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

JBLcoverSUMMER2010rev_JBLcover2007.qxd 5/18/2010 6:55 PM Page 1

129 2 2010

JOURNAL OF

BIBLICAL LITERATURE SUMMER 2010

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VOLUME 129, NO. 2 Poetic Forms in the Masoretic Vocalization and Three Difficult Phrases in Jacob’s Blessing: ‫( ֶיֶתר ְש ֵֹאת‬Gen 49:3), ‫( ְיצוִּעי ָעָלה‬49:4), and ‫( ָיבׂא ִשׁיֹלה‬49:10) Richard C. Steiner

209–235

Ἐξιλάσασθαι: Appeasing God in the Septuagint Pentateuch Dirk Büchner

237–260

The Composition of Nathan’s Oracle to David (2 Samuel 7:1–17) as a Reflection of Royal Judahite Ideology Omer Sergi

261–279

“Going Down” to Bethel: Elijah and Elisha in the Theological Geography of the Deuteronomistic History Joel S. Burnett

281–297

A “Diagnostic” Note on the “Great Wrath upon Israel” in 2 Kings 3:27 Scott Morschauser

299–302

Invoking the God: Interpreting Invocations in Mesopotamian Prayers and Biblical Laments of the Individual Alan Lenzi

303–315

Josephus’s Essenes and the Qumran Community Kenneth Atkinson and Jodi Magness

317–342

Instability in Jesus’ Galilee: A Demographic Perspective Jonathan L. Reed

343–365

The Name “Iskarioth” (Iscariot) Joan E. Taylor

367–383

The Narrator as “He,” “Me,” and “We”: Grammatical Person in Ancient Histories and in the Acts of the Apostles William Sanger Campbell

385–407 US ISSN 0021-9231

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SOCIETY OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE 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

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JBL 129, no. 2 (2010): 209–235

Poetic Forms in the Masoretic Vocalization and Three Difficult Phrases in Jacob’s Blessing: ‫( יֶ ֶתר ְשׂ ֵאת‬Gen 49:3), ‫צוּﬠי ָﬠ ָלה‬ ִ ְ‫( י‬49:4), and ‫( יָבֹא ִשׁיֹלה‬49:10) richard c. steiner [email protected] Revel Graduate School, Yeshiva University, New York, NY 10033

In memory of my esteemed teacher, Moshe Greenberg ‫ז"ל‬ Jacob’s Blessing in Genesis 49 is full of difficult phrases that have challenged exegetes since antiquity. In this article I shall discuss three of these: ‫יֶתר ְשׂ ֵאת‬ ֶ (v. 3), ‫צוּﬠי ָﬠ ָלה‬ ִ ְ‫( י‬v. 4) and ‫( יָבֹא ִשׁיֹלה‬v. 10). Although all of these phrases have been emended, I shall attempt to show that they make perfect sense as they are. I shall argue that, in all of these phrases, the Masoretes have succeeded in preserving linguistic features peculiar to the poetic dialect of Biblical Hebrew in their oral reading tradition(s). Finally, I shall note some other successes of the Masoretes (alongside some of their failures) and discuss the light that they shed on the history of the Masoretic reading tradition(s).

I. ‫יֶתר ְשׂ ֵאת‬ ֶ , “Endowed with Extra Dignity” ‫אשׁית אוֹנִ י יֶ ֶתר ְשׂ ֵאת וְ יֶ ֶתר ָﬠז‬ ִ ‫אַתּה כּ ִֹחי וְ ֵר‬ ָ ‫אוּבן ְבּכ ִֹרי‬ ֵ ‫ְר‬ (Gen 49:3) ִ ‫אַתּה כּ ִֹחי וְ ֵר‬ ָ ‫ ְבּכ ִֹרי‬is reasonably clear. The The syntactic structure of ‫אשׁית אוֹנִ י‬ first two words, ‫אַתּה‬ ָ ‫ ְבּכ ִֹרי‬, constitute a simple verbless clause with many parallels in the Bible, for example, ‫אַתּה‬ ָ ‫( ְבּנִ י‬Ps 2:7), ‫א ָתּה‬/‫ה‬ ָ ‫אַתּ‬ ָ ‫( ָא ִבי‬Jer 2:27; Ps 89:27; Job 17:14), ‫( ֲאח ִֹתי ָא ְתּ‬Gen 12:13; Prov 7:4), ‫וּב ָשׂ ִרי ָא ָתּה‬ ְ ‫( ַﬠ ְצ ִמי‬Gen 29:14; 2 Sam 19:14), and so on. The last three words, ‫אשׁית אוֹנִ י‬ ִ ‫כּ ִֹחי וְ ֵר‬, are in apposition to the predicate noun ‫ ְבּכ ִֹרי‬and, hence, equivalent to it (cf. Deut 21:17, ‫יַכּיר‬ ִ ‫נוּאה‬ ָ ‫ן־ה ְשּׂ‬ ַ ‫ת־ה ְבּכֹר ֶבּ‬ ַ ‫ִכּי ֶא‬ 209

210

Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 2 (2010)

‫אשׁית אֹנוֹ‬ ִ ‫ ִכּי־הוּא ֵר‬. . .). Precisely the same syntactic (surface) structure is found in ‫שׁוּﬠ ִתי‬ ָ ְ‫( ָא ִבי ָא ָתּה ֵא ִלי וְ צוּר י‬Ps 89:27). Even the structure of the appositive phrase is the same; it consists of a single noun followed by a genitive phrase, both with a suffixed first common singular pronoun. The syntax of the last four words in the verse is less clear. Does it continue the ָ ? The answer appositive phrase, or is it an independent part of the predicate of ‫אַתּה‬ depends, in part, on the syntactic category of ‫יֶ ֶתר‬. If it is a noun in the construct state (like ‫אשׁית‬ ִ ‫) ֵר‬, it can be taken as continuing the appositive phrase, assuming that ‫ ְשׂ ֵאת‬and ‫ ָﬠז‬can be elliptical for ‫ ְשׂ ֵא ִתי‬and ‫; ָﬠזִּ י‬1 if it is a different part of speech, it must constitute a separate part of the predicate. The Peshitta opts for the first possibility, taking ‫יֶתר‬ ֶ as a noun meaning (-‫“ ܫܪܟܐ )ܕ‬remainder (of).” This is understandable, for the segolate ‫ ֶיֶתר‬looks like a noun and, in fact, is a noun everywhere else in the Bible, usually with the meaning “remainder, remnant, rest.” Most modern scholars follow the Peshitta in taking ‫יֶתר‬ ֶ to be a noun, but since the usual meaning does not fit the context, they posit another meaning, unattested elsewhere: “excellence, preeminence.”2 Many of these scholars, however, appear to assume that the appositive phrase ends with ‫אוֹנִ י‬, presumably because the absence of a suffixed pronoun on ‫ ְשׂ ֵאת‬and ‫ ָﬠז‬seems to signal discontinuity. The parallel with Ps 89:27, which ends at ‫אוֹנִ י‬, seems to support this sense of discontinuity. If so, the context would seem to call for an adjective here, and many scholars have alluded to this problem in one way or another. J. P. N. Land notes that ‫( יֶ ֶתר‬properly “excellence” in his view) is used as an adjective, and he compares this use with the use of ‫( ַפּ ַחז‬properly “ebullience” in his view) in the sense of “ebullient.”3 August Dillmann suggests that the substitution of “pre-eminence” for “pre-eminent” is a poetic usage.4 Arnold B. Ehrlich emends ‫ יֶ ֶתר‬to ‫יְ ַתר‬, presumably on the analogy of the construct adjectives in ‫ד־פּה‬ ֶ ‫ְכ ַב‬ ‫וּכ ַבד ָלשׁוֹן‬ ְ (Exod 4:10) and ‫( ֲﬠ ַרל ְשׂ ָפ ָתיִ ם‬Exod 6:12).5 E. A. Speiser writes: “Heb. 1

This possibility was raised by an anonymous JBL reader. For possible examples of ellipsis/ gapping of suffixed pronouns in biblical poetry (double-duty pronominal suffixes), see G. R. Driver, “Hebrew Studies,” JRAS (1948): 164–65; M. O’Connor, Hebrew Verse Structure (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1980), 404. However, all of the examples occur within a single colon, between parallel hemistichs. 2 In addition to BDB, 451–52, and many English versions, see S. R. Driver, The Book of Genesis: With Introduction and Notes (2nd ed.; Westminster Commentaries; London: Methuen, 1904), 382; John Skinner, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Genesis (ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1910), 514; Nahum M. Sarna, Genesis ‫בראשית‬: The Traditional Hebrew Text with the New JPS Translation (JPS Torah Commentary; Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1989), 333; Stanley Gevirtz, “The Reprimand of Reuben,” JNES 30 (1971): 88–89; and Raymond de Hoop, Genesis 49 in Its Literary and Historical Context (OtSt 39; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 87. 3 Land, Disputatio de carmine Jacobi Gen. XLIX (Leiden: J. Hazenberg, 1857), 40–41, 44. 4 Dillmann, Kurzgefasstes exegetisches Handbuch zum Alten Testament: Die Genesis (3rd ed.; Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 1875), 474. 5 Ehrlich, Randglossen zur hebräischen Bibel (7 vols.; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1908), 1:242.

Steiner: Poetic Forms in Jacob’s Blessing

211

yeter (twice), used as a construct adjective;6 cf. the cognate Akk. (w)atar, notably in the familiar Atar-hasīs “exceeding wise.”7 Stanley Gevirtz asserts that “the use of a substantive in the construct state to convey an adjectival idea is frequent enough in biblical literature, both prose and poetry, to warrant no concern.”8 He refers us to GKC §128r, where we find examples like ‫( ְבּ ִמ ְב ַחר ְק ָב ֵרינוּ‬Gen 23:6) and ‫יכם‬ ֶ ‫( ר ַֹע ַמ ַﬠ ְל ֵל‬Isa 1:16), glossed “our choicest sepulchres” and “your evil doings,” respectively. However, the ability of abstract nouns to function in genitive phrases as attributive modifiers of other nouns has no relevance here. At the end of the day, such genitive phrases are still noun phrases, whereas our context calls for an adjective phrase. In other words, Gevirtz’s translation, “pre-eminent in authority,” cannot be justified by the parallels in GKC; those parallels are, at best, evidence for the meaning “preeminent authority.” A number of ancient translations use an adjective to render ‫יֶתר‬ ֶ . Since some of these may reflect views similar to those of Land and Dillmann, we shall restrict ourselves to two of the most literal translations: the Samaritan targum (J) and Aquila’s revision. The Samaritan targum renders ‫יתיר מסבלה‬, “endowed with extra endurance,” using the Aramaic adjective ‫יַ ִתּיר‬, “extra.”9 Similarly, Aquila translates περισσὸς ἄρσει, “extraordinary in dignity [lit., raising].”10 Here he uses the masculine adjective περισσός11 (followed by the dative of limitation) rather than the substantivized neuter adjective περισσόν (followed by the genitive) that he uses to render ‫יֶ ֶתר‬, “rest, remainder,” in 1 Kgs 14:19; 22:47.12 Note that περισσός is the adjective that Theodotion uses to render the Aramaic adjective ‫יַתּיר‬ ִ , “extra,” in Daniel. Had Aquila been translating into Aramaic, he would no doubt have agreed 6

This formulation seems to imply that ‫ יֶ ֶתר‬is not a construct adjective but is merely used

as one. 7 Speiser, Genesis: Introduction, Translation, and Notes (AB 1; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1964), 364; cf. CAD 1/2:501. For the same comment (without attribution), see E. Testa, “La formazione letteraria della benedizione di Giacobbe (Gen. 49,2-27),” SBFLA 23 (1973): 184. 8 Gevirtz, “Reprimand,” 89. For the same comment (without attribution), see Hoop, Genesis 49, 87. 9 ‫( התרגום השומרוני לתורה‬ed. Abraham Tal; 3 vols.; Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University, 1980– 83), 1:210. For the rendering “endurance,” see Abraham Tal, A Dictionary of Samaritan Aramaic (HO, Nahe und Mittlere Osten 50; 2 vols.; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 2:629, s.v. ‫עזה‬. For the rendering of ‫יַ ִתּיר‬, see below. For Syriac commentaries that use ‫ܬܝܪ‬ ܻ ‫ ܰܝ‬in our verse, see R. B. ter Haar Romeny, A Syrian in Greek Dress: The Use of Greek, Hebrew, and Syriac Biblical Texts in Eusebius of Emesa’s Commentary on Genesis (Traditio exegetica Graeca 6; Louvain: Peeters, 1997), 431. The Palestinian targumim also have the adjective ‫ יַ ִתּיר‬here, but their rendering is much less literal. See, e.g., The Fragment-Targums of the Pentateuch: According to Their Extant Sources (ed. Michael L. Klein; 2 vols.; AnBib 76; Rome: Biblical Institute Press, 1980), 1:65–66: ‫לך הויא חזיא למיסב תלתא חולקין‬ '‫יתירין על אחך וכו‬, “it would have been proper for you to take three portions more than your brothers. . . .” 10 Origenis Hexaplorum (ed. F. Field; 2 vols.; Oxford: Clarendon, 1875), 1:69. 11 Cf. Haar Romeny, Syrian in Greek Dress, 430. 12 Origenis Hexaplorum, 1:625, 644.

212

Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 2 (2010)

ֶ . But what is the justification with the Samaritan targum in using ‫ יַ ִתּיר‬to render ‫יֶתר‬ for using an adjective to render ‫ יֶ ֶתר‬in a highly literal translation? The answer is found in a lexicon of biblical homonyms composed by Judah Ibn Balam in the eleventh century: “‫ יֶ ֶתר ְשׂ ֵאת‬is an adjective, like ‫‘ ֶכּ ֶבד ָﬠוֹן‬heavy with sin’ (Isa 1:4) and ‫‘ ֶﬠ ֶרל ֵלב וְ ֶﬠ ֶרל ָבּ ָשׂר‬uncircumcised of heart and uncircumcised of flesh’ (Ezek 44:9), and I have mentioned this so that no one should err concerning it and think that it is a noun.”13 In other words, just as ‫( ֶכּ ֶבד‬alongside ‫ ) ְכ ַבד‬is a construct form of the adjective ‫ ָכּ ֵבד‬, and ‫( ֶﬠ ֶרל‬alongside ‫ ) ֲﬠ ַרל‬is a construct form of the adjective ‫ ָﬠ ֵרל‬, so too ‫ יֶ ֶתר‬must be a construct form of the adjective ‫יָתר‬ ֵ . The adjective ‫ יָ ֵתר‬has been overlooked in modern discussions of our verse, presumably because it is virtually unknown in the Bible (with the possible exception of Prov 12:26). To find clear attestations we must turn to postbiblical Hebrew. For example, in deeds of sale it occurs with its antonym in the formula meaning “more or less”: ‫יתיר או חסר‬/‫( אם יתר‬Mur 22 and 30)14 = ‫יָתר‬ ֵ ‫ִאם ָח ֵסר ִאם‬ (m. B. Bat. 7:2, 3). Like its antonym, ‫ יָ ֵתר‬is actually a stative participle. And just as the stative participle ‫ ָא ֵבד‬is preserved by Mishnaic Hebrew but replaced in Biblical Hebrew by ‫א)ו(בד‬ ֵ ֹ ,15 so too ‫ יָ ֵתר‬is preserved by Mishnaic Hebrew but replaced in Biblical Hebrew by ‫י)ו(תר‬ ֵ ֹ .16 In the Mishnah, ‫ יָ ֵתר‬also occurs with the meaning “extra,” e.g., ‫ ֶא ְצ ַבּע יְ ֵת ָירה‬, “an extra talon” (m. Hiul. 3:6 and passim).17 When used of a person, it means “extra-endowed.” Thus, a person with extra fingers and toes is said to be ‫יָתר ְבּיָ ָדיו‬ ֵ ‫וּב ַרגְ ָליו‬ ְ , “extra-endowed in his hands and feet” (m. Bek. 7:6). The Aramaic equivalent of ‫יָ ֵתר‬, the adjective ‫( יַ ִתּיר‬which, as noted above, is used to render ‫יֶתר‬ ֶ in several translations of our verse), is found in two syntactic constructions. In addition to ‫ יַ ִתּיר‬X, “(an) extra X,” we find genitive phrases of the form X ‫יַתּיר‬ ִ , “extra-endowed with (an) X, endowed with (an) extra X,” e.g., ‫יתיר אבר‬, “endowed with an extra limb” (Tg. Neof. Lev 22:23) and ‫יתיר וֹ‬, “endowed with an extra waw” (Aleppo Codex, Masorah Marginalia).18 13 ‫( שלשה ספרים של רב יהודה בן בלעם‬ed. Shraga Abramson; Jerusalem: Kiryat-Sepher, 1975), 51, s.v. ‫יתר‬. Abramson notes that other medieval philologists did indeed make the mistake in question. 14 P. Benoit, J. T. Milik, and R. de Vaux, Les grottes de Murabbaât (2 vols.; DJD 2; Oxford: Clarendon, 1961), 118, 145, 147; Ada Yardeni, ‫אוסף תעודות ארמיות עבריות ונבטיות ממדבר יהודה‬ ‫( וחומר קרוב‬2 vols.; Jerusalem: Hebrew University, 2000), 1:47, 51; 2:65. 15 All that remains in Biblical Hebrew is the noun ‫ ֲא ֵב ָדה‬, “lost object,” a fossilized stative participle. For other fossilized stative participles in Biblical Hebrew (‫ ָשׁ ֵכן‬, “neighbor”; ‫גֵּ ר‬, “resident alien”; and ‫ ָשׁ ֵקד‬, “almond”), see Richard C. Steiner, “‫ ָדּת‬and ‫ ֵﬠין‬: Two Verbs Masquerading as Nouns in Moses’ Blessing (Deuteronomy 33:2, 28),” JBL 115 (1996): 697–98. 16 This is one of a number of archaic features of Mishnaic Hebrew that show that it is not a direct descendant of Biblical Hebrew. 17 Cf. Akkadian esei mtu watartum, “a superfluous bone” (CAD 1/2:500). 18 For the latter example, see Israel Yeivin, Introduction to the Tiberian Masorah (trans. and ed. E. J. Revell; SBLMasS 5; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1980), 54.

Steiner: Poetic Forms in Jacob’s Blessing

213

The Biblical Hebrew phrase ‫ יֶ ֶתר ְשׂ ֵאת‬exhibits the same construction as ‫יתיר‬ ‫ אבר‬and ‫ ;יתיר וֹ‬it means “endowed with extra dignity.” It may be compared also with the phrase ‫ ֲח ַסר ֵלב‬, “endowed with insufficient intelligence” (Prov 6:32; etc.), in which ‫“ ֲח ַסר‬under-endowed with, deficient in,” is the antonym of ‫יֶתר‬ ֶ . The relationship between these two forms is even more obvious in a Genizah fragment with Babylonian pointing, where the phrase from Prov 6:32 is vocalized with what appears to be the Babylonian equivalent of ‫ ֶח ֶסר ֵלב‬.19

II. ‫צוּﬠי ָﬠ ָלה‬ ִ ְ‫י‬, “The Bed of a Nursemaid” ‫צוּﬠי ָﬠ ָלה‬ ִ ְ‫ית ִמ ְשׁ ְכּ ֵבי ָא ִביָך ָאז ִח ַלּ ְל ָתּ י‬ ָ ‫ִכּי ָﬠ ִל‬ (Gen 49:4) The phrase ‫צוּﬠי ָﬠ ָלה‬ ִ ְ‫ י‬has traditionally been taken to mean “my bed he mounted,” but this reading has numerous problems. The most obvious one is what John Skinner called “the harsh change from 2nd pers. to 3rd.”20 Throughout most of the verse, Jacob refers to Reuben in the second person (‫תּוֹתר‬, ַ ‫ית‬ ָ ‫ﬠ ִל‬, ָ ‫ )ִחַלְּלָתּ‬and to himself in the third person (‫) ָא ִביָך‬. The traditional reading implies that, at the end of the verse, Jacob refers to Reuben in the third person (‫ ) ָﬠ ָלה‬and to himself in the first person (the suffix of ‫צוּﬠי‬ ִ ְ‫)י‬. Now, shift in person deixis by itself is not unusual in the Bible, and at least one scholar considers our verse quite normal: There are other cases of such shifts of pronominal reference in Genesis 49 (e.g., vv. 9, 24–26) that complement the shift in v. 4. . . . Throughout the “testament,” the ostensible audience of the 12 sons often gives way to the implied narrative audience. The sudden shift in v. 4 is consonant with this pattern and is fitting for the contextual desire to drive home Reuben’s heinous deed.21

It is true that the deixis shift in our verse is different from the ones in vv. 9 and 24–26, in that it involves the repetition of a verb in different persons: ‫ית‬ ָ ‫ ָﬠ ִל‬followed by ‫ ָﬠ ָלה‬. Nevertheless, even that feature can be found elsewhere.22 In any event, this problem led to emendation of ‫צוּﬠי‬ ִ ְ‫ י‬already in antiquity. In 4Q252 (4QCommGen A) IV, 5, ‫צוּﬠי‬ ִ ְ‫ י‬is changed to ‫ יצועיו‬to make it consistent

19 Israel Yeivin, ‫( מסורת הלשון העברית המשתקפת בניקוד הבבלי‬Jerusalem: Academy of the Hebrew Language, 1985), 443. In other fragments, the form is ‫ ְח ַסר‬. 20 Skinner, Genesis, 515. 21 Excerpted from a comment by an anonymous JBL reviewer. 22 Cf. Deut 32:15: ‫ית‬ ָ ‫ית ָכּ ִשׂ‬ ָ ‫וַ יִּ ְשׁ ַמן יְ ֻשׁרוּן וַ ְיִּב ָﬠט ָשׁ ַמנְ ָתּ ָﬠ ִב‬. The shift in that verse seems to make more literary sense: Moses interrupts his dispassionate narrative and turns to the people with a stinging rebuke, repeating one verb but adding others.

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ִ ְ‫י‬ with third person ‫אביכה‬.23 In 1857, Abraham Geiger proposed emending ‫צוּﬠי‬ to ‫צוּﬠי‬ ֵ ְ‫( י‬and ‫ ָﬠ ָלה‬to ‫) ִבּ ְל ָהה‬.24 Geiger presented three arguments: (1) the noun -‫ יְ צוּע‬appears only in the plural elsewhere in the Bible; (2) the phrase ‫צוּﬠי ָﬠ ָלה‬ ִ ְ‫י‬ stands in parallelism to the genitive phrase ‫ ; ִמ ְשׁ ְכּ ֵבי ָא ִביָך‬and (3) the Septuagint translates “the couch” instead of “my couch.” In 1896, C. J. Ball added two new arguments: (1) ‫ חלּל‬is transitive elsewhere in the Bible; and (2) the parallel passage about Reuben in 1 Chr 5:1 has ‫צוּﬠי ָא ִביו‬ ֵ ְ‫וּב ַח ְלּלוֹ י‬ ְ .25 These arguments have proved persuasive to the vast majority of scholars, and the emendation to ‫צוּﬠי‬ ֵ ְ‫ י‬is widely accepted today. I shall argue below that, although Geiger was right in interpreting ‫צוּﬠי ָﬠ ָלה‬ ִ ְ‫ י‬as a genitive phrase, he was wrong to assume that his interpretation required an emendation. Geiger’s emendation of ‫ ָﬠ ָלה‬to ‫ ִבּ ְל ָהה‬has proved much less popular than his emendation of ‫צוּﬠי‬ ִ ְ‫ י‬to ‫צוּﬠי‬ ֵ ְ‫י‬. Later scholars proposed other emendations, including ‫יוֹל ֶדָך‬ ְ , “your sire”;26 ‫יַ ֲﬠ ָלה‬, “female mountain-goat”;27 and ‫ = ַﬠ ָלּה‬Arabic 28 allah, “co-wife.” In 1971, Gevirtz suggested that all of these emendations are superfluous, for ‫ ָﬠ ָלה‬is the singular of the hollow participle ‫ ָﬠלוֹת‬, “nursing,” attested five times in the Bible (Gen 33:13; 1 Sam 6:7; etc.).29 Gevirtz conceded that all of those attestations refer to animals, but Jean-Daniel Macchi remedied this defect by noting that ‫עוּל‬, “suckling, nursling,” from the same root, is used of humans in the Bible (Isa 49:15; 65:20).30 Unfortunately, Gevirtz’s interpretation forced him to place “the act of filial impiety . . . during the period when Bilhah, still nursing Dan, was pregnant with

23

George J. Brooke, “The Thematic Content of 4Q252,” JQR 85 (1994): 35. Geiger, Urschrift und Uebersetzungen der Bibel in ihrer Abhängigkeit von der innern Entwickelung des Judenthums (Breslau: J. Hainauer, 1857), 374. 25 Ball, The Book of Genesis (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1896), 107. 26 Ibid., 43, 107. 27 Ezekiel Mandelstamm, ‫( באורים והערות על תורה נביאים וכתובים‬Kiev, 1894), 18; Mitchell Dahood, “Hebrew-Ugaritic Lexicography III,” Bib 46 (1965): 319. I am indebted to S. Z. Leiman for the first reference. 28 Joseph Reider, “Etymological Studies in Biblical Hebrew,” VT 4 (1954): 276, citing Edward William Lane, An Arabic-English Lexicon (London: Williams & Norgate, 1863–71), 2124. Hoop (Genesis 49, 90–91), citing Reider and Lane, changes their gloss of allah to “concubine.” This meaning (for which, see Hans Wehr, A Dictionary of Modern Written Arabic [ed. and trans. J. Milton Cowan; Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1961], 633), appears to have developed later. Joshua Blau (oral communication) notes that it is not recorded in Lisān al-Arab, and he calls my attention to the phrase banū l-allāt, “the sons of co-wives,” which implies that the term allah refers to a reciprocal relationship between wives. 29 Gevirtz, “Reprimand,” 97–98. 30 Macchi, Israël et ses tribus selon Genèse 49 (OBO 171; Fribourg, Suisse: Editions Universitaires; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999), 48 n. 42. The other forms cited there have no evidentiary value. On the relationship between ‫ ָﬠ ָלה‬and ‫עוּל‬, not fully clarified by Macchi, see further below. 24

Steiner: Poetic Forms in Jacob’s Blessing

215

Naphtali.”31 This contradicts the plain sense of the narrative, according to which Reuben’s action comes on the heels of Rachel’s death and may well have been prompted by it: This incident is directly linked to the foregoing because it is Rachel’s demise that presents the occasion for Reuben’s act. By violating Bilhah, Reuben makes sure that she cannot supplant or even rival his mother’s position of chief wife now that Rachel is dead. As a statement in Shabbat 55b expresses it, “He resented his mother’s humiliation. He said, ‘If my mother’s sister was a rival to my mother, must the maid of my mother’s sister be a rival to my mother?’” In this connection, it is interesting that Reuben had earlier been involved in the attempt to get his father to restore the conjugal rights of his mother (30:14–16). As a result of Reuben’s cohabitation with Bilhah, she would thereby acquire the tragic status of “living widowhood,” as happened to David’s concubines whom he left behind when he fled Jerusalem and who were possessed by his son Absalom, as recounted in 2 Samuel 15:16, 16:22, and 20:3.32

In short, Reuben’s deed took place long after Bilhah stopped nursing her children. How then can ‫ ָﬠ ָלה‬refer to Bilhah? I suggest that ‫ ָﬠ ָלה‬may have a broader meaning than commonly thought. In his commentary on Gen 33:13, Rashi takes ‫ ָﬠלוֹת‬to mean ‫מגדלות עולליהן‬, “rearing their infants.” Evidence for that interpretation can be found in a line of the poem on wisdom preserved in the Psalms Scroll from Qumran: ‫ למלמדי‬,‫ועלה היתה לי‬ ‫י‬/‫( אתן הודו‬11QPsa [11Q5] col. 21: Sir 51:14–15).33 J. A. Sanders translates “and she became for me a nurse; to my teacher I give my ardour,” adding: “Here Wisdom is in the role of the nursing mother, parallel here to her role as the teacher of the young man.”34 Most scholars have accepted this interpretation;35 a few have rejected it in favor of their own interpretations.36 Among the latter is Isaac Rabinowitz, who argues: “Sanders’ and Delcor’s derivation of this word from ‫עוּל‬, ‘give suck,’ is doubtful, since the word is apparently not used in Hebrew of human wet-nurses, but rather of animals—in the ‫ תנ"ך‬cows and ewes only—giving suck 31

Gevirtz, “Reprimand,” 98. Sarna, Genesis, 244. 33 J. A. Sanders, The Psalms Scroll of Qumrân Cave 11 (DJD 4; Oxford: Clarendon, 1965), 80, line 6. 34 Ibid., 81–82. 35 M. Delcor, “Le texte hébreu du Cantique de Siracide LI, 13 et ss. et les anciennes versions,” Textus 6 (1968): 33 (“nourrice”); Florentino García Martínez and Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar, The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition (2 vols.; Leiden: Brill, 1997–98), 2:1175 (“wet-nurse”); Georg Sauer, Jesus Sirach, Ben Sira (ATD, Apokryphen 1; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000), 348 (“Amme”); Weisheit für das Leben (trans. Otto Kaiser; Stuttgart: Radius, 2005), 120 (“Amme”). 36 Patrick W. Skehan, “The Acrostic Poem in Sirach 51:13–30,” HTR 64 (1971): 393 (‫*וַ ֲﬠ ָלה‬, “profit”); Isaac Rabinowitz, “The Qumran Hebrew Original of Ben Sira’s Concluding Acrostic on Wisdom,” HUCA 42 (1971): 177 (‫וְ ִﬠ ָלּה‬, “reason”); Charles Mopsik, La Sagesse de ben Sira (Lagrasse: Verdier, 2003), 330 (‫וְ ע ָֹלה‬, “holocaust”). 32

216

Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 2 (2010)

to their young.”37 We have already noted the problem with this claim concerning the use of ‫ל‬-‫ו‬-‫ ע‬in the Bible.38 It focuses on the active participle, ‫ ָﬠ ָלה‬, ignoring the passive participle, ‫עוּל‬, “suckling, nursling [lit. suckled/nursed one].”39 The latter is attested twice in the Bible, both times of humans and both times in poetic passages (Isa 49:15; 65:20). Thus, there is no reason to reject Sanders’s interpretation of ‫עלה‬ in Ben Sira 51, which is also a poem. However, there is a reason to revise it slightly. The parallelism with ‫ מלמד‬in Ben Sira 51 suggests that ‫ עלה‬refers to a nursemaid-teacher rather than a wet nurse.40 Further evidence for this revised interpretation emerges from a comparison of ,‫י‬/‫ למלמדי אתן הודו‬,‫ועלה היתה לי‬ ‫זמותי ואשחקה‬, “and she (Wisdom) was a nursemaid to me; I gave respect to my teacher, (but) I plotted mischief and played,” with ‫וָ ֶא ְהיֶ ה ֶא ְצלוֹ ָאמוֹן וָ ֶא ְהיֶ ה ַשׁ ֲﬠ ֻשׁ ִﬠים‬ ‫ל־ﬠת‬ ֵ ‫יוֹם יוֹם ְמ ַשׂ ֶח ֶקת ְל ָפנָ יו ְבּ ָכ‬, “I (Wisdom) was with Him as an ‫ ָאמוֹן‬, occupied with dandling every day, constantly playing in His presence” (Prov 8:30). There is a clear similarity, perhaps even dependence, between these two poetic passages. Just as ‫ ואשחקה‬parallels ‫ ְמ ַשׂ ֶח ֶקת‬, so too ‫מלמד‬-‫ עלה‬parallels ‫ ָאמוֹן‬. But what is the meaning of ‫ ? ָאמוֹן‬Biblical Hebrew nouns on the ‫ ָפּעוֹל‬pattern like ‫ ָאמוֹן‬are normally equivalent in meaning to the corresponding active participle: ‫וְ ַה ִצּילוּ גָ זוּל ִמיַּ ד‬ ‫ ָﬠשׁוֹק‬, “and rescue from the hand of the oppressor him who has been robbed” (Jer 22:3) = ‫עוֹשׁק‬ ֵ ‫( וְ ַה ִצּילוּ גָ זוּל ִמיַּ ד‬Jer 21:12, with the same meaning); ‫גוֹדה‬ ָ ‫ָבּ‬ ָ ‫הוּדה ֲא‬ ָ ְ‫( בֹּגֵ ָדה י‬Jer ‫הוּדה‬ ָ ְ‫חוֹתהּ י‬ ָ ‫ ֲא‬, “Faithless Judah, her sister” (Jer 3:7, 10) = ‫חוֹתהּ‬ 3:8, with the same meaning); ‫ ַל ָשּׁוְ א ָצ ַרף ָצרוֹף‬, “the smelter smelts in vain” (Jer 6:29) = ‫ל־צוֹרף‬ ֵ ‫ה ִֹבישׁ ָכּ‬, “every smelter is put to shame” (Jer 10:14); ‫ ַפּח יָ קוֹשׁ‬, “the fowler’s trap” (Hos 9:8) = ‫יוֹק ִשׁים‬ ְ ‫ ִמ ַפּח‬, “from the fowlers’ trap” (Ps 124:7).41 This is true in Proverbs as well: ‫רזוֹן‬//‫ך‬ ָ ‫ ֶמ ֶל‬, “king//ruler” (Prov 14:28) = ‫רוֹזְ נִ ים‬//‫ ְמ ָל ִכים‬, “kings// rulers” (Prov 8:15; 31:4). In Syriac, the relationship between the two forms is quite regular: “With ô after the 2nd radical [and ā after the 1st radical], Nomina agentis may be formed from every Part. act. of the simple verb stem (Peal).”42 If it is true 37

Rabinowitz, “Qumran Hebrew Original,” 177–78. See at n. 30 above. 39 For the qal II-w passive participle, cf. Biblical Hebrew ‫מוּל‬, “circumcised”; Mishnaic Hebrew ‫טוּח‬ ַ , “plastered” (m. Mid. 4:1) and ‫צוּרה‬ ָ , “depicted” (m. Mid. 1:3). Cf. also Old Aramaic ‫על‬, “foal” (KAI 222A, 22), probably to be vocalized as a passive participle, like Syriac ‫ ִﬠיל‬. 40 The parallelism ‫מלמד‬//‫ עלה‬is reminiscent of ‫א ֵֹמן‬//‫ ֵמינֶ ֶקת‬in ‫יהם‬ ֶ ‫רוֹת‬ ֵ ‫וְ ָהיוּ ְמ ָל ִכים א ְֹמנַ יִ ְך וְ ָשׂ‬ ‫( ֵמינִ יק ַֹתיִ ְך‬Isa 49:23). For the meaning of ‫ ֵמינֶ ֶקת‬, see below. 41 The examples to the left of the equals signs (and a few others) are cited in connection with Prov 8:30 by Avi Hurvitz, ‫ל‬,‫לדיוקו של המונח ’ ָ אמוֹן ‘ בספר משלי ח‬, in :‫המקרא בראי מפרשיו‬ ‫( ספר זכרון לשרה קמין‬ed. Sara Japhet; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1994), 649. However, he draws a different conclusion from them than I do. 42 Theodor Nöldeke, Compendious Syriac Grammar (trans. James A. Crichton; London: Williams & Norgate, 1904), 69. In my view, the Hebrew use of the pāōl pattern as a stylistic variant of the active participle (in its nominal use) is a very early borrowing from Aramaic. In the Bible, the earliest occurrence of this pattern in a common noun is ‫ יָ קוֹשׁ‬in Hos 9:8, a northern text. The earliest occurrence in a proper noun is ‫ ָאמוֹן‬, governor of Samaria in the time of Ahab. 38

Steiner: Poetic Forms in Jacob’s Blessing

217

that the pāōl pattern functions in Biblical Hebrew as a stylistic variant of the active participle, we must conclude that ‫א ֵֹמן = ָאמוֹן‬.43 This conclusion agrees with one of the interpretations suggested for ‫ ָאמוֹן‬at the very beginning of Genesis Rabbah: ‫א ֵֹמן = פידגוג = ָאמוֹן‬.44 In short, two related poems about Wisdom, Ben Sira 51 and Proverbs 8, have parallel passages describing her as a nursemaid-teacher. It appears, then, that ‫ ָﬠ ָלה‬, used only of animals in prose, was used of humans in poetry. It was a poetic synonym of ‫ ֵמינֶ ֶקת‬, the normal Hebrew word for “wet nurse,” which is taken to mean “nursemaid, governess” (‫פדגוגתה‬/‫ )מרביתה‬in the Palestinian targumim to Gen 24:59 and 35:8. Both ‫ ָﬠ ָלה‬and ‫ ֵמינֶ ֶקת‬, like English “nurse,” underwent a semantic shift that broadened their meanings to include the dry nurse as well as the wet nurse.45 The background of the shift is fairly transparent: The wet nurse is termed meineket in verse 7,46 a word that corresponds to the Akkadian musheniqtum, “the one who suckles.” She frequently had the additional duties of tarbitum, rearing the child and acting as guardian. From Genesis 24:59 and 35:8 it is clear that Rebekah’s meineket was an esteemed member of the household. Her position is reflected in the rendering of meineket by Targum Jonathan in those passages as padgogtha, from Greek paidagogos, “tutor.”47

We conclude that ‫ ָﬠ ָלה‬is a synonym of ‫ ֵמינֶ ֶקת‬with the meaning “nursemaid, governess” in biblical poetry and that ‫צוּﬠי ָﬠ ָלה‬ ִ ְ‫ י‬means “the bed of a nursemaid.”

This distribution is compatible with an Aramaic origin, since Aramaic influence was probably mediated to Judah via the northern kingdom. The names ‫אמוֹן‬, ָ ‫ ָﬠמוֹס‬, and ‫ ֲﬠ ַמ ְסיָ ה‬seem to express the wish that the newborn baby be carried and cared for by a divine nursemaid; cf. ‫ַכּ ֲא ֶשׁר‬ ‫ת־היֹּנֵ ק‬ ַ ‫( יִ ָשּׂא ָהא ֵֹמן ֶא‬Num 11:12). For ‫ינוק‬, “child,” in Assyrian transcriptions of Old Aramaic (ia-nu-qu/qe, Ia-nu-qu), see Klaus Beyer, Die aramäischen Texte vom Toten Meer (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1984), 598, s.v. ‫ינק‬. 43 Michael V. Fox (“Amon Again,” JBL 115 [1996]: 701) rejects the notion that “Wisdom was doing the child-rearing” on the grounds that “there was not yet any child figure on the scene.” That is true if we assume that these verses refer to the same time period as the preceding ones, but why make that assumption? Since the form ‫ וָ ֶא ְהיֶ ה‬has a waw-consecutive, why not render “and (then) I became”? Indeed, how else can one explain the references to ‫ ֵת ֵבל‬, “the inhabited world,” and ‫ ְבּנֵ י ָא ָדם‬in v. 31? 44 ‫( מדרש בראשית רבא‬ed. J. Theodor and C. Albeck; Berlin: M. Poppeloyer, 1927), 1. The midrash cites ‫ת־היּ ֹנֵ ק‬ ַ ‫( ַכּ ֲא ֶשׁר יִ ָשּׂא ָהא ֵֹמן ֶא‬Num 11:12) as a proof-text, no doubt because the Palestinian targumim use ‫ פדגוג‬to render ‫ א ֵֹמן‬there. 45 The meaning of ‫ ֵמינֶ ֶקת‬cannot be separated from the meaning of Mishnaic Hebrew ‫ ִתּינוֹק‬. The latter is used in b. Yoma 82a of a thirteen-year-old boy. 46 That is, Exod 2:7. 47 Nahum M. Sarna, Exodus ‫שמות‬: The Traditional Hebrew Text with the New JPS Translation (JPS Torah Commentary; Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1991), 10 (Exod 2:9).

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Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 2 (2010)

Rachel’s death left Benjamin in dire need of a foster mother. That may be why the death of Deborah, Rebekah’s nursemaid, is reported eleven verses earlier. The job of raising Benjamin fell to Bilhah alone; hence, the use of the term ‫ ָﬠ ָלה‬to refer to her. Let us return now to Geiger’s interpretation of ‫צוּﬠי‬ ִ ְ‫ י‬as a construct form. It too requires no emendation. I have argued elsewhere that *ay contracted in Old Canaanite to ī when either (a) the glide y was strengthened (i.e., geminated) or (b) the nucleus a was weakened (i.e., unstressed).48 The Masoretic vocalization preserves vestiges of this sound change in poetic passages, including Jacob’s blessing. For environment (b) we have ‫( ִﬠיר ֹה‬Gen 49:11), ‫( ִשׁיתוֹ‬Isa 10:17), ‫ִﬠינוֹת‬ ‫( ְתּהוֹם‬Prov 8:28); environment (a) will be discussed in section III below. This Old Canaanite monophthongization should be viewed as a feature of the poetic dialect of Biblical Hebrew, much like the morphological and syntactic features that have been identified in the past.49 Thus, the appearance of hi ireq instead of siērê in ‫צוּﬠי‬ ִ ְ‫ י‬is probably no different from the appearance of hi ireq instead of siērê in ‫ ִﬠיר ֹה‬, a few verses later. In both cases, we are dealing with the Old Canaanite monophthongization of unstressed ay to ī.50 The use and preservation of this feature in ‫צוּﬠי ָﬠ ָלה‬ ִ ְ‫( י‬but not in ‫ ) ִמ ְשׁ ְכּ ֵבי ָא ִביָך‬help to create a double entendre, with “my bed he mounted” as the secondary reading.51 The parallelism with ‫ית‬ ָ ‫ ָﬠ ִל‬lures the reader into interpreting ‫ ָﬠ ָלה‬as the third person masculine singular perfect of ‫י‬-‫ל‬-‫ ע‬instead of the feminine singular participle of ‫ל‬-‫ו‬-‫ע‬.52 The pun works thanks to the use of two ambiguous poetic forms: ‫צוּﬠי‬ ִ ְ‫י‬ (instead of ‫צוּﬠי‬ ֵ ְ‫ )י‬and ‫( ָﬠ ָלה‬without the definite article, as normal in poetry). 48

Richard C. Steiner, “On the Monophthongization of *ay to ī in Phoenician and Northern Hebrew and the Preservation of Archaic/Dialectal Forms in the Masoretic Vocalization,” Or 76 (2007): 73–83. In that article, I spoke of two distinct, albeit related, monophthongizations. I now view them as two aspects of a single Old Canaanite sound change, *ay > *iy > ī, in which the nucleus a was totally assimilated to the glide y. In other words, the nucleus was overpowered by the glide either when the glide was strenghened or when the nucleus was weakened. 49 See, e.g., Raphael Sappan, ‫( הייחוד התחבירי של לשון השירה המקראית‬Jerusalem: KiryatSefer, 1981). 50 Another possibility, which cannot be ruled out, is that ‫צוּﬠי‬ ִ ְ‫ י‬has a hi ireq compaginis like ‫ א ְֹס ִרי‬and ‫ ְבּנִ י‬in 49:11, and possibly ‫ ַח ְכ ִל ִילי‬in 49:12. This possibility is raised as an alternative to emendation by Frank Moore Cross and David Noel Freedman, Studies in Ancient Yahwistic Poetry (SBLDS 21; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1975), 78. 51 The secondary reading presupposes that -‫ יְ צוּע‬is singular. It is true that, as noted above, -‫ יְ צוּע‬appears only in the plural elsewhere in the Bible, but there is a good literary explanation for the exceptional use of the singular here: it was needed to create the play on words. 52 For a similar play on words in Isa 52:2 (‫מוֹס ֵרי‬ ְ ‫רוּשׁ ָלםִ ִה ְת ַפּ ְתּ ִחי‬ ָ ְ‫קוּמי ְשּׁ ִבי י‬ ִ ‫ִה ְתנַ ֲﬠ ִרי ֵמ ָﬠ ָפר‬ ‫ת־ציּוֹן‬ ִ ‫ארְך ְשׁ ִביָּ ה ַבּ‬ ֵ ָ‫ ) ַצוּ‬based on the homonymy of ‫ ְשּׁ ִבי‬, “sit [fem. sing. imperative]” and “captive,” see David Yellin, ‫ לתורת המליצה התנ"כית‬in ‫( כתבים נבחרים‬2 vols.; Jerusalem: Vaad ha-yovel . . . le-R. David Yellin, 1939), 2:62–63 = idem, ‫( חקרי מקרא‬ed. E. Z. Melamed; Jerusalem: Rubin Mass, 1983), 262–63; Mitchell Dahood, “Some Ambiguous Texts in Isaias,” CBQ 20 (1958): 43–

Steiner: Poetic Forms in Jacob’s Blessing

219

III. ‫יָבֹא ִשׁיֹלה‬, “Tribute Shall Come to Him” ‫וּמח ֵֹקק ִמ ֵבּין ַרגְ ָליו ַﬠד ִכּי־יָבֹא ִשׁיֹלה וְ לוֹ יִ ְקּ ַהת ַﬠ ִמּים‬ ְ ‫יהוּדה‬ ָ ‫לֹא־יָ סוּר ֵשׁ ֶבט ִמ‬ (Gen 49:10) This is, of course, one of the most famous cruxes in the Bible. Adolf Posnanski’s survey of the ancient and medieval exegesis of the verse,53 extending to more than six hundred pages, gives some idea of its importance and its difficulty. According to Frank Moore Cross and David Noel Freedman, “No satisfactory solution of the problems in this bicolon has ever been presented, and there is no present prospect of a definitive solution.”54 Most discussions have found the phrase ‫ יָב ֹא ִשׁיֹלה‬particularly enigmatic. Nahum M. Sarna writes: “Hebrew yavo shiloh is wholly obscure; neither the subject of the verb nor the meaning of shiloh is clear. . . . None of the many interpretations of shiloh is without objection, and the term remains an enigma, though the present translation55 seems to be the most acceptable.”56 At first glance, ‫ ִשׁיֹלה‬appears to be the well-known toponym, attested dozens of times in the Hebrew Bible, albeit with somewhat different spellings.57 Indeed, even the collocation with the verb ‫א‬-‫ו‬-‫ ב‬is attested in 1 Sam 4:12. Yet, surprisingly, there is not a single ancient source that takes ‫ ִשׁיֹלה‬as a toponym in our verse.58 Modern scholars, too, have largely abandoned previous attempts to find a role for the town of Shiloh here. Instead, they have taken a closer look at rabbinic exegesis. Some midrashic sources interpret ‫ ִשׁיֹלה‬as ‫ ַשׁי ֹלה‬, “tribute to him.” In one version of Genesis Rabbah we read:

45; and Shalom M. Paul, “Polysensuous Polyvalency in Poetic Parallelism,” in “Shaarei Talmon”: Studies in the Bible, Qumran, and the Ancient Near East Presented to Shemaryahu Talmon (ed. Michael Fishbane et al.; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1992), 154–55. To the evidence noted there, add the parallel between ‫קוּמי ְשּׁ ִבי‬ ִ and ‫קוּם־נָ א ְשׁ ָבה‬, “sit up” (Gen 27:19). 53 Adolf Posnanski, Schiloh: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Messiaslehre (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1904). 54 Cross and Freedman, Studies, 83. 55 That is, “tribute . . . to him.” 56 Sarna, Genesis, 336–37. 57 The spelling of the form has been cited by some scholars as evidence that it does not refer to the toponym. Although taken as a whole the spelling is indeed unique (as pointed out in a Masoretic note), the orthography of each syllable is paralleled in unambiguous occurrences of the toponym; see J. A. Emerton, “Some Difficult Words in Genesis 49,” in Words and Meanings: Essays Presented to David Winton Thomas on His Retirement from the Regius Professorship of Hebrew in the University of Cambridge (ed. Peter R. Ackroyd and Barnabas Lindars; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1968), 87. 58 S. R. Driver, “Genesis XLIX. 10: An Exegetical Study,” Journal of Philology 14 (1885): 3.

220

Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 2 (2010) '‫ למשיח בן דוד שנ‬59‫ַﬠד ִכּי־יָבֹא ִשׁיֹלה שעתידין כל אומות העולם להביא דורון‬ 60 .‫ל־שׁי ַלה' ְצ ָבאוֹת‬ ַ ‫יוּב‬ ַ ‫ָבּ ֵﬠת ַה ִהיא‬ “Until there come tribute to him [‫( ”]שי לה‬means) that all the nations of the world are going to bring tribute to the Messiah descended from David, as it is said, “In that time, tribute [‫ ]שי‬shall be brought to the Lord of Hosts.”

A slightly more revealing version of this midrash is found in Yalqut Shimoni to Isa 18:7: ‫ וכה"א ַﬠד‬,‫ שעתידין או"ה להביא דורון למלך המשיח‬,‫ל־שׁי ַלה' ְצ ָבאוֹת‬ ַ ‫יוּב‬ ַ ‫ָבּ ֵﬠת ַה ִהיא‬ ‫ ִכּי־יָבֹא ִשׁיֹלה קרי ביה עד כי יובל שי לו‬. “In that time, tribute [‫ ]שי‬shall be brought to the Lord of Hosts” (means) that the nations of the world are going to bring tribute to the King Messiah, and so it says, ‫ַﬠד‬ ‫— ִכּי־יָבֹא ִשׁיֹלה‬read “until there is brought tribute to him [‫]שי לה‬.”

It is telling that this interpretation is largely ignored by the major Jewish exegetes of the Middle Ages. The only important exception is Rashi, but even he labels it a ‫מדרש אגדה‬, presumably because it seems to require revocalization and breakup of the word.61 In an ironic role reversal, the past half-century has seen an increasing number of modern scholars and English translations that accept ‫= ִשׁיֹלה‬ ‫ ַשׁי ֹלה‬as the plain sense of the verse.62 At this point in time, it is probably legitimate to speak of an emerging consensus.63 59

It is interesting to note that Mishnaic Hebrew ‫דורון‬, used to gloss ‫ שי‬in this midrash, is a borrowing of the Greek word δῶρον, used (in the plural) by the LXX to render ‫ שי‬in Isa 18:7; Pss 67:30 (MT 68:30); and 75:12 (MT 76:12). 60 ‫( מדרש בראשית רבא‬ed. J. Theodor and Ch. Albeck; 1903–29; Jerusalem, 1965), 1219 lines 7–8. 61 The medieval exegetes may have viewed the breakup of ‫ שילה‬as an example of ‫נוטריקון‬exegesis, similar to the breakup of the toponym ‫( חדרך‬Zech 9:1; cuneiform Hatarikka) at the beginning of the Sifre on Deuteronomy. As the medievals knew well from the continuation of the Sifre, the ‫נוטריקון‬-exegesis of ‫חדרך‬, which also creates a messianic reading, elicited a vigorous protest from a tanna of Syrian origin: “Why do you twist the holy writings for us? I call heaven and earth to witness that I am from Damascus and that there is a place there whose name is Hadrach” (‫[ ספרי על ספר דברים‬ed. L. Finkelstein; Berlin: Jüdischer Kulturbund in Deutschland, 1939], 7 lines 5–6). 62 See the literature cited by Robert Martin-Achard (“A propos de la bénédiction de Juda en Genèse 49,8-12[10],” in De la Tôrah au Messie: Études d’exégèse et d’herméneutique bibliques offertes à Henri Cazelles pour ses 25 années d’enseignement à l’Institut Catholique de Paris, Octobre 1979 [ed. Maurice Carrez et al.; Paris: Desclée, 1981], 126), Gordon J. Wenham (Genesis 16–50 [WBC 2; Dallas: Word Books, 1994], 478), and Hoop (Genesis 49, 130 n. 291). To the aforementioned literature we may add O’Connor, Hebrew Verse Structure, 172–73; Chaim Cohen, “Elements of Peshat in Traditional Jewish Exegesis,” Emanuel 21 (1987): 33; idem, ‫פרשנות ימי הביניים על‬ ‫מט‬-‫ בראשית לז‬:‫ספר בראשית לאור הפילולוגיה המקראית בת זמננו — חלק שלישי‬, in Zaphenath Paneah: Linguistic Studies Presented to Elisha Qimron on the Occasion of his Sixty-fifth Birthday (ed. Daniel Sivan et al.; Beersheba: Ben-Gurion University, 2009), 271–73; and Bill T. Arnold, Genesis (New Cambridge Bible Commentary; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 377. 63 See already Robert Murray, Symbols of Church and Kingdom: A Study in Early Syriac

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221

The midrashic interpretation is certainly attractive. It has often been noted that it enhances the parallelism within the second half of the verse. Moreover, it makes ‫ ִ כּי־יָבֹא ִשׁיֹלה‬64 a perfect antithetical parallel to ‫יהוּדה‬ ָ ‫לֹא־יָ סוּר ֵשׁ ֶבט ִמ‬, “the scepter shall not depart from Judah,” in the sense of “rather tribute shall come to him.” Asseverative/adversative ‫ ִכּי‬is used to contradict a preceding clause introduced by negative ‫לֹא‬, as in ‫י־א ְחיֶ ה‬ ֶ ‫לֹא ָאמוּת ִכּ‬, “I shall not die; rather I shall live” (Ps 118:17), and ‫ל־מ ֶטּה ִכּי ִאישׁ ְבּנַ ֲח ַלת ַמ ֵטּה ֲאב ָֹתיו יִ ְד ְבּקוּ ְבּנֵ י‬ ַ ‫א־תסֹּב נַ ֲח ָלה ִל ְבנֵ י יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל ִמ ַמּ ֶטּה ֶא‬ ִ ֹ ‫וְ ל‬ ‫יִ ְשׂ ָר ֵאל‬, “so that no inheritance of the Israelites shall be passed around from one tribe to another; rather the Israelites shall remain bound to the inheritance of their ancestral tribes” (Num 36:7).65 Similarly, ‫ ֹלה‬. . . ‫יָבֹא‬, “shall come to him,” is the antithesis of ‫יהוּדה‬ ָ ‫ ִמ‬. . . ‫יָ סוּר‬, “shall depart from Judah,” both with verbs of motion in the qal stem (see below). As for ‫( שי‬which we leave unpointed for the moment) and ‫ ֵשׁ ֶבט‬, both are metonyms for dominion. The first critical scholar to recognize the value of the midrashic interpretation of ‫ ִשׁיֹלה‬was Ehrlich.66 He emended ‫ ִשׁיֹלה‬to ‫ ַשׁי ֹלה‬because he assumed a contradiction between Midrash and Masorah. Ehrlich was followed by W. L. Moran, who made the same assumption.67 These scholars were hardly alone in making this assumption. Moshe Greenberg, in his review of the NJPS translation, cites the rendering “so that tribute shall come to him” with the accompanying note (“Shiloh, understood as shai loh ‘tribute to him’ following Midrash . . . ; Heb. uncertain . . .”) as an example of “an emendation . . . adopted in the body of the translation.”68 J. A. Emerton writes: “Moran’s reading of the line is possible, but it lacks support in any ancient version69 and departs from the pointing of the Massoretic Text. It is still necessary to ask whether the traditional vocalization can yield a satisfactory sense. . . .”70 Indeed, it appears that all exegetes, medieval and

Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1975), 283 n. 5: “The consensus today is tending towards reading šay lōh . . .”; and Martin-Achard, “La bénédiction,” 126: “l’hypothèse de W. L. Moran . . . tend à être popularisée.” 64 Not ‫ ! ַﬠד ִכּי־יָבֹא ִשׁיֹלה‬In a future article, I shall attempt to prove that ‫ ַﬠד‬was originally part of the previous hemistich (with the meaning ‫ ָל ַﬠד‬, “to eternity”), as various Jewish exegetes suggest. 65 Cf. ‫ לא כי‬in Gen 18:15 (“no, you did laugh”); 42:12; Josh 5:14; 24:21; Judg 15:13; 1 Sam 2:16; 2 Sam 24:24; 1 Kgs 3:22-23; Isa 30:16; Jer 42:14. 66 Ehrlich, Randglossen, 1:246. Mark S. Smith (The Ugaritic Baal Cycle [2 vols.; VTSup 55, 114; Leiden: Brill, 1994–], 291 n. 128) attributes the recognition to W. M. L. de Wette, but I have been unable to confirm this point. In de Wette, Die heilige Schrift des Alten und Neuen Testaments (3rd ed.; Heidelberg: Mohr, 1839), 55, the rendering of ‫ ַﬠד ִכּי־יָבֹא ִשׁיֹלה‬is “bis Ruhe kommt.” 67 Moran, “Gen 49,10 and Its Use in Ez 21,32,” Bib 39 (1958): 412. 68 Greenberg, “The New Torah Translation,” Judaism 12 (1963): 234 = Studies in the Bible and Jewish Thought (JPS Scholar of Distinction Series; Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1995), 255. 69 On this claim, see the appendix below. 70 Emerton, “Difficult Words,” 84.

222

Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 2 (2010)

modern, have assumed that the midrashic interpretation is incompatible with the Masoretic pointing. I suggest that that assumption is incorrect. As noted above, I have argued elsewhere that *ayy- contracted in Old Canaanite to ī; put differently, ay > ī /_y.71 This sound change is preserved by the Tiberian reading tradition in three poetic forms: ‫ ִﬠי‬, “ruin-heap” < *ayy- < *awy(cf. the toponyms ‫ = ַﬠי‬Γαι; ‫ = ָה ַﬠי‬Ἀγγαι = Samaritan ˚ā  ΄ī; ‫ ִכּי ;) ַﬠיָּ ה‬, “burning” (Isa 3:24) < *kayy- < *kawy- (cf. ‫ כויה‬and Arabic kayy-, “burning”); and ‫ ִרי‬, “saturation” (Job 37:11) < *rayy- < *rawy- (cf. ‫ רויה‬and Arabic rayy-/riyy-, “saturation”). All of these are attested exclusively in poetry; in prose, we find ‫ ַדּי‬, “sufficiency, enough” < *dayy- < *dawy- (cf. Arabic dāwī, “much, abundant [food]”72) and ‫ ַחי‬, “alive” < *hi ayy- < *hi awy- (cf. Arabic hi ayy-, “alive”). All of these are from roots of the form X-y-y < *X-w-y. Is the noun ‫שי‬, “gift, offering,” a member of this class as well? Already at the beginning of the thirteenth century, R. David Qimhii asserted that “the root of the word is ‫ שיה‬or ‫שוה‬.”73 There is, in fact, good evidence that (1) ‫ שי‬is derived from *šayy- and (2) *šayy- is derived from *šawy-.74 Evidence for (1) comes from an obscure Semitic text in Greek script. The previously undeciphered passage is read by Manfred Krebernik as follows: αμμουδ αμασαι / σε┌ιι┐αια ιααβνα λα(ι) / ζαβδαια σαυιει / να αμμοδ ζαβ / δαια.75 71

See n. 48 above. Lane, Lexicon, 941, s.v. dāwī. 73 R. David Qimhii, ‫( ספר השרשים‬Berlin: G. Bethge, 1847), 383. 74 The usual derivation, which goes back to H. L. Ginsberg (‫אַלאין בעל‬ ִ ‫נוספות לעלילת‬, Tarbiz 4 [1933]: 384 n. 16) is quite problematic. According to Ginsberg, ‫ ַשׁי‬cannot be separated from (1) the Hebrew verb ‫ ָשׁ ָﬠה‬, “accept (an offering)” (Gen 4:5), (2) the Ugaritic verb ta y, “offer,” and (3) the Ugaritic noun ta , “offering.” Ginsberg’s defense of this derivation leaves much to be desired: “The letter ayin is sometimes elided in speech in Hebrew; see Ges.-Buhl, 17. Aufl., s.v. '‫ ;ע‬in our case it could have been deleted in writing through haplography, since ayin and šin are similar.” The obvious weaknesses in this Hebrew note have not been pointed out because later scholars have relied on the inaccurate English summary provided by William Foxwell Albright (“The Early Alphabetic Inscriptions from Sinai and their Decipherment,” BASOR 110 [1948]: 15 n. 41): “Ginsberg is probably right in deriving Hebrew šay, ‘gift,’ from *tay by partial assimilation.” It is this new version of Ginsberg’s etymology (including its misuse of the term “partial assimilation”) that Frank Moore Cross (“The Evolution of the Proto-Canaanite Alphabet,” BASOR 134 [1954]: 21 n. 19) accepts: “The derivation tayu > (by partial assimilation) tayy > šay(y), has been established by Ginsberg and Albright.” And it is this version that Gary A. Anderson (Sacrifices and Offerings in Ancient Israel: Studies in Their Social and Political Importance [HSM 41; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987], 34 n. 18) finds problematic: “[Ginsberg] related this Semitic root [tay] to Hebrew šay by a process of partial assimilation. . . . The problem with this view is that the assimilation of ayin is unparalleled.” We may add that the final nail in the coffin of Ginsberg’s theory is the Aramaic form σειιαια = ‫ שייא‬discussed immediately below; it must be derived from *šayy rather than *tayy. 75 Krebernik, “Ein aramäischer Text in griechischer Schrift?” in “Sprich doch mit deinen Knechten aramäisch, wir verstehen es!” 60 Beiträge zur Semitistik: Festschrift für Otto Jastrow 72

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223

I suggest that this is a transcription of Aramaic: ‫ לזבדיא‬// ‫עמוד עמסי שייא יהבנא‬ ‫שוינא עמוד זבדיא‬, “we donated the pillar76 of the gift bearers;77 for the offerings, we bestowed the pillar of offerings.” The form σειιαια shows that Aramaic ‫שי‬, known also from the Old Aramaic dialect of Samal (KAI 214, 18),78 had a geminated yod in suffixed forms. Indeed, the gemination has long been assumed based on the Masoretic vocalization of the noun with patahi instead of qamesi.79 Evidence for (2) comes from the form σαυιεινα = ‫שוינא‬, “we have bestowed,” in the passage cited above and from Ps 21:6 ‫הוֹד וְ ָה ָדר ְתּ ַשׁוֶּ ה ָﬠ ָליו‬, “you bestowed splendor and majesty upon him.” The root of these verbs is, of course, ‫י‬-‫ו‬-‫ש‬.80 Note that the recipient of the gift in the verse is the Davidic king; the three biblical attestations of ‫( ַשׁי‬Isa 18:7; Pss 68:30; 76:12) refer to an offering to the Lord.81 In Aramaic the root can be used of imposing tribute: ‫ושויו עליהון מדא‬, “and they imposed tribute upon them” (Genesis Apocryphon [1QapGen] 21:26). Thus, it is not clear whether the original meaning of ‫( ַשׁי‬a verbal noun that acquired a concrete sense) was “bestowal” (with the giver as the underlying subject) or “imposition” (with the recipient as the underlying subject). In light of the above, it is very likely that the form ‫ ִשׁי‬, “tribute,” existed in Old Canaanite. Indeed, it is somewhat surprising that ‫שי‬, a poetic synonym of ‫ ִמנְ ָחה‬, is vocalized like the prose forms ‫ ַדּי‬and ‫ ַחי‬instead of the poetic forms ‫ﬠי‬, ִ ‫כּי‬, ִ and ‫ ִרי‬. Perhaps Old Canaanite ‫ ִשׁי‬was displaced at some point (in the poetic dialect or the reading tradition) by Aramaic ‫ ַשׁי‬. In any event, the variation in Biblical Hebrew between ‫ ַשׁי‬and ‫ ִשׁי‬is paralleled by the variation in Biblical Hebrew between ‫ ַﬠי‬and ‫ ִﬠי‬. The writing of ‫ ִשׁיֹלה‬as a single word in the MT is not a serious problem.82 Short proclitic words are occasionally written together with the following word in the Bible83 and in inscriptions as well. In Qoh 4:10, we have ‫וְ ִאילוֹ‬, “and woe unto zum 60. Geburtstag (ed. Werner Arnold and Hartmut Bobzin; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2002), 427. The slashes indicate line breaks. 76 See LaMoine F. DeVries, “Cult Stands: A Bewildering Variety of Shapes and Sizes,” BAR 13, no. 4 (July/August 1987): 29: “Sometimes the pedestal has a pillar-like appearance with decorated registers at various levels on the pedestal; the bowl on top may be decorated with petals to resemble the capital of a pillar.” 77 The phrase ‫ עמסי שייא‬is reminiscent of Biblical Hebrew ‫נ ְֹשׂ ֵאי ִמנְ ָחה‬. 78 For this and other epigraphic attestations, see DNWSI, 1125, s.v. šy1. 79 See Anderson, Sacrifices, 34 n. 18. 80 It may well be related to the root meaning “be equal.” If so, it is worth noting that, from the cognate root in Arabic, s-w-y, “be equal,” we find two forms of the verbal noun: siyyun < *siwyun and a dialectal variant sayyun. 81 Joseph Naveh (“More Hebrew Inscriptions from Mesai d Hiashavyahu,” IEJ 12 [1962]: 30–31) assumes that the same is true of ‫ שי‬in an ostracon from Mesai d Hiashavyahu belonging to the time of Josiah. 82 I am indebted to S. Z. Leiman for raising this issue. 83 For a (nonexhaustive) list of fifteen examples, see ‫( ספר אכלה ואכלה‬ed. S. Frensdorff; Hannover: Hahn, 1864), 96–97.

224

Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 2 (2010)

him,” written as a single word in the Leningrad Codex and other accurate Tiberian manuscripts,84 as well as in Babylonian Genizah fragments.85 Moreover, it is possible that the writing of ‫ ִשׁיֹלה‬as a single word hints at a secondary meaning.86 For Ehrlich, the emendation of ‫ ִשׁיֹלה‬to ‫ ַשׁי ֹלה‬was not sufficient. In his view, a second emendation was necessary: ‫יָבֹא‬, “shall come,” to ‫יוּבל‬ ַ , “shall be brought.”87 Most later scholars felt that a more modest emendation was sufficient: ‫ יָבֹא‬to ‫יֻבא‬ ָ .88 Both emendations are contradicted by all of the ancient witnesses to the text: Samaritan: ‫שלה‬/‫( עד כי יבוא שילה‬ād kī yā˚bū šīlå) i 89 LXX: ἕως ἂν ἔλθῃ τὰ ἀποκείμενα αὐτῷ 84 Jordan Penkower was kind enough to check eight Eastern (commonly called “Oriental”) manuscripts in the Institute of Microfilmed Hebrew Manuscripts of the National Library of Israel. His findings are as follows: the reading ‫( וְ ִאילוֹ‬one word) is found in seven of the eight manuscripts: Cairo, Karaite synagogue, #13 in Gottheil’s list, JQR 17 (1905); Letchworth, Sassoon 1053 (formerly); Oxford, Bodleiana Hunt. 591; St. Petersburg, Russian National Library (Firkowitch collection), Evr. I B 19a; Evr. II B 34; Evr. II B 94; St. Petersburg, Institute of Oriental Studies D 67. One manuscript, Berlin, Staatsbibliothek Or. 1213, not to be listed among the group of “accurate Eastern manuscripts,” reads ‫( וְ ִאי לוֹ‬two words). He adds that the Aleppo Codex is no longer extant for Qohelet (with no other evidence of its readings therein) and that MS SP, RNL Evr. II B 92 is not extant here. 85 For ‫( וְ ִאילוֹ‬and ‫ילְך‬ ָ ‫ ִא‬in Qoh 10:16!) in the Babylonian tradition, see Yeivin, ‫מסורת‬, 1114–15. H. L. Ginsberg (‫[ ק ֶֹה ֶלת‬Tel Aviv: M. Newman, 1961], 82) compares ‫אילו‬, “woe unto him” (twice), in t. Ber. 3:20 (Ms. Vienna) and in some versions of the Mishnah. We find ‫ ִאילוֹ‬in m. Yebam. 13:7 according to two of the most important vocalized manuscripts of the Mishnah (Codex Kaufmann and Codex Parma De Rossi 138). 86 It has been suggested that ‫ ֹלה‬is deliberately spelled with final he and placed at the end of the clause (instead of after ‫“ )יָבֹא‬in order to create a literary allusion to the holy place Shiloh” (Cohen, ‫פרשנות‬, 273 n. 52). Another candidate for a secondary meaning of ‫ ִשׁיֹלה‬in our verse is ‫ ְשׁ ִאיֹלה‬, “his requested one,” an interpretation proposed by Paul Lagarde with a reference to Mal 3:1 (Onomastica Sacra [2 vols.; Göttingen: Adalbert Rente, 1870], 2:96). These two possibilities may not be as different as they seem. Ran Zadok (“On Five Biblical Names,” ZAW 89 [1977]: 267) has argued convincingly that the toponym ‫ ִשֹׁלה‬derives from ‫ל‬-‫א‬-‫( ש‬cf. the toponym ‫) ֶא ְשׁ ָתּאוֹל‬ and that the Jewish Aramaic personal name ‫ילא‬ ָ ‫( ִשׁ‬cf. Late Babylonian Ši-la-) is equivalent to the Palmyrene name ‫שאילא‬, “requested one” (cf. Neo-Assyrian Sa-i-la-a and NT Σιλᾶς). Indeed, there are several plays on the name ‫ ִשֹׁלה‬in the story of Samuel’s birth: ‫אַל ְתּ ֵמ ִﬠמּוֹ‬ ְ ‫ֵשׁ ָל ֵתְך ֲא ֶשׁר ָשׁ‬ (1 Sam 1:17); ‫( ִכּי ֵמה' ְשׁ ִא ְל ִתּיו‬1 Sam 1:20). Thus, it is not impossible that the orthography alludes both to Shiloh and to the requested one, that is, the king requested by Judah (cf. 1 Sam 12:17, ‫;ל ְשׁאוֹל ָל ֶכם ֶמ ֶלְך‬ ִ 12:19, ‫) ִל ְשׁאֹל ָלנוּ ֶמ ֶלְך‬. 87 Ehrlich, Randglossen, 1:246. 88 N. H. Torczyner [Naphtali H. Tur-Sinai], ‫עד כי־יבא שילה‬, Tarbiz 13 (1941–42): 214 = ‫הלשון‬ ‫ כרך הלשון‬,‫( והספר‬Jerusalem: Bialik, 1954), 483; Moran, “Gen 49,10,” 412; Testa, “La formazione,” 193 n. 85; Victor P. Hamilton, The Book of Genesis (2 vols.; NICOT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1990, 1995), 2:661; Hoop, Genesis 49, 130; Cohen, “Elements,” 33; idem, ‫פרשנות‬, 271–72. 89 For the spelling of the verb with waw (all manuscripts), see Der hebräische Pentateuch der Samaritaner (ed. August Freiherrn von Gall; Giessen: Töpelmann, 1918), 107; and The Samaritan Pentateuch Edited According to MS 6 (C) of the Shekhem Synagogue (ed. Abraham Tal; Tel Aviv:

Steiner: Poetic Forms in Jacob’s Blessing

225

Onqelos: ‫ דדיליה היא מלכותא‬,‫עד דייתי משיחא‬ Aphrahat and Ephrem Syrus: 90‫ܥܕܡܐ ܕܢܐܬܐ ܿܡܢ ܕܕܝܠܗ ܗܝ ܡܠܟܘܬܐ‬ Peshitta: ‫ܥܕܡܐ ܕܢܐܬܐ ܿܡܢ ܕܕܝܠܗ ܗܝ‬ Targum Neofiti, Fragmentary Targum: ‫ דדידיה היא‬,‫עד זמן דייתי מלכא משיחא‬ ‫מלכותא‬ Samaritan targumim: 91‫נמרה‬/‫עד הלא ייתי שלה‬ 4Q252 (4QCommGen A) V, 3–4: 92‫עד בוא משיח הצדק צמח דויד‬ T. Judah 22:2: ἕως τοῦ ἐλθεῖν τὸ σωτήριον Ἰσραήλ93 The earliest witnesses to ‫א‬-‫ו‬-‫ ב‬in the active voice are ‫ﬠד־בֹּא ֲא ֶשׁר־לוֹ ַה ִמּ ְשׁ ָפּט‬, ַ “until the coming of him to whom punishing belongs,”94 in Ezek 21:32 and ‫ִהנֵּ ה ַמ ְל ֵכְּך‬ ‫יָבוֹא ָלְך‬, “your king shall come to you,” in Zech 9:9, phrases believed to allude to our verse.95 Tel Aviv University, 1994), 51. For the oral reading tradition, see Z. Ben-Hi a yyim, ‫עברית וארמית‬

‫( נוסח שומרון‬Jerusalem: Academy of the Hebrew Language, 1957–67), 3.1:34. 90 Arthur Vööbus, Peschitta und Targumim des Pentateuchs (Stockholm: Etse, 1958), 25– 27; T. Jansma, “Ephraem on Genesis XLIX, 10,” ParOr 4 (1973): 247–56; Robert J. Owens, The Genesis and Exodus Citations of Aphrahat the Persian Sage (Monographs of the Peshitta i Institute 3; Leiden: Brill, 1983), 172–75. For the relationship of these fourth-century citations to the official Syriac biblical text, see Sebastian Brock, “Jewish Traditions in Syriac Sources,” JJS 30 (1979): 218, and the literature cited there. 91 Tal, ‫התרגום השומרוני לתורה‬, 1:210–13. 92 Brooke, “Thematic Content,” 35. 93 M. de Jonge, The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs: A Critical Edition of the Greek Text (PVTG 1.2; Leiden: Brill, 1978), 75. 94 This is a slightly revised version of the translation given by Moshe Greenberg (Ezekiel 21–37: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [AB 22A; New York: Doubleday, 1997], 417, 434), who follows Eliezer of Beaugency. 95 For Zech 9:9, see Joseph Blenkinsopp, “The Oracle of Judah and the Messianic Entry,” JBL 80 (1961): 57; and Michael Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel (Oxford: Clarendon, 1985), 501–2. For Ezek 21:32, see the literature cited by Hermann Gunkel (Genesis [1901; trans. Mark E. Biddle; Mercer Library of Biblical Studies; Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1997], 456), Moran (“Gen 49,10,” 416 n. 3), and L. Monsengwo-Pasinya (“Deux textes messianiques de la Septante: Gn 49,10 et Ez 21,32,” Bib 61 [1980]: 360 n. 16). And add E. W. Hengstenberg, Christologie des Alten Testaments und Commentar über die Messianischen Weissagungen der Propheten (Berlin: L. Ochmigke, 1829), 67; Charles Augustus Briggs, Messianic Prophecy: The Prediction of the Fulfilment of Redemption through the Messiah (New York: C. Scribner’s Sons, 1889), 96; Skinner, Genesis, 523; Driver, Genesis, 411; Fishbane, Biblical Interpretation, 502–3; and Kenneth A. Mathews, Genesis 11:27–50:26 (NAC 1B; Nashville: Broadman & Holman, 2005), 895. It is even possible that ‫ לֹא ֶﬠת־בֹּא‬in Hag 1:2 alludes to Gen 49:10 and/or Ezek 21:32 and should be allowed to have its literal meaning: “it is not the time of (the) coming” (instead of “the time has not come”); cf. ‫א־ﬠת ֵה ָא ֵסף ַה ִמּ ְקנֶ ה‬ ֵ ֹ ‫ל‬, “it is not the time of the gathering [or: coming in] of the livestock” in Gen 29:7. In that case, the appositive phrase ‫ת־בּית ה' ְל ִה ָבּנוֹת‬ ֵ ‫ ֶﬠ‬, “the time for the house of the Lord to be rebuilt,” would imply that some of Haggai’s contemporaries argued that the temple could not be rebuilt until the coming of the messianic king. Such an

226

Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 2 (2010)

Despite all of this early and unanimous support for the Masoretic vocalization, most scholars have emended active ‫ יָבֹא‬to passive ‫יֻבא‬ ָ without even bothering to explain the need for emendation. The closest thing to an explanation I have found is given by André Caquot: “One will wonder whether šay ‘tribute’ is appropriate as the subject of the verb ‘come.’”96 In fact, the Masoretic vocalization here yields perfectly idiomatic Hebrew. An excellent parallel to the textus receptus is ‫ ְכּבוֹד ַה ְלּ ָבנוֹן ֵא ַליִ ְך יָבוֹא‬, “the riches of Lebanon shall come to you” (Isa 60:13); cf. also ‫ ַכּ ְס ְפּ ֶכם ָבּא ֵא ָלי‬, “your money came to me” (Gen 43:23); ‫ת־שׁ ָבא ַל ֶמּ ֶלְך‬ ְ ‫א־בא ַכבּ ֶֹשׂם ַההוּא עוֹד ָלר ֹב ֲא ֶשׁר־נָ ְתנָ ה ַמ ְל ַכּ‬ ָ ֹ‫ל‬ ‫ ְשֹׁלמֹה‬, “never again did spices come in such great quantity as that which the queen of Sheba gave to King Solomon” (1 Kgs 10:10); '‫נּוֹת ִרים ְבּ ֵבית־ה‬ ָ ‫ְל ִב ְל ִתּי־בֹאוּ ַה ֵכּ ִלים ַה‬ ‫ירוּשׁ ַלםִ ָבּ ֶב ָלה‬ ָ ‫וּב‬ ִ ‫הוּדה‬ ָ ְ‫וּבית ֶמ ֶלְך י‬ ֵ , “not to let the vessels remaining in the House of the Lord, in the royal palace of Judah, and in Jerusalem come to Babylon” (Jer 27:18); ‫ל־הגּוֹיִ ם‬ ַ ‫וּבאוּ ֶח ְמ ַדּת ָכּ‬ ָ , “and the precious things of all the nations shall come” (Hag 2:7).97 These parallels show unequivocally that the qal verb ‫א‬-‫ו‬-‫ ב‬can take as its subject inanimate nouns referring to precious objects. We may also compare the interchange between ‫ ֵחיל גּוֹיִ ם יָ בֹאוּ ָלְך‬, “the riches of nations shall come to you” (Isa 60:5), and ‫ ְל ָה ִביא ֵא ַליִ ְך ֵחיל גּוֹיִ ם‬, “to bring the riches of nations to you” (Isa 60:11), and the interchange between ‫אַמ ְתּח ֵֹתינוּ‬ ְ ‫ ַה ֶכּ ֶסף ַה ָשּׁב ְבּ‬, “the money that returned in our sacks” (Gen 43:18), and ‫יכם‬ ֶ ‫אַמ ְתּח ֵֹת‬ ְ ‫מּוּשׁב ְבּ ִפי‬ ָ ‫ ַה ֶכּ ֶסף ַה‬, “the money that was returned in the mouth your sacks” (Gen 43:12). The use of ‫ יָבֹא‬here with an inanimate subject is no doubt connected with the use of ‫ יָ סוּר‬with an inanimate subject at the beginning of the verse. Both are qal verbs of motion that could have been replaced with their huphal counterparts. As noted above, ‫ ִכּי־יָבֹא ִשׁי ֹלה‬stands in antithetical parallelism to ‫לֹא־יָ סוּר ֵשׁ ֶבט‬ ‫יהוּדה‬ ָ ‫ ִמ‬. Thus, there is a good literary explanation for the Masoretic vocalization of ‫יָבֹא‬.

