129 1 2010
JOURNAL OF
BIBLICAL LITERATURE SPRING 2010
VOLUME 129, NO. 1
JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE
Learning, Teaching, and Researching Biblical Studies, Today and Tomorrow David J. A. Clines
5–29
The Function of the Chronicler’s Temple Despoliation Notices in Light of Imperial Realities in Yehud Paul S. Evans
31–47
Death, Disinheritance, and Job’s Kinsman-Redeemer Matthew J. Suriano
49–66
Gog’s Grave and the Use and Abuse of Corpses in Ezekiel 39:11–20 Francesca Stavrakopoulou
67–84
Jewish Identity under Foreign Rule: Daniel 2 as a Reconfiguration of Genesis 41 Matthew S. Rindge
85–104
Donkey Domain: Zechariah 9:9 and Lexical Semantics Kenneth C. Way
105–114
The Gospel of John and the Five Senses Dorothy Lee
115–127
Spirit and Covenant Renewal: A Theologoumenon of Paul’s Opponents in 2 Corinthians Thomas R. Blanton IV
129–151
Why Is There No Thanksgiving Period in Galatians? An Assessment of an Exegetical Commonplace Robert E. Van Voorst
153–172
P.Oxy. 2949—Its Transcription and Significance: A Response to Thomas Wayment Paul Foster
173–176
How Accurate Are Eyewitnesses? Bauckham and the Eyewitnesses in the Light of Psychological Research Judith C. S. Redman
177–197
US ISSN 0021-9231
JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE PUBLISHED QUARTERLY BY THE
SOCIETY OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE (Constituent Member of the American Council of Learned Societies) EDITOR OF THE JOURNAL General Editor: JAMES C. VANDERKAM, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556
EDITORIAL BOARD Term Expiring 2010: BRIAN BRITT, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, Blacksburg, VA 24061-0135 JOHN ENDRES, Jesuit School of Theology at Berkeley, Berkeley, CA 94709 MICHAEL FOX, University of Wisconsin, Madison, WI 53706 STEVEN FRAADE, Yale University, New Haven, CT 06520-8287 MATTHIAS HENZE, Rice University, Houston, TX 77251 STEPHEN MOORE, Drew University, Madison, NJ 07940 CATHERINE MURPHY, Santa Clara University, Santa Clara, CA 95053 EMERSON POWERY, Messiah College, Grantham, PA 17027 ADELE REINHARTZ, University of Ottawa, Ottawa, ON K1N 6N5 Canada SIDNIE WHITE CRAWFORD, University of Nebraska-Lincoln, Lincoln, NE 68588-0337 2011: ELLEN B. AITKEN, McGill University, Montreal, Quebec H3A 2T5 Canada MICHAEL JOSEPH BROWN, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 JAIME CLARK-SOLES, Perkins School of Theology, So. Methodist University, Dallas, TX 75275 STEVEN FRIESEN, University of Texas at Austin, Austin, TX 78712 JENNIFER GLANCY, University of Richmond, Richmond, VA 23173 ROBERT HOLMSTEDT, University of Toronto, Toronto, ON M5S 1C1 Canada ARCHIE C. C. LEE, The Chinese University of Hong Kong, Shatin New Territories, Hong Kong SAR MARGARET Y. MACDONALD, St. Francis Xavier University, Antigonish, NS B2G 2W5 Canada SHELLY MATTHEWS, Furman University, Greenville, SC 29613 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 MARK REASONER, Bethel University, St. Paul, MN 55112 YVONNE SHERWOOD, University of Glasgow, Glasgow, Scotland, G12 8QQ, United Kingdom LOREN T. STUCKENBRUCK, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542 PATRICIA K. TULL, Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary, Louisville, KY 40205 2012: DAVID L. BARR, Wright State University, Dayton, OH 45435 COLLEEN CONWAY, Seton Hall University, South Orange, NJ 07079 MARY ROSE D’ANGELO, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 THOMAS B. DOZEMAN, United Theological Seminary, Dayton, OH 45406 J. ALBERT HARRILL, Indiana University, Bloomington, IN 47405 PAUL JOYCE, Oxford University, Oxford, OX1 3LD, United Kingdom ELIZABETH STRUTHERS MALBON, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, Blacksburg, VA 24061-0135 TURID KARLSEN SEIM, University of Oslo, N-0315 Oslo, Norway CAROLYN SHARP, Yale University, New Haven, CT 06520 BENJAMIN D. SOMMER, The Jewish Theological Seminary, New York, NY 10027 LOUIS STULMAN, University of Findlay, Findlay, OH 45840 DAVID TSUMURA, Japan Bible Seminary, Tokyo 205-0017, Japan MICHAEL WHITE, University of Texas at Austin, Austin, TX 78712 Editorial Assistant: Monica Brady, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 President of the Society: Vincent Wimbush, Claremont Graduate University, Claremont, CA 91711; Vice President: Carol Newsom, Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322; Chair, Research and Publications Committee: Adele Reinhartz, University of Ottawa, Ottawa, ON K1N 6N5 Canada; 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$180.00 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 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
New and Recent Titles i SIGN N OF THE CO OVENANT Cirrccumcision in the Priestly Tradition Da avvid A. Bernat Siign of the CovenantJTUIFmSTUBOEPOMZGVMMMFOHUI DIPMBSMZTUVEZPGDJSDVNDJTJPOJOUIF)FCSFX#JCMF.BLJOH TFPGBiDMPTFSFBEJOHwBQQSPBDIUPSJUVBMMZPSJFOUFEUFYUT UPGGFSTOFXBOEJNQPSUBOUJOTJHIUTJOUPUIFCJCMJDBMJEFBPG PWFOBOUBOEJOUPDPSFBTQFDUTPGUIF5PSBITWJFXTPO(PE JUVBM BOE*TSBFMJUFEFTUJOZ apperr $24.95 978-1-58983-409-5 176 pages, 2009 Code: 062603P nccient Israel and Its Literature 3 Hardback ediition www w.brill.nl .
SOLOMON’S VINEYYARD A itterrary and Linguistic Studies in the Song of Songs Sccottt B. Noegel and Garry A. Rendsbur sburrg 5IJTNPOPHSBQIJODMVEFTGPVSMFOHUIZTUVEJFTPOUIF4POH G4POHT XIJDIUPHFUIFSJEFOUJGZUIFOPSUIFSOEJBMFDUPGUIF PFUSZ GPDVTPOUIFMJUFSBSZEFWJDFTPGBMMJUFSBUJPOBOEWBSJB PO BOEQSPQPTFUIBUUIFDPNQPTJUJPOJTBLJOUPNFEJFWBM PSJOWFDUJWF QPFUJDHFOSFT BJNFEBU Ara rabic b hijaBOEtašbib SJUJRVJOHUIFLJOHBOEIJTDPVSU apperr $34.95 978-1-58983-422-4 284 pages, 2009 Code: 062601 nccient Israel and Its Literature 1 Hardback ediition www w.brill.nl .
THE HE LIBYYAAN ANARCHY n criptions from Egypt’s Third Intermediate Period nsc Rob obe bert K. Ritner $POUFNQPSBSZXJUIUIF*TSBFMJUFLJOHEPNPG4PMPNPOBOE %BWJE &HZQUT5IJSE*OUFSNFEJBUF1FSJPEJTPGDSJUJDBMJOUFSFTU PCJCMJDBMIJTUPSJBOT5IJTWPMVNFJODMVEFTUIFQSJNBSZ PVSDFTGPSUIFIJTUPSZ TPDJFUZ BOESFMJHJPOPG&HZQUEVSJOH IJTDPNQMJDBUFEQFSJPE*UJODMVEFTUIFNPTUTJHOJmDBOUUFYUT GBMMHFOSFT OFXMZUSBOTMBUFEBOESFWJTFE apperr $59.95 978-1-58983-174-2 642 pages, 2009 Code: 061521 Wrriitin ngs from the Ancient World o 21 Hardback edition dition www w.brill.nl .
UFSBUVSFt10#PYt8JMMJTUPO 75 1IPOF UPMMGSFF PSt'BY 0SEFSPOMJOFBUX XX XX X XTCMTJUFPSH
Journal of Biblical Literature Volume 129 2010
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 2010: BRIAN BRITT, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, Blacksburg, VA 24061-0135 JOHN ENDRES, Jesuit School of Theology at Berkeley, Berkeley, CA 94709 MICHAEL FOX, University of Wisconsin, Madison, WI 53706 STEVEN FRAADE, Yale University, New Haven, CT 06520-8287 MATTHIAS HENZE, Rice University, Houston, TX 77251 STEPHEN MOORE, Drew University, Madison, NJ 07940 CATHERINE MURPHY, Santa Clara University, Santa Clara, CA 95053 EMERSON POWERY, Messiah College, Grantham, PA 17027 ADELE REINHARTZ, University of Ottawa, Ottawa, ON K1N 6N5 Canada SIDNIE WHITE CRAWFORD, University of Nebraska-Lincoln, Lincoln, NE 68588-0337 2011: ELLEN B. AITKEN, McGill University, Montreal, Quebec H3A 2T5 Canada MICHAEL JOSEPH BROWN, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 JAIME CLARK-SOLES, Perkins School of Theology, So. Methodist University, Dallas, TX 75275 STEVEN FRIESEN, University of Texas at Austin, Austin, TX 78712 JENNIFER GLANCY, University of Richmond, Richmond, VA 23173 ROBERT HOLMSTEDT, University of Toronto, Toronto, ON M5S 1C1 Canada ARCHIE C. C. LEE, The Chinese University of Hong Kong, Shatin New Territories, Hong Kong SAR MARGARET Y. MACDONALD, St. Francis Xavier University, Antigonish, NS B2G 2W5 Canada SHELLY MATTHEWS, Furman University, Greenville, SC 29613 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 MARK REASONER, Bethel University, St. Paul, MN 55112 YVONNE SHERWOOD, University of Glasgow, Glasgow, Scotland, G12 8QQ, United Kingdom LOREN T. STUCKENBRUCK, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542 PATRICIA K. TULL, Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary, Louisville, KY 40205 2012: DAVID L. BARR, Wright State University, Dayton, OH 45435 COLLEEN CONWAY, Seton Hall University, South Orange, NJ 07079 MARY ROSE D’ANGELO, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 THOMAS B. DOZEMAN, United Theological Seminary, Dayton, OH 45406 J. ALBERT HARRILL, Indiana University, Bloomington, IN 47405 PAUL JOYCE, Oxford University, Oxford, OX1 3LD, United Kingdom ELIZABETH STRUTHERS MALBON, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, Blacksburg, VA 24061-0135 TURID KARLSEN SEIM, University of Oslo, N-0315 Oslo, Norway CAROLYN SHARP, Yale University, New Haven, CT 06520 BENJAMIN D. SOMMER, The Jewish Theological Seminary, New York, NY 10027 LOUIS STULMAN, University of Findlay, Findlay, OH 45840 DAVID TSUMURA, Japan Bible Seminary, Tokyo 205-0017, Japan MICHAEL WHITE, University of Texas at Austin, Austin, TX 78712 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 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 two hard copies 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 David J. A. Clines President of the Society of Biblical Literature 2009 Annual Meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature November 21, 2009 New Orleans, Louisiana Introduction given by Vincent L. Wimbush Vice President, Society of Biblical Literature
I do not have the long personal or working relationship with David Clines that I know some of you are privileged to have. Like almost all of you, I have over the years engaged Clines from a distance: I have been tutored and challenged by his prolific scholarship on a wide range of topics. But what I do have to share about Clines is one lingering tendentious memory. The remembrance involves part of a dinner conversation—a symposium of a sort—of which David Clines was a partner. This conversation tells me—and all of us, I think—something about Clines and about the SBL at this moment. In relating my selected remembrance of this part of a conversation, as a sort of strange modern parable, I do not want to name names beyond Clines; and I want to make it clear, somewhat against the orientation of ancient spinners of parables, I do not intend to moralize (at least in narrow terms)—certainly not about the persons in conversation. The event took place only some months ago in connection with one of those cyclical and very important meetings of the SBL Council and appended elected officers of the year. We were relaxed in a beautiful setting around a table graciously styled and sumptuously set up for us. Befitting his status among those gathered, David Clines was centrally seated. Then well into the feasting someone—it does not matter who it was—remarked that New Orleans was the site for the next annual meeting. Another person remarked rather honestly and innocently how he felt about New Orleans—that it was for him a somewhat scary place—it was dirty, noisy, chaotic. A short period of what seemed to me like a long night of silence followed. How could one avoid having such sentiment take one into flights of memories of the horrific experiences and visuals around that event that we now refer to as “Katrina”? Yet to such a topic was not where that part of the table went. Back to that present: another person confessed that he shared some or most of the feelings expressed by the first person who had spoken; it seemed what was being said was that the place was—well, decidedly un-Protestant and . . . . Most of the other persons in the symposium did not really know how to take what had been said. There was a sense of unease about how seriously to take the comments. After some moments, Clines weighed in. As I recall, he did not stutter or obfuscate in response. He registered with that unmistakable and forceful Aussie-accented, British-university inflected voice the sentiment of the mature cosmopolitan: he seemed amused by it all; he indicated that he was not at all disturbed by New Orleans; he stated that he fully embraced all that New Orleans is—with
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its haunting history, its ongoing sounds, smells, rhythms, and look. Or something like this was the saying of the great figure as I remember. Of course, in the wake of Katrina so much more can be said about the topic of conversation. I restrain myself in this setting: But I should like to point out one (anti-)“moral” from the story—how poignant and appropriate it is that we gather as an academic society in this place that has historically represented and continues to represent promiscuous gatherings of people to the point that identities and origins and traditions are dramatically mixed, gumbo-ed. We gather in this place that haunts the national conscience and memory. Here we are in a city that inspires, angers, makes happy, and dislodges con-fuses traditions and identities. To this place we have brought the traditions and orientations of this august nineteenth-century U.S.originated, U.S.-based, historically high-Protestant-clerical-inflected formation. To this place, this city, historically so American and so non-American, so mixed up, so loud and demanding of our whole selves and senses we have come to hear the wise words of a sage figure who with his accentedness and sensibilities feels totally at ease. Fitting it is that we are in New Orleans, perhaps, the most fascinating and complex of U.S. cities to signal with the election of David Clines as our leader the history of our failures and earnest attempts to be truly international and truly a discursively promiscuous professional and social formation as we fall into the twentyfirst century. So we read that Clines’s presidential year represents something of a type of “first”—the first person living/working outside North America when elected. How does it feel, David, to be this kind of first, to be minoritized in this way? I wish I had some personal reference point that would allow me to help you read this situation. Alas, I have heard about these sorts of things . . . perhaps, you should ask Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza what it is like? But take care, David—here I venture to offer with respect to this issue a bit of advice: take care that you do not believe all that may be part of the politics of being minoritized. Firsts are important; it is important that they happen and when they happen: firsts represent significant turns in a history, even if fraught with misunderstandings or narrow perception about what is at stake. As a professional society, have we in having elected Clines as president figured something out? Addressed some fear or anxiety? Who can tell? What we do know clearly enough is this—Clines’s contributions to scholarship as “exegete . . . Hebraist . . . historian . . . literary critic,” not only in terms of sheer volume, but in terms of style and passion and energy, and the way they modeled and facilitated major turns and developments in the field, are truly impressive. We know about his superb work as editor and publisher and facilitator of biblical scholarship, his love of teaching and his fierceness and doggedness as protector of programs in the field, and his years of consistent support of the Society in so many capacities. These could have brought him and his accent before us long ago. Yet he also does something else for us—he represents the future—-the future that can no longer countenance for a professional society the focus on the single tradition or the single nation, a future that must mean opening up to the world, not merely staging meetings “over there,” but truly being open in terms of scholarly orientation, definition, practices. Clines represents for us the complex and challenging future that knows it has a rich and complex past: he is a steady voice who can represent the European discursive fare that stretches back centuries and in him is seasoned by Australian spices—as seen, for example, in The Theme of the Pentateuch (1978). Yet he also represents the mixed discursive gumbo that to some degree characterizes our present and suggests the way of our future—as seen for example in his Interested Parties: The Ideology of Writers and Readers of the Hebrew Bible (1995). The total collection of well over twenty-five monograph and other publication projects—not to mention a life career worth of essays and articles—add up to a substantial and spicy discursive stew. Why would he not embrace New Orleans? Colleagues, it is my honor and delight to present our distinguished colleague and leader for 2009, to speak to us on the theme: “Learning, Teaching, and Researching Biblical Studies Today and Tomorrow,” David J. A. Clines.
JBL 129, no. 1 (2010): 5–29
Learning, Teaching, and Researching Biblical Studies, Today and Tomorrow david j. a. clines
[email protected] University of Sheffield, Sheffield S10 2TN, United Kingdom
The scope of my address is at the same time both absurdly ambitious and simple to state. It is an examination of what we are doing—or think we are doing— with our students, in the academic study of the Bible at every level, from the beginning undergraduate to the most advanced researcher. It is a questioning of the rationales and the processes of learning, teaching, and research. And it is motivated by an anxiety that in all our great technical and methodological advances in our knowledge and understanding of the Bible we may have forgotten to keep these questions of our underlying purpose alive. Almost everyone in this room is a teacher of the Bible—for some, the teaching of students is more or less the whole of their daily task; for others it may be a necessary duty and distraction from what they regard as their real work. And yet, when we come together in our congresses of biblical scholars, many of us seem to feel we are on holiday and manage to slough off the teaching business altogether (apart from a couple of sessions). The truth is actually more ugly than that: there is in some quarters an underlying belief that teaching is an activity that is inferior to research. Those who can, research; those who can’t, teach. No presidential addresses, delivered by scholars who have made their name in research, have ever been devoted to teaching, as far as I know. I am aiming to set teaching on the research agenda of every biblical scholar, to make sure it is firmly embedded in the program of the Society of Biblical Literature, and to signal to our students that they form part of our core business. I am, of course, not the first or the only teacher of biblical studies to be advocating the program I am sketching in this address, and I know that much of what I have to say will not be news to many of you. Many intuitively good teachers are 5
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already doing all the things I will have to recommend, and in some quarters the happy eschaton of “tomorrow” has already dawned. But I still think it would be good to focus on the teaching of our subject, to scrutinize it and to theorize it, and to imagine a tomorrow better than today. The reason I connect our research with teaching is twofold: (1) I shall be arguing for the tearing down of the traditional divide between teaching and research, and for the incorporation of research into the program of every student in higher education. (2) What we teach our students today is, more or less, what they will research tomorrow if they go into full-time research and enter the profession of biblical scholars. There will indeed always be people who will strike out on new paths of their own, but on the whole the questions students learned to examine as undergraduates and as graduate students will be the kinds of questions they examine their whole life long—that is what they have been trained to do. In our undergraduate classrooms as well as in our graduate seminars we are day by day shaping the future of the discipline, and that is why strategic thinking about our discipline must begin with a reexamination of what goes on in our classrooms. I say I am concerned with teaching, since that is the familiar term, but it is not so much teaching that I care about, but learning.1 I try to avoid the term “pedagogy,” since that fixes the gaze on the teacher, who is the pedagogue, not on the learner. I want in fact to advocate a shift of focus in our educational theory and praxis from the teacher to the student. If there is no learning, there is no education; if the students are not actually learning, there is no point in having a teacher. Everything I have to say revolves around one phrase:
1. Student-centered Learning It’s an oddly redundant phrase, for what else could learning be but studentcentered? The phrase comes into being, of course, as a contrast to the traditional educational method of teacher-centered learning. Traditionally, the teacher has been at the center, in the forefront, at the front of the room (as in this room, where I have been given the role of the traditional teacher). The teacher is active; the students (like you tonight, I apologize) are essentially passive and receptive. The teacher fills the previously empty heads of the pupils (unlike yours) with knowledge. The student-centered model, on the other hand, puts in the foreground the needs, capacities, interests, and learning styles of the students, makes the teacher 1 A good deal of excellent work on teaching biblical studies actually screens out the learners
to a greater or lesser degree through focusing on the activity of the teacher. The reader of the following resources might like to examine to what extent it is the student’s activity that is the object of attention: Mark Roncace and Patrick Gray, eds., Teaching the Bible: Practical Strategies for Classroom Instruction (SBLRBS 49; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2005); and, by the same editors, Teaching the Bible through Popular Culture and the Arts (SBLRBS 53; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2007); and the Wabash Center’s journal, Teaching Theology and Religion.
Clines: Learning, Teaching, and Researching Biblical Studies
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into a facilitator of the students’ learning, and makes students responsible for their own learning. This is not perhaps a very modern view; already Plutarch said: “The mind is not a vessel to be filled, but a fire to be kindled” (Mor. 1.3 [On Listening]).2 The change from a teacher-centered model to a student-centered one is the biggest upheaval in educational theory and practice that has happened in my lifetime. For me it happened in a moment when I woke one morning vowing to stop teaching biblical studies and start teaching students. I had always done my best to present to my students the most up-to-date and authoritative knowledge about the topic for the day, in the most clear and comprehensible way I could, of course, but guided by the demands of the subject matter. I was teaching the subject. My tattered lecture notes on the Psalms, for example, are mute testimony to my earliest concerns with the content of Psalms research, a privileging of the scholarly tradition. There are all the annotations on the Hebrew text, in an amazing variety of colored inks, of the ideas of Weiser and Kraus and Dahood, with condensations of the latest articles in the Journal of Biblical Literature and Vetus Testamentum, with more marginal notes and layers of tradition than a rabbinic Bible. My task, as I saw it for my first decade of teaching, was to convey to my students the latest thinking of scholars on the Psalms, to fill their heads with the best and the most recent research. Teaching students was a totally new enterprise. Now I needed to discover, each week afresh, what the class already knew, what interested them, how they went about learning, and how they differed from one another. It has been well said that [t]he most important factor influencing learning is what the learner already knows. Ascertain that and teach . . . accordingly. . . . Subject matter content . . . is always, and can only be, learned in relation to a previously learned background of relevant concepts, principles in a particular learner.3
It took me the rest of my career to gain any kind of proficiency at this new style of teaching, and I never became as good at it as I had been at the old style of lecturing and expounding. But at least the seats in my classroom were reconfigured so that students looked at one another, not at me, engaged with one another rather than with me alone, and I turned from being the “sage on the stage” to the “guide by the side.”4 This was just in time, for I had begun to reflect on the value of a life spent 2 Plutarch imagines a man who, “going to his neighbour’s to borrow fire and finding there a great and bright fire, should sit down to warm himself and forget to go home; so is it with the one who comes to another to learn, if he does not think himself obliged to kindle his own fire within and inflame his own mind, but continues sitting by his master as if he were enchanted, delighted by hearing. Such a one, although he may get the name of a philosopher, as we get a bright color by sitting by the fire, will never clear away the mould and rust of his mind, and dispel the darkness of his understanding by the help of philosophy.” 3 David P. Ausubel, Joseph D. Novak, and Helen Hanesian, Educational Psychology: A Cognitive View (2nd ed.; New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston, 1978), 163–64. 4 For the phrase, see Alison King, “From Sage on the Stage to Guide on the Side,” College Teaching 41 (1993): 3–35.
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teaching people things they had subsequently forgotten—and was in danger of being overwhelmed by dark and dangerous thoughts.
2. The Theory of Student-centered Learning I shall be brief in spelling out the educational theory supporting studentcentered learning, since I did not arrive at my practice through theory, and in any case I believe that theory is best understood as reflection on practice, not as reasoning prior to practice. Enough to say that the practice of student-centered learning is well supported by formidable theoretical frameworks. The most important of them is the constructivist theory of learning, first developed by the Swiss epistemologist Jean Piaget.5 Learners construct their own knowledge, Piaget argued, via two means: assimilation, through which they incorporate new knowledge into their already existing framework, and, more rarely, accommodation, in which they revise their frameworks in the light of new knowledge. I may be able to memorize (temporarily) discrete and unrelated facts,6 but I will learn something only if I can fit it into my already existing frameworks of knowledge, or, exceptionally, if I reconfigure my existing framework into a new shape in order to accommodate the new fact. This activity of reformulating old knowledge and generating new knowledge, constructing knowledge by connecting new ideas and material to old ideas and material, and making meaning for ourselves, is the path to remembering; we remember best what we have come to know for ourselves. Learning does not require a teacher. But learners learn faster and better if they have someone who can see how they can capitalize on the knowledge they already have, who can edge them forward into the next arena where they can expand their knowledge, their zone of proximal development. That was the term of the Russian psychologist Lev Vygotsky (1896–1934), who defined the lower limit of that zone as what the learner can do without help and its upper limit as what the learner can do with help.7 5 Jean Piaget, Logique et connaissance scientifique (Encyclopédie de la Pléiade 22; Paris: Gallimard, 1967); idem, The Psychology of Intelligence (Paterson, NJ: Littlefield, Adams, 1960). On the theory, see, e.g., D. C. Phillips, ed., Constructivism in Education: Opinions and Second Opinions on Controversial Issues (Ninety-ninth Yearbook of the National Society for the Study of Education; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000). See also Noel Entwistle, The Impact of Teaching on Learning Outcomes in Higher Education: A Literature Review (Sheffield: Committee of Vice-Chancellors and Principals of the Universities of the United Kingdom, Universities’ Staff Development Unit, 1992). 6 See also A. L. Brown, J. Bransford, R. Ferrara, and J. Campione, “Learning, Remembering, and Understanding,” in Handbook of Child Psychology: Formerly Carmichael’s Manual of Child Psychology (ed. Paul H. Mussen; 4 vols.; 4th ed.; New York: Wiley, 1983), 3:77–166; M. C. Wittrock, “Generative Processes of Comprehension,” Educational Psychologist 24 (1990): 345–76. 7 His formulation was this: “the distance between the actual developmental level as deter-
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But teachers bring their own baggage into classrooms, and classrooms and schools and educational processes are inherently political and not remotely valuefree. A third strand in the theory of student-centered learning is the concept of “critical pedagogy,” inspired by the work of the Brazilian educationist Paulo Freire, especially in his book Pedagogy of the Oppressed.8 Here he encouraged students to think critically about their experience of education, identifying and resisting the elements in it that reinforce the power structures of their society.
3. Learning Skills versus Knowledge One ideal for the practitioner of student-centered learning, effectual also for the removal of existential doubt about the value of one’s life and work, is to resolve to teach students nothing they can forget. I mean, to teach them how to do things, to enable them to acquire skills rather than knowledge. I think of how I taught my children to ride a bicycle, to make bread, to use a computer. However rusty they may become at these skills, they will never forget them. And that is because they were participants in the learning activity, which became threshold experiences for them, moving them up through their zone of proximal development.9 In the classroom, if our students learn how to go about finding information, rather than just learn information we set before them, it will be a transferable skill they can apply through all their life. If we have a class structure where students mentor other students and show them how to become a biblical critic, saying as well as doing, they will be learning more effectively. If they practice writing three hundred words on the kingdom of God—or, to be more extreme, fifty words on the God of the OT—as if for an encyclopedia, and critique each other’s work, they will have a skill they will use over and over again.
4. Knowledge versus Understanding Another useful contrast is that between knowledge and understanding. Too many courses are choked with information or knowledge. In a classic formulation:
mined by independent problem solving and the level of potential development as determined through problem solving under adult guidance or in collaboration with more capable peers” (L. S. Vygotsky [Vygotskij], Mind in Society: The Development of Higher Psychological Processes [ed. Michael Cole et al.; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1978], 86). 8 Freire, Pedagogy of the Oppressed (trans. Myra Bergman Ramos; New York: Seabury, 1973). 9 Cf. the term “threshold concept” in educational theory; see “Threshold Concepts: Undergraduate Teaching, Postgraduate Training and Professional Development: A Short Introduction and Reference List,” www.ee.ucl.ac.uk/~mflanaga/thresholds.html.
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“Rabbit’s clever,” said Pooh thoughtfully. “Yes,” said Piglet. “Rabbit’s clever.” “And he has a brain.” “Yes,” said Piglet. “Rabbit has a brain.” There was a long silence. “I suppose,” said Pooh, “that’s why he never understands anything.”10
Information can be passed on to you by someone else; but understanding is something you have to achieve for yourself. If you have knowledge, you can name describe list state give an outline of give an account of give an example of summarize But if you understand, you can explain give reasons for give reasons against find connections between discuss the issue of show the purpose of state the meaning of show the importance of state the results of draw conclusions It is a revolutionary classroom where understanding, rather than knowledge, is the goal.
5. Learning Styles Every student is different, but in the typical classroom they are treated as if they were all the same. If the class hour is spent listening to the teacher’s voice, some students will be bored because the pace is too slow and others will become anxious because they are being left behind.11 As well, if the lecture is the principal 10
A. A. Milne, The House at Pooh Corner (London: Methuen, 1928), 128.
11 Too little arousal leads to boredom, too much to anxiety, according to D. O. Hebb, “Drives
and the C.N.S. (Conceptual Nervous System),” Psychological Review 62 (1955): 243–54. His analy-
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mode of delivery of the course, those who learn through what they hear will do well, and those who learn from what they see will not do well, even though the two kinds of student might be equals, intellectually speaking. The matter of learning styles has been very thoroughly researched, yet it is a rare program where the learning preferences of students are catered to. No teacher I know of in our field (I don’t know all teachers!) attempts to discover the preferred learning styles of students before trying to teach them, and unless the teacher is somehow naturally gifted to offer a variety of teaching methods some students will invariably be disadvantaged. One widely adopted analysis of learning styles is the VARK (Visual, Aural, Read/Write, and Kinesthetic) model of Neil Fleming.12 The four styles he identifies are described in the following chart. Visual learners
tend to learn best from diagrams, visual displays; may prefer to sit at the front of the class in order to see the teacher’s body language clearly; profit from teachers who use gestures and picturesque language
Auditory learners
tend to learn best through lectures, discussions; may find their understanding benefits from reading aloud
Read/write learners
tend to prefer information displayed as words; such students favor PowerPoint, the Internet, lists, handouts, dictionaries, thesauri, quotations, and words
Kinesthetic learners
tend to learn through moving, doing, and touching
Now most people (60 percent) have multimodal learning styles (you can find out what your own style is on Fleming’s quick online questionnaire), and don’t fail to learn if their own most favored styles are not in use. Yet 40 percent are severely hindered if they are not free to learn in their own way. So the teacher not only needs to know who is in the classroom but also should be devising a variety of learning projects that enable all students to benefit. Students should of course be encouraged to expand their repertory of learning styles and not remain content with the styles they instinctively prefer.13
sis was modified by M. J. Apter, Reversal Theory: Motivation, Emotion and Personality (London: Routledge, 1989). 12 See his website at www.vark-learn.com. 13 Another very influential analysis of learning styles is that of Peter Honey and Alan Mumford, who distinguish activists, reflectors, theorists, and pragmatists (The Manual of Learning Styles [3rd ed.; Maidenhead, Berkshire: Peter Honey, 1992]; and Using Your Learning Styles [3rd ed.; Maidenhead, Berkshire: Peter Honey, 1995]).
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I, for example, would benefit from developing a more visual learning style. I panic when I pull off the highway for a coffee and cannot decipher the signs in time to choose which lane I should go into. It takes me—for I am a dedicated read/write learner—four times as long to understand those signs as to understand the bare words: Fuel, Food, Cars, Trucks.
6. Outcomes Another important feature of a student-centered approach is the provision of “outcomes” for each course of study, whether a whole degree course or a unit that lasts just a semester. An “outcome” is a statement of what all students will be able to do on successfully completing the course—what the student will be able to understand, explain, evaluate, and apply. The focus is on the student’s achievement. It is a statement not of what the student will know—though of course there will be an increase in knowledge—but of the capacities, skills, and know-how that the student will be able to deploy. Stating outcomes is fair to students, since it gives them some assurance of the benefit of the course to them. It is also helpful to teachers, since it compels them to think through what the purposes and intentions of their courses are. Typically, outcomes are couched in the following form: At the end of a course, the student will be able to . . . . The chart below offers a sample of what a statement of outcomes might look like.14 Outcomes for the Biblical Studies Course/Program as a Whole Name of Outcome
By the end of the course, the student will/will be able to
Broad Understanding
have a broad understanding of the Bible in its historical setting and in the modern world
Detailed Knowledge
have acquired a detailed knowledge of the content of several biblical books
Analytical Skills
be adept in analytical and critical thinking, with the ability to compare and contrast, identify key issues, themes and arguments
Evaluative Skills
evaluate ideas and arguments for validity or adherence to standards
Problem-Solving Skills
deploy a variety of tools and methods to address a problem with which one is confronted
14 This statement was drawn up for our Department of Biblical Studies in Sheffield in 2000, in preparation for the national Teaching Quality Assessment in 2001. All the outcomes here were specified by the university’s generic statement of learning outcomes.
Clines: Learning, Teaching, and Researching Biblical Studies Oral Skills
make effective oral presentations, engage in discussion and argument
Written Skills
use clear and correct written English, use appropriate academic language, and create a variety of written reports
Numeracy Skills
handle many kinds of non-textual material, including tables, symbols and icons, and use the internet and a variety of computer software for word processing, data handling and presentations
Presentational Skills
make a formal presentation to a group, using presentation software where appropriate
Subject-Specific Skills
deploy the range of skills and knowledges appropriate for a graduate in Biblical Studies, including methodological, historical, textual and written skills
Collaborative Skills
work together with others in preparing, presenting or evaluating a project
Creativity and Imagination
give evidence of creative approaches to problems and imaginative presentation of materials
Research Awareness
identify a range of research resources and be aware of differing levels of research depth
Cultural Context
situate Biblical Studies within a broader cultural and intellectual context
Professional Values
display the intellectual qualities of a graduate, such as respect for accuracy, fairness in handling the views of others, insistence on evidence before making a judgment, sympathy with the value systems of other cultures while being clear about one’s own values, concern for the broader human implications of the subject of study
Adaptability
feel competent in a changing world and implement change in one’s own work and thinking
Varying Competences
operate at various levels of complexity and set oneself realistic goals
Self-Awareness and Personal Development
reflect on the educational process and other life experiences in a creative way
Research-Informed Learning and Teaching
appreciate the value of access to professional and sustained research in any area of learning
13
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Each outcome results from a distinctive set of cognitive activities of which students have had experience. We could draw up a table of verbs that give evidence of those activities. knowing
define, describe, identify, label, list, name, outline, reproduce, recall, select, state, present, extract, organize, recount, write, measure, relate, match, record
comprehension
interpret, translate, estimate, justify, clarify, defend, distinguish, explain, generalize, exemplify, infer, rewrite, summarize, discuss, perform, report, present, indicate, find, represent, formulate, contrast, classify, express, compare, recognize, account
application of knowledge/understanding
apply, solve, demonstrate, change, compute, manipulate, use, employ, modify, operate, predict, produce, relate, show, select, choose, assess, illustrate, verify
analysis
recognize, distinguish, evaluate, analyze, differentiate, identify, infer, outline, point out, relate, select, separate, divide, compare, contrast, justify, resolve, examine, conclude, criticize, question, diagnose, categorize, elucidate
synthesis
arrange, assemble, organize, plan, prepare, design, formulate, construct, propose, present, explain, modify, reconstruct, relate, revise, summarize, account for, report, alter, argue, order, select, manage, generalize, derive, synthesize, enlarge, suggest
creativity
originate, image, begin, design, invent, initiate, state, create, pattern, elaborate, develop, devise, generate, engineer
evaluation
judge, evaluate, assess, discriminate, appraise, conclude, compare, contrast, criticize, justify, defend, rate, determine, choose, value, question, measure
We shouldn’t imagine, however, that all courses with stated outcomes will involve student-centered learning. It is easy enough for a traditional teacher to respond to demands to state the outcomes of a course by drawing up a list of what the teacher believes the student will be able to do at the end of the course. A statement of an outcome is bogus if students have not actually practiced and had experience of the skill in question. In any case, the very notion of “outcomes” is to some extent problematic, since it deflects attention from the even more important issue of process and makes knowledge and knowledge acquisition out to be more predictable and assured than it can possibly be (which is another story).15 15 See Ronald Barnett, Realizing the University in an Age of Supercomplexity (Buckingham: Society for Research into Higher Education and Open University Press, 2000), 171.
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What should be the outcome of a whole program in biblical studies? Everyone in the field, and every institution offering such a program, should ask this question every year. Without an answer to this question—of the most extreme generality, I admit—we really shouldn’t be let loose on students. If we don’t know what our program is for, how can we expect them to? It cannot be that at the end of the program students’ heads will be as full of the latest scholarly knowledge about the Bible as it is possible for them to become within the time. It has to be something about what they are able to do now that they have studied the Bible in depth. My proposal for a total outcome is along these lines: Students will be able to think like biblical scholars. That is, after all, all that we know how to do, the only generic skill we have in common. What else do we have to pass on to our students? As one practitioner puts it, “Today’s educator should aim not simply to produce more scientists but rather to get all students to learn to think about science like a scientist.”16 How, then, we might well ask, do biblical scholars think? You might put it differently, but I don’t think we would much disagree on the following: They have learned to approach the Bible from a standpoint of critical distance, even while, in most cases, they are deeply aware of the Bible’s influence on themselves. They respect rationality even when the subject of their study and their own environment makes them open to the subjective. They are scrupulous about evidence-based argumentation in the face of less cerebral opinions about matters of faith and religion. They are committed to fairness and courtesy in an intellectual sphere in which hostility and distortion are not unknown. If our students are able to think like that, and know how it is they are thinking, then we can be sure that they have achieved the outcomes we desired.
7. The Teacher as Facilitator Teachers who become facilitators of student learning have to learn a new set of skills for themselves.17 Below is an exemplary table contrasting the activities of the traditional teacher with those of the teacher who has become a facilitator:
16 C. Wieman, “Professors Who Are Scholars: Bringing the Act of Discovery to the Classroom,” www.reinventioncenter.miami.edu/Conference_04/Wieman/Presentation.htm. 17 H. Bauersfeld, “The Structuring of the Structures: Development and Function of Mathematizing as a Social Practice,” in Constructivism in Education (ed. Leslie P. Steffe and Jerry Gale; Hillsdale, NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum, 1995). Interesting also is Karen M. Lauridsen, “‘The Mind Is Not a Vessel to Be Filled but a Fire to Be Kindled’: On the Supervision Process and Supervision Training at the Aarhus School of Business, Aarhus University,” www.asb.dk/fileexplorer/fetchfile .aspx?file=9396.
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Traditional Teacher
Facilitator
tells
asks
lectures from the front
guides and supports from the back or side
answers according to the textbook or curriculum
guides student into forming a personal conclusion
transmits knowledge
enables student’s learning
class is mostly monologue
class is mostly dialogue
focus is on content
focus is on learner’s activity
learner is relatively passive
learner is relatively active
executes prior plan for class
adapts and reassesses as the class progresses
ideal student is a sponge, absorbing and retaining
ideal student is a carpenter, building new structures of knowledge from prior knowledge and new ideas
It is not a simple matter to transform oneself from teacher to facilitator, as one author acknowledges: [T]here is an urgent need for all programmes of higher education . . . to be geared to developing the skills of autonomous learning. . . . To reorient higher education . . . in this direction is a tremendous challenge. It is a concept that is foreign to most educators. It has not been part of their training. . . . It requires a redefinition of their role away from that of transmitter and controller of instruction to that of facilitator and resource person to self-directed learners. It is frightening. They do not know how to do it.18
Teachers turned facilitators will not be short of occupations, though: instead of lecturing, pontificating and generally showing off, they may find themselves circulating redirecting questioning assessing guiding directing validating moving monitoring challenging
motivating watching moderating diagnosing troubleshooting observing encouraging suggesting modeling clarifying19
18 Malcolm S. Knowles, “Preface,” in Developing Student Autonomy in Learning (ed. David Boud; London: Kogan Page, 1981), 8. 19 Jamie McKenzie, “The WIRED Classroom (Cont.),” Educational Technology Journal 7/6 (March 1998), http://fno.org/mar98/flotilla2.html.
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If students take responsibility for their own learning and become independent learners, it does not mean that they will be left to their own devices. There are still important roles for the teacher, who remains a critical factor in the learning process, • • • • • •
providing learners with resource materials; whetting learners’ appetites to learn; providing learners with chances to test out their learning; giving learners feedback on their progress; helping learners to make sense of what they have learned; stimulating interaction among the students themselves.20
8. How Students Actually Learn Best If we care about student learning, we will inevitably want to know what are the optimum circumstances for student learning. Most students say that they learn best • • • •
at their own pace at times and places of their own choosing often with other people around, especially fellow learners when they feel in control of their learning.
9. Social Learning Fellow learners are important for most independent learners. They contribute to the learning process by • • • • •
helping each other to keep a sense of perspective; explaining difficult ideas and concepts to each other; debating issues informally or in a formal debate; helping each other to find out which resource materials work best; learning from each other’s mistakes.21
The research evidence shows that students working in cooperative groups make better progress than students working individually or in competitive groups.22 Some educationists even claim that knowledge is essentially constructed in a social 20 See, e.g., Phil Race, The Open Learning Handbook: Promoting Quality in Designing and Delivering Flexible Learning (2nd ed.; London: Kogan Page, 1994). 21 The points in §§8 and 9 are derived from Phil Race, “A Fresh Look at Independent Learning,” www.city.londonmet.ac.uk/deliberations/eff.learning/indep.html. 22 Steven McGee, “Designers Should Encourage Participation in Team Research,” http://vdc .cet.edu/entries/team.htm, citing D. W. Johnson and R. T. Johnson, “Cooperation and the Use of Technology,” in Handbook of Research for Educational Communications and Technology (ed. D. H. Jonassen; New York: Simon & Schuster Macmillan, 1996), 1017–44.
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context and only secondarily appropriated by individuals in a process known as “collaborative elaboration.”23
10. Cascade Learning Our university has as one of its mottoes, inscribed on an open book on its coat of arms, Disce Doce, “teach, learn.”24 The official interpretation is, of course, that teachers teach and students learn. But I have always wanted to deconstruct that opposition and think of it as the dual duty of all members of the university, both faculty and students, to learn and to teach. Which of its academic staff has stopped learning? Shame on them if they have. Should not “doce” be addressed to them as much as to students? And “disce” to students? Why should anyone think that students should not be teachers? If by their second year students are not in a position to be teaching first-year students (in some respect or another) what, pray, have they learned in their first year?
11. The Inside-out Classroom Let’s hear a word about the inside-out classroom (more often called the upside-down classroom), meaning an invitation to reconsider what, in the learning experience, goes on—or could go on—inside and outside our classrooms. In the most traditional model, the classroom is for the passing on of information, the space outside the classroom for student exercises, conferring with peers, reading, and so on. What if all the routine instructional material were moved outside the classroom, to Internet resources, podcasts, and written texts, and the classroom became the social space for learning? With the teacher as facilitator of the group’s learning activity, the (relatively) noisy classroom would become a site of serious learning instead of drowsy note taking. If indeed the lecture was once an acceptable medium for conveying information (though it was never very good for promoting critical thought or changing attitudes),25 it has surely been largely superseded by the more flexible mechanisms available today electronically for the transmittal of 23
See Peggy van Meter and Robert J. Stevens, “The Role of Theory in the Study of Peer Collaboration,” Journal of Experimental Education 69 (2000): 113–27; J. G. Greeno, A. M. Collins, and L. B. Resnick, “Cognition and Learning,” in Handbook of Educational Psychology (ed. D. Berliner and R. Calfee; rev. ed.; New York: Macmillan, 1996), 15–41. 24 The motto disce, doce, dilige can be traced to Piers Plowman, Passus 13, line 137 ([William Langland], Piers Plowman: The B Version. Will’s Visions of Piers Plowman, Do-Well, Do-Better and Do-Best [ed. George Kane and E. Talbot Donaldson; rev. ed.; London: Athlone, 1988], 493). 25 See Donald Bligh, What’s the Use of Lectures? (5th ed.; Exeter: Intellect, 1998), esp. 3.
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information—which students can use outside the classroom at their own pace and in settings of their own making.
12. Learning in the Digital Age It is said that everyone born after 1985 thinks differently from older people and speaks a different language.26 That is because they were “born digital,”27 and grew up in a world where computers were ubiquitous. Early this year I was a guest in a classroom in Los Angeles of such “digital natives” studying a chapter of the Hebrew Bible, each with a laptop, seamlessly connected to the resources of the Internet throughout the class like an external hard drive for their brains, everyone bringing all kinds of material into the classroom, filtered of course through their own experience of the upsides and downsides of the Internet and through their own sense of what was relevant to the classroom. They needed no lecture, no closely defined program of study; they had only to be let loose, and behold! more angles of vision than any teacher or facilitator could have devised were before us. The Web as a brain extension will perhaps put paid to the old fetish of memorization. There are still those among us who require of their students astonishing feats of memorization, though they themselves would never go to the supermarket without a written shopping list and have all the family birthdays and phone numbers safely implanted in their cell phones. And students consequently (or, on their own account) think memorization meritorious and esteem teachers for examinations that require nothing but memorization. The top-ranked professor on that salutary site Rate My Professors, when I last looked, received this review: Easy beyond belief. All test questions are given to you prior to the test, just need to memorize. Entertaining teacher, will laugh during class.
Along with the fixation on grades, which represents the commodification of learning, in which teachers themselves are sometimes complicit, there is plainly a massive misunderstanding of what education is and can be. The deliberate memorization of unrelated facts is an unhealthy practice, unworthy of an institution of higher education and best left to idiots savants. Perhaps the next generation, having 26 The U.S. census is said to show that in 2003 computer usage by those born in 1985 was about 100 percent, whereas by those born only five to seven years earlier it was 75 to 80 percent (Don Kasun, “Why Web 2.0 Is Important, Whether You Like It or Not,” http://blogs.msdn. com/dankasun/archive/2007/09/14/why-web-2-0-is-important). I am not sure that the statistics support this view, however, judging by the data at www.census.gov/population/www/socdemo/ computer/2007.html. 27 See John Palfrey and Urs Grasser, Born Digital: Understanding the First Generation of Digital Natives (New York: Basic Books, 2008).
20
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grown up with the superfluity of data the Internet provides, will be the first to recognize that all that really matters is not the data but what we do with the data.
13. Inquiry-based Learning What are we putting in the place of the information transmittal that passes for teaching in many of our institutions?28 When the learning process of the student takes center stage, inevitably the student is conceived of as embarking on a voyage of discovery,29 drawing on previous personal experience and prior knowledge. The teacher as facilitator proffers an issue, a problem, a realm of study that the learner will personally investigate with the support of the teacher.30 The term for this learning model is inquiry-based learning (IBL).31 Inquiry tasks invite exploration and are best if they are open-ended: the solutions in inquiry-based learning are not predetermined. The best research or inquiry questions pique the learner’s curiosity, creating what researchers call intrinsic motivation—which is what students experience with their extracurricular hobbies and interests—as over against extrinsic motivation, like the hope of attaining good grades.32 It is by no means a matter of turning the whole learning business over to the unaided student. I recall a class on the Pentateuch where, having decided that it should be directed by student interest, I began the first class by inviting my students to tell me what it was that they wanted to know about the Pentateuch. After ten painful minutes of silence, some brave person remarked that it would be good to know something about the origins of the Pentateuch. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, except me, who knew that the students weren’t remotely interested in such a 28 The report of the [Ernest L.] Boyer Commission on Educating Undergraduates in the Research University noted: “The inquiry-based learning urged in this report requires a profound change in the way undergraduate teaching is structured. The traditional lecturing and note-taking, certified by periodic examinations, was created for a time when books were scarce and costly. The delivery system persisted into the present largely because it was familiar, easy, and required no imagination. But education by inquiry demands collaborative effort” (Robert W. Kennedy, Reinventing Undergraduate Education: A Blueprint for America’s Universities [Stony Brook, NY: SUNY Press, 1998], 16). 29 “Discovery learning” is a term sometimes used for inquiry-based learning. It is frequently associated with the name of Jerome Bruner (b. 1915), the U.S. educational and cognitive psychologist, though John Dewey (1859–1952) was a precursor. 30 A much-visited site for the theory and practice of inquiry-based learning is based at the University of Sheffield, in its Centre for Inquiry-Based Learning in the Arts and Sciences (CILASS), at www.shef.ac.uk/cilass/. 31 See, e.g., Michael Prosser and Keith Trigwell, Understanding Learning and Teaching: The Experience in Higher Education (Buckingham/Philadelphia: Society for Research into Higher Education and Open University Press, 1999). 32 Namsoo Shin and Steven McGee, “A Research Question Should Pique Learners’ Curiosity,” http://vdc.cet.edu/entries/motivation.htm.
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topic but had vaguely remembered that this was one of the items that every course on every book of the Bible had to contain. I would have done better to ask them, What do you already know about the Pentateuch? and start from there. The teacher will indeed often be hard-pressed to devise meaningful and interesting inquiries to set students inquiring after; but the satisfaction for both teacher and students will be a great reward. It is not a matter either of adopting inquiry-based learning as the one teaching method for a whole course or not using it at all. There is no reason why small-scale inquiries should not be embedded in otherwise traditional teaching programs, as part of a seminar or coursework. Nor is it an approach that should be saved up for the later phases of students’ courses when they have already acquired a body of knowledge about the subject. Inquiry-based learning works well for lower as well as higher levels of study, and develops students’ understanding of subject knowledge that is new to them, not just of knowledge they are already familiar with.33
14. A Sample of Inquiry-Based Learning Here is a simple, small, inquiry-based learning project I offered to my class on the Psalms. Our topic was Psalm 2, which I gave them as a handout without any blank lines between the four strophes such as you will find in the RSV, for example. Their task was defined as the preparation for making a movie of the psalm.
psalm 2: the movie Mark out the scenes in the movie, and for each scene, identify • • • •
location persons present speaker(s) atmosphere or mood
Working in pairs, students discovered, without great difficulty, that they could analyze the poem something like this: Scene
Verses
Location
Persons
Speakers
Mood
1
1–3
earth
poet, kings
poet, kings
ironic
2
4–6
heaven
Yahweh, kings
Yahweh
derisive
3
7–9
Jerusalem
Israelite king, Yahweh, nations
Israelite king
assertive
4
10–12
earth
poet, kings, Yahweh, king
poet
didactic
33 On the effects of inquiry-based learning on student motivation, see Angela Brew, Research
and Teaching: Beyond the Divide (Basingstoke, Hants: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006).
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There was always a satisfying buzz in the room when we did this project, everyone participated, everyone was in control of his or her own learning, everyone felt that they understood the poem and how it was structured. It was time to move on to the next element in the project:
psalm 2: what is going on? In the World of the Text (where there are characters, narrators, and implied readers, all “fictions”) • • • •
What prior situation is envisaged? What happens and what is said? Who acts or speaks? With what intention?
In the Real World (where there are real people, authors, and readers, ancient and modern) • What is the author trying to achieve by means of the text? • What are the intentions of those who try to preserve this text? • What happens to readers/hearers (you, for example) when they read/hear the text? As you can see, this project was quite structured even though open-ended. It was also almost wholly inductive, which is to say, it did not require students to consult resources other than the text itself. Inquiry-based learning can of course be heavily resource-dependent, though my own inclination, to be frank, is toward the inductive. I once wrote a paper, “Teaching and Learning the Psalms, Inductively; or, Keeping Gunkel and Friends out of the Classroom.” In it I said the following: Now that I have given up teaching the Psalms, and turned to teaching my students instead, trying to enable them to progress in their own understanding of the Psalms, I can go a whole semester without so much as mentioning any of those worthy and sometimes quite brilliant scholars. I have gone to the other extreme, I know, but in keeping Gunkel and friends out of the classroom I have tried to put students’ learning in the foreground and to privilege their own experimentation and their own progress with interpretation. Gunkel’s questions, and those of the scholarly tradition, are not allowed to set the agenda in my classroom.
Others will take a different attitude to the scholarly past, no doubt.
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15. Hindrances to Learning The greatest hindrances to learning are not, as is commonly supposed, laziness or stupidity or fizzy drinks or even cognitive illusions,34 but a set of emotional factors.35 Among them we may note: • • • • • • • • • • •
General aversion to lectures, instructions, descriptions Desire for lectures, instructions, descriptions Aversion to authority Desire for authority Unwillingness to take risks Willingness to take in only precisely defined concepts Willingness to take in only pictures Fear of making mistakes Fear of failing Fear of consequences Fear of conflict with personal beliefs
I once tested out the extent of emotional factors at work in the classroom in a workshop I did with Dutch and British Hebrew Bible scholars on the topic “synchrony/diachrony.”36 My suspicion was that the topic carried, for some people at least, quite a lot of emotional freight, since it has been constructed as a set of oppositions that encode differing scholarly practices. People even define their life’s work as a devotion to a method (“I’m a form critic”). So, inevitably, very much personal investment attaches to any discussion of the topic. In an attempt to uncover the feelings associated with this subject, I compiled a simple wordassociation test:
34
See Fred H. Groves and Ava F. Pugh, “Cognitive Illusions as Hindrances to Learning Complex Environmental Issues,” Journal of Science Education and Technology 11 (2002): 381–90. 35 See Coenraad van Houten, Awakening the Will: Principles and Processes in Adult Learning (Forest Row, E. Sussex: Adult Learning Network, 1995), 140–48. See also Eero J. Laine, “Emotional Hindrances in the FL Learning Situation: The Weak Self Concept,” in Equality in Language Learning: Proceedings of the 5th Nordic Conference of Applied Linguistics, Jyväskylä, Finland, June 4–7, 1987 (ed. Kari Sajavaara; Suomen soveltavan kielitieteen yhdistyksen [AFinLA] julkaisuja 45; Jyväskylä: University of Jyväskylä, 1987), 169–76. 36 Clines, “Beyond Synchronic/Diachronic,” in Synchronic or Diachronic? A Debate on Method in Old Testament Exegesis (ed. Johannes C. de Moor; OtSt 34; Leiden: Brill, 1995), 52–71; reprinted in my On the Way to the Postmodern: Old Testament Essays, 1967–1998, vol. 1 (JSOTSup 292; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 68–87.
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Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 1 (2010) Which words, if any, do you associate with the term “synchronic”? rigorous easy rigid loose novel free dangerous exciting cautious controlled authentic orderly modern legitimate penetrating
anxious fresh confrontational welcome cumbersome trendy unnecessary traditional primary subjective uninteresting pacifying left right old-fashioned
On the opposite side of the handout, the list was repeated, but the rubric was different. It read, “Which words, if any, do you associate with the term diachronic?” Participants in the workshop were asked to mark any words that came into their minds as they thought of the concepts “synchronic” and “diachronic.” To score their answers I told them at the end that they should count the number of marks they had made on each side of the sheet, and should add the two scores together. The meaning of the scoring system was simple, I said. Any score higher than zero showed that one had an emotional relationship with the topic of the workshop, and not just an intellectual interest in it. Their emotional investment in “synchrony/diachrony” would almost certainly hinder their ability to deal with the subject dispassionately. But it was too late, now that the congress had begun, to do anything much about it, since handling emotional conflicts and tensions can be a long process. All that could be done at this stage was to recognize the noncognitive element in their approach to the subject. My announcement of the meaning of the scores was greeted with much surprise and mirth, but no one seemed to deny the force of the exercise.
16. Curriculum Many discussions of teaching or pedagogy turn out to be discussions of curriculum.37 It’s an important topic, and it certainly has an impact on the student 37 This is the case, for example, with Dale B. Martin’s Pedagogy of the Bible: An Analysis and Proposal (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2008).
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learning experience, but in and of itself it often represents a deflection of attention from students to the professional concerns of teachers. What we include in our curricula and what we exclude from them are matters of our professional expertise; decisions about curriculum are generally driven by the subject matter and especially by our view of the subject matter, not by the needs of students. Do we situate our NT courses in a framework of early Christianity of the first and second centuries or teach courses on Romans, Galatians, and Luke, for example? That depends on our view of what the NT is—an instantiation of nascent Christianity or a closed canon of normative theological writings, for example. A student-centered learning approach to curriculum asks an entirely different question: What do students want, what will benefit them, what outcomes are being sought by the curriculum? What is it that each student, including the average student and the weak and barely passing student, will be able to do when they complete the course? I cannot tell you what the right answers will be for your students, and students themselves cannot answer such questions from a tabula rasa. If I go to buy a new computer or a new car, I need to be informed about the possibilities as well as to make my own choice. Students need to be constantly challenged about their expectations for their education and to learn to problematize all authoritative statements handed down to them—including what it is they really want. But, speaking generically, students have some sense of what they want to do with their experience of biblical studies, of what they want to become when they have left the institution; so they have an idea of what their courses can do for them in realizing their ambitions. Every time we factor into our curriculum design the students and their likely futures we are promoting student-centered learning. How different curricula look when student projects are work related or real-life related, when they address the questions and issues students will encounter when they leave the classroom rather than manipulating materials created by the scholarly tradition. I often suggest what I call the “pub-test,” the pub being in British life the default social setting in which people meet. In the pub, I warn students, they will hear four typical remarks about the Bible from people who are largely ignorant of it: (1) The Bible is full of myths and legends. (2) The Bible is anti-gay. (3) The God of the Bible is an ugly bully. (4) If you are studying the Bible, you must be a very religious person. A student or graduate in biblical studies will have on such occasions, if they are lucky, thirty seconds to set the record straight from a professional standpoint before the conversation moves on—to football. If they cannot pass the pub-test, they are not worthy, I aver, of a degree in biblical studies. Suppose a curriculum (partly, at least) dedicated to students preparing themselves in research mode to handle the popular ignorance and misconceptions that surround the Bible!
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17. Introductions and Surveys In a student-centered curriculum where the designed outcome is to enable students to think like biblical scholars, one characteristic feature of biblical studies courses that would be ripe for the axe is the introductory course or the survey. Biblical scholars of all persuasions are very much against superficiality and wide generalizations, and yet when they walk into the classroom, especially with the most impressionable beginning students, they are perpetually delivering themselves of exactly that kind of remark. Jonathan Z. Smith, last year’s president, acidly comments: “We’re really lying, and lying in a relatively deep fashion, when we consistently disguise, in our introductory courses, what is problematic about our work.” We screen from our students the contested nature of all that we handle, and we teach them to believe that what really matters is the conclusion. Smith looks at what students underline in their books: it is always the punch lines, never the arguments, never the kind of work that makes us biblical scholars and not chat show guests proffering lazy opinions. They end up believing that things are either true or false, or else that everything is just a matter of opinion.38 A first-year seminar devoted to a single work would be a better introduction to the field, says Smith. I concur. If I were assigned to teach a NT introduction, I would spend the whole semester on Philemon, having students research all the critical issues for themselves and build up their own picture of Paul, Pauline theology, and early Christian society on the basis of this extraordinarily luminous and revealing text. I would have them learn on a “need to know” basis, remembering Carl Rogers’s dictum, “The basic idea behind teaching is to teach people what they need to know,”39 not stuffing their heads with as much knowledge as I can manage, but letting them find out what they need “just in time,” like factories that don’t stockpile raw materials but acquire them just when they will use them. And I can never forget the energy that was released in my beginners’ Hebrew class when my students spent two hours just comparing the English versions of Psalm 23 with the Hebrew and discovered for themselves that even the usually Reasonably Satisfactory Version (RSV) was perpetuating the old Christianization “I shall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever” and that the New American Bible had unforgivably converted all the third person verbs to second person (“In green pastures you let me graze”). Finally on this point, a word against the myth of foundationalism, that students must at the beginning of their education in biblical studies acquire sound foundations on which they can then build. There is in fact, in my view, no foundation, no starting place, no agreed body of facts that students must begin by learning. There 38
Jonathan Z. Smith, “The Necessary Lie: Duplicity in the Disciplines,” http://teaching .uchicago.edu/tutorial/jz_smith.shtml. It is reproduced as an Afterword in Russell T. McCutcheon, Studying Religion: An Introduction (London: Equinox, 2007). 39 I have not been able to trace the source of this quotation.
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is no right place to start, except the place where each student is, ramshackle and half-baked though their ideas may be.
18. Reinventing the Wheel Does not the project of inquiry-based learning amount to little more than inviting students to reinvent the wheel? Discovery learning is simply re-inventing the wheel. The time spent in “discovering” could be better spent using the wheels that have already been designed.40
So an opponent of student-centered learning. But is there not something to be said for a project of reinventing wheels? Imagine a classroom where each student or group worked out for themselves solutions to the Synoptic Problem without reference to any textbook (it can be done). You would have a class of geniuses. Perhaps you already have a class of geniuses but you are not letting them have their heads and so you don’t even realize it. After a week of inventing the wheel, perhaps they will move on to making fire, which will certainly brighten up your dreary monologic classroom.
19. The Student as Scholar41 You can see where all this has been leading. I am proposing a new view of education, both undergraduate and graduate, in which students are not the favored recipients of the largesse of scholars who let fall some crumbs of learning from their research workbenches. Rather, those students, once they have got themselves into an institution of higher education, have embarked on the same occupation as we who earn our livings from it. Raw and ignorant they may be, and not just on day one, but if they were not, they wouldn’t need to come to university. If only we could ascribe to them the same motivations and ambitions as we recognize in ourselves we might even wean them from the childish fixation on grades and easiness. Nothing motivates students like involving them in research and so making them into professionals. Mine is not the only voice calling for a new vision. I quote four such voices: The main hope for realising a genuinely student-centred undergraduate education lies in re-engineering the teaching–research nexus.42 40 Charles P. Nelson, “More on Sage vs. Guide,” http://secondlanguagewriting.com/ explorations/Topics/constructivism.html. 41 Alan Jenkins, Mick Healey, and Roger Zetter, Linking Teaching and Research in Disciplines and Departments (York: Higher Education Academy, 2007). 42 P. Ramsden, “Strategic Management of Teaching and Learning,” in Improving Student Learning Strategically (ed. C. Rust; Oxford: Oxford Brookes University, 2001), 1–10, here 4.
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We are all researchers now. . . . teaching and research are becoming even more intimately related. . . . In a “knowledge society” all students—certainly all graduates—have to be researchers.43 In order to integrate undergraduate research most effectively into the learning experience, undergraduate education should focus on the “student as scholar” from the first to final year. President Hodge will offer a vision of the student as scholar, where “scholar” is defined in terms of an attitude, an intellectual posture, and a frame of mind derived from the best traditions of an engaged liberal education. Fulfilling this vision of the student as scholar will require a fundamental shift in how we imagine and structure the curriculum. In this new paradigm, the curriculum is learning-centered, providing intentional pathways that culminate in capstone experiences, peer-reviewed research papers, and creative presentations.44 Undergraduate research has been an effective educational model for many years, but establishing an effective, sustainable institution-wide undergraduate research program is still a highly challenging undertaking. Specific challenges include offering a meaningful research experience to a significant number of undergraduates, integrating research experience with students’ overall undergraduate education, and providing the optimal mix of faculty leadership and administrative support to sustain a dynamic undergraduate research program. Using examples from quite different institutions—a private liberal arts college and a major state university—this workshop will offer participants specific strategies that can be adapted to their own institutions and help them identify barriers that still prevent research from reaching all undergraduates.45
20. The Joy of Facilitation Here, finally, is a personal testimonial to the teacher’s experience of the change from being a lecturer to becoming a facilitator. It comes from a field of study far remote from our own, but is relevant, I think you will find, at every point to our world and hits all the right notes:
43
Peter Scott, “A Lot to Learn: We Are All Researchers Now,” Education Guardian, January 8, 2002, p. 9 (education.guardian.co.uk/egweekly/story/0,,628918,00.html). 44 David C. Hodge, President, Miami University, “The Student as Scholar in Research and Practice,” keynote address at the 2007 meeting of the American Association of Colleges and Universities (www.aacu.org/meetings/undergraduate_research/index.cfm). 45 Royce Engstrom, Provost, University of South Dakota, and Jeff Abernathy, Vice President for Academic Affairs, Augustana College, announcing a workshop entitled “Research and Creative Scholarship: An Integral Part of the Undergraduate Experience“ at the 2007 conference of the AAC&U (American Association of Colleges and Universities) (www.aacu.org/meetings/ undergraduate_research/index.cfm).
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In lecturing I always thought in terms of “the students ought to know this about marine geology.” . . . This was some bit of information, some fact, some kind of research, some discovery, some equation, some concept. Now I had to think in terms of “the students ought to be able to do this.” They ought to be able to observe keenly, compute accurately, reason cogently, describe results clearly, hypothesize, and to test hypotheses rigorously. They ought to be developing “a scientific habit of mind.” . . . To walk about a room and hear students talking to one another about the science I love thrills me. They are spending the entire hour talking to one another about science, about concepts, about methods, teaching one another, learning from one another. . . . Another enjoyment was seeing these students show evidence of becoming scientists. That a student makes a good grade on an examination tells me little about how good a scientist he or she might be. But to read reports in which students give evidence of sharp observation, orderly thinking, and clear expression, is rewarding. I also feel more useful to them in developing these skills than I do in grading their examinations.46
Someone in the elevator on the day I gave this address said they were “looking forward to hearing your message.” That was my message. 46 Dean A. McManus, Professor of Oceanography, University of Washington, “Changing a Course from Lecture Format to Cooperative Learning,” depts.washington.edu/cidrweb/resources/ CooperativeLearning.html.
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T 2/17/2010 2:23:46 PM
JBL 129, no. 1 (2010): 31–47
The Function of the Chronicler’s Temple Despoliation Notices in Light of Imperial Realities in Yehud paul s. evans
[email protected] McMaster Divinity College, McMaster University, Hamilton, ON L8S 4K1, Canada
The importance of Jerusalem for the Chronicler1 (hereafter, Chr) has been highlighted by many previous studies.2 Of course, the Deuteronomistic History (hereafter, DH) was also concerned with the Jerusalem temple and its importance, yet the centrality of the temple for the DH is on a different level from that of Chronicles. Despite all the attention paid to the centrality of temple in the book of Chronicles, surprisingly little attention has been given to Chr’s treatment of the temple
The nucleus of this essay was presented at the Annual Congress of the Canadian Society of Biblical Studies, which met in Vancouver, Canada, in June 2008. Although I take responsibility for the final form of this article, I would like to thank Ehud Ben Zvi (University of Alberta) and Gary N. Knoppers (Penn State) and other participants of the Ancient Historiography Seminar for their helpful comments. I am also grateful to Mark J. Boda (McMaster) for sending me a prepublication draft of one of his articles. 1 By the Chronicler I mean the author(s) of the book of Chronicles. 2 Gary N. Knoppers, “ ‘The City Yhwh Has Chosen’: The Chronicler’s Promotion of Jerusalem in Light of Recent Archaeology,” in Jerusalem in Bible and Archaeology: The First Temple Period (ed. Andrew G. Vaughn and Ann E. Killebrew; SBLSymS 18; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 307–26; Norbert Dennerlein, Die Bedeutung Jerusalems in den Chronikbüchern (BEATAJ 46; Frankfurt am Main/New York: P. Lang, 1999); Pancratius C. Beentjes, “Jerusalem in the Book of Chronicles,” in The Centrality of Jerusalem: Historical Perspectives (ed. Marcel Poorthuis and Chana Safrai; Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1996), 15-28; Martin Selmen, “Jerusalem in Chronicles,” in Zion, City of Our God (ed. Richard S. Hess and Gordon J. Wenham; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), 43–56; and Isaac Kalimi, An Ancient Israelite Historian: Studies in the Chronicler, His Time, Place and Writing (SSN 18; Assen: Van Gorcum, 2005), 125–39.
