistorical context, especially by holding on to a one-sided but obsolete idea of an all-authoritarian father figure. Paul is, for example, taken to reflect only the life-and-death authority of the Roman paterfamilias.116 In my opinion, these scholars are correct in seeing the Paul-as-child terminology and the parent/child terminology as part of a general strategy in Paul. But instead of employing such generalizing and sometimes circular approaches, it is necessary to be considerably more mindful of the material itself, that is, of Paul’s sociocultural context, which is more nuanced than has been allowed for; of his texts, which have turned out to be more versatile than assumed; and of the interplay between context and texts, which betrays a Paul with considerable freedom of movement within the given contexts—and maybe even outside of them. Neither Paul nor his contemporaries should be underestimated in these matters.117 113 As

indicated by Gaventa, “Our Mother St. Paul,” 44.

114 For a similar criticism particularly of Castelli, see Bartchy, “Who Should Be Called Father,”

143. 115 See,

e.g., Fatum, “Brotherhood in Christ,” 186; eadem, “Tro, håb og gode gerninger,” 132.

116 See, e.g., Castelli, Imitating Paul, 111; partly also Fatum, “Tro, håb og gode gerninger,” 131–

36. I fully subscribe to the questioning of this position by Gaventa, “Our Mother St. Paul,” 43–44. For nuanced views, see Eyben, “Fathers and Sons,” 142–43; Saller, Patriarchy, Property and Death, 102– 32, esp. 130–32; Balla, Child-Parent Relationship, esp. 76–79, 109–11; Aasgaard, My Beloved Brothers and Sisters, 49–51. 117 I here agree with the point of view indicated by Gaventa, “Maternity of Paul,” 199.

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Read in such a way, Paul’s use of several of the childhood metaphors emerges, as argued above, as fundamentally daring. By associating himself with beings at the rim of the human world—one untimely born, a baby, an orphan—Paul presses the matter far indeed. Thus, what can be viewed as rhetorical cleverness may just as likely be interpreted as the opposite, namely, that Paul here employs metaphors that are meant not to enhance his authority but to make him vulnerable and subject to the mercy of his addressees. Indeed, this (apparent folly) seems to be the case.118 Likening oneself to such kinds of children would be to risk forfeiting the respect one could have secured by other, more favorable self-descriptions. Paul could easily have applied a number of such metaphors to attain his aims, but he does not.119 The way he employs father/child and mother/child metaphors also supports this impression. Thus, the picture given here is of a Paul able to deal with such matters from an unusual, sometimes extraordinary angle, even when it does not serve, or is not intended to serve, his interests. Consequently, Paul in these instances expresses himself in a way paradoxical not only on a rhetorical level but also on a social and ideological level.120 The portrait of Paul to emerge from this is more complex, but also far more interesting. It shows an apostle very much on a level with contemporary attitudes on parenting, children, and childhood; this is the main part of the picture. But an essential part is also that of a Paul who—to a surprising degree—can view these matters from an alternative perspective, a perspective from below. True, the “deviating” metaphors must be balanced against his many statements claiming authority and power for himself. Nevertheless, the sensitivity and openness—and maybe even the countercultural nature—of his use of these metaphors should be taken far more seriously than has been customary.121 Paul was a child of his time, clearly reflecting current notions on children and childhood. But he was also an adult in his time, able to have his own say vis-à-vis traditional attitudes, capable of putting himself in the place of others—in this case particularly of children—and even willing to renounce his power, probably in accordance with his understanding of Christ as a model for Christian service. 118 This

is an idea also hinted at by Jennifer Larson, “Paul’s Masculinity,” JBL 123 (2004): 96. are not the only expressions of such an attitude in Paul. For a discussion of some aspects of this, see Timothy B. Savage, Power through Weakness: Paul’s Understanding of the Christian Ministry in 2 Corinthians (SNTSMS 86; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), esp. 187–90. 120 A similar kind of thinking is seen also elsewhere in 1 Corinthians, particularly in Paul’s description of his apostolic ministry: “we have become the rubbish of the world, the dregs of all things” (4:13). 121 Indeed, the burden of proof for accounting differently for them lies with those who see Paul as mainly an “authority figure.” 119 They

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JBL 126, no. 1 (2007): 161–191

Critical Notes The Preposition ‫ מן‬in the ‫ חטאת‬Pericopes Roy Gane’s new book Cult and Character1 is the first that deals intensively and comprehensibly with my theory of the ‫ חטאת‬sacrifice and its Dorian Gray principle, which states that violations of prohibitive commandments do not defile the sinner but defile the sanctuary even from afar. Gane, however, claims that the Dorian Gray principle operates only on Yom Kippur, when the sanctuary and its sancta are purged by the blood of the ‫חטאת‬, but during the year these violations only defile the sinner, not the sancta. For his evidence, he cites the cases of severe bodily impurity, which contain the terms ‫מטמאתו‬ (Lev14:19), ‫( מזובו‬15:15) and ‫( מזוב טמאתה‬15:30). The preposition ‫מן‬, he claims, must be rendered “from,” that is, “an offerer who has ‫ כפר‬performed on his/her behalf ‘from’ a physical ritual impurity becomes pure ‘from’ that impurity.”2 On the other hand, I argue that ‫ מן‬takes the lesser attested meaning “for, on account of, because of.”3 That is, the priest purges the altar on the sinner’s behalf “for his impurity” (14:19), “for his flow” (15:15), “for her impurity” (15:30). Is ‫ מן‬in this context the privative “from” or the causative “for, as a result of, because of ”? The precise rendering of this preposition is critical, for on it hangs the fundamental understanding of the modus operandi of the pollution caused by sin and its purification. I reject Gane’s arguments on the following grounds: 1. First and foremost, the parturient, the scale-diseased person, and the gonnorheic must be ritually pure to be allowed entry into the sanctuary with his/her sacrifice. Therefore, ‫( מזובו‬Lev 15:15, 30) cannot be rendered “(offer purgation) from his flow”; he is already pure. The seven purificatory days following his healing and ending with ablutions have completely purified him; indeed, following the ablutions the text states expressly ‫וטהר‬, “and he is pure” (Lev 15:13). Why, then, the need for a purification sacrifice on the eighth day? As I see it, the sacrifice purges the altar of the contamination caused to it by 1 Roy Gane, Cult and Character: Purification Offerings, Day of Atonement, and Theodicy (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2005). 2 Ibid., 116. 3 See, e.g., Gen 16:10; 1 Kgs 8:5; Jer 24:2; Prov 20: 4; GKC §119z; see especially ‫מחטאתו‬, “for his wrongdoing” (Lev 4:26; 5:6, 10; 16:34) (Jacob Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [AB 3; New York: Doubleday, 1991], 857–58 inter alia) and the verses cited below.

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the gonorrheic. The same holds true for the parturient (12:6, 8), the scale-diseased person (14:19a), and the woman with chronic genital flow (15:30b); their sacrifice purges the altar of the impurity they inflicted on it.4

2. Gane’s rendering ‫ מזובו‬. . . ‫וכפר עליו הכהן‬, “the priest shall offer purgation on his behalf . . . from his flow” (15:15b)5 is simply incomprehensible. Purgation (‫ )כפר‬is not offered “from” but “for, because of ”—“his flow” (15:15); “her impure flow” (15:30); “his impurity” (14:19a), which contaminated the altar.

3. As projected visually on one of Gane’s illuminating charts,6 the phrase . . . ‫וכפר‬ ‫( הכהן עליו מחטאתו‬4:26; 5:6, 10; 14:19) is equivalent to ‫ הכהן עליו על־חטאתו‬. . . ‫( וכפר‬4:35; 5:17; 19:22). Thus, ‫ מחטאתו‬and ‫ על־חטאתו‬are synonymous, and just as ‫ על־חטאתו‬can only mean “for his/her impurity,” so too ‫מחטאתו‬.7

4. According to Gane, the ‫ חטאת‬brought by the bodily impure or the inadvertent sinner absorbs the impurity; the priest brings the impure blood of the ‫ חטאת‬to the altar, and the holiness of the altar wipes out the impurity.8 This theory is untenable. First, if the ‫ חטאת‬blood were a priori impure, it would not be allowed on the altar! Then, focusing with Gane on Lev 6:20–21 (Eng. 6:27–28):9 (a) The ‫ חטאת‬blood is not called ‫טמא‬, “impure.” (b) Since blood spots on a garment are removed by washing ‫במקום קדש‬, “in a holy place” (v. 20b [Eng. 27b]), the garment is treated as holy, not impure. True, the garment is not called ‫קדוש‬. The reason, I presume, is ‫התורה חסה על ממונן של ישראל‬, “The Torah shows concern for Israel’s possessions.”10 In short, the ‫ חטאת‬blood has not absorbed the offerer’s impurity. Neither is the offerer him/herself called ‫טמא‬, “impure.” The bodily impurity has been ritually purified (no. 1 above) and the inadvertent moral wrong (Leviticus 4)—never called ‫—טמא‬is washed away by the sinner’s remorse (‫)ואשם‬11 (c) Gane argues that the altar sanctifies the allegedly impure blood; however, holiness never sancinitial argument focuses on ‫( וטהרה ממקר דמיה‬Lev 12:17), claiming that it must be rendered “she shall be pure from her source of blood” (Cult and Character, 112–15). The term ‫ממקר‬ in this context is a hapax legomenon; one would expect the expression ‫מזוב דמיה‬. In truth, neither “for” nor “from” explains the preposition ‫מן‬. The ‫ מן‬considered here is part of a prepositional object of the verb ‫כפר‬, not ‫טהר‬. It requires unrelated investigation. The same holds for 16:30, where again the verb is ‫טהר‬. 5 Gane, Cult and Character, 116. 6 Ibid., 110. 7 As noted by A. Dillmann (Die Bücher Exodus und Leviticus [Leipzig: Hirzel, 1897], 468) and acknowledged by Gane (Cult and Character, 127 n. 43). 8 Gane, Cult and Character, 176–81. 9 Ibid., 165–67. 10 B. Yoma 39a; cf. m. Neg. 12:5. This rabbinic principle, I suggest, operates here. By abstaining from calling the garment “holy,” the Torah declares that, after the blood spots are removed, the garment can be repossessed by the owner. This principle operates explicitly in 14:36, where the investigating priest orders the owner of the house to clear out all his movable possessions before he inspects the walls for suspected fungus growth. 11 See Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16, 243. 4 Gane’s

Critical Notes

163

tifies impurity. Only the reverse occurs—impurity defiles holiness.12 Super holiness may be immune to impurity (e.g., the high priest on Yom Kippur), but it cannot eradicate the impurity.

5. Gane engages in two paradoxes: In his view, not only is the ‫ חטאת‬blood that is daubed on the most sacred altar impure (above), but on Yom Kippur the ‫ חטאת‬blood changes its nature from a pollutant to a purifier; erstwhile impure blood now purifies the entire sanctuary and its sancta.13 The chameleonic ability of the ‫ חטאת‬blood to switch its nature in medias res is an unsupportable hypothesis.

In sum, there is no evidence, philologically or ideologically, that the ‫ חטאת‬blood (and sacrifice) absorbs the impurity of the sinner. Hence ‫מן‬, in this context, does not retain its customary meaning “of.” It must be rendered “for.” This small but crucial point in no way detracts from the importance of Gane’s book, which every full-scale review will demonstrate.14 Jacob Milgrom [email protected] 2 Yitzhak Elhanan St., Jerusalem 92141, Israel

12 Note that on Yom Kippur the (holy) ‫ חטאת‬blood cannot sanctify the altar directly (16:19). First, it operates as a detergent; it removes the impurity of the altar. Once the altar is pure (‫)וטהרו‬, only then can it be sanctified (‫)וקדשו‬. 13 Gane, Cult and Character, 230–33. 14 See now C. A. Eberhart, RBL 07 (2006).

Bedan: A Riddle in Context

The presence of a certain Bedan among the divinely appointed deliverers listed by Samuel in 1 Sam 12:11 is an age-old crux interpretum. Already ancient translations, paraphrases, and interpretations of the Hebrew Bible wrestled with the problem. The LXX reads Barak instead; the Peshitta substitutes Deborah and Barak; Josephus drops the name altogether; and talmudic sages categorically state that “Bedan is Samson.”1 In modern times, most exegetes have identified Bedan with Barak,2 but some have preferred Jephthah3 or the minor judge Abdon of Judg 12:13–154 and have even mentioned Gideon and Deborah as plausible candidates.5 Diverse as they are, all these interpretations share a weakness: with minor and relatively insignificant exceptions, they strictly zero in on the list of deliverers in 1 Sam 12:11 and its metamorphoses in ancient witnesses. A crucial upshot of such a narrow approach is the assumption that the list cannot be right as it stands: the name Bedan on it is an alias, a scribal error, a gloss, or the result of phonetic transformations and should consequently be emended or at least understood as referring to someone else. A serious consideration I would like to thank the anonymous JBL reviewers for their insightful and helpful comments on the penultimate draft of this article. 1 B. Roš. Haš. 25a; Targum Jonathan apparently reflects this tradition. In Josephus, Samuel names only Jephthah and Gideon (Ant. 6.5.6 §90). 2 E.g., Julius Wellhausen, Der Text der Bücher Samuelis (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1871), 78; Samuel R. Driver, Notes on the Hebrew Text and the Topography of the Books of Samuel (Oxford: Clarendon, 1913; repr., Winona Lake, IN: Alpha, 1984), 93; Henry Preserved Smith, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Books of Samuel (ICC; New York: Scribner, 1899), 86–87; John Mauchline, 1 and 2 Samuel (NCB; London: Oliphants, 1971), 109; Robert P. Gordon, I & II Samuel: A Commentary (Library of Biblical Interpretation; Carlisle/Waynesboro, GA: Paternoster, 2004), 128; John Day, “Bedan, Abdon or Barak in 1 Samuel xii 11?” VT 43 (1993): 261–64; D. T. Tsumura, “Bedan, a Copyist’s Error? (1 Samuel xii 11),” VT 45 (1995): 122–23. 3 Yair Zakovitch, “‫יפתח = בדן‬,” VT 22 (1972): 123–25; P. Kyle McCarter, I Samuel: A New Translation with Introduction, Notes, and Commentary (AB 8; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1980), 211. 4 Heinrich Ewald, Geschichte des Volkes Israel bis Christus (3 vols.; Göttingen: Dieterich, 1843), 2:363; Édouard Dhorme, Les livres de Samuel (EBib; Paris: Gabalda, 1910), 103; Howard Jacobson, “The Judge Bedan (1 Samuel xii 11),” VT 42 (1992): 123–24; idem, “Bedan and Barak Reconsidered,” VT 44 (1994): 108–9. 5 For Gideon, see Martin Noth, Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Studien: Die sammelnden und bearbeitenden Geschichtswerke im Alten Testament (2nd ed.; Tübingen: Max Niemeyer, 1957), 59 n. 4; Peter R. Ackroyd, The First Book of Samuel (CBC; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1971), 98; Hans Wilhelm Hertzberg, I & II Samuel: A Commentary (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1964), 95. For Deborah, see Hertzberg, I & II Samuel, 95.

