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130 4 2011
JOURNAL OF
BIBLICAL LITERATURE WINTER 2011
JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE
VOLUME 130, NO. 4 Echoes of Gilgamesh in the Jacob Story Esther J. Hamori
625–642
The Origin and Interpretation of .sara ! vat in Leviticus 13–14 Joel S. Baden and Candida R. Moss
643–662
Lions, Serpents, and Lion-Serpents in Job 28:8 and Beyond Scott C. Jones
663–686
The History and Linguistic Background of Two Hebrew Titles for the High Priest Noam Mizrahi
687–705
Paul, the Goddess Religions, and Queer Sects: Romans 1:23–28 Jeramy Townsley
707–728
An Unworthy Foe: Heroic Ἔθη, Trickery, and an Insult in Ephesians 6:11 Jeffrey R. Asher
729–748
The Usefulness of an Onesimus: The Sexual Use of Slaves and Paul’s Letter to Philemon Joseph A. Marchal
749–770
Were the Early Christians Sectarians? Eyal Regev
771–793
Apocalypticism or Prophecy and the Problem of Polyvalence: Lessons from the Gospel of Thomas Stephen J. Patterson
795–817 US ISSN 0021-9231
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JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE PUBLISHED QUARTERLY BY THE
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Term Expiring 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, Marian University, Indianapolis, IN 46222 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
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JBL 130, no. 4 (2011): 625–642
Echoes of Gilgamesh in the Jacob Story esther j. hamori
[email protected] Union Theological Seminary, New York, NY 10027
It was popular for some time to seek apparent Near Eastern parallels to biblical narratives. The methodology employed was at times problematic, and conclusions were often overstated, as similarities between texts explicable in any number of ways were attributed to direct relationship.1 For some biblical texts, of course, there is stronger evidence for Near Eastern influence. I propose that this is the case in regard to one text for which a Near Eastern counterpart has not previously been suggested: the story of Jacob’s wrestling match in Gen 32:23–33 (Eng. 32:22–32). There is reason to believe that the Israelite author knew some form of Gilgamesh, and particularly the scene of the wrestling match between Gilgamesh and Enkidu.2 The case presented here is not simply one of a shared motif or logical grouping of elements, but one of an unexpected and striking series of correspondences 1 For useful discussions, see esp. Samuel Sandmel, “Parallelomania,” JBL 81 (1962): 1–13; Shemaryahu Talmon, “The Comparative Method,” in Congress Volume: Göttingen, 1977 (VTSup 29; Leiden: Brill, 1978), 320–56; William W. Hallo, “Biblical History in Its Near Eastern Setting: The Contextual Approach,” in Essays on the Comparative Method (ed. Carl D. Evans, William W. Hallo, and John B. White; Scripture in Context 1; PTMS 34; Pittsburgh: Pickwick, 1980), 1–26; idem, “Compare and Contrast: The Contextual Approach to Biblical Literature,” in The Bible in the Light of Cuneiform Literature (ed. Bruce W. Jones, William W. Hallo, and Gerald L. Mattingly; Scripture in Context 3; Ancient Near Eastern Texts and Studies 8; Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 1990), 1–30; Jeffrey H. Tigay, “On Evaluating Claims of Literary Borrowing,” in The Tablet and the Scroll: Near Eastern Studies in Honor of William W. Hallo (ed. Mark E. Cohen, Daniel C. Snell, and David B. Weisberg; Bethesda, MD: CDL, 1993), 250–55; and for a recent summary, see Richard E. Averbeck, “Sumer, the Bible, and the Comparative Method,” in Mesopotamia and the Bible: Comparative Explorations (ed. Mark W. Chavalas and K. Lawson Younger, Jr.; JSOTSup 341; London: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002), esp. 88–91. 2 Given the complexities of ancient authors’ use of existing material and thus the blurred line between author and redactor, the term “author” throughout will refer to the writer of the composition that includes the elements under discussion here and is not intended to exclude the reshaping of earlier material.
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between two texts. The two stories in question share several elements that are each highly unusual and that bear no inherent relation to one another. Moreover, these features occur in the same order in the two texts. This is not to suggest that the author of the Israelite text sat looking at a copy of Gilgamesh. However, the unlikely cluster of correspondences, with the same sequence of uncommon elements, implies the author’s familiarity with the story. I will argue here that the Israelite author utilized—and skillfully subverted—the framework familiar from Gilgamesh in composing the story of Jacob’s wrestling match, and that this use sheds light on the aim of the Genesis passage. While the larger stories of Jacob and Gilgamesh are very different, each includes a critical scene featuring a type of unarmed combat notably distinct from representations of fighting found in other ancient Near Eastern literature. Many significant elements of the wrestling scenes are shared by the two stories, including the manner, purpose, and outcome of the fight; each of these elements stands out from common portrayals of fighting found elsewhere in the Near East. The text with the relevant material is found already in the Old Babylonian version of the Gilgamesh Epic (Pennsylvania tablet [P] 200–239).3 The wrestling match performs a pivotal function in each story. The story of Jacob is characterized by the search, or even struggle, for blessing. This theme reaches its climax in the wrestling scene. Here Jacob is blessed directly by a divine agent and is given his name, his title as the father of Israel. After this scene (setting aside the P addition of the text in ch. 35, which combines material from chs. 28 and 32), the adventures of Jacob come to a close and the character retreats to a secondary role. In the Epic of Gilgamesh, before the fight Gilgamesh’s rule is harsh and his people are distraught; after it, the formerly unbearable ruler stops tormenting the people of Uruk and directs his attention toward more worthwhile endeavors. In the fight he meets his match, the man who will tame him, and through it he gains his most loyal companion, around whom much of the epic revolves. The function of the two wrestling scenes is not the same—in the Jacob cycle it provides resolution close to the end of the hero’s story, and in Gilgamesh the conflict and resolution lay the foundation for the continuation of the story. The reason for this difference lies in the particular perspective of the Israelite text.