IV. Archaic Vocalizations and the Origin of the Masoretic Reading Tradition(s) The preservation of archaic, nonstandard vocalizations is an impressive achievement of the Masoretes. The three segolate construct adjectives discussed in

interpretation would eliminate the stylistic problems in Hag 1:2 discussed in Carol L. Meyers and Eric M. Meyers, Haggai, Zechariah 1–8: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 25B; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1987), 19–20. 96 Caquot, “La parole sur Juda dans le testament lyrique de Jacob (Genèse 49, 8-12),” Sem 26 (1976): 24. 97 The last parallel is noted by Moran himself (“Gen 49,10,” 412) as evidence that the emendation “is not absolutely necessary.”

Steiner: Poetic Forms in Jacob’s Blessing

227

section I are hapax legomena.98 They appear to be the product of a Proto-Semitic syncope rule,99 a rule that, thanks to the Masoretes, Hebrew managed to preserve better than any other Semitic language.100 Most of the examples of the Old Canaanite monophthongization *ay > ī discussed in sections II and III are also hapax legomena. Even more remarkable is the fact that all of these anomalous forms are found only in poetry,101 and several of them (‫כּ ֶבד‬, ֶ ‫;ﬠ ֶרל‬ ֶ ‫ﬠינוֹת‬, ִ ‫צוּﬠי‬ ִ ְ‫ )י‬contrast with forms found only in prose (‫כ ַבד‬, ְ ‫;ﬠ ַרל‬ ֲ ‫ﬠינֹת‬, ֵ ‫צוּﬠי‬ ֵ ְ‫)י‬. In other words, the Tiberian Masoretes102 also succeeded in preserving a grammatical distinction between poetry and prose expressed solely in the vocalization. From them we learn that the language of poetry in ancient Israel had distinctive characteristics not only in the area of morphology, syntax, and lexicon, but also in phonology and morphophonemics. One of the features in question, the monophthongization *ay > ī, is not native to Hebrew; it is borrowed from a neighboring dialect. Such borrowing is known from the Modern South Arabian languages as well. According to T. M. Johnstone: “The language in which Śhieri speakers compose poetry is indeed very specialized and is not well known to Dhofaris whose first language is Arabic. . . . This poetic medium is, in fact, a mixed language; most features of the phonology and morphology are Śhieri, while a few important phonological features and many of the lexical items are Mehri.”103 The Masoretes preserved these grammatically anomalous poetic forms without any help from postbiblical Hebrew and without any knowledge of their origin; they had to accept them on blind faith, resisting the temptation to substitute 98

The form ‫— ֶא ֶרְך‬the segolate construct form of ‫ ָאר ְֹך‬occurring in the phrases ‫ ֶא ֶרְך ָה ֵא ֶבר‬, “long of pinion” (Ezek 17:3), ‫רוּח‬ ַ ‫( ֶא ֶרְך‬Eccl 7:8), and ‫אַפּיִ ם‬ ַ ‫( ֶא ֶרְך‬passim)—is of course far more common, but that is mainly because of the theological importance of the phrase ‫אַפּיִ ם‬ ַ ‫ ֶא ֶרְך‬. 99 See Hans Bauer and Pontus Leander, Historische Grammatik der hebräischen Sprache des Alten Testamentes (Halle: Max Niemeyer, 1922), 176–77 §12c, 552 §70p-q; cf. 554–55 §70z; and Richard C. Steiner, “From Proto-Hebrew to Mishnaic Hebrew: The History of ‫ְך‬-F and ‫הּ‬-F ,” HAR 3 (1979): 166 n. 20. 100 The alternation of construct ‫* < ַמ ְמ ֶל ֶכת‬mamlaktu with absolute ‫* < ַמ ְמ ָל ָכה‬mamlákatum is a product of the same rule, which thus must go back to the birth of the *-t allomorph of the feminine ending; see Carl Brockelmann, “Die Femininendung T im Semitischen,” Schlesische Gesellschaft für vaterländische Kultur. IV. Abteilung. Orientalisch-sprachwissenschaftliche Sektion 81 (1903): 13–23. Hebrew—more precisely, Masoretic Hebrew—is the only Semitic language in which there is a class of nouns that have *-t solely in the construct state and/or with pronominal suffixes. Other Semitic languages exhibit only vestiges of what must be considered the original conditioning; see Richard C. Steiner, “Vestiges of a Proto-Semitic Syncope Rule in the Semitic Languages” (forthcoming). 101 The form ‫ ֶא ֶרְך‬, too, is attested mainly in poetry. 102 The fragments that survive show that the Babylonian Masoretes preserved some of these forms but not others. For the two construct forms of ‫( ָכּ ֵבד‬and ‫ ) ָח ֵסר‬in the Babylonian reading tradition, see Yeivin, ‫מסורת‬, 443. On the other hand, they have ‫ ֵﬠינוֹת‬in Prov 8:28 (ibid., 869). 103 Johnstone, “The Language of Poetry in Dhofar,” BSOAS 35 (1972): 1.

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Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 2 (2010)

ְ ‫;ﬠ ַרל‬ ֲ ‫צוּﬠי‬ ֵ ְ‫י‬, ‫ﬠירוֹ‬, ֵ ‫שׁיתוֹ‬, ֵ ‫) ֵﬠינוֹת‬. Their the normal prose vocalizations (‫יְ ַתר‬, ‫כ ַבד‬, success in preserving relic forms that even modern scholars have misunderstood confirms in full the judgment of Ian Young: Firstly, the validity of the Masoretic vocalization as historical evidence of a period well before the Masoretic period has been demonstrated in recent scholarship. Secondly, it is the tendency of both reading traditions, and of language in general, to level anomalous forms. Therefore the retention of such forms can be taken with caution as survivals of earlier or divergent linguistic systems.104

The linguistic distinction between poetry and prose is only one of the many linguistic distinctions that the Masoretes managed to preserve in their oral reading tradition(s). The ones that are best preserved are so well known that we often lose sight of them in evaluating the Masoretic enterprise. One such distinction is that between Hebrew and Aramaic. The Masoretes of the early Islamic period (not to mention the pre-Islamic period) wrote and spoke Aramaic, and yet they managed to keep their Hebrew reading tradition(s) relatively free of Aramaic influence. This achievement, too often taken for granted, can be seen by comparing their pointing of Hebrew words with their pointing of Aramaic homographs with the same meaning, for example, ‫( ַשׂ ְמ ָתּ‬passim) vs. ‫( ָשׂ ְמ ָתּ‬Dan 3:10), ‫( ְל ָמוֶ ת‬2 Sam 15:21) vs. ‫( ְלמוֹת‬Ezra 7:26), ‫יטב‬ ַ ִ‫( י‬passim) vs. ‫יטב‬ ַ ֵ‫( י‬Ezra 7:18), ‫( ָשׂא‬passim) vs. ‫ֵשׂא‬ (Ezra 5:15), ‫יְב ֵקּר‬ ַ (Lev 13:36) vs. ‫( ַיְב ַקּר‬Ezra 4:15), ‫( ָﬠנוּ‬passim) vs. ‫( ֲﬠנוֹ‬passim), ‫יָ ַדע‬ (passim) vs. ‫( יְ ַדע‬Dan 5:21), ‫( י ֵֹד ַע‬passim) vs. ‫( יָ ַדע‬Dan 2:22), ‫( ָשׁאַל‬passim) vs. ‫ְשׁ ֵאל‬ (Dan 2:10), ‫( ֵה ִקים‬passim) vs. ‫( ֲה ֵקים‬passim), ‫( ֶﬠ ְרוַ ת‬passim) vs. ‫( ַﬠ ְרוַ ת‬Ezra 4:14), ‫( ְל ָב ְבָך‬passim) vs. ‫( ִל ְב ָבְך‬Dan 2:30). Synonymous homographic pairs of this type can be found within a single book, for example, ‫( ֲﬠ ָב ֶדיָך‬Ezra 9:11) vs. ‫( ַﬠ ְב ָדיְך‬Ezra 4:11), ‫( ִה ְתנַ ְדּבוּ‬Ezra 2:28) vs. ‫( ִה ְתנַ ַדּבוּ‬Ezra 7:15), ‫( ִמ ְתנַ ֵדּב‬Ezra 3:5) vs. ‫( ִמ ְתנַ ַדּב‬Ezra 7:13), ‫( ֵﬠינַ י‬Dan 8:3) vs. ‫( ַﬠיְ נַ י‬Dan 4:31). They can even be found within a single passage, for example, ‫אבדוּ‬ ֵ ֹ ‫( י‬Jer 10:15) vs. ‫אבדוּ‬ ַ ֵ‫( י‬Jer 10:11), ‫( ס ֵֹפר‬Ezra 7:11) vs. ‫( ָס ַפר‬Ezra 7:12). Two of the distinctions, ‫ָך‬- vs. ‫ְך‬-F and ‫יָך‬-ֶ vs. ‫יְך‬-,F are particularly noteworthy since other Hebrew reading traditions (Origen, Samaritans) did not succeed in preserving them.105 At the other extreme, we find the Masoretes preserving the most minute and isolated distinctions. For example, we learn from several sources that the ‫ פּ‬in the word ‫אַפּ ְדנוֹ‬ ַ (Dan 11:45) had a unique pronunciation, a pronunciation reflecting its origin as an Iranian loanword with an unaspirated p.106 That the preservation 104 Young, “The Diphthong *ay in Edomite,” JSS 37 (1992): 29. See also Shelomo Morag, “On the Historical Validity of the Vocalization of the Hebrew Bible,” JAOS 94 (1974): 307–15, cited by Young. 105 Ze’ev Ben Hi ayyim, Studies in the Traditions of the Hebrew Language (Madrid: Instituto Arias Montano, 1954), 22–39. See also Steiner, “From Proto-Hebrew,” 157–64, and the literature cited there. 106 Richard C. Steiner, (‫ מה‬,‫אַפּ ְדנוֹ )דניאל יא‬ ַ ‫הפ"א הנחצית במלה‬, in Hebrew and Arabic

Steiner: Poetic Forms in Jacob’s Blessing

229

of such a phonological hapax was not a trivial accomplishment is shown by the transliteration εφαδανω in Theodotion’s translation of the verse, with aspirated φ instead of the unaspirated π = Latin p reported by Jerome. The Masoretes managed to preserve it despite the fact that the word was not in use in Western Aramaic. Another minute detail is preserved in Hos 2:7, where the Tiberian reading tradition has ‫ ִפּ ְשׁ ִתּי‬instead of ‫ ִפּ ְשׁ ַתּי‬, expected on both linguistic and literary grounds. Unlike virtually all modern authorities, the Tiberian Masoretes refrained from emending their tradition, even though they are not likely to have known that Hosea used a northern form here, a form well attested in Phoenician and Ugaritic.107 The archaic vocalizations discussed above would seem to imply that the Masoretes had an unbroken tradition stretching back to the biblical period. This conclusion is consistent with the conclusion of E. Y. Kutscher’s study of the short high vowels *i and *u.108 Kutscher noted that the lowering of short *i to [ɛ] in closed unstressed syllables that we find in the Hebrew of the LXX (e.g., Σεπφωρ = ‫ ִצפּוֹר‬, Σεπφωρα = ‫ ) ִצפּ ָֹרה‬and Josephus (e.g., Σεπφωρις = ‫ ;צפורין‬εσσα = ‫) ִא ָשּׁה‬109 is found also in Galilean Aramaic (e.g., ‫ ֶל ָבּא‬, “the heart”; ‫ ֶל ָשּׁן‬, “tongue”) and, we ܶ ܶ ܰ ܶ may add, in Syriac (e.g., ‫ܠ ܳܒܐ‬, ‫ܠ ܳܫܢ‬, ‫ܨܦܪ‬, “bird”). Coins minted at Sepphoris have the abbreviated forms Σεπφω and Σεπφωρ under Vespasian (69–79 c.e.) and the form Σεπφωρηνων, “of the Sepphorites,” under Trajan (98–117 c.e.).110 Now it is quite normal for the pronunciation of classical texts in Latin and Hebrew to be affected by developments in the spoken language.111 And yet, in both the Tiberian and Babylonian reading traditions, we find unstressed closedsyllabic *i unlowered in Biblical Hebrew (e.g., ‫צפּוֹר‬, ִ ‫ ) ִצפּ ָֹרה‬and Biblical Aramaic Studies in Honour of Joshua Blau Presented by Friends and Students on the Occasion of His Seventieth Birthday (Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv University, 1993), 551–61. 107 Steiner, “Monophthongization,” 81–83. 108 Kutscher, ‫ בתעתיקי העברית המקראית בארמית הגלילית ובלשון חז"ל‬U I ‫ביצוע תנועות‬, in ‫( קובץ מאמרים בלשון חז"ל‬ed. Moshe Bar-Asher; Jerusalem: Hebrew University, 1972), 129–65. 109 The toponym, not cited by Kutscher, is found dozens of times in Josephus’s works; for εσσα, see Ant. 1.1.2 §36 (Les Antiquités juives [ed. Étienne Nodet; Paris: Cerf, 1990–], 1:7). I have deliberately chosen examples in which the lowering occurs in a syllable closed by a geminated consonant; see n. 112 below. 110 Yoel Elitzur, Ancient Place Names in the Holy Land: Preservation and History (Jerusalem: Hebrew University, Magnes, 2004), 81. 111 For Latin in France, see G. C. Moore Smith, “The English Language and the ‘Restored’ Pronunciation of Latin,” in A Grammatical Miscellany Offered to Otto Jespersen on his Seventieth Birthday (Copenhagen: Levin & Munksgaard, 1930), 168: “Every change in the vernacular extended simultaneously to the pronunciation of Latin.” For Latin in England, see Frederick Brittain, Latin in Church: The History of Its Pronunciation (2nd ed; London: Mowbray, 1955), 55: “Since the time of Erasmus, it has followed the changes in English phonetics step by step.” For Hebrew examples, see Richard C. Steiner, “Variation, Simplifying Assumptions and the History of Spirantization in Aramaic and Hebrew,” in Sha’arei Lashon: Studies in Hebrew, Aramaic and Jewish Languages Presented to Moshe Bar-Asher (ed. A. Maman et al.; Jerusalem: Bialik, 2007), *60 n. 30.

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Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 2 (2010)

(e.g., ‫) ִצ ְפּ ִרין‬, except in the vicinity of gutturals.112 In other words, the two traditions are more archaic than the LXX in their treatment of *i! Kutscher deduced from this that already in the third century b.c.e. there was a standard pronunciation of Biblical Hebrew and Biblical Aramaic that retained the ancient realization of the high vowels alongside a substandard pronunciation (influenced by Western Aramaic)113 that did not. Now, it is not likely that *i could have survived unchanged in closed unstressed syllables without some sort of reading tradition or, at least, a formal “reading style.”114 This would seem to imply that, already at the beginning of the Hellenistic period, there were readers of the Bible who strove to keep their pronunciation free of colloquial influence. I do not mean to suggest that the reading tradition(s) did not evolve. In our Masoretic reading tradition(s), survivals frequently coexist with recent developments. This can be seen even with the high vowels. The Babylonian Masoretes preserved both *i and *u in closed unstressed syllables, but, for some reason, the Tiberians did not do nearly as good a job of preserving *u as they did with *i. In most closed unstressed syllables, they allowed *u to be lowered all the way to [ɔ].115 The proto-Masoretes had particular difficulty in preserving sounds lost to sound change in the spoken language(s). In a few cases, we can show that where they failed, it was not for lack of trying. Take, for example, the old voiceless uvular fricative *h, which disappeared from spoken Hebrew and Aramaic in the first century b.c.e. or (at the latest) the beginning of the first century c.e.116 The 112 The lowering appears to have begun in closed unstressed syllables containing one of the pharyngeal consonants, which have a lowering effect on neighboring vowels even outside of Semitic; see Richard C. Steiner, “A-coloring Consonants and Furtive Patahi in Biblical Hebrew and Aramaic According to the Tiberian Masorah,” in Sivan, Zaphenath Paneah, *143–55. The Tiberian reading tradition preserves a slightly later stage in which the shift is conditioned by laryngeals (e.g., ‫א ְקטֹל‬, ֶ ‫א ְצלוֹ‬, ֶ ‫ה ְבלוֹ‬, ֶ ‫ ) ֶתּ ְה ַדּר‬as well as pharyngeals (e.g., ‫ﬠזְ ִרי‬, ֶ ‫ח ְשׁבּוֹן‬, ֶ ‫)יֶ ְח ַדּל‬, except in syllables closed by a geminated consonant (e.g., ‫א ְתּמוֹל ~ ֶא ְתמוֹל‬, ִ ‫א ְשׁ ֶכם ~ ִא ָשּׁם‬, ֶ ‫) ֶחזְ יוֹן ~ ִחזָּ יוֹן‬. The Babylonian tradition exhibits no trace of the shift; see Yeivin, ‫מסורת‬, 287 (‫א ְקטֹל‬, ִ ‫א ְצלוֹ‬, ִ ‫ה ְבלוֹ‬, ִ ‫ ִﬠזְ ִרי‬,‫)ח ְשׁבּוֹן‬, ִ 454 (‫)תּ ְה ַדּר‬, ִ 458 (‫)יִ ְח ַדּל‬. 113 For Aramaic influence on the transcription of proper names in the LXX, see Jan Joosten, “The Septuagint as a Source of Information on Egyptian Aramaic in the Hellenistic Period,” in Aramaic in Its Historical and Linguistic Setting (ed. Holger Gzella and Margaretha L. Folmer; Veröffentlichungen der Orientalischen Kommission 50; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2008), 97–99. 114 By contrast, the substandard pronunciation does not necessarily imply the existence of a reading tradition or style; see Joosten, “Septuagint,” 98–99. 115 For example, in the first syllable of ‫קרבן‬, “sacrifice.” Outside of the phrase ‫ֻק ְר ַבּן ָה ֵﬠ ִצים‬ (Neh 10:35; 13:31), we find ‫ ָק ְר ָבּן‬in the Tiberian reading tradition vs. ‫ ֻק ְר ָבּן‬in the Babylonian reading tradition, ‫ ק ְֹר ָבּן‬in the Palestinian reading tradition, and κορβᾶν in Josephus and the NT; see Richard C. Steiner, “Hebrew: Ancient Hebrew,” International Encyclopedia of Linguistics (ed. William Bright; 4 vols.; New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), 2:113. 116 Richard C. Steiner, “On the Dating of Hebrew Sound Changes (*H > Hi and *Ġ > ) and Greek Translations (2 Esdras and Judith),” JBL 124 (2005): 229–67.

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transcriptions of Josephus and Aquila117 show that *h did not disappear from the biblical reading tradition(s) until the second century c.e., although signs of its decline are already apparent in the first century c.e.118 Another example is *rr, which is well attested in the LXX but underwent degemination in the Masoretic reading traditions,119 for example, Αμορραῖον = ‫( ֱאמ ִֹרי‬cf. Akkadian Amurru), Αρραν = ‫ ָה ָרן‬, Χαρραν = ‫( ָח ָרן‬cf. Akkadian Harrānu), Χορραῖος = ‫( ח ִֹרי‬cf. Akkadian Hurru), Μερρα = ‫ ָמ ָרה‬, Σαρρα = ‫ ָשׂ ָרה‬. Here again, the first century c.e. appears to be a time of transition. The name Σαρρα = ‫ָשׂ ָרה‬ appears almost two dozen times in Josephus’s Antiquities120 with virtually no manuscript variation,121 while inscriptions of the first century c.e. have Σαρα, Σαρας,122 presumably reflecting the spoken language. In other names, Josephus seems to be inconsistent in his treatment of geminated r. In one passage of Antiquities, he has Αρανης = ‫ ָה ָרן‬four times with virtually no manuscript variation (1.6.5–1.7.1 §§151–54),123 while in another passage he has Αρρανης = ‫ ָה ָרן‬twice, again with virtually no manuscript variation (1.19.4 §289).124 He seems to have a similar fluctuation in his renderings of ‫( ֱאמ ִֹרי‬13x).125 Although in most places the manuscripts vary between Αμοριτις and Αμορριτις or between Αμοραιος and Αμορραιος, the forms Αμοριτις and Αμορραιος are each found in one place with almost no manuscript variation relevant to geminated r (4.5.1, 3 §§85, 94).126 In these cases, the difficulty of preserving sounds no longer extant in the spoken language was exacerbated by historical circumstances. As I have written elsewhere, “The change in the reading traditions may have been accelerated, if not initiated, by the death and destruction that resulted from the rebellion against the Romans (66–74 c.e.). Born in 37 c.e., Josephus must have received his education well before the rebellion, even though he did not complete his Antiquities until 93 c.e.”127 117

I refer to those transcriptions that are independent of the transcriptions in the LXX. Steiner, “On the Dating,” 248–51, 266. 119 The Tiberian tradition probably does have a geminated r, but in most cases it is a later innovation, not the reflex of Proto-Semitic geminated r. For geminated r in postbiblical Hebrew and Aramaic, see Yeivin, ‫מסורת‬, 284–86, and the literature cited there. 120 See Abraham Schalit, Namenwörterbuch zu Flavius Josephus (Leiden: Brill, 1968), 108. 121 The form Σαρα is listed in the apparatus of Nodet, Antiquités juives, for only three of the twenty-two occurrences, each time from only a single witness. 122 Tal Ilan, Lexicon of Jewish Names in Late Antiquity (vols. 1, 3; TSAJ 91, 127; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002, 2008), 1:255. So too at Beth Shearim (ca. 200–352 c.e.), the name appears in a dozen Greek inscriptions, always as Σαρα; see ‫( בית־שערים‬3 vols.; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1944–71), 2:98. 123 Nodet, Antiquités juives, 1:25–26. 124 Ibid., 1:48. 125 Schalit, Namenwörterbuch, 10. 126 Nodet, Antiquités juives, 2:23*, 25*. 127 Steiner, “On the Dating,” 251. 118

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The Masoretes and their predecessors lived in an age of harmonization. Take, for example, the two versions of the Ten Commandments. The Samaritans engaged in textual harmonization, replacing ‫( זכור את יום השבת‬Exod 20:7/8) with ‫שמור את‬ ‫( יום השבת‬Deut 5:12).128 The targumists practiced translational harmonization, rendering ‫ זכור את יום השבת‬with ‫הוון זהירין ית יומא דשובתא‬, “be careful of the Sabbath day,” instead of ‫הוון דכירין ית יומא דשובתא‬, “be mindful of the Sabbath day.”129 The rabbis engaged in historical harmonization, asserting that ‫ זכור‬and ‫ שמור‬were uttered simultaneously.130 The Masoretes, by contrast, strove to prevent harmonization or, at least, textual harmonization. As a means of preserving differences between parallel passages, they compiled treatises with names like ‫חלוף פסוקי התורה דדמין‬, “variation between similar Pentateuchal verses.”131 In them they carefully noted the differences between the two versions of the Ten Commandments, including ‫ זכור‬vs. ‫שמור‬.132 Similarly, the Masoretes noted the discrepancies between their oral reading tradition and their written textual tradition; for them they created a marginal ketiv-qere apparatus.133 In this article, we have dealt with linguistic variation solely within the oral reading tradition(s). The evidence suggests that the Masoretes were obsessive preservationists in that area as well. In the words of one student of their system: In other words, all levels of analysis would seemingly lead to the observation that the Massoretes could not have sat down to their task by deciding which 128 Emanuel Tov, “Proto-Samaritan Texts and the Samaritan Pentateuch,” in The Samaritans (ed. Alan David Crown; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1989), 402–3. 129 Genizah Manuscripts of Palestinian Targum to the Pentateuch (ed. and trans. Michael L. Klein; Cincinnati: Hebrew Union College Press, 1986), xxxi, 267. The reading ‫]דכ[ירין‬, given in the Targum Studies Module of the Comprehensive Aramaic Lexicon, is erroneous. The reading of Paul Kahle (Masoreten des Westens [2 vols.; Texte und Untersuchungen zur vormasoretischen Grammatik des Hebräischen 1, 4; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1927, 1930], 2:58) and Klein is ‫זהירין‬, and Klein’s photograph (vol. 2, plate 91) leaves no doubt that it is correct. A more striking example of translational harmonization is the targum of Isa 6:7, transferred unchanged from Jer 1:9. See also Michael L. Klein, “Associative and Complementary Translation in the Targumim,” ErIsr 16 (1982): 134*–140*. 130 See Ezra Zion Melammed, “‘Observe’ and ‘Remember’ Spoken in One Utterance,” in The Ten Commandments in History and Tradition (ed. Ben-Zion Segal and Gershon Levi; Publications of the Perry Foundation for Biblical Research; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1999), 191–217. 131 See the lists in Christian D. Ginsburg, The Massorah (4 vols.; London, 1880–1905), 3:136–74, and the Prolegomenon by Aron Dotan in the reprint (New York: Ktav, 1975), xxv–xxx. 132 Ibid., 3:138. 133 For this view of the ketiv-qere, see Richard C. Steiner, “Ketiv-Kei re or Polyphony: The ‫שׁ‬-‫ שׂ‬Distinction According to the Masoretes, the Rabbis, Jerome, Qirqisānī, and Hai Gaon,” in Studies in Hebrew and Jewish Languages Presented to Shelomo Morag (ed. M. Bar-Asher; Jerusalem: Bialik, 1996), *153 n. 5, *174–76, and the literature cited there. Add now Yosef Ofer, ‫ דרכי הסימון שלה ודעות הקדמונים עליה‬,‫ פשר התופעה‬:‫כתיב וקרי‬, Leš 70 (2008): 55–73 and 71 (2009): 255–79.

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reading made the most sense at a given point. If they had worked this way, then a highly regularized patterning would have been likely. It would seem much more probable, then, that the Massoretes simply reduced to a writing system the pronunciation of biblical Hebrew that was traditional for them, i.e., that one generation had learned by rote from the prior generation.134

V. Conclusions The phrases discussed in this article—‫יֶתר ְשׂ ֵאת‬ ֶ (Gen 49:3), ‫צוּﬠי ָﬠ ָלה‬ ִ ְ‫( י‬Gen 49:4), and ‫( יָבֹא ִשׁיֹלה‬Gen 49:10)—make perfect sense as they are, without the emendations that have been suggested. Their obscurity stems, in part, from the fact that they reflect linguistic features peculiar to the poetic dialect of Biblical Hebrew. Although usually taken as a noun, ‫ יֶ ֶתר‬is the archaic poetic construct form of the adjective ‫יָ ֵתר‬, the latter known from Mishnaic Hebrew. ‫צוּﬠי‬ ִ ְ‫ י‬is another poetic form, either the Old Canaanite form of ‫צוּﬠי‬ ֵ ְ‫( י‬like ‫ ִﬠיר ֹה‬for ‫ ֵﬠיר ֹה‬in 49:11) or a singular form with hi ireq compaginis (like ‫ א ְֹס ִרי‬for ‫ א ֵֹסר‬and ‫ ְבּנִ י‬for ‫ ֶבּן‬in 49:11). ‫ָﬠ ָלה‬ (used only of animals in biblical prose) is a poetic synonym of ‫ ; ֵמינֶ ֶקת‬it is attested with the meaning “nursemaid” in the poem from Ben Sira preserved in the Psalms Scroll from Qumran (11QPsa). ‫ ִשׁיֹלה‬is composed of ‫ ִשׁי‬, “tribute,” another poetic form, plus ‫“ ֹלה‬to him.” ‫ ִשׁי‬is the Old Canaanite form of ‫ ַשׁי‬, serving in the Bible as a poetic synonym of ‫ ִמנְ ָחה‬. The Masoretic vocalization of ‫ יָבֹא‬is supported by all ancient witnesses, including the allusions in Ezek 21:32 and Zech 9:9. The use of this verb with an inanimate subject has many parallels (e.g., Isa 60:13, ‫ְכּבוֹד ַה ְלּ ָבנוֹן‬ ‫ ;) ֵא ַליִ ְך יָבוֹא‬moreover, it has an excellent literary explanation: ‫ ִכּי־יָבֹא ִשׁי ֹלה‬stands in antithetical parallelism to ‫יהוּדה‬ ָ ‫לֹא־יָ סוּר ֵשׁ ֶבט ִמ‬. In all likelihood, the Masoretes did not understand these forms any better than modern scholars do, but, unlike the latter, they resisted the temptation to emend them, thanks to their blind faith in their oral reading traditions. Although the Tiberian and Babylonian reading traditions evolved over the centuries in tandem with the spoken languages, the evidence shows that they preserve obscure forms and archaic features from the biblical period.

Appendix: Additional Echoes of the ‫ שי לו‬Interpretation? It has usually been assumed that the ‫ שי לו‬interpretation is found only in midrashic literature, but that is by no means certain. Take, for example, the 134 Gene M. Schramm, The Graphemes of Tiberian Hebrew (University of California Publications, Near Eastern Studies 2; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1964), 64–65.

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rendering of the LXX (Gen 49:10): ἕως ἂν ἔλθῃ τὰ ἀποκείμενα αὐτῷ, “until the things stored (put) away for him come.” Many scholars assume that this rendering is based on ‫אשר לו = שלו = שילה‬.135 Others hold that it is based on (or at least similar to) the ‫ שי לו‬interpretation.136 There is no room for certitude here. In the words of John William Wevers: “The Greek is almost as mysterious as ‫שילה‬.137 Another way of understanding the Septuagint is suggested by Symmachus’s use of τὰ ἀποκείμενα αὐτοῦ, “his stored (put) away things,” to render ‫ִשׁיתוֹ‬ in Isa 10:17.138 That rendering takes -‫ ִשׁית‬to be the passive participle of ‫ת‬-‫י‬-‫ש‬, “put,” presumably on the analogy of the passive participle ‫ ִשׂים‬in Hebrew and Aramaic. In Western Aramaic (Galilean Aramaic, Christian Palestinian Aramaic, and Samaritan Aramaic), the feminine passive participle, ‫ימה‬ ָ ‫ ִס‬, has the meaning “treasure.”139 The rendering τὰ ἀποκείμενα αὐτοῦ = ‫ ִשׁיתוֹ‬in Isa 10:17 would seem to imply τὰ ἀποκείμενα αὐτῷ = ‫ ִשׁית ֹלה‬in Gen 49:10. In other words, the Greek translators may have taken ‫ ִשׁיֹלה‬as a contraction of ‫ ִשׁית ֹלה‬. What of the targumim? Onqelos has: ‫ דדיליה היא מלכותא‬,‫עד דייתי משיחא‬, “until the coming of the Messiah, to whom kingship belongs.” Neofiti and Fragmentary Targum are more or less the same: ‫ דדידיה‬,‫עד זמן דייתי מלכא משיחא‬ ‫היא מלכותא‬, “until the time of the coming of the King Messiah, to whom kingship belongs.” So too Aphrahat and Ephrem Syrus (both fourth century): ‫ܥܕܡܐ‬ ‫ܕܢܐܬܐ ܿܡܢ ܕܕܝܠܗ ܗܝ ܡܠܟܘܬܐ‬, “until the coming of the one to whom kingship belongs.”140 Medieval exegetes and modern scholars believe that this rendering takes ‫ שילה‬as equivalent to ‫שלו‬, and indeed the Hebrew counterpart found in some 135 Driver, “Genesis XLIX. 10,” 4; Driver, Genesis, 411; Walter Schröder, “Gen 49:10: Versuch einer Erklärung,” ZAW 29 (1909): 189; Roger Syrén, The Blessings in the Targums: A Study on the Targumic Interpretations of Genesis 49 and Deuteronomy 33 (Acta Academiae Aboensis, Ser. A., Humaniora 64.1; Åbo: Åbo Akademi, 1986), 57 n. 155; Hamilton, Genesis, 2:660; Martin Rösel, “Die Interpretation von Genesis 49 in der Septuaginta,” BN 79 (1995): 63; Emanuel Tov, The TextCritical Use of the Septuagint in Biblical Research (2nd ed.; Jerusalem Biblical Studies 8; Jerusalem: Simor, 1997), 78; James L. Kugel, Traditions of the Bible: A Guide to the Bible as It Was at the Start of the Common Era (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998), 472. 136 K. Kohler, Der Segen Jacob’s mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der alten Versionen und des Midrasch kritisch-historisch untersucht und erklärt (Berlin: J. Benzian, 1867), 52; Leo Prijs, Jüdische Tradition in der Septuaginta (Leiden: Brill, 1948), 68; Jerome A. Lund, “The Influence of the Septuagint on the Peshitta: A Re-evaluation of Criteria in Light of Comparative Study of the Versions in Genesis and Psalms” (Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University, Jerusalem, 1988), 185; and Yeshayahu Maori, ‫( תרגום הפשיטתא לתורה והפרשנות היהודית הקדומה‬Jerusalem: Magnes, 1995), 133 n. 175. 137 Wevers, Notes on the Greek Text of Genesis (SBLSCS 35; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1993), 826. 138 Origenis Hexaplorum, 2:450. 139 Michael Sokoloff, A Dictionary of Jewish Palestinian Aramaic (Ramat-Gan, Israel: Bar Ilan University Press, 1990), 375; Friedrich Schulthess, Lexicon Syropalaestinum (Berlin: G. Reimer, 1903), 134-35; Tal, Dictionary of Samaritan Aramaic, 584. 140 See n. 90 above

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versions of Genesis Rabbah (< Tanhi uma) seems to support them: ‫עד כי יבוא שילה‬ ‫מי שהמלכות שלו‬, “until the coming of ‫שילה‬, the one to whom kingship belongs.”141 This interpretation assumes that the verse is elliptical; we must supply “kingship” (or at least “it”) as the subject of the asyndetic relative clause. A different interpretation of the targumic rendering is suggested by one manuscript of Genesis Rabbah that has a slightly longer version: ‫עד כי יבוא שילה‬ ‫שיילו מי שהמלכות שלו‬.142 According to this version, the paraphrase ‫עד שיבוא‬ ‫ מי שהמלכות שלו‬is based on the ‫ שי לו‬interpretation—assuming that ‫ שיילו‬is equivalent to ‫שיי לו‬. In other words, it is possible that the targumim take ‫ שילה‬to mean “the one to whom tribute belongs,” with “tribute” as a metonym for ‫מלכות‬, “kingship.” After all, they certainly take ‫ שבט‬as a metonym—for ‫עביד שולטן‬, “ruler,” in the case of Onqelos and for (‫מלכין )ושלטנין‬, “kings (and rulers),” in the case of the Palestinian targumim. According to this interpretation, the targumim are interpreting figurative language143 rather than assuming ellipsis. I hope to provide further evidence for this interpretation of the targumim in a future article on Gen 49:10. 141 142

‫( מדרש בראשית רבא‬ed. Theodor-Albeck), 1280 line 4.

Ibid., 1208 line 15. For the treatment of figurative language in the targumim to Genesis 49 and Deuteronomy 33, see Syrén, Blessings, 21–24. Cf. R. Kasher, “Metaphor and Allegory in the Aramaic Translations of the Bible,” Journal for the Aramaic Bible 1 (1999): 53–77, and the literature cited there. 143

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JBL 129, no. 2 (2010): 237–260

Ἐξιλάσασθαι: Appeasing God in the Septuagint Pentateuch dirk büchner [email protected] Trinity Western University, Langley, BC V2Y 1Y1, Canada

I. Stating the Problem The simplex verb ἱλάσκομαι and its compound ἐξιλάσκομαι indicate in Greek literature the action “appease,” “placate,” “propitiate,” and are found in both the religious and secular realms. The word group (hereafter “the word” or “the verb”) expresses the process by which a person could restore to kindness an aggrieved deity or fellow mortal, who would typically appear as the direct object of the verb. In the Septuagint this sense occurs to a limited extent.1 In the cultic portions of the Pentateuch, however, the word in its meaning “propitiate” becomes a contextual difficulty. Such a meaning does not equate to rpk (pivel), which there does not mean “appease” but rather something like “purge of impurities.”2 Moreover, the Greek verb does not appear in syntax familiar to Greek readers. Instead of a human or deity appearing as the direct object in the accusative, a prepositional phrase or, far less frequently, an impersonal noun as the direct object now follows the verb. The nouns in the prepositional phrases are often individuals, but could also be items such as tents and altars or abstracts such as life and sin. If the verb could convey something like “purge,” “purify,” or “expiate” in these types of con1 See Takamitsu Muraoka, A Greek-English Lexicon of the Septuagint (Leuven: Peeters, 2009), 151–52, s.v. ἐξιλάσκομαι, entry 1; see also Stanislas Lyonnet and Léopold Sabourin, Sin, Redemption and Sacrifice: A Biblical and Patristic Study (AnBib 48; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1970; repr., 1998), 124; and Johan Lust, Erik Eynikel, and Katrin Hauspie, A Greek-English Lexicon of the Septuagint (rev. ed.; Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 2003), 215. 2 Jacob Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 3; New York: Doubleday, 1991), 1083. On the evidence of the ancient versions, see Lyonnet and Sabourin, Sin, 131.

237

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Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 2 (2010)

structions, it would make better contextual sense, especially since this is what the Hebrew means. The resolution of this contextual difficulty has been guided by considerations extraneous to the LXX as a corpus of linguistic information. For instance, readers from earliest times have noticed that ἱλάσκομαι and cognates in the meaning of “appease” were intrusive into Jewish and Christian thought. Consequently, in much of the attention paid to this word in the secondary literature the aim has been to resolve the theological contradiction posed by LXX language, in which the deity is propitiated by sacrifice, when the Hebrew Bible and the NT do not on the face of it support such a notion. In this regard, C. H. Dodd posited a development in meaning such that “expiate” or “purge” would be considered part of the word’s semantic range.3 That is, after all, what the translators must have known the term to connote if it came to stand in for a Hebrew word of that meaning, or so his argument goes. Dodd’s work was and remains highly influential.4 It is not surprising, therefore, to encounter the meaning “purge” for the word in a LXX lexicon or a NT commentary that draws on Septuagintal usage. T. Muraoka and J. Lust et al. list in addition to the standard meanings also the sense of “purge.”5 Harold W. Attridge in his commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews states that in the LXX the words ἱλάσκομαι and ἐξιλάσκομαι had come to be used for “expiation” as well as “propitiation.” “In Hebrews,” he observes, “Christ’s sacrifice is always directed at removing sin and its effects, not at propitiating God.”6 The central question for this study is whether such a semantic shift is borne out by the philological data.

II. A Brief History of Scholarship Since the appearance of Dodd’s work, another kind of solution has been put forward that focuses on the meaning of the Hebrew context. Leon Morris’s argument, articulated first in an article in Expository Times and later in a monograph, rests on the assumption that the meaning of rpk is indeed “propitiate” or else the translators would not have employed the Greek equivalent, or that, at least, the respective Hebrew contexts contained the idea of God’s wrath, so that the transla3 Dodd, “ Ἱλάσκεσθαι, Its Cognates, Derivatives and Synonyms in the Septuagint,” JTS 32 (1931): 359. 4 See Derek Kidner, “Sacrifice—Metaphors and Meaning,” TynBul 33 (1982): 120–24; and Frank A. Gosling, “Where Is the God of Justice?” ZAW 113 (2001): 404–14. 5 Muraoka, Lexicon, 251–52: (1) to appease, (2) to perform the rite of the atonement of sins, (3) to effect atonement of sins, (4) to effect atonement for a punishable deed, (5) to purge, (6) to deal forgivingly. Lust, Eynikel, and Hauspie (Lexicon, 215) provide also “to be purged from” under the passive. 6 Attridge, The Epistle to the Hebrews: A Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews (Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress 1989), 96 n. 2.

Büchner: Ἐξιλάσασθαι: Appeasing God

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tors employed a word that responds well to such contexts.7 Morris’s work is commendable, although my impression is that, had he argued for the Greek word’s meaning from the perspective of its standard meaning, he would have arrived at similar conclusions. Instead he opened himself up to criticism by resorting to the Hebrew context. I shall return to his arguments below. What one encounters in other studies is an emphasis on the evidentiary value of the Greek context with no regard for its relationship to the Hebrew parent text. An extreme form of this is Kenneth Grayston’s study in which the Israelite understanding of the way that sacrificial blood functions is illustrated entirely from the Greek text, as if there were no distinction between source and translation. To him the unusual occurrence of ἐξιλάσκομαι presents no difficulty at all, since the theological context of the LXX makes clear the meaning of its vocabulary, in this case, “expiate” or “make atonement.”8 Cilliers Breytenbach, in a few sentences written twenty years ago,9 encapsulates what has been methodologically wrong with these earlier lexicographical studies of the word—Dodd’s theological reasoning, Morris’s emphasis on the Hebrew context, and Grayston’s conflation of Greek and Hebrew thought: Es ist methodisch wichtig, daran festzuhalten, daß ἱλάσκεσθαι κτλ. in der LXX verwendet wurde, um das Hebräische zu übersetzen und zu interpretieren. Darum sollte man weder den hebräischen Text und seine Ausdrücke zum Ausgangspunkt nehmen,10 noch den Text der LXX so untersuchen, als sei sie keine Übersetzung.11 Vielmehr ist davon auszugehen, daß der jeweilige Übersetzer in der LXX sein Verständnis des hebräischen Urtextes festhielt. Gerade darum darf eine Studie der Bedeutung und des Gebrauchs von (ἐξ)ιλάσκομαι κτλ. in der LXX nicht davon absehen, die Art des Zusammenhangs zwischen übersetzten und zu übersetzendem Text zu erfassen.12 Das wird dazu führen, daß man auch die vom klassischen Gebrauch abweichende Verwendungsweise der LXX sieht.13 7 Morris, “The Use of ἱλάσκεσθαι etc. in Biblical Greek,” ExpTim 62 (1950–51): 227; idem, The Apostolic Preaching of the Cross (3rd ed.; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1965). Morris is to a limited extent followed by David Hill, Greek Words and Hebrew Meanings: Studies in the Semantics of Soteriological Terms (SNTSMS 5; Cambridge: Cambridge Universtiy Press, 1967). 8 Grayston, “ Ἱλάσκεσθαι and Related Words in LXX,” NTS 27 (1981): 641–51. 9 Breytenbach, Versöhnung: Eine Studie zur paulinischen Soteriologie (WMANT 60; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1989), 86. 10 A footnote here makes reference to Morris, Cross, 161–74. Lyonnet and Sabourin may be added under this rubric; they conclude that “the special use of the Greek verb in the O.T. depends in fact upon the meaning of Hebrew verb kipper” (Sin, 126). It is remarkable that in n. 21 following this sentence, they cite Hermas and Clement in support of pentateuchal usage, but fail to notice that the formula these authors employ contains the deity as direct object of the verb, which is quite a different matter. 11 A footnote here reads “Gegen Grayston, ἹΛΑΣΚΕΣΘΑΙ.” 12 A footnote here mentions that Hill, Greek Words, does to some extent put this into practice in 26–36. 13 Here he gives Dodd his due, although he mentions Colin Brown’s criticism of Dodd in NIDNTT 3:153–57.

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Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 2 (2010)

In keeping with these observations, Breytenbach conducts a very careful study of the word’s occurrence but commits, in my opinion, two indiscretions. The first is to accept out of hand Friedrich Büchsel’s linking of ἱλασμός and καθαρμός as two sides of the same coin in Greek thought, with the conclusion that (which Breytenbach cites): “In [einigen] Fällen gehen ἱλασμός und καθαρμός ineinander über. Dann versöhnt der ἱλασμός nicht nur, sondern sühnt auch die Schuld und entsündigt Menschen und Kultgegenstände.14 The second is that he, like so many others, accepts too hurriedly the evidence of the Sounion inscriptions, in which sin appears to be the object of ἐξιλάσκομαι (see below). As a result, he is convinced that in the LXX, when ἐξιλάσκομαι is paired with rpk (pivel), it occurs with the meaning of expiating sin (sühnen).15 The result is that which is presupposed in other influential studies: there are two meanings of the word in the LXX: “appease” and “expiate.” The context of the LXX, it is argued, makes this clear.16 Besides the problem that the LXX is expected to yield linguistic information in context as if it were a regular work of composition, students of the LXX will find that most of the consideration given to its cultic vocabulary has emanated from the field of the NT and early Christian literature. It stands to reason that if the NT and the Fathers adopt LXX vocabulary items, especially in their Hebraic meanings, there needs to be some apology for it. The result, more often than not, is a perspective of LXX words as bearers of ideas rather than of semantic information. What the present study proposes to do, instead, is to take as its starting point the third century b.c.e., when the Pentateuch was translated, and try to identify the linguistic and religious factors that may have affected the translators’ choice of words for their first audience—that is, before the word acquired a reception history.17 I shall work from the supposition that the linguistic context was Alexandrian koinē and the religious Sitz im Leben was the Greek cult.18 14

Breytenbach, Versöhnung, 85, citing Büchsel, “Ἱλάσκομαι,” TWNT 3:311. Breytenbach, Versöhnung, 85. 16 Lyonnet and Sabourin (Sin, 137–39) are able to reason from the context that the Greek word “assumes . . . the acceptation of the Hebrew verb,” and besides this they employ the following syllogism (where = means “translates”): ἐξιλάσκομαι = rpk; καθαρίζω = rpk; therefore ἐξιλάσκομαι is interchangeable with καθαρίζω. Or, again, ἐξιλάσκομαι = )+x; καθαρίζω = )=+x; therefore ἐξιλάσκομαι is interchangeable with καθαρίζω. See also Paul Harlé and Didier Pralon, Le Lévitique (La Bible d’Alexandrie 3; Paris: Cerf, 1988), 32, who accept both the meanings “render oneself propitious” and “purge.” 17 Albert Pietersma has on a number of occasions pointed out that if this distinction between production and reception is not made, then the language of the LXX is not given the proper theoretical foundation it deserves. See esp. his “LXX and DTS: A New Archimedean Point for Septuagint Studies,” BIOSCS 39 (2006): 1–12. 18 See Dirk Büchner, “The Thysia Soteriou of the Septuagint and the Greek Cult: Representation and Accommodation,” in Florilegium Lovaniense: Studies in Septuagint and Textual Criticism in Honour of Florentino García Martínez (ed. H. Ausloos, B. Lemmelijn, and M. Vervenne; BETL 224; Leuven: Peeters, 2008), 85–100. 15

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In what follows I shall investigate the use of the ἱλάσκομαι group outside the Bible up to the time of the Pentateuch’s translation to consider whether LXX usage of this word was in keeping with standard usage, and whether LXX usage had in any way influenced the word’s subsequent employment by Hellenistic Jews and early Christians. Closer attention than usual will be given to literary contexts from extrabiblical Greek that are traditionally adduced in support of the argument for a development in meaning toward “purge.” Next, I intend to pay attention to the way that the Greek word functions in a translational context and especially how it responds on the syntactical level to its Hebrew counterpart. This will be followed by a brief look at how rpk (pivel) is rendered in the rest of the LXX. This will provide some correctives to the assumption that the LXX context determines the meaning of its vocabulary.

III. The Verb in Nontranslational Greek Scholars who have contributed to the lexical study of this word are in agreement about its function in extrabiblical Greek, both before and after the LXX, and how that is in marked contrast to Septuagintal usage.19 Dodd sets it out most clearly: in the middle voice the verb occurs with a human subject and God as the object in the sense of “to appease,” “pacify,” or “propitiate.”20 Occasionally the verb takes also an abstract in the accusative, such as words for “anger” (μῆνις, θυμός, or ὀργή), but in such cases a genitive of person usually follows, and the same result of restoring relations by soothing is achieved.21

A. The Verb with Cult Objects in the Accusative LSJ Supplement at ἱλάσκομαι cites two authors, Apollonius Rhodius and Posidippos, who employ the verb with a temple as the direct object. In other words, a temple is “propitiated.”22 Here is perhaps a precedent in nonbiblical Greek for the 19

Besides sources already listed, see MM, 303; Joseph Ysebaert, “Propitiation, Expiation and Redemption in Greek Biblical Terminology,” in Mélanges Christine Mohrmann: Nouveau recueil offert par ses anciens élèves (ed. J. Ysebaert et al.; Utrecht: Spectrum, 1973); Daniel P. Bailey, “Jesus as the Mercy Seat: The Semantics and Theology of Paul’s Use of Hilasterion in Romans 3:25,” TynBul 51 (2000): 155. 20 Dodd, “ Ἱλάσκεσθαι,” 354. 21 See LSJ, s.v. ἐξιλάσκομαι. 22 Apollonius of Rhodes, Argon. 2.808: νόσφι δὲ Τυνδαρίδαις, Ἀχερουσίδος ὑψόθεν ἄκρης εἵσομαι ἱερὸν αἰπύ, τὸ μὲν μάλα τηλόθι πάντες ναυτίλοι ἂμ πέλαγος θηεύμενοι ἱλάξονται; and Posidippos apud Athenaeus of Naucratis 7.318d: τοῦτο καὶ ἐν πόντωι καὶ ἐπὶ χθονὶ τῆς Φιλαδέλφου / Κύπριδος ἱλάσκεσθ᾿ ἱερὸν Ἀρσινόης / ἣν ἀνακοιρανέουσαν ἐπὶ Ζεφυρίτιδος ἀκτῆς. See Colin Austin and Guido Bastianini, Posidippi Pellaei quae Super-

242

Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 2 (2010)

times in the LXX when a tent or altar is the object of the compound verb, inviting the sense of “purge.” So, for example, a priest “propitiates” the holy place, the tent, and the altar in Leviticus (Leuitikon; hereafter Leu) 16:20, 33. Breytenbach, citing the LSJ references, thinks that “[i]n solchen Fällen überschneidet sich die Verwendung von ἱλάσκεσθαι mit der von καθαρίζειν,”23 thus leaving open the possibility of a meaning such as “purge.” However, there is nothing in the two passages that suggests purification, but rather a religious duty performed in honor of a hero or a goddess residing at such locations. LSJ Supplement glosses “of temples, reverence,” and this is indeed clear from the context, although one could add in clarification “with reference to deity in residence.”24 What appears to me to be a similar case is Herodotus, Hist. 4.7, where sacred gold is held in respect: Τὸν δὲ χρυσὸν τοῦτον τὸν ἱρὸν φυλάσσουσι οἱ βασιλέες ἐς τὰ μάλιστα καὶ θυσίῃσι μεγάλῃσι ἱλασκόμενοι μετέρχονται ἀνὰ πᾶν ἔτος, “The kings guard this sacred gold very closely, and every year they approach with great sacrifices, reverencing [i.e., propitiating] it” (my translation).

B. The Meaning of Cognate Compounds It is of course possible that the meaning “purge” could be implicit in cognate compound nouns, adjectives, and verbs. A perusal of these produces the following possibilities, none of which evokes “purge” or “purify”: ἀνίλαστος (“unappeased, merciless”); ἀνεξίλαστος (“implacable”); εὐίλατος and εὐείλατος (“very merciful,” of deities);25 ἀφιλάσκομαι (“appease”); ἐξίλασις (“propitiation”) ἐξιλάσμα/ἐξιλέωμα (“means of obtaining conciliation or appeasement”); ἐξιλεόω (“appease”); προϊλάσκομαι (med. “appease beforehand”). On the strength of this, one could allow for the absolute sense found in the LXX of “be propitious” or “be forgiving,” denoting a personal attribute of the deity that is the opposite of “being implacable.” This is indeed what one finds in Muraoka’s entry at the simplex verb and at entry no. 6 under the compound verb, “to deal forgivingly.” H. St. J. Thackeray suggests that a causative function be attributed to the prefix, with the resultant “make propitious,” on the analogy of ἐξαμαρτάνειν—if it could be argued that the deponent sense of the simplex verb is “be propitious.”26 I shall return to Thackeray’s idea of “make propitious” but cannot accept that the prefix on sunt Omnia (Biblioteca Classica; Milan: LED, 2002), 153, who translate “make offering” and “rendete onore” respectively. I am grateful to Kathryn Gutzwiller for pointing me to this source. 23 Breytenbach, Versöhnung, 85. 24 On attitudes to sacred spaces in the entire ancient Orient, see Friedhelm Hartenstein, Die Unzugänglichkeit Gottes im Heiligtum: Jesaja 6 und der Wohnort JHWHs in der Jerusalemer Kulttradition (WMANT 75; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1997), 16. 25 See below at n. 49. 26 Thackeray, A Grammar of the Old Testament in Greek according to the Septuagint (3rd ed.; Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 2003), 271.

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ἁμαρτάνω, which turns an intransitive verb into a transitive one, functions in the same way for an already transitive verb ἱλάσκομαι. The idea of the deponent sense is attested for the deity, but its application to impersonal objects must be viewed in the light of the passages from Apollonius of Rhodes and Herodotus mentioned above and not, as Thackeray sees it, in the light of other LXX passages. Likewise Muraoka, in my opinion, expects too much from the prefix and turns a state of being into a transitive action, which is not attested for this verb. Paul Harlé and Didier Pralon argue that the prefix signifies the idea of release, and therefore of expiation, though they never opt for this sense in their translation.27 The prefix ἐκ certainly does carry the idea of “away,” or “removal,” but it also has the function of strengthening the action, which seems to me more applicable in this case. This discussion will be revisited below. The forgiving deity is only so because he or she has been duly propitiated. Much work has, of course, been done on ἱλαστήριον. For our purposes we will accept, with Daniel P. Bailey, that this word may best be viewed in the light of the mainstream Greek understanding of the propitiatory votive offering.28

C. Ἐξιλάσκομαι in Plato, Leges 862c This passage is frequently cited in support of the meaning “purge” or “expiate.” In it we find a series of articular neuter participles, referring to several cases of injured parties whose well-being a lawgiver should endeavor to restore. Following them, ἐξιλάσκομαι appears also in the form of an articular neuter participle, but this time in the passive. Some uncertainty exists over precisely who or what is to be “placated” via some means of compensation (ἄποινα). If it is the harm itself, then a meaning such as “expiate” is required; but if it is the person harmed, “placate.” It is difficult to decide which is which. Robert G. Bury’s translation seems to favor the former: “and when the several injuries have been atoned for by compensation, he must endeavor always by means of the laws to convert the parties who have inflicted them and those who have suffered them from a state of discord to a state of amity.”29 Benjamin Jowett, though still viewing the harm as the referent, tries nevertheless to retain the classical usage of the verb: “and when compensation has soothed the harm done, the law must always seek to win over the doers and sufferers of the several hurts from feelings of enmity to those of friendship.”30 It seems more plausible, however, to argue that the neuter subject is found in one or more of the injured parties preceding the verb. Andrew E. Taylor’s translation achieves this in my mind:

27

Harlé and Pralon, Le Levitique, 33. Bailey, “Mercy Seat,” 158. 29 Bury, trans., Plato, vol. 11, Laws Books 7–12 (LCL; London: Heinemann; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1926–68), 229. 30 Jowett, The Dialogues of Plato, vol. 4 (Oxford: Clarendon, 1892), 429. 28

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“he must aim throughout in his legislation at reconciling the minds of the authors and sufferers of the various forms of detriment by award of compensation, and converting their difference into friendship.”31 The meaning of “expiate” is not clear enough to be demonstrable from this passage.32

D. The Meaning of the Word in Hellenistic Jewish Writings In Philo the compound verb ἐξιλάσκομαι is found wherever he imitates Septuagintal language or cites the LXX directly. Post. 1.70 is a straightforward citation of the prepositional phrase ἐξιλάσκεσθαι + ἐπί from Leu 16:10. Post. 1.72 is a case of midrash, that is, lemma (the prepositional phrase) followed by clarification, in which he explains τὸ γὰρ ἐξιλάσασθαι ἐπ᾿ αὐτῶν as a human activity with an apotropaic result: ἀποδιοπομπεῖσθαι, that is, to “conjure away” or “free from pollution.” This is also due to the fact that the ἀποπομπή of Leu 16:10 is read by Philo in the standard Greek sense of “getting rid of an evil omen.” Philo thus retains an understanding that is at home in everyday language, and he cleverly reads that understanding back into the LXX. The simplex ἱλάσκομαι occurs in Philo in its usual sense of “propitiate,” as in Plant. 1.162. But there are some who see in Spec. Laws 1.234 (τὴν δ᾿ ἐπὶ τοῖς ἱεροῖς κάθαρσιν ἱλάσκεται κριῷ νομοθετεῖ) purification from guilt as the object of the verb33 and therefore supporting the sense of “purify.”34 If the form of the verb here is a passive, the result would be: “he commands that for the cleansing of the (offenses) against sacred things it should be purified by a ram,” or if a middle form: “he commands that the cleansing of the (offenses) against sacred things be purified [lit., he should purify] by a ram.” Both of these are tautological. Add God as the implied subject of the passive in its usual sense and the first sentence reads more evenly: “he commands that (God) should be propitiated by a ram for the cleansing of the (offenses) against sacred things.” Again, add God as object of the middle verb and the result is that much smoother: “he commands that he should appease (God) by a ram for the cleansing of the (offenses) against sacred things.” In Mut. 235 (οὐκοῦν τρισὶ μετανοίας τρόποις ἱλάσκεται), God as the propitiated one works best, in my opinion, and this is indeed assumed in the renditions of Yonge and Colson and Whitaker.35 “Purify” used in this context would have no object to which it could be applied. 31

Taylor, Plato, The Laws (Everyman’s Library 275; repr., London: J. M. Dent & Sons, 1969),

251. 32 See also Büchsel, “Ἱλάσκομαι,” 317 n. 75; Ysebaert, “Propitiation,” 4; and Breytenbach, Versöhnung, 85 n. 9. 33 Ysebaert “Propitiation,” 3. 34 Breytenbach, Versöhnung, 94. 35 Charles D. Yonge, Philo Judaeus, the Contemporary of Josephus, Translated from the Greek (London: Henry G. Bohn, 1858; repr., Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1993), 361; and Francis H.

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If the above is enough to persuade us that Philo knew no more than the standard sense of the verb, it may be augmented by the evidence from the Hellenistic compositions 2 and 4 Maccabees, as well as from Josephus, to make a case that outside the Bible the standard usage was again in force and unaffected by LXX usage.36

E. The Sounion Inscriptions The compound verb ἐξιλάσκομαι appears in two virtually identical inscriptions found at Sounion in Greece. Dating from the late second century c.e., the inscriptions contain provisions for the worship of the deity Men.37 In their text the verb appears to take as the direct object not the deity itself, as one would expect, but instead the relative in the accusative feminine singular, referring back to ἁμαρτίαν. Adolf Deissmann first held this up as evidence that the verb in biblical Greek is not employed in a way that contrasts with standard Greek,38 and subsequently the passage has been hailed to indicate that the meaning “purge” was in abeyance in extrabiblical Greek.39 Here, then, a deity appears to be one who can expiate (but in fact will not) cultic misdeeds. The sentence in question reads: ὅς ἂν δὲ πολυπραγμονήσῃ τὰ τοῦ θεοῦ ἢ περιεργάσεται, ἁμαρτίαν ὀφειλέτω Μηνὶ Τυράννωι, ἥν οὐ νὴ δύναται ἐξειλάσασθαι.

G. H. R. Horsley translates: “Anyone who interferes with the god’s possessions or is meddlesome, let him incur sin against Men Tyrannos which he certainly cannot expiate.”40 The meaning “expiate” is obvious, it seems, from the context. This con-

Colson and George H. Whitaker, Philo, vol. 5, On Flight and Finding. On the Change of Names. On Dreams (LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press; London: Heinemann, 1934), 229. 36 Bailey, “Mercy Seat,” 156; Morris, “ Ἱλάσκεσθαι,” 229; Grayston, “ Ἱλάσκεσθαι,” 649; and Breytenbach, Versöhnung, 94–95. 37 What is often confusing is that these inscriptions are cited in the lexica according to different collections. Breytenbach (Versöhnung, 85) cites them under three different names in two footnotes, as if they provide three independent pieces of evidence. BDAG has standardized the citation and, under ἐξιλάσκομαι, has removed Bauer’s CIA III 74, but retained IG II2 1366 = SIG 1042. For the text and bibliography, see Eugene N. Lane, Corpus Monumentorum Religionis Dei Menis (CMRDM), vol. 1, The Monuments and Inscriptions (EPRO 19; Leiden: Brill, 1971) and, for comment on the inscriptions, vol. 3, Interpretations and Testimonia. See also Franciszek Sokolowski, Lois sacrées des cités grecques (École française d’Athènes, Travaux et Mémoires 18; Paris: E. de Boccard, 1969), 106–8. 38 Deissmann, Bible Studies: Contributions Chiefly from the Papyri and Inscriptions to the History of the Language, the Literature and the Religion of Hellenistic Judaism and Primitive Christianity (trans. A. Grieve; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1901; repr., Peabody, MA: Hendrickson 1988), 225. 39 So, e.g., BDF §148, p. 83. 40 NewDocs 3 (1978): 21; and compare Hans-Josef Klauck, Religion und Gesellschaft im frühen Christentum (WUNT 152; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2003), 69: “Dort verhält es sich so,

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clusion is bolstered by the use of the verb and its object “sin” found in Heb 2:17, and regularly featured in the NT lexica and secondary literature.41 But when one considers the supporting material offered by Horsley in his commentary on the inscription, one is left with some uncertainty as to why at all he retained “expiate” in his translation. The evidence he adduces from contemporary inscriptional and papyrological material favors only the meaning of “propitiate,” in particular P.Tebt. 3.1 750; and a letter (P.Strasb. 233), in which deities are appeased.42 In providing correctives to Grayston’s views, he points out that the Pentateuch translators took this word from vernacular koinē. That is why, for him, P.Tebt. 750 is so important to establish the sense “propitiate.” But then he goes on to give credit to the very Grayston who reads the meaning “expiate” at 1 Kgdms 3:14, a meaning, Horsley says, that parallels well the sentiment given expression in the Men inscriptions. Thus, in spite of all philological evidence to the contrary, Horsley defends his rendering of the verb as “expiate” and argues that words in the LXX found in similar contexts, are likely to carry that meaning too.43 Now it happens that classicists are interested in these inscriptions for reasons other than lexicography. Curiously, their translations reflect the verb’s standard meaning as “propitiate.” Ken Dowden translates: “[b]ut whosoever interferes, let him pay the penalty to Men Tyrannos whom he shall be unable to propitiate,”44 and Fred S. Naiden’s rendition goes: “[i]f anyone causes trouble or is officious, he will find himself in the wrong when it comes to Men tyrannos, whom he will not be able to mollify.”45 It could be that these two scholars have not read the language of the inscription closely enough or are ignorant of the academic discussions since Deissmann’s time. It is hard to know. It could just as well be that they have no interest in the word’s occurrence in biblical literature nor have any theological axe to grind. Perhaps one should not drive a wedge between classicists and scholars of biblical Greek. Franciszek Sokolowski, who does try to find connections between the inscriptions and the LXX and Christian literature, gives the verb no attention in his commentary, and, to my knowledge, he unfortunately offers no translation.46

dass jeder, der sich am Eigentum des Gottes vergreift, eine Sünde gegen Men Tyrannos begeht, die nicht mehr gesühnt werden kann.” 41 See, e.g., BDAG, s.v. ἐξιλάσκομαι. 42 That he should then argue for a meaning of “expiation” for the Cyprian inscription is odd in the light of the next sentence, in which two authorities are cited who suggest that the noun is used in the sense of repairing the writer’s bad standing with the ecclesiastical hierarchy (= appeasement). 43 NewDocs 3 (1978): 24–25. 44 Dowden, European Paganism: The Realities of Cult from Antiquity to the Middle Ages (London/New York: Routledge, 2000), 33. 45 Naiden, “Sanctions in Sacred Laws,” in Symposion 2007: Vorträge zur griechischen und hellenistischen Rechtsgeschichte (Durham, 2.–6. September 2007) (ed. E. Harris and G. Thür; Akten der Gesellschaft für griechische und hellenistische Rechtsgeschichte 20; Vienna: ÖAW, 2009), 111. 46 Sokolowski, Lois sacrées, 108.