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despoliation notices found in his Vorlage. Both the Deuteronomist3 (hereafter, Dtr) and Chr show a consistent interest in the history of the temple treasuries in their work.4 A study by Gary N. Knoppers has focused on how Chr’s presentation of both palace and temple treasuries diverges from that of Dtr, noting that Chr integrates royal actions toward these treasuries more closely into his presentation of the reigns of these kings than Dtr.5 Knoppers suggests that through his divergences Chr effectively presented an alternative picture to Dtr’s story of decline.6 However, the fact that Chr mitigates Dtr’s history of decline through his many divergences in this regard still leaves unexplained some aspects of Chr’s reworking of the despoliation notices in his Vorlage. This article will suggest that Chr’s change in despoliation notices evinces an attempt to impose limitations on royal privileges regarding the temple. Contrary to David Noel Freedman’s suggestions long ago that Chr purposed to give a basis for the authority of the house of David over the temple and its cult,7 Chr actually limits even the Davidides’ temple privileges compared to Dtr in his reworking of the Davidic despoliation notices of the book of Kings. Through a study of the accounts of Judahite monarchs who appropriated temple treasures in times of military duress in both the book of Kings and the book of Chronicles, it will be apparent that Dtr does not view such actions negatively, while Chr is at pains to characterize such actions as errant. Chr’s explicit statements condemning such temple despoliation, his negative characterization of the offending monarch (contrary to the king’s characterization in the DH), and his omissions of temple despoliation notices all reveal the negative disposition of the book of Chronicles in this regard and the author’s desire to limit royal control over temple treasuries. I will conclude by exploring possible reasons for these differing attitudes toward the sanctity of the temple.
I. Davidic Temple Plunderers in Biblical Historiography A. In the Book of Kings E. Theodore Mullen has examined instances in the DH where kings seek to survive a military threat through the offering of temple and palace treasuries. 8 3
By Dtr I mean the author of the books of Joshua–Kings. Whether a Josianic Dtr1 with an exilic Dtr2 is posited or a Nothian understanding of a single exilic Dtr is preferred makes little difference to this article. 4 Gary N. Knoppers, “Treasures Won and Lost: Royal (Mis)appropriations in Kings and Chronicles,” in The Chronicler as Author: Studies in Text and Texture (ed. M. Patrick Graham and Steven L. McKenzie; JSOTSup 263; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999), 181–208. 5 Ibid., 182–83. 6 Ibid., 194. 7 Freedman, “The Chronicler’s Purpose,” CBQ 23 (1961): 436–42. 8 Mullen, “Crime and Punishment: The Sins of the King and the Despoliation of the Treasuries,” CBQ 54 (1992): 231–48.
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Noting how all of these kings (besides Hezekiah, who Mullen thinks is an exception to the rule) fail to remove the high places, Mullen concludes that the account of the despoliation of the treasuries functioned to show that the king was being punished for not removing the high places.9 However, his view is difficult to accept since kings who despoiled the treasuries are evaluated in varying ways by the narrator, with most judged to have done right in Yahweh’s eyes (e.g., Asa, Joash, Hezekiah). Nadav Na’aman has criticized Mullen’s study, concluding that it is doubtful that the despoliation notices consistently indicate the punishment of the king for failing to remove the high places.10 Na’aman has examined these narratives, emphasizing the different circumstances of each king and distinguishing between those who voluntarily hand over treasure (Asa and Ahaz) and others who meet demands in an attempt to avert a threat to Jerusalem (Joash and Hezekiah). Similarly, Mordechai Cogan and Hayim Tadmor have argued that the term “bribe” (dx#) employed in the description of Ahaz’s despoliation of temple treasuries “bears negative connotations” and is used to criticize the king.11 The same term, however, is used of Asa, despite the fact that he is characterized positively by Dtr.12 In order to assess what is inferred when the DH presents a Judahite monarch’s appropriation of temple treasures, a brief examination of such instances is requisite.
1. Asa In 1 Kgs 15:16–22, in the context of a threat from his northern neighbor, Israel, Asa draws on the temple riches to bribe the Arameans to come to his aid. Cogan suggests that Asa’s despoliation of the temple “was likely viewed negatively by Dtr, though this is not specifically stated.”13 This suggestion seems doubtful, however, because Asa is assessed positively in direct statements by the narrator, despite these actions.14 In 1 Kgs 15:14 it is stated that “the heart of Asa was whole [Ml#] with 9
Ibid., 247. Na’aman, “The Deuteronomist and Voluntary Servitude to Foreign Powers,” JSOT 65 (1995): 37–53, here 44 n. 18. In addition, Knoppers has pointed out that in the DH “four out of six kings associated with treasury raids are rated positively” (“Treasures Won and Lost,” 188). 11 Cogan and Tadmor, “Ahaz and Tiglath-Pileser in the Book of Kings: Historiographic Considerations,” Bib 60 (1979): 491–508, here 499. 12 Yet Cogan suggests that the word “bribe” “is not original to the message but is one inserted by Dtr in order to taint Asa’s act” (1 Kings: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [AB 10; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 2001], 400). However, he offers no other evidence for the word being a redactional insertion, and it seems unlikely that Dtr would insert a negative comment here rather than add to the regnal evaluation of Asa, which appears to be the work of Dtr himself. 13 Cogan, 1 Kings, 402. 14 Volkmar Fritz notes that although this positive judgment is qualified by Asa’s failure in regard to the high places, “[t]he attitude of the king to the temple in Jerusalem is the sole standard for his evaluation by the Deuteronomistic Historian” (1 & 2 Kings [CC; Minneapolis: Fortress, 10
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Yahweh all his days.” To be sure, in the same sentence it is noted that Asa did not remove the high places (15:14), making it appear that his oversight in that regard was not seen as determinative in his evaluation; that is, his neglecting to do something good (removing the high places) did not indicate that his heart was not right with Yahweh. However, could the same be said if Asa willingly and overtly did something sinful (i.e., presumably temple despoliation)? It seems more difficult to think of Asa being commended in this way if his direct actions violated his heart’s relationship with Yahweh. Although it could be said that Asa’s dipping into temple funds might present a negative aspect of Asa’s character, it was clearly not a roadblock to his positive characterization in the rest of the narrative, and it seems more likely that Dtr did not view it negatively.15
2. Joash In another moment of military crisis for a Judahite monarch, Joash draws on the “holy things” (My#dqh) and “all the gold found in the house of Yahweh” (2 Kgs 12:19 [Eng. 18]) when Hazael of Aram invades Judah. Joash’s strategy proves successful as the king of Aram withdraws from Jerusalem (v. 19 [Eng. 18]). Here Cogan and Tadmor suggest that Joash’s “seizure of temple treasures” was not to his credit.16 Once again, however, it is significant that the narrator assesses Joash positively, claiming that he “did what was right in the eyes of Yahweh all his days” (2 Kgs 12:2). It is difficult to exclude the time Joash paid off the Arameans to secure Jerusalem’s safety from the phrase “all his days.” Again, such actions are not criticized by Dtr.
3. Ahaz The next Judahite monarch to withdraw monies from the temple treasuries is Ahaz (2 Kgs 16:8). Like Asa, Ahaz uses these treasures to bribe his way out of military duress. However, unlike his predecessors (Joash and Asa) who utilized temple funds in similar situations, Ahaz is characterized negatively by the narrator (2 Kgs 16:2–4). It is interesting that this criticism is not explicitly linked to his appropria2003], 166). However, Fritz does not comment on Asa’s dipping into temple treasuries for his alliance with Aram. 15 Marvin A. Sweeney suggests that the “account of Asa’s war against Baasha of Israel provides reasons for his religious reforms” (I & II Kings: A Commentary [OTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2007], 193). Therefore, he seems to suggest that the accounts are out of chronological order and that Asa gives gifts to the temple after he plundered it and sent its treasures to Aram. While Sweeney does not discuss the morality of Asa’s temple plundering, perhaps he sees this acknowledgment of chronological displacement as the reason for Dtr’s indifference to the despoliation, since Asa added to the temple to replace what he took. 16 Cogan and Tadmor, II Kings: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 11; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1988), 141.
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tion of temple monetary resources. In fact, the reasons for such negative characterization are explicitly laid out. 2 Kings 16:3–4 catalogues his shortcomings: he “walked in the way of the kings of Israel”; he participated in the “abominable practices” of the Canaanites, making “his son pass through fire”; and he “sacrificed and made offerings on the high places, on the hills, and under every green tree.” If Dtr viewed a monarch’s appropriation of temple treasuries as negative, why would he not list this shortcoming here? Once again temple despoliation does not appear to be viewed unfavorably by Dtr, and the fact that Ahaz is characterized negatively cannot be used to support the idea that such actions were deemed sinful in the ideology of Dtr.
4. Hezekiah In 2 Kgs 18:15–16 Hezekiah takes precious metals from the temple and his own palace to placate Sennacherib. While the plundering of his own treasury could be viewed as a self-sacrificial act that reflects well on Hezekiah, utilizing the temple treasuries to mollify the Assyrian king is again ambiguous as to its probity. This action may show a lack in Hezekiah’s piety, where the pragmatic needs of the present outweighed the holiness of the sanctuary and its treasures.17 Alternatively, it could show that Hezekiah was a faithful king, willing to sacrifice everything at his disposal to preserve his people, the holy city, and even the sanctuary from destruction. Since, as we have seen, there appears to be no precedent to mark such actions clearly as negative, this leaves Hezekiah’s conduct in this regard ambiguous.18 In
17
Adherents of the [Bernhard] Stade-Childs hypothesis have contrasted the portrayal of Hezekiah in this section (the putative Account A) with those of the following sections (B1 and B2) to show that they must stem from discrete sources. B1 and B2 present a pious monarch who approaches the temple to seek the prophet and pray, while account A presents Hezekiah as plundering the temple to pay off Sennacherib. See John Gray, I & II Kings: A Commentary (OTL; 2nd, fully rev. ed.; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1970), 659, 666; and Brevard S. Childs, Isaiah and the Assyrian Crisis (SBT 2/3; London: SCM, 1967), 100. Similarly, James A. Montgomery characterized Account A as less moralizing than the B accounts (A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Book of Kings [ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1951], 515). 18 In the present context these actions could be viewed as “wise,” since 2 Kgs 18:7 says that in all he did lyk#y (hiphil imperfect third person masc. sing.). In the hiphil, this word usually means “to act wisely,” though it often does seem to mean “to have success.” However, perhaps the narrator purposefully uses this terminology to suggest that Hezekiah acted wisely in all he did— including the appropriation of the precious metals from the temple. H. Haag has viewed Hezekiah’s payment to Sennacherib as a last-ditch attempt at salvation from the human side. He comments, “On sait que la confiance en la Providence n’empêche pas l’homme de se server des moyens humains dont il dispose, mais qu’elle l’exige au contraire” (“La campagne de Sennachérib contre Jérusalem en 701,” RB 58 [1951]: 348–59, here 355–56). So August H. Konkel, “Hezekiah in Biblical Tradition” (PhD diss., Westminster Theological Seminary, 1987), 111.
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fact, he could be seen as heroic, since he is defending Jerusalem and his people by such deeds.19 Interestingly, although appropriating temple treasuries is never explicitly judged negatively, when Hezekiah shows the Babylonians the non-temple treasuries of Judah, Isaiah levels an extremely negative oracle in response, clearly implying the sinful nature of this action (2 Kgs 20:16–18).20 This is so, even though Hezekiah does not dip into these treasuries, but merely displays them for his guests. In sum, a close look at instances of Judahite monarchs despoiling the temple in the DH has shown that the actions are not criticized by Dtr. In most cases, the “offending” king is assessed positively by the narrator, making it unlikely that these actions were viewed negatively. In Ahaz’s case, when he is castigated by Dtr, his despoliation of the temple is not listed among his deficiencies. If the instance of Hezekiah showing the palace riches to the Babylonian envoys is any indication, then the motive behind such actions may have been more decisive in characterizing them as negative or positive than the actions themselves. Knoppers concludes that the evidence suggests one of two conclusions: “either the Deuteronomist was inclined to view treasury raids as a positive factor in rating kings or such raids did not inform his regnal evaluations.”21 However, why we must assume that Dtr either viewed them as a positive or a negative factor, even if he did not take the latter into account in his evaluations, is unclear. The evidence would suggest that Dtr viewed the Davidic king as having the right to draw on temple resources in times of crisis and that this is not viewed negatively, nor necessarily positively per se. After all, the kings who are viewed positively, though they draw on temple treasuries, are not lauded explicitly because of their utilization of temple monies. It is perhaps better to understand Dtr’s stance as acknowledging that the king had the right to draw on temple treasures and that it was the motives and the reasons these rights were exercised that factored into Dtr’s evaluation of Judahite monarchs.22 19 Walter Brueggemann sees these actions as positive, since “Hezekiah, good king that he is, wants the occupying troops of the empire removed” (1 & 2 Kings [Smyth & Helwys Bible Commentary 8; Macon, GA: Smyth & Helwys, 2000], 494). Na’aman observes that in the DH “the payment of treasure under threat of siege may have been described in a non-critical tone” (“Deuteronomist and Voluntary Servitude,” 44). Similarly, Burke O. Long suggests that such payment of treasures was merely “a strategy to relieve military pressure on Jerusalem and to preserve Judah’s independence” and not capitulation (2 Kings [FOTL 10; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1991], 205). 20 Christopher T. Begg has drawn attention to the fact that Judahite kings who despoil the temple are never explicitly evaluated for their actions, nor “is anything directly said about their evoking retribution from Yahweh. . . [but] Hezekiah’s action [of showing the treasures to the Babylonians] does call for a divine response” (“2 Kings 20:12–19 as an Element of the Deuteronomistic History,” CBQ 48 [1986]: 27–38, here 33). 21 Knoppers, “Treasures Won and Lost,” 188. 22 Fritz notes that the king had authority over both the temple and palace treasuries (1 & 2 Kings, 305).
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B. In the Book of Chronicles In order to assess Chr’s attitude toward temple despoliation, I will now examine how these same kings are presented in the book of Chronicles. With the above survey of Davidic monarchs who despoil the temple in view, the assessment of Chronicles and its parallel accounts of these same kings will be more focused and the distinct emphases and perspective of Chr will be clearer.
1. Asa In the book of Chronicles, contrary to the structure of his Vorlage, Chr divides the reign of Asa into two distinct periods. In one period Chr portrays the king positively (2 Chr 15:1–19); in the other, the king is depicted in a negative light (2 Chr 16:1–12).23 It is in the second, negative period of his reign that Chr situates Asa’s temple plundering, which suggests that Chr viewed these actions unfavorably. This negative view is more explicitly communicated by the condemnation of Asa’s actions by the prophet Hanani. Immediately after Asa’s timely bribe pays off, thereby eliminating the Israelite threat to Judah, Hanani accuses Asa of relying on the king of Aram instead of relying on Yahweh (2 Chr 16:7). The prophet clearly associates Asa’s temple plundering with distrust of Yahweh. Knoppers suggests that, contrary to the account in the book of Kings, Asa’s appeal to Syria in Chr’s account is “ultimately ineffective,” as Hanani predicts that Asa will have wars from that point on.24 However, Chr does present Asa’s appeal as effective in the interim, as BenHadad responds and removes the Israelite threat for Judah.
2. Joash In the presentation of Joash in Chronicles, Chr has reordered Dtr’s Joash account for theological reasons.25 Dissolving the historical progression of temple reform followed by invasion by foreigners, Chr separates Joash’s reign into two distinct time periods—one of obedience (2 Chr 24:1–14) followed by another of apostasy (2 Chr 24:15–27). During the first period, when the king listened to the priest Jehoiada, Joash did what was right in Yahweh’s eyes (24:2); however, after the death of the priest, Joash listened to the officials who “abandoned the house of Yahweh” (24:18). It is during this period of apostasy that Chr situates the Aramean attack on Jerusalem. However, in Chr’s account of the Aramean invasion, he omits Joash’s 23 Raymond B. Dillard, “The Reign of Asa (2 Chronicles 14–16): An Example of the Chronicler’s Theological Method,” JETS 23 (1980): 207–18. 24 Knoppers, “Treasures Won and Lost,” 198–99. 25 As Sara Japhet has shown, Dtr’s outline was impossible for Chr since his ideology “would not permit him to see the Temple restoration followed by the invasion of Jerusalem by a foreign king and the violent assassination of Joash by conspirators” (I & II Chronicles: A Commentary [OTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1993], 840). Cf. Dillard, “Reign of Asa,” 210–11.
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despoiling of the temple to secure Jerusalem’s freedom. Since Joash has been characterized negatively in this latter period, this omission is curious. A suggestion that Chr simply viewed appropriating temple treasures negatively lacks explanatory power in this instance, as Joash is already characterized negatively in this latter period of his reign. Why not narrate his temple despoliation in order further to denigrate his character in this period and heighten the apostasy? It is also interesting that not only is the temple plundering omitted, but the outcome of the conflict with Aram is overturned. Rather than having the king of Aram withdraw (which happens after the gift/tribute of precious metals in the DH), the Arameans instead have a successful campaign as Yahweh delivers the Judahites into their hands (24:24). It could be suggested that the tribute payment is omitted simply because Chr does not wish to include the resultant withdrawal of the Aramean force in his narrative. However, the case of Ahaz appears to invalidate this suggestion, as we will see.
3. Ahaz As in the DH, in Chronicles Ahaz is characterized in a thoroughly negative manner (2 Chr 28:1–27). In fact, many have argued that in Chronicles Ahaz is presented as the worst Judahite king ever, a spot reserved for Manasseh in the DH.26 However, of keen interest for the present study is the way that Ahaz’s appropriation of temple funds (2 Chr 35:21) is portrayed in an explicitly negative way. There are many obvious differences between the accounts in Kings and Chronicles. First, Chr has recontextualized the situation; the appeal to Assyria for help is presented in the context of a threat from Edomites and Philistines rather than the threat from the Syro-Ephraimite coalition, as in the DH (2 Kgs 16:5–6). Second, the result of the appeal to Assyria for help is not successful, as it is in the DH (2 Kgs 16:5–10); it results in Tiglath-Pileser “oppressing” (rcy) Ahaz rather than “strengthening him” (qzx) (2 Chr 28:20). What is extremely interesting for
26 Richard H. Lowery, The Reforming Kings: Cults and Society in First Temple Judah (JSOTSup 120; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1991), 128–29; Japhet, Chronicles, 897; and Ehud Ben Zvi, “A Gateway to the Chronicler’s Teaching: The Account of the Reign of Ahaz in 2 Chr 28,1–27,” SJOT 7 (1993): 216–49. Steven S. Tuell has suggested that Chr’s “unstinting condemnation of Ahaz” is because Ahaz “was the first king to succumb to a foreign power, and he did so willingly, without resistance” (First and Second Chronicles [Interpretation; Louisville: John Knox, 2001], 210). However, this appears to be an instance where the interpreter is reading Chronicles on the basis of the DH. In Chronicles’ portrayal it does not appear that Ahaz is appealing to Assyria in order to submit. Whereas in the DH Ahaz calls himself the Assyrian king’s “servant and son” (2 Kgs 16:7), such language is not found in Chronicles. What is more, if merely an appeal for help indicates a willingness to succumb to a foreign power, Ahaz is not the first in the book to do so. Asa appeals to Aram for help against northern Israel and even calls explicitly for an alliance/ covenant (tyrb) between them (2 Chr 16:3).
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the purposes of this study is the causal connection Chr makes between Ahaz’s temple plundering and the outcome of the appeal to Assyria. It appears that Chr is suggesting that the reason the Assyrians oppressed Ahaz is because (yk) he plundered the temple. Two yk clauses in v. 19 precede this verse: “because Yahweh brought Judah low . . . because he threw off restraint in Judah and trespassed against Yahweh.” Simon J. De Vries has described these as “two grounding clauses” that explain both “why the Edomites and Philistines came” and “why Yahweh allowed this to happen.”27 These comments in v. 19 would suggest that the yk clause in 28:21 should be understood similarly, and that Ahaz’s temple plundering is explicitly to be blamed for the Assyrian oppression.28
4. Hezekiah The account of Hezekiah in Chronicles omits any mention of his despoiling the temple to pay off Sennacherib, as referenced in the DH (2 Kgs 18:15–16).29 Sara Japhet suggests that this action was omitted “for the sake of creating a simpler and more unified account, and to some degree may have been influenced by the parallel account of Isa. 36–39, which does not contain [it].”30 However, given that Chronicles exalts Hezekiah31 as it does no other king except David and Solomon, Raymond B. Dillard appears closer to the mark when he suggests that the omission is “not because it was not in his source, but because . . . it would be out of accord with the faithful acts of Hezekiah.”32 Contrary to the DH, Hezekiah does not take away treasures from the temple but rather assembles treasures for the sanctuary (2 Chr 29:5–
27
De Vries, 1 and 2 Chronicles (FOTL 11; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1989), 365. Note the difficult verb (qlx) used here to describe Ahaz’s temple plundering. Japhet notes that this verb is “not clear, this being the only illustration of this use” (Chronicles, 907). HALOT (1:322–23, s.v. qlx) suggests emending it to Clx, meaning “apportion” or “divide” or “share in” rather than “plunder” or to “take from.” Perhaps Chr used this word to imply Ahaz’s view that the temple treasures were his own possession to divide and share, as the word is often used in reference to apportioning an inheritance or one’s own possession or the like. Cf. Josh 14:5; 18:2; 22:8; 1 Sam 30:24; 2 Sam 19:30; Neh 9:22; Job 27:17; Prov 17:2. Perhaps a contrast is intended with David, who is the only other person in Chronicles to perform an action related to the temple that is described with the word qlx (see 1 Chr 23:6; 24:3). 29 And, of course, in Assyrian annals. See “Sennacherib’s Siege of Jerusalem,” translated by Cogan (COS 2.119B: 303). 30 Japhet, Chronicles, 977. 31 As is universally noted by scholars. See, e.g., Dillard, 2 Chronicles (WBC 15; Waco: Word Books, 1987), 228; Japhet, Chronicles, 936; and Donald C. Raney, History as Narrative in the Deuteronomistic History and Chronicles (Studies in the Bible and Early Christianity 56; Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 2003), 159. 32 Dillard, 2 Chronicles, 255. Further, this omission could be due in part to the importance of the deliverance of Jerusalem under Hezekiah and the need to attribute it fully to God rather than partially to timely tribute paid. 28
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11). Chr also omits any mention of Hezekiah showing off the palace treasuries to the Babylonians, only alluding to the episode as a test God put him through (2 Chr 32:31).33 In sum, in the DH the despoliation of the temple by kings does not appear to have been viewed negatively. Perhaps the common view that these actions were viewed unfavorably by Dtr stems from the ideology of the book of Chronicles rather than from the DH. The problem of the relation of the DH to Chronicles has usually hindered the interpretation of the latter, as scholars have interpreted the differences in Chronicles within the framework of the DH rather than within Chronicles itself.34 However, this may be an instance where the reverse is true, and the interpretation of the DH may be unduly influenced by that of Chronicles. Perhaps millennia of harmonistic interpretation have subtly affected interpreters in this regard.
II. Explaining Divergences in Temple Despoliation Notices by the Deuteronomist and the Chronicler A. Kings and Temples in the Ancient Near East In the ancient Near East, temple building was a central feature of state formation, a state essentially being unable to exist without a temple.35 Though primarily cultic facilities, temples also functioned somewhat as national banks, as a supplement to palace treasuries.36 Therefore, the ruling monarch had an understandable interest in the maintenance and protection of the temple and in the possible distribution of the monies held there.37 In many ways, the temple legitimized a monar33
H. G. M. Williamson, 1 and 2 Chronicles (NCB Commentary; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1982), 387–88; and Japhet, Chronicles, 995–96. 34 As John W. Wright has observed (“The Innocence of David in 1 Chronicles 21,” JSOT 60 [1993]: 87–105). 35 Drawing from anthropological evidence (modern and ancient), John M. Lundquist has offered a model of ancient state development showing the connection of royal and temple ideology (“The Legitimizing Role of the Temple in the Origin of the State,” SBLSP 21 [1982]: 271–97). 36 Long ago, L. Waterman suggested that the temple was primarily a bank/treasury and that the cherubim were thought to be guardians of the royal treasure (“The Damaged ‘Blueprints’ of the Temple,” JNES 2 [1943]: 284–94). Most scholars have not followed his lead, as the cultic aspect is obviously more important than the financial. However, the temple clearly functioned as a state treasury in many ways. According to Knoppers, “ancient temples were important not only as places of worship, but also as banks,” since they were “homes for some of the nation’s most valuable treasures” (“Treasures Won and Lost,” 181). See also Gray, 1 & 2 Kings, 589. 37 Aarnoud van der Deijl emphasizes the role of the temple in ancient Near Eastern royal ideology, noting the connection between the king as “co-creator with the deity” and the temple as “the centre of creation . . . [and] the centre of distribution of all blessings for humanity” (Protest or Propaganda: War in the Old Testament Book of Kings and in Contemporaneous Ancient Near Eastern Texts (SSN 51; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2008), 665.
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chy;38 however, the monarch generally had extensive rights and privileges regarding the temple. It would appear that in preexilic Judah liberties taken by the Davidic king in regard to the temple were acceptable, perhaps especially because of the view that the reigning monarch was uniquely God’s vice-regent on earth.39 In the postexilic situation, however, with no reigning Davidide on the throne, the centrality and sanctity of the temple were heightened, and Chr resisted allotting the same royal privileges in regard to the temple. As we have seen, in the book of Chronicles some monarchs are presented as despoiling the temple, but Chr takes measures to mitigate the inferences of these actions. In some cases Chr portrays these kings negatively, either entirely (Ahaz) or at least during the period of such temple despoliations (Asa). Moreover, such despoliations are presented as somewhat ineffective.40 In the case of Ahaz, his despoliation results in oppression rather than help (2 Chr 28:20), while in Asa’s case, his actions alleviate the immediate threat but are said to guarantee further oppression in the future (2 Chr 16:9). In two other cases Chr omits the temple despoliation notices that were in his Vorlage. In one case, the monarch is portrayed positively (Hezekiah), and in the other the king (Joash) is portrayed in a negative light at the time when the temple despoliation would have occurred. What is to account for Chr’s particular way of dealing with the temple despoliation notices found in his Vorlage? Knoppers has suggested that part of the reason for limiting the despoliation notices in Chronicles was that “[i]t is bad enough for an adversary to pillage one’s national institutions, but it is even more disconcerting for domestic monarchs repeatedly to do the same.”41 However, this fails to explain why Chr left any despoliation notices at all, unless it was specifically to present the monarch negatively. If that was the case, then the omission of Joash’s despoliation of the temple is difficult to explain, since Chr’s purpose was to present Joash in a negative light at that point in his narrative. Knoppers has helpfully pointed out how Chr balances despoliation notices with accounts of the following king enriching the temple and country.42 As Ehud Ben Zvi would state it, Chr’s history represents “a sense of proportion.”43 While this highlights an aspect of Chr’s method, it still does not account for Chr’s handling of all the despoliation notices. Knoppers suggests that, by including instances of tem38
As Sweeney points out, “Temple renovation is frequently a sign of national restoration” (I & II Kings, 351). 39 This monarchic mentality is present in Dtr regardless of whether it originated in his sources, that is, whether we think of a preexilic (Cross et al.) or exilic (Noth) Dtr. 40 As Knoppers writes, “Chr. neither endorses nor admits to an ineluctable linkage between despoliation and the alleviation of foreign bondage” (“Treasures Won and Lost,” 201). 41 Ibid., 193. 42 Ibid., 203: “Chr.’s record balances the despoliations by some kings with the reconstructions and amassing of wealth by others.” 43 Ben Zvi, “A Sense of Proportion: An Aspect of the Theology of the Chronicler,” SJOT 9 (1995): 37–51.
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ple enrichments following despoliations, Chr is delivering the message that “leaders and the community at large can also progress and make new contributions to their nation’s legacy.”44 However, this does not seem to make sense of the omissions of tribute payment. Could not the same message have been delivered if, in negative phases of their reigns, monarchs despoiled the temple in times of international crisis? Since the subsequent monarch could overturn this and make “progress” and “contributions,” this does not satisfactorily explain these omissions. According to John Van Seters, “A fundamental purpose of ancient historiography was to establish a continuity of identity, ideology, and institutions.”45 As many have observed, Chr clearly emphasizes continuity between preexilic and postexilic practices in regard to the role of the Jerusalem temple and the organization of its worship (established by David and realized under Solomon).46 In light of this aspect of Chr’s work, which attempts to safeguard the sanctity of the temple and its treasuries through establishing continuity with preexilic practice, there would have been a danger in presenting Davidic monarchs as having the right to despoil the temple as they saw fit.47 Of course in the postexilic community there was no Davidic monarch on the throne, which leads one to question why Chr would be concerned with imposing such limits on the monarchy. The answer may be found through a brief examination of Chr’s presentation of foreign monarchs and their function in his narrative following the death of Josiah.
B. The Role of Foreign Emperors in Chronicles In the book of Chronicles, after the death of Josiah Judah is no longer an independent state, and the subsequent Judahite kings served merely as puppets of Egypt or Babylon. William Johnstone has even gone so far as to suggest that, for Chr, the exile begins with Josiah’s death.48 A close look at the presentation of foreign mon-
44
Knoppers, “Treasures Won and Lost,” 205. John Van Seters, “The Chronicler’s Account of Solomon’s Temple-Building: A Continuity Theme,” in The Chronicler as Historian (ed. M. Patrick Graham et al.; JSOTSup 238; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 283–300. Knoppers similarly argues that Chr “wished to emphasize continuity between the First and Second Temple eras (“Treasures Won and Lost,” 194). 46 As Knoppers writes, Chr was validating “contemporary sacerdotal arrangements and aspirations by recourse to native precedents in Israel’s past” (I Chronicles: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [2 vols.; AB 12; New York: Doubleday, 2004], 2:797). See also Williamson, 1 and 2 Chronicles, 28; Japhet, Chronicles, 45. 47 According to Knoppers, “the fact that some of Judah’s better kings indulge in this activity complicates the attempt to argue that such a strategy is reprehensible” (“Treasures Won and Lost,” 193). 48 As Johnstone writes, “With the death of Josiah the new phase of exile has now begun for Israel. . . . The story of Israel now passes from monarchy to exile” (1 and 2 Chronicles [JSOTSup 253–54; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997], 2:260). 45
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archs in Chronicles from Josiah’s time onward reveals that, in the absence of an independent Judean state or a legitimate, obedient Davidic king on the throne, the foreign kings after Josiah fulfill the role of Yahweh’s vice-regent.49
1. Necho Though the mention of Pharaoh Necho is brief, in several ways he appears to sit as Yahweh’s vice-regent in lieu of an obedient Davidic monarch. First, God is “with” him (2 Chr 35:21), as God was with David (1 Chr 11:9; 17:2), Solomon (1 Chr 22:15; 28:20; 2 Chr 1:1), Asa (2 Chr 15:2, 9), and Hezekiah (2 Kgs 18:7).50 Second, Necho is careful to obey God and proceed with the battles he was commanded to fight (2 Chr 35:21), just as the anointed king should (Ps 18:39–40). Third, Necho speaks for God as he cautions Josiah not to “oppose God” (2 Chr 35:21), and the narrator affirms that Necho’s words were “from the mouth of God” (2 Chr 35:22).51 This is analogous to the role of David in Chronicles: he is explicitly referred to as a prophet (2 Chr 8:14).52
2. Nebuchadnezzar When Chr evaluates Zedekiah, he criticizes him for “doing evil in the eyes of Yahweh” (36:12a), not humbling himself before Jeremiah (36:12b), and rebelling against King Nebuchadnezzar (35:13a). This association of the Babylonian king with Jeremiah and Yahweh is striking. Just as disobedience to the prophet is understood as disobedience to God, so rebellion against Nebuchadnezzar is interpreted by Chr as rebellion against the deity. In this way, Nebuchadnezzar functions as God’s vice-regent, of whom obedience is demanded and rebellion against whom 49
Kenneth Ristau emphasizes this (“Reading and Re-Reading Josiah: A Critical Study of Josiah in Chronicles” [M.A. thesis, University of Alberta, 2004], 74–75). William Riley points out that, “by denying the post-Josian kings such royal trappings as the statement of their deaths and burials, and, to a lesser extent, the naming of the Queen Mother, the Chronicler seems to undermine their full legitimate status within the Davidic dynasty” (King and Cultus in Chronicles: Worship and the Reinterpretation of History [JSOTSup 160; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1993], 142–43). 50 According to Ben Zvi, “this expression and the status it conveys are usually associated with pious kings of Judah or Israel” (“When the Foreign Monarch Speaks,” in Graham and McKenzie, Chronicler as Author, 209–28, here 221). 51 Japhet understands Necho as referring to his (i.e., an Egyptian) god in his direct speech, interpreting “god who is with me” as literally an idol accompanying Necho on his campaign (Chronicles, 1057). She acknowledges, however, that the narrator describes his words as coming from the mouth of the true God (“capital G”). Necho never refers to his god as “my god,” and the plain sense in light of the narrator’s remarks would appear to equate this god with the “capital G” God. 52 As Ben Zvi has noted, Necho is “a person who fulfils the role of a prophet, as some kings of Judah did” (“When the Foreign Monarch Speaks,” 221).
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results in God’s wrath (cf. Ps 2:2–3, 12).53 Again, a foreign monarch is seen filling the gap caused by disobedient Judahite rulers and functioning in place of the anointed Davidic king.
3. Cyrus The final foreign monarch referred to in Chronicles is Cyrus (2 Chr 36:22– 23). In the closing verses of the book Cyrus is presented as integral to the completion (twlkl) of Jeremiah’s prophecy (v. 22). Cyrus refers to Yahweh as “the God of heaven,” a designation that his audience would have found to be orthodox.54 More significantly, Cyrus claims that Yahweh has given him “all the kingdoms of the earth,” which is analogous to what was promised to the Davidic king elsewhere (Ps 2:2).55 Moreover, Cyrus declares that Yahweh has charged him to build a “house” in Jerusalem, taking on one of the most significant roles in monarchical history— the Davidic role of temple builder (cf. 1 Chr 17:12).56 It is also significant that the last devout message delivered in the book is from the Persian ruler, suggesting that “Yhwh’s kingship over Jerusalem may be executed by Cyrus.”57 After all, Second Isaiah presents Cyrus as Yahweh’s “anointed” (Isa 44:28) and as his “shepherd” (Isa 45:1) both royal Davidic titles. Therefore, in a very real sense, in the book of Chronicles the Persian monarchs stand in (at least in the interim) for the house of David. Thus Chronicles appears to be quite favorable toward the Persian rulers. With this perspective on Persian involvement in Yehud, perhaps Chr’s reworking of earlier narratives subtly nuances this pro-Persian stance. In 2 Chr 12:8 the prophet Shemaiah explains the reality of foreign invasion as “that they may know the difference between serving me and serving the kingdoms of other lands.” Boda suggests that Shemaiah’s prophecy “provides an interpretive window into the Chronicler’s view of foreign subjection. Although foreign subjugation is used by Yahweh for disciplinary purposes, it is not an ideal condition.”58 Foreign rule is not
53
As Mark J. Boda has pointed out, “Not only does this place Nebuchadnezzar among a group that includes Yahweh and Jeremiah, the final phrase [2 Chr 36:13b] bolsters Nebuchadnezzar’s role as vice-regent of Yahweh” (“Identity and Empire, Reality, and Hope in the Chronicler’s Perspective,” in Community Identity in Judean Historiography: Biblical and Comparative Perspectives [ed. Gary N. Knoppers and Kenneth A. Ristau; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2009], 249– 72, here 252). 54 As Ben Zvi suggests (“Foreign Monarch,” 222). 55 Chr’s awareness of the book of Psalms is evident in his use of several psalms, for example, parts of Psalms 96, 105, and 106 are quoted in 1 Chr 16:7–36. Further, the book of Chronicles clearly associates David with the psalms in different ways. See Howard N. Wallace, “What Chronicles Has to Say about Psalms,” in Graham and McKenzie, Chronicler as Author, 267–91. 56 Ben Zvi, “Foreign Monarch,” 223. 57 Ibid., 228. 58 Boda, “Identity and Empire,” 258.
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to be preferred to Davidic rule. If Shemaiah’s statement has relevance for Judean subservience to nations other than Egypt (which is referred to explicitly in the prophecy), then perhaps this implies that there should be a difference between the license that Davidic kings exercise and that exercised by Persian monarchs. What was less than ideal about serving Persian kings? Perhaps it was their policies on the appropriation of temple monies.
C. Imperial Realities in Yehud Joachim Schaper has drawn attention to taxation practices in Achaemenid Babylonia and the practice of the “king’s chest,” which was a tax-collection device by which part of the temple income was diverted from the sanctuary to the ruler.59 Though acknowledging that tax-collection practices in Yehud are not well documented, he has made a good case for a similar practice in Jerusalem and other Achaemenid sanctuaries.60 In light of this Persian imperial practice of using temples as tax collection agencies, Chr’s presentation of the appropriation of temple treasuries by Judahite monarchs had direct relevance for his contemporary situation. Recently, Melody D. Knowles has examined the paying of taxes to Jerusalem in an effort to see how ritual practices can be “registered on an economic plane.”61 She concludes that the biblical and archaeological evidence points to temple adherents largely (if not exclusively) supplying money to the Jerusalem temple.62 If this is the case, and if funding for the temple came largely from devotees and not from Persian overlords (despite the claims of biblical texts like Ezra), then a practice of a “king’s chest” in the Jerusalem temple would be that much more controversial for the fledgling community of Yehud.63 Since it was the sacrificial gifts of the faithful 59 Schaper, “The Jerusalem Temple as an Instrument of the Achaemenid Fiscal Administration,” VT 45 (1995): 528–39; see also idem, “The Temple Treasury Committee in the Times of Nehemiah and Ezra,” VT 47 (1997): 200–205. Others see a similar role for the temple in Yehud, e.g., Oded Lipschits, “Achaemenid Imperial Policy, Settlement Processes in Palestine, and the Status of Jerusalem in the Middle of the Fifth Century B.C.E.,” in Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period (ed. Oded Lipschits and Manfred Oeming; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 19–52; André Lemaire, “New Aramaic Ostraca from Idumea and Their Historical Interpretation,” in ibid., 413–56; idem, “L’économie de l’Idumée d’après les noueaux ostraca araméens,” Transeu 19 (2000): 131–43; idem, “Taxes et impôts dans le sud de la Palestine,” Transeu 28 (2004): 133–42. 60 Schaper, “Jerusalem Temple,” 529. He also points out that “the Jerusalem temple served as an outlet of the Persian ‘Royal Mint’” as “suggested by the evidence of the Yehud coins” (p. 533). 61 Knowles, Centrality Practiced: Jerusalem in the Religious Practice of Yehud and the Diaspora in the Persian Period (Archaeology and Biblical Studies 16; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2006), 119. 62 Knowles notes that the temple may have functioned as a tax depot for Yehud (Centrality, 105–20). 63 As Joseph Blenkinsopp has observed, “Control of and access to the temple would continue to be an important factor in the social and religious life of the Jewish community well beyond the Persian period” (Ezra-Nehemiah: A Commentary (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1988), 69.
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that were being siphoned off for Persian purposes, it is easy to see how a negative sentiment regarding this practice would find expression in Chr’s work. As Jonathan E. Dyck wrote, “It is clear that the Chronicler intended this story, like the history as a whole, to say something about the present day by saying something about the past.”64 Given this intention, Ralph W. Klein has noted that it is “remarkable that the Chronicler utters no critique of the Persians elsewhere and seems content with the implicit permission of the Persians for worship connected with the Jerusalem temple.”65 Perhaps a subtle critique of the status quo under the Persians is visible in Chr’s handling of temple despoliations found in his Vorlage. This would be similar to (though more subtle than) the complaint in Neh 9:37 that “[the land’s] rich yield goes to the kings whom you have set over us due to our sins . . . and we are in great distress.” Perhaps one of the reasons the temple is distanced from monarchic control in Chronicles was to express an ideal that was not realized in the Golah community. In Yehud the Jerusalem temple was economically important as a center of distribution and exchange within the imperial economic system, which was not controlled by the Golah community. Even if Persian kings currently filled the role of Davidic kings, this role was not absolute. If even the Davidides had limitations in terms of their rights and privileges concerning the temple—even more so the Persian rulers. When Chr rewrote the narratives of the book of Kings, he included several stories of kings giving gifts to the temple (e.g., 1 Chr 26:26–28 [David]; 2 Chr 15:18 [Asa]; 2 Chr 30:24; 31:3 [Hezekiah]). It is for kings to encourage reform and give gifts to the temple, but not to take from the temple or view its treasures as their own possession (as Ahaz—the vilified king—appeared to do) or even at their disposal. Thus, the reason for Chr’s omission or alteration of despoliation notices in his work could be a polemic against imperial authority over temple treasuries, or violation of temple sanctity through their use of the temple as a tax depot. In the case of Asa, Chr shows that such royal invasion into sacred space can work in the interim level but will be disastrous in the long run. This is to be seen as similar to his audience’s Persian situation. The Persian policy that used the temple as a tax depot may seem to work in the meantime, but it is a violation of the sanctity of the temple and will prove disastrous if continued. In the case of Ahaz, Chr shows that the monarch’s appropriation of temple monies leads to negative consequences, however well conceived. In the case of Joash, the reason the temple plundering is omitted (even though it would be during the regressive part of his reign) is that it would give backhand confirmation that kings had the right to appropriate temple treasures. Or, if we 64 Dyck, The Theocratic Ideology of the Chronicler (Biblical Interpretation Series 33; Leiden: Brill, 1998), 222. 65 Klein, 1 Chronicles: A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006), 47.
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assume that the audience knew the DH and would continue reading it after reading Chronicles, Chr may hope his presentation would allow the audience now to realize that those actions were wrong, as they were part of the apostate period of Joash’s reign (i.e., part of Chr’s mission was to create a rereading of his Vorlage).66 Finally, in the case of Hezekiah, Chr presents him as a model for the postexilic community.67 In this context, the omission of any temple plundering on Hezekiah’s part and the addition of the monarch’s deeds of temple enrichment set out the ideal not only for the vice-regent of Yahweh (currently the Persians) but also for the Golah community. Boda has highlighted striking connections between the presentation of Hezekiah’s reform and the conclusion of the book with the Cyrus decree, concluding that “the Chronicler shapes the Hezekiah account to maximize connections to his Persian period audience.”68 It is fitting, then, that the Hezekian ideal set forth in Chronicles, not only for the Golah community but also for the viceregent of Yahweh, should unequivocally support the temple and respect its sanctity, so that it might be said of both monarch and community that “every work that [they] began in the service of the house of God, and according to the law and the command, to seek [their] God, [they] did with all [their] heart; and [they] prospered” (2 Chr 31:21). 66 As Knoppers writes, “After reading the Chronicler’s composition and its selective incorporation of earlier writings, ancient readers may have understood those earlier writings differently” (I Chronicles, 133). 67 Raney, History as Narrative, 155. 68 Boda, “Identity and Empire,” 266.
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JBL 129, no. 1 (2010): 49–66
Death, Disinheritance, and Job’s Kinsman-Redeemer matthew j. suriano
[email protected] University of California, Los Angeles, Los Angeles, CA 90095
The book of Job offers a rare opportunity to view the response to death in ancient Israel and early Judaism. This response, which encompasses attitudes toward burial and concepts of the afterlife,1 is both vague and complicated in the Hebrew Bible.2 Its depiction, however, has been enhanced by archaeology, particularly the excavation of Iron Age II tombs found predominantly in Judah.3 Yet in spite of the abundance of death imagery in the book of Job, the book’s themes are seldom compared with the burial practices that typified the Israelite and early Jewish experience.4 This is partially due to uncertainties over the book’s language and A version of this paper was originally presented at the 2005 annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in Philadelphia. At various stages it has benefited from the comments of William Schniedewind, Annette Schellenberg, Brian Schultz, Lisa Suriano, and an unnamed reviewer. Any errors contained in this essay are the responsibility of the author alone. 1 This would include what Saul Olyan cogently refers to as “interment ideology” (“Some Neglected Aspects of Israelite Interment Ideology,” JBL 124 [2005]: 601–16). 2 For instance, the depiction of the netherworld is bleak and dismal; see John Day, “The Development of Belief in Life after Death in Ancient Israel,” in After the Exile: Essays in Honour of Rex Mason (ed. John Barton and David J. Reimer; Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1996), 231–37. 3 Elizabeth Bloch-Smith, Judahite Burial Practices and Beliefs about the Dead (JSOT/ASOR Monograph Series 7; JSOTSup 123; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992); and Irit Yezerski, “Burial-Cave Distribution and the Borders of the Kingdom of Judah toward the End of the Iron Age,” TA 26 (1999): 254–70. 4 Studies of death in the book of Job are numerous; see, e.g., David Kummerow, “Job, Hopeful or Hopeless? The Significance of Mg in Job 16:19 and Job’s Changing Conceptions of Death,” Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 5 (2004–5), §§3.4 and 4; Dan Mathewson, Death and Survival in the Book of Job: Desymbolization and Traumatic Experience (Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies 450; New York: T&T Clark, 2006); see also Hans Strauss, “Tod (Todeswunsch; ‘Jenseits’?)
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the date of its compilation,5 combined with the indistinct nature of its cultural setting and historical background.6 Yet the images evoked in the protagonist’s speech in Job 19:23–27 reflect archaeologically attested funerary rites that date to the first millennium b.c.e. The role of writing, associated with Job’s kinsman-redeemer in this perplexing passage, in fact parallels a similarly difficult Hebrew inscription from a tomb at Khirbet el-Qôm. Furthermore, the funerary images relate to wider themes of death that are debated in Job’s second cycle of speeches. The recognition of these multiple contexts (literary and cultural), in turn, allows for a better understanding of the nature and function of the l)g (gō 'ēl) in Job 19:25. The passionate speech in 19:23–27 evokes the protagonist’s confidence that, after his death, a kinsman-redeemer (v. 25) will perform the proper rituals on his behalf in order to preserve Job’s name and patrimony for posterity. Job’s speech in 19:23–27, in fact, is indicative of a conflict of ideologies that occurs in the second cycle of speeches. The doctrine of retribution that is preached by Job’s friends insinuates that Job’s perceived guilt will cause him to suffer the fate of the wicked, a fate that implies he will be denied proper funerary rites. Job counters this doctrine by drawing from the concept of collective fate that was at home in the traditional clan-based society of ancient Israel. Accordingly, Job’s image of his fate is tied to his kinsman-redeemer and is consonant with a ritual process that was typically centered at the family tomb. This ritual response would have entailed actions referenced or alluded to in Job 19: the writing/inscribing of an epitaph (vv. 23–24), the act of mourning (v. 25b), and, finally, secondary inhumation rites (vv. 26 and 27b). All of these actions bracket Job’s declaration of a kinsmanredeemer in v. 25a, and with the exception of mourning all can be attested in the material remains of ancient Israel. An integrated approach that analyzes Job within both cultural and literary contexts can offer manifold results that not only illuminate an important operating theme throughout the book’s discourse but also identify the role and function of Job’s kinsman-redeemer.
im Buch Hiob,” in Gottes Recht als Lebensraum: Festschrift für Hans Jochen Boecker (ed. Peter Mommer, Werner H. Schmidt, and Hans Strauss; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1993), 239–49; and Bruce Zuckerman, Job the Silent: A Study in Historical Counterpoint (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991), 118–35. A few studies briefly interact with burial customs, such as David J. A. Clines, Job 1–20 (WBC 17; Dallas: Word Books, 1989), 399. 5 The classic study is Avi Hurvitz, “The Date of the Prose-Tale of Job Linguistically Reconsidered,” HTR 67 (1974): 17–34. See also Edward L. Greenstein, “The Language of Job and Its Poetic Function,” JBL 122 (2003): 651–53. 6 Norman C. Habel, The Book of Job: A Commentary (OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1985), 39–40; Greenstein, “Language of Job,” 651–53; S. R. Driver and George Buchanan Gray, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Book of Job (ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1921), xxv– xxxiv; and the review in Carol A. Newsom, “Considering Job,” CurBS 1 (1993): 95–97.
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I. The Cultural Background of Death in Job A. Tomb Inscriptions Job begins his famous plaint in 19:23–24 with a detailed description of writing. Although the language is fairly straightforward, the images are not well understood. If the images are placed in a context of death and burial, it becomes possible to understand them as a description of a funerary inscription. wqxyw rpsb Nty-ym ylm Nwbtkyw wp) Nty-ym Nwbcxy rwcb d(l trp(w lzrb-+(b (23)Oh,
would that then my words be written! Oh, would that they be engraved in an inscription! (24)With an iron stylus and lead, they be hewn upon a rock forever.
Although the term rps typically carries the meaning “scroll,” it can signify any locus of writing, and in v. 23 the word can be understood as “inscription.”7 A good analogy to the Hebrew term is found in a Phoenician curse inscribed on the sarcophagus of Ahirom, king of Byblos, which states that a trespasser’s “inscription” (rps) will be defaced (KAI 1:2). In vv. 23–24, the terms “inscription” and “rock” in the parallel verses are both objects of the verbs “engrave” and “hew,” respectively, and together they describe a single location of writing that is consistent with a tomb inscription. This idea is described again in v. 24b, where the permanency of writing Job’s words is ensured by its locus,8 the “rock,” and the use of metal implements (“iron stylus and lead”).9 The creation of a tomb inscription, or epitaph, was 7 H. S. Gehman (“rps, an Inscription, in the Book of Job,” JBL 63 [1944]: 303–7) first proposed this interpretation. See also Kurt Galling, “Die Grabinschrift Hiobs,” WO 2 (1954–59): 5. This interpretation is generally accepted; see, e.g., Clines, Job 1–20, 432. The act of writing that is introduced by Job’s wish for his “words to be written” (btkn) in v. 23a is described in v. 23b with the verb qqx (“engrave”), taking the preposition _b on the object, rps. Other biblical examples where rps can be interpreted as “inscription” include Exod 17:14 and Isa 30:8. 8 As Clines observes, the point of Job’s statement is that his words be preserved, which would require a much more durable medium than papyrus (or parchment); therefore, √qqx and √bcx (v. 24b) give a more specific nuance to the act of “writing” (Job 1–20, 455–56). 9 The suggestion that the passage describes a tomb inscription goes back to Galling, “Die Grabinschrift Hiobs,” 3–6. Driver and Gray (Book of Job, 170–71) suggest three media of writing: a scroll (papyrus/parchment), a tablet (lead), and an inscription (rock). The idea that trp( relates to a lead tablet is difficult because this form of writing was typically the medium for curses, not blessings (Clines, Job 1–20, 456). Speculation that the lead here was poured into the engraved letters goes back to Rashi and has in recent times been related to the Behistun inscription; see Habel, Book of Job, 292, and also Clines, Job 1–20, 456. Yet the famous monumental inscription of Darius is a bit too distant to provide a cogent analogue for these verses. Furthermore, the context of death that surrounds Job’s words makes more sense if the rps is an epitaph.
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an important component of funerary rites in ancient Judah. Yet the relevance of tomb inscriptions is complicated by general issues such as the question of literacy and the function of writing in the Iron Age, as well as by specific problems such as the uncertainty of the artifact’s ritual setting. The significance of a tomb inscription, nevertheless, can be evaluated according to its provenance (i.e., placement on/inside a tomb), content, and creation. Careful consideration of these three factors, drawing from a specific Iron II example, will shed light on Job’s “words” in vv. 23–24 and place the object alluded to in these verses in the wider context of death evoked throughout Job’s discourse. To begin, the tomb (the inscription’s place of provenance) served as a visible symbol of patrimony in ancient Israel.10 Biblical passages describe not only the importance of family tombs (e.g., Gen 49:29–32; cf. 47:30), but also the filial obligation of the living to preserve the names of dead kin through the creation of an object or a monument, such as in 2 Sam 18:18. The significance of name preservation is clear from the Akkadian phrase “invoke the name” (zakāru šumê), which is used often in reference to the dead, for example, UDUG-h}ul (line 330), listing incantations against the restless dead (etemmu). i While the Mesopotamian phrase probably refers to an ancestor cult practice (possibly related to the kispu), 2 Sam 18:18 uses the same vocabulary to describe the creation of an object, Absalom’s “pillar” (tbcm), which was intended for the remembrance (hiphil infinitive of √rkz) of the rebellious prince’s name after his death.11 The details are lost surrounding the creation of a funerary inscription, yet rkz could indicate a performative aspect of this type of writing that might relate to Job’s words.12 Nevertheless, the critical nature of this practice was the record (and possibly recitation) of the name of the dead. The importance of preserving the name of the dead, and its filial relevance, is seen in Deutero-Isaiah, where Yhwh promises the eunuch “a monument [dy] and a name better than sons and daughters” (Isa 56:5). The correlate of name preservation is that the person named would be claimed as an ancestor by future generations, illustrating the dynamic nature of this single 10 The connection between the family tomb and patrimony has been long recognized in the study of ancient Israel; see H. C. Brichto, “Kin, Cult, Land and Afterlife—a Biblical Complex,” HUCA 44 (1973): 10; and Karel van der Toorn, Family Religion in Babylonia, Syria, and Israel: Continuity and Changes in the Forms of Religious Life (SHCANE 7; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 207–8. See the archaeological discussion in G. Barkay, “Burial Caves and Burial Practices in Judah in the Iron Age,” in Graves and Burial Practices in Israel in the Ancient Period (in Hebrew; ed. Itamar Singer; Jerusalem: Yad Yitzak Ben-Zvi/IES, 1994), 106–7. 11 This practice is known also from Phoenician artifacts that bear inscriptions declaring the object to be the tbcm of an individual, often in association with their burial place (bk#m). For example, KAI 53:1 is inscribed “the memorial pillar of remembrance . . . for vAbd-tanit” (tbcm tntdb(l . . . rks). The name of the dead is always marked by the preposition “for” (-l). 12 See S. L. Sanders, “Performative Utterances and Divine Language in Ugaritic,” JNES 63 (2004): 174–77, for a discussion of the performative nature of invoking the dead in the ritual text KTU 1.161.
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component (“name”) for both the living and the dead. The inscription (or epitaph) provided the names necessary for the entitlement of a kinship group; thus, the group’s claim was embodied in the inscribed tomb. It is, therefore, reasonable to assume that the writing of an epitaph was one component of the larger ritual process. Not only did the name become part of the larger collective identity of a kinship group’s lineage, but the creation of the epitaph (the actual act of writing) could also potentially establish and restrict important rights and privileges as well as aspects of group identification and affiliation.
The Inscription from Tomb 2 at Khirbet el-Qôm/Makkedah An unusual funerary inscription from Khirbet el-Qôm (biblical Makkedah) may shed light on Job’s kinsman-redeemer.13 The excavated chambers of tomb 2 contained several inscriptions and iconographic images, which established the names of the deceased along with their claims to the tomb. Yet inscription 3 (= Qom 3) stands out because of its unique nature and the fact that it records the name of an additional individual who was possibly a kinsman similar to the figure of Job 19:25. Although the source includes an iconographic element accompanying the inscription (the carved outline of a hand), only the six lines of writing will be dealt with here.14 hbtk.r#(Xh.whyr) hwhyl.whyr).krb hl.(#wh.htr#)l.hyrcXmXw whynX)l htr#)lw[. . .] hYtXr[#])[. . .] (1) Uriyahu,
the prosperous, his epitaph. (2) Blessed be Uriyahu by Yhwh, (3) and from his enemies, by his Asherah, save him. (4) (Written) by Oniyahu . . . (5) [. . .] and by his Asherah . . . (6) [. . .] his A[sh]erah.
13
William G. Dever, “Iron Age Epigraphic Material from Khirbet el-Qom,” HUCA 40–41 (1970–71): 139–204. 14 The siglum (Qom 3) follows that of F. W. Dobbs-Allsopp et al., Hebrew Inscriptions: Texts from the Biblical Period of the Monarchy with Concordance (New Haven/London: Yale University Press, 2004), 327–32; in addition, see J. Renz, Die Althebräischen Inschriften (ed. J. Renz and W. Röllig; Text und Kommentar, Handbuch der Althebräischen Epigraphik; Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1995), 207; and the edition in Ziony Zevit, “The Khirbet el-Qôm Inscription Mentioning a Goddess,” BASOR 255 (1984): 39–47; idem, The Religions of Ancient Israel: A Synthesis of Parallactic Approaches (London/New York: Continuum, 2001), 359–62 (based on his drawing of the original); and J. M. Hadley, “The Khirbet el-Qom Inscription,” VT 37 (1987): 50–62. For further studies, see the bibliography in Dobbs-Allsopp et al., Hebrew Inscriptions, 331–32.
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The inscription bears witness to the process involved in recording the name of the dead and serves as an example of the role played by tomb inscriptions as records indicating the primary execution of an estate.15 The first line identifies the dead, and, although it does not refer to the tomb or the location of Uriyahu’s mortal remains,16 it astutely refers to the inscription itself.17 The second and third lines dedicate the deceased to divine care,18 which may indicate the performance of some ritual on behalf of the dead, such as an incantation or the recitation of a prayer. The fourth line introduces a new name with a preposition (Qom 3:4): “by Oniyahu” (whyn)l). This line identifies the individual who was responsible for the epitaph (btk in Qom 3:1), either as scribe or as the person who arranged for the inscription. Yet the responsibilities of this individual probably extended beyond a single duty and included activities related to Uriyahu’s blessing and protection (Qom 3:2–3).19
15
See, e.g., the translation offered in Sandra Landis Gogel, A Grammar of Epigraphic Hebrew (SBLRBS 23; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1998), 412, where the first line is rendered “(On behalf of) Uriyahu, the notable, (has) he written it.” The referent here is Oniyahu, who is qualified as the “executor” in the translation. 16 For this reason, Simon Parker did not view the text as a “mortuary inscription” (“Graves, Caves, and Refugees: An Essay in Microhistory,” JSOT 27 [2003]: 280); cf. similarly Joseph Naveh, “Graffiti and Dedications,” BASOR 235 (1979): 28. On this basis, Parker reinterprets the inscription as a graffito written by individuals seeking refuge inside the tomb. Yet we simply do not have enough examples to state that Qom 3 foregrounds an objective beyond the “interests” of a funerary inscription. Again, based on the unusual opening line, Zevit also avoids the label “epitaph,” although his approach is much more cautious (Religions of Ancient Israel, 367–68). Zevit interprets Qom 3 as a “memorial inscription” that records on Uriyahu’s tomb an event that occurred during his lifetime, involving the second person (ibid., 368–69). 17 Following Zevit, who interprets the word according to its general nuance: “his inscription” (“Khirbet el-Qôm Inscription,” 43). See the extended discussion of the morpho-syntactical problems in idem, Religions of Ancient Israel, 361–62. Other scholars have interpreted hbtk as a qal perfect verb, with a third person masculine singular pronominal suffix; see Hadley, “Khirbet elQom Inscription,” 53; and Renz, Die Althebräischen Inschriften, 207 n. 2. According to Parker, the sense of this reading (“he wrote it”) is that Uriyahu commissioned the writing (“Graves, Caves, and Refugees,” 279). Regardless of how the word is interpreted, the line makes reference to the inscription in one way or another. 18 Zevit detected traces of a taw at the end of the first word and interpreted it as a first person common singular suffix form: tkrb, “I blessed” (“Khirbet el-Qôm Inscription Mentioning a Goddess,” 44; idem, Religions of Ancient Israel, 360 n. 9). The general sense of this line is consistent, regardless of how the verb is parsed (Renz, Die Althebräischen Inschriften, 208 n. 1), hence the reading here as a qal passive participle. 19 Zevit has suggested that Oniyahu’s responsibilities included the blessing of Uriyahu, based on the reading “I blessed” (tkrb) (“Khirbet el-Qôm Inscription,” 46). More recently, he has suggested that the activities of Oniyahu (Abiyahu) were mantic, and related to the plight of Uriyahu (on whose behalf the former interceded) (Religions of Ancient Israel, 368–69). The interpretation is partly based on the first person verb Zevit reconstructs at the beginning of line 2.
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The relationship between tomb and patrimony in ancient Israel may shed light on the function of the additional party named in Qom 3:4.20 The reference to Oniyahu is peculiar, because Hebrew funerary inscriptions mention only the name of the dead, along with a curse against trespassers or a blessing of the dead. These inscriptions do not mention the offspring of the dead, unlike Phoenician inscriptions where it is typical for a son’s actions to be credited in establishing the memorial. It may be that additional names were unnecessary if the ownership of the tomb was already known. The typical absence of the names of offspring in Hebrew funerary inscriptions may suggest a ritual context in which the inheritors were made known through some other action that accompanied the writing of the dead benefactor’s name. Thus, the unusual reference to Oniyahu in Uriyahu’s tomb inscription may indicate that there were extraordinary circumstances that surrounded the latter individual’s death and burial.21 The absence of an immediate family member to perform the required rituals on behalf of Uriyahu may have been the type of circumstance that warranted the acknowledgment of Oniyahu. It is therefore possible to interpret Oniyahu as a kinsman who oversaw the funerary rites for Uriyahu. According to this interpretation, Oniyahu’s actions as a near kinsman (functioning as a l)g) not only would have preserved Uriyahu’s name but also would have maintained his ancestral estate within their kinship group. It is important to keep in mind, however, that the ritual performance meant more than simply gaining inheritance. What was at stake was the preservation of identity, both individ20
There is much material on this relationship in anthropological and archaeological studies. One can refer conveniently to Mike Parker Pearson, The Archaeology of Death and Burial (Texas A&M University Anthropology Series 3; College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2002), 114–15. The relationship is evident in biblical passages such as Josh 24:29–30 (and Judg 2:9), as well as 1 Sam 25:1 and 1 Kgs 2:34, where the term tyb probably means “patrimony” and not a physical structure. It is also implied in passages such as Ruth 4:10; 2 Sam 19:38; and Neh 2:3, as well as the tradition of the Cave of Machpelah (see Gen 49:30, among other references). 21 Karl Jaroš has suggested that Oniyahu is the head of the kinship group that claimed the tomb (and not necessarily the scribe) (“Zur Inschrift Nr. 3 von H} irbet el-Qōm,” BN 19 [1982]: 34–35; idem, Hundert Inschriften aus Kanaan und Israel: für den Hebräischunterricht bearbeitet [Fribourg, Schweiz: Schweizerisches Katholisches Bibelwerk, 1982], cited in Dobbs-Allsopp et al., Hebrew Inscriptions, 331). Kyle McCarter has suggested that if Oniyahu was not the name of the scribe, the name could have been that of another person interred in the same tomb, see “Khirbet el-Qom” (trans. P. Kyle McCarter; COS 2.52: 179 n. 4). There are no other examples of the commissioning of a tomb inscription; however, a group of Old Assyrian tablets from kārum Kanish may offer some support for the actions of Oniyahu (and the l)g in Job 19:25). Klaas Veenhof (“The Death and Burial of Ishtar-Lamassi in Karum Kanish,” in Studies in Ancient Near Eastern World View and Society: Presented to Marten Stol [ed. R. J. van der Spek and G. Haayer; Bethesda: CDL, 2008], 102–17) has published ten texts that relate to the death of a woman named Ištarlamassī and her two adult sons (apparently at the same time). With no living sons, and an estate complicated by Ištar-lamassī’s second marriage to an Anatolian, much of the responsibility of preserving the Assyrian family’s patrimony fell upon another relative, Lamassatum (possibly a sister or in-law of Ištar-lamassī).
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ual (Uriyahu) and collective (the kinship group of Uriyahu and Abiyahu), and this preservation was actualized through the burial of kin inside the family tomb. The interpretation of Oniyahu in Qom 3 is important for understanding Job 19:25 because it potentially offers a parallel to the role and function of Job’s kinsmanredeemer.
B. Burial Practices Job 19:26–27 continues the funerary image with a perplexing picture of Job’s perceived fate (involving a visceral representation of his deteriorating body) that should be understood against the background of burial customs. hwl) hzx) yr#bmw t)z-wpqn yrw( rx)w yqxb ytylk wlk rz-)lw w)r yny(w yl-hzx) yn) r#) (26)And
after my skin is struck off—this—then without my flesh I will see God;
(27)that I myself will see my own, and my eyes gaze but not a stranger, (as) my kid-
neys shrivel within my bosom.