164

Critical Notes

165

of the verse’s immediate and larger context falsifies this assumption, rendering emendations and substitutions largely redundant. Even a cursory look at 1 Sam 12:11 and the neighboring verses immediately reveals that the reference to Bedan is by no means the only odd detail of Samuel’s discourse. First, in v. 8 he claims that Moses and Aaron settled the listeners’ ancestors “in this place,” seemingly disregarding the Pentateuch’s insistence that both brothers failed to reach the promised land (Num 20:24; Deut 32:50–52). Second, the list of foreign oppressors in v. 9 does not follow the chronological order of the biblical narrative. The “king of Moab” (presumably Eglon), one of the earliest oppressors in Judges, is preceded not only by Sisera but also by Philistines, who come last in Judges and are active also in 1 Samuel 4–7. Third, there is little correspondence between this list and the roster of deliverers in v. 11. Deborah and Barak, the vanquishers of Sisera, and Ehud, who assassinated Eglon, do not appear on the latter; instead, it mentions Jerubbaal/Gideon, who fought against Midianites; Jephthah, who triumphed over Ammonites; and the perplexing Bedan. Fourth, in v. 12 Samuel asserts that the people asked him for a king when faced with Ammonite aggression (1 Samuel 11) and thus blatantly contradicts 1 Samuel 8, where the petition to appoint a monarch is motivated by abuses of his sons, and 1 Sam 9:16, where Yhwh commands him to anoint Saul as Israel’s savior from Philistine oppression. It appears therefore that the mention of Bedan as a deliverer is but a relatively minor component of the massive twisting of biblical traditions that takes place in Samuel’s overview of the Israelite history (1 Sam 12:8–12), strategically positioned in the middle of his farewell discourse (12:1–17). What is more, this twisting is by no means random. In v. 12, Samuel links the request for a king to aggressive actions of a Transjordanian ruler who threatened Jabesh-Gilead, a Transjordanian city (11:1–2). Two of four deliverers listed in v. 9, Jerubbaal/Gideon and Jephthah, were of Transjordanian extraction: the former belonged to the Abiezer clan (Judg 6:11), which according to 1 Chr 7:18 traced its lineage to Gilead the son of Manasseh;6 the latter is introduced in Judg 11:1 as a Gileadite and a son of Gilead. Both of them led the struggle against Transjordanian invaders, respectively Midianites and Ammonites. Finally, the only groups of Israelites to receive their allotments directly from Moses were the tribes of Reuben and Gad and the half-tribe of Manasseh that settled in the Transjordan (Numbers 32). Why the heavy Transjordanian bias? At first blush, it may seem to have something to do with the fact that in the previous chapter Israelites led by Saul repulse the Ammonite onslaught on Jabesh-Gilead; the narrative implicitly links Samuel’s discourse in 1 Samuel 12 to the festivities in Gilgal that immediately followed the victory and were arranged by him (11:14–15). However, the narrator’s introduction to Samuel’s discourse (12:1) clearly indicates that he did not exclusively address it to the recently relieved Transjordanians; rather, he spoke to “all Israel.” The explanation must consequently lie elsewhere. An even broader context of 1 Samuel 12 goes a long way toward clarifying Samuel’s motives in presenting Israel’s history from a systemically Transjordanian perspective. Although the narrator never says so explicitly, 1 Samuel 9–10 obviously presupposes 6 Additionally, Iezer (‫)איעזר‬, listed in Num 26:30 as a descendant of Gilead, may be a corruption or variant form of Abiezer (‫)אביעזר‬.

166

Journal of Biblical Literature 126, no. 1 (2007)

Philistine military occupation of Israelite territories. In particular, 10:5 mentions ‫נצבי‬ ‫פלשתים‬, lit. “stationed Philistines” in or near Saul’s hometown. The situation changes only in ch. 13, where Saul launches a campaign against the occupiers (note especially his son Jonathan’s assault on ‫ נציב פלשתים‬in v. 3). By implication, when in ch. 12 Samuel delivers his farewell address in Gilgal, Philistines are still in full control and he has to take into account the possibility that they or their agents will hear and take note.7 This, in turn, leaves him in a rhetorical predicament of sorts. Arguably, the main point of his discourse is that, given Yhwh’s proven record of redeeming Israel through the agency of ad hoc deliverers, the people could have had their independence secured without asking for a monarch. However, publicly making this point could jeopardize both the newly appointed king and Samuel the kingmaker by alerting Philistines to the fact that the main purpose of Saul’s appointment was to free Israel from their oppression (9:16). To prevent it from happening, Samuel adroitly uses the recent campaign against Ammonites to create an impression that military threat from the east is all that matters to him (and, by implication, to his protégé Saul) and to keep Philistine occupation behind the brackets. Hence the preoccupation of his discourse with all things Transjordanian, building up to the assertion of v. 12 that the king was requested in response to Ammonite aggression; and hence the penultimate position of the Philistines in v. 9, obfuscating their status as Israel’s current oppressors. Where does Bedan come into the picture? According to 1 Chr 7:17, he was a greatgrandson of Manasseh’s son Machir and thus a Transjordanian.8 As such, he contributes by his presence in 1 Sam 12:11 to the overall Transjordanian slant of Samuel’s pronouncement. Furthermore, an important effect of this presence is that Samuel’s name appears in a company of three Transjordanian characters. The resulting impression is that of Samuel’s strong association with, and commitment to, an issue about which Philistines could not care less, that of defending the Israelite population east of the Jordan from local aggressors.9 In other words, by grouping himself with Jerubbaal/Gideon, Bedan, and Jephthah, Samuel transparently hints that his geopolitical priority is dealing with the type of threat represented by Nahash rather than with the Cisjordanian oppressors listed in v. 9 and including Philistines. Moreover, given that Nahash’s onslaught had been directed against Jabesh-Gilead, Bedan’s close association with Gilead (somewhat ambiguously reflected by 1 Chr 7:17) substantially amplifies this effect. If so, despite his sheer obscurity Bedan fits the context of the verse and Samuel’s discourse in general much better than Barak, Deborah, Samson, or Abdon and does not have to be an alias of either Jephthah or Gideon.

7 Here and below I discuss the situation presupposed by the biblical account, not the actual events, if any, that it may reflect. 8 Machir appears as the father of Gilead in Num 26:29; 1 Chr 7:17; and elsewhere, and as the possessor of Gilead and Bashan in Num 32:39–40; Josh 13:31; 17:1. 1 Chronicles 7:17 seems to identify Bedan as Gilead’s descendant, although Bedan’s lineage in vv. 14–16 does not include Gilead. 9 In the context of 1 Samuel 9–12, Philistines could even welcome Saul’s campaign against Nahash because it checked the Ammonite expansion, which could eventually become their problem as well, without their contributing a single soldier.

Critical Notes

167

Granted, neither Judges nor Chronicles mentions Bedan as a deliverer. But was it of any consequence to Samuel? In the verse that immediately follows the list of deliverers, he flagrantly distorts the circumstances of what to his listeners was a very recent event, thereby proving beyond a reasonable doubt that, to put it mildly, factual accuracy was not among his primary concerns, at least not on that particular occasion. If so, he was certainly capable of boldly listing Bedan, a figure of relatively distant past, as a deliverer despite the fact the audience knew him only as an obscure ancestor, perhaps an eponym of a Transjordanian clan.10 What really mattered to Samuel was Bedan’s indispensability for the discourse’s double-pronged strategy, which sought to reassure Israel’s Philistine overlords while impressing the Israelite audience with Yhwh’s unfailing ability to overthrow any foreign domination.11 Meeting both mutually exclusive objectives was no small accomplishment, and padding Bedan’s résumé was a relatively modest price to pay for it. Serge Frolov [email protected] Southern Methodist University, Dallas, TX 75275 10 This is not to say that Samuel and his contemporaries, especially Philistines, were aware of the tradition underlying 1 Chr 7:17. What matters is that the author of 1 Samuel 12 and his or her intended audience could know this tradition. 11 Samuel’s rhetorical situation would certainly resonate with Israelite/Jewish audiences of the late preexilic, exilic, and postexilic periods who had to find ways of proclaiming the universal sovereignty of their national deity without antagonizing the Assyrian, Egyptian, Babylonian, Persian, or Greek overlords. In addition, by forcing the listeners/readers to unravel Samuel’s doublespeak, the narrator powerfully draws their attention to the fact that the Israelite monarchy was inaugurated with Philistine occupation in the background. This strategy, similar to that traceable in 1 Sam 9:1– 10:16 (see Serge Frolov, “The Semiotics of Covert Action in 1 Samuel 9–10,” JSOT, forthcoming), makes it possible to reconcile the negative evaluation of the people’s request for a king in 1 Sam 10:19a; 12:12, 17, 19 (but not in 1 Samuel 8, where the circumstances are different) with Deut 17:14– 20. In the latter text, the permission to inaugurate a monarch is contingent upon Israel’s possession of the promised land (vv. 14–15); by asking for a king when the land is effectively controlled by the Philistines, the people violate the commandment.

Elisha’s Deceptive Prophecy in 2 Kings 3: A Response to Raymond Westbrook

In a recent issue of JBL, Raymond Westbrook contributed a constructive note on the notoriously difficult to interpret story of Jehoram’s unsuccessful military campaign in 2 Kings 3. Westbrook is somewhat inconsistent, however, when he argues that Elisha did not “offer a deliberately false prophecy” and then describes the prophet’s oracle as “the deceptively worded prediction” (pp. 53–32). His thesis is that Elisha’s prophecy was, strictly speaking, true—not false—even though Elisha was intentionally misleading. In any case, the primary shortcoming in Westbrook’s analysis is that he focuses on the level of historical event and fails to appreciate, on the level of literary account, how Dtr is defending a problematic event in the career of the prophet Elisha. According to Westbrook, Jehoram should have recognized the deceptive nature of Elisha’s oracle. After Elisha says that the Israelites would “destroy” (‫ )נכה‬the fortified cities of Moab, he follows with actions (i.e., felling every good tree, stopping up the wells, and ruining the fields with stones [2 Kgs 3:9]) that would naturally precede destroying well-fortified strongholds. Jehoram does not notice the specious, unreasonable sequence of events. The subsequent use of the word ‫ נכה‬meaning simply “strike” (v. 25) reinforces the notion that Jehoram should have perceived the trickery.2 On more careful analysis, however, the order in which the events are subsequently chronicled, in the narrator’s voice (2 Kgs 3:25), suggests that the arrangement of actions in Elisha’s oracle serves a larger literary strategy.3 Westbrook calls attention to the sequence in Elisha’s prophecy but fails to comment on the order of events as they are reported. In the standard prophecy-fulfillment pattern, where the storyteller records the fulfillment Westbrook, “Elisha’s True Prophecy in 2 Kings 3,” JBL 24 (2005): 530–32. is not the first to comment on the use of ‫ נכה‬in 2 Kings 3. Iain W. Provan, for example, observing the same feature, asserts that Elisha’s words have “strictly speaking, come to pass” (1 and 2 Kings [NIBCOT; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 995], ). 3 For a more detailed literary analysis of 2 Kings 3, see Jesse C. Long, Jr., and Mark Sneed, “‘Yahweh Has Given These Three Kings into the Hand of Moab’: A Socio-Literary Reading of 2 Kings 3,” in Inspired Speech: Prophecy in the Ancient Near East: Essays in Honour of Herbert B. Huffmon (ed. John Kaltner and Louis Stulman; JSOTSup 37; London/New York: T&T Clark International, 2004), 253–75; Jesse C. Long, Jr., “Unfulfilled Prophecy or Divine Deception? A Literary Reading of 2 Kings 3,” Stone-Campbell Journal 7, no. (Spring 2004): 0–7; idem, 1 & 2 Kings (College Press NIV Commentary; Joplin, MO: College Press, 2002), 299–307. A survey of source-critical and literary-critical attempts to explain the unexpected retreat at the end of the narrative and Elisha’s failed prophecy appears in Long and Sneed, “A Socio-Literary Reading of 2 Kings 3,” 255–5. Raymond

2 Westbrook

Critical Notes

9

of events with dialogue-bound narration (see, e.g., Kgs 7:4–), the narrator reports the fulfillment of Elisha’s words, but in reverse order. 2 Kings 3:194

A. “You will destroy [‫ ]הכיתם‬every [‫ ]כל‬fortified and every [‫ ]כל‬choice city; B. Every [‫ ]כל‬good tree, you will fell; C. All [‫ ]כל‬the springs of water, you will stop up; D. Every [‫ ]כל‬good field, you will ruin with stones.” 2 Kings 3:25

A´. “They tore down [‫ ]יהרסו‬the cities; D´. [Upon] every [‫ ]כל‬good field, each man threw his stone until it was covered; C´. Every [‫ ]כל‬spring of water, they stopped up; B´. Every [‫ ]כל‬good tree, they felled;

A´´. Until [only] the stones of Qir-Hareseth remained; the slingers surrounded it and struck it [‫]יכוה‬.” The reverse ordering of events sets the reader up for a surprise. In v. 24 (the verse immediately preceding the chronicling of the specific events in Elisha’s prophecy), the narrator employs the word ‫( נכה‬three times with a qere: “Israel rose up and attacked [‫ ]יכו‬Moab . . . and they struck [‫יכו‬, qere] it, destroying [‫ ]הכות‬Moab”) to describe the slaughter that Israel perpetrated on the Moabites. With this backdrop, even a careful reader might not notice the verb change in v. 25 (from ‫ נכה‬to ‫—)הרס‬a change that subtly implies that Jehoram will not be victorious. The inverse sequencing of subsequent events lulls the reader into believing that Elisha’s prophecy is coming to pass, word for word. With the very last word in the sequence, however, the reader is shocked to learn that only slingers strike [‫ ]נכה‬QirHareseth. Calling attention to the artistry in the composition, ‫ נכה‬is also the first word in v. 9. Ironically, the prophet’s word is “technically” true, but Qir-Hareseth’s survival and the retreat of the coalition that follows (v. 27) raise questions about Elisha’s intentions. A careful reader who suspects that Elisha is enticing Jehoram may be reassured but must read on to see what comes to pass. Recognizing the inverse recounting of events undermines Westbrook’s interpretation of Elisha’s prophecy. The structure of the prophetic word appears to be more for its rhetorical effect on the reader than for Jehoram. When Westbrook asserts that Elisha did not deliver “a deliberately false prophecy,” as did Micaiah in Kgs 22:9–23, because it “would have been explicitly stated” (p. 53), he misses the significance of the parallels between Ahab’s campaign against Ramoth Gilead

4 Adapted from Long and Sneed, “A Socio-Literary Reading of 2 Kings 3,” 25. Paul Kissling observes the reverse order of reported events (Reliable Characters in the Primary History: Profiles of Moses, Joshua, Elijah and Elisha [JSOTSup 224; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 99], 5).