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Büchsel and Moulton-Milligan are fairly dismissive of this piece of inscriptional evidence because of its isolated nature and its lateness.47 In any case, however, there is something to be said for the fact that when the inscriptions are cited in a context outside biblical studies, the deity is understood to be appeased and not the sin expiated. The reason for this is clear when the Men material is considered in its linguistic and religious context. Eugene N. Lane’s collection of and commentary on the Men material predates Horsley’s by two years. He does not directly enter the discussion on the meaning of the verb. Rather, in a brief note he points to the use of the verb, first, in relation to what the Sounion inscriptions themselves say about the deity vis-à-vis his followers and, second, in relation to other occurrences of the compound verb in the Men inscriptions from Lydia. According to the Sounion inscriptions, to sacrifice to Men meant in the first place to render him propitious (εὐείλατος) by approaching him in purity of soul (ἁπλῇ τῇ ψυχῇ). Those who violate the prescriptions for purity will find their sacrifices unacceptable to the god (ἀπροσδέκτος . . . παρὰ τοῦ θεοῦ). Curiosity or meddling with cult implements results, as we know, in an offense (ἁμαρτία) qualified by the sanction ἣν οὐ μὴ δύνηται ἐξειλάσασθαι. Lane then draws attention to the similar connection between the verb and its object ἁμαρτία that appears in the Lydian inscriptions.48 There, worshipers must propitiate the deity who appears as the object of the verb (ἐξιλάσκεσθαι τὸν θέον) for misdeeds (ἁμαρτίαι) for which there is speedy retribution (κόλασις).49 In other words, it is clear from both contexts that offending Men is to be avoided at all costs and it is best to propitiate him as one does other deities. He may certainly forgive (and for that συγχωρέω is employed), or one may purchase pardon by means of a λύτρον.50 The religionsgeschichtliche setting, I think, makes it unlikely that the meaning “expiate” can be inferred from the Sounion inscriptions. In addition to this, the sketchy grammar of these inscriptions discredits their language as lexicographical precedent.51 The relative ἥν in the Sounion inscriptions, indicating the object of the verb as the misdeed rather than the deity himself, is perhaps an anacolouthon. Lane’s inscription 44 from Lydia reads in very similar fashion:52 Οἱ θεοί αὐτὴν ἐποίησαν ἐ[ν] κολάσει, ἣν οὐ διέφυγεν. Here, too, Büchsel, “Ἱλάσκομαι,” 317 n. 75 and MM, 303, s.v. ἱλάσκομαι. Lane, CMRDM 3:11, 12. 49 Note esp. inscription 58 (CRMDM 1:40) and Lane’s comments in CRMDM 3:22, 23, and 28. See also in particular CRMDM 3:30 n. 44 on the points of coincidence between the vocabularies of the Lydian and Sounion inscriptions. 50 On forgiveness, see inscription 50 in CRMDM 1:32. On the λύτρον, one may refer to Klauck (Religion, 74 n. 122), who mentions inscription 61. See also Eugene N. Lane, “Men: A Neglected Cult of Roman Asia Minor,” ANRW II.18.3 (1990): 2164. 51 Büchsel (“Ἱλάσκομαι,” 317) cites Wilhelm Dittenberger, who suspects in these inscriptions barbaric diction, which he calls “foedissima sermonis vitia.” 52 CRMDM 1:28. 47 48

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a transgressor serves as an example to others, and the chances of undoing the punishment are stated as unlikely, by means of a relative clause beginning with an accusative instead of a dative. It may be that here as well as in the Sounion inscriptions, ἥν belongs to a formulaic way of expressing religious sanctions. There is a possible connection between this and the fact pointed out by Franz Steinleitner that the idea of unforgivable misdeeds in the Men inscriptions is “echt orientalisch.”53 Then again, the accusative here may simply be an accusative of respect, as has been argued for the one in Heb 2:17. Now it is true that extant texts from this period cannot provide the kind of complete attestation of a word’s actual usage that lexicographers would like to have—in this case the ἱλάσκομαι word group in the meaning of “expiate.” But I contend that there is enough evidence to the contrary to make this meaning highly unlikely. My own perusal of the verb in the inscriptional literature on the Web site of the Packard Humanities Institute (PHI) is confirmed by Hans-Josef Klauck’s observations: it expresses the result of clemency obtained through mollifying of the deity by the penitent.54 In other words, deities in this environment are to be propitiated for misdeeds and are not found as the subject of the simplex or compound verb. One may therefore confidently argue that the meaning of “expiate” in the Sounion inscriptions is improbable, given the religious context. The dogged commitment that one finds to the meaning “expiate” seems to me, based on this evidence, unwarranted and dependent on prior conclusions. At this point we can summarize the philological data: up to the time of the LXX, and even after it, the use of the verb does not support a semantic development that includes “purge” or “expiate” in the Hellenistic world of sacrifice. Instead, a sacrifice acceptable to a deity results in propitiation. With this in mind, we are in a position to look at the pentateuchal material on its own merit, or to put ourselves in the shoes of the Pentateuch translators to see what they may have intended by employing this verb in its standard meaning.

IV. Ἐξιλάσασθαι and rpk (pivel) in the Pentateuch It is important to provide a good reason why a word that in Greek meant “appease” was used for a Hebrew word that meant “purify.” I believe that the answer 53 Steinleitner, Die Beicht im Zusammenhange mit der sakralen Rechtspflege in der Antike (Leipzig: Kommissionsverlag der Dieterich’schen Verlagsbuchhandlung, Theodor Weicher, 1913), 83. I wonder if this is the statement Naiden was thinking about (“Rejected Sacrifice in Greek and Hebrew Religion,” Journal of Ancient Near Eastern Religions 6 [2006]: 214 n. 85) when he cites Sokolowski as saying that the language of the Sounion inscriptions is Semitic, so that the thought it expresses cannot be Greek. 54 See http://epigraphy.packhum.org/inscriptions/; Klauck, Religion, 76. See further the citations in MM, 303, s.v. ἱλάσκομαι.

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is twofold. First, the employment of ἐξιλάσασθαι in the LXX could be owing to the fact that its Hebrew counterpart, rpk (pivel) does carry the meaning of “appease,” as the lexica make clear, with the archetypical passage being Gen 32:21, in which Jacob was to “propitiate Esau’s face.”55 The Greek expression in that verse is not entirely standard Greek idiom, as is usually assumed, but an artificial product based on the Hebrew syntagm. “Propitiating someone’s face” is unknown to Greeks, while propitiating someone’s anger is not. Yet what we have here is what we typically find in other Hebrew compound idioms involving a part of the body. The Genesis translator recognized the total Hebrew phrase to mean “propitiate” but, for the sake of quantitative completeness, included “face” also. At any rate, he correctly recognized “propitiate” in the Hebrew and rendered it so in Greek. This choice was significant enough to set a precedent for later occurrences of the verb, which brings me to the second reason. Here credit must be given to Morris, although he pressed too far the idea that the Hebrew verb always meant “propitiate.” The Alexandrian translators were familiar with the Greek verb that conveyed in the religious realm the bringing about of reconciliation through a gift. When they came across a Hebrew verb used in the context of a priest who performs sacrificial act x for sin, it stands to reason that they would have rendered that act in a way that Greeks would have understood it. That is, the priest by his action appeases a deity (whose wrath, frankly, is never quite absent) and through that act achieves what the Hebrew ritual also achieves. But before we say more about the choice of the word for its cultural usefulness, we need to return to the matter of translators working on the syntactical level. When the translators of the Pentateuch came across syntagms containing rpk (pivel), they duly employed Greek syntagms also. The question remains whether such syntagms are sense-making products or merely symbols standing in for Hebrew syntagms. In the Priestly material, rpk (pivel) is mostly followed by l(, d(b, or b and is rendered in Greek by a prepositional phrase consisting of ἐξιλάσκομαι + indirect object with περί, ἐν, or ἐπί. These data are set out in the appendix. In summary, the syntax of the Hebrew is mechanically imitated but for five cases out of seventyfive.56 A logical question would be whether ἱλάσκομαι and cognates are followed by similar prepositional phrases outside the Bible. For checking such combinations TLG proved most helpful, and the results are as follows: First, ἱλάσκομαι followed by περί is unknown, and the only example that is vaguely comparable occurs in Lysimachus quoted by Josephus, C. Ap. 1.34 §308: τήν τ᾿ ἐπιοῦσαν νύκτα νηστεύσαντας ἱλάσκεσθαι τοὺς θεοὺς, περὶ τοῦ σῶσαι αὑτούς. In it we see 55

This pairing occurs once in Genesis, four times in Exodus, and some fifty times in Leviticus. When ἐξιλάσκομαι is paired with other Hebrew words (which is seldom), this happens only outside the Pentateuch and those cases do not interest us here. 56 See nos. 2, 3, 4, 6, and 75 in the appendix.

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the verb in its usual guise, taking the deity as the direct object. Second, ἱλάσκομαι followed by a prepositional phrase with ἐπί or ἐν is similarly unattested. So too ἐξιλάσκομαι followed by περί within four words is unknown before the LXX, in which it abounds, and after that occurs again only in Hermas, Vis. 1.2.1 but in a way reminiscent of standard usage with the deity as the direct object of the verb: ἢ πῶς ἐξιλάσομαι τὸν θεὸν περὶ τῶν ἁμαρτιῶν μου τῶν τελείων. This sentence is reminiscent of the quotation from Lysimachus above, and we shall return to them both in due course. Next, ἐξιλάσκομαι followed by a prepositional phrase with ἐπί is unattested before the LXX, where it proliferates. In that form it is alluded to or cited from the LXX in two instances by Philo, and cannot be said to represent nonbiblical usage (see below). Lastly, ἐξιλάσκομαι followed by ἐν is found nowhere before the LXX and only in Aristeas, where the preposition indicates a time frame and τὸν θεόν follows the verb, as one might expect.57 From this we could argue in two directions: (1) We have here a syntactical anomaly, that is, a Greek syntagm made to function like a Hebrew syntagm, and very little contextual meaning was intended by its usage, apart from representing the Hebrew.58 Or (2) we have a deliberately shortened formula that lacks a direct object for the verb, cleverly patterned on a Hebrew formula. Let us pursue each possibility to its logical conclusion. To the first: Under the influence of Hebrew syntax, a foreign Greek syntagm is produced that would not have sat comfortably with a Greek speaker. This must alert us to the fact that translators who utilized this syntagm opted for one kind of convention in favor of another; that is, they preferred consistency of formulaic representation over conveying the exact sense of the Hebrew. Let me refer to some examples where the latter, conveying the Hebrew sense, does in fact appear to be the intention of translators. In nos. 2, 3, 4, 6, and 75 in the appendix, rpk (pivel) is rendered by ἁγιάζω, καθαρίζω, and ἐκκαθαρίζω. In other words, here the precise meaning of the Hebrew is brought across. In nos. 4 and 6, idiomatic representation is shown most clearly, since l( rpk is rendered by καθαρίζω + direct object, that is to say, with no intervening preposition. Now it has been argued that these five cases provide us with a reason to expect that the translators regarded the ἱλάσκεσθαι class to convey similar ideas, that is, “sanctify” or “purge.”59 I would propose instead that something in the context prompted the translators to break with their convention. For some reason, they chose to communicate what the 57

“[H]e besought God’s mercy and after many days recovered his sight” is Thackeray’s translation (The Letter of Aristeas: Translated with an Appendix of Ancient Evidence of the Origin of the Septuagint [Translations of Early Documents, Series II, Hellenistic-Jewish Texts 3; London: SPCK, 1918], 86). 58 For detailed description of the syntax of LXX Leviticus and particularly those aspects of it that can only be ascribed to influence from the Vorlage, see Karl Huber, Untersuchungen über den Sprachcharakter des griechischen Leviticus (Giessen: Töpelmann, 1916), 33–109. 59 See n. 16 above.

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Hebrew expressed instead of merely providing a syntactical equivalent for it. The first four of these are found in the context of Exodus 29–30, in which Moses and Aaron—and not just any priest—are the agents of the verb, and in the fifth it is the Lord himself. This may be coincidental. Perhaps it is because the formula they employed elsewhere was seen to fail in these contexts, particularly the one in which God is the subject. The point is that these cases are exceptional and represent only 6.6 percent of the data. Translators may have wanted to produce similar readeroriented renderings elsewhere but employed far more frequently a formula that seemed to them effective as far as representing the Hebrew was concerned. This brings me to the second argument: we may be dealing with a deliberately truncated formula. I have already suggested above that the translators chose a word that would have been acceptable to Greek readers. What I think not unreasonable to suggest is that the Pentateuch translators did recognize the Hebrew prepositional phrase to mean “effect atonement,” whether it was by appeasement or by expiation. They had in mind an equally apt phrase whereby according to the Greek understanding “atonement was achieved” and it would have looked something like this: ἐξιλάσεται ὁ ἱερεὺς τὸν θεὸν περὶ τῆς ἁμαρτίας αὐτοῦ, “the priest shall propitiate the god for his [sc. the suppliant’s] sin.” In arguing for this I draw our attention once again to the sentences cited above from Lysimachus and Hermas: τήν τ᾿ ἐπιοῦσαν νύκτα . . . ἱλάσκεσθαι τοὺς θεοὺς, περὶ τοῦ σῶσαι αὑτούς and ἢ πῶς ἐξιλάσομαι τὸν θεὸν περὶ τῶν ἁμαρτιῶν μου. For the abbreviated formula one might look to Philo, Spec. Laws 1.234 and Mut. 235 (with the putative object of the verb added in square brackets). If I am correct, Philo too regarded the Septuagintal formula as an elliptical one: τὴν δ᾿ ἐπὶ τοῖς ἱεροῖς κάθαρσιν ἱλάσκεται [τὸν θεὸν] κριῷ νομοθετεῖ and οὐκοῦν τρισὶ μετανοίας τρόποις ἱλάσκεται [τὸν θεόν]. As I have suggested above, the Pentateuch translators faced with the Hebrew formula favored ἐξιλάσκομαι to express most vividly the desired outcome of a sacrifice from a suppliant’s perspective. Precedents for this choice abounded, if the following are anything to go by: τὸ γὰρ . . . θύειν καὶ διὰ τούτων ἐξιλάσκεσθαι τὸ θεῖον, προσκυνοῦντα καὶ λιπαροῦντα τὰς τραπέζας καὶ τοὺς βωμοὺς . . . (Polybius 32.15.7); ἱκετεύοντες καὶ θύοντες ἐξιλασκόμενοι τὸ θεῖον (ibid., 36.17.3); μετὰ δὲ ταῦτα θυσίῃσι μεγάλῃσι τὸν ἐν Δελφοῖσι θεὸν ἱλάσκετο (Herodotus 1.50); and ἐπεὶ δ᾿ ἐγὼ πολλὰ μὲν πέμπων ἀναθήματα χρυσᾶ, πολλὰ δ᾿ ἀργυρᾶ, πάμπολλα δὲ θύων ἐξιλασάμην ποτὲ αὐτόν, ὡς ἐδόκουν (Xenophon, Cyr. 7.2.19). Supposing that on this basis they decided for ἐξιλάσκομαι, they faced a problem. Τhe Greek verb requires a deity as its object. The formula in the Hebrew Vorlage, on the other hand, is able to express the action without that extra linguistic item, the deity. They were in general loath to make any kind of clarifying additions, and so their solution resulted in an elliptical Greek expression in which the direct object was missing.

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This idea of the deity as the understood object of the verb would of course be nonsense if it did not fit each occurrence of ἐξιλάσκομαι in the Pentateuch. In the fifth column of the appendix, the question is posed in every case whether an inserted divine object of the verb would provide a suitable fit. It seems by all accounts that it does. In highlighting some of them, I begin with the more questionable ones (the supposed additions appear in square brackets). No. 40, in which the deity is required to be propitiated over a goat (Leu 16:10: στήσει αὐτὸν ζῶντα ἔναντι κυρίου τοῦ ἐξιλάσασθαι [κύριον] ἐπ᾿ αὐτοῦ), is a difficulty, whether the Greek means propitiate God or not. What is possible is to posit that ἐπί + genitive expresses “in respect of, concerning” or, as the NETS (New English Translation of the Septuagint) has it, “he shall set it alive before the Lord to make atonement [i.e., to propitiate the Lord] over it.” But it has to be conceded that “expiate” does not fit very well either. Representing the Hebrew is what mattered to the translator, and he simply passed on the difficulty to his readership. Again, the occasional occurrence of ἔναντι κυρίου (e.g., no. 27) produces a somewhat awkward “the priest shall propitiate the Lord for his sin before the Lord,” but that too may be irrelevant to our argument, since both phrases appear in the Vorlage and needed to be adequately accounted for in an item-for-item fashion. But let me feature nos. 21, 22, and 23, where, against my expectations, adding the deity parenthetically produces good sense. The first two are instances in which the phrase b rpk is rendered by ἐξιλάσκομαι ἐν, and in the third the Greek preposition is ἐπί standing in for l(: Leu 6:23 (Eng. 6:30) concerns blood that is brought into the tent of witness ἐξιλάσασθαι [κύριον] ἐν τῷ ἁγίῳ. The full sentence in the NETS reads, “And none of the ones for sin, some of whose blood is brought into the tent of witness to make atonement [or, to propitiate the Lord] in the holy place, shall be eaten.” Leu 7:7 makes the point that the victims of certain sacrifices belong to the priest: ὅστις ἐξιλάσεται [κύριον] ἐν αὐτῷ, αὐτῷ ἔσται. The NETS reads, “The priest who makes atonement [or, propitiates the Lord] with it, shall have it.” Leu 8:15 describes how Moses pours out blood on an altar. The NRSV has: “to consecrate it, to make atonement for it.” The Greek is as follows: καὶ ἡγίασεν αὐτὸ τοῦ ἐξιλάσασθαι [κύριον] ἐπ᾿ αὐτοῦ. The NETS reads: “he consecrated it to make atonement [or, to propitiate the Lord] on it.” It is necessary, still, to pay attention to those instances in which a sacred item is the direct object of the verb. If one recalls the simplex verb used in the context of temples mentioned above, we might say that the idea of a priest “reverencing” or “respecting” such objects conveys the sense of due propitiatory homage paid to the

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deity associated with them.60 What Aaron does in nos. 51 and 52 (Leu 16:33) belongs to that category, since here we have no prepositional phrase but rather direct objects following the verb. The text reads: καὶ ἐξιλάσεται τὸ ἅγιον τοῦ ἁγίου, καὶ τὴν σκηνὴν τοῦ μαρτυρίου καὶ τὸ θυσιαστήριον ἐξιλάσεται. The NETS has: “And he shall make the holy of the holy ritually acceptable [i.e., by reverencing it] and he shall make ritually acceptable [i.e., reverence] the tent of meeting and the altar.” Compare La Bible d’Alexandrie: “et il apaisera le saint du saint, et il apaisera la tente du témoignage et l’autel.” Let us take as a final test case no. 73 (Muraoka’s entry no. 5, in which he suggests “purge” with reference to Num 35:33). In the Hebrew text, the land is the indirect object of a passive verb used absolutely, rpkUy-)l Cr)lw. Hence, the NRSV has “and no expiation can be made for the land.” In the Greek, we find καὶ οὐκ ἐξιλασθήσεται ἡ γῆ (NETS: “and the land shall not be atoned for [i.e., reverenced]”). A Greek speaker would have recognized this to mean: the land may not be reverenced; that is, the chthonic deity will not be propitiated for blood that pollutes. It seems to me worth arguing that in all of these cases Greek speakers would in far greater likelihood have recognized a deity understood as the object of the verb than they would have inferred a Hebraic meaning from the context.

V. rpk (pivel) and Its Rendering into Greek after the Pentateuch It is informative to note directions taken by later translators after the precedent set by the Pentateuch translators. Scholars have traditionally approached this from the perspective of ἐξιλάσκομαι itself, listed its occurrence with other Hebrew verbs, and then posited a connection between it and the meanings carried by those Hebrew verbs (I refer again to the syllogism of n. 16 above). On the other hand, if the discussion is conducted from the vantage point of which Greek verbs appear for the Hebrew verb, the results obtained are somewhat different. Then one observes not varying meanings for the Greek word but, instead, opposing attitudes to translation, already hinted at by the five dissenting examples in the Pentateuch. The first attitude values adherence to convention; in other words, faithful imitation of pentateuchal usage as “normative.” The opposing attitude finds such imitation to be semantically deficient and seeks instead to bring across the sense of the Hebrew. And so we are brought again to Sebastian P. Brock’s categories of the hack translator (interpres), versus the communicator (expositor).61 To illus60

See n. 22 above. Brock, “To Revise or Not to Revise: Attitudes to Jewish Biblical Translation,” in Septuagint, Scrolls and Cognate Writings: Papers Presented to the International Symposium on the Septuagint and Its Relations to the Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Writings (Manchester, 1990) (ed. George J. Brooke and Barnabas Lindars; SCS 33; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 2006), 312. 61

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trate this, let me begin by contrasting the Old Greek with Theodotion at Dan 9:24, one of the few cases where sin is the direct object of the Hebrew verb: Nw( rpkl (NRSV: “to atone for iniquity”). The OG (expositor) renders the sense of the Hebrew in fine form by means of ἀπαλείφω, “wipe off ” or “expunge.” Theodotion (interpres), on the other hand, resorts to the pattern found in the Pentateuch and employs ἐξιλάσκομαι. If this pair of opposites provides us with a kind of watershed for similar attitudes to the rendering of this verb elsewhere, we would find on the side of the OG, the translator(s) of Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Proverbs, who try to convey the contextual meaning of rpk (pivel),62 while on the side of Theodotion we would find Psalms, 1 Kingdoms, Ezekiel, and Chronicles in which every occurrence of rpk (pivel) is rendered by the compound verb ἐξιλάσκομαι according to the pattern set by the Pentateuch (although Psalms employs the simplex verb). The texts in this category each deserve individual attention, but that lies beyond the scope of this article. Good sense is again obtained when a divine object is added in each case, whereas without it, contextual difficulties remain. This evidence, I suggest, provides an alternative to Stanislas Lyonnet and Léopold Sabourin’s syllogism according to which the entire LXX is a homogenous source of theological information and where patterns, not to mention different translators, are not taken into consideration. Such a line of reasoning is necessary for the theological conclusion but is not true to the philological data.

VI. Implications for Lexicography The meaning of the word for the cultic portions of the Pentateuch is, as one expects from Egyptian koinē and standard Greek, “appease,” or “propitiate” (German gnädig stimmen). It cannot be said that in the LXX a secular and sacred use are to be distinguished, or that a dual meaning of appease as well as cleanse occurs.63 In fact, I have argued that no shift or development in meaning is required. Greek speakers would in all likelihood have recognized an abbreviated formula with a deity understood. Septuagintalists have indeed suggested suitable terms in modern languages that encapsulate for me the standard meaning by means of which the translators were able to convey the effect of the cultic action without resorting to a meaning such as “purge”—for example, Thackeray’s suggestion of the absolute “make propitiation,”64 Harlé and Pralon’s “faire apaisement,”65 Muraoka’s “effect

62 Isaiah 6:7 (περικαθαρίζω); 22:4 (ἀφίημι); 28:18 (ἀφαιρέω); 47:11 (καθαρά γενέσθαι); Jer 18:23 (ἀθῳόω); Prov 15:27 (ἀποκαθαίρω); 16:14 (ἐξιλάσκομαι in the meaning of “appease”). 63 Lyonnet and Sabourin, Sin, 125; and see n. 16 above. 64 Thackeray, Grammar, 270. 65 This occurs throughout their translation of Leviticus.

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atonement,” and the “make atonement” or “make ritually acceptable” of the NETS. The only comment that needs to be added to these last three, is that the result of the verb’s action is achieved through propitiation, not through purification. Here one might compare Muraoka’s definitions under the simplex verb— (1) to be forgiving and (2) to be favorably disposed.66 Muraoka’s definition no. 5 under ἐξιλάσκομαι, “purge,” is intended, I imagine, to be applicable to all cases in which the verb is not found in a prepositional phrase, and where instead a non-divine direct object of the verb occurs. Two things should caution us about accepting this, in the light of the discussion above. That meaning is read from the Greek context without taking into account that its occurrence is a product of a certain attitude to translating a sacred text, namely, that of the interpres. In fact, some translators found the pairing rpk–ἐξιλάσκομαι inadequate and chose instead contextual meanings in which the sense of the Hebrew was conveyed. Second, Dodd, Grayston, and Horsley are cited by Muraoka under the headword, all of whom argue, in my opinion, incorrectly, for “expiate” based purely on the LXX context. That meaning was not in use in Greek literature before the LXX, and in later Jewish writers and Christian authors the standard use of the word resurfaces, not the assumed new sense.67 The best meaning on the word level must be “reverence,” with the understanding that the cult object represents the presence of the deity to be propitiated. The argument that nonattestation does not mean lack of usage might be invoked here. Muraoka stated in a recent article: “I submit that it is up to those who dismiss linguistic features attested in the LXX but not prior to it or contemporaneous with it to demonstrate that they could not have been part of the contemporary language system, and that, until that happens, it is rather a sensible approach and policy to record everything in a LXX lexicon and a grammar of LXX Greek, of course marking those ‘innovative’ data as yet unattested as such.”68 A few comments are in order. First, at his meaning 5, “purge,” he inserts no asterisk that would have marked it to be a Septuagintal innovation, and if he assumes that it is attested with that meaning, I have tried to show that it is not. Second, Muraoka in this statement does not acknowledge the force exerted by the Hebrew on both morphemes and syntagms. Karl Huber, on the other hand, writing prior to 1916, indicates that Septuagintal syntax, for all its innovation, is what

66

Muraoka, Lexicon, 340. Morris cites what he calls a “surprisingly strongly attested reading” at Heb 2:17, in which the dative occurs rather than the accusative, from which he suggests that “the accusative was felt to be a difficult construction and thus we see that in the circles in which the variant arose, expiation was not an accepted meaning of the verb” (“ Ἱλάσκεσθαι,” 282). 68 Muraoka, “Recent Discussions on the Septuagint Lexicography with Special Reference to the So-Called Interlinear Model,” in Die Septuaginta: Texte, Kontexte, Lebenswelten: Internationale Fachtagung veranstaltet von Septuaginta Deutsch (LXX.D), Wuppertal 20.–23. Juli 2006 (ed. Martin Karrer and Wolfgang Kraus; WUNT 219; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 231. 67

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it is because of its dependence on, or imitation of, the Hebrew usage.69 In the case of ἐξιλάσκομαι περί, he notes that this syntagm represents the most common occurrence of περί with the genitive (which we have noted above, is unattested without an intervening deity). One could of course reason from the context that this is a Septuagintal innovation. But then one notices, as Huber is quick to point out, that it occurs in response to l( rpk of the Urtext.70 I contend that the same applies to lexicography. Only once a lexicographer has eliminated the possibility that a LXX word is used in accordance with a translational convention that prizes representation above conveyance of meaning (which is not equal to semantic innovation), can she or he begin to consider contemporary usage in the living language.

VII. Implications for Jewish and Christian Theology Though certain LXX words and phrases have a purely symbolic function, later communities may have infused them with content that remains alien to standard Greek usage. A Jewish Greek audience in Alexandria might perhaps have been more kindly disposed toward a Greek way of stating things than forms of expression acceptable to mainstream Judaism or later audiences whose theology developed in directions that exceeded the range of, and often ran counter to, Septuagintal nomenclature. It was after all for Alexandrian Jews that the translation was made in the first place. This word was employed because its audience needed to know that the Hebrew procedure of sacrifice was effective and accomplished everything that a Greek audience expected from a δῶρον offered to a deity.

Appendix: Greek Responses to rpk (pivel) in the Pentateuch Reference

Hebrew Phrase

Greek Equivalent

Subject or Object or Indirect Object Type of Gift Possible or Beneficiary or Activity Implied Deity (Gk)

1

Gen 32:21

Mynp rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι

Jacob

πρόσωπον

2

Exod 29:33

b rpkU

ἁγιάζω (pass) + ἐν

food

Aaron & Sons

3

Exod 29:36

l( rpk

ἁγιάζω + ἐπί

Moses

?

4

Exod 29:37

l( rpk

καθαρίζω + direct object

Moses

altar

Esau

altar

69 See, e.g., Huber, Sprachcharakter, 48–49, on transitive verbs, the accusative of the internal object, and the double accusative. 70 Ibid., 62.

Büchner: Ἐξιλάσασθαι: Appeasing God Reference

Hebrew Phrase

Greek Equivalent

Subject or Type of Gift or Activity

257

Object or Indirect Object Possible or Beneficiary Implied Deity (Gk)

5

Exod 30:10

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι ἐπί

Aaron

τὸν θεόν

6

Exod 30:10b

l( rpk

καθαρίζω + direct object

Aaron

altar

7

Exod 30:15

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

your bringing an offering

κύριον

your lives

8

Exod 30:16

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

money

κύριον

your lives

9

Exod 32:30

d(b rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

Moses going up

αὐτόν (τὸν θεόν)

sin

altar

10

Leu 1:4

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

suppliant’s laying hands

τὸν θεόν

suppliant

11

4:20

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

priest

τὸν θεόν

people

12

4:26

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

priest

τὸν θεόν

for individual, for sin

13

4:31

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

priest

τὸν θεόν

individual

14

4:35

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

priest

τὸν θεόν

for him for sin

15

5:6

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

priest

τὸν θεόν

him, sin

16

5:10

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

priest

τὸν θεόν

individual

17

5:13

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

priest

τὸν θεόν

him, sin

18

5:16

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

priest

τὸν θεόν

him

19

5:18

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

priest

τὸν θεόν

him, ignorance

20

5:26

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

priest

τὸν θεόν

him

21

6:23 (Eng. 6:30)

b rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι ἐν

bringing of blood

τὸν θεόν

in the holy place

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Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 2 (2010) Reference

Hebrew Phrase

Greek Equivalent

Subject or Object or Indirect Object Type of Gift Possible or Beneficiary or Activity Implied Deity (Gk)

b rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι ἐν

8:15

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι ἐπί

24

8:34

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

25

9:7

d(b rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

perform sac. τὸν θεόν

yourself

26

9:7b

d(b rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

perform sac. τὸν θεόν

them

27

10:17

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

eating sac.

τὸν θεόν

them

28

12:7

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

priest offer

τὸν θεόν

her, to purify her

29

12:8

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

priest

τὸν θεόν

her

30, 31, 14:18, 19, 32 20

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

priest

τὸν θεόν

one to be cleansed

33

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

sac. victims

τὸν θεόν

suppliant

34, 35, 14:29, 31, 36 53

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

priest, releasing bird

τὸν θεόν

one cleansed

37, 38 15:15, 30

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

priest offer

τὸν θεόν

unclean person

Aaron

τὸν θεόν

him

22

Leu 7:7

23

14:21

39

16:6

d(b rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

40

16:10

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι ἐπί

41

16:11

d(b rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

71

LSJ, s.v. ἐπί + gen A III 4.

priest

τὸν θεόν

Moses τὸν θεόν consecrating indefinite (of inf.)

τὸν θεόν

on altar you

house

making goat τὸν θεόν stand alive before the Lord Aaron

by means of offering

τὸν θεόν

on it in respect of, concerning it71 him

Büchner: Ἐξιλάσασθαι: Appeasing God Reference

Hebrew Phrase

Greek Equivalent

259

Subject or Object or Indirect Object Type of Gift Possible or Beneficiary or Activity Implied Deity (Gk)

l( rpk

no preposition

Aaron shall reverence, as in A.R.

holy place

ἀπό in causative sense because72

16:17a

b rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι ἐν

Aaron

τὸν θεόν

in the holy place

44

16:17b

d(b rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

Aaron

τὸν θεόν

himself

45

16:18

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι ἐπί

Aaron

τὸν θεόν

on altar

46

16:20

#dqh rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι τὸ ἅγιον

47

16:24

d(b rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

Aaron

τὸν θεόν

him, house

48

16:27

b rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι ἐν

Aaron

τὸν θεόν

in the holy place

49

16:30

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

priest

τὸν θεόν

you, to purify73

50

16:32

verb alone

verb alone

high priest

τὸν θεόν

none

51, 52

16:33a, b

verb alone

verb alone

he shall reverence

cultic objects

53

16:33c

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

high priest

τὸν θεόν

priests

54

16:34

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

ritual itself

τὸν θεόν

everyone

55

17:11a

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

I place on the altar

τὸν θεόν

your lives

56

17:11b

b rpk

blood

τὸν θεόν

the life

42

Leu 16:16

43

72 73

ἀντί

Aaron the holy finished place, tent, reverencing altar

LSJ, s.v. ἀπό III 6. Here appeasing God on someone’s behalf also cleanses them.

addition in G with καθαρίζω for clarification?

260

Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 2 (2010) Reference Hebrew Phrase

Greek Equivalent

Subject or Type of Gift or Activity

Object or Indirect Object Possible or Beneficiary Implied Deity (Gk)

57

Leu 19:22

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

priest

τὸν θεόν

him, by means of a ram

58

23:28

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

act of resting

τὸν θεόν

you people

59

Num 5:8

b rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι ἐν

indef. person

τὸν θεόν

by the ram

60-68

Num 6:11; l( rpk 8:12, 19 21; 15:25, 28; 17:11, 12; 25:13

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

priest

τὸν θεόν

him

69-71

28:22, 30; 29:5

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι περί

suppliants

τὸν θεόν

you

72

31:50

l( rpk

ἐξιλάσκομαι we suppliants περί with gold amulets

τὸν θεόν

for ourselves before the Lord

73

35:33

rpku

ἐξιλάσκομαι fut. pass.

74

Deut 21:8

l rpk

ἵλεως γενοῦ

75

Deut 32:43

rpk

ἐκκαθαρίζω

for blood of pollution, no reverencing possible

land

the Lord

his land

people

JBL 129, no. 2 (2010): 261–279

The Composition of Nathan’s Oracle to David (2 Samuel 7:1–17) as a Reflection of Royal Judahite Ideology omer sergi [email protected] Tel Aviv University, Tel Aviv 61390, Israel

In loving memory of my father, Reuben Sergi

Nathan’s oracle in 2 Sam 7:1–17 incorporates two main themes: Yahweh’s central sanctuary in Jerusalem and the Davidic dynasty.1 Scholars have disputed the origin of these themes and consequently the extent of the Deuteronomistic redaction of the oracle. Some scholars attribute the entire oracle to the Deuteronomistic This article is part of my Ph.D. dissertation, written in Tel Aviv University, directed by Prof. Oded Lipschits. A first draft was presented in the Deuteronomistic History section of the annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in Boston, in November 2008. I would like to thank Prof. Rainer Albertz and Prof. Thomas Römer for discussing with me different aspects of the subject presented here. I would also like to thank Prof. Oded Lipschits for reading this article and making important notes on it. Of course, the views presented here are my own. 1 For a comprehensive survey of the research of Nathan’s oracle, see P. Kyle McCater, II Samuel: A New Translation with Introduction, Notes, and Commentary (AB 9; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1984), 210–17. For more recent discussions, see A. A. Anderson, 2 Samuel (WBC 11; Dallas: Word, 1989), 111–23; Antti Laato, “Second Samuel 7 and Ancient Near Eastern Royal Ideology,” CBQ 59 (1997): 244–69; Donald F. Murray, Divine Prerogative and Royal Pretension: Pragmatics, Poetics and Polemics in a Narrative Sequence about David (2 Samuel 5.17–7.29) (JSOTSup 264; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 160–99; Gary N. Knoppers, “David’s Relations to Moses: The Context, Content and Conditions of the Davidic Promises,” in King and Messiah in Israel and the Ancient Near East: Proceedings of the Oxford Old Testament Seminar (ed. John Day; JSOTSup 270; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1998), 91–118; Mark K. George, “Fluid Stability in Second Samuel 7,” CBQ 64 (2000): 17–36; Stephen Pisano, “2 Samuel 5–8 and the Deuteronomist: Textual Criticism or Literary Criticism?” in Israel Constructs Its History: Deuteronomistic Historiography in Recent Research (ed. Albert de Pury, Thomas Römer, and Jean-Daniel Macchi;

261

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author/editor of the book of Samuel.2 Others assume that the two main themes of the oracle are pre-Deuteronomistic, and they therefore ascribe only several editorial verses to the Deuteronomist.3 A third approach argues that at least one of the two main themes should be attributed to the preexilic Deuteronomist, and the other to a pre-Deuteronomistic scribe or to an exilic Deuteronomistic editor.4 In any case, setting the royal dynasty and the temple at the heart of royal ideology was common practice in ancient Near Eastern kingdoms. In light of this and since the temple and the Davidic monarchy seem to occupy a major role in biblical historiography, as well as in the prophetic literature and in biblical poetry, we may assume that the role of the temple and the dynasty in the royal Judahite ideology was not only a Deuteronomistic issue but was addressed also by pre- and even post-Deuteronomistic scribes. In this article I will demonstrate that Nathan’s oracle to David underwent three redactions, each representing the worldview of the Judahite elite in a different period. This observation enables us to assess the evolution of the royal ideology in Judah throughout Judean history. JSOTSup 306; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 258–83; Antony F. Campbell, 2 Samuel (FOTL 8; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005), 46–80; Michael Avioz, Nathan’s Oracle (2 Samuel 7) and Its Interpreters (Bible in History 5; Bern/New York: P. Lang, 2005), 13–70; Thomas Römer, The So Called Deuteronomistic History: A Sociological, Historical and Literary Introduction (London: T&T Clark, 2005), 146–47. 2 E.g., Rolf A. Carlson, David, the Chosen King: A Traditio-Historical Approach to the Second Book of Samuel (trans. Eric J. Sharpe and Stanley Rudman; Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1964), 97–118; Dennis J. McCarthy, “II Samuel 7 and the Structure of the Deuteronomic History,” JBL 84 (1965): 131–38; John Van Seters, In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983), 271–75; Jan P. Fokkelman, Narrative Art and Poetry in the Books of Samuel: A Full Interpretation Based on Stylistic and Structural Analysis, vol. 3, Throne and City (II Sam. 2–8 & 21–24) (SSN 27; Assen: Van Gorcum, 1990), 207–34. 3 E.g., Frank Moore Cross, Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic: Essays in the History of the Religion of Israel (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1973), 241–60; Timo Veijola, Die ewige Dynastie: David und die Entstehung seiner Dynastie nach der Deuteronomistischen Darstellung (Suomalaisen Tiedeakatemian Toimituksia, Sarja B, 193; Helsinki: Suomalainen Tiedeakatemia, 1975), 69–78; Tryggve N. D. Mettinger, King and Messiah: The Civil and Sacral Legitimation of the Israelite Kings (ConBOT 8; Lund: Gleerup, 1976), 48–59; McCarter, II Samuel, 191–230; Antony F. Campbell, Of Prophets and Kings: A Late Ninth-Century Document (1 Samuel 1–2 Kings 10) (CBQMS 17; Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1986), 46–80; idem, 2 Samuel, 70–78; Mark A. O’Brien, The Deuteronomistic History Hypothesis: A Reassessment (OBO 92; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1989), 132–37; Antony F. Campbell and Mark A. O’Brien, Unfolding the Deuteronomistic History: Origins, Upgrades, Present Text (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2000), 290. 4 E.g., Henry Preserved Smith, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Books of Samuel (ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1951), 297–98; A. D. H. Mayes, The Story of Israel between Settlement and Exile: A Redactional Study of the Deuteronomistic History (London: SCM, 1983), 102–5; Heinz Kruse, “David’s Covenant,” VT 35 (1985): 140–64; Anderson, 2 Samuel, 115–22; Römer, Deuteronomistic History, 146–47.

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I. The Early Layer of the Oracle (2 Samuel 7:1a, 2–3, 11b) The narrative introduction to the oracle (vv. 1–3) raises the temple issue in a manner that is wholly positive, causing the negativity of vv. 4–7 to come as a surprise. This is the basic argument for implementing a diachronic reading of the text by attributing the positive and the negative attitudes toward David’s initiative to different authors. Scholars who favor a synchronic reading rely on v. 4 to argue that Nathan’s positive reply was just a human error; they emphasize the total dependence of the prophet on God and recall other prophets who acted without clear instructions from God (e.g., Samuel in 1 Sam 16:6–7).5 On the other hand, v. 4 may be seen as an editorial insertion meant to transform the positive attitude of an earlier layer in the oracle into a negative rejection, by stressing that the prophet is just a mediator of God’s word and does not act independently.6 Further support for this argument may be found in v. 11. The awkward shift from the use of direct speech in the first person in v. 11a to indirect speech in the third person in v. 11b is frequently noted. This sudden shift cuts off Yahweh’s long speech in the first person, which starts in v. 4. The only other reference to Yahweh in the third person appears in v. 3. It may be argued, therefore, that v. 11b originally continued v. 3.7 On this account, the original form 5 Some scholars dismiss the contradiction between Nathan’s positive attitude to David’s initiative (v. 3) and its rejection (vv. 4–7) as a basis for a diachronic interpretation of the oracle. They argue, for instance, that vv. 5–7 do not contradict vv. 1–3, since they allude only to a postponement of the temple project and not to its total rejection. See Carlson, David, 112–13; Van Seters, In Search, 273. Others argue that Nathan’s positive attitude in v. 3 is just a polite and formal response to the king, not necessarily Nathan’s considered opinion, and certainly not Yahweh’s opinion (Martin Noth, The Laws in the Pentateuch and Other Studies [Philadelphia: Fortress, 1967], 257; Cross, Canaanite Myth, 241–42; Murray, Divine Prerogative, 166–67). See the critique of this interpretation in McCarter, II Samuel, 196–97. 6 See McCarter, II Samuel, 222–23; Campbell, Of Prophets, 79; idem, 2 Samuel, 76; Campbell and O’Brien, Unfolding, 290; Anderson, 2 Samuel, 115–16. 7 Cross suggests reading v. 11b in the first person as well and corrects the text as follows: Kl hnb) tyb yk Kl dyg)w (“And I make known to you that I will build a house for you”). He bases this correction on his attempt to identify consistent typology throughout the chapter (Canaanite Myth, 256). Cross treats the text quite freely, and his suggestion is therefore no more than an assumption. Fokkelman (Narrative Art, 228–29), Robert Polzin (David and the Deuteronomist: 2 Samuel [A Literary Study of the Deuteronomic History, pt. 3; Indiana Studies in Biblical Literature; Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1993], 73), and Murray (Divine Prerogative, 185) treat v. 11b as a rhetorical device in which one moves from a representation of speech toward its analysis and interpretation. Hence, Nathan’s reporting of God’s word in indirect discourse in v. 11b serves as a summary statement or a headline of the direct, quoted words of God in vv. 12–16. These suggestions solve the grammatical difficulty by adopting literary-rhetorical tools and avoiding a diachronic reading of the text. It should be noted, then, that only the diachronic reading of

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of the oracle has been reconstructed as comprising vv. 1–3 (excluding v. 1b, which will be discussed below) and v. 11b.8 In light of this, the whole of the original oracle was positive: the king, sitting in his house, expresses his intention (implicitly) to build a house (= temple) for Yahweh (vv. 1a, 2). He is encouraged by Nathan, who goes on to declare that Yahweh will build a house (= dynasty) for David (vv. 3, 11b). It is likely that the original oracle to David was positive in character and included the symmetry between God and David, corresponding to the close links between temple projects and dynastic promises in the ancient Near East.9 In this case the negativity of vv. 4–7 can be explained as a result of a redaction. There is often a disagreement concerning the origin of the earliest form of the oracle in the pre-Deuteronomistic sources of the book of Samuel,10 since it could fit well into both the History of David’s Rise (1 Samuel 16–2 Samuel 5 or 7) and the Succession Narrative (2 Samuel 7–20 and 1 Kings 1–2).11 The hypothesis about difthe oracle provides the grammatical solution to this difficulty, as suggested above, while also explaining the sharp contrast within the text itself. 8 See McCarter, II Samuel, 223; Anderson, 2 Samuel, 115. 9 Many scholars have demonstrated the close links between kings and sanctuaries in the ancient Near East, e.g., Victor A. Hurowitz, I Have Built You an Exalted House: Temple Building in the Bible in Light of Mesopotamian and Northwest Semitic Writings (JSOTSup 115; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992), 106–29. Mesopotamian kings frequently made records of temple projects connecting their service to the gods to an expectation for personal rewards, including the ongoing rule of their offspring. There was a widely understood association between the erection of a temple by a king and the hope of divine sanction of the continuing rule of him and his descendants. On this issue, see also Tomoo Ishida, The Royal Dynasties in Ancient Israel: A Study on the Formation and Development of Royal-Dynastic Ideology (BZAW 142; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 1977), 81– 99; McCarter, II Samuel, 224, with further literature; Laato, “Second Samuel 7,” 248–60, and further discussion below. 10 Following Leonhard Rost’s study Die Überlieferung von der Thronnachfolge Davids (BWANT 3; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1926; Eng. trans. The Succession to the Throne of David [trans. David M. Gunn and Michael D. Rutter; Historic Texts and Interpreters in Biblical Scholarship 1; Sheffield: Almond, 1982]) it became quite common to identify three to four early narratives (preDeuteronomistic) in the book of Samuel. For a recent survey of the research on these narratives, see Walter Dietrich and Thomas Naumann, “The David-Saul Narrative,” in Reconsidering Israel and Judah: Recent Studies on the Deuteronomistic History (ed. Gary N. Knoppers and J. Gordon McConville; Sources for Biblical and Theological Study 8; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2000), 276–318; Serge Frolov, “Succession Narrative: A Document or a Phantom?” JBL 121 (2002): 81– 124. For a comprehensive study of these narratives and the recent critique about the early narratives theory, see Walter Dietrich, The Early Monarchy in Israel: The Tenth Century B.C.E (trans. Joachim Vette; Biblical Encyclopedia 3; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2007), 237–50. 11 Gwilym H. Jones (The Nathan Narratives [JSOTSup 80; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1990], 15– 16), following Rost (Succession, 35–56), argues that Nathan’s oracle in 2 Sam 7:1–17 is the opening clause of the Succession Narrative. Contrary to that, others argue that Nathan’s oracle is the peak of the History of David’s Rise, while its links to the Succession Narrative are a result of the Deuteronomistic redaction (see Mettinger, King and Messiah, 43–45; Van Seters, In Search, 275– 77; McCarter, II Samuel, 218).

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ferent pre-Deuteronomistic narratives in the book of Samuel is highly criticized today because of the difficulties in assessing their extent and contents and in interpreting the textual relations between them.12 Furthermore, there is no agreement regarding the genre of these early narratives, their message, or the ideology they represent.13 Recent study of the pre-Deuteronomistic narratives in the book of Samuel emphasizes that these supposedly different sources share plots, narratives, and ideological motives that were set against the same historical and chronological background.14 At present, therefore, scholars argue for the unity of the preDeuteronomistic narrative in the book of Samuel, calling it “The History of the Early Monarchy.”15 It has been noted that the various explicit and implied narrative elements that form continuity in the current text may derive from completely separate stories or story cycles about the heroic David. These stories do not fall into the category of texts produced by royal scribes as we know it from other ancient Near Eastern kingdoms. The various characters and stories, the dialogues, and the intimate details appearing in this narrative clearly demonstrate that it is a collection of accounts, tales, and legends about the early Judahite kings that cover a long period of time.16 12 See Dietrich and Naumann, “David-Saul Narrative,” 293; Frolov, “Succession,” 90–93; Dietrich, Early Monarchy, 228–50. 13 For different suggestions, see Joseph Blenkinsopp, “Theme and Motive in the Succession History (2 Sam XI, 2ff) and the Yahwist Corpus,” in Volume du Congrès: Genève, 1965 (VTSup 15; Leiden: Brill, 1966), 44–57; Arthur Weiser, “Die Legitimation des Königs David: Zur Eigenart und Entstehung der sogen. Geschichte von Davids Aufstieg,” VT 16 (1966): 325–54; James W. Flanagan, “Court History or Succession Document? A Study of 2 Samuel 9–20 and 1 Kings 1–2,” JBL 91 (1972): 172–81; David M. Gunn, The Story of King David: Genre and Interpretation (JSOTSup 6; Sheffield: Almond, 1978); Niels Peter Lemche, “David’s Rise,” JSOT 10 (1978): 2–25; P. Kyle McCarter, “The Apology of David,” JBL 99 (1980): 489–504; Keith W. Whitelam, “The Defense of David,” JSOT 29 (1984): 61–87; James S. Ackerman, “Knowing Good and Evil: A Literary Analysis of the Court History in 2 Samuel 9–20 and 1 Kings 1–2,” JBL 109 (1990): 41–64; Baruch Halpern, David’s Secret Demons: Messiah, Murderer, Traitor, King (Bible and Its World; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 57–106. 14 See Dietrich and Naumann, “David-Saul Narrative,” 305–7; Dietrich, Early Monarchy, 239–45. 15 See Nadav Na’aman, “Sources and Composition in the History of David,” in The Origins of the Ancient Israelite States (ed. Volkmar Fritz and Philip R. Davies; JSOTSup 228; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1996), 170–86; idem, “In Search of Reality behind the Account of David’s Wars with Israel’s Neighbors,” IEJ 52 (2002): 200–224; Stanley Isser, The Sword of Goliath: David in Heroic Literature (Studies in Biblical Literature 6; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 44–45, 141–84; Dietrich, Early Monarchy, 263–316. 16 Lemche (“David’s Rise,” 2–25) and Gunn (Story, 38, 59–62) emphasize the literary character of the early narratives about David in the book of Samuel and subsequently conclude that the stories should be regarded not as official historical records but as a collection of entertaining stories and tales. Isser (Sword, 181–84) suggests that these early narratives were literary traditions

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The story of David as a heroic figure coming from the fringes of society and becoming a king (1 Samuel 16–1 Kings 1) is framed in the History of the Early Monarchy by the stories of Saul and Solomon. The stories about Saul (1 Samuel 9– 31) emphasize his failure to found a royal dynasty (hence the focus on Jonathan and his heirs), while the stories about Solomon recount his coronation as David’s legitimate heir. Thus, the main plot of the History of the Early Monarchy deals not just with David himself but also with the foundation of the Davidic dynasty, and it ends, therefore, with the coronation of David’s legitimate heir (1 Kgs 2:45–46).17 In light of this, we can assume that the early layer of Nathan’s oracle (2 Sam 7:1a, 2–3, 11b) was part of the unified pre-Deuteronomistic narrative about the foundation of the Davidic monarchy. This background clarifies the role of the earliest form of Nathan’s oracle in the History of the Early Monarchy. By providing divine legitimacy to David and to his successors, it serves the main purpose of the narrative. Examining the role of Nathan in this narrative may strengthen this argument. In each of his three appearances in the History of the Early Monarchy he assures David’s dynasty: in 2 Samuel 7 he promises David a royal dynasty; in 2 Samuel 12 he declares the death of Bathsheba’s firstborn and blesses her second son, David’s heir, Solomon; in 1 Kings 1 he is directly involved in the coronation of Solomon. Nathan’s characterization is identical in all three stories: he is portrayed as an advisor to the king who can influence David’s deeds by means of support (2  Samuel 7) and criticism (2 Samuel 12) and by using sophisticated rhetoric (including promises [2 Sam 7:11b]; parables [2 Sam 12:1–4]; and manipulation [1 Kgs 1:11–30]). His main role is to provide divine legitimacy for the Davidic dynasty and to guarantee its existence. The temple is not the central issue in Nathan’s role in the History of the Early Monarchy, and it is also marginal in the original form of the oracle (2 Sam 7:1a, 2– 3, 11b). This factor is evidence for the pre-Deuteronomistic date of the early oracle and correlates with the religious situation in the History of the Early Monarchy, which depicts a time before a cult of Yahweh with exclusivist characteristics was institutionalized.18

about the golden age of the Israelites’ early kings, some representing folktales and legends through which residents of Judah understood and celebrated their past (see also Dietrich, Early Monarchy, 263–314). This approach to the early literature in the book of Samuel bridges the gap between the unity of the narrative in 1 Samuel 9 to 1 Kings 2 and the different perspectives and traditions identified in it. 17 This conclusion clarifies the figure of Saul in the History of the Early Monarchy: David’s successful establishment of a royal house is depicted in the light of Saul’s failure to establish one (Whitelam, “Defense,” 71–75; Dietrich and Naumann, “David-Saul Narrative,” 310; Frolov, “Succession,” 81–124; Dietrich, Early Monarchy, 249–50). Against this background, the role of Jonathan and his successors, Saul’s heirs, comes to light as they themselves ratify the foundation of the house of David and legitimize it (1 Sam 18:3–4; 19:1–7; 20; 2 Sam 4:4; 9:1–13; 19:18–31). 18 See Isser, Sword, 64–65. To support this conclusion it should be mentioned that the

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The absence of developed urban centers and epigraphic finds in Iron Age I– IIa Judah weakens the possibility that the composition of this narrative took place in the time of David and Solomon. According to archaeological evidence, literacy spread in Judah only in the eighth century b.c.e.—particularly in its second half.19 Nevertheless, royal inscriptions from the kingdoms surrounding Judah are known from the second half of the ninth century b.c.e. (e.g., the Mesha stele from the Moabite kingdom and the Dan inscription of Hazael, king of Aram Damascus, which even mentions the kingdom of Judah as “Beth-David”—the house of David).20 These royal inscriptions clearly demonstrate that royal scribal activity took place in the second half of the ninth century—at least in the royal courts of the region—and that literacy was spread mainly in royal courts. We may hypothesize, therefore, that royal scribes were active in Jerusalem (at least for administrative purposes) as early as the second half of the ninth century. This time is probably the terminus post quem for the composition of the History of the Early Monarchy. On the other hand, the earliest dating for the Deuteronomistic ideas (the eternity of the Davidic dynasty; the idealization of David’s character; the cult centralization; and the primary importance of Jerusalem) is the late eighth to seventh centuries b.c.e. This constitutes the terminus ante quem for the composition of the History of the Early Monarchy. Nadav Na’aman argues that the political reality in the History of the Early Monarchy correlates with that of the second half of the ninth century b.c.e. Consequently, he dates the narrative to the late ninth to early eighth centuries.21 Identifying the main plot of the narrative with the foundation of the house of David

History of the Early Monarchy reflects the sociopolitical reality of the early days of the monarchy in the Iron Age I–IIa (local heroes active in small towns and villages; outlaw bands and mercenaries; wars and rivalry between local leaders and communities; see also Na’aman, “Sources,” 170– 86; idem, “In Search of Reality,” 200–224). Furthermore, the realistic representation of David (cf. 2 Samuel 11–12) does not accord with his idealization in the Deuteronomistic history (and see, e.g., the apologetic approach of the Deuteronomist to the Uriah tradition in 1 Kgs 15:4–5). In light of this, we should ascribe the History of the Early Monarchy to a pre-Deuteronomistic author. 19 See David W. Jamieson-Drake, Scribes and Schools in Monarchic Judah: A SocioArcheological Approach (JSOTSup 109; Sheffield: Almond, 1991), 147–49; Nadav Na’aman, The Past That Shapes the Present: The Creation of Biblical Historiography in the Late First Temple Period and after the Downfall (Jerusalem: Ornah Hess, 2002), 17–25. 20 For the phrase “Beth-David” in the Dan inscription, see Nadav Na’aman, “Beth-David in the Aramaic Stela from Tel Dan,” BN 78 (1995): 17–24, with further literature. For recent discussion of the Mesha stele, see André Lemaire, “The Mesha Stele and the Omri Dynasty,” in Ahab Agonistes: The Rise and Fall of the Omri Dynasty (ed. Lester L. Grabbe; Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies 421; London: T&T Clark, 2007), 135–44; Nadav Na’aman, “Royal Inscription versus Prophetic Story: Mesha’s Rebellion according to Biblical and Moabite Historiography,” in ibid., 145–83, with further literature. 21 See Na’aman, “Sources,” 170–86; idem, “In Search of Reality,” 200–224; idem, “In Search of the Ancient Name of Khirbet Qeiyafa,” Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 8 (2008): 5–6.

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(who rose to kingship after the removal of the former royal dynasty of the Saulides) strengthens Na’aman’s argument. The political affairs in Jerusalem in the second half of the ninth century and in the first half of the eighth century b.c.e. might have triggered the need for this literary work. Athaliah and two Davidic kings (Joash and Amaziah) were murdered during this period, one after the other (2 Kings 11–14). Although the biblical account offers no information about the circumstances of these political murders, they seem to attest to instability faced by the Davidic monarchy. Athaliah was later to be perceived as a complete stranger to the Davidic dynasty and identified with a foreign royal house (the Omrides from the north or even the Phoenicians). These events probably raised questions regarding the legitimacy of the royal dynasty and, therefore, provide a suitable backdrop for the composition of a narrative about the foundation of the Davidic dynasty.22 This historical background also explains the importance of Nathan’s role in providing divine legitimacy to David and his successors. On this basis we may date the early form of Nathan’s oracle to David in 2 Sam 7:1a, 2–3, 11b to the first half of the eighth century b.c.e.

II. The Deuteronomistic Layer (2 Samuel 7:1b, 4–6a, 8–9, 11a, 12–16) The Deuteronomistic redaction of Nathan’s oracle represents the main stage of the oracle’s composition. The Deuteronomist supplemented the dynastic promise that was part of the original oracle with his new temple theology. Furthermore, he gave a new interpretation to the dynastic promise—as an everlasting promise to the Davidic monarchy. By doing this, he focused the royal ideology of Judah on two themes: Yahweh’s temple in Jerusalem and the Davidic dynasty, setting Nathan’s oracle as the base of the Deuteronomistic History.23 The positive view of the Davidic dynasty and the temple theology expressed in it support a preexilic date for the Deuteronomistic redaction of the oracle, most likely in the late seventh century b.c.e. during the reign of Josiah.24 The first correlation between the temple and the dynasty is found in v. 1b with the theme of “rest from enemies,” which occurs also in v. 11a. This theme is linked to the Deuteronomistic temple theology by associating the central sanctuary in 22 See Rainer Albertz, A History of Israelite Religion in the Old Testament Period, vol. 1, From the Beginnings to the End of the Monarchy (OTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1994), 118. 23 See Knoppers, “David’s Relations,” 100–101. 24 The everlasting promise to the Davidic dynasty in 2 Sam 7:1–17 is one of the basic arguments used by scholars who date the first redaction of the Deuteronomistic History to the days of Josiah, which I follow. See, recently, Oded Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem: Judah under Babylonian Rule (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2005), 272–95; Römer, Deuteronomistic History, 45–106; Na’aman, Past, 55–60, with further literature.

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Jerusalem with a promise for the security of Israel in its land (Deut 12:5–11). It occurs also in Joshua (21:43–45; 22:4; 23:1) and Judges (3:1), where security is linked to proper worship of Yahweh, as it is in Deuteronomy.25 In Nathan’s oracle, the theme of “rest from enemies” offers an indirect explanation for David’s failure to build a temple for Yahweh. Verse 11a promises the rest as a future reward, and since David’s age was a time of war, as demonstrated in 2 Samuel 8–20, no blame could be placed on the king for not carrying out his plan to build a temple.26 This point is expressed clearly in Solomon’s speech during the preparations for his temple-building project (1 Kgs 5:17–19). The Deuteronomist, who praised David as a role model for all future kings of Israel and Judah, had to explain how it came to be that David was denied the building of the temple, while his son Solomon was granted this privilege.27 The explicit banning of David from the temple project in vv. 5–7 should be divided, in my opinion, into two different redactional layers: vv. 5–6a are part of the Deuteronomistic redaction, while vv. 6b–7 represent the language and worldview of a post-Deuteronomistic scribe, which will be discussed below. The phrase “since the day I brought up the children of Israel from Egypt, even to this day” (v. 6a) is most likely a Deuteronomistic expression.28 The phrase dwd ydb( (“my servant David”) in v. 5 is linked in the Deuteronomistic History to the survival of the Davidic monarchy by recalling Nathan’s oracle (2 Sam 3:18; 1 Kgs 11:32, 33, 36, 38; 14:8; 2 Kgs 19:34; 20:16) and should therefore be ascribed to the Deuteronomist as well.29 In vv. 5–6a, David’s building the temple is disallowed (“Will you build a house for me to dwell in?”), and the kind of house he had in mind for Yahweh (“a house to dwell in”) is rejected from the outset (“For I have not dwelt in a house since the day I brought up the children of Israel from Egypt, even to this day”).30 From David’s initiative alluded to in v. 2 (“See now, I dwell in a house of cedar, but the ark

25

Most scholars agree in attributing the theme of “rest from enemies” to the Deuteronomistic ideology (see, e.g., Carlson, David, 99–104; Mayes, History, 104–5; McCarter, II Samuel, 204–5, 217–20; Campbell, Of Prophets, 75–76, 80; idem, 2 Samuel, 75; O’Brien, Deuteronomistic History, 133; Anderson, 2 Samuel, 116; Fokkelman, Narrative Art, 209; Pisano, “2 Samuel,” 273– 74). The theme of “rest from enemies” occurs also in Mesopotamian building inscriptions as a basic condition preceding the building of a temple (Ishida, Royal Dynasties, 88); see further discussion below. 26 For the translation of the verb ytwxynhw in v. 11a as a future promise for rest (“I shall give you rest”), see n. 34 below. 27 See also McCarter, II Samuel, 220; Campbell, Of Prophets, 80. 28 See Moshe Weinfeld, Deuteronomy and the Deuteronomic School (Oxford: Clarendon, 1972), 341; Mettinger, King and Messiah, 56; Anderson, 2 Samuel, 120. 29 See McCarthy, II Samuel 7, 132; Weinfeld, Deuteronomy, 354; Van Seters, In Search, 276; Anderson, 2 Samuel, 118; Pisano, “2 Samuel,” 280. 30 See also Murray, Divine Prerogative, 170–72.

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of God dwells in tent curtains”) it is deduced that he meant to build a house for Yahweh to dwell in, while according to the Deuteronomistic temple theology, Yahweh needs a house only for his name.31 It is for this reason that David’s plan was rejected (vv. 5–6a), and the right to build an appropriate house for Yahweh passed to his son (v. 13: “He shall build a house for my name”). The theology conceiving of the temple as a house for the name of Yahweh is commonly ascribed to the Deuteronomist.32 Since the main concern of vv. 5–6a and 13 is the house for the name of Yahweh as opposed to a house for Yahweh to dwell in, it seems that these verses represent the Deuteronomistic ideology and should be ascribed to the Deuteronomist.33 Verses 8–9 and 11a precede the original dynastic promise given in v. 11b with references to God’s favors toward David in the past (vv. 8–9a) and in the future (vv. 9b, 11a).34 They provide a brief résumé of David’s rise to power, emphasizing that the initiative was Yahweh’s (vv. 8–9). David’s proposal to build a house for Yahweh is then underlain by a reminder that David’s success is due to Yahweh alone. This rhetorical addition before the original promise in v. 11b conveys a Deuteronomistic message by breaking the symmetry between Yahweh and David that was formed in the original oracle, all the while highlighting the divine election of David. 31

On this subject, see also Na’aman, Past, 45. Most scholars agree that the theology presenting the temple as a place for the name of Yahweh should be ascribed to the Deuteronomist. See Richard D. Nelson, The Double Redaction of the Deuteronomistic History (JSOTSup 18; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1981), 106; McCarter, II Samuel, 206, 222; Campbell, Of Prophets, 80; O’Brien, Deuteronomistic History, 133; Anderson, 2 Samuel, 114, 119; Na’aman, Past, 44–45. 33 The rhetorical link between v. 5 and v. 13 is often noted. Verse 5 poses a question: “Will you [David] build a house for me [Yahweh] to dwell in?,” which is answered in v. 13: “[No!] He [David’s heir] will build a house for my [Yahweh’s] name.” See also Mettinger, King and Messiah, 52; McCarter, II Samuel, 205, 230; Kruse, “David’s Covenant,” 142–43; Anderson, 2 Samuel, 118– 19; Fokkelman, Narrative Art, 216. 34 In v. 9, a sequence of verbs with waw consecutive begins: two future verbs—htyrk)w hyh)w —which would normally be translated in the past time (“I have been with you wherever you have gone and have cut off all your enemies from before you”) and one perfect verb, which should be translated in the future tense yty#(w (“and I will make you a great name, like the names of the great men who are on the earth”). The past tense verbs are, therefore, a direct continuation of the retrospective view of Yahweh’s favors to David from v. 8, while the future tense verb constitutes a divine future promise to David. This promise is met in 2 Sam 8:13 after the account of David’s war with the Aramaeans. According to this account, the Deuteronomist argues that even David’s “great name” among his enemies is a result of Yahweh’s will (unlike the phrase in 2 Sam 8:13 stressing that David has made the great name for himself). The perfect verb with waw consecutive ytwxynhw in v. 11a should be translated in the future as well (“I shall give you rest”) not only on grammatical grounds (perfect verb + waw consecutive) but also since the overall context of the verse points to the future of David and his royal dynasty. Thus, vv. 8–9a are an account of Yahweh’s past favors to David by which he ascended the throne, and vv. 9b, 11a mention God’s future promises to David, giving a context to the original dynastic promise from v. 11b. 32

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These verses use explicit Deuteronomistic phrases and ideas such as nāgîd (v. 8),35 the “rest from enemies” and the “period of the judges” (v. 11a).36 Verses 12–16 reinterpret the original dynastic promise from v. 11b as an everlasting promise to the Davidic dynasty. Its first mention is in v. 13 (“He [David’s heir] shall build a house for my name, and I will establish the throne of his kingdom forever”), in which the Deuteronomistic temple theology is incorporated explicitly with the Deuteronomistic theme of the enduring dynastic promise. This observation implies that the everlasting promise should be ascribed to the Deuteronomistic redactor. Scholars who tend to minimize the role of the Deuteronomistic redactor in 2 Sam 7:1–17 have argued that v. 13 (or even just v. 13a) is a Deuteronomistic insertion into an early layer of the oracle in vv. 12, 14–16 that already contained the everlasting promise (in v. 16: “And your house and your kingdom shall endure before me forever; your throne shall be established forever”). These scholars have interpreted the meaning of the expression in v. 12 . . . K(rz Ky(mm )cy r#) (“your seed that will issue from your loins”) as a general reference to David’s descendants. According to this view, only with the insertion of v. 13 by the Deuteronomistic redactor was the general reference narrowed to the individual Solomon.37 This interpretation opens the way to arguing that the everlasting 35 For different suggestions about the origin of the title nāgîd, see McCarter, II Samuel, 201– 2, 228–29; Campbell, Of Prophets, 48–63, 86; O’Brien, Deuteronomistic History, 132; Carlson, David, 52–55; Veijola, Ewige Dynastie, 129–89, 141; Mayes, History, 103–4; Van Seters, In Search, 275; Na’aman, Past, 107. There is a dispute over the origin of the title nāgîd. McCarter, Campbell, and O’Brien, for instance, ascribe it to a pre-Deuteronomistic prophetic author, while Carlson, Veijola, Mayes, Van Seters, and Na’aman ascribe it to the Deuteronomist. This title is given to Saul in his accession stories (1 Sam 9:16; 10:1) and in his rejection by Samuel (1 Sam 13:14); to David as the leader chosen by Yahweh (1 Sam 25:30; 2 Sam 5:2; 6:21); to Solomon in his coronation story (1 Kgs 1:35); and to Jeroboam and Baasha when they were rejected by the prophet Ahijah the Shilonite (1 Kgs 14:7; 16:1). It is also given to Hezekiah in his prayer (2 Kgs 20:5). Indeed, the title nāgîd usually appears in the prophetic word of God, but its occurrences in nonprophetic speeches also (Abigail’s speech in 1 Sam 25:30 and David’s in 1 Kgs 1:35) imply that it should not necessarily be ascribed to a “prophetic redactor.” On the other hand, it should be noted that nāgîd is often found as a Deuteronomistic cliché (e.g., 1 Kgs 14:7; 16:1). It is possible that the Deuteronomist found it in the early stories about Saul in 2 Sam 9:16; 10:1 (see also Wolfgang Richter, “Die NagidFormel,” BZ 9 [1965]: 71–84) and used it in his composition by loading it with a new meaning— applying it to founders of royal dynasties who were chosen/rejected by God through a prophetic word. For a comprehensive survey of the research of this issue (albeit with different conclusions), see Mettinger, King and Messiah, 151–84; Murray, Divine Prerogative, 281–301. 36 Even scholars who minimize the Deuteronomistic redaction of Nathan’s oracle ascribe v. 11a to the Deuteronomist. See, e.g., Cross, Canaanite Myth, 254; Mettinger, King and Messiah, 52–54; Mayes, History, 103–5; McCarter, II Samuel, 204–5, 230; Campbell, Of Prophets, 75–76; idem, 2 Samuel, 74–76; O’Brien, Deuteronomistic History, 133; Anderson, 2 Samuel, 120–21; Campbell and O’Brien, Unfolding, 290. 37 See, e.g., Hans W. Hertzberg, I & II Samuel: A Commentary (trans. John S. Bowden; OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1964), 286–87; Smith, Books of Samuel, 300; Nelson, Double Redaction,

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promise is a pre-Deuteronomistic idea. The noun (rz (“seed”) is used as a general reference to descendants,38 but in v. 12 the “seed” is described particularly as r#) Ky(mm )cy (“that will issue from your loins”), indicating the immediate descendant of the person to whom the sentence is addressed. This expression occurs in this form only in Gen 15:4 and in 2 Sam 16:11, and in both cases it refers to the immediate descendant as an heir.39 It seems therefore unnecessary to argue that only v. 13 identifies the seed of David with Solomon; this is done already in v. 12. Consequently, it seems that vv. 12 and 13 both belong to the Deuteronomistic layer of the oracle, which presents the reign of Solomon and the temple building as the realization of Nathan’s oracle. The everlasting promise is mentioned in vv. 13 and 16, while vv. 14–15 in between formulate the terms of this commitment by employing an adoption formula depicting Yahweh’s relations with David’s successor. According to these terms, the disobedience of David’s heirs will not bring divine chastisement (like the divine rejection of the Saulides mentioned in v. 15: “But I will not withdraw my favor from him as I withdrew it from your predecessor Saul, whom I removed from my presence”), but a kind of “paternal correction” (v. 14: “And if he does wrong, I will correct him with the rod of humans and with human chastisements”). Thus, the use of the father–son terminology is linked to the granting of an enduring dynasty; Yahweh assures David that his throne will be confirmed forever.40 This assurance sets Nathan’s oracle as a founding text and is used by the Deuteronomistic redactor to explain the whole history of the Davidic monarchy and its survival (1 Kgs 11:13–14, 32–34, but also in 2 Kgs 8:18–19). The entire Deuteronomistic History is thus presented as the realization of Nathan’s oracle. Therefore, there can be little doubt that the everlasting promise to the house of David should be attributed to the worldview of the preexilic Deuteronomistic school. 106–7; McCarter, II Samuel, 205–6; Campbell, Of Prophets, 80; idem, 2 Samuel, 76; Campbell and O’Brien, Unfolding, 290; Anderson, 2 Samuel, 121–22; Murray, Divine Prerogative, 198; O’Brien, Deuteronomistic History, 132. 38 See Murray, Divine Prerogative, 188–91. 39 Murray (Divine Prerogative, 189–90) examined all the biblical occurrences of expressions with the formula “possessive adjective + offspring after + personal pronoun” and concluded that the context in all instances makes it clear that the expression has a collective reference. Hence, he concluded that the particular expression employed in 2 Sam 7:12 to define David’s offspring clearly indicates a collective sense for the term, speaking about David’s descendants in general. Nevertheless, it should be noted that the exact expression describing David’s seed as Ky(mm )cy r#) (“that will issue from your loins”) occurs only in Gen 15:4 and in 2 Sam 16:11, where it is clearly indicating the immediate descendant as a son of the verse’s main character. Genesis 15:4 refers to Isaac, Abraham’s immediate descendant, and 2 Sam 16:11 refers to Absalom, David’s immediate descendant. 40 See also Smith, Books of Samuel, 300; McCarter, II Samuel, 207–8; Knoppers, “David’s Relations,” 99.

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The Deuteronomistic themes incorporated into the genre of an oracle given to the king through a prophet have no parallel in ancient Near Eastern sources. Indeed, some of the themes in Nathan’s oracle occur also in other ancient Near Eastern royal ideologies,41 but these ideologies do not include the explicit everlasting divine promise to the reigning king. Royal building inscriptions from Mesopotamia dated to the seventh to sixth centuries b.c.e. have many similarities to Nathan’s oracle: In both sources the “rest from enemies” is a basic condition preceding the building of the temple; the king seeks the divine will; and the king’s loyalty to his god is demonstrated through the building of a temple and is associated with the prosperity and duration of his reign and his dynasty.42 Clearly, Nathan’s oracle does not fall into the literary genre of the royal building inscriptions, since it speaks the divine word of God to the king through a mediator, while the Mesopotamian building inscriptions present the plea of a king to his god. In terms of literary genre, Nathan’s prophecy can be compared with the Assyrian prophecies, which include all the themes that occur in Nathan’s oracle except the building of the temple.43 The comparison of Nathan’s oracle with the Mesopotamian templedynasty ideology strongly suggests that the Assyrian royal ideology had a great impact on the Judahite-Deuteronomistic royal ideology, as it is demonstrated in 2 Sam 7:1–17. Moreover, it ratifies the date of the Deuteronomistic redaction to the late seventh century b.c.e. This conclusion should come as no surprise, since many scholars have demonstrated the strong impact of the Assyrian culture on the

41

Among these is the divine confirmation needed for the temple’s building, the association of “rest from enemies” with temple building, and the close links between temple buildings and reigning dynasties. See Ishida, Royal Dynasties, 81–99; Avraham Malamat, “A Mari Prophecy and Nathan’s Dynastic Oracle,” in Prophecy: Essays Presented to Georg Fohrer on His Sixty-fifth Birthday, 6 September 1980 (ed. J. A. Emerton; BZAW 150; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1980), 68–82; Hurowitz, I Have Built, 116, 136–64; Laato, “Second Samuel 7,” 244–69; Murray, Divine Prerogative, 266–68. Siegfried Herrmann compared Nathan’s oracle with the Egyptian Königsnovelle (“Die Königsnovelle in Ägypten und Israel,” Wissenschaftliche Zeitschrift der Karl Marx Universität, Leipzig 3: Gesellschafts- und sprachwissenschaftliche Reihe 1 [1953–54]: 51–62). This comparison has been highly criticized by subsequent scholars; see, e.g., Cross, Canaanite Myth, 247–49; Ishida, Royal Dynasties, 83–84; Veijola, Ewige Dynastie, 71–72; Van Seters, In Search, 271; McCarter, II Samuel, 212–15; Hurowitz, I Have Built, 166–67. Weinfeld compared it with royal grant covenants and vassal treaties from the ancient Near Eastern kingdoms (“The Covenant of Grant in the Old Testament and in the Ancient Near East,” JAOS 90 [1970]: 184–203), but this comparison is criticized by Knoppers, mainly on account of the difference in genres: the royal grant covenants are legal documents, whereas Nathan’s oracle is a divine word of God given to the king by a prophet. See Knoppers, “Ancient Near Eastern Royal Grants and the Davidic Covenant: A Parallel?” JAOS 116 (1996): 670–97. 42 For a detailed analysis, see Ishida, Royal Dynasties, 87–90; Laato, “Second Samuel 7,” 255–56. 43 See also Ishida, Royal Dynasties, 90–92.