I. Parallels between the Wrestling Scenes Many intriguing parallels stand out between the fight scenes. In each story the hero is met at night by his opponent, who begins the fight. The antagonist is 3 All translations of Akkadian and Hebrew are original. Gilgamesh line numbering follows the edition of Andrew R. George, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts (2 vols.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003).
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divine or divinely created for this very purpose. This aggressor is not known by the hero at the time of the attack. The hero, however, is known to him. The aggressor provokes the hero to unarmed combat. They wrestle, though in neither case is the bout intended to be a fight to the death. Rather, in both stories the match functions as a rite of passage. In neither case is there a traditional end to the fight. In addition to unusual lack of lethal intent, there is also no decisive move that would provide a logical conclusion to the match. Each hero at some point simply lets his attacker go, and the latter ceases to be seen as an antagonist. The hero is somehow appeased, and his opponent blesses him.4 In both cases it is the hero who is attacked while he goes on his way one night: Jacob on his way back to Canaan across the Jabbok, and Gilgamesh on his way into a wedding celebration. It is just on the threshold that each man is accosted by an unknown assailant. Each hero is deliberately sought out by his opponent: Jacob was left alone at night when “a man wrestled with him,” and Gilgamesh was engaging in his customary wedding-night activities when Enkidu blocked the door to challenge him (P 198–99). The antagonist is divine or a divine agent in both texts. Jacob’s attacker is the “( אישman”) who shows himself to be God. He renames Jacob Yisra-El, explaining that Jacob has striven with God. He blesses Jacob, and when Jacob realizes that he has encountered God, he responds by naming the place Peni-El, explaining that he has seen God face to face. The figure who names Jacob Israel and blesses him, the man of whom Jacob says, “I have seen God face to face,” is God himself.5 In the Gilgamesh story, Enkidu has been created by the gods expressly for the purpose of fighting this round with the hero. Anu responds to the lament of the people of Uruk by summoning Aruru to create a match for Gilgamesh, one equal in strength, in order to contend with him (I 92–104). While the scene of Enkidu’s creation is not attested in the OB version, the dreams of Gilgamesh are, and these represent the divine sending of Enkidu to Gilgamesh. Gilgamesh dreams that an object falls from heaven before him but is too heavy for him to lift; he pushes at it but cannot move it (P 7–9). With the help of the townsmen, he brings it home to his mother. Upon hearing this dream, his mother explains that Enkidu will come to him, and Gilgamesh will embrace him. The difference between the divine man in Genesis and the divinely sent man in Gilgamesh is not to be overlooked: this is an important indication that the Israelite author is not content to adopt a story line but intends something quite dif4 All of these elements are in Old Babylonian (OB) Gilgamesh, with the exception of the divine creation of Enkidu (extant only in the Standard Babylonian Version [SBV]), discussed below. 5 For my detailed analysis of the אישtheophany, see Esther J. Hamori, “When Gods Were Men”: The Embodied God in Biblical and Near Eastern Literature (BZAW 384; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2008).
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ferent from the Gilgamesh text. The significance of this difference will be addressed later. In each story, the identity of the attacker is not made known to the hero until the end of the fight. Jacob asks his opponent his name, and it is when the איש responds, “Why do you ask my name?” and blesses him, that Jacob recognizes the figure’s divine identity and declares, “I have seen God face to face, and my life has been delivered” (Gen 32:29, 30). Gilgamesh, too, is surprised by his unknown attacker, who blocks his way, provoking him to a fight. It is only in the next intelligible scene that the two kiss one another and become friends (Yale tablet [Y] 18).6 So far, then, we have unknown divine agents who appear at night and provoke the heroes to a fight. Another parallel, and one of great significance, is the lack of intention to fight to the death evident in both matches. Presumably because of the dearth of biblical and Near Eastern references to such nonmortal combat, some have theorized that Jacob’s fight was in fact intended to be a lethal encounter.7 It seems that the best foundation for this argument is that engaging in combat was indeed generally assumed to be an act of life-threatening aggression. The descriptions of the combat in these two scenes, however, do not give any indication that the fights were meant to be lethal. On the contrary, elements of the two stories reveal that neither episode was intended to be a fight to the death. It is of course clear in literary terms that Jacob’s fight could not be deadly. Jacob must survive in order to become Israel, and there is no question of the אישbeing killed; unless both parties survive, there can be no future to the story. Additionally, the basis of Jacob’s blessing as the father of Israel is his victory in this fight. The אישsays to his wrestling partner, “Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel; for you have striven with God and with men, and have prevailed” (Gen 32:28). At this point, one might argue that this demonstrates only that the author of the text intended the outcome of the fight to be as it is and that this implies nothing about the intention of the characters; the author may have written a nonlethal ending to what (for the characters) might have been mortal combat. The intention of the author must lie deeper than this, however. The core elements of the story demonstrate that the resolution of the fight is not the outcome of what might have been a death match. On the contrary, the characters themselves are portrayed as
6
For the argument that the Pennsylvania tablet (tablet II) and the Yale tablet (tablet III) should be read together, see Jeffrey H. Tigay, “Was There an Integrated Gilgamesh Epic in the Old Babylonian Period?” in Essays on the Ancient Near East in Memory of Jacob Joel Finkelstein (ed. Maria de Jong Ellis; Memoirs of the Connecticut Academy of Arts & Sciences 19; Hamden, CT: Archon, 1977), 215–18; and George, Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic, 1:159–62. 7 See, e.g., Claus Westermann, Genesis: A Commentary (trans. John J. Scullion; 3 vols.; Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1985), 2:516; Hermann Gunkel, Genesis (1901; trans. Mark E. Biddle; Mercer Library of Biblical Studies; Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1997), 349.