70

Journal of Biblical Literature 2, no. (2007)

and Jehoram’s defeat in Moab ( Kings 22 and 2 Kings 3) and overlooks the text’s sophisticated strategy of portraying Elisha’s oracle through rhetorical techniques of indirection. Correspondence between Kings 22 and 2 Kings 3 indicates that the story of Micaiah and the lying prophets frames the campaign against Moab. In both stories, prophets prophesy victory that does not materialize (22:, 2, 5; 3:). Micaiah subsequently changes his oracle (22:7), explaining the shift with the throne-room-in-heaven scene and the lying spirit (vv. 9–23; a scene missing from 2 Kings 3). Elisha’s promise of triumph (3:b) mirrors almost exactly Micaiah’s original prophecy of victory (22:5b). In addition, in both stories Jehoshaphat accompanies a king of Israel into battle—Ahab at Ramoth Gilead and Ahab’s son Jehoram against Mesha of Moab. Securing the connections between the two stories, Jehoshaphat in 2 Kings 3 twice quotes himself from the narrative in Kings 22 (see 2 Kgs 3:7b/ Kgs 22:4b; 2 Kgs 3:a/ Kgs 22:7). In terms of structure, the chiastic arrangement of 2 Kings 3 calls attention to the unsuccessful conclusion to Jehoram’s campaign, recalling Ahab’s defeat in Kings 22 (A. vv. 4–5; B. vv. –; C. vv. 9–2; D. vv. 3–9; C΄. vv. 20–23; B΄. vv. 24–25; A΄. vv. 2– 27; vv. –3 function as framing verses). The story ends as it began, with Mesha in rebellion against the house of Ahab. At the center of the chiasmus (item “D”) stands Elisha’s prophecy of victory. Irrespective of the play on the word ‫נכה‬, the word of Yahweh in the mouth of his prophet Elisha does not come to pass—unless perhaps Elisha is also enticing Jehoram as Micaiah first enticed Ahab! Resonance between the two narratives establishes Kings 22 as a reading lens for interpreting Elisha’s failed prophecy. With structural irony, the connections indicate that through his prophet Yahweh has sent Jehoram to defeat.5 As the four hundred prophets of Ahab (inspired by a lying spirit) and Micaiah (initially) gave an enticing word of victory for Ahab, so Elisha is enticing Jehoram to his defeat by Mesha of Moab. For a careful reader, the parallels create an expectation of judgment against Jehoram. Yahweh has announced that Elijah’s oracle of judgment on the house of Ahab would happen in the days of his son ( Kgs 2:29). Now it looks as though Elijah’s prophecy will come to pass, and Jehoram will meet the same fate as his father Ahab in Kings 22—Elisha’s prophecy of victory notwithstanding. With the word ‫קלל‬, the storyteller uses verbal irony to indicate that Elisha is entic5 Provan (1 and 2 Kings, 4) and Philip E. Satterthwaite (“The Elisha Narratives and the Coherence of 2 Kings 2-,” TynBul 49, no. [99]: ) view Yahweh as using Elisha, without his awareness, to entice Jehoram (see also John Gray, I & II Kings: A Commentary [OTL; 2nd ed.; London: SCM, 970], 45). Anticipating that Elijah’s prophecy was being fulfilled with the death of Ahaziah in 2 Kings , the reader is surprised to hear the withheld information that Ahaziah has no heir; another son of Ahab will reign in his place (v. 7; see Provan, 1 and 2 Kings, 9; Long, 1 & 2 Kings, 25–). Through the notice about building in Kgs :34, that Hiel of Bethel rebuilt Jericho with the loss of two sons (according to the word of Yahweh spoken by Joshua in Josh :2b), a frame for reading the narrative is established that will chronicle the loss of Ahab’s sons Ahaziah and Jehoram (Charles Conroy, “Hiel between Ahab and Elijah-Elisha: Kgs ,34 in Its Immediate Literary Context,” Bib 77, no. 2 [99]: 20–; Long, 1 & 2 Kings, 202–3).

Critical Notes

7

ing Jehoram.7 Usually read, “this is a trifle [NRSV]/easy thing [NIV]” (‫ )ונקל‬for Yahweh to give Moab over to Jehoram (3:), ‫“( קלל‬to be trifling/to curse”) may also connote that Elisha is cursing (i.e., enticing) Jehoram. The word ‫ קלל‬appears in the immediately preceding episode where Elisha “in the name of Yahweh” calls down a “curse” (‫ויקללם‬, “he cursed them”) on forty-two “young boys” who were jeering him (2:24). Read through the lens of Kings 22, Elisha is cursing Jehoram, as he cursed the youths and as Micaiah (and the lying spirit) enticed Ahab to defeat. Paradoxically, the prophet is vindicated, the text’s rhetorical strategy once more validating the word of Yahweh in his mouth. Unwittingly, then, Jehoram twice verbalizes the point of the story: “Yahweh has called these three kings to give them into the hand of Moab” (2 Kgs 3:0, 3)! The reversal at the end of the story is a surprise for the reader who gets the connections between Kings 22 and 2 Kings 3. Micaiah prophesied that Ahab would go up and not return (‫[ שוב‬22:2]), the king dying in battle at Ramoth Gilead (22:29–40). In 2 Kings 3, by contrast, the king returns (‫ )שוב‬from Moab, and Mesha’s son dies at the hands of his father—instead of Ahab’s son Jehoram (3:27)! The king, who is “better than his parents,” Ahab and Jezebel (3:2), receives a reprieve. Delayed retribution, a theme in Kings, resurfaces. Yahweh’s justice, enticing Jehoram to defeat, and his mercy, delaying retribution, remain in tension. In time, judgment comes—on the house that continues in the sins of Jeroboam the son of Nebat, who caused Israel to sin (v. 3; see 2 Kgs 9:4–29).9 Jesse C. Long, Jr. [email protected] Lubbock Christian University, Lubbock, TX 79407 7 Micaiah’s portrayal to Ahab of Yahweh’s dialogue in the throne-room-in-heaven scene ( Kgs 22:20) also displays verbal irony: “Who will entice Ahab to go up and fall upon [‫יפל‬, as in “attack” or “die in battle”] Ramoth Gilead?” (Long, 1 & 2 Kings, 2). Is the harpist in 2 Kgs 3:5 brought in by Elisha to authenticate the prophecy as part of the ruse (cf. Zedekiah’s use of “iron horns” in Kgs 22:)? Long, 1 & 2 Kings, 307; Long and Sneed, “A Socio-Literary Reading of 2 Kings 3,” 20. Jehoram’s statement in 2 Kgs 3:0 is prefaced by ‫ אהה כי־‬and in v. 3 by ‫אל כי־‬. The king’s pronouncement implies that there was a prophetic sendoff for the Moab campaign, as there was for Ahab in Kings 22—which represents an intentional gap in the narrative that for a careful reader further connects the two stories (Long and Sneed, “A Socio-Literary Reading of 2 Kings 3,” 25–59). 9 Long and Sneed, “A Socio-Literary Reading of 2 Kings 3,” 2–7. Allusions to the death of Ahab frame the story of Jehoram’s assassination by Jehu, characterizing Jehoram, symbolically, as Ahab—which subtly insinuates that Elijah’s delayed oracle against the house of Ahab ( Kgs 2:7– 29) has come to pass (Long, 1 & 2 Kings, 3-9).

4Q225 2 i 1–2: A Possible Reconstruction and Explanation

Now entering a new phase of study with the publication of the Dead Sea Scrolls nearly complete, Qumran scholars have before them fresh challenges, not the least of which is integrating the results of their specialized research with more general areas of scholarship, including study of the Hebrew Bible, NT, early and rabbinic Judaism, and early Christianity. Yet for those who remain devoted to scrolls-specific research there are remaining errands, including that of restoring lost text at the edges of fragments where enough evidence does survive to permit reasonable speculation. The following attempt to reconstruct 4Q5 i – and to explain it in its broader context is both a hopeful and a cautionary tale of attending to that task.

4Q225: An Overview 4Q5, inscribed in the late first century b.c.e., survives in only three fragments with evidence of five columns of text. Fragment 3 preserves so little of the bottom left and right corners of two adjacent columns that it is impossible to determine what the two columns contained. By contrast, frg. provides the majority of two full columns of text, and frg. reveals the middle portion of nearly a full column. Additionally, frg. has recently been shown to follow frg. , so that together, 4Q5 i, ii; give substantial evidence of three consecutive columns of text. They record, with varying degrees of detail and interpretation, selected episodes from Genesis and Exodus: the reaffirmation of God’s promise to Abram in Gen 5:–6 ( i 3–8a); Isaac’s birth in Gen :– ( i 8b–9a); the near sacrifice of Isaac in Gen :–8 ( i 9b–4; ii –0a); a genealogy from Isaac to Levi and a sum of the years of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and Levi ( ii 0–); and a telescoped account of the Passover and escape from Egypt in Exod :–3; 3:–4:3 ( ii 3–4; .–). As for the text’s origin and purpose, it is plausibly the record of one of the Qum-

For the editio princeps, see J. T. Milik and James VanderKam, “5. 4QPseudo-Jubileesa,” in Qumran Cave 4.VIII: Parabiblical Texts, Part I (ed. H. Attridge et al.; DJD 3; Oxford: Clarendon, 994), 4–55; henceforth DJD 3. For the placement of frg. after frg. , see Robert Kugler and James VanderKam, “A Note on 4Q5 (4QPseudo-Jubileesa),” RevQ (00): 33–39; also note that 4Q6 overlaps with 5 ii 8–4, but the rest of 4Q6 presents material unrelated to the remains of 4Q5 (for 4Q6, see DJD 3, 5–0).

Critical Notes

3

ran covenanters’ nightly colloquies on Scripture (QS 6:) meant to demonstrate to its audience the reliability of God’s promises, even when threatened by Prince Mastemah himself.3

Reconstructing 4Q225 2 i 1–2: The Problem For all that we do know about 4Q5, a key passage still confounds commentators. Evidence of only sixteen character spaces on line and twenty-seven spaces on line survives, but even more vexing than the meagerness of the two lines is their lack of apparent connection with the rest of the manuscript.

‫ההיא‬$ [‫[ ת תכרת הנ]פש‬ ‫נה‬$[‫יש [ב בחרן עשר]י[ם ]ש‬

] ˚[ ] ]‫מיה‬$ [‫ ]מקרב ע‬

. [ ]˚[ ]t that per[son] will be cut off . [from among] his [peo]ple. [ he sta]yed in Haran twenty [ye]ars. The last half of line and the reconstructed first two words of line prescribe the punishment of kārēt for a sin that must have been the subject of the rest of line , and the end of line mentions someone having dwelt in Haran for twenty years. Establishing a relationship between kārēt punishment and the stories of Isaac’s near sacrifice, the 3 For this view, see Robert Kugler, “Hearing 4Q5: A Case Study in Reconstructing the Religious Imagination of the Qumran Community,” DSD 0 (003): 8–03, esp. 00–03. My earlier work should be read in the context of the wider discussion of 4Q5 since its publication in 994. Contributions to the discussion include: Moshe Bernstein, “Pentateuchal Interpretation at Qumran,” in The Dead Sea Scrolls After Fifty Years: A Comprehensive Assessment (ed. Peter W. Flint and James C. VanderKam; vols.; Leiden: Brill, 998), :3–38; Moshe Bernstein, “Angels at the Aqedah: A Study in the Development of a Midrashic Motif,” DSD (000): 63–9, esp. 8–83; Joseph A. Fitzmyer, “The Interpretation of Genesis 5:6: Abraham’s Faith and Righteousness in a Qumran Text,” in Emanuel: Studies in Hebrew Bible, Septuagint, and Dead Sea Scrolls in Honor of Emanuel Tov (ed. Shalom Paul et al.; VTSup 94; Leiden: Brill, 003), 56-68; Joseph A. Fitzmyer, “The Sacrifice of Isaac in Qumran Literature,” Bib 83 (00): –9; Florentino García Martínez, “The Sacrifice of Isaac in 4Q5,” in The Sacrifice of Isaac: The Aqedah (Genesis 22) and Its Interpretations (ed. Ed Noort and Eibert Tigchelaar; Themes in Biblical Narrative 4; Leiden: Brill, 00), 44–5; Betsy Halpern-Amaru, “A Note on Isaac as First-Born in Jubilees and Only Son in 4Q5,” DSD 3 (006): –33; Menahem Kister, “Observations on Aspects of Exegesis, Tradition, and Theology in Midrash, Pseudepigrapha, and Other Jewish Writings,” in Tracing the Threads: Studies in the Vitality of Jewish Pseudepigrapha (ed. John Reeves; SBLEJL 6; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 994), –5, 0; James Kugel, “Exegetical Notes on 4Q5 ‘Pseudo-Jubilees’ ,” DSD 3 (006): 3–98; Lukas Kundert, Die Opferung/Bindung Isaaks, Bd. , Gen 22:1–19 im Alten Testament, im Frühjudentum und im Neuen Testament (WMANT 8; Neukirchen-Vluyn; Neukirchener Verlag, 998), 95–0; James C. VanderKam, “The Aqedah, Jubilees, and Pseudo-Jubilees,” in The Quest for Meaning: Studies in Biblical Intertextuality in Honor of James A. Sanders (ed. Craig Evans and Shemaryahu Talmon; Leiden: Brill, 99), 4–6; Geza Vermes, “New Light on the Sacrifice of Isaac From 4Q5,” JJS 4 (996): 40–46.