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Deuteronomistic ideology.44 Nevertheless, Nathan’s oracle in its present form, incorporating the temple project with a divine promise to the enduring reign of the royal dynasty, is a unique Deuteronomistic creation that has no parallel in the ancient Near Eastern texts.

III. The Post-Deuteronomistic Layer (2 Samuel 7:6b–7, 10) The dynastic promise to David evaporated shortly after it was conceived by the Deuteronomist. The Babylonian destruction of Jerusalem and particularly of the temple in 586 b.c.e. brought with it an end to the house of David. The Davidic dynasty was not revived with the building of the Second Temple in the Persian period, and the monarchical institution as a whole lost its place in the Persian province of Yehud. This historical reality serves as the background of the third stage in the literary development of Nathan’s oracle. Verses 6b–7 accentuate the dissonance between Yahweh’s residence in a tenttabernacle, enabling the deity to “move about” (v. 6b: “but I have moved about in a tent and in a tabernacle”), and David’s proposed temple, which would impose restrictions on the divine freedom (v. 7: “Wherever I have moved about with all the children of Israel, have I ever spoken a word to anyone from the tribes of Israel, whom I commanded to shepherd my people Israel, saying, ‘Why have you not built me a house of cedar?’”). Many scholars argue that this dissonance explains the divine rejection of David’s proposal to build Yahweh’s temple.45 However, it does not necessitate the rejection of the idea of the temple itself, but rather a rejection of the strong link between the monarchy (particularly the Davidic monarchy) and the temple. According to vv. 6b–7, David’s pretentious proposal to build a cedar house for Yahweh, had it received divine authorization, would have become a joint undertaking and not the sole prerogative of the king.46 Frank Moore Cross suggests that these ideas represent premonarchic, nomadic traditions.47 However, since none of the biblical material can be linked to such an early tradition, it seems unreasonable that they were integrated into the royal ideology of Judah, later finding their way into the Deuteronomistic ideology. Some

44

See Römer, Deuteronomistic History, 67–106; Na’aman, Past, 43–44, with further literature. E.g., Hertzberg, I & II Samuel, 285; Van Seters, In Search, 274; McCarter, II Samuel, 199– 200, 225–26; Fokkelman, Narrative Art, 217; George, “Fluid Stability,” 19–23; Campbell, 2 Samuel, 73. 46 See also Walter Brueggemann, First and Second Samuel (Interpretation; Louisville: John Knox, 1990), 254; Murray, Divine Prerogative, 171–75. 47 See Cross, Canaanite Myth, 244–45; for a critique of this suggestion, see Mettinger, King and Messiah, 53–54. 45

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scholars attribute these verses to a Solomonic scribe or to the Deuteronomist himself.48 One should be cautious, however, with attributing anti-temple or antimonarchic ideas to royal scribes, since the temple and the dynasty were set at the heart of the royal ideologies of the ancient Near Eastern kingdoms. Moreover, the divine election of David and his house, together with the divine election of the Jerusalemite sanctuary as the sole cult place for Yahweh are among the fundamental themes of the Deuteronomistic ideology. In light of this, some scholars suggest attributing the anti-temple and antimonarchic themes to a pre-Deuteronomistic prophetic redactor.49 Indeed, some prophets expressed anti-temple or anti-monarchic views in the monarchic period (cf. Jeremiah 7; Amos 5:18–25), and it is reasonable to assume that prophets were at least partially responsible for the scribal activity and prophetic legends that were later used as historical sources for the Deuteronomist.50 These prophets, however, came from the fringes of society and did not hold central power positions in the royal court; this enabled them to attack the royal institutions. The writing and redaction of a comprehensive literary work, summarizing the history of a kingdom by creating periodization and analyzing historical circumstances, could hardly be the work of prophets outside the circles of power. These activities should rather be attributed to royal scribes. Since it is doubtful that historical literary works composed by royal scribes included anti-temple or anti-monarchic themes, we should look for the origin of these themes to the postmonarchic period when the house of David no longer ruled over Judah.51 Verse 6b reinforces the notion that Yahweh’s tent and tabernacle preceded the 48 Mettinger ascribed these verses to a Solomonic scribe (King and Messiah, 53–54). Carlson (David, 112–13) and Kruse (“David’s Covenant,” 142–48) ascribed them to the Deuteronomist. 49 E.g., McCarter, II Samuel, 225–29; Campbell, Of Prophets, 75–76; idem, 2 Samuel, 76. Campbell suggests that one of the sources for the Deuteronomistic History was a Prophetic Record (PR), which contained much of the material found in 1 Samuel 1–2 Kings 10 and was composed by a prophetic circle in Israel after Jehu’s usurpation in the late ninth century b.c.e. (Campbell, Of Prophets, 17–124, but see also O’Brien, Deuteronomistic History, 129–226; Campbell and O’Brien, Unfolding, 24–32). The hypothesis of a pre-Deuteronomistic source containing stories of the early Judahite kingdom and the ninth-century B.C.E. kingdom of Israel presupposes the existence of the united monarchy in the tenth century b.c.e. It takes for granted that the text composed in the northern kingdom of Israel incorporated stories about Judah (David’s stories) and about Israel (the Omrides and the Jehu accounts). Recent archaeological research and biblical criticism seem to support the argument that the united monarchy is a Deuteronomistic fiction that is not grounded in the political reality of the tenth century b.c.e. (see Na’aman, Past, 116–18). Thus, it is hardly likely that a single narrative incorporating the histories of Israel and Judah was composed in the late ninth century in the kingdom of Israel. For further criticism of the theory of a Prophetic Record in regard to David’s stories, see Dietrich and Naumann, “David-Saul Narrative,” 310–13. 50 On that issue, see Nadav Na’aman, “Prophetic Stories as Sources for the Histories of Jehoshaphat and the Omrides,” Bib 78 (1997): 153–73; idem, Past, 95–97. 51 See Anderson, 2 Samuel, 115, 118–20; Polzin, David, 77; George, “Fluid Stability,” 17–36.

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Solomonic temple in Jerusalem. The tent and tabernacle as two elements of Yahweh’s sanctuary appear only in the Pentateuch and are commonly ascribed to the Priestly source.52 There is no other mention of the tent-tabernacle sanctuary outside the Priestly source, nor in the Deuteronomistic history.53 On this basis I argue that vv. 6b–7 represent the post-Deuteronomistic redaction of Nathan’s oracle and should be dated to the Persian period.54 The tent-tabernacle theology demonstrated in the Pentateuch gives further support to this view. Reviewing the tent-tabernacle building narrative in Exodus 25–31, 36–40 reveals close relations to their appearance in Nathan’s oracle. According to Exod 25:8; 40:34–35, the tent and the tabernacle were made for Yahweh to dwell in. They were built (Exodus 36–40) precisely according to divine specifications given to Moses on Mount Sinai by Yahweh himself (Exodus 25–31). Only then did God’s glory fill the tabernacle (Exod 40:35–36). The central element in the tent-tabernacle theology is, therefore, the presence of Yahweh among his people. The destruction and the exilic experience resulted in the community’s need of Yahweh’s presence in the midst of his people. Thus, the Deuteronomistic temple theology of the “house for the name of Yahweh” was revised and the tent-tabernacle was conceived of as the dwelling place of the deity.55 As Yahweh’s dwelling place, the tent-tabernacle sanctuary was his private domain, and it had to be built in a way that would make Yahweh eager to occupy it (Exod 25:8–9); this is the reason for the detailed instructions given to Moses (Exodus 25–27). Therefore, Yahweh’s servants, the priests, were to comply with the regulations he had laid down, to be properly clothed, and to meet his everyday needs, as is fit for a king (Exodus 28–30).56 From this point of view the biblical ref52 E.g., Brevard S. Childs, The Book of Exodus: A Critical, Theological Commentary (OTL; London: SCM, 1974), 529–30; Cornelis Houtman, Exodus, vol. 3, Chapters 20–40 (Historical Commentary on the Old Testament; Kampen: Kok, 2000), 310; Jean Louis Ska, Introduction to Reading the Pentateuch (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 146. 53 The tent and tabernacle as two different elements of the same sanctuary occur in Exod 26:7, 12–13; 35:11; 36:14; 39:32–33, 40; 40:19, 22, 24, 29, 34–35; Lev 17:4; Num 3:7, 8, 25, 38; 4:25, 31; 9:15. According to these biblical references, the ark of Yahweh was placed inside the tabernacle, which was made of expensive cloths. The tabernacle lay inside the tent, which was made of goatskins. 54 McCarter has already noted that the biblical references to the tent and the tabernacle as two elements of Yahweh’s sanctuary occur mainly in the Priestly passages of Exodus 26 and 38, which “attained their present form no early than the sixth century b.c.e.” But, since he attributes the main themes in Nathan’s oracle to a pre-Deuteronomistic scribe and not to a Priestly writer, he concludes that the reference to the tent-tabernacle in 2 Sam 7:6b points back to a “cult object” in use in the pre-temple times (II Samuel, 200). 55 See Childs, Exodus, 537; Terence E. Fretheim, Exodus (Interpretation; Louisville: John Knox, 1991), 275; Houtman, Exodus, 322; Ska, Introduction, 157–58. 56 See Fretheim, Exodus, 263–65; Houtman, Exodus, 322; Israel Knohl, Biblical Beliefs (in Hebrew; Jerusalem: Magnes, 2007), 98–99.

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erences to Yahweh’s tent-tabernacle convey a clear theocratic message: Yahweh is the sole sovereign of his people, their only king, who dwells among them; the people are his loyal subjects. This theology fits the historical reality of the Persian period in the fifth to fourth centuries b.c.e., when Judah was a small province on the margins of the great Persian Empire. Its community was centered on the sanctuary of the cult of Yahweh in Jerusalem. Without a flesh-and-blood king and with the disappearance of the Davidic monarchy, the Priestly source presented the people with a new ideology the main theme of which was God’s kingship over the people. By doing so, it actually disregarded one of the two central elements of the Deuteronomistic ideology: the people had to give up the centrality of the dynasty and to reshape the royal ideology around the temple theme alone. Moreover, they had to justify the existence of the temple without the dynasty, which had once been so closely related to it. To do this, the story of the building of the sanctuary was projected into the ancient past of the Israelites, highlighting that they had become God’s people through the Sinaitic covenant. The divine initiative and instruction concerning the sanctuary emphasized its divine authorization. According to this theology, the divinely inspired tent-tabernacle preceded the Solomonic temple, which was built as a result of human initiative (2 Sam 7:1–3; 1 Kgs 5:17–19) and through human actions (1 Kgs 5:16–6:38). Taking this into consideration, it seems that the mention of the tent-tabernacle in Nathan’s oracle fits well into this post-Deuteronomistic ideology. The challenging of the king’s privilege (and his obligation) to build a temple for his deity in v. 7 by dismissing human initiative, along with the anti-Davidic tone of this verse, should be ascribed to a post-Deuteronomistic scribe of the Persian period. At this time Yahweh’s cult in Jerusalem was no longer perceived through the lens of the Davidic monarchy, and, in this regard, v. 7 might even provide an implied explanation for the demise of the Solomonic temple. A second post-Deuteronomistic insertion may be found in v. 10. This verse cuts off the references to God’s favors to David from vv. 8–9 and shifts the focus to the people of Israel as recipients of God’s favors.57 The focus returns to David only in v. 11a, indicating that v. 10 is likely to be an insertion into the Deuteronomistic text. The future tense of v. 10 points to a far future, when the people of Israel are planted in their land and Yahweh grants them peace and prosperity.58 The verb 57

Smith, Books of Samuel, 299; Mayes, History, 103–5. The verbs in v. 10 continue the sequence of perfect verbs with waw consecutive started in v. 9b (see n. 34 above). The verbs ytm#w and Nk#w in v. 10 are followed by two ordinary imperfect (future tense) verbs, both preceded by the negative )lw (“and not”). Therefore, we would expect a translation in the future tense to be required. Yet the predicted deeds seem to be things accomplished in the past. McCarter, following Anthony Gelston, solved these difficulties by interpreting the noun Mwqm (“place”) in v. 10 as a cult place and not as the promised land. Thus, the translation in the future tense is consistent with the idea that in 2 Sam 7:1–17 the temple is a promise (McCarter, II Samuel, 202; Anthony Gelston, “A Note on 2 Samuel 7,” ZAW 84 [1972]: 58

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wyt(+nw (“I will plant”) and the phrase wytxt Nk# (“will dwell under/within”) are typical of the consolation prophecies of Amos, Jeremiah, and Ezekiel.59 Thus, v. 10 can be seen as a supplement to God’s favors to David mentioned in vv. 8–9, with a future commitment to the whole of the people of Israel. In this way, it presents the Davidic promise in the context of the redemption of Israel. Through David’s career, Yahweh had been working for the welfare of Israel. In this suggested scenario David is only one link in the ongoing relationship between Yahweh and his people.60 This presentation of the Davidic promise reflects the theology of the Persian-period temple community. Consequently, it seems that v. 10 was inserted by the above-mentioned post-Deuteronomistic author of the Persian period. Lacking royal independence and facing the failure of the Davidic dynasty, this author justified the existence of the temple without the dynasty, all the while postponing the fulfillment of a purportedly unkept promise to a faraway future.

IV. Summary The composition of Nathan’s oracle in 2 Sam 7:1–17 in three different literary stages (pre-Deuteronomistic, Deuteronomistic, and post-Deuteronomistic) reflects the evolution of the royal ideology in Judah in the monarchic and postmonarchic periods. The earliest stage of the oracle’s composition (2 Sam 7:1a, 2–3, 11b) is positive in character. It provides divine legitimacy to the Davidic dynasty as part of a literary composition dealing with the foundation of the Davidic monarchy. Since 92–94). Murray examines the occurrence of the verbs from v. 10 in biblical literature and concludes that they are always linked to the people of Israel and never to the temple; therefore, it is “the people of Israel” and not the “place” that are the subject of v. 10. The noun “place” does not necessarily indicate a “cult place,” but rather is usually a general reference to a geographic location bearing a metaphoric meaning: “place” as a location provides security and prosperity (Murray, “MQWM and the Future of Israel in 2 Samuel VII 10,” VT 60 [1990]: 298–320). In the same way, Brueggemann interprets “place” as a symbolic place representing the anticipated rest from enemies (First and Second Samuel, 255). 59 The notion of God “planting the people of Israel” occurs in Jeremiah’s consolation prophecies given in times of distress (Jer 24:6—associated with the exile of Jehoiachin; 31:28 and 32:41, during the Babylonian siege of Jerusalem; 42:10, after the murder of Gedaliah son of Ahikam). In this context the expression “to plant the people of Israel” means that God will take care of his people Israel in the future and give them a place of security and prosperity. The verb (+n (“plant”) occurs also in Jer 2:21; 11:17 in which metaphorical language compares the future relation of God with his people Israel to the planting of olives or vineyards (see Anderson, 2 Samuel, 121; a similar metaphor may be found in Amos 9:14–15). The expression wytxt Nk#w (“to dwell under”) occurs in Ezek 17:23, where it indicates a future of security and rest (see also Murray, “MQWM,” 305–6). 60 See Murray, “MQWM,” 317–19; idem, Divine Prerogative, 182–85.

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this early oracle focused on the Davidic dynasty, the temple theme was marginal to it and should therefore be ascribed to a pre-Deuteronomistic scribe. The political history of Judah and its neighboring kingdoms during the late ninth to early eighth centuries b.c.e. provides a suitable background for the composition of the original oracle, which highlighted the divine legitimacy of the house of David at a time of political and royal instability in Judah (2 Kings 12–14) as well as in Israel and in Aram-Damascus. The second stage of the literary composition of Nathan’s oracle was undertaken by the Deuteronomist, who supplemented the dynastic aspect of the original text with his cultic interest (2 Sam 7:1b, 4–6a, 8–9, 11a, 12–16). By doing so, he gave the oracle its final form and uniqueness, creating two focal points for the royal Judahite ideology, which now centered on the incorporated themes of the temple and the dynasty. Thus, the Deuteronomistic redaction set Nathan’s oracle as the founding text of the whole history of the Davidic (and the Israelite) monarchy, which was now arranged in the Deuteronomistic pattern of prophecy and fulfillment. The main ideological concepts of the Deuteronomistic history were laid down at the crucial moment in the narrative, as early as the foundation of the monarchy, presenting David as a role model who set the standards for all the Judahite and the Israelite kings who followed him. The central place of the Jerusalemite temple, associated with the everlasting promise to the Davidic monarchy, could not have been perceived before the destruction of the kingdom of Israel and Sennacherib’s campaign to Judah in the late eighth century b.c.e. The Deuteronomistic redaction of Nathan’s oracle should be dated to the late seventh century together with the first redaction of the entire Deuteronomistic History. It clearly reflects the optimistic atmosphere in the days of Josiah. The centralization of the cult in Jerusalem and the fact that by this time the house of David had enjoyed a long and stable tenure give the historical background of the temple-dynasty theology expressed in the Deuteronomistic layer of the oracle. Nevertheless, these hopes were dashed shortly thereafter in the Persian period. The restoration of the Jerusalem cult was carried out with no reference to the Davidic monarchy, and the Persian province of Yehud became a temple-cultcentered community lacking monarchical institutions. As a result, the legitimacy of the temple was no longer affiliated with the royal dynasty and was instead projected to a premonarchical period, when Israel came to be Yahweh’s people through the Sinaitic covenant. Consequently, the post-Deuteronomistic redactor (probably the Priestly writer) inserted vv. 6b–7 and 10 into the Deuteronomistic form of Nathan’s oracle, changing its focus once again by disregarding the importance of the dynasty for the temple building. Nevertheless, he did not entirely ignore the role of the Davidic dynasty in the history of Israel but interpreted the everlasting promise as a commitment to the future redemption of the people of Israel.

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JBL 129, no. 2 (2010): 281–297

“Going Down” to Bethel: Elijah and Elisha in the Theological Geography of the Deuteronomistic History joel s. burnett [email protected] Baylor University, Waco, TX 76798

The statement in 2 Kgs 2:2 that Elijah and Elisha “went down” (wdryw, wayyērĕdû) from Gilgal to Bethel has long puzzled interpreters. Some have assumed the passage must refer to a Gilgal in the central hills.1 Others, recognizing the larger passage’s connections with the crossing of the Jordan in Joshua 3–5, accordingly understand this to be the Gilgal in the Jordan Valley and are left simply to ignore the directional difficulty.2

An earlier form of this study was presented in the program unit Israelite Prophetic Literature at the SBL annual meeting in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, in November 2005. I wish to thank those who offered helpful feedback at that meeting, and I especially wish to thank Jesse C. Long and Anson F. Rainey for reading earlier drafts of the article and for offering excellent suggestions that have improved it and saved me from many errors. The conclusions presented here and any further errors remain my own. Both the article and earlier paper were completed with the support of a Baylor University Research Leave. 1 E.g., John Gray, I & II Kings: A Commentary (2 vols.; OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1963), 423–24 (although Gray suggests that the prophets who appear at Jericho in v. 5 are from the nearby Gilgal in the Jordan Valley [pp. 424–25]); Wade R. Kotter, “Gilgal,” ABD 2:1023; Mordechai Cogan and Hayim Tadmor, II Kings: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 11; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1988), 31; Choon-Leong Seow, “The First and Second Books of Kings: Introduction, Commentary, and Reflections,” NIB 3:1–295, here 176 n. 82; Jesse C. Long, 1 & 2 Kings (College Press NIV Commentary; Joplin, MO: College Press, 2002), 287 (though in n. 2 he leaves open the possibility of Gilgal in the Jordan Valley). 2 Hans-Joachim Kraus, “Gilgal: Ein Beitrag zur Kulturgeschichte Israels,” VT 1 (1951): 181– 99, esp. 182; K. Galling, “Der Ehrenname Elisas und die Entrückung Elias,” ZTK 53 (1956): 129– 48, here 139; T. R. Hobbs, “2 Kings 1 and 2: Their Unity and Purpose,” Sciences religieuses/Studies in Religion 13 (1984): 327–34, here 330 n. 25; T. R. Hobbs, 2 Kings (WBC 13; Waco: Word, 1985),

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While it might be tempting to write off the directional oddity as being the result of an editorial or traditional “rough seam,” the passage’s extensive interest in geography as signaled by its attention to a number of specific locations—Gilgal (2 Kgs 2:1), Bethel (vv. 2–3, 23), Jericho (vv. 4–5, 15, 18), the Jordan River (vv. 6– 8, 13), Carmel (v. 25), and Samaria (v. 25)—suggests anything but a random loose end. The enumeration of these points on Elijah and Elisha’s itinerary indicates, at the very least, a decisive concern for geography in this passage. Not only do the place-names mentioned in this text correspond to known historical geography, but they also all play significant roles elsewhere in the passage’s larger literary context of Deuteronomy–2 Kings.3 The theological geography of these books—known collectively in scholarship as the Deuteronomistic History (henceforth, DH)—reserves a special place of scorn for Bethel, which stands in opposition to Jerusalem’s unique status upon its founding as the one “place where Yahweh will cause his name to dwell” (Deut 12:5–7, 11–14; 1 Kgs 8:1–66; 12:26–33; 13:1–3; 2 Kgs 17:21–22; 23:15–20). 4 The reference to Bethel in 2 Kings 2 thus

19–20.; Bernard F. Batto, Slaying the Dragon: Mythmaking in the Biblical Tradition (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1992), 141–45; Robert B. Coote, “The Book of Joshua: Introduction, Commentary, and Reflections,” NIB (1998), 2:553–719, here 606. 3 For Gilgal, see 1 Sam 7:16; 10:8; 11:15; 13:9–14; 15:2; 2 Sam 19:15, 40; and for Carmel, 1 Kings 18. Other instances of these books’ interest in Gilgal, Carmel, Bethel, Jericho, the Jordan River, and Samaria are discussed below. 4 The hypothesis that Deuteronomy–2 Kings emerged as a unified editorial and compositional work of the exile originated with Martin Noth, The Deuteronomistic History (JSOTSup 15; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1981; German orig., Halle: Niemeyer, 1943). Major developments of the hypothesis were advanced by Frank Moore Cross (Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic: Essays in the History of the Religion of Israel [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1973], 274–89), who argued that the principal edition of the DH was composed during the time of Josiah and was then completed during the exile, and by Rudolph Smend (“The Law and the Nations: A Contribution to Deuteronomistic Tradition History,” trans. P. T. Daniels, in Reconsidering Israel and Judah: Recent Studies on the Deuteronomistic History [ed. Gary N. Knoppers and J. Gordon McConville; Sources for Biblical and Theological Study 8; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2000], 95–110; German orig., 1971), who posited more than one exilic stage of editing. A number of subsequent variations on the hypothesis follow either Cross or Smend in positing successive editions, with at least one occurring each during preexilic and exilic periods (see William Schniedewind, “The Problem with Kings: Recent Study of the Deuteronomistic History,” RelSRev 22, no. 1 [January 1996]: 22–27). In a recent attempt to reconcile the approaches of Cross and Smend, Thomas Römer posits successive editions in the Neo-Babylonian, exilic, and Persian periods (The So-Called Deuteronomistic History: A Sociological, Historical and Literary Introduction [New York: T&T Clark, 2005; repr., 2007]). In a more recent case for the DH as a largely unified work mainly from the late seventh century b.c.e., Jeffrey C. Geoghegan shows that editorial tendencies of language, style, viewpoint, and purpose cut across the distinct literary units from which Römer and others would see the DH emerging in different stages (The Time, Place, and Purpose of the Deuteronomistic History: The Evidence of “Until This Day” [BJS 347; Providence, RI: Brown

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invites consideration of any allusive dimensions of this text and the possibility that here as elsewhere in the DH geographic and theological interests are joined. These relevant literary and theological factors call for a reexamination of this apparent dilemma of historical and biblical geography. In view of the strong aversion to Bethel in the larger context of this passage in the DH, one might consider whether the reference to “going down” to Bethel might be understood not as topographically correct but as theological and polemical in nature. As the following discussion will show, a complexity of narrative features in 2 Kings 2 works primarily to validate Elisha as Elijah’s successor but also serves the DH’s anti-Bethel polemic. Accordingly, the reference to “going down to Bethel” in 2 Kgs 2:2 is theological in nature. The recognition of the literary pattern operative in 2 Kings 2 not only clarifies this ostensible topographical oddity but also resolves other difficulties of interpretation in this passage, such as Elisha’s cursing of the “little boys” (vv. 23–24).

I. The Failed Search: Lexical and Geographic Solutions The need for a Gilgal of higher elevation would be obviated by either of two proposed lexical solutions by G. R. Driver, each based on supposed alternative meanings for hl( (“go up”) and dry (“go down”). The first was that these verbs sometimes occur in Biblical Hebrew with the opposite of their expected meanings, a view that is not actually borne out by the passages Driver invokes.5 Alternatively, Driver suggested that the two verbs had the specialized meaning “to go north” and “to go south,” respectively.6 The problem with this suggestion is that the use of these verbs in describing travel between Egypt and Palestine or places in between is based Judaic Studies, 2006]). Nonetheless, even the contention of an overarching cohesive viewpoint resulting from the work’s late monarchic origins, as advocated in the present article, must contend with the evidence of subsequent editing and late additions. See Gary N. Knoppers, “Is There a Future for the Deuteronomistic History?” in The Future of the Deuteronomistic History (ed. Thomas Römer; BETL 147; Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2000), 119–34; Thomas Römer and Albert de Pury, “Deuteronomistic Historiography (DH): History of Research and Debated Issues,” in Israel Constructs Its History: Deuteronomistic Historiography in Recent Research (ed. Albert de Pury, Thomas Römer, and Jean-Daniel Macchi; JSOTSup 306; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000), 24-141; Richard Nelson, “The Double Redaction of the Deuteronomistic History: The Case Is Still Compelling,” JSOT 29 (2005): 319–37. 5 G. R. Driver, “On hl( ‘Went Up Country’ and dry ‘Went Down Country,’” ZAW 69 (1957): 74–77, here 74–76; idem, “Mistranslations,” PEQ 79 (1947): 123–26. 6 Driver, “On hl( ‘Went Up Country,’” 76–77. Driver was followed in this position by W. Leslau (“An Ethiopian Parallel to Hebrew hl( ‘Went Up Country’ and dry ‘Went Down Country,’” ZAW 74 [1962]: 322–23) and S. Shibayana (“Notes on dry and hl(,” JBR 34 [1966]: 358–62).

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on the topography and elevation in question and thus involves the basic and expected meanings of the verbs.7 Thus, the search for a Gilgal from which one might “go down” to Bethel has led scholars to look to the central hills (see n. 1 above). The most promising candidate from historical geography would be Jiljulieh, some twelve kilometers north of Bethel, a suggestion made early on by Otto Thenius and George Adam Smith and invoked by many others since.8 Unfortunately, this site still lies at an appreciably lower elevation than Bethel (Beitīn),9 leaving the textual difficulty unresolved.10

7

See G. Wehmeier, “hl( vlh go up,” TLOT 2:883–96. Thenius, Die Bücher der Könige (2nd ed.; Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 1873), 270–71; Smith, The Historical Geography of the Holy Land (25th ed.; New York/London: Harper & Brothers, 1931), 318 (orig., 1894; repr., New York: Harper, 1966); Johannes Döller, Geographische und ethnographische Studien zum III. und IV. Buche der Könige (Theologische Studien der Leo-Gesellschaft 9; Vienna: Mayer, 1904), 242–43; Carl Friedrich Keil and F. Delitzsch, Commentary on the Old Testament, vol. 3, I & II Kings, I & II Chronicles, Ezra, Nehemiah, Esther (trans. James Martin; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1900–), 290; F. -M. Abel, Géographie de la Palestine (3rd ed.; 2 vols.; EBib; Paris: Librarie Lecoffre, J. Gabalda, 1967), 2:337; James Muilenburg, “Gilgal,” IDB 2:398–99, here 398. For the location of Jiljulieh, see Siegfried Mittmann and Götz Schmitt, eds., Tübinger Bibelatlas (Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 2001), B X 12: 1712.1598. 9 A fact duly noted in the secondary literature, beginning with Döller, who reports an elevation of 774 m. for Jiljulieh as compared with 881 m. for Bethel (Beitīn) (Geographische und ethnographische Studien, 243; see also Driver, “Mistranslations,” 124; James A. Montgomery, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Books of Kings [1927; repr. ed. edited by Henry Snyder Gehman; ICC; New York: Scribner, 1951], 353). Nonetheless, Döller defended the identification of Jiljulieh as the Gilgal in 2 Kgs 2:1 and explained the description of “going down to Bethel” as being due to the need to pass through a valley in traveling between the two sites. While this consideration seems reasonable at first, it is consistent neither with the typical usage of dry in connection with named destinations nor with the usual directional language for Bethel (both reviewed below). For confirmation of Bethel’s identification with Beitīn and problems with David Livingstone’s identification of Bethel with el-Bīre and with other less convincing alternatives, see the recent review of the question by Klaus Koenen, Bethel: Geschichte, Kult und Theologie (OBO 192; Freiburg, Schweiz: Universitätsverlag; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2003), 3–12; and, more recently and with additional arguments, Anson F. Rainey and Steven Notley, The Sacred Bridge: Carta’s Atlas of the Biblical World (with contributions by J. Uzziel, I. Shai, and B. Schultz; Jerusalem: Carta, 2006), 116–18; Anson F. Rainey, “Looking for Bethel: An Exercise in Historical Geography,” in Confronting the Past: Archaeological and Historical Essays on Ancient Israel in Honor of William G. Dever (ed. Seymour Gitin, J. Edward Wright, and J. P. Dessel; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 269–73. For more recent confirmation of elevations noted above, see Mittmann and Schmitt, Tübinger Bibelatlas, B IV 5. 10 In addition to Gilgal near Jericho, Eusebius’s Onomasticon mentions “another Galgal very near Baithel,” though without connecting it to any biblical references (Eusebius of Caesarea, The Onomasticon: Palestine in the Fourth Century A.D. [trans. G. S. P. Freeman-Grenville; ed. Joan E. Taylor; indexed by Rupert L. Chapman; Jerusalem: Carta, 2003], 41; Eusebius of Caesarea, Onomasticon: The Place Names of Divine Scripture, Including the Latin Edition of Jerome [trans. and 8

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Also problematic is James A. Montgomery’s suggestion that “going down” reflects the geographical vantage point of the writer.11 This would require the latter to be a location of higher elevation than Bethel, an unlikely suggestion in view of the fact that the site identified with Bethel (Beitīn) sits higher than almost any other population center of ancient Israel, including Jerusalem.12 The failure of these lexical and geographic solutions draws attention to a neglected point in the history of this discussion.

II. Physical and Sacred Geography: “Going Up” to Bethel Owing if nothing else to Bethel’s prominent elevation, the mention of “going down” to Bethel is odd in the first place, occurring only in this instance. In connection with topography, dry typically describes journeys to destinations in lowlying areas—valleys (Judg 1:34; 5:13–15; 1 Sam 17:28) and plains (Neh 6:2–3; Isa 63:14; Joel 4:2)—and to specific cities of lower elevation: Ashkelon (Judg 14:19), Beth-shemesh (1 Sam 6:21), Gath (1 Chr 7:21; Amos 6:2), Gilgal (1 Sam 10:8; 13:12; 15:12), Joppa (Jonah 1:3), Jezreel (1 Kgs 18:44; 21:16, 18; 2 Kgs 8:29), and Timnah (Judg 14:1, 5, 7, 10).13 Like Jerusalem, Bethel—which is second only to Jerusalem as the most frequently mentioned Israelite toponym in the Hebrew Bible14—figures prominently as a sanctuary site in the central hills to which worshipers and other

with topographical commentary by R. Steven Notley and Ze’ev Safrai; Jewish and Christian Perspectives 9; Boston: Brill, 2005], 65 ). On Galgal near Jericho, see Freeman-Grenville, Chapman, and Taylor, Palestine in the Fourth Century A.D., 33, 41, 50, 132, 181; Notley and Safrai, Place Names of Divine Scripture, 4, 48, 64–65, 82, 175. Though this other Galgal may be the same site as Thenius and Smith’s Jiljulieh, Chapman describes it as “an unidentified site near Bethel” (p. 132). The book of Joshua, in describing the distribution of the land, mentions two sites named Gilgal (besides the Gilgal near Jericho; Joshua 3–5) that are in the wrong location for our passage: a Gilgal on the boundary between Judah and Benjamin, which it also calls Geliloth (15:7; 18:17); a place mentioned in the list of conquered kings in the MT of ch. 12—a “King Goiim” or “King of Nations at Gilgal”—though the Septuagint reads “Galilee” instead (v. 23). As Muilenburg pointed out, the reference to Gilgal in Deut 11:30 is “difficult”; while it seems to indicate a location near Shechem, “the context would lead us to expect a reference to Gilgal near Jericho” (Muilenburg, “Gilgal,” 399; see also Kotter, “Gilgal,” 1023–24). In any case, these lesser-known Gilgals would all be different from the Gilgal in 2 Kings 2 (see Muilenburg, “Gilgal,” 398–99; Kotter, “Gilgal,” 1022– 24). 11 Montgomery, Books of Kings, 353. 12 See Smith, Historical Geography, plate IV; Mittmann and Schmitt, Tübinger Bibelatlas, B IV 5. 13 See, e.g., G. Mayer, “drAyF yāradA ,” TDOT 6:315–22, here 318. 14 Harold Brodsky, “Bethel (Place),” ABD 1:710–12, here 710.

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travelers are said to “go up” (Gen 35:1; Judg 20:18, 23; 1 Sam 10:3; Hos 4:15).15 Thus, the mention of “going down” to Bethel from Gilgal or almost anywhere else calls for considering this directional language in relation to symbolic meaning at work in this passage and its broader literary context.

III. 2 Kings 2 and Prophetic Succession Commentators on this passage have recognized various aspects of a collection of narrative elements centering on Elisha’s status as Elijah’s successor.16 Those most apparent in making the case for Elisha’s succession are (1) a distinct typology harking back to Moses and Joshua; (2) an extensive narrative symmetry; and (3) a polarity of “up-down” language throughout the passage. Those three central aspects of the narrative merit special attention in determining the significance of “going down to Bethel.”

Moses and Joshua: A Model of Succession and a New Conquest of the Land As interpreters have frequently noted, Elijah acts in imitation of Moses earlier in Kings, especially in the theophany at Horeb in 1 Kings 19.17 Accordingly, the narrative of 2 Kings 2 models Elijah’s succession by Elisha after Moses’ succession 15 Well known is the regular use of the verb hl( (“go up”) to indicate travel or pilgrimage to a sanctuary site (e.g., Beersheba, Gen 26:23; Mizpah, Judg 21:5, 8; Shiloh, 1 Sam 1:3, 7, 21–22; 2:19; Carmel, 1 Kgs 18:42; Jerusalem, 1 Kgs 12:27–28; Ps 122:3–4; Jer 31:6; Zech 14:16–19). This usage doubtless relates to the usual location of ancient towns on tells or natural hills but also to the idea of the sanctuary as an earthly manifestation of the deity’s supernal dwelling place. See, e.g., 1 Kgs 8:22–40 and the following language: “you shall go up [hl(] to the place that Yahweh your God will choose” (Deut 17:8); “(those) who did not go up to Yahweh at Mizpah” (Judg 21:5, 8). Accordingly, one “goes up” from the palace to the temple in Jerusalem (2 Kgs 12:11; 19:14; 20:5, 8; 23:2; Jer 26:10). See Wehmeier, “hl( vlh to go up,” 885–86; H. F. Fuhs, “hlF(f vālâ,” TDOT 11:76– 95, here 89–90. 16 See variously Galling, “Der Ehrenname Elisas,” 129–48; Robert P. Carroll, “The ElijahElisha Sagas: Some Remarks on Prophetic Succession in Ancient Israel,” VT 19 (1969): 400–415; Cogan and Tadmor, II Kings, 30–39; Dale Ralph Davis, “The Kingdom of God in Transition: Interpreting 2 Kings 2,” WJT 46 (1984): 384–95; Hobbs, “2 Kings 1 and 2,” 327–34; idem, 2 Kings, 19, 27–28; Jack R. Lundbom, “Elijah’s Chariot Ride,” JJS 24 (1973): 41–42; Hartmut N. Rösel, “2 Kön 2,1–18 als Elija- oder Elischa-Geschichte?” BN 59 (1991): 33–36; Fred Woods, “Elisha and the Children: The Question of Accepting Prophetic Succession,” BYU Studies 32 (1992): 47–58; Seow, “First and Second Books of Kings,” 173–77. 17 Carroll, “Elijah-Elisha Sagas,” 408–14; Mordechai Cogan, 1 Kings: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 10; New York: Doubleday, 2001), 452, 456–57; Davis, “Kingdom of God,” 388–89; Hobbs, 2 Kings, 19, 27; Seow, “First and Second Books of Kings,” 142–43, 175; Robert B. Coote, “Elijah,” NIDB 2:242.

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by Joshua.18 In keeping with this analogy are a number of specific narrative parallels that are widely recognized in existing scholarship on this passage.19 Before his death and burial in Moab at an unknown gravesite, Moses lays hands on Joshua and conveys to him “the spirit of wisdom” (Deut 34:9). Similarly, Elisha inherits a “double share” of Elijah’s “spirit” east of the Jordan, in the territory of Moab, at Elijah’s departure (2 Kgs 2:9–15). In accordance with the narrative’s model of succession, Elisha “plays Joshua to Elijah’s Moses.”20 The comparison with traditions of Moses and Joshua appears in other elements of 2 Kings 2, most clearly in the crossing and recrossing of the Jordan (vv. 8, 14). In the first instance, as Elijah and Elisha together cross from the west (v. 8), Elijah rolls up his mantle and strikes the waters of the Jordan, causing them to part in a manner reminiscent of Moses’ crossing the sea (Exod 14:16, 21).21 After Elijah’s departure, Elisha duplicates this miracle, not only as a demonstration of his own power but also as a second crossing of waters, this time from east to west of the Jordan à la Joshua’s crossing in the conquest (Joshua 3). 22 After returning to the western side of the river, Elisha continues an itinerary that includes Jericho and Bethel, both being cities that receive notable mention in the conquest narratives (Jericho: Josh 2:1–24; 6:1–27; 8:2; 9:3; 10:1, 30; Bethel: 7:2; 8:9, 12, 17; in Judg 1:22–25, Bethel, like Jericho, is defeated after spies are sent into the city). This suggestion of a new Joshua leading a new conquest comports with the martial significance of Elisha’s mission—the beginning and end of which are signaled by the slogan “the chariots of Israel and their horsemen” (2:12; 13:14) and which involves divine “chariots of fire” (2:11; 6:17), Elisha’s instigation of palace coups through the anointing of generals (8:7–10:36), and Elisha’s constant dealings with armies, soldiers, and war (2 Kings 3; 5; 6:8–7:20; 13:1–25), even after his own death (13:20–21)!23 Gilgal is a location of singular importance to the conquest tradition, which is recalled in the book of Micah by the phrase, “from Shittim to Gilgal” (6:5).24 As presented in the book of Joshua, Gilgal near Jericho figures significantly as the

18 See, e.g., Cross, Canaanite Myth, 191–94 ; Davis, “Kingdom of God,” 388–89; Seow, “First and Second Books of Kings,” 175–77. 19 For the following specific details summarized in this and the following paragraphs, see variously the secondary sources cited in the previous three footnotes. 20 Seow, “First and Second Books of Kings,” 177. 21 Ibid., 176. Joshua 4:22–23 explicitly likens the crossing of the Jordan in the conquest to the crossing of the sea in the exodus. 22 In keeping with the Moses-Joshua typology, the notion of Elisha as a new Joshua leading a new conquest is discussed most extensively by Philip E. Satterthwaite, “The Elisha Narratives and the Coherence of 2 Kings 2–8,” TynBul 49 (1998): 1–28. See also Davis, “Kingdom of God,” 389. 23 See also Cross, Canaanite Myth, 226; Seow, “First and Second Books of Kings,” 176–77. 24 See K. Galling, “Bethel und Gilgal,” ZDPV 66 (1943): 140–55; Kraus, “Gilgal,” 181–99; Cross, Canaanite Myth, 103–5; Coote, “Book of Joshua,” 605–8.

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Israelites’ main base camp in connection with the crossing of the Jordan (Josh 4:19– 20) and the initial conquest of the land (9:6; 10:6–9, 15, 42–43),25 events recalled in the crossing and recrossing of the Jordan in 2 Kings 2. The prophetic journey described there accordingly reverses the course of the initial conquest, back to the eastern side of the Jordan. The base from which that journey begins for Elijah and Elisha is called Gilgal. The suggestion in this context of a Gilgal in the central hills—a Gilgal whose identification in historical geography has proved vexing (see above) and which otherwise bears little to no significance in biblical tradition—simply does not fit into the thoroughly referential nature of 2 Kings 2. Furthermore, the Gilgal near Jericho would match Elisha’s persistent associations with the Jordan Valley—his hometown of Abel Meholah (1 Kings 19), the stories of Naaman’s cure (2 Kgs 5:10, 14), the floating ax head (6:1–7), the “death in the pot” story (4:38–44), and the repeated mention of others “going down” (dry) to visit Elisha (2 Kgs 3:12; 6:18, 33; 7:17; 13:14).26 The allusive nature of 2 Kings 2 suggests that the Gilgal in this text is the wellknown Gilgal in the Jordan Valley, and what is intimated about Elisha’s location in the rest of Kings is consistent with this notion. How, then, could Elijah and Elisha be said to “go down” from Gilgal to Bethel? Further insight into this question comes from the second aspect of the text related to prophetic succession.

Narrative Symmetry Critical to Elisha’s succession of his master in 2 Kings 2 is the fact that he witnesses Elijah’s ascension, as anticipated in v. 1 and as narrated in vv. 10–12. A noticeable degree of symmetry in the structure of this narrative consists in events both leading up to and continuing from that scene. The concentric pattern of this narrative has been widely recognized in recent scholarship.27 The central episode of Elijah’s ascent (vv. 11–12) is framed immediately by the crossing and recrossing of the Jordan (vv. 6–8, 13–14). Leading up to the crossing is Elijah and Elisha’s approach to the Jordan Valley, with stops at Bethel (vv. 2–3) and Jericho (vv. 4–5), an itinerary that Elisha reverses on the other side of Elijah’s departure (vv. 18, 23).

25

Rainey and Notley, Sacred Bridge, 125.

26 As Mayer sums up in connection with these passages, “Elisha resides in the Jordan depres-

sion near Gilgal” (“drAyF yāradA ,” 318). 27 Lundbom, “Elijah’s Chariot Ride,” 40–43; Davis, “Kingdom of God,” 386–87; Hobbs, “2 Kings 1 and 2,” 332; idem, 2 Kings, 19; Woods, “Elisha and the Children,” 51–53; O’Brien, “Portrayal of Prophets in 2 Kings 2,” 3–4; Robert L. Cohn, 2 Kings (Berit Olam; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2000), 10–17; Long, 1 & 2 Kings, 287–88.

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Internal Symmetry in 2 Kings 2 and Links with Chapter 1 Links Back to Chapter 1 Elijah

Elisha

Samaria (1:15)

Samaria (2:25b)

Elijah’s “hill” (1:9–14)

Mt. Carmel (2:25a)

Two events of fire from heaven (1:10, 12) “Come down!” (1:9, 11)

Two she-bears (2:24) “Go up!” (2:23)

Elijah “goes down” to the king (1:15)

__________________________________________________________________ Narrative Symmetry within Chapter 2 Gilgal (2:2) “Going down to Bethel” (2:2–3)

Elisha told to “Go up” at Bethel (2:23–24)

Jericho (2:4–5)

Jericho (2:15–22)

Crossing Jordan (2:6–8)

Recrossing Jordan (2:13–14) Elijah “goes up” (2:10–12)

Continuing outward from there, the strictly symmetrical pattern appears to cease in ch. 2. In the first half of the narrative, the journey began for Elisha and Elijah at Gilgal (v. 2). When Elisha returns, after Bethel he continues on not to Gilgal but “to Mount Carmel, and then he returned to Samaria” (v. 25). This brief conclusion to ch. 2 serves as a segue to ch. 3, putting Elisha in place for what follows in Samaria.28 At the same time, it corresponds to the overall movement in ch. 1 from Samaria (v. 2) to Elijah’s hilltop perch called simply rhh (hāhār, “the mountain,” v. 9), as Mount Carmel is called later in 4:27. In other words, these elements (i.e., mention of Carmel and Samaria), which are not integral to the central narrative symmetry of ch. 2, nonetheless link that chiastically structured part of the narrative with what is related about Elijah in ch. 1 (see the chart and the further discussion below).29

28

Hobbs, 2 Kings, 15. For a similar assessment of the links between ch. 1 and ch. 2 beyond the chiastic pattern in the latter, see Long, 1 & 2 Kings, 295 and n. 26. 29

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Between ch. 2’s beginning at Gilgal and its concluding mention of both Carmel and Samaria stands an impressive structure of narrative and geographic symmetry centering on Elijah’s ascension. This concentric pattern in the narrative demonstrates Elisha’s correspondence to Elijah, the junior prophet walking in his master’s footsteps.30 In reverse direction, Elisha repeats Elijah’s actions leading up to his heavenward departure, thus demonstrating in his resemblance to Elijah’s actions and movement his role as Elijah’s true successor. This mirrorlike effect is extended where the conclusion of ch. 2 shows Elisha’s actions to correspond to Elijah’s earlier in ch. 1, including his returning to “Carmel and then to Samaria” (v. 25; cf. 1:9, 15; other correspondences are discussed below). This recognition of reversed direction relates to the third narrative aspect confirming Elisha’s succession, an “updown” polarity of symbolic language.

Narrative Ups and Downs In keeping with the symmetrical pattern of 2 Kings 2, the chapter’s opening verse foreshadows Elijah’s ascension as being of central importance to what follows.31 Like the event’s vivid description later in the narrative (vv. 10–12), its anticipation in v. 1 refers to Elijah’s ascension with the verb hl(, “to go up.” After this introduction, the beginning of the narrative itself includes the curious reference to Elijah and Elisha “going down” (dry) to Bethel (v. 2). The passage’s opening verses thus signal an “up-down” directional opposition. The decisive moment of Elijah’s heavenward ascent is described in spectacular details of storm chariotry and whirlwind (vv. 10–12). Around this vivid scene, the symmetrical pattern of 2 Kings 2 involves a topographical descent from Bethel, to Jericho, to the Jordan and across, and a corresponding geographic ascent on the way back. Accordingly, the focal point of this concentrically structured narrative presents Elijah’s going up (hl() from the topographical low point of the narrative, 30

Davis, “Kingdom of God,” 386–87; Hobbs, “2 Kings 1 and 2,” 333. See, e.g., Hobbs, “2 Kings 1 and 2,” 331; Seow, “First and Second Books of Kings,” 175. Compare the comments of O’Brien, who argues against the focal point of the story being Elijah’s departure with the suggestion that its anticipation in v. 1 represents “a technique in storytelling where a narrator lets the reader know more than a character in the story,” thus robbing Elijah’s ascent of any “suspense” that would mark it as central for the reader (“Portrayal of Prophets,” 4–5). While O’Brien—correctly, in my view—argues against the necessity of regarding the anticipatory mention in v. 1a as a “later addition,” his effort to minimize the importance of Elijah’s heavenward assumption misses the point, which is not suspense but a new telling of what certainly would have already been a well-known story. Whatever new element or point is made is predicated on the still central episode of Elijah’s departure. Similarly, Rösel finds it necessary to argue against the centrality of Elijah’s ascent in vv. 10–12, seeking instead to argue for v. 15 as the “high point” of the narrative (“2 Kön 2,1–18 als Elija- oder Elischa-Geschichte?” 33–36). Again, an added nuance to an old story would in no way detract from the spectacular nature of Elijah’s departure and hence its place as the focal point of the narrative. 31

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the valley of the Jordan—the apparent etymology of the river’s name from the root dry (Ndryh, hayyardēn, “the one going down”) contributing to the “up-down” polarity at work in the narrative. What is more, the mention of Elijah’s “going up” (hl() in v. 1 and vv. 10–12 rings ironic later in ch. 2, when Elisha is told twice to “go up” (hl() on the road to Bethel (discussed below). The latter instance both contrasts with Elijah and Elisha’s “going down” (dry) to Bethel in v. 2 and corresponds to earlier commands to Elijah to “come down” (dry) in ch. 1 (discussed below). In sum, the language, action, and narrative structure of ch. 2 are built around a persistent “up-down” opposition. The “down and up” pattern of ch. 2 provides an important basis for its linkage to ch. 1, in which this directional aspect is emphasized perhaps to an even greater degree and by other means. First, ch. 1 makes numerous repetitions of the related vocabulary—hl( occurring nine times (vv. 3, 4, 6 [2x], 7, 9, 11, 13, 16),32 dry eleven times (vv. 4, 6, 10 [2x], 11, 12 [2x], 14, 15 [2x], 16).33 “Up-down” language prevails throughout ch. 1 from its beginning, which relates that King Ahaziah fell down from his upper chamber (wtyl(b, from hl(, v. 2). At Yahweh’s command, Elijah then “goes up” (hl() to confront Ahaziah’s messengers on their way from Samaria to inquire of Baal Zebub of Ekron (vv. 3–4). That the verb hl( in this case refers to the topography of Elijah’s journey is possible, though the passage is vague as to Elijah’s starting point (vv. 3–8). As in other places in Biblical Hebrew, hl( is used here with adversarial connotations.34 That is, the verb is used in this instance with nuances beyond the literal meaning of “going up.” Similarly, Elijah’s oracle to Ahaziah, which is stated (vv. 3–4) and then repeated twice (vv. 6, 16), employs “up-down” imagery with special nuance: “The bed you’ve gone up on [hl(] you shall not come down from [dry], for you shall surely die!” Afterwards, Ahaziah sends an outfit of fifty troops with their commander who “go up” (hl() to Elijah and deliver the king’s demand that Elijah “come down!” (dry, v. 9). In reply, Elijah sends down heavenly fire, destroying the messengers. The same thing happens once again (vv. 11–12) before Elijah is approached by a third group that, having learned the lessons of the first two, addresses Elijah with the respect due Yahweh’s prophet. The angelic messenger of Yahweh directs Elijah to “go down” (dry) with them, and he does so (again dry) and then delivers to the king in person his “up-down” oracle of doom (vv. 15–17). The pervasive “up and down” opposition within 2 Kings 1 includes special nuances of context and meaning that ring especially ironic having been brought into connection with the imagery of Elijah’s heavenward ascent in 2:10–12. 32 Consistent with the narrative formula in vv. 9 and 13, the Lucianic recension of the LXX reads καὶ ἀνέβη in v. 11, indicating Hebrew l(yw (wayyaval) instead of N(yw (wayyavan)in the MT. 33 Along with the mention of “going down” (dry) to Bethel and the name of the Jordan (Ndryh) in ch. 2, the verb hl( occurs six times (vv. 1, 11, 23 [4x]). 34 See Fuhs, “hlf(f vālâ,” 84–85.

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This aspect of ch. 1 is among others that reinforce the case for Elisha’s succession in ch. 2, including the designation of Elijah five times as “man of God” (vv. 9, 10, 11, 12, 13), later a frequent appellative for Elisha (twenty-six times) but elsewhere used only twice for Elijah (1 Kgs 17:18, 24).35 As commentators recognize, the showy miracle of Elijah’s fiery destruction of “the two former captains of fifty men with their fifties” (v. 14 NRSV) corresponds in many ways to Elisha’s destruction of the young boys in ch. 2.36 While this point will receive further comment below, here it is worth noting the dual nature of destruction—two she-bears corresponding to two dispensations of heavenly fire in ch. 1. The demand uttered twice to Elijah, “Come down,” corresponds inversely to the twice-stated demand that Elisha “Go up!”37 As in other respects noted above, ch. 2 confirms Elisha’s succession of his master by showing his active correspondence to Elijah in mirrorlike fashion. That mirroring follows the concentric pattern identified in ch. 2 but also includes events reaching back into ch. 1. It also involves the “down-up” polarity that is central to the structure, language, and topographical progression of ch. 2 but that, as discussed, in other ways pervades ch. 1. In the “downhill-uphill” pattern of ch. 2, Elisha’s geographic ascent reverses a topographically downward journey to which Yahweh had directed Elijah and in which Elisha had insisted on coming along (vv. 2, 4, 6). Elijah’s overall descent as described in the narrative is one that actually begins back in ch. 1, when he obeys the instruction of Yahweh’s messenger to “go down” from the hill with the king’s men to Samaria (1:15–16). The action picks up from there in ch. 2, where Elijah is described only as going downward on his route toward his ascension, including “going down” to Bethel after setting out from Gilgal (vv. 1–2). The mention of “going down to Bethel,” though at odds with literal geography, fits the larger downhill-uphill pattern that prevails in this narrative. To summarize at this point, the mention of “going down to Bethel” supports all three narrative dimensions demonstrating prophetic succession—Elisha as a new Joshua, symmetry of plot and place, and the down-up pattern. Nonetheless, the language of descent in connection with Bethel remains, as mentioned earlier, unusual in itself, with or without a misplaced Gilgal and an overarching literary pattern notwithstanding. While the reference to “going down” to Bethel fits within the larger directional pattern governing the narrative, the inconsistency of this detail both with literal geography and with typical language for Bethel requires further explanation. Accordingly, Jericho’s place in this narrative merits closer consideration. 35

Antony F. Campbell and Mark A. O’Brien, Unfolding the Deuteronomistic History: Origins, Upgrades, Present Text (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2000), 409–10. 36 Hobbs, “2 Kings 1 and 2,” 331. 37 Woods, “Elisha and the Children,” 54, 57 n. 26.

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IV. Jericho in the Sacred Geography of the Deuteronomistic History As the gateway to the land of Canaan, Jericho’s paradigmatic importance in Joshua’s conquest narrative is obvious and well noted.38 Likewise, its place in 2 Kings 2 is integral to Elisha’s role as the new Joshua.39 In this new conquest of the prophetic age, Jericho is offered not destruction but blessing. Instead of taking lives, Elisha preserves lives in Jericho by curing ()pr) its spring (2:19–22). Note Elisha’s pronouncement at this point in the narrative: “Thus says Yahweh, I have healed this water; from now on neither death nor bereavement shall come from it” (v. 21). Elisha’s blessing reverses the earlier curse pronounced on Jericho by Joshua: Cursed before Yahweh be anyone who tries To rebuild this city—this Jericho! At the cost of his firstborn he shall lay its foundations, And at the cost of his youngest he shall set up its gates! (Josh 6:26)

Joshua’s conquest eventuated in a pronouncement not only of curse but also of blessing (Josh 8:34). In the new conquest by Elisha, the formerly cursed city of Jericho receives blessing and healing.40 But with the power to bless also comes the power to curse. For the DH, these are matters that link the cities of Jericho and Bethel.

V. Bethel in the Sacred Geography of the Deuteronomistic History In the conquest narrative of Joshua, Bethel is mentioned repeatedly in connection with Ai (7:2; 8:9, 12, 17). Like the fall of Jericho, Ai’s defeat serves a paradigmatic role in Joshua, demonstrating the importance of obedience in the land.41 Whether this association is an intentional foreshadowing of things to come for 38

See, e.g., Coote, “Book of Joshua,” 611–12. Satterthwaite, “Elisha Narratives,” 8–11. 40 In 1 Kgs 16:34, Jericho is rebuilt, and tragically so, by a man from Bethel (a certain Hiel [LXX: Ahiel]) in fulfillment of Joshua’s curse. Though in keeping with the curse-fulfillment motif surrounding Bethel elsewhere in the DH (see esp. 1 Kgs 13:1–3 in connection with 2 Kgs 23:15– 20, as discussed below), this part of 1 Kgs 16:34 is missing from the Lucianic recension of the Greek and thus appears to represent an addition to the DH. See Lea Mazor, “The Origin and Evolution of the Curse upon the Rebuilder of Jericho: A Contribution to the Textual Criticism to Biblical Historiography,” Text 14 (1988): 1–26. 41 Coote, “Book of Joshua,” 625. 39

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Bethel is debatable.42 What is clear is the unparalleled disdain eventually accorded Bethel in the broader literary context of 2 Kings 2 in the DH. As related in the narrative of 1 Kings 13, soon after Jeroboam establishes Bethel as a royal sanctuary, this in violation of Deuteronomic worship centralization (Deut 12:5–7, 11–14; 1 Kgs 12:26–33), an unnamed “man of God”—again, a term used later for Elijah and even more frequently for Elisha (see above)—calls out against the altar at Bethel, predicting Josiah’s defilement and destruction of the altar and sanctuary site to come three centuries later (1 Kgs 13:1–3; 2 Kgs 23:15–20). As is evident here and in other places, for the DH Bethel is uniquely emblematic of disobedience to Israel’s God.43 Bethel thus occupies a special place of scorn in the sacred geography of the DH. Given Bethel’s role therein as an archetype of apostasy, one would expect some uneasiness with the city’s mention in 2 Kings 2. On close inspection, that is exactly what the text shows. First, in the visit to Bethel before crossing the Jordan, the narrative avoids the suggestion that the two prophets actually enter the city. The narrative is set in motion as Elijah tells his apprentice, “Yahweh has sent me as far as Bethel” (-d( l)-tyb, v. 2).44 This phrasing is consistent also with a starting point in the Jordan Valley, from which Elijah will in fact go as far as Bethel and then return toward the Jordan Valley, as opposed to continuing past Bethel from the central hills. Once Elijah and Elisha arrive there, the sons of the prophets at Bethel “come out” ()cy) of the city to meet them (v. 3).45 This way of framing things stands in contrast with the next segment of the journey, in which Elijah says, “Yahweh has sent me to Jericho” (wxyry ynxl# hwhy), and v. 4 states explicitly “They entered Jericho” (wxyry w)byw) and met with the sons of the prophets inside the city. Accordingly, on the return trip, Elisha enters Jericho, even lodges there three days but apparently does not even stop at Bethel (vv. 17– 25). In contrast to Jericho, which has no sanctuary, Bethel, the place of the heretical sanctuary, remains a significant marker on the itinerary but not a town actually entered by Elijah and Elisha. This avoidance of worship implications suggests a rationale for the odd reference to “going down” to Bethel. The narrative offers few details about Elijah and Elisha’s activities among the “sons of the prophets” at Bethel and Jericho. The description of their approach to Bethel as “going down” not only fits into the larger “downhill” pattern of this segment of the passage but also, like the avoidance of 42

See the discussion by Coote, “Book of Joshua,” 626 and n. 64. See, e.g., Cross, Canaanite Myth, 73, 198–99, 206–7; and, more recently, Mark Leuchter, “Jeroboam the Ephratite,” JBL 125 (2006): 51–72, here 68–70. 44 On the preposition d(, see Bruce Waltke and M. O’Connor, An Introduction to Biblical Hebrew Syntax (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1990), 215. 45 The MT curiously lacks the preposition b as though in avoidance of locating the prophets “in” Bethel. 43

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saying they entered Bethel, avoids the possible worship connotations suggested by “going up” to a cult site (see above). Thus, the topographically incorrect detail of “going down to Bethel” may be not only an aspersion cast at Bethel but also part of the narrative’s avoidance of any implication that Elijah and Elisha worshiped there. No such danger accompanies the mention of Elisha’s “going up” to Bethel on the return trip. First, it is clear that he never leaves the road to enter the city (2 Kgs 2:23–25). Second, the language of v. 23 is that “he went up from there [i.e., from Jericho] to Bethel” (l)-tyb M#m l(yw). Nowhere in the Hebrew Bible is the phrase “to go up from there” (M#m hl() used in a context of worship.46 Third, and even more significant, his fatal cursing of the Myn+q Myr(n (literally, “little boys”) who come out of the city to meet him on the road suggests anything but prophetic validation of this sanctuary site. The significance of this grisly episode comes into focus with some attention to the expression Myn+q Myr(n. The traditional interpretation that the males thus denoted are children derives from a literal translation of the phrase.47 On the other hand, Gen 37:2 describes Joseph as a r(n at the age of seventeen.48 Solomon, at the beginning of his rule, calls himself a N+q r(n (1 Kgs 3:7). Hadad the Edomite is a N+q r(n when Yahweh raises him up as an adversary against Solomon and he escapes to Egypt, where he marries the pharaoh’s sister-in-law (1 Kgs 11:14-17). This language for young adult males derives from the social context of the “house of the father” (b) tyb), the basic unit of ancient Israelite social organization.49 Accordingly, the term r(n is applied to an unmarried male who has not yet become the head of a household. Lawrence E. Stager provides a biblical example of this language, explaining, “David, the last-born of Jesse, was a navar qātōn (not the ‘smallest’ but the ‘youngest’ of Jesse’s eight sons), when he fought Goliath (1 Sam 16:11; 17:31).”50 As Stager explains, such younger sons within the household, having no prospects for inheritance, found status, wealth, and prestige in military, government, and priestly service. The other term for this group harassing Elisha is Mydly (v. 24), which at first glance also would seem to indicate that these “lads” are children. On the other hand, Mydly is also used twice in 1 Kings 12 as the sole designation for Rehoboam’s younger advisors, contemporaries who had grown up with him (vv. 8, 10). In the DH and elsewhere in the Hebrew Bible these terms are used to designate young adult males, usually with royal associations. Accordingly, the group of males who 46

I am indebted to Jesse C. Long for bringing this point to my attention. See, e.g., Eric Ziolkowski, Evil Children in Religion, Literature, and Art (Cross-Currents in Religion and Culture; New York: Palgrave, 2001). 48 These references are pointed out by Woods, “Elisha and the Children,” 48–50; and in a similar light by Davis, “ Kingdom of God,” 392–93. 49 Stager, “The Archaeology of the Family in Ancient Israel,” BASOR 260 (1985): 1–35. 50 Ibid., 26. 47

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confront Elisha in 2 Kings 2, far from being little children, are young men of the royal and perhaps priestly establishment at Bethel.51 Against this group of young men, Elisha pronounces a fatal curse “in the name of Yahweh” (v. 24). The number of them killed, forty-two, is also the number of young men of Judean royalty and with connections to the house of Omri whom Jehu slaughters later in the narrative (10:14). Forty-two figures regularly in the Hebrew Bible and the ancient Near East as a symbolic number of potential blessing or curse, confirming that the disaster was the result neither of a natural coincidence nor the prophet’s own caprice but of divine intent.52 Specific reasons for Yahweh’s assault against the “young men” of Bethel are reflected in their words to Elisha. In addressing the prophet, they call him “baldy” (xrq, qērēahi, v. 23). Among the various possibilities suggested for the name-calling’s precise nuance is that it involves a contrast to the description of Elijah as hairy (1:8), a contrast that suggests a challenge to Elisha’s authority.53 In any case, the verb slq (“to mock, spurn, make fun of ”) makes clear that the “young men” address the prophet with reproach.54 This treatment stands in sharp contrast to Elisha’s reception by the “sons of the prophets” (My)ybnh ynb) from Jericho who declare before the prophet, “The spirit of Elijah rests on Elisha,” and bow to the ground before him (2:15). Their recognition of Elisha as Yahweh’s chief prophet is rewarded by the “healing” and blessing he then offers their city Jericho at the conclusion of his three-day stay there. Then, as a kind of foil to Jericho’s My)ybnh ynb, the Myn+q Myr(n of Bethel do not honor Elisha as Yahweh’s prophet and accordingly reap destruction for themselves and their city (v. 24). The doubled form of their adjuration—“Go up, baldy! Go up, baldy!” (hl( xrq hl( xrq, v. 23)—and the related dual agency of their destruction (two bears) corresponds to the twofold nature of the speech and divine punishment against other groups of young men with royal associations, namely, the two groups of fifty royal soldiers and their captains who gave Elijah the directive to “come down” (hdr, rēdâ, from dry, 1:9, 11). Linking chs. 1 and 2, the doubled command to Elijah bears an inverse correspondence to the twofold demand that Elisha “go up.” The latter also 51

For a similar understanding of the term, see Woods, “Elisha and the Children,” 48–50. See Joel S. Burnett, “Forty-Two Songs for Elohim: An Ancient Near Eastern Organizing Principle in the Shaping of the Elohistic Psalter,” JSOT 31 (2006): 81–102; and idem, “A Plea for David and Zion: The Elohistic Psalter as a Psalm Collection for the Temple’s Restoration,” in Diachronic and Synchronic—Reading the Psalms in Real Time: Proceedings of the Baylor Symposium on the Book of Psalms (ed. Joel S. Burnett, W. H. Bellinger, Jr., and W. Dennis Tucker, Jr.; Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies 488; New York: T&T Clark, 2007), 95–113. 53 Woods, “Elisha and the Children,” 50–55; Hobbs, 2 Kings, 24; idem, “First and Second Books of Kings,” 178; Long, 1 & 2 Kings, 296–97. 54 HALOT, 1105–6, s.v. slq. 52

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involves an ironic mixture of correspondence and contrast to the fact that Elijah does “go up” in heavenward ascent earlier in ch. 2 (vv. 10-12). As part of the reproachful speech of the “boys” of Bethel, the word to Elisha to “go up” plays as a mocking admonition against his legitimacy as Yahweh’s prophet. Those who find themselves cursed by Yahweh are those who call for the prophet to “go up” to Bethel, language that elsewhere refers to worship at the sanctuary site (see above). The conquest that Elisha brings is aimed at the northern Israelite ruling house and its royal sanctuary at Bethel. 55 In sum, those who suffer Elisha’s curse and die in 2 Kings 2 are not children but a group of young adult males connected with the royal sanctuary of Bethel, who offer reproach rather than recognition of Elisha’s mission as Yahweh’s prophet and who call for the prophet to worship at Bethel. Like Jehu’s purge, the cursing and slaying of the Myn+q Myr(n are part of the conquest Elisha brings. Though Bethel itself still stands (as it will after Jehu), 2 Kings 2 shows that, unlike Jericho, Bethel remains a city and sanctuary under curse, doomed for destruction—destruction that will finally occur with the DH’s second-greatest king, Josiah.

VI. Conclusion The futile search for a highland Gilgal that fits topographically into 2 Kings 2 fails to account for the literary and theological dimensions of this passage. In view of those factors, the curious reference to “going down to Bethel” can be seen as part of a subtle yet significant anti-Bethel polemic in the passage, a symbolic detail fitting the broader “up-down” polarity on which this narrative is structured. Taking advantage of this pattern, the DH was able to bring prophetic authority and the symbolic power of the new conquest to bear on the certain demise in store for this hated sanctuary. 55 Recall the reference in Amos 7:13 to Bethel as a “royal sanctuary and a temple of the king-

dom” (hklmm tybw . . . Klm-#dqm).

Adrian Long PAUL AND HUMAN RIGHTS A Dialogue with the Father of the Corinthian Community

Timothy Jay Johnson NOW MY EYE SEES YOU Unveiling an Apocalyptic Job The first systematic effort to reveal and organize the apocalyptic impulses of the Book of Job, recognized by both Jewish and Christian traditions. Viewing Job as a nascent form of apocalypse may also resuscitate von Rad’s hypothesis that apocalypse grew out of wisdom thinking rather than out of prophecy. x + 198 pp. hbk $42.50 (list $85) ISBN 978-1-906055-73-8 David J.A. Clines (ed.) THE CONCISE DICTIONARY OF CLASSICAL HEBREW An abridgment of the 8-volume Dictionary of Classical Hebrew (DCH), the first dictionary of the Classical Hebrew language as a whole. Unlike previous dictionaries DCH and CDCH incorporate a completely fresh re-examination of the texts and an independent analysis of the meanings of Hebrew words. Rich in examples and citations, this edition will be of immense value to students at all levels, as well as to working scholars who will not always be in a position to refer to the complete DCH. xii + 496 pp. pbk $49.50, hbk $90 ISBN pbk 978-1-906055-79-0, hbk 978-1-906055-78-3

Prices are Individual Scholar Discount prices, available only from Sheffield Phoenix Press (www.sheffieldphoenix.com) or Society of Biblical Literature (www.sbl-site.org)

Daniel Bodi THE DEMISE OF THE WARLORD A New Look at the David Story By the standards of nomadic warlords reflected in several Akkadian texts, David is portrayed in the Bathsheba and Uriah episode as behaving unworthily by dallying with women, living in the shade, and breaching the rule of protection of resident aliens. c. 330 pp. hbk $42.50 (list $85) ISBN 978-1-906055-82-0

Deborah W. Rooke (ed.) EMBROIDERED GARMENTS Priests and Gender in Biblical Israel Papers include: masculinity and femininity through the lens of priestly purity legislation, priestly genealogies as an expression of Jacques Derrida’s ‘archive fever’, the definition of masculinity evidenced by priests’ clothing, and the marginalization of women in priestly ideologies of nationality and kinship. xii + 169 pp. hbk $37.50 (list $75) ISBN 978-1-906055-77-6

The concept of human rights would have been alien to Paul, yet his Corinthian letters shows a sustained interaction with such issues. Long explores Paul’s emotive, manipulative language of mimesis, apostleship and fatherhood, and his social engineering and instructions about women and slaves, against the backdrop of human rights ideas about social structure and equality. x + 350 pp. hbk $42.50 (list $85) ISBN 978-1-906055-76-9 Tat-siong Benny Liew (ed.) POSTCOLONIAL INTERVENTIONS Essays in Honor of R. S. Sugirtharajah The focus of the volume is not only on how we read socio-political interventions, but also on how reading can itself be a form of intervention. The volume honours Sugirtharajah’s work as a challenge to perceive imperial and colonial dynamics in the Bible, and to remain open to the transformative possibilities of reading from new sites. xiv + 368 pp. hbk $47.50 (list $95) ISBN 978-1-906055-70-7

JBL 129, no. 2 (2010): 299–302

A “Diagnostic” Note on the “Great Wrath upon Israel” in 2 Kings 3:27 scott morschauser [email protected] Rowan University, Glassboro, NJ 08028

In a comprehensive article on 2 Kings 3, Erasmus Gass once again surveys scholarly opinions surrounding the term “great wrath” in v. 27.1 Designated in the text as affecting the Israelite forces surrounding the city of Kir-hareseth and necessitating their withdrawal from Jehoram’s Moabite campaign, Gass noted that -Pcq lwdg remains “highly controversial.”2 Briefly reviewing the literature, the writer points out that explanations for the phrase have ranged from the theological, whether Yhwh or Chemosh was the source of the unnamed discomfiture, to the psychological—indicating an increase in the fighting morale of the Moabites so as to push back the invading troops.3 Broadly speaking, commentators tend to portray the cause for the Israelites’ plight in “impressionistic” terms, rather than attributing it to something concrete. Gass himself offers the more nuanced position that “by using the multilayered noun Pcq the author could leave many options open to the readers.”4 Without dismissing either the exegetical difficulties or the hermeneutic possibilities raised by the biblical episode, it is worth pointing out that Pcq, while cer-

1 Erasmus Gass, “Topographical Considerations and Redaction Criticism in 2 Kings 3,” JBL 128 (2009): 65–84, esp. 80. 2 Ibid., 80. 3 Ibid., 80 n. 60. Similar points are made by Mordechai Cogan and Hayim Tadmor, II Kings: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 11; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1988), 47–48. 4 Gass, “Topographical Considerations,” 80 n. 60.