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consciously engaging in nonlethal combat. The אישwants to go before the sun rises, and so he tries to disable Jacob—not to kill him. Jacob agrees to let him go once he blesses him. Neither character is portrayed as having any intention of killing the other. The same want of lethal intent is visible in the Epic of Gilgamesh. Here too there is a point at which the partners seem to agree to stop fighting, and the hero lets his attacker go. Gilgamesh simply releases Enkidu when he ceases to be angry. Like boys in the schoolyard, when they are exhausted the one helps the other up and they become the best of friends. The combat is a rite of passage, not a duel to the death. Moreover, it is made perfectly clear from the start of the epic that Enkidu is created to be an equal match for Gilgamesh and to contend with him so that Uruk might be at peace, and Gilgamesh is certainly a changed man after his encounter with Enkidu. Enkidu was not sent to enter potentially lethal combat; he was sent to wrestle Gilgamesh to his senses. In addition to the striking lack of lethal intent in these two fights, it is highly unusual that both sets of partners engage in unarmed combat. Ancient Near Eastern references to wrestling—that is, to unarmed combat either classified by a term “wrestling” or described as what we know to be wrestling—do not generally appear in the context of spontaneous fighting. Rather, when wrestling is mentioned, the reference seems to be either to sport, or to an event that has specific military implications. Several scholars have compared the wrestling of Gilgamesh to that of the Sumerian king Shulgi.8 Shulgi, however, boasts specifically about his prowess in “wrestling and athletics” (Hymn B:129). In addition, when describing in detail his life as a warrior, Shulgi mentions the javelin, sword, arrow, boomerang, lasso, projectiles, spear, sling, and slingstone—a man not known as a hero of unarmed combat, one might conclude. In short, Shulgi’s fame in wrestling was restricted to his athletic endeavors; his fame as a warrior was restricted to the use of weaponry and bore no relation to unarmed combat.9 This is a description not of spontaneous fighting but of wrestling as athletic competition, as also in the Marriage of Martu. The wrestling contests at the new year’s festival would also fall into this category.10 8 See, e.g., Jeffrey H. Tigay, The Evolution of the Gilgamesh Epic (1982; repr., Wauconda, IL: Bolchazy-Carducci, 2002), 187. 9 Giorgio R. Castellino, Two Šulgi Hymns (Studia semitici 42; Rome: Istituto di studi del Vicino Oriente, Università, 1972), 40–41, 257. In the SBV, Gilgamesh too is praised for his weapons (I 65). Indeed, part of the general pattern for royal hymns included the portrayal of kings as having expertise with weapons. See, e.g., Amélie Kuhrt, The Ancient Near East, c. 3000–330 BC (2 vols.; London: Routledge, 1995), 1:68. 10 See, e.g., Karel van der Toorn, Family Religion in Babylonia, Syria, and Israel: Continuity and Change in the Forms of Religious Life (Studies in the History and Culture of the Ancient Near East 7; Leiden: Brill, 1996), 16.
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When not mentioned in the context of athletics, unarmed combat generally has military implications, as in the Mari letter that refers to Zimri-Lim metaphorically wrestling his adversary Ishme-Dagan (ARM 26 207 = ARM 10 4).11 It is added, however, that the head of Ishme-Dagan will be cut off and that his armies will not come to fight Zimri-Lim once their leader has been killed. Even in this prophetic image of national conflict, the description of unarmed combat is explicitly of a fight to the death, and the overall goal is military in nature.12 Furthermore, the very fact of unarmed combat is unusual. Even gods generally fight with weapons. Anzu and Ninurta engage in armed combat, for example; Tiamat and Marduk battle with weapons, and the gods around them are armed as well. The outcomes of the fights of Jacob and Gilgamesh further elucidate the parallel between the stories. While some have left room for the possibility that Jacob did not win his fight (e.g., Claus Westermann and Walter Brueggemann), the mainstream conclusion has been that in the end the upper hand was Jacob’s.13 Certainly, leaving aside the issue of what can constitute victory in any formal sense in unarmed nonlethal combat, it can be seen that the אישrequested to be let go, Jacob agreed to release him on one condition, the condition was met, and the fighting subsided. Moreover, the blessing that Jacob received in answer to his one condition stated that in fact he had prevailed over human beings and over God.14 Gilgamesh too was paired with an equal, and in this text there has been much more disagreement as to who prevailed. The description of the struggle itself offers 11 Jean-Marie Durand argues that the word h}umāšum in this text refers to a cane or staff— though notably, still not a deadly weapon (Les documents épistolaires du palais de Mari [3 vols.; LAPO 16–18; Paris: Cerf, 1997–], 3:322–23, no. 1144). Jack M. Sasson identifies it as a wrestling belt (“Reflections on an Unusual Practice Reported in ARM X 4”, Or 43 [1974]: 404–10). The gist of the text in either case is that Zimri-Lim will overpower his opponent as they “grapple” and that this is then translated to military victory. 12 A third type of fighting, neither athletic nor military precisely, is succession combat. However, these contests were planned, armed, and fought to the death. See Joseph Fontenrose, The Ritual Theory of Myth (University of California Folklore Studies 18; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1971), 41–49. 13 Westermann, Genesis, 2:518; Walter Brueggemann, Genesis (IBC; Atlanta: John Knox, 1982), 269. For most, there is no question as to the victor. See, e.g., Gunkel, Genesis, 349; E. A. Speiser, Genesis: Introduction, Translation, and Notes (3rd ed.; AB 1; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1979), 256; and Roland Barthes, “La lutte avec l’ange”, in idem et al., Analyse structurale et exégèse biblique: Essais d’interprétation (Bibliothèque théologique; Neuchâtel: Delachaux et Niestlé, 1972), 32. 14 This is extremely unusual. Consider for instance the Ugaritic texts, in which deities always prevail in combat against humans (e.g., Anat’s victory over two towns full of young men in the Baal cycle) and have trouble only when matched with one other, as in the struggle between Baal and Mot.