The corporal imagery begins in v. 26a with Job being stripped of his skin, where the indefinite subject of the third person plural piel verb (wpqn, “strike [off]; denude”) indicates a passive nuance.22 The picture here is one of excarnation,23 which suggests a separative sense for the preposition -m in v. 26b: “and without my flesh” (yr#bmw).24 The notion of the body’s deterioration continues into v. 27b and extends to Job’s vital organs, where the qal verb wlk (“shrink”) describes the condition of Job’s kidneys within his bosom, serving as the final image of his death.25 These verses relate directly to the status of the dead inside the tomb, for the destined end of Job’s decomposing corpse is among the bones of former burials collected within his family tomb.26 22
GKC §144g. The appearance of the feminine singular demonstrative particle t)z is unusual, and cannot be explained. 23 Clines also suggests this possibility (Job 1–20, 461). 24 See GKC §119w; cf. the translation in Marvin H. Pope, Job: Introduction, Translation, and Notes (AB 15; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1965), 139. 25 Despite the difficulty of the clause (masc. verb and fem. noun), the word choice in v. 27b is based on the alliterative affinities between √hlk and tylk (“kidneys”), translating the verb here as “shrinking” (“my kidneys shrink”) in the sense of deterioration. This reading signifies the last aspect of physicality in the passage (Hans Walter Wolff, Anthropology of the Old Testament [trans. Margaret Kohl; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1974; repr., Mifflintown: Sigler, 1996], 65; German original 1973). 26 The idea that stands behind vv. 26–27 is one of a processual death, where the natural decay of the flesh reflects the gradual diminution of the soul. Cf. Johannes Pedersen’s concept of the #pn, or soul (Israel, Its Life and Culture [2 vols.; South Florida Studies in the History of Judaism 28; London: Oxford University Press, 1959], 1:179–81). Eric M. Meyers has made similar observations regarding the status of the corpse inside the tomb (body versus bones), associating the concept with burial practices (“Secondary Burials in Palestine,” BA 33 [1970]: 15–16). See also the
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Funerary rites were an important part of ancient Israel’s social matrix, where kinship affiliation played a key role in an individual’s life and identity. In this patrimonial culture, the use of a communal tomb by a kinship group reified their collective identity.27 Although the tomb itself was a visible symbol of patrimony, it represented more than just a property marker, as it contained the aggregate remains of a group’s lineage.28 Thus, the very act of interment held symbolic value that reinforced a group’s sense of identity. The predominant form of interment in ancient Israel and early Judaism involved secondary rites,29 where the disarticulated remains of former burials would be removed to another part of the tomb in order to make room for subsequent interments.30 In principle, this practice was a strategy for maximizing the storage capacity of a single tomb.31 But the entire burial process implies a ritual setting (now lost) that would have provided a venue for the resolution of issues created by the disruptive nature of death. The occurrence of multiple burials in a cave, which became common in the southern Levant as early as the third millennium b.c.e.,32 gave rise to the practice of secondary rites in which the disarticulated remains of the dead would be transferred to another area of the tomb.33 The practice of secondary rites (and collective interment) continued into the first millennium and is well represented in the common bench tomb found in Judah during the Iron Age II.34 An excellent example is review article by R. E. Tappy, “Did the Dead Ever Die in Biblical Judah?“ BASOR 298 (1995): 63, where it is briefly suggested that Job 19:25–27 may refer to the postmortem treatment of bones. 27 See the discussion of funerary rites and the concepts of ancestors in G. Barkay, “The Iron Age II-III,” in The Archaeology of Ancient Israel (ed. Amnon Ben-Tor; New Haven: Yale University Press, 1992), 360; Bloch-Smith, Judahite Burial Practices, 111–12. 28 Barkay, “Burial Caves and Burial Practices,” 108. 29 The classic study on this is Meyers, “Secondary Burials in Palestine,” 2–29. 30 The practice of transferring human remains is termed “ossilegium” by archaeologists; see Meyers, “Secondary Burials in Palestine,” 2; W. G. Dever, “Funerary Practices in EB IV (MB I) Palestine: A Study in Cultural Discontinuity,” in Love and Death in the Ancient Near East: Essays in Honor of Marvin H. Pope (ed. John H. Marks and Robert M. Good; Guilford, CT: Four Quarters, 1987), 11; and L. Y. Rahmani, “Ossuaries and Ossilegium (Bone-Gathering) in the Late Second Temple Period,” in Ancient Jerusalem Revealed (ed. Hillel Geva; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1994), 191–95; Olyan, “Some Neglected Aspects of Israelite Interment Ideology,” 613. 31 Philip Johnston, Shades of Sheol: Death and Afterlife in the Old Testament (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 2002), 61–62. Yet the manner in which these rites were carried out, along with the grave goods associated with them, suggests that they were much more meaningful than Johnston observes. 32 See, conveniently, Elizabeth Bloch-Smith, “Cave Tombs,” OEANE 1:443–44. 33 See, e.g., the discussion of burial customs in the tomb in R. E. Cooley and G. D. Pratico, “Gathered to His People: An Archaeological Illustration from Tell Dothan’s Western Cemetery,” in Scripture and Other Artifacts: Essays on the Bible and Archaeology in Honor of Philip J. King (ed. Michael D. Coogan, J. Cheryl Exum, and Lawrence E. Stager; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1994), 88–89. 34 Although this architectural feature is a hallmark of the Iron II period, bench tombs first appeared during the Late Bronze Age; see Rivka Gonen, Burial Patterns and Cultural Diversity in
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the complex of tombs found at Ketef Hinnom, part of Jerusalem’s western cemetery, dating from the late Iron Age through the Persian period.35 The bench tomb typically consisted of a chamber, or multiple chambers, that included benches hewn out of the three walls opposite the entrance, as well as a carved space known as a repository.36 The dead would initially lie recumbent upon the bench, following what archaeologists call the primary burial. When bench space was required, with the reuse of the tomb, the bones (i.e., decomposed remains) would be removed to the repository.37 Thus, the architectural plan of the Iron Age bench tomb effectively crystallized a cultural practice that can be traced back into the Bronze Age. The practice of secondary rites continued in the southern Levant during the late first millennium, despite the fact that the bench tomb plan fell out of use by the end of the Persian period. Evidence from the Hellenistic period indicates that large family tombs would utilize a chamber as a charnel room for the secondary disposal of the dead.38 During the early Roman period, the use of bone boxes (or ossuaries) replaced the earlier repositories and charnel rooms in the practice of collective burial.39 Thus, the ideological significance of secondary rites and collective burials remained in place throughout the first millennium, despite the fact that its specific practice may have changed over time. This cultural practice of secondary inhumation, prevalent as it may have been in ancient Israel, is never directly referenced or described in any written source. Nonetheless, archaeologists have recognized that the biblical expressions “gathered to his peoples” and “lay with fathers” reflect this manner of burial custom.40 Other images that associate a deteriorating condition
Late Bronze Age Canaan (ASOR Dissertation Series 7; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1991), 23– 24. For a full discussion, see Bloch-Smith, Judahite Burial Practices, 41–52. 35 G. Barkay, “Excavations at Ketef Hinnom in Jerusalem,” in Geva, Ancient Jerusalem Revealed, 85. 36 Typically, repositories were carved-out spaces underneath a burial bench or built into the corner of the tomb (Bloch-Smith, Judahite Burial Practices, 41–52). 37 For descriptions of this burial process, see Barkay, “Iron Age II–III,” 359; Bloch-Smith, Judahite Burial Practices, 148–49; and Meyers, “Secondary Burials in Palestine,” 12–15. An excellent example of a repository was found in chamber 25 of Ketef Hinnom’s cave 24, dated to the Iron IIC and later periods and located in the Hinnom Valley of Jerusalem; see G. Barkay, A Treasure Facing Jerusalem’s Walls (Jerusalem: Israel Museum Catalogues, 1986), 19–25; idem, “Excavations at Ketef Hinnom in Jerusalem,” 85. Note also the undisturbed repository (ninth–eighth century b.c.e.) from Tel Halif, in the southern Shephelah (A. Biran and R. Gophna, “An Iron Age Burial Cave at Tel Halif,” IEJ 20 [1970]: 151–52, and figs. 2–3). 38 Jodi Magness, “Ossuaries and the Burials of Jesus and James,” JBL 124 (2005): 128. 39 The development of ossuaries in Second Temple Judaism has been linked by Meyers to the earlier (Iron Age) use of repositories (“Secondary Burials in Palestine,” 15–16, 27–29). Rahmani argues that ossuaries did not represent an ideological continuation but rather indicated the development of individual theological concerns (related to resurrection), separate and distinct from earlier communal burials conducted by family units (“Ossuaries and Ossilegium,” 192–95). For a discussion of these theories, see Magness, “Ossuaries and the Burials of Jesus and James,” 131–33. 40 Barkay, “Iron Age II-III,” 360.
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in the context of death or the grave, such as Job 19:25–26, should also be related to secondary burial practices— even if only by allusion. This manner of disposing of the dead involved actions that ascribed meaning to the physical changes apparent in the corpse inside the tomb; and although this meaning is still not entirely understood, it stands to reason that the biblical images allude to this same attitude toward death, dying, and the grave.
C. Synthesis The imagery of vv. 26–27 implies a progression of action that involves Job and his corpse. As Job’s body reposes in the family tomb, a kinsman will perform the necessary duties in honor of Job, which includes the recording of his name in an epitaph (vv. 23–24).41 The preservation of one’s name may suggest a strong element of individuality, yet this preservation was facilitated entirely by a collective identity.42 This ideology of death stands in contrast to the doctrine of retribution, according to which the wicked die dishonorably and are not given proper burial. Instead, the concept of collective fate conjures a benevolent image of reunion with the ancestors, which entails the ability of the dead (through funerary rites) to join a community represented by their kinship affiliation.43 Thus, the inscription of Job’s “words” and the interment of his remains, all in a family burial site, were critical actions that were duties incumbent upon his kin.
II. Job’s Kinsman-Redeemer The recognition of cultural features in Job 19:23–24 and 26–27 gives a better indication of the identity of the l)g in v. 25, which has long frustrated interpreters.44 41
Job’s words in v. 23 probably also included a blessing (Kwrb; cf. Qom 3:2), along with the writing of his name. See, e.g., the silver amulets that contain apotropaic blessings found in the repository of chamber 25 at the cemetery of Ketef Hinnom (cf. Num 6:24–26). 42 The names of the dead could serve an aggregate purpose for the kinship group, as seen in genealogies and other lists of ancestors. On “perpetuating the ancestral name,” see T. J. Lewis, “The Ancestral Estate (MyhilO )v tlaxnj )A% in 2 Samuel 14:16,” JBL 110 (1991): 604–5. For the importance of corporate identity and Job, see also Alec Basson, “Just Skin and Bones: The Longing for Wholeness of the Body in the Book of Job,” VT 58 (2008): 288. 43 Lawrence E. Stager, “The Archaeology of the Family in Ancient Israel,” BASOR 260 (1985): 23; Olyan, “Some Neglected Aspects of Israelite Interment Ideology,” 607–11. 44 H. H. Rowley, From Moses to Qumran: Studies in the Old Testament (New York: Association Press, 1963), 180–81 n. 1; see the bibliography (and the review of interpretations) in Clines, Job 1–20, 426–27, 463–66; Jan Holman, “Does My Redeemer Live or Is My Redeemer the Living God? Some Reflections on the Translation of Job 19,25,” in The Book of Job (ed. W. A. M. Beuken; BETL 114; Leuven: Leuven University Press, Peeters, 1994), 377–81; and W. L. Michel, “Confidence and Despair: Job 19, 25–27 in the Light of Northwest Semitic Studies,” in Beuken, Book of Job, 163–66.
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Although the term itself is unambiguous (a qal masc. sing. nominal participle of √l)g, “to redeem”),45 the literary setting of this term in 19:25 raises certain issues that lead to divergent explanations. Mwqy rp(-l( Nwrx)w yx yl)g yt(dy yn)w (25)But I indeed know that my kinsman-redeemer lives, and the last one upon the dust will stand .
As Jan Holman outlined in his review of v. 25,46 the interpretations of the figure of the l)g have adopted one of four identifications: a living person (the approach taken in this study), the embodiment of Job’s complaint,47 a divine being (other than God),48 or (most commonly) God.49 The different opinions are predicated on the question of Job’s status and can be divided into two positions that Norman Habel has termed “antemortem” and “postmortem.”50 Will the redeemer act during Job’s lifetime or after Job has died? The cultural background of vv. 23–24 and 26–27 indicates that v. 25 describes a living person who would act on behalf of the righteous sufferer once he (Job) had passed away. The figure in v. 25 has a central role in Job’s speech in vv. 23–27, which is part of a larger dialogue on death that takes place in the second cycle of speeches in Job.51 The centerpiece, indeed the 45
See KBL, 169; and H. Ringgren, “l)agF,” TDOT 3:350–55. Holman, “Does My Redeemer Live,” 377–78. 47 D. J. A. Clines, “Belief, Desire and Wish in Job 19:23–27: Clues for the Identity of Job’s ‘Redeemer,’” in “Wünschet Jerusalem Frieden”: Collected Communications to the XIIth Congress of the International Organization for the Study of the Old Testament, Jerusalem 1986 (ed. Matthias Augustin and Klaus-Dietrich Schunck, BEATAJ; Frankfurt am Main/New York: Peter Lang, 1988), 363–69; idem, Job 1–20, 459. 48 The idea that the redeemer is a divine being other than God, a “witness in heaven” (16:19), was proffered by Sigmund Mowinckel (“Hiobs gō’ēl und Zeuge im Himmel,” BZAW 41 [1925]: 207–12), who suggested that the divine advocate was a personal god. Mowinkel’s suggestion was followed in a different fashion by several scholars; see, e.g., W. A. Irwin, “Job’s Redeemer,” JBL 81 (1962): 228–29; Pope, Job, 134–35, 146–47; J. B. Curtis, “On Job’s Witness in Heaven,” JBL 102 (1983): 549–50; and E. T. Mullen, “Go’el,” DDD, 2nd ed., 372–73. Zuckerman suggests that this character is an antitypical deity (a “counter-deity”) whose role is to parody Job’s dilemma (Job the Silent, 114–15). 49 Driver and Gray, Book of Job, 171–74; A. de Wilde, Das Buch Hiob: Eingeleitet, übersetzt und erläutert (OTS 22; Leiden: Brill, 1981), 213–15; John E. Hartley, The Book of Job (NICOT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1988), 292–94; Leo G. Perdue, Wisdom in Revolt: Metaphorical Theology in the Book of Job (JSOTSup 112; Sheffield: Almond, 1991), 170; and Jeremiah Unterman, “The Social-Legal Origin for the Image of God as Redeemer of Israel,” in Pomegranates and Golden Bells: Studies in Biblical, Jewish, and Near Eastern Ritual, Law, and Literature in Honor of Jacob Milgrom (ed. David P. Wright, David Noel Freedman, and Avi Hurvitz; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1995), 401. The divine redeemer interpretation was made christological by the church fathers, and most famously, by Handel in his Messiah. 50 Habel, Book of Job, 307. 51 Job ends his individual speeches by referring to his death (7:21b; 10:21–22; 14:20–22; 46
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climax, of this dialogue is 19:23–27; therefore, in order better to understand Job’s position, it is vital to recognize the role and function of his l)g in v. 25. Job’s famous declaration in ch. 19 comes as the concluding remarks in his answer to Bildad’s speech in ch. 18. Job 19 begins and ends with Job addressing his friends (vv. 1–2 and 28–29), which provides the framework for the chapter. Although Job never directly addresses God, he begins by blaming the deity for his suffering (vv. 8–12) and follows with a description of his isolation from his kith and kin. In vv. 20–22, Job describes his affliction and his impending death and appeals to his friends for mercy. Thus, Job’s speech in vv. 23–27 achieves multiple objectives. The speech is consistent with the description of Job’s affliction and his banishment from the community (19:8–22), and it comes as a response to Bildad’s allegations (ch. 18), yet it also plays an important role in a larger discourse in the second cycle of speeches concerning the imminence of death. In fact, the extended speech of Job running through chs. 12–14 ends with Job’s brief observations on mortality and fate (notably 14:13–22),52 serving as a rhetorical transition from the first cycle to the next.53 The transition in the rhetoric of the speech cycles is important, for the discussion of reward and penalty by Job’s friends in the first cycle becomes simply a description of penalty (the fate of the wicked) in the second.54 The issue is not specifically death, which is inevitable for both the righteous and the wicked, but rather the fate of the deceased.55 The idea argued in the first cycle is that Job must 17:11–16; 19:23–27), which Clines interprets, in the first four passages, as Job’s frustration that none will come to his defense in this life (Job 1–20, 400–401). For Day, these passages belie a contradiction in the manner in which the afterlife is portrayed (“Development of Belief,” 251). The topic of death appears again in Job’s concluding remarks in the first speech of the third cycle (21:32–33), although here they do not refer to his death. My point, however, is that the accusations against Job hold an implicit threat that he will suffer the fate of the wicked. For this reason, the topic of death is fundamental to Job’s defense and is represented in different terms that should not be viewed as contradictory. 52 The issue of mortality and fate is also found elsewhere in the book; however in chs. 15– 21 it is the central concern. 53 The question of whether ch. 14 belongs to the first or second cycle is a matter of dispute; see the discussion of John E. Course, Speech and Response: A Rhetorical Analysis of the Introductions to the Speeches of the Book of Job (Chaps. 4–24) (CBQMS 25; Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1994), 69–88. Course ultimately determined that ch. 14 concluded the first cycle of speeches, yet it is probably best to interpret 12:1–14:22 as a “transitional unit,” with Clines (Job 1–20, 285–88). 54 S. E. Balentine, “Job, Book of,” NIDB 3:327. 55 The debate revolves around the “moral order of the world” and the concept of “final retribution,” a concept in which the righteous are rewarded in life and the unrighteous are not; see Clines, Job 1–20, xxxviii–xlii. Job argues against this concept, based upon his personal experience, while his friends defend the view of reward and punishment. According to the doctrine that Job’s friends defend, the consequence of Job’s guilt is the death of the wicked, an ignominious (and possibly violent) death followed by the denial of proper burial rites.
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confess his sin before the community.56 In this way Job’s plight is related to his social demise, and the discussion in the second cycle indicates that this ignominious status would continue on into death. One consequence of Job’s unrepentant attitude would be the denial of proper postmortem honors, which fits with the curse of nonburial (or disinterment) found elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible.57 The adverse nature of nonburial, or at least nonburial in the family tomb, probably relates to a larger constellation of socioreligious problems associated with patrimony and the collective identity of the dead in the afterlife.58 Thus, Job’s response to his friend’s accusations, including those of Eliphaz (17:14–16, cf. ch. 16),59 draws heavily from death imagery and concludes the second cycle of speeches with Job’s assertion that even the unrighteous are afforded proper honors upon death (21:7–34). 56 As Driver and Gray observed, the speeches of Bildad and Zophar (Job 18 and 20, respectively) indirectly accuse Job of some unstated transgression that has resulted in his current condition as punishment (Book of Job, lvii). 57 See, e.g., Deut 28:26; 1 Sam 17:44, 46; and 2 Sam 21:5–10. Conversely, Olyan offers a graded description of five categories of burial types in ancient Israel, with interment in the family tomb given the highest rank (“Some Neglected Aspects of Israelite Interment Ideology,” 603–4); see also K. Spronk, “Good Death and Bad Death in Ancient Israel according to Biblical Lore,” Social Science & Medicine 58 (2004): 991–92. 58 The fate that concerns Job (and one that he refutes in ch. 21) is described in Bildad’s speech in ch. 18, which begins by stating that the wicked have no lasting heritage (vv. 5–6), they often suffer a violent end (vv. 7–12), and their entire being is consumed by death (vv. 13–14), resulting in the annihilation of their collective identity (vv. 15–20). The threat of the “death after death” is visualized by the consumption of Job’s skin by the “firstborn of death” (v. 13), ending with his body being dragged from his tent before the “king of terrors” (v. 14). The problematic terms twm rwkb (“firstborn of death” [v. 13]), and twhlb Klm (“king of terrors” [v. 14]), probably refer to the finality of death. This sense of completion combines the concept of bodily decay with the symbolically related decay of the deceased’s name from the memory of the living (Job 18:17 [below]; cf. Prov 10:7). More explicitly, in vv. 15–19 Bildad states that the tents of the wicked are empty and their pastureland is barren (v. 15) as they are driven from this world (v. 18). Their lineage will perish (vv. 16 and 19) and, as a result, their names will be shamed and forgotten (v. 17). 59 Job 17:14–16 is traditionally interpreted as expressive of Job’s lack of hope (see 16:22– 17:1); that is, death and the grave are his only recourse. See E. Dhorme, A Commentary on the Book of Job (trans. Harold Knight; 2nd ed.; Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1984), 242–43; and Roland E. Murphy, “Death and the Afterlife in the Wisdom Literature,” in Judaism in Late Antiquity: Death, Life-After-Death, Resurrection and the World-To-Come in the Judaisms of Antiquity (ed. Alan J. Avery-Peck and Jacob Neusner; Handbook of Oriental Studies/HO, Section 1, The Near and Middle East 49; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 105. Yet the verses seem to express an ironic concern that the accusations against Job will result in a denial of burial in the family tomb. Clines suggests that the metaphorical association of tyb and Sheol might reflect communal burial practices (Job 1–20, 399). The combination of kinship images with those of death and burial produces a bleak picture of Job’s separation from his ancestors and the neglect of his memory by his forebears. The shocking statements of Job, descending to Sheol with no hope and calling the bleak emptiness of the grave his family, reflect his concern that he will be denied a proper burial because the community perceives him as unrighteous.
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The progression of thought in the passage begins with a rhetorical expression in v. 23 that is answered later in v. 25;60 the figure invoked in v. 25 (the l)g) is the one who will write Job’s epitaph and effectively preserve his name for posterity. Likewise, the events of vv. 26–27 are conditioned upon the action of the l)g in v. 25. The activities of vv. 23–24 and 26–27 were part of a ritual process that represented the appropriate honors one would expect at death.61 Needless to say, these activities (writing and burial) are both of this world, which suggests that the l)g is a living person—thus the translation “kinsman-redeemer.” For this reason, it is unnecessary to associate the redeemer figure with the heavenly figures that are referenced elsewhere in the book (9:33; 16:19–21; cf. 31:35–37; 33:23).62 Furthermore, the substantive adjective Nwrx) (“the last”) is used as a noun in the parallel line (v. 25b), which may offer a further indication that the figure invoked is a surviving relative (cf. Isa 44:6).63 The action of this individual is described as Mwqy rp(-l(, combining a prepositional phrase that recalls funerary rites (“dust,” rp(),64 with a verbal root (Mwq) that has legal connotations.65 The function of the l)g in Job 19 is consistent with the description of the kinsman-redeemer elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible. An important obligation of the
60 Both lines of v. 23 begin with Nty-ym, which has a rhetorical, or optative, force; see Dhorme, Job, 281; and Joüon §163d. 61 Basson has tried to interpret Job’s physical suffering as a literary representation of his liminal status within the social world of ancient Israel (“Just Skin and Bones,” 287–99). Job’s deteriorating corporal condition does embody a change in status, but, as highlighted in 19:26–27, this was indicative of the process of dying. 62 The equation of the redeemer with the intercessors referenced elsewhere in Job is influenced by the book’s legal metaphor. (Thus, Job’s discourse is presented in a form that would naturally utilize legal vocabulary.) See Habel, Book of Job, 54–57; Claus Westermann, The Structure of the Book of Job: A Form-Critical Analysis (trans. Charles A. Muenchow; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1977), 4–5; and F. Rachel Magdalene, On the Scales of Righteousness: Neo-Babylonian Trial Law and the Book of Job (BJS 348; Providence, RI: Brown Judaic Studies, 2007). 63 For this translation, see Mowinckel, “Hiobs gō’ēl,” 211; Pope, Job, 146. Pope notes not only the Isaiah passage but also the Rabbinic Hebrew term y)rx), meaning “guarantor.” This interpretation is followed also by Michael L. Barré, who suggests (improbably) that the redeemer is a figure that can restore Job’s health (“A Note on Job XIX 25,” VT 29 [1979]: 107); note the critique of Barré in Clines, Job 1–20, 433. Clines, however, too easily dismisses the reading of the adjective as a noun. 64 Driver and Gray, Book of Job, 173–74; S. R. Driver, The Book of Job in the Revised Version (Oxford: Clarendon, 1906), 127–28; Habel, Book of Job, 159. 65 Magdalene interpreted the redeemer of v. 25 as one of a series of advocates whom Job invokes in his defense as a second accuser against God, which was a known practice in cuneiform legal texts (“Who Is Job’s Redeemer? Job 19:25 in Light of Neo-Babylonian Law,” ZABR 10 [2004]: 292–316). Yet the role of the redeemer in legal disputes is never mentioned or defined in the Hebrew Bible, outside of a few passages in which Yhwh symbolically assumes the role on behalf of his people; see Clines, Job 1–20, 459.
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l)g was to preserve the deceased’s patrimony by honoring the name of dead kin.66 In Ruth, Boaz, who is specifically the Mby (“male in-law”), acts as l)g through his levirate marriage to his hmby (Ruth). The role assumed by Boaz, however, related as much to the dead (Mahlon) as it did to the living (Ruth), which is made clear in his petition before the elders of Bethlehem, stating that he will marry Ruth “to raise up [Myqhl] the name of the dead upon his inheritance that the name of the dead not be cut off from among his brothers” (Ruth 4:10; cf. v. 5). This passage in Ruth employs the same verbal root (√Mwq) that is used in Job 19:25 to describe the action of Job’s kinsman-redeemer. Job’s l)g was probably his dwd, an elder kinsman (or “father’s brother”), who had the responsibility of burying dead kin.67 The image in vv. 23–27 is of a process performed by Job’s redeemer: as Job’s body lies in the family tomb, a kinsman will perform the necessary rituals in honor of the dead. The greater purpose of the literary unit’s progressive imagery is encapsulated in vv. 26–27, where Job assumes a type of afterlife status that involves the deity (v. 26b) as well as his own kin (as opposed to a “stranger” [rz]) in v. 27. Although this picture of the afterlife is unclear (and unparalleled in other sources), the indication seems to be that Job believes that some form of final justification will come after he dies (cf. 17:1).68 What Job responds to is the threat of postmortem annihilation, described as the “dreaded death after death,” which is essentially to have one’s name extinguished from memory.69 The image evoked in 19:25 is not intended as a premonition of the theophany that occurs at the conclusion of the book (38:1–42:6),70 because this event occurs according to divine will and not in response to Job’s human desires.71 Indeed, the appearance of the deity in a whirlwind and his direct challenge of Job mark the remarkable reversal that occurs in the sufferer’s lifetime, as described in the book’s epilogue (42:7–17). Job’s desires in 19:23–27 lay beyond his own lifetime, and his words demonstrate how one’s postmortem existence was dependent on proper funerary rites and on interment in one’s family tomb.72 Job’s redeemer is typically interpreted within the larger legal context of the disputation that provides the structure for the speech cycles at the core of the 66
See, similarly, Lewis, “Ancestral Estate,” 607–8 (citing Ruth 4:10). See Lev 10:4 and Amos 6:10; see Shalom M. Paul, Amos: A Commentary on the Book of Amos (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991), 216 n. 31. 68 For instance, Driver and Gray comment that in the second cycle of speeches (particularly 19:23–27), “Job clearly expects to die before his character is cleared” (Book of Job, 172). 69 B. B. Schmidt, “Memory as Immortality: Countering the Dreaded ‘Death after Death’ in Ancient Israelite Society,” in Judaism in Late Antiquity, 87–200. See also Murphy, in reference to Job 18:5–21 (“Death and the Afterlife,” 106). 70 Interpreted as such by Day, “Development of Belief,” 251–53. 71 Clines also discusses the irony of Job getting his wish to see God at the end of the book (Job 1–20, 463); see, similarly, Habel, Book of Job, 309. 72 Brichto, “Kin, Cult, Land,” 22–28. 67
Suriano: Job’s Kinsman-Redeemer
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book.73 Yet the disputation centers on the doctrine of final retribution, which is a doctrine that involves a distinct ideology of death.74 It is within this ideology that Job’s kinsman-redeemer takes his stand. Because scholars have not recognized the cultural context of Job 19:23–27, they discuss the figure of v. 25 in terminology that is incorrect. The context for Job’s kinsman-redeemer is not a courtroom drama set in the divine realm, but rather Job’s death and burial. The theme of death (and thus burial) runs through the disputation precisely because the consequence of final retribution, for the unrighteous, is a terrible death.75 But this fate means much more than the denial of funerary rites, for it implies that Job’s name would be eradicated from memory. The desperate nature of this situation is apparent in chs. 29–31, where Job expounds on his virtues, decrying his diminished status in society. Although it is never directly stated in these chapters, the implied and ultimate threat of final retribution is the eradication of his name. It is Job’s kinsman-redeemer, through the performance of his duties, who will act against this threat and effectively preserve Job’s name.
III. Conclusion What Job pleads for is the recognition of his innocence and the rehabilitation of his status in society. Concomitant with these provisions would be a proper death, which is otherwise denied according to the attitude of Job’s friends. Here the contrasting viewpoints of Job collide with those of his companions, creating a theme that runs through the second speech cycle. Death is the final adjudicator for both Job and his friends. In the eyes of the friends it is an ignoble death that awaits Job unless he confesses his transgression, yet Job believes that he is deserving of a proper fate regardless of how he is perceived among the living. If Job cannot regain his former status in this life, he should at least expect the preservation of his name for posterity. This theme of death and disinheritance is implied throughout chs. 13–21 and is made explicit in certain passages, notably 19:23–27. In particular, these verses express the sufferer’s confidence that a kinsman will step forward and perform the necessary actions to afford Job justification in death.
73 For a balanced view of the legal metaphor, see Carol Newsom, The Book of Job: A Contest of Moral Imaginations (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 150–58. 74 For Newsom, the legal metaphor is a device used by Job to confront the inadequacies inherent in his companion’s accusations, based on the doctrine of retribution (Book of Job, 151, 161–62; and eadem, “Job,” 491–93). Cf. Mathewson, Death and Survival, 92. 75 Scholars often see the disputants of the second cycle talking past each other, with Job engaged in a legal defense while his friends present the fate of the wicked; see, e.g., Newsom, Book of Job, 161; eadem, “Job,” 491. In fact, what is being disputed in the second cycle is a conflict in ideologies regarding death. Job brings this to the forefront in ch. 21 (as Newsom correctly observes) by stating that even the wicked are honored in death, thus parodying the position of his friends.
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The role of this kinsman (the l)g) is properly understood in the context of burial and all associated rituals, such as the creation of an epitaph. The epitaph, especially, was the medium for staking the claims of dead kin in extraordinary circumstances. This was probably the situation of Uriyahu and his kinsman Oniyahu at Makkedah (Qom 3), and this was certainly the case with Job and his kinsmanredeemer. These figures acted to preserve the individual name of the dead within a larger communal setting (the family tomb). The action of these figures ensured that their kinship group’s patrimony remained intact, but it also provided a sense of benevolence for the dead through reunion (in burial) with the ancestors. While the picture of the afterlife in the Hebrew Bible was typically gloomy, the idea of a postmortem rest with dead kin contributed to a benevolent image of the dead inside the family tomb. It is in this sense that the finer points of eschatology debated in Job can be highlighted. Scholars have usually labeled the position of Job’s friends as the traditional viewpoint with regard to concepts of fate and retribution, yet Job’s position appears much more customary.76 The final retribution position taken by Job’s friends envisioned a fate that was individualized. Even the deaths of Job’s children, which could have been interpreted as corporate punishment for his transgression, are understood by Bildad to be the result of their individual wickedness (8:4). Job counters this view of individual retribution by enlisting a traditional view of corporate fate that was predominant in ancient Israel. According to this ideology of death, the fate of the individual was directly related to concepts of collective identity tied to kinship and patrimony. Thus, the defunct individual’s identity was preserved within a larger framework of ancestry. This belief was reified through cultural practices such as communal burials inside family tombs and was affirmed by writing the name of the dead in an epitaph. The identification of the role that Job’s kinsman-redeemer played and the placement of this figure within a setting of funerary rites fit within the sociohistorical spectrum of ancient Israel. The social disruptions that occurred already in the late Iron Age and continued into the exilic and postexilic period had a profound impact on the structure of Israelite/early Jewish society. The vicissitudes of this broad historical framework would have given rise to anxiety and tension that resulted from feelings of social isolation (owing to the contraction of the basic family unit from extended to nuclear) and alienation (owing to frequent exiles from the ancestral homeland). In light of these feelings of isolation and alienation, a redeemer figure drawn from the traditional template of family and clan would have taken on a special character in the book of Job. 76 Jon D. Levenson recently made a similar observation (Resurrection and the Restoration of Israel: The Ultimate Victory of the God of Life [New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006], 77–78).
JBL 129, no. 1 (2010): 67–84
Gog’s Grave and the Use and Abuse of Corpses in Ezekiel 39:11–20 francesca stavrakopoulou
[email protected] University of Exeter, Exeter EX4 4RJ, UK
The use and abuse of corpses is a powerful trope in biblical texts, extending well beyond the literary imaging of destruction and death to index instead a complex of socio-religious, political, and cultural concerns about the placement, treatment, and status of the dead among the living. As several socio-anthropological and ritual studies have shown, the ways in which the living respond to and deal with a corpse are not simply a matter of disposing of the dead. Rather, the methods and means of dealing with a corpse constitute a process effecting and maintaining the transformation of the deceased from a social person into a nonliving entity, enabling the living community to negotiate and reframe their relationship with that individual.1 In essence, two very broad types of corpse treatment function An earlier version of this article was presented at the Theological Perspectives on the Book of Ezekiel section of the 2008 annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in Boston, Massachusetts. I am grateful to those present for their helpful questions and comments, particularly Dexter Callender, Paul Joyce, Corrine Carvalho, and Steven Tuell. 1 The best known of these discussions are Peter Metcalf and Richard Huntington, Celebrations of Death: The Anthropology of Mortuary Ritual (2nd rev. and expanded ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991); and the collection of essays in Death and the Regeneration of Life (ed. Maurice Bloch and Jonathan Parry; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982). Among more recent discussions, the most important include Rosemary A. Joyce, “Social Dimensions of Pre-Classic Burials,” in Social Patterns in Pre-Classic Mesoamerica: A Symposium at Dumbarton Oaks, 9 and 10 October 1993 (ed. David C. Grove and Rosemary A. Joyce; Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1999), 15–47; Susan D. Gillespie, “Mortuary Ritual, Agency, and Personhood: A Case Study from the Ancient Maya,” Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 20 (2001): 73–112; the essays collected in Social Memory, Identity, and Death: Anthropological Perspectives on Mortuary Rituals (ed. Meredith S. Chesson; Archaeological Papers of the American Anthropological Association 10; Arlington, VA: American Anthropological Institute, 2001); and Performing Death: Social Analyses of Funerary Traditions in the Ancient Near East and Mediterranean (ed. Nicola
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within this social context of death: the ideal or “good” response to the corpse, by which the optimal social and cultural valuing of the dead is enacted through normative or “proper” mortuary rituals, and the anti-ideal or “bad” response to the corpse, by which the socially normative treatment of the dead is inverted or ignored.2 Several biblical texts portray burial (rather than cremation or exposure) in a marked, remembered, and undisturbed place as the ideal treatment of the corpse, coupled with the performance of other funerary and postmortem practices, including mourning rituals and the remembrance of the dead.3 This ideal treatment of the corpse is itself idealized in many biblical traditions as interment in the family tomb within or upon the bounds of ancestral land.4 Though in many of these texts this particular type of mortuary practice is often presented theologically as a consequence of divine favor and blessing, it likely reflects a complex set of beliefs about the symbolism and effects of this type of burial: interment in the family tomb on ancestral land facilitated the transition of the dead into the underworld and manifested the integration of the individual into the realm of the ancestors. It also transformed the corpse from its liminal state into a once-living-now-dead member of the social group, thereby reincorporating the individual into the community, and it embodied and reinforced the territorial claims of the deceased’s living descendants and their socioeconomic well-being.5
Laneri; University of Chicago Oriental Institute Seminars 3; Chicago: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago, 2007). See also Catherine Bell’s account of the social dynamics of ritual in Ritual: Perspectives and Dimensions (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), ch. 2. Though first published in the early twentieth century (1906–7), Robert Hertz’s work on this subject continues to play an important role in present-day discussions of the “social life” of the corpse; his key essays were published in English as Death and the Right Hand (trans. Rodney Needham and Claudia Needham; Aberdeen: Cohen & West, 1960). 2 This is a familiar distinction, helpfully described, for example, in Bloch and Parry, “Introduction,” in Death and the Regeneration of Life, 1–44, esp. 15–18; see also Jean-Pierre Vernant, “La belle mort et le cadaver outragé,” in La mort, les morts dans les sociétés anciennes (ed. Gherardo Gnoli and Jean-Pierre Vernant; Paris: Maison des Sciences de l’Homme, 1982). It is important to avoid oversystematizing constructions of “ideal” and “anti-ideal” responses to the corpse; in any one society or group, great variety and diversity in mortuary and other death rituals are likely to exist. 3 E.g., 2 Sam 3:31–36; 1 Kgs 13:28–30; 2 Chr 16:14; Jer 34:5; cf. Job 21:32–33; Jer 16:5–8. For an overview of the biblical material, see Elizabeth Bloch-Smith, Judahite Burial Practices and Beliefs about the Dead (JSOTSup 123; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992); and Saul M. Olyan, “Some Neglected Aspects of Israelite Interment Ideology,” JBL 124 (2005): 601–16. 4 E.g., Judg 8:32; 16:31; 2 Sam 2:32; 21:12–14; 2 Kgs 9:28; 23:30; cf. Gen 49:29–31; 50:13. See further Herbert Brichto, “Kin, Cult, Land, and Afterlife—A Biblical Complex,” HUCA 44 (1973): 1–54. 5 See further Francesca Stavrakopoulou, Land of Our Fathers: The Roles of Ancestor Veneration in Biblical Land Claims (New York/London: T&T Clark International, forthcoming).
Stavrakopoulou: Gog’s Grave in Ezekiel 39:11–20
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In the book of Ezekiel, corpses are frequently subjected to anti-ideal treatments. In 6:4–5, 13 (cf. 9:7), it is asserted that the corpses of slaughtered Israelite worshipers will lie in the ruins of their cult places and that human bones will be strewn around their altars; in 35:8, the landscape of Mount Seir is to be desolated and filled with dead bodies (cf. 6:13); in 37:1–14, unburied bones and the disinterment of corpses form the focus of divine activity;6 and in 43:7–9, royal corpses are apparently to be displaced from their temple location.7 But perhaps most graphically attested is the motif of the abused corpse of a foreign leader, whose body is thrown down and cast about (29:5; 32:4),8 mutilated and dismembered (32:5–6; cf. 31:12), left unburied and exposed (29:5; 32:4), and scavenged by wild animals and birds (29:5; 32:4; cf. 31:13).9 The story of the defeat of Gog and his army in Ezek 39:1–20 exhibits some of these features of corpse abuse.10 In these verses, the enemy is killed on the mountains of Israel, and the bodies are plundered of their weapons and left abandoned on the battlefield (vv. 1–10) to be devoured by birds of prey and scavenging animals (vv. 4, 17–20). Significantly, however, the Gog material appears to deviate from other occurrences of the motif of the abused foreign corpse by dealing in detail with the burial of Gog and his soldiers in a mass grave (vv. 11–16). Commentators often describe this particular episode as a secondary expansion of a form of the 6
To this list of illustrations of the “anti-ideal” in Ezekiel might also be added 24:16–24, in which the prophet obeys the divine command not to perform mourning rituals in response to the death of his wife (cf. Jer 16:1–9). Moshe Greenberg assumes that the corpses of dead soldiers in 32:19–31 have been dishonored in being stripped naked on the battlefield (Ezekiel 21–37: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [AB 22A; New York: Doubleday, 1997], 662). 7 On the possibility that this text refers not to royal corpses but to memorial monuments, see David Neiman, “PGR: A Canaanite Cult Object in the Old Testament,” JBL 67 (1948): 55–60. Others suggest that these verses refer not to tombs but to offerings made in the cult of dead kings; see further Jürgen H. Ebach, “PGR = (Toten-)opfer? Ein Vorschlag zum Verständnis von Ez. 43,7.9,” UF 3 (1971): 365–68; Margaret S. Odell, “What Was the Image of Jealousy in Ezekiel 8?” in The Priests in the Prophets: The Portrayal of Priests, Prophets, and Other Religious Specialists in the Latter Prophets (ed. Lester L. Grabbe and Alice O. Bellis; JSOTSup 408; London/New York: T&T Clark, 2004), 131–48; Herbert Niehr, “The Changed Status of the Dead in Yehud,” in Yahwism after the Exile: Perspectives on Israelite Religion in the Persian Era (ed. Rainer Albertz and Bob Becking; Assen: Van Gorcum, 2003), 136–55, esp. 138–40. 8 Cf. Isa 14:19; 22:17–18; Jer 22:19. For the use of this motif and its relation to ritual terms for dishonoring the dead, see Olyan, “Israelite Interment Ideology,” 606–7; and idem, “Was the ‘King of Babylon’ Buried before His Corpse Was Exposed? Some Thoughts on Isa 14,19,” ZAW 118 (2006): 423–26. 9 For the scavenging of unburied corpses, see also Deut 28:26; 2 Sam 21:10; 1 Kgs 21:23– 24; 2 Kgs 9:33–37; Jer 7:33; 15:3; 16:4; 34:20; Ps 79:2–3; cf. Isa 18:6; Jer 12:9. 10 Several proposals concerning Gog’s identity have been offered, though none has attracted much support. These include the suggestion that Gog’s name is to be related to that of Gyges, a seventh-century b.c.e. king of Lydia mentioned in Neo-Assyrian texts (see Walther Zimmerli, Ezekiel 2: A Commentary on the Book of the Prophet Ezekiel Chapters 25–48 [trans. J. D. Martin;
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narrative in which the corpses were simply left exposed to be eaten;11 the distinctive emphasis in vv. 11–16 on the cadavers’ burial is thus taken simply to reflect a subsequent anxiety that the land would need to be ritually cleansed of contaminating corpses (39:12, 14, 16).12 However, regardless of whether these verses are to be read as an interpretative addition, their description of a mass grave serves a more significant purpose in the present narrative than has been recognized, a purpose that extends well beyond a concern for a ritualized cleanup operation. Rather, as will be argued here, the construction and presence of Gog’s grave also appear to function in powerful social, territorial, and ideological ways, both within and beyond the narrative. In order to highlight and engage these functions, the discussion will apply socio-anthropological perspectives to the broader biblical contours of corpse treatment, so that the social dimensions of the biblical use and abuse of corpses might be brought into sharper focus. These perspectives will then be employed to explore the social, ideological, and theological dynamics of corpse treatment in Ezek 39:11–20, before turning to contextualize the text’s use and abuse of corpses within its wider narrative setting.
Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983], 942), or that the name derives from that of a small region known as Gaga (William Foxwell Albright, Yahweh and the Gods of Canaan: A Historical Analysis of Two Contrasting Faiths [London: Athlone, 1968], 16 n. 40) or that Gog is to be identified with a deity mentioned in Enuma elish III 3, whose name has been rendered by some as “Gaga” (Johannes Herrmann, Ezechiel [KAT 11; Leipzig: Scholl, 1924], 244). For a discussion of these and other proposals, see Sverre Bøe, Gog and Magog: Ezekiel 38–39 as Pre-Text for Revelation 19,17–21 and 20,7–10 (WUNT 2/135; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2001), 91–95; and Johan Lust, “Gog,” DDD, 2nd ed., 373–75. As Lust comments, “Taking into account the ‘prophetic’ and ‘apocalyptic’ character of Ezek 38–39, many recognize in Gog the enemy of the final days. This implies he is not a figure of the past but of the present or the future” (p. 374). 11 E.g., Zimmerli, Ezekiel 2, 296–99; Frank Lothar Hossfeld, Untersuchungen zu Komposition und Theologie des Ezechielbuches (FB 20; Würzburg: Echter, 1977), 402–508; Ronald E. Clements, Ezekiel (Westminster Bible Companion; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1996), 521; Joseph Blenkinsopp, Ezekiel (Interpretation; Louisville: John Knox, 1990), 188; John W. Wevers, Ezekiel (NCB; London: Thomas Nelson, 1969), 200. Doubts about the nature and status of vv. 11–20 are particularly encouraged by the text-critical issues dominating discussions of the composition, coherence, and place of chs. 38–39 in the book of Ezekiel. However, despite these issues, other commentators are more cautious in identifying expansions in 39:1–20, including John B. Taylor, Ezekiel: An Introduction and Commentary (TOTC; Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 1969), 247; Reuben Ahroni, “The Gog Prophecy and the Book of Ezekiel,” HAR 1 (1977): 1–27; Daniel I. Block, The Book of Ezekiel Chapters 25–48 (NICOT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 426–31. 12 Cf. Num 5:2–3; 19:16; Ezek 44:25–26. The burial of corpses in Ezek 39:11–16 is viewed somewhat differently by Wevers, who asserts that the land will remain unclean “since the infidels are buried there” (Ezekiel, 205), and Dale Launderville, who assumes that their burial is also indicative of a respect for the dead, countering the “savage harshness” shown to the corpses in vv. 17–20 (Spirit and Reason: The Embodied Character of Ezekiel’s Symbolic Thinking [Waco: Baylor University Press, 2007], 333–34).
Stavrakopoulou: Gog’s Grave in Ezekiel 39:11–20
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I. Dealing with the Dead If interment in the family tomb is presented in the Hebrew Bible as the socially “ideal” response to a corpse, nonburial or disinterment can frequently signal the “anti-ideal.”13 Nonburial is often presented in biblical texts as an illustration of divine displeasure and as a terrifying means of punishing an individual (e.g., 1 Kgs 14:11; 21:23–24; Jer 34:19–20). As is well known, this portrayal of nonburial is congruent with the broader cultural milieu of biblical traditions, a context in which the threat of nonburial is frequently invoked as a formulaic but powerful curse in oaths and treaties (cf. Deut 28:26).14 But while nonburial is often presented as a punishment of an individual, it is also portrayed as a punishment of the social group of which the deceased is a part. In Jer 16:1–13, for example, nonburial is directly related to the disintegration of the living community, a community from which other key familial and household activities (marriage and childbirth) are erased (vv. 1, 9). Importantly, this text also aligns nonburial with the absence of other mortuary rituals: “They shall not be buried, and no one will lament for them; there shall be no gashing, no shaving of the head for them” (v. 6; cf. v. 4).15 As this text illustrates, nonburial essentially marks the social abandonment of the dead. Accordingly, and given that nonburial is indicative of the nonperformance of other mortuary and mourning rites,16 the corpse is neither ritually nor socially transformed from the embodiment of a onceliving person into the embodiment of a nonliving being. The consequence of this is the disruption or fracture of the changing social relationship between the deceased and the living: in being abandoned, the corpse remains culturally and symbolically unplaced, rendering the individual’s transition into postmortem existence neither wholly effected nor settled, and marking at once the estrangement of the living from their dead, and the isolation of the dead from their living. 13 In the biblical texts, nonburial and disinterment are more or less direct inversions of the “ideal.” Though not “ideal,” other forms of interment, such as burial in an animal grave (Jer 22:18– 19) or in a stone-covered pit (2 Sam 18:17; cf. Josh 7:25–26; 8:29; 10:26–27), nonetheless adhere to the social preference for the burial of a corpse. 14 See D. J. Wiseman, The Vassal-Treaties of Esarhaddon (London: British School of Archaeology, 1958), 60–80; Delbert R. Hillers, Treaty Curses and the Old Testament Prophets (BO 16; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1964), 68–69; Kevin J. Cathcart, “Treaty-Curses and the Book of Nahum,” CBQ 34 (1973): 179–87, esp. 180–82. 15 On these forms of body modification (usually paired in scholarly discussions as “shaving and laceration”) as mourning rites, see the discussions in Saul M. Olyan, Biblical Mourning: Ritual and Social Dimensions (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 111–23; and Susan Niditch, “My Brother Esau Is a Hairy Man”: Hair and Identity in Ancient Israel (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 95–120, esp. 99–112. 16 Olyan, “Israelite Interment Ideology,” 607.
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Disinterment might also destabilize the postmortem existence of the dead and fracture their relationship with the living community. Although the movement of corpses or bones from their initial resting places might be perceived in some circumstances as a socially appropriate or permissible activity,17 the disturbance or unauthorized removal of remains from a tomb is in many societies often perceived negatively as an act of hostility toward the dead, displacing them not only from their graves but also from their secure place in the underworld and in the ancestral cult. This perception likely underlies the presence of burial inscriptions in tombs throughout ancient West Asia and the Mediterranean, warning potential intruders with threats of curses not to disturb the dead. In his description of his desecration of Elamite royal tombs, Ashurbanipal boasts that he carried off the exhumed bones to Assyria in order to impose restlessness on their “spirits” and to deprive them of food offerings and libations.18 In this inscription, the removal of bones is presented as a postmortem punishment of previous generations of rulers, a notion also attested in Jer 8:1–2, in which the bones of Judah’s kings, priests, and other elites are to be disinterred, spread out before the sun, the moon, and the host of heaven, and pointedly not reburied.19 The infliction of postmortem punishment also appears to underlie the claim that Josiah emptied tombs at Bethel (2 Kgs 23:15– 18) and in Isa 14:12–21 forms a part of the prophetic judgment against the king of Babylon, whose corpse is cast out of its grave (vv. 18–20).20 Like nonburial, disinterment can also function as an act of hostility toward the living community. The displacement of the dead ruptures the carefully managed relationship between the dead and the living, upsetting the social dynamic between them. In removing remains altogether—as Ashurbanipal claims to have done—the dead are not only deprived of their offerings, but the living are deprived of their ancestors’ blessings and protection, which (particularly among the elites of a society) can often represent a strike against the political fabric of the living community. The deliberate desecration of graves is thus well attested in many cultures (ancient and modern) as an act of aggression toward the living and not just the dead. 17 Consider, for example, the restorage of bones in a tomb niche, pit, or ossuary, or the transferral of bones from one tomb to another. See further Bloch-Smith, Judahite Burial Practices, 36– 37, 42–43; and Eric M. Meyers, “Secondary Burials in Palestine,” BA 33 (1970): 2–29. 18 Rykle [Riekele] Borger, Beiträge zum Inschriftenwerk Aššurbanipals (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1996), 55, Prism A VI 70–76. On the risks of disturbing the dead, see Jean Bottéro, “La mythologie de la mort en Mésopotamie ancienne,” in Death in Mesopotamia: Papers Read at the XXVIe Rencontre assyriologique internationale (ed. Bendt Alster; Mesopotamia 8; Copenhagen: Akedemisk Forlag, 1980), 25–52; and JoAnn Scurlock, “Death and the Afterlife in Ancient Mesopotamian Thought,” in CANE, 1883–93. 19 See further Morton Cogan, “A Note on Disinterment in Jeremiah,” in Gratz College Anniversary Volume: On the Occasion of the Seventy-fifth Anniversary of the Founding of the College 1895–1970 (ed. Isidore D. Passow and Samuel T. Lachs; Philadelphia: Gratz College, 1971), 29–34. 20 On this text, see Olyan, “Was the ‘King of Babylon’ Buried,” 423–26.
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In the Hebrew Bible, the mutilation of corpses appears to mark one of the most intolerable of responses to the dead. In 1 Sam 31:8–13, the Philistines decapitate Saul’s corpse and hang his stripped torso and the corpses of his sons on the city wall (cf. 2 Sam 21:12). Though the narrator passes no explicit judgment on this action, the absence of what is presented elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible as appropriate mortuary practice is countered by the people of Jabesh-gilead, who remove and cremate the corpses, bury the bones, and perform mourning rituals. As the cremation of the corpses seems to indicate, the concern about mutilation here is not so much bound up with the destruction of the cadaver or its parts (though this is a likely concern in other contexts),21 as with the public dishonoring of the corpse and the absence of mortuary rituals, all of which in turn mark the deliberate social dislocation of the dead. In burning the bodies, the people of Jabesh-gilead are not only attempting to reduce the risk of further corpse abuse; they are also taking and asserting their own social control over the placement, disintegration, and decay of the dead, thereby drawing the corpses back into a social frame.22 Indeed, in seeking to discern the social dynamics of corpse abuse, context is a key consideration. In some societies or in some circumstances, the flaying, cutting, decapitation, or disarticulation of corpses; the removal of organs; or the burning or devouring of the dead are not perceived to be destructive to the dead nor damaging to their postmortem well-being. Rather, such practices are often held to assist or manifest the transformation of the deceased and to regenerate the living community.23 In other contexts, however, the unwelcome damage or destruction of the corpse or its parts might be understood to render the deceased somehow socially unidentifiable, disabled, displaced, or distressed in the postmortem state, or even to limit or prevent the transition of the deceased individual beyond the living community. Among some social groups, the communal impact of this is direct, for the distressed “spirit” of a mutilated corpse could harass or threaten the living.24 Negative forms of corpse modification thus damage the living as well as the dead.
21 On the possible social dynamics of cremation (both “positively” and “negatively” construed), see further Douglas J. Davies, Death, Ritual and Belief: The Rhetoric of Funerary Rites (2nd ed.; London: Continuum, 2002), 25–35. 22 In asserting social control in this particular way, the Jabesh-gileadites here might be viewed as responding to the threat of their own bodily mutilation at the hands of Nahash, king of the Ammonites, a tradition attested in 4QSama and MT 1 Sam 11:1–2. 23 See, e.g., Beth A. Conklin, “‘Thus Are Our Bodies, Thus Was Our Custom’: Mortuary Cannibalism in an Amazonian Society,” American Ethnologist 22 (1995): 75–101; Michele Stephen, “Devouring the Mother: A Kleinian Perspective on Necrophagia and Corpse Abuse in Mortuary Ritual,” Ethos 26 (1998): 387–409, and the literature cited there. 24 See, e.g., the texts discussed in JoAnn Scurlock, Magico-Medical Means of Treating GhostInduced Illnesses in Ancient Mesopotamia (Ancient Magic and Divination 3; Leiden: Brill/Styx, 2006); and eadem, “Ghosts in the Ancient Near East: Weak or Powerful?” HUCA 68 (1997): 77– 96.
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It is perhaps the engagement of these sorts of anxieties that motivates corpse abuse in many ancient West Asian and Mediterranean societies. Numerous literary, inscriptional, and iconographic descriptions of corpse abuse from these cultures frequently attest to the practice, promotion, and rhetoric of corpse mutilation, particularly in contexts of warfare or political oppression.25 Kings’ corpses are decapitated, their heads hung on trees or around the necks of other defeated dignitaries; vast piles of cadavers are amassed; hands, penises, and testicles are severed from the dead; and bodies are dragged around cities or fed to animals.26 In many of these cases, corpse abuse appears to demonstrate the extension of state authority into the postmortem world.27 In the Hebrew Bible, the mutilation of corpses similarly carries a sociopolitical charge. The Philistines’ abuse of the corpses of Saul and his sons is presented as a public display of Saul’s political defeat as well as an act of bodily aggression and humiliation (1 Sam 31:8–13). In 2 Kgs 9:34–37, Jezebel’s political position is deemed weighty enough to warrant the burial of her broken and trampled corpse.28 But the assumed devouring of her body by dogs—leaving only her skull, feet, and the palms of her hands—implicitly appears to prevent her proper interment, as though there is not enough left of her corpse to warrant transferral into the grave and transformation into postmortem existence. Without a corpse to bury or a grave to mark, mortuary and remembrance rituals cannot be performed, rendering Jezebel unremembered and so nonexistent: “the dogs shall eat Jezebel’s flesh, the corpse of Jezebel shall be like dung on the field in the territory of Jezreel so that no one can say ‘This is Jezebel’” (vv. 36–37). The devouring of corpses thus functions in the Hebrew Bible as a type of conceptual shorthand, representing a complex of ideas about the social abandonment of the dead. On one level, the scavenging of corpses by animals and birds signals an absence of the living community to care for the dead and to facilitate their transition into a postmortem existence through repeated mortuary rites. This is concisely illustrated in the portrayal of Rizpah guarding the exposed and impaled corpses of Saul’s sons from wild animals and birds (2 Sam 21:10), which in turn 25
It is difficult to assess the extent to which textual and iconographic portrayals of corpse abuse and other aggressive actions toward the dead reflect social realities. For Mesopotamian corpse abuse, see Seth Richardson, “Death and Dismemberment in Mesopotamia: Discorporation between the Body and Body Politic,” in Laneri, Performing Death, 189–208. 26 See further Zainab Bahrani, Rituals of War: The Body and Violence in Mesopotamia (New York: Zone, 2008); Richardson, “Death and Dismemberment,” esp. 196–200. 27 Richardson, “Death and Dismemberment,” 191; see also the essays collected in Death Squad: The Anthropology of State Terror (ed. Jeffrey A. Sluka; Ethnography of Political Violence; Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2000). 28 On the possibility that wdqp in v. 34 refers in this context to the specific practice of funerary rites, see Theodore J. Lewis, Cults of the Dead in Ancient Israel and Ugarit (HSM 39; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989), 120–22.
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prompts the interment of their bones, together with those of Saul and his other sons, in their ancestral tomb (21:11–14).29 But while some forms of corpse mutilation and exposure are often presented in biblical and nonbiblical material as the deliberate inversion of normative mortuary practices, the devouring of corpses by scavengers functions on another level by going beyond inversion to signal more strongly alienation from society and thus the total abandonment of the dead. Indeed, to be devoured by animals and birds marks the uncontrolled, unregulated loss and disposal of the dead. Set against the ancient West Asian backdrop of the mythic and cosmic landscape, the exposure of corpses in the wilderness places the dead beyond the realm and reach of social order, represented by the city, the cultivated field, and the tomb itself. The vast distance of the abandoned dead from the mortuary cult is powerfully attested in their corpses being consumed by animals and birds: unlike the dead in their tombs, who receive libations and offerings, the dead exposed in the wilderness will not be fed, but will be food. The scavenging of corpses by wild animals and birds of prey is thus not only a motif of corpse mutilation and nonburial, but an image of the unstructured elimination of the dead.30 Notions of display and non-display, whether positively or negatively construed, seem to underscore all these forms of corpse treatment in the Hebrew Bible. “Ideal” responses to the cadaver exhibit a careful balance between what is seen and what is unseen: though their corpses appear to be concealed in their tombs from the living, the dead are displayed by means of their marked burial places and the performance of funerary and other mortuary rituals. By contrast, biblical portrayals of the “anti-ideal”—the nonburial, disinterment, mutilation, exposure, or devouring of corpses—appear to disregard, overturn, or invert these socially sanctioned methods of displaying and concealing the dead. In biblical portrayals of corpse abuse, the emphasis falls on the unwelcome or voyeuristic exhibition of the cadaver (or its parts or remains), while the deliberate social and spatial displacement of the dead suggests that they are destined to disappear from view altogether.31 Within its social frame, the materiality of the cadaver itself is likely what 29 Olyan (“Israelite Interment Ideology,” 607) comes close to drawing out the social connotations of biblical traditions about exposure and scavenging in observing that “[w]hile enemies expose the corpse to the depredations of beasts and fowl (Ps 79:2), family, friends, and allies do what they can to prevent mutilation (2 Sam 21:10) or at least to mitigate some of its damage through appropriate interment and mourning rites (e.g., 1 Sam 31:8–13).” 30 A graphic reflection of this occurs in the Aqhat tradition: in KTU 1.19 iii 36–41, Danel seeks to counter the elimination of Aqhat’s corpse by disemboweling the bird of prey that has devoured him in order to retrieve his remains for burial. On this text, see further Wayne Pitard, “The Reading of KTU 1.19:III:41: The Burial of Aqhat,” BASOR 293 (1994): 31–38. 31 On the voyeuristic aspects of the mutilation of dead enemies, see Bahrani, Rituals of War, 23–55, 131–58, 173–75; for the role of public display in the disfigurement of living enemies, see Tracy M. Lemos, “Shame and Mutilation of Enemies in the Hebrew Bible,” JBL 125 (2006): 225– 41.
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underlies the use or abuse of corpses. The cadaver is both person and object,32 so that the placing and presence of a corpse or its remains (whether real or presumed) are critical to its symbolic efficacy and social significance.33 Viewed through a specifically socio-religious lens, and with direct reference to the use and abuse of corpses in the Hebrew Bible, the efficacy of the materiality of the dead can be seen to be reflected in the tradition claiming Josiah’s destruction of the cult at Bethel (2 Kgs 23:15-20). In emptying the tombs surrounding the sanctuary and burning the bones housed on the altar, Josiah is not simply defiling the cult place or preventing the bones’ reburial, but he is also seeking to eliminate Bethel’s ancestral potency by destroying the bones and thereby annihilating the dead.34 The possibility that some forms of Assyrian corpse abuse included the grinding of enemies’ bones into powder might also reflect similar perceptions of the symbolic and social efficacy of the remains of the dead—and hence the necessity to destroy them.35 As these examples might suggest, the “social life” of a corpse or its remains is thus bound up with its agency. As the archaeologist Howard Williams argues, “the physicality and materiality of the dead body and its associated artefacts, structures and places can be seen as extensions of the deceased’s personhood, actively affecting the remembrance of the deceased by the living and structuring future social action.”36 Indeed, in turning to consider the use and abuse of corpses in the description of Gog’s grave in Ezek 39:11-20, it is the social dynamics of the agency and display of the dead that warrant particular attention.
II. The Dynamics of the Dead in Ezekiel 39:11–20 In this passage, two forms of corpse treatment receive prominent attention, each in its turn: the interment and marking of human remains (vv. 11–16), and the exposure and scavenging of corpses (vv. 17–20). As shall be seen, each of these responses to the dead is pointedly and powerfully abusive. The first is focused on the careful burial of Gog’s corpse and those of his defeated cohort, an activity pre32 Elizabeth Hallam and Jenny Hockey, Death, Memory and Material Culture (Materializing Culture; Oxford: Berg, 2001), drawing on Alfred Gell, Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory (Oxford: Clarendon, 1998); see also Joanna R. Sofaer, The Body as Material Culture: A Theoretical Osteoarchaeology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006). 33 See further Katherine Verdery, “Dead Bodies Animate the Study of Politics,” in The Political Lives of Dead Bodies: Reburial and Postsocialist Change (Harriman Lectures; New York: Columbia University Press, 1999), reprinted in Death, Mourning, and Burial: A Cross-Cultural Reader (ed. Antonius C. G. M. Robben; Oxford: Blackwell, 2004), 303–10. 34 See further Stavrakopoulou, Land of Our Fathers, ch. 4. 35 Borger, Beiträge zum Inschriftenwerk Aššurbanipals, 108, Prism B VI 97–VII 2; see also Scurlock, “Death and the Afterlife,” 1892. 36 Williams, “Death Warmed Up: The Agency of Bodies and Bones in Early Anglo-Saxon Cremation Rites,” Journal of Material Culture 9 (2004): 263–91, here 266.
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sented as a means of cleansing the land of Israel of the contaminating presence of the bodies of the slain (vv. 12, 14, 16; cf. vv. 9–10). Certainly, there is a strong sense in many biblical texts that the remains of the dead are to be viewed as impure and that contact with corpses beyond the bounds of a ritually controlled context is inherently and perpetually polluting.37 Given the apparent priestly perspectives of the book of Ezekiel, coupled with its focus in its later chapters on the homecoming of Yhwh, the implication that the bodies and bones of Gog and his warriors pollute the land to which the deity is to return is perhaps not surprising. Yet the insistence on burying the remains of the dead also credits the cadavers with an “ideal” social response that is seemingly incongruent with the patterns of inversion outlined above, and in particular is at odds with the insistence on the display and abuse (exposure, devouring) of the corpse of the foreign enemy in vv. 4–5, 17–20 and in 29:3–5 and 32:2–6. Indeed, Gog and his cohort appear to be assigned a socially normative place for the dead among the living: the grave is carefully placed and named (v. 11), while individual bones are marked and remembered before being interred (v. 15). However, the emphasis on the location and size of Gog’s grave is particularly significant. It is imaged as a mass grave that will be (by implication) so large that it will block off the valley in which it is sited (v. 11). While the grave’s location points to the mythic-symbolic function of a valley as the intersection of the earthly realm and the underworld, its valley setting is also suggestive of its placement on a landscape boundary. As such, it signals the territorial function of the grave itself.38 In many traditional societies—including those of ancient Israel and Judah—a grave or a collection of graves might serve to mark or reinforce the boundary of a given place or to mark the possession or ownership of a territory. In this sense, the dead are the agents of the territorial assertions of the living.39 Though this method of 37
E.g., Num 19:11–20; Ezek 44:25–26; cf. Lev 21:11; Deut 21:22–23. Valleys function as boundaries, e.g., in Josh 12:2; 15:7–8; cf. Josh 17:9; 18:16; 1 Kgs 2:37; Jer 31:40. For biblical examples of boundary burials, see Josh 24:30; Judg 2:9; 1 Sam 10:2. For the territoriality of boundary burials, see Stavrakopoulou, Land of Our Fathers, ch. 1, and the literature cited there. 39 See, e.g., Maurice Bloch, Placing the Dead: Tombs, Ancestral Villages, and Kinship Organization in Madagascar (Seminar Studies in Anthropology 1; London: Seminar, 1971); Jack Glazier, “Mbeere Ancestors and the Domestication of Death,” Man n.s. 19 (1984): 133–47; Mike Parker Pearson, The Archaeology of Death and Burial (Texas A&M University Anthropology Series 3; Stroud: Sutton, 2003), 124–41; Kay Prag, “The Dead Sea Dolmens: Death and the Landscape,” in The Archaeology of Death in the Ancient Near East (ed. Stuart Campbell and Anthony Green; Oxbow Monograph 51; Oxford: Oxbow, 1995), 75–84; cf. Irad Malkin, “Land Ownership, Territorial Possession, Hero Cults, and Scholarly Theory,” in Nomodeiktes: Greek Studies in Honor of Martin Ostwald (ed. Ralph M. Rosen and Joseph Farrell; Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1993), 225–34; Carla M. Antonaccio, An Archaeology of Ancestors: Tomb Cult and Hero Cult in Early Greece (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 1995). 38
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marking and claiming land is frequently bound up with the burial sites of the living community’s ancestors, the graves of the defeated enemy can also play territorial roles in contexts of warfare and colonialism. The use of body piles and mass graves to attest to the defeat and destruction of enemies is a well-known practice. In many contexts, the marking of the landscape with the enemy dead appears to function as a visual illustration of the sociopolitical control of a territory. Neo-Assyrian descriptions of this type of “mortuary landscaping” include references to piles of corpses at city gates, severed heads stacked atop each other, and skulls heaped up like piles of grain40—an image found also in Jer 50:26 (cf. 2 Kgs 10:7–8). Indeed, the biblical description of Gog’s grave is reminiscent of the rhetoric of conquest in many third- and second-millennium texts from lower Mesopotamia that describe the construction of vast burial mounds containing the corpses of foreign enemies to mark the successful completion of a military campaign. These mounds appear to have used the dead to display the territorial domination of the enemy. As Seth Richardson comments, “Burial mounds stigmatized the enemy as the ‘Other’, but simultaneously permitted victors to assert claims about legitimate ownership and civilized practice by speaking through a medium of normative burial.”41 In viewing Gog’s grave from this perspective, the pile of corpses buried in the valley takes on the form of a mortuary monument, marking the defeat of Israel’s invading enemy and asserting Yhwh’s territorial claim on the land. The territorial connotations of corpse interment in this narrative are further indicated in the details of the description. Though Yhwh’s proprietary status is underscored in his appointing the place of the grave and renaming its location,42 it is his people, designated in v. 13 as “all the people of the land” (Cr)h M(-lk), who will bury the dead and thereby transform the chaotic landscape of foreign invasion into a homeland of ritualized social order. In this context, the loaded biblical term Cr)h M( carries with it the ideological implication that the people of Israel are the rightful occupiers of the land;43 the burial mound in the valley is thus a marker as much of their territoriality as of Yhwh’s. Indeed, the long period of time set aside in vv. 12, 14 (cf. v. 9) to process the corpses ritually not only serves to underline the
40
See further Richardson, “Death and Dismemberment,” 196–97. Ibid., 195. 42 As Otto Eissfeldt suggests (“Renaming in the Old Testament,” in Words and Meanings: Essays Presented to David Winton Thomas on His Retirement from the Regius Professorship of Hebrew in the University of Cambridge, 1968 [ed. Peter R. Ackroyd and Barnabas Lindars; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1968], 69–79), place-names are often changed in biblical narratives when a change in ownership occurs—frequently in a context of conflict or land seizure, e.g., Num 32:42; Deut 3:15; Josh 19:47; cf. 2 Sam 5:7–9. 43 So Daniel I. Block, The Book of Ezekiel, Chapters 25–48 (NICOT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 470 n. 54. 41
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sheer number of dead but also images the vast scale of the landscape to be surveyed by those searching for corpses and bones. The territorial agenda of those set apart to undertake this ritualized task is implicit in their “passing through” (rb() the land (vv. 14, 15), just as Abraham does just before Yhwh promises to give the land to his descendants (Gen 12:6–7; cf. 13:17). During the search for corpses, Israel’s marked possession of the land is displayed by the immediate signposting of every bone (v. 15),44 so that even before collection and burial, the remains of the enemy dead attest to the Israelite possession of the land. The name of the valley in which Gog’s grave is placed similarly evokes territorial concerns. In v. 11, it is called “Valley of Oberim” (Myrb(h yg)—an appropriate designation for a burial site, for the term Myrb( likely functions here and further in the same verse as a collective name for the dead who “cross over” (rb() from the living community into the underworld (cf. Job 33:18). The term is cognate with the Ugaritic word vbrm, which denotes the deified dead.45 The Valley of Oberim is thus the “valley of the dead.” Given the socio-mythic function of the grave as a crossing point into the underworld, the valley’s liminal nature as the intersection of the realms of the living and the dead is therefore clearly exhibited in its name. But the valley’s designation also alludes to Abarim (Myrb(), the name of the Transjordanian mountain range from which Moses surveys the land divinely promised and upon which he dies before the Israelites “cross over” (Num 27:12–13; Deut 32:49–50).46 Viewed from this perspective, Abarim is thus also a place of transition, representing in its narrative context the edge of the promised land and the threshold between life in the land and death in the wilderness.47 Accordingly, the tomb of Gog and his warriors—which is already territorially charged in its function as both a boundary burial and a war grave—also evokes in its valley placement Israel’s crossing point into the promised land. 44 The term Nwyc is used of a burial marker also in 2 Kgs 23:17, in which it can also be seen to play a territorial role; see further Stavrakopoulou, Land of Our Fathers, ch. 4. 45 KTU 1.22 i 15. See further Sergio Ribichini and Paolo Xella, “La Valle dei Pasanti (Ezechiel 39.11),” UF 12 (1980): 434–37; Klaas Spronk, Beatific Afterlife in Ancient Israel and in the Ancient Near East (AOAT 219; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1986), 229–30; Marvin H. Pope, “Notes on the Rephaim Texts from Ugarit,” in Essays on the Ancient Near East in Memory of Jacob Joel Finkelstein (ed. Maria de Jong Ellis; Memoirs of the Connecticut Academy of Arts and Sciences 19; Hamden, CT: Archon Books, 1977), 163–82; Brian P. Irwin, “Molek Imagery and the Slaughter of Gog in Ezekiel 38 and 39,” JSOT 65 (1995): 93–112. 46 Though some commentators choose to emend the name of the valley in Ezek 39:11 to “Abarim” (e.g., Wevers, Ezekiel, 205), the allusive correspondence between the two designations is so strong as to render emendation unnecessary; the narrative is likely intended to play with multiple meanings, multivalent images and layered motifs. With this fluidity in mind, the scholarly concern to fix the valley’s location in relation to both Israel and a place “east of the sea” (v. 11) is perhaps unnecessarily restrictive. 47 See further Stavrakopoulou, Land of Our Fathers, ch. 3.