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tainly denoting divine anger in general,5 does sometimes refer to conditions that were frighteningly tangible, especially when the lexeme is employed in martial contexts. This is particularly the case in Jer 21:5. Here the noun refers to the outbreak of pestilence in Jerusalem, as the city suffers under the duress of a Babylonian siege,6 with Yhwh’s displeasure being manifested in the spread of sickness among the confined populace.7 The association of “plague” with warfare is ubiquitous in the ancient world and is hardly surprising, considering the human and animal detritus of battle.8 That Pcq occurs in 2 Kings 3, where a similar operation had been directed against a Moabite stronghold, should not be overlooked and might well have some historical relevance toward explaining the abrupt halt to Jehoram’s enterprise. While the biblical text focuses on the assault of “slingers” upon the city walls, it also indicates that the harried king inside attempted a “breakout” led by seven hundred “swordsmen”—hardly a small force (2 Kgs 3:26). Failing miserably, the desperate party is led to resort to offering a human sacrifice to their god. Regardless of the intention of the latter action—and the sense of sacrilege it may have provoked for the biblical audience—the turning back of the Moabite formation suggests that the military investment of the fortress was quite heavy. The Israelite divisions were able to achieve an envelopment complete enough to prevent any movement of the harassed defenders to turn back the assault.9 Consequently, 2 Kings 3 presents a scenario whereby the attacking contingents were now thoroughly hunkered down and were starting the arduous task of taking Kir-hareseth by siege. While the actions of the Israelite slingers are sometimes dismissed as “ineffectual,”10 it is likely 5 See Gary A. Herion, “Wrath of God (OT),” ABD 6:989–96, esp. 990 on Pcq; see also F. V. Reiterer, “qæsiæp,” TWAT 7:95–104. 6 In Jer 21:5 and 32:37, the meaning of Pcq is undoubtedly related to its usage to express “covenantal curses,” of which sickness was an example (cf. Deut 29:27; also Josh 9:20; 2 Chr 19:2, 10; 24:18; 29:8; 32:25–26; Zech 7:12). In Isa 34:2–3, “the wrath of Yhwh,” is linked to unburied corpses; likewise, Jer 50:13 is an oracle describing a future siege of Babylon. Note also the use of the word in 1 Chr 27:24 to refer to the outbreak of epidemic during the Davidic census (in the fuller narrative of the event in 1 Chronicles 21 and the parallel 2 Samuel 24, “plague” is specifically named). 7 The inclusion of “plague” within the scope of Pcq was noted by Terence E. Fretheim, First and Second Kings (Westminster Bible Companion; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1999), 143–44. 8 Cf. Max Sussman, “Sickness and Disease,” ABD 6:6–15. 9 This point is not necessarily in contradiction to vv. 24–25, as Gass (“Topographical Considerations, 68) holds, since armies could claim a victory “in the field” yet be thwarted by a subsequent siege. Note Thutmosis III’s being forced to invest Megiddo after defeating a Canaanite coalition out in open ground (cf. Donald B. Redford, The Wars in Syria and Palestine of Thutmoses III [Culture and History of the Ancient Near East 16; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2003], 32). 10 Raymond Westbrook, “Elisha’s True Prophecy in 2 Kings 3,” JBL 124 (2005): 530–32.

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that they were simply the opening salvos in the attempted strangulation of the city, while sappers and engineers were to go about their work of undermining bulwarks.11 By the same token, the investment of a city was a task that ancient armies sought to avoid at all costs.12 This reluctance was due not only to the logistical difficulties it placed upon the invading army but also to the deteriorating hygienic conditions that played a crucial role for both sides the longer the contest took.13 Inasmuch as sickness among the besieged populace became increasingly probable, the outbreak of contagion was equally a danger to offensive forces. Pestilence/ plague—whether typhoid, cholera, or dysentery—as the result of unsanitary conditions in camp, or through the contracting of illness from the targeted citizenry, could spread like wildfire, not only bringing a siege to an abrupt end but causing a near-victorious army to retreat in panic. A prime example of the phenomenon in the Bible is the sudden dissolution of Sennacherib’s assault on Jerusalem because of a providential epidemic among the Assyrian forces (2 Kgs 19:35-36).14 Accordingly, I suggest that the expression lwdg Pcq is not as imprecise as often regarded, but is to be linked specifically to the unexpected raging of sickness in the Israelite camp—a hazard common enough to premodern troops engaged in warfare.15 The spread of some pathogen—whatever its source—furnishes a plausible rationale for the hitherto mysterious ending of Jehoram’s campaign,16 even as the 11

Whatever the theological difficulties of v. 27, the abruptness of the notice about the “wrath upon Israel,” likely presents a case of literary “telescoping,” whereby chronological and narrative details have been elided. 12 Operationally, forces would have had to outnumber defenders of a city by a considerable ratio; see Rupert Chapman, “Weapons and Warfare,” OEANE 5:334–39; Redford, Wars of Thutmoses III, 47–49; Anthony J. Spalinger, War in Ancient Egypt: The New Kingdom (Ancient World at War; Malden, MA/Oxford: Blackwell, 2005), 100 n. 30; Jacob L. Wright, “Warfare and Wanton Destruction: A Reexamination of Deuteronomy 20:19–20 in Relation to Ancient Siegecraft,” JBL 127 (2008): 423–58. Strategically, the more drawn out the process, the more likely attacking troops would begin to wear down physically and psychologically, especially threatening the integrity of a coalition; see Victor Davis Hanson, A War like No Other: How the Athenians and Spartans Fought the Peloponnesian War (New York: Random House, 2005), 179–82; John Keegan, A History of Warfare (New York: Knopf, 1993), 326–27. Note the warning in 2 Sam 20:6 about avoiding a long siege of the rebellious Sheba. 13 Hanson (War like No Other, 64–88) discusses the effect of the plague on both the Athenians and Spartans during the Peloponnesian War. 14 Another well-known example is the outbreak of the plague among the Achean coalition in Homer, Il. 1.9–10. 15 Stephan Talty, The Illustrious Dead: The Terrifying Story of how Typhus Killed Napoleon’s Greatest Army (New York: Crown, 2009), 30–35, 100–111. 16 The idea is not new: A. R. Witherington (The Second Book of Kings [London: Rivington, 1926], 13) alluded to the possibility, though without elaboration: “Either the horror produced by Mesha’s sacrifice led to the siege being raised, or some pestilence fell on the besieging armies.”

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threat of catastrophe could easily have been viewed as a divine warning to terminate the enterprise and return home.17 17

Notwithstanding the various reading strategies employed in deciding whether the campaign fulfilled Elisha’s prophecy (2 Kgs 3:19) (see Jesse C. Long, Jr., “Elisha’s Deceptive Prophecy in 2 Kings 3: A Response to Raymond Westbrook,” JBL 126 [2007]: 168–71; Gass, “Topographical Considerations,” 78–81; Westbrook, “Elisha’s True Prophecy,” 530–32), the fact that the Israelites were able to drive back the Moabites and engage them in a costly siege could have been construed as a military victory, since minimal claims were often read in a “maximal” manner. See Baruch Halpern, David’s Secret Demons: Messiah, Murderer, Traitor, King (Bible in Its World; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001), 107–32. Moreover, given the juridical implications of Mesha’s withholding of tribute (clearly violating a formal agreement), the devastation visited on Moab— ecocide resulting in starvation, as well as the loss of the king’s firstborn—evokes the kind of disasters associated with treaty curses (see n. 6 above). In this regard, one wonders if the strange wording of v. 27—“there was great wrath upon Israel” (l)r#y l( lwdg Pcq yhyw)—might not be rendered, “there was great wrath on account of/because of Israel.” That is, the Moabites had been afflicted with economic dislocation, dynastic disruption, and finally sickness within their besieged city, because of (l() their breach of faith with their neighbor. A major epidemic would not only have proved that they had been “in the wrong,” but was a minatory sign to Israel that the Moabites had been punished appropriately and so the military enterprise could—and should—now be disbanded.

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Invoking the God: Interpreting Invocations in Mesopotamian Prayers and Biblical Laments of the Individual alan lenzi [email protected] University of the Pacific, Stockton, CA 95211

Since the earliest comparative analyses of biblical and Mesopotamian materials, scholars have noted a striking difference between the form of the Psalter’s laments of the individual and the Akkadian šuilla-prayers.1 The latter begin with an invocation and hymnic prologue; the former have only a very brief invocation, This paper was first presented in 2008 at the Hebrew Scriptures and Cognate Literature section of the annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in Boston, Massachusetts. I wish to thank the many participants who interacted with my ideas there. I also extend my sincerest thanks to Robert Rezetko and Anna Zernecke for providing useful feedback on earlier drafts of this article. 1 I assume that the following thirty-nine Hebrew psalms are laments of the individual: 3; 5; 6; 7; 13; 17; 22; 25; 26; 27:7–14; 28; 31; 35; 38; 39; 42; 43; 51; 54; 55; 56; 57; 59; 61; 63; 64; 69; 70; 71; 86; 88; 102; 109; 120; 130; 140; 141; 142; and 143, following Hermann Gunkel, Introduction to Psalms: The Genres of the Religious Lyric of Israel, completed by Joachim Begrich (trans. James D. Nogalski; Mercer Library of Biblical Studies; Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1998; German orig., 1933), 121. For a classic introduction and form-critical analysis of the Hebrew lament of the individual, see Claus Westermann, Praise and Lament in the Psalms (trans. Keith R. Crim and Richard N. Soulen; Atlanta: John Knox, 1981). For a recent survey of scholarship on the psalms of lament, see Alec Basson, Divine Metaphors in Selected Hebrew Psalms of Lamentation (FAT 15; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 6–23. For a thorough form-critical analysis of the Akkadian šuilla (and other) prayers, see Werner Mayer, Untersuchungen zur Formensprache der babylonischen “Gebetsbeschwörungen” (Studia Pohl, Series Maior 5; Rome: Biblical Institute, 1976). For a general introduction to the form and development of this kind of prayer, see Tzvi Abusch, “Prayers, Hymns, Incantations, and Curses: Mesopotamia,” in Religions of the Ancient World: A Guide (ed. Sarah Iles Johnston; Harvard University Press Reference Library; Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2004), 353–55. Many Akkadian prayers share the form of šuillaprayers. This study is limited to those explicitly labeled a šuilla in an attested rubric.

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often consisting of nothing more than a word or two. Several influential biblical interpreters have attached great significance to this difference, making comparative and even theological generalizations that inevitably exalt Israel over its imperial Mesopotamian neighbor. Although this difference between the Hebrew and Akkadian prayers is unmistakable, I argue in this brief study that the comparison is illformed. Based on a well-known social model of prayer and an idea formulated in ritual studies that the level of formality in ritual is often directly related to the social distance or proximity between the parties involved, I offer a more anthropologically grounded explanation for each form of invocation and the comparative contrast noted above. Turning to the observation that the brief invocation in the Hebrew laments of the individual is actually more comparable to the invocation in the Akkadian dingir.šà.dib.ba-prayers—supplications for the abatement of a personal god’s wrath,2 I suggest that the invocations in both the Hebrew laments of the individual and the Akkadian dingir.šà.dib.ba-prayers are brief because both reflect a more familiar connection between the supplicant and the deity entreated than do the šuillas. This interpretation provides further support for seeing a personal aspect to the god presented in the Psalter’s laments of the individual. Besides countering improper comparative generalizations and thereby contributing another example for the critical assessment of theological bias in the history of our field, this brief study exemplifies a methodological paradigm that may prove fruitful for future comparative work.

I. Prayer Invocations and Past Interpreters In most laments of the individual in the Hebrew Psalter the invocation is simply hwhy, “O Yahweh” (see, e.g., Pss 3:2; 6:2) or, as would be expected in the Elohistic Psalter, Myhl), “O God” (see, e.g., Pss 43:1; 51:3). Other invocations are just as short, consisting of a single word (Ps 59:2, yhl), “O my god”), or only slightly longer, made so by placing two very brief invocations in parallel in the opening line or two (see Pss 28:1, yrwc/hwhy, “O Yahweh/my rock”; 70:2, hwhy/Myhl), “O God/O Yah2 This fact is oft-noted but little developed. See, e.g., Rainer Albertz, Persönliche Frömmigkeit und offizielle Religion: Religionsinterner Pluralismus in Israel und Babylon (Calwer Theologische Monographien, Reihe A, 9; Stuttgart: Calwer, 1978; repr., Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2005), 99; Patrick D. Miller, They Cried to the Lord: The Form and Theology of Biblical Prayer (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1994), 14; and Edward R. Dalglish, Psalm Fifty-One in the Light of Ancient Near Eastern Patternism (Leiden: Brill, 1962), 259. Anna Zernecke has recently completed a dissertation at Johannes Gutenberg University in Mainz (Germany), comparing the Hebrew laments of the individual and the šuilla-prayers. She and I come to similar conclusions about the formal proximity of the laments of the individual and dingir.šà.dib.ba-prayers but from a slightly different perspective. I thank Dr. Zernecke for the fruitful correspondence, sharing of papers, and the opportunity to sharpen one another’s work.

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weh”; 25:1–2, yhl)/hwhy, “O Yahweh/my god”; and 130:1–2, ynd)/hwhy, “O Yahweh /my lord”). The longest invocations consist of only three words: Ps 5:2–3, which places hwhy in parallel with yhl)w yklm, “my king and my god”; Ps 22:2–3, showing yl) yl), “my god, my god,” in parallel with yhl), “O my god”; and Ps 88:2 and its questionable formulation, yt(w#y yhl) hwhy, “O Yahweh, god of my salvation.”3 Put simply: the invocations in the Hebrew laments of the individual are brief and direct. Šuilla-prayers in Mesopotamia, on the other hand, the prayers to which the Hebrew laments of the individual are most frequently compared, typically have a very different, extended hymnic invocation. For example, a prayer to Ea begins with the following: O wise king, perceptive creator, Lofty prince, ornament of the Eabsu, Enlilbanda, artful, venerated one, Hero of Eridu, sage of the Igigi, Lord of the E[engur]ra, protection of the Eunir, Bringer of the high waters (that cause) abundance, who makes the rivers joyful, In oceans and in reed thickets you make plenteous prosperity, In the meadows you create the livelihood of the peoples. Anu and Enlil rejoice because of you, The Anunna-gods bless you in their holy places, The peoples of the land extol your weighty command, You give counsel to the great gods. O Ea, the moribund need not die, thanks to your life-giving spell.4

Similarly, in a prayer to Nabu the petitioner begins: O [Nab]u, eldest (son), rightful heir, [Holder] of the tablet stylus, of profound intelligence, [Who . . . the days], who examines the years, [Who safeguards] life, who requites good, [Foremost one] of the gods, of eminent name! The father who begot him does not change his command, Tutu does not change the utterance of Nabu his son, His word is supreme among the gods his peers. You turn the face of a god toward the victim of his anger, You reconcile with him the goddess who is hostile, You absolve the wrong-doing of the . . . .5

3

For suspicions that the text is corrupt, see BHS, 1169, 2a-a. The translation is from Benjamin R. Foster, Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature (3rd ed.; Bethesda: CDL, 2005), 643, with literature on 644; also in Mayer, Gebetsbeschwörungen, 382, under Ea 1a. Mayer presents an edition on pp. 442–46. 5 The translation is again from Foster, Before the Muses, 697, with literature there and also in Mayer, Gebetsbeschwörungen, 400, under Nabû 1; Mayer’s edition is on pp. 469–72. 4

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The length certainly varies and one can find exceptions to the rule, but the above examples of extended hymnic introductions are quite typical of the šuilla-prayers.6 Scholars have disagreed about the significance of this extended hymnic introduction in the Akkadian šuillas. One early idea that attracted both admirers and detractors came from Joachim Begrich. Writing in 1928, Begrich labeled the introductions a captatio benevolentiae, “a quest for favor,” a term used in rhetoric to describe an orator’s attempt to capture the goodwill of the audience via flattery. He wrote: The embellished salutation and the description of grandeur are none other than its [i.e., the prayer’s] captatio benevolentiae. The supplicant, who stands before the deity as an ardu, “slave,” is looking to make a connection to this high lord that can serve as a foundation for his prayer. He is seeking to ingratiate himself to him. That is the purpose.7

But not everyone agrees. Walter G. Kunstmann, an Assyriologist, and Geo Widengren, a biblicist who takes Begrich to task at some length, do not interpret the hymnic introductions in šuilla-prayers as flattery to prod the deity into giving a favorable audience; rather, they see them as genuinely pious attempts at expressing trust in the deity’s ability to help.8 Alongside this idea, others have noted that the particular epithets included in the hymnic introduction may be directly related to the supplicant’s need or request (see, e.g., the hymnic introduction to the Nabu šuilla cited earlier).9 With Tzvi Abusch, I see an element of truth in all of these ideas but will return to this point below to develop another perspective on the matter.10 6

The generalization is clearly established by Mayer, Gebetsbeschwörungen, 39–45; for an exception, see, e.g., his Marduk 4. 7 Begrich, “Die Vertrauensäußerungen im israelitischen Klageliede des Einzelnen und in seinem babylonischen Gegenstück,” ZAW 5 (1928): 221–60, here 234: “Die ausgestaltete Anrede und die Herrlichkeitsschilderung sind nichts anderes als seine captatio benevolentiae. Der Beter, welcher dem Gott als ardu, als Sklave gegenübersteht, sucht eine Beziehung zu diesem hohen Herrn herzustellen, die als Grundlage seiner Bitte dienen kann. Er sucht ihn sich geneigt zu machen. Das ist die Absicht.” The same expression is used by Walter Beyerlin to describe the Mesopotamian invocations (Die Rettung der Bedrängten in den Feindpsalmen der Einzelnen auf institutionelle Zusammenhänge untersucht [FRLANT 99; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1970], 156; cited also in Mayer, Gebetsbeschwörungen, 45 n.13). 8 Kunstmann, Die babylonische Gebetsbeschwörung (Leipziger semitistische Studien n.F. 2; Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1932; repr., Leipzig: Zentralantiquariat der DDR, 1968), 12; and Geo Widengren, The Accadian and Hebrew Psalms of Lamentation as Religious Documents: A Comparative Study (Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1936), 42–43, 86–92, who cites Kunstmann approvingly (pp. 42, 86, 90). See similarly Dalglish, Psalm Fifty-One, 44, 260. 9 Miller, They Cried to the Lord, 14–15; likewise, Dalglish, Psalm Fifty-One, 23. For a detailed treatment of several hymnic introductions to šuillas and how various divine epithets therein connect to other parts of the prayer, see Joel Hunt, “The Hymnic Introduction of Selected Šullia Prayers Directed to Ea, Marduk, and Nabû” (Ph.D. diss., Brandeis University, 1994). He treats on pp. 17–87 the šuilla to Ea cited above. 10 Abusch, “Prayers: Mesopotamia,” 353.

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The contrast between the long hymnic introduction of the šuillas and the brief, direct invocations of the Hebrew laments of the individual could hardly be more striking. Given such a stark contrast, it is no surprise that several major and influential biblical scholars have attached a great deal of significance to it, making comparative and even theological generalizations that imply the superiority of Israelite prayer over that of their Mesopotamian neighbors. In order to demonstrate the interpretive ramifications of this ill-conceived comparison, I quote Claus Westermann and Hermann Gunkel at length. Speaking in a context dealing with the structure of Babylonian psalms, Westermann writes: If praise, as in most of the Babylonian psalms, precedes lament and petition it can only be a general, timeless, descriptive praise. This is the basis of the fact that in Babylon declarative praise is so insignificant in comparison with the descriptive that it almost vanishes entirely. In this way the real difference in the manner of speaking to God in these two settings now becomes completely clear. In both cultures the one praying stands within the circle of petition and praise; in both the turning point is the vow of praise, which leads from petition into praise. The difference lies in the fact that in the Babylonian psalm the emphasis lies entirely on the praise which prepares the way for the petition [i.e., precisely what is lacking in the Israelite individual laments], and in the Psalms of the O.T. it lies entirely on the praise that looks back on the wonderful help of God in intervening. In Babylon the psalms primarily praise the one who exists, the god who exists in his world of gods. In Israel they primarily praise the God who acts marvelously by intervening in the history of his people and in the history of the individual member of his people. The gods praised in Babylon have their history among the gods. In Israel’s praise from the beginning to end the basic theme is the history of God with his people.11

On the basis of a different location for the element of praise in the two forms of prayers, Westermann draws conclusions about the ontology of divinity in each culture! He may be correct in his statement that Israel tends to glorify Yahweh for past divine acts in history. But if the contention of this paper is correct, he cannot draw out such an implication from the contrast between the long hymnic introduction of the šuillas and the brief, direct invocations of the Hebrew laments of the individual. Gunkel also makes far-reaching claims based on the same comparison, offering these words about the noted contrast: One should observe that these names to [sic] not appear to be heaped upon one another in the Psalms [i.e., the epithets in the hymnic introduction of šuillas]. Israelites related very differently at this point than the one praying in the Babylonian material. The Babylonian incorporates an abundance of honorific names 11

Westermann, Praise and Lament, 41–42.

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Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 2 (2010) for the divinity, to which a portrayal of the majesty of the summoned God [sic] is attached. The Babylonian thereby desires to put his gods in a favorable mood, or to flatter them and seek to convince them to do what he implores. The Israelite acts differently to YHWH. From the outset, he trusts that YHWH will hear him and refuses to depend upon the external means of convincing by flattery. This difference coincides with the fact that the Israelite address, in contrast to the Babylonian, does not use the hymn-like expansion using the relative sentence or the participle. This expansion helps explain what the heaping of addresses has expressed, and serves the flattering of the gods. However, the Israelite genre scorns this expansion.12

In this case, Gunkel finds two very different understandings of the relationship between supplicant and deity exemplified in these prayers. Israelite supplicants are confident about approaching their deity (as Christian supplicants ought to be [Heb 4:16]); Mesopotamian ones, it seems, approach with trepidation and only after heaping up flatteries. However, if this comparison is indefensible, then the implications he wants to draw from it do not follow (without support from elsewhere). One cannot help but wonder if theological concerns to distinguish Israel from its polytheistic neighbors have displaced careful comparative method in these influential interpretations of the data. Rejecting Gunkel and Westermann, of course, does not solve the comparative and interpretive issue. How are we to interpret this very clear formal difference between the brief invocations of the Hebrew laments of the individual and the long hymnic introduction of the Akkadian šuillas?

II. Theoretical Retooling for Understanding Invocations in Prayer I think the way forward lies in equipping our comparative approach with at least two explicit theoretical perspectives; these will allow us better to understand the differences we see in the data already presented. Moshe Greenberg has noted in his brief book on prayer that supplicants (i.e., humans) approach the supplicated (i.e., a god) in much the same way that an individual human in need approaches a social superior able to provide for that need.13 In other words, people anthropomorphized their deities as if they were their social 12 Gunkel, Introduction to Psalms, 153. Similarly, Sigmund Mowinckel writes about the šuillas: “The naive idea of flattering the deity by means of ascriptions of honour shows through everywhere. That is why so many of these hymns are a dull and unending enumeration of honorific titles and phrases of homage, often in endless repetition.” After discussing a few exceptions in the Hebrew Psalter, he says, “As a rule the hymn is a true outcome of ‘disinterested piety’” (The Psalms in Israel’s Worship [trans. D. R. Ap-Thomas; Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1962], 180–81). 13 Greenberg, Biblical Prose Prayer as a Window to the Popular Religion of Ancient Israel (Taubman Lectures in Jewish Studies; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983). “The closest

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superiors—only supersized.14 Greenberg was concerned with prayers embedded in biblical narrative. Moreover, his social situations are petitionary address, confession, and expressions of gratitude. Thus, he does not consider the issue of the lament of the individual. But his general point is indisputable: when people prayed in Israel, they called out to their deity through the application of a social practice deemed an appropriate analogy for the situation with their god. These analogies may have seemed quite contemporary or antiquated to the supplicants at various times of the analogy’s use; nevertheless, the manner in which one called to one’s deity was modeled at some time or other on an acceptable sociocultural practice.15 Looking at the Mesopotamian data through this theoretical perspective, I think that Begrich was basically correct when he interpreted the hymnic introduction of the šuillas as a rhetorical device rooted in social practice, that is, in a slave’s attempt to gain an audience with a social superior. But “flattery,” as Gunkel called it, may be too strong and derogatory a word to describe it. With Erhard S. Gerstenberger, I would prefer to call the hymnic introductions of šuilla-prayers a protocol—a protocol analogous to the ones that people used when addressing human authorities.16 The content of the introductory exaltations may have been tailored to the addressee for the situation at hand, as some interpreters have mentioned, but the most basic point about the inclusion of these hymnic introductions in the šuilla-prayers is that they are the formal protocol necessary for addressing an authority. If such a formality was expected among humans addressing their superiors, how much more so when addressing the gods?

human analogy to petitionary prayer,” he suggests, “will be a petitionary address to a king or some other powerful person” (pp. 20–21). Generalizing the point further on, he says “the biblical narrators all portrayed speech between man and God on the analogy of speech between humans” (p. 36). 14 See Karel van der Toorn, “Sources in Heaven: Revelation as a Scholarly Construct in Second Temple Judaism,” in Kein Land für sich allein: Studien zum Kulturkontakt in Kanaan, Israel/Palästina und Ebirnâri für Manfred Weippert zum 65. Geburtstag (ed. Ulrich Hübner and Ernst Axel Knauf; OBO 186; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2002), 265–77, here 266. Humans generally think of deities as if they were people, despite the objections of theologians. The cognitive scientific branch of religious studies is empirically establishing the cognitive basis for this universal religious conception. It is, in a sense, therefore natural for people to look to their own social conventions for interacting with the gods. See Todd Tremlin, Minds and Gods: The Cognitive Foundations of Religion (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006); and Stewart Guthrie, Faces in the Clouds: A New Theory of Religion (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), the latter of whom sees the very root of all religion in the prodigious human propensity to attribute agency and anthropomorphic characteristics to inanimate and unseen things. 15 I have worded this carefully to allow for the possibility—indeed, the likelihood—that certain social practices upon which a religious practice was modeled became obsolete among the general populace but continued to be used in the religious sphere. 16 Gerstenberger, Der bittende Mensch: Bittritual und Klagelied des Einzelnen im Alten Testament (WMANT 51; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1980), 97.

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The second theoretical generalization to help us understand the difference between the opening of the Akkadian šuilla-prayers and the Hebrew lament of the individual concerns formalization as it has been understood in ritual studies. In 1972, Mary Douglas made the observation in her now famous article “Deciphering a Meal” that there is a relationship between the level of formality in certain social interactions, for example, “eating a meal” versus “having drinks,” and social proximity. In her study, Douglas generalizes that people who are merely acquaintances are likely to get drinks and eat finger foods at a pub or restaurant (i.e., not at someone’s home) in order to interact. As one gets to know the person, an invitation to a sit-down meal in one’s home might follow. In other words, social proximity (viz., intimacy) is directly related to the level of formality (e.g., standing at a bar versus sitting at a table) in acquiring nourishment.17 Mario Liverani’s interpretation of the Akkadian Adapa Myth through the rubric of hospitality points to a similar idea about the relationship between formality and intimacy in ritual behavior. When Adapa ascends to heaven, Ea advises him to accept the oil and garment that the gods will offer him but to decline their food and drink. Liverani suggests that the oil and garment are outer forms of hospitality applied to the body—marking physical admittance to the general realm of the gods. Food and drink, on the other hand, are inner forms of hospitality entered into the body—marking social admittance to the actual company of the gods. Because he obeys his master Ea, it seems that Adapa is permitted to go only halfway into the community of the gods. He accesses their domain (via outer forms of hospitality) but not their ranks (via inner forms of hospitality), and thus he is not granted immortality.18 These two particular cases, although using different notions of intimacy and formality, support a general claim made by Catherine Bell. In her discussion of formalism in ritual, Bell considers formality (or informality) in speech, greetings, and table manners. She then generalizes about table manners as follows: As in many ritual situations, the more intimate the social relationships that are involved, the more casual the behavior. So a mother feeding a child on her lap is apt to ignore the usual table etiquette, but a group of relative strangers dining 17 The article originally appeared as “Deciphering a Meal,” Daedalus 101 (1972): 61–82. I cite the article according to the pagination in Douglas’s volume of collected essays, Implicit Meanings: Essays in Anthropology (London/Boston: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1975), 249–75 (the essay has been reprinted elsewhere, for example, in Food and Culture: A Reader [ed. Carole Counihan and Penny Van Esterik; New York: Routledge, 1997], 36–55). Note esp. p. 256 where she writes, “Drinks are for strangers, acquaintances, workmen, and family. Meals are for family, close friends, and honored guests. The grand operator of the system is the line between intimacy and distance. Those we know at meals we also know at drinks. The meal expresses close friendship. Those we know only at drinks we know less intimately.” 18 Liverani, Myth and Politics in Ancient Near Eastern Historiography (ed. and intro. Zainab Bahrani and Marc Van De Mieroop; Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2004), 3–23.

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together tend to be more scrupulous. The greater the social distance experienced or desired between persons, the more their activities abide by those conventions that acknowledge social distance. Likewise, however, dropping some of these conventions can collapse some of the social distance and alter the relationships.19

III. Applying the Theory Before taking our theoretical perspectives back to the Hebrew laments of the individual, let us first apply them to two different kinds of Akkadian prayers, the šuillas and the dingir.šà.dib.ba’s. Looking at the Akkadian šuillas collectively, one sees that these prayers are generally offered by individuals to high gods in the pantheon who are clearly named, gods like Šamaš, Marduk, Ištar, Nabu, Ea, Anu, and so on. The actual content of the hymnic introduction includes cosmic imagery, the deity’s relationship to other gods in the pantheon, the deity’s position with regard to temples or cultic rites, and/or epithets related to the diety’s attributes that are relevant to the petition. Moreover, the šuillas are quite often prayed for the purpose of resecuring the protection of the supplicant’s personal god and goddess, who are not named. There are of course other elements, such as lament, confession (often of ignorance), and petition for healing included in the prayer. But the named, high god’s intervention with the supplicant’s unnamed, angry personal deities is a very important component in many of these prayers. These features suggest that the gods invoked in the šuillas are being addressed in an official capacity as cosmic authorities. The social model that these features evoke is that of one petitioning a city official or king to help in one’s domestic problem (e.g., a property dispute with a neighbor, a divorce, etc.). As Annette Zgoll has persuasively argued, the ritual actions that generally accompany the šuillas make this very same point. Schematically presented, the supplicant sets out an offering of various items, lifts the hands in a gesture of greeting, bows to the ground, rises up again, and then speaks the prayer (usually multiple times). All of this is intended to move the beseeched superior—whether human or divine—to be obligated to the supplicant and extend a helping hand.20

19 Bell, Ritual: Perspectives and Dimensions (New York: Oxford University Press, 1997), 143. Earlier, Bell states, “For the most part, high degrees of formality force people to state or affirm very generalized and rather impersonal sentiments about relatively abstract concerns” (p. 139). From this perspective, it may not be entirely wrong for interpreters to sense an emotional distance between the god of a šuilla and the supplicant. 20 Zgoll, “Audienz—Ein Modell zum Verständnis mesopotamischer Handerhebungsrituale: Mit einer Deutung der Novelle vom Armen Mann von Nippur,” BaghM 34 (2003): 173–95. Zgoll has persuasively interpreted the ritual actions associated with šuillas in light of the general actions one would use in seeking help from a social superior in a nonreligious context, analyzing the interrelationship between supplicant and benefactor into ten parts (see her comparative chart on

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In the dingir.šà.dib.ba-prayers, on the other hand, the supplicant addresses the personal deity directly, beseeching the deity to abandon wrath.21 In these prayers, the most common invocation is a simple “my god” (ilī). Sometimes this is extended by brief epithets, like “pure one” (ellu) or “mighty one” (šurbû), or a couple of brief participial modifiers, such as “who created my name” (bānû šumīya), “who gives life” (qā 'iš balātii ), “who renders verdicts” (gāmir dīnī), or “who begat/ bore me” (ālidu/ālittu). It is striking how often these participial phrases concern the supplicant personally. Despite the inclusion of several such phrases or epithets in a prayer, it is still obvious, as W. G. Lambert pointed out in his edition of the texts, that there is no extended hymnic introduction in these prayers as there is in the šuillas. Lambert interprets this lack in terms of the generic use of these texts: the prayers could be directed to any personal god, so precise epithets were not inserted into the prayers.22 But this practical result of the absence of epithets need not be the only explanation. We might also interpret the lack of hymnic introduction in terms of the fact that the dingir.šà.dib.ba-prayers are directed not to a high god as an official member of the cosmic pantheon but to the supplicant’s personal god, a deity who is presumably much closer to the supplicant than the high gods.23 p. 196). Although she draws on various textual sources to substantiate this analogical interpretation, the supplications of the poor man of Nippur are her primary parallel from the nonreligious sphere. Zgoll’s fifth act in this complex of activity is called “the supplicant’s words of greeting” (Grußworte Bittsteller). In acts involving two humans, generally the socially inferior individual offers blessings or praise to the socially superior individual. This particular act finds its parallel, according to Zgoll, in the hymnic invocation of the šuilla. (I thank Anna Zernecke for alerting me to Zgoll’s article.) 21 For an introduction to and provisional edition of these prayers, see Lambert, “DINGIR.ŠÀ.DIB.BA Incantations,” JNES 33 (1974): 267–322; he notes that the label is not applied in an entirely consistent manner to generic personal gods since occasionally a dingir.šà.dib.ba-prayer addresses a high god such as Sin or Marduk and Zarpanitu (p. 268). See van der Toorn’s discussion of the purpose of these prayers in his Sin and Sanction in Israel and Mesopotamia: A Comparative Study (SSN 22; Assen: Van Gorcum, 1985), 121–24. Although the dingir.šà.dib.ba- prayers represent personal religion, they were also incorporated into royal rituals and series like Šurpu and Bīt Rimki. Margaret Jaques at the University of Zurich is currently preparing a fuller edition and study of the dingir.šà.dib.ba-prayers, which will address their reception history and reuse. 22 Lambert, “DINGIR.ŠÀ.DIB.BA Incantations,” 270. 23 The choice of one’s personal god was related to the personal god of one’s parents and may also have been contingent on other local or occupational factors (e.g., many scribes took Nabu as their personal god). Personal gods were usually minor, or at least not top-tier deities in the pantheon (e.g., Ninšubur, Ištar’s vizier, was a common personal god; Ištar herself is never attested as a personal god, nor is Anu). There are exceptional instances, however, where a high god such as Enlil was an individual’s personal god. Whatever the god’s identity and position in the official cult of temple or palace, the personal god as personal god was venerated within a familial context. (It is important to note that the personal god was not conceived of in strictly individualistic terms, like present-day imaginings of guardian angels. The personal god would have had a special rela-

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Elaborate formal epithets and an extended hymnic introduction to the petition are not necessary to a prayer directed to the personal god, because the deity and the supplicant have an established and close relationship. Unlike addressing someone in an exalted position of authority, who requires a formal protocol when seeking an audience, the supplicant and the deity involved in a dingir.šà.dib.ba-prayer are more familiar and therefore on more informal speaking terms. If one envisions the personal god as a kind of parent figure (note ālidu/ālittu), as Thorkild Jacobsen did,24 the analogy is particularly clear. One does not address one’s mother in the same way as one would address a mayor, a governor, or a world leader. One may simply call out “mother,” “mom,” or “mommy” to get her attention. There is no need to pile up titles or preface the vocative with rhetorical niceties. The established mother–child relationship permits informality and directness.25 As is clear from this formal contrast between the šuilla-prayers and the dingir.šà.dib.ba’s, ritual formality and personal intimacy are related and affect a prayer’s manner of opening address. When we consider the Hebrew laments of the individual and their short invocations, we are reminded of the dingir.šà.dib.ba-prayers and their brief invocations.26 Although there are differences between the two kinds of prayers that we will not discuss here,27 this formal similarity with regard to the prayers’ invocations suggests that the two kinds of prayers are a better comparative match. Conversely, there seems to be no precise match to the Mesopotamian šuilla among Hebrew forms of prayer. Applying what we have learned from the dingir.šà.dib.ba’s above, I suggest that the brief invocations in the Hebrew lament of the individual are brief simply because the supplicant is addressing the deity in more familiar terms. Yahweh certainly is addressed at times as a national deity and in those cases is often addressed with a formality and/or the epithets that such a position would deserve (see, e.g., tionship to individuals, but there was always a communal element, too, since groups often shared the same personal god.) For the best discussion of “personal god,” see van der Toorn, Family Religion in Babylonia, Syria, and Israel: Continuity and Change in the Forms of Religious Life (SHCANE 7; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 66–87, esp. 80–81 for the exceptional character of a high god in the role of an individual’s personal god. 24 Jacobsen, Treasures of Darkness: A History of Mesopotamian Religion (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1976), 157–60. 25 Unfortunately, the rituals of the dingir.šà.dib.ba-prayers cannot enter into our discussion here because they are still too poorly known. It is hoped that the next text edition of these prayers will be able to use more sources that include the incantations’ ritual prescriptions (see Lambert, “DINGIR.ŠÀ.DIB.BA Incantations,” 269). 26 See n. 2 above for other scholars who have made this observation. 27 For example, anger of the god seems to play a minor role in the lament of the individual compared with the dingir.šà.dib-ba’s; see Albertz, Persönliche Frömmigkeit und offizielle Religion, 39, 48.

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Psalm 89 and Nehemiah 9).28 But Yahweh is also a personal deity and as such would be addressed in more familiar terms. A brief vocative is entirely appropriate. This interpretation is quite in keeping with what others have suggested about the familial Sitz im Leben and personal content of the laments of the individual.29 I do not wish to be misunderstood. This suggestion regarding the relationship between social proximity and the formality of invocations is a formal-social argument and does not address the psychological state of the supplicant at all— that is inaccessible. The formal characteristic that we have seen and compared to the dingir.šà.dib-ba’s merely supplies another indication, based on the theoretical perspectives discussed above, that the prayers were intended, at least at some point in their life cycle, for addressing the Israelite deity in rather personal terms—as a personal god. This idea, derived by means of comparative work, is congruent with other features of the individual lament obtained through internal analysis (i.e., personal content and familial Sitz im Leben), and thus it adds a new element to our working model of the genre. Having considered this idea in terms of the individual laments, one might consider testing its generalizability via the manner in which the Israelite deity is addressed in the communal laments. Although this is not the place for a full treatment, the communal laments provide general confirmation for the present findings. It should be noted from the outset of this discussion that a communal lament does not necessarily imply that the deity is perceived as a national deity or automatically has a more formal relationship to the group of supplicants than is evident in a lament of the individual. “Communal” does not necessarily equal “formal.” Other factors need to contribute to our determination of this, especially the Sitz im Leben of communal laments, which is open to much discussion, as well as the psalms’ contents.30 The label of this genre, therefore, should not prejudice our expectation. We also need to identify which psalms we are talking about when we discuss the genre “communal laments.” Although opinions can vary quite markedly, a wide range of scholars agree on including the following seven in the category: Psalms 44; 60; 74; 79; 80; 83; and 89.31 A survey of the content of these psalms indi28

In both of these prayers, the praise comes at the beginning (compare Westermann’s comments cited above). Furthermore, the praise in Psalm 89 does not focus on Yahweh’s acts in history, whereas the praise in Nehemiah 9 is almost entirely concerned with history. 29 See Albertz, Persönliche Frömmigkeit und offizielle Religion, 23–49. 30 For a brief statement about the Sitz im Leben of communal laments, see Walter C. Bouzard, Jr., We Have Heard with Our Ears, O God: Sources of the Communal Laments in the Psalms (SBLDS 159; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997), 204–11. 31 For a helpful discussion and a tabular chart of the many different psalms that thirteen scholars have variously identified as communal laments, see Bouzard, We Have Heard with Our Ears, 101–45. I have adopted his position that these seven psalms are the only communal laments in the Psalter. Other psalms have similar features, but they do not qualify for the specific label. For a more inclusive understanding of communal lament in which “thought and mood as indicated

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cates that Yahweh is in fact addressed as a god in charge of cosmic and national political affairs.32 Psalm 89, a prayer intensely concerned about kingship, is striking in this regard. If we apply the theory discussed above in light of such content, we should expect more formality in the way the Israelites address their deity than we saw in the lament of the individuals. We therefore expect an invocation to work in tandem with something like we saw in the šuillas, namely, hymnic elements, that intend to move the social superior to be obligated to the supplicant. When we survey the psalms again, we see that four out of the seven have such a hymnic element as part of their structure, though significantly not always at the beginning alongside the invocation (see Pss 44:2–9; 74:12–17; 80:2–3a, 9–12;33 and 89:2–19).34 Based on various comparable corporate lament genres in the ancient Near East, this is what we would expect to find.35 It is also generally congruent with our theory of formality and social distance.

IV. Conclusion There is still a mountain of work to be done on the comparison of the prayers in the Hebrew Psalter with those from Mesopotamia. This brief study, although limited to a very minor point about invocations, suggests the path ahead. We must resist facile comparisons and unself-conscious interpretations that seize upon obvious differences in order to distinguish Israel from its neighbors. There were differences, obviously. But we must be careful about how we discern the differences. And we must be vigilant not to overstate them, especially in service to a theological agenda. Keeping socially and anthropologically oriented theoretical perspectives in the forefront of concern as we sift, compare, and interpret the data from different ancient cultures, this study suggests, is the way ahead. by content takes priority over but does not exclude matters of form,” see Paul Wayne Ferris, Jr. The Genre of Communal Lament in the Bible and Ancient Near East (SBLDS 127; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1992). Ferris identifies Psalms 31; 35; 42; 43; 44; 56; 59; 60; 69; 74; 77; 79; 80; 83; 85; 89; 94; 102; 109; 137; 142; and Lamentations as communal laments (p. 14). For a critical assessment of his methodology, see Bouzard, We Have Heard with Our Ears, 15–17 and 105–7. 32 See n. 28 above. 33 Note the epithet tw)bc Myhl), “god of hosts,” throughout the psalm. 34 See Bouzard, We Have Heard with Our Ears, 124. Bouzard rejects, correctly in my opinion, Westermann’s Procrustean view that certain elements found in communal laments (such as the praise of the deity) are additions that have skewed the form away from its original purity (compare Westermann, Praise and Lament, 52). 35 See Bouzard, We Have Heard with Our Ears, 156. Why there are three other psalms without any hymnic element in them is difficult to say. But the point has been made repeatedly throughout the history of form criticism that not every individual example of a form will attest all of the form’s typical elements and that the order of elements in a psalm may vary.

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Josephus’s Essenes and the Qumran Community kenneth atkinson [email protected] University of Northern Iowa, Cedar Falls, IA 50614

jodi magness [email protected] University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, Chapel Hill, NC 27599

Since the discovery of the first scrolls in caves near Qumran (the “Dead Sea Scrolls”), scholars have noted many similarities between these texts and the accounts of the Essenes in the works of Josephus, Philo, Pliny, and others. From the beginning of Qumran studies until the present, most researchers have agreed with the proposal first put forth by Eleazar L. Sukenik that the Qumran community was a branch of the larger Essene movement, a theory often referred to as the Qumran-Essene hypothesis.1 Increasingly, however, this thesis has been challenged by a number of scholars who argue that the supposed parallels between the scrolls and the classical sources have been exaggerated or misunderstood, and that the archaeological remains at Khirbet Qumran do not match the lifestyle described in any of these texts. In recent years these critics have claimed that Josephus—arguably the most important source of information for proponents of the Qumran-Essene hypothesis—should be read on his own terms, without any reference to the Qumran scrolls, to understand how he creatively shaped his source material regarding the Essenes to fashion a distinctive narrative of the past. This view, while recognizing Josephus’s creativity, suffers from the same criticism that it levels against the thesis that it seeks to overturn: it fails to read the Qumran scrolls on their own terms apart from other ancient accounts of the Essenes.

1 Sukenik, Megillot Genuzot: Mi-tokh Genizah Kedumah she-Nimtse 'ah be-Midbar Yehudah (2 vols.; Jerusalem: Bialik, 1948), 1:16. The debate over the etymology of the name Essenes, long held to derive from the Aramaic ysx, lies beyond the scope of our study.

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This article focuses on three issues in the current debate, the interconnectedness of which is often overlooked: the relationship between the dates of the Qumran scrolls, the archaeological remains at Khirbet Qumran, and Josephus’s accounts of the Essenes. The first section highlights some basic methodological issues relevant to the present discussion, particularly the nature of the sources and their interpretation. The second section focuses on the relationship between the Community Rule and other works found among the Qumran scrolls to show that a distinctive sectarian community produced and collected these documents.2 The third section establishes the connection between the scrolls and Khirbet Qumran. The fourth section examines aspects of Josephus’s testimony about the Essenes to show that his account of this sect closely matches the lifestyle described in the Community Rule and other sectarian scrolls and reflected in the archaeological remains at Khirbet Qumran. It also suggests that Josephus described a later phase of this movement that was close to but not identical with the sectarian community depicted in the majority of scrolls, which date to the first century b.c.e. We conclude that Josephus’s testimony is a valuable source of information for understanding the sectarian community at Qumran, whose members were part of the wider Essene movement.

I. The Nature of the Debate In a series of influential articles, Steve Mason has posed what is perhaps the most significant recent challenge to the Qumran-Essene hypothesis. He criticizes the use of Josephus’s accounts of the Essenes to establish the identity of the Qumran sectarians.3 Mason’s objections reflect the recent trend in Josephus research that eschews using the historian’s works as a list of facts to compare with other texts, without any regard for his literary creativity. As Mason and other opponents of the Qumran-Essene hypothesis note, scholars have long used the Qumran texts as a 2

Sectarian texts are those that contain several of the following features: a distinctive emphasis on communal living or rigid membership requirements, an extensive legal code, dualistic theology, a distinctive calendar at variance with the temple calendar, and, in many cases, some association with the Teacher or his movement. We consider the following works to be sectarian compositions: Rule of the Community, Damascus Document, Thanksgiving Hymns, pesharim, 4QMMT, War Scroll, the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice, and possibly portions of the Temple Scroll. For these distinctions, see Devorah Dimant, “Qumran Sectarian Literature,” JWSTP, 483-50. 3 Mason, “Essenes and Lurking Spartans in Josephus’ Judean War: From Story to History,” in Making History: Josephus and Historical Method (ed. Zuleika Rodgers; JSJSup 110; Leiden: Brill, 2007), 219–61; idem, “Did the Essenes Write the Dead Sea Scrolls? Don’t Rely on Josephus,” BAR 34, no. 6 (2008): 61–65, 81; idem, “What Josephus Says about the Essenes in His Judean War,” in Text and Artifact in the Religions of Mediterranean Antiquity: Essays in Honour of Peter Richardson (ed. Stephen G. Wilson and Michel Desjardins; Studies in Christianity and Judaism; Waterloo, ON: Wilfrid Laurier University Press, 2000), 434-67; idem, with Honora Chapman, Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, vol. 1B, Judean War 2 (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 84–135.

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guide for interpreting the Greek and Latin sources, while at the same time drawing on the latter texts to understand the scrolls. With his insistence that we must “reevaluate Josephus’ Essenes in situ—without assuming a DSS [Dead Sea Scrolls] referent,” Mason echoes the views of others who have likewise argued against using Josephus in conjunction with the scrolls and archaeology to buttress the QumranEssene hypothesis.4 Josephus’s books must occupy a central place in the discussion of the QumranEssene theory since he is the only ancient writer who claims to have intimate knowledge of the Essenes (Life 10–12). Like all ancient authors, Josephus is often polemical and at times distorts his accounts of ancient Jewish sects to describe them in terms his readers will understand. As Mason notes, Josephus presents the Essenes and other Jewish groups in a philosophical garb to extol the virtues valued by his audience: Philosophy encouraged one to ponder life’s meaning, the existence of the soul, and the afterlife, and to behave in accord with this reflection, facing suffering and death with equanimity. That is why Philo (Prob. 75–91, esp. 88; apud Eusebius, Praep. Ev. 8.11; Vit. Cont. 2,16) and Josephus (War 2.119; 166; Ant. 13.171– 173; 18:12) describe groups that we incline to consider religious—Essenes, Therapeutae, Pharisees, and Sadducees—as philosophers. This was no deceit: they were using the most appropriate category. “Religion” was not in the lexicon.5

Mason is correct to emphasize that Josephus uses the term “philosophical school” to show his audience that among the Jews there were sects as rigorous as any pagan philosophical system, including the Spartan lifestyle. He describes those he likes, whether Jews or Gentiles, in this fashion, while he accuses those he despises, such as the Galilean Zealots, of being womanly.6 But as Joan E. Taylor remarks: Josephus states in Ant. 15.371 that the way of life practiced by the Essenes was introduced to Greece by Pythagoras, but can one extrapolate from this that Josephus thought that the Essenes were entirely identical to Pythagoreans and therefore vegetarians, any more than one can extrapolate that the Pharisees really were Jewish Stoics on the basis of Josephus’ comments in Life 12?7

Likewise, one would not use Strabo to claim that the Jews were vegetarians and practiced both male and female circumcision, just as we would not use Josephus’s 4 See, e.g., Mason, “Essenes and Lurking Spartans,” 220; Albert Baumgarten, “Who Cares and Why Does it Matter? Qumran and the Essenes, Once Again!” DSD 11 (2004): 187; Katharina Galor, Jean-Baptiste Humbert, and Jürgen Zangenberg, eds., Qumran, the Site of the Dead Sea Scrolls: Archaeological Interpretations and Debates: Proceedings of a Conference Held at Brown University, November 17–19, 2002 (STDJ 57; Leiden: Brill, 2006). 5 Mason, “Jews, Judaeans, Judaizing, Judaism: Problems of Categorization in Ancient History,” JSJ 38 (2007): 486. 6 Mason, Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, 1B:84–135. 7 Taylor, “Philo of Alexandria on the Essenes: A Case Study on the Use of Classical Sources in Discussions of the Qumran-Essene Hypothesis,” SPhilo 19 (2007): 4.

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accounts of the Essenes to support his assertion that this sect’s views of the afterlife are similar to the Greek “Islands of the Blessed” or “Oceanus” (Strabo, Geogr. 16.2.35–39).8 Although one could argue that Josephus here and elsewhere merely copied from his sources, he would have drawn on his insider knowledge of the Essenes to shape and/or correct them. However, it is not our intention to become bogged down in source-critical discussions. Instead we seek to examine whether Josephus’s descriptions of the Essenes, despite being embedded in a polemical text, correspond to the lifestyle described in the sectarian literature from Qumran and reflected in the archaeological remains at Khirbet Qumran. To show that the scrolls and Khirbet Qumran should be interpreted together and that both are associated with Josephus’s Essenes, we explore one text that is central to the current debate— the Community Rule.

II. Chronological Overlap of Major Sectarian Scrolls: The Case of the Community Rule The sectarian work that is arguably most important to the debate over Josephus’s Essenes and the identity of the people who inhabited Khirbet Qumran is the Cave 1 document known as the Community Rule (1QS).9 Its legal prescriptions, admission process, and communal, ascetic lifestyle bear a remarkable resemblance to Josephus’s descriptions of the Essenes.10 The Community Rule is a difficult document to study. Early researchers recognized that the Cave 1 copy of this work is a composite text with a long history that is still not fully understood. The work shows evidence of various editorial and recensional stages, including erasures and corrections that suggest that the passages related to the organizational framework of the group it describes needed to be adapted to changing circumstances.11 At least 8

On this point, see Taylor, “Philo,” 4–5. For “Islands of the Blessed,” see War 2.156; for “Oceanus,” see War 2.155. 9 The name (dxyh Krs) is preserved in 1QS and 4QSa and the verso of the handle-sheet of the scroll containing 1QS, 1QSa, and 1QSb. Because of the extensive overlap between the Cave 4 versions of the Community Rule and 1QS, it is reasonable to assume that this title was used for the incomplete copies of this work. For the extant manuscripts, see Sarianna A. Metso, The Serekh Texts (Companion to the Qumran Scrolls 9; Library of Second Temple Studies 62; London: T & T Clark International, 2007), esp. 1-5. 10 See, e.g., Todd S. Beall, Josephus’ Description of the Essenes Illustrated by the Dead Sea Scrolls (SNTSMS 58; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), esp. 123–30; John J. Collins, “Essenes,” ABD 2:619–26; Geza Vermes and Martin D. Goodman, eds., The Essenes according to the Classical Sources (Oxford Centre Textbooks 1; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1989), esp. 2–14. 11 For literature, see Alison Schofield, From Qumran to the Yahiad: A New Paradigm of Textual Development for the Community Rule (STDJ 77; Leiden: Brill, 2009), esp. 115–18; Sarianna Metso, The Textual Development of the Qumran Community Rule (STDJ 21; Leiden: Brill, 1997), esp. 107–49. 4Q259 (4QSe) replaces the Sage’s Hymn (1QS 10.5–11.22), which contains a poeti-

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at least ten copies of the Community Rule were discovered in Cave 4.12 A fragment of this text was also found in Cave 5 (5Q11), while another fragment from Cave 11 (11Q29) likely represents another copy of the work.13 If we include the text 5Q13, which cites 1QS 3.4–5, this could bring the total (including 1QS) to fifteen copies of the Community Rule at Qumran. A comparison of 1QS with several Cave 4 texts reveals some significant overlaps with other Qumran writings, indicating that this particular Cave 1 document was viewed as a foundational work for the group that produced and collected the scrolls. The controversial text 4Q502 (dated ca. 85 b.c.e.) is one such example. A portion of this fragment, which has become central in the debate over the presence of women in the Qumran community, overlaps with the list of virtues in the Doctrine of the Two Spirits found in 1QS 4.4–6. However, 4Q502 does not contain the full list of characteristics of the spirit of light and the spirit of darkness, but only the former. Since it is unlikely that the whole of the Treatise on the Spirits (1QS 3.13– 4.26) was once contained in 4Q502, a list of spiritual virtues likely existed at one time, upon which either the author or the redactor of the Community Rule drew.14 Likewise, the covenant ceremony described in 1QS 3.4–5 is paralleled in 4QSh (4Q262) and 5Q13. While one could argue that one or both of these fragments represent separate documents that drew on sources used by the Community Rule and did not directly use the work represented by 1QS, they clearly show the importance of the rituals contained in this foundational text for the authors and collectors of other scrolls. Given the first-century c.e. dates of both 4Q262 and 5Q13, it is probable that these texts were influenced by 1QS.15 Apart from the Community Rule, no Qumran text is preserved in as many cal calendar of prayer times, with the calendrical text 4QOtot (4Q319). This suggests that the scribe responsible for this version of the Community Rule, as in other Qumran texts, was interested in a synchronization of the 364-day calendar based on the six-year priestly rotation with the moon. For Qumran calendars, see Kenneth Atkinson, “Representations of History in 4Q331 (4QpapHistorical Text C), 4Q332 (4QHistorical Text D), 4Q333 (4QHistorical Text E), and 4Q468e (4QHistorical Text F): An Annalistic Calendar Documenting Portentous Events?” DSD 14 (2007): 125–51. A discussion of the different versions or recensions of the Community Rule lies beyond the scope of this study. 12 4Q255 (4QpapSa), 4Q256 (4QSb), 4Q257 (4QpapS c), 4Q258 (4QS d), 4Q259 (4QS e), 4Q260 (4QSf ), 4Q261 (4QSg), 4Q262 (4QSh), 4Q263 (4QSi), 4Q264 (4QSj). If the three fragments that make up 4Q262 represent two copies, this would bring the number of Cave 4 fragments of this document to twelve. 13 For 5Q11, see J. T. Milik, in Les “Petites Grottes” de Qumran (ed. M. Baillet, J. T. Milik, and R. de Vaux; DJD 3; Oxford: Clarendon, 1962), 181; Metso, Textual Development, 65–66. For 11Q29, see Florentino García-Martinez, E. J. C. Tigchelaar, and A. S. van der Woude, Qumran Cave 11.II (11Q2–18, 11Q20–31) (DJD 23; Oxford: Clarendon, 1998), 433–34. 14 Sarianna Metso, “Methodological Problems in Reconstructing History from Rule Texts Found at Qumran,” DSD 11 (2004): 326–27; Schofield, From Qumran to the Yahiad, 178–80. 15 See Philip S. Alexander, “The Redaction-History of Serekh Ha-Yahad: A Proposal,” RevQ 17 (1996): 437–56.

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copies or has been as central to the Qumran-Essene hypothesis as the Damascus Document. If we look at the number, chronological distribution, and parallels between this text and the Community Rule, some striking features emerge, suggesting that this text too was central to the Qumran community. The Qumran copies preserve approximately 47 percent of the text found in the Cairo Genizah versions.16 Not only do the Community Rule and the Damascus Document contain many parallels, but it has long been acknowledged that both are related to 1QSa (the Rule of the Congregation).17 In their editio princeps of the Cave 4 S [= Serekh] fragments of this document, Geza Vermes and Philip Alexander comment on the parallels with S in other texts found at Qumran: We offer no opinion here as to how these parallels between the S and non-S texts are to be explained, but we would suggest that they show how well integrated the S material is with the Qumran literature. S, in fact, displays a level of integration that is matched by no other sectarian text.18

Because the Community Rule and the Damascus Document are related to each other, it is safe to assume that editions of these texts once existed that predate our extant copies. The discovery of fragments of 1QSa in cryptic script dating from a period no later than the first half of the second century b.c.e.—a date that makes them the earliest known copies of “sectarian” documents—supports this assertion.19 An 16 4Q266 (4QDa), 4Q267 (4QDb), 4Q268 (4QDc), 4Q269 (4QDd), 4Q270 (4QDe), 4Q271 (4QDf ), 4Q272 (4QDg), 4Q273 (4QpapDh), 5Q12 (5QD), 6Q15 (6QD). For the Cairo Genizah version of the Damascus Document and relevant literature, see Joseph Baumgarten and Daniel Schwartz, “Damascus Document (CD),” in The Dead Sea Scrolls: Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek Texts with English Translations, vol. 2, Damascus Document, War Scroll, and Related Documents (ed. James H. Charlesworth et al.; Princeton Theological Seminary Dead Sea Scrolls Project 2; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck; Lousiville: Westminster John Knox, 1995), 4–79. For 4Q266–273, see Joseph M. Baumgarten, Qumran Cave 4.XIII: The Damascus Document (4Q266–273) (DJD 18; Oxford: Clarendon, 1996), 23–113, 115–21, 123–83, 186–91, 193–98. For 5Q12 and 6Q15, see Baillet, DJD 3, 128–31, 262–86. 17 1QSa is included in the same scroll as 1QS and describes a rule for the community for the latter days. It contains numerous theological parallels with other Qumran texts, most notably 1QS and the Damascus Document. For the text of 1QSa, see D. Barthélemy, in D. Barthélemy and J. T. Milik, Qumran Cave 1 (DJD 1; Oxford: Clarendon, 1955), 107–18. For parallels with 1QSa, 1QS, and other scrolls, see Charlotte Hempel, “The Earthly Nucleus of 1QSa,” DSD 3 (1996): 256; Metso, “Methodological Problems,” 315–35; Cecilia Wassen, Women in the Damascus Document (Academia Biblica 21; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2005), 28–29; Eyal Regev, Sectarianism in Qumran: A Cross-Cultural Perspective (RelSoc 45; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2007), 187–96. 18 Alexander and Vermes, Qumran Cave 4.XIX: 4QSerekh Ha-Yahiad and Two Related Texts (DJD 26; Oxford: Clarendon, 1998), 4. See also E. J. C. Tigchelaar, “Scribal Notations in the Texts from the Judaean Desert,” in E. Tov, ed., The Texts from the Judaean Desert: Indices and an Introduction to the Discoveries in the Judaean Desert Series (DJD 39; Oxford: Clarendon, 2002), 319–20. 19 See Stephen Pfann, “Cryptic Texts,” in S. J. Pfann, Qumran Cave 4.XXVI: Cryptic Texts, Miscellanea, Part 1, by P. S. Alexander et al., in Consultation with J. VanderKam and M. Brady (DJD 36; Oxford: Clarendon, 2000), 515–74.

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examination of 1QS alongside 1QSa shows that the copyist responsible for 1QS believed that his group was somehow related to the community that produced 1QSa, which, unlike 1QS, explicitly mentions families. Because the Community Rule, the Damascus Document, and 1QSa are related, and these texts in turn are connected with many other works found at Qumran, the Qumran corpus appears to be a deliberate collection of documents and not a haphazard assortment of texts that emanated from other groups or a Jerusalem library. In a recent study of Qumran scripts, Ada Yardeni claims that a single scribe copied fifty-seven texts from Caves 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 11, and possibly thirty-six additional texts from Caves 4, 8, and 11, in a script dated to the late first century b.c.e. to the beginning of the first century c.e. This suggests that these texts were written or copied and collected by the same community.20 The predominance of the Community Rule and the evidence of its theological perspective and organizational framework in other Qumran scrolls show that the same group was responsible for the entire collection.21 Before we can address the identification of this group and consider whether it is the same sect that Josephus mentions in his writings, we must first connect these texts with the site of Khirbet Qumran.

III. The Archaeology of Khirbet Qumran: The Sectarian Community of the Scrolls Many opponents of the Qumran-Essene hypothesis fail to consider the architectural layout of Khirbet Qumran and its interconnectedness with the scroll caves. Khirbet Qumran sits atop a marl plateau that is surrounded by deep ravines on its western and southern sides and was accessible only from the north and east through an enclosure wall. Approximately one-third of this wall is integrated with the core of the site’s architecture, while the remaining two-thirds are freestanding. The northern section of this enclosure wall (encompassing L135, 136–38, 140–42) contains two openings: one by a small stepped pool in the northwest (L138) and the other just north (by L134) of the tower (L9-L11). A third entrance is situated by L84, 20 Yardeni, “A Note on a Qumran Scribe,” in New Seals and Inscriptions, Hebrew, Idumean, and Cuneiform (ed. Meir Lubetski; Hebrew Bible Monographs 8; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2007), 287–98. The same scribe produced 1QS and 4Q175 (Testimonia), showing that the texts in these various caves are connected with one another; see Annette Steudel, “Testimonia,” in Encyclopedia of the Dead Sea Scrolls (ed. Lawrence Schiffman and James C. VanderKam; New York: Oxford Univesity Press, 2000), 2:936–38. With the exception of the Damascus Document, the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice, the Temple Scroll, and 4QMMT, portions of all the sectarian text genres are represented in Cave 1. 21 Although many of these texts predate the Qumran settlement and the Yaha i d existed prior to and in a greater geographical expanse than the Qumran community, the overlapping contents of the caves and the many texts copied by the same scribal hand show that the Qumran community was connected with the earlier and wider movement.

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near the potters’ workshop, in the eastern wall which separates Khirbet Qumran from the cemetery. This wall joins a terrace wall at the edge of pool 71 and continues southward from the site for a distance of nearly 140 meters to the top of the cliff.22 The terrace wall encloses a large open space directly to the south of the site of Khirbet Qumran, most of which is devoid of architectural features and the function of which remains the subject of debate. Because the enclosure wall is poorly constructed and was only 1.4 meters high, it could not have functioned as a defensive wall. Recognizing that the enclosure wall served no agricultural, domestic, or defensive function, several scholars have proposed that it was intended as a boundary wall designed to separate the site of Khirbet Qumran from the space outside, including the cemetery.23 The large number of cylindrical jars found inside the settlement, which may have been designed to hold the community’s pure food and drink; the rooms used for assembly and communal meals; the animal bones deposited in the open spaces of the settlement; and the placement of ritual baths appear to support this thesis. The distribution of the animal bones suggests that the western half of each part of the settlement contained rooms with the greatest degree of purity, including the communal dining halls.24 The enclosure wall thus supports the identification of the Qumran community as sectarian, even when considered independently of any texts. Although the opponents of the Qumran-Essene hypothesis have called attention to parallels between Khirbet Qumran and other sites, the differences far exceed any similarities. The animal bone deposits, distinctive ceramic corpus, and large adjacent cemetery are unique to Qumran, and no other archaeological site contains such a large number of ritual baths (and of large sizes) relative to the size of the settlement. The presence of secondary burials in the cemetery and the overwhelming number of adult males in the excavated sample suggest that Khirbet Qumran was of special sectarian importance, and that some of those interred may have been brought there because of the special status of the site.25 Two graves contained no bones but yielded sealed jars that may have been buried for ritualistic

22 This enclosure wall remained in use until the end of Period II (ca. 68 c.e.); see Jodi Magness, The Archaeology of Qumran and the Dead Sea Scrolls (Studies in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Related Literature; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), 49. For sigla, descriptions of rooms, and site plans, see Roland de Vaux, Archaeology and the Dead Sea Scrolls (London: Oxford University Press, 1973); Jean-Baptiste Humbert and Alain Chambon, Fouilles de Khirbet Qumrân et de ‘Ain Feshkha I (NTOA, Series Archaeologica 1; Fribourg: Academic Press, 1994). 23 Joan Branham, “Hedging the Holy at Qumran: Walls as Symbolic Devices,” in Galor et al., Qumran, the Site, 117–31; J.-B. Humbert, “Some Remarks on the Archaeology of Qumran,” in ibid., 20–30. 24 See Magness, Archaeology of Qumran, 105–33; eadem, Debating Qumran: Collected Essays on Its Archaeology (Interdisciplinary Studies in Ancient Culture and Religion 4; Leuven: Peeters, 2004), 107–12. 25 For literature on the Qumran cemetery, see Brian Schultz, “The Qumran Cemetery: 150 Years of Research,” DSD 13 (2006): 194–228.

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reasons.26 If we add the Qumran scrolls to this archaeological evidence, then the amount of material supporting a sectarian interpretation of the site is overwhelming—but only if we can connect the scrolls to the site of Khirbet Qumran. Despite common assertions that no scrolls were found at Khirbet Qumran, the archaeological evidence indicates otherwise. Three scroll caves (7, 8, and 9) are located within the enclosure wall that demarcates the Qumran settlement from the surrounding area.27 All were accessible only after passing through one of Khirbet Qumran’s three entrances. The presence of scroll caves within the confines of Khirbet Qumran and the discovery of the same pottery types in both the settlement and the scroll caves (including large numbers of cylindrical jars and bowl-shaped lids) show that the scrolls belonged to the Qumran community. The large number of scroll fragments in Caves 4, 5, 7, 8, and 9 may suggest that these caves, whether in whole or in part, each functioned as a geniza and/or a storage facility for intact documents. Because Khirbet Qumran was destroyed by fire at least twice (9/8 b.c.e. and 68 c.e.), it is not surprising that scrolls were found only in the caves.28 In light of the archaeological connection between the scroll caves and the site of Khirbet Qumran, it is erroneous to conclude that the two are not related. But can we connect the lifestyle reflected in the scrolls and Khirbet Qumran with Josephus’s accounts of the Essenes?

IV. Josephus and the Essenes Mason claims that the Qumran scrolls do not reflect the manly and wellordered group that Josephus describes, but at times envisage some fairly boorish and disgusting behavior. For him, this is proof that the scrolls could not have been written by Essenes. But after paying careful attention to the genre of Josephus’s writings, Mason fails to do this for the scrolls—he does not allow these ancient texts to speak for themselves. The scrolls, which contain several rule books and numerous texts regulating life among members, seek to create the ideal Essene society that Josephus describes. It was not Josephus’s intention to explain sectarian rules and regulations, many of which stem from the observance of biblical purity laws, but to expound on the lofty goals and ideals of the Essene movement. Nevertheless, the points of correspondence between Josephus, the scrolls, and the archaeological

26 Yizhak Magen and Yuven Peleg, The Qumran Excavations 1993–2004: Preliminary Report (Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority, 2007), 45; eidem, “Back to Qumran: Ten Years of Excavation and Research, 1993–2004,” in Galor et al., Qumran, the Site, 68–69. For a different view, see Jodi Magness, “Qumran: The Site of the Dead Sea Scrolls: A Review Article,” RevQ 88 (2007): 651. 27 See Stephen J. Pfann, “A Table in the Wilderness: Pantries and Tables, Pure Food and Sacred Space at Qumran,” in Galor et al., Qumran, the Site, 159–78. Although not within the boundary wall, Caves 4, 5, and 10 may also be included because of their proximity to the site. 28 If there were any scrolls inside the settlement (the buildings), they would have been burned in the fires; see Magness, Archaeology of Qumran, 44.

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remains at Qumran are so compelling that the Essene hypothesis remains our best explanation to account for the available data. The following are a few examples illustrating these points of correspondence.29

Ragged Clothing According to Josephus, the Essenes replace clothing and shoes only after they are threadbare or ragged: In their dress and deportment they resemble children under rigorous discipline. They do not change their garments or shoes until they are torn to shreds or worn threadbare with age. (War 2.126 [Thackeray, LCL])

Legislation in the Community Rule prohibits indecent exposure that results from wearing torn or tattered clothing: And whoever takes his yad (penis) from under his clothes, or if these are rags which allow his nakedness to be seen, he will be punished thirty days. (1QS 7.13– 14)30

The fact that this problem was specifically addressed in the Qumran sect’s penal code suggests that the exposure of genitalia due to the wearing of ragged clothing was a common (or likely) occurrence.

Spitting According to Josephus, the Essenes refrain from spitting in assemblies and to the right: They are careful not to spit in the midst [εἰς μέσους] of the community, or to the right side. (War 2.147 [Thackeray, LCL])

The Community Rule penalizes members who spit during an assembly: And the person who spits in the midst [Kwt l)] of a meeting of the community shall be punished thirty days. (1QS 7.13)

Presumably the basis for this prohibition is Lev 15:8, which states that the spit of a bz (zāb, someone who has had a genital discharge) conveys impurity: “If the one with the discharge spits on persons who are clean, then they shall wash their clothes, and bathe in water, and be unclean until the evening.”31 The rabbis forbade spitting on the Temple Mount: “And one should not use [the Temple Mount] for a short 29 Although some of the sources cited here postdate 70 c.e., they are useful for comparative purposes because they may incorporate earlier traditions and because the quotidian habits described (e.g., spitting) presumably did not change after 70 c.e. 30 Translations of Qumran texts (with occasional changes) are from Florentino García Martínez and Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar, The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition (2 vols.; Leiden: Brill, 1997–98). 31 Scripture translations are from the NRSV.