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only this conclusion: “Gilgamesh knelt, his foot on the ground, his rage calmed, he turned away” (P 227–30). The confusion comes from the fact that kneeling has the potential to signify either victory or defeat. Thorkild Jacobsen, for example, understands this to be the indication that Gilgamesh loses the fight.15 Gilgamesh is not brought to his knees, however. Rather, he himself knelt (ikmisma, G preterite) on one knee with the other foot on the ground (ina qaqqari šēpšu). While the text does not depict a formal athletic competition, it should be noted that the very stance described is found in Greek portrayals of victorious athletes. One vase, for example, bears two paintings of an athletic victor; in both pictures the athlete, adorned with victor’s wreath and palm, is kneeling on one knee with the opposite foot on the ground.16 A Near Eastern seal image shows a victorious hero in a similar stance, holding a lion over his head as he kneels on one knee, with the opposite foot on the ground.17 Gilgamesh cannot be construed as having fallen to his knees. On the contrary, “Gilgamesh knelt, his foot on the ground,” in what perfectly matches this victory stance.18 The final outcome of the match is shared by the two texts as well. In each case the victor is blessed by his attacker. It should be noted immediately that this is not a usual context for a blessing. As Westermann has observed, this is in fact the only place in the Tanakh in which a blessing is acquired through a struggle.19 Furthermore, the two blessings are similar in both form and content. Jacob’s attacker declares: “Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel; for you have striven with God and with human beings, and have prevailed” (Gen 32:28). This can be divided
15 Jacobsen, The Treasures of Darkness: A History of Mesopotamian Religion (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1976), 199; and idem, “The Gilgamesh Epic: Tragic and Romantic Vision,” in Lingering over Words: Studies in Ancient Near Eastern Literature in Honor of William L. Moran (ed. Tzvi Abusch, John Huehnergard, and Piotr Steinkeller; HSS 37; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1990), 237. 16 Harold A. Harris, Greek Athletes and Athletics (London: Hutchinson, 1964), 128, plate 32. 17 British Museum Photo BM 89140, cited by Benjamin R. Foster, who translates, “It was Gilgamesh who knelt for the pin” (The Epic of Gilgamesh: A New Translation, Analogues, Criticism [New York: Norton, 2001], 16-17, illustration 2). For further discussion of such comparisons, see George, Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic, 1:191–92. 18 Even in formal Greek wrestling, being brought to the knees did not constitute defeat. A match was generally lost through a fall. See Michael Poliakoff, Combat Sports in the Ancient World: Competition, Violence, and Culture (Sport and History Series; New Haven: Yale University Press, 1987), 23–25; Harold A. Harris, Greek Athletics and the Jews (ed. I. M. Barton and A. J. Brothers; Trivium: Special Publications 3; Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1976), 67; E. Norman Gardiner, Athletics of the Ancient World (Oxford: Clarendon, 1930), 181–83. There is also artistic evidence that a wrestler could continue to fight even from both knees, such as vases and statues depicting wrestlers grappling on their knees. See, e.g., Poliakoff, 47–49, illustrations 42–47; and Gardiner, 188, illustrations 156–57. 19 Westermann, Genesis, 2:518.