4

Journal of Biblical Literature 6, no. (00)

Passover, and the exodus has defied scholarly attentions, and only Jacob—not Abraham, Isaac, or the Hebrew people whom the manuscript concerns most—is said to have dwelt in Haran for two decades (Gen 3:38, 4). Some general propositions about 4Q5, however, provide assistance in sorting out the puzzle of the manuscript’s first two lines.

Reconstructing 4Q225 2 i 1–2: Framing Propositions First, most agree that Jubilees was influential in shaping 4Q5’s accounts of Abraham, Isaac, and the exodus, though it was hardly intended as a “new Jubilees” or a copy of the book itself.4 Rather, close examination suggests that the relationship 4Q5 shared with Jubilees was far more nuanced, that of an independent composition that nonetheless traded on its audience’s awareness of Jubilees. Indeed, three key instances in 4Q5 strongly support this contention. The rationale for God’s request that Abraham sacrifice Isaac is articulated only by the words ‫ ]אל אל[והים וישטים את אברהם בישחק‬/ ‫ויבוא שר המ]ש[טמה‬, “Then Prince Ma[s]temah came [to Go]d and he accused Abraham regarding Isaac” ( i 9b–0a). A recipient understands the sentence only through awareness of the fuller statement provided in Jub. :5–8 of the Joban explanation for God’s request.5 5During the seventh week, in the first year during the first month—on the twelfth of this month—in this jubilee [003], there were voices in heaven regarding Abraham, that he was faithful in everything that he told him, (that) the Lord loved him, and (that) in every difficulty he was faithful. 6Then Prince Mastema came and said before God: “Abraham does indeed love his son Isaac and finds him more pleasing than anyone else. Tell him to offer him as a sacrifice on an altar. Then you will see if he performs this order and will know whether he is faithful in everything through which you test him.” Now the Lord was aware that Abraham was faithful in every difficulty which he had told him. For he had tested him through his land and the famine; he had tested him through the wealth of kings; he had tested him again through his wife when she was taken forcibly, and through circumcision; and he tested him through Ishmael and his servant girl Hagar when he sent them away. 8In everything through which he tested him he was found faithful. He himself did not grow impatient, nor was he slow to act; for he was faithful and one who loved the Lord.

A related instance of 4Q5 assuming its recipients’ awareness of Jubilees in ii 9b–0a is a seemingly inexplicable outburst by God following the binding of Isaac: 4 Understandably,

the title assigned to 4Q5, “Pseudo-Jubilees,” is often thought to be an overstatement of its relationship to Jubilees. It is, in the words of one of its editors, “not . . . pretending to be the work of this [Jubilees’] author, nor is there any indication anyone thought it was” (VanderKam, “Aqedah,” 6). For further views on the closeness or distance between 4Q5 and Jubilees, see Bernstein, “Angels at the Aqedah,” 69 n. 5; García Martínez, “Sacrifice of Isaac,” 45. 5 Translations of passages come from The Book of Jubilees (trans. James C. VanderKam; CSCO 5, Scriptores Aethiopici 88; Louvain: Peeters, 989), ad loc.; for other instances of this explanation for God’s command, see b. Sanh. 89b; Gen. Rab. 56:4.

Critical Notes

5

‫ לא יהיה אהב‬/ [ ‫ע]תה ידעתי כי‬, “N[ow I know that ] / he will not be loving.”6 The declamation does not appear in Genesis or Jubilees, but knowing Jub. :6–8 would explain for a recipient who the subject of the verb is and the meaning of the phrase: Prince Mastemah accused Abraham of loving Isaac more than anything else, God included (Jub. :6), but God knew that Abraham was faithful to God in all his afflictions, and “was the one who loved the Lord” (Jub. :–8). In 4Q5’s characteristically condensed form, which relies on its recipients’ prior knowledge of Jubilees, ii 9b–0a confirms God’s confidence that Abraham would not let love of Isaac trump faithfulness to God. A third indication that 4Q5 depends on its recipients’ awareness of traditions in Jubilees is the content of frg. . It is easiest to construe the surviving snatch phrases on frg. as the remnants of a highly condensed Jubilees-style account of the exodus and the accompanying Passover feast. The binding of Prince Mastemah in ii 3 (vacat ‫ושר המשטמה‬ ‫ )אסור‬echoes his bondage at the exodus according to Jub. 48:5, 8. The appearance of Belial listening to what someone has to say in ii 4 (‫ )וישמע בליעל >ל<]אשר‬may have developed from the addition of demons to the exodus story in Jub. 48:6.8 In a related instance, Belial’s striking action in :3 ( ‫ב ר ו ח‬ ‫על‬$ [ ‫בל]י‬$ ‫ )ויכא‬employs the verb used of God in Exod :9 (‫ )נכה‬and perhaps expands on the transfer of the blame for striking down all of Egypt’s firstborn in Jub. 49: to the “forces of Mastemah.” The phrase in :4a, ‫כברית [ו‬ ‫נכרתה עם אברהם‬, “according to] his [covenant] made with Abraham,” repeats Jub. 48:8, which reports that God afflicted Egypt and delivered the people from Pharaoh to honor the covenant with the ancestor. And 4Q5 :4b—with ‫ויאכלו‬, “and they ate,” and :0, with ‫ע[ל שפת ה]ים‬, “o]n the shore of the [sea”—recalls Jub. 49:–, 6, 3 and Jubilees’ recollection that the Passover meal began as the firstborn of Egypt were attacked and was completed only after the crossing of the sea.9 A second general proposition useful for our purposes is that where 4Q5 departs from Jubilees and Scripture (especially in expanding Genesis ), it does so as elliptically as it does in using Jubilees. Abraham’s sighting of fire on the mountain where he was to sacrifice Isaac (‫ [ והנה[ אש‬ii ]) is perhaps best understood as an abbreviated form of the motif elaborated in Pirqe R. El. 3 that Abraham saw a divine self-manifestation marking

6 For a defense of this reconstruction, see DJD 3, 5, 53; see also the contrasting suggestion

in Vermes, “New Light,” 4 n. 9; and see Kugler, “Hearing 4Q5,” 95 n. 4, for my explanation of why the editors’ reading is to be preferred, and of the lacuna at the end of line 9 that the editors’ reconstruction requires. For these and other possible connections between 4Q5 and Jubilees’ account of the Passover and exodus, see Kugler, “Hearing 4Q5,” 95–96. Note that there is possibly another instance where 4Q5 follows Jubilees, but in what it omits, not what it includes. While Jub. 8:–3 and 4Q5 i 0b–3a reproduce almost precisely God’s command to Abraham in Gen :, they both omit the destination, “to the land of Moriah.” 8 See VanderKam, Book of Jubilees, 34, for the argument that the plural pronominal suffix and following plural verb in the Ethiopic text of Jub. 48:6 should stand as a reference to demons and not be emended (as it generally is) to the singular to make the verse refer to Prince Mastemah alone. 9 In “Hearing 4Q5,” 96, I also suggest that the possible reference to a time (or place?) free “from the guilt of immorality” (‫ )מעוון הזנות‬echoes the sacred future envisioned at the end of the jubilees in Jub. 50:5 (cf. 0:3–6).

Journal of Biblical Literature 6, no. (00)

6

the place of sacrifice in the form of a pillar of fire (cf. Tg. Ps.-J. Gen :4).0 And Isaac’s exhortation to Abraham, ‫כ]פות אותי יפה‬, “T[ie me well,” in ii 4 evokes with only a few words the complete tradition offered up in Tg. Ps.-J. Gen :0 (cf. Gen. Rab. 56:). Notably, we know the full forms of these exegetical motifs from two oft-related, later Jewish texts, Pirqe Rabbi Eliezer and Targum Pseudo-Jonathan. Given the affiliation between 4Q5 and Jubilees, though, this hardly seems surprising, as it has long been recognized that especially Pirqe Rabbi Eliezer repeats many of the motifs we encounter in Jubilees.3 Indeed, the only unique expansionist motif evident in 4Q5’s account of the near sacrifice, the presence of weeping angels of holiness and jeering angels of Mastemah ( ii 5– a), is most closely related to the weeping angels at the Aqedah known also from Pirqe R. El. 3 and Gen. Rab. 56:5.4 Significantly, 4Q5’s apocopated presentation of motifs known until now in full form only in much later texts suggests that they are of greater antiquity than previously imagined. Third, by virtue of the close relationship of 4Q5 with Jubilees, it is possible to see Passover as a unifying theme in the Qumran text. VanderKam has observed two clear R. El. 3 (ed. Luria 0a): ‫ראה עמוד של אש מן הארץ עד לשמים‬, “He saw a column of fire from the earth to the heavens.” On the connection between this passage and the reference in 4Q5 ii , see Marc Bregman, “The Aqedah at Qumran: Fire on the Mountain: A Comparison of 4Q5 Pseudo-Jubileesa and Pirqe de-Rabbi Eliezer, Chapter 3” (abstract of lecture presented at the Orion Center, May , 998, http://orion.mscc.huji.ac.il/orion/programs/Bregman.shtml). VanderKam and Milik in DJD 3, 5, also cite Tg. Ps.-J. Gen :4, where Abraham sees ‫ענן איקרא קטיר‬ ‫על טוורא‬, “the Cloud of Glory enveloping the mountain” (translations of the targum are from Michael Maher, Targum Pseudo-Jonathan: Genesis: Translated, with Introduction and Notes [Aramaic Bible B; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 99]). The editors also observe that “there is insufficient space for the full expression ‫ וירא עמוד אש‬on the fragment” (VanderKam and Milik, DJD 3, 5), further supporting the notion that 4Q5 apocopates the exegetical motifs it incorporates. ‫ואמר יצחק לאבוי כפת יתי יאות דלא נפרכס מן צערא דנפשי ונדחי לגובא דחבלא‬, “And Isaac said to his father, ‘Bind me well that I may not struggle in the agony of my soul and be pitched into the pit of destruction. . . .’ ” On the close relationship between Pirqe Rabbi Eliezer and Targum Pseudo-Jonathan, see Gerald Friedlander, Pirke De Rabbi Eliezer (London: Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner, 96), xix. Pirqe Rabbi Eliezer is generally dated to the eighth or ninth century c.e. (H. L. Strack and G. Stemberger, Introduction to the Talmud and Midrash [trans. Markus Bockmuehl; Minneapolis: Fortress, 99], 356), and Targum Pseudo-Jonathan is dated no earlier than the seventh century c.e. (Maher, Targum Pseudo-Jonathan, –). 3 Friedlander, Pirke De Rabbi Eliezer, xxi–xxvii. Anna Urowitz-Freudenstein (“Pseudepigraphic Support of Pseudepigraphic Sources: The Case of Pirqe de Rabbi Eliezer,” in Tracing the Threads, ed. Reeves, 35–53) challenges the direct connection between Pirqe Rabbi Eliezer and early Jewish pseudepigrapha that Friedlander suggested. She does nothing, though, to undercut the soundness of the view that Pirqe Rabbi Eliezer drew from a pool of traditions shared by Jubilees. 4 On this, see Bernstein, “Angels at the Aqedah,” 8–8. A further instance of elliptic referencing might be evident in the designation of Abraham’s dwelling place as ‫הבארות‬, “the wells,” when God commanded him to sacrifice Isaac. This may depend on the tradition of reading ‫באר‬ ‫ שבע‬in Gen :33 as “seven wells”; see Theodor Nöldeke, “Sieben Brunnen,” AR (904): 340–44, cited by Fitzmyer, “Sacrifice of Isaac,” n. 0. However, the evidence Nöldeke cites for this tradition is late, and of Mandaean, Christian, and Muslim origin, making it of doubtful value. 0 Pirqe

Critical Notes

indicators linking Passover and the exodus with the Aqedah in Jubilees. According to Jub. 8:3, 8–9, the binding of Isaac occurs on the date assigned to Passover, and only in Jubilees’ accounts of the binding of Isaac and the Passover does Prince Mastemah play a featured role (:6; 8:9, ; 48:, 9, , 5), as he does in 4Q5 ( i 9–0; ii 6–8, 3, 4).5 And even though the absence of an explicit Passover-related date for the Aqedah in 4Q5 leads VanderKam to downplay the possibility that it joins Jubilees in making this connection, the argument above that 4Q5 presupposes Jubilees suggests that explicit linkage would hardly have been necessary; the audience already familiar with Jubilees could have made the connection without the assistance of the date formula.6

Reconstructing 4Q225 2 i 1–2: A Proposal Returning to i – mindful of the foregoing propositions, a possible reconstruction emerges. First, if we rely on 4Q5’s close affiliation with Jubilees to narrow the list of possible crimes for which kārēt might have been assigned as a punishment, we come quickly back to the topic of Passover. By contrast with the frequent use of kārēt in the Hebrew Bible (e.g., Gen :4; Exod 30:33, 38; Lev :4, 9; 0:3, 5–6; :3; etc.), only twice does Jubilees prescribe kārēt as a punishment, and in 49:9 it is in reference to the failure to observe Passover if one is pure and not away traveling at the time of the feast. The judgment depends on Num 9:3, which, in the course of establishing the “second Passover,” mandates observance of the feast by the pure and those “not traveling” at the appointed time of the feast: ‫והאיש אשר הוא טהור ובדרך לא היה וחדל לעשות הפסח ונכרתה‬ ‫הנפש ההוא מעמיה‬, “But anyone who is clean and is not on a journey, and yet refrains from keeping the Passover, shall be cut off from the people.” Jubilees 49:9, with help from 49:, seems intent on clearing up a potential ambiguity in Num 9:3, namely, whether ‫בדרך‬ ‫ לא היה‬means being close to the temple, where one would make the Passover sacrifice (Deut 6:–), or close to one’s family home, where home observance would be possible (Exod :–8). Jub. 49:9. The man who is pure but does not come to celebrate it [Passover] on its prescribed day—to bring a sacrifice that is pleasing before the Lord and to eat

5 VanderKam,

“Aqedah,” 45–48. 60. VanderKam cites another difference between Jubilees and 4Q5 that motivates his effort to open up some space between them. Jubilees : indicates that the book is dictated to Moses by the Angel of the Presence, but 4Q5 is the speech of an unknown third-person narrator (pp. 60–6). However, the view that 4Q5 perhaps originated as a record of one of the Qumran covenanters’ evening colloquies on Scripture (QS 6:) could draw the two works closer together, inasmuch as it imagines that the “speaker” of 4Q5 was indeed commenting on Scripture for the assembled community, Scripture that included Jubilees. Following Gen :4, kārēt also appears in Jub. 5:4 as punishment for a man’s failure to be circumcised. That the penalty in 4Q5 has to do with circumcision and echoes Gen :4, as suggested by Bernstein (“Contours of Genesis,” 64) is unlikely, since the only other possible reference to circumcision in 4Q5 was eliminated by Kugler and VanderKam (“Note on 4Q5,” 35), when what was once ‫וימל‬, “and he circumcised,” was corrected to read ‫ויאכלו‬, “and they ate” (4Q5 .4). 6 Ibid.,

8

Journal of Biblical Literature 6, no. (00) and drink before the Lord on the day of the festival—that man who is pure and nearby is to be uprooted because he did not bring the Lord’s sacrifice at its time. That man will bear responsibility for his own sin. Jub. 49:. They will not be able to celebrate the Passover in their cities or in any places except before the Lord’s tabernacle or otherwise before the house in which his name has resided. Then they will not go astray from the Lord.