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cut. And spitting [there likewise is forbidden, as is proven by an argument] a minori ad majus [if you may not use it for a shortcut, you obviously may not spit there]” (m. Ber. 9:5).32 The rabbinic prohibition was motivated by a desire to show respect for the temple rather than by purity concerns, as a passage in the Tosefta indicates:33 And spitting [is forbidden on the Temple Mount] by a fortiori reasoning [m. Ber 9:5] [as follows]: Now if [with respect to wearing] a shoe, which is not contemptuous, the Torah said, “Do not enter [the Temple Mount] wearing a shoe,” how much more so is spitting, which is contemptuous, [to be forbidden on the Temple Mount]. (t. Ber. 6:19)34

This does not preclude the possibility that a ban on spitting in the Jerusalem temple originated out of purity concerns. Alternatively, it could be that, whereas the rabbis understood this prohibition as a show of respect, the sectarians attributed it to purity concerns. The possibility that spitting was prohibited in the Jerusalem temple (and is not a rabbinic fiction) is supported by evidence of a similar ban in Roman temples: What, and do you in such a state go with us even into the temples, where it is forbidden by custom to spit or blow the nose, yourself being nothing but a mass of spit and drivel? (Epictetus, Discourses 4.11.32 [Oldfather, LCL])35

In some cases the rabbis considered spit a source of impurity, especially from a Gentile: Our Rabbis taught, The Sages were once in need of something from a noblewoman. . . . They said, “Who will go?” “I will go,” replied R. Joshua. . . . After He came out, he descended, had a ritual bath, and learnt with his disciples. He said to them. . . . “When I went down and had a ritual bath, of what did you suspect me?” “We thought that perhaps some spittle spurted from her mouth upon the Rabbi’s garments.” “By the Temple Service!” he exclaimed to them, “it was even so.” (b. Šabb. 127b)36 32 Translation from Jacob Neusner, The Mishnah, A New Translation (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1988). Also see b. Ber. 62b–63a, where the rabbis prohibit spitting on the Temple Mount but are divided over whether it is permitted in a synagogue. 33 See Baruch M. Bokser, “Approaching Sacred Space,” HTR 78 (1985): 290–91; David Instone-Brewer, Traditions of the Rabbis from the Era of the New Testament, vol. 1, Prayer and Agriculture (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004), 93. 34 Translation from Jacob Neusner, The Tosefta: Translated from the Hebrew with a New Introduction, vol. 1, Zeraim, Moed, Nashim (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2002). 35 We thank Professor Will Deming of the University of Portland for this reference. 36 Translation adapted from H. Freedman, Shabbath: Translated into English with Notes, Glossary and Indices, in The Babylonian Talmud, ed. I. Epstein (London: Soncino, 1938), 634–35. Aharon Oppenheimer (The vAm Ha-aretz: A Study in the Social History of the Jewish People in the Hellenistic-Roman Period [trans. I. H. Levine; ALGHJ 8; Leiden: Brill, 1977], 65) notes that the impurity of a Gentile is similar to that of a zāb. According to Christine E. Hayes (Gentile Impurities and Jewish Identities: Intermarriage and Conversion from the Bible to the Talmud [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002], 195), “Early rabbis chose to stigmatize intimate relations with

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Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 2 (2010) All drops of spit which are found in Jerusalem are assumed to be clean, except for those [found in] the Upper Market Place, the words of R. Meir. (m. Šeqal. 8:1)37 [If there is] one [female] idiot in the village or [one] gentile woman or one Samaritan woman all drops of spit which are in the village are unclean. (m. Toi hor. 5:8)

There is also a discussion about spitting in the Palestinian Talmud: R. Halafta b. Saul taught, “One who breaks wind while wearing his tefillin—this is a bad sign for him.” [But the same does not apply to one who sneezes.] This accords with that which has been said, “[Breaking wind] below [is a bad sign]. But [sneezing] above is not.” This accords with that which R. Haninah said, “I saw Rabbi yawn, and sneeze and cover his mouth with his hand [to yawn during his recitation of the Prayer]. But I did not see him spit.” R. Yohanan said, “Even spitting [is permitted] if it serves to clear one’s throat.” Spitting in front of oneself is forbidden. Behind is permitted. To his right is forbidden. To his left is permitted. This follows what is written, “A thousand may fall at your side; [ten thousand at your right hand]” [Ps. 91:7] [i.e., the right side is more important]. Everyone agrees that one who needs to spit into his jacket [or a handkerchief is permitted to do so, but he] is forbidden to spit anywhere else during his recitation of Prayer—P.M. [= Pene Moshe Commentary]. R. Joshua b. Levi said, “Spitting in the synagogue is like spitting in [God’s] eye.” R. Jonah used to spit and then smooth over it [with his foot]. R. Jeremiah, R. Samuel bar Halafta in the name of R. Ada b. Ahavah, “One who prays should not spit until he moves four cubits [from the place in which he prays.]” Said R. Yose b. R. Abun, “Likewise one who spits should not pray until he moves four cubits [from the place he spit].” (y. Ber. 3.5)38

Here again the rabbis are concerned with showing respect to holy places or while praying. R. Yohanan’s statement forbidding spitting to the front or right recalls sectarian practice. However, whereas the rabbis banned spitting while praying, the Essenes refrained from spitting to the front and right in their assemblies. This seems to be an example of the sect universalizing a practice that otherwise was observed in a restricted or limited manner, prompting Josephus’s remark. Whereas spitting on the Temple Mount may have been forbidden or at least frowned upon, there seems to have been no general prohibition against spitting in unconverted gentiles by attributing to them an ability to defile Israelites by means of their spittle and urine.” 37 Gedaliah Alon (Jews, Judaism and the Classical World: Studies in Jewish History in the Times of the Second Temple and Talmud [trans. Israel Abrahams; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1977], 152) says that this is because according to the Palestinian Talmud the fuller of the Gentiles was in the Upper Market. 38 Quotation with comments from Tzvee Zahavy, trans., The Talmud of the Land of Israel: A Preliminary Translation and Explanation, vol. 1, Berakhot (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), 142–43 (VI.Q–Y).

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public. According to Mark (14:65), those present at Jesus’ trial spat on him: “Some began to spit on him. . . .” In fact, biblical law (Deut 25:5–10) requires a childless widow to spit in her brother-in-law’s face if he refuses to marry her (the halitzah ceremony). The Romans used saliva for protection against the evil eye, as Pliny describes: I have however pointed out that the best of all safeguards against serpents is the saliva of a fasting human being, but our daily experience may teach us yet other values of its use. We spit on epileptics in a fit, that is, we throw back infection. In a similar way we ward off witchcraft and the bad luck that follows meeting a person lame in the right leg. We also ask for forgiveness of the gods for a too presumptuous hope by spitting into our bosom; the same reason again accounts for the custom, in using any remedy, of spitting on the ground three times by way of ritual, thus increasing its efficacy, and of marking early incipient boils three times with fasting saliva. (Nat. 38.7.36 [Jones, LCL])

Similarly, Jesus reportedly used saliva in his miraculous healings: He took him aside in private, away from the crowd, and put his fingers into his ears, and he spat and touched his tongue. (Mark 7:31) He took the blind man by the hand and led him out of the village; and when he had put saliva on his eyes and laid his hands on him, he asked him, “Can you see anything?” (Mark 8:23)39

Thus, the spit of certain people such as the zāb and the Gentile was considered impure and presumably was avoided by Jews who were scrupulous in the observance of purity. The Essenes extended the prohibition against spitting in the Jerusalem temple to their assemblies, presumably because they conceived of their community as a substitute temple.40

Communal Meals Josephus provides a lengthy description of the communal meals of the Essenes: . . . they assemble in one place and, after girding their loins with linen cloths, bathe their bodies in cold water. After this purification they assemble in a private apartment which none of the uninitiated is permitted to enter; pure now themselves, they repair to the refectory, as to some sacred shrine. When they have taken their seats [καθισάντων] in silence, the baker serves out the loaves to them in order, and the cook sets before each one dish. Before the meal the priest says grace, and none may partake until after the prayer. When breakfast is ended, he pronounces a further grace; thus at the beginning and at the close they do hom39 See John 9:1–12; Suetonius, Vesp. 7.2–3; Galen, On the Natural Faculties, 3.7.163; John M. Hull, Hellenistic Magic and the Synoptic Tradition (SBT n.s. 28; Naperville, IL: Allenson, 1974), 76–78. 40 Mason (Flavius Josephus: Translation and Commentary, 117–18) suggests that Josephus refers to the middles of bodies, thus equivalent to κόλπος, rather than to the middle of the group, and that the Essenes rejected the common practice of spitting for good luck or to ward off disease.

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Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 2 (2010) age to God as the bountiful giver of life. Then laying aside their raiment, as holy vestments, they betake themselves to their labors until evening. On their return they dine in the like manner, and any guests who may have arrived sit down with them. No shouting or disturbance ever defiles their dwelling; they allow each other to speak in turn. To those outside, this silence of the men inside seems a great mystery; but the cause of it is their invariable sobriety and the fact that their food and drink are so measured out that they are satisfied and have no need for more. (War 2.129–33 [Thackeray, LCL])

This passage contains a number of points that correspond to information from the scrolls and to archaeological evidence from Qumran, of which we cite only a few. According to Josephus, only full members are allowed to participate in the communal meals. Josephus repeats this point elsewhere: “And before he is allowed to touch their common food, he is obliged to take tremendous oaths” (War 2.139). Various sectarian scrolls indicate that only full members were allowed access to the pure food and drink of the sect:41 And when he draws near to the council of the community he shall not come in contact with the pure food of the community . . . until he completes one full year. . . . Let him not come into contact with the liquid food of the community until he completes a second year. . . . (1QS 6.16–21) He should not go into the waters to share in the pure food of the men of holiness, for one is not cleansed unless one turns away from one’s wickedness, for he is unclean among all the transgressors of his word. (1QS 5.13–14) And furthermore concerning the lepers, we s[ay that they shall not c]ome (into contact) with the sacred pure food. . . . (4QMMT B64–65)

Of course, other Jewish groups such as the Pharisees required purification before meals, but they do not seem to have excluded nonmembers from their table fellowship.42 In contrast, the Qumran sect regarded all outsiders as inherently impure and therefore excluded them from their communal meals. Josephus tells us that the Essenes purify themselves by immersion in a pool before entering the dining room. Like the other sectarian practices, this was done in imitation of the high priests in the Jerusalem temple, who purified themselves through immersion before offering sacrifices. In fact, Josephus explicitly compares the communal dining room to a temple. Josephus’s description is supported by the fact that some of the largest miqva 'ot at Qumran are located by the entrances to the 41

See Magness, Debating Qumran, 89; Joseph M. Baumgarten, Studies in Qumran Law (SJLA 24; Leiden: Brill, 1977), 45–46, 48. Hannah K. Harrington (“Holiness and Law in the Dead Sea Scrolls,” DSD 8 [2001]: 126) observes, “Although the Torah requires only holy food to be eaten in a state of purity (Lev 7:19–20), the sectarians require even hopelessly impure persons to wash before eating their profane food (4Q274).” 42 See Aharon Shemesh, “The Origins of the Laws of Separatism: Qumran Literature and Rabbinic Halacha,” RevQ 18 (1997): 232–33.

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communal dining rooms: L56–58 by L77, and the pair of miqva 'ot in L117 and L118 by the dining room above L111, L120, L121, L122, and L123.43 Josephus remarks on the fact that the Essenes dine in silence owing to their sobriety. In contrast, at Greek and Roman symposia the large quantities of wine consumed led to boisterous noise and talking. Like priests serving in the Jerusalem temple, the Qumran sectarians drank new wine (#wryt) in measured amounts that were not intoxicating.44 The Rule of the Congregation refers to new wine at the messianic banquet: And when they gather [at the tab]le of the community [dxy] [or to drink the n]ew wine, and the table of the community is prepared [and the] new wine [is mixed] for drinking, [no one should stretch out] his hand to the first-fruit of the bread and of [the new wine] before the priest . . . (1QSa 2.17–19)

In contrast, according to Philo, the Therapeutae—a contemporary ascetic Jewish sect in Egypt—refrained from consuming wine altogether at their communal meals, instead drinking only water (Contempl. Life 73). Josephus notes also that at communal meals the Essenes speak in turn, recalling sectarian legislation, which strictly regulates the manner and order in which members may speak and penalizes those who speak loudly, foolishly, or out of turn: [In a session of the community] No-one should talk during the speech of his fellow before his brother has finished speaking. And neither should he speak before one whose rank is listed before his own. Whoever is questioned should speak in turn. And in the session of the community no one should utter anything without the consent of the community . . . (1QS 6.10–11; also see 7.9)

Josephus observes that diners are served their food in order (ἐν τάξει), according to rank. Elsewhere he describes the Essenes as being divided by rank according to the duration of their training (War 2.150). Philo mentions that the Essenes sit in “synagogues” in order of rank (Good Person 12.82). Numerous scrolls document the Qumran sect’s concern with hierarchy. The Community Rule mandates a seating order for communal meals: They shall eat together, together they shall bless and together they shall take counsel. In every place where there are ten men of the Community council, there should not be missing among them a priest. And every one shall sit according to his rank before him, and in this way shall they be asked for their counsel in every matter. (1QS 6.2–4)

The Rule of the Congregation describes the seating order at the messianic banquet more explicitly, beginning with the messiah and priests and followed by the rest of Israel, each according to his rank (wdwbk) (1QSa 2.11-22). 43

See Magness, Debating Qumran, 108. For the identification of the stepped pools at Qumran as miqva 'ot, see Magness, Archaeology of Qumran, 134–62. 44 See Magness, Debating Qumran, 89.

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Josephus notes that each Essene is served an individual dish with his portion of food. As Todd Beall observes, “Josephus stresses the order, frugality, (one plate of one kind of food given to each) and equality of treatment (each receiving the same portion) in the Essene community with respect to the meal.”45 At communal meals in the Roman world diners typically shared food out of common dishes, as, for example, in Mark’s description of Jesus’ last supper: “He [Jesus] said to them, ‘It is one of the twelve [who will betray me], one who is dipping bread into the bowl with me” (Mark 14:20). The rabbis (and presumably Pharisees) also seem to have shared food out of common dishes: Two wait for another [to begin eating] with regard to [partaking of food from] a single plate. Three do not wait. (t. Ber. 5:7)

The sectarian practice of dining from individual dishes accounts for the discovery of hundreds of small plates, cups, and bowls in pantries attached to the communal dining rooms at Qumran (L86 and L114).46 Although Josephus presents this practice as an ascetic ideal, it surely stemmed from the sectarian concern that impurity could be spread by sharing food and drink.47 For this reason, access to the pure food and drink of the sect was restricted to members who had passed through the required stages of initiation. Although Josephus singles out for description the sectarian custom of eating out of individual dishes (“the cook serves only one bowlful of one dish to each man”), this custom seems to have been widespread in the first century b.c.e., judging from the large numbers of plates, saucers, and bowls found at sites around the country.48 Andrea Berlin describes as follows the evidence from Gamla: “Each person had a small plain buff fabric bowl for his own portion.”49 However, whereas 45

Beall, Josephus’ Description of the Essenes, 59. See Magness, Debating Qumran, 99–106; Pfann, “Table,” 162–64. 47 See Joseph M. Baumgarten, “Liquids and Susceptibility to Defilement in New 4Q Texts,” JQR 85 (1994): 91. 48 These are the same types of dishes found by the hundreds in miqva'ot in Jericho and Jerusalem, and in the pantries at Qumran (L86 and L114). For the pottery from the pantries at Qumran, see Magness, Debating Qumran, 99–106; the assemblage from L86 dates to 31 b.c.e., and the assemblage from L114 dates to ca. 9/8 b.c.e. For Jericho, see Rachel Bar-Nathan, “Qumran and the Hasmonean and Herodian Winter Palaces of Jericho: The Implication of the Pottery Finds on the Interpretation of the Settlement at Qumran,” in Galor et al., Qumran, the Site, 266– 72; eadem, Hasmonean and Herodian Palaces at Jericho: Final Reports of the 1973–1987 Excavations, vol. 3, The Pottery (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2002), 86, 198; Ehud Netzer, Hasmonean and Herodian Palaces at Jericho, vol. 1, Stratigraphy and Architecture (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2001), 42–44. For Jerusalem, see Ronny Reich, “Area A—Stratigraphy and Architecture: Hellenistic to Medieval Strata 6-1,” in Jewish Quarter Excavations in the Old City of Jerusalem Conducted by Nahman Avigad, 1969–1982, vol. 1, Architecture and Stratigraphy: Areas A, W and X-2, Final Report (ed. Hillel Geva; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2000), 89–90; Nahman Avigad, Discovering Jerusalem (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1983), 74–75. 49 Berlin, Gamla I: The Pottery of the Second Temple Period (IAA Reports 29; Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority, 2006), 144. 46

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this practice seems to have been abandoned by the rest of the Jewish population by the first century c.e., members of the Qumran community continued to dine on individual dishes, apparently prompting Josephus’s observation.50 Josephus says that food and drink are measured out so that all diners receive the same portion. This observation is borne out by the hundreds of small plates, cups, and bowls of equal size in the pantries at Qumran. As Catherine Murphy notes: The equal rations correspond to the emphasis in the constitutional rules on equality in terms of wealth; ranks are preserved in the community, but there are no distinctions based on wealth, such as those who produce more eat more. Rather, the only people who eat less are not the poorer members, but those members who have lied about property. The penalty of a diminished food ration would only be visible in the community if equal portions were the norm.51

Sabbath Observance Josephus says that the Essenes observe the Sabbath so strictly that they prepare all food in advance and do not move any vessels: Moreover, they are stricter than any other of the Jews in resting from their labors on the seventh day; for they not only get their food ready the day before, that they may not be obliged to kindle a fire on that day, but they will not remove any vessel out of its place. (War 2.147 [Thackeray, LCL])

It was widely known in the Roman world that Jews did not cook or light fires on the Sabbath.52 Here Josephus points out that not only did the Essenes refrain from cooking on the Sabbath (like other Jews), but they prepared all of their food in advance.53 The Damascus Document bans the consumption of any food on the Sabbath that has not been prepared in advance: “No one is to eat on the Sabbath day except what has been prepared” (CD 10:22). The Damascus Document also prohibits moving vessels on the Sabbath: “No one should remove anything from the house to outside, or from outside to the house. Even if he is in a hut [hkws], he should remove nothing from it nor bring anything into it” (CD 11.7–9). Whereas the Qumran sect strictly prohibited moving any vessels at all on the Sabbath, the rabbis distinguished between the acts of lifting an object (hryq() and placing it elsewhere (hxnh), prohibiting only the combination of the two on the Sabbath.54 The book of Jubilees, which is well repre50

Berlin (Gamla I, 150–54) notes the change in dining habits at Gamla. Murphy, Wealth in the Dead Sea Scrolls and in the Qumran Community (STDJ 40; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 432–33. 52 See Robert Goldenberg, “The Jewish Sabbath in the Roman World up to the Time of Constantine the Great,” ANRW II.19.1 (1979): 429: “Jews all over the Roman world behaved on the Sabbath in a distinctive way, and this distinctive behavior was visible to their non-Jewish neighbors.” 53 Lawrence Schiffman, The Halakhah at Qumran (SJLA 16; Leiden: Brill, 1975), 99. 54 Joseph M. Baumgarten, “The Laws of the Damascus Document—Between Bible and 51

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sented at Qumran, contains the same prohibition and threatens violators with death: . . . and that they should not prepare thereon anything to be eaten or drunk, and (that it is not lawful) to draw water, or bring in or take out thereon through their gates any burden, which they had not prepared for themselves on the sixth day in their dwellings. And they shall not bring in nor take out from house to house on that day. (Jub. 2:29-30) And whoever lifts up anything that he will carry to take out of his tent or from his house, let him die. (Jub. 50:8; see also 2:29–30)55

Josephus’s statement that the Essenes “will not remove any vessel out of its place” (μετακίνησαι) on the Sabbath seems to correspond to the sectarian prohibition against moving a vessel even without carrying it outside.56

Toilets and Toilet Habits According to Josephus, the Essenes refrain from defecating on the Sabbath, and on other days relieve themselves by digging a pit with the hatchet given to initiates: (On the Sabbath they do not) even go to stool. On other days they dig a trench a foot deep with a mattock [σκαλίδι]—such is the nature of the hatchet which they present to neophytes—and wrapping their mantle about them, that they may not offend the rays of the deity, sit above it. They then replace the excavated soil in the trench. For this purpose they select the more retired spots. And though this discharge of the excrements is a natural function, they make it a rule to wash themselves after it, as if defiled. (War 2.148–49 [Thackeray, LCL])

Elsewhere he mentions the hatchet again: But now if any one has a mind to come over to their sect, he is not immediately admitted, but he is prescribed the same method of living which they use for a year, while he continues excluded; and they give him also a small hatchet, and the fore-mentioned girdle, and the white garment. (War 2.137 [adapted from Thackeray, LCL]) Mishnah,” in The Damascus Document: A Centennial of Discovery: Proceedings of the Third International Symposium of the Orion Center for the Study of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Associated Literature, 4–8 February, 1998 (ed. Joseph M. Baumgarten et al.; STDJ 34; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 22; Joseph M. Baumgarten et al., Qumran Cave 4.XXV: Halakhic Texts (DJD 35; Oxford: Clarendon, 1999), 77. 55 Translation from R. H. Charles, APOT 2:138. Lutz Doering (“New Aspects of Qumran Sabbath Law from Cave 4 Fragments,” in Legal Texts and Legal Issues: Proceedings of the Second Meeting of the International Organization for Qumran Studies, Cambridge, 1995: Published in Honour of Joseph M. Baumgarten [ed. Moshe Bernstein et al.; STDJ 23; Leiden: Brill, 1997], 260–61) notes that the sectarian legislation is very close to that of Jubilees. 56 Baumgarten, “Laws of the Damascus Document,” 22; idem, DJD 18, 77.

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The War Scroll (1QM 7.6–7) and the Temple Scroll mandate the placement of toilets outside the war camp and the ideal city of Jerusalem, respectively. These scrolls use the biblical term “hand” (dy) or “place for a hand” (dy Mwqm) to denote toilets (see Deut 23:9–14).57 The relevant passage in the Temple Scroll reads: And you shall make them a place for a hand outside the city, to which they shall go out, to the northwest of the city—roofed houses with pits within them into which the excrement will descend, so that it will not be visible at any distance from the city, three thousand cubits. (11QT 46.13–16)

As Yigael Yadin noted, the location of the toilets in the War Scroll and the Temple Scroll placed them beyond the Sabbath limits, corresponding to Josephus’s description of the Essenes as refraining from defecating on the Sabbath.58 The toilets in the Temple Scroll—“roofed houses with pits within them into which the excrement will descend”—are permanent, built facilities with a cesspit dug into the floor, like the toilet that Roland de Vaux found in L51 at Qumran.59 In contrast, Josephus describes how the sectarians relieved themselves when they had no access to built toilet facilities. That the toilet practices described in these sources are complementary rather than contradictory is indicated by the relevant passage in Deuteronomy: “With your utensils you shall have a trowel [dty]; when you relieve yourself outside, you shall dig a hole with it and then cover up your excrement” (Deut 23:13). This biblical passage mandates using a tool to dig a pit for one-time use when an individual is outside the camp and therefore does not have access to permanent toilet facilities. All of these sources and the toilet in L51 at Qumran reflect two peculiarly sectarian concerns: (1) that excrement be buried in a pit (either cesspits inside built toilet facilities or pits dug into the ground for one-time use in a secluded or remote spot), and (2) that defecation be done in private, either in a permanent, roofed, enclosed facility or by finding a secluded spot and wrapping a mantle around oneself. In contrast, toilet privacy was not a concern in the Roman world.60 The sectarian concern that excrement be concealed in a pit was based on their under-

57 Yigael Yadin, The Temple Scroll (3 vols. in 4; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1977– 83), 1:294–95, 2:199. In Qumranic Hebrew the term “hand” (dy) means “penis”; see Elisha Qimron and James H. Charlesworth, “Rule of the Community,” in The Dead Sea Scrolls: Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek Texts with English Translations, vol. 1, The Rule of the Community and Related Documents (ed. James H. Charlesworth; Princeton Theological Seminary Dead Sea Scrolls Project 1; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck: Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1994), 33 n. 185. 58 Yadin, Temple Scroll, 1:298. For the Qumran sectarians the Sabbath limit was one thousand cubits for walking and two thousand cubits for pasturing cattle (CD 10.21; 11.5–6), double the rabbinic and probably Pharisaic limits. 59 See Humbert and Chambon, Fouilles de Khirbet Qumrân, 309; photos 148–51. 60 See Alex Scobie, “Slums, Sanitation, and Mortality in the Roman World,” Klio 68 (1986): 429; John Bodel, “Graveyards and Groves: A Study of the Lex Lucerina,” American Journal of Ancient History 11 (1994): 33; Magness, Debating Qumran, 67.

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standing of Deut 23:13 and their observance of the biblical laws that applied to the desert camp.

Oil and Bathing According to Josephus, the Essenes consider oil to be defiling and do not allow themselves to be anointed without their consent: They think that oil is a defilement [κηλίς, “stain”]; and if any one of them be anointed without his own approbation, it is wiped off his body; for they think to be unwashed is a good thing. (War 2.123 [Thackeray, LCL])

In contrast to the rabbis, the Qumran sect believed that stone and unfired clay vessels (like wood) can become impure if they come to contact with oil and that oil stains on these materials can transmit impurity: And all the [vessels of] wood and the stones and the dust which are defiled by man’s impurity, while with stains of oil in them, in accordance with their uncleanness will make whoever touches them impure. (CD 12.15–17)61 And the day on which they remove the dead person from it, they shall cleanse the house of every stain of oil, and wine, and dampness. (11QT 49.11)

Josephus’s observation that the Essenes consider oil defiling therefore seems to be accurate. Josephus adds that the Essenes forbid others to anoint them without their approval, but he does not say that they avoid oil altogether. Yadin noted that, although the Essenes refrained from oiling their bodies on an everyday basis, anointing with new oil was part of the ritual of the feast of the First Fruits of Oil.62 The Essenes’ attitude must be due to purity concerns, despite the fact that Josephus attributes it to a preference for being unwashed.63 Josephus apparently made this observation in order to present the sectarians’ lifestyle as an ascetic ideal to his Roman audience. Similarly, Hegesippus reports that James the Just (brother of Jesus) abstained from using oil, linking it with James’s refusal to bathe: “he did not anoint himself with oil, and he did not use the bath” (apud Eusebius, Hist. eccl. 2.23).64 This could indicate that James had purity concerns similar to those of the Essenes, or it might reflect his ascetic lifestyle (or both). Whatever his motives, Josephus’s characterization of the Essenes as unwashed is supported by other evidence. In the ancient Mediterranean world, oil was used for washing, as illustrated, 61

See Hanan Eshel, “CD 12: 15–17 and the Stone Vessels Found at Qumran,” in Baumgarten et al., Damascus Document, 45–52. 62 Yadin, Temple Scroll, 1:113–14, 142 (11QT 23.15). Eshel (“CD 12:15–17,” 50) suggests that the sectarians considered oil more susceptible to defilement than other liquids. 63 See Baumgarten, “Liquids and Susceptibility,” 96–100; Eshel, “CD 12: 15-17,” 45–52. 64 Translation from Roy J. Deferrari, trans., Eusebius Pamphili, Ecclesiastical History, Books 1–5 (FC 19; Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1953), 126.

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for example, by a passage in the deuterocanonical appendix to the book of Daniel on Susanna: “She said to her maids, ‘Bring me olive oil and ointments, and shut the garden doors so that I can bathe’” (Sus 1:17). That this was an ancient custom is illustrated by the book of Ruth, where Naomi instructs Ruth, “Now wash and anoint yourself, and put on your best clothes” (3:3). The Oxyrhynchus papyrus fragment 840 (a third-century c.e. papyrus from Egypt), which presents a debate between a “Pharisee” priest named Levi and Jesus, also connects “anointing” with bathing: “and you have cleansed and wiped the outside skin which the prostitutes and flutegirls anoint, which they wash, and wipe, and make beautiful for human desire” (2.8).65 The Babylonian Talmud describes the use of oil in connection with bathing, specifically in hot water: “If one bathes in hot water and does not have a cold shower bath, he is like iron put into fire but not into cold water. If one bathes without anointing, he is like water [poured] over a barrel” (b. Šabb. 41a). The Gospels mention the use of perfumed oil in connection with the washing of feet: And a woman in the city, who was a sinner, having learned that he [Jesus] was eating in the Pharisee’s house, brought an alabaster jar of ointment [μύρου]. She stood behind him at his feet, weeping, and began to bathe his feet with her tears and to dry them with her hair. Then she continued kissing his feet and anointing them with the ointment. (Luke 7:37–38) Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard [μύρου νάρδου], anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. (John 12:3)

These sources describe two different practices: the use of oil in bathing, and the washing and anointing of feet with oil. Whereas oil was used throughout the Roman world for bathing, some scholars have suggested that washing and anointing the feet with perfumed oil was an eastern and perhaps specifically Jewish custom associated with the offering of hospitality and respect. Petronius’s Satyricon (a satire of the Roman nouveau riche) might allude to this oriental practice: I am really ashamed to tell you what followed: in defiance of all convention, some long-haired slave boys brought in an unguent in a silver basin, and anointed our feet with it as we lay at table, after winding little garlands round our feet and ankles. Afterwards a small quantity of the same perfume was poured into the wine-jars and the lamps. (70.8 [Warmington, LCL])66

Rabbinic literature describes a peculiar ritual involving oil: Our Rabbis taught: If oil and wine are brought before one, Beth Shammai say that he first takes the oil in his right hand and the wine in his left hand and says 65 Adapted from Wilhelm Schneemelcher, ed., New Testament Apocrypha, vol. 1, Gospel and Related Writings (rev. ed.; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2003), 95. 66 See W. M. Clarke, “Jewish Table Manners in the Cena Trimalchionis,” CJ 87 (1992): 262.

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Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 2 (2010) a blessing over the oil and then a blessing over the wine. Beth Hillel, however, say that he takes the wine in his right hand and the oil in his left, and says the blessing over the wine and then over the oil. [Before going out] he smears it on the head of the attendant; and if the attendant is a man of learning, he smears it on the wall, since it is unbecoming for a scholar to go abroad scented. (b. Ber. 43b)67

That this custom was practiced even among Jews outside Palestine is indicated by a passage in Petronius’s Satyricon in which Trimalchio dries his hands on the head of a slave: “After easing his bladder, he called for water, and having dipped his hands momentarily in the bowl, dried them on one of the lads’ hair” (27.6).68 These sources suggest that anointing the head as well as the feet with oil was a widespread Jewish custom. In Luke 7:46, Jesus reportedly criticizes Simon the Pharisee for not offering a guest the usual hospitality: “You did not anoint my head with oil, but she has anointed my feet with ointment.” The Essenes apparently differed from other Jews in refusing the anointing with oil that was a common gesture of hospitality and respect, owing to purity concerns. This explains Josephus’s observation that they forbade others to anoint them without their consent. Furthermore, archaeological evidence from Qumran suggests that the sectarians did not bathe in the Roman manner, which supports Josephus’s statement that the Essenes prefer to remain unwashed. There are no above-ground bath tubs or bath houses at Qumran nor any heated pools or bathing facilities. In contrast, the Hasmonean and Herodian palaces at Jericho and around the Dead Sea were equipped with bathing facilities, as were the mansions in Jerusalem’s Jewish Quarter.69 In describing immersion before the communal meal (War 2.129), Josephus mentions that the Essenes “bathe (wash) their bodies in cold water [ψυχροῖς ὕδασιν].” Furthermore, the hundreds of pottery vessels published by de Vaux from Qumran include only three (piriform) unguentaria from the settlement and none from the caves.70 Unguentaria are small bottles for perfumed oil; fusiform unguentaria were the dominant type until Herod’s reign, when they were replaced by piriform unguentaria.71 The fact that only three unguentaria are published from Qumran is admittedly an argument from silence, as there is still no final report on the pottery or glass. Nonetheless, a comparison with other Judean sites is instructive. There are three ceramic unguentaria published from Ein Feshkha and five from Ein el67

Translation from Maurice Simon, Berakoth: Translated into English with Notes, Glossary and Indices, in The Babylonian Talmud, ed. I. Epstein (London: Soncino, 1948), 265–66. 68 See Clarke, “Jewish Table Manners,” 257–58. 69 See Magness, Debating Qumran, 27. 70 See the preliminary reports by R. de Vaux: “Fouille au Khirbet Qumrân: Rapport préliminaire,” RB 60 (1953): 99, fig. 3:10; “Fouilles au Khirbet Qumrân: Rapport préliminaire sur la deuxième campagne,” RB 61 (1954): 223, fig. 4:4; “Fouilles au Khirbet Qumrân: Rapport préliminaire sur les 3e, 4e, et 5e campagnes,” RB 63 (1956): 561, fig. 5:10. 71 See Bar-Nathan, Hasmonean and Herodian Palaces, 57.

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Ghuweir (all piriform), but both sites have smaller ceramic assemblages than Qumran and were occupied for shorter periods.72 Dozens of ceramic unguentaria were found at Masada, many of them in contexts dating to the First Revolt, including a local variant that is unattested at Qumran (“the Judean kohl bottle”).73 Rachel BarNathan published over twenty examples of fusiform and piriform unguentaria from the Hasmonean and Herodian palaces at Jericho, as well as Judean kohl bottles and ceramic alabastra.74 Fusiform and piriform unguentaria are well represented in Jerusalem’s Jewish Quarter, and there are a few examples of Judean kohl bottles and ceramic alabastra.75 No ceramic unguentaria are published from the Second Temple period village at Ein Gedi (which is interesting considering its importance as a center for the cultivation of opobalsam), although there are a few examples of glass unguentaria (“candlestick bottles”).76 However, fusiform and piriform unguentaria are well represented in the Hasmonean and Herodian period burial caves at Ein Gedi, and there is even one specimen made of alabaster.77 The rarity of unguentaria at Qumran suggests a limited use of oil for washing or anointing, whereas the absence of bathing facilities indicates that the community did not bathe in the Roman manner. This evidence supports Josephus’s observation about the Essenes with regard to washing and the use of oil. Berlin notes that in the first century c.e. at Gamla, perfume and oil containers comprised 8.5 percent of every household’s pottery, compared with only 0.1 percent in the first century b.c.e.78 She attributes this phenomenon to Roman influence on the Jewish villagers. Berlin’s observation about changes in Jewish customs or practices in the first century b.c.e. and first century c.e. is important. Writing in the first century c.e., Josephus must 72

See Roland de Vaux, “Fouilles de Feshkha,” RB 66 (1959): 241, fig. 2:1, 2, 4; P. Bar-Adon, “Another Settlement of the Judean Desert Sect at vEn el-Ghuweir on the Shores of the Dead Sea,” BASOR 227 (1977): 11, fig. 12:7–12; Magness, Debating Qumran, 49–61. 73 See Rachel Bar-Nathan, Masada VII: The Yigael Yadin Excavations 1963–1965. Final Reports: The Pottery of Masada (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2006), 198–207. 74 See Bar-Nathan, Hasmonean and Herodian Palaces, 57–64, 165–67. 75 See Hillel Geva and Renate Rosenthal-Heginbottom, “Local Pottery from Area A,” in Jewish Quarter Excavations in the Old City of Jerusalem Conducted by Nahman Avigad, 1969–1982, vol. 2, The Finds from Areas A, W and X-2: Final Report (ed. H. Geva; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2003), 185–86; Hillel Geva and Malka Hershkovitz, “Local Pottery of the Hellenistic and Early Roman Periods,” in Jewish Quarter Excavations in the Old City of Jerusalem Conducted by Nahman Avigad, 1969–1982, vol. 3, Area E and Other Studies: Final Report (ed. Hillel Geva; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2006), 104–5, 107–8. 76 See Ruth E. Jackson-Tal, “Glass Vessels from En-Gedi,” in En-Gedi Excavations II: Final Report (1996–2002) (ed. Yizhar Hirschfeld; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 2007), 474–506 (glass bottles). 77 See Gideon Hadas, Nine Tombs of the Second Temple Period at vEn Gedi (vAtiqot 24; Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority, 1994), 10, fig. 15:25; 16, fig. 22:5-6; 22, fig. 32:8-9; 44, fig. 69:2–3. 78 Berlin, Gamla I, 142, 144, 146, 152, 154.

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have been struck by the Essenes’ avoidance of oil, as by this time other Jews had apparently adopted the Roman custom. In this case the Essenes seem to have retained earlier customs or practices, apparently because of purity concerns. These examples show that the Qumran texts closely match Josephus’s accounts of the Essenes. But there is one related problem regarding the diversity of the Qumran corpus that is often ignored by opponents of the Qumran-Essene hypothesis: there is a gap of nearly two hundred years between the time that our earliest extant copy of 1QS was produced (ca. 100–75 b.c.e.) and the time when Josephus wrote his account of the Essenes.79 There are, for example, some parallels between the scrolls and Josephus that are not exact, or statements with no Qumran parallels. The Community Rule and the Damascus Document provide one such example. Whereas Josephus and the former document maintain that property is common to all, the Damascus Document discusses the return of property to its rightful owners.80 Beall comments on these differences: it is quite possible that these documents represent different stages in the community’s development, and this may well account for some of the discrepancies not only between the Qumran documents but also between these documents and Josephus. On the whole it appears that Josephus’ description of the Essenes more closely parallels the Manual of Discipline than the Damascus Document.81

The various redactions of the Community Rule and the Damascus Document—as evident in the Cave 4 recensions of these texts—support Beall’s statement and reveal that the Essenes periodically revised some of their foundational texts to reflect changes in their beliefs and practices.82 It is important to bear in mind that the Qumran settlement existed for over 150 years until its destruction in 68 c.e. Like all religious movements, the Essenes evolved and underwent some changes over the course of time. For example, the Essenes apparently stopped composing new religious texts after the middle of the first century b.c.e., as there are no historical references in the scrolls to events after 31 b.c.e.83 In the first century c.e., the Essenes continued to copy a few of their ancient rule books and selected texts, but they apparently did not produce new compositions. Therefore, not everything that Josephus and Pliny tell us about the Essenes in their day (first century c.e.) necessarily was true in the first century b.c.e. Nevertheless, the numerous and close points of correspondence between 79 The copies of the Community Rule date from between approximately 125 b.c.e. and 50 c.e.; see Alexander and Vermes, DJD 26, 7–12. 80 War 2.122; Ant. 18.20; 1QS 1.11–12; 5.1–2; 6.17–22; CD 9.10–16; 14.12–13. 81 Beall, Josephus’ Description of the Essenes, 127. 82 Perhaps some texts were intended for different purposes or different audiences (e.g. various groups within the parent movement). It is important to note that the Qumran corpus, although reflecting the library of the Essenes, allows for a variety of lifestyles. 83 Hanan Eshel, The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Hasmonean State (Studies in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Related Literature; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), esp. 163–79 (dates of the scrolls); Atkinson, “Representations of History,” 125–51.

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Josephus’s accounts and the Qumran scrolls, especially the Community Rule, show that they relate to the same religious community—the Essenes.

V. Conclusions When we consider that the Community Rule shows that the Qumran texts represent a library spanning over a century that is connected to the site of Khirbet Qumran, and that Josephus’s descriptions of the Essenes match the lifestyle reflected in the scrolls and the archaeological remains, the evidence in support of the traditional Qumran-Essene hypothesis is substantial. Communal dining and living are particularly important in both the Community Rule and to the Essenes as Josephus describes them. Because the Community Rule predates Khirbet Qumran and remained in use during its occupational history, the site presumably was built so that its inhabitants could live according to the rules and regulations of this text. The presence of communal dining rooms and assembly halls with adjacent pantries complements information about communal meals provided by Josephus and the Community Rule.84 The communal dining room and assembly hall in L77 likely was rebuilt and moved upstairs after the earthquake of 31 b.c.e. (perhaps in Period II).85 The northern cluster of animal bones (located in L130, L132, L135) points to the existence of another upstairs dining room located in the secondary building in the western sector (L111, L120, L121, L122, and L123) of Khirbet Qumran.86 This evidence shows that communal meals and assemblies were a feature of Khirbet Qumran during its entire occupational history and correlates with information from the scrolls and Josephus. Moreover, the rebuilding of these dining halls provides strong evidence that Khirbet Qumran not only was inhabited by the same group during all of its main phases (de Vaux’s Periods I and II), but that these buildings retained their same functions; in other words, communal living and dining were key components of the lifestyle at this site for over 150 years. The presence of scroll caves within the boundaries of the settlement indicates that the occupants of Khirbet Qumran and the people who used and deposited the scrolls in the caves were one and the same. The identification of Khirbet Qumran’s occupants as Essenes is made even stronger if we include Pliny’s testimony. Mason, however, rejects the consensus interpretation associating Qumran with the Essene settlement that Pliny situates on the western shore of the Dead Sea. Pliny writes: On the west side of the Dead Sea Sea, but out of range of the noxious exhalations of the coast, is the solitary tribe of the Essenes. . . . Below them was the town of 84

L86 belongs to de Vaux’s Period Ib and was divided into L86–87, and L89 in Period II. Magness, Archaeology of Qumran, 50–62, 105–33; eadem, Debating Qumran, 99–103. 86 Magness, Archaeology of Qumran, 59, 124–26; eadem, Debating Qumran, 103–6. 85

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Because Pliny locates Ein Gedi below the Essenes, some scholars believe that their settlement should be sought in the hills above and to the west of Ein Gedi instead of at Qumran. Pliny’s passage, however, is somewhat confused because he drew on the reports of others and did not have firsthand knowledge of the region. He makes several errors, such as placing Machaerus and Callirhoe south of the Dead Sea instead of to the east of it, and even misplaces the Galilean city of Tarichaea.87 However, these errors do not change the fact that Pliny situates an important Essene settlement on the western shore of the Dead Sea—the very area where both the Dead Sea Scrolls were discovered and where Qumran is located. Despite attempts by some scholars to find another locale, Qumran is the only site along the Dead Sea that accords with Pliny’s and Josephus’s descriptions of the Essenes.88 Over twenty years ago, Todd Beall assembled a comprehensive list of the parallels between Josephus’s description of the Essenes and the Qumran scrolls. His conclusion is even more valid today, with the completed publication of the scrolls and additional archaeological information: “the sheer number of parallels is striking, and puts the burden of proof upon those who would insist that the Qumran community was not Essene.”89 87

See Menahem Stern, Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism (3 vols.; Fontes ad Res Judaicas Spectantes; Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Arts and Sciences, 1974), 1:472–81. 88 Dio Chrysostom (apud Synesius), the only pagan apart from Pliny to comment on the Essenes, might have used the word πόλις to describe the Essene settlement on the Dead Sea because this community had its own laws, a description perhaps taken from earlier sources; see Taylor, “Philo of Alexandria,” 18, 26. For Pliny’s statement in light of ancient understandings of the Dead Sea’s geography, see Taylor, “On Pliny, the Essene Location and Kh.Qumran,” DSD 16 (2009): 1–21. She writes (p. 14) concerning the failure to connect Khirbet Qumran with the Essenes prior to the discovery of the scrolls: “However, Qumran itself lay unidentified as an Essene site—even though it lay right where Essenes were thought to be situated—not because no one thought of this area as an Essene location, but because no one believed that the ruins of Qumran dated to the time of the Essenes.” 89 Beall, Josephus’ Description of the Essenes, 125. Rachel Elior’s suggestion that the Essenes never existed (Memory and Oblivion: The Secret of the Dead Sea Scrolls [in Hebrew; Jerusalem: Van Leer Institute; Tel Aviv: Hakibutz haMeuchad, 2009]) was published after this article was submitted for consideration to the JBL. Nevertheless, the same arguments made in this article in support of the identification of the Qumran sect with Josephus’s Essenes apply equally to Elior’s claim.

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Instability in Jesus’ Galilee: A Demographic Perspective jonathan l. reed [email protected] University of La Verne, La Verne, CA 91750

There can be no doubt that Galilee, once mere background to historical Jesus research, has moved to the foreground. What was going on in Galilee during the reign of Herod Antipas has become a central question in discovering who Jesus was. But how can this be determined? Literary sources are notoriously unreliable, archaeological excavations are spotty, and theoretical models are often forced onto anecdotal literary or archaeological evidence. A key question in historical Jesus research has been the socioeconomic impact of Antipas’s urbanization of Galilee when he rebuilt Sepphoris and founded Tiberias, in particular the extent and nature of subsequent urban–rural relations.1 In spite of extensive scholarship on these subjects for over a decade, the Galilean debate has moved toward a consensus on Antipas’s urbanization only with regard to religion and culture: Galilee was largely Jewish; Antipas added only a Greco-Roman urban veneer to the cities; and extensive Roman-style urbanization did not occur until after the Bar Kokhba Revolt.2 But no such consensus has

The University of La Verne provided support for this project, and I thank Christine Broussard, along with Joe Zias and Yossi Nagar and the anonymous reviewers, for their assistance and comments. 1 See the seminal article by Douglas R. Edwards, “First Century Urban/Rural Relations in Lower Galilee: Exploring the Archaeological and Literary Evidence,” in SBL 1988 Seminar Papers (SBLSP 27; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1988), 169–82. 2 Eric M. Meyers, “Jesus in His Galilean Context,” in Archaeology and the Galilee: Texts and Contexts in the Graeco-Roman and Byzantine Periods (ed. Douglas R. Edwards and C. Thomas McCullough; South Florida Studies in the History of Judaism; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997), 57– 66; Jonathan L. Reed, Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus: A Re-Examination of the Evidence (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2000), 93–96; Sean Freyne, “Galileans, Phoenicians and Itureans: A Study of Regional Contrasts in the Hellenistic Age,” in Hellenism in the Land of Israel

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emerged on socioeconomics and rural–urban relations. Indeed, the array of positions, which are based in large part on whether urbanization is viewed as exploitation or opportunity, is striking. The discussion is stuck in a rut. On one end of the spectrum, Richard A. Horsley, David A. Fiensey, and Douglas E. Oakman take negative views of Antipas’s urbanization and suggest that it exacerbated the plight of the peasants and divided town and country, so that the latter viewed the former with animosity.3 I argue that Antipas’s urbanization created a strain on agricultural practices in rural Galilee so that—regardless of whether their lives improved or worsened in any absolute sense—the cities were viewed with suspicion.4 Most recently, Morten Hørning Jensen has weighed in by describing Antipas’s rule and his cities as having a negligible impact on Galilean socioeconomics.5 On the other end of the spectrum, Douglas R. Edwards and James F. Strange characterize Galilee’s urbanization as part of a vibrant economy that fostered reciprocal relationships between urban and rural areas from which villagers also benefited.6 Oddly, it is not that each position emphasizes a particular aspect of the archaeological record, but that the very same evidence is interpreted in opposite ways!7 (ed. John J. Collins and Gregory E. Sterling; Christianity and Judaism in Antiquity 13; Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2001), 184–217; Mark A. Chancey, Greco-Roman Culture and the Galilee of Jesus (SNTSMS 134; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005). 3 Horsley, Galilee: History, Politics, People (Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International, 1995); Fiensy, The Social History of Palestine in the Herodian Period: The Land Is Mine (Studies in the Bible and Early Christianity 20; Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 1991); Oakman, Jesus and the Economic Questions of His Day (Studies in the Bible and Early Christianity 8; Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 1986). 4 Reed, Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus, 170–96; similarly Sean Freyne, “Herodian Economics in Galilee: Searching for a Suitable Model,” in Modeling Early Christianity: SocialScientific Studies of the New Testament in Its Context (ed. Philip F. Esler; London: Routledge, 1995), 23–46. 5 Jensen, Herod Antipas in Galilee: The Literary and Archaeological Sources on the Reign of Herod Antipas and Its Socio-economic Impact on Galilee (WUNT 2/215: Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006). 6 Edwards, “Identity and Social Location in Roman Galilean Villages,” in Religion, Ethnicity, and Identity in Ancient Galilee: A Region in Transition (ed. Jürgen Zangenberg, Harold W. Attridge, and Dale B. Martin; WUNT 210; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 373; Strange “FirstCentury Galilee from Archaeology and from the Texts,” SBL 1994 Seminar Papers (SBLSP 33; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1994), 84. 7 The Kefar Hananya pottery in Galilee comes to mind: does its distribution imply opportunity or exploitation, a market or political economy? Compare, e.g., Edwards, “Identity and Social Location,” 362–68, with John Dominic Crossan, The Birth of Christianity (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1998), 223–30. Differences are often a function of superficial caricatures of Moses I. Finley’s “primitivist” economy; see Richard Saller, “Framing the Debate over Growth in the Ancient Economy,” in The Ancient Economy (ed. Walter Scheidel and Sitta von Reden; Edinburgh Readings on the Ancient World; New York: Routledge, 2002), 251–69.

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Is there a way out of this rut? In this article, I intend to evade the tireless debate over models, to move beyond the disputed archaeological finds, and to reframe the question in terms of social stability by drawing on the hitherto neglected field of historical demography.8 In particular, the tightly interrelated aspects of fertility, mortality, and morbidity will be examined with an eye toward assessing internal migration. To anticipate the conclusions at the outset, life in first-century Galilee— though not necessarily dissimilar to other parts of the Mediterranean—was substantially different from the modern world and cannot be characterized as stable. Chronic and seasonal disease, especially malaria, cut down significant segments of the population and left even the healthy quite often ill. The age structure was youthful, women bore many children, random death made family and household patterns ephemeral, young men were often mobile, and elderly women especially vulnerable. Survival depended on extended family networks, especially for the most vulnerable: old women and young children. The ancient Mediterranean was, in Walter Scheidel’s words, a place “of frequent pregnancy and sudden death,” with several factors in Antipas’s Galilee also fueling considerable internal migration.9 Galilee was not demographically stable. I will conclude with some implications of that instability for socioeconomics and rural–urban relations under Antipas, and will suggest a few avenues worth pursuing with regard to the historical Jesus.

I. Methods and Models The study of ancient demography has recently made significant strides, and a consensus has been reached on many issues, albeit more in terms of distinguishing the ancient Mediterranean from the modern world than in nuancing differences among regions within the Roman Empire.10 Given the ancient evidence’s fragmentary nature and dispersal over vast geographical areas, the crucial factor in this enterprise has been the use of Model Life Tables. These are statistical charts based on reliable census data from premodern periods, which are akin to actuarial tables in that they algorithmically calculate fertility and mortality rates for stable populations. They are a standard tool of modern demographers and are used to analyze 8 Noted forcefully by Glen W. Bowersock, “Beloch and the Birth of Demography,” TAPA 127 (1997): 373–79; for an overview, see Walter Scheidel, “Problems and Progress in Roman Demography,” in Debating Roman Demography (ed. Walter Scheidel; Mnemosyne 211; Leiden: Brill, 2001), 1–81. 9 Scheidel, “Population and Demography,” Version 040604, Princeton/Stanford Working Papers in Classics. Online: http://www.princeton.edu/~pswpc. 10 See the pioneering work of Keith Hopkins, “On the Probable Age Structure of the Roman Population,” Population Studies 20 (1966): 245–64; and idem, Conquerors and Slaves (Sociological Studies in Roman History 1; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978).

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the age structure of populations in developing countries.11 Demographers distinguish four population types, each with similar life expectancies and age distributions, namely, the so-called Model Life Table North (taken from nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century censuses in Nordic countries), South (from southern European countries where malaria was endemic), East (from central European counties), and West, which is thought to represent the most general premodern pattern (based on many censuses from various regions, none of which conform to the other three tables). Each population type is then further ranked by number: the lower the number, the lower the life expectancy (e.g., West 1 is the lowest of that population type). Table 1 x 0 1 5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95

q

d

l

0.3056 0.2158 0.0606 0.0474 0.0615 0.0766 0.0857 0.0965 0.1054 0.1123 0.1197 0.1529 0.1912 0.2715 0.3484 0.4713 0.6081 0.7349 0.8650 0.9513 1.000

30556 14988 3300 2424 2998 3503 3617 3728 3677 3504 3315 3728 3950 4537 4241 3739 2551 1208 377 56 3

100000 69444 54456 51156 48732 45734 42231 38614 34886 31208 27705 24389 20661 16712 12175 7934 4194 1644 436 59

Coale-Demeny Model West Level 3 (Female), where x is age of cohort (per 100,000), q is percentage of cohort dying that segment, d is the number of deaths per 100,000 that segment) and l is the number of cohort still alive. 11

Initially developed by Ansley J. Coale and Paul Demeny, Regional Model Life Tables and Stable Populations (2nd ed.; New York: Academic Press, 1983). For an overview, see Colin Newell, Methods and Models in Demography (New York: Guilford, 1988). With regard to Rome, see Tim G. Parkin, Demography and Roman Society (Ancient Society and History; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992).

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The available evidence from antiquity converges on the lower levels of Model Life Table West (see table 1), whose particular age distribution and life expectancy mirror the detailed census data from tax rolls in medieval Tuscany and parish registers in Tudor/Stuart England.12 This evidence includes the following: (1) some three hundred census papyri from Roman Egypt that document age distributions and household relations, from which birth and death rates can be extrapolated; (2) Christian catacomb inscriptions from Rome and Coptic burials in Egypt that offer the deceased’s date of death, from which the seasonality of mortality is established; (3) literary accounts revealing the natural life expectancy of Roman imperial family members; and (4) Ulpian’s third-century c.e. life table, which calculates tax rates on annuities based on the supposed life expectancy of Roman legates at any given age (see table 2).13 Used with caution, osteoarchaeological evidence fills out the picture.14 Table 2 Age (x)

Life Expectancy

0-19 20-24 25-29 30-34 35-39 40-49 50-54 55-59 60+

30 28 25 22 20 60 – x – 1 (= 19/10) 9 7 5

Ulpian’s Life Table, third century c.e. 12

David Herlihy and Christiane Klapisch-Zuber, Tuscans and Their Families: A Study of the Florentine Catasto of 1427 (Yale Series in Economic History; New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985); Edward A. Wrigley and Roger S. Schofield, The Population History of England 1541–1871: A Reconstruction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989); and Andrew Hinde, England’s Population: A History from the Doomsday Survey to 1939 (London: Hodder Arnold, 2003), esp. 58– 61, 101. 13 On the Egyptian census papyri and demographic theory, see Roger S. Bagnall and Bruce W. Frier, The Demography of Roman Egypt (Cambridge Studies in Population, Economy, and Society in Past Time 23; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994). For the epigraphic evidence from Rome and the catacombs, see Josiah Cox Russell, The Control of Late Ancient and Medieval Population (Memoirs of the American Philosophical Society 160; Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1985). Ulpian’s table is found in the legal Digest 35.2.68 pr.; see Bruce W. Frier, “Roman Life Expectancy: Ulpian’s Evidence,” HSCP 86 (1982): 213–51, then more cautious in “Demography,” in The Cambridge Ancient History vol. 11, High Empire, A.D. 70–192 (ed. Alan K. Bowman, Peter Garnsey, and Dominic Rathbone; 2nd ed.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 787–816. 14 The starting point is Mirko D. Grmek, Diseases in the Ancient Greek World (trans. Mireille

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Life Tables are based on biological determinants such as reproduction, birth, and death that must have occurred in particular configurations for populations to reach a steady growth rate. Thus, demographers do not work deductively from grand cross-cultural theories at higher-level abstractions, but inductively by correlating the primary archaeological, epigraphic, and papyrological evidence with an appropriate Life Table, which itself is based on actual evidence, albeit from a different period.15 Model Life Tables provide parameters of the probable. 45 40

Years/Percent

35 30 25 20 15 10 5 0 1

5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 Age ——— Mean Life Expectancy

– – – Mean Proportion of Deaths

Chart 1. Model West Level 3 (females); source: Coale and Demeny, Regional Model Life Tables, 43.

The lower levels of West tables peg life expectancy in the low twenties, with almost half of all people dying in the first five years of life; thereafter, steady attrition rates hold until age sixty, after which they plummet (see chart 1). To compensate for so many childhood deaths, women had to marry shortly after menarche and bear children as long as they were married to sustain the population. But marriages were on average shorter, owing to either spouse’s death. Often women died in child-

Muellner and Leonard Muellner; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1989), 87–118; more recently, Joanna R. Sofaer, The Body as Material Culture: A Theoretical Osteoarchaeology (Topics in Contemporary Archaeology; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006). 15 Following Hopkins, Model Life Tables are used by Bagnall and Frier to mitigate age rounding, underrepresenting women, or underreporting as a way of tax evasion in the Egyptian papyri (Demography of Roman Egypt, 88; see also Scheidel, Death on the Nile: Disease and the Demography of Roman Egypt [Mnemosyne Supplements 228; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2001], 118–23, 142–66).

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birth, and, unlike men, women had little chance for remarriage past thirty, creating competition for young wives. Thus, antiquity had more “middle-aged” widows, lots of orphans, and a surplus of single young males.16 Biblical scholars rarely consider the impact of this demographic regime, and I hope to remedy that here with an eye toward Antipas’s urbanization, subsequent socioeconomic conditions, and urban–rural relations. How certain is the picture drawn from Model Life Tables and limited ancient evidence? Keith Hopkins describes the situation as analogous to a wigwam: “each pole would fall down by itself, but together the poles stand up by leaning on each other, they point roughly in the same direction.”17 Roger Bagnall and Bruce Frier stress that, in spite of the obstacles, “the convergence of the best available statistics still demands a measure of respect.”18 And the most prolific author on Roman demographics, Walter Scheidel, though ever-cautious, believes that the method is justified “as long as we focus on generalising abstractions” while acknowledging “the actual variation over space and time.”19 Of course the pressing question is where and under what conditions significant variations occurred.20 Throughout the rest of this article, I will argue that the particular evidence relevant to first-century Galilee matches this general picture and points to a high level of social instability.

II. Fertility Rates and Population Growth in Galilee In the early twentieth century, societies in the Northern Hemisphere underwent a demographic transition in which populations shifted to lower death rates, longer median lives, and reduced birth rates. Earlier populations, by contrast, had staggering death rates, shorter lives, and, by necessity, very high fertility rates.21 To 16

In the Egyptian papyri, 80 percent of women married by their late twenties, but by age 50, less than 40 percent were married, compared to 70 percent of men in the same age group; Bagnall and Frier conclude that “men aggressively [continue] to marry or remarry into their forties, while, for one reason or another, women do not consistently marry after age 35” (Demography of Roman Egypt, 123–27); Walter Scheidel, “Roman Funerary Commemoration and the Age of First Marriage,” CP 102 (2007): 389–402. 17 Hopkins, Conquerors and Slaves, 19. 18 Bagnall and Frier, Demography of Roman Egypt, 109. 19 Scheidel, “Progress and Problems,” 21. 20 On regional variations, see Robert Sallares, “Ecology,” in The Cambridge Economic History of the Classical World (ed. Walter Scheidel, Ian Morris, and Richard P. Saller; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 15–37; and Peregrine Horden and Nicholas Purcell, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of the Mediterranean History (Oxford: Blackwell, 2000). 21 Hopkins, “Economic Growth and Towns in Classical Antiquity,” in Towns in Societies: Essays in Economic History and Historical Sociology (ed. Philip Abrams and E. A. Wrigley; Past and Present Publications; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 35–77; idem, “Taxes and Trade in the Roman Empire (200 B.C.–A.D. 400),” JRS 70 (1980): 101–25.

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wit, only high fertility rates could explain the long-term growth from the Iron Age to the Byzantine period across the Mediterranean. Cultural patterns dictating women’s lives encouraged high birth rates, such as near-universal marriage, low age of first marriage, and continual childbearing from menarche to menopause for those who remained married, though of course the dangers of pregnancy and birthing killed many women. Indeed, a lynchpin of scholarly reconstructions of the Roman era’s demographic structure is a natural fertility regime; that is to say, as a whole, married women did not practice abortion, birth control, or infanticide.22 To achieve the steady incremental growth of the Pax Romana, women on average gave birth to at least six and perhaps as many as nine children, so that sufficient future mothers bore as many subsequent mothers.23 Recent archaeology underscores the magnitude of Galilee’s growth, even in the absence of a complete survey of sites and a stratigraphic demarcation of each excavated site’s areas, which would be necessary to estimate the absolute number of Galileans. Data from limited surveys and partial excavations are nevertheless sufficient to extrapolate Galilee’s relative growth around the time of Antipas. While early Hellenistic Galilee (323–150 b.c.e.) had few and small settlements, many of these were abandoned in the late Hellenistic period (150–37 b.c.e.) when the Hasmoneans settled a series of new sites, mostly in strategic and defensible hilltop positions.24 Significant growth in the early Roman period (37 b.c.e.–135 c.e.) led to additional settlements, but often in less defensible positions such as in valleys or along the lake (a key point later with regard to malaria); previously inhabited sites grew in size, and Galilee’s first cities were built, namely, Sepphoris and Tiberias.25 Without discounting the oft-repeated observation that the middle Roman period (135–250 c.e.) witnessed intensified Roman-backed urbanization, ancient 22 From literary evidence alone we would expect a Jewish aversion to such practices, though Frier offers a sustained argument for a similar picture across the Roman Empire (“Natural Fertility and Family Limitation in Roman Marriage,” CP 89 [1994]: 318–33); contra John M. Riddle, Eve’s Herbs: A History of Contraception and Abortion in the West (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997); Riddle takes a thrashing by both Scheidel (“Progress and Problems,” 32–46) and Brent D. Shaw (“The Seasonal Birthing Cycle of Roman Women,” in Scheidel, Debating Roman Demography, 100). 23 Bagnall and Frier, Demography of Roman Egypt, 135–44. 24 The implications of these settlement patterns for the ethnic, cultural, and religious identity of Galileans need not detain us here; see further Reed, Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus, 23–61; Moti Aviam, “First Century Jewish Galilee: An Archaeological Perspective,” in Religion and Society in Roman Palestine: Old Questions, New Approaches (ed. Douglas R. Edwards; New York: Routledge, 2004), 7–27. 25 By the Byzantine period Galilee’s agricultural capacity was exhausted; see Doron Bar, “Geographical Implications of Population and Settlement Growth in Late Antique Palestine,” Journal of Historical Geography 30 (2004): 1–10. The Justinian Plague ultimately decimated the population; see further Plague and the End of Antiquity: The Pandemic of 541-750 (ed. Lester Little; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006).

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Galilee’s most dramatic growth nevertheless occurred during the early Roman period.26 Some specifics to capture its magnitude: an intensive survey with accompanying probes in eastern Lower Galilee shows a rise from 19 Hellenistic to 41 early Roman sites; a wider survey of Upper Galilee shows a jump from 106 to 170 sites; and the recent Archaeological Survey of Israel shows increases from 10 to 30 in the Mount Tabor region of southern Galilee and from 19 to 50 in the Nahalal region in Lower Galilee.27 What can be said of the numbers of sites can be said of site size, as excavations at places like Yodefat, Cana, and Capernaum reveal expansions of settled areas, at times doubling or more. It goes without saying that the two largest sites in Galilee, Sepphoris and Tiberias, were built at this time and continued to grow. Sepphoris probably jumped from a population of around one thousand in the late Hellenistic period to around ten thousand in the early Roman period, while Tiberias likely had a similar size within decades of its founding.28 A reasonable estimate, for the sake of envisioning some order of magnitude, is that the population of Galilee more than doubled within one hundred years, say from 50 b.c.e. to 50 c.e.29 Migration from Judea probably accounted for some growth, as did the relatively peaceful Herodian rule, but we cannot assume that Galilee grew as a result of prosperity, which is of course the key question concerning its economy.30 Indeed, correlating population growth with prosperity is a common fallacy.31 Historical 26

Reed, Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus, 93-96. Uzi Leibner, Settlement and History in the Hellenistic, Roman and Byzantine Galilee: Archaeological Survey of Eastern Galilee (forthcoming); Rafael Frankel et al., Settlement Dynamics and Regional Diversity in Ancient Upper Galilee: Archaeological Survey of Upper Galilee (IAA Reports 14; Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority, 2001), 126–28; and Bar, “Geographical Implications,” 4; two of these surveys do not subdivide the Roman period. 28 Reed, Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus, 62–99. 29 The rough estimate is conjectured as follows: Hellenistic sites from the above-mentioned surveys are 154, which increase to 251 in the early Roman period; if each existing site (154) adds 50 percent to its size, that is equivalent to another 77 sites; if the two cities (assuming an average site of 500 persons) equal at least another 20 site equivalents each, or 40 site equivalents total, then Galilee increases from 154 to 368 site equivalents, that is, magnified by 2.4. Is this reasonable? By way of control, in this hypothetical calculation, the cities would comprise just over 10 percent of the total Galilean population (40/368 = 11 percent), which is in line with the percentage of urban population elsewhere. See Dominic W. Rathbone, “Villages, Land and Population in Graeco-Roman Egypt,” Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 36 (1990): 103–42. 30 The entire eastern Mediterranean was also growing at this time; see Scheidel, “Demography,” in Scheidel et al., Cambridge Economic History, 38–86; and Susan Alcock, “The Eastern Mediterranean,” in ibid., 671–97. 31 I remain agnostic on the complex relationship between prosperity and growth; Scheidel suggests that “increases in production or real income tend to result in population growth that curbs intensive economic growth” (“Demography,” 66). Neville Morley views urbanization and growth in Italy negatively, since it depends on “an increase in the rate of exploitation, especially of slave labour” (Metropolis and Hinterland: The City of Rome and the Italian Economy, 200 B.C.– A.D. 200 [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996], 53). 27

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demography stresses instead a more important factor, namely, that Galilee had been sparsely inhabited until the Hasmonean settlement, and newly settled or recently colonized regions often experience exceptionally high rates of fertility.32 Several factors spur this so-called frontier growth: first, an availability of arable land still rich in nutrients allows families to scatter across the region; second, an initially low population density decreases the spread of contagious pathogens (more below); and third, a reticence toward outsiders limits the proliferation of new diseases that ail cosmopolitan populations along trade routes. Under such conditions, a population could easily double within a century. In lower level Life Tables West, births need exceed deaths by only .5 percent per year for the population to double every 140 years (e.g., annual crude birth rates at 42 per 1000 and death rates at 37 per 1000). This is a common growth rate, barring extended political crises, pandemics, or natural disaster. Growth need only be 1 percent to double in 70 years, and if it reaches 2 percent, then populations double in 35 years.33 Two factors acted as demographic brakes to Galilean population growth well before the Jewish Revolt. First, Antipas built Sepphoris and Tiberias, and cities—counterintuitively—hamper growth. Second, many sites were settled in less defensible locations in valleys and along the lake, where the full impact of malaria would increase mortality (more below). It bears stressing that Galilee’s population growth need not be explained by economic prosperity. In fact, the population growth from the late Hellenistic to early Roman periods raises a caveat with regard to any claims for widespread wealth in connection with Antipas’s urbanization: an aggregate increase in material culture during the early Roman period—which is clear in the archaeological record—cannot be confused with a per capita increase.34 Thus, the increase in early Roman pottery found on Galilean excavations does not necessarily mean that wealthier households had more pots; it could well mean that there were many more households, and each with more members.35 The late-first-century b.c.e. upsurge abated by the mid-first century c.e. after the cities were built. That initial population surge has serious implications for Galilean socioeconomics, given the interrelationship between demographics and 32 Richard A. Easterlin, “Population Change and Farm Settlements in the Northern United States,” Journal of Economic History 36 (1976): 45–75; Frier, “Demography,” 813–15; and Scheidel, “Progress and Problems,” 63–64. 33 Parkin, Demography and Roman Society, 85–86. 34 The Kefar Hananya pottery comes to mind: it is hard to assess if the workshops contributed to an increase in per capita income within the village or merely an aggregate increase of goods that accompanied expansion. 35 On scale, see Saller “Framing the Debate,” 257–61; on unequal distribution of benefits, see Willem M. Jongman, “The Early Roman Empire: Consumption,” in Scheidel et al., Cambridge Economic History, 592–617; on areas outside Italy lacking imperial benefits, see Scheidel, “A Model of Real Income Growth in Roman Italy,” Historia 56 (2007): 332–46.

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economics. Typically in antiquity, growing populations modulate with real wages in an inverse manner. That is, as populations increase, real wages decrease; the resulting high populations with low wages inhibit further growth, leading in turn to higher per capita wages, which reinvigorate growth. These modulations occur over decades or generations, and we can only speculate when during Antipas’s rule the population reached a peak and wages a trough, or vice versa.36 Be that as it may, it must be stressed that the undulations in growth and wages might seem steady over the longue durée and in retrospect, but in any given decade they must have appeared as unpredictable fits and spurts. Scheidel cautions against viewing these unrelenting growth spurts in a positive light and points to their essential instability: “Temporary economic-demographic ‘efflorescences’ need not have resulted in substantial improvements in nutritional status or overall well-being, especially in as much as they led to higher population densities and levels of urbanization and thus to new health hazards.”37

III. Mortality and Morbidity The evidence for low life expectancy in antiquity, albeit circumstantial, is abundant. Funerary inscriptions noting the deceased’s age—none exist from Galilee—tend to round numbers and favor wealthy men. Even so, for example, the mean age of Latin epitaphs in the city of Rome is a paltry twenty-three.38 Similarly, skeletal remains beyond puberty cannot always be aged precisely, and burials suffer from class, age, and gender distortion. Even so, a few tomb complexes in and near Galilee have been examined; in one Roman-Byzantine tomb complex (197 individuals) at Upper Galilean Meiron, nearly 50 percent of the interred died before

36 Scheidel, “Progress and Problems,” 74. Galilean archaeologists lack ceramic typologies and hence stratigraphic precision to delineate these modulations within decades or even generations. 37 Scheidel, “Demography,” 62. Thus, self-sufficiency was a persistent strategy, with rural inhabitants resorting to pastoralism, occasional hunting, and seasonal gathering, still common among Mediterranean peasants. On this “safety-first” strategy and its relation to Jesus’ message, see Milton C. Moreland, “The Galilean Response to Earliest Christianity,” in Edwards, Religion and Society, 37–48; and idem, “The Jesus Movement in the Villages of Roman Galilee: Archaeology, Q, and Modern Anthropological Theory,” in Oral Performance, Popular Tradition, and Hidden Transcript in Q (ed. Richard A. Horsley; SemeiaSt 60; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 159–80. 38 K. K. Ery notes that epitaphs written in Greek were for persons, on average, of fifty-one years, but that may tell us more about the epigraphic habit than demographics (“Investigations on the Demographic Source Value of Tombstones Originating from the Roman Period,” Alba Regia 10 [1969]: 51–67). Hopkins was suspicious of funerary epigraphy (“On the Probable Age Structure,” 245–64; also Parkin, Demography and Roman Society, 5–19).

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reaching adulthood, and, of those, 70 percent died in the first few years of life.39 In a study of Hellenistic-Roman complexes (227 individuals) around the Shephelah, the age distribution matched Life Table West 5 with an average life span of twentyfour years.40 Interestingly, those latter rural Jews were about as well off in terms of life expectancy as the Roman imperial family—assassinations and suicides excluded.41 200 180

Mortality Index

160 140 120 100 80 60 40 20 0 J

F

M

A

M

J

Month ——— Roman Catacombs

J

A

S

O

N

D

––– U.S. 1997

Chart 2. Monthly rates of death; source: Shaw, “Seasons of Death,” 117, and Center for Disease Control and Prevention.

The most promising evidence for high mortality is the monthly spikes in the number of deaths. In contrast to modern developed societies, where degenerative diseases such as heart attack, cancer, and stroke are the main killers and are evenly spread across the calendar, prior to advances in medicine and sanitation, acute 39

Patricia Smith, Elizabeth Bornemann, and Joe Zias, “The Skeletal Remains,” in Eric M. Meyers, James F. Strange, and Carol L. Meyers, Excavations at Ancient Meiron, Upper Galilee, Israel (Cambridge, MA: ASOR, 1981), 110–18. 40 Yossi Nagar and Hagit Torgeé, “Biological Characteristics of Jewish Burial in the Hellenistic and Early Roman Periods,” IEJ 53 (2003): 164–71. Christian burials in the Negev show similar numbers, with life expectancy of twenty-six at birth and thirty after age ten (Yossi Nagar and Flavia Sonntag, “Byzantine Period Burials in the Negev: Anthropological Description and Summary,” IEJ 58 [2008]: 79–93; see also Bruce W. Frier, “Roman Life Expectancy: The Pannonian Evidence,” Phoenix 37 [1983]: 328–44; and Grmek, Disease in the Ancient Greek World, 99–105. For skeptical views of osteoarchaeological remains, see Scheidel, “Progress and Problems,” 19; Parkin, Demography and Roman Society, 41–58; and Ian Morris, Death-Ritual and Social Structure in Classical Antiquity [Key Themes in Ancient History; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992], 72–91). 41 With an age structure matching West 4, Scheidel, “Emperors, Aristocrats, and the Grim Reaper: Towards a Demographic Profile of the Roman Élite,” CQ 49 (1999): 255–66.

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infectious diseases active in particular months were the big killers (see charts 2 and 3).42 These leave few clear traces in the osteoarchaeological record, although the prevalence of porotic hyperostosis and cribra orbitalia in Roman-era skulls indicates that anemia was widespread, with malaria likely in many cases.43 The seasonal rhythm of death indicates that Mediterranean populations suffered from a plethora of quick-killing gastrointestinal and respiratory diseases such as dysentery, typhus, typhoid, tuberculosis, plague, and especially malaria. For example, in the Christian catacombs of Rome twice as many people died in August and September as was typical of other months; hot weather made contagious malarial fevers acute and agitated gastrointestinal diseases (see chart 2).44 Coptic epitaphs and 200 180

Mortality Index

160 140 120 100 80 60 40 20 0 J

F

M

A

M

——— Palaestina Tertia

J J A Month - - - - - Nile

S

O

N

D

––– Delta

Chart 3. Monthly rates of death; source: Scheidel, Death on the Nile, 4–10, 16–25; and Patlagean, Pauvreté économique, 94.