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into two parts. First, the divine opponent makes a declaration regarding the identity and legacy of Jacob in relation to God; second, he affirms that Jacob has prevailed over all others. Enkidu’s blessing of victorious Gilgamesh follows the same pattern: “As one unique your mother bore you, the wild cow of the sheep-folds, Ninsunna! Your head is extolled above men; kingship of the people Enlil has decreed for you” (P 234–39). Again, the first statement is in regard to the identity and legacy of Gilgamesh in relation to his mother, the goddess; the second statement affirms that Gilgamesh prevails over all others. In both cases, the force of the blessing is clear: the hero will continue to prevail as the divinely appointed father or leader of his people.20
II. Parallels in the Surrounding Material In addition to the many shared elements of the two wrestling scenes in particular, the larger narratives of these stories also share several unusual features, specifically in regard to the depiction of other main characters. Taken by themselves, these additional similarities would not demonstrate a relationship between the two stories. In light of the close connection between the two wrestling scenes, however, the correspondences between the depictions of key characters in the surrounding stories are noteworthy. It is possible that the author’s use of the cluster of details from Gilgamesh and Enkidu’s wrestling match could have served as a hook, bringing along secondarily other themes from the surrounding narrative. It is also possible that there already existed some degree of similarity between key characters in the two larger stories, and that the process was one of further assimilation.21 While the two stories are clearly very different overall, the portrayals of and relationships between the main characters are oddly parallel. The most significant correspondence at this level involves the principal human conflict of the Jacob cycle, that of Jacob and Esau. In Genesis, of course, the hero’s primary rival and his wrestling opponent are not the same character. This is a crucial distinction, and its significance will be taken up later. In the interests of comparison to a broader literary phenomenon, it should be noted that the occurrence of character splitting— in which one character in one story is reflected in two separate characters in a later story—is known from transmission of folklore.22 The fact that the portrayals of 20
In addition to his role as father of the people, Jacob’s function as the leader of his people is seen in Isaac’s original blessing, “Peoples will serve you, and nations will bow down to you” (Gen 32:29). 21 See esp. Yair Zakovitch, “Assimilation in Biblical Narratives,” in Empirical Models for Biblical Criticism (ed. Jeffrey H. Tigay; Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1985), 175–96. 22 Max Lüthi, Das Volksmärchen als Dichtung: Ästhetik und Anthropologie (Studien zur Volkserzählung 1; Düsseldorf: E. Diederichs, 1975), 85.
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Esau and of Jacob’s wrestling partner both reflect shades of Enkidu is not so strange in storytelling terms, but it is surprising and intriguing and will in fact reveal the particular interests of the Israelite text. The hero in each story is described in contrast to his primary rival. Jacob is comfortable dwelling in tents, while Esau is a wild man, at home in the fields. The portrait of Gilgamesh too is that of a civilized man, drawn in contrast to his wild opponent, who lives among the animals. Jacob is “smooth” ()חלק, described in contrast to Esau, who is hairy (( )שערGen 27:11). Our hero Gilgamesh too is fair in appearance (išaru zīmūšu), unlike Enkidu, who is hairy. The two hairy counterparts are described using cognate terms, שערand šu ' 'urum.23 The initial description of Esau states that “all of him was like a garment of hair” ()כלו כאדרת שער (Gen 25:25; cf. 27:11), and in the Pennsylvania tablet, before the wrestling scene, the barber tends to Enkidu’s entire hairy body (šu ''urum pagaršu) (P 106). Similarly, in the SBV portrayal of Enkidu, “his whole body was bushy with hair” (I 105).24 The picture of Esau is just as extreme: when Jacob seeks to fool his father into taking him for Esau, he dresses in animal skins in order to be hairy enough to compare! Yet, in spite of this conspicuous difference between the hero and his opponent in the two stories, they are created to be a pair. Jacob and Esau are of course twins. Enkidu is created to be a match for Gilgamesh, whom Gilgamesh would love like a spouse (P 33). The portrayal of an animal-like man is not in itself uncommon. Gregory Mobley has observed many examples of the individual “wild man” in biblical texts, including Adam, Nimrod, Ishmael, Esau, Elijah, and Samson.25 While it is interesting to note this motif in its various forms, this range of characters should demonstrate that the portrayal of Esau goes beyond that of a common type. He is as hairy as the animals that surround him in the fields and is the counterpart of smooth Jacob at home in his tent. The theme of a civilized and uncivilized pair is also not unique. Mobley points to Ishmael and Isaac as an example of this.26 Even if one accepts this idea, here too 23 This has been observed before; see Speiser, Genesis, 196; Ronald S. Hendel, The Epic of the Patriarch: The Jacob Cycle and the Narrative Traditions of Canaan and Israel (HSM 42; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987), 117. 24 In the SBV, Gilgamesh and Enkidu are each said to have a healthy head of hair, in virtually identical language (I 60; I 107); however, the lines preceding these refer respectively to the hair on Gilgamesh’s cheeks, and the hair covering Enkidu’s entire body (I 59; I 105). 25 Mobley, “The Wild Man in the Bible and the Ancient Near East,” JBL 116 (1997): 226–27. Mobley offers examples of the “wild man” type in medieval, biblical, and Near Eastern literature but does not aim to compare them to one another. Others have suggested general similarities in “type,” such as Ronald A. Veenker, who writes that “Enkidu represents primal or original man much like Adam in the Bible” (“Syro-Mesopotamia: The Old Babylonian Period,” in Chavalas and Younger, Mesopotamia and the Bible, 165–66). 26 Mobley, “Wild Man,” 226.