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These “nationalistic” allusions are further evident in the burial site’s renaming as the “Valley of Hamon-Gog” (v. 11), a designation perhaps intended to play on the name of Jerusalem’s Valley of Ben Hinnom;48 its apparent identification with the city called Hamonah (v. 16) similarly relocates Gog’s grave to the valley boundaries of Jerusalem, for Hamonah is likely a symbolic synonym of the city itself.49 These new names thus add a further territorial twist to the biblical tale, pointing in the book of Ezekiel to Israel’s renewed occupation of the city as its heartland, a city readying itself for Yhwh’s return. Throughout this narrative, the seen and the unseen are carefully interlaced: though their corpses are concealed, the dead are displayed in monumental fashion, their presence rendered permanent in the burial mound and in the renaming of the Valley of the Dead as the Valley of Hamon-Gog. As Daniel Block comments of this verse, “To utter the name is to recall the event.”50 But in invoking the name of the dead, it is not only the entombed presence of Gog and his horde that is marked, but the territorial presence of Israel as well. It is in this way that the display of the dead and the invocation of their name at once memorialize, exhibit, and perpetuate not the postmortem name and reputation of Gog and his army (cf. 2 Sam 18:18) but both Israel’s “name” (M#) and Yhwh’s glory, as is claimed in v. 13 (cf. v. 21).51 An ironic undertone thus permeates the account of this burial: though the corpses of Gog and his warriors are seemingly credited with an “ideal” social response (interment, name invocation, and remembrance), these postmortem rites effectively honor and perpetuate not the dead but those who have buried them—the people of Israel and their deity. Thus, what appears at first blush to be a socially ideal response to the dead is transformed into an anti-ideal, so that the burial mound in the valley is neither a gravesite nor a mortuary monument but a cadavered boundary marker and a memorial to corpse abuse. A second form of corpse abuse also is attested in the Gog narrative. In vv. 17– 20, the description of Gog’s defeat closes with a scene of sacrificial feasting, in which the corpses of the dead are devoured by scavenging birds and wild animals at Yhwh’s invitation. It is often noted that the sacrificial end to the slaughter of Gog’s army engages the double meaning of xbz as “sacrifice” and “slaughter”—a feature similarly evident in several other biblical texts, including Isa 34:6–8 and Zeph 1:7. As some commentators have observed, the text also exhibits a cluster of mythic 48
E.g., Zimmerli, Ezekiel 2, 317; Blenkinsopp, Ezekiel, 188. Margaret S. Odell, “The City of Hamonah in Ezekiel 39:11–16: The Tumultuous City of Jerusalem,” CBQ 56 (1994): 479–89. 50 Block, Ezekiel 25–48, 469. 51 This proposal offers a response to Zimmerli’s passing but unexpanded observation that “[i]t is significant that Israel and the ‘name’ which she acquires as a result of this whole event first find expression here in connection with the burial of Gog” (Ezekiel 2, 318). 49
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motifs associated with divine victory feasts, at which the defeat of an enemy is celebrated.52 But the ritualization of the devouring of corpses in this text may also play on the biblical portrayal of the marzēahi, a cultic drinking and feasting club that, in Jer 16:5–9, is heavily associated with mortuary rituals (cf. Amos 6:6–7).53 In this imagery, and in inviting wild animals and birds of prey to eat at his table in Ezek 39:20, Yhwh is seemingly cast as the offerant in a caricature of a mortuary cult. This ritualization of the scavenging of cadavers thus renders Yhwh a more active participant in human corpse abuse than other biblical texts allow.54 Though the mutilation and dismemberment of divine corpses is a relatively familiar activity among deities, the gods’ explicit abuse of human cadavers is less common.55 In imaging the corpses of the dead in v. 18 as animals fit for ritual slaughter (rams, lambs, goats, bulls, and fatlings), Yhwh’s description of the dead takes on an imperial tone akin to the boasts of certain Mesopotamian kings who transformed their enemies into animals and executed them on butchers’ tables.56 Commentators often assume that this scene is out of sequence in the narrative, for it appears to expand upon the claim in 39:4 that the corpses of Gog and his cohort will be left exposed to be scavenged, and yet follows the interring of their remains in the valley, a process that tends to be (mis)taken simply as a ritualized
52 See in particular Paul E. Fitzpatrick, The Disarmament of God: Ezekiel 38–39 in Its Mythic Context (CBQMS 37; Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association, 2004), 109–12. 53 Irwin, “Molek Imagery,” 107–9; J. L. McLaughlin, The marzēahi in the Prophetic Literature: References and Allusions in Light of Extra-Biblical Evidence (VTSup 86; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2001), 196–213. For a recent and nuanced discussion of the likely nature and function of this type of cultic club, see Theodore J. Lewis, “Family, Household, and Local Religion at Late Bronze Age Ugarit,” in Household and Family Religion in Antiquity (ed. John Bodel and Saul M. Olyan; Ancient World—Comparative History; Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2008), 74–76, plus the literature cited there. 54 Cf. Isa 34:2–7; 56:9; Jer 12:9; 19:7; Zeph 1:7; 2 Bar. 29:4. A similar idea is expressed in Isa 30:27–33, in which the defeat of a foreign king is portrayed sacrificially, although here Yhwh is imaged as the recipient of the sacrifice. See further Francesca Stavrakopoulou, King Manasseh and Child Sacrifice: Biblical Distortions of Historical Realities (BZAW 338; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2004), 201–5. 55 Anat’s treatment of Aqhat in KTU 1.19 i–iii is a graphic illustration of the divine killing of a human and the abuse of his corpse. In Ezek 29:3–5 and 32:2–6 (cf. Ps 74:13–14), the human enemy is imaged as the chaos monster, projecting the battle and the subsequent abuse of his corpse beyond the earthly realm; see Paul M. Joyce, Ezekiel: A Commentary (Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies 482; New York/London: T&T Clark International, 2007), 187. For the motif of divine violence, see Scott B. Noegel, “Dismemberment, Creation, and Ritual Images of Divine Violence in the Ancient Near East,” in Belief and Bloodshed: Religion and Violence across Time and Tradition (ed. James K. Wellman, Jr.; Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2007), 13–27. 56 On the imaging of warriors as animals, see Patrick D. Miller, “Animal Names as Designations in Ugaritic and Hebrew,” UF 2 (1970): 177–86; for Mesopotamian portrayals of the dead as butchered animals, see Richardson, “Death and Dismemberment,” 197.
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cleanup operation.57 This sequencing of events might be explained with reference to Jer 7:32–33, in which the devouring of corpses by scavengers follows mass burials in the Valley of Ben Hinnom (renamed the Valley of Slaughter);58 or it might be justified more broadly on the basis of the closing features of the so-called victory and enthronement mythic pattern (on which the Gog narrative might draw), in which the climactic victory of the divine battle is marked with a sacrificial banquet.59 Alternatively, redaction critics have offered sound reasons to suppose that in older versions of the Gog material, the burial scene (vv. 11–16) and the devouring scene (vv. 17–20) are unlikely to have been juxtaposed in the way in which they now appear.60 But whichever explanation is preferred, in the present arrangement of the material, the devouring of the dead after their burial gives rise to a powerful ideological qualification of the description of Gog’s grave. Though the scrupulous burial of the remains of the dead performs a crucial territorial function, it also honors the enemy dead with a marked mortuary place among the living. But the feasting scene, immediately following the burial account, inverts and devalues the social performance of these mortuary rituals by illustrating that the dead will not “live” to enjoy the transformative and sustaining benefits of the mortuary cult—they will not remain in their tomb to receive food offerings and libations. Instead, they are exposed again in the narrative, to become the flesh of a food offering for scavengers. In reading the story of Gog’s end in this way, the juxtaposition of the burial and devouring scenes is thus indicative of a carefully structured narrative: the remains of the dead, once buried in vv. 11–16, are “exhumed” by the clever arrangement of the tradent in vv. 17–20 and put on display before the reader once again, to be devoured and destroyed in the spectacle of Yhwh’s sacrifice. Two forms of corpse abuse thus manifest the defeat of Gog and his army: the use of their remains as a territorial marker, and the exposing of their corpses to scavengers. Yhwh is presented as an active participant in both these forms of corpse abuse. He appoints and designates the place of Gog’s grave (v. 11), and he prepares the corpses to be consumed (v. 17), inviting the scavengers to assemble and feast (vv. 17–20). But, significantly, Yhwh’s participation in the techniques of corpse abuse is also emphasized as a key feature of 37:1–14. In this text, however, the treatment of the dead performs a very different function, a function that arguably contextualizes further the dynamics of the dead in the Gog narrative. 57 E.g., Leslie C. Allen, Ezekiel 20–48 (WBC 29; Dallas: Word, 1994), 203; Block, Ezekiel 25– 48, 473; Bruce Vawter and Leslie J. Hoppe, A New Heart: A Commentary on the Book of Ezekiel (ITC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1991), 180. 58 A similar sequence is attested also in the passage following Jer 7:32–33: in 8:1–3, bones are distinterred from their tombs and left exposed on the surface of the ground. 59 Susan Niditch, “Ezekiel 40–48 in a Visionary Context,” CBQ 48 (1986): 208–44, esp. 221– 23; Fitzpatrick, Disarmament of God, 109–12. 60 For a helpful analysis of the major variants, see Bøe, Gog and Magog, ch. 2.
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III. Contextualizing Gog’s Grave In the well-known portrayal of the so-called Valley of Dry Bones in 37:1–14, motifs elsewhere associated with corpse abuse cluster together. The bones of the dead are exposed and displayed on the surface of the ground, while Ezekiel and Yhwh appear to play the role of voyeurs in viewing the dead. In its biblical context, the location of the bones in a valley (vv. 1–2) is suggestive of a cemetery, or a mythogeographical entrance to the underworld; thus, the exposure of the bones on the surface of the ground is suggestive of the dislocation of these dead from the social frame.61 Abandoned without mortuary care, they are neither in the underworld nor with the living. Instead, they are alienated, just as they appear to claim: “we are cut off ” (v. 11).62 This emphasis on the dislocation of the dead is imaged also in vv. 12–13, but in these verses Yhwh moves from his role as seemingly passive voyeur to play a more active part in the treatment of the dead: he disinters them from their tombs. The description of the Valley of Dry Bones in 37:1–14 thus shares much with the presentations of body debris in 39:11–20: a valley of the dead and exposed, uninterred remains. Despite their shared motifs, however, the portrayal of corpse treatment in 37:1–14 clearly contrasts sharply with the processes of corpse abuse described in the narrative about Gog’s burial and the scavenging of his army’s corpses. In 37:1–14, there is no apparent concern about corpse contamination and no ritualized response to the dead; the uninterred dead are not the foreign enemy but the Israelites; exposed remains are not left to be uncontrollably devoured, but rather embody the controlled reversal of decomposition as their bones, sinews, flesh, and skin are reincorporated (vv. 6–8). In other words, the dead are not “Othered,” but are claimed as Yhwh’s own (vv. 12–13). The context of these responses to corpses thus shapes the ideological contours of both 37:1–14 and 39:11–20. The “anti-ideal” in one narrative is inverted in the other. And yet there remains a pervading and significant parallel between the two. In 39:11–20, as the foregoing discussion has argued, Gog’s grave functions territorially to mark Israel’s claim to its land; in 37:12–14, the disinterring of the dead is directly related to Israel’s occupation of the land: Yhwh claims that he will open the graves of the dead, bring them as the living to the land of Israel (l)r#y tmd)), 61
Bernhard Lang argues that this text draws on the specifically Zoroastrian mortuary practice of corpse exposure (“Street Theater, Raising the Dead, and the Zoroastrian Connection in Ezekiel’s Prophecy,” in Ezekiel and His Book: Textual and Literary Criticism and Their Interrelation [ed. Johan Lust; BETL 74; Leuven: Peeters, 1986], 297–316). 62 On the mortuary connotations of this expression and its use in descriptions of exile, see Saul M. Olyan, “ ‘We Are Utterly Cut Off’: Some Possible Nuances of wnl wnrzgn in Ezek 37:11,” CBQ 65 (2003): 43–51.
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and place them on their own ground (hmd)). The theological dynamics of return from exile are thus couched in this text in the terms of a territorial ideology, expressed through the medium of the dead. In both of these narratives, then, the dead exhibit a powerful symbolic and social efficacy as agents of the territorial claims of the living. The juxtaposition of the vision of dry bones with the tale of Gog’s defeat and burial is therefore suggestive.63 If in 37:1–14 the exiled “house of Israel” is promised the land of Israel, it is the construction of Gog’s grave and the devouring of corpses in 39:11–20 that are presented in support of this land claim. The narrative employs motifs associated with socially sanctioned “ideal” and “anti-ideal” responses to corpses to communicate the dimensions of this territoriality: the burial mound in the valley functions as both a territorial and an ideological marker, simultaneously signaling the defeat of foreign invaders and the reassertion of Israel’s possession of its land. While in this text the marking and interment of enemy corpses and bones demonstrate the people of Israel’s sociopolitical “ownership” of the defeated dead, the exposure and devouring of their cadavers symbolize their social abandonment and their postmortem destruction. In this way, Gog’s grave is revealed to be a false “ideal” that gives way to the full-blown “anti-ideal,” enabling the mortuary monument to stand but the enemy dead to fall into oblivion. The elimination of the corpses of Gog and his warriors thus contrasts starkly with the divinely perpetuated “living” dead of Israel in 37:1–14, here representing the returning exiles, to whom the land is said to belong. In the book of Ezekiel, this is indeed a powerful contrast. Though it is often assumed that the interring of cadavers and the devouring of the dead in 39:11–20 are concerned only with the ritualized cleansing of the land, the use and abuse of corpses in this narrative are more importantly indicative of the powerful social, territorial, and ideological function of Gog’s grave: its construction, placing, and presence assert Israel’s claim to its land and legitimize the exiles’ return. 63
The possibility that ch. 37 did not originally precede chs. 38–39 need not undermine the observations offered here. Even if chs. 38–39 at one stage preceded ch. 37, or were a late addition to the book, the juxtaposing of these narratives remains ideologically potent: in its present position, the Gog narrative in chs. 38–39 functions as a complementary response to the vision of dry bones in ch. 37, but if this sequence were inverted or reversed, Gog’s burial and the scavenging of corpses would serve as a powerful catalyst to the vivification and restoration of displaced “Israelite” corpses in ch. 37. For these text-critical issues, see Johan Lust, “Ezekiel 36–40 in the Oldest Greek Manuscript,” CBQ 43 (1981): 517–33; and Hector M. Patmore, “The Shorter and Longer Texts of Ezekiel: The Implications of the Manuscript Finds from Masada and Qumran,” JSOT 32 (2007): 231–42.
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Jewish Identity under Foreign Rule: Daniel 2 as a Reconfiguration of Genesis 41 matthew s. rindge
[email protected] Gonzaga University, Spokane, WA 99258
This article explores the various ways in which Daniel 2 reconfigures Genesis 41. Though many scholars have noted similarities between these two texts, such observations have not generated significant advances in our understanding of Daniel 2.1 John J. Collins lists some of the similarities between Daniel and Joseph, yet he downplays any significant relationship between the two texts.2 Though I agree with Collins that Daniel “has its own new hero in a different situation,” I do not see why such a statement necessarily precludes reading Daniel 2 as an attempt This article originated as a paper in a doctoral seminar with Carol Newsom, and I am grateful for her insightful questions and suggestions. Any errors are, of course, my own. 1 Apart, perhaps, from considerations of genre. Both John J. Collins (The Apocalyptic Vision of the Book of Daniel [HSM 16; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1977], 33) and Lawrence M. Wills (The Jewish Novel in the Ancient World [Myth and Poetics; Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1995], 41–42) classify Daniel 2 as a “tale of contest” rather than a “tale of conflict.” Collins notes that, whereas the “tale of contest” is characterized by the triumph of a wise person over a number of court officials, the “tale of conflict” is a drama “of danger and deliverance” (ibid.). The threat, however, of losing life and property in Dan 2:5 certainly appears to be dangerous. Daniel’s solution likewise seems to be a deliverance from such danger. For a classification of Daniel 1–6 as “legends” and “didactic wisdom narratives,” see Rolf Rendtorff, The Old Testament: An Introduction (trans. John Bowden; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985), 87–88, 110–11. 2 Collins denies that Daniel is a midrash, interpretation, or retelling of the Joseph story (Daniel: A Commentary on the Book of Daniel [Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993], 39–40). See also idem, “The Sage in the Apocalyptic and Pseudepigraphic Literature,” in The Sage in Israel and the Ancient Near East (ed. John G. Gammie and Leo G. Perdue; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1990), 343–54, here 348.
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to reconfigure the character of Joseph.3 Although C. L. Seow recognizes points of contact between Daniel 2 and Genesis 41, he neglects to draw any substantive conclusions from the similarities he observes.4 While Aaron Wildavsky recognizes the importance of the Joseph story for Daniel, he tends to stretch the boundaries of cogent exegesis.5 Robert K. Gnuse and C. G. Labonté provide two of the most detailed comparisons of Daniel 2 and Genesis 41.6 Similarities between the two narratives listed by Gnuse include observations of other commentators as well as his own.7 Yet many of the parallels he cites from other scholars concern not Daniel 2 but other chapters of the book,8 and two of the fifteen similarities noted by Gnuse also rely on material outside of Daniel 2. He cites Dan 4:8–9 to show that in each case the ruler “recognizes the ‘spirit of God’ in the hero,” and he refers to Dan 1:6 to demonstrate that Daniel receives a “new courtly name.”9 Another of his alleged similarities, that the “deity of the Jewish boy is recognized as the true God” unfairly renders Dan 2:47
3
Collins, Daniel, 39–40. For a list of these similarities see C. L. Seow, Daniel (Westminster Bible Companion; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2003), 34. Seow stresses that the purpose of Daniel 2 is to show not the comic triumph of a novice over his captors but the “triumph of divine wisdom and foreknowledge conveyed through a lowly exile, a faithful servant of God. The story illustrates the sovereignty of God, who humbles the mighty and exalts the lowly” (pp. 34–35). 5 Wildavsky sees a connection between the shift in Daniel from Hebrew to Aramaic and the emphasis in Genesis on Joseph’s “fluency in Egyptian.” He claims that the story of Daniel in the lion’s pit recalls the “false story that Joseph was torn apart by a wild beast. . . .” He also uses the Joseph story as the primary lens through which he understands the characters Esther, Solomon, David, and Moses, whom he calls the “anti-Joseph” (Assimilation Versus Separation: Joseph the Administrator and the Politics of Religion in Biblical Israel [New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction, 1993], 127–28). He calls Daniel a “satire” of the Joseph narrative (p. 126). 6 Gnuse, “The Jewish Dream Interpreter in a Foreign Court: The Recurring Use of a Theme in Jewish Literature,” JSP 7 (1990): 29–53; Labonté, “Genèse 41 et Daniel 2: question d’ori-gine,” in The Book of Daniel in the Light of New Findings (ed. A. S. van der Woude; BETL 106; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1993), 271–84. 7 Gnuse lists the following similarities that others have observed: the form-critical similarities of the two dream accounts; the identity of the dream interpreter as a Jewish boy in a “hostile foreign court”; the hero being “entrusted with future responsibilities” after the dream report; and the contrast between the hero’s “gift of wisdom bestowed by God” and the “failure of human or pagan wisdom” (“Jewish Dream,” 38–40). 8 Gnuse lists the following similarities (“Jewish Dream,” 40): the imprisonment of Joseph and Daniel (Daniel 6); descriptions of each as “handsome” (Dan 1:4); each boy impressing foreigners with wisdom (cf. Dan 1:4, 20); the work of each youth, prior to interpreting the dream, in the “administration of assigned tasks” (cf. Dan 1:17-20); and the resistance of each youth to “the temptation of women or food” (Dan 1:8-16). (Utilizing Daniel 1 and 6 as evidence for parallels between the two narratives is odd given Gnuse’s stated objective of comparing Genesis 41 with Daniel 2 and 4.) 9 Ibid., 41. 4
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(“your God is God of gods and Lord of kings and a revealer of mysteries”).10 Regardless, Gnuse and I differ in the scope of our comparative work; he is interested in parallels between Genesis 41 and any aspect of Daniel, whereas I restrict my comparison to Daniel 2. More importantly, Gnuse does not acknowledge the consistent ways in which Daniel 2 contrasts the character of Daniel with Joseph. His lack of attention to such contrasts flattens the disparate ways in which Joseph and Daniel are characterized.11 Labonté notes several commonalities between the portrayals of Joseph and Daniel in Genesis 41 and Daniel 2.12 Following Philip R. Davies, he mentions seven specific similarities between these two chapters.13 Labonté adds two details to Davies’s list: each tale begins with a temporal note, and in each story there is recognition of the divine presence with the hero.14 Like Gnuse, Labonté seeks comparisons beyond the scope of Daniel 2 and also exaggerates some of these comparisons.15 Neither Gnuse nor Labonté notes any of the substantive ways in which Daniel is portrayed differently from Joseph,16 and Labonté thus avers that Genesis 41 and Daniel 2 carry “the same message.”17 The distinct perspective of each narrative is thereby muted. Nor is any sense conveyed of the manner in which the character of Daniel is presented as a reworked Joseph. After noting multiple similarities between these two texts, I will identify particular patterns that emerge concerning how Daniel 2 reconfigures Genesis 41.
10
Ibid. Ibid., 48: “So it is possible to draw a general parallel that all three dream interpreters provide a stern and honest message, unlike the usual flattery of the divinators.” Gnuse finds in both Genesis 41 and Daniel 2 the same primary message: “Cooperation with the lords of the land in which you live in order to bring divine blessing to all would be a meaningful message for the Diaspora” (“Jewish Dream,” 31). Difficulties with such claims will be demonstrated below. 12 Labonté notes that each character is a young Hebrew, is placed in a foreign environment, seeks to remain faithful to God, is associated with a priestly class and appointed to a government post following the interpretation of the dream; and each represents Israel and its difficulties integrating into a world with little respect for its faith (“Genèse 41 et Daniel 2,” 271–73). 13 Labonté cites the following: the king has a dream; he is bothered by the dream; the wise courtiers cannot interpret the dream; a member of the court presents an “unknown” Hebrew captive; this “hero” has confidence that God will reveal the sense of the dream to him; the hero affirms that God has revealed the future to the king; and the hero succeeds and is promoted (“Genèse 41 et Daniel 2,” 276–77). See Philip R. Davies, “Daniel. Chapter Two,” JTS 27 (1976): 392–401. 14 Labonté, “Genèse 41 et Daniel 2,” 277. This latter point, although true, needs to be nuanced to bring out the differences in the two accounts. 15 See, e.g., his claim that, as with Joseph, Daniel’s “beauty” (Dan 1:4) reflects the author’s attempt to express God’s continued presence with Daniel (“Genèse 41 et Daniel 2,” 272). 16 Labonté does recognize that Daniel’s task of interpretation is more difficult than that of Joseph and that the opposition between Daniel and the Babylonians is accented more sharply than that between Joseph and the Egyptian courtiers (“Genèse 41 et Daniel 2,” 279). 17 Labonté, “Genèse 41 et Daniel 2,” 280: “Ils portent aussi le même message.” 11
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Such patterns indicate a few of the distinct and pressing concerns of the author(s) of Daniel 2. Daniel 2 evinces an interest, for example, in the question of the relationship between Jews and a foreign empire. I will argue that, in its reworking of Genesis 41, Daniel 2 provides an ideal model for how Jews are to relate to, and function within, a foreign empire. In addition to discussing how the author adapts the Joseph material, I explore the likely effects of such a reconfiguration on the authorial reader/hearer of Daniel 2. I am thus interested in the diachronic influence of Genesis 41 on Daniel 2, and the intertextuality that would exist between these two texts for the authorial audience of Daniel 2.18
I. Similarities between Daniel 2 and Genesis 41 Eighteen specific similarities exist between the plot structures of Genesis 41 and Daniel 2. (1) Each narrative begins with the ruler of a nation who has a dream (Mlx) (Gen 41:1; Dan 2:1).19 (2) The timing of each dream is associated with “two years.”20 (3) Each dream results in the ruler’s spirit being troubled (wxwr M(ptw/ wxwr M(pttw) (Gen 41:8; Dan 2:1). (4) The ruler responds to the dream and his troubled spirit by calling for magicians (ym+rx . . . )rqyw/Mym+rxl )rql) and others 18
Benjamin D. Sommer defines “influence” as the way in which a text “evokes its antecedents, how one author is affected by another” (A Prophet Reads Scripture: Allusion in Isaiah 40– 66 [Contraversions; Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1998], 6–7). He understands intertextuality to refer to the “manifold connections between a text . . . and other texts.” Such connections may exist “whether the authors of the texts knew each other or not.” This latter perspective allows for a greater focus on the effect of interactions between texts on a reader. Richard B. Hays and Joel B. Green define intertextuality as “the notion that every text embodies the interplay of other texts and so exists as a node within a larger literary and interpretive network” (“The Use of the Old Testament by New Testament Writers,” in Hearing the New Testament: Strategies for Interpretation [ed. Joel B. Green; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995], 222–38, esp. 228). Warren Carter defines an authorial audience as “a contextualized implied reader” that is reconstructed from the “interrelation between the text and the context in which the work was produced” (Matthew and Empire: Initial Explorations [Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2001], 4–5). 19 A. Leo Oppenheim notes that dreams in the ancient Near East typically appear to kings or to priests (The Interpretation of Dreams in the Ancient Near East: With a Translation of an Assyrian Dream-Book [Transactions of the American Philosophical Society n.s. 46; Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1956], 184). Nebuchadnezzar dreamed dreams (twmlx). John E. Goldingay suggests that the plural may refer to the “double dream in Genesis 41” (Daniel [WBC 30; Dallas: Word Books, 1988], 30). 20 Mymy Mytn# Cqm (Gen 41:1); Myt# tn#bw (Dan 2:1). That this similarity may not be a mere coincidence is suggested by the first line of the Greek version of Esther, which situates Mordecai’s dream in the “second year [ἔτους δευτέρου] of the reign of Artaxerxes.” The MT begins the story of Esther in the third year of the king’s reign (1:1). Might the problematic nature of setting Dan 2:1 in the second year of the reign of Nebuchadnezzar (given that Daniel has yet to finish his training from ch. 1) be explained by influence from Genesis 41?
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(Gen 41:8; Dan 2:2). (5) Those called before the king are incapable of providing what he desires (Gen 41:8c; Dan 2:10–11). (6) A new character is introduced who serves as an intermediary between the king and a potential dream interpreter.21 This potential dream interpreter functions in the narrative as a signal of hope that the ruler’s dream may be interpreted (Gen 41:12–13; Dan 2:16). (7) The intermediary identifies the ethnicity of the potential dream interpreter.22 (8) The dream interpreter is brought before the ruler (Gen 41:14; Dan 2:25). (9) The ruler initiates dialogue by speaking to the interpreter regarding the interpreter’s ability to interpret (rtp/r#p) dreams (Gen 41:15; Dan 2:26).23 (10) The interpreter responds (N(yw rm)w . . . hn(/rm)l . . . ) with a twofold answer in which he downplays his own role in the interpretive process and highlights God’s role as the one who is able to interpret dreams (Gen 41:16; Dan 2:27–30). (11) The content of the dream is described (Gen 41:17–24a; Dan 2:31–35).24 (12) In each case the dream is a “symbolic” dream.25 (13) The interpreter provides an interpretation of the dream (Gen 41:25– 31; Dan 2:36–45a.). (14) The dream is interpreted to refer to future events (Gen 41:25, 28–31; Dan 2:39–45a).26 (15) The interpreter emphasizes the certainty or trustworthiness of the interpretation (Gen 41:32; Dan 2:45c). (16) The ruler is pleased with the interpreter’s response (Gen 41:37; Dan 2:46). (17) The ruler affirms the ability of the interpreter and acknowledges God’s role in the interpretive process (Gen 41:39; Dan 2:47). (18) The ruler rewards the interpreter by giving him gifts and a promotion to rule over an entire (lk l() region (Gen 41:41; Dan 2:48).27
21
The cupbearer and a “young Hebrew” (Gen 41:9–13); Arioch and Daniel (Dan 2:12–16). Joseph is called a “young Hebrew” (yrb( r(n) (41:12); Daniel is “a man from the exiles of Judah” ()twlg ynb-Nm rbg) (2:25). 23 In Genesis the word is a verbal form; in Daniel it is a noun. In Biblical Hebrew, rtp (as a noun and verb) occurs only in Genesis 40–41. Oppenheim notes that in the ancient Near Eastern court setting it would be the custom for the subject to speak only after being addressed by the king (Interpretation, 204). 24 Oppenheim understands Gen 41:16 to reflect a customary wish by the interpreter that the dreams “might portend something favorable” for the dreamer (Interpretation, 204–5). 25 Oppenheim distinguishes between a “message” dream in which a clear instruction is given from a deity and a “symbolic” dream, which, owing to its imagistic nature, requires interpretation (Interpretation, 197–217). He observes a significant difference between the dreams of Genesis 41 and Daniel 2: “The ‘symbols’ of [Joseph] are taken from life and express the hidden meaning of the message solely by their extraordinary actions, while those of [Daniel] are far more fantastic in their nature, and their setting is in a peculiar frame of reality” (p. 210). 26 This similarity may be redundant since Oppenheim notes that all symbolic dreams refer to future events (Interpretation, 207). Carol Newsom has suggested in conversation that, while Nabonidus’s dream, in which he sees Nebuchadnezzar standing on a chariot, may be an exception, it remains unclear when his dream occurs in relation to its telling. 27 Three gifts are given in Gen 41:42: a signet ring, garments of fine linen, and a gold chain. The placement of the latter gift upon Joseph’s neck (wr)wc-l( bhzh dbr) is noteworthy given the later parallel in Daniel (hr)wc-l( )bhd-yd) (Dan 5:7, 16, 29). 22
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In addition to these specific similarities there is the more patent one of a Jew serving in the court of a foreign king. Parallels also exist between the assignment of characters in Genesis 41 and Daniel 2. In each narrative, the characters can be categorized into one of four groups: the ruler (Pharaoh/Nebuchadnezzar); the magicians and those who fail to interpret the dream; the interpreter of the dream (Joseph/Daniel); and the person who functions as an intermediary between the ruler and the interpreter (cupbearer/Arioch). The numerous specific similarities (lexical and thematic) between these two narratives suggest that Daniel 2 is a conscious reworking of Genesis 41.28
II. Daniel: A “New and Improved” Joseph The multiple parallels between Daniel 2 and Genesis 41 make the differences between the two narratives all the more significant. Furthermore, the dissimilarities between Daniel 2 and Genesis 41 are consistent in nature, reflecting the existence of three distinct patterns. Each pattern depicts Daniel to be superior to Joseph. In particular, Daniel exceeds Joseph in regard to his ability as a dream interpreter, his piety, and the nature of his relationship to the foreign imperial power.
Dream Interpreter Par Excellence A number of differences in the two narratives reveal Daniel to be a dream interpreter superior to Joseph. One of the ways that Daniel exceeds Joseph as a dream interpreter concerns the consistent manner in which the crisis of the narrative is intensified in Daniel 2. Though the dream causes the spirits of both Pharaoh and Nebuchadnezzar to be troubled (wxwr M(ptw/wxwr M(pttw), Nebuchadnezzar is the only one to lose sleep over the matter (wyl( htyhn wtn#w) (Gen 41:8; Dan 2:1).29 In addition, Nebuchadnezzar himself later testifies to the fact that his spirit is troubled (yxwr M(ptw) (2:3), a repetition in the first person that is absent from the Genesis account. Though each ruler calls magicians (ym+rx/Mym+rx) to help interpret the dream, Nebuchadnezzar also summons enchanters (Myp#)), sorcerers (Myp#k), and Chaldeans (Myd#k) (2:2).30 The most significant manner in which 28
In 1835, David Friedrich Strauss, relying primarily on similarities between Daniel 1 and Genesis 37–50, argued that the story of Daniel was modeled on that of Joseph (The Life of Jesus Critically Examined [trans. George Eliot; repr., Mifflintown, PA: Sigler, 2002], 85). 29 For a translation of the phrase as “he was overcome by sleep,” see Goldingay, Daniel, 30; Shaul Bar, A Letter That Has Not Been Read: Dreams in the Hebrew Bible (trans. Lenn J. Schramm; Monographs of the Hebrew Union College 25; Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 2001), 73. This particular rendering would comport more with those who explain the king’s demand to hear his dream as a result of his having forgotten it. 30 Pharaoh also summons “all the wise men” (Gen 41:8).
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the crisis is intensified in Daniel 2 concerns the specific requirement of Nebuchadnezzar and the stated consequences for failing to provide what he desires. Whereas Pharaoh tells the magicians and wise men his dream and seeks an interpretation, Nebuchadnezzar demands to be told not only the interpretation of his dream but the content of the dream as well (2:2). This demand (wytmlx Klml dyghl) marks the sharpest departure from the plot of Genesis 41. The narrative importance of Nebuchadnezzar’s command to be told his dream is indicated by six references to this demand (Dan 2:2–9). The dialogue between Nebuchadnezzar and the Chaldeans (2:2–9) simultaneously demonstrates the sheer impossibility of fulfilling the king’s request as well as the king’s refusal to withdraw his decree. The Chaldeans provide four specific reasons why they should not be expected to tell Nebuchadnezzar his dream. They first claim that “there is no one on earth” ()t#by-l( #n) yty)-)l) who can accomplish such a task (2:10). Second, no king has ever made such a request to any magician, enchanter, or Chaldean (2:10). The repetition of lk in this statement underlines the seriousness of the Chaldeans’ claim. Third, the matter is simply “too difficult” (hryqy) (2:11). Finally, the only ones capable of revealing the dream to the king are the gods (Nyhl)) (2:11). Each of these remonstrations increases the stature of Daniel once he accomplishes that which the Chaldeans claimed was impossible. During his dialogue with the Chaldeans, Nebuchadnezzar continually repeats his demand to be told the content of his dream.31 The Chaldeans indicate that they will give an interpretation once they have heard the dream’s content (2:4).32 Nebuchadnezzar clarifies his demand to hear “the dream and its interpretation” (hr#pw )mlx) (2:5). The intensity of the king’s demand is reflected in his insistence that his decree is sure ()dz) ynm )tlm) (2:5). More important for the fate of the Chaldeans is the consequence of losing their limbs and property if they fail to tell the king his dream (2:5). This threat no doubt explains some of the passion with which the Chaldeans subsequently argue before their king. Nebuchadnezzar also promises rewards if they do succeed in telling him “the dream and its interpretation” (hr#pw )mlx) (2:6). The king concludes his speech by reiterating his (and the narrator’s) emphasis on knowing the dream as well as the interpretation: )mlx Nhl ynwxh hr#pw (2:6). The demand to know the dream as well as its interpretation continues to dominate this dialogue in the Chaldeans’ subsequent response to the king. They repeat their prior request (twnynt) from 2:4 to hear the dream before
31
Reference is first made to the king’s demand in 2:2. Seow understands this response as an indication that the “Chaldeans are oblivious to the nature of the king’s request” (Daniel, 38.) For him, the Chaldeans will not understand that the king wants to know both the dream and the interpretation until 2:10. Yet the Chaldeans’ reiteration of their request in 2:7, after clearly hearing the king demand to know the dream as well as its interpretation, poses a problem for Seow’s interpretation. I also fail to understand what in the text causes him to read 2:3 as a request to hear both the dream and its interpretation (Daniel, 38, 39). 32
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they give their interpretation (2:7). The king’s response focuses again on his demand to hear the dream (2:9a, 9b). The king’s requirement to hear the content of the dream is thus repeated four times in his dialogue with the Chaldeans (2:5, 6, 9a, 9b).33 This same demand is also the primary focus in the question the king later poses to Daniel (2:26). The intensification of the crisis in Daniel 2, over against that in Genesis 41, highlights not only differences between Nebuchadnezzar and Pharaoh but also the arduous nature of the obstacles that Daniel (and God) must overcome in order to interpret the dream successfully. Whereas Joseph is depicted as successfully interpreting Pharaoh’s dream, Daniel both accurately discerns the content of the king’s dream and interprets it.34 Moreover, the ramifications of failing to provide the dream and its interpretation would be much more severe for Daniel than for Joseph. No consequence is mentioned in Genesis 41 for failing to give Pharaoh the interpretation of his dream. For Daniel, however, and for the rest of the wise men in Babylon, providing the interpretation and the dream is a matter of life and death, of being dismembered and having their houses reduced to ruins (2:5). Daniel’s skill as an interpreter over that of Joseph is indicated also by the confidence he expresses in his ability to provide an interpretation. On two separate occasions he promises to make known the interpretation (2:16, 24). Joseph makes no such promise.35 Moreover, Daniel is the one who initiates going before the king (2:14, 16, 24)—this again in contrast to Joseph, who is called up out of prison (41:14).36 Lastly, and alluded to above, whereas Pharaoh informs Joseph of the content of the dream (41:17–24), Daniel is the one to reveal the dream’s content to Nebuchadnezzar (2:31–35).
Piety The second manner in which Daniel is presented as superior to Joseph is in regard to piety. A noteworthy element in the Daniel narrative that is absent from Genesis 41 is the prayer of Daniel (2:17–23). His prayer is all the more striking given the fact that not once, throughout Genesis 37–50, is Joseph ever portrayed as one who prays. His lack of prayer makes him an anomaly among the ancestors, each of whom is described as communicating in some manner with God.37 Joseph 33 Despite this focus on the dream and its interpretation, reference is made only to the “interpretation” and not to the “dream” in 2:16, 24, and 25. 34 Seow considers the king’s demand to know the dream and its interpretation to be a possible reference to the Joseph story: “Perhaps the narrator wants to show that Daniel was even more gifted than Joseph” (Daniel, 38). 35 Joseph does say that God will give Pharaoh an answer Mwl#-t) (41:16). 36 In 4QDana, l( appears only once. The word is duplicated in the MT. See Collins, Daniel, 3. 37 Some type of communication with God is experienced by Abraham (Gen 12:1–3, 7, 8; 15:1–21; 17:1–22; 18:23–33; 21:12–13; 22:1–2), Isaac (25:21; 26:2–5, 24–25), Jacob (28:12–16; 31:3; 32:9–12, 24–30; 35:1, 9–12), Rebekah (25:23), and Hagar (16:8–12; 21:17–18).
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speaks of God but never to or with God.38 Whereas Joseph claims that God is the source of his interpretation (Gen 41:16), Daniel’s prayer demonstrates such a belief. It is, moreover, Daniel’s consistent practice of prayer that results in his persecution in ch. 6.39 His habit of praying regularly is underscored by the twofold claim that thrice daily he would fall on his face, pray, and give thanks, and that this activity was customary (hnd tmdq-Nm db( )wh-yd lbq-lk) (6:11). The content of the prayer (2:17–23) extols certain virtues of Daniel. Crediting God with giving “wisdom to the wise” (Nymykxl )tmkx) (2:21) and thanking God for giving himself wisdom ()tmkx) (2:23) are claims for Daniel’s own level of wisdom. One can likewise infer, based on 2:21c, that Daniel is a person of “understanding” (hnyb). Although wisdom (hmkx) and power (hrwbg) belong to God (2:20), they have each been given to Daniel (2:23). This inclusio in the prayer draws attention to both God and Daniel as bearers of wisdom and might.40 Acknowledging God as the source of his interpretation in the first dream that he interprets also reveals Daniel to be more “humble” than Joseph. In Genesis 37– 50 Joseph is presented as maturing in humility as the narrative progresses. In Joseph’s first two dreams, no mention is made of God’s role in the interpretive process. Moreover, these early dreams of Joseph point to his clear exaltation over his kin. In the second pair of dreams, those of the baker and cupbearer, Joseph does mention God, albeit briefly and in an interrogative form: Mynrtp Myhl)l )wlh (“Do not interpretations belong to God?”) (40:8). In the third pair of dreams, Joseph is more emphatic about God’s role in the interpretive process: hn(y Myhl) yd(lb (“It is not in me; God will answer”) (41:16; cf. 41:25, 28). In contrast, Daniel is portrayed from the outset as one who points to God as the source of his “interpretive” gift. Furthermore, Daniel’s own dismissal of any unique interpretative ability on his part is more straightforward than that of Joseph: “this mystery has not been revealed to me because of any wisdom that I have more than any other living being” (2:30).41 38
At least not in the canonical text. The Testament of Joseph has Joseph praying to God that he will be rescued from Potiphar’s wife (4:4; 7:5); “I prayed a whole day and a whole night” (8:1); “[I] sang praise in the house of darkness” (8:5). These imaginative additions supply what is recognized as an odd absence in the biblical text. The Greek version of Esther contains similar types of pietistic embellishments. On the ways in which different genres might influence different types of prayer, see Patrick D. Miller, They Cried to the Lord: The Form and Theology of Biblical Prayer (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1994); Judith H. Newman, Praying by the Book: The Scripturalization of Prayer in Second Temple Judaism (SBLEJL 14; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1999). 39 I recognize that chs. 2 and 6 originated in different contexts and circulated apart from one another and may have been brought together only at a later date. Notwithstanding this concession, the effect on the reader of the final form of the text would nonetheless still be one in which Daniel’s habit of praying presents him in a superior light to Joseph. 40 Because of their similarities, Collins sees the prayer and the doxologies in 3:33; 4:31–32; and 6:27–28 as redactional elements: “The doxology in 2:20–23 stands apart from the others because of its greater emphasis on the theme of revelation and may have been added at a later stage” (Daniel, 35). 41 One might attribute differences (here and elsewhere) between Genesis 41 and Daniel 2
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The response of Pharaoh and Nebuchadnezzar following the interpretation of their dream is also telling. Although both rulers affirm the interpreter and God, there is a marked difference in the quality of these affirmations. Pharaoh does acknowledge that God is the one who has revealed both the interpretation and the pragmatic proposal to Joseph. Yet such recognition serves merely as a prelude to praising Joseph as one who has more discernment and wisdom than anyone else (41:39). Conversely, Nebuchadnezzar confesses that Daniel’s God is “god of gods and lord of kings” (Nyklm )rmw Nyhl) hl)) (2:47). Prefacing this declaration with +#q-Nm (“truly”) emphasizes the assurance with which Nebuchadnezzar makes this confession. The king’s description of God as one who reveals mysteries (Nyzr hlg) comports with Daniel’s own previous characterization of God (Nyzr )lg/)yzr )lg) (2:28, 29). Thus, Nebuchadnezzar’s “confession” espouses an appropriate theology given the broader literary context of Daniel. The king has been converted to Daniel’s perception of God.42 Perhaps most signifiant, however, is the manner in which the king’s confession inverts the syntactical relationship between God and the interpreter.43 Nebuchadnezzar’s confession is a result of Daniel’s being able to reveal this mystery (2:47). Whereas God functions in Pharaoh’s statement as a reason for the greatness of Joseph, in Nebuchadnezzar’s confession it is Daniel who serves as the reason for a belief in the greatness of God (Gen 41:39; Dan 2:47). In other words, God’s role elevates the status of Joseph in Pharaoh’s eyes, while Daniel elevates the status of God in the eyes of Nebuchadnezzar.
Relating to (and Resisting) the Imperial Empire A third area in which Joseph surpasses Daniel concerns the relationship between the interpreter and the imperial order. A number of alternatives exist for to a difference in literary genre (Genesis 41, and the broader Joseph narrative, as “wisdom,” and Daniel 2 as a “diaspora tale”). The presence of sapiential motifs in each text suggests, however, that their respective genres are not fundamentally divergent. On wisdom elements in the Joseph narrative, see Gerhard von Rad, “The Joseph Narrative and Ancient Wisdom,” in idem, The Problem of the Hexateuch and Other Essays (Edinburgh/London: Oliver & Boyd, 1966), 292–300; repr. in Studies in Ancient Israelite Wisdom (ed. James L. Crenshaw; Library of Biblical Studies; New York: Ktav, 1976), 439–47. For a classification of Daniel 1–6 as “didactic wisdom narratives,” see Rendtorff, Old Testament, 110–11. On wisdom motifs in Daniel 1–6, see Richard A. Horsley, “The Politics of Cultural Production in Second Temple Judea: Historical Context and Political-Religious Relations of the Scribes Who Produced 1 Enoch, Sirach, and Daniel,” in Conflicted Boundaries in Wisdom and Apocalypticism (ed. Benjamin G. Wright III and Lawrence M. Wills; SBLSymS 35; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2005), 123–45, esp. 141–44. 42 The “conversion” of a foreign and oppressive ruler is a motif that 2 Macc 9:12–17 applies, albeit much more comprehensively, to Antiochus IV. 43 Nebuchadnezzar’s confession is an important motif in Daniel, appearing also in chs. 4 and 5. Bel and the Dragon (41) also concludes with a confession of the king.
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how a minority group such as the Jews might relate to a foreign imperial power under which they live. At the opposite ends of this spectrum are full assimilation and total rejection. Between these two extremes exists a wide range involving varying degrees of accommodation, integration, withdrawal, segregation, and resistance. I contend that Daniel 2, as well as Daniel 1–6, provides an alternative example to that of Joseph for how a Jew might relate to, and function within, a foreign imperial power. Considering Joseph to be an unfortunate example of extreme assimilation, the author of Daniel 2 offers Daniel as a model of “moderate resistance.”44 There are certainly some ways in which Daniel’s relationship with the empire is presented as similar to that of Joseph. Each, for instance, is accommodated to the imperial culture by receiving a foreign name (Gen 41:45; Dan 1:7). Notwithstanding a few similarities, a pattern emerges in which Daniel is consistently portrayed, in contrast to the assimilation of Joseph, as one who resists the claims of empire. The dream interpretations provided by Daniel and Joseph aptly illustrate their disparate relationships toward the empire. Joseph’s interpretation of Pharaoh’s dream and the subsequent advice he provides assist in the survival and growth of Pharaoh’s empire. Pharaoh is warned about a potential catastrophe, and he is provided with practical advice concerning how to avoid the impending crisis. There is nothing in Joseph’s interpretation that in any way challenges the right of Pharaoh to rule. His skills are used to further the ends of Pharaoh’s empire.45 On the other hand, Daniel’s interpretation declares the future collapse of Nebuchadnezzar’s kingdom. Daniel makes clear to the Babylonian king that his kingdom is coming to an end and that there is nothing the Babylonian king can do about it. God has disclosed “what will happen at the end of days” ()ymwy tyrx)b )whl yd hm) (2:28).46 The promotions each interpreter receives following the successful dream interpretations also demonstrate a distinct difference in terms of relationship with imperial power. Although Daniel is given “many great gifts,” these do not seem as grand as the Pharaoh’s signet ring, garments of “fine linen,” and a “gold chain” (Gen
44 I am not suggesting that Genesis 41 and Daniel 2 emerged from an identical social group or era, but rather that Daniel 2 sees in Genesis 41 a relevant issue given the former’s specific social context. 45 It is thus necessary to provide a caveat to Walter Brueggemann, who claims that Genesis 41 offers a “refutation of the wisdom and technique of the empire. It is a challenge to the epistemology of Pharaoh. Egyptian ways of knowing are called into question. Knowledge is power. And now imperial knowledge has failed” (Genesis: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching [Interpretation; Atlanta: John Knox, 1982], 326). Although Joseph’s wisdom trumps that of the Egyptians, the chapter ends with him being fully absorbed into the life of imperial Egypt. Thus, Joseph’s “knowledge” no longer stands apart from the empire but is now a part of it and is given in service to it. 46 Both Theodotion and the Old Greek further emphasize Nebuchadnezzar’s inability to determine future events by intensifying this promise to read: “what must happen . . .” (ἃ δεῖ γενέσθαι).
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41:42; Dan 2:48).47 Following his promotion, Joseph proceeds to enter fully into the administrative life of imperial Egypt (41:46–49, 53–57). Although Daniel is promoted to rule over all of the province of Babylon and is prefect over all the wise men of Babylon, his status does not appear to be as high-ranking as Joseph, who is given authority over all the land of Egypt and is second only to Pharaoh (41:45). Joseph also receives both an Egyptian name and an Egyptian wife (41:45). Daniel is given a new name but takes no foreign wife. Though the lack of any reference to Daniel being married may be due to his status as a eunuch, it is more likely attributable to the consistent attempt to portray him as resisting certain aspects of the imperial empire. In any event, in his newfound status Joseph exceeds Daniel. Yet the author of Daniel 2 would most likely understand Joseph’s promotion as a decline. Such a view was expressed by Philo, who comments on Joseph’s promotion: “But that one at any rate even climbs upon the second chariot, becoming arrogant by a fluctuating mind and vain conceit” (Somn. 2.6.46). Philo’s comment is not without merit. There are clear hints in the Genesis text that Joseph consistently sought to advance his professional status. First are the dreams Joseph has regarding his family bowing down to him (Gen 37:5–11). Referring to these dreams Philo notes: “Also displayed is the element of vain opinion, upon which he mounts as upon a chariot on account of his levity, being puffed up and lifted up, raising himself for the destruction of equality” (Somn. 2.2.16).48 Second is Joseph’s explicit request to be remembered by the cupbearer so as not to remain in prison (Gen 40:14–15). Third is the way that Joseph’s suggestion to Pharaoh could be read as a submission of his own résumé (41:33–36).49 Regardless, Joseph’s process of cultural and religious assimilation is virtually complete.50 When Joseph’s brothers come to Egypt for food, Joseph interacts with them more as an Egyptian ruler than as a fellow Hebrew, much less as kin. In contrast to Joseph, Daniel consistently identifies more with his fellow Jews than with the Babylonians during his trials in Babylon. Even after his own promotion, Daniel’s concern is to secure appointments for his colleagues (2:49). Whereas Joseph repeatedly assimilates to the Egyptian regime, the first act attributed to Daniel, that of refusing the king’s diet, is emblematic of his consistent action of resisting the empire (1:8–17). 47
Daniel will later receive a gold chain (5:7, 16, 29). See n. 27 above. Philo, Somn. 2.12.78–80. Translations of Philo are my own. 49 The self-referential nature of Joseph’s recommendation is suggested by the repetition of “discerning and wise” (Mkxw Nwbn) in Gen 41:33, 39. Brueggemann understands Joseph’s actions more sympathetically: “Joseph’s concrete proposal is without guile. There is no hint that Joseph refers to himself ” (Genesis, 332). 50 Wildavsky probably goes too far in reading Joseph’s shaving prior to appearing before Pharaoh (41:14) as an expression of assimilation. He claims that it was a common practice for Egyptians to shave their faces and also their heads: “Only foreigners and people of inferior ranks are pictured wearing beards” (Assimilation, 119). 48 Cf.
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A fundamental way in which Daniel resists the claims of empire is by stressing Nebuchadnezzar’s status as subordinate to God.51 Daniel declares to Nebuchadnezzar that his kingdom (wklm), power (Nsx), might (Pqt) and glory (rqy) have been given to him by the God of heaven (2:37). Daniel thus describes the relationship between Nebuchadnezzar and God as that of a vassal and lord, in which the former is dependent for his sovereignty upon the latter. Daniel declares Nebuchadnezzar to be contingent and not absolute. The dependency of the Babylonian king is reinforced with Daniel’s prediction of the destruction of Nebuchadnezzar’s kingdom (2:44–45).52 Furthermore, in Daniel’s prayer the subordinate status of Nebuchadnezzar to God is implied in the description of God as one who “deposes kings and establishes kings” (Nyklm Myqhmw Nyklm hd(hm) (2:21). In its claim for God’s sovereignty over against that of any king (2:21), Daniel’s own prayer (2:20–23) can be read as an act of resistance against Nebuchadnezzar. In addition, Daniel contrasts the destruction of Nebuchadnezzar’s kingdom (2:40, 44) with the kingdom of God, which shall never be destroyed (2:44).53 God’s kingdom will crush “all of the other kingdoms, and bring them to an end” including that of Nebuchadnezzar (2:44).54 The wklm (“kingdom”) functions as a poignant symbolic tool with which Daniel can address fundamental concerns such as who is truly sovereign and who is truly in control.55 Daniel’s resistance to the ruling empire continues in the additional court tales, wherein harsh judgments are consistently brought against the ruling kings.56 Daniel issues a judgment against Nebuchadnezzar for failing to recognize that it is the Most High who is “sovereign over human dominion and that he gives it to whomsoever he wishes” (4:22 [Eng. 4:17]). Here is an elaboration of Daniel’s previous claim that God is the one who has given Nebuchadnezzar his position as king (2:37–38). Nebuchadnezzar’s kingdom will be returned to him only when he recognizes that “heaven is sovereign” (4:23 [Eng. 4:26]). Daniel even challenges the king to atone for his sins by almsgiving and for his iniquities by being merciful to
51 Daniel’s opening line to the king in 2:27 can be read as a type of resistance in that he agrees here with the Chaldeans and their protest against the unfair demand of the king. 52 Considering this prognostication of destruction, I disagree with Collins, who considers Daniel’s identification of Nebuchadnezzar as the head of gold to be a statement of flattery (Apocalyptic Vision, 10). 53 The issue of resistance to the imperial power is one motif that provides a strong link between the dream’s content and interpretation (2:31–45) and the preceding narrative (2:1–30). 54 In Daniel 7 God’s kingdom is again shown to be superior to the kingdoms of the earth. In contrast to earthly kingdoms, God’s kingdom is “an everlasting kingdom, and all the dominions will serve and obey it” (7:27). Gnuse suggests that the very use of a “visual-symbolic” dream is intended to “criticize the high view of kingship prevalent in the ancient world” (“Jewish Dream Interpreter,” 32). 55 I thank Carol A. Newsom for this insight. 56 Chapter 3, though not involving Daniel, depicts an act of resistance against the empire by three Jews who refuse to worship the god of Nebuchadnezzar and the statue he set up (3:12, 18).
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the poor (4:24). The voice from heaven (4:29 [Eng. 4:25]) confirms Daniel’s judgment, namely, that Nebuchadnezzar needs to recognize that it is the Most High who is “sovereign over human dominion,” and that God gives it to whomsoever God wishes. Daniel issues a judgment against Belshazzar for exalting himself against (l() the God of heaven (5:23). The death of Belshazzar that very night confirms the accuracy of Daniel’s judgment (5:30). Daniel’s refusal to accept the gifts and presents of the king can also be construed as an act of resistance against imperial claims (5:17). The refrain regarding Nebuchadnezzar needing to learn that it is the Most High God who is “sovereign over the human realm and that he is the one who appoints whomsoever he wishes over it” is repeated for the benefit of Belshazzar (5:21). In each of these three settings, Daniel makes clear to the king that the latter’s power and rule are a gift from, and therefore subordinate to, God Most High.57 Accordingly, the king is obliged to recognize his true status before and beneath God and to treat God Most High appropriately. The arrogance evidenced by Nebuchadnezzar and Belshazzar exemplifies the very antithesis of such proper treatment. Depicted repeatedly is Daniel’s resistance to the Babylonian empire, in contrast to the assimilating practices of Joseph.58
III. Reconfiguring Joseph into a New and Improved Daniel In his ability to interpret dreams, his piety, and his resistance to foreign imperial rule, Daniel is consistently presented as a “new and improved” version of Joseph. How might one explain the need or desire for the author to present Daniel in such a light? Here I shift my attention from the author’s reconfiguration of the Joseph narrative to explore the potential meaning and effect such a reconfiguration may have had on Jewish hearers and readers of Daniel 2.59 To answer this question,
57 In this regard, Josephus’s comment on Daniel is puzzling: “ . . . and while the prophets would foretell ill events, and on this account were displeasing to the kings and the populace, Daniel was to them a prophet of good things [ἀγαθῶν], so that by using words of a good omen in his predictions, he gained the favor of everyone” (Ant. 10.11.7 §268). Louis H. Feldman aptly comments that Josephus “seems to have conveniently forgotten Daniel’s prophecy of evil tidings for Belshazzar” (Josephus’s Interpretation of the Bible [Hellenistic Culture and Society 27; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998], 637 n. 19). This (skewed) portrait of Daniel may be due to what Feldman claims is Josephus’s embarrassment over details such as Daniel’s disobedience to the king’s law (p. 631). 58 Wildavsky treats Daniel 1–6 as “a polemic against Joseph’s surrender to foreign ways by indicating, in the person of Daniel, what Joseph ought to have done” (Assimilation, 127). 59 See Brian K. Blount, Cultural Interpretation: Reorienting New Testament Criticism (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), viii; he prefers to speak of the “potential” meaning of a text: “Texts do not have ‘meaning.’ Instead, they have ‘meaning potential.’ ”
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I will briefly sketch the contours of an intertextual conversation within which the actions of Joseph and Daniel might have been understood by Jews in the Second Temple period. This period is an apt context within which to situate and understand Daniel 2, given our inability, on the one hand, to fix a precise terminus a quo for Daniel and our ability, on the other hand, to set a terminus ad quem. We cannot say with certainty when the court tales originated.60 Yet we do know when they were being heard or read. The earliest known reference to Daniel is 1 Macc 2:60. Additional references to Daniel occur in Josephus, Philo, the Qumran scrolls, and the NT. How would the literary character of Daniel be understood, particularly vis-à-vis Joseph, in the Second Temple period?61 What effect(s) would Daniel 2 have on a Jewish audience familiar with the Joseph narrative in Genesis?62
Jews Living under a Foreign Empire: A Typology of Texts Jewish texts during the Second Temple period evince a wide spectrum of attitudes toward foreign rulers and toward what constituted an appropriate relationship with foreign (read: Gentile) culture. Such concern was no doubt a reflection of the precariousness that characterized the changing relationships between Jews and their foreign rulers. The diversity of views evident in these texts reveals a lively intra-Jewish debate concerning the proper relationship to foreign empires. On one end of the spectrum is 1 Maccabees, which enjoins rejection of foreign culture and empire. Jews who join foreigners are depicted as negatively as the foreigners themselves. “Sons of lawlessness [παράνομοι] came out from Israel and misled [ἀνέπεισαν] many, saying, ‘Let us go and make a covenant with the Gentiles around us, for since we separated from them many evil things have found us’” (1 Macc 1:11). These υἱοὶ παράνομοι were authorized by the king to “observe the ordinances [ποιῆσαι τὰ δικαιώματα] of the Gentiles,” which included build-
60
Collins argues that Daniel 1–6 was composed earlier than 7–12 and that, while the latter is related to the persecution of Antiochus IV, the former is composed in a setting in which there is a “kinder” relationship between Jewish subjects and their foreign monarchs. “The Sitz im Leben . . . implied is not religious persecution but the hazards of the Jewish minority who sought to succeed in the gentile world” (Daniel, 33). For a similar perspective, see Collins, Apocalyptic Vision, 8–11. 61 Shane Kirkpatrick similarly asks how the tales in Daniel 1–6 could have functioned “for second-century Judeans” (Competing for Honor: A Social-Scientific Reading of Daniel 1–6 [Biblical Interpretation Series 74; Leiden: Brill, 2005], 28). He seeks to answer this question by analyzing the role of “honor as a core value” in Daniel 1–6, and how this sociocultural cue would have influenced readers. 62 M. H. Abrams describes such an interest as an example of “pragmatic theories” of literary criticism, those that attend to the effects of a text upon its audience (“Orientation of Critical Theories,” in idem, The Mirror and the Lamp: Romantic Theory and the Critical Tradition [New York: Oxford University Press, 1953], 3–29, esp. 11–16).
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ing a gymnasium in Jerusalem “according to the custom [νόμιμα] of the Gentiles,” removing the marks of circumcision, and abandoning (ἀφίστημι) “the holy covenant” (1 Macc 1:13–15a). The author’s evaluation of such assimilation is quite clear: “They were yoked [ἐζευγίσθησαν] to the Gentiles and sold to do evil” (1 Macc 1:15b). Similar activity is described following the king’s decree: “Even many from Israel acquiesced to his worship [λατρείᾳ] and sacrificed to idols and profaned [ἐβεβήλωσαν] the Sabbath” (1 Macc 1:43).63 Despite condemning such assimilation, 1 Maccabees acknowledges diverse Jewish responses to foreign culture.64 If 1 Maccabees occupies one end of the spectrum, the depiction of Joseph in Genesis 37–50 lies at the opposite extreme. As was noted above, Joseph is presented as an archetypal assimilationist. His goals become inseparably (and literally) wed to those of Pharaoh’s empire. Joseph became Egyptian, and Egypt’s success could not be separated from his own. The characterization of Moses offers a stark contrast to that of Joseph. Though Moses is offered every opportunity of cultural advancement afforded to and accepted by Joseph, he chooses to reject the foreign empire and culture of the Egyptians. The first act ascribed to Moses, that of killing an Egyptian who was beating a Hebrew (Exod 2:11–12), highlights the tension of imperial assimilation. Moses’ first choice concerns whether his loyalty lies with “his people . . . his kinsfolk” (1:11) or with the Egyptians. His act of murder leaves little room for ambiguity. Moses’ subsequent struggle against Pharaoh for the freedom of his people is foreshadowed by and encapsulated in his murder of the Egyptian. The exodus narrative begins with acts of imperial resistance. Two Hebrew women, Shiphrah and Puah, directly disobey Pharaoh’s orders, choosing to save the sons of Hebrew women rather than kill them (Exod 1:15–22). The tension of competing loyalties is present at the outset of the book of Exodus. The acts of the Hebrew midwives, like that of Moses, reflect a cultural identification with their own people over and against that of the Egyptian empire. In terms of relation to foreign rule, Moses is the antitype of Joseph. It takes little imagination to envision how an advocate of the view of 1 Maccabees would judge Joseph’s behavior. Fortunately we need not speculate, since we know how some Jews did evaluate Joseph. Philo, far from espousing the extreme views one finds in 1 Maccabees, nonetheless has strong reservations concerning 63
That other Second Temple Jews perceived assimilation to foreign culture to be a danger is evident in the description of Jason’s hellenizing program (2 Macc 4:7–20), and Josephus’s description of the letters and decrees of Antiochus III concerning Jewish rights (Ant. 12.3.3 §§138–53). 64 Menahem Stern traces these different views to geographic locations, arguing that urban areas produced more “Hellenizers” and rural areas more “conservatives” (“The Period of the Second Temple,” in A History of the Jewish People [ed. H. H. Ben-Sasson; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1976], 183–238, esp. 196–97).