42 Grmek lists the three great killers of antiquity as tuberculosis, malaria, and typhoid fever (Diseases in the Ancient Greek World, 86–89). Epidemics were commonplace and there were three well-known pandemics: the Antonine Plague (165–180 c.e.), the Plague of Cyprian (251–266 c.e.), and the Justinian Plague (541–750 c.e.); see Susan Scott and Christopher J. Duncan, Biology of Plagues: Evidence from Historical Populations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001); and Little, Plague and the End of Antiquity. 43 The issue is complex; see Grmek, Diseases in the Ancient Greek World, 245–83; Patty Stuart-Macadam, “Porotic Hyperostosis: Representative of a Childhood Condition,” American Journal of Physical Anthropology 66 (1985): 391–98; and Scheidel, “Progress and Problems,” 27. Robert Sallares notes that biomolecular studies are about to revolutionize the field (Malaria and Rome: A History of Malaria in Ancient Italy [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002], vii). 44 See the original data in Brent D. Shaw, “Seasons of Death: Aspects of Mortality in Imperial Rome,” JRS 96 (1996): 118–21 esp. tables 5, 9–12; idem, “Seasonal Mortality in Imperial Rome and the Mediterranean: Three Problem Cases,” in Urbanism in the Preindustrial World: Cross-

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Greek papyri from Egypt reveal the grim reaper’s seasonality, with those living along the Nile suffering in April and May from typhoid fever, while those living in the Delta died more frequently in either winter or summer because of tuberculosis and dysentery, respectively.45 Concrete evidence from the Levant is singular but similarly seasonal, with monastic inscriptions from Palaestina Tertia peaking in early summer (see chart 3).46 Notwithstanding the geographical, microbiological, and seasonal variations across the Mediterranean, Scheidel underscores the main point: “high amplitudes of seasonality . . . coincide with high mortality per se.”47 Though much of the evidence for elevated mortality approximates Life Table West 2, Robert Sallares has proposed that the preponderance of malaria across wide swaths of the Mediterranean makes the even grimmer Life Tables South possible, which take into account tropical climates and more active infectious diseases.48 This bleak picture seems to be the case in the Egyptian Fayum, a region with a reputation from antiquity to modernity for substandard health and malaria.49 This was probably also the case in much of Galilee, especially the areas near the lake or Lower Galilean valleys that resemble the Fayum. Both had higher annual rainfalls, areas where rain wound up either in marshes, standing pools at the end of wadis or seeping into moist alluvial soil atop hard limestone formations, all breeding grounds for anopheles, the mosquitoes that carry malaria.50 One need only recall the notoriously high death rates of Jewish settlers due to malaria in the early twentieth century, from the Huleh Valley down past the Gennesar Plain to Tiberias and over along the Beth Netofah Valley, which until modern irrigation flooded often. These well-watered areas with alluvial soil eventually became Galilee’s prime agricultural tracts, but they were areas that nineteenth-century travelers described as malarial and that earlytwentieth-century Zionist settlers viewed as death traps until malaria was eradicated.51 Cultural Approaches (ed. Glenn R. Storey; Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 2006), 86–109. For further discussion on seasonality and malaria, see Sallares, Malaria and Rome, 201–34; and Scheidel, “Germs for Rome,” in Rome the Cosmopolis (ed. Catharine Edwards and Greg Woolf; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 158–76. 45 The issue is nuanced by Scheidel, Death on the Nile, 25–35, 51–109. 46 Evelyne Patlagean Pauvreté économique et pauvreté sociale à byzance 4e–7e siècles (Civilisations et Sociétés 48; Pairs: Mouton, 1977), 92–94. 47 Scheidel, Death on the Nile, 116 48 Sallares, Malaria and Rome, 277–78. Ulpian’s Table resembles the lowest of Life Table South and might approximate malarial Rome. See Bagnall and Frier, Demography of Roman Egypt, 88–90; and Scheidel, “Progress and Problems,” 14–21. 49 Scheidel, Death on the Nile, 16–19, 82–89; and Sallares, Malaria and Rome, 160–64. 50 Sallares, “Ecology,” 21–25. 51 In 1902, John Cropper described Banias, Tiberias, and the Sea of Galilee as crippled with malaria (“The Geographical Distribution of Anopheles and Malarial Fever in Upper Palestine,”

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Evidence from antiquity confirms that malaria was a problem in and around Galilee. Josephus at one point describes the areas south of the lake as pestilent and disease ridden (B.J. 4.456).52 The rabbis frequently discuss various fevers, and even distinguish different types of fever cycles typical of malaria.53 The Gospels mention the fever of Peter’s mother-in-law at Capernaum (Mark 1:30–31 par.), and John specifies that the Capernaum centurion’s son suffered from a fever as well (4:52). Both seem to have been life-threatening and hence malarial, rather than benign fevers.54 Several amulets from late antique Galilee also ward off “great fevers,” a common term for malaria, such as one from Sepphoris and two from Horvat Kanaf, two miles northeast of the lake.55 Of course a better defense against malaria than such amulets was living away from standing water and at higher altitudes—anopheles become rarer as the elevation increases and disappear completely above fifteen hundred meters. Thus, much of Upper Galilee offered some safety, as did Lower Galilean hilltops with late summer winds at dusk when anopheles are most active.56 Since they are weak flyers and rarely travel more than a few miles, pockets of malaria could exist with devastating results in one village with a particular topography while leaving others a few miles away relatively unscathed.57 Over time, inhabitants accumulated knowledge—without ever recognizing the cause of malaria—and avoided the most insid-

Journal of Hygiene 2 [1902]: 47–57); see further the chilling reports by Israel J. Kligler, The Epidemiology and Control of Malaria in Palestine (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1930). Yossi Nagar notes that over half of the skeletal remains from Tel Tanim had cribra orbitalia, which he attributes primarily to malaria (personal communication). 52 Josephus describes Alexander Jannaeus as suffering from quartan fever, that is, malaria, and dying in the region of Gergasa (Ant. 13.398). 53 Among them some Galilean sages, e.g., Hanina ben Dosa (b. Ber. 34b); see further Julius Preuss, Biblical and Talmudic Medicine (trans. and ed. by Fred Rosner; New York: Sanhedrin, 1978; German orig., 1911), 160–64; and Abraham Steinberg, Encyclopedia of Jewish Medical Ethics: A Compilation of Jewish Medical Law on All Topics of Medical Interest (3 vols.; Jerusalem: Feldheim, 2003), 2:538–39. 54 Luke 4:38 specifies it as a πυρετῷ μεγάλῳ, commonly diagnosed as malaria. 55 Joseph Naveh and Shaul Shaked, Amulets and Magic Bowls: Aramaic Incantations of Late Antiquity (Jerusalem: Magnes, 1985), 44–55; C. Thomas McCullough and Beth Glazier-McDonald, “Magic and Medicine in Byzantine Galilee: A Bronze Amulet from Sepphoris,” in Edwards, Archaeology and the Galilee, 143–49; and Irina Wandrey, “Fever and Malaria ‘for Real’ or as a Magical-Literary Topos,” in Jewish Studies between the Disciplines = Judaistik zwischen den Disziplinen: Papers in Honor of Peter Schäfer on the Occasion of His 60th Birthday (ed. Klaus Herrmann et al.; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 257–66. 56 The bionomics of anopheles in Palestine are described by Kligler, Epidemiology and Control, 50–86. 57 For the hills in Rome and in Italy, see Sallares, Malaria and Rome, 201–34; for Palestine, see Kligler, Epidemiology and Control, 19–86.

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ious locales.58 One presumes that Jews in the late Hellenistic period settled hilltops for defensive purposes and in the process avoided malarial areas, into which they eventually moved in the early Roman period. These were conveniently closer to crops, fishing, or trade, but increased the risk of malaria.59 Thus, we should expect much higher rates of malaria in villages like Capernaum or Magdala near the Gennesar Plain than, say, in Nazareth or Cana, which were on a slope and atop a hill above the valley.60 And surely Sepphoris, atop a hill, was better off than hot and humid Tiberias right on the lake, at least in terms of malaria.61 Another defense against malaria was living in more isolated locations with lower population densities, which curtails its spread via anopheles and also decreases the transmission of other diseases (more below). As sites increased in size and density, Galilee’s rapid population growth would eventually wane as malaria increased the mortality rate, since it viciously attacks pregnant mothers, fetuses, and newborns.62 Malaria’s effects on morbidity are equally pernicious. Victims suffer from alternating fevers and chills, severe muscle and joint pain, and often headaches and diarrhea; also common are an enlarged spleen, anemia, lung or kidney failure, and cognitive impairment leading to brain damage and even coma.63 Fatality rates are one in five. Even after survivors build up childhood immunities, malarial strands morph and recur with a vengeance. Over the course of several generations, populations can develop a genetic predisposition against malaria —but in the form of sickle cell anemia or thalassemia, conditions that have their own complications, including chronic anemia, which renders sufferers vulnerable to other infections and shortens life span. For these reasons, over much of the

58 The philology of fever/malaria, its medical history, and its relation to ancient diagnoses are beyond the scope of this article; see François Retief and Louise Cilliers, “Malaria in GraecoRoman Times,” Acta Classica 47 (2004): 127–37. 59 This was also the case in Italy, where prime agricultural valleys were also the most malarial; see Sallares, Malaria and Rome, 279. 60 This held true for the early twentieth century, as Kligler classified Migdal, Kinnereth, and Degania on the lake as “intensely malarious”; even Nazareth was categorized as less but still seriously “malarious” (Epidemiology and Control, 88). 61 Judah ha-Nasi left the lower-lying Beth She v arim after an unspecified illness for Sepphoris’s salubrious air (b. Ketub. 103b, and y. Kil. 9:32b). The reluctance among Jews to settle in Tiberias, which according to Josephus was due to its being built atop tombs, might actually have been due to malaria (Ant. 18.36–38). 62 Sallares, Malaria and Rome, 125–27; Retief and Cilliers, “Malaria in Graeco-Roman Times,” 129. Arab villages in Galilee are still built on the slopes that are wind-swept on summer evenings, a common malaria avoidance strategy found also in Italy (Sallares, Malaria and Rome, 91–92, 279). Herodotus describes Egyptian dwellings in the Delta as elevated to avoid “gnats” (2.95). 63 The history of malaria’s various strands is beyond the scope of this article, but the deadliest, p. falciparum, was active by the Roman period (Sallares, Malaria and Rome, 7–22).

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Mediterranean where malaria was endemic, though it was not the main cause of death, it interacted with other diseases to increase overall mortality rates by as much as 50 percent.64 Diseases represented the most significant demographic factor in the ancient world. As Scheidel has forcefully argued in his body of work, “In the long term, the nature and prevalence of endemic infectious disease acted as the principal environmental determinant of local age structure.” 65 High mortality and morbidity created considerable social instability, with a significant impact on socioeconomics. In terms of labor alone, if modern underdeveloped countries with malaria are comparable, the average amount of time any person lived in ill health or disability was close to 20 percent of the life span.66 Malaria, therefore, depressed economic productivity generally, and especially had an adverse effect on labor-intensive crops harvested in late summer and early autumn, such as grains and grapes.67 Disease, death, mourning, and funerals would contribute to poorer harvests, higher malnutrition in the subsequent year, and then greater susceptibility to disease. Sallares emphasizes the negative correlation between malaria-infested areas and per-capita growth rates, and Roman agronomists were keenly aware of the problem, even if they could not diagnose the cause. Consider Varro’s advice: on land that is pestilent, no matter how fertile it is, disaster does not allow the farmer to achieve a profit. For, where the reckoning is with death, not only is the profit uncertain there, but even the lives of the farmers are at risk. In an unhealthy location farming is a lottery in which the life and possession of the owner are in danger. (Rust. 1.4.3)68

In the same vein, Cato noted that a full quarter of the cost should be added when estimating the labor for constructing a villa “in a pestilential locality” (Cato, Agr. 14.5)—a cost he accounts for in purely financial terms but which slaves must have paid for with ruined health and even death. The areas on the Sea of Galilee where Jesus was most active, as well as other portions of Lower Galilee, were similarly “pestilential,” that is, malarial. A measure of pessimism on Galilee’s economic activity and relative prosperity under Antipas is in order, perhaps not only vis-à-vis

64

Sallares, Malaria and Rome, 120–21. Scheidel, “Demography,” 39. 66 Ibid., 41, citing the WHO 2003 World Health Report. 67 According to Kligler, malarial occurrences in 1920s Palestine spiked in July, and the malignant p. falciparum rose in September and exploded in late October (Epidemiology and Control, 111, 122, 124). 68 Quoted from Sallares with a valuable discussion also of Cato’s Agr. 14.5 and Columella’s Rust. 1.4.2-3. Sallares notes that under President Franklin D. Roosevelt in 1938 industrial output was reduced by one-third in the southern United States as a result of malaria (Malaria and Rome, 241–45). 65

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modern expectations but also compared to more salubrious areas in the ancient Mediterranean.69

IV. The Urban–Rural Divide and Migration Frequent birth and death undermined the stability of any given household, but pockets of severe malaria coupled with recent urbanization compounded social instability by fueling internal migration in Galilee. Peasants working Galilee’s lowlying fields and fishermen plying the lake—the very areas that had just been settled—may well have taken advantage of work opportunities. But they were at greater risk of contracting malaria. The various jobs must have experienced a high turnover on a daily, weekly, and annual basis. People living in Sepphoris or Tiberias were no better off in terms of morbidity and mortality. A principal factor for the prevalence of infectious diseases was, in addition to climate and local pathogenic evolution, population density. Therefore, in spite of their higher social status and number of wealthy inhabitants, ancient cities were disease-ridden and death-prone settlements. Demographers insist on the counterintuitive tenet that urban life offered no advantages in morbidity or mortality. Cities are dubbed “populations sinks,” since they accelerated the spread of infectious diseases and had negative growth rates—in antiquity cities could not sustain their own populations.70 During the Roman era, the preponderance of elites lived in cities, though of course not all city dwellers were rich, just as not all villagers were poor. Excavations in Galilee have uncovered more affluent homes in the two cities than in the many villages. Roman-period houses in Sepphoris were relatively large with second stories and professionally made walls. A few interior rooms had mosaics, and others were plastered, with frescoes frequent. Among the luxury goods were glass, including some molded bowls imported from Sidon; a bit of terra sigillata; a few foreign lamps; and occasional ivory goods such as makeup applicators or hairpins.71 In Tiberias, virtually no domestic space has been excavated, yet what looks like a palatial mansion has been found, complete with marble floor and frescoed walls.72 69 Kligler describes Lower Galilee as “one of the most malarious in Palestine” (Epidemiology and Control, 41; generally for Galilee, see 40–44). 70 The term “population sinks” was first applied to ancient cities by Sallares, The Ecology of the Ancient Greek World (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1991), 88–89; see further Morley, Metropolis and Hinterland, 33–54. Celsus also quipped that the majority of urbani were in ill health (On Medicine, 1.2.1). 71 Eric M. Meyers, “Sepphoris: City of Peace,” in The First Jewish Revolt: Archaeology, History, and Ideology (ed. Andrea M. Berlin and J. Andrew Overman; London: Routledge, 2002) 110–20. 72 Yitzhar Hirschfeld and Katharina Galor, “New Excavations in Roman, Byzantine, and Early Islamic Tiberias,” in Zangenberg et al., Religion, Ethnicity, and Identity, 207–29.

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Domestic space in the Galilean villages is much more modest. Although some of the larger villages such as Yodefat, as well as Gamla in the Golan, had one or two exceptional houses with variously colored frescoes, by and large the village houses were much simpler. A few had flagstone courtyards, but other rooms were beaten earth. Apart from doorjambs and lintels, walls were made with fieldstones and not plastered or frescoed, with no luxury items save a bit of glass.73 Wealth did not aid cities—Sepphoris and Tiberias included—in fighting disease and death. The death rates of legionnaires in peacetime Rome were much higher than for those stationed in rural areas of the provinces.74 Some diseases are transmitted by the breath’s tiny aerosol droplets, like one strand of tuberculosis, and therefore occur only in cities. The same goes for small pox, mumps, whooping cough, and measles, which are limited to urban populations, so that, according to Neville Morley, urbanites in antiquity and throughout history were “exposed to a set of pathogens which their rural compatriots encountered only in sporadic epidemics; the result was a much higher—but more stable—level of mortality.”75 Even if Galilean city dwellers had dietary advantages, these did not protect them from disease. Scheidel’s study of the Roman aristocracy’s life expectancy makes this clear: “as with known urban elites up to the eighteenth century, the potential benefits of ample nutrition were more than offset by constant exposure to an aggressive germ community.”76 Despite the fact that Roman-style urbanization brought amenities such as aqueducts, fountains, latrines, sewage, and baths, these were unable to overcome the perilous correlation between contagious pathogens and population density. In fact, these advances were a mixed blessing, with the Roman baths representing a serious health hazard as high-intensity bacterial exchange depots in the summers. Though no miqva 'ot have been found at early Roman levels in Galilee, the many discovered at Sepphoris represent the existence of a serious health hazard.77 It is thus no surprise that the available skeletal remains 73 Peter Richardson, “Khirbet Qana (and Other Villages) as a Context for Jesus,” in Jesus and Archaeology (ed. James H. Charlesworth; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005), 120–44. 74 Walter Scheidel, Measuring Sex, Age and Death in the Roman Empire: Explorations in Ancient Demography (Journal of Roman Archaeology Supplement Series 21; Ann Arbor: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 1996), 117–29. For the city of Rome generally, see Morley, Metropolis and Hinterland, 41–44; for Roman-era cities generally, see Alex Scobie, “Slums, Sanitation and Mortality in the Roman World,” Klio 68 (1986): 399–433. 75 Morley, Metropolis and Hinterland, 42, generally 33–54; see further the evidence for premodern London in John Landers, Death and the Metropolis: Studies in the Demographic History of London, 1670–1830 (Cambridge Studies in Population, Economy, and Society in Past Time 20; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 242–300. 76 Scheidel, “Emperors, Aristocrats, and the Grim Reaper,” 280; and Peter Garnsey, “Mass Diet and Nutrition in the City of Rome,” in idem, Cities, Peasants, and Food in Classical Antiquity: Essays in Social and Economic History (ed. Walter Scheidel; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 226–52. 77 Some anopheles breed in cool, indoor standing water like cisterns; see Kligler, Epidemi-

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from Roman Jerusalem—none have been studied from Sepphoris or Tiberias— show much lower life expectancy than those found in the village of Meiron and rural sites of the Shephelah.78 Whether Finley’s “consumer city” is an appropriate economic model, E. A. Wrigley comments that “the high death rates in towns meant that they were normally consumers of men.”79 To be clear, Sepphoris and Tiberias would not have reduced the overall Galilean population, since their negative growth rates would have been offset by high growth rates in places like Upper Galilee, the rural hills of Lower Galilee, and even the Golan.80 For this very reason, the urbanization of Galilee under Antipas had a dramatic demographic impact by way of internal migration, since as population losers, the cities induced people to move from population-producing rural villages, resulting in more dynamic household compositions.81 We can be more specific. Bagnall and Frier’s analysis of the Egyptian census papyri noted a significant discrepancy between village and city sex ratios, with more men in the latter. For the census numbers to make sense, at least one in ten village males between the ages of fifteen and twenty-four had to migrate to a nearby city, followed by lesser percentages of men older than twenty-five. The pattern of young men migrating to cities was a common cross-cultural phenomenon, fueled in large part by the competition for marriageable women—widows tended not to marry past thirty, while widowers did.82 There is no reason to doubt that this pattern occurred also in Galilee. Bagnall and Frier suggest further that “[m]ost migrating

ology and Control, 50–51. Although beyond the scope of this article, the health hazards of Jerusalem’s pilgrimage festivals—shared miqva'ot and pathogens introduced from the Diaspora— are a topic worth full treatment, especially in light of Jerusalem’s substandard mortality rates. 78 Based on Joseph Zias, “Human Skeletal Remains from the ‘Caiaphas’ Tomb,” vAtiqot 21 (1992): 78–80; idem, “Human Skeletal Remains from the Late Second Century Tomb at Mt. Scopus,” vAtiqot 21 (1992): 97–103; idem, “Human Skeletal Remains from a Second-TemplePeriod Tomb in Arnona, Jerusalem,” vAtiqot 54 (2006): 117–20. 79 Wrigley, “Parasite or Stimulus: The Town in a Pre-Industrial Economy,” in Abrams and Wrigley, Towns in Societies, 306 (emphasis mine). 80 Scheidel, Death on the Nile, 166–71; idem, “Demography,” 80. 81 The classic treatment is Horst Braunert’s Die Binnenwanderung: Studien zur Sozialgeschichte Ägyptens in der Ptolomäer- und Kaiserzeit (Bonner Historische Forschungen 26; Bonn: Ludwig Röhrscheid, 1964). 82 The Babatha archive represents an exceptional case—wealth and property ownership gave her a rare opportunity for remarriage. At issue in much of the archive is her son’s inheritance. See Richard P. Saller, Patriarchy, Property and Death in the Roman Family (Cambridge Studies in Population, Economy, and Society in Past Time 25; Cambridge: Cambridge Univeristy Press, 1994), 198–99, and Ross Kraemer, “Typical and Atypical Jewish Family Dynamics: The Case of Babatha and Berenice,” in Early Christian Families in Context: An Interdisciplinary Dialogue (ed. David L. Balch and Carolyn Osiek; Religion, Marriage and Family; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003), 130–56.

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males would be ‘marginal’ villagers: perhaps most often young men unable to find brides and form families, or unable to find work.”83 Migration to cities is encouraged also by increasing populations and urbanization, since both inevitably lead to an intensification of agricultural practices and economies of scale that need less labor. More rural inhabitants go on to seek employment in the cities, but of course and unfortunately, a more generous portion dies therein!84 Another group likely to migrate to cities is elderly widows, who seek out patronage or protection from relatives, but often wind up in penury or prostitution. Migration was widespread in the early imperial period, and Scheidel estimates that “the establishment of hundreds of cities in previously un-urbanized regions must have necessitated the (mostly short range) relocation of perhaps 20 to 40 million people.”85 The mobility and instability of populations are significant for how biblical scholars should view rural–urban relations in first-century Galilee. Aside from whatever other interaction one envisions there, if the evidence from Egypt is at all analogous, and if Galilee conforms to general social-historical trends, then we should expect a number of young men from the villages continually moving to the cities of Sepphoris and Tiberias. Young men would indeed account for a significant measure of the cities’ growth (Josephus’s description of Antipas inducing rabble to live in Tiberias comes to mind [Ant. 18.37]). Some men who found jobs probably sent back remittances; some whose luck failed perhaps returned home; others went back to take over land when their fathers or older brothers died; and some lived in the cities until they died. Whatever their fate, while in the cities they likely received visitors on market or festival days and were probably the contact point for their rural kin who sought services offered by the city. In short, we should envision considerable familiarity among Galilean villagers with the two cities, and if the latter’s higher rates of morbidity and mortality were at all perceptible within a few decades, then also a healthy dose of suspicion about the cities.86

83

Bagnall and Frier, Demography of Roman Egypt, 165. New arrivals were vulnerable since they had not developed immunities to local pathogens; see Scheidel, “Demography,” 45. On migration across the empire, see Robartus J. van der Spek, “The Hellenistic Near East,” in Scheidel et al., Cambridge Economic History, 416, 426–30; and Susan Alcock, “Breaking up the Hellenistic World: Survey and Society,” in Classical Greece: Ancient Histories and Modern Archaeologies (ed. Ian Morris; New Directions in Archaeology; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 171–237. 85 Scheidel, “Demography,” 49; idem, “Human Mobility and Roman Italy 1: The Free Population,” JRS 94 (2004): 1–26; for Greece, see Robin Osborne “The Potential Mobility of Human Populations,” Oxford Journal of Archaeology 10 (1991): 231–52. On extensive migration to Rome, see Morley, Metropolis and Hinterland, 33–54; according to Herlihy and Klapisch-Zuber, “the attractiveness of cities to older women is a near constant of social history” (Tuscans and Their Families, 157, quoted in Bagnall and Frier, Demography of Roman Egypt, 161). 86 Reed, Archaeology and the Galilean Jesus, 189–95. 84

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V. Conclusion We conclude on two levels: one is primary in terms of summarizing how demographic studies—specifically mortality, morbidity, and migration—affect the debate over the nature of Galilee under Antipas by accentuating demographic instability. The other is secondary and suggests how these demographic insights might be pursued in further studies on the historical Jesus in his Galilean context. On the issue of Antipas’s urbanization, it is clear that a much more nuanced discussion of the socioeconomic impact of Sepphoris and Tiberias is necessary in light of demographic insights. On the one hand, it bears stressing that Galilee’s population growth and construction of cities in the early Roman period are not themselves evidence for an overall Galilean prosperity. In fact, overall population growth, newly built cities, considerable migration, and extensive malaria caution against an optimistic view of economic life under Antipas. That is not to imply the opposite, namely, that Galileans fared terribly and were destitute under Antipas; yet any widespread socioeconomic improvement is questionable. On the other hand, although many Galilean urbanites seem better off than rural villagers in terms of their houses, they were worse off in terms of their mortality and morbidity. But the significance of these two cities’ negative growth rates in the context of overall Galilean growth in the early Roman period goes far beyond issues of health and comfort. The newly built cities’ contribution to social instability must be stressed: Sepphoris and Tiberias fueled internal migration from villages to the cities. Thus, the rural–urban divide was often crossed, and we cannot assume a rigid division between rural peasants in villages and urban elites in the cities. Surely Jesus had some extended family in Sepphoris. At the same time that the Galilean cities were built, many smaller sites were settled in malarial areas. Significant numbers of people moved from healthier areas with higher birth rates into less healthy ones, owing to the competition over land in the former and for the sake of opportunities, however menial, in the latter. A large number of migrants were younger male villagers moving to the cities but also to the lake, where fishing might provide opportunities. Even if such internal mobility was not out of line with other areas of the Mediterranean, descriptions of life under Antipas as stable miss the mark. Sudden death, rampant disease, frequent pregnancy, and impulsive yet increasing migration would make for a rather unstable environment, with volatile households whose compositions were constantly and abruptly changing. The negative socioeconomic impact of this instability has only been implied here; its cultural and religious ramifications, whether in terms of the ephemeral nature of patriarchal households or the necessity of reciprocity between village households, merit further consideration.87 87 Halvor Moxnes suggests that Jesus created an alternative space that subverted powerful patriarch-dominated households; yet perhaps the unpredictable health of older males made such

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A second set of observations arises from this demographic analysis of Galilee that recommend further studies in the Gospel traditions and historical Jesus research. In general, the realities of high mortality and extreme morbidity underscore the appeal of healing stories in the tradition, perhaps especially in the densely populated cities of the Roman world. But more specific aspects of the Gospel stories can be addressed. For one, the traditional picture of a young Mary and elderly Joseph who later disappears in the Gospels is absolutely unremarkable in actuarial terms. Men were often much older than their wives; almost no children ever knew their grandfathers; and few adults had fathers who were still alive.88 It is not odd that the Gospels do not speculate on Joseph’s fate; it was assumed that he had passed away. Second, for a young man like Jesus to move from a small village like Nazareth, atop a hill, to a larger town like Capernaum, on the lake, was a common pattern of migration for young men (this pattern seems to be the case with Nathaniel moving from Cana to the lake, John 1:45; 21:2). Along those lines, Philip, Peter, and Andrew moved from Bethsaïda to Capernaum (Mark 1:29; John 1:43; 12:21). With this in mind, the picture of Jesus and his disciples moving from place to place, which in the Gospels is described as mission and which scholars generally describe as itinerancy, might at its historical core have a demographic reflex.89 In this light, without undermining the idea that Jesus was radical in his openness to women, from a strictly demographic perspective, a group made up of relatively young men following Jesus away from their homes is unremarkable. Indeed, the male rabbinic schools or the monastic Essenes at Qumran might have been alternatives for such marginal men. Similarly and finally, the picture that Acts paints of the Jerusalem community, composed in large measure of male disciples from Galilee and of widows, conforms to this broader demographic trend. People in each profile gravitated to urban centers in antiquity anyway, and the story of early Christianity suggests a coalition of marginals (Acts 2:41-47; 5:42–6:6; see also Jas 1:27).90 The tentative nature of these latter suggestions notwithstanding, it is hoped that this paper underscores the social instability of Antipas’s Galilee and shows the value of demography for understanding Jesus in Galilee.

alternative space attractive (Putting Jesus in His Place: A Radical Vision of Household and Kingdom [Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2003]). A good starting point on the ephemeral nature of patriarchy would be the essays in Growing Up Fatherless in Antiquity (ed. Sabine R. Hübner and David M. Ratzan; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). Moreland stresses the importance of household networks (“Jesus Movement in the Villages of Roman Galilee,” 159–80). 88 Scheidel, “Growing up Fatherless in Antiquity: The Demographic Background,” in Hübner and Ratzan, Growing Up Fatherless in Antiquity, 31–40. 89 Typical in this regard is J. Michael Ramsey, “The Itinerant Jesus and His Hometown,” in Authenticating the Activities of Jesus (ed. Bruce Chilton and Craig A. Evans; NTTS 28.2; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 176–93. 90 Along the lines suggested by Reta Halteman Finger, Of Widows and Meals: Communal Meals in the Book of Acts (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2007).

Stories of the Babylonian Talmud Jeffrey L. Rubenstein

Rubenstein continues his grand exploration of the ancient rabbinic tradition of the Talmudic sages, offering deep and complex analysis of eight stories from the Babylonian Talmud to reconstruct the cultural and religious world of the Babylonian rabbinic academy. Rubenstein combines a close textual and literary examination of each story with a careful comparison to earlier versions from other rabbinic compilations. This unique approach provides insight not only into the meaning and content of the current forms of the stories but also into how redactors reworked those earlier versions to address contemporary moral and religious issues. Rubenstein’s analysis uncovers the literary methods used to compose the Talmud and sheds light on the cultural and theological perspectives of the Stammaim—the anonymous editor-redactors of the Babylonian Talmud. $55.00 hardcover

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JBL 129, no. 2 (2010): 367–383

The Name “Iskarioth” (Iscariot) joan e. taylor [email protected] King’s College London, Strand, London, WC2R 2LS, England

Given the recent discovery and publication of the Gnostic Gospel of Judas1 and renewed interest in the historical figure of Judas Iscariot, it may be timely to analyze again the suggestions made concerning the epithet of the betrayer of Jesus. As William Klassen has noted, “the last word has not been said or written about the meaning of this word.”2 There is little scholarly agreement about what exactly the epithet means, despite the etymological explanations offered to account for it.3 Bart D. Ehrman notes that “some of the best scholars have concluded that we simply don’t know what Iscariot means.”4 It is then a little daunting to begin an assess1 The Gospel of Judas (ed. Rodolphe Kasser, Marvin Meyer and Gregor Wurst, with Bart D. Ehrman; 2nd ed.; Washington, DC: National Geographic Society, 2008); The Gospel of Judas: Together with the Letter of Peter to Philip, James, and a Book of Allogenes from Codex Tchacos: Critical Edition (ed. Rudolphe Kasser and Gregor Wurst; Washington DC: National Geographic Society, 2007); see also April D. DeConick, The Thirteenth Apostle: What the Gospel of Judas Really Says (London/New York: Continuum, 2007); Bart D. Ehrman, The Lost Gospel of Judas Iscariot: A New Look at Betrayer and Betrayed (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006); Simon Gathercole, “The Gospel of Judas,” ExpTim 118, no. 5 (February 2007): 209–15; idem, The Gospel of Judas: Rewriting Early Christianity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007); Elaine Pagels and Karen L. King, Reading Judas: The Gospel of Judas and the Shaping of Christianity (New York: Viking, 2007); Nicholas Perrin, The Judas Gospel (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity, 2006); Stanley E. Porter and Gordon L. Heath, The Lost Gospel of Judas: Separating Fact from Fiction (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2007); James M. Robinson, The Secrets of Judas: The Story of the Misunderstood Disciple and His Lost Gospel (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2006); N. T. Wright, Judas and the Gospel of Jesus: Have We Missed the Truth about Christianity? (Grand Rapids: Baker, 2006). 2 Klassen, Judas: Betrayer or Friend of Jesus (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996), 34. 3 See Raymond E. Brown, The Death of the Messiah: From Gethsemane to the Grave: A Commentary on the Passion Narratives in the Four Gospels (ABRL; New York: Doubleday, 1994), 1413– 17; William Klassen, “Judas Iscariot,” ABD 3:1091–96; idem, Judas, 32–34. 4 B. Ehrman, Lost Gospel, 146.

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ment of the arguments thus far proposed. I offer here a suggestion only with considerable caution.

I. The Epithet in the New Testament The name of Jesus’ apostle and betrayer is found as Ἰούδας Ἰσκαριώθ in Mark 3:19 (), B, C, L, Δ, Θ, et al.); 14:10 ()*, B, C*vid); and Luke 6:16 (p4, )*, B, L, 33, Marcion, itd: Inscarioth); as a manuscript variant in Matt 10:4 (C and l150); and as an addition in Luke 22:47 (D, 0171vid, [f1] pc [l]). It appears as Ἰούδας ὁ Ἰσκαριώτης in Matt 10:4 and John 12:4, and as a variant in Mark 3:19 (A, K, W, Π, 0134, f1, f13 et al.); 14:10 (A, C2, K, W, X, Δ, Π, f1 et al.); 14:43; and Luke 6:16 ()c, A, K, W, X, Δ, Θ, Π, Ψ, f1, f13 et al.). In Luke 22:3 it is written that Satan entered Ἰούδαν τὸν καλούμενον Ἰσκαριώτην, and in Matt 26:14 likewise Judas “is called” by this name: ὁ λεγόμενος Ἰούδας Ἰσκαριώτης. In some versions of Mark 14:10—the basis of Matt 26:14 and Luke 22:3—there is a definite article, reading ὁ Ἰσκαριώθ ()c, L, Θ, Ψ, 565, 892); if this reading is original, then it may be that the derivative developments are independent amplifications of this definite article. John 6:71a has ἔλεγεν δὲ τὸν Ἰούδαν Σίμωνος Ἰσκαριώτου, though the manuscript tradition that here has Ἰσκαριώτην (K, Δ, Π, f1, et al.) brings the epithet in line with John 12:4 as relating to Judas rather than his father, a designation also indicated in the reference to a “Judas not the Iscariot” in John 14:22 (οὐχ ὁ Ἰσκαριώτης). Elsewhere in the Fourth Gospel (John 13:2, 26) the name appears as Ἰούδας Σίμωνος Ἰσκαριώτου, prompting clarification in some manuscripts (John 13:2: p66, ), B, W, X; John 13:26: p66, A, K, W, Δ, Π*, f1, f13 et al.). Overall, this appears to indicate that Judas was designated by a Hebrew or Aramaic name transliterated as Ἰσκαριώθ and rendered in Greek form as Ἰσκαριώτης. The manuscripts show more of a tendency to standardize the epithet in Greek form rather than to retrieve or preserve the Hebrew or Aramaic form. The definite article appears as emphasis to distinguish this Judas from others called by the same name, hence the amplifications of Matt 26:14; Luke 22:3; and John 14:22.

II. The Epithet Ἰσκαριώθ/Ἰσκαριώτης: Leading Proposals Several proposals have been made to explain the epithet. The main suggestions that would account for Ἰσκαριώθ and Ἰσκαριώτης are the following:5 5

Minor or very unlikely suggestions are noted in passing by Brown, Death, 1413.

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1. The epithet translates Hebrew twyorq I f #$y)i, 'îš qārîyôt, meaning “a man from Qarioth”, this place being attested in Eusebius, Onom. 120.1; cf. Jer 48:24, 41; Amos 2:2. The interpretation has been supported by Paul Billerbeck, Julius Wellhausen, Donatus Haugg, and Gustaf Dalman.6 As a variant of this proposal, the epithet is taken to mean “a man of towns,” a town-dweller—the town in question being Jerusalem (so Günther Schwartz).7 2. The epithet is a Hebrew or Aramaic version of Latin sicarius, meaning “robber” or “assassin,” from the word sica, meaning “dagger.” This derivation was proposed by Friedrich Schulthess, using a suggestion of Wellhausen, and in particular by Oscar Cullmann.8 This would indicate that Judas was an insurgent. 3. The epithet should be read as meaning “the liar” or “the false one,” perhaps )yFrq : # a ) ;$ ,i from the Aramaic and Hebrew root rq#. This root derivation of the word was suggested by Ernst Wilhelm Hengstenberg, who proposed an underlying Hebrew form MyrIq# F -$; #$y)i, “man of lies,”9 though C. C. Torrey argued for Aramaic.10 This makes it a pejorative epithet applied to Judas by the disciples of Jesus after his betrayal. 4. The epithet is derived from an Aramaic word for “red color,” on the basis of the root rqs, so that it means a “redhead” or “ruddy-colored,” as in Arabic, where šuqra can mean “a ruddy complexion” (so Harald Ingholt),11 or “red dyer,” supposedly saqqara, as Albert Ehrman suggests.12 The most careful argument has been provided by Yoel Arbeitman.13 The reference is then simply to Judas’s employment or appearance. 6

Str-B 1:536–37; Wellhausen, Das Evangelium Marci (Berlin: Georg Reimer, 1903); Haugg, Judas Iskarioth in den neutestamentlichen Berichten (Freiburg: Herder, 1930); and Dalman, JesusJeshua: Studies in the Gospels (trans. Paul Levertoff; London: SPCK, 1929; German orig., 1922). 7 Schwartz, Jesus und Judas: Aramaistische Untersuchungen zur Jesus-Judas-Überlieferung der Evangelien und der Apostelgeschichte (BWANT 123; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1988), 6–12. 8 Schulthess, Das Problem der Sprache Jesus (Zurich: Schulthess, 1917), 41, 55; idem, “Zur Sprache der Evangelien. D. Judas ‘Iskariot,’” ZNW 21 (1922): 20–28; Cullmann, The State in the New Testament (New York: Scribner, 1956), 15; idem, “Der zwölfte Apostel,” in Vorträge und Aufsätze, 1925–1962 (ed. Karlfried Fröhlich; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck; Zurich: Zwingli, 1966), 214– 22; idem, Jesus and the Revolutionaries (trans. Gareth Putnam; New York: Harper & Row, 1970), 21–23. 9 Hengstenberg, Commentary on the Gospel of St. John (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1865), 368. 10 Torrey, “The Name ‘Iscariot,’ ” HTR 36 (1943): 51–62; see also Bertil E. Gärtner, “Judas Iskarioth,” SEÅ 21 (1956): 50–81; idem, Die rätselhaften Termini Nazoräer und Iskariot (Horae Soederblomianae 4; Uppsala: Gleerup, 1957), 4; idem, Iskariot (trans. V. I. Gruhn; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1971; German orig., 1957). 11 Ingholt, “The Surname of Judas Iscariot,” in Studia Orientalia Ioanni Pedersen Septuagenario (Copenhagen: Munksgaard, 1953), 152–62. 12 A. Ehrman, “Judas Iscariot and Abba Saqqara,” JBL 97 (1978): 572–73. 13 Arbeitman, “The Suffix of Iscariot,” JBL 99 (1980): 122–24.

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5. The word comes from either of the Aramaic roots rks or rgs, with a meaning of “to deliver,” on the basis of the LXX translation of Isa 19:4a and targumic parallels (so J.-Alfred Morin).14 The epithet therefore indicates that it was Judas who delivered Jesus to the authorities.

III. Analysis The following assessment of suggestions is provided using a critical method in which it is considered necessary that the following criteria be satisfied: a. The underlying root found within the Greek epithets is either Aramaic or Hebrew. b. The transliterated forms are properly explained, including the initial “i” sound. c. There is some resonance of the meaning in early Christian tradition. d. There is no reliance on textual variants that are merely copyist’s errors or rationalizations. All the suggestions provided over the years satisfy the first criterion, but they tend to break down as other criteria are applied. Many theories founder on an explanation of an initial “i” sound, reflecting the use of a prosthetic aleph in (Mishnaic) Hebrew and Aramaic. They can also break down in some aspect of the letter order or vocalization. The criterion that there be some small resonance of the meaning of the epithet in early Christian texts seems important in order to avoid the assumption that, by the time the Gospels were composed, absolutely no one understood its meaning.15 Since there was in the first century considerable interaction between Aramaic and Greek speakers, evidenced in the NT epistles and the Acts of the Apostles, this assumption simply cannot be right. The final criterion is a difficult one, as we shall see, given that it is hard to decide what textual variant might be an archaic form reflecting an interpretative tradition that was superseded and what might be an innovative rationalization on the part of a copyist. We will need to assess these variants as they appear.

14

Morin, “Les deux derniers des Douze: Simon le Zélote et Judas Iskariôth,” RB 80 (1973):

332–58. 15

Gustaf Dalman (The Words of Jesus [trans. D. M. Kay; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1909], 52) concluded that it is “a very plausible conjecture that Iskarioth was already unintelligible to the evangelists.” But, while they themselves may have been ignorant of Aramaic, it is hard to imagine that no one in their communities had any linguistic skills in regard to this language. Additionally, they were using material that—in terms of oral tradition—had Aramaic strata, as Dalman well knew and found highly interesting.

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1. A Man from Qarioth In favor of this suggestion is the fact that it may possibly be related to an early Western text manuscript tradition relating to the Gospel of John, which might satisfy the final criterion. So, for example, in John 6:71a the f13 family of manuscripts along with the uncorrected )* (Sinaiticus, fourth century) and Θ (Koridethi, ninth century) have ἔλεγεν δὲ τὸν Ἰούδαν Σίμωνος ἀπὸ Καρυώτου. This occurs also in a Greek marginal reading of the Harclean Syriac version. In John 12:4, for Ἰούδας ὁ Ἰσκαριώτης εἷς ἐκ τῶν μαθητῶν αὐτοῦ, D (followed by its Latin part) has εἷς ἐκ τῶν μαθητῶν αὐτοῦ Ἰούδας ἀπὸ Καρυώτου. For John 13:2, D has Ἰούδα Σίμωνος ἀπὸ Καρυώτου; for John 3:26, Ἰούδα Σίμωνος ἀπὸ Καρυώτου; and likewise for John 14:22, Ἰούδας οὐχ ὁ ἀπὸ Καρυώτου. With the original hand of Sinaiticus attesting this interpretation, it must be traced as far back as the fourth century, and this opens up at least the possibility that some ancient tradition is reflected in the copyist’s choice, which would have Judas’s epithet relating to his provenance. A possible reflection of the same interpretation appears to be found in a couple of Latin manuscripts of the Synoptic Gospels so that the name “Cariotha” appears in Mark 3:19 (italic e: Palatinus, fifth century), and “Carioth” in Matt 10:4 (italic aur: Aureus, seventh century), though here there is no preposition and an upsilon would be rendered as Latin i. A Greek tradition that can be traced back to Sinaiticus needs careful consideration. It may be that there was a village named Καρυώθ or Καρυώτ even though there is no exact attestation of such a place in any extant literature. We do not know the names of the vast majority of villages in wider Judea (including Galilee and Perea) in the first century. Eusebius (Onom. 120.1) mentions a town named Καριώθ as being “in the land of Moab, according to Jeremiah,” but he gives no precise location. Jerome’s transliteration of this is “Carioth,” exactly as we find in the Latin Aureus manuscript. The place called twy,ro q I : by Jeremiah (48:24, 41; LXX 31:24, 41: Καριώθ) may indicate Kiriathaim (Num 32:37; cf. Eusebius, Onom. 112.14) located in the vicinity of Madaba, known in Eusebius’s time as Karaiatha (Jerome: Coraiatha), and now identified with Khirbet el-Qureiyat.16 However, if the Moabite town mentioned by Jeremiah is the same as that mentioned in Amos 2:2, it is significant that the LXX translates this word as πόλεις, which indicates no knowledge of a named place. As Brown notes, “there is no evidence that cities mentioned 1,200 to 600 years before were still extant in Judas’ time.”17 This LXX translation is understandable since the Hebrew word hyFr:qi (qiryâ) 16

Palestine in the Fourth Century A.D.: The Onomasticon of Eusebius of Caesarea (ed. Joan E. Taylor; trans. Greville S. P. Freeman-Grenville; indexed by Rupert Chapman III; Jerusalem: Carta, 2003), 140. 17 Brown, Death, 1414.

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means “town” (pl. twy,ro q I ): . In Hebrew the word is commonly used in construct form in compounds to mean “settlements of,” or it can be translated simply as “towns” rather than a place-name. Joshua 15:25 makes mention of NwOrc;xe twOyr, q I ;, but the LXX reads here a construct form so that there is no place called “Qĕrîyot,” but rather “the towns of Aseron.”18 There is another town mentioned by Eusebius (Onom. 114.7) as Kariath (Josh 18:28; Jerome: Cariath). This is identified as a village under the metropolis of Gaba(on), attested also in Onom. 48.22 as Kariathiareim (Tel Qiryat Ye varim, ten miles west of Jerusalem), which means that “Kariath” is actually an abbreviation of its full name. It too disappears in the LXX. Dalman suggested that the name of Judas’s hometown might be Askaroth or Askar, not far from Neapolis,19 but a transliteration would be strained. This is actually the Samaritan town of Sychar, and Judas was not known as a Samaritan. The attestation of an upsilon in the name of the place that Judas came from in the variant manuscript tradition of the Fourth Gospel might give some pause for thought. If Judas was defined as coming ἀπὸ Καρυώτου, was there a place known as Qaruot(h)? As is well known, in the spelling of Mishnaic Hebrew a weak vowel can be unstable and yod could at times be replaced by waw, possibly as a result of common pronunciation from the influence of Aramaic. While in Hebrew the word for “town” is hyFrq : i (qiryâ), one of the words for “town” in Aramaic is )wFrq : i (qirwā ').20 Alternatively, there is a Hebrew word twOyw%rq" (qērûyôt), “pumpkin shells,” which might possibly have given rise to the name of a town, though such an odd name would be strange. However, it is probably more likely that the innovation comes entirely from Greek influence: for example, from the word for “nut” or “walnut,” καρυῶν,21 or “date palm,” καρυοῶτος. In LXX Exod 38:16 (MT 37:19), the word καρυωτά describes part of the lamps on the tabernacle menorah. The Greek copyist may then have thought it appropriate to think of a place named Καρυῶτης, even if no such place existed. While the manuscript tradition that has the epithet indicating Judas’s provenance indicates a desire by a certain early Christian copyist to furnish a reason for the unusual epithet, it does not necessarily provide us with a solution. As Brown notes, it was probably “all part of an ancient guess that Iskarioth contained a geographical designation.”22 There are various reasons why Brown’s assessment is undoubtedly correct. To begin with, manuscripts alter the first two letters of Judas’s epithet into a preposition in order to make the identification. Commentators who support the “man of Qarioth” interpretation, however, suggest that these two letters reflect Hebrew #y), 18

Ibid. Dalman, Sacred Sites and Ways: Studies in the Topography of the Gospels (trans. Paul Levertoff; London: SPCK, 1935), 213. 20 Jastrow, 1412. 21 Torrey, “Name,” 55. 22 Brown, Death, 1412. 19

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citing the case of 2 Sam 10:6, 8, where “a man of Tob” (bw+ #y)) is rendered in the LXX as Ἰστωβ. However, the Hebrew was probably originally a personal name rather than a description, since it appears as such in the LXX, the Syriac translations, Josephus (Ant. 7.121), and the Vulgate, as well as in 4QSama (4Q51), where it appears as bw+#y[)],23 making it not quite right as a descriptive analogy. In 2 Sam 2:8, 10; 3:8, 14; 4:8, 12, there is a son of Saul named t#b #y), originally l(b #y),24 but his name is given in the Greek manuscripts as Ἰεβοσθέ or Εἰσβααλ (reflecting the original), in both cases with the long i represented by a Greek dipthong rather than a simple iota. Also, Dalman noted numerous instances of the use of the “a man of ” expression in rabbinic literature to indicate provenance,25 but he did not address the issue of how these would be rendered into Greek. In Greek the expression would really be better rendered as a relative pronoun, as Brown observes,26 as in the case of “Philip who was from Bethsaida”: Φιλίππῳ τῷ ἀπὸ Βηθσαϊδά (John 12:21). This might support a case for the variant manuscript reading, but then how could something so straightforward have been forgotten? As an epithet, a simple Greek way of indicating a man from Qarioth would have been Καριώτης. A literal phrase that would designate a man from a particular town as “a man of X,” reflecting Hebrew, is not found elsewhere in the NT. Moreover, even if it were, it would be peculiar if Hebrew #y) were used rather than Aramaic )rbg (gabrā ') or #n) ('ĕnāš), if the Aramaic-speaking disciples really were just referring to Judas as “man of Qaruoth/Qarioth.” As Torrey noted, “If the epithet was merely a designation of the place from which this Judas came, the employment of a mystifying transliteration instead of the simple ὁ ἀπό (as e.g. in John 12.21 and 21. 2) would be very strange indeed!”27 The variant manuscripts provide too simple an explanation, given the mystification. Furthermore, if the epithet were indicative of provenance, we might expect someone to rue the shame of the town from which Judas came. The tradition that has ἀπὸ Καρυώτου for Ἰσκαριώτου is not difficult to understand as a mere copyist’s error, combined with an impulse to read the epithet as something comprehensible. Given the nature of uncial manuscripts, with no gaps between words and the breaking of words for columns: ΑΠΟΚΑΡΥΩΤΟΥ for ΙCΚΑΡΙΩΤΟΥ could be read from faded letters of an old manuscript, in which the alpha and parts of pi and omicron have disappeared. Therefore, while it looks as if we have a resonance of meaning in early Christian tradition, the textual variant does not indicate more than an attempt to read the epithet in a way that made sense, when it was not actually understood at the time the variant first appeared. 23

See John Zhu-En Wee, “Maacah and Ish-Tob,” JSOT 30 (2005): 191–99. On the basis of 1 Chr 8:33; 9:39: l(ab# a^% ;$)e and the El Amarna letter 256, where the name is Mutbaal, “man of Baal.” The Peshitta here conflates the name into Ishbashoul. 25 Dalman, Jesus-Jeshua, 25–26. 26 Brown, Death, 1414. 27 Torrey, “Name,” 53. 24

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Günther Schwartz’s argument that the Aramaic word )tfy:r:qi or equivalent refers to the city of Jerusalem in the Targums has been dismissed by Brown as relying on evidence that is too late.28 But since contemporary first-century Palestinian Jewish Aramaic evidence is scarce, and since language can remain reasonably consistent over several centuries, we are justified in looking to somewhat later or earlier periods for our evidence, and to dialects other than Palestinian Jewish Aramaic, as well as to Mishnaic Hebrew, in which Aramaic influence was strong. The synchronicity of the evidence is not significant in this case, but rather it is a combination of Hebrew #y) and Aramaic )tyrq that does not seem highly probable. The point about the Aramaic language of Jesus’ disciples is also one that needs to be stressed. While Mishnaic Hebrew is useful as a pointer to the Jewish Palestinian Aramaic of Jesus’ day, it is not very likely that the Galilean disciples of Jesus themselves spoke Hebrew. Hebrew is associated with the traditional, small territory of Judea and the city of Jerusalem, where the preservation of the national tongue was possibly linked with a desire to maintain religious and cultural identity.29 While Hebrew probably did remain a spoken language in the first century,30 it was not the language of Galilee or the surrounding regions and most likely had a special religious and nationalistic significance in terms of the south (Judea of old).31 This is not to say that the epithet of Judas could on no account be Hebrew, but that, if it were Hebrew, that would have a special significance in terms of how Judas is imagined; he would be the only known “southerner,” from Judea, apart

28

G. Schwartz, Jesus und Judas, 6–12; Brown, Death, 1414. Seth Schwartz, “Language, Power and Identity,” Past and Present 148 (1995): 21–31. 30 So Moses H. Segal, “Mishnaic Hebrew and Its Relation to Biblical Hebrew and to Aramaic,” JQR 20 (1908): 647–737; William Chomsky, “What Was the Jewish Vernacular during the Second Commonwealth?” JQR 42 (1951): 193–212; Jehoshua M. Grintz, “Hebrew as the Spoken and Written Language in the Last Days of the Second Temple Period,” JBL 79 (1960): 32–47; cf. Chaim Rabin, “The Historical Background of Qumran Hebrew,” in Aspects of the Dead Sea Scrolls (ed. Chaim Rabin and Yigael Yadin; ScrHier 4; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1958), 144–61; idem, “Hebrew and Aramaic in the First Century,” in The Jewish People in the First Century: Historical Geography, Political History, Social, Cultural and Religious Life and Institutions (ed. S. Safrai and M. Stern; 2 vols.; CRINT 1; Assen: Van Gorcum, 1976), 2:1007–39; James Barr, “Hebrew, Aramaic and Greek in the Hellenistic Age,” in The Cambridge History of Judaism, vol. 2, The Hellenistic Age (ed. W. D. Davies and Louis Finkelstein; Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1989), 79–114. 31 The fact that the overwhelming majority of nonbiblical manuscripts found in or near Qumran are written in Hebrew reflects an ideology in which Hebrew was to be employed as an eschatological ideal, since the Qumran fragment 4Q464 frg. 8 refers to the “holy tongue” that will be restored in the eschaton, when the people become again “pure of speech” (line 9). This is linked with the Testament of Judah (25:1–3), where likewise the one people of the Lord will speak one language. In Jub. 12:25–27, Hebrew is the “language of the creation”; see Michael Stone and Esther Eshel, “The Holy Language at the End of Days in Light of a Qumran Fragment” (in Hebrew), Tarbiz 62 (1993–94): 169–77; Steve Weitzman, “Why Did the Qumran Community Write in Hebrew?” JAOS 119 (1999): 35–45. 29

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from Jesus himself, whose family origins were in Bethlehem of Judea (Matt 1:18– 2:23). Rather, the language of Galilee—and Jesus himself—appears to have been Aramaic.32

2. Sicarius Latin sicarius is found as a loanword in Greek as σικάριος, which is amply attested in Josephus (J.W. 2.254, 452; 4.400, 516; 7.253, 254, 262, 275, 297, 311, 410, 412, 415, 437, 444; Ant. 20.186, 204, 208, 210; cf. Acts 21:38), indicating a murderer who used a dagger known as a sica. The term is found also in rabbinic literature in Aramaic as NyrIqfysi (sîqārîn, “assassins,” masc. pl.).33 However, in the case of Ἰσκαριώθ, the transliteration indicates that an initial aleph would have to be placed at the beginning of the word. When there were two consonants sounded together (sk-, st-, etc.) it was not uncommon in Aramaic and Mishnaic Hebrew for there to be an insertion of a prosthetic aleph, especially in the case of loanwords, for example, )lft;w%qs;)i for σκοῦτλον, scutella (L.), a type of salver, or )pfqfs;)i for σκάφη, scapha (L.), a kind of light boat,34 but in NyrIqyf si there is a long i-vowel (yod) between the samek and the qoph, so there is no need for a prosthetic aleph.35 In addition, the Aramaic word is masculine, but the transliteration Ἰσκαριώθ would appear to reflect a Hebrew feminine plural ending, -ôt, or else an Aramaic nominal feminine form -ûtā; there is no way to get to these from the masculine loanword.

3. Liar In Jewish Babylonian Aramaic, the word “liar” appears as )rF)q%# f a$ and )rFq# f% ,a$ 36 while in Syriac shaqqara ' has the same meaning, and shaqqaroutha ' is the condition of “falsehood, perjury.”37 In Torrey’s proposal for an Aramaic form meaning 32 See Esther Eshel and Douglas R. Edwards, “Language and Writing in Early Roman Galilee: Social Location of Potter’s Abecedary from Khirbet Qana,” in Religion and Society in Roman Palestine: Old Questions, New Approaches (ed. Douglas R. Edwards; New York/London: Routledge, 2004), 49–55. See also Mark A. Chancey’s discussions about Aramaic as the lingua franca of firstcentury Galilee, against a view that stresses the prevalence of Greek: Chancey, Greco-Roman Culture and the Galilee of Jesus (SNTSMS 134; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), esp. 122–59; idem, “The Epigraphic Habit of Hellenistic and Roman Galilee,” in Religion, Ethnicity, and Identity in Ancient Galilee: A Region in Transition (ed. Jürgen Zangenberg, Harold W. Attridge, and Dale B. Martin; WUNT 210; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 83–98. 33 Jastrow, 986. 34 Ibid., 97. 35 Brown, Death, 1415. 36 Michael Sokoloff, A Dictionary of Jewish Palestinian Aramaic of the Byzantine Period (2nd ed.; Ramat Gan: Bar Ilan University Press; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002), 1177. 37 Jessie Payne Smith, A Compendious Syriac Dictionary (Oxford: Clarendon, 1903), 568, 595.

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“liar” he adds an aleph at the beginning of the word to make the form )yFr:qa#$;)i ('išqaryā').38 This form not attested in the lexica, nor is it necessary to attach a prosthetic aleph to the word, since there is no consonantal clash with the doubling of the qoph following a short i-vowel. The proposed word might be transliterated into Greek as Ἰσκάρια, but this does not give us an exact correspondence with Ἰσκαριώθ. Torrey notes that, while ώθ was indeed the usual Greek transliteration for the Hebrew feminine plural endng twO- (-ôt), “in the oldest versions, the Syriac and the Latin, the name in the two passages in Mark, and in Luke 6:16 as well, is found to end in -ot, not -oth!”39 Torrey argues that the final -ώθ of the Greek transliteration is a corruption, while the form Ἰσκαριώτης is created by adding ώτης to a substantive ending in -iâ. For example, one can from Σικελία (Sicily) derive the word Σικελιώτης, a Sicilian Greek, someone associated with Sicily (not a Sicilian, which is just Σικελός), and so on. But in order to create a iota before the ending in a Greek transliteration Torrey has to propose that the Aramaic word is a masculine singular noun in its absolute form, when the Greek words ending in ώτης are associated with a larger entity, showing a linked relationship with that larger entity, often to a place. Thus, for the analogy to work, a Greek word would need to be created from the Aramaic for “falseness, deceit,” thereby “a false one.” From the closest Aramaic parallel, the best we can get is σικραώτης in accordance with this principle of grammar, avoiding an unnecessary prosthetic aleph. This is not “Iskarioth.” Torrey’s point probably has more relevance in terms of the explanation of Judas’s epithet as indicating provenance. It is suggested by Torrey that the epithet was not a name used of Judas during his lifetime but rather was a designation made by the early Aramaic-speaking church. But it seems odd that the word was not clearly translated into Greek if it was important to refer to Judas as “the liar.” After all, Greek speakers sought to understand Aramaic expressions used by Jesus and his disciples and noted these (e.g., Mark 3:17; 5:41; 7:34; 14:36; 15:34; Luke 16:9–13; cf. Matt 6:24; John 1:42; 20:16; Acts 9:36). Moreover, as Brown notes, “one may wonder about a sobriquet that had little resemblance to what Judas did—no New Testament account has Judas lie about Jesus.”40 The word based on Aramaic rqa#; (“to lie”) has the sense of betrayal in Samaritan Aramaic,41 though this is not attested in the extant material of other regional dialects. Relevant or not, the forgetting of the meaning of an epithet with such negative import as “false man” or “liar” would be remarkable; we would surely expect to find it alluded to in the Fourth Gospel, where the dichotomy of truth and falsehood is a major theme. 38

Torrey, “Name,” 55. Ibid. 40 Brown, Death, 1416. 41 Abraham Tal, A Dictionary of Samaritan Aramaic (Handbook of Oriental Studies 1: The Near and Middle East 50; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 929. 39

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4. Red-haired or Red-hued Arbeitman suggests that the form Ἰσκαριώτης gives the best indication of an underlying Aramaic original and argues that the -της ending was added to an Aramaic word to create a hybrid already in the bilingual (Greek-Aramaic) Palestinian church, a hybrid that could be truncated only to a -τ, which was then written down as -θ in the Gospels because it was followed by words with rough breathing that aspirated the sound.42 The central ιω is accounted for because “representations of the phonetics of a donor language in a recipient language are not always either consistent or exact,” and therefore the -a in Aramaic was simply rendered inaccurately. The prosthetic aleph was added to a stem because the “inordinate length of the hybrid word with four syllables gave rise to elision of the vowel farthest from the accent,” thereby creating a clash of syllables which necessitated its addition. Arbeitman’s ingenious argumentation may well account for an Aramaic word being made into a hybrid Greek word, but it rests fundamentally on a reading of Abba Saqqara’s name being derived from the word “red”—as A. Ehrman suggests— even though the root rqs is not attested in Jewish Palestinian Aramaic in rabbinic sources.43 It is attested in Jewish Babylonian Aramaic, where there is a form meaning “red dye/paint,” )tfr:qas;.44 In fact, one needs to make this a little more specific because the red coloration is not a general one but is related specifically to rock lichen, )rFqy; si, which is attested in Palestinian sources as a dye.45 Arbeitman’s grammatical explanations are difficult to fault, except that to have the Aramaic ending of aleph (-a) transliterated as ιω is too loose. It is not impossible that a designation of Judas according to color was made, given the parallel of Acts 13:1, Συμεὼν ὁ καλούμενος Νίγερ, but ultimately there seems no reason for such a designation to have been forgotten or misunderstood. If the epithet represented Judas’s red hair or ruddy complexion, the symbolism of this could have been drawn out in early Christian literature, and this is a relatively late inconographical convention.

5. Betrayer/One who Hands Over In Mark 14:44 and Matt 26:48, Judas is referred to explicitly as “the betrayer,” or more literally “the one who gives over,” ὁ παραδιδούς, and it would be a neat 42

Arbeitman, “Suffix of Iscariot,” 122–24; Α. Ehrman, “Judas,” 572–73 See Sokoloff, Jewish Palestinian Aramaic. A dictionary of Qumran Aramaic is yet to appear, and it must be said that there remains much that is unknown in terms of the Aramaic forms of language common in wider Judea in the first century. 44 Michael Sokoloff, A Dictionary of Jewish Babylonian Aramaic of the Talmudic and Geonic Periods (Ramat Gan: Bar Ilan University Press; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002), 829. 45 For which, see Jastrow, 986. 43

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equation if this meaning represented the Semitic word rendered Iskarioth. It is therefore intriguing that Morin finds a method whereby this equation might hold.46 His argument is based on the LXX translation of Isa 19:4a. The MT reads: yti%r:k%asiw: h#e $qf Mynid&)j dyAb%; MyIrAc;mi-t)e, which is given in the LXX as: Καὶ παραδώσω τὴν Αἴγυπτον εἰς χεῖρας ἄνθρωπων, κυρίων σκληρῶν, “And I will deliver Egypt into the hands of men, of cruel lords.” The problem is that the root rks in the pivel is found in this form only in Isa 19:4a, with the metaphorical sense of “deliver.” Elsewhere rks in the qal consistently means “to dam, stop, choke,” a meaning found also in the cognate Aramaic form rkas;. In Aramaic, the intensive form pavel, which corresponds to Hebrew pi vel, has exactly the same meaning as the Hebrew qal.47 In the Hebrew text of Isa 19:4a, it seems that there is imagery at work that entails Egypt being choked by the power/hand of a harsh king—hence the metaphorical sense of being “delivered” into his hand and then strangled. Nevertheless, the LXX has not retained this imagery but rather explains it. In other words, the LXX may not alert us to a distinctive meaning of ytrks at all, but may offer an interpretation of it. There are other words that could have been used if it was important to call Judas “the one who handed over” or “the betrayer” in this way. For example, in Hebrew the verb rsm can be used specifically of surrendering someone to the authorities.48 In the Syriac version, the word translating ὁ παραδιδούς is )NML$M (mashlemānā ') from the root Ml#.49 Furthermore, even if the pi vel form yti%r:k%asi really might mean “hand over,” the active participle that would create a possible meaning “the one handing over” would be rk'^%sam.; This does not get us to Iskarioth. To make the case stronger, the emphasis is placed on a Hebrew root that has some similarities, namely, rgs, which in the hipvil form rygis;hi can mean “deliver, hand over,” as in Sifre Deut. 323. However, Brown notes that “while g in Semitic can be rendered by a k in Greek, a rendering by g would be more normal. Moreover, one would have to assume that no New Testament author recognized that Iskarioth rendered the idea of giving Jesus over.”50 Indeed, why is it never mentioned in any early Christian writing that Iskarioth simply means “the betrayer,” given that this would make such good sense? Furthermore, finding a possible root is one thing, but we are still left with difficulties of the initial iota (indicating an aleph) and the ending.

46

Morin, “Les deux derniers,” 340–58. Jastrow, 992–93. 48 This resonance is found without the pejorative connotations in numerous cases illustrated in Jastrow, 810–11. 49 Jastrow, 1586. 50 Brown, Death, 1415. 47

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IV. A New (Old) Proposal Let us remember now that, among Greek speakers, Ἰοὐδας [ὁ] Ἰσκαριώθ/ Ἰσκαριώτης could be designated simply by the epithet alone, as ὁ Ἰσκαριώτης (Matt 10:4; John 12:4; 14:22), without the forename, that might lead to confusion. Judas was “called” Ἰσκαριώτης (Matt 26:14; Luke 22:3), but no translation of the epithet is offered anywhere in the Gospels and Acts. It seems to mean something that distinguished him from any other Judas. Building on Morin, it may be that a better way to account for the Hebrew or Aramaic root rks in the epithet of Judas is to consider its primary meaning, with the implication of “to choke,” “to stop up.” This has the huge benefit of ancient accreditation: Origen was apparently familiar with an interpretation of the epithet in “Hebrew” (by which he meant Mishnaic Hebrew or Palestinian Jewish Aramaic) that indicated that the root rks lay behind the epithet forms in Greek (Comm. Matt. 35).51 It is to be remembered that Origen (185–254 c.e.) was extremely interested in Hebrew and lived in Caesarea Maritima after 231, learning much about local things. Origen’s words, preserved only in Latin translation, are as follows: Audivi quemdam exponentem patriam proditoris Judae secundum interpretationem Hebraicam exsuffocatum vocari. I have heard a certain native [Palestinian] proposal following a Hebrew interpretation —the betrayer Judas (is) to be named “suffocated.”

The “ex” attached to the Latin word suffocatus (a perfect passive participle, masculine singular) intensifies the basic meaning of suffoco, “throttle, choke, stifle, strangle, suffocate.” Interestingly, long ago John Lightfoot pointed to the Hebrew word )rFk%fs;),a “choking,” as “Iscara,” the term lying behind Iskarioth.52 Jastrow cites numerous instances, and has recorded that this word is found also in Mishnaic Hebrew/Aramaic (fem.) as )yFrk : s @^a ) ; ,,i with the inclusion of an important yod prior to the final aleph.53 The prosthetic aleph—vocalized with an “i” sound—here attaches itself rightly to a basic form with the consonants “sk” sounded together, so this satisfies the grammatical requirement for its appearance. Of course, it is not absolutely necessary that it appear in all cases where the word is used, since it is essentially an

51Ibid., 1413, though no reference is cited. The Latin version of the text may be found at PG 13:895, p. 1727. 52 See b. Ber. 8a; b. Tavan. 27b, translated by Lightfoot as “estrangulament” or “angina” (“Hebrew and Talmudical Exercitations upon the Gospel of St. Matthew,” in The Whole Works of the Rev. John Lightfoot, Master of Catharine Hall, Cambridge [ed. John R. Pitman; 13 vols.; London: J. F. Dove, 1822–25], 11:172). This is noted by Brown (Death, 1413). 53 Jastrow, 94, without citations.

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aid to pronunciation, which probably had regional variants.54 For example, in the Aramaic dialect of Syriac the prosthetic aleph is not found in derivatives of this root, while in Mishnaic Hebrew and Aramaic it is found. Origen himself did not employ the initial “i” sound of the epithet in his commentary on Matthew. The Latin text here reads Scariota. This is an important variant, as it reflects a form that sits well not only with Mishnaic Hebrew and Aramaic, but also with Syriac. The Peshitta has )+wYrKS (sekaryouta') consistently as the epithet for Judas, for both forms as found in Greek. This Syriac spelling of the epithet is reflected also in the fifth-century Bezae (D) manuscript of the Synoptics along with a swathe of early Latin versions (as well as others), which lose the initial iota of Iskarioth in Mark 3:19 to have Σκαριώθ (Latin Scarioth, Scariothen, Scariotha); in Mark 14:10 to read Σκαριώτης (Latin Scarioth, Schariothe, Scariotha); in Luke 6:16 to read Σκαριώθ (Latin Scarioth; Armenian Scariota; Georgian Skarioten); or in Matt 10:4, Σκαριώτης (Latin Scarioth, Scariota). However, the Peshitta chooses not to make the connection with sekar, “stop up” (in Syriac) explicit, since in Matt 27:5 the verb used is hienaq, “strangle,” which clarifies the means of Judas’s death in accordance with the standard understanding of the early church. One must ask, though, whether this tradition, which drops the Greek iota in line with the Syriac, may have come about as the result of manuscript error. There are several other mistakes in the wider manuscript tradition of Judas’s epithet, for example Ἰσκαιώθ in the version of the tenth-century Lectionary 150 for Mark 3:19, or Inscarioth for the Latin part of the Bezae for Luke 6:16. The Marcan fragment of the Freer Gospels from the fifth century loses the middle iota in having Ἰσκαρώτης in the variant tradition of Mark 3:19 and loses a final sigma of the epithet in John 13:2. None of these can really be a basis for an explanation of the meaning of the epithet; they are isolated instances. The loss of a preliminary iota is an easy slip in both Greek and Latin, and also in Syriac Serta script in the case of aleph, where the initial vowel is represented by a single stroke. Yet, while this may account for a single mistake here and there, the standardization of the Syriac epithet for Judas and its repeated appearance as a variant make it count as much more than a simple error. If it was a rationalization it is curious that in itself it is not explicable; it is explicable only with Origen’s alternative etymology and to Syriac speakers, who could distinguish within this form the obvious root. 54

For example, Latin scortea is found in rabbinic writings as both )yF+;r:wOqsy)i, and )yF+;r:wOqs; (Jastrow, 1019). This word was also proposed by Lightfoot as a possible basis for Iskarioth (“Hebrew and Talmudical Exercitations,” 172). The plural would be twOy+;rw: q O s;y)i, isqortyoth. The scortea was a kind of leather coat or apron, and Lightfoot speculated that perhaps it was worn by Judas if he had a purse sewn in where communal money was deposited (cf. John 12:6; 13:29). However, the transliteration into Greek of the plural form would have been Ἰσκορτιώθ, which is just too different a form from the word we need.