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the portrayal of Jacob and Esau clearly goes further: they are twins, smooth and hairy, indoor and outdoor, born together but destined from the womb to be opposed. As Mobley says of Gilgamesh and Enkidu, Enkidu is the “feral double, the Doppelgänger, of the hero Gilgamesh.”27 This would also describe Esau and his twin Jacob well. The depiction of Jacob and Esau is not merely a vague picture of a civilized and uncivilized pair; if anything, the suggestion of Isaac and Ishmael as such a pair should highlight how much closer the depiction of Jacob and Esau is to that of Gilgamesh and Enkidu. Jacob and Esau have been compared to other pairings as well. Ronald Hendel’s work on Jacob and Esau cautiously using the classic Levi-Straussian nature–culture polarity includes discussion of Gilgamesh and Enkidu, Horus and Seth, and Hypsouranios and Ousōos.28 Hendel is careful not to reduce the characters to a “type,” noting that his goal is instead “to highlight one strand in the complex web of traditions that encompasses, to a greater or lesser degree, each of these figures.”29 The comparison I am making between Jacob and Esau and Gilgamesh and Enkidu does not rest on seeing a “type” of wild man, or even a pair rooted in broader tradition. Rather, it is based on recognition of a very specific expression of a smooth hero and his hairy Doppelgänger. In comparison to examples such as Adam, Isaac and Ishmael, or Horus and Seth, it once again becomes evident that the depiction of Jacob and Esau bears an especially close resemblance to that of Gilgamesh and Enkidu. An additional shared theme in the larger narrative of the two stories may be observed in particularities of the hero–mother relationship. In the stories of Jacob and Gilgamesh, each hero receives essential counsel from his mother, a wise woman with divine insight. Rebekah inquires of Yahweh before the birth of her children and he tells her of their future.30 Knowing their destiny, she guides Jacob accordingly. This is noteworthy here because Rebekah is the only mother in the Hebrew Bible described as engaging in this type of activity. The mother of Moses, for example, acts instrumentally regarding his future in Exodus 2 but is apparently unaware of the significance of her actions. Naomi and Ruth, both mothers whose actions affect the line of David, are equally unwitting. Even Hannah, whose story centers on her praying, does not share this quality; it is Eli the priest who speaks to her on behalf 27
Ibid., 223. Hendel uses these comparisons to offer insight into the function of men associated with wilderness in Israelite literature, such as Esau, Ishmael, and Cain (Epic of the Patriarch, 111–31). 29 Ibid., 122. 30 The verb דרשused of Rebekah’s activity in Gen 25:22 is used regularly of “prophets” inquiring of God (e.g., 1 Kgs 22:8; 2 Kgs 3:11; 8:8; 22:13; Jer 21:2; Ezek 20:1, 3) and of “mediums,” “spiritists,” and so on inquiring of ghosts, spirits, and foreign gods (e.g., Deut 18:11; 1 Sam 28:7; 2 Kgs 1:2, 3, 6, 16; Isa 8:19; 19:3; Ezek 14:10). 28
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of God. Miriam the prophet is not said to be a mother, and Deborah, who is renowned as a prophet and is instrumental in a phase of Israelite history, is not a mother; nor is Huldah the prophet in 2 Kings 22 and 2 Chronicles 34.31 Notably, these prophets are among the few female characters in the Hebrew Bible who are not said to bear children. The only woman who is called a prophet and bears a child is the unnamed woman in Isa 8:3, who has the title נביאהbut does not in the story receive any word from God.32 Furthermore, this type of “inquiring” throughout the Hebrew Bible generally involves the work of an intermediary, whether a prophet, a medium, or another diviner. It is unusual that Rebekah “inquires” of God without an intermediary. In this way as well, the unique divinatory nature of her activity in relation to her son cannot be regarded as standard or incidental. Gilgamesh’s mother Ninsunna also has divine insight, not merely because she is herself a goddess but also because she too engages in divinatory activity on her son’s behalf. Before Gilgamesh meets Enkidu, he is disturbed by strange dreams and relates them to his mother. She interprets the dreams for her son, each time introduced as “the mother of Gilgamesh, knowing everything” (P 15; 37). Both mothers, then, through their divinatory activity, gain privileged knowledge regarding the nature of the relationship between the hero and his primary rival, as Rebekah inquires of Yahweh while the twins are struggling in her womb, and Ninsunna interprets her son’s dreams regarding the approach of Enkidu. As it happens, this is not the first time it has been suggested that Gilgamesh’s two key relationships—that with Enkidu and that with his mother—have influenced another story. Jack M. Sasson, in a discussion of the influence of Gilgamesh on other texts, notes that T. B. L. Webster “demonstrated the possible dependence in the conception of Achilles and Patroclus upon the model of Gilgamesh and Enkidu,” observing that “the protagonists of each epic would become unthinkable without their respective mothers and companions.”33
31 Deborah is referred to in Judg 5:7 as “a mother in Israel,” but the term is used metaphorically. See Susan Ackerman, Warrior, Dancer, Seductress, Queen: Women in Judges and Biblical Israel (ABRL; New York: Doubleday, 1998), 38–44. The fourth and last named female prophet is Noadiah, who is also not said to be a mother and who appears in only one verse (Neh 6:14). 32 Esther J. Hamori, “Childless Female Diviners in the Bible and Beyond,” in Prophets Male and Female: Gender and Prophecy in the Hebrew Bible, the Eastern Mediterranean and the Ancient Near East (ed. C. L. Carvalho and J. Stökl; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2012); and in an earlier form, “‘When Gods Were Men’: Biblical Theophany and Anthropomorphic Realism” (Ph.D. diss., New York University, 2004), 119–21. 33 Sasson, “Some Literary Motifs in the Composition of the Gilgamesh Epic,” Studies in Philology 69 (1972): 277, citing ch. 3 of Webster, From Mycenae to Homer (2nd ed.; New York: Norton, 1964).