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Joseph’s behavior. Notwithstanding the important differences between 1 Maccabees and Philo regarding date, milieu, and sociocultural context, these texts remain valuable dialogue partners because of their shared concern for a proper relationship to a foreign empire. Significantly, much of Philo’s critique of Joseph centers on the latter’s assimilation to the Egyptian empire. Joseph’s promotion by Pharaoh is “more obscure and ridiculous than defeat and dishonor” (Somn. 2.6.43). Philo associated Joseph’s promotion with a life of unrestrained luxury: And, not least, even his name testifies to his life’s plan and zealous pursuit; for “Joseph,” interpreted, means “addition.” And vain opinion always adds the spurious to the legitimate, the foreign to one’s own, the lie to truth, the superfluous to sufficiency, daintiness to living, and vanity to life. (Somn. 2.6.47)
Philo concludes a lengthy critique of excessive indulgence in food, clothing, housing, and drink by noting: “Therefore the holy word rightly named the enemy of humility and the friend of conceit as ‘Addition’” (Somn. 2.9.63–64). Further evidence of a tradition associating Joseph with luxury comes from the Testament of Joseph, which credits Joseph with declaring, “For those seven years I fasted, and yet seemed to the Egyptians like someone who was living luxuriously” (3:4).65 Joseph acknowledges a perception that his life with Potiphar was characterized by spending time “in royal chambers feast[ing] on delicacies with excess” (9:2–3).66 It is difficult to avoid the impression that the Testament of Joseph offers an apologia for the types of criticisms of Joseph one finds in Philo. The divergent attitudes toward Joseph in Philo and the Testament of Joseph reflect disparate Jewish understandings of what a proper relationship with a foreign imperial power entails. Joseph and Aseneth addresses concerns related to the potentially disturbing religious implications of Joseph’s assimilation to Egyptian culture. This retelling of the Joseph story provides an apology for Joseph’s marriage to the daughter of an Egyptian priest. It is not Joseph but his wife Aseneth who is depicted as abandoning her religion and adopting a new one. Her “conversion,” described primarily in terms of her abandonment of the worship of Egyptian gods, is the most pervasive motif in Joseph and Aseneth.67 Depicting God as the one who chose (ἐκλέγω) Aseneth to be Joseph’s wife absolves Joseph of the responsibility of marrying a foreigner (21:4). Jacob’s blessing of Aseneth and her marriage to Joseph further legitimate his union (22:8–9). 65
H. C. Kee, “Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs,” OTP 1:820. Ibid., 821. 67 See, e.g., 2:3–4; 3:6; 9:2; 10:12–13; 11:8–9, 16; 12:5; 13:11; 19:5; 21:13; 27:10. References are to Christoph Burchard, Joseph und Aseneth (PVTG 5; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 76–78, 88, 122, 134–36, 146, 150, 156–58, 170, 242–44, 264, 318–20. Translations are my own. In response to her abandonment of Egyptian gods, Aseneth’s family hated (μισέω) her, claiming “Aseneth is not our daughter because she destroyed [ἀπώλεσεν] our gods” (11:5). Aseneth later notes that this act of destroying their gods caused her father and mother to disown (ἀρνέομαι) her (12:12). 66
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Joseph and Aseneth also highlights the exclusive nature of Joseph’s own religious commitment. Joseph (at first) refuses to kiss Aseneth on the grounds that this “foreign woman” (γυναῖκα ἀλλοτρίαν) blesses dead and dumb idols, eats from their table bread of strangulation (ἀγχόνη), drinks from their libation a cup of ambush (ἐνέδρας), and anoints herself with ointment of destruction (8:5). The extent of Joseph’s avoidance of Egyptian culture is evident when Aseneth’s family sets a table before him “by itself [κατ᾿ ἰδίαν] since Joseph did not eat with [συνήσθιε μετά] the Egyptians, for this was an abomination [βδέλυγμα] to him” (7:1). This description explicitly departs from the Genesis account, in which the Egyptians are portrayed as unable to eat with (συνεσθίω μετά) the Hebrews since “this is an abomination [βδέλυγμα] to the Egyptians” (Gen 43:32). The roles have been reversed, and Joseph is now cast as the one who eschews cultural assimilation. Moreover, the threefold description of Joseph as a “shepherd’s son from the land of Canaan” (4:10; 6:2; 13:13) underscores his identity as a non-Egyptian. Joseph’s religious commitment, never in doubt, is evident in the appellations he receives. He is called “the Powerful One of God” (ὁ δυνατὸς τοῦ θεοῦ; 3:4; 4:7; 18:1, 2; 21:21), “son of God” (υἱὸς τοῦ θεοῦ; 6:3, 5), and the “firstborn son of God” (ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ θεοῦ ὁ πρωτότοκος; 21:4; 23:10).68 Aseneth’s father describes Joseph as a God-fearer (θεοσεβής) and claims that God’s spirit is upon him and that the grace (χάρις) of the Lord is with him (4:7). Joseph also describes himself as a θεοσεβής (8:5; 21:1) and as one who “blesses with his mouth the living God” (8:5). The narrator confirms this description, calling Joseph meek, merciful, and one who fears (φοβέω) God (8:8). The function of these descriptions in Joseph and Aseneth is to allay worries that Joseph’s marriage diminished his commitment to Yhwh.69 Joseph and Aseneth demonstrates that some Jews in the Second Temple period were concerned that Joseph might be (mis)read as a model and apology for cultural assimilation. Daniel 2 is one of the many voices offering a distinct perspective on the issue of Jews relating to their foreign environment.70 The threat posed by assimilation to the empire is raised immediately at the outset of the book of Daniel. Young Hebrew men are brought into the service of the king. Emphasis is placed on the process of cultural assimilation that these men undergo. “They were to be taught the literature and language of the Chaldeans” (1:4). Their diet, assigned by the king, is of “the royal rations of food and wine” (1:5). The purpose of their three-year education is so that they can be “stationed in the king’s court” (1:5). Such descriptions 68
This second reference (23:10) lacks the article. Cf. the description of Aseneth as someone who “had nothing in common with the Egyptian virgins but was in all things similar to the daughters of the Hebrews” (1:5). 70 Horsley says that the wisdom of the maśkîlîm in Daniel is “completely focused on imperial politics and its implications for political-religious life in Judea” (“Politics of Cultural Production,” 142). 69
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touch on the very issues that are prominent in 1 Maccabees. How will Daniel respond to such pressure toward assimilation? Daniel’s very first act is one of “moderate” resistance to this religio-cultural assimilation.71 I say “resistance” because he chooses to maintain his own dietary traditions. I say “moderate” because, despite his rejection of the royal diet, Daniel nonetheless remains involved in the Babylonian court. He still submits himself to the training of the “Chaldeans” in language, literature, and education. Thus, Daniel offers a via media between the extremes witnessed in 1 Maccabees and Genesis 41. He embraces neither the assimilation modeled by Joseph nor the rejection practiced by the Maccabees.72
IV. Conclusion Daniel 2 offers one option among multiple alternatives of how one might interact with a foreign power. Esther provides a model in which the willingness to defy the imperial power is the most important aspect of resisting empire.73 Explicit acts that demonstrate reliance on God are either assumed or unnecessary. Violence is accepted as a legitimate method for the defense and preservation of one’s group, a stance with which advocates of 1 Maccabees would readily agree. In the book of Exodus, the Hebrew midwives Shiphrah and Puah exemplify a type of civil disobedience in which lying for the purpose of protecting one’s people from imperial murder is blessed and rewarded by God (Exod 1:15–21). Jeremiah, in a letter (ostensibly) addressed to the same social context as that alleged for the story of Daniel 1–6, advocates active participation with, and on behalf of, the imperial power.74 The Mwl# of the exiles is to be found in the Mwl# of Babylon (Jer 29:7). 71 Wildavsky, Assimilation, 126: “They recognize that getting used to foreigners’ food is a step toward accommodation to their values.” 72 Accordingly, I find a significant absence of nuance in Wildavsky’s depiction of Daniel’s relationship to Babylon. In his effort to distance Daniel from Joseph, Wildavsky ends up with a Daniel much more “resistant” to the empire than the one we have in our text. His claim that Daniel rejects the “food, their clothing, their names” is correct concerning the food but is puzzling on the latter two points since there is every indication that Daniel receives the clothing offered to him (cf. 5:29). It is also quite clear that Daniel is given a Babylonian name (1:7; 2:26; 4:8, 9, 18, 19; 5:12; 10:1). Wildavsky could have strengthened his case by pointing out that Daniel himself never uses “Belteshazar” and that it is the king who uses the Babylonian name. However, in 4:19 the narrator refers to Daniel with his Babylonian name, suggesting (at minimum) some level of acceptance of his new name. 73 One of the central issues for Esther is whether she will risk resisting the king’s wishes in order to protect her people from oppression/death (4:13b–14 MT). “I will go to the king, though it is against the law; and if I perish, I perish” (4:16). 74 I am not claiming that these texts arose from the same sociocultural milieu, but rather that the authors of the texts situate their respective narratives within the same setting, that of the Babylonian captivity.
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Even intermarriage appears to be encouraged (Jer 29:6). Such instruction offers a (convenient?) theological defense for Joseph’s assimilating tendencies. Into this mix Daniel is offered as a model of “moderate resistance” to imperial power. It is quite understandable how the figure of Joseph could have held great appeal for those Jews who participated in various aspects of cultural assimilation. One can likewise understand how Daniel could have held great appeal for those who resisted such assimilation.75 As an example of “moderate” resistance, Daniel offers a via media between the more radical extremes seen in Joseph, 1 Maccabees, Esther, and Qumran. Daniel imagines the possibility of a Diaspora Jew simultaneously resisting the empire and succeeding sociopolitically without resorting to assimilation (Joseph), withdrawal (Qumran), or violence (Esther, 1 Maccabees, Exodus).76 The Second Temple period provides a sociocultural context in which Daniel’s perspective on “moderate resistance” would have been a source of significant meaning for Jews seeking to determine how to relate to foreign imperial power.77 The existence of such a variety of models for engaging an imperial regime reflects the presence of a lively dialogical process. It is in such a dialogue that readers and hearers (then and now) of Daniel 2 are invited to participate. 75
Might the popularity of para-Danielic literature at Qumran and the corresponding dearth of material on Joseph bespeak a certain preference in the community for one over the other? 4Q372 frgs. 1 and 3 do contain an apocryphal story and speech of Joseph. 76 Daniel’s desire to save himself, his companions, and “the rest of the wise men of Babylon” (2:18) reflects an adherence to the principle displayed in Jer 29:7. 77 Horsley sees in Daniel evidence of a “staunch resistance to the oppressive imperial forces” that is, at the same time, a “nonviolent resistance” (“Politics of Cultural Production,” 143).
JBL 129, no. 1 (2010): 105–114
Donkey Domain: Zechariah 9:9 and Lexical Semantics kenneth c. way
[email protected] Talbot School of Theology, La Mirada, CA 90639
Zechariah 9:9 is a well-known prophetic text that recalls Jacob’s blessing to Judah in Gen 49:11.1 It is also quoted in two of the NT Gospels as finding its messianic fulfillment in Jesus’ triumphal entry to Jerusalem (see Matt 21:5; John 12:15; cf. Mark 11:1–8; Luke 19:28–36).2 Additionally, this text employs an unusual clustering of donkey terms, each of them having a unique semantic range. These terms are part of a lexical field that has not been the subject of analysis in any previous publication to date. Such neglect most likely explains why the semantic nuances of Zech 9:9 are often missed or even distorted in the English biblical translations. In order properly to understand and translate Zech 9:9, one must examine the whole lexical field for terms referring to donkeys. An earlier version of this paper was presented at the Biblical Lexicography section of the Society of Biblical Literature annual meeting in Boston, Massachusetts, November 25, 2008. I want to thank the anonymous JBL reviewer for helping to improve this paper. 1 For discussion of the intertextual relationship between these two passages, see Iain M. Duguid, “Messianic Themes in Zechariah 9–14,” in The Lord’s Anointed: Interpretation of Old Testament Messianic Texts (ed. Philip E. Satterthwaite et al.; Tyndale House Studies; Grand Rapids: Baker, 1995), 267–68; Michael Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel (Oxford: Clarendon, 1985), 501–2; David L. Petersen, Zechariah 9–14 and Malachi: A Commentary (OTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1995), 57; idem, “Zechariah 9–14: Methodological Reflections,” in Bringing Out the Treasure: Inner Biblical Allusion in Zechariah 9–14 (ed. Mark J. Boda and Michael H. Floyd with a major contribution by Rex Mason; JSOTSup 370; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2003), 217–18. 2 For helpful analyses, see Kurt Aland, Synopsis of the Four Gospels (8th corrected ed.; Stuttgart: German Bible Society, 1987), 234–36 (#269); G. K. Beale and D. A. Carson, eds., Commentary on the New Testament Use of the Old Testament (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2007), 63–64, 206, 354–55, 472–74; Duguid, “Messianic Themes,” 277; cf. Walter Bauer, “The ‘Colt’ of Palm Sunday (der Palmesel),” JBL 72 (1953): 220–29.
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Biblical Hebrew employs three terms for the domestic donkey (Equus asinus)—rwmx (hiămôr), Nwt) ('ātôn), and ry( (vayir), and all of these occur in Zech 9:9. The donkey hybrid, however, is expressed in the Bible by only one term— drp/hdrp (pered/pirdâ). The most frequent of these lexemes is rwmx (96x); after that follows Nwt) (34x), drp/hdrp (18x) and ry( (8x).3 The two biblical terms for the onager or wild/half ass (dwr( [vārôd] and )rp [pere']) are not treated in the present study since they designate a distinct species of equid (i.e., Equus hemionus).4 A survey of most English translations of Zech 9:9 reveals that the term rwmx is translated as “donkey/ass,” ry( is translated as “colt,” and twnwt)-Nb (ben-'ătônôt) is translated as “foal of an ass/donkey” (see ASV, English Standard Version [ESV], GNB, Holman Christian Standard Bible [HCSB], KJV, NAB, NASB, NIV, NJB, NKJV, NRSV, RSV, Today’s New International Version [TNIV]).5 While the rendering of rwmx as the generic “ass/donkey” is certainly correct, it is suggested in the following study that the rendering of ry( as “colt” (or “foal”; cf. NEB) is incorrect and that the term has nothing to do with the youngness of the animal. Furthermore, the phrase twnwt)-Nb is not meant to carry any nuance of youngness but, rather, defines the animal as the “offspring” of a female donkey (the significance of which will be identified below). Therefore, the string of donkey terms in Zech 9:9 moves from the general to the specific—the second and third terms each add new information to the preceding term. To demonstrate this, it is necessary to describe the semantic range of each donkey term based on its usage in the entire Hebrew Bible. The terms are examined in alphabetical order below. By way of summary, the terms are also compared and contrasted in order to sharpen the semantic distinctions and to appreciate the degree of semantic overlap between them.
3
The frequencies are reckoned by Abraham Even-Shoshan, A New Concordance of the Bible (Grand Rapids: Baker; Jerusalem: Kiryat Sefer, 1993), 142, 378, 862, 959. Note that the actual frequency for drp/hdrp is probably 17x (due to a text-critical problem with the occurrence in Neh 7:68). 4 For further reference on these terms, see Leonid Kogan, “Animal Names in Biblical Hebrew: An Etymological Overview,” in Babel und Bibel 3 (ed. Leonid Kogan et al.; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 280; Kenneth C. Way, “The Ceremonial and Symbolic Significance of Donkeys in the Biblical World” (Ph.D. diss., Hebrew Union College, 2006), 92, 117, 256. 5 Some additional translations (e.g., CEV, New Century Version [NCV], New Living Translation [NLT], The Message) combine the second and third donkey terms into one English phrase, such as “colt of a donkey.” The best English translation of Zech 9:9 can be found in the NJPS: “humble, riding on an ass, on a donkey foaled by a she-ass.” While this translation is not incorrect, it is still imprecise with regard to the nuances of the second and third terms (see below).
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I. Nwt) (Female Donkey; “Jenny”) The term Nwt) designates a female donkey and is best translated “jenny.”6 The gender of Nwt) is made explicit in Num 22:23–33, where Nwt) is the subject of thirteen verbs in the feminine singular form (e.g., )rtw [vv. 23, 25, 27, 33]; rm)tw [vv. 28, 30]). The female gender of Nwt) is also implied in contexts where it is distinguished from either rwmx (Gen 12:16; 45:23) or ry( (Gen 32:15 [MT 32:16]). In addition, the Nwt) can serve as wealth/capital (Gen 12:16; 1 Chr 27:30; Job 1:3; 42:12), booty (Job 1:14–15), and tribute (Gen 32:15 [MT 32:16]). It can function as a beast of burden (Gen 45:23) and as a human transport (Num 22:21–33; Judg 5:10; 2 Kgs 4:22, 24). The Nwt) may also be associated with royalty (see Gen 49:10–11; Zech 9:9; cf. Judg 5:10; 1 Sam 9:3, 5, 20; 10:2, 14, 16; 1 Chr 27:30). Finally, there is an interesting technical use of Nwt) in the phrase “offspring of a jenny.” The phrase “offspring of a jenny” occurs twice in the Hebrew Bible (Gen 49:11; Zech 9:9) and three times in the extant Mari texts from the eighteenth century B.C.E. The Mari texts frequently refer to treaty making in terms of donkey dispatch (h~ ayaram qatālum),7 and they occasionally employ the phrase mār atānim to specify the preferred animal for treaty ratification rituals (see A.1056:9–10; A.2226:17; ARM 2.37:11).8 In all these examples from Mari and the Bible, the phrase is 6
On Nwt), see further AHw, 86 (atānum, “Eselin”); CAD A (1/2):481–83; DUL (= Gregorio del Olmo Lete and Joaquín Sanmartín, A Dictionary of the Ugaritic Language in the Alphabetic Tradition [Handbook of Oriental Studies; Leiden: Brill, 2003]), 122; HALOT, 102; Victor P. Hamilton, The Book of Genesis: Chapters 18–50 (NICOT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995), 655 n. 18; Kogan, “Animal Names,” 269; Carol L. Meyers and Eric M. Meyers, Zechariah 9–14: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 25C; New York: Doubleday, 1993), 88, 131; Martin Noth, “Old Testament Covenant-making in the Light of a Text from Mari,” in The Laws in the Pentateuch and Other Studies (trans. D. R. Ap-Thomas [from Gesammelte Studien zum Alten Testament; Munich: Kaiser, 1957]; Edinburgh: Oliver & Boyd, 1966), 108–11; SED (= Alexander Militarev and Leonid Kogan, Semitic Etymological Dictionary [2 vols.; Münster: Ugarit, 2000, 2005]), 2:29 (no. 19); E. A. Speiser, Genesis: Introduction, Translation, and Notes (AB 1; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1964), 362, 366; Way, “Donkeys,” 99–100, 104–6, 201–3. 7 For a thorough discussion of these references, see Way, “Donkeys,” 4–5, 98–102. 8 For an analysis of the three extant texts, see Dominique Charpin, “Un Souverain éphémère en Ida-Maras:i Išme-Addu d’Ašnakkum,” in Mari, Annales de Recherches Interdisciplinaires (8 vols.; Paris: Éditions Recherche sur les civilisations, 1982–97), 7:182–86; J.-M. Durand, Les documents épistolaires du palais de Mari (3 vols.; Paris: Cerf, 1997–2000), 1:443–47; Abraham Malamat, “A Note on the Ritual of Treaty Making in Mari and the Bible,” in idem, Mari and the Bible (SHCANE 12; Leiden: Brill, 1998), 168–69 (originally published in IEJ 45 [1995]: 226–29); Way, “Donkeys,” 98–106. ARM 2.37 is translated as follows: “To my lord speak: thus Ibal-El, your servant. The tablet of Ibal-Addu from Ašlakka arrived; and to Ašlakka I went. In order to ‘kill a jackass’ between the Haneans and Idamaras,i a puppy and a goat they brought. But out of respect for my lord, a puppy
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employed as a clarification of the term ry( (= h~ ayarum in Amorite/Mari texts). Since ry( may be used of both a male donkey and a male hybrid (see below), it is presumably necessary to qualify ry( as either the “offspring of an Nwt)” (i.e., a donkey) or the “offspring of a hsws (sûsâ)” (i.e., a mule).9 When ry( is qualified as the “offspring of an Nwt),” the ry( takes on the narrower sense of a “purebred male donkey.”10 In the biblical corpus, the first occurrence of the phrase “offspring of a jenny” is in Jacob’s blessing of Judah (Gen 49:8–12). Verse 11 states:11 wnt) ynb hqr#lw [Q: wry(] hry( Npgl yrs) He tethers his jackass to the vine, his purebred to the choice vine.
The second occurrence of the phrase is in Zechariah’s description of Zion’s king. Zech 9:9 states:12 twnt)-Nb ry(-l(w rwmx-l( bkrw yn( ...
humble13
and riding on a donkey, on a purebred jackass.
In this verse the terminology moves from the general phrase “on a donkey” (-l( rwmx) to the more specific phrase “on a purebred jackass” (twnt)-Nb ry(-l(w). The copulative wāw is therefore best interpreted as serving an explanatory function (“namely”).14
and a goat I would not allow. A [ja]ckass—the offspring of a jenny—I caused to be killed. Peace between the Haneans and Idamaras iI established” (Way, “Donkeys,” 100). My literal rendering, “A [ja]ckass—the offspring of a jenny,” expresses [ha]-a-ra-am dumu a-ta-ni-im (line 11). 9 Although it must be cautioned that the phrase “offspring of a mare (sûsâ)” is not actually found in any extant text to date. 10 This observation was first made by Noth (“Covenant-making,” 111). 11 On Gen 49:11, see further Hamilton, Genesis, 655–56, 662; Speiser, Genesis, 362, 366; Way, “Donkeys,” 67, 71, 105, 202, 213. On the unusual forms yrs) and ynb, see GKC §90 l–m; Hamilton, Genesis, 655–56 (nn. 14, 18); IBHS, 127–28 (§8.2e); Joüon §93m–n; William L. Moran, “The Hebrew Language in Its Northwest Semitic Background,” in The Bible and the Ancient Near East: Essays in Honor of William Foxwell Albright (ed. G. Ernest Wright; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1961), 67, 70. 12 On Zech 9:9, see further HALOT, 102; Meyers and Meyers, Zechariah 9–14, 88, 127–31, 169–73; Noth, “Covenant-making,” 111; Way, “Donkeys,” 72, 105, 110, 202–3. On the use of the plural form twnt), see GKC §124o; IBHS, 122 (§7.4.3a); cf. Ugaritic atnt in KTU 1.4 IV:7, 12 (see Way, “Donkeys,” 67 n. 133). 13 Note that “humble” is a royal quality that is also used to describe Moses and the Aramean king Zakkur (cf. Num 12:3; KAI #202:2). The word designates a person who has a subservient and receptive posture toward his deity (cf. Ps 22:26 [MT 22:27]; Zeph 2:3). For a helpful discussion, see Meyers and Meyers, Zechariah 9–14, 127–28. 14 See GKC §154a. Thus, there is only one donkey mentioned in the Hebrew text (cf. LXX and Matt 21:2, 7).
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II. rwmx (“Ass/Donkey”) rwmx is the general term for donkey, but it does not seem to include hybrids.15 In fact, there are no cases in Biblical Hebrew (or even in the cognate languages) where the term rwmx unambiguously designates/includes hybrids. It is possible that the general category Myrwmx includes hybrids when it is listed alongside of Mysws (without any mention of Mydrp; see Gen 47:17; Exod 9:3; 2 Kgs 7:7), but this does not constitute unambiguous evidence. It is also possible to argue that rwmx in Zech 9:9 could include hybrids, but again, such an interpretation is not required by the context. rwmx is employed when referring to large numbers of donkeys of mixed gender (see Gen 24:35; 30:43; 34:28; 36:24; 47:17; Exod 9:3; Num 31:28, 30, 34, 39, 45; Josh 7:24; Judg 6:4; 1 Sam 27:9; 2 Kgs 7:7, 10; 1 Chr 5:21; 12:40 [MT 12:41]; Ezra 2:67; Neh 7:68; Isa 32:20; Zech 14:15). rwmx is generally not gender specific. For example, in Genesis 32 Jacob initially describes himself as having Myrwmx (Gen 32:5 [MT 32:6]), but later it is said that Jacob gives twnwt) and Myry( to his brother (Gen 32:15 [MT 32:16]). Likewise, Abraham receives both male and female donkeys from Pharaoh (Gen 12:16); but later in the narrative Abraham’s servant refers to Abraham’s donkeys only as Myrwmx (Gen 24:35). Although rwmx is generally not gender specific, there are some exceptions. In contexts where rwmx is distinguished from Nwt) (e.g., Gen 12:16; 45:23), rwmx is clearly a male donkey/jackass. The rwmx in Zech 9:9 is also qualified as a male (i.e., a “purebred jackass”), and the Myrwmx of Ezek 23:20 are explicitly described as having male genitalia. But there are two contexts in which rwmx is clearly a female donkey/jenny. The first context refers to Mephibosheth’s rwmx, which is assigned a feminine singular pronominal suffix (2 Sam 19:26 [MT 19:27]): hyl( bkr)w rwmxh yl-h#bx) Let me tack up for myself the donkey so that I may ride on her.
15
On rwmx, see further AHw, 375–76 (imērum, “Esel”); Oded Borowski, Every Living Thing: Daily Use of Animals in Ancient Israel (Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira, 1998), 90, 127 n. 22; CAD I– J, 7:110–15; DUL, 363–64; HALOT, 327, 330–31; Gerald A. Klingbeil, “‘Man’s Other Best Friend’: The Interaction of Equids and Man in Daily Life in Iron Age II Palestine as Seen in Texts, Artifacts, and Images,” UF 35 (2003): 261–64; Kogan, “Animal Names,” 261, 269; Dennis Pardee, Les textes rituals (Ras Shamra-Ougarit 12; Paris: Éditions recherche sur les civilisations, 2000), 131 n. 166, 465; SED 2:137–39 (no. 98); Way, “Donkeys,” 56–58, 63–64, 72–75, 77–78, 82–83, 89–92, 203–5. Note also an uncertain syllabic spelling of himr in a Late Egyptian/Hieratic ostracon; see HWBDÄ (= Rainer Hannig, Die Sprache der Pharaonen: Großes Handwörterbuch Deutsch– Ägyptisch [2800–950 v.Chr.] [Mainz am Rhein: Philipp von Zabern, 2000]), 379; James E. Hoch, Semitic Words in Egyptian Texts of the New Kingdom and Third Intermediate Period (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 227 (no. 312); SED 2:137.
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The second context indicates that a rwmx has the capacity to give birth (Exod 13:13; cf. Exod 34:20): h#b hdpt rmx r+p-lkw But the first issue of every donkey you shall redeem with a sheep/goat . . .
In other contexts where rwmx refers to a single donkey (e.g., Gen 22:3, 5; Exod 4:20; 20:17; 23:12; Deut 5:14, 21; Josh 15:18; Judg 1:14; 15:15, 16; 19:28; 1 Sam 25:20, 23, 42; 2 Sam 17:23; 1 Kgs 13:13, 23, 24, 27, 28, 29), the gender is ambiguous.
III. ry( (Male Equid, “Stallion/Jack”) There are two important points that must be made here regarding the term ry(,16 and both of these were initially suggested by Martin Noth.17 First, ry( is used in the Bible to designate a male animal. Note how the term ry( is contrasted with the term Nwt) in a list enumerating Jacob’s tribute to Esau (Gen 32:15 [MT 32:16]): hr#( Mry(w Myr#( tnt) hr#( Myrpw My(br) twrp . . . forty cows and ten bulls, twenty jennies and ten jackasses.
The male gender of ry( is also indicated by the use of bēn (rather than bat) in the phrase “offspring of a jenny” (Gen 49:11; Zech 9:9; see above). Second, it is possible that the semantic range of ry( is broad enough to include hybrids. Since the ry( is occasionally qualified as a purebred donkey (i.e., “the offspring of a jenny” [Gen 49:11; Zech 9:9; see above]) rather than as a hybrid (i.e., the offspring of a hsws, a mule [cf. drp; see below]), one deduces that the ry( may des16 On ry(, see further AHw, 328; CAD H , 6:118; David J. A. Clines, Job 1–20 (WBC 17; Dallas: Word Books, 1989), 253, 255–56, 266; DUL, 178; HALOT, 822; John E. Hartley, The Book of Job (NICOT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1988), 196, 198–99; Klingbeil, “Man’s Other Best Friend,” 261, 263; Kogan, “Animal Names,” 259, 269; Michael S. Moore and Michael L. Brown, “ry(,” NIDOTTE 3:399 (#6555); Noth, “Covenant-making,” 109–11; Pardee, Les textes rituals, 131– 32; Marvin H. Pope, Job: Introduction, Translation, and Notes (AB 15; 3rd ed.; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1973), 83, 86; SED 2:69–71 (no. 50); Speiser, Genesis, 253, 366; Way, “Donkeys,” 98– 102, 104–6, 206–8. 17 See Noth, “Covenant-making,” 110, 111; see also AHw, 328 (h}ârum, “Eselhengst”); DUL, 178; HALOT, 822; Klingbeil, “Man’s Other Best Friend,” 261, 263; Moore and Brown, “ry(,” 399; Pardee, Les textes rituals, 131 n. 165; Pope, Job, 86; Speiser, Genesis, 253, 366. It is interesting that no feminine form of this word is attested in Semitic languages; however, in Egyptian the cognate term can be masculine or feminine (vȜ and vȜt respectively); see ÄW (= Rainer Hannig, Ägyptisches Wörterbuch I: Altes Reich und Erste Zwischenzeit [Mainz am Rhein: Philipp von Zabern, 2003]), 259; HWBDÄ, 379; WÄS 1:165.
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ignate the purebred donkey as well as the hybrid (such as the ry(). It may therefore be prudent to use the general category “equid” when defining the term ry(. In light of the above observations, it is evident that the ry( is a male equid. In the vast majority of cases, however, an identification with the domestic donkey is highly likely. In biblical literature, the ry( is employed as a human transport (Judg 10:4; 12:14; Zech 9:9), a beast of burden (Isa 30:6), and as a plough animal (Isa 30:24). It should be noted that the term ry( is never applied to a horse. It is possible that the term ry( is applied to the onager ()rp) in Job 11:12, but a more likely interpretation of this difficult passage contrasts the ry( and the )rp as follows:18 dlwy Md) )rp ry(w bbly bwbn #y)w A stupid man gets understanding when an onager of the steppe is born a jackass.
It is also important to emphasize that an ry( is not a “foal” or a “colt.”19 There is no evidence from Biblical Hebrew or from comparative Semitics to suggest that ry( is a young animal. This erroneous interpretation is endorsed by most English Bible translations of Zech 9:9, and it seems to stem from (1) a misunderstanding of the phrase “offspring of a jenny” in Gen 49:11 and Zech 9:9 (see above), and (2) the Septuagint’s employment of the term πῶλος (“young animal”) for ry( in Gen 32:16; 49:11; Judg 10:4; 12:14; Zech 9:9.20 The same problem also persists in translations of h}ayarum—the Amorite cognate of ry(—in the Mari texts.21
18 On Job 11:12, see further Clines, Job 1–20, 253, 255–56, 266; Hartley, Book of Job, 196, 198–99; Pope, Job, 83, 86. On translating Md) )rp as “onager of the steppe,” see Mitchell Dahood, “Zacharia 9,1, vên 'ādām,” CBQ 25 (1963): 124; cf. Gen 16:12. In cuneiform onager is written anše-eden-na (lit., “ass of the steppe”). 19 See esp. Noth, “Covenant-making,” 110; see also Clines, Job 1–20, 266; Pardee, Les textes rituals, 131 n. 165; Pope, Job, 86; Speiser, Genesis, 366; Way, “Donkeys,” 105–6, 207. Interestingly, there is no word for equine “foal” in Biblical Hebrew (see Kogan, “Animal Names,” 271, 312). 20 The LXX has ἐπιβεβηκὼς ἐπὶ ὑποζύγιον καὶ πῶλον νέον in Zech 9:9. As a result of the LXX, all four Gospel writers employ πῶλος in the account of Jesus’ triumphal entry (Matt 21:2, 5, 7; Mark 11:2, 4, 5, 7; Luke 19:30, 33, 35; John 12:14-15). It is only in Matthew and John, which explicitly quote Zech 9:9, that the term ὄνος (“ass/donkey”) is introduced. On πῶλος, see further Bauer, “Colt,” 220–29. 21 Many scholars writing in French have rendered h}ayarum/ry( as ânon (“young donkey” or “donkey foal”; for bibliography, see Way, “Donkeys,” 105 n. 296), but Pardee correctly points out, “La traduction de vr par «âne» [i.e., “ass/donkey”] semble préférable à «ânon», car il ne s’agit pas du petit: d’après les textes mythologiques le vr sert de monture. . . . La traduction de vr en anglais par «foal» est hors de propos, car un «foal» ne sert pas de monture” (Les textes rituals, 131 n. 165). Pardee’s argument bolsters Noth’s assertion that h}ayarum “means an adult male ass, not an assfoal” (“Covenant-making,” 110; see also pp. 108, 111).
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IV. drp (Hybrid, Probably “Mule”) The term drp (fem. hdrp) designates a hybrid that is probably the mule (i.e., male donkey × female horse),22 but one cannot rule out the possibility that drp/hdrp could theoretically also designate the hinny/jennet (i.e., male horse × female donkey).23 There is no basis for positing that hdrp designates the “hinny/ jennet” while drp designates the “mule.”24 Rather, the terms clearly designate the male and female of the same type of animal (cf. sws and hsws for the stallion and mare of a horse respectively). The drp is often paired with other transport animals—such as the horse (1 Kgs 10:25//2 Chr 9:24; 1 Kgs 18:5; Ezra 2:66//Neh 7:68; Ps 32:9; Isa 66:20; Ezek 27:14; Zech 14:15) and the camel (1 Chr 12:40 [MT 12:41]; Ezra 2:66–67//Neh 7:68; Isa 66:20; Zech 14:15), but its pairing with the donkey is the most instructive. When drp is distinguished from the donkey (see 1 Chr 12:40 [MT 12:41]; Ezra 2:66–67// Neh 7:68; Zech 14:15), the term used for donkey is always rwmx and never ry(. This suggests that the semantic range of ry( may actually include the drp (see above). Like the donkey, the drp is employed as both tribute (1 Kgs 10:25//2 Chr 9:24; cf. Isa 66:20; 1 Chr 12:40 [MT 12:41]) and a beast of burden (2 Kgs 5:17), and it is likewise characterized as lacking understanding (Ps 32:9). The drp was also the preferred mount for Israelite kings and princes during the tenth century b.c.e. (see 2 Sam 13:29; 18:9; 1 Kgs 1:33, 38, 44; cf. 1 Kgs 18:5 [ninth century]); note especially the collocation “the royal she-mule” (Klmh tdrp) in 1 Kgs 1:38, 44.25 The connection between mules and royalty is attested also for the kings of Mari in the eigh-
22 On drp, see further AHw, 855 (perdum, “ein Equide”); Borowski, Every Living Thing, 108– 11; Juliet Clutton-Brock, Horse Power: A History of the Horse and the Donkey in Human Societies (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992), 42–51, 92, 94; CAD P, 12:394–95 (pirdu, “an equid”); DUL, 679 (prd); HALOT, 963; Kenneth A. Kitchen, “Prd > Ptr = ‘Mule’ in New Kingdom Egypt?” Göttinger Miszellen 13 (1974): 17–20 (Egyptian ptr?); Gerald A. Klingbeil, “Methods and Daily Life: Understanding the Use of Animals in Daily Life in a Multi-disciplinary Framework,” in Life and Culture in the Ancient Near East (ed. Richard E. Averbeck et al.; Bethesda: CDL, 2003), 405, 411–27; idem, “Man’s Other Best Friend,” 261, 263, 265, 267, 268–70, 277; Kogan, “Animal Names,” 271; SED 2:235–36 (no. 177); Way, “Donkeys,” 109 n. 312, 208–9, 213 n. 29. 23 For the scientific distinction between the mule and the hinny/jennet, see Borowski, Every Living Thing, 108–9; Clutton-Brock, Horse Power, 44–45; Way, “Donkeys,” 109, 208, 256. 24 This erroneous distinction appears to be assumed by Klingbeil, “Methods and Daily Life,” 416; idem, “Man’s Other Best Friend,” 261, 263, 267; cf. Borowski, Every Living Thing, 108, 110. 25 See Klingbeil, “Methods and Daily Life,” 416–17, 425–26; idem, “Man’s Other Best Friend,” 266–67.
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teenth century b.c.e. (see ARM 6.76).26 The prestigious appeal of the drp is presumably due to its rarity and resulting high price tag.27
VI. Summary The lexical field of donkeys in Biblical Hebrew can now be summarized. rwmx is the general term for donkey, which can be male, female, or an unspecified gender. Nwt) always designates the female donkey/jenny. ry( always designates a male equid; it is usually the donkey/jackass but it may also designate the male hybrid. drp always designates the hybrid (probably a mule as opposed to a hinny/jennet). The lexical field can be diagrammed as follows:
rmwx
Ntw)
ry(
drp
The diagram is obviously not designed to show the percentages or proportions of semantic overlap (that would require an expanded lexical base). Rather, the diagram merely shows that the terms do overlap (where specified). It is likely that Nwt) is completely subsumed under rmwx (except in contexts where rmwx refers only to a male donkey, e.g., Gen 12:16; 45:23).28 It is unlikely that ry( is completely subsumed under rmwx because ry( seems to include male hybrids. It appears that the basic sense of ry( has to do with “maleness” rather than with species. Likewise, the same may be said regarding Nwt)—it has to do more with “femaleness” than with species. Although not demonstrable from the corpus 26 See Durand, Les documents épistolaires du palais de Mari, 2:484–88; Way, “Donkeys,” 107– 10. In this royal context a contrast is made between the horse and the mule. Bahdi-Lim advises king Zimri-Lim to “honor his kingship” and “not ride on horses” but on “palanquin-and-mules [kūdanum].” Interestingly, Zech 9:9–10 is also set in a royal context (although dated much later) that contrasts two equids—the horse and the purebred jackass, rather than the horse and the mule (as in ARM 6.76). 27 See Borowski, Every Living Thing, 109–10, 129 n. 52, 233; Klingbeil, “Methods and Daily Life,” 417–18; Way, “Donkeys,” 209 n. 21. 28 Akkadian atānu(m) seems to denote “female equid” since it is used of both donkeys and horses (see CAD A, [1/2]:481–83); such is apparently not the case in both Amorite (i.e., in the Mari texts) and Biblical Hebrew, where the word is used only for the female donkey.
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of Biblical Hebrew, it is possible that Nwt) may be used for female hybrids; and if that is the case, then Nwt) would overlap with the term hdrp. All of these observations may inform the interpretation and translation of Zech 9:9. Instead of the very popular translations “donkey,” “colt,” and “foal of a donkey” (for rmwx, ry(, and twnt)-Nb), it is suggested that Zion’s king is riding on a donkey (rmwx), but not just any donkey. He is riding on a jackass (ry(), but not just any jackass. He is riding on a purebred (twnt)-Nb) jackass. The purity of the royal mount may in fact be the primary focus of the prophecy in Zech 9:9. Just as the hybrid was inappropriate for Amorite treaty ratification rituals in the Mari texts, so the drp is inappropriate in this eschatological passage, which employs covenant terminology (see Zech 9:11, “the blood of your covenant”).29 Zion’s king comes not on the usual royal means of transportation associated with military conquest in Zech 9:10 (bkr and sws). Rather, Zion’s king comes on a “purebred jackass,” which is a royal mount that is associated with peace (see Zech 9:10: “He will speak Mwl# [šālôm] to the nations”) rather than elitism or conquest.30 29 This phrase recalls Exod 24:8 (“the blood of the covenant”; see Matt 26:28; Mark 14:24; Luke 22:20; 1 Cor 11:25). For discussion of the intertextual relationships, see Beale and Carson, Commentary, 90–91, 229–32, 382–83, 736. 30 All three of these equids (mules, horses, and donkeys) can function as royal mounts, but they have distinct symbolic nuances in biblical literature (see Way, “Donkeys,” 212–13 n. 28). For additional evidence that associates the donkey with royalty, see Gen 49:10–11; 1 Sam 25:20, 23, 42; 2 Sam 16:1–2; 19:26 [MT 19:27]; CAD I-J, 7:113 and the Hittite Tale of Zalpa (see Way, “Donkeys,” 96–97); see also Judg 5:10; 1 Samuel 9–10; 1 Chr 27:30. For the donkey as a mount for the deity in Ugaritic texts (viz., KTU 1.4 IV:1–19; 1.20 II:1–4; 1.22 II:20–24), see Way, “Donkeys,” 66– 68, 70–72, 128.
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The Gospel of John and the Five Senses dorothy lee
[email protected] Trinity College, Melbourne College of Divinity, University of Melbourne, Parkville 3052, Australia
The Gospel of John uses a number of images to express its understanding of what it means to believe in Jesus and to belong to the community of faith. These images, drawn from the material world, are used as symbols or vehicles of the divine world.1 Indeed, faith cannot appear and develop without such imagery, so foundational is it to the world of the fourth evangelist. Of particular significance is the remarkably cohesive presence of images relating to the five senses throughout the Johannine narrative—sight, hearing, taste, touch, and smell—a narrative presence that is grounded in John’s central theological motif, the incarnation. While some of the senses have been recognized and discussed extensively, others have been paid scant attention; nor has the cooperation of all five senses together been sufficiently observed.2 In physiognomic terms, the five senses—the number and identification of which are generally attributed to Aristotle—are the means by which human beings apprehend external reality. Each is associated with one organ or aspect of the body, and each corresponds to a particular segment of the brain.3 Sight, or vision, assoThis article originated as a paper presented at the international meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in Auckland, July 2008. 1 For a comprehensive outline of recent scholarship on imagery in the Gospel of John, see Ruben Zimmermann, “Imagery in John: Opening Up Paths into the Tangled Thicket of John’s Figurative World,” in Imagery in the Gospel of John: Terms, Forms, Themes, and Theology of Johannine Figurative Language (ed. Jörg Frey, Jan G. van der Watt, and Ruben Zimmermann; WUNT 200; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 1–43. 2 For an understanding of this subject in the ancient world, see in particular Aristotle’s extended discussion of the five senses (De An. 2.5–12), in Aristotle, On the Soul (trans. W. S. Hett; LCL; London: Heinemann, 1957), 94–139. 3 Augustine, in his exegesis of the “five oxen” in Luke 14:19, interprets them in relation to the five senses, identifying each as pairs: two eyes, two ears, two nostrils, tongue and palate, outer
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ciated with the eyes and the physiological intake of light through the cornea and pupil, enables us to discern color, movement, shape, distance, and size. Hearing, or audition, involves the movement of sound through the ears to the eardrum, which sends messages to the brain, telling it of volume, type, intensity, and balance. Taste, or gustation, occurs on the tongue with its manifold taste buds, detecting sweet and sour, salty and bitter, and conveying the appropriate messages to the brain. Touch, or somatic feeling, takes place on the skin of the body, in the middle layer that has nerve endings connected to the brain, discerning whether the touch is soft or hard, gentle or sharp, safe or dangerous, painful or painless, pleasant or unpleasant. Finally, smell, or olfaction, employs air and breath through the nose and the nerves in the top of the nasal cavity to transmit messages of the pleasant or unpleasant, threatening or soothing, as well as to summon memory. Each of these senses may be lacking in any person, and each, therefore, has its opposite (respectively, blindness, deafness, ageusia, anesthesia, and anosmia). Each, too, works together with the others—for example, taste and smell combine to discern flavor. Generally, the senses of sight, hearing, and smell involve no necessary contact, unlike taste and touch which do; yet taken together, the five senses “enable us to see the world in a unified way.”4 The senses, in short, are intrinsic to what makes us human: the means of our apprehension and communication, and the basis of our experience.5 Their capacity for metaphorical or spiritual signification is also important,which is evident in the way Aristotle sees the senses as part of the soul; later Jewish-Arabic philosophy in the Middle Ages made an important distinction between the external and internal senses.6 In this article I examine the way in which the Fourth Gospel employs each of the five senses as a core image in the narrative for the life of faith. I describe briefly the occurrence and usage of the senses in the Johannine text in the order of frequency and intensity of usage in the Gospel narrative. I look also at the implications of the five senses, both separately and together, for the implied reader’s imaginative entry into the “symbolic universe” of the Fourth Gospel, since that is the only way, in this text, to comprehend and apprehend Johannine faith.
and inner touch (Sermon 3.4, in The Works of Saint Augustine: A Translation for the 21st Century [trans. Edmund Hill; New York: New City Press, 1992], 112.3–7). 4 Maya Pines, “More Than the Sum of Its Parts,” part 4 in “Seeing, Hearing and Smelling the World,” Howard Hughes Medical Institute, http://www.hhmi.org/senses/a110.html. 5 It is well known that people with sensory disabilities often intensify the remaining senses to compensate for the one or more missing. The remarkable story of Helen Keller, born blind and deaf, demonstrates the compensating use of touch that liberated her from a world of inner darkness and silence (The Story of My Life [New York: Modern Library, 2003]). 6 See Kaufmann Kohler and Isaac Broydé, “Senses, the Five,” Jewish Encyclopedia, http:// www.jewishencyclopedia.com/view.jsp?artid=479&letter=S.
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I. Sight The sense of sight has been described as “mankind’s most noble and dependable sense.”7 In the ancient world, likewise, the dominance of vision among the senses is widely recognized: “the eyes are the most important marker of character and are frequently used in this way.”8 It is not surprising, therefore, that the most significant Johannine image based on the senses is that of sight, mostly found in the verbal form “to see.” While there is a more mundane meaning, there is also a metaphorical sense for this verb in the Gospel—or, rather, cluster of verbs.9 The pronoun “we” in 1:14 (ἐθεασάμεθα, “we beheld”) makes clear that we are speaking, from the start, of more than physical sight. In the Fourth Gospel, many see Jesus with physical eyes, but only believers truly see him—so much so that “[t]he believers’ seeing [of] the δόξα [“glory”] of the incarnate Logos . . . forms a high point of the prologue.”10 In fact, to see Jesus in this Gospel is to see God, since sight of the Johannine Father is through, and only through, the palpable presence of the Son (12:45; 14:7-9; 17:24). The invisible God is thus made visible in the Johannine Jesus (1:18; 5:37; 6:46), making possible the visio Dei. Furthermore, Jesus has the prescient ability to see into the human heart in the Gospel narrative (1:48–49; 2:23– 25; 4:18), beyond human concealment or pretension, because theologically he is the one who has first, and uniquely, seen the Father (5:19; 6:46; 8:38). In Johannine christological terms, the unique sight of the divine leads to prophetic insight into the human. Beyond its common occurrence, vision has a strongly metaphorical usage throughout the narrative of the Fourth Gospel, in relation particularly to faith and discipleship. The linkage reflects common usage in the ancient world, where “an audience would not only think of blindness on the literal level—lacking eyesight— 7 David C. Lindberg, Theories of Vision from Al-kindi to Kepler (University of Chicago History of Science and Medicine; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1976), 1. 8 Chad Hartsock, Sight and Blindness in Luke-Acts: The Use of Physical Features in Characterization (Biblical Interpretation Series 94; Leiden: Brill, 2008), 60. Mikeal C. Parsons speaks of a “physiognomic consciousness” that pervaded the ancient world (Body and Character in Luke and Acts: The Subversion of Physiognomy in Early Christianity [Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2006], 17) and describes “the connection of the eye to moral character” in several ancient texts, including Cicero (pp. 76–79, here 77). 9 There is no single word for “see/sight” in the Greek of John’s Gospel. Several synonymous verbs are used (ὁρᾶν, θεωρεῖν, θεᾶσθαι, βλέπειν, ἐμβλέπειν; also ἀναβλέπειν) with meanings that, in most cases, can be distinguished only in their specific linguistic context. Verbs associated with vision occur more than 130 times in the Fourth Gospel. The noun εἶδος also appears (5:37). 10 Udo Schnelle, Antidocetic Christology in the Gospel of John: An Investigation of the Place of the Fourth Gospel in the Johannine School (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992), 223. Against Schnelle”s wider interpretation, see Richard Bauckham, Jesus and the Eyewitnesses: The Gospels as Eyewitness Testimony (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006), 380–81.
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but . . . would also likely think in metaphorical terms, that is lacking spiritual vision.”11 For John, those who come to faith see in Jesus that divine life (3:36; 6:40) and glory (11:40) belonging to God. They see not just the son of Mary and Joseph (6:41–42); they also, in the language of John 6, come to believe in him as the bread from heaven (6:35, 48, 51). They see, in other words, the glory in the flesh,12 that deeper reality which, without dismissal or denial, lies beneath and beyond the surface. Toward the end of the first half of the Gospel, the desire of the Greeks to “see Jesus” is most likely metaphorical for discipleship13—given that there is no mention of their appeal being met and Jesus’ answer points to the deeper significance of their request. Symbolically, their approach has an unparalleled effect on the Johannine Jesus, signaling for him the approach of the “hour” and the ending of his public ministry (12:20). Vision imagery is also closely allied to the core symbolism of light and illumination (1:9; 8:12; 9:5–7, 37), with its corresponding theme of unbelief expressed as blindness and darkness. Sight and light are connected in the closest possible way, both biologically and metaphorically.14 Aristotle, for example, notes that “the object of sight is the visible” (οὗ μὲν οὖν ἔστιν ἡ ὄψις), which he sees as linked to color and thus, by implication, light (De an. 2.7). In John’s account, human beings come to possess such sight, not by nature or their own capacities (1:12–13) but through a miracle of the Spirit (3:3–8). It is equally possible to see the Johannine “signs” without perceiving their christological meaning, a response that leads to rejection (e.g., 2:23; 4:48; 6:19, 27, 36; 9:41). In this sense, the crucified Jesus is the icon of salvation and judgment for all who turn their gaze upon him, whether in faith or 11
Hartsock, Sight and Blindness in Luke-Acts, 53. On the symbolic and even symbiotic relationship between “flesh” and “glory” in the Fourth Gospel, see Dorothy Lee, Flesh and Glory: Symbol, Gender, and Theology in the Gospel of John (New York: Crossroad, 2002), 29–64. 13 So, e.g., Raymond E. Brown, The Gospel according to John: Introduction, Translation, and Notes (2 vols.; AB 29, 29A; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1966, 1970), 1:466; Xavier Léon-Dufour, Lecture de l’évangile selon Jean (4 vols.; Parole de Dieu; Paris: Seuil, 1988–96), 2:459; and Francis J. Moloney, The Gospel of John (SP 4; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1998), 359. On the other hand, C. K. Barrett argues that “to see” (ἰδεῖν) here denotes only the request for an interview (The Gospel According to St. John: An Introduction with Commentary and Notes on the Greek Text [2nd ed.; London: SPCK, 1978], 422). 14 The close link may be explained by extramission theories of vision, common in the ancient world and Judaism, in which light emanates from the eye itself (as against intromission, where rays of light enter the eye along with visible objects, a theory also found in the ancient world). On debate about vision in the ancient Greek world, see further Hans Dieter Betz, “Matthew vi.22f and Ancient Greek Theories of Vision,” in Text and Interpretation: Studies in the New Testament Presented to Matthew Black (ed. Ernest Best and R. McL. Wilson; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), 46–64; Dale C. Allison, “The Eye Is the Lamp of the Body (Matthew 6:22–23 = Luke 11:34–36),” NTS 33 (1987): 62–66; and Parsons, Body and Character in Luke and Acts, 67–82. 12
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unbelief: ὄψονται εἰς ὃν ἐξεκέντησαν (“they will look on the one they have pierced” [19:37; Zech 12:10]). The exclamatory “behold” (ἴδε, ἰδού) is part of the same dynamic in the Fourth Gospel, demonstrating the iconic nature of the Johannine Jesus.15 Based on what he has seen at the baptism (1:32–34),16 John the Baptist proclaims, ἴδε ὁ ἀμνὸς τοῦ θεοῦ (“behold, the lamb of God” [1:29, 36]). Similarly, the evangelist declares at Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem, ἰδοὺ ὁ βασιλεύς σου ἔρχεται (“behold, your king comes” [12:15; Zech 9:9]), a kingship that is tauntingly acclaimed by Pilate in the context of the trial: ἰδοὺ ὁ ἄνθρωπος . . . ἴδε ὁ βασιλεὺς ὑμῶν (“behold the man . . . behold your king” [19:5, 14; cf. 19:4]).17 The believing community possesses a similarly iconic quality, as evidenced in several Johannine characters: ἴδε ἀληθῶς Ἰσραηλίτης ἐν ᾧ δόλος οὐκ ἔστιν (“behold truly an Israelite in whom there is no guile” [1:47]), says Jesus of Nathanael; ἴδε ὁ υἱός σου . . . ἴδε ἡ μήτηρ σου (“behold your son . . . behold your mother” [19:26-27]), he declares from the cross to his mother and beloved disciple.18 The declaration invites the reader to behold not just Jesus himself but central characters of the drama—particularly the mother of Jesus and the beloved disciple—who themselves take on a parallel iconic quality in the Johannine worldview. The use of sight imagery is fundamental to the life of the Johannine community beyond Easter, as evidenced particularly in the second half of the Gospel. The beloved disciple’s faith-filled seeing is the basis for the community’s future life and witness (19:35). Mission, in the Johannine sense, can be summarized in the injunction “Come and see” (1:39, 46; 4:29; 12:21; cf. also 11:34). In the eschatology of the Farewell Discourse, John plays on sight imagery with the impending absence of Jesus: the disciples see and do not see, they will no longer see yet they will see, the seeing will be taken from them but then restored forever (16:16–22). This sight is also projected into the past: Abraham, Isaiah, and especially Moses have foreseen Jesus (8:56–57; 12:40; cf. 5:46).
15 The imperative form of the verb occurs some twenty times in the Fourth Gospel. Unfortunately, the usage is obscured in the NRSV, which substitutes “here is” (1:29, 47; 3:26; 7:26; 19:5, 14, 26–27) and on occasions uses “look!” (1:36; 4:35; 12:15, 19; 19:4), “see!” (5:14; 11:36; cf. 20:27), or “yes” (16:29)—though sometimes it fails to translate it at all (11:3; 16:32). 16 The sight imagery comes to a climax at the end of the chapter in Jesus’ words to Nathanael and the other disciples, “You will see greater things that these . . . you will see the heavens opened” (ὄψῃ, ὄψεσθε [1:50–51]). 17 The taunts are most plausibly directed at the Jewish authorities (“the Jews”) in the trial narrative, rather than at Jesus himself; see Warren Carter (John and Empire: Initial Explorations [New York/London: T&T Clark, 2008], 289–314), who rightly reads the character of Pilate—and the Roman imperial system for which he stands—as violently opposed to the Johannine Jesus and everything which he represents in the Gospel. 18 It is true that, in several occurrences of this verbal usage, there is no distinctly iconic quality in John, though some references (e.g., 5:14) may have potentially iconic overtones.
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In the closing chapters of the Gospel, seeing refers specifically to the signs surrounding the resurrection, which function as images of new life. The folded linen cloths, the numinous presence of angels, the wounds, the catch of fish, the charcoal fire, all point symbolically to Jesus’ risen presence and power in the community beyond Easter (chs. 20–21). Without sight, none of the disciples comes to Easter faith or possesses leadership. Mary Magdalene’s testimony encapsulates this: ἑώρακα τὸν κύριον (“I have seen the Lord” [20:18)], a sight and a proclamation that the other disciples are given (20:20, 25). Thomas too demands his share in Jesus’ appearance (20:25–27). Jesus’ beatitude—μακάριοι οἱ μὴ ἰδόντες καὶ πιστεύσαντες (“blessed are those who have not seen yet have believed” [20:29])— may seem to undermine the Gospel’s vision imagery, but it is more likely an encouragement to the implied reader who does not have access to the literal sense of sight.19 Through the presence of the Spirit-Paraclete, future believers are dependent on the material vision of the apostolic community, gaining complete access to the “seeing” of faith.20 Thus, throughout the narrative, sight becomes a core symbol and the most prominent of the Johannine senses in frequency and import.
II. Hearing The second most important sense is that of hearing (ἀκούειν),21 which, according to Aristotle, is linked to sound and breath just as vision is to color and light (De an. 2.8). In the Fourth Gospel, hearing has a mundane as well as a metaphorical meaning (3:32). Its occurrences are less frequent and less complex than those of sight. Yet Jesus is the one who definitively hears the Father’s voice and utters it (8:26, 40), so that to hear his words is to hear the words of God (14:24). Only once does God speak directly, and it is significant that those standing around do not hear it aright, in contrast to Jesus himself (12:29). This aural capacity distinguishes Jesus from all others: only he hears the Father’s voice and the Father, in turn, hears the voice of the Son—before ever utterance is made (11:41). The Spirit, moreover, shares in the same communication, voicing only that divine truth that the Spirit has first heard (16:13). 19
See Dorothy Lee, “Partnership in Easter Faith: The Role of Mary Magdalene and Thomas in John 20,” JSNT 58 (1995): 37–49. 20 Bauckham (Jesus and the Eyewitnesses, 403–6) argues that the language of “sight” in the Fourth Gospel is the language also of the eyewitnesses, for whom there is both a literal and metaphorical perception. If so, it has important, historiographical implications for what Bauckham sees as the ancient world’s preference for eyewitness “seeing” (pp. 114–54). 21 The verb, without direct synonyms, occurs in John over fifty times (cf. τηρεῖν below). Unlike the verbal form “to see” with its plethora of synonyms, “to hear” is limited in Greek to the verb ἀκούειν and compound forms. See W. Michaelis, “ὁράω et al.,” TDNT 5:316.
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To hear means, for John, to recognize the Word (λόγος) in the words (λόγοι). This is the basis of discipleship: to hear aright, to recognize, and to follow. In this sense, to hear is to gain eternal life, since hearing is the sign that final judgment has taken place (5:24). The first two disciples hear the testimony of the Baptist and follow Jesus (1:37, 40), just as the Baptist himself has heard the voice of the Bridegroom (3:29).22 The mother of Jesus exhorts the servants at the wedding, in effect, to hear the commands of her Son (2:5). The Samaritan villagers hear for themselves and believe (4:42). The sheep hear the voice of the Good Shepherd naming them (10:3, 27), just as Mary Magdalene hears the voice of the Shepherd calling her name on Easter Sunday (Μαρίαμ [20:16]). Most dramatically of all, Lazarus hears the Word of life summoning him to return to life, through the cold, stone walls of death, in that grim silence where no voice is heard (5:25, 28; 11:43–44). Disciples are “friends” of Jesus (φίλοι) because they have become privileged hearers of the Father’s voice (15:15). Elsewhere, John speaks in synonymous language of keeping Jesus’ words or commands (τηρεῖν).23 This is another image for hearing but in the sense of hearkening to (12:47; 14:15, 23; 17:6), as demonstrated by Jesus himself (8:55; 15:10). In this sense, faith can be described as “hearing the voice or the words of Jesus . . . , in the sense of ‘obeying’ . . . an inward hearing.”24 It is possible to hear and not believe (12:47), to listen to the words but not keep them. Hearing is associated with truth: for the reader, to hear aright is to recognize the voice of Jesus as the definitive utterance of God and to discover a transformed identity in belonging to the truth (18:37). In this Gospel, to be a believer is to be among those who hear, in the Johannine Jesus and the Paraclete, the Father’s voice and keep it. Audition is central to the life of faith.
III. Taste Sight and hearing are the two main senses that serve, metaphorically, to depict faith in the Fourth Gospel. Yet the other senses also are represented. These include the sense of taste (γευέσθαι), imaged mostly in depictions of eating and drinking (ἐσθίειν, πίνειν).25 The symbolism goes back to the first “sign” at Cana, a wedding 22 On the evangelist’s use of the bridegroom imagery, particularly in relation to John the Baptist, see Mary Coloe, “Witness and Friend: Symbolism Associated with John the Baptiser,” in Frey et al., Imagery in the Gospel of John, 319–32. 23 The verb occurs, mostly in the Farewell Discourse, some twenty times with distinct christological overtones. 24 Rudolf Schnackenburg, The Gospel according to St John (3 vols.; London: Burns & Oates, 1968–82), 1:564 (Excursus VII). 25 There are more than thirty references to taste, including eating and drinking, in the
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banquet (2:1–11), where the bewildered steward is the first to taste τὸ ὕδωρ οἶνον γεγενημένον (“water made wine” [2:9]). Elsewhere John uses imagery of food and drink as symbolic of revelation. Jesus offers the Samaritan woman ὕδωρ ζῶν (“living water” [4:10–14]) and at the feast of Tabernacles summons the thirsty to quench their thirst in him (7:37–39), images of both Wisdom and the Spirit. Jesus himself hungers and thirsts. He is tired and thirsty at the well (4:6–7) and, after the raising of Lazarus, reclines at table, sharing in the banquet (12:1–8), as he does with the other disciples at the Last Supper (13:1–30). Jesus’ hunger and thirst operate not only biologically but also metaphorically, in his passionate commitment to the Father’s will (4:31–34), attested to in the Scriptures—a commitment that finally devours him (ὁ ζῆλος τοῦ οἴκου σου καταφάγεταί με, “zeal for your house will consume me” [2:17]). In the passion, Jesus confirms his intention (unlike Simon Peter) to drink the Father’s cup (18:11). At the crucifixion, this metaphorical thirst for the divine will is uttered and “quenched” in Jesus’ last words, closely connected in meaning as well as time: διψῶ . . . τετέλεσται (“I thirst . . . it is finished” [19:27–28]). The raging thirst that heralds the imminence of death becomes metaphorical for the driving passion that takes the Johannine Jesus to the cross. Earlier in the Gospel, in the context of Passover (the second in the Gospel), Jesus feeds the multitude, revealing that he is the food believers must taste to gain eternal life; he is the manna, the bread of heaven, and by implication the paschal lamb. In this sense, he is both the hospitable host and the meal itself, the true meaning of Passover. Immediately after death he becomes the source of living water and sacramental blood (19:37), a flow in which believers can quench their thirst for life.26 As the hostility and misunderstanding escalate at the feast of Tabernacles, Jesus’ opponents accuse him scathingly of claiming, ἐάν τις τὸν λόγον μου τηρήσῃ, οὐ μὴ γεύσηται θανάτου εἰς τὸν αἰῶνα, despite the deaths of Abraham and the prophets (“whoever keeps my word will never taste death” [8:52]). Jesus’ actual words are, θάνατον οὐ μὴ θεωρήσῃ εἰς τὸν αἰῶνα (“will never see death” [8:51]), yet the two are parallel: sight and taste, vision and gustation,
Fourth Gospel. Aristotle, who argues that taste has no actual medium, observes that it requires liquid and is concerned with flavor (De an. 2.10). 26 A number of medieval and Renaissance paintings show angels flying around the cross with chalices in their hands to catch the drops of blood from Jesus’ hands and side, emphasizing the imagery of eucharistic drinking and portraying, if a trifle bluntly, medieval belief in the “real presence.” See, e.g., Giotto di Bondone’s depictions of the cross with their flocks of small angels in the upper half, three of whom hover around Jesus’ body with extended bowls (Crucifixion, 1304–6, Fresco, 200 x 185 cm, Cappella Scrovegni, Padua; Crucifixion, 1310s, Fresco, North Transept, Lower Church, San Francesco, Assisi; and Crucifixion, 1330s, tempera on wood, 39 x 26 cm, Musées Municipaux, Strasbourg).
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both express, in their own ways, access to the deathless life that the Johannine Jesus bestows.27
IV. Touch The sense of touch, or somatic feeling, is different from vision and hearing (and smell), as we have noted, because it implies contact and cannot be perceived from a distance, the same being true for taste: “the medium of the tangible is flesh” (τὸ μεταξὺ τοῦ ἁπτικοῦ ἡ σάρξ [Aristotle, De an. 2.11.423]). This factor suggests a certain intimacy in the sense of touch, a closeness and directness that can imply anything from the deepest intimacy to the harshest tactile acts of repulsion and violence.28 References to touch are less numerous in John, the actual verb occurring only once (ἅπτεσθαι [20:17]).29 Yet there are several occasions where images of touch, in different terminology, take on symbolic value in the narrative of the Fourth Gospel. Christologically, John uses the striking metaphor of the Father giving all things into the Son’s hands (3:35; 13:3), a metaphor that encapsulates the agency of the Johannine Jesus and the unique role he plays in bridging the gulf between Creator and creation. As a consequence, believers can never be taken from the Son’s—and therefore the Father’s—hands (10:28–29). The handing over of all things to the Son includes the community of the faithful, who are protected even in the midst of persecution because they are secure in the hands of the Good Shepherd, a hold that is stronger than death and the grasping powers of evil. The imagery of touch can be used in a hostile fashion, indicating the desire of the κόσμος (“world”) to overpower or grasp the light (κατέλαβεν, 1:5). In the section that circles around the “feasts of the Jews” (chs. 5–10), Jesus’ opponents attempt to lay hands on him (7:30, 44; 10:39) but are unable to do so without divine consent; there is a celestial timing to which they are unknowingly subject. On trial, Jesus is struck by the hands of both the high priest’s servants and the Roman soldiers (18:22–23; 19:3). These blows are abusive and taunting, indicating the voluntary subjection of Jesus to ὁ τοῦ κόσμου ἄρχων (“the ruler of the world” [14:30; 16:11]), a subjection that ironically spells his eschatological end. The paradox is that Jesus gives himself into the hands of the world in order that all things might be given over into his hands.
27 On hunger and thirst as expressions of Johannine anthropology, see esp. Craig R. Koester, “What Does It Mean to Be Human?” in Frey et al., Imagery in the Gospel of John, 409–14. 28 Leucippus, the pre-Socratic atomist philosopher, is credited with the saying, “all the senses are a variety of touch”; see Allison, “Eye Is the Lamp of the Body,” 63. 29 There are also about thirty references to touch in relation to fingers, hands, and feet.
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Jesus’ touch is essential for the well-being of the community, expressing the intimacy of love. Jesus touches the eyes of the man born blind, for example, anointing them with a paste (9:6–7, 15). The spittle, the dust, the physical touch, and the waters of Siloam work together as primal elements to give the man a sight he has never possessed (see Gen 2:7). This is the only healing story in John where Jesus uses touch (cf. Mark 1:31; 5:29, 41). The sensuous nature of Mary’s anointing is another example of touch. Her action corresponds to the costliness of Jesus’ dangerous and subversive act in raising her brother to life (11:45–57). Mary’s unconventional touch of Jesus’ feet articulates the reciprocity of love in this Gospel. But it also foreshadows the footwashing, where Jesus touches the feet of his disciples at the Last Supper, a ritual and symbolic expression of union in his death, indicating both intimacy and service (13:8). The resurrection narratives make reference to touch, though the haptic imagery here is more ambiguous. Mary Magdalene’s touch connotes misunderstanding, since Jesus’ glorification is incomplete (cf. 20:19–23). By contrast, Thomas is invited in vehement language to touch the wounds,30 but seemingly chooses instead to confess faith in the risen Christ (20:28). The imagery of touch stresses the paradox of the tangible yet numinous nature of Jesus’ presence.
V. Smell The last sense, smell, might seem at first to be negligible or even nonexistent in the world of the Fourth Gospel. While the verb “to smell” occurs only once in the Gospel (ὄζειν [11:39], along with the noun, “odor,” ὀσμή [12:3]), there are two distinct references to olfaction. Though in different contexts, these are interconnected, as the evangelist evokes a vivid contrast between the stench of death and the fragrance of life. The first occurs in the raising of Lazarus (11:1–12:11).31 Martha’s outspoken faith wavers at the opening of the tomb, the stench of death overwhelming her (11:39). But the Johannine Jesus, in summoning Lazarus from the tomb, demonstrates that he alone can eliminate the obscene odor of death and decay. By contrast, the home of the Bethany family is flooded with the scent of life in Mary’s anointing (λίτραν μύρου νάρδου πιστικῆς πολυτίμου, “a pound of costly oil, made from pure nard” [12:3]).32 The Johannine Jesus explicitly connects 30
Literally, “thrust” (βάλειν); Thomas also speaks of needing to see “with my hands”
(20:25). 31 On the structure, see further Dorothy Lee, The Symbolic Narratives of the Fourth Gospel: The Interplay of Form and Meaning (JSNTSup 95; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994), 191– 97; and Flesh and Glory, 198–200. 32 On the contrast between the two odors, see Lee, Symbolic Narratives, 222 n. 2; and Flesh and Glory, 205–6; also Gail R. O’Day, “John,” in The Women’s Bible Commentary (ed. Carol A. Newsom and Sharon H. Ringe; expanded ed.; London: SCM, 1998), 299.