Clearly Jubilees 49 leaves little doubt about the meaning of ‫בדרך לא היה‬: it can only refer to proximity to the temple. Returning to line (and the first portion of line ), it is possible that an echo of Jub. 49:9 and Num 9:3 occupied the lost portion. Like Jubilees 49, the chief interest is in addressing the relative location of the potential festal celebrant. ]‫[מיה‬$ ‫ ]מקרב ע‬/ ‫ההיא‬$ [‫ ]בדרך לא [ה]יה ואת הפסח חדל לעשו [ת תכרת הנ]פש‬

The virtues of this reconstruction are that it occupies the number of spaces one expects before the first letter trace (8–9); it provides a clear explanation of the first surviving letter (taw); it respects the dominant influence of Jubilees on 4Q5; and it ties into the Passover theme that characterizes much of the remaining manuscript. The downside of the reading is that it requires additional material prior to this first surviving column: at least ‫ האיש אשר הוא‬would have to appear in the closing line of the preceding column; and with that comes a further column of text, about the contents of which we have no real idea.8 As for the text preserved at the end of line , ‫נה‬$[‫יש [ב בחרן עשר]י[ם ]ש‬, the only scriptural or Jubilean antecedent for someone dwelling in Haran for a period of twenty years is Jacob’s sojourn there while in service to Laban (Gen 3:38, 4; cf. Jub. :9; 9:5). At first glance this has nothing to do with 4Q5’s narrative and thematic preoccupations—the binding of Isaac, the exodus, and the Passover. But in view of the sharing of exegetical motifs in 4Q5 with those repeated especially in Pirqe Rabbi Eliezer and Targum Pseudo-Jonathan, here too we are drawn back to Passover. In Pirqe R. El. 3 we learn that Gen :9 mentions Jacob having brought two lambs in feeding his father a deceiver’s repast because one was the Passover lamb and the other was for his father to consume; the night of betrayal, as it turns out, was the night on which Passover would be observed. This same motif is repeated in Tg. Ps.-J. Gen :9.9 8 The end of the preceding column may also have been ‫האיש אשר הוא טהור‬, to match Num 9:3 completely; but that would necessitate a conjunction before ‫ בדרך‬at the beginning of line , where there is little room to spare. As for the possibility of fitting a complete, sensible clause on line prior to the preserved text, there seems to be too little space to allow it. 9 ‫והביא שני גדיי עזים וכי שני גדיי עזים היה מאכלו של יצחק הלא די לו באחד שנאמר צדיק‬ ‫אוכל לשובע נפשו אלא אחד כנגד הפסח ואחד לעשות לו מטעמים לאכול הלך‬, “He [Jacob] went and

brought two kids of the goats. Were two kids of the goats the food for Isaac? Was not one sufficient for him? As it is said, ‘The righteous one eats to the satisfaction of his soul.’ But one corresponded to the Paschal offering, and one [was] to make for him [Isaac] savory meat to eat” (Pirqe R. El. 3 [ed. Luria 3b–4a]). In Tg. Ps.-J. Gen :9, Rebekah says to her son Jacob, ‫איזל כדון לבית ע}י{נא וסב לי‬

‫מתמן תרי גדיי עזין שמינין חד לשום פיסחא וחד לשום קרבן חגא ואעביד יתהון תבשילין לאבוך היכמה‬

Critical Notes

9

Thus, on the strength of 4Q5’s shared motifs with Pirqe Rabbi Eliezer and Targum Pseudo-Jonathan and its habit of presenting apparently well-known exegetical motifs elliptically, I offer the following reconstruction of line (with line provided for completeness).

‫ההיא‬$ [‫ ]בדרך לא [ה]יה ואת הפסח חדל לעשו [ת תכרת הנ]פש‬ ‫נה‬$[‫מיה] ויעקב חדל כי יש [ב בחרן עשר]י[ם ]ש‬$ [‫ ]מקרב ע‬

Like the reconstruction of line , this one also fills the lacuna comfortably; more significantly, it integrates the language of Num 9:3 into the reference to Jacob, using 9:3’s ‫חדל‬ with an infinitive,0 and it provides an explanation for the reference to Jacob’s sojourn in line : having once observed the Passover, he was nonetheless excused for the following two decades because he was ‫בדרך‬, on the road in Haran. Altogether, then, 4Q5 i confirmed Jubilees’ insistence that one who is “not traveling” observe the Passover feast at the Jerusalem temple on its appointed day (Num 9:3; Jub. 49:9, ). The second line reinforced that assertion by observing that Jacob was permitted to ‫חדל‬, “cease,” after having once observed the feast only because he was ‫בדרך‬, “on the road,” during his twenty-year stay in Haran. Then the rest of the surviving text goes on to recall two significant moments in Israel’s history associated with Passover and replay them in such a way as to prove that, although in both instances the promises of God were endangered by the actions of Prince Mastemah, God prevailed.

4Q225 in Its Compositional and/or Receptive Context Apart from evidence that there was some reason to urge the Qumran covenanters to observe Passover at the temple, the foregoing reconstruction of 4Q5 i – remains difficult to embrace. Fortunately, there are hints in the scrolls at least licensing suspicion that such urging was necessary. 4Q65 3:3 reads, ‫]אל[ יואכל נער זעטוט ואשה ]בזב [ח הפסח‬, “Let [not] a young boy or woman eat the Passover [sacrif]ice.” The passage’s concern is for the meal’s purity, ‫די רחים‬, “Go now to the sheep shed and bring me from there two fat kids, one for the Passover and

one for the festival offerings, and I will make of them dishes for your father, such as he loves.” Here the explanation of the second lamb is actually different, relying as it does on the rabbinic prescription of a second lamb as “supplementary meat for the Passover meal” (m. Pesahi. 6.3; see Per Å. Bengston, Passover in Targum Pseudo-Jonathan Genesis: The Connection of Early Biblical Events with Passover in Targum Pseudo-Jonathan in a Synagogue Setting [Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 00], n. 344). Note also that Jacob’s trickery is linked to the binding of Isaac in Pirqe R. El. 3 (ed. Luria 3b) as a way of explaining Isaac’s poor eyesight, which aided the success of the deceit. When Isaac was bound, he looked to the heavens and saw the Shekinah, and, rather than allow Isaac to die outright upon seeing God (cf. Exod 33:0), God spared him and afflicted him instead only with diminished eyesight in old age. 0 For other uses of the verb in the Dead Sea Scrolls, see QS 5:; QM 4:3; QHa 3:5; 4Q43 :; and Q9 53:.

80

Journal of Biblical Literature 6, no. (00)

likely a pertinent issue only if temple, not home, observance were the normative practice. One may conclude from this that the covenanters considered themselves bound to observe the Passover sacrifice at the temple. Surely complicating that experience, though, were the variant mandates of QTa :6–9 requiring them to make the sacrifice before the evening offering, to restrict participants in the sacrificial meal to men over twenty years of age, and to consume the meal that night within the sanctuary courtyards (cf. Jub. 49:, , ). It would not be surprising if, under such conditions, which set them so vividly apart from their nonsectarian co-religionists, observing Passover had grown difficult for community members. We may even speculate that, given such difficulties, some were simply retreating to Qumran at Passover to exercise the “Jacob exception” provided by the memory of Jacob’s cessation of observance while “on the road” in Haran, a practice acknowledged in 4Q5 i –. Read in this light, the first two lines of 4Q5 become an exhortation to keep Passover according to sectarian policy—at the temple—and not to use self-imposed exile, perhaps to Qumran itself, as a legal loophole through which to escape one’s Passover obligation. The following narrative focuses attention, then, on two episodes from Israel’s past that are inextricably intertwined with Passover—the Aqedah and the exodus— retelling them in such a way as to heighten the sense in which they were both moments when evil, embodied in Prince Mastemah, threatened to overthrow God’s promises, yet God prevailed. Thus, the covenanters should never, out of weariness in waiting for God to vindicate them or unease in exhibiting their difference before others, neglect their Passover obligations; they should never fail to observe the central rite of liberation, the feast of the Passover, lest they incur the penalty pronounced by Num 9:3 and dishonor the faith of Abraham and the memory of those who escaped from Egypt to celebrate the first Passover.

Preceding the prohibition of lads and women eating the Passover sacrifice is a quotation of Mal :0 (4Q65 3:–). The manuscript’s editor, Joseph Baumgarten, suggests that the quotation indicates that the author witnessed lax practices among some men wherein they shared their meal portions with wives and children, whose purity could not be guaranteed, resulting in the contamination of the communal meal for all men through the act of one or several (see Joseph Baumgarten, “65. 4QMiscellaneous Rules,” in Qumran Cave 4.XXV: Halakhic Texts [ed. Joseph Baumgarten et al.; DJD 35; Oxford: Clarendon, 999], 63–64). That the site enjoyed by the Qumran community qualified as a place akin to the biblical wandering of the people in the wilderness is widely recognized by even casual readers of the scrolls; see, e.g., QS 8:b–4.

‫ובהיות אלה ליחד בישראל‬ ‫ בתכונים האלה יבדלו מתוך מושב הנשי העול ללכת למדבר לפנות שם את דרכ הואהא‬3 ‫ כאשר כתוב במדבר פנו דרך יייי ישרו בערבה מסלה לאלוהינו‬4

This passage is the denouement of a section of the Community Rule commonly viewed as the group’s (earliest?) manifesto; if that is correct, the community constituted itself from the beginning as a gathering removed from the mainstream.

Critical Notes

8

Conclusion While the foregoing reconstruction of 4Q5 i – is certainly plausible, as is the explanation of it in the context of the remains we have dubbed 4Q5, there is much here as well that serves as a caution to the scrolls specialist who would seek to fill out the margins of fragments. The reconstruction of line provided here certifies the loss of a preceding column; if correct, it is a sober reminder of the harsh reality that scrolls scholars are forever doomed to work with uncommonly fragmentary evidence. Even a cursory glance back at the preceding paragraphs reminds one that the reconstruction and explanation proposed here, like so many others that emerge from the studies of scrolls scholars, are woven from multiple fragile threads that at times barely reach far enough to join together, let alone produce a full piece of cloth—invalidate any one of the threads, and the whole fabric might dissolve. For these reasons this note should be taken not only as an example of what we might make of a fragmentary scroll with a little effort, but also as a cautionary tale for the scrolls specialist: those who still seek clarity in and from the scrolls of Qumran should never forget that they have only the fragments of Qumran to work with in achieving that goal. Robert Kugler [email protected] Lewis & Clark College, Portland, OR 99

Karl Polanyi, Marshall Sahlins, and the Study of Ancient Social Relations

Questions arise whenever social-scientific models are used in analysis of ancient texts, particularly regarding the feasibility of their application to social and cultural milieux different from those from which they were derived. An essay I authored that assessed the command in Luke 6 to “love your enemies” from the perspective of ancient reciprocity ethics, and that invoked Marshall Sahlins’s taxonomy of reciprocity relations (general, balanced, and negative reciprocity), was queried by Zeba Crook on precisely this point, namely, whether it applied Sahlins’s taxonomy to Greco-Roman reciprocity relations without adequate attention to the distinctions between kinship organized tribal societies (the focus of Sahlins’s analysis) and the socially stratified agrarian societies characteristic of the ancient Mediterranean world.1 Crook’s piece was more than just a critique on that point; it raised questions about the extent to which Sahlins’s model has applicability to the Roman world. This essay will focus on this key point and, it is hoped, will also contribute to the discussion on the use of social-scientific research in biblical studies.

I Sahlins argued that reciprocity is manifested in three genres. To summarize, general reciprocity is characteristic of the intimate relationships of kinship and friendship. Its emblematic feature is generous sharing, which generates gratitude and an open-ended, diffuse obligation to make a return. Balanced reciprocity features overt concern for equivalence and timeliness of exchange. While it frames such transactions as labor exchanges among kin and friends, it is also characteristic of more distant relationships in which selfinterest and material concerns take priority over the human bond itself, as in market exchange. Negative reciprocity is the maximization of one’s own benefit at the expense of another, in its pronounced forms amounting to exploitation.2 1 Zeba A. Crook, “Reflections on Cultural and Social-scientific Models,” JBL 124 (2005): 515– 20. See Alan Kirk, “‘Love your enemies,’ the Golden Rule, and Ancient Reciprocity (Luke 6:27–35),” JBL 122 (2003): 667–86. 2 Marshall Sahlins, Stone Age Economics (New York: Aldine, 1972), esp. ch. 5: “On the Sociology of Primitive Exchange.” Sahlins credits Elman Service, The Hunters (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1966), with originating the typology (Marshall Sahlins, Tribesmen [Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1968], 82).