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The Syriac root skr can be found in various nominal forms, so that sekiroutha' (fem.) is, for example, a “stopping” of the ears.55 Given the evidence of Mishnaic Hebrew, Syriac, and Jewish Aramaic, an Aramaic form )tfw y@ r:ks f ; or )tf wy@ r:ks @^f ) ; i would be possible, a feminine noun applying to a state or condition. But in terms of the form of Judas’s epithet, the Peshitta pointedly uses a teth rather than a tau as the second to last letter, so that we do not have a feminine ending -outha. Rather, this is a masculine that looks like an accommodation to Greek-speaking Christian norms, since in Syriac the teth invariably transliterates Greek tau in words ending in -της. What the Christian Aramaic dialect of Syriac gives at the beginning—the root verb lying behind the epithet “Iskarioth”—it takes away at the end, accommodating itself to Greek. Conversely, Greek could transliterate Hebrew and Aramaic (soft) tau with a teth. Gennesareth (cf. Hebrew trnk) in the Gospels is rendered with a final Greek tau rather than a theta for Hebrew taw: Γεννησαρέτ (Matt 14:34; Mark 6:53; Luke 5:1), and by Eusebius in declinable form: πρὸς τη Γεννησαρίτιδι λίμνη (Onom. 58.11) and τὴν Γεννησαρίτην λίμνη (Onom. 120.28). As Arbeitman has rightly noted, we are in some fashion dealing with a Greek-Aramaic hybrid. However, it seems to me that Arbeitman drops far too much of the original ending in removing the tau or teth and creating an aleph out of two vowels. That the word “Iskarioth” originally designated a noun with a feminine ending -outha seems likely given the transliterated form. This kind of feminine noun ending -outha would apply to a state or condition, among other things: meaning “chokiness,” “blockage,” “constriction” (thus also implying “suffocation”). That an Aramaic feminine noun is used as an epithet for one of Jesus’ disciples is of course not a problem, since Simon was known by the epithet )pfk',% “rock,” which is likewise a feminine noun.56 These are descriptive terms that are not dependent on the masculine subject to which they relate. Jesus apparently designated a number of his disciples by epithets. The other Simon is [ὁ] Καναναῖος (Matt 10:4; Mark 3:19), “called the Zealot” (Luke 6:15; cf. Acts 1:12), indicating N)anFqa,“zealous one”).57 For the sons of Zebedee, called Boanerges, Βοανηργής (Mark 3:17), the epithet probably transliterates Aramaic “sons of noise,” )#$fgFr: yn"b.; Jesus’ other apostle named Judas (Matt 10:3; Mark 3:18; Luke 6:15) was called “the twin” (John 11:16; 14:22; 20:24; 21:2) in Aramaic )mfwO)t%;, hence Thomas. Differentiating the two disciples named Judas would have been very important. Judas “Iskarioth” would also be distinguished from Jesus’ brother (Matt 13:55 and par.). The Judas who betrayed Jesus was not defined as such by his epithet; he was distinguished by it. He was “Judas, the [one called] Iskarioth,” as opposed to any other. What then remains of any reflection on the meaning of Judas’s epithet in the tradition of the early church, in terms of stories, puns, or memory? It appears that 55

Payne Smith, Dictionary, 377. Jastrow, 634–35. 57 Cf. Jastrow, 1388, 1390–91. In Hebrew a similar word, y)n%aqa, in the plural came to refer to “the zealots, the terrorists during the siege of Jerusalem by the Romans” (Jastrow, 1388). 56

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if Judas was known in some way as “chokiness” or “constriction,” there would be a correlation extremely early in the tradition in terms of speculation about the means of his death. It is not my purpose here to reconcile what appear to be two contradictory accounts of Judas’s death, a contradiction that has been much discussed. Rather, I want to note that both written versions could derive from a story focusing on Judas choking, each one modifying (and vastly abbreviating) the story in different ways. Matthew 27:5 has ἀπελθὼν ἀπήγξατο: “[Judas] went out and choked/strangled (himself).” The translation “choked” is an appropriate alternative given the middle form of the of the verb ἀπάγχω used here, ἀπήγξατο, though “strangled/hanged himself ” is the usual understanding. In Acts 1:18, Peter tells the assembly of disciples: πρηνὴς γενόμενος ἐλάκησεν μέσος, καὶ ἐξεχύθη πάντα τὰ σπλάγχνα αὐτοῦ, “Falling flat on his face, he made a violent noise in the middle, and all his insides poured out.” The word λάσκω does not really mean “burst open,” despite the usualness of this translation, but rather it ordinarily indicates making a sharp sound, like a clanging bell, a crash when something is hit, a howl or a shriek,58 hence my translation here of “made a violent noise.” This description could also represent a loud, noisy cough or choke, or the belching sound preceding a vomit. The extremely horrible image may depict Judas as having a coughing, choking, and vomiting fit in which he coughs up all his insides, though the traditional view is that he split open—and clearly the text allows, if not promotes, this understanding. In other words, both canonical stories of Judas’s death can be read as developed reflections on the idea of Judas choking, which would indicate early speculations on an epithet that in some way meant “chokiness” or “constriction”: )tfwy@ r:ks @^a ) ; ,i Iskarioutha. In the case of Acts, it is as if everything Judas is stopped up with pours out. It seems very unlikely that the epithet in fact derives from the manner of his death, so that it was applied only afterwards. The epithets of the apostles are strongly linked with the time of Jesus’ ministry, so the reason for Judas being designated in this way would be derivative of something in his character or physical state, as in the case of the other disciples named by Jesus with fitting epithets. He was distinguished from other men named Judas by this means. From the epithet then came the stories of death, not the other way around. Moreover, there was another version of Judas’s death recorded by the secondcentury bishop Papias of Hierapolis that required Judas to live somewhat longer, and here—though it is not explicitly stated—he also appears “stopped up” in a way that leads him to bulge hugely, while succumbing to various diseases.59 “He became 58

LSJ, 1031. The original opinion of Papias is distinguished by Arie W. Zwiep (Judas and the Choice of Matthias: A Study on Context and Concern of Acts 1:15–26 [WUNT 2/187; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2004], 110–25) from a careful analysis of the citations of Papias in Apollinaris of Laodicea, Catena in Evangelium S. Matthiae and Catena in Acta SS Apostolorum. 59

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so bloated in the flesh that he could not pass through a place that was easily made wide enough for a wagon, his body being engorged with foulness” (Papias, Exposition of the Sayings of the Lord 3).60 All these stories would derive from the earliest Aramaic-speaking Christians’ speculations based on the epithet: a man called “chokiness” or “constriction” would have to have a death appropriate to his name. The Syriac form of Judas’s epithet still retains a clue to the original Aramaic of Jesus’ time, but, as time went on, for most of the church the meaning was lost. The final attestation of this ancient understanding of the epithet is found in the writings of Origen, who notes a “Hebrew” definition meaning exsuffocatus, )tfw@yr:kas;. It was the keen eye of Lightfoot who noticed the significance of this. In conclusion, by the criteria outlined above, perhaps there is a solution to the problem of this epithet “Iskarioth.” As has long been recognized, there is no simple, attested word in the current lexica that will explain it, and we must create one out of the relics of lost language. While absolute exactitude may elude us, it is possible to define the root lying within this Aramaic term, by reference to the later Syriac form. The whole form of the transliterated word may be explained, including the initial “i”, and the ending requiring the feminine -outha that relates to a state or condition. There is a resonance of the meaning in very early Christian tradition in the variant stories that describe the manner of Judas’s death as indicating that he choked/strangled, or spewed/burst, or bulged to a great degree, all notions that could derive from a word with the root rks and encompassing this range of meanings. In addition, in this proposal there is no reliance on textual variants that are likely to be only copyist’s errors or rationalizations, but a focus rather on textual variants that reflect the impact of a Syriac version of the epithet or even the influence of those who knew “Hebrew,” such as the Palestinian Christians who discussed the matter with Origen. 60 Bart Ehrman, The Apostolic Fathers, vol. 2, Letter of Barnabas. Papias and Quadratus. Epistle to Diognetus. The Shepherd of Hermas (LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press; London: Heinemann, 2003), 103–6.

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JBL 129, no. 2 (2010): 385–407

The Narrator as “He,” “Me,” and “We”: Grammatical Person in Ancient Histories and in the Acts of the Apostles william sanger campbell [email protected] The College of St. Scholastica, Duluth, MN 55805

Despite the relatively modest extent of first person plural narration in the Acts of the Apostles, the so-called “we” passages have influenced the understanding of Acts far beyond what the narrative space they occupy would seem to justify.1 The primary reason for the disproportionate weight given the “we” passages has been the conviction that they offer eyewitness testimony concerning persons, events, and speeches and, therefore, that they provide a window to the circumstances of Paul’s mission and to the historical development of the early church. As C. K. Barrett notes, the first person plural in Acts “prima facie suggests that the story is being told by one who was present.”2 This article is taken from my book, The “We” Passages in the Acts of the Apostles: The Narrator as Narrative Character (SBL Studies in Biblical Literature 14; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2007), esp. ch. 2. Material from the book is used by permission of the Society of Biblical Literature. 1 The “we” passages account for approximately 12 percent of the total Acts narrative (120 verses out of 1,006 total verses), though their exact number and extent are a matter of debate. I argue for three passages (16:10–17; 20:5–21:18; 27:1–28:16). Others, however, consider 20:5–15 and 21:1–18 to be separate first person plural passages and, therefore, count four “we” passages (e.g., Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Acts of the Apostles: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [AB 31; New York: Doubleday, 1998], 50; idem, Luke the Theologian: Aspects of His Teaching [New York: Paulist, 1989], 3). Still others argue for five passages, with separate passages in 27:1–29 and 28:1–16 as well as 20:5–15 and 21:1–18 (e.g., Stanley E. Porter, The Paul of Acts: Essays in Literary Criticism, Rhetoric, and Theology [WUNT 115; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999], 28–33). 2 Barrett, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Acts of the Apostles (2 vols.; ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1994, 1998), 2:xxv; see also 2:xxvii.

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The shift in grammatical person from third person (the grammatical person employed throughout most of Acts for nondiscourse narration) to first person plural in Acts has presented perennial interpretive problems, however. The narrator does not provide an explanation for the change from third person to first person plural, and the rationale for the shift is not obvious from the narrative context of the passages. In other words, the narrator does not say that at these points he has entered events personally, nor does the story itself suggest that this is the case.3 First person plural narration simply appears at certain points in the book, suddenly and seemingly without reason, and then just as abruptly disappears. The proposals offered to account for the enigmatic application of first person plural in Acts can be grouped into four general categories: (1) the author shifted his writing style to first person plural or added first person plural to a source document to indicate that he was present at certain events (author-as-eyewitness); (2) the author retained first person plural from or added it to a source document because the source was present at those events (source-as-eyewitness); (3) the author occasionally shifted to first person plural style, but neither he nor his sources were there (fictional eyewitness); or (4) the author adopted first person plural where literary considerations demanded it (conventional eyewitness). The most widely accepted solutions to the intermittent use of first person plural style in Acts have been the first two categories (author-as-eyewitness and sourceas-eyewitness). Both argue that this grammatical practice indicates the presence of a historical eyewitness to the events narrated and focus on who the eyewitness might have been—either the author or the author’s source—a view that continues to dominate interpretation of the “we” passages.4 Acts in general and the “we” passages in particular, however, have proven stubbornly resistant to traditional historical-critical investigation, including historical-critical literary analysis (source, 3

The literary relationship between narrator and author is complex, but suffice it to say that the two are not identical. Simply put, the author is the story writer and the narrator is the storyteller. By “author,” therefore, I mean the individual responsible for the overall production of the Acts narrative, in all likelihood combining his own composition with his work as redactor or editor of traditions and other sources. In adopting the masculine personal pronoun for the author, I accept Loveday C. A. Alexander’s assessment that “the author of the two works is more likely to have been male than female. If this assumption is wrong, I beg her pardon” (The Preface to Luke’s Gospel: Literary Convention and Social Context in Luke 1.1–4 and Acts 1.1 [SNTSMS 78; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993], 2 n. 2). On the other hand, the narrator is a character in the story for whom masculine pronouns are more apt because the masculine form of the participle παρηκολουθηκότι (“having followed”) used in Luke 1:3 indicates that this character is indeed male (Gregory E. Sterling, Historiography and Self-Definition: Josephos, Luke-Acts and Apologetic Historiography [NovTSup 64; Leiden: Brill, 1992], 326; Robert C. Tannehill, Luke [ANTC; Nashville: Abingdon, 1996], 34–35). 4 See Barrett, Acts of the Apostles, 2:xxv–xxix; see also Fitzmyer, Acts of the Apostles, 98–103. An exception is Beverly Roberts Gaventa, The Acts of the Apostles (ANTC; Nashville: Abingdon, 2003).

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form, and redaction criticism). Author-as-eyewitness proposals have been unable to explain adequately gaps in the author’s eyewitness testimony caused by his unconventional application of the first person plural or to account for differences between the narrative of Paul’s mission in Acts and that which can be constructed from the apostle’s letters. In addition, the majority view among Acts commentators is that the author deliberately withheld his identity, and proponents of the author-as-eyewitness theory have been unable to resolve the question raised by anonymous authorship, namely, Why would the author purposely conceal his identity throughout much of Acts (and the Third Gospel) only to reveal his presence during later sections of Acts in such an idiosyncratic and incomprehensible manner as the intermittent employment of first person plural grammatical style? On the other hand, source-as-eyewitness solutions have failed to provide a sustainable rationale for the author’s decision to introduce or retain first person plural style in passages that, by this grammatical choice, suggest the presence of the author but in reality are meant to identify someone else at the events narrated. As Susan Marie Praeder has pointed out, these historical eyewitness categories are at odds with the narrative’s apparent indifference toward the eyewitness’s identity and, therefore, historical significance, since it supplies neither names nor the number of “we” participants, nor their association with Paul or his mission, nor even an introduction of them into the narrative.5 Although the latter two categories, fictional and conventional eyewitness, are not subject to the intractable problems that have faced historical eyewitness proposals, they too have encountered serious challenges. The conventional eyewitness theory garnering the most support among Acts scholars has been that of Vernon K. Robbins, who argues that, at the time Acts was written, sea-voyage narratives represented a distinct genre in Greco-Roman literature that preferred first person grammatical style regardless of whether the author had actually participated in the voyage.6 The author of Acts, therefore, adopted first person plural style because it was the grammatical construction appropriate for sea voyages. In another generic proposal, Eckhard Plümacher maintains that ancient history writing required historians’ eyewitness testimony and depth of personal experience about their subject matter.7 The author of Acts, therefore, fictionalized himself as an eyewitness and an experienced seafarer to meet the expectations of ancient historiography. An additional fictional solution is that of Bruno Bauer, who in the nineteenth century argued that the author created the “we” companion to give credence to the accuracy 5

Praeder, “The Problem of First Person Narration in Acts,” NovT 29 (1987): 198. Robbins, “The We-Passages in Acts and Ancient Sea Voyages,” BR 20 (1975): 5–18; idem, “By Land and By Sea: The We-Passages and Ancient Sea Voyages,” in Perspectives on Luke-Acts (ed. Charles Talbert; Perspectives in Religious Studies, Special Studies Series 5; Danville, VA: Association of Baptist Professors of Religion, 1978), 215–42. 7 Plümacher, “Wirklichkeitserfahrung und Geschichtsschreibung bei Lukas: Erwägungen zu den Wir-Stücken der Apostelgeschichte,” ZNW 68 (1977): 2–22. 6

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of events in his miracle-filled narrative.8 The proposals of Robbins and Plümacher, which are based on putative customary literary practices of sea-voyage narratives or historiography, have been shown to lack sufficient, clear parallels in ancient literature, a weakness that Plümacher has acknowledged.9 Fictional hypotheses of the kind put forward by Bauer have simply been too radical to be taken seriously in biblical circles. Indeed, not only did he propose that the “we” character was fictional, but he argued that a number of other characters in Acts, including Jesus, were creations of the author as well.10 Each category, therefore, has faced and continues to face weighty and to date insurmountable objections that have prevented scholarly agreement from coalescing around it. On the other hand, the debate over which proposal offers the best solution to the enigmatic “we” passages has reflected an increasing appreciation for and attention to their literary character. Fictional and conventional eyewitness proposals presuppose that grammatical conventions in ancient literature were more complex than historical solutions generally consider, suggesting that the first person plural might have a literary purpose not associated with a historical eyewitness. Several historical eyewitness proposals, however, have also given attention to the literary quality of first plural grammatical person, recognizing the need to grasp the narrative impact of the “we” style for an adequate understanding of the story unfolding in Acts.11 In addition, the emergence of literary approaches in biblical studies, especially narrative criticism, has brought added focus to the literary character of the “we” passages.12 The present analysis builds on this literary impulse by 8 Bauer, Die Apostelgeschichte: Eine Ausgleichung des Paulinismus und des Judenthums innerhalb der christlichen Kirche (Berlin: Hempel, 1850), esp. 125–32. 9 Plümacher, “Wirklichkeitserfahrung,” 22; Praeder, “Problem of First Person,” 206–8, 210– 14; eadem, “The Narrative Voyage: An Analysis and Interpretation of Acts 27–28” (Ph.D. diss., Graduate Theological Union, 1980), 212–27; David E. Aune, The New Testament in Its Literary Environment (LEC 8; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1987), 122–24. 10 Bruno Bauer, Kritik der Evangelien und Geschichte ihres Ursprungs (3 vols.; Berlin: Hempel, 1850–51); Albert Schweitzer, The Quest of the Historical Jesus: A Critical Study of Its Progress from Reimarus to Wrede (2nd ed.; London: Black, 1911), 137–60. 11 See, e.g., Henry J. Cadbury, The Making of Luke-Acts (New York: Macmillan, 1927), 230, 333; idem, “‘We’ and ‘I’ Passages in Luke-Acts,” NTS 3 (1956–57): 128–32; Martin Dibelius, Studies in the Acts of the Apostles (ed. Heinrich Greeven; trans. Mary Ling; London: SCM, 1956); trans. of Aufsätze zur Apostelgeschichte (ed. Heinrich Greeven; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1951), esp. 88–90, 103–4, 135–37, 145; Ernst Haenchen, “‘We’ in Acts and the Itinerary,” JTC 1 (1965): 65–99; trans. of “Das ‘Wir’ in der Apostelgeschichte und das Itinerar,” ZTK 58 (1961): 329–66; idem, The Acts of the Apostles, trans. Bernard Noble and Gerald Shinn (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1971); trans. of Die Apostelgeschichte (14th ed.; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1965), 81–117. 12 See, e.g., Robert C. Tannehill, The Narrative Unity of Luke-Acts: A Literary Interpretation (2 vols.; FF; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), 2:247; William Kurz, Reading Luke-Acts: Dynamics of Biblical Narrative (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1993), 112–13; Gaventa, Acts of the Apostles, 230.

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investigating the literary character of grammatical person, especially first person plural, in ancient literature.13 After establishing ancient grammatical practice, I will explore the significance of the findings for the “we” passages in Acts. Modern standards of grammatical style prefer the third person and discourage commingling grammatical person, regardless of genre.14 The same literary conventions need not have governed ancient authors, however. Indeed, the following analysis will demonstrate that the use of grammatical person in antiquity differed significantly from modern guidelines. Ancient writings refer to their narrators in first (singular and plural) and third person for both event- and narrator-level narration.15 This assortment of grammatical constructions for the narrator, so cacophonous to the modern (literary) ear, reflects acceptable—in some cases, preferred—literary practice in antiquity. The texts I have selected for analysis are the Greek histories of Thucydides and Polybius and the two prominent works of Josephus, History of the Jewish War and Jewish Antiquities. The choice of three historians should not be interpreted as an indication that I view Acts as historiography. Indeed, generic studies suggest that Acts draws upon several ancient genres, including historiography, historical monograph, biography, and romance.16 In addition, the nature of genre is itself somewhat artificial. None of the generic categories listed exists in a vacuum and, it is fair to say, there is a degree of overlap and interdependence among them. For example, Richard Pervo classifies Acts as an ancient novel, but specifies it as a “historical novel,” that is, fiction that utilizes historiographical conventions to “heighten its appearance of authenticity . . . to give [the] work credibility and ‘tone.’ ”17 My choice of texts for analysis has been influenced by the fact that Acts is often cate13 This type of analysis was unfeasible before the availability of tools such as Thesaurus Linguae Graecae (Version D; Irvine: University of California, 1992), online: http://www.tlg.uci.edu. 14 The New York Public Library Writer’s Guide to Style and Usage (ed. Andrea J. Sutcliffe et al.; New York: HarperCollins, 1994) offers the following observations concerning the use of grammatical person in writing: “Most professional writing—whether fiction, nonfiction, journalistic, or business—uses third person. . . . Mixing person within a manuscript is usually considered bad form” (p. 127). 15 I understand narratives to consist of two levels, event and narrator, that distinguish interdependent foci inside the narrative. Event level is the dimension of the narrative at which the succession of events is reported, and narrator level the dimension of nonevent commentary by the narrator. Some literary theorists argue for multiple narrative levels and multiple narrators, including an omniscient narrator who stands outside the narrative. My conception entails instead a single narrator who is always a character in the story and the related premise of a single narrative level with dual foci or dimensions. See Campbell, “We” Passages, 15–25. 16 Douglas R. Edwards, “Acts of the Apostles and the Graeco-Roman World: Narrative Communication in Social Contexts,” in Society of Biblical Literature 1989 Seminar Papers (SBLSP 28; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1989), 362–77; Cadbury, Making of Luke-Acts, 127–39. 17 Richard Pervo, Profit with Delight: The Literary Genre of the Acts of the Apostles (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987), 115–38, esp. 117–18 (emphasis added).

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gorized as historical in form, content, or both, but the decision is prompted primarily by three factors. First, the compositions selected are third person narratives (like Acts) with which Acts undeniably shares a number of features. Second, their standing as literature is uncontested. Third, they represent antiquity from the late fifth century b.c.e. (Thucydides) to the mid-second century b.c.e. (Polybius) to the mid- to late first century c.e. (Josephus).

I. Thucydides When the History of the Peloponnesian War refers to Thucydides at the narrator level, it most often uses third person style. For example, the history opens with the announcement that Thucydides is its author: “Thucydides, an Athenian, wrote the history of the war between the Peloponnesians and the Athenians while they were at war with one another, beginning immediately as it was breaking out” (Hist. 1.1.1).18 Thucydides is again named as the author later in a preface to the second phase of his history (5.26.1).19 In addition to the prefaces, the narrative often notes the war’s anniversary dates with a formula that includes mention of Thucydides, as in, “These things happened in the winter, and so came to an end the second year in this war about which Thucydides wrote the history” (2.70.4).20 These passages are at the narrator level, but the history extends the preference for the third person to accounts in which Thucydides is involved as a participant (eventlevel narratives), specifically the passage that describes the successful capture of the Athenian colony of Amphipolis by the Spartan commander Brasidas.21 Thucydides, stationed nearby, is summoned to the aid of the city, but arrives too late to prevent Brasidas’s victory, and so seizes instead the nearby city of Eion to keep the enemy from conquering it as well (4.102–7): 4.104.4 The opponents of the betrayers, prevailing in number so that, for the moment, the gates were not opened, together with the general, Eucles, who had come to them from Athens as the protector of the district, sent to the other com18

The Greek critical edition used is that of H. S. Jones and J. E. Powell, eds., Thucydides Historiae (2 vols.; Oxford: Clarendon, 1942). Unless otherwise noted, all translations are my own. I have translated the Greek as literally as possible—hopefully without losing the sense of the original—in order to convey clearly the constructions of grammatical person. 19 According to the narrative, the combatants signed a treaty after ten years of fighting but, after approximately seven years, war broke out again. With the resumption of hostilities, Thucydides decided to include the second phase of the conflict in his history (5.25–26; see also Michael Grant, The Ancient Historians [New York: Scribner, 1970], 82; Thucydides, History of the Peloponnesian War [trans. C. Forster Smith; 4 vols.; LCL; New York: Putnam, 1919–23], 3:48 n. 1). 20 Similar notations are included at 2.103.2; 3.25.2; 3.88.4; 3.116.3; 4.51.1; 4.135.2; 6.7.4; 6.93.4; 7.18.4; 8.6.5; 8.60.3. 21 See n. 15 above for an explanation of narrative levels.

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mander of the areas in Thrace, Thucydides, son of Olorus—he wrote the history of these [events]—who was near Thasos . . . urging him to come to their assistance. . . . 4.105.1 In the meantime, Brasidas, fearing the assistance of the ships from Thasos, and learning that Thucydides controlled the working of the gold mines in that part of Thrace . . . was hastening to gain possession of the city beforehand.

The use of third person in reference to Thucydides at both narrator and event levels distances the author as actor from the narrator. The name “Thucydides” identifies the character with the historical person who is credited with authorship of the history, but separates the author/actor character from the narrator character. That is to say, third person references to Thucydides sever the narrator from the actor and dissociate the narrator and the author. As a result, the opening commentary (“Thucydides . . . wrote the history”) gives the sense that the narrator is a character distinct from Thucydides whose role is to narrate the history composed by Thucydides. Indeed, the sentence could be rephrased something like this: “Let me tell you the events as they have been recorded by a certain historian named Thucydides who himself took part in many of them.” Michael Grant argues that the effect of third person self-reference is to increase the narrative’s sense of historical objectivity, an impression that appears to have been important to Thucydides.22 Early on, Thucydides as author/narrator, a role that will be discussed shortly, establishes strict criteria for the historical reliability of the events of the war to be included, claiming a preference for those that he observed personally or that were reported by eyewitnesses. In addition, recognizing that individual memories of the same events are never identical and are affected by the biases of those remembering, he tells of his efforts to discover what really happened by comparing various eyewitness reports (1.22.2–3).23 As Grant notes, this is not to claim that Thucydides consistently adheres to the standards he set.24 Testing the historical accuracy of the narrative, including Thucydides’ own participation in events, is beyond the scope of this analysis. Thucydides the author/narrator of the history, however, insists on the unbiased and careful recording of events. The narrative also refers to Thucydides in the more personal first person singular, which reconnects the author with the narrator.25 The use of first person might seem in tension with the narrative’s preoccupation with projecting historical detachment, but in Thucydides’ writing it too supports claims of historical authen22

Grant, Ancient Historians, 116. These standards focus on contemporary events; Thucydides confesses that the accuracy of prior historical events contained in his history is questionable (1.20.1–2). 24 Grant, Ancient Historians, 116–17. 25 The nature of Greek first person singular inflections makes a complete search for them impractical. I have, therefore, limited the analysis of first person singular style to personal pronouns, first person singular forms of the verb “to be” (εἰμί), and distinctively first person verb forms (e.g., the middle/passive endings --ομαι, -ομην, and -αμην). 23

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ticity. First person singular style emphasizes the author/narrator’s knowledge and authority. Thucydides employs it in passages that defend the historical accuracy of the account by demonstrating his personal involvement in the events or his meticulous scrutinizing of evidence gathered from other sources. For example, in the second preface discussed a moment ago, grammatical person shifts from third to first person as Thucydides defends the correctness of his information about the war because he was able to observe the conflict closely from both sides: “I lived through all of it . . . devoting attention to it so that I would know it accurately. . . . and being present at the affairs of both sides . . . learned better their events” (5.26.5–6; see also 2.48). In the opening chapter of the book, the initial preface also changes to first person singular when Thucydides defends the quality of his research: “it was impossible to recover clearly events previous to these . . . because of the passage of time, but from the evidence which, after I examined it in the greatest depth, it turns out that I can trust, I do not consider them to have been important” (1.1.3). Elsewhere in his book, Thucydides utilizes first person singular to assess the quality of sources and his use of them (1.20.1; 1.21.1), to take credit as the first to recognize and explain correctly the exact motives for the outbreak of the war (1.23.5–6), to justify his choice of events for inclusion in the history (1.23.5; 1.97.2; 3.90.1; 3.113.6), to acknowledge gaps in available information (5.68.2; 6.2.1), to highlight the accuracy of his narrative (6.54.1; 6.55.1), and to summarize his historical method (1.22.1–2), all in an attempt to legitimate his version of events.26 Although used sparingly, the first person plural also occurs in Thucydides’ history. The five instances of first person plural style in nondiscourse material are all at the narrator level, and in every case but one, the first person plural comment qualifies a grammatically superlative statement: “the earliest sea battle of those we know” (1.13.4); “the longest period of discord of those we know” (1.18.1); “the greatest event of the war of those we know” (7.87.5); “the worst earthquake of those we remember” (8.41.2).27 The effect of this use of first person plural style is that it simultaneously accentuates the authority of the narrator (similar to first person singular) while at the same time tempering it by including his experience with that of others through the use of the collective “we.” In Thucydides’ narrative, therefore, first person plural makes and at the same time moderates claims that may be open to challenge as exaggerated or excessive by others with different perspectives on or information about events.

26

Other first person singular comments are sprinkled throughout the narrative, many of them formulaic expressions used to accentuate the narrator’s view or to refer to a previous comment or event narrated (e.g., “it seems to me” [μοι δοκεῖ], or “I think” [οἶμαι]). The list includes 1.3.1, 2, 3; 1.9.1, 3; 1.10.4; 1.20.1; 1.21.1; 1.23.5; 1.93.7; 1.97.2; 2.17.2; 3.90.1; 3.113.6; 5.1.1; 5.68.2; 6.2.1; 6.54.1; 6.55.1, 3; 6.94.1; 7.87.5; 8.24.4; 8.87.4. 27 The final first person plural comment defends the account of the myth of Alcmaeon that Thucydides summarizes as the tradition that “we have received” (παραλάβομεν [2.102.6]).

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II. Polybius Just as in Thucydides’ history, Polybius’s narrative usually prefers the third person when describing events that present Polybius himself as a participant. Again, I am speaking of Polybius as a character in the narrative and am not assessing the historical reliability of the claims made concerning his personal involvement. Many of these passages are similar to what has been noted in Thucydides, and several are quite extensive.28 For example, Polybius 31.11.4–31.14.3 elaborates on the assistance Polybius provides to the Seleucid prince Demetrius in the prince’s attempts to escape Roman custody, detailing Demetrius’s solicitation of advice, Polybius’s counsel for bolder action and enlistment of the Greek ambassador Menyllus to help, and his warning that Demetrius avoid behavior that might cost the young prisoner his opportunity for freedom.29 In addition, the history reports speeches attributed to Polybius in the third person, something not found in Thucydides. In 28.7.8-13, for instance, Polybius helps settle a dispute over certain honors that were accorded to Eumenes II (of Pergamum) and subsequently revoked: “Polybius stood and made a longer speech. . . . He said, ‘But, those around Sosigenes and Diopeithes . . . used this pretext to overturn all the honors of the king.’”30 As with Thucydides, the effect of narrating Polybius’s participation in events in the third person is to separate the author as actor from the author as narrator and, in so doing, to increase the sense of historical objectivity. Reporting Polybius’s speeches in third person style increases further the distance between author and narrator. To gain a better appreciation for the separation that this grammatical practice produces, readers might imagine quoting themselves in the third person when writing an essay (instead of “I said/wrote,” use “s/he [or the essayist’s name] said/wrote”). At the narrator level, first person singular style is used frequently throughout Polybius’s history. As in Thucydides, the first person singular serves to identify the author and narrator and to underscore the knowledge and credibility of the author/narrator. For that reason, it is most often employed in passages that highlight Polybius’s personal involvement in affairs or defend his decisions concerning writing style or historical content, that is, to strengthen the justifications offered as to why he includes, excludes, or abbreviates certain events, his reasoning for the order of narration, and his views on the ethical lessons of history.31 One passage, 28 The critical edition used is that of T. Büttner-Wobst, ed., Polybii Historiae (4 vols.; 1889– 1905; repr., Stuttgart: Teubner, 1962–67). 29 Other passages narrating Polybius’s activities in the third person include 12.4–6; 24.6.3– 6; 28.3.7–10; 28.6.8–9; 28.13.1–14; 29.23.2–5; 29.25.5–7; 31.23.3–25.1; 31.29.8; 32.3.14–17; 36.11.1. 30 Other texts of direct or indirect discourse by Polybius in the third person include 29.24.1– 9; 31.11.4–6; 39.3.4–5.6. 31Polybius also has a propensity for using the comment “it seems to me” (μοι δοκεῖ); see, e.g., 1.14.2; 1.15.6; 2.14.1; 2.55.8; 3.23.2; 4.6.6; 4.7.11; 4.17.11; 4.20.3; 4.21.1; 4.27.2; 4.30.4; 4.33.4;

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for instance, makes clear that Polybius was more than simply an eyewitness to the history he is reporting; he was on occasion an important actor in these episodes: “because of the significance of events . . . but most of all because I have been not only an eyewitness to most of them, but of some a participant and of others even an administrator, I was persuaded to write” (3.4.13). Another passage argues that the speeches included in his account are accurately reported (in contrast to Thucydides): “But I do not think it seemly . . . for historians to practice on their readers or make a show of their ability but, after inquiring closely into all such matters, to make clear what was actually said, and of these the things most timely and most related to the subject” (36.1.3–7).32 Thus far Polybius’s use of grammatical person is not dissimilar to that of Thucydides, but it becomes apparent in reading Polybius’s history how differently he employs the first person plural. For one thing, first person plural style occurs much more frequently in Polybius’s narrative than in that of his predecessor (approximately 678 occurrences in nondiscourse material as compared to the five noted for Thucydides). Second, the history opens in the first person plural and continues in this style throughout the preface (1.1.1–1.5.5).33 Third, in addition to narrator-level commentary, Polybius’s work contains two occurrences of first person plural event-level passages, representing the first known use of intermittent first person narration in a third person narrative.34 Because of their correspondence to the “we” passages in Acts, it is worth pausing to examine these two texts in detail. The first passage tells of Polybius’s summons to Lilybaeum (36.11.1–4). The chapter begins with a third person account of the consul Manilius’s instructions to the Achaeans to send Polybius to the Sicilian coastal city and their decision to com4.34.2; 4.73.9; 5.38.10; 5.75.2; 5.84.6; 5.106.5; 6.3.6–7; 6.26.11; 6.45.2; 6.46.11; 6.48.2; 6.56.6–7, 9, 12; 7.7.6; 7.8.8; 7.11.2; 8.1.1; 8.8.2; 9.3.5, 9; 9.8.1; 9.22.7, 10; 9.24.1; 10.2.8; 10.15.5; 10.19.5; 10.26.8; 10.32.12; 10.41.6; 10.43.1; 12.4c.1; 12.4d.1; 12.8.5; 12.13.6; 12.23.7; 12.25.5; 12.25c.2, 4; 12.25e.4; 12.25f.1; 12.28.1; 13.5.4; 14.5.15; 15.4.9; 16.1.5; 16.12.6; 16.17.8; 16.20.1; 16.22a.2; 16.28.1, 7; 16.29.3; 18.14.11; 18.46.8; 21.26.14; 22.19.3; 23.11.8; 23.12.4; 27.9.2; 27.16.4; 28.10.2; 29.5.2; 29.8.2; 29.27.3, 13; 31.2.7; 33.6.3; 38.5.4; 38.6.1; 38.16.11; 38.18.8; 39.3.1. 32 See also 29.21.8–9 and 4.31.3–8. Thucydides did not duplicate speeches word for word, a practice he considered unreasonable. Instead, he sought to convey in general terms the sense of what speakers were attempting to say as he understood it, “the essence rather than the substance” (Grant, Ancient Historians, 90-91; see also Smith, History of the Peloponnesian War, 1:xvii). In fact, some of the speeches may never have been delivered, and, for those that were, the historian felt free to select, add, or elaborate. Thus, although Thucydides sought to communicate the views of the assumed speakers, the sentence structure and expressions in the speeches reported are those of Thucydides himself, regardless of speaker or situation. Thucydides’ use of speech as a literary device was so effective that it became the model for subsequent ancient history writing. 33 See also 1.2.1; 1.3.1, 5, 7b; 1.4.1, 2; 1.5.1. 34 Claus-Jürgen Thornton, Der Zeuge des Zeugen: Lukas als Historiker der Paulusreisen (WUNT 56; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1991), 182.

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ply (36.11.1). In the following verse, the narrative suddenly shifts to first person plural grammatical style as the narrator describes how “we” concurred in this decision and, therefore, set sail at the beginning of the summer. When the “we” group arrives at Corcyra, however, they read a letter informing the city’s citizens of the Carthaginian surrender (in the Third Punic War). Assuming that the war is therefore over and that “our” assistance no longer required, the “we” contingent returns home (36.11.2–4): 36.11.1 When instructions arrived in the Peloponnese from Manilius for the Achaeans that they would do well to send Polybius the Megalopolitan with haste to Lilybaeum, as there was need of him for affairs of state, the Achaeans resolved to send him in accordance with the petition of the consul. 36.11.2 We, thinking it our duty for many reasons to obey the Romans, putting aside all other matters, set sail when summer began. 36.11.3 Arriving in Corcyra and finding there a letter from the consuls that had been sent to the Corcyraeans in which they made quite clear that the Carthaginians had already handed over the hostages to them and were prepared in every way to obey them, 36.11.4 thinking that the war had been brought to end and there was no further any need of us, we sailed back again to the Peloponnese.

The second intermittent event-level first person plural passage is located in the epilogue. There the narrative shifts once more into first person plural (39.8.1) as it addresses Polybius’s return home from exile in Rome, then slips almost imperceptably into first person plural comments (narrator-level narration) as the narrator offers a prayer to the gods for continued good fortune in the future (39.8.2) followed by his summary of the entire history (39.8.3–8): 39.8.1 After accomplishing these things, then, we returned from Rome, having been successful, as it were, with respect to certain principal aims of the previous political activities, a favor worthy of the goodwill toward the Romans. 39.8.2 Therefore, we offer prayers to all the gods that the remaining part of life continues in these ways and on these paths, observing that fate, as much as it is good, is envious of humankind and is forceful especially against this instance, namely, insofar as anyone seems especially to have been blessed and to succeed in life. 39.8.3 And it turned out that these things happened in this way. And we, as we come to the end of the whole treatise, after recalling the beginning and the introduction that we composed when we committed the history to writing, wish to sum up the entire subject, reconciling the beginning to the end both over all and in particulars. . . .

After his initial intermittent first person plural passage in 36.11.1–4, Polybius (as narrator) offers an explanation for his choice of grammatical person (36.12.1–5): 36.12.1 One need not be surprised if we refer to ourselves sometimes by proper name and other times by the common expressions such as “when I said this” or again “when we assented.” 36.12.2 For since we have been much involved in the events to be recorded hereafter, it is necessary to alter our self-designations so that

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According to Polybius, therefore, his reason for varying references to himself, sometimes using his name, other times first person singular, and still other times first person plural has to do with literary and rhetorical aesthetics. He is in a difficult situation. On the one hand, self-reference was in general considered inappropriate.35 On the other hand, it was unavoidable in Polybius’s situation, given his claims of personal involvement in the affairs reported. In his view, constantly referring to himself as “Polybius” would be offensive, but substituting for that option the incessant repetition of “I/me” would be equally obnoxious. Polybius’s solution was to include first person plural as an additional, and apparently in his estimation more tasteful, self-reference, and in effect to soften the boorishness of copious personal references by alternating among the three possibilities (“Polybius,” “I/mine/me,” and “we/our/us”). Polybius’s liberal application of the first person plural as a reference to himself and the fact that it is not mentioned with the other two options (first person singular or naming himself) as an occasionally objectionable grammatical practice could indicate that he had a preference for first person plural style. Indeed, Polybius’s partiality for the first plural seems to have led to the innovation of intermittent first person plural event-level narration. His digression to explain his use of grammatical person immediately following the initial instance of first person plural at the event level and his remark that readers “need not be surprised” at his usage suggest that the way he employs first person plural is something of a novelty.36 It would be an oversimplification to accept at face value Polybius’s justification that his use of grammatical person of himself, particularly the adoption of first per-

35 Consistent with the view expressed by Polybius, George Lyons has argued that the “decorum of autobiographical remarks as a rhetorical exercise was problematic” among ancient philosophers and rhetoricians, appealing for support to Aristotle’s recommendation in Rhetoric that speakers who must refer to themselves “use the third rather than the first person” (Pauline Autobiography: Toward a New Understanding [SBLDS 73; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1985], 53–60; see also Beverly Roberts Gaventa, “Galatians 1 and 2: Autobiography as Paradigm,” NovT 28 [1986]: 324–26). 36 Along this line, Thornton suggests that Polybius was compelled to offer an explanation because of the unusual nature of the intermittent first person plural narration that he introduces in 36.11.2–4 (Der Zeuge des Zeugen, 175–76).

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son plural style for this purpose, reflects only a literary technique selected to make acceptable to readers his voluminous self-references. Nevertheless, several passages in which he combines grammatical person in an assortment of ways, including first person singular and plural, first person and third person, and first person singular and plural with third person, would appear to support at least partially his assertion. A representative example of multiple-person style is the story of Polybius’s friendship with Scipio, the son of the Roman commander (31.23.1–31.25.1). The account opens with a short introduction (31.23.1–4) that begins by using both first person singular and plural (31.23.1), followed by first and third person comments about Polybius (31.23.2–3). As the story moves into the narrative proper, a first person plural comment gives way to third person narration about Polybius and Scipio that continues for the remainder of the story. In this excerpt, therefore, grammatical person fluctuates according to Polybius’s outline, referring to the narrator within five verses as “Polybius,” “them” (with Scipio), “I,” and “we”: 31.23.1 Since the plan and the state of affairs in the narrative have called our attention to this family, I wish to fulfill for the sake of those who would enjoy hearing what was left as a promise in the previous book. 31.23.2 For I promised before to describe in detail why and how the fame of Scipio in Rome advanced so much and burst forth more quickly than was his due, 31.23.3 and with this how it happened that Polybius grew in friendship and intimacy with the aforementioned person to such an extent that, not only did the report about them extend as far as Italy and Greece, but their conduct and companionship also became well known in more distant regions. 31.23.4 We have, therefore, indicated in what has been said previously that the beginning of the friendship between the aforementioned men came out of a certain loan of books and the conversation about them. 31.23.5 But as intimacy increased, and when those who had been summoned were sent out to the cities, Fabius and Scipio, the sons of Lucius, strongly recommended to the praetor that Polybius remain in Rome.37

III. Josephus Examining both of Josephus’s major histories, History of the Jewish War and Jewish Antiquities, provides an opportunity to investigate how a single author might employ grammatical person differently in different narratives. Large sections of

37

Other multiple-person passages include 36.1.1–7; 36.11.1–4 (the intermittent first person plural passage just examined); and 38.20.1–38.21.3. Polybius 38.21.1 contains the only occurrence that I have been able to uncover in Polybius’s history of intermittent first person singular. It is very brief, perhaps owing to the textual problems in this section. All of 38.20.11 and the beginning of 38.21.1 have been damaged beyond restoration, making it impossible to determine the exact extent of first person in this passage (see F. W. Walbank, A Historical Commentary on Polybius [3 vols.; Oxford: Clarendon, 1957], 3:722–24).

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War are devoted to Josephus’s involvement in the conflict, and once again, as was the case in Thucydides and Polybius, event-level passages with Josephus as a character—indeed the main character and protagonist—are narrated in the third person. One brief example is the account of his appointment as commander of Galilee: “John, son of Ananias, was appointed commander of Gophna and Acrabetta, and Josephus, son of Matthias, of each of the two Galilees” (J.W. 2.568).38 The lengthy narrative that follows detailing his activities in the region (2.569–647) consistently uses third person style, referring to Josephus by name and with third person pronouns and verb forms. Moreover, this section does not exhaust the third person references to Josephus in War. Other narrative blocks in which Josephus is a primary character all speak of him in the third person as well.39 To illustrate how Josephus adapts grammatical person to suit different narratives, consider the autobiographical apologia for his conduct during combat (The Life) written approximately thirty years after War. In significant part, that work parallels the story line dealing with Josephus’s activities in War (J.W. 2.562–3.34; Life 28–411). As might be expected of an autobiography, however, it narrates those events entirely in the first person singular.40 First person singular narrator-level comments occur only sporadically in War, but one extensive section is the preface.41 As it begins, the narrative explicitly identifies the narrator with the author by introducing Josephus as author/narrator (1.3): I, Josephus, a priest from Jerusalem, son of Matthias, having myself fought the Romans at the beginning and present at events afterwards out of compulsion, propose to relate to those under Roman rule, after translating into the Greek language, what I originally composed in my native language and sent to the barbarians inland.

First person singular continues throughout the remainder of the preface (1.1–30) to support grammatically Josephus’s insistence that his account will be factual, in contrast to earlier and, in his view, inadequate histories of the war. Furthermore, although his feelings for the Jewish people will be evident, he will neither exagger38 The critical edition used is that of B. Niese, ed., Flavii Iosephi Opera (7 vols.; Berlin: Weidmann, 1885–95). 39 For additional examples, including several speeches by Josephus, see J.W. 3.59–408; 3.432– 42; 4.622–29; 5.361–420; 5.541–47; 6.93–129. 40 It is worth noting that in another of Josephus’s writings, Against Apion, he admits to using assistants to help with the Greek language in his translation of War from Aramaic, the language in which it was composed (Ag. Ap. 1.50; J.W. 1.3). Although their suggestions no doubt influenced grammatical constructions in War, Josephus is responsible for its final shape and for the decision not to adopt its third person style when composing Life (for which he apparently did not utilize Greek collaborators). 41 War contains the occasional “it seems to me” (μοι δοκεῖ) similar to Thucydides and Polybius (J.W. 2.156, 191; 5.354, 489; 6.373) and a few other instances of first person singular (e.g., 6.81; 7.274).

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ate their deeds to offset disparagement of the Jews by other historians nor diminish the responsibility of Jewish revolutionaries for the defeat and destruction suffered at the hands of the Romans. In addition, he defends the importance of contemporary history and his decision to focus on the events of the recent war because of his personal connection to it. First person plural references to the narrator individually are rare as well, and consist mostly of comments that call attention to events the narrator has or will report elsewhere (“as we said,” “as we have said previously,” etc.).42 This appears to be a conventional literary construction, since War never uses the first person singular for these expressions even in passages that otherwise employ first person singular of the narrator (e.g., J.W. 2.114). The ending also contains a passage in the first person plural but, on this occasion, the collective first person plural gives way to the individual first person singular as the narrator moves to defend the veracity of his account (J.W. 7.454–55): 7.454 Here is the end of the history by us, which we promised to convey with total accuracy to those wishing to learn how this war by the Romans against the Jews was waged. 7.455 How it has been expressed, let it be left to the readers to judge. But concerning the truth, I would not hesitate to say with confidence that I endeavored after this throughout the entire composition.

One additional multiple-person passage occurs in the preface where, as noted, the narrator utilizes first person singular to assure readers that he is going to chronicle events factually (“I decided not to exaggerate the deeds of my race, but am relating the actions of both sides with accuracy” [J.W 1.9]), but acknowledges that his emotions will color his presentation (“while giving the accounts about the events, I am imparting my own feelings as well as my emotions to lament over the misfortunes of the homeland” [1.9]). He then shifts to first person plural as he appeals to readers who might object to the introduction of personal views into a historical work (“should anyone criticize that we might say such things . . . or lament over our homeland’s misfortunes, let him make allowance” [1.11]). Finally, he moves to third person, asking those who remain critical of him for including his personal views to separate fact from feeling in the narrative, to attribute to the history the events recounted and to him the emotions revealed in his narrative (“should anyone be a harsher judge of compassion, let him adjudge the facts to history, the lamentations to the writer” [1.12]). The shifts in grammatical person in War do not seem to fit Polybius’s literary aesthetics explanation. Rather, War consistently utilizes the third person when Josephus takes part in events and, generally speaking, first person singular in passages dealing with the factuality of the history and first person plural for conventional and other comments concerning the act of narrating.

42 J.W. 1.33, 182, 344, 365, 406, 411, 418, 610, 668; 2.114, 557, 651; 3.47; 4.153, 208, 353, 611; 5.1, 140, 152, 162, 183, 227, 232, 237, 251, 445, 550; 6.400, 433; 7.96, 215, 244, 253, 293, 304.

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The first notable difference in grammatical person between War and Antiquities is that the latter never refers to Josephus by name or in the third person. It is not surprising that Antiquities contains no third person accounts about Josephus, since the narrative’s concern is with matters that predate his entrance into the public arena, and therefore he is not a participant in the events narrated. Still, it seems odd that, instead of identifying Josephus in the preface as author/narrator as War does (“I Josephus, a priest from Jerusalem, son of Matthias” [J.W. 1.3]), the unnamed narrator of Antiquities specifies that he is also the author of War: “for, understanding from experience the war that we Jews waged against the Romans, the events in it and what end resulted, I was compelled to describe it in detail because of those who in their writing were defiling the truth” (Ant. 1.4). The first person singular in Antiquities often serves to distinguish the author/ narrator individually from first person plural references close at hand that associate him with the Jewish people.43 Sometimes the connection to other Jews is explicit, as in Ant. 1.4 just cited (“we Jews”); other times it must be determined from narrative context. This pattern is quite prominent in the preface and conclusion, but is present as well in other parts of Antiquities.44 For example, the narrative’s final chapter includes the following comment (20.259–60): 20.259 Here will end my account of ancient history, after which I began to write about the war. This encompasses, from the beginning of humankind’s creation up to the twelfth year of Nero’s reign, the tradition of the things that have happened to us Jews in Egypt and Syria and Palestine, 20.260 how much we have suffered under the Assyrians and Babylonians, how the Persians and Macedonians have treated us, and after them the Romans. For I believe I have compiled all things with accuracy.

This passage illustrates that, besides distinguishing the author/narrator from his compatriots, first person singular style continues to promote the factual quality of the historian’s work.45 Comparable first person singular assurances can be found in the narrative’s conclusion, as in, “I have described without error the succession of 43 In a few instances, “we” connects Josephus to other constituencies. For example, first person plural in Ant. 1.21 links him with humanity in general. For association with other groups, see Ant. 1.156; 6.186, 342. 44 Other occurrences of “I” (narrator individually) and “we” (narrator and other Jews) include Ant. 1.9, 10, 11–12, 15, 18, 23–24, 129; 2.176–77; 3.248; 8.155, 159; 12.325; 14.189; 16.174– 78; 18.29; 19.15; 20.263–64, 267, 268. 45 There are a number of formulaic first person singular constructions in Antiquities similar to those encountered in the other texts treated. Since I have commented on them previously, I simply list the occurrences in Antiquities: μοι δοκεῖ, “it seems to me” (3.186, 257; 6.346; 10.210, 280; 11.68; 13.72; 16.159; 17.192); μοι δεδήλωται, “it has been disclosed by me,” and variants (1.108, 136, 203; 3.187, 201; 9.280; 14.467; 18.142; 19.123); διέξειμι, “I go through in detail” (1.160; 3.213; 15.371; 18.142); ἐπάνειμι, “I shall return” (6.350; 8.298, 393; 16.178; 18.80); τρέψομαι, “I shall turn (to)” (1.129; 3.218).

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the kings” (Ant. 20.261), and “I assert that no one else . . . could have delivered to the Greeks this treatise so accurately” (20.262). Earlier in the book, the author/narrator defends his fidelity to Hebrew sources used in Antiquities (10.218): Let no one criticize me for reporting throughout the treatise all of these events as I find them in the ancient books. For even in the beginning of the history, I safeguarded myself against those who would seek or find fault with something about the facts by saying that I was only translating the Hebrew books into the Greek tongue and by promising to set forth these matters without adding to or subtracting from the events on my own.

Antiquities also employs first person plural to refer to the narrator individually. Formulaic comments about subjects covered elsewhere in the narrative are quite popular.46 In addition, periodically multiple instances of the first person plural occur that both specify the narrator individually and identify him collectively with other Jews. An illustration of this is the brief discussion of Mosaic food regulations in Ant. 3.259: Whenever an occasion for writing about these matters presents itself to us [narrator individually], we [narrator individually] shall relate them in detail, giving as well the reasons why he [Moses] was moved to recommend to us [narrator and other Jews] that some of them were to be eaten but ordered to abstain from others.47

On other occasions, first person singular and plural are used in the same passage to designate the narrator individually, as in, “I could say still more things about Saul and his courage, which furnishes abundant material for the purpose. But in order that we do not appear vulgar in declaring his praises, I am returning from where I digressed into these matters” (Ant. 6.350).48 Finally, a few passages contain an even more complex commingling of grammatical person, combining the collective first person plural (narrator with all Jews), individual first person plural (narrator only), and first person singular (narrator). An example is found in the preface as the narrator introduces remarks about Moses (Ant. 1.18): 46

The most prevalent expressions used to note events discussed elsewhere in Antiquities are (without nearly exhausting the possibilities): various tenses of δηλόω (“to relate”) in Ant. 1.137, 175; 2.177; 3.74, 158, 257, 295; 4.74; 5.89, 231; 6.105, 322; 7.89, 105, 244, 330, 344, 393; 8.1, 159, 224, 229; 9.28, 158, 183, 266; 10.80, 107, 148, 151; 11.184, 341; 12.237, 238, 244, 257; 13.1, 11, 36, 61, 80, 108, 112, 119, 256, 275, 285, 288, 372; 14.9, 267, 388; 15.1, 240, 254; 16.206; 20.53, 102, 157, 199, 237, 248; ἐρῶ (“to tell”) in Ant. 1.133, 142; 2.195, 198; 3.62, 143, 218, 230, 247, 264; 5.343; 6.1; 7.70, 103, 230, 243, 311, 333, 364; 8.130, 141, 175, 178, 190, 246; 9.1, 95, 112; 10.36, 81, 142, 230; 12.66, 189; 13.62, 297, 320, 347; 14.1, 5, 78, 176; 15.2, 181; 16.73; 18.134; 19.366; 20.239; εἶπον (“to say”) in Ant. 8.325; 9.29; 12.387; 15.39; 20.9, 187; see as well other terms for “to say,” viz., λέγω (Ant. 4.302; 8.56) and φημί (Ant. 5.235; 14.267, 323; 20.199, 227). 47 See also Ant. 3.247; 8.175; 14.77–78, 323; 16.161. 48 See also Ant. 1.25; 3.218; 4.159; 10.151; 13.297, 347; 16.187; 20.154–57.

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Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 2 (2010) Since almost everything depends upon the wisdom of Moses, our [narrator and other Jews] lawgiver, it is necessary for me [narrator] to speak briefly about him lest any of the readers be at a loss about how it happens that the book by us [narrator individually], while having in so much of it the description of laws and practices, is also concerned with an inquiry into the causes and phenomena of nature.49

Josephus offers no explanation for his complex and, for the modern reader, confusing application of grammatical person. Some shifts are explainable on the basis of formulaic phrases (in first person singular or plural) or assertions of the narrator’s credibility (first person singular). The reason for others, however, is unclear and, in these cases, may reflect the need for variety in referring to the narrator as Polybius claimed; in other words, for literary aesthetics.

IV. Summary of Analysis The analysis of grammatical person in these four ancient histories reveals remarkable freedom and variety in grammatical practice, notwithstanding their general classification as third person narratives. Thucydides, Polybius, and Josephus all overwhelmingly prefer the third person for event-level narratives in which the author is an actor. Third person references to the author as a participant in the story project detachment from the narrator as well as on the part of the narrator. In other words, by distancing the author/narrator from the events or speeches in which the author/actor has a part, these histories foster the sense that the narrator is an “objective observer.” Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War extends this practice by referring to the author at the narrator level in the third person (by name or other third person constructions), although on rare occasions it employs the first person. Polybius’s Histories and Josephus’s History of the Jewish War and Jewish Antiquities, however, usually prefer first person style to refer to the author/ narrator in narrator-level commentary. If third person is the grammatical style of objectivity, first person singular is the style of personal integrity and trustworthiness. Although in Antiquities first person singular is occasionally used to distinguish the narrator individually from first person plural references to the narrator and others, in these histories first person singular style is most often employed to defend the narrator’s qualifications to report the events contained in the narrative or his version of these events by identifying his personal involvement in them or his thorough research into and critical assessment of matters reported to him. Making the argument in the narrator’s own voice for his integrity and the accuracy of his account conveys personal confidence 49

See also Ant. 8.55–56, 159; 14.265–67.

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in his knowledge and authority to tell the story at hand and, in so doing, increases his personal credibility and the believability of his account. Despite similarities in their understanding of grammatical person, the narratives also exhibit differences in its application. The prefaces, which in ancient historiography developed to a degree into formal and conventional introductions and, therefore, might be expected to make use of the same grammatical person, illustrate this diversity. Thucydides’ prefaces employ third person singular for the most part; Polybius’s is in first person plural; and Josephus uses first person singular in War and, in Antiquities, first person singular for the narrator individually and first person plural for the narrator and other Jews. Nowhere is the grammatical diversity among these writings more evident than in their adoption of the first person plural to refer to the narrator individually. In Thucydides’ history, the first person plural rarely occurs and, in the majority of those few instances, it qualifies an assertion. Polybius displays a much greater penchant for first person plural style. Not only does first plural grammatical person appear nearly seven hundred times more in his history than in Thucydides, innovative enough in comparison to the earlier work, but Polybius introduces for the first time, as far as can be determined, event-level intermittent first person plural narration. Indeed, there is reason to suggest that the first person plural was Polybius’s preferred grammatical construction for self-reference. His alone among the four histories explains its grammatical choices, justifying variation in grammatical person as a matter of narrative aesthetics. Josephus’s two volumes also demonstrate diversity in the application of first person plural. In War, the first person plural appears principally in formulaic comments concerning what the narrator reports in other sections of the narrative or the act of narrating. Antiquities, in addition to containing more of these conventional comments than War, applies the first person plural in ways difficult to interpret, but which it is fair to say add complexity and variety to the narrative’s grammatical style. The application of the first person plural to an individual is not foreign to English speakers. Many if not most English speakers have encountered the royal “we” used by monarchs (and political, church, and other leaders) to refer to themselves in written and oral pronouncements and the editorial “we” employed by newspaper editorialists and other media commentators. In each case, the first person plural refers to the speaker alone, but with broader referential implications in view. It is impossible to determine whether wider referential inferences influenced the decision of ancient authors to use first person plural to refer to the narrator individually. Without clarification on their part or guidance from rhetorical handbooks, the literary strategies of ancient authors are often impenetrable. Regardless of the reasons for employing the first person plural, however, these four texts share certain effects of this grammatical style besides Polybius’s specific claim of variety. Similar to the first person singular, the first person plural creates a sense of the nar-

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rators’ involvement in their stories, that is, their closeness to and knowledge of the events, and so their competence to report them.50 Unlike the first person singular, however, the first person plural moderates the emphasis on the narrators and, therefore, the responsibility for narrative claims by subsuming their individuality into the collective sense of the first person plural. In addition, “we” style conveys a sense of familiarity that draws readers into the stories.51 Readers sense that they know or should recognize who “we” are and, at some level, intuitively associate themselves with the first person plural company. Whether the narrative context explicitly defines or limits referents (the narrator individually, other characters or narrative participants, or other persons or groups with which the narrator might be associated) or their identity remains unclear, readers experience a connection with the “we.” Not unlike citizens or other groups that the royal and editorial “we” implicates, readers feel a personal involvement and a shared sense of purpose with the “we” group. The bond that readers develop with the first person plural narrator engenders a more compassionate and appreciative stance toward the narrator and, therefore, acceptance of the narrator’s perspective and an empathetic reading of the narrative. Not only is this so at the narrator level, but it is also the case in event-level first person plural passages such as the two in Polybius’s history. Moreover, narrating events at which the narrator is present and in which the narrator participates in the first person plural instead of the third person injects a deeper sense of engagement by the narrator in the events, with the other characters who are in the scene, and with readers who are themselves drawn into the narrative on a more personal level by the “we” style.

V. The Significance for Acts The variety of ways that the four histories examined employ grammatical person is instructive for Acts. First, Thucydides, Polybius, and Josephus distance themselves as authors and actors from their roles as narrators by utilizing third person narration for events that depict them as participants. This distinction is slippery and confusing, especially given that, with the exception of Antiquities, the narratives also explicitly identify the narrator with the named author—for example, when Josephus opens War with “I, Josephus . . . propose to relate [in Greek] . . . what I originally composed in my native language” (J.W. 1.3). In Acts, the distinction between the author and the narrator remains pronounced because the author is

50 Kurz, Reading Luke-Acts, 112–13. For a discussion of the role of readers in the construction of characters, including the narrator, and the subjectivity of the reading experience, see Campbell, “We” Passages, 17–18. 51 Tannehill, Narrative Unity, 2:247.

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unnamed. Anonymous authorship was not at all uncommon in antiquity within or outside the biblical corpus.52 Some have argued that the impetus behind it was a lack of interest among ancient authors and readers in the personality of the author.53 The three historians studied, however, and the generally acknowledged desire on the part of ancient authors to protect their names against pseudonymous pretenders suggest that the reasons for publishing ancient texts anonymously were complex.54 Whatever the motivation, the effect of anonymity is to efface the actual (“real”) author. In contrast to Thucydides, Polybius, and Josephus, therefore, the author of Acts never appears as a third person actor in the narrative. In addition, anonymity separates the narrator character from the actual author. Nonetheless, the prefaces to the Gospel of Luke and Acts allude to the narrator’s role as the story writer and, therefore, do associate the narrator with authorship. Because of this connection, though minimal, the author/narrator in Acts also remains unnamed and so unidentifiable with any named character in the narrative. Another difference between Acts and the four texts analyzed is how infrequently first person (singular or plural) appears at the narrator level. The narrator rarely intrudes in the story to offer commentary, which compels the narrative to stand on its own merits. Only two instances each of first person singular and plural narrator-level comments occur in Luke and Acts, and these are located in the prefaces (Luke 1:1–3 and Acts 1:1). The use of first person in prefaces is not unusual, of course, as was discovered in the investigation of Polybius and Josephus. Similar to what was observed in the ancient histories, first person comments in Luke and Acts are in texts supportive of the narrator’s dependability. Although rare, then, first person singular and plural at the narrator level convey the narrator’s personal knowledge as eyewitness or researcher and, therefore, his credentials for telling the story accurately as Luke claims in Luke 1:3–4. Although Acts barely uses the first person plural in narrator-level commentary, it contains three relatively extensive intermittent event-level first person plu-

52 See, e.g., Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel according to Luke: Introduction, Translation, and Notes (2 vols.; AB 28, 28A; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1981, 1985), 1:35–53; Kurt Aland, “The Problem of Anonymity and Pseudonymity in Christian Literature of the First Two Centuries,” in The Authorship and Integrity of the New Testament: Some Recent Studies (Theological Collections 4; London: SPCK, 1965), 1–13; repr. from JTS 2 (1961). In contrast, Martin Hengel is representative of scholars who argue that the Gospels and Acts were not written anonymously (Studies in the Gospel of Mark [trans. John Bowden; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985], 64–84; idem, The Four Gospels and the One Gospel of Jesus Christ: An Investigation of the Collection and Origin of the Canonical Gospels [trans. John Bowden; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2000], 34–73). 53 E. M. Forster, Anonymity: An Enquiry (Hogarth Essays 12; London: Woolf, 1925; repr., Folcraft, PA: Folcraft Library, 1976), 15–16; Aland, “Problem of Anonymity,” 5–11. 54 Terry L. Wilder, Pseudonymity, the New Testament, and Deception: An Inquiry into Intention and Reception (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 2004), 134.

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ral passages of the kind first encountered in Polybius (Acts 16:10–17; 20:5–21:18; 27:1–28:16).55 In the same way as Polybius, the “we” passages in Acts place the narrator character at the scene, an eyewitness to and a participant in the events narrated. Again, this claim has to do with narrative characterization, not with the facts of history, a distinction reinforced by the distance that the anonymous authorship of Acts establishes between the narrator and the author. That does not mean that the author or his source could not have been an eyewitness. Nevertheless, the analysis of grammatical practice by Thucydides, Polybius, and Josephus raises questions about the traditional argument that the first person plural undeniably documents historical eyewitnessing. For one thing, the three ancient historians analyzed much prefer the third person when writing about their personal involvement in affairs. Even Polybius, who appears to favor the first person plural and, in fact, may have been responsible for introducing intermittent first person plural style into narratives that present the author/narrator as a participant in events, employs the first plural grammatical person at the event level in only two of the many passages in which he plays an active role. In addition, in Antiquities Josephus uses first person plural as a reference to himself and the Jews who lived before him. Although the use of the first person plural as a means of associating him with his forebears is not unusual grammatical practice, it assuredly is not meant to signal Josephus’s historical presence among his Jewish ancestors. Lastly, since anonymous authorship largely dissociates the actual author of Acts from the narrator, it also distances the author from the events in which the narrator character participates. If the author of Acts wished to lift up his historical presence at and involvement in events, the grammatical guidance offered by Thucydides, Polybius, and Josephus would seem to be that he identify himself by name, associate himself unmistakably with the narrator character, and report events in which he claims participation primarily in the third person. In the histories analyzed, referring to the author/narrator as “we” gives a sense of corroboration to the narrative eyewitness’s version of the story. Even when the first person plural refers to the narrator individually, it presents the narrator as the spokesperson for the group that shares the narrative experience, much as the royal “we” represents heads of state as spokespersons for their citizenry and the editorial “we” represents editorialists as spokespersons for the organizations under whose banner they opine, even though in each case the first person plural indicates the speaker or writer individually. Similarly, the effect of first person plural grammatical style in Acts is to cast the narrator character as a narrative eyewitness and participant in Paul’s mission and, in so doing, to emphasize his version of events. On the other hand, the first person plural qualifies the narrator’s involvement by characterizing him as part of a broader eyewitness group, explicitly (when there are 55

in Acts.

See n. 1 above for a discussion of the number and extent of first person plural passages

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additional discernible referents) or implicitly (when the pronoun refers to the narrator individually). First plural grammatical person lessens the focus on the narrator’s personal word by simultaneously projecting a sense of corroboration for his account. At the same time, it draws readers into the story as they connect with the “we” group, perhaps even feel a part of it, which encourages a sympathetic disposition toward the narrator and thus greater willingness to accept his perspective and narration of events. For example, in the “we” character’s first appearance in Acts, he is portrayed as an active participant in Paul’s missionary activities. Even though the vision imploring Paul to go to Macedonia appears only to the apostle (16:9), “we immediately endeavored to depart for Macedonia concluding that God had called us to proclaim the gospel” there (16:10). The narrator, in other words, presents himself as a major influence in the determination that the vision represents a divine call and in the decision to respond immediately to its request to expand Paul’s mission activity beyond the familiar and reasonably successful region of Asia Minor to uncharted territories in Macedonia and Greece (16:10–17). Not only the narrator, however, but the entire Pauline entourage is involved in the decision, a group that can reasonably be assumed to include more than Silas, Timothy, and the narrator (e.g., 13:13). The eyewitness narrator strengthens the credibility of the events narrated, and his account is substantiated by the other eyewitnesses included in the first person company. In this case, the narrator further establishes his version of the story by reporting the words of the slave with the gift of divination who announces that “these people who proclaim to you the way of salvation are servants of the most high God” (16:17).56 The effectiveness of the utilization of grammatical person in this manner is demonstrated by the legions of readers who have accepted the historical accuracy of at least parts of Acts based primarily on the fact of first person plural narration.57 The literary character of first person plural grammatical style in Acts, therefore, is important—indeed integral—to the narrative. First person plural narration is not chiefly a historical marker indicating the presence of the actual author of Acts or one of his sources, but plays an important role in the story that the narrator tells and the way he tells it. Too often in the past the narrative significance of the “we” passages—that is, the narrator as narrative character—has been underappreciated. It is their narrative character, however, that is most vital to the Acts drama of divine–human collaboration in shaping the emergence and expansion of the early church. 56

Emphases added. For a fuller analysis and discussion of the role of the first person plural narrator in Acts, see Campbell, “We” Passages, esp. chs. 3 and 4. 57

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Society of Biblical Literature 2010 Annual Meeting November 20–23, 2010

Atlanta Don’t Miss It The SBL Annual Meeting is the largest gathering of biblical scholars in the world and one of the world’s largest exhibits of books and digital resources for biblical studies. Each meeting showcases the latest in biblical research, fosters collegial contacts, advances research in the field, and focuses on issues of the profession. Program Highlights * The Bible and Haiti: Reading and Re-Reading before and after the 2010 Earthquake * “Son of Man” (Sundance Festival 2006) * The Babel of Monolingualism: Translation, American English, and Empire * E-Publish or Perish? * What is Bible? * Innovations in Service-Learning in Atlanta-Area Schools * Teaching Exegesis at Historically Black Theological Schools (HBTS) * The KJV at 400: Assessing Its Genius as Bible Translation and Its Literary Influence Register Now at sbl-site.org and Save! Hotel Space Still Available!

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JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE PUBLISHED QUARTERLY BY THE

SOCIETY OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE 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

The Concordia Commentary Series “I have a great deal of respect for this series. It takes serious regard of the biblical text in its original language, and deals with both textual difficulties and theology—an impressive feat at a time when many commentaries are trying to avoid difficult details.” David Instone-Brewer, University of Cambridge

“Pastors and scholars alike will find plenty of helpful insights . . . in the series as a whole.” Robert B. Chisholm Jr., Bibliotheca Sacra

“One of the best commentary series currently available for those seeking an exposition of the biblical text that balances the academic with the pastoral.” David W. Jones, Faith and Mission, Southeastern Baptist Theological Seminary

Contributors to the Concordia Commentary series provide greater clarity and understanding of the divine intent of the text of Holy Scripture. Each volume is based on the Hebrew, Aramaic, or Greek with sensitivity to the rich treasury of language, imagery, and themes found throughout the broader biblical canon. Further light is shed on the text from archaeology, history, and extrabiblical literature. This landmark work from Lutheran scholars will cover all the canonical books of the Hebrew Scriptures and the Greek New Testament. Two new volumes are released each year. Subscriptions Available for Libraries and Individuals Commentaries are shipped automatically to you. Your subscription starts with the newest volume, and you continue to receive each new volume until the series is complete. (You can request the existing volumes.) Subscriptions are available in three ways: Complete series • Hebrew Scriptures volumes • Greek New Testament volumes CURRENT VOLUMES

Song of Songs by Christopher W. Mitchell

Leviticus by John W. Kleinig

Joshua by Adolph L. Harstad

Ruth by John R. Wilch

Ezra and Nehemiah by Andrew E. Steinmann

Proverbs by Andrew E. Steinmann

Ecclesiastes [forthcoming] by James G. Bollhagen

Ezekiel 1–20 Ezekiel 21–48

Luke 1:1–9:50 Luke 9:51–24:53 by Arthur A. Just Jr.

1 Corinthians

by Horace D. Hummel

by Gregory J. Lockwood

Daniel

Colossians

by Andrew E. Steinmann

by Paul E. Deterding

Amos

Philemon

by R. Reed Lessing

by John G. Nordling

Jonah

Revelation

by R. Reed Lessing

by Louis A. Brighton

Matthew 1:1–11:1 Matthew 11:2–20:34 by Jeffrey A. Gibbs

Founded in 1869, Concordia is the publishing house of The Lutheran Church—Missouri Synod.

www.cph.org • 1-800-325-3040

© 2010 Concordia Publishing House Printed in the USA 510511-01

(Constituent Member of the American Council of Learned Societies)

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129 2 2010

JOURNAL OF

BIBLICAL LITERATURE SUMMER 2010

A History of Jews and Christians from the Babylonian Exile to the Advent of Islam with CD LEO DUPRÉE SANDGREN

“Seldom does a book do so many things well while advancing on so many fronts. The breadth and detail are staggering . . . informed and engaged in matters of history, religion, archaeology, language, and theology . . . covering persons and subjects as diverse as Josiah, Tobit, Hillel, Claudius, Marcus Aurelius, Tertullian, Judah the Prince, Sasanian Persia, Abbahu of Caesarea, Arius, Barbarian Christianity, the Syrian Orthodox Church, Muhammad and even the roots of Kabbalah. Sandgren advances Jewish–Christian dialogue in a new and healthy way as he demonstrates that Judaism and Christianity are indeed ‘vines intertwined.’ ” —Kenton L. Sparks, Professor of Hebrew Bible, Eastern University Attention professors: please email [email protected] to request your examination copy $34.95 • ISBN 978-1-59856-083-1 • Paper • 864 pages

www.hendrickson.com

JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE

VINES INTERTWINED

VOLUME 129, NO. 2 Poetic Forms in the Masoretic Vocalization and Three Difficult Phrases in Jacob’s Blessing: ‫( ֶיֶתר ְש ֵֹאת‬Gen 49:3), ‫( ְיצוִּעי ָעָלה‬49:4), and ‫( ָיבׂא ִשׁיֹלה‬49:10) Richard C. Steiner

209–235

Ἐξιλάσασθαι: Appeasing God in the Septuagint Pentateuch Dirk Büchner

237–260

The Composition of Nathan’s Oracle to David (2 Samuel 7:1–17) as a Reflection of Royal Judahite Ideology Omer Sergi

261–279

“Going Down” to Bethel: Elijah and Elisha in the Theological Geography of the Deuteronomistic History Joel S. Burnett

281–297

A “Diagnostic” Note on the “Great Wrath upon Israel” in 2 Kings 3:27 Scott Morschauser

299–302

Invoking the God: Interpreting Invocations in Mesopotamian Prayers and Biblical Laments of the Individual Alan Lenzi

303–315

Josephus’s Essenes and the Qumran Community Kenneth Atkinson and Jodi Magness

317–342

Instability in Jesus’ Galilee: A Demographic Perspective Jonathan L. Reed

343–365

The Name “Iskarioth” (Iscariot) Joan E. Taylor

367–383

The Narrator as “He,” “Me,” and “We”: Grammatical Person in Ancient Histories and in the Acts of the Apostles William Sanger Campbell

385–407 US ISSN 0021-9231