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this profligate fragrance to his own death and burial (12:7) and, by implication, his resurrection, to which the raising of Lazarus symbolically points.33 The second reference to smell is in the passion and resurrection narratives. Although John does not refer to the stench of crucifixion, the implied author presupposes such knowledge, along with other details of Jesus’ suffering. Death by crucifixion involves the evacuation of the body, and the stench of such a death is only one part of its horrors. In the burial narrative, by contrast, Jesus’ body is embalmed in the powerful and invigorating aroma of the myrrh and aloes, prepared by Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus (19:38–42). The body does not decay as does Lazarus’s: its short sojourn in the tomb and the fragrant spices that embalm it signify that there is no deathly reek here. Indeed, the odor points forward to the Easter garden (κῆπος [18:1, 26; 19:41]), the fragrance of Spring and new-blossoming flowers and herbs. In this place of aromatic odors Mary Magdalene discovers new life in the unexpected appearance of the “gardener” (κηπουρός [20:15]). Thus, in two contexts, olfaction functions as symbolic of both life and death, where the evangelist underscores the tangible reality not only of human mortality but also, and more portentously, of eternal life.
VI. Conclusion What is the theological significance of John’s portrayal of the five senses in the Fourth Gospel? In the first place, they are employed in the Gospel as images pertaining to faith: they represent that material comprehension by which the reader makes a connection to the divine source of life. To grasp this spiritual reality, the evangelist makes use of metaphor and symbol, making tangible the message of life that the Gospel enacts, since the transcendent God in the Johannine framework can be perceived and apprehended only through such imagery (3:12).34 Here the five senses operate symbolically to point to a deeper reality.35 Such apprehension requires, first and foremost, a transformation in the reader’s imagination. As James Alison points out, in John’s Gospel the implied 33 Brendan Byrne, Lazarus: A Contemporary Reading of John 11:1–46 (Homebush, N.S.W.: St. Paul, 1991), 86–89; Lee, Symbolic Narratives, 224–26. 34 R. Hirsch-Luipold, “Klartext in Bildern,” in Frey et al., Imagery in the Gospel of John, 66. 35 One of the most powerful evocations of the five senses is found in the late-fifteenthcentury series of six tapestries, La Dame à la licorne, located now in the Musée de Cluny in Paris (though originating in Flanders). Each tapestry represents one of the senses; the final in the series depicts the lady removing her jewels and placing them in a casket, with the inscription, À mon seul désir. Interpretation cannot be certain, but at least the tapestries point to the lavishness of sensual existence and the final, almost eschatological, moment of renunciation. See A. ErlandeBrandenburg, La Dame à la Licorne (Paris: Réunion des Musées Nationaux, 1978).
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reader does not possess this ability naturally, because his or her reason, education, and thus imagination “are marked by death and its consequences.”36 What is called for in this Gospel, he argues, is the new imagining of a God “who does not know death” and who reveals to the religious authorities that “the secret of [their] satanized god is death.”37 It is the focus on imagination that is important here: the imagination that conceives of life within and beyond death and all forms of deathdealing, not just at the end of life but in its midst. Although this is not precisely the language of the fourth evangelist, it is synonymous with what the Gospel means when it speaks of eternal life as the consequence of believing in Jesus as the divinely human Son: ἵνα πιστεύοντες ζωὴν ἔχητε ἐν τῷ ὀνόματι αὐτοῦ (“in order that, in believing, you may have life in his name” [20:31)]. The senses thus work on two levels, the material and the symbolic, precisely through appeal to the imagination.38 Though separated by time and distance from the characters of the Gospel, the reader gains access to the same symbolic imagining and therefore the same reality through the literal and material apprehension of the Johannine believers.39 The text—its narrative, characters, and imagery; its focus on the five senses— becomes the symbolic medium that donates to the reader new life.40 In the second place, John’s attention to the five senses underlines the centrality of the incarnation in the Johannine theological vision; to employ the opening words of the first Johannine epistle, ὃ ἦν ἀπ᾿ ἀρχῆς, ὃ ἀκηκόαμεν, ὃ ἑωράκαμεν τοῖς ὀφθαλμοῖς ἡμῶν, ὃ ἐθεασάμεθα καὶ αἱ χεῖρες ἡμῶν ἐψηλάφησαν . . . ὃ ἑωράκαμεν καὶ ἀκηκόαμεν (“that which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our own eyes, which we have beheld and our hands have handled . . . that which we have seen and heard” [1 John 1:1, 3]). This pronouncement, whatever its precise meaning in the epistles, nonetheless can serve to encapsulate the sensuous dynamic of the Gospel itself.41 The words of God in the past—creative, dynamic, saving—now resolve themselves into the one Word, Jesus Christ. This utterance, for the Fourth Gospel, becomes the center, so that the reader looks back at the words of God in the past from the vantage point of the Logos, to whom the senses of believers are now attuned.42 That is why John 36
Alison, Living in the End Times: The Last Things Re-Imagined (London: SPCK, 1996), 77. Ibid., 64. 38 Lee, Flesh and Glory, 119–28. 39 Despite John’s spiritual and moral dualism in the contrasting pairs of the Gospel— light/darkness, sight/blindness, truth/falsehood, life/death—the movement from one to the other in the narrative occurs gradually and in distinct stages. Indeed, the movement can work in both directions at the same time, as the story of the man born blind makes plain; in John 6, by contrast, the movement is finally negative. On the stages of faith, see further Lee, Symbolic Narratives, 11– 15, 228–30. 40 This includes its tangibility in papyrus or parchment, as well as its aurality in performance. 41 In these opening verses, 1 John places particular emphasis on “seeing.” 42 The Fourth Gospel also points beyond itself to the community to which it is addressed. In this sense, there is a parallel literal and symbolic sensory experience to which the Gospel attests. 37
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describes the community as “beholding” the glory of God in the flesh (ἐθεασάμεθα).43 The God who is invisible, beyond human ken (θεὸν οὐδεὶς ἑώρακεν πώποτε, “no-one has ever seen God” [1:18]), is the same God in the Fourth Gospel whose glory is seen, heard, tasted, touched, and smelled, not just in epiphany and temple, Torah, holy wisdom and prophets, but more fully and completely in the Word made flesh.44 Augustine says of the risen Christ in his resurrection appearances: “Because he was seeking the inner sense of faith, he presented himself also to their outer senses” (Sermon 112.7). For the fourth evangelist, the incarnation (in and through the resurrection) evokes not only the self-revealing of the Johannine God but also the dynamism inherent in creation itself and the possibilities of new life in the perpetual and unceasing (re-)creativity of God. The incarnation expresses the hope of flesh revived in a palpability that death itself cannot annihilate. In short, the five senses of vision, audition, gustation, feeling, and olfaction are roused in the Gospel narrative, enabling the reader to grasp the incarnational shape of salvation through imagination. In this sense, Johannine faith is tied inextricably to Johannine Christology: matter to matter, spirit to spirit, the one giving rise to the other within the Fourth Gospel’s sensuous and symbolic worldview. For John, the community itself takes on a life to which the senses can connect: there is a seeing and hearing, a tasting and touching, a fragrance, all of which, understood aright, give Johannine believers access to life. Significantly, it is the presence of the Spirit-Paraclete that breathes life into the symbols of the community, just as the Johannine Spirit is the one who gives life to believers and brings to life the words and deeds of Jesus’ ministry. 43 On the parallels with the Synoptic transfiguration story, which contains both seeing and hearing but with priority (arguably) for the former, see Dorothy Lee, Transfiguration (New Century Theology; London: Continuum, 2004), 100–111. 44 Marianne Meye Thompson has demonstrated the strong lines of continuity between the Johannine God and the God of the OT, now revealed in Jesus (“ ‘Every Picture Tells a Story’: Imagery for God in the Gospel of John,” in Frey et al., Imagery in the Gospel of John, 259–77).
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Spirit and Covenant Renewal: A Theologoumenon of Paul’s Opponents in 2 Corinthians thomas r. blanton iv
[email protected] Luther College, Decorah, IA 52101
The reconstruction of the position of the missionary rivals whose legitimacy Paul attempts to undermine in 2 Corinthians has proven to be a difficult task. Since the time of Ferdinand Christian Baur, scholars have proposed various, often conflicting reconstructions. In 1990, Jerry L. Sumney proposed some salutary methodological guidelines for this project and offered his own minimalist reconstruction.1 The material that Sumney used in his reconstruction of the position of Paul’s missionary rivals was gleaned solely from the text of 2 Corinthians. There remain, however, substantial comparative data from early Jewish and Christian texts that have not yet been examined in connection with this problem. These comparative data, I argue, suggest an alternative to Sumney’s view of the role played by the spirit in the preaching of Paul’s missionary rivals in 2 Corinthians. To contextualize this argument, let us briefly examine Jerry Sumney’s methodological dicta, the reasons that he had for proposing them, and the minimalist sketch of Paul’s Corinthian missionary opponents that he proposed. Sumney’s delineation of a methodology for establishing the characteristics of the preaching of Paul’s missionary opponents in 2 Corinthians was formulated in response to what he perceived as an undue variety in the types of characteristics that previous scholars had imputed to those missionaries. In the interest of time, I menAn earlier version of this article was presented in the seminar “Second Corinthians: Pauline Theology in the Making” at the Society of Biblical Literature annual meeting in Boston in November 2008. I would like to thank the panelists at the seminar, as well as the two anonymous reviewers at JBL for their helpful comments. 1 Sumney, Identifying Paul’s Opponents: The Question of Method in 2 Corinthians (JSNTSup 40; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1990).
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tion only three of the more influential theories here.2 In the late 1800s, Baur saw Paul’s missionary rivals in 2 Corinthians as representatives of a single, unified movement that opposed Paul’s law-free mission: that of Petrine Christianity.3 In 1964, Dieter Georgi proposed a novel solution to the problem of Paul’s opposition in Corinth.4 Georgi argued that Paul’s missionary rivals presented themselves as θεῖοι ἄνθρωποι, Greco-Roman divine men such as Apollonius of Tyana, who possessed superhuman traits including preternatural wisdom and the ability to work miracles. C. K. Barrett presented Paul’s rivals as Christian Jews who received their authority from the Jerusalem church, although they misrepresented the principals James and Cephas there by “adopting . . . the ecstatic accompaniments of pagan religion” such as visionary experience and glossolalia.5 It was in response to this variety of reconstructions that Sumney proposed methodological principles that should be followed when approaching the subject of Paul’s Corinthian rivals.6 In brief, Sumney creates a taxonomy of the kinds of statements that allow us to extract information about Paul’s rivals, including explicit statements, allusions, and major themes addressed in 2 Corinthians. Against the influential thesis of Baur, Sumney is keen to point out the methodological flaw in assuming that the opponents in one letter (e.g., Galatians) must be identified with Paul’s opponents in another. Sumney recognizes the potential value of comparative sources to provide background data within which to contextualize discussions of Paul’s opponents. He rejects the use of sources that postdate Paul’s letters and states that contempo-
2 For a more complete review of the positions, see Dieter Georgi, The Opponents of Paul in Second Corinthians (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986; trans. of Die Gegner des Paulus im 2. Korintherbrief; Studien zur religiösen Propaganda in der Spätantike (WMANT 11; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1964), 1–9; Reimund Bieringer, “Die Gegner des Paulus im 2. Korintherbrief,” in idem and Jan Lambrecht, Studies on 2 Corinthians (BETL 112; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 1994), 181–221; Margaret Thrall, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Second Epistle to the Corinthians (2 vols.; ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1994, 2000) 2:926–45; Murray J. Harris, The Second Epistle to the Corinthians: A Commentary on the Greek Text (NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005), 67–87; Thomas R. Blanton, Constructing a New Covenant: Discursive Strategies in the Damascus Document and Paul’s Second Corinthians (WUNT 2/233; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 109–21. 3 Baur, Paul, the Apostle of Jesus Christ: His Life and Works, His Epistles and Teachings. A Contribution to a Critical History of Primitive Christianity (2 vols.; Theological Translation Fund Library 2, 6; London/Edinburgh: Williams & Norgate, 1875; trans. of Paulus, der Apostel Jesu Christi: Sein Leben, sein Wirken, seine Briefe und seine Lehre. Ein Beitrag zu einer kritischen Geschichte des Urchristenthums [Leipzig: Fues, 1866]). 4 Georgi, Opponents of Paul. 5 Barrett, “Paul’s Opponents in 2 Corinthians,” in idem, Essays on Paul (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1992), 60–86, here 82. 6 See also his more recent work, ‘Servants of Satan,’ ‘False Brothers’ and Other Opponents of Paul (JSNTSup 188; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1999).
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rary sources should be used to provide comparative data.7 He does not address the issue of whether earlier sources, which might have influenced later developments, may be used. He does, however, indicate the potential value of tracing the historical trajectory of a particular theme for understanding Paul’s opponents: “If we know about the beginning and some later point [of a historical or thematic trajectory], we may be able to speak of intervening developments.”8 Contextualization is necessary for historical reconstruction: “We can evaluate the information that we have about a particular situation only when we know something about its historical context, that is, we must know something about the broad context to understand a particular episode.”9 Sumney, however, does little in Identifying Paul’s Opponents to provide such contextualizing information.10 After outlining his methodological criteria, Sumney develops a reconstruction that is in some respects in agreement with the earlier positions of Victor Paul Furnish, Georgi,11 and others who view Paul’s missionary rivals as pneumatics who contend that the spirit enables apostles to lead powerful and obviously successful lives. . . . They also assert that the Spirit grants visions and revelations to apostles. Finally, they say that the spirit manifests itself in apostles by enabling them to perform miraculous deeds (“signs, wonders, and mighty deeds”).12
Although the position that Paul’s missionary rivals in 2 Corinthians viewed the spirit as a source of visions, revelations, and miraculous deeds that could be called upon to legitimate their ministry is one that is widely held in NT scholarship, there is in fact good reason to doubt it.13 The reason arises from Sumney’s own method7
Sumney, Identifying, 77–80. Ibid., 80. 9 Ibid., 83. 10 In his later book, ‘Servants of Satan,’ he devotes three paragraphs to an attempt to locate within their “broader religio-philosophical environment” two issues discussed in 2 Corinthians— “the proper way of life” and the means of economic support for philosophers and propagandists in antiquity (p. 132). 11 Furnish, II Corinthians (AB 32A; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1984), 324, 532, 543; Georgi, Opponents of Paul, 242–44, 258–59, 280–83, 318. 12 Sumney, Identifying, 177. Interestingly, in his most recent statement on the topic, Sumney does not make mention of visions, revelations, and miraculous deeds in his characterization of Paul’s opponents in 2 Corinthians. He does not, however, indicate that he has changed his position on the issue (“Studying Paul’s Opponents: Advances and Challenges” in Paul and His Opponents [ed. Stanley E. Porter; Pauline Studies 2; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2005], 7–58, esp. 14–17, 49). 13 In addition to Furnish, Sumney, and Georgi, other scholars who have held the view include Rudolf Bultmann, The Second Letter to the Corinthians (trans. Roy A. Harrisville; Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1985; German original ed. Erich Dinkler, 1976), 149–50, 219; Ernst Käsemann, “Die Legitimität des Apostels: Eine Untersuchung zu II Korinther 10–13,” ZNW 41 (1942): 58, 61–71; Hans-Josef Klauck, 2. Korintherbrief (NEchtB; Würzburg: Echter Verlag, 1986), 91; Ralph Martin, 2 Corinthians (WBC 40; Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1986), 396–97; Jerome Murphy-O’Connor, The Theology of the Second Letter to the Corinthians (New Testament Theol8
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ology. He rejects the use of the “mirror technique,” which involves deriving information about Paul’s rivals based on the assumption that their position must have been diametrically opposed to the positions that Paul espouses in 2 Corinthians, unless—and this is an important qualification—there exist prior data that could corroborate the results of this technique.14 One instance in which Sumney abandons his usual methodological rigor and allows himself to engage in “mirror exegesis” in the absence of prior corroborating data is the point at which, on the basis of Paul’s own claims in 12:1–4, he attributes revelatory and charismatic experiences to Paul’s rivals. He argues as follows: Paul apparently agrees to match his opponents’ claims to “visions and revelations of the Lord” in 12.1. . . . We may infer, since we are in a polemical context, that they claim to receive visions and revelations. We may further conclude that they use these visionary experiences as evidence of apostolic status.15
According to Sumney’s methodological proposal, allusions in polemical contexts, as he classifies Paul’s statements in 12:1–2, may yield information about the position of Paul’s opponents through the application of the mirror technique if and only if there exist prior data that could corroborate the results of this technique. However, the existence of prior data is in this instance precluded by Sumney’s acknowledgment that 12:1 constitutes “the first clear evidence that spiritual experiences are important for the opponents.”16 In the absence of corroborating information, the use of the mirror technique in 12:1–4 is, according to the strict application of Sumney’s method, illegitimate. Sumney offers a second argument from 12:1 to the effect that Paul’s opponents adduce visions and revelations. He follows Georgi, Furnish, and Ralph Martin in arguing that Paul’s phrase in 12:1, οὐ συμφέρον, “it is not beneficial,” indicates that “Paul is being forced to deal with the subject of visions and revelations.”17 Margaret Thrall concurs, framing the issue succinctly: “[T]he very fact that Paul acknowledges that his boasting is inexpedient goes to show that it is evoked by external pressures.”18 The fact that Paul indicates that boasting is inexpedient does not, however, offer sufficient grounds for the assumption that Paul’s visionary experience is adduced in response to a similar claim by his opponents. This assumption involves an invalid use of the mirror technique. In the absence of
ogy; Cambridge/New York: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 115; Udo Schnelle, Apostle Paul: His Life and Theology (trans. M. Eugene Boring; Grand Rapids: Baker, 2005), 259–61; Calvin Roetzel, 2 Corinthians (ANTC; Nashville: Abingdon, 2007), 111. 14 Sumney, Identifying, 111. 15 Ibid., 168; ‘Servants of Satan,’ 121. On this point, Sumney follows Furnish, his Doktorvater, (citing his II Corinthians, 532). 16 Sumney, Identifying, 168; repeated in ‘Servants of Satan,’ 121 (italics mine). 17 Sumney, Identifying, 168. 18 Thrall, Second Epistle, 2:773 n. 10.
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any prior evidence to indicate that Paul’s opponents had claimed visionary experiences to legitimate their ministry, this procedure must be rejected. The phrase οὐ συμφέρον indicates only that Paul’s boasting in the fool’s speech was “evoked by external pressures” (i.e., the boasting of Paul’s opponents); it does not indicate the specific content of the opponents’ boasting. The two other passages that are often cited in support of the view that Paul’s missionary rivals adduced visionary and revelatory experience to legitimate their ministry, 5:12–13 and 12:12, suffer from a similar problem. In 5:12, Paul implies that his opponents “boast in appearances” (καυχᾶσθαι ἐν προσώπῳ). In the following verse, Paul makes the curious statement εἴτε γὰρ ἐξέστημεν, θεῷ· εἴτε γὰρ σωφρονοῦμεν, ὑμῖν (“If we were out of our senses, it was for God’s benefit; if we are in our right mind, it is for your benefit”). Noting that Derk William Oostendorp, Walter Schmithals, and Georgi identify the verse as an allusion to practices in which Paul’s opponents engaged, Sumney correctly states, “If 5.13 is an allusion, it is the only reference to problems with spiritual gifts in chs. 1–9. Therefore, we cannot be certain that it is an allusion and we cannot claim that the opponents make an issue of spiritual gifts or the display of spiritual gifts.”19 The first person plural verb forms indicate that the reference is to Paul’s practices, not those of his opponents.20 There is no evidence that his opponents make an issue of spiritual gifts; Paul, on the other hand, does (cf. 1 Cor 14:18). It is probably his own practice of glossolalia that is being referred to here.21 Barring the invalid use of the mirror technique, this verse provides no evidence in favor of the thesis that Paul’s opponents adduced ecstatic experiences to legitimate their ministry. Sumney notes that many scholars identify the phrase “the signs of an apostle” (τὰ σημεῖα τοῦ ἀποστόλου) in 12:12 as a slogan of Paul’s missionary opponents in Corinth.22 Sumney cites Georgi to the effect that the σημεῖα τοῦ ἀποστόλου are viewed as manifestations of the spirit. Georgi, for his part, had argued that “[the 19 Sumney, Identifying, 144–45. Sumney holds the partition theory that finds two letters in 2 Corinthians, chs. 1–9 and chs. 10–13 (pp. 115–26). 20 Paul often uses first person plural verb forms when referring only to himself. On the “schriftstellerische Wir,” see Klauck, 2. Korintherbrief, 12–13. 21 So rightly Roetzel, 2 Corinthians, 80. Other commentators prefer to see in the verse a reference to Paul’s heavenly journey (so Paul Barnett, The Second Epistle to the Corinthians [NICNT; Grand Rapids/Cambridge: Eerdmans, 1997], 285) or to leave open the possibility that Paul refers either to ecstatic speech or to heavenly journeys (Thrall, Second Epistle, 1:406; Eric Gräßer, Der zweite Brief an die Korinther [2 vols., ÖTK 8; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus; Würzburg: Echter Verlag, 2002], 1:212). 22 Käsemann viewed the phrase as a slogan of Paul’s missionary rivals (“Die Legitimität,” 35). Barrett (“Paul’s Opponents,” 73), Martin (2 Corinthians, 435), and Murphy-O’Connor (Theology of the Second Letter, 122), on the other hand, see the Corinthian congregation, not Paul’s missionary rivals, as originating the phrase, which was connected with their demand for proof that Christ speaks in Paul (13:3). Harris raises the possibility that Paul himself may have introduced the phrase into the discussion (Second Epistle, 874).
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opponents’] signs and wonders must have resembled those of the HellenisticJewish and Hellenistic θεῖοι ἄνδρες. . . . It was the pride of the opponents that they could prove the pneuma as active” through their miraculous deeds.23 However, the fact that Paul’s immediately following statement in 12:13 refers to the issue of financial support for apostles indicates that the “signs” with which Paul is concerned are not miraculous deeds in the mode of the Hellenistic divine man, but rather the more mundane concern that his failure to accept financial support from the Corinthians could be interpreted as indicating his lack of apostolic status (cf. Matt 10:9–10; Luke 10:7; 1 Cor 9:3–14).24 The σημείοις τε καὶ τέρασιν καὶ δυνάμεσιν that were performed among the Corinthians “with all endurance” are more likely to refer to Paul’s preaching and church-building activities in Corinth than to miracles per se.25 Since there is no evidence elsewhere in 2 Corinthians that Paul’s missionary rivals adduced miraculous deeds to legitimate their ministry, the suggestion that 12:12 indicates their performance of such deeds involves an invalid use of the mirror technique and must therefore be rejected. Following Sumney’s methodological principle that the mirror technique may be used only when there is prior information to substantiate a point, neither Paul’s references to visions and revelations in 12:1–4, nor his statement in 12:1 that boasting about such experiences “is of no benefit,” nor his reference to the “signs of an apostle” in 12:12, nor the apparent reference to glossolalia in 5:13 can be used as evidence for practices or experiences adduced by Paul’s missionary rivals. If there is no evidence to support the view that Paul’s missionary opponents in 2 Corinthians used spirit-inspired visions and revelations to legitimate their ministry, an alternative view of the role that the spirit may have played in their preaching is suggested by early Jewish discussions of covenant renewal, to which we now turn our attention.
II. Covenant Renewal, Spirit, and Torah Observance: A Theologoumenon of Second Temple Judaism The central phrase that Paul uses in 2 Corinthians 3, the “new covenant” (ἡ διαθήκη καίνη), echoes a phrase that appeared for the first time in an exilic section of the book of Jeremiah. Jeremiah relied on a covenantal theology similar to 23
Georgi, Opponents of Paul, 236–37. Cf. Thrall, Second Epistle, 2:703, 842; Georgi, Opponents of Paul, 238–40; Sumney, Identifying, 132, 146; Blanton, Constructing, 137–38, 177, 184–86. 25 As argued cogently by Gräßer, Der zweite Brief, 2:222: “Den absoluten Primat hatte für sein apostolisches Wirken die Verkündigung (1 Kor 1,14–17). Und die Ausbreitung des Evangeliums ist für ihn das Wunder schlechthin. . . .” Harris, on the other hand, has recently taken 12:12 at face value, indicating that the verse provides evidence for miracle-working activity on Paul’s part (Second Epistle, 875). 24
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that of Deuteronomy.26 The covenant (tyrb) between Yhwh and the Judean people constituted a pact in which both parties were expected to adhere to the covenant’s stipulations. Yhwh’s part was to guarantee the Judeans’ rights to utilize the land of Judea. The Judeans for their part were to adhere to the stipulations of the Torah (e.g., Deut 7:1; 8:1, 11; 11:8–9). Failure to adhere to the stipulations of the covenant would result in the enactment of the “curses of the covenant,” including famine, military defeat, and exile (Deut 28:15–68), whereas adherence would result in “blessings,” including agricultural productivity, reproductive increase in humans and livestock, and most important, unconstrained usage rights to the land of Judea (Deut 28:1–14). Given this theological understanding, the Babylonian invasion, defeat, and subsequent mass deportation of Judeans in 586 b.c.e. were viewed as a result of the people’s failure to follow the stipulations of the covenant. In the period of exile that followed 586 b.c.e., editors of the Jeremianic corpus envisioned a time in which Judeans would internalize the stipulations of the covenant, thus reversing the exile that breaking the covenant had entailed. The people would return to their homeland, their intentionality transformed by God so that further rejection of the terms of the covenant would become impossible. Jeremiah 31:31–34 reads as follows: Behold! Days are coming (oracle of Yhwh), when I will make a new covenant with the house of Israel and the house of Judah, (one) not like the covenant that I made with their fathers when I strengthened their hand to bring them out of the land of Egypt, my covenant which they broke, though I ruled over them (oracle of Yhwh). For this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel: after these days (oracle of Yhwh) I will set my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts, and I will be their God and they will be my people. And no one will teach his companion or his brother any longer, saying, “Know Yhwh”; for all of them will know me, from the least to the greatest of them, for I will forgive their transgression, and their sin I will remember no longer.27
This passage constitutes the earliest usage of the phrase “new covenant” (tyrb h#dx), which takes a central place in Paul’s argument in 2 Corinthians 2–3. In the Jeremianic passage, Israel and Judah broke the covenant by failing to adhere to the stipulations of the Torah. According to the oracle, Yhwh will forgive the sin of the people—and it important to note that “sin” here has a specific connotation, that of rebellion against the stipulations of a treaty or covenant28—and “set [his] law within
26
For discussions of the covenantal aspect of Deuteronomy’s theology, see Moshe Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School (Oxford: Clarendon, 1972), 59–157; idem, The Promise of the Land: The Inheritance of the Land of Canaan by the Israelites (Taubman Lectures in Jewish Studies 3; Berkeley/Los Angeles/Oxford: University of California Press, 1993), 222–64. 27 All translations are my own unless noted otherwise. 28 Weinfeld compares the language of Deuteronomy with that of ancient treaties in “Covenant Terminology in the Ancient Near East and Its Influence on the West,” JAOS 93 (1973): 190–
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them” by “writing it on their hearts.” The law will become inscribed within the intentionality of the humans so transformed. The effectiveness of this transformation is complete: the people no longer need to study the Torah, as it has become a constitutive part of their psyche. We see here a cluster of motifs—new covenant, perfect obedience to the Torah, and the transformation of human intentionality— that are shared by each of the texts that we will now briefly survey. Like the book of Jeremiah, the book of Ezekiel utilizes a covenantal theology when it construes the period of exile following the Babylonian deportation of citizens of Jerusalem after that city was sacked in 586 b.c.e. as the result of Judeans’ failure to adhere to the stipulations of the covenant. Ezekiel envisions a remedy to this situation which is similar to that proposed in Jeremiah:29 I will take you from the nations and gather you from all the lands and bring you to your land. And I will sprinkle pure water upon you and you will be clean from all your uncleannesses, and I will purify you from all your idols. And I will give you a new heart and set a new spirit [h#dx xwr] within your inward parts, and remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh. And I will set my spirit within your inward parts and cause you to walk in my statutes30 and observe and perform my ordinances. And you will dwell in the land which I gave to your fathers, and you will be my people and I will be your God. (Ezek 36:24– 28)
In this passage, Israel’s God is depicted as providing a remedy for covenantal transgression by replacing the people’s rebellious, or “stony,” heart and spirit with new, compliant versions of the same: a “fleshly heart” and spirit. By effecting this replacement, Yhwh ensures the people’s obedience to the stipulations of the covenant. The Jeremianic theme of the transformation of human intentionality is here nuanced by the delineation of a specific mechanism for effecting this change: God puts his spirit within those transformed, with the result that they are “caused to 99; see also idem, “The Covenant of Grant in the Old Testament and in the Ancient Near East,” JAOS 90 (1970): 184–203. George Mendenhall is credited with first pointing out the relationship between Deuteronomy and ancient treaties (“Ancient Oriental and Biblical Law,” BA 17 [1954]: 26– 46; “Covenant Forms in Israelite Tradition,” BA 17 [1954]: 50–76). 29 Noting that the concerns of the passage reflect those of the late exilic or early postexilic period, Walther Zimmerli infers that “it is possible that here . . . [it] is no longer Ezekiel himself who is speaking, but the school which continues his line of thinking” (Ezekiel: A Commentary on the Book of the Prophet Ezekiel [2 vols.; Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1979, 1983; German original, 1969], 2:246). Greenberg (Ezekiel 21–37: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [AB 22; New York: Doubleday, 1997], 738–40), on the other hand, argues against the suggestion of Johan Lust that Ezek 36:23bβ–38 was added by redactors of Ezekiel’s oracles. For the purposes of the argument presented here, it makes little difference whether Ezekiel or an editor penned the oracle. 30 wklt yqxb-r#) t) yty#(w. On the substantival object clause construction, see Joüon §157c; cf. also GKC §157c.
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walk in”31 Yhwh’s statutes and ordinances (wklt yqxb-r#) t) yty#(w). Apart from the absence of an explicit reference to the new covenant and the notable addition of the designation of the spirit as the active agent responsible for the transformation of human intentionality, the cluster of motifs corresponds with that identified in Jeremiah 31. A similar cluster of motifs appears in the book of Jubilees, which states (1:22– 25a): The Lord said to Moses: “I know their contrary nature, their way of thinking, and their stubbornness. They will not listen until they acknowledge their sins and the sins of their ancestors. After this they will return to me in a fully upright manner and with all (their) minds and all (their) souls. I will cut away the foreskins of their minds and the foreskins of their descendants’ minds. I will create a holy spirit for them [wa 'efatti ei r lomu manfasa qeddusa] and will purify them in order that they may not turn away from me from that time forever. Their souls will adhere to me and to all my commandments. They will perform my commandments. I will become their father and they will become my children. All of them will be called children of the living God.”32
In this passage we encounter a schema that includes corporate confession and repentance, the transformation of human intentionality through the agency of the holy spirit, absolute obedience to the stipulations of the Torah, and renewed covenantal relationship with God. The theme of covenant renewal appears in Jubilees, where it is prescribed as a ritual to be performed annually on the fifteenth day of the third month, during the Feast of Shavuot (cf. Jub. 14:1, 10, 18, 20; 15:1– 14; 16:13–14; 22:15, 30).33 According to Jub. 6:17, “[I]t has been ordained and written on the heavenly tablets that they should celebrate the Festival of Weeks during this [i.e., the third] month—once a year—to renew the covenant [lahiaddis kidān] each and every year.”34 The point at which God “will create a holy spirit for them and will purify them in order that they may not turn away from [God] from that time forever” is, however, deferred until the eschatological future. In the Qumran Community Rule (1QS) a similar constellation of motifs appears. This text, like Ezekiel and Jubilees, links the spirit with the capacity of humans to adhere perfectly to the Torah. The Community Rule predicts that a purification of humans will be effected at the time of the hdwqp, or “visitation,”
31
Compare NRSV: “made to follow.” Translation of James C. VanderKam, The Book of Jubilees: A Critical Text (CSCO 510, 511; Scriptores Aethiopici 87, 88; Louvain: Peeters, 1989), 2:5. 33 The covenant made in the time of Noah breaks the pattern; it was on the first instead of the fifteenth of the third month (cf. Jub. 6:1, 10). 34 Translation of VanderKam, cited in his article “Covenant,” EDSS 1:152. I have added to VanderKam’s translation the transliteration of the Ethiopic text (in square brackets). 32
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when God is envisioned as judging the wicked and rewarding the righteous (4:18b– 23a).35 But God, in the mysteries of his understanding and in his glorious wisdom, has established an end for the existence of injustice, and at the appointed time of visitation he will destroy it forever.36 And then truth will come forth forever (to the) world, for it [the world] has been soiled by wicked ways during the dominion of injustice, until the appointed time of fixed judgment.37 And then God will purge38 all the deeds of man by his truth; he will purify for himself some of the sons of man,39 to bring to an end every spirit of injustice from the inward parts of his flesh40 and to purify him by a holy spirit from all wicked deeds. And he will sprinkle upon him a spirit of truth like purifying water41 (to cleanse him) from all the abominations of falsehood and (from) being soiled by a spirit of uncleanness, to instruct the upright in the knowledge of the Most High and the wisdom of the sons of heaven, to make wise those whose way is perfect, because God has chosen them for an eternal covenant, and all the glory of Adam will be theirs.
As was the case in the other texts that we have surveyed, the Community Rule speaks of a transformation of human intentionality. According to this text, the Cf. CD 5:15; 7:19; Wis 3:7; 1 Pet 2:12 (Gk. ἐπισκοπή). This section echoes the Zoroastrian motif of truth’s final victory over falsehood at the time of cosmic restoration (Greater Bundahishn 34.20–27; trans. in Mary Boyce, Textual Sources for the Study of Zoroastrianism [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984], 52–53). For possible Persian influences in the scrolls, see John J. Collins, The Apocalyptic Imagination: An Introduction to Jewish Apocalyptic Literature (2nd ed.; Grand Rapids/Cambridge: Eerdmans, 1998), 29–33; Klaus Koch, “Zoroastrianism,” EDSS 2:1010–12. 37 hcrxn +p#m d(wm. The modifying niphal participle does not agree in gender with either of the preceding nouns, but appears to modify +p#m. For the fixed nature of the eschatological judgment (i.e., the judgment has already been determined by the time the final tribunal is called), see Dan 9:26–27; 11:36. In the face of eschatological judgment, neither defense nor plea is permitted; sentence is rendered summarily. 38 Cf. Dan 11:35. 39 #y) yn"b:@mi, taking the m as partitive. Jacob Licht, Yigael Yadin, Geza Vermes, and others have vocalized yn"b:m,i understanding the construct as a phonetic variant of hnEbm : i (“building”), interpreted as a reference to the human frame (A. R. C. Leaney, The Rule of Qumran and Its Meaning: Introduction, Translation, and Commentary [NTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1966], 157–58; Eduard Lohse, Die Texte aus Qumran: Hebräisch und Deutsch mit masoretischer Punktation [Munich: Kösel, 1986], 14 and 284 n. 29). 40 wr#&b ymktm. The noun Mkt is translated variously as “veins” (James H. Charlesworth, in The Dead Sea Scrolls: Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek Texts with English Translations, vol. 1, Rule of the Community and Related Documents [ed. James H. Charlesworth et al.; Princeton Theological Seminary Dead Sea Scrolls Project 1; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1994], 19), “tissues” (Licht, cited in Leaney, Rule of Qumran, 158), “inward parts” (Michael Wise, Martin Abegg, and Edward Cook, The Dead Sea Scrolls: A New Translation [San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1996], 131), or “innermost parts” (Florentino García Martínez and Eibert Tigchelaar, The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition [2 vols.; Leiden/New York: Brill, 1997, 2000], 1:79). 41 hdn ymk, lit., “like water for uncleanness.” 35
36
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transformation is to take place at the time of the “visitation.” At that time, humans will be either destroyed or purified “from all ungodly acts . . . [and] from all the abominations of falsehood.” The Jeremianic theme of forgiveness of sins does not appear; instead the priestly theme of purification introduced by Ezekiel is mentioned. The “holy spirit” appears as the instrument of this purification. The “purification” that is envisioned entails an adherence to the precepts of the Torah. According to 1QS 3:9–10, “It is by humbling his soul to all God’s statutes, that his flesh can be cleansed, by sprinkling with waters of purification.” The purification described in this passage is made possible only because God has chosen the members of the Dead Sea sect to inherit the promise established in an “eternal covenant.” This text has a salient eschatological dimension: at the time of God’s visitation, injustice will be destroyed forever, some humans will be purified by the spirit in order to follow the Torah, and they will receive the “glory” (i.e., luminosity) that Adam was thought to have possessed in Eden.42 The Letter to the Hebrews exhibits the same cluster of motifs as the other texts that we have surveyed. The most significant discussion of the new covenant occurs in Hebrews 8 (esp. vv. 7–13). This section contains an extended citation of Jer 31:31–34, a major scriptural locus for the derivation of the covenant renewal theologoumenon. The section reads: But now he [Jesus] has attained a more excellent cultic service, to the degree that he is also a mediator of a superior covenant which is legally enacted on the basis of superior promises. Now if that first one [covenant] had been faultless, occasion for a second would not have been sought. Indeed,43 because he finds fault with them, he says: “Look! Days are coming, says the Lord, when44 I will accomplish for the house of Israel and for the house of Judah a new covenant, not like the covenant which I made with their forefathers on the day when I took them by the hand to lead them out of Egypt, for they themselves did not remain in my covenant and I ceased to care for them, says the Lord. For this is the covenant that I will establish with the house of Israel after those days, says the Lord: when I put my laws into their minds, I will inscribe them even in their hearts and then45 I will be their God and they will be my people. And they will certainly not teach, each one his compatriot nor each his 42
Compare History of the Rechabites 12:3, which states that Adam and Eve were “robed in garments of glory (i.e., luminous garments) . . . before they sinned.” A Syriac text edited by F. Nau appeared in RSém 7 (1899): 54–75. A Greek version was published by M. R. James in Apocrypha Anecdota: A Collection of Thirteen Apocryphal Books and Fragments Now First Edited from Manuscripts (TS 2/3; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1893), 86–108. 43 The conjunction γάρ functions to introduce background material that “strengthens some aspect of a previous assertion” (Stephen Levinsohn, Discourse Features of New Testament Greek: A Coursebook on the Information Structure of New Testament Greek [2nd ed.; Dallas: SIL International 2000] §5.4.2); cf. BDAG, s.v. γάρ 2. 44 Καί. For the temporal significance, see BDF §442.4; BDAG, s.v. καί 1bγ. 45 Resultative καί. See BDAG, s.v. καί 1bζ.
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Hebrews quotes in full the Jeremianic oracle that posits a period of covenant renewal, forgiveness of former sins, transformation of intentionality, and a strengthened capacity to follow the Torah. Hebrews, however, goes beyond the material in Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Jubilees, and the Qumran Community Rule in positing that the renewed covenant is “superior” to the “obsolete” covenant, which is “old and near obliteration.” As Heb 7:26–28; 9:23–26; and 10:8–14 make clear, what is “old and near obliteration” is not the Torah in toto, but the priestly regulations that stipulate periodic sacrifice. These are rendered superfluous by Christ’s “once for all” sacrifice (ἐφάπαξ [10:10]). Laws not pertaining to sacrifice are assumed to remain in full force (see 10:26–30; 12:18–29). To underscore the continuing efficacy of the (nonsacrificial aspects of the) Mosaic Torah, Hebrews quotes Jer 31:33 (“when I put my laws into their minds, I will inscribe them even in their hearts”) not once, but twice (8:10; 10:16). Under the conditions of the new covenant, Christ’s sacrificial blood purifies the human conscience so that sin—violation of the stipulations of the Torah—is no longer committed (9:9–10, 13–14, 26; 10:2, 10, 14). In these passages, it is Christ’s sacrifice itself that effects the transformation of human intentionality, rather than the holy spirit, as was the case in Ezekiel.47 The motifs of new covenant and the transformation of human intentionality to enable it to follow the Torah, however, constitute regular parts of the covenant renewal theologoumenon. Although not every one of the following motifs is expressed in each of the comparative texts surveyed here, there is a degree of stability in the motifs involved. The main points of the covenant renewal theologoumenon may be summarized as follows: 1. It is stated or implied that Yhwh’s people failed to obey the stipulations of the covenant, bringing upon them the curses attendant on breaking the covenant, including exile (see Deut 28:47–68; Jer 31:32; Ezek 36:24, 28; Jub. 1:22–23; Heb 8:7–9). 2. In response to the failure of the people to keep the terms of the covenant, a renewal of the covenant, or “new covenant,” is envisioned (Jer 31:31; cf. 1QS 4:22; Heb 8:8).
46 ἀπὸ μικροῦ ἕως μεγάλου, positive substituted for superlative. See Daniel B. Wallace, Greek Grammar beyond the Basics: An Exegetical Syntax of the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1996), 298. 47 The holy spirit plays a role in Heb 6:4, but it is not directly connected with the new covenant motif. This modifies my argument in Constructing, 147, 204.
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3. The ratification of the new covenant entails the forgiveness of prior transgressions of the covenant’s terms (Jer 31:34; Heb 8:12; 10:17–18) or, alternatively, the removal of impurity contracted as the result of violating covenantal stipulations (Ezek 36:25; Jub. 1:23; 1QS 4:20–21). 4. In order to forestall the possibility that the renewed covenant might, like the former one, be broken, Yhwh is described as providing the spirit to his people so as to endow them with the capacity to follow the law perfectly (Ezek 36:27; Jub. 1:23–24; 1QS 4:22–23; Heb 8:10–11; 10:16). 5. Because the spirit transforms the people’s minds so that they become perfectly obedient to the Torah, the new covenant remains in effect in perpetuity (Jub. 1:23b; 1QS 4:23–24; Heb 9:15; 13:20). The delineation of the role of the spirit in covenant renewal offers an attractive alternative to the view of Sumney and Furnish that Paul’s missionary rivals used spirit-inspired ecstatic utterances, visions, and revelatory experiences to legitimate their preaching. The role of the spirit in the covenant renewal theologoumenon is quite different: it inspired individuals to perfect obedience to the Torah in connection with an eschatological time at which the covenant is renewed.
III. The Covenant Renewal Theologoumenon in 2 Corinthians 3–4 The loci classici for deriving information regarding the missionaries whom Paul opposes in 2 Corinthians are found in chs. 3–4 and 10–13.48 Since it is in chs. 3–4 that the new covenant theologoumenon comes into view, this section constitutes the appropriate starting point for further discussion. There is substantial evidence in 2 Corinthians to support the thesis that the covenant renewal theologoumenon looms in the background of chs. 3–4. The most 48 Various partition theories have been proposed to account for tensions between different sections of 2 Corinthians. For overviews of the theories, see Thrall, Second Epistle, 1:1–49; Hans Dieter Betz, 2 Corinthians 8 and 9: A Commentary on Two Administrative Letters of the Apostle Paul (Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985), 3–36; Furnish, II Corinthians, 29–48; Reimund Bieringer, “Teilungshypothesen zum 2. Korintherbrief: Ein Forschungsüberblick” in Bieringer and Lambrecht, Studies, 67–105; Margaret Mitchell, “Corinthian Epistles,” Religion Past and Present: Encyclopedia of Theology and Religion (ed. Hans Dieter Betz et al.; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2007–), 3:489–92; L. Joseph Kreitzer, 2 Corinthians (NTG; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 19–37; Harris, Second Epistle, 1–51; Roetzel, 2 Corinthians, 4–35. The reconstruction of Paul’s missionary rivals sketched in this article assumes that 2 Corinthians 3–4 originally constituted part of a letter that was written either before or after the letter now contained in chs. 10–13, and that both letters pertain to the same group of missionaries in Corinth. Neither the specifics of the partition theories nor the relative order in which the letters were written materially affects the argument advanced here.
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obvious evidence comes from Paul’s allusions to Jeremiah 31 and Ezekiel 36 in this section. In 2 Cor 3:2–4, Paul juxtaposes a reference to the “stone tablets” on which the law was written with an apologetic reference to an issue that had arisen in Corinth involving letters of reference. Whereas Paul’s missionary opponents had been able to produce letters of recommendation written on their behalf (2 Cor 3:1), Paul carried no such credentials. In an effort to forestall the questions that this might raise for his own apostolic legitimacy, Paul adduced the members of the Corinthian house-churches themselves as his recommendation letter (ἡ ἐπιστολὴ ἡμῶν ὑμεῖς ἐστε . . .).49 In the course of this juxtaposition, Paul alludes to the new covenant theologoumenon (3:2–3): ἡ ἐπιστολὴ ἡμῶν ὑμεῖς ἐστε, ἐγγεγραμμένη ἐν ταῖς καρδίαις ὑμῶν . . . ἐγγεγραμμένη οὐ μέλανι ἀλλὰ πνεύματι θεοῦ ζῶντος, οὐκ ἐν πλαξὶν λιθίναις ἀλλ᾿ ἐν πλαξὶν καρδίαις σαρκίναις. You are our letter, written in your hearts . . . written not with ink but with the spirit of the living God, not on stone tablets but on tablets of fleshly hearts.
The letter that is described as “written in your hearts” is generally recognized as an allusion to Jer 31:33 (“I will set my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts”).50 The reference to the “spirit of the living God,” which writes “not on stone tablets but on tablets of fleshly hearts,” is less frequently, although no less rightly, seen as alluding to Ezek 36:26–27, in which God’s spirit is identified as the agent through which God will “remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh (or, ‘fleshly heart’).”51 Although Paul has introduced his own creative modifications, the covenant renewal theologoumenon clearly lies in the background of this passage. More evidence that the covenant renewal theologoumenon looms in the background of chs. 3–4 is provided in 3:6, when Paul includes himself among the “agents of the new covenant” (διακόνους καινῆς διαθήκης). Annie Jaubert, Mathias Rissi, and Jerome Murphy-O’Connor have argued that the phrase “new covenant” here was borrowed from Paul’s missionary rivals.52 On the other hand, Furnish 49 Thrall, Second Epistle, 1:217–22; Georgi, Opponents of Paul, 242–46; Hans-Josef Klauck, Ancient Letters and the New Testament: A Guide to Context and Exegesis (trans. Daniel P. Bailey; Waco: Baylor University Press, 2006; German original, 1998), 72–77, 258–61, 449. 50 So Thrall, Second Epistle, 1:222; Barnett, Second Epistle, 161, 169; Jan Lambrecht, Second Corinthians (SP 8; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1999), 41; Frank J. Matera, II Corinthians: A Commentary (NTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2003), 78–79; Harris, Second Epistle, 271. 51 So Barnett, Second Epistle, 168–69; Matera, II Corinthians, 78; Roetzel, 2 Corinthians, 60. 52 Jaubert, La notion d’alliance dans le judaïsme aux abords de l’ère chrétienne (Patristica Sorboniensia 6; Paris: Seuil, 1963), 447–48. Jaubert, however, is tentative: “Cependant, dans l’état actuel de notre information, nous ne pouvons formuler qu’une simple suggestion.” See also
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states that Paul’s citation of the eucharistic formula in 1 Cor 11:25 (“This cup is the new covenant in my blood”) proves that “the concept of a ‘new’ covenant established in and with the redemptive work of Christ is part of Paul’s Christian heritage. . . . The present verse [2 Cor 3:6], as well as Paul’s discussion of the two covenants in Gal 4, shows that it is a fully compatible part of his theology.”53 Although one would scarcely wish to argue that Paul’s mention of the new covenant in 2 Cor 3:6 was not a “fully compatible part of his theology”—he has certainly made it so—the question is rather whether Paul might have taken the term from the preaching of his opponents. In answer to Furnish, we may note that Paul’s use of the phrase “new covenant” (διαθήκη καινή) in 2 Cor 3:4 has quite different connotations than it does in 1 Cor 11:25, which connects the phrase with the eucharistic meal. There is no trace of this connection in 2 Cor 3:6. The fact that “new covenant” (διαθήκη καινή) appears without reference to the eucharistic tradition indicates that in chs. 3–4, Paul draws on a strand of tradition distinct from that which underlies 1 Cor 11:25. In 2 Cor 3:6, the “new covenant” (διαθήκη καινή) is associated with “letter” [of the law] and “spirit” (γράμμα and πνεῦμα). The juxtaposition of the terms “spirit,” “letter [of the law]” and “new covenant” does not occur in the eucharistic tradition that Paul had inherited, but it is a defining feature of the covenant renewal theologoumenon. The associations that Paul makes with the phrase “new covenant” therefore underwent a significant shift between the writing of 1 Corinthians 11 and 2 Corinthians 3–4. To what can we attribute Paul’s shift in perspective? In view of the short time span that separates the two writings (perhaps only one year),54 time alone is not a sufficient explanation. The literary context in which this shift is first evidenced is one in which Paul responds to issues that had been raised by the newly arrived group of missionaries in Corinth. This observation supports the contention of Jaubert, Rissi, and Murphy-O’Connor that Paul’s discussion of the new covenant in 2 Corinthians 3–4 took its cues from these missionary rivals. Other data in 2 Corinthians, while not directly supporting this view, are nonetheless consistent with it. These data include a discussion of the Torah and a discussion of the spirit in relation to the Torah.
Rissi, Studien zum zweiten Korintherbrief: Der alte Bund–Der Prediger–Der Tod (ATANT 56; Zurich: Zwingli, 1969), 23–24; Murphy-O’Connor, “A Ministry beyond the Letter (2 Cor 3:1–6),” in Paolo Ministro del nuovo Testamento (2 Co 2,14–4,6) (ed. Lorenzo De Lorenzi; Serie Monographica di “Benedictina”: Sezione Biblico Ecumenica 9; Rome: Benedictina, 1987), 105–57, esp. 116–17. 53 Furnish, II Corinthians, 197. 54 Murphy-O’Connor dates the writing of 1 Corinthians to 54 c.e. and 2 Corinthians 1–9 to 55 c.e. (Paul: A Critical Life [Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 1997], 30–31, 308). Pauline chronology, however, is an area in which it is notoriously difficult to be precise.
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IV. Moses and the Law in 2 Corinthians 3–4 A discussion of the Torah in 2 Corinthians is consistent with the view that Paul’s rivals preached a version of the covenant renewal theologoumenon. The majority viewpoint on this matter, however, is that the Torah was not at issue in Corinth. Wilhelm Lütgert pointed out that the term περιτομή, which was central in Galatians, in which Torah observance was at issue, does not play a role in 2 Corinthians.55 Martin extends the argument, noting that “in 2 Corinthians there is a remarkable absence of key ‘Judaizing’ terms such as circumcision, Sabbath, [and] law.”56 Such arguments from silence, however, are not as convincing as they might first appear. The term νόμος is indeed absent from 2 Corinthians, but in 3:15 the name “Moses” stands as a metonym for the Torah (= νόμος): “Whenever Moses is read, a veil lies over their hearts.” “Moses” is not, however, read, although the books of Moses, that is, the Torah, are. Martin’s argument overlooks this metonym. Furthermore, the absence of the terms “circumcision” and “Sabbath” indicates only that the topics of the debate in Corinth were not the same as those in Galatia. The absence of these terms in 2 Corinthians cannot be used to prove that the “law,” which is mentioned in 2 Corinthians 3 under the metonym “Moses,” was not part of the discussion in Corinth. A couple of analogies may serve to illustrate the weakness of Lütgert’s and Martin’s arguments from silence. The terms περιτομή and ἀκροβυστία, absent from 2 Corinthians, are also absent from the Gospel of Matthew, but one could hardly argue that Torah observance was not an issue in that document (see Matt 5:17–20; 28:19–20). Similarly, the Hebrew equivalent tb# (Sabbath) is absent from the Qumran Community Rule, while the terms lwm (“circumcision”) and hlr( (lit., “foreskin,” rendered ἀκροβυστία in the LXX)57 are used only metaphorically (1QS 5:5, 26), yet one would hardly wish to argue that observance of the Torah—according to its sectarian interpretation—was not an issue in that text (see 1QS 1:1–17; 3:8–11; 5:1, 8–9). Lütgert’s and Martin’s arguments from silence are unconvincing. Thrall presents a different argument against seeing the preaching of Paul’s missionary rivals in Corinth as connected to the Torah. Thrall repeats an argument of Michael Theobald to the effect that the a minore ad maius argument in 2 Cor 3:7– 11 assumes agreement between Paul and his readers that the protases in vv. 7 and 9 are true. Paul and his readers agree that Moses’ ministry was glorious and that it brought condemnation. Thrall reasons that since agreement on the “negative characteristics” of the law is assumed, “Paul is not . . . controverting Judaizers of any 55 Lütgert, Freiheitspredigt und Schwarmgeister in Korinth: Ein Beitrag zur Charakteristik der Christuspartei (BFCT 12.3; Gütersloh: Bertelsmann, 1908), 47–62. 56 Martin, 2 Corinthians, 336. 57 HRCS, 2nd ed., s.v. ἀκροβυστία.
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kind.”58 However, the “negative characteristics” of the law (i.e., that failure to adhere to it results in judgment) are a basic tenet of the law itself (cf. the “curses of the covenant”) and are presupposed by the covenant renewal theologoumenon. It was the “negative characteristics” of the law that first led editors of the books of Jeremiah and Ezekiel to envision the formation of a new covenant. Since it was the people’s failure to adhere to the stipulations of the law that had precipitated the Babylonian exile (cf. Deut 28:47–68), those editors reasoned, a return to the law would bring about a reversal of the exile and a concomitant return of exiles to Judea (Jer 31:23– 34; Ezek 11:14–21; 36:22–32; cf. Deut 30:1–10). The formation of a new covenant in which the stipulations of the law were “written on the hearts” of individuals would ensure that the covenant could not again be broken, since the law would then be followed perfectly. Rather than pointing away from the Torah’s centrality to the discussion between Paul and his rivals, as Thrall would have it, the a minore ad maius argument in 2 Corinthians 3 points unmistakably toward it. Despite arguments to the contrary by Lütgert, Martin, and Thrall, the evidence of 2 Corinthians favors the view that Paul’s missionary rivals included some discussion of Torah observance in their preaching. Three considerations render this likely. First, these missionaries’ self-designation as “agents of righteousness” (διάκονοι δικαιοσύνης [11:15]) points in this direction. In contexts in which a covenantal theology is assumed, “righteousness” (hqdc/δικαιοσύνη) characterizes one who adheres to the stipulations of the law (1QS 1:5; Wis 2:11; Pss. Sol. 8:6– 10; Matt 5:17–20). Second, evidence that points in the same direction appears in 11:20, where Paul implies that his rivals had attempted to “enslave” the Corinthians. The term καταδουλοῦν (“to enslave”) occurs in the Pauline corpus only here and in Gal 2:4, where it refers to attempts to convince Gentile converts in Antioch to adhere to stipulations of the Torah. Third, Paul’s discussion in 3:7–18 interprets the story of the shining face of Moses as he descended from Sinai after receiving the law a second time (Exod 34:29–35). According to the Exodus narrative, the first instance in which Yhwh gave the law to Moses (Exod 19:16–20:26) was followed by an act of disobedience on the part of the Hebrew people: the production of an object of worship in the form of a golden calf (31:18–32:24). Since the production of this image violated the first commandment (20:4–6), the first covenant was both figuratively and literally broken (32:19). The second giving of the law, narrated in Exodus 34, thus constitutes a prototype for covenant renewal. Paul’s discussion of Moses’ shining face in 2 Cor 3:12–18 suggests that law, and more specifically covenant renewal, was under discussion in Corinth. The relationship of 2 Cor 3:7– 18 to the situation in Corinth, however, has been the subject of debate. Baur, Georgi, Oostendorp, Gerhard Friedrich, and more recently Barnett have identified 3:7–18 as a polemical and/or apologetic section in which Paul responds to criticisms by his missionary rivals in Corinth.59 Sumney argues that this section 58 59
Thrall, Second Epistle, 1:240. Baur, Paul, the Apostle, 281–85; Georgi, Opponents of Paul, 246–50, 254, 258–83;
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should be considered not polemical but didactic, and that therefore it contains no data about Paul’s missionary rivals.60 (According to Sumney’s methodological guidelines, polemical and apologetic material is likely to contain information about Paul’s opponents, whereas didactic material is not likely to contain such information.61) Similarly, Martin characterizes Paul’s thought in the section as “soaring to embrace this far-reaching disquisition [on the new covenant] before returning to the local scene at Corinth” again in v. 19.62 In Martin’s view, 3:7–18 has little to do with Paul’s rivalry with other missionaries in Corinth. Two arguments render the view of Sumney and Martin untenable. First, as Sumney acknowledges, 3:7–16 is bracketed by apologetic material.63 In 3:1–6, Paul refutes the charge that he lacks sufficiency (ἱκανότης) to be an apostle of Christ, in part because he could not, like his missionary rivals, produce letters of recommendation written on his behalf (cf. 3:1). Bracketing the end of 3:7–16 is 4:1–4, in which Paul admits that he preaches a “veiled gospel,” a charge that reflects “some talk in Corinth that Paul’s message has not been clear enough.”64 Sumney notes that “4:1–6 resumes the points discussed in 3:1–6.”65 In terms of rhetorical structure, such resumption constitutes an inclusio, which can be used to mark either a digression66 or a “self-contained unit.”67 Is it likely that in the midst of an apologia in which his apostolic authority was at stake, Paul would have allowed himself the luxury of a digression? If not, then 3:7–16 must, like the bracketing material, refer to Paul’s argument with missionary rivals in Corinth. A second, stronger argument linking 3:7–16 with Paul’s dispute with the “agents of righteousness” is provided by Paul’s use of the demonstrative pronoun in 4:1 in the phrase ἔχοντες τὴν διακονίαν ταύτην, “since we have this ministry.” The demonstrative pronoun is used here to indicate “back reference”:68 it refers to Oostendorp, Another Jesus: A Gospel of Jewish-Christian Superiority in II Corinthians (Kampen: Kok, 1967), 31; Gerhard Friedrich, “Die Gegner des Paulus im 2. Korintherbrief,” in Abraham Unser Vater: Juden und Christen im Gespräch über die Bibel. Festschrift für Otto Michel zum 60. Geburtstag (ed. Otto Betz et al.; AGSU 5; Leiden: Brill, 1963), 184–85; Barnett, Second Epistle, 179 n. 4. 60 Sumney, Identifying, 141; idem, ‘Servants of Satan,’ 96. 61 Sumney ranks allusions in polemical and apologetic contexts second only to explicit statements, both in terms of the “level of certainty” that they refer to Paul’s opponents and in terms of the factual reliability of such statements (Identifying, 95–113). 62 Martin, 2 Corinthians, 61. 63 On the apologetic function of 3:5–6a and 4:2–3, see Sumney, Identifying, 133–34. 64 So Sumney, Identifying, 134. 65 Ibid. 66 The Westminster Dictionary of Early Christian Literature and Rhetoric (ed. David E. Aune; Louisville/London: Westminster John Knox, 2003), s.v. “Inclusio,” 229, and “Digression,” 133–34. 67 Levinsohn, Discourse Features, §17.2.5. 68 On back reference, see Levinsohn, Discourse Features, 280; for the anaphoric force of the demonstrative pronoun, see Herbert Smyth, Greek Grammar (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1920), §1245; cf. BDAG, s.v. οὗτος 2b.
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the διακονία τοῦ πνεύματος already mentioned in 3:8.69 It is Paul’s ministry that is referred to as the “ministry of spirit” (cf. 4:13; 5:5). This grammatical consideration falsifies arguments that seek to dissociate 3:7–18 from the apologetic inclusio that brackets it.70 When 3:7–16 is viewed in the context of the inclusio of 3:1–6 and 4:1–6, a clear progression may be discerned. In 3:6, Paul asserts that God has made him sufficient to serve as an agent of the new covenant (διάκονος καινῆς διαθήκης), based not on the letter but on the spirit. In 3:8, Paul suggests that the “ministry of spirit” (ἡ διακονία τοῦ πνεύματος) is superior to Moses’ ministry. That the “ministry of spirit” refers to Paul’s own ministry is made clear not only by the association of διάκονος and διακονία in these passages, but by Paul’s association of his own ministry with spirit in 3:14 (“since we have the same spirit of faith . . .”) and 5:5 (“God . . . who has given us the down payment of the spirit”). Paul’s own ministry, which he associates with spirit and the new covenant, is contrasted with Moses’ ministry (cf. 3:7, 13, 15), which is associated with the “letter” and “stone tablets” of the Decalogue (3:6–7), with death (v. 7), and with “the ancient covenant” (ἡ παλαιά διαθήκη [3:14]). The fact that Paul defends himself against rival missionaries’ criticisms only by contrasting his ministry with that of Moses suggests that Mosaic law played a role in this criticism. Lütgert’s and Martin’s arguments from silence to the effect that the Torah was not a topic of discussion in Corinth as Paul penned the various parts of 2 Corinthians, as well as Thrall’s argument in favor of the same thesis, are, as we have pointed out, untenable. Considerable evidence can be adduced, however, in favor of the position that Mosaic law did play a role in the discussion between Paul and rival missionaries in Corinth. This evidence includes the rival missionaries’ selfdesignation as “agents of righteousness,” Paul’s notice that they attempted to “enslave” (καταδουλοῦν) the Corinthians, Paul’s discussion of Moses’ shining face after his second reception of the law at Sinai (Exodus 34), Paul’s mention of the “letter” and the “stone tablets” of the law and the “ancient covenant,” as well as his juxtaposition of his own ministry with that of Moses (3:7–18).
V. Spirit and Covenant Renewal in 2 Corinthians A discussion of the spirit in relation to the Torah is consistent with the thesis that Paul’s missionary rivals advocated a version of the covenant renewal theolo69 Thrall states, “‘this ministry’ refers to what has gone before. Paul is speaking about the διακονία he has described in 2.14–3.13” (Second Epistle, 1:298). 70 Matera has recently argued for a strong connection between 3:7–18 and 2:14–3:6/4:1–6 on the basis of “hook words” linking these sections (II Corinthians, 84–85). These words include “death,” “life,” “tablets of stone,” and “spirit,” among others. Matera relies on Albert Vanhoye, “L’interpretation d’Ex 34 en 2 Co 3,7–14,” in De Lorenzi, Paolo Ministro, 159–96.
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goumenon. We do indeed find a discussion of the relation between law and spirit in 2 Corinthians, albeit from a thoroughly Pauline viewpoint. Whereas in Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and the other comparative texts, under the conditions of the new covenant, the law is internalized, or “written on the hearts” of individuals, Paul resists this connection. Instead of associating the new covenant with the fulfillment of the law, Paul dissociates it from law: Paul describes himself as an “agent of the new covenant, not of the letter but of spirit” (3:6). Spirit and the letter of the law are, for Paul, antithetical: “The letter kills, but the spirit makes alive” (3:6b). Paul’s rhetoric here is best seen as a reversal of the terms of the covenant renewal theologoumenon, according to which the spirit “makes alive” precisely because it enables the fulfillment of the law, which in covenantal terms is the way in which life is achieved. In an address to the people in Deut 30:15–20, Moses says, “I have set before you today life and death, good and evil. If you obey the commandments of the Lord your God . . . you will live and be many. . . . I have set life and death before you, blessing and curse. Choose life, that you might live” (LXX). Such an association between law and life, however, ran counter to Paul’s law-free gospel to the Gentiles and was for that reason unacceptable to him. When he posited “spirit” and “letter” as antithetical terms, Paul sundered what belonged together in the covenant renewal theologoumenon. The delineation of the role of the spirit in covenant renewal offers an attractive alternative to the view of Sumney, Furnish, Georgi, and others who argue that Paul’s missionary rivals adduced ecstatic utterances, visions, and revelatory experiences to legitimate their preaching. We have already seen that this view relies on an invalid application of the “mirror technique” and therefore must be rejected. In my opinion, this view mistakes Paul’s own characteristic mode of self-legitimation for that of his rivals in Corinth.71 In each of Paul’s letters save Philemon and perhaps Philippians, Paul adduces manifestations of the spirit as a means of legitimating his ministry (Rom 15:18–19a; 1 Cor 2:6–13; 9:1; 14:18; 15:8; 2 Cor 12:1–7; Gal 1:11–12, 16; 2:2; Phil 3:8[?]; 1 Thess 1:5). The spirit that was associated with Paul’s ministry was credited with inspiring both ecstatic speech72 and prophecy within the Corinthian house-churches, and purportedly imparted healing capabilities as well (1 Cor 12:4–11; 14:13–40). Paul himself boasted of the frequency with which he produced ecstatic utterances (1 Cor 14:18). Far from engaging in such
71 This and the two following paragraphs summarize an argument Ι made in greater detail in Constructing, 157–73. 72 On glossolalia at Corinth, see Hans-Josef Klauck, “Mit Engelszungen? Von Charisma der verständlichen Rede in 1 Kor 14”; he provides an overview of the phenomenon of glossolalia in Greek religion in “Von Kassandra bis zur Gnosis: Im Umfeld der frühchristlichen Glossolalie.” Both essays appear in Klauck, Religion und Gesellschaft im frühen Christentum: Neutestamentliche Studien (WUNT 152; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 145–67 and 119–44, respectively.
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practices themselves, the missionary “agents of righteousness” apparently criticized these manifestations of spirit in Paul’s ministry, charging that Paul was “out of his mind” (ἐξιστάναι), perhaps as the result of speaking in tongues (2 Cor 5:13).73 Paul’s own positive evaluation of visionary and revelatory experiences is guaranteed by 2 Cor 12:6–7, in which he reports that a divinely inflicted handicap was necessary to prevent him from becoming “self-aggrandized” (ὑπεραίρωμαι) by the “exceptional nature” of the revelations that he had received. The structure of Paul’s rhetoric in 2 Cor 11:21b–12:5 supports the view that the “agents of righteousness” did not seek to legitimate themselves by adducing ecstatic or revelatory experiences. In this section, Paul employs two models of comparison: direct analogy and implied antithesis. With regard to those points concerning which Paul knows that he and his rivals share similar credentials, he analogizes himself to them: Ἑβραῖοί εἰσιν; κἀγώ. Ἰσραηλίταί εἰσιν; κἀγώ, κτλ. (“Are they Hebrews? So am I. Are they Israelites? So am I . . .”). The only points at which Paul analogizes himself to his rivals—and thus the only points about which we can be certain that they shared common traits—occur in 2 Cor 11:22–23a. Like his rivals, Paul claims to be a Hebrew, an Israelite, a descendant of Abraham, and an agent of Christ.74 Outside of 2 Cor 11:22–23a, Paul does not analogize himself to his opponents. Concerning issues on which Paul does not regard his missionary rivals to exhibit traits parallel to his own, he switches his rhetorical tactic from analogy to implied antithesis. The lists of experiences cited in 11:23b–12:6 imply an antithesis: Paul’s opponents either did not display similar traits, or they displayed them to a lesser degree. This is true of the hardship list (11:23: “with far greater labors, jailed many more times, at death’s door many times . . .”) as well as Paul’s recounting of his own visionary experience (12:2–3: “I know a man in Christ . . . who was snatched into the third heaven . . .”). The structure of Paul’s rhetoric indicates that he viewed his revelatory experiences in the same category as his list of hardships: in neither case did he expect that his missionary rivals would be able to make comparable claims. As we have already seen, one instance in which Sumney abandons his usual methodological rigor and allows himself to engage in “mirror exegesis” is the point at which, on the basis of Paul’s own claims in 12:1–4, he attributes revelatory and charismatic experiences to Paul’s rivals.75 Barring the—for Sumney methodologi-
73 Alfred Plummer suggested that 2 Cor 5:13 may represent a charge leveled by Paul’s opposition (A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Second Epistle of St. Paul to the Corinthians [ICC; 1915; repr., Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1960], 171–73). It is highly unlikely that the criticism arose from within the Corinthian congregation, since the Corinthians highly valued ecstatic experiences (see 1 Corinthians 12–14). 74 So Sumney, Identifying, 152–55; idem, ‘Servants of Satan,’ 106–7. 75 Sumney, Identifying, 168; idem, ‘Servants of Satan,’ 121.