182

Critical Notes

183

The question arises about the portability of this typology. According to Crook, “Sahlins cannot have imagined that his model of reciprocity would be abstract enough to apply to all cultural and social situations, least of all to archaic, pre-modern, or modern contexts, that is, those with a state and central form of government such as existed in the Greco-Roman period”; moreover, “the cultural and social presuppositions and context employed by Sahlins work directly against any attempt to apply the model unaltered across cultures.”3 This is because Sahlins correlated this spectrum of reciprocity dynamics with the variable of social distance from the kinship group, the organizing principle of tribal societies. Because Sahlins’s model is so closely tied to exchange relations among kin, Crook argues, it cannot translate without major modifications to the stratified Greco-Roman world, where an additional factor, status distance, particularly as expressed in clientelism, is the mechanism for much exchange. Because in the Greco-Roman context fictive kinship was invoked to express the patron–client relation, naïve application of Sahlins’s kinship-based reciprocity model would conflate what are in fact distinct modes of exchange. Accordingly, Crook advocates recourse to the reciprocity model outlined by Ekkehard and Wolfgang Stegemann. The Stegemanns’ model, Crook claims, takes cognizance of the factor of status-different exchange because it significantly modifies Sahlins’s reciprocity rubrics, namely, by adding a new category, familial reciprocity, to encompass kinship exchange, and then by repositioning Sahlins’s general reciprocity category to subsume the clientelistic exchanges characteristic of the Roman world.4 In effect, Crook desires a model flexibly capable of adding categories as needed to classify all sorts of transactions, the sheer variety of which will increase along with the complexity of a society.5 When we turn to Sahlins’s own discussion of his model, it turns out to be a bit more complex than one might have gathered from Crook’s description. Sahlins invokes not just kinship distance but also the correlative factor of village residency to define the sphere for the open-ended giving typical of general reciprocity, and so in fact he specifies three social relations—“kinship, friendship, and neighborly relations”—as being characterized by this genre of exchange.6 As the archetypal trust relationships, this triad was prominent in Greco-Roman society as well, so we see that generalized reciprocity as Sahlins defined it has a wider scope than kinship relations narrowly defined. (This raises questions about the Stegemanns’ positing of “familial reciprocity” as an additional category, a problem to which we shall return below.) Sahlins, moreover, explicitly took cognizance of the phe-

3 Crook, “Reflections,” 516. Sahlins states explicitly, however: “Probably all of this has been easy to understand—because in fact it is perfectly applicable to our own society” (Tribesmen, 84). For an application of Sahlins to an early-modern context see Natalie Zemon Davis, The Gift in SixteenthCentury France (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2000). 4 Crook, “Reflections,” 517–18. See Ekkehard and Wolfgang Stegemann, The Jesus Movement: A Social History of Its First Century (trans. O. C. Dean, Jr.; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1999), 34–37. 5 “In the first instance, it [Sahlins’s model] is too general to be useful in a broad spectrum of societies. That is to say, there are not enough categories of exchange to be able to apply to actual examples of exchange” (Zeba A. Crook, Reconceptualising Conversion: Patronage, Loyalty, and Conversion in the Religions of the Ancient Mediterranean [BZNW 130; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2004], 55). 6 Sahlins, Stone Age Economics, 191.

Journal of Biblical Literature 126, no. 1 (2007)

184

nomenon of status-different exchange. Status distinction, he pointed out, already inheres in the kinship relation of parent and child; furthermore, in tribal societies the relation of chieftains to tribe members is one of genuine kinship and is frequently construed with paternal language. Chieftain rank and power, moreover, may be achieved through acts of benefaction that create and maintain personal followings.7 Points of contact with agrarian societies, where status-different exchange occurs along the lines of patronage, framed as fictive kinship, emerge and suggest the salience of Sahlins’s tripartite taxonomy for analysis of Roman social relations. In the same vein, Sahlins viewed the reach of his model as extending to more complex societies and in fact essayed analyses of societies “of an intermediate sort,” that is, characterized by political organizing principles in addition to and cutting across simple kinship organization, with the power of his model residing precisely in its capacity to illuminate transformations in reciprocity relations as the analytical focus moved from simple to more complex societies.8

II The genesis of Sahlins’s reciprocity model can be understood only in the context of Karl Polanyi’s work, namely, Polanyi’s classification of the integrative forms of economic organization in accordance with three major types: reciprocity, redistribution, and market exchange. Polanyi uses the term “reciprocity” to designate the first of these three possible patterns of macroeconomic organization, specifically, the institutionalized exchange of goods and services within a kin group, between separate kin groups, and among neighbors and friends; hence it is marked by symmetry among exchanging parties. “Redistribution” operates on the principles of centricity and asymmetry, that is, pooling under the auspices of a high-ranking authority (e.g., a chief, elites, a king), who then redistributes the goods. The third economic pattern is exchange of goods through the pricing mechanism of a market.9 This classification made possible the analysis of the economic organization 7 Ibid.,

205–11; idem, Tribesmen, 87–92.

8 Sahlins, Stone Age Economics, 227–28. Crook’s assertion that Sahlins’s model has limited cross-

cultural applicability is not supported by the anthropological literature he cites in support (“Reflections,” 517 n. 8). Takie Lebra (“An Alternative Approach to Reciprocity,” American Anthropologist 77 [1975]: 550–65) and Sally Price (“Reciprocity and Social Distance,” Ethnology 17 [1978]: 339–50) do not problematize its cross-cultural applicability; rather, they argue that Sahlins’s correlation of type of reciprocity to social distance is weak in explanatory power when it comes to phenomena such as enmity between kin or sociability between strangers. This is helpful criticism, and it shows that the enduring value of the model lies in its exposé of how paradigmatic social relations, with their corollary moral qualities, find symbolization in particular genres of exchange. The model makes it possible to analyze how these genres are strategically actualized in particular situations. 9 Karl Polanyi, Primitive, Archaic and Modern Economies: Essays of Karl Polanyi (ed. George Dalton; Boston: Beacon, 1968); see esp. ch. 1, “Societies and Economic Systems,” published in 1944; and ch. 7, “The Economy as an Instituted System,” published in 1957. Polanyi states, “Empirically, we find the main patterns to be reciprocity, redistribution, and exchange. Reciprocity denotes movements between correlative points of symmetrical groupings; redistribution designates appropriational movements toward a center and out of it again; exchange refers here to vice versa movements taking place as between ‘hands’ under a market system” (p. 149).

Critical Notes

185

of various societies in accordance with the operational prevalence of one or some combination of these modes. It is also marked by the migration of salient features of the “reciprocity” pattern into the “redistribution” and “market exchange” patterns (particularly the former). “Mutuality,” for example, is predicated of reciprocity, and “sharing” of redistribution,10 though on the face of it there seems little to distinguish these terms. Moreover, Polanyi pointed out that his “reciprocity” economic pattern is distinguished by its capacity to employ “both redistribution and exchange as subordinate methods.”11 In none of these cases is Polanyi being inconsistent, because his model permits configuration of modes. However, it is not surprising that Polanyi’s work should stimulate the emergence of another model which takes reciprocity dynamics as its comprehensive organizing principle, and this is where Marshall Sahlins comes into the picture. It is important to recognize that while Sahlins acknowledges his debt to Polanyi, he unambiguously characterizes his tripartite reciprocity typology as a new departure, precisely in its making analysis of reciprocity relations the focus of a new model.12 Sahlins analyzes Polanyi’s “market exchange” as one possible manifestation of “balanced reciprocity” and asserts that “chiefly redistribution is not different in principle from kinshiprank reciprocity. It is, rather, based upon the reciprocity principle, a highly organized form of that principle.”13 However, while Sahlins understands his typology as a departure from the governing terms of Polanyi’s model, nowhere does he take the view that it displaces or supersedes the latter. Rather, though the conceptual frameworks and spheres of application of the respective models overlap, their analytical foci are different: Polanyi’s model of three “integrative patterns” characterizes how particular societies—primitive, ancient, and modern—organize their economies, while Sahlins’s reciprocity grid assesses the qualities and dynamics of different kinds of social relations.14

III It is on these points that problems become evident in Ekkehard and Wolfgang Stegemann’s description of reciprocity relations in the ancient Mediterranean world. The Stegemanns’ model amounts to an anomalous amalgam of features from both Polanyi’s and Sahlins’s models. A factor that appears to have contributed to this is a misapprehension 10 Ibid.,

149. 153. 12 “The reader . . . will recognize my indebtedness to Polanyi (1944, 1957, 1959) on this score, and likewise the departures from Polanyi’s terminology and threefold scheme of principles of integration” (Sahlins, Stone Age Economics, 188 n. 3, emphasis added). See also S. C. Humphreys, “History, Economics, and Anthropology: The Work of Karl Polanyi,” History and Theory 8 (1969): 165–212, esp. 206. 13 Sahlins, Stone Age Economics, 209; also: “Thus integrated politically [in a chiefdom], reciprocity changes in quality. It reappears in a higher form, the collective pooling and reallocation of goods by powers-that-be, a process deserving its own name—redistribution” (idem, Tribesmen, 94). 14 Polanyi, for example, envisions “market exchange” as emerging as an influential economic pattern only in the early modern period (Essays, 19). His model, in other words, is directed toward economic history. 11 Ibid.,

Journal of Biblical Literature 126, no. 1 (2007)

186

of the relationship between Polanyi’s and Sahlins’s work, for in claiming Polanyi’s authority for their model, they assert erroneously that Sahlins “followed” Polanyi.15 But while they claim to be following Polanyi themselves, and organize their chapter subdivisions under the Polanyian “Reciprocity,” “Redistribution,” “Markets,” their model is in important respects a combination of organizing rubrics from both models. Under the Polanyian heading “Reciprocity,” they write the following: The most elementary form of the exchange of goods is reciprocity, the exchange of gifts between individual persons, households (families), or clans (relatives). This network of mutual production among persons and social groups with comparable status rests ultimately on reciprocity (quid pro quo) and is not oriented toward profit (balanced reciprocity). Thus, in principle reciprocity presupposes symmetry or balance of exchange and is connected with a careful calculation of exchanged goods and services. Equivalents do not always have to correspond with each other directly but can also be granted the giver (on a delayed basis) through prestige or loyalty (say, in the relationship of patron and client). This form of exchange is called general reciprocity. . . . [B]alance is lacking altogether in negative reciprocity. . . . This is the ethic of hostility against enemies and all groups of people with whom one is not in a reciprocal relationship. Thus, for example, the form of balanced reciprocity within a small circle—the family, household, clan, and even neighbors—is not granted to strangers. Hence, relations with strangers are dominated by the negative form of reciprocity, in which self-interest and profit are permitted to dominate.16

Under Polanyi’s rubric “Reciprocity” the Stegemanns import all three of Sahlins’s reciprocity genres, as though Sahlins intended “general,” “balanced,” and “negative” reciprocity as commentary on Polanyi’s first category. The awkwardness generated by this assimilation of Sahlins’s reciprocity typology to the Polanyian framework becomes apparent when the Stegemanns go on in this section to associate Sahlins’s “general reciprocity” with the status-different patron–client relationship, but then discuss status stratification in the Roman world under Polanyi’s second rubric, “Redistribution,” the superscript for their next section.17 15 Stegemann

and Stegemann, Jesus Movement, 34. 34–35. 17 There is a further anomaly here: as noted, the Stegemanns discuss patron–client reciprocity under “generalized reciprocity,” itself subsumed under “reciprocity,” but then discuss status and wealth differences and the tax and tribute system under the second Polanyian rubric “redistribution,” while not referring to patronage in that context. They interpret “redistribution” in the Roman context as the concentration of wealth in the elite strata and the upward transfer of surplus to the elite. However, patronage functioned in the Roman world as a redistributive mechanism, that is, fractional amounts of the surplus extracted from the poor returned to them in the guise of “benefactions” and “favors,” as well as through liturgies and emergency food distributions. Polanyi defined “redistribution” as “the movement of goods, whether actual or merely dispositional . . . toward a center and out of it again” (Karl Polanyi, Dahomey and the Slave Trade: An Analysis of an Archaic Economy [Seattle/London: University of Washington Press, 1966], 33–34). It is possible that the Stegemanns have been influenced by T. F. Carney, who assimilates 16 Ibid.,

Critical Notes

187

A reciprocity grid is thus generated whose rubrics are just superficially reminiscent of Sahlins—“Balanced Reciprocity”; “General Reciprocity”; “Negative Reciprocity”—to which, however, the Stegemanns add a fourth category, “Familial Reciprocity.”18 Apart from the fact that their model thereby mixes incommensurable denominating categories,19 why the addition of this fourth rubric? According to Crook, it is the equivalent in the Stegemanns’ model of Sahlins’s primitive kinship exchange, added to enable them to shift Sahlins’s “general reciprocity” rubric away from kinship to designate Roman clientelistic exchange and thus to cope with the putative limitation of Sahlins’s model, namely, its inability to accommodate status-distant exchange in the Roman world. The Stegemanns, however, do not give this as a reason. Rather, they explicitly derive “familial reciprocity” from the “householding” category that Polanyi sometimes (i.e., not consistently) adduced as a fourth pattern of economic organization alongside “reciprocity,” “redistribution,” and “market exchange.”20 Because for him it designated not a quality of social relation symbolized by a particular genre of reciprocity but a macro pattern of economic organization, Polanyi included in the “householding” category everything from family subsistence plots to royal estates worked by slaves and defined even the small free-hold as inclusive of the household slaves.21 By the same token, he stressed that “householding” was a feature not of primitive but of complex agrarian societies.22 Polanyi used the category, however, hesitantly and only intermittently.23 The problem lay in clearly distinguishing “householding” from “redistribution.” Polanyi himself pointed out that the householding pattern, centering as it does on the allocative activities of the householder, “is actually redistribution on a smaller scale.”24 Similarly, he acknowledged that in macro redistribu-

Sahlins’s three reciprocity genres to the Polanyian framework in a similar manner, while nevertheless acknowledging that reciprocity is also expressed in the patronage relationships characteristic of a redistributive economy (The Shape of the Past: Models and Antiquity [Lawrence, KS: Coronado, 1975], 169–77). Douglas Oakman presents a variation on this approach, viewing Sahlins’s three reciprocity genres as governing relations of exchange among peasants, but then adverting to Polanyi’s “redistribution” to describe the manner in which elites expropriate surplus from the peasantry (Jesus and the Economic Questions of His Day [Lewiston/Queenston: Mellen, 1986], 66–79; idem, “The Countryside in Luke-Acts,” in The Social World of Luke-Acts: Models for Interpretation [ed. Jerome H. Neyrey; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1991], 151–79, esp. 156). Oakman’s approach is analytically quite valuable, for it shows how redistributive mechanisms can disrupt the reciprocity relations (general and balanced) that function at the village level to secure subsistence, but its juxtaposition of Sahlins’s and Polanyi’s models needs further discussion. 18 See Stegemann and Stegemann, Jesus Movement, 36, for their reciprocity diagram. 19 That is, instances of general, balanced, and negative reciprocity can be predicated of the kinship group, as Lebra and Price (see n. 8) have in fact pointed out. 20 Stegemann and Stegemann, Jesus Movement, 34. 21 Polanyi, Dahomey and the Slave Trade, 70; see also Humphreys, “History, Economics,” 202. 22 Polanyi, Essays, 16; idem, Dahomey and the Slave Trade, 70. 23 Humphreys characterizes the category as “vague” and “anomalous” (“History, Economics,” 204–5). 24 Polanyi, Essays, 308. “The movement of goods is directed by the householder, who both allocates the labor of the household and apportions the food to be consumed” (idem, Dahomey and the Slave Trade, 70).