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Two layers of parallels can thus be seen between the story of Jacob and the story of Gilgamesh. The primary parallels directly related to the wrestling scene include the nighttime attack by an unknown opponent who is either divine or divinely created for this purpose, spontaneous unarmed combat with no intent to fight to the death, the victory of the attacked hero who is somehow appeased, and the blessing given by the opponent, who is known to the hero only at the end of the encounter. These parallels are not arbitrary but in fact touch every part of the basic conflict. Moreover, these events occur in the same sequence in the two stories. The parallels related to the larger narrative include the theme of rivalry between the smooth or fair man and the hairy man, who embody the tension between civilized and uncivilized but are created to be a pair, as well as the theme of the mother who divines knowledge of the relationship between the pair. As suggested above, it is possible that these elements of the surrounding narrative trailed along as the Israelite author utilized the familiar framework of the Gilgamesh wrestling story. It also possible that a settled/steppe pairing (as in the portrayal of Isaac and Ishmael) was already present in the Jacob story and inspired the use of the Gilgamesh narrative. In either case, it should be noted that the primary and secondary parallels shown above are not scattered haphazardly throughout the whole Jacob cycle, through stories of Jacob, Laban, and Syria, through Priestly and non-Priestly texts. On the contrary, they are all contained in the non-Priestly stories of Jacob and Esau and their mother Rebekah, all of which take place outside of Syria.34 That is, the biblical parallels to Gilgamesh happen neither in a single pericope nor throughout the entire Jacob story but specifically on the level of the Jacob–Esau–Rebekah cycle.
III. Implications The presence of any single motif shared by two stories is not extraordinary; for example, tales of wild hairy men are known from many parts of the world. Even the presence of any single highly unusual theme shared by two stories, such as spontaneous unarmed combat with no intention to fight to the death, might be interesting but would not constitute evidence of direct influence. It is the shared grouping of multiple motifs that are both independently unusual and have no inherent connection to one another that should raise suspicion of a shared tradition. There is no intrinsic link, for example, between the themes of nonlethal unarmed combat, an unknown nocturnal attacker (even while the hero is known 34 On the relationships between various parts of the Priestly and non-Priestly Jacob cycle, see David M. Carr, Reading the Fractures of Genesis: Historical and Literary Approaches (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1996), 265–71.
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to him), and the attacker’s blessing of the hero rather than a traditional end to the fight, not to mention the themes of tension between the civilized and uncivilized expressed in the antagonism between a smooth individual and a hairy one, and the mother who divines knowledge of their relationship. However, the two stories in which we find this shared series of unusual themes are clearly very different. The story of Jacob is about the ongoing process of defining Israelite identity, which is obviously unrelated to Gilgamesh. Yet it would appear that the writer of the Jacob story at a certain point utilizes the framework familiar from Gilgamesh to tell a portion of his story. What must be explored, then, is how the use of this framework might have served his purpose. The broader context of the wrestling match in Genesis is the story of Jacob and Esau.35 Jacob has stolen his brother’s birthright and finally usurps his blessing. Upon hearing of this, Esau is enraged and vows to kill Jacob, who flees for his life to Haran, where he remains for a good many years. It is on his fearful return to Canaan that Jacob wrestles God. The immediate context of the wrestling scene further establishes that it is linked to the Esau story. The surrounding material forms the story of Jacob’s fear of and reconciliation to Esau. Immediately beforehand, Jacob is afraid for his life, expecting an attack by Esau, and sends ahead gifts to pacify his old rival. He then wrestles his opponent. Directly after the fight, Jacob offers his gifts to Esau in person and is reconciled to him. Why, then, should the wrestling match occur between the two halves of the story of the reconciliation of Jacob and Esau? To be sure, the placement of the scene shows literary brilliance—the nocturnal supernatural terror following the realistic daytime fear is shocking to the reader—but there is a message that goes beyond the literary effect. The story of Jacob and Esau is the story of Israel and Edom. It is Edom who originally has the birthright, the inheritance, the blessing. When Jacob (or Israel) returns to Canaan, he asks God to uphold his blessing and his claim on the land. It is at this point in the story that the author utilizes the framework familiar from Gilgamesh to tell the story of Jacob’s struggle and the confirmation of his blessing. But the author does so in the most unexpected way: a fight does ensue, though not the one anticipated. It is of course not Esau whom Jacob wrestles but God. We should be surprised that this bout is not with Esau.36 The immediately
35 On various types of links between the wrestling story and the surrounding material regarding the brothers, see, e.g., Horst Seebass, Genesis (3 vols.; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 1996–2000), 2:399–401; Gordon J. Wenham, Genesis 16–50 (WBC 2; Dallas: Word, 1994), 294; and Mark S. Smith, “Remembering God: Collective Memory in Israelite Religion,” CBQ 64 (2002): 643–44. 36 For a later interpretation showing a tradition of physical conflict between Jacob and Esau, see the commentary on Gen 33:4 in Gen. Rab. 78:9: the brothers meet in tears, but instead of falling on Jacob’s neck and kissing him ()וישקהו, Esau tries to bite Jacob’s neck ()נשך > נשק. In one
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surrounding material is concerned with the central conflict of the Jacob story, that of Jacob and Esau. We see the expectation of their combat immediately preceding the wrestling match and their reconciliation directly afterward. Why, then, does Jacob wrestle with God and not Esau? The presence of God rather than Esau in the crucial scene is significant in the story of Israel and Edom in several ways. First, a central element in this story is that of the blessing. Jacob’s blessing, however, cannot very well come from Esau. It is God who chooses Israel, not Edom. Until this point in the story, Jacob had done his utmost to secure the blessing first given to Edom, but his finagling had backfired to the point of endangering his life. It is in fact only in his dread of Esau as he returns to Canaan that he finally asks God to uphold the blessing he received through deceit. The blessing of Israel and the gift of the inheritance were at first stolen from Edom by Rebekah and Jacob. The confirmation of that blessing, then, must come not from Esau, or from Edom, who had first rights, but from God. Second, already in the first story about the brothers in Gen 25:30 we are told that Esau is called Edom. Jacob is not called Israel, however, until his attacker blesses him. Once again, it is significant that this attacker is unexpectedly God, and not Esau. It must be God who identifies and first proclaims the name of Israel, not Edom. Third, in the Gilgamesh story the fight paves the way for a sustained relationship between the hero and his attacker. We do in fact see the struggle between Jacob and his brother give way to a sustained relationship immediately after the fight scene. It is central to the author of the Jacob story, however, that, while Jacob’s primary conflict has been with Esau, or Edom, who originally had the blessing and the inheritance, and while reconciliation between these two is achieved directly following the wrestling match, the sustained bond gained by the fight is not between Israel and Edom but between Israel and God. Thus, we see not only that the author has utilized the Gilgamesh framework at this point in the story, and that the placement of the story connects it to the story of Jacob and Esau’s rivalry, but also that the presence of God in the story rather than Esau is crucial. The author tells the story of the conflict over Edom’s original right to the blessing (the story of Jacob’s struggle and reconciliation with Esau), and demonstrates that Israel’s name and blessing, his inheritance, and his claim on the land, come from God, not from Edom. Likewise, Jacob’s sustained bond after the fight is with God, not Edom.