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cally illegitimate—use of “mirror exegesis,” there is no evidence that Paul’s rivals adduced such experiences. The hypothesis that Paul’s rivals espoused a theologoumenon of covenant renewal suggests an alternative to the view that they adduced charismatic and visionary experiences to legitimate their ministry. The role played by the spirit in the covenant renewal theologoumenon was that of empowering individuals to live lives that perfectly embodied the stipulations of the Torah. Recall Ezekiel’s “I will set my spirit within your inward parts and cause you to walk in my statutes and observe and perform my ordinances” (36:27) and Jubilees’ “I will create a holy spirit for them and will purify them. . . . They will perform my commandments” (1:23– 24), or again the Community Rule’s notice that God will “purify [some human beings] by a holy spirit from all wicked deeds. . . . And he will sprinkle upon him a spirit of truth like purifying water . . . to instruct the upright in the knowledge of the Most High” (1QS 4:21–23). Such a stance runs counter to Paul’s insistence that Gentile converts did not need to follow the Torah, and explains why Paul took such pains in 2 Corinthians 3–4 to dissociate “spirit” from the “letter” of the law (3:6, 8– 9, 17). In Paul’s classic formulation: “Where the spirit of the Lord is, is freedom”: freedom, that is, from the law.76 The covenant renewal theologoumenon flatly contradicted Paul’s law-free gospel (cf. 2 Cor 11:4).
VI. Conclusion The hypothesis that Paul’s missionary rivals espoused a standard covenant renewal theologoumenon explains Paul’s reference to himself as an “agent of a new covenant” and his allusions to Jer 31:33 and Ezek 36:26–27. It provides a backdrop for the formulation of his famous antithesis between letter and spirit and explains the shift in Paul’s understanding of the new covenant that occurred between 1 and 2 Corinthians. It is consistent with the self-designation of Paul’s missionary rivals as “agents of righteousness,” inasmuch as the term “righteousness” has covenantal connotations. It explains Paul’s statement that these rivals wished to “enslave” the 76 Commentators interpret the “freedom” referred to in 3:13 as a reference to (1) freedom from the law (so Barnett, Second Epistle, 202–3; Christian Wolf, Der zweite Brief des Paulus an die Korinther [THKNT 8; Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1989], 76–77), (2) freedom from the noetic effects of the “veil” referred to in vv. 14–15 (so Lambrecht, Second Corinthians, 55), (3) a reference to or synonym for the παρρησία of 3:12 (so Klauck, 2. Korintherbrief, 41; F. Stanley Jones, “Freiheit” in den Briefen des Apostel Paulus: Eine historische, exegetische und religionsgeschichtliche Studie [GTA 34; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1987], 61–67), or (4) a combination of these: a combination of 1 and 3 (Furnish, II Corinthians, 236–38; Martin, 2 Corinthians, 71); a combination of 1, 2, and 3 (Gräßer, Der zweite Brief, 1:140–42; Harris, Second Epistle, 312–13).
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Corinthians (through association with the law), as well as his development of the theme of Moses’ shining face from Exodus 34—itself a text describing a renewed covenant. This hypothesis allows us to advance beyond recent reconstructions of the role played by the spirit in the preaching of Paul’s rivals. The “agents of righteousness” were not “pneumatics” in the sense in which Sumney, Furnish, and Georgi use the term (i.e., those to whom the spirit imparts visions, revelations, and perhaps the ability to perform miracles). They were rather something a little less spectacular: individuals striving to mediate the renewed covenant between God and humans. Adherence to this new covenant, they held, was facilitated by God’s gracious gift of the spirit, a spirit that transformed human intentionality so that perfect obedience to the stipulations of the Torah could be construed as an attractive possibility.
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Why Is There No Thanksgiving Period in Galatians? An Assessment of an Exegetical Commonplace robert e. van voorst
[email protected] Western Theological Seminary, Holland, MI 49423
Why is there no thanksgiving period in Galatians? Interpreters have long dealt with this question, affirming that the absence of a thanksgiving in Galatians is exegetically significant.1 To give a fresh examination of this question, I will first survey the exegetical literature to document the various explanations offered for why Paul did not include a thanksgiving, a survey that will show that reading these explanations from 1:6–10 is so prevalent as to be an exegetical commonplace. Second, I will demonstrate that, contrary to most exegetical opinion surveyed, the Galatians would probably not have expected a thanksgiving period or noted its absence, because they did not know Paul’s usual practice of including one in his letters and because it was not a common epistolary convention of the time. Finally, I will show that Paul’s omission of a thanksgiving in Galatians is to be explained not primarily from his astonished rebuke in 1:6–10 but by the astonishing form and content of his prescript in 1:1–5. An earlier version of this article was read in the Pauline Literature section of the 2006 international meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in Edinburgh. Mindful of the subject of this paper, I should thank here the participants in this section, particularly its moderator Kathy Ehrensperger, for their helpful critique. 1 On the opening of NT letters in the context of Greco-Roman epistolography, see Francis X. J. Exler, The Form of the Ancient Greek Letter of the Epistolary Papyri (3rd c. B.C.–3rd c. A.D.) (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1923), 101–12; Paul Schubert, Form and Function of the Pauline Thanksgivings (BZNW 20; Berlin: Töpelmann, 1939); Heikki Koskenniemi, Studien zur Idee und Phraseologie des griechischen Briefes bis 400 n. Chr. (AASF, Sarja-Ser. B Nide-Tom 102, 2; Helsinki: Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Kirjapaino, 1956), 128–52; William G. Doty, Letters in Primitive Christianity (GBS; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1973), 27–33; Peter T. O’Brien, Introductory Thanksgivings in the Letters of Paul (NovTSup 49; Leiden: Brill, 1977); Stanley K.
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I. An Exegetical Commonplace A review of research on Galatians 1 shows that locating the reason for Paul’s omission of an epistolary thanksgiving period2 in 1:6–10 has become an exegetical commonplace. Here is Gal 1:1–10 in the NRSV: 1Paul
an apostle—sent neither by human commission nor from human authorities, but through Jesus Christ and God the Father, who raised him from the dead— 2and all the members of God’s family who are with me, to the churches of Galatia: 3Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ, 4who gave himself for our sins to set us free from the present evil age, according to the will of our God and Father, 5to whom be the glory forever and ever. Amen. 6I am astonished that you are so quickly deserting the one who called you in the grace of Christ and are turning to a different gospel— 7not that there is another gospel, but there are some who are confusing you and want to pervert the gospel of Christ. 8But even if we or an angel from heaven should proclaim to you a gospel contrary to what we proclaimed to you, let that one be accursed! 9As we have said before, so now I repeat, if anyone proclaims to you a gospel contrary to what you received, let that one be accursed! 10Am I now seeking human approval, or God’s approval? Or am I trying to please people? If I were still pleasing people, I would not be a servant of Christ.3
Early in the twentieth century,4 Theodor Zahn wrote about Paul, “[D]ie Regel bei ihm ist, des Danks in bezug auf die Zustände der Briefempfänger, den Brief Stowers, Letter Writing in Greco-Roman Antiquity (LEC 5; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1986), 20– 23; John L. White, Light from Ancient Letters (FF; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1986), 187–202; M. Luther Stirewalt, Jr., Paul the Letter Writer (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 94–106; E. Randolph Richards, Paul and First-Century Letter Writing: Secretaries, Composition, and Collection (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 2004), 127–40; and Hans-Josef Klauck, Ancient Letters and the New Testament: A Guide to Context and Exegesis (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2006), 17–23. On Gal 1:1–10, see David Cook, “The Prescript as Programme in Galatians,” JTS 43 (1992): 511–19; Peter Arzt, “The ‘Epistolary Introductory Thanksgiving’ in the Papyri and in Paul,” NovT 36 (1994): 29–46; Jeffrey T. Reed, “Are Paul’s Thanksgivings ‘Epistolary’?” JSNT 61 (1996): 87–99; and Robert A. Bryant, The Risen Crucified Christ in Galatians (SBLDS 185; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2001). Appearing after the present article was completed is Stanley E. Porter and Sean A. Adams, eds., Paul and the Ancient Letter Form (PS 6; Leiden: Brill, 2009). 2 “Epistolary” typically means reflective of standard letters of the time. An “epistolary thanksgiving period,” where it occurs, is located in the letter proem, between the ending of the prescript and the beginning of the letter body. The term “period” is used here instead of “section” because it is common in epistolography. 3 New Revised Standard Version Bible, 3rd ed., copyright © 1989 National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved. 4 For earlier research locating the reason for a “missing” thanksgiving in 1:6–10, see Adolf Hilgenfeld, Der Galaterbrief (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1852), 114; Benjamin Jowett, Epistles of
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selbst zu beginnen. Auch hiedurch [1:6] zeigt er, daß er an den gal. Gemeinden zur Zeit keine Freude hat, die ihn zum Dank stimmen könnte.”5 Ernest DeWitt Burton asserted that Paul’s rebuke of the Galatians’ behavior in 1:6–10 replaces a thanksgiving.6 George Duncan commented on 1:6, “In Paul’s letters (as indeed in ordinary correspondence) the opening salutation is often followed by a word of thanksgiving.” With the Galatians, “grace is being spurned. Hence, instead of a word of praise, the Epistle opens with an abrupt and passionate outburst.”7 Referring to v. 6, Heinrich Schlier wrote, “Dieser weist ebenfalls eine im Vergleich zu anderen paulinischen Briefen, die sich der antiken Sitte, der Adressaten an dieser Stelle dankend oder fürbittend zu gedenken, in christlich modifizierten Sinn anschliessen, grosse Schroffheit auf.”8 Herman N. Ridderbos argued that in Galatians Paul had no occasion to express gratitude; at 1:6, “[t]he painful and dangerous alienation between the apostle and the churches must be discussed forthwith and headon.”9 Donald Guthrie wrote, “[I]n place of the usual thanksgiving the apostle gives vent to an unrestrained expression of amazement, which draws attention to a matter over which he clearly felt deeply.”10 Werner Georg Kümmel commented, “After the prescript, there follows no giving of thanks for those addressed, contrary to epistolary custom, but Paul begins immediately his references to the situation in the community.”11 In his study of prayer in Paul, Gordon Wiles wrote, In line with such fiercely narrowed concentration upon the immediate problem at Galatia, is a noticeable constriction in the prayer passages of the epistle. . . . Gone are both the individually tailored thanksgiving and the opening assurance of Paul’s constant supplications for the readers, a formula that would have served at the outset to lift their errors into the circles of his prayers and hopes.12 St Paul to the Thessalonians, Galatians, Romans (London: Murray, 1855), 206; Joseph Barber Lightfoot, The Epistle of St Paul to the Galatians (London: Macmillan, 1865), 64, 75; John Eadie, Commentary on the Greek Text of the Epistle of Paul to the Galatians (Edinburgh: Clark, 1869), 19; Edward Henry Perowne, The Epistle to the Galatians (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1896), 4–5. 5 Zahn, Der Brief des Paulus an die Galater (Kommentar zum Neuen Testament 9; Leipzig: Deichert, 1905), 41–42. 6 Burton, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Epistle to the Galatians (ICC; New York: Scribner, 1920), 18. 7 Duncan, The Epistle of Paul to the Galatians (MNTC; New York: Harper & Brothers, 1934), 15. As we will see below, Duncan also offers a reason for the omission of the thanksgiving that does not point to 1:6–10. 8 Schlier, Der Brief an die Galater übersetzt und erklärt (KEK 7; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1949), 2. 9 Ridderbos, The Epistle of Paul to the Churches of Galatia (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1953), 46. 10 Guthrie, Galatians (London: Nelson, 1969), 61. 11 Kümmel, Introduction to the New Testament (17th ed.; Nashville: Abingdon, 1973), 294. 12 Wiles, Paul’s Intercessory Prayers: The Significance of the Intercessory Prayer Passages in the Letters of St Paul (SNTSMS 24; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1974), 125.
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Franz Mussner commented on 1:6, Der unmittlebare Einsatz mit θαυμάζω κτλ. ist überraschend, besonders angesichts der sonstigen Gepflogenheit des Apostels, nach dem Präskript mit einem Dank gegen Gott, mit Lob- und Bittgebet für die Gemeinde fortzufahren. . . . Dieses Abweichen vom sonstigen Schema ist durch die Dringlichkeit des Anliegens bedingt, das den Apostel bewegt und mit dem er so rasch wie möglich an die Adressaten heran will.13
At the end of his treatment of 1:5, Hans Dieter Betz wrote that the usual thanksgiving would be out of place in Galatians, and “[o]nly after the letter had been received could one have known, through the consequent actions of the recipients, whether there was a reason for thanksgiving.”14 F. F. Bruce affirmed of 1:6, “The most probable account of the omission of any thanksgiving here is that Paul was impelled by a sense of overmastering urgency to come straight to the point.”15 Charles Cosgrove argued that 1:6–10 “appears to serve as a kind of ‘thanksgiving parody.’ Instead of celebrating the success of the gospel among the Galatians, Paul upbraids the community for deserting the gospel.”16 Research from the last decade of the twentieth century until now has seen this line of interpretation on 1:6–10 continue. Richard N. Longenecker commented that, in his agitation and indignation over the Galatians, “Paul evidently could not think of anything to commend them for, and so enters directly into the issues at hand.”17 Frank J. Matera wrote on 1:6–10, The omission of a thanksgiving derives, in part, from the situation which Paul faced in Galatia. Because the Galatians were in the process of abandoning the God who called them and were embracing a different gospel, there was little reason for Paul to commend their faith. . . . From a rhetorical point of view, the omission of the thanksgiving and its replacement by a statement of astonishment alerts the audience that the situation has reached crisis proportions. Paul does not bypass the thanksgiving in order to insult the Galatians but to signal that this is not an ordinary letter.18
Contrasting the opening of Galatians with other Hellenistic letters, Dieter Lührmann argued, As a rule, one begins a letter by making reference to prior relations with the addressee and, in the process, mentioning the reason for the letter. This normally 13
Mussner, Der Galaterbrief (HTKNT 9; Freiburg: Herder, 1974), 53. Betz, Galatians: A Commentary on Paul’s Letter to the Churches in Galatia (Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1979), 43. 15 Bruce, The Epistle to the Galatians: A Commentary on the Greek Text (NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1982), 80. 16 Cosgrove, The Cross and the Spirit: A Study in the Argument and Theology of Galatians (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1988), 27. 17 Longenecker, Galatians (WBC 41; Dallas: Word Books, 1990), 13. 18 Matera, Galatians (SP 9; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 1992), 48–49. 14
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occurs in the form of a thank you to the addressee. . . . Only in exceptional cases will one choose another opening for a letter, whether because there is no previous mutual relationship, or because one does not feel thankful in view of disturbed relations with the addressee. The latter is the case here for Paul: at the moment there is nothing to be thankful for. . . . Paul can only be amazed at their rapid falling away.19
J. Louis Martyn commented on 1:6, In letters between close friends one normally expected at this juncture a paragraph in which the writer gave thanks for the addressee. Instead, having ended the prescript by looking, as it were, to heaven, speaking to God in prayer, Paul turns abruptly earthward, speaking candidly to the Galatians about the odious developments in their churches that have prompted him to write to them. The result is a brief paragraph commenced with an epistolary formula of rebuke. . . . Paul is concerned immediately to accent the absolute difference between the gospel of Christ and its counterfeit.20
Raymond E. Brown wrote on 1:6–10, “Paul is the target of attack in Galatia, and he makes a personal response—one marked by anger that does not allow for a Thanksgiving.”21 Philip H. Kern argued, “The papyri reveal a clear epistolary form which employs [θαuμάζω], and Galatians conforms to it: at the point of transition from the letter opening to the body one usually finds a statement of thanksgiving or amazement in both Paul and the papyri.”22 Noting that Paul typically includes a thanksgiving, L. Ann Jervis observed that “Galatians stands out because there is no thanksgiving or blessings and also because of the words, ‘I am astonished.’”23 Ben Witherington III stated, More often than not in an exordium the establishment of contact and rapport with the audience was made by way of praise or flattery or thanksgiving, but if the case was serious or dangerous enough the exordium could also begin with blame or rebuke, in short the splash of cold water in the face of the audience to get their attention and wake them up to what their situation really was and to the fact that they needed to take action to correct the situation. Paul chooses to follow the latter approach here.24
19 Lührmann, Galatians: A Continental Commentary (trans. O. C. Dean, Jr.; CC; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1992), 11. 20 Martyn, Galatians: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 33A; New York: Doubleday, 1997), 106–7. 21 Brown, An Introduction to the New Testament (ABRL; New York: Doubleday, 1997), 471. 22 Kern, Rhetoric and Galatians: Assessing an Approach to Paul’s Epistle (SNTSMS 101; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 97. 23 Jervis, Galatians (NIBCNT 9; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1999), 36. 24 Witherington, Grace in Galatia: A Commentary on St. Paul’s Letter to the Galatians (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 80.
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Commenting on 1:6, Richard Hays wrote, “[W]e expect to find a thanksgiving section, as in most of Paul’s other letters. . . . In this letter, however, Paul is far too upset with the Galatians to give thanks.”25 Robert A. Bryant argued, “Paul was deeply troubled by the situation in Galatia. Indeed, the absence of an opening thanksgiving . . . undoubtedly startled Paul’s hearers and pressed upon them the urgency of his case.”26 Mark D. Nanos maintained, “More revealing of Paul’s disposition is the fact that after the abrupt polemical opening line, instead of the customary, if formal, note of thanksgiving, they are greeted with an intimidating ironic rebuke (vv. 6–7).”27 Beverly Roberts Gaventa commented on 1:6, “In a striking deviation from his custom in other letters, Paul moves immediately from the salutation to a rebuke rather than a thanksgiving.”28 D. Francois Tolmie asserted that Paul’s audience expected some mention of prayer in 1:6, and the absence of “any kind word —if not taken as a direct rebuke—would, at least, have been strange to them.”29 Finally, Bruce J. Malina and John J. Pilch wrote about 1:6, In a usual letter at this point, there should be a “blessing”—an acknowledgment of God’s past activity on behalf of the addressees, with a hope for God’s future favor. This blessing is lacking. Most scholars would attribute this lack to Paul’s highly incensed state of mind over the situation among the Galatians. In an honor-shame society, however, Paul’s omission of God’s past benefactions among the Galatians and hope for future divine favor would be taken as an attack against the collective honor of the Galatians. Instead of the blessing, Paul provides an introduction to his self-defense and defense of his gospel.30
Epistolographic studies of the Pauline letters also argue that the lack of an expected thanksgiving in Galatians is explained in 1:6–10. Paul Schubert asserted that “[t]he papyri convincingly attest a wide-spread conventional use of an epistolary, religious or non-religious, introductory thanksgiving.”31 However, Gal 1:6–10 shows that “the specific epistolary situation did not permit [a thanksgiving]. The ‘psychological’ explanation that Paul was too excited and too displeased with the Galatians points in the same direction, but it is too subjective.”32 Peter O’Brien concluded that a key feature of Pauline thanksgiving periods is εὐαγγέλιον and related 25
Hays, “The Letter to the Galatians,” NIB 11:204. Bryant, Risen Crucified Christ, 124–25. 27 Nanos, The Irony of Galatians: Paul’s Letter in First-Century Context (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2002), 32–33. 28 Gaventa, “Galatians,” Eerdmans Commentary on the Bible (ed. James D. G. Dunn and John W. Robertson; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 1375. 29 Tolmie, Persuading the Galatians: A Text-centered Rhetorical Analysis of a Pauline Letter (WUNT 190; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005), 38–39. 30 Malina and Pilch, Social-Science Commentary on the Letters of Paul (Social-Science Commentary; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006), 182. “Blessing” clearly refers to the thanksgiving period. 31 Schubert, Pauline Thanksgivings, 180. 32 Ibid., 162–63. 26
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words: “[T]he proem of Gal. 1:6ff has several references to the subject [of the gospel], thus making clear why no thanksgiving has been offered for these churches. The Galatian Christians are in serious danger of departing from the gospel!”33 Stanley K. Stowers wrote that a thanksgiving is absent because “Paul is extremely upset with the Galatian community. . . . The lack of his customary thanksgiving signals the mood and purpose of the letter.”34 In his monograph on rhetoric and epistolography in Galatians, Dieter Kremendahl argued that Paul’s omission of an expected thanksgiving is intended to provoke both irritation and disappointment in the addressees, in furtherance of Paul’s rhetorical aims.35 E. Randolph Richards stated, “When Paul begins his letter in Galatians 1:6, he does not start with ‘I pray’ or ‘I am thankful,’ but rather ‘I am amazed you so quickly deserted your faith.’ The implication is that Paul was in a rush to get straight to the matter.”36 Finally, HansJosef Klauck wrote that in Galatians a thanksgiving is lacking, and “the place of the epistolary proem is taken up by the sharp criticism in 1:6–10.”37 Five explanations of the omission of a thanksgiving that do not point to 1:6– 10 can be found in the literature. Hans Lietzmann argued that a thanksgiving is not present because Paul’s doxological expression in 1:5 is “eine Art Ersatz für den sonst typischen Dank an Gott.”38 Howard Clark Kee concluded that Galatians lacks a thanksgiving because it is written in “great haste.”39 Allowing that “the usual explanations” about a missing thanksgiving as due to “Paul’s state of mind” are probably accurate, Scot McKnight suggested, “Many hold this letter to be the first canonical letter that Paul wrote and that, in light of this, it is hard to argue a departure from his typical practice since that practice had not yet begun.”40 David Cook argued
33
O’Brien, Introductory Thanksgivings, 265. Stowers, Letter Writing, 22. 35 Kremendahl, Die Botschaft der Form: Zum Verhältnis von antiker Epistolographie und Rhetorik im Galaterbrief (NTOA 46; Freiburg, Switzerland: Universitätsverlag, 2000), 30–37. However, Kremendahl also states that the Galatians were not aware that Paul customarily included a thanksgiving in his letters and would not have noticed that it is missing here (p. 99). 36 Richards, Paul and Letter Writing, 132–33. 37 Klauck, Ancient Letters, 314. However, Klauck does not argue that a thanksgiving was expected (pp. 21–22). 38 Lietzmann, An die Galater (2nd ed; HNT 10; Tübingen: Mohr, 1923), 5. Duncan shares this view, even though as we saw above he can also point to the overall situation of Galatians revealed in 1:6–10 as the reason for omission of a thanksgiving (Galatians, 15). Schubert dismissed the possibility that 1:5b was a substitute for a thanksgiving (Pauline Thanksgivings, 162–63). 39 Kee, “The Formation of the Christian Community,” in the Cambridge Companion to the Bible (ed. Howard Clark Kee; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 478. Richards observes that the rhetorically sophisticated structure of Galatians “does not seem likely to have been dictated extemporaneously” (Paul and Letter Writing, 25). 40 McKnight, Galatians: From Biblical Text . . . to Contemporary Life (NIV Application Commentary; Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1995), 50. It is intriguing, although finally unsatisfying, to 34
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that 1:1–5 is a substitute for a thanksgiving period because vv. 1 and 4 identify the letter’s central themes and because (following Lietzmann) the doxology in v. 5 gives thanks to God.41 Finally, M. Luther Stirewalt Jr. argued that Galatians lacks a thanksgiving because Paul wrote it on the model of an official letter, which does not have a thanksgiving.42 The arguments by Lietzmann and Cook will be considered further below. It suffices here to observe that these alternate explanations for the omission of a thanksgiving in Galatians have not gained assent in scholarship, particularly against the strength of the common understanding that the explanation is indeed to be found in 1:6–10. Enough of the literature on Gal 1:1–10 has now been surveyed to draw some conclusions from it. First, interpreters have noted as significant that Galatians has no thanksgiving, and since Schubert’s Pauline Thanksgivings they have remarked on this almost without exception.43 Second, interpreters have frequently maintained that the Galatians would notice Paul’s omission of a thanksgiving and that this would have some effect on them. Third, all interpreters agree that the point of its omission is at 1:6, and all but a few point to 1:6–10 as the explanation for this omission. Fourth, the various interpretations of 1:6–10 advanced to explain the omission share the idea that Paul intentionally omitted a thanksgiving in order to further his purpose in writing. Some interpreters explain the omission by referring to Paul’s state of mind on display in 1:6–10, arguing that Paul wanted to show the Galatians that he was too emotionally upset with them to give thanks. Others contend that by omitting a thanksgiving Paul indicated to the Galatians how serious their situation was. Still others explain the omission by Paul’s adaptation of epistolary convention, in particular that the rebuke in 1:6–10 takes the place of a customary thanksgiving. Combinations of these explanations are often found in the literature. In sum, the idea that 1:6–10 explains why Paul strategically omitted a thanksgiving is a standard part of the commentarial tradition. It has arguably become an “assured result” of the criticism of Galatians.
II. An Unexpected Thanksgiving Period This section will contend that a thanksgiving period was not in fact customary in letters of the time, so that the Galatians in all likelihood would not have conjecture with McKnight that Paul’s use of thanksgiving periods may have developed out of his “thankless” letter to the Galatians, so that his thanksgivings may perhaps carry the unconscious thought, “Thank God you aren’t like the Galatians!” 41 Cook, “Prescript as Programme,” 511–12. However, Cook does not take adequate account of how unusual the prescript is, nor does he relate it to the issue of why Paul omits a thanksgiving. “Few scholars . . . have joined Cook in viewing 1:1–5 as the program for the entire letter” (Bryant, Risen Crucified Christ, 125–26). 42 Stirewalt, Paul, 94. 43 This is also a conclusion in the review of research in Bryant, Risen Crucified Christ, 17.
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noted Paul’s not giving thanks for them, much less viewed it as meaningful. As the review of research above indicates, a main reason that interpreters conclude that a thanksgiving is omitted from Galatians is that one is included in Paul’s other letters. The Galatians themselves could have noted this departure from Paul’s practice if they had known that Paul’s other letters open with thanksgiving. But did they have such knowledge? If Paul had written another, earlier letter to the Galatians, it may have included a thanksgiving; then the Galatians could have noticed that their second letter lacked a thanksgiving. However, neither Galatians nor Paul’s other letters mention any other correspondence from Paul to the Galatians. If the Galatians had read any of Paul’s letters to other churches, or learned secondhand about them, they could have learned of his typical thanksgiving period; however, we have no evidence for this possibility either.44 Or the person(s) Paul sent to carry the letter may have added insult to injury by telling the Galatians that Paul had left off his typical thanksgiving; however, this must remain a conjecture. In sum, no firm evidence exists on which we can conclude that the Galatians knew that Paul regularly began his letters with a thanksgiving period and could for that reason note its absence in their letter from Paul. A more difficult question remains: Did Paul’s Galatian audience expect a thanksgiving period from their knowledge of other religious letters45 or secular letters? As seen above, many interpreters have affirmed that Hellenistic letters so commonly featured a thanksgiving period that the Galatians would expect one in their letter from Paul. However, in 1994 Peter Arzt systematically reviewed the published papyri letters, those available to Schubert and many more published since the 1930s, and reached an opposite conclusion: “Because of the lack of references within the large number of Greek papyrus letters we may conclude that an ‘introductory thanksgiving’ never existed as a set phrase. And therefore, the effort to identify the usual Pauline prooemium as a common ‘introductory thanksgiving’ fails.”46 Arzt conceded that Paul’s letters do contain “the combination of a report of a prayer and/or the μνεια-motif with a thanksgiving to God for the addressees,” but this combination “derives from Paul’s personal intention, and not from a common epistolary convention.”47 Moreover, “[i]t is most unlikely that Paul’s addressees would have thought of a distinct epistolary formula and its corresponding literary intention when they encountered the expression of a thanksgiving within the prooemium” of his letters.48 Jeffrey Reed challenged Arzt, defending the notion that Paul’s 44 Paul’s letters likely did not circulate among his churches, and shared collections of his letters did not arise until after his death; see Richards, Paul and Letter Writing, 210–23. 45 Jewish letters are not generally considered a source of the Pauline thanksgiving period. The only thanksgiving in Jewish letters is in 2 Macc 1:11–17; see Joseph A. Fitzmyer, “Aramaic Epistolography,” Semeia 22 (1981): 25–57; Dennis Pardee, Handbook of Ancient Hebrew Letters: A Study Edition (SBLSBS 15; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1982). 46 Arzt, “Epistolary Introductory Thanksgiving,” 37. 47 Ibid., 45. 48 Ibid., 45–46.
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thanksgivings are indeed epistolary thanksgivings. Reed asserted that “There is a large number of New Testament scholars (a consensus?) who now assume the epistolary background of Paul’s thanksgivings.”49 Although Reed praised Arzt for his comprehensive survey of the papyri, he criticized him for restrictive dating, for a narrow definition of thanksgivings, and for omitting Christian letters as a witness.50 Reed argued that the 130 examples of thanksgivings cited by Arzt, together with ten more that he cited, are “prima facie evidence” that parallels to Paul’s thanksgivings are “not scarce, and are more than sufficient for positing a connection between Paul’s thanksgivings and those in other letters.”51 This disagreement over thanksgivings bears directly on our question. If Reed is correct, the Galatians could reasonably expect a thanksgiving and would notice if it were missing. However, if Arzt is correct that thanksgivings were not regular, the Galatians would probably not notice the absence of one. My own review of collections of Hellenistic letters confirms Arzt’s main argument that thanksgivings were infrequent in letters of the time.52 One looks in vain for thanksgiving periods or shorter expressions of thanks to the gods in collections of official letters, business letters, letters of petition, or letters of personal recommendation.53 To review the “nonliterary” papyri letters, which are widely agreed to be most relevant for understanding early Christian epistolography,54 I utilized the following three recent and widely available collections of letters, on the assumption that they present a representative sample of nonliterary letters, and so as not to duplicate the surveys by Arzt and Reed. The first is John L. White’s Light from Ancient Letters, which provides “a comparative body of texts for assessing the epistolary character of the early Christian letter tradition.”55 Second is Women’s Letters 49
Reed, “Paul’s Thanksgivings,” 88 (parenthesis and italics are Reed’s). Ibid., 89. 51 Ibid., 97–98. 52 Ancient Hellenistic and Roman epistolary theorists do not seem to have discussed parts of letters outside the letter body, so we must examine extant letters to determine what is “epistolary” in letter openings; see Abraham J. Malherbe, Ancient Epistolary Theorists (SBLSBS 19; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988). 53 For example, there are no thanksgiving periods in the letters of recommendation studied by Chan-Hie Kim, The Form and Structure of the Familiar Greek Letter of Recommendation (SBLDS 4; Missoula, MT: Society of Biblical Literature, 1972), or in the study of official petitions by John L. White, The Form and Structure of the Official Petition: A Study in Greek Epistolography (SBLDS 5; Missoula, MT: Society of Biblical Literature, 1972). On the lack of thanksgivings in official letters, see Stirewalt, Paul, 94. 54 On this consensus, see Bryant, Risen Crucified Christ, 40. A few have argued that Paul’s letters are closer to the category of the literary letter; see Klaus Berger, “Hellenistische Gattungen im Neuen Testament,” ANRW II.25.2 (1984): 1327–40. Literary letters did not typically feature thanksgivings. 55 White, Light from Ancient Letters, 3. White’s numbering system indicates 117 letters, but three have an additional letter in them. All but a handful of these letters are dated between 265 b.c.e. and 200 c.e. 50
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from Ancient Egypt, 300 BC–AD 800, by Roger S. Bagnall and Raffaella Cribiore.56 Third is the largest collection of Hellenistic papyri letters, the Advanced Papyrological Information System (APIS), an online catalogue of papyri in twenty-one university collections.57 In order to err on the side of caution and avoid the kind of methodological problems that Reed identifies in Arzt, I count as evidence for thanksgivings letters with any thanks or mention of thanks to the gods at or near the opening of the letter body, letters that extend approximately from 200 b.c.e. to 200 c.e., and evidence from early Christian letters. A survey of these collections yields the following results. In White’s collection of 129 Greek letters, five have an expression of thanks to the gods or to humans. These are typically one sentence in length.58 In Bagnall and Cribiore’s collection of women’s letters, of which 114 are dated 200 b.c.e. to 200 c.e., three letters have any mention of thanks to the gods in their openings, and in one additional letter the author thanks the recipient.59 This is the same level of occurrence as in White’s collection. In APIS, a search using the “advanced search” engine conducted on December 17, 2008, on documents from all collections of letters dated from 200 b.c.e. to 200 c.e., located 120 with the full text of letter openings.60 Of these, only three have a mention of thanks in or near their openings.61 This survey of the papyri letters indicates that even though shorter formulas of thanksgiving and some longer periods of thanksgiving can indeed be found in some Hellenistic letters, as Schubert, Reed, and others maintain, the great majority of letters did not contain any sort of thanksgiving.62 Although Reed’s count of 140 thanksgivings seems to be an impres56 Roger S. Bagnall and Raffaella Cribiore, Women’s Letters from Ancient Egypt, 300 BC–AD 800 (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2006). Among these 114 are several letters that Bagnall and Cribiore date “second-third century ad.” 57 Found at http://www.columbia.edu/cu/lweb/projects/digital/apis/. As of December 17, 2008, APIS had catalogued a total of 1,718 Greek papyrus letters. 58 Thanks to the gods are offered in White’s letters numbered 16 (C.P.Jud. 1.4), 26 (P.Cair.Zen. 3.59426), 34 (Sel.Pap. 1.97), 35 (U.P.Z. 1.60), and 103a (Sel.Pap. 1.112). The proskynēma prayer is found with the thanksgivings in 34 and 103a. A proskynēma but no thanksgiving is found in White’s letters numbered 64 (BGU 4.1206), 109 (P.Mich. 8.475), 110 (P.Mich. 8.476), 113 (Sel.Pap. 1.121), 114 (Sel.Pap. 1.120), and 115b (P.Mich. 8.499). 59 The three letters that express thanks to the gods are P.Giss. 17, P.Giss. 20, and BGU 3.843; the letter that expresses thanks to the reader is P.Wash.Univ. 2.106. These are found in Bagnall and Cribiore, Women’s Letters, 149, 152, 364, and 322, respectively. 60 This search was conducted in the “advanced search” engine, using the terms “letter” in the “title or type” field, “thank*” and “god*” in the “notes and translations” field, “Greek” in the language field, and “papyr*” in the “materials” field. The total number of returns using these terms is 637 letters from 200 b.c.e. to 200 c.e., but those without a full text in Greek and/or English translation in APIS cannot be scrutinized for whether they have a thanksgiving. 61 P.Tebt. 1.56 (APIS identification number: berkeley.apis.473), SB 16.12589 (michigan .apis.1492); P.Mich. 8.498 (michigan.apis.2583), in which thanks are offered to the recipient, but not to the god(s); and P.Fay. 117 (upenn.apis.37). 62 This conclusion is borne out in Greek and Latin Letters: An Anthology with Translation (ed.
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sive number, in determining whether introductory thanksgiving is a regular feature of letters these 140 instances must be weighed against the thousands of papyrus letters that are published in the many collections that Reed surveyed.63 The proportion of letters that have any thanksgiving in their openings is indeed small and does not indicate that thanksgivings were a customary, predictable feature of Hellenistic letters.64 Early Christian letters as a whole tend to support the conclusion that thanksgiving periods were not a typical part of Hellenistic letters, despite the regular presence of thanksgivings in letters bearing Paul’s name.65 Thanksgivings are found in Romans (1:8–14), 1 Corinthians (1:4–9), Philippians (1:3–11), 1 Thessalonians (1:2–10),66 and Philemon (1:4–7). 2 Corinthians 1:3–7 is a bĕrākâ period that clearly functions in the place of a Pauline thanksgiving by its placement between the prescript and the letter body, by reference to prayer, and by introducing a leading theme of the letter.67 Ephesians has a thanksgiving in 1:15–23, and a bĕrākâ preceding it (1:3–14). Colossians (1:3–13), 2 Thessalonians (1:3–4) and 2 Timothy (1:3–7) have thanksgivings. 1 Timothy has a “very unusual thanksgiving” for Paul’s faithful apostolic service at 1:12–17, in the letter body.68 Titus does not have a thanksgiving. As one moves to other early Christian letters, thanksgiving periods or shorter formulas become infrequent. 1 Peter 1:3–12 is a bĕrākâ functioning as a thanksgiving. However, James, Jude, and 2 Peter do not have thanksgivings or a bĕrākâ.
Michael Trapp; Cambridge Greek and Latin Classics; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003). Although his collection of sixty “private letters” ranges from 500 b.c.e. to 500 c.e., only one of these sixty letters (Trapp’s number 41, dated 368 c.e.), by the Christian leader Basil, has any thanksgiving. 63 For the collections of papyri used by Arzt and Reed, see John F. Oates et al., Checklist of Editions of Greek Papyri and Ostraca (2nd ed.; BASPSup 1; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1978). 64 Introductory thanksgivings were perhaps common enough in Hellenistic letters to be labeled “epistolary,” as other optional features of Hellenistic prescripts like the health wish or the proskynēma were epistolary. However, they were not predictably present, as were such prescriptive items as the sender, the recipient(s), and the greeting. 65 For the argument that the Pauline thanksgiving period is better called a bĕrākâ or hôdāyâ, see James M. Robinson, “Die Hodajot-Formel in Gebet und Hymnus des Frühchristentums,” in Apophoreta: Festschrift für Ernst Haenchen zu seinem siebzigsten Geburtstag am 10. Dezember 1964 (ed. Walther Eltester; BZNW 30; Berlin: Töpelmann, 1964), 194–235. 66 Scholars agree that a thanksgiving begins in 1 Thess 1:2, but they disagree about where it ends; see Schubert, Pauline Thanksgivings, 17, 24–26; Jan Lambrecht, “Thanksgiving in 1 Thessalonians 1–3,” in The Thessalonians Debate: Methodological Discord or Methodological Synthesis? (ed. Karl P. Donfried and Johannes Beutler; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 135–62. 67 For the view that 2 Cor 2:14 is not the thanksgiving section of an incomplete letter, see J. David Hester Amador, “Revisiting 2 Corinthians: Rhetoric and the Case for Unity,” NTS 46 (2000): 105–6. 68 Klauck, Ancient Letters, 325.
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1 John should not be counted either way, because it does not have a letter opening; 2 John 4 perhaps is a short thanksgiving, and 3 John 3–4 may be a functional equivalent of a thanksgiving.69 The messages to the seven churches in Revelation are considered by most commentators to be embedded letters (2:1–3:22), but their truncated openings mean that they cannot be counted in our survey. Two other embedded NT letters, in Acts 15:23–29 and 23:26–30, do have a full literary form but no thanksgiving. 1 Clement includes no thanksgiving period, opening instead with an apology for a delay in writing. 2 Clement calls itself an “epistle,” but has no typical letter opening or closing. The seven letters of Ignatius begin their letter bodies with an expression of praise to the audience, not thanks to God; they are Ignatius’s equivalent of the expression of joy that can open letter bodies of the time.70 Barnabas and Polycarp’s Philippians also have an expression of praise for the recipients, but not thanksgivings, in their letter body opening. The Epistle to Diognetus, despite its name, does not have a letter opening. Thus, of all extant early Christian letters to 200 c.e., at least one-third and perhaps slightly more than onehalf do not have a thanksgiving period or equivalent. That a thanksgiving period or formula was not a uniform part of early Christian letters corroborates the argument that it was not a standard feature in Hellenistic letters. This in turn supports the argument that the Galatians would not expect one in their letter from Paul, or that Paul knew that they would anticipate one. Recent studies of Hellenistic letters tend to support the conclusion that thanksgivings periods were not a regular part of Greek letters of the time.71 William Doty is the most positive about thanksgivings, but the most he affirms is that “Hellenistic letters often have thanksgiving periods.”72 Stowers remarks more cautiously, “Often the greeting was followed by a prayer for the recipient, sometimes by a wish for the recipient’s health, and occasionally by a statement of thanksgiving to a god or gods.”73 Klauck concludes, “It is debatable whether further elements [e.g., thanks-
69
See Raymond E. Brown, The Epistles of John: Translated, with Introduction, Notes, and Commentary (AB 30; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1982), 790–92. 70 So William R. Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch: A Commentary on the Letters of Ignatius of Antioch (Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985), 220. Three of Ignatius’s letters do have a semblance of a thanksgiving, not at the beginning but at or near the end (Eph. 21.1; Phld. 11.1; Smyrn. 10.1). These could be an adaptation of Pauline thanksgivings, as Davie E. Aune suggests (The New Testament in Its Literary Environment [LEC 8; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1987], 159), but their placement means that they are not epistolary thanksgiving periods as generally understood. On the Ignatian letter form in general, see also Doty, Letters, 71–75; Carl Andresen, “Zum Formular frühchristlicher Gemeindebriefe,” ZNW 56 (1965): 233–59. 71 Exler (Form of the Ancient Greek Letter, 101–11) and Koskenniemi (Studien, 128–50) do not mention thanksgiving periods or formulas in their treatments of the openings of Greek letters. 72 Doty, Letters, 31. 73 Stowers, Letter Writing, 20.
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givings or prayer for the recipients] can be included in the proem beyond the health wish.”74 Most to the point, Abraham J. Malherbe observes, Studies of Paul’s thanksgivings have assumed that a fairly standard epistolary thanksgiving was in widespread use in the Hellenistic world and have taken great pains to identify its formal elements in the belief that Paul was indebted to this presumed practice (Schubert, who until recently was followed by most writers). It has become clear, however, that the thanksgiving period was not as firmly established an element in other letters as it is in Paul.75
To conclude this section, our analysis has indicated that the Galatians likely did not know about Paul’s customary practice of writing a thanksgiving in the proems of his letters. Moreover, the papyrological evidence clearly indicates that expressions of thanksgiving were not a regular feature of Hellenistic letters, even when the focus is narrowed to nonliterary letters and early Christian letters are included in the mix.76 Therefore, it cannot be said that the Galatians would expect a thanksgiving in their letter from Paul, or look to 1:6–10 to explain why a thanksgiving was not there. However, Galatians 1 provides another explanation of Paul’s omission of his typical thanksgiving, not read from 1:6–10, to which we now turn.
III. An Astonishing Prescript As the final section of this article will show, the Galatians’ astonishment over Paul’s message in this letter began before they heard Paul’s sharp rebuke for them in 1:6–10. As they listened to the letter’s prescript, they would have been astonished by words that in their epistolary placement and their content were most unusual for Hellenistic letters. Their astonishment would be confirmed and heightened by Paul’s expression of his own astonishment in 1:6–10. Contrary to conventions of the time, Paul “frontloaded” key themes of Galatians into the prescript of his letter, themes that are polemical against the Galatians themselves.77 Some recent scholarship has noticed that the prescript of Galatians is unusual, but interpreters have not connected it to Paul’s omission of his typical thanksgiving. 78 We now turn 74
Klauck, Ancient Letters, 21–22. Malherbe, The Letters to the Thessalonians: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 32B; New York: Doubleday, 2000), 104. Tolmie (Persuading the Galatians, 78) and Kremendahl (Botschaft der Form, 99) also state that thanksgiving sections are not common at the time. 76 This will likely affect the interpretation of thanksgivings in other early Christian letters, but to delve into this is beyond the scope of this article. 77 Contrast the prescript of Paul’s letter to the Romans, also unusually lengthy but not polemical (Samuel Byrskog, “Epistolography, Rhetoric and Letter Prescript: Romans 1.1–7 as a Test Case,” JSNT 65 [1997]: 27–46). 78 For studies that discern the unusual nature of the prescript, see esp. Martyn, Galatians, 75
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to an examination of 1:1–5, particularly how its unusual content and structure would impress the Galatians and prepare the way for the letter body. Paul begins this letter by giving his name, entirely typical of Hellenistic letters. He then calls himself ἀπόστολος, which would not seem unusual to the Galatians. They had likely heard Paul call himself an apostle when he was with them, so it was not new.79 That they are familiar with it is suggested by its use without explanation here and in 1:17 and 19. Further, it was not unusual for Hellenistic letter writers to state their relationship to the reader(s), even when that was obvious (“your mother,” “your son,” etc.).80 The Galatians, like other audiences of Hellenistic letters, would then expect to hear their own name as recipients immediately after “Paul an apostle.” Instead they hear Paul speak more on his apostleship: οὐκ ἀπ’ ἀνθρώπων οὐδὲ δι’ ἀνθρώπου ἀλλὰ διὰ Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ καὶ θεοῦ πατρὸς τοῦ ἐγείραντος αὐτὸν ἐκ νεκρῶν, “not from humans nor through a human, but through Jesus Christ and God the Father, who raised him from the dead” (v. 1, my translation). This antithetical description and polemical defense of the writer’s identity are unheard-of in letter prescripts of the time, where brevity and level emotions are consistently found.81 The fullness of expression, a double denial followed by a double affirmation, is more characteristic of a letter body of the times than of the sender section of a prescript. Indeed, it is echoed polemically in 1:11– 12, where οὐκ . . . οὐδέ is repeated with ἄνθρωπος as the object of two different prepositions. Paul’s apostleship is not of any human origin, as others may be saying to the Galatians, but solely divine—so (by implication) the Galatians should heed his letter. The placement of such polemics in the first section of the prescript signals the Galatians immediately that this would be no ordinary or happy letter. It intimates that they would hear more about Paul’s apostleship (1:17, 19) and his
81–106; Bryant, Risen Crucified Christ, 111–42; and Bernard H. Brimsmead, Galatians—Dialogical Response to Opponents (SBLDS 65; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1982), 58–63. See also Betz, Galatians, 37–43; Longenecker, Galatians, 10; and Matera, Galatians, 43–44. 79 Martyn, Galatians, 92–95. 80 In White, Light from Ancient Letters, the following letters have short descriptions of the relationship of the letter writer to the recipients in the “sender” section of the opening: 37 (P.Milligan 5), 46 (P.Tebt. 4.1099), 47 (P.Tebt. 1.26), 52 (P.Tebt. 1.56), 55 (Sel.Pap. 1.103), 61 (Sel.Pap. 1.104), 76 (P.Tebt. 2.289), 86 (C.P.Jud. 2.151), and 88 (C.P.Jud. 2.153). Paul calls himself “an apostle” and adds a short description of that word in Rom 1:1; 1 Cor 1:1; and 2 Cor 1:1, and he calls himself a δοῦλος of Jesus Christ in Phil 1:1. See also “apostle” in Eph 1:1; Col 1:1; 1 Tim 1:1; 2 Tim 1:1; and Titus 1:1. On the common use of relational terms in the Hellenistic prescript, see Byrskog, “Epistolography,” 34–36. 81 Bryant (Risen Crucified Christ, 112) remarks on the brevity of Hellenistic letter openings. Except for 1 Thessalonians, Paul regularly lengthens this section; in letters with which the Galatians would be familiar, this was not done. None of the letters in White’s Light from Ancient Letters, in Bagnall and Cribiore’s Women’s Letters, or searched in APIS has a defense of any word used to describe the letter writer, as Gal 1:1 does.
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apostolic message of Jesus Christ (1:6–7, 11–12; 2:1–10; 5:11–12). To use a modern analogy, Paul’s procedure is like a writer of a “Dear John/Dear Jane” letter today who cannot wait until the letter body to communicate its point, but instead writes immediately, “Dear John/Jane—not that you really are dear to me anymore,” and then begins the letter body to say this more fully. Such alterations of standard epistolary forms to signal difficult matters are immediately noticeable in our time and in the first century. The sender section ends with καὶ οἱ σὺν ἐμοὶ πάντες ἀδελφοί, “and all the brothers and sisters with me” (v. 2). This is not explicitly polemical, and mention of others is not unusual in a Hellenistic prescript, although it is much more common in their conclusions.82 However, the lack of any personal names of “all the brothers and sisters” may have struck the Galatians as unusual, as also the πάντες, suggesting as it does that Paul’s co-workers are united in agreeing with him on this letter.83 Paul does not mention these ἀδελφοί again, but he will call the Galatians themselves ἀδελφοί as he appeals to them in 1:11; 3:15; 4:12, 28, 31; 5:11, 13; and 6:1, 18.84 Its first use in v. 2 holds up Paul’s co-workers as examples for the Galatians of proper kinship: ἀδελφοί agree with each other, and here they agree with Paul. Following Hellenistic convention, Paul then names the recipients: ταῖς ἐκκλησίαις τῆς Γαλατίας, “to the churches of Galatia” (v. 2).85 Some think that this brevity would strike the Galatians as off-putting,86 and it does indeed look brief in comparison to the extended sender section (vv. 1–2a) and the extended blessing (vv. 3–5) that surround it. However, most letters of the time do not describe the recipients beyond a word or two, so the businesslike length of this addressee section would perhaps not seem unusual to the Galatians.87 Paul does describe them with one positive term, stating that they are ἐκκλησίαι; in letter-writing conventions of the time, he could have bypassed any description and said simply “to the Galatians.” Paul uses ἐκκλησία again soon in Galatians, in 1:13 (“the church of God”) and 1:22 (“the churches of Christ in Judea”), both positive uses. 82 On the endings of Paul’s letters in the context of Hellenistic epistolography, see Jeffrey A. D. Weima, Neglected Endings: The Significance of the Pauline Letter Closings (JSNTSup 101; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1994). 83 “The use of such first-person language . . . defies the rule that the superscription or indication of the sender would normally use only the more distant third person” (Klauck, Ancient Letters, 313). 84 The NRSV obscures ἀδελφοί by translating it variously as “members of God’s family” in 1:2; as “friends” in 4:12 and 4:31; as “my friends” in 4:22; 5:11; and 6:1; and as “brothers and sisters” in 5:13 and 6:18. Footnotes explain that the Greek is “brothers,” but how many users of the NRSV trace out the thread of meaning by way of footnotes? 85 Paul also uses ταῖς ἐκκλησίαις τῆς Γαλατίας positively in 1 Cor 16:1. 86 E.g., Martyn, Galatians, 86; Bryant, Risen Crucified Christ, 117. 87 The letters in the three collections utilized above do not have any examples of a description of the recipient(s) of the letters that last for more than two or three words.
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The end of the prescript comes into view in vv. 3–5. In virtually all Hellenistic letters, the writer offers some greeting to the readers. Typically it is the oneword χαίρειν, “greetings,” which occurs in the vast majority of Greek papyri letters, including Acts 15:23; 23:26; and Jas 1:1. A brief greeting from the author to the audience at this point seems to be necessary for a letter’s form and function, particularly to convey a sense of the personal “presence” of the writer among the recipient(s) as the letter is read.88 Paul offers a greeting in the form of a blessing that begins with a cognate of χαίρειν: χάρις ὑμῖν καὶ εἰρήνη ἀπὸ θεοῦ πατρὸς ἡμῶν καὶ κυρίου Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ, “Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ” (v. 3). Despite Paul’s emotions, which he begins to show already in v. 1 and which will be on full display later in this letter (e.g., 1:6; 4:19–20; 5:12), he does not withhold his greeting from the Galatians. As argued above, the Galatians likely would not have noticed Paul’s withholding a thanksgiving, but they certainly would have noticed if Paul had withheld any greeting here, whether a simple χαίρειν or something more. Many Hellenistic letters had some additional favorable word from the author to the audience at this point, such as a health wish (by far the most common) or sometimes a remembrance in prayer. If Paul’s churches were familiar with blessings, which seems likely given how often Paul uses them without explanation to open and close his letters, the Galatians would have recognized v. 3 as Paul’s blessing on them. If they were not familiar with blessings, they would have looked upon v. 3 as a wish or prayer for their spiritual health. This blessing in v. 3 is not an empty formality, a Pauline variation of the healthwish epistolary cliché that in most Hellenistic letters has no significant connection to their thematic content.89 Instead, the meanings of χάρις and εἰρήνη here relate closely to Paul’s persuasive themes in the remainder of Galatians. Paul blesses them with grace because the Galatians were deserting God who had called them “in grace” (v. 6; the textual variant “of Christ” qualifies but does not omit “in grace”). God called Paul through grace to his apostolic office (1:15; note the “called in/ through grace” connection between 1:6 and 1:15). James, Cephas, and John recognized God’s grace in Paul and his mission (2:9). If salvation comes through the law, grace is nullified (2:21). The Galatians are falling away from grace (5:4). Finally, in the last sentence Paul blesses them again with χάρις (6:18), forming an inclusio with 1:3, so that this letter is “bookended” by grace. Paul blesses them next in 1:3 with εἰρήνη because they were in danger of losing peace. They “bite and devour each other” (5:15), and Paul must point out to them that peace is a fruit of the Spirit (5:22). In 6:16 he will offer a renewed (but now ominously conditional) blessing of peace on those who follow the “rule” that one’s status as circumcised or uncircum88
Byrskog, “Epistolography,” 30–31. On the form and meaning of this blessing, see particularly Judith Lieu, “‘Grace to You and Peace,’ The Apostolic Greeting,” BJRL 68 (1985): 161–78. 89
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cised is unimportant when one is a new creation in Christ. This grace and peace come not just from Jesus Christ, but from God “our Father” (v. 3). Here for the first of four times in the prescript Paul ties himself to a common situation with the Galatians by using the first person plural pronoun (also “our sins,” “to deliver us,” “our Father” [v. 4]).90 For anyone to proclaim a different message leads to God’s curse, not God’s blessing, on the proclaimers and implicitly on those who follow them (1:8–9). The implication of this blessing in the context of this letter is clear: Only with renewed divine blessing that brings grace and peace back to their churches will Paul’s Galatian audience return to his gospel.91 The blessing should end at the end of v. 3, and it would then be literarily and liturgically complete. The Galatians were likely looking to add their “amen” to the blessing.92 But just as Paul lengthened the sender section for persuasive effect, so now he lengthens the salutation by adding τοῦ δόντος ἑαυτὸν ὑπὲρ τῶν ἁμαρτιῶν ἡμῶν ὅπως ἐξέληται ἡμᾶς ἐκ τοῦ αἰῶνος τοῦ ἐνεστῶτος πονηροῦ κατὰ τὸ θέλημα τοῦ θεοῦ καὶ πατρὸς ἡμῶν, “who gave himself for our sins to set us free from the present evil age, according to the will of our God and Father” (v. 4 NRSV). As Bryant perceptively states, this “remarkable amplification” of the Hellenistic epistolary salutation “decidedly shifts the customary salutation’s focus away from both sender and recipient” and focuses on Jesus Christ.93 Christ’s giving himself in death “for our sins” rescues humans from the present evil age. It cannot be supplemented, Paul will argue, by circumcision. Jesus’ self-giving was done “according to the will of our God and Father,” showing that it is key to the divine plan for salvation. This profound theological statement in v. 4, forming as it does a correction of the Galatians, is noticeably out of place in a Hellenistic letter prescript. It serves here as an initial indication of Paul’s rejection of the “different gospel” that is a perversion of the gospel of Christ (1:6–7). The basis for Paul’s gospel is the death of Jesus Christ alone (2:19–21; 3:1, 13–14; 4:4–5; 5:11; 6:12, 14, 17). Still another item in this prescript is unusual to the Galatians. They have been “in suspense” for the ending of Paul’s blessing in v. 3 and the beginning of the letter body. Paul has added to their suspense in v. 4, and now he adds to it in v. 5: ᾧ ἡ δόξα εἰς τοὺς αἰῶνας τῶν αἰώνων, “to whom be glory for ever and ever.” Paul closes the prescript with this doxology, a blessing of God, liturgically understood as an action of prayer. Paul can use doxologies in the body of his letters (Rom 1:25; 90
Note the textual variants, where “our” is sometimes attached to “Father” (the adopted reading) and sometimes to “Lord,” along with some manuscripts that avoid the problem by omitting “our” altogether. 91 In closing this letter Paul also blesses them with “the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ” (6:18), and here Paul also solicits their final “Amen.” 92 For more on the meaning and use of “amen,” see the treatment of v. 5 below. 93 Bryant, Risen Crucified Christ, 118 (italics Bryant’s).
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9:5; 11:36; Phil 4:20), but only here does he use one in a prescript, and formal blessings of the gods/God are not found in other Hellenistic letter prescripts.94 Paul implies that God’s blessing of the Galatians in vv. 3–4 should elicit their praise of God. Normally, blessings or benedictions end immediately with an “amen” from the recipients of the blessing. They do not typically have doxologies attached to them. As we saw above, Lietzmann holds this unusually placed doxology to be an ersatz thanksgiving.95 Although it shares the element of prayer with the Pauline epistolary thanksgiving, this doxology has neither the literary form nor the function of a Pauline or a Hellenistic thanksgiving. As if all this were not enough to impress the Galatians, Paul ends the prescript with a twist. The doxology in v. 5 ends with ἀμήν, “amen, let it be so, truly,” the Hebrew liturgical loanword that the audience is expected to say aloud in assent to, and participation with, the speaker after blessings, oaths, doxologies, and so on.96 From its use in Paul’s letters, it is clear that his churches knew what it meant.97 That it is intended to be attached particularly to the doxology in v. 5, not to the extended blessing in vv. 3–4 or to the whole prescript in general, can be seen by comparison with blessings in other NT letters. The blessings that close the prescripts of these letters have no “amen” attached: Romans, 1 and 2 Corinthians, Ephesians, Philippians, Colossians, 1 and 2 Thessalonians, 1 and 2 Timothy, Titus, Philemon, 1 and 2 Peter, 2 John and Jude. (The writers may have expected the listeners to add their “amen,” but they did not prompt it by writing an “amen,” the issue here.) However, Paul’s four other doxologies given above also have an “amen” attached by Paul as a prompt. It calls for every person in the audience to respond with their own “amen.” Paul’s prompting “amen” is a challenge to the Galatians. Hellenistic letters familiar to the Galatians typically did not call for a verbal response as the letter was read, and Paul has been implicitly but clearly critical of the Galatians in this prescript; now he wants them to agree with him, out loud in fact. His implied meaning can be paraphrased: “Can you bless God with me for providing the death of Jesus Christ as the act that rescues us from the present evil age?” The letter reader may have paused here before continuing, listening as he/she drew a breath for what kind of “amen” might come. Some of the Galatians may have withheld their “amen,” but even then they would have been drawn into an engagement with Paul’s argument.
94 “God-talk” in the prescripts of secular Hellenistic letters tends to be limited to three formulas: remembrance in prayer, the proskynēma, and health wishes that mention the gods. 95 Lietzmann, An die Galater, 5; Duncan, Galatians, 15. 96 For recent concise treatment, see BDAG, 53–54. For treatment of “amen” in the context of Gal 1:5, see Martyn, Galatians, 105–6. 97 1 Corinthians 14:16, “to say the amen”; as the conclusion to a blessing, Rom 16:27; concluding a doxology in Rom 1:25, 9:5; 11:36; 15:33; Phil 4:20.
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IV. Conclusions If this analysis of why Galatians has no thanksgiving period is correct, Gal 1:1–10 should be seen in a different light. The lack of a thanksgiving in Galatians cannot be explained primarily by 1:6–10, as astonishing as this opening of the letter body remains. Rather, the astonishing way Paul wrote the prescript against many Hellenistic letter-writing conventions explains why he did not give thanks for the Galatians: the polemics in most of v. 1; the implied criticisms in the “all the brothers and sisters who are with me” in v. 2; the corrective theological themes in v. 4; and the doxology and the challenge of the “amen” in v. 5. Given the content and the tone of this prescript, Paul did not take the Galatians completely unawares in 1:6– 10, either by omitting a thanksgiving or by expressing his own sharp astonishment. Instead, he began to prepare the Galatians in 1:1–5 for “bad news” in the letter body about their fundamental misunderstanding of God’s “good news.” Other, more particular exegetical positions on Gal 1:1–10 seen in the literature would also need correction. Three brief examples must suffice here. First, although Paul did not pray for the Galatians in a thanksgiving, prayer is not completely lacking in the opening of Galatians, because the doxology in v. 5 has a function of prayer in it. Paul did not pray for the Galatians, but he did pray with them. Second, Paul did indeed omit his thanksgiving to come immediately “to the point” of the letter in 1:6–10, as often remarked. However, he freely adapted standard forms of the Hellenistic letter’s prescript to prepare a foundation for this “point,” particularly by asserting that his apostleship has a divine origin (v. 1) and that the death of Jesus Christ is the basis of salvation God provided (v. 4). Third, the common notion that Paul had nothing positive to say about the Galatians in the opening of the letter is certainly misleading. Although Paul did not praise his audience in a thanksgiving, he did call them “churches” (v. 2), give them an unconditional blessing (v. 3), include them in his religious experience (vv. 3–4), and assume that they could rise to the challenge of his “amen” (v. 5). In sum, by reassessing the commonplace understanding of why there is no thanksgiving period in Galatians, interpreters will be better poised to appreciate the nuances of Paul’s appeal to the Galatians that appear in 1:1–5 and how these nuances extend throughout this letter.
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P.Oxy. 2949—Its Transcription and Significance: A Response to Thomas Wayment paul foster
[email protected] The School of Divinity, The University of Edinburgh, Edinburgh, EH1 2LX UK
Papyrus Oxyrhynchus 2949 has again become a focus of scholarly attention through an article published by Thomas Wayment in the summer 2009 issue of this journal.1 Of particular value is Wayment’s application of multispectral imaging techniques in an attempt to illuminate more of the abraded writing on the two damaged fragments that constitute the item catalogued as P.Oxy. 2949.2 This may result in a much clearer contrast between the background material and the abraded writing. Consequently, Wayment’s application of this technique is a welcome advance in the study of these two enigmatic fragments of text.
I. Wayment’s Incorrect Reproduction of Foster’s Transcription In addition to the technical aspects of his discussion, however, Wayment interacts with and critiques my transcription of P.Oxy. 2949. That transcription formed part of a larger article testing the claims that a collection of five textual or artefac1
Wayment, “A Reexamination of the Text of P.Oxy. 2949,” JBL 128 (2009): 375–82. In essence this imaging technique involves taking narrow band pass images of forty nanometres in width, under the illumination of light in the infrared region of the electromagnetic spectrum. The value of infrared lighting has long been known, though prior to the advent of digital photography and computer-aided sampling, the task of targeting a specific optimal wavelength of light was extremely difficult. However, as Carl W. Griffin has described, the use of infrared light with the enhanced sampling abilities of computerization has made the deployment of the technique much more successful (“Digital Imaging: Looking Towards the Future of Manuscript Research,” Currents in Biblical Research 5 [2006]: 62). 2
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tual remains provide witnesses to the text or existence of the Gospel of Peter at a significantly earlier date than the nine pages of this text in the now missing Akhmîm Codex (P.Cair. 10759).3 Without doubt P.Oxy. 2949 is the most significant of these five potential witnesses, since it is the only fragment that shows any kind of overlap with the text contained in P.Cair. 10759. However, Wayment labels my transcription as minimalistic. He states specifically in regard to the transcription of line 5, Of particular importance in the discussion is whether R.A. Coles’s reconstruction, which includes the name Πειλάτου, is accurately reconstructed, or whether Coles was encouraged to restore the name to create a stronger parallel with the Akhmîm text. Several other readings are called into question in Foster’s minimalistic reconstruction, as well as the text of the smaller fragment, which Coles originally placed to the bottom left of the original fragment.4
In particular, the essence of the charge Wayment brings against me is that “Foster subsequently removed the reference to Pilate in line 5 completely.”5 Unfortunately Wayment’s conclusion is the result of a fundamental mistake. He has failed to reproduce my transcription accurately. He has omitted two letters, and one of these is crucial, since it undermines his argument. I do in fact transcribe the omicron on line 5 in the name that has probably been correctly reconstructed as Πειλάτου by both Coles and Wayment.6 Moreover, Wayment also fails to reproduce the alpha on line 13 of my transcription, although in this case he does not base any argument on that letter. I must record that there has been a cordial e-mail exchange with Prof. Wayment over this misrepresentation of my transcription, and in an equally cordial tone he has responded acknowledging his error, which nonetheless requires public correction. He states via e-mail, The omission of omicron in the first line and alpha in the final line from your published transcription are copying errors on my part as I prepared my article for publication. Both letters, however, are visible using the new images as can be confirmed in my published transcription. The new images also confirm your transcription of the smaller fragment, although the small fragment was not considered in detail in my published article.7
While I welcomed the forthright omission of error, apart from the misrepresentation of my transcription, it invalidates much of Wayment’s argument that I do not read any vestige of the name Pilate. Although the omicron is the only letter vis3
Paul Foster, “Are There Any Early Fragments of the So-Called Gospel of Peter,” NTS 52 (2006): 1–28. 4 Wayment, “Reexamination,” 375. 5 Ibid., 378. 6 R. A. Coles, “2949: Fragments of an Apocryphal Gospel(?),” in The Oxyrhynchus Papyri XLI (ed. G. M. Browne; London: Egypt Exploration Society, 1972), 15–16. 7 E-mail message, received from Prof. Wayment Monday, November 30, 2009.
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ible on line 5, given the occurrence of the name Pilate on line 7, I believe that it is likely that the same name is also read on line 5. Wayment also makes reference to the smaller fragment as being, “called into question in Foster’s minimalistic reconstruction.”8 However, in his e-mail response he comments that, “[t]he new images also confirm your transcription of the smaller fragment.”9 This surely would have been worth noting in his printed article.