Journal of Biblical Literature 126, no. 1 (2007)

188

tive systems, such as the one centered on the Dahomean monarch, the definitive features of the household could be seen to be operating on a large scale.25 Nevertheless, the Stegemanns take over Polanyi’s “householding” category into their model as “familial reciprocity,” thereby not just overlooking problems inhering in the category itself, but also that to be faithful to Polanyi’s conception it should include interaction between slaves and masters, elites and non-elites.26 To return to the point made above, like the other problems, this can be understood as arising from the Stegemanns’ conflating incommensurables, that is, Polanyi’s with Sahlins’s model, in this case the former’s “householding” category with latter’s description of kinship sociability. The other components of their model likewise have been fashioned by attaching Sahlins’s reciprocity rubrics to Polanyi’s macro patterns of economic organization. Sahlins’s “negative reciprocity,” for its part, stands as the final term in their model unmodified, probably because nothing in Polanyi’s enumeration of economic patterns could be conceived as corresponding to it. Polanyi’s last category, “market exchange,” anomalously appears, not as a component of the Stegemanns’ model (Sahlins’s “balanced reciprocity,” which approximates to this kind of exchange, has been reassigned), but as one of their chapter subheadings, “Markets.”27 Crook uses the Stegemanns’ model as the instrument for his own analysis.28 Moreover, he compounds the problems already present in their model by reading it as an attempt to “adapt and improve” Sahlins’s model.29 We saw above that in fact the Stegemanns claim to be (and in major respects are) largely following Karl Polanyi, and that, far from viewing Sahlins as problematic, they take him as simply having followed Polanyi. It is this reading of the Stegemanns’ project that results in Crook’s construing their “familial reciprocity” not as an appropriation of Polanyi’s “householding” category but as their shifting of Sahlins’s tribal kinship sociability into the context of the Greco-Roman world. The irony, as we noted above, is that Polanyi expressly defined “householding” as an economic institution that could arise only within an advanced agrarian society. Also ironic is that Crook conceives “familial reciprocity” as epitomizing status-equal exchange, when in fact Polanyi included slavery in the householding category and noted that statusunequal redistributive systems were extensions of the household model. But on these points Crook is simply following the Stegemanns’ own problematic reading of Polanyi. What Crook argues is the principal flaw in Sahlins’s model—the limitations of its kinship focus in the face of the social complexity of the Roman world—is in fact where its enormous power for analysis of Roman social relations is most on display. In short, Sahlins’s model shows how the paradigmatic trust relationships of kinship and friendship provided the expressive discourse for the unequal patron–client relation, which was the

25 Polanyi,

Dahomey and the Slave Trade, 73; also Humphreys, “History, Economics,” 204–5. Polanyi subsumes family reciprocity under his first category, reciprocity, not under householding: “[R]eciprocity works mainly in regard to the sexual organization of society, that is, family and kinship” (Essays, 9). 27 Stegemann and Stegemann, Jesus Movement, 37. 28 Crook, Reconceptualising Conversion, 57. 29 Ibid., 56. 26 Moreover,

Critical Notes

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major mechanism for structuring relations of domination in the Roman world.30 It shows how what were in fact exploitative relations of exchange (negative reciprocity) were publicly presented as manifestations of the two paradigmatic modes of caring, unselfish human relations (general reciprocity). In other words, the language of sharing and generosity, of friendship and fictive kinship, amounted to obfuscation—what James C. Scott aptly terms the “public transcript,” the elite-controlled public discourse—of what were in reality expropriative relations of domination.31 Abandonment of Sahlins’s typology entails that this most essential point, the ideological deployment of the rhetoric of general reciprocity in the Roman imperial context, will elude analysis.32

IV Our discussion shows the difficulties biblical scholarship faces in the reception of social-science research. James Harrison, in his study of the ancient benefaction system, exemplifies a quite different approach.33 In view of the problems that accompany attempts to interpret ancient data by recourse to social-science models, Harrison argues that good historical and exegetical work on the inscriptional and literary materials suffices to lay bare the ancient social conventions involved. Accordingly, he advocates refraining from comparative applications of social-science models until the dynamics of ancient social relations have been brought to light through historical analysis: “In sum, the difficult work of unearthing first-century models of social organisation and practice within the eastern Mediterranean basin must be undertaken rather than naively assuming commensurability between vastly different cultures.”34 For Harrison’s own work this amounts to de facto 30 Polanyi likewise described how the “household” model (the “familial reciprocity” of the Stegemanns’ model) was utilized by the Dahomean monarchy to legitimize its expropriation of surplus through what was in reality a highly stratified redistributive system, with a part of the expropriated goods returned in the form of “gifts” (Dahomey and the Slave Trade, 33–36). See also Alan Kirk, “Peasant Wisdom, the ‘Our Father,’ and the Origins of Christianity,” TJT 15 (1999): 31–50, and the literature cited there. 31 James C. Scott, Domination and the Arts of Resistance: Hidden Transcripts (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1990). See also his Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985): “What the wealthy did was to transmute a portion of their disproportionate economic means into forms of status, prestige, and social control by the means of acts they passed off as voluntary acts of generosity or charity” (p. 307). Sahlins likewise comments: “Eventually the ideals of reciprocity and chiefly liberality serve as mystification of the people’s dependence” (Stone Age Economics, 140). 32 Crook, for example, refers to the use of friendship language in the context of clientelism as a “confusing use of shared terminology” (“Reflections,” 519). It is confusing because the model he is using cannot account for it. On the other hand, Crook views Sahlins’s negative reciprocity category, designating exploitative social relations, as irrelevant to his analysis (Reconceptualising Conversion, 58). 33 James R. Harrison, Paul’s Language of Grace in its Graeco-Roman Context (WUNT 2/172; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003). 34 Ibid., 23; see also pp. 16–17.

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disengagement from social-science research altogether (including Polanyi and Sahlins), which plays no role in his subsequent analysis of ancient benefaction and has minimal representation in his bibliography. One can readily identify with this perspective, for social-science constructs not infrequently have been used in a procrustean manner or as if they substituted for historical and exegetical analysis. The dilemma Harrison’s approach runs up against, however, is that there is no innocent reading of models of ancient social relations directly off the inscriptional and literary evidence; some organizing model, some interpretive theory will be cognitively applied to the data, if not consciously then by default. In view of this, cautious ancillary employment of social-science models within the framework of historical and exegetical analysis would seem the better course, not least because such models help in achieving critical distance from the ideological perspectives frequently reflected in the ancient materials themselves. We can support this point by calling attention to some problems that Harrison’s eschewing of social-scientific analysis creates for his treatment of ancient benefaction. It becomes apparent, for example, that Harrison identifies “the reciprocity system,” or “the ideology of the reciprocity system,” narrowly with the benefaction practices of elites which linked people of unequal status; in fact he uses benefaction and reciprocity virtually interchangeably.35 This is to classify a particular permutation of reciprocity, prominent though it may be, as the essential expression of the phenomenon itself, which Harrison then views as functioning in other social spheres, such as family and friendship, by a sort of secondary extension.36 This also entails that Harrison, like Crook, will have difficulties perceiving the ideological appropriation of the language of kinship and friendship to express unequal social relations, and it explains why Harrison does not analyze benefaction in the context of relations of domination. In fact, Harrison’s account—elite benefaction with its animating dynamic cavri" represents the reciprocity paradigm, and the spheres of family and friendship borrow from it—could be viewed as the reverse of the actual state of affairs.37 This in turn leads to Harrison’s interpreting a sentiment expressed in a personal friendship letter—“And I can disregard writing to you with great gratitude (eujcaristiva"), for it is (only) required that one express thankfulness (eujcaristei'n) with words to those who are not friends (fivloi")”—as a critique of the gratitude ethos, in Harrison’s view an import into friendship from the hierarchical benefaction system.38 Finally, one notes that in certain sections of his work Harrison splits off the discussion of “reciprocity” from discussions of “benefaction” and gratia/cavri" respectively. For example, he writes, “From our survey we have seen that the philosophers make no 35 See

ibid., 57, 63, 65, 72, 80, 115. e.g., ibid., 72. 37 Ibid., 80: “. . . the papyri also alert us to the fact that the benefaction ethos—as expressed in reciprocity—informed both hierarchical and non-hierarchical relationships among family and friends.” See also p. 63. Incidentally, this may be the source of Crook’s claim that cavri" is not indigenous to friendship (“Reflections,” 520). 38 Harrison, Paul’s Language, 84, 95. The point of the citation is surely that friends so close do not need to profess the gratitude they feel toward one another. That aside, a single papyrus, P.Mert. 1.12, is hardly adequate support for Harrison’s claim, particularly in the face of the large number of counterexamples Harrison himself cites showing cavri" functioning integrally in friendship contexts. 36 See,

Critical Notes

191

dramatic departures from standard benefaction ideology. . . . Can the same be said of their presentation of the ethos of reciprocity?”39 This is curious in view of his close identification of elite benefaction with “the reciprocity system” that we pointed to above. The puzzle is solved when one realizes that in these passages Harrison is now using “reciprocity” in the sense of reciprocation, that is, of a benefit. Sahlins’s reciprocity model could have brought greater terminological precision to the analysis, along with guidance for the configuration and interpretation of the historical data.

V It is hoped that this discussion has helped to clarify some of the issues involved in using social-scientific research, in this case models developed by Karl Polanyi and Marshall Sahlins, for analysis of ancient social relations. The inevitable difficulties biblical scholarship faces in appropriating work done in other disciplines and applying it judiciously to its research problems are sobering. On the other hand, we see the problems that can arise when historical and exegetical work is carried out inadequately informed by those insights.40 Alan Kirk [email protected] James Madison University, Harrisonburg, VA 22807 39 Harrison,

Paul’s Language, 179; see also pp. 145, 165, 202.

40 This critique of Crook and Harrison is not intended call into question their respective argu-

ments about conversion and grace in Paul, which are convincing and capable of being even further confirmed by the application of the models we have been discussing.

A Change in the Journal of Biblical Literature The Research and Publications Committee of the Society of Biblical Literature, with the concurrence of Bob Buller, Editorial Director of SBL, and of the editor of the Journal of Biblical Literature, has decided by unanimous vote that the JBL will no longer have a book review section. The Review of Biblical Literature will now be the book review organ of the SBL (http://www.bookreviews.org). Reasons for this decision include the following. • The RBL provides wider and swifter coverage of books published. In an age when Internet access is almost universal among SBL members, electronic publication of book reviews eliminates most of the shortcomings of print reviews, particularly delays in publication and the number of reviews that can be published. So, JBL has typically included 50–60 reviews per year, while RBL publishes 450–500 per year. RBL is able to make reviews accessible almost immediately upon reception of them, while there is a lengthy delay in print publication. • Moving all reviews to RBL eliminates the present, significant overlap caused by publishing the same reviews in both JBL and RBL. Roughly half of the reviews recently published in JBL were commissioned by RBL editors and published in RBL before their publication in JBL. • There is a shared pool of reviewers. Approximately 85 percent of all JBL reviews were written by scholars already writing reviews for RBL, so that JBL reviews have not expanded or altered the reviewer pool in a significant way. Although we recognize that this decision may cause some inconvenience for readers who do not have ready access to RBL, we are convinced that this new course is the wisest use of the Journal’s limited number of pages and the most effective way to expand our offerings of the finest biblical scholarship. JAMES C. VANDERKAM Editor, JBL

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N New and Recent T Titles itles i PRESIDENTIAL RESIDENTIAL VOICES TThe he SSociety ociety of of BBiblical iblical Literature Liiterature in in tthe he Twentieth Twentieth Century Century Harold H arold W. W. Attridge Attridge and and James Jamees C. C. VanderKam, VanderKam, eeditors ditors Since nce late in the nineteenth century century,y, a nearly early constant ele element ent in the program for the annual meetings etings of the Society of Biblical Literature (and Exegesis) hass been the presidenpresiden tial all lecture. l t TThe he twenty-three twenty-three presidential presidential addresses addresses ccollected olllected hhere ere provide provide ddirect irect access to some of thee key moments and broader roader trends within the history of biblical lical studies and of the SBL. They illustrate, for example, how a focus on interpreting terpreting biblical texts “historically” gave way to a greater appreciation ppreciation of those texts as literature to an increased recognition cognition of the role the interpreter plays lays in shaping the “meaning” meaning” of any text. Paper per $39.95 1-58983-259-0 364 pages, 2006 006 Code: Code: 061122 Biblical blical Scholarship Scholarship in N North orth A America merica 22 Hardback back edition www.brill.nl www w.brill.nl

THE TH HEE FREER BIBLICAL BIBLICAL MANUSCRI MANUSCRIPTS PTS Fresh resh SStudies tudies of an AAmerican merican TTreasure reasure asure Trove Trove W.. Hurtado, editor Larry arry W The he six biblical manuscripts that reside in the Freer Gal GalWashington lery ry of Art in W ashington DC, all purchased sed in Egypt at the beginning eginning of the twentieth century by Charles harles Freer Freer,r, date to thee third through fifth centuries and include lude codices of the four ur Gospels, Deuteronomy and Joshua, the Psalms, and the Pauline auline Epistles, as well as a Coptic codex ex of the Psalms and a ppapyrus codex of the Minor Prophets. The ten essays in this is volume are a notable collection of fresh resh scholarship on a ssmallll but highly valuable treasure trove ve off biblical manumanu scripts. ripts. The contributors are Malcolm Choat, Kent D. Clarke, Kristin ristin De TTroyer, royerr, TTimothy imothy J. Finney nnis Haugh, Larry Finney,y, Dennis W.. Hurtado, J. Bruce Prior Prior,r, Jean-François W is Racine, James R. Royse, oyse, Ulrich Schmid, and Thomas A. W ayment. Wayment. Paper per $34.95 1-58983-208-6 318 pages, 2006 006 Code: Code: 067006 Text-Critical T extxt-Critical Studies Studies 6 Hardback edition www www.brill.nl w.brill.nl .