charming version of this, Jacob’s neck becomes like marble, which further explains the reasons for the brothers’ tears. Jacob weeps because Esau has tried to bite him; Esau weeps because his teeth have been knocked out.
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This then begins to address how use of the Gilgamesh framework serves the author of the Jacob story. Through both the use and placement of the familiar framework, both Esau and Jacob’s wrestling opponent are evocative of Enkidu’s role in Gilgamesh. This incidence of character splitting does not seem to be a fluke: the tight connection between Esau and the divine attacker highlights the emphasis on the role of God over against Edom, as delineated above. We should note that Esau and the wrestler are also linked in the text at the verbal level. Jacob says to his attacker, “I have seen [ ]ראיתיGod face to face, and my life has been delivered” (Gen 32:31), and to Esau, “I see [ ]ראיתיyour face as one sees the face of God, and you have received me favorably” (33:10). The wrestling scene is also framed by an anticipation of this, as Jacob says upon sending gifts to Esau, “afterward I will see his face” (Gen 32:21; Eng. 32:20). The author thus links the expected attacker, Esau, to the actual attacker, God, in a manner that draws particular attention to the fact that, after the enduring struggle surrounding Edom’s original right to the blessing, the one who names Jacob Israel and confirms the promise that he will inherit the land is God, not Edom. The biblical author seems to have found a model for a good fight—that is, a productive fight, in which the hero and the opponent not only both survive but are even bonded through the experience, a fight involving not enemies, but between friends and partners. My purpose here has been to demonstrate the likely influence of Gilgamesh primarily on the Jacob wrestling scene, and secondarily on the Jacob–Esau– Rebekah cycle. I do not intend to identify a particular date at which the Gilgamesh framework would have been brought into the Israelite material. It should be noted, however, that there is no realistic date for such composition/redaction at which Gilgamesh would not have been known. In other words, this argument regarding use of Gilgamesh does not rest on any one theory of dating. Gilgamesh was known in Canaan, as is clear from the fourteenth-century Megiddo tablet (MB Megiddo), which Andrew George notes is “likely to be the descendant of an Old Babylonian recension.”37 Other Middle Babylonian Gilgamesh tablets from the west include those found at Ugarit, Emar, and Boğazköy. The Middle Babylonian Ugaritic version, interestingly, includes elements known from the OB, but is quite its own composition.38 Of the two versions found at Boğazköy, MB Boğ1 (fifteenth or fourteenth century) is very close at points to the OB Pennsylvania and Yale tablets, and Boğ2 (thirteenth century) seems to be a paraphrase, with both a dream scene closely matching an OB text and otherwise 37 George, Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic, 1:343; see 1:339–47 for introduction, text, translation, and notes. 38 Daniel Arnaud, Corpus des textes de bibliothèque de Ras Shamra-Ougarit (1936–2000) en sumérien, babylonien et assyrien (Aula orientalis supplementa 23; Sabadell-Barcelona: Ausa, 2007), 130–33; Andrew George, “The Gilgamesh Epic at Ugarit,” AuOr 25 (2007): 237–54.
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unknown material. For both this tablet and MB Megiddo, George concludes a lengthy process of transmission in the west.39 As he observes, to illustrate the spread of Gilgamesh to the west and the flowering of adaptations, “the story so caught the imagination that versions of it were composed in local languages,” that is, Hittite and Hurrian.40 Beyond the specific evidence of knowledge of Gilgamesh in the West in preIsraelite times, George offers a useful summary of the overwhelming popularity of Gilgamesh in scribal training and the broader culture, and the complex interplay of oral and written that we must assume for the transmission of Gilgamesh (as we see in compositions across the Near East and the Levant).41 This last point is important because, as stated at the outset, we are not to assume that the author of the Jacob story was reading a Gilgamesh tablet. It would defy logic and common sense to assume that the story of Gilgamesh was unknown between the dates of the various textual attestations that have been established. From the pre-Israelite Megiddo tablet at one end of the spectrum to the much later influence of OB Gilgamesh on Qohelet at the other end, there is no reason to posit a time during the span of biblical composition when stories of Gilgamesh would have been unknown.42 Additionally, while there should be no assumption of an Israelite author working from a set text of one precise version, it is noteworthy that both of these ends of the spectrum reflect the OB Gilgamesh tradition. Thus, although an Israelite context for the composition/redaction of the Jacob–Esau–