II. Acknowledgment of the Ad Hominen Nature of Lührmann’s Attack The second troubling factual error in Wayment’s article is the transmission of the accusation made by Dieter Lührmann that I had not consulted the actual manuscript of P.Oxy. 2949.10 Lührmann bases his claim on a misreading of a note in my original article where I thanked Nick Gonis, the then curator of the Oxyrhynchus collection, and also acknowledged that my transcription was “based upon direct analysis of the papyrus fragments held in the Oxyrhynchus Papyrology Collection of the Bodleian Library in Oxford.”11 Lührmann then stated that I cannot have seen the fragments since they are housed in the Sackler Library and not in the Bodleian.12 As I made clear in my response to Lührmann, I do not claim to have viewed the fragments in the Bodleian. Rather, I used wording suggested to me by one of the librarians in order to acknowledge the umbrella organization of the Oxford University Library Services.13 In fact, I lived in Oxford for four years and was able to consult both P.Oxy. 2949 and P.Oxy. 4009 in the Papyrology Room in the Sackler on a number of occasions. It is regrettable that Wayment appears to add weight to this baseless accusation made by Lührmann when he writes, “Dieter Lührmann has questioned whether Foster worked with the fragment of P.Oxy. 2949 itself; the validity of his reconstruction must face close attention.”14 If Wayment had consulted my response to Lührmann (of which he seems to be unaware) he may not have transmitted Lührmann’s incorrect comment.15 Moreover, in his initial e-mail correspondence Wayment stated that his intention had in fact been the opposite of that of the 8
Wayment, “Reexamination,” 375. E-mail message (see n. 7 above). 10 Lührmann, “Kann es wirklich keine frühe Handschrift des Petrusevangeliums geben? Corrigenda zu einem Aufsatz von Paul Foster,” NovT 48 (2006): 379–83. 11 Foster, “Are There Any Early Fragments,” 62 n. 17. 12 Lührmann, “Kann es wirklich keine frühe Handschrift des Petrusevangeliums geben?” 381. 13 Paul Foster, “The Disputed Early Fragments of the So-Called Gospel of Peter—Once Again,” NovT 49 (2007): 404–5. 14 Wayment, “Reexamination,” 376. 15 Foster, “Disputed Early Fragments,” 402–6. 9
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implied support which his written sentence appears to convey. In a follow-up statement that he has allowed me to reproduce here, he cites one of his footnotes that provided less categorical support for Lührmann’s assertion. As to the matter of Luhrmann’s criticism of your work on P.Oxy. 2949, I stand behind my position stated in footnote 6 that Luhrmann did not respond to the salient points of your article, but rather his response has the character of an ad hominem attack.16
While it is gratifying that Wayment acknowledges that Lührmann’s attack was unfounded, it is unfortunate that his choice of words in the body of the article seems to imply the opposite. Finally, I would like to acknowledge the importance of applying advanced multispectral imaging techniques to the analysis of damaged papyri. I am grateful to Wayment for his work in this area and look forward to the actual images being made available so that the evidence that informs his stated results can be assessed by all interested scholars. 16
E-mail message (see n. 7 above).
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How Accurate Are Eyewitnesses? Bauckham and the Eyewitnesses in the Light of Psychological Research judith c. s. redman
[email protected] University of New England, Armidale, NSW 2350, Australia
In his controversial 2006 publication Jesus and the Eyewitnesses, Richard Bauckham outlines his theory that accounts of Jesus’ life and ministry that appear in the NT are eyewitness testimonies or very close to eyewitness testimonies.1 In saying this, he opposes the generally accepted view of form critics that the Gospels are records of collective communal traditions that were in circulation in the early church for quite some time before they were written down, and that in the process of transmission and recording they were redacted to serve the theological purposes of the different communities from which they arose.2 Based on this more generally accepted understanding, scholars who have looked at what we can know about the historical Jesus from the Gospels have generally decided that the answer is “not much.”3 I would like to acknowledge the advice provided by several people who read earlier drafts of this article: my two doctoral advisors, Prof. Majella Franzmann, University of Otago, New Zealand, and Prof. Lynda Garland, University of New England, Australia; my mentor and friend Prof. April DeConick, Rice University, U.S.A.; Prof. Paul Trebilco (Theology) and Prof. Geoffrey White (Psychology), both of University of Otago; and especially Dr. Bruce Stevenson (Psychology), University of New England, who facilitated my entry into the psychological literature and provided valuable early feedback on the psychological aspects of this paper. 1 Bauckham, Jesus and the Eyewitnesses: The Gospels as Eyewitness Testimony (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006), 197–214. 2 Ibid., 6, 241–46. 3 Bauckham credits Karl Ludwig Schmidt, Martin Dibelius, and Rudolf Bultmann with pioneering form criticism (Jesus and the Eyewitnesses, 242) and especially has problems with Bultmann. See also Bauckham, “In Response to My Respondents: Jesus and the Eyewitnesses in Review,” Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus 6 (2008): 225–53, here 244.
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Bauckham suggests that this is not so. Basing his premise on Samuel Byrskog’s work on the historical methods of ancient historians such as Herodotus, Thucydides, and Tacitus, he asserts that historians of the time used eyewitness testimony as the preferred source of information for their histories and that the Gospel writers would have looked for eyewitnesses to the events that they recorded rather than simply recording community traditions.4 He says that the eyewitnesses “remained the living and active guarantors of the traditions” in whose name they were transmitted, and that “[t]estimony offers us . . . a theological model for understanding the Gospels as the entirely appropriate means of access to the historical reality of Jesus.”5 He also argues that research into oral transmission shows that custodians of oral tradition are able to transmit large blocks of material very accurately over time.6 Thus, Bauckham suggests that we can be (significantly) more confident than form critics suggest about the historicity of the Gospel accounts. I will not attempt here to evaluate the technical aspects of Bauckham’s argument about which parts of the Gospel are likely to be eyewitness accounts or close to eyewitness accounts and who the eyewitnesses might be. These aspects have recently been evaluated effectively by a number of scholars in the Journal for the Study of the Historical Jesus (JSHJ) and the Journal for the Study of the New Testament (JSNT).7 Rather, I pose this question: What consequences does accepting (parts of) the Gospels as eyewitness accounts have for biblical studies? In doing so, I ask: • What light does psychological research shed on the extent to which information obtained from eyewitness accounts could be considered to be accurate information about the historical Jesus?8 • What consequences does this have for the way biblical scholarship might treat eyewitness accounts? 4 Bauckham, Jesus and the Eyewitnesses, 24, citing Samuel Byrskog, Story as History – History as Story: The Gospel Tradition in the Context of Ancient Oral History (WUNT 123; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 48–65. 5 Bauckham, Jesus and the Eyewitnesses, 290, 5. 6 Ibid., 246–63. 7 See the following articles in JSHJ 6 (2008): James D. G. Dunn, “Eyewitnesses and the Oral Jesus Tradition,” 85–105; Samuel Byrskog, “The Eyewitnesses as Interpreters of the Past: Reflections on Richard Bauckham’s Jesus and the Eyewitnesses,” 157–68; David R. Catchpole, “On Proving Too Much: Critical Hesitations about Richard Bauckham’s Jesus and the Eyewitnesses,” 169–81; I. Howard Marshall, “A New Consensus on Oral Tradition? A Review of Richard Bauckham’s Jesus and the Eyewitnesses,” 182–93; Stephen J. Patterson, “Can You Trust a Gospel? A Review of Richard Bauckham’s Jesus and the Eyewitnesses,” 194–210; Theodore J. Weeden Sr, “Polemics as a Case for Dissent: A Response to Richard Bauckham’s Jesus and the Eyewitnesses,” 211–24. See also the following articles in JSNT 31 (2008): Jens Schröter, “The Gospels as Eyewitness Testimony? A Critical Examination of Richard Bauckham’s Jesus and the Eyewitnesses,” 195–209; Craig A. Evans, “The Implications of Eyewitness Tradition,” 211–19. 8 I use the term “accurate,” in the sense of “true” or “correct,” rather than the term “reliable,” which Bauckham uses, because the latter has a technical use in psychology that is not, I believe,
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In the course of answering these questions, there is a need to move somewhat beyond what psychologists define as eyewitness testimony to include an examination of research into retelling stories. Psychology would not consider this to be eyewitness testimony, because the events being recounted in the story are not part of the lived experience of the person telling the stories. In the context of Jesus’ teaching, however, the content of the story is as important as is the fact that he told it, so a faithful eyewitness testimony needs to include the content of the stories, even if they are fiction rather than fact. Thus, any consideration of eyewitness testimony to Jesus’ ministry also needs to include what might be termed “earwitness” testimony—how people reported Jesus’ words.
I. Eyewitness Testimony in Psychological Research Most people perceive eyewitness testimony to be accurate, presumably because the eyewitness was present when an event occurred and therefore must know what happened. There are, however, a number of court cases where someone has been wrongly convicted on the testimony of an eyewitness despite the availability of conflicting evidence from other sources.9 In research published in 1904, William Stern demonstrated that eyewitness testimony is not necessarily accurate.10 Since then, many researchers have contributed to our understanding of the strengths and weaknesses of eyewitness testimony in providing us with an accurate account of what really happened at a particular event. This information is of potential use in the study of those parts of early Christian documents that are presented as eyewitness testimony, and therefore history, in the canonical and noncanonical Gospels, the Acts of the Apostles, and some parts of the epistles. In using this information, however, one must recognize that research conducted in twentieth- and twenty-firstcentury Western contexts is not necessarily directly transferable to first-century Palestine, because the different cultural contexts and levels of literacy will have significant effects on memory processes. Bearing this in mind, let us look at the relevant research findings. what Bauckham intends. In psychology, reliable results are simply results that can be reproduced. If the design of an experiment is poor, the results might be highly reliable but incorrect. 9 See, e.g., Daniel L. Schacter, The Seven Sins of Memory: How the Mind Forgets and Remembers (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 2001), 91–93; Elizabeth F. Loftus, Eyewitness Testimony (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1979), 1–19; Gary L. Wells, Amina Memon, and Steven D. Penrod, “Eyewitness Evidence: Improving Its Probative Value,” Psychological Science in the Public Interest 7 (2006): 45–75; Gary L. Wells and Elizabeth A. Olson, “Eyewitness Testimony,” Annual Review of Psychology 54 (2003): 277–78. 10 William Stern, “Realistic Experiments,” in Memory Observed: Remembering in Natural Contexts (ed. Ulric Neisser; San Francisco: W. H. Freeman, 1982), 95–108, originally published as “Wirklichkeitsversuche,” Beiträge zur Psychologie der Aussage 2 (1904): 1–31.
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Most psychologists consider that eyewitness memory is autobiographical memory. It is concerned with specific life events experienced by the person who remembers them.11 Because information represented in it is about specific events, objects, places, and people, it is context-bound. It is normally organized either chronologically (by time of occurrence) or spatially (by place of occurrence). Its source is perception of personal experiences and life events, and its focus is on subjective reality (the self).12 Autobiographical memory has three major components: verbal narrative, imagery, and emotions. Autobiographical memories are often recalled as stories told to others. The images associated with them lead to the specific, concrete details that make them seem more accurate and believable, while the emotions associated with them can have profound effects on how effectively people can retrieve autobiographical memories.13 Remembering involves a three-stage process of acquisition (encoding), retention (storage), and retrieval.14 Changes in content can be introduced at all of these stages, and there are significant numbers of different factors that can cause these changes. I will consider only those factors likely to be relevant to the production of accounts of Jesus’ life and ministry.
Factors Affecting Memory Acquisition In order for an event to be accurately recalled, it must first be accurately perceived so that accurate information about it can be encoded for storage in memory. Much of how we perceive (and also retain and retrieve) events can be explained in terms of schema theory, first developed by Frederic C. Bartlett in his work on remembering stories.15 A schema is a mental representation that incorporates all knowledge of a particular type of object or event gained from past experience.16 Schemas are used to interpret new episodes, enabling us to anticipate how to react in particular circumstances.
11 William F. Brewer proposed using “recollective memory” for this kind of autobiographical memory (“What Is Recollective Memory?” in Remembering Our Past: Studies in Autobiographical Memory [ed. David C. Rubin; Cambridge/New York: Cambridge University Press, 1999], 19–66). While there has been some uptake in the literature, I will use the more widely used “autobiographical memory.” 12 Gillian Cohen, “Everyday Memory,” in Gillian Cohen, George Kiss, and Martin E. Le Voi, Memory: Current Issues (Open Guides to Psychology; Buckingham [England]; Philadelphia: Open University Press, 1993), 50–51. 13 David C. Rubin. “Introduction,” in idem, Remembering Our Past, 2–3. 14 See, e.g., Loftus, Eyewitness Testimony, xii. 15 Bartlett, Remembering: A Study in Experimental and Social Psychology (Cambridge Psychological Library; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1932), 199–204. 16 Cohen, “Everyday Memory,” 27.
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For example, our schema for “winter” is determined by the winters we have previously experienced and perhaps also by what we have read and heard about winters. Even if we have never seen snow, a snow scene would fit into most Westerners’ schemas for winter and thus for Christmas. Hence, many people visualize the shepherds who visited the stable where Jesus was born as coming in from snowcovered fields. In fact, no shepherd willingly takes animals out into the snow, let alone keeps them there overnight, so this scenario is not logical in the context of the event. Some important behaviors predictable from schema theory are the following: • A piece that matches a schema will be recalled with fewer omissions and changes in order and content than one that does not. • Changes in recall of a particular detail will make it more like the schema, both in order and content. Thus, if a detail cannot be recalled, or does not fit the schema, it will often be replaced with a common substitute from the schema. • Schemas allow listeners to draw inferences about omitted portions of a piece that they already know. • The aspects of a piece that are better recalled and responded to more quickly are those that are more central or more important to the schema.17 To illustrate: someone who is asked to recount what s/he did before 9:00 a.m. on the day on which s/he is being questioned is likely to be able to produce an accurate and fairly detailed account. If asked to tell what they did before 9:00 a.m. four Wednesdays ago, most people would be far less sure, but could use their Wednesday morning schema to provide a believable account of an “ordinary” Wednesday. If the account includes having a shower, the hearer will use her/his shower schema to know that this involves standing unclothed under running water and if the teller says that s/he drove to work in a Kia or a Prius or a Lamborghini, most hearers will have a vehicle schema that indicates that these are car equivalents, but will not necessarily recall the make of car later. Memories are acquired by individual eyewitnesses and a number of variables affect witnesses’ ability to perceive accurately. The ones that are relevant to this paper are the following: 1. Expectations. What witnesses expect to see or hear can affect the way they perceive an event.18 Expectations can be shaped by culture, stereotypes, past expe17
David C. Rubin, Memory in Oral Traditions: The Cognitive Psychology of Epic, Ballads, and Counting-Out Rhymes (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), 22. 18 Jerome S. Bruner and Leo Joseph Postman, “On the Perception of Incongruity: A Pardigm,” Journal of Personality 18 (1949): 206–23.
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rience, or personal prejudice.19 Seeing things that run counter to our expectations makes them surprising and thus memorable. Hence, we can consider that Gospel accounts of actions that run counter to cultural stereotypes or to what we would predict to be personal experiences of the people of Jesus’ day are more likely to be remembered than supplied from schemas. Negative portrayals of the Romans or positive portrayals of the disciples could as easily have come from schemas as from actual events, while countercultural pictures of social outcasts in Jewish society such as the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:30–37) and the stories of the woman at the well (John 4:39–45) and Zacchaeus (Luke 19:1–10) are more likely to have come from actual memories of events than from schemas. This does not, however, guarantee the veracity of the surprising material and cannot be extrapolated to indicate that the more surprising an event, the more likely it is to be a historic event.20 It simply suggests that it has not been unconsciously inserted into the story to replace details of the actual event that the storyteller cannot remember. 2. Type of fact. People tend to find it more difficult to remember things that they need to estimate such as height, weight, distance, numbers of people in large groups, and duration of activities or events.21 This may explain the variations among Gospels in the size of the crowd that was miraculously fed by Jesus with bread and fish (Matt 14:13–21; Mark 6:30–44; Luke 9:10–17; John 6:1–14). In contrast, the time at which an event occurred is often accurately remembered, because people use temporal cyclic schemas to place an event in time, for example, time of day, day of the week, season of the year. Thus, events that occurred during Jewish worship would normally be remembered as happening on the Sabbath. They can, however, be displaced in time, so that the person who remembers a winter event may remember it happening a year or two before or after it actually occurred.22 This phenomenon may help to explain the discrepancy between the Synoptics and John about the timing of the cleansing of the temple. The Synoptics place it at the end of Jesus’ ministry (Matt 21:12–17; Mark 11:15–19; Luke 19:45–48), while John has it at the beginning (John 2:13–22). All four, however, situate it in time shortly before Passover. 3. Event significance and detail salience or prominence. In order to remember something, a person needs to attend to it, and, since it is impossible for an indi19 Ibid.; Gordon W. Allport and Leo Joseph Postman, The Psychology of Rumor (New York: Henry Holt, 1947), 97, also 102; Loftus, Eyewitness Testimony, 37–39, 40–42, citing Albert H. Hastorf and Hadley Cantril, “They Saw a Game: A Case Study,” Journal of Abnormal and Social Psychology/Journal of Abnormal Psychology 49 (1954): 129–34. See also Schacter, Sins, 153–57. 20 Catchpole (“Proving,” 175) argues against this last. 21 Loftus, Eyewitness Testimony, 27–31. 22 Steen F. Larsen, Charles P. Thompson, and Tia Hansen, “Time in Autobiographical Memory,” in Rubin, Remembering Our Past, 129–56.
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vidual to attend to all the stimuli in his or her environment at any given time, s/he selects those things to which s/he will attend, often unconsciously. Normally these are stimuli that are noticeable, sudden, surprising, or interesting; those that are potentially important; and those that are continuous with what has already happened.23 An event that a witness considers insignificant is often inaccurately and incompletely remembered compared to one to which a witness attaches significance. Witnesses who perceive events to be insignificant are not motivated to bring the selective process of paying attention fully to bear on those events.24 The resultant poor encoding reduces the likelihood that the events will later be able to be retrieved. This also applies to which details of an event are remembered—the prominent or salient details will be remembered, while others will not.25 4. The personality and interests of the witness. Both of these factors affect how significant and salient particular events and the details of those events are to a particular eyewitness. All people are better at remembering some things than others, but the strengths and weaknesses vary from person to person.26 Ulric Neisser suggests that this results from both individual differences and individual experience.27 The personalities and interests of eyewitnesses will determine what each finds interesting, surprising, potentially important, and therefore more memorable, as Bauckham recognizes in his response to I. Howard Marshall.28 Bartlett comments that material that is associated with a witness’s interest is “sure to reappear” in the retelling of events. Material pleasing to the witness is likely to be elaborated on while displeasing material is likely to be distorted.29 Gordon W. Allport and Leo Joseph Postman’s work demonstrates that a group of army personnel remembered the 23 Ralph Norman Haber and Lyn Haber, “Experiencing, Remembering and Reporting Events,” Psychology, Public Policy, and Law 6 (2000): 1057–97, esp. 1060–62; Loftus, Eyewitness Testimony, 25–27. 24 Robert Buckhout, “Eyewitness Testimony,” in Neisser, Memory Observed, 116–25, here 117; originally published in Scientific American 231 (1974): 23–31. Raymond S. Nickerson and Marilyn Jager Adams demonstrate how poorly U.S. citizens recall the detail of the appearance of a U.S. penny, despite its familiarity (“Long-Term Memory for a Common Object,” Cognitive Psychology 11 [1979]: 287–307, reprinted in Neisser, Memory Observed, 163–75). See also Maria Meo, Maxwell J. Roberts, and Francesco S. Marucci, “Element Salience as a Predictor of Item Difficulty for Raven’s Progressive Matrices,” Intelligence 35 (2007): 359–68. 25 Schacter (Sins, 12–60) outlines the various mechanisms by which people forget details. Transience is caused by a combination of interference by other memories and deterioration of the neural pathways originally formed by the memories. Absentmindedness is caused by poor initial encoding. 26 Cohen, “Everyday Memory,” 21. 27 Neisser, “Memory: What Are the Important Questions?” in idem, Memory Observed, 3– 19, esp. 16. 28 See Bauckham, “In Response,” 241. 29 Bartlett, Remembering, 90, also 62.
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names of towns and their distances from a signpost in a picture far better than persons whose professional lives did not require this kind of information.30 Thus, the personality and interests of eyewitnesses are a source of unconscious bias. Events that are very surprising and have a high level of importance or emotional arousal give rise to flashbulb memories—memories that are especially vivid and appear to be frozen in time, as though in a photograph.31 People may have flashbulb memories of where they were and what they were doing when they heard about public events like 9/11 or the first moon landing, as well as similarly significant but more private events like the birth of a baby or the tragic death of a loved one.32 Eyewitnesses to Jesus’ miracles and to his postresurrection appearances would be expected to have formed flashbulb memories of these events. Flashbulb memories are often considered to be exceptionally accurate, yet research indicates that, like other memories, they deteriorate over time and are not always as accurate as the person remembering thinks they are.33 Indeed, recent evidence suggests that flashbulb memories actually develop over the first week after the event, taking into consideration what is learned from discussion with others.34 5. Observational point of view and perceptual adequacy, or how well the observer can see and hear what is happening. Many scholars explain the differences between two different Gospel accounts of what appears to be the same event as the result of redaction. In some cases, an alternative explanation would be that 30
Allport and Postman, Rumor, 84–86. Their research involved a person who was looking at a picture describing it to someone who could not see it, who then described it to another person who could not see it and so on down a “rumor chain” of six or seven people. See also Haber and Haber, “Experiencing,” 1062–63. 31 The classic paper on this is Roger Brown and James Kulik, “Flashbulb Memories,” Cognition 5 (1977): 73–99, with the prototype memory being hearing of the assassination of John F Kennedy. 32 Harper A. Roehm, Jr., and Michelle L. Roehm, “Can Brand Encounters Inspire Flashbulb Memories?” Psychology and Marketing 24 (2007): 25–40. 33 Annette Bohn and Dorthe Berntsen, “Pleasantness Bias in Flashbulb Memories: Positive and Negative Flashbulb Memories of the Fall of the Berlin Wall among East and West Germans,” Memory & Cognition 35 (2007): 565–77; Daniel Greenberg, “Flashbulb Memories: How Psychological Research Shows That Our Most Powerful Memories May Be Untrustworthy (False Memories),” Skeptic 11 (2005): 74–91; Martin A. Conway et al., “The Formation of Flashbulb Memories,” Memory & Cognition 22 (1994): 326; Neisser, “Snapshots or Benchmarks?” in idem, Memory Observed, 43–48; David C. Rubin and Marc Kozin, “Vivid Memories,” Cognition 16 (1984): 81–95; Jennifer M. Talarico and David C. Rubin, “Confidence, Not Consistency, Characterizes Flashbulb Memories,” Psychological Science 14 (2003): 455–62; Brewer, “Recollective Memory,” 37. However, Charles P. Thompson and Thaddeus Cowan (“Flashbulb Memories: A Nicer Interpretation of a Neisser Recollection,” Cognition 22 [1986]: 199–200) and Greenberg (“Flashbulb Memories”) provide evidence for the enduring accuracy of flashbulb memories. 34 Charles A. Weaver III and Kevin S. Krug, “Consolidation-like Effects in Flashbulb Memories: Evidence from September 11, 2001,” American Journal of Psychology 117 (2004): 517–30.
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the people who were the sources of the two accounts were standing at different places with respect to the action and so saw and heard different things.35
Deterioration and Change during Storage and Retrieval Losses of, and changes in, memory come about in part through what happens during the passage of time. As time passes, details and even whole events may disappear from the memories of eyewitnesses. In addition, the way a witness thinks about an event over time can affect the way s/he recalls it. A witness’s thoughts tend to bend in a direction that would be advantageous to her/his purposes.36 Bauckham mentions an example—Rossini’s memory of his attempt as a young man to see Beethoven. Rossini’s early account was of a very frustrating occasion on which he had difficulty gaining entrance to Beethoven’s house and could not communicate because of the language barrier. In later life, he told a story of a wonderful encounter in which the great maestro praised and encouraged him.37 In contrast to what happens in the acquisition stage, a significant amount of what affects memories during storage and retrieval is a function of the individual as part of a community. Eyewitnesses can be provided with information after the event (postevent information) from a variety of sources. This may reinforce their memories, but it may also alter them and even cause things that did not take place to become incorporated into a memory. Talking to other people who also witnessed the event may change how each individual recalls it, and people are not very accurate in their ability to remember whether it is something they experienced or something they were told about.38 There is also evidence that many people do not remember previously held attitudes or beliefs when they come to a new position.39 All these factors make postevent information a common source of alteration of eyewitness testimony, especially given the likelihood that the oral tradition about Jesus originated as groups of people touched by his ministry talked to each other about it.40 35
Haber and Haber, “Experiencing,” 159–60. Loftus, Eyewitness Testimony, 78–80. 37 Bauckham, Jesus and the Eyewitnesses, 320. 38 See, e.g., Loftus, Eyewitness Testimony, 54–79; Schacter, Sins, 88–111; Haber and Haber, “Experiencing,” 1068–70; Helen M. Paterson and Richard I. Kemp, “Comparing Methods of Encountering Post-Event Information: The Power of Co-Witness Suggestion,” Applied Cognitive Psychology 20 (2006): 1083–99. 39 Marcia K. Johnson, Shahin Hashtroudi, and D. Stephen Lindsay, “Source Monitoring,” Psychological Bulletin 114 (1993): 3–28; George R. Goethals and Richard F. Reckman, “Recalling Previously Held Attitudes,” Journal of Experimental Social Psychology 9 (1973): 491–501. 40 James D. G. Dunn, “Social Memory and the Oral Jesus Tradition,” in Memory in the Bible and Antiquity: The Fifth Durham-Tübingen Research Symposium (Durham, September 2004) (ed. Stephen C. Barton, Loren T. Stuckenbruck, and Benjamin G. Wold; WUNT 212; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 179–94, 189–91. 36
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In addition, most people, most of the time, are not concerned about preserving an accurate record of what happened in their past. Memories help people to make sense of the world and of themselves, and the stories they tell tend to focus on what happened to them and what that event meant to them.41 In fact, one purpose of reconstructing autobiographical information, as is done in eyewitness testimony, may be to construct and reconstruct the story we wish to be known because it justifies our being, our culture, our way of life.42 This is done at a subconscious rather than a conscious level—eyewitnesses do not consciously develop an account that fits how they wish to be known. Factors that influence memory after the event include the following: 1. Memory enhancement. If someone mentions some facet of an event to another witness, that facet is more likely to be remembered subsequently.43 For example if, immediately after an event, one eyewitness comments to another about the color of a participant’s clothing, the color of the clothing is more likely to be remembered by the eyewitness who had not consciously noticed it. 2. Collective memory processes. As one would expect, a group of people working together will be able to retrieve more details of a particular event than any one member of the group working alone. If, however, the individual memories of each person are pooled, the sum of items and details remembered is higher than the sum of the items and details remembered by a collaborative group. Group memory appears to be more stable over time than individual memory, though, and there are differences in the way in which material is organized within the group.44 This is probably because the items remembered by individuals are incorporated into the memories of the group members.45 Sometimes, however, things that did not happen may be incorporated because one person in a group made a mistake.46 If one eyewitness talks about the event in a confident way, this confidence can influence other witnesses to agree with her/him even if his/her perception is incorrect.47 41
Haber and Haber, “Experiencing,” 1066. Craig R. Barclay, “Autobiographical Remembering: Narrative Constraints on Objectified Selves,” in Rubin, Remembering Our Past, 94–125. 43 Loftus, Eyewitness Testimony, 55–56; Paterson and Kemp, “Comparing Methods,” 1083–99. 44 Mary Susan Weldon and Krystal D. Bellinger, “Collective Memory: Collaborative and Individual Processes in Remembering,” Journal of Experimental Psychology: Learning, Memory, and Cognition 23 (1997): 1160–75; Mary Susan Weldon, “Remembering as a Social Process,” in The Psychology of Learning and Motivation: Advances in Research and Theory (ed. Douglas L. Medin; San Diego/London: Academic Press, 2000), 67–120. 45 Haber and Haber, “Experiencing,” 1085. 46 Loftus, Eyewitness Testimony, 56–58; Paterson and Kemp, “Comparing Methods,” 1083– 99; Buckhout, “Eyewitness Testimony,” 122; Henry L. Roediger, Michelle L. Meade, and Erik T. Bergman, “Social Contagion of Memory,” Psychonomic Bulletin and Review 8 (2001): 365–71. 47 Loftus, Eyewitness Testimony, 72–74; Daniel B. Wright, Gail Self, and Chris Justice, “Memory Conformity: Exploring Misinformation Effects When Presented by Another Person,” British Journal of Psychology 91 (2000): 189–202. 42
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3. Avoidance of cognitive dissonance. Most people will go to considerable lengths to avoid cognitive dissonance—the discomfort that comes from having conflicting thoughts and feelings.48 Because of the factors listed above, the memories of several eyewitnesses to the same event will almost invariably differ. One option in this circumstance is to develop a compromise memory, which includes everything that anyone remembers.49 If some remembered details conflict with others sufficiently to make compromise difficult, each witness will make a decision about whether to accept the earlier or later information, although their decision will not always be correct. Whether witnesses develop compromise memories or make a choice is affected by culture. When faced with a conflict between two opposing perspectives, individuals from independent cultures (such as most Western cultures) are more ready to choose a “correct” option from those available. Individuals from interdependent cultures tend to try harder to find a way in which all pieces of information can be combined.50 Thus, when faced with information that caused cognitive dissonance, eyewitnesses to Jesus’ life and ministry could be expected to use a strategy that developed compromise memories rather than making choices. 4. Timing of postevent information. The time when a witness is provided with postevent information makes a significant difference to whether it is retained. Misleading information that is given immediately after an event has less effect on memory than misleading information that is given later.51 5. Guessing. In a situation where a witness feels pressured to produce a definitive answer, s/he may guess and then, over time the guess may be remembered more confidently as the witness remembers previous interpretations of the event rather than the event itself. This is likely to happen if the witness has not effectively encoded how certain s/he was about the answer first given.52 6. Freezing effects. One problematic aspect of the effect of intervening thoughts is that errors can become “frozen” in the memory.53 Participants asked to 48
Schacter, Sins 143–44. Loftus, Eyewitness Testimony, 58–63; Schacter, Sins, 112–17. Factors including the authority and confidence of the people making various assertions will affect what choice is made. 50 Jennifer L. Aaker and Jaideep Sengupta, “Additivity versus Attenuation: The Role of Culture in the Resolution of Information Incongruity,” Journal of Consumer Psychology 9 (2000): 67– 82; Jennifer L. Aaker, “Accessibility or Diagnosticity? Disentangling the Influence of Culture on Persuasion Processes and Attitudes,” Journal of Consumer Research 26 (2000): 340; Sheena S. Iyengar and Mark R. Lepper, “Rethinking the Value of Choice: A Cultural Perspective on Intrinsic Motivation,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 76 (1999): 349–66; Michael W. Morris and Kaiping Peng, “Culture and Cause: American and Chinese Attributions for Social and Physical Events,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 67 (1994): 949–71. 51 Loftus, Eyewitness Testimony, 64–68. 52 Ibid., 82–84; Reid Hastie, Robert Landsman, and Elizabeth F. Loftus, “Eyewitness Testimony: The Dangers of Guessing,” Jurimetrics Journal 19 (1978): 1–8. 53 Loftus, Eyewitness Testimony, 86. 49
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read and reproduce a short account, were able to reproduce 70 percent of the content accurately, but only about 30 percent of the actual words. When asked to continue reproductions at weekly intervals, a number of participants continued to reproduce their original mistakes. A stable form of the story, complete with inaccuracies, was rapidly established and not much influenced by repeated rereading of the original version. The differences between participants were sufficiently large and consistent to allow a number of external “judges” to identify correctly which series of reproductions belonged to each participant.54 When accounts are transmitted orally, there is no option of revisiting the original, so it would be even more difficult to correct errors. 7. Type of retrieval and question wording. More errors in recall occur when people are asked specific questions than when they are allowed to retell a story in their own words, especially if the questions are worded so that they anticipate a particular answer.55 Thus, “tell me about your trip” will elicit certain information, largely accurate. Questions that ask when, where, or how something happened may elicit answers that provide more detail, but the detail is not necessarily accurate.56 A more credible or authoritative questioner will also evoke more detailed but potentially less accurate information.57 Elizabeth Loftus suggests that the tendency to volunteer more information that they are sure is correct is motivated by witnesses’ desire to be helpful, not to deceive.58 It is difficult to know under what circumstances eyewitnesses to Jesus’ ministry recalled their stories, but since avoiding leading questions in the gathering of evidence requires specific training, it would be surprising if their audiences did not ask questions that resulted in “contaminated evidence.”59 54
Harry Kay, “Learning and Retaining Verbal Material,” British Journal of Psychology 46 (1955): 81–100; John S. Shaw III, Sena Garven, and James M. Wood suggest that this freezing of testimony may be caused by social demands to be consistent (“Co-Witness Information Can Have Immediate Effects on Eyewitness Memory Reports,” Law and Human Behavior 21 [1997]: 503–23). 55 Helen Mary Cady, “On the Psychology of Testimony,” American Journal of Psychology 35 (1924): 110–12; Jack P. Lipton, “On the Psychology of Eyewitness Testimony,” Journal of Applied Psychology 62 (1977): 90–95; Julian A. E. Gilbert and Ronald P. Fisher, “The Effects of Varied Retrieval Cues on Reminiscence in Eyewitness Memory,” Applied Cognitive Psychology 20 (2006): 723–39. 56 Loftus, Eyewitness Testimony, 94–97; Schacter, Sins, 112–37; Gilbert and Fisher, “Retrieval Cues,” 723–39; Rachel Sutherland and Harlene Hayne, “The Effect of Postevent Information on Adults’ Eyewitness Reports,” Applied Cognitive Psychology 15 (2001): 249–63. 57 James Marshall, Law and Psychology in Conflict (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1965), 41– 63; Loftus, Eyewitness Testimony, 98; Gerald Echterhoff, William Hirst, and Walter Hussy, “How Eyewitnesses Resist Misinformation: Social Postwarnings and the Monitoring of Memory Characteristics,” Memory & Cognition 33 (2005): 770–82. 58 Loftus, Eyewitness Testimony, 109. 59 Wells, Memon, and Penrod (“Evidence,” 55–60) summarize the cognitive interview process that was developed to minimize bias introduced by questioning techniques.
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8. What one has previously recalled. If only some aspects of an incident are retold, the aspects that are not retold are much more likely to be forgotten, although when the remembering is done while the person concerned is in a negative mood, this effect seems to be far less severe.60 There is a difference between a laboratory situation where emphasis is on total and accurate recall, and conversational recall. In conversation, speakers may well wish to catch and maintain the interest of their audience or to justify their actions, and they will alter their accounts accordingly. Research indicates that “what people remember about events may be the story they last told about those events,”61 and what they last told may well be only those aspects that they thought their audience wanted to hear.
III. Psychological Research and Remembering Stories As indicated earlier, in order to assess all the Gospel materials, in addition to looking at eyewitness accounts of action events we need to look at how stories are remembered—the “earwitness” accounts. Bartlett tracks how a number of participants remembered folktales over a period of time.62 While these were exercises in written, rather than oral, retelling, Bartlett’s findings are potentially useful in that he found that: • Accurate verbatim reproduction was very unusual. This is likely to be true even in oral cultures where better recall of oral data might be expected. • The great majority of changes introduced into a story came into being very early in the chain of reproductions. • Frequent retelling resulted in the form of the story and items remembered rapidly becoming stereotyped and stable. • Infrequent retelling resulted in either: ° omission of details; simplification of events and structure; and/or transformation of items into more familiar ones or ° elaboration, with importation of details from other sources and/or invention used to fill out the details that could no longer be remembered. • Retelling after a long period resulted in accurate preservation of general setting and striking detail, but much of the less-striking detail was inferred from schemas. 60
Karl-Heinz Bäuml, “Semantic Generation Can Cause Episodic Forgetting,” Psychological Science 13 (2002): 356–60; Schacter, Sins, 31, 81–82; Karl-Heinz Bäuml and Christof Kuhbandner, “Remembering Can Cause Forgetting—but Not in Negative Moods,” Psychological Science 18 (2007): 111–15; Schacter, Sins, 163–65. 61 Elizabeth J. Marsh, “Retelling Is Not the Same as Recalling: Implications for Memory,” Current Directions in Psychological Science 16 (2007): 16–20. 62 Bartlett, Remembering, 118–76.
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• Details that fitted the interests and tendencies of the storyteller were remembered and tended to take a progressively earlier place in the narrative.63 Thus, the retelling of stories has much in common with the retelling of life events. It can therefore be seen that the community perception about eyewitness (and “earwitness”) testimony is incorrect. It does not provide us with a complete and accurate account of the events witnessed or stories heard. While eyewitness accounts provide useful information about what happened, many factors can influence both how accurate and how complete any account might be. What happens at the time of the event and afterwards can affect the accuracy and completeness of the account. Let us now return to Bauckham’s claims about the Gospels and examine how this information affects our understanding of the Gospels if we accept them to be or to contain eyewitness testimony.
IV. Eyewitness Testimony and the Gospels Bauckham contends that while the eyewitnesses were still alive they controlled the stories of Jesus’ life and teaching; and that the people who eventually wrote down the Gospels would have checked the accuracy of their accounts with the remaining eyewitnesses rather than simply relying on circulating accounts of his ministry. This, he argues, makes it possible for us to regard the Gospels as reliable sources of information about the historical Jesus.64 Regardless of how convincing his arguments are about the control that the eyewitnesses may have had over the Gospel accounts, as we can see from psychological research, eyewitness control is no guarantee of accuracy. It is probably not even reasonable to assume that the eyewitnesses aimed for complete historicity. In addition, Byrskog indicates that, although the ancient historians were aware that eyewitness testimony could be biased and that some were very concerned to find the factual truth, investigative procedure cannot be separated from interpretative procedures. Furthermore, interrogation of eyewitnesses was not necessarily neutral, which could skew the information obtained from them.65 Indeed, Bauckham’s failing to take into account sufficiently the interpretative role of the ancient historian is one of Byrskog’s criticisms of Bauckham’s work.66 This does not deny that some people have very good memories that are accurate over considerable periods of time, as Bauckham demonstrates in his account of the man who remembered very accurately details that he had read in a newspa63
Ibid., 93–94. Bauckham, Jesus and the Eyewitnesses, 5-11. 65 Byrskog, Story, 176–198. 66 Byrskog, “Interpreters,” 158–66. 64
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per seventy years earlier,67 but the psychological research suggests that this is quite unusual and cannot be relied on. In addition, the method of encoding information from newspaper articles is different from that of encoding memories of lived experiences. Newspaper reports can be reread, but events cannot be relived. Eyewitness accounts do not guarantee historicity, but Bauckham also points to research that demonstrates that in Jesus’ day, oral transmission was far more accurate than it is today. This will be examined in more detail in the next section.
V. Eyewitness Testimony and Oral Tradition Bauckham uses models of oral tradition, especially the work of Birger Gerhardsson, Kenneth Bailey, and James D. G. Dunn, to argue that oral transmission of tradition can be very accurate.68 This is not in dispute. Work done by Milman Parry and Albert Lord, as well as by Gerhardsson, Bailey, and Dunn, demonstrates that appropriately trained people in oral or verbomotor cultures are capable of remembering very large amounts of material accurately.69 (The term “verbomotor” refers to the ancient Hebrew, Aramaic, and surrounding cultures that knew some writing but remained basically oral and word-oriented in lifestyle.70) The accuracy, however, is with respect to content—transmission is very rarely verbatim, except sometimes in ritual settings.71 It should be noted that the work of Parry and Lord was done with oral poets who, as Parry demonstrates, needed to fit the storytelling into the standard meter
67 Bauckham, Jesus and the Eyewitnesses, 321–23, citing Alan D. Baddeley, Your Memory: A User’s Guide (London: Prion, 1982), 136–40. 68 Bauckham, Jesus and the Eyewitnesses, 246–63. 69 Milman Parry, The Making of Homeric Verse: The Collected Papers of Milman Parry (ed. Adam Parry; Oxford: Clarendon, 1971); Albert Bates Lord, The Singer of Tales (Harvard Studies in Comparative Literature 24; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1960); 13–29, 99–123; Birger Gerhardsson, Memory and Manuscript: Oral Tradition and Written Transmission in Rabbinic Judaism and Early Christianity; with, Tradition and Transmission in Early Christianity (trans. Eric J. Sharpe; Biblical Resource Series; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans; Livonia, MI: Dove Booksellers, 1998), 71–89; idem, “The Secret of the Transmission of the Unwritten Jesus Tradition,” NTS 51 (2005): 1-18; Kenneth E. Bailey, “Informal Controlled Oral Tradition and the Synoptic Gospels,” AJT 5 (1991): 34–54; idem, “Middle Eastern Oral Tradition and the Synoptic Gospels,” ExpTim 106 (1995): 363–67. 70 Walter J. Ong, Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word (New Accents; London/New York: Methuen, 1982), 68, citing Marcel Jouesse in Le Style oral rhythmique et mnémotechnique chez les Verbo-moteurs (Paris: Beauchesne, 1925). The term verbomoteur (verbomotor in English) was coined by Jouesse. 71 See Ong, Orality and Literacy, 57–68, for an overview of research in this area.
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required by the particular culture (in Homer’s case, hexameter).72 Since most people do not spontaneously speak in a standard meter, the need to adhere to one would mitigate against the ability to quote speakers verbatim. Thus, the original words of speakers almost certainly did not have the importance in these societies that is given to the original words of Jesus in some Christian circles today. There are, however, various features of poetry that make it easier for the hearer to repeat it verbatim. Work by Robert K. McIver and Marie Carroll indicates that extended prose transmission, which is not limited by the need to maintain a particular meter but does not have rhythm, rhyme, assonance, and other poetic devices to aid memory, has different levels of verbatim transmission.73 David C. Rubin analyzes epics, ballads, and counting out rhymes in detail and warns that, while Parry’s work provides insights into the workings of oral traditions, the process of transmission of Homeric epic can only be generalized to new genres if the constraints of the new genres are considered.74 Oral tradition comes in a multiplicity of forms, including poems, songs, legends, parables, jokes, genealogies, liturgical material, and incantations. These traditions contain a wide variety of informational content and perform a range of functions that may include both teaching and entertainment. Furthermore, different cultures and subcultures handle their traditions differently, as seems appropriate to the purpose of the members of the culture.75 Thus, it cannot be assumed that features of one particular type of oral transmission in one particular culture will hold true for all oral transmission in all cultures.76 Hence, the assumption that Bauckham makes about the accuracy of oral transmission needs to be nuanced in view of the kind of material that is found in the Gospels. In addition, Bauckham fails to take into consideration in his work that inaccuracies can, and almost inevitably will, arise in eyewitness testimony before it becomes valuable community tradition that is seen to be in need of preservation. If Scripture is to be believed, most of the people who witnessed Jesus’ teaching, especially those close to him, were not skilled oral tradents but ordinary members of first-century society with varying abilities to remember and retell their experiences. Although they were doubtless accustomed to using memory rather than written 72
Parry, Homeric Verse, 9–16. McIver and Carroll, “Experiments to Develop Criteria for Determining the Existence of Written Sources, and Their Potential Implications for the Synoptic Problem,” JBL 121 (2002): 667– 87; eidem, “Distinguishing Characteristics of Orally Transmitted Material When Compared to Material Transmitted by Literary Means,” Applied Cognitive Psychology 18 (2004): 1251–69. 74 Rubin, Oral Traditions, 194. 75 Travis M. Derico, “Upgrade and Reboot: A Re-appraisal of the Default Setting” (paper presented at the annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in 2004 in San Antonio, Texas), 22–25. 76 David E. Bynum, “Antiquitates vulgares, Folklore, Oral Theory, and What Matters” (2007), http://enargea.org/vulgares/vulgares.html (accessed November 9, 2008). 73
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notes to retain information, and thus their memories were likely to be more efficient than those of twenty-first-century literate people, they are unlikely to have had the training and experience required for the high levels of accuracy produced by the storytellers observed by Parry, Lord, and others. The existence of many of Jesus’ teachings in more than one form across the four Gospels indicates that if, as Bauckham, following Gerhardsson, suggests, Jesus trained his disciples to remember his teachings as the third-century rabbis taught the Torah (that is, to result in verbatim recollection of text), one of three things has happened: they were far less successful students than the trainee rabbis; the authors of the Gospels did not receive their material from one of these trained disciples; or it has been significantly changed by the author of the Gospel (redacted) to fit the theological purposes of the Gospel. Therefore, regardless of whether the rabbis of Jesus’ time were using the method described by Gerhardsson and named as anachronistic by his critics, if it was used by Jesus to train his disciples then Bauckham’s contention that eyewitness transmission guarantees accuracy is untenable. The changes described in psychological research occur within hours, days, or weeks of the event, so the importance of most “Jesus events” as community tradition would not have been established before many of the “eyewitness effects” outlined above occurred. It therefore seems highly likely that there would have been an initial period during which eyewitnesses to Jesus’ ministry were functioning much as eyewitnesses in any other setting function, with their testimonies, whether about Jesus’ actions or about his words, prone to the vagaries that are part of any eyewitness testimony. In other words, it seems likely that the answer to the question How much can we reliably know about the Jesus of history from the Gospels in the light of Bauckham’s work? is still “not much.” Even if, as Bauckham suggests, at least parts of the Gospels as accounts were controlled by eyewitnesses until very close to the time at which they were recorded, this does not give them a greater probability of accuracy than does the notion that they are the highly redacted documents that are argued by the form critics. It simply reduces the potential role of the redactors in producing variations. Something that psychological research on memory and eyewitness testimony does do, however, is to demonstrate that some of the differences between Gospel accounts that are cited by form critics as evidence of redaction (i.e., a conscious process) to fit the redactor’s theological perspectives could just as easily have been the result of normal processes of memory. Schema theory makes it clear that one of the factors that would affect these changes would be the theological perspectives of the storytellers, but the changes that come about as part of the normal processes of remembering are unconscious, not the deliberate decisions suggested by the form critics. What Bauckham’s work could do, therefore, is to provide a different perspective on the inconsistencies that occur between accounts of the same events in dif-
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ferent Gospels. Rather than automatically assuming that they are the result of a redactor wishing to achieve a particular theological purpose, we should ask whether they can be explained as variation due to the eyewitness effect.
VI. Bauckham and His Respondents As noted above, in the second half of 2008 a number of scholars published responses to Jesus and the Eyewitnesses. The first of these was Dunn in JSHJ in an article that looks at both Bauckham and Gerhardsson’s critiques of his own book Jesus Remembered.77 Since then, both JSHJ and JSNT have also published reviews of Jesus and the Eyewitnesses, together with Bauckham’s responses to the reviews. In general, the respondents have focused on the technical aspects of the book, and I do not propose to address these. I will, however, address a number of points raised by the respondents and by Bauckham, in response, that are significant for the subject matter of this article. Possibly the most significant is the interaction between Bauckham and Byrskog, since Bauckham bases his work so strongly on Byrskog’s Story as History – History as Story. Byrskog observes that his interest in writing was in eyewitnesses as interpreters, whereas Bauckham’s is in eyewitnesses as sources of history.78 Although Bauckham recognizes that interpretation is involved in the Gospels, he seems to minimize its significance. The psychological literature suggests that a better approach would be to accept that remembering always involves interpretation and to ask how much of the interpretation in the text is unconscious, a result of the “eyewitness effect” outlined above, and how much is intentional (redaction). Byrskog makes the valid suggestion that Bauckham’s adoption of Jan Vansina’s distinction between oral tradition (developed by a collective) and oral history (coming from an individual eyewitness) is not helpful. Collective tradition involves significant input from individuals, and, as soon as an observation becomes a testimony, interpretative forces begin to work.79 Anthony Le Donne puts this more forcefully when he says, “memory is distortion. This is so regardless of any claims to veracity,” because it is not possible to view an object from every perspective or to recall an event without emphasizing some details.80 Mary Susan Weldon and Krystal D. Bellinger point out that all remembering happens in a social context and that societies teach their members to use their memories in particular ways.81 77
Dunn, “Eyewitnesses,” 96–105. Byrskog, “Interpreters,” 158. 79 Ibid., 159. 80 Le Donne, “Theological Memory Distortion in the Jesus Tradition: A Study in Social Memory Theory,” in Barton et al., Memory in the Bible and Antiquity, 163–77, esp. 168. 81 Weldon, “Remembering,” 67–120; Weldon and Bellinger, “Collective Memory,” 1160–75. Weldon contends that all remembering happens in a social context. 78
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Byrskog further suggests that Bauckham does not pay enough attention to rhetoric, which Byrskog sees as very important in the formation of the Synoptic Gospels. He outlines what he sees as evidence of the use of formal rhetorical method in the development of Mark’s Gospel and notes that most scholars of oral tradition largely neglect the fact that rhetoric was “the most disciplined way of communicating orally during the first century ce.”82 He therefore suggests that any eyewitness testimony that might be present in Mark will have been altered in the light of specific rhetorical persuasive strategies. Rhetoric, however, is a formalization of methods that have been found to be effective when trying to inform and persuade an audience. As Bauckham notes, any good storyteller who is trying to persuade will select information to include and omit in order to achieve his or her objective.83 A trained rhetorician will simply do this according to a particular set of rules. Byrskog’s point about the skewed content of eyewitness testimony is true, but does not require the assumption of the use of formal rhetorical method. It appears from a reading of Bauckham’s comments to the various respondents to his book that he accepts that all the historical writings of the first century c.e. were subject to a range of “compositional devices [that] belonged to the normal freedom of an ancient storyteller and were not considered at odds with a historian’s faithfulness to his sources” and that the Gospels are thus no different in the historicity of the picture they present of Jesus.84 He therefore suggests that we should not immediately assume that there is a theological reason for every narrative variation in the Gospels.85 Thus, in saying that the content of the Gospels was controlled by eyewitnesses to Jesus’ ministry until shortly before the accounts were recorded in written form, he is not suggesting that we have in the Gospels the ipsissima verba Jesu for which conservative Christians would like to find empirical proof. This position is much clearer in his JSHJ article than it is in the book, and it is clear that a number of readers of the book, including me, read from his words in the book a much stronger belief in the verbatim historical accuracy of the Gospels than he appears now to be claiming.86 It is also clearer that none of the historical documents of the time comes with a guarantee of total accuracy. Nevertheless, his response to David Catchpole about trusting eyewitnesses and that to Jens Schröter about the difference between trusting something and relying on it suggest an overly optimistic assessment of the accuracy of the text. Bauckham appears to take the position that if an eyewitness is deemed trustworthy, we
82
Byrskog, “Interpreters,” 184–85. Bauckham, “In Response,” 228. 84 Ibid., 237. 85 Ibid., 235–37. 86 Byrskog, “Interpreters,” 157–68; Catchpole, “Proving,” 169–81; Patterson, “Can You Trust,” 194–210; Schröter, “Eyewitness Testimony,” 195–209; Weeden, “Polemics,” 211–24. 83
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should trust (that is, accept as accurate) his or her testimony in its entirety.87 This is at odds with psychological research, which shows that, although trustworthy witnesses would have no desire to deceive their audience, their particular interests, experiences, and personalities would result in testimonies that were more likely to be accurate at some points than at others. This is especially the case when we are presented with information from someone who is known to have a vested interest in or bias toward a particular position or outcome.88 If it is the only information we can access, we must rely on it, but we should certainly not trust it to the point where we accept it uncritically. We should still question those aspects of the testimonies of trustworthy witnesses that strike us as unusual. They are reliable in that they tell us what they believe to be true. This does not necessarily make it true.
VII. Conclusion Theories of NT criticism that depict the canonical Gospels as highly redacted documents imply that the accounts of Jesus’ life and ministry were shaped by and designed to shape the theologies of the communities for which they were written. Psychological research into memory supports Bauckham’s contention that at least some of the differences attributed to redaction in fact arise from the normal processes of remembering, and that the editing may have contributed far less to the content than the form critics suggest. Taking this seriously suggests that the Gospels were more spontaneous expressions of theologies that already existed within the communities out of which they arose than documents designed to shape community theology. In contrast, psychological research into eyewitness testimony makes it clear that Bauckham’s work in Jesus and the Eyewitnesses does not provide strong evidence for the historical accuracy of the content of the Gospels. Although it is clear that transmission of stories in oral cultures is remarkably accurate once a community decides that something should be preserved and skilled oral tradents are entrusted with the task of preserving it, many of the inaccuracies in eyewitness memory come into being within hours, days, or weeks of the event being witnessed. Furthermore, these eyewitness accounts come from within a faith community formed around the subject of the stories, which adds a particular source of bias not present in other histories of the time.
87 Bauckham, “In Response,” 238; idem, “Eyewitnesses and Critical History: A Response to Jens Schröter and Craig Evans,” JSNT 31 (2008): 221–35, esp. 223–28. 88 Hastorf and Cantril (“They Saw a Game,” 129–34) detail how observer bias can produce two very different sets of eyewitness accounts of the same event, without deliberate intention to mislead.
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In his response to Catchpole in JSHJ, Bauckham says that in Jesus and the Eyewitnesses he proposes that the variations among the different Gospels can be adequately explained by the hypothesis of a formal controlled tradition in which eyewitnesses play an important part. He contends that there is no need to hypothesize a long period of uncontrolled creative development by anonymous community processes.89 While the psychological data would support the notion that a substantial proportion of the variations between parallel Gospel accounts can be explained by normal variation in eyewitness memory, the variations present significant challenges for any attempt to ascertain the historical Jesus behind the Christ of faith presented in our texts. The Gospels are about the founder of the faith community out of which they arise, which makes them different from other historical documents of their time. It is not possible, therefore, to say, as Bauckham does that “[t]estimony offers us . . . a theological model for understanding the Gospels as the entirely appropriate means of access to the historical reality of Jesus.”90 The continued presence in Christian communities of eyewitnesses to Jesus’ ministry until the time when these events were recorded is a guarantee only of the preservation of the community’s agreed version, not of the exact details of the event itself. Bauckham’s work does not provide any empirical evidence for the historicity of the Gospels. As has been demonstrated above, however, the eyewitness effect provides us with an alternative explanation for conflicts between Gospels that does not require an assumption of alteration of content by a redactor. As such, it merits further investigation in order to determine which variations are more likely to be the result of redaction and which the result of eyewitness effects. 89 90
Bauckham, “In Response,” 231, referring to Jesus and the Eyewitnesses, 264. Bauckham, Jesus and the Eyewitnesses, 5.
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The widely acclaimed Hermeneia series finally comes to the premier Mac academic software engine–Accordance! * Careful text-critical work by the leading scholars in the field * * Exhaustive use of extra-biblical sources * * Fresh translations of the texts * * Bold yet authoritative interpretations * Hermeneia on CD-ROM for Mac and for PC captures the full text and apparatus of each volume and adds features that facilitate daily use in scholarship, teaching, and research. All the 43 previously published Old Testament, New Testament, and extracanonical volumes of this premier Bible commentary are now available on CD-ROM in an extremely useful and navigable electronic format for either Macintosh or PC.
Hermeneia on CD-ROM 2.0, Mac: 9780800663681, $1,200.00 Hermeneia on CD-ROM 2.0, PC: 9780800661977, $1,200.00 Hermeneia 2.0 Upgrade: 9780800661960, $150.00
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Bob Becking
Pablo T. Gadenz
Ezra, Nehemiah, and the Construction of Early Jewish Identity
Called from the Jews and from the Gentiles
2010. 220 pages (est.) (FAT). ISBN 978-3-16-150111-1 cloth $100.00 (est.) (January)
Pauline Ecclesiology in Romans 9–11 2009. XI, 393 pages (WUNT II/267). ISBN 978-3-16-150091-6 paper $119.00
Judit M. Blair
De-Demonising the Old Testament An Investigation of Azazel, Lilith, Deber, Qeteb and Reshef in the Hebrew Bible 2009. XVI, 266 pages (FAT II/37). ISBN 978-3-16-150131-9 paper $89.00
Douglas J. Green
»I Undertook Great Works« The Ideology of Domestic Achievements in West Semitic Royal Inscriptons 2010. 380 pages (est.) (FAT II). ISBN 978-3-16-150168-5 paper $115.00 (est.) (March)
Ryan Jackson
New Creation in Paul·s Letters A Study of the Historical and Social Setting of a Pauline Concept 2010. 260 pages (est.) (WUNT II). ISBN 978-3-16-149999-9 paper $90.00 (est.) (February)
Nicole Frank
Konrad Hammann
Rudolf Bultmann – Eine Biographie 2., rev. ed. 2009. XIII, 582 pages. ISBN 978-3-16-150204-0 cloth $74.00
Key Events in the Life of the Historical Jesus
Der Kolosserbrief im Kontext des paulinischen Erbes
A Collaborative Exploration of Context and Coherence Ed. by Darrell L. Bock and Robert L. Webb
Eine intertextuelle Studie zur Auslegung und Fortschreibung der Paulustradition
2009. XVII, 931 pages (WUNT 247). ISBN 978-3-16-150144-9 cloth $284.00
2009. X, 423 pages (WUNT II/271). ISBN 978-3-16-150118-0 paper $119.00
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New from Mohr Siebeck Stefan Krauter
Peter S. Perry
Studien zu Röm 13,1-7
The Rhetoric of Digressions
Paulus und der politische Diskurs der neronischen Zeit 2009. XI, 354 pages (WUNT 243). ISBN 978-3-16-150099-2 cloth $149.00
Mara bar Sarapion
Revelation 7:1-17 and 10:1-11:13 and Ancient Communication 2009. X, 297 pages (WUNT II/268). ISBN 978-3-16-150001-5 paper $96.00
Letter to His Son Ed. with an Introduction, Translation and Interpretative Essays by Annette Merz, David Rensberger and Teun Tieleman 2010. 300 pages (est.) (SAPERE XVII). ISBN 978-3-16-150163-0 paper $45.00 (est.) ISBN 978-316-150164-7 cloth $90.00 (est.) (January)
Plutarch
On the daimonion of Socrates Human liberation, divine guidance and philosophy Ed. by Heinz-Günther Nesselrath. Introduction, Text, Translation and Interpretative Essays by Donald Russell, George Cawkwell, Werner Deuse, John Dillon, Robert Parker, Christopher Pelling and Stephan Schröder 2010. 280 pages (est.) (SAPERE XVI). ISBN 978-3-16-150137-1 paper $45.00 (est.) ISBN 978-3-16-150138-8 cloth $ 90.00 (est.) (April) Custom-made information: www.mohr.de
Jason Radine
The Book of Amos in Emergent Judah 2010. 300 pages (est.) (FAT II). ISBN 978-3-16-150114-2 paper $90.00 (est.) (April)
Torsten Uhlig
The Theme of Hardening in the Book of Isaiah An Analysis of Communicative Action 2009. XV, 423 pages (FAT II/39). ISBN 978-3-16-150143-2 paper $127.00
Shulamit Valler
Massekhet Sukkah Text, Translation, and Commentary 2009. X, 224 pages (FCBT II/6). ISBN 978-3-16-150121-0 cloth $119.00
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New In
1 & 2 Samuel (Volume 8) David G. Firth Building on his own annotated translation of the Hebrew text, David Firth provides a close critical analysis of 1 & 2 Samuel that culminates in a full exposition of the theological message within the framework of biblical theology. 978-0-8308-2508-0, $40.00 The Apollos Old Testament Commentary aims to take with equal seriousness the divine and human aspects of Scripture. The series expounds the books of the Old Testament in a scholarly manner while undertaking to show the relevance of the Old Testament to modern readers.
Leviticus (Volume 3) Nobuyoshi Kiuchi 978-0-8308-2503-5, $40.00
Deuteronomy (Volume 5) J. G. McConville 978-0-8308-2505-9, $40.00
Daniel (Volume 20) Ernest C. Lucas 978-0-8308-2519-6, $40.00
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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 2010: BRIAN BRITT, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, Blacksburg, VA 24061-0135 JOHN ENDRES, Jesuit School of Theology at Berkeley, Berkeley, CA 94709 MICHAEL FOX, University of Wisconsin, Madison, WI 53706 STEVEN FRAADE, Yale University, New Haven, CT 06520-8287 MATTHIAS HENZE, Rice University, Houston, TX 77251 STEPHEN MOORE, Drew University, Madison, NJ 07940 CATHERINE MURPHY, Santa Clara University, Santa Clara, CA 95053 EMERSON POWERY, Messiah College, Grantham, PA 17027 ADELE REINHARTZ, University of Ottawa, Ottawa, ON K1N 6N5 Canada SIDNIE WHITE CRAWFORD, University of Nebraska-Lincoln, Lincoln, NE 68588-0337 2011: ELLEN B. AITKEN, McGill University, Montreal, Quebec H3A 2T5 Canada MICHAEL JOSEPH BROWN, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322 JAIME CLARK-SOLES, Perkins School of Theology, So. Methodist University, Dallas, TX 75275 STEVEN FRIESEN, University of Texas at Austin, Austin, TX 78712 JENNIFER GLANCY, University of Richmond, Richmond, VA 23173 ROBERT HOLMSTEDT, University of Toronto, Toronto, ON M5S 1C1 Canada ARCHIE C. C. LEE, The Chinese University of Hong Kong, Shatin New Territories, Hong Kong SAR MARGARET Y. MACDONALD, St. Francis Xavier University, Antigonish, NS B2G 2W5 Canada SHELLY MATTHEWS, Furman University, Greenville, SC 29613 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 MARK REASONER, Bethel University, St. Paul, MN 55112 YVONNE SHERWOOD, University of Glasgow, Glasgow, Scotland, G12 8QQ, United Kingdom LOREN T. STUCKENBRUCK, Princeton Theological Seminary, Princeton, NJ 08542 PATRICIA K. TULL, Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary, Louisville, KY 40205 2012: DAVID L. BARR, Wright State University, Dayton, OH 45435 COLLEEN CONWAY, Seton Hall University, South Orange, NJ 07079 MARY ROSE D’ANGELO, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 THOMAS B. DOZEMAN, United Theological Seminary, Dayton, OH 45406 J. ALBERT HARRILL, Indiana University, Bloomington, IN 47405 PAUL JOYCE, Oxford University, Oxford, OX1 3LD, United Kingdom ELIZABETH STRUTHERS MALBON, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, Blacksburg, VA 24061-0135 TURID KARLSEN SEIM, University of Oslo, N-0315 Oslo, Norway CAROLYN SHARP, Yale University, New Haven, CT 06520 BENJAMIN D. SOMMER, The Jewish Theological Seminary, New York, NY 10027 LOUIS STULMAN, University of Findlay, Findlay, OH 45840 DAVID TSUMURA, Japan Bible Seminary, Tokyo 205-0017, Japan MICHAEL WHITE, University of Texas at Austin, Austin, TX 78712 Editorial Assistant: Monica Brady, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 President of the Society: Vincent Wimbush, Claremont Graduate University, Claremont, CA 91711; Vice President: Carol Newsom, Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322; Chair, Research and Publications Committee: Adele Reinhartz, University of Ottawa, Ottawa, ON K1N 6N5 Canada; 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$180.00 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 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
New and Recent Titles i SIGN N OF THE CO OVENANT Cirrccumcision in the Priestly Tradition Da avvid A. Bernat Siign of the CovenantJTUIFmSTUBOEPOMZGVMMMFOHUI DIPMBSMZTUVEZPGDJSDVNDJTJPOJOUIF)FCSFX#JCMF.BLJOH TFPGBiDMPTFSFBEJOHwBQQSPBDIUPSJUVBMMZPSJFOUFEUFYUT UPGGFSTOFXBOEJNQPSUBOUJOTJHIUTJOUPUIFCJCMJDBMJEFBPG PWFOBOUBOEJOUPDPSFBTQFDUTPGUIF5PSBITWJFXTPO(PE JUVBM BOE*TSBFMJUFEFTUJOZ apperr $24.95 978-1-58983-409-5 176 pages, 2009 Code: 062603P nccient Israel and Its Literature 3 Hardback ediition www w.brill.nl .
SOLOMON’S VINEYYARD A itterrary and Linguistic Studies in the Song of Songs Sccottt B. Noegel and Garry A. Rendsbur sburrg 5IJTNPOPHSBQIJODMVEFTGPVSMFOHUIZTUVEJFTPOUIF4POH G4POHT XIJDIUPHFUIFSJEFOUJGZUIFOPSUIFSOEJBMFDUPGUIF PFUSZ GPDVTPOUIFMJUFSBSZEFWJDFTPGBMMJUFSBUJPOBOEWBSJB PO BOEQSPQPTFUIBUUIFDPNQPTJUJPOJTBLJOUPNFEJFWBM PSJOWFDUJWF QPFUJDHFOSFT BJNFEBU Ara rabic b hijaBOEtašbib SJUJRVJOHUIFLJOHBOEIJTDPVSU apperr $34.95 978-1-58983-422-4 284 pages, 2009 Code: 062601 nccient Israel and Its Literature 1 Hardback ediition www w.brill.nl .
THE HE LIBYYAAN ANARCHY n criptions from Egypt’s Third Intermediate Period nsc Rob obe bert K. Ritner $POUFNQPSBSZXJUIUIF*TSBFMJUFLJOHEPNPG4PMPNPOBOE %BWJE &HZQUT5IJSE*OUFSNFEJBUF1FSJPEJTPGDSJUJDBMJOUFSFTU PCJCMJDBMIJTUPSJBOT5IJTWPMVNFJODMVEFTUIFQSJNBSZ PVSDFTGPSUIFIJTUPSZ TPDJFUZ BOESFMJHJPOPG&HZQUEVSJOH IJTDPNQMJDBUFEQFSJPE*UJODMVEFTUIFNPTUTJHOJmDBOUUFYUT GBMMHFOSFT OFXMZUSBOTMBUFEBOESFWJTFE apperr $59.95 978-1-58983-174-2 642 pages, 2009 Code: 061521 Wrriitin ngs from the Ancient World o 21 Hardback edition dition www w.brill.nl .
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129 1 2010
JOURNAL OF
BIBLICAL LITERATURE SPRING 2010
VOLUME 129, NO. 1
JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE
Learning, Teaching, and Researching Biblical Studies, Today and Tomorrow David J. A. Clines
5–29
The Function of the Chronicler’s Temple Despoliation Notices in Light of Imperial Realities in Yehud Paul S. Evans
31–47
Death, Disinheritance, and Job’s Kinsman-Redeemer Matthew J. Suriano
49–66
Gog’s Grave and the Use and Abuse of Corpses in Ezekiel 39:11–20 Francesca Stavrakopoulou
67–84
Jewish Identity under Foreign Rule: Daniel 2 as a Reconfiguration of Genesis 41 Matthew S. Rindge
85–104
Donkey Domain: Zechariah 9:9 and Lexical Semantics Kenneth C. Way
105–114
The Gospel of John and the Five Senses Dorothy Lee
115–127
Spirit and Covenant Renewal: A Theologoumenon of Paul’s Opponents in 2 Corinthians Thomas R. Blanton IV
129–151
Why Is There No Thanksgiving Period in Galatians? An Assessment of an Exegetical Commonplace Robert E. Van Voorst
153–172
P.Oxy. 2949—Its Transcription and Significance: A Response to Thomas Wayment Paul Foster
173–176
How Accurate Are Eyewitnesses? Bauckham and the Eyewitnesses in the Light of Psychological Research Judith C. S. Redman
177–197
US ISSN 0021-9231