Society of Biblical Literature rature • PP.O. .O. Box 2243 • Williston, VT 05495-2243 5495-2243 Phone: 877-725-3334 (toll-free) or 802-864-6185 • Fax: 802-864-7626 -864-7626 Order rder online at www w.sbl-site.org www.sbl-site.org

New and Recent Titles PARADISE NOW Essays on Early Jewish and Christian Mysticism April D. DeConick, editor A substantial introduction to the study of early Jewish and Christian mysticism, these essays define and analyze the nature and practices of mysticism as it emerges within early Judaism and Christianity. Paper $49.95 1-58983-257-4 480 pages, 2006 Symposium 11 Hardback edition www.brill.nl

Code: 060711

SEEKING TH T E FAV A OR OF GOD AV Volume I, The he Origins of Penitential Prayer in Second TTemple Judaism Mark J. Boda, Daniel K. Falk, and Rodney A. Werline, editors These essays investigate the beginnings of penitential prayer literature in the Hebrew Bible in the Babylonian and Persian periods, offering a fresh look at various aspects of the shift from communal lament to penitential prayer and the relationship between them, and in the process applying new approaches and methodologies. Paper $35.95 1-58983-261-2 268 pages, 2006 Code: 063521 Early Judaism and Its Literature 21 Hardback edition www. brill.nl

THE STUDIA PHILONICA ANNUAL Studies in Hellenistic Judaism, Volume XVIII V (2006) VIII David T. Runia and Gregory E. Sterling, editors The Studia Philonica Annual is a scholarly journal devoted to furthuring the study of Hellenistic Judaism, and in particular the writings and thought of the Hellenistic-Jewish writer Philo of Alexandria (circa 15 B.C.E. to circa 50 C.E.). It contains articles, reviews, a special section, a bibliography of Philonic scholarship, and news and notes. Cloth: $39.95 1-58983-253-1 Studia Philonica Annual

256 pages, 2006

Code: 062218

Society of Biblical Literature • P.O. Box 2243 • Williston, VT 05495-2243 Phone: 877-725-3334 (toll-free) or 802-864-6185 • Fax: 802-864-7626 Order online at www.sbl-site.org

N New and Recent T Titles i itles ORAL RAL PERF PERFORMANCE, ORMANCE, P POPULAR OPULAR TRADI TRADITION, TION, AND HIDDEN IDDEN TRANSCRI TRANSCRIPT PTT IN Q Richard Richar icharrd Horsley Horsley, y, editor This ccollection This ollection ooff eessays ssays ppursues ursues ttwo wo nnew ew aapproaches pproaches ttoo Q Q.. PPart artt O ne ssuggests uggests tthat hat rrecent ecent w ork iinn eethnopoetics, thnopoettics, tthe he eethnogthnogOne work rraphy aphy ooff pperformance, erform mance, aand nd ttheory heory ooff ve erbal aart rtt ((especially especially tthat hat verbal ooff JJohn ohn M iles FFoley) oley) bboth oth ccomplements omplements aand nd cchallenges hallenges sstantanMiles ddard ard aapproaches pproaches to to tthe he tteaching eaching ooff JJesus. esus. PPart art TTwo wo eexamines xamines hhow ow the the w ork ooff aanthropologist nthropologist aand nd ppolitical olitical sscientist cientist JJames ames CC.. work SScott cott oonn ppopular opular ttradition, radition, ““the the m oral eeconomy conomy ooff tthe he ppeaseasmoral aant,” nt,” aand nd ““hidden hidden ttranscripts” ranscripts” m ay iilluminate lluminate tthe he ssocial ocial ccontext ontext may aand nd ppolitical olitical iimplications mplications ooff Q sspeeches. peeches. TThe he ccontributors ontributors aare re D avid LL.. BBarr, arr, JJoanna oanna D ewey, JJonathan onathan AA.. D raper, JJohn ohn M iles David Dewey, Draper, Miles FFoley, oley, W illiam RR.. H erzog III,I, RRichard ichard AA.. H orsley, W ernner KKelber, elbber, William Herzog Horsley, Werner AAlan lan KKirk irk , M ilton M oreland, aand nd VVernon ernon KK.. RRobbins. obbins. Milton Moreland, Paper per $35.95 1-58983-248-5 240 pages, 2006 006 Code: Code: 060660 SSemeia emeia meia Studies Studies 60 Hardback edition www.brill.nl www w.brill.nl l.nl

THE HE MULTIVALENCE MULLTIVVALENCE O OFF BI BIBLICAL BLICAL TEX TEXTS XTS AND THEOLOGICAL THE HEOLOGICAL MEANINGS MEANINGS Christine hristine Helmer Helmer, r, editor editor, r, with ith the assistance of Charlene TT.. Higbe This iinterdisciplinary This nterdisciplinary ccollection ollection aasks sks hhow ow tthe he ssame ame bbiblical iblical and ttexts, exts, sshared hared aacross cross JJewish ewish an nd CChristian hristian ttraditions, raditions, ccan an bbee iinterpreted nterpreted ffor or ddifferent ifferent ttheological heological rreasons easons aand nd ttoo ddifferent ifferent ttheological heological eends. nds. EEach ach aarticle rticle eexplores xplores tthe he rrelation elation bbetween etween ffeaeameanttures ures ooff pparticular articular ttexts exts aand nd tthe he ggeneration eneration ooff ttheological heological m eanmeanings made iings, ngs, ttracking racking hhow ow ddifferent ifferent m eanings aare re m ade oorr ffound ound iinn tthe he where meanings ssame ame ttexts exts aand nd w here m eanings ddiverge iverge iinn ddifferent ifferent ttheologies. heologies. David Stephen Davis, TThe he ccontributors ontributors aare re JJohn ohn BBarton, arton, D avid CCarr, arr, St tepphen TT.. D avis, CChristian hristian AA.. EEberhart, berhhart, LLincoln incolnn EE.. GGalloway, alllloway, GGary ary GGilbert, ilbert, CChrishrisHelmer, Mongrain, Oberdorfer, ttine ine H elmer, KKevin evin M ongrain, BBernd ernd O berdorfer, aand nd CC.. RR.. SSeitz. eitz. Paper per $24.95 1-58983-221-3 212 pages, 2006 006 Code: Code: 060737 SSymposium ymposium mposium SSeries eries 37 Hardback edition www w.brill.nl brill.nl www.brill.nl

Society of Biblical Literature rature • PP.O. .O. Box 2243 • Williston, VT 05495-2243 5495-2243 Phone: 877-725-3334 (toll-free) or 802-864-6185 • Fax: 802-864-7626 -864-7626 Order rder online at www .sbl-site.org www.sbl-site.org

A historical and photographic account of the Dead Sea Scrolls designed to supplement the exhibit traveling to museums throughout the United States. Become acquainted with the Scrolls and the ancient group who wrote them, and learn why they continue to be significant. Each essay is written by an authority on the Scrolls: Harry Thomas Frank, Baruch Safrai, Frank Moore Cross, Emanuel Tov, Sidnie White Crawford, James C. VanderKam, and Lawrence H. Schiffman. The book includes over 90 full-color photographs, maps, charts, and paintings. Published by the Biblical Archaeology Society and Society of Biblical Literature. Paper $9.95

96 pages, 2007

978-1-58983-270-1

Society of Biblical Literature • P.O. Box 2243 •Williston, VT 05495-2243 Phone: 877-725-3334 (toll-free) or 802-864-6185 • Fax: 802-864-7626 Order online at www.sbl-site.org

SocietyofBiblicalLiterature

The25thSBLInternationalCongress

 2007

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JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE PUBLISHED QUARTERLY BY THE

SOCIETY OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE (Constituent Member of the American Council of Learned Societies) EDITOR OF THE JOURNAL General Editor: JAMES C. VANDERKAM, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556

EDITORIAL BOARD Term Expiring 2007: MOSHE BERNSTEIN, Yeshiva University, New York, NY 10033-3201 JOHN ENDRES, Jesuit School of Theology at Berkeley, Berkeley, CA 94709 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 2008: ELLEN B. AITKEN, McGill University, Montreal, Quebec H3A 2T5 Canada MICHAEL JOSEPH BROWN, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 TERENCE L. DONALDSON, Wycliffe College, Toronto, ON M5S 1H7 Canada STEVEN FRIESEN, University of Missouri, Columbia, MO 65211 JENNIFER GLANCY, Le Moyne College, Syracuse, New York 13214 A. KATHERINE GRIEB, Virginia Theological Seminary, Alexandria, VA 22304 ARCHIE C. C. LEE, The Chinese University of Hong Kong, Shatin New Territories, Hong Kong SAR DANIEL MARGUERAT, Université de Lausanne, CH-1015 Lausanne, Switzerland 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 YVONNE SHERWOOD, University of Glasgow, Glasgow, Scotland, G12 8QQ, United Kingdom LOREN T. STUCKENBRUCK, University of Durham, Durham, England, DH1 3RS, United Kingdom PATRICIA K. TULL, Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary, Louisville, KY 40205 2009: DAVID L. BARR, Wright State University, Dayton, OH 45435 THOMAS B. DOZEMAN, United Theological Seminary, Dayton, OH 45406 CAROLE R. FONTAINE, Andover Newton Theological School, Newton Centre, MA 02459 ELIZABETH STRUTHERS MALBON, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, Blacksburg, VA 24060-0135 MARTTI NISSINEN, University of Helsinki, FIN-00014 Finland 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 LOUIS STULMAN, University of Findlay, Findlay, OH 45840 Editorial Assistant: Monica Brady, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 President of the Society: Katharine Doob Sakenfeld, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542; Vice President: Jonathan Z. Smith, University of Chicago, Chicago, IL 60637; Chair, Research and Publications Committee: Benjamin G. Wright III, Lehigh University, Bethlehem, PA 18015; 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$150.00 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 Hebrew font used in JBL is SBL Hebrew and is available from www.sbl-site.org/Resources/default.aspx. The Greek 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

“Another blockbuster from the productive pen of Richard Bauckham. . . . [He] builds an impressive case for recognition of the controlling influence of eyewitness testimony on the formulation and use of the Jesus tradition, which resulted in the Evangelists’ ‘Jesus of testimony.’ Not to be missed!”

— J AMES D. G. D UNN “A fascinating book! I have not read such a stimulating monograph about Jesus research in a long time. . . . This book ought to be read by all theologians and historians working in the field of early Christianity. Further, Bauckham’s convincing historical method and broad learning will also help pastors and students to overcome widespread modern Jesus-fantasies.”

— M ARTIN H ENGEL “A characteristic tour de force. . . . This book is a remarkable piece of detective work, resulting in a fresh and vivid approach to dozens, perhaps hundreds, of well-known problems and passages.”

— N. T. W RIGHT

“Richard Bauckham’s latest book shakes the foundations of a century of scholarly study of the Gospels. There are surprises on every page. A wealth of new insights will provoke lively discussion for a long time to come.”

— G RAHAM S TANTON ISBN 978-0-8028-3162-0 • 552 pages • hardcover • $32.00

At your bookstore, or call 800-253-7521 www.eerdmans.com

Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing C o. 6533

2140 Oak Industrial Drive N.E. Grand Rapids, MI 49505

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Rudolf Bultmann Bultmann’s Theology is a major event in the history of biblical scholarship…The work qualifies as a classic in the history of New Testament studies. - Nils Dahl, Yale University $29.95 | 6 x 9, 648 pages | Paper ISBN 978-1-932792-93-5

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JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE

Theology of the New Testament

VOLUME 126, NO. 1 Para-mania: Beside, Before, and Beyond Bible Studies Robert A. Kraft 5–27 The Tower of Babel and the Origin of the World’s Cultures Theodore Hiebert 29–58 “So Shall God Do . . .”: Variations of an Oath Formula and Its Literary Meaning Yael Ziegler 59–81 The Deconstruction of Job’s Fundamentalism André LaCocque 83–97 Using the Master’s Tools to Shore Up Another’s House: A Postcolonial Analysis of 4 Maccabees David A. deSilva 99–127 Paul as a Child: Children and Childhood in the Letters of the Apostle Reidar Aasgaard 129–159

The Preposition ‫ מן‬in the ‫ חטאת‬Pericopes Jacob Milgrom 161–163 Bedan: A Riddle in Context Serge Frolov

164–167

Elisha’s Deceptive Prophecy in 2 Kings 3: A Response to Raymond Westbrook Jesse C. Long, Jr. 168–171 4Q225 2 i 1–2: A Possible Reconstruction and Explanation Robert Kugler 172–181 Karl Polanyi, Marshall Sahlins, and the Study of Ancient Social Relations Alan Kirk 182–191 US ISSN:0021-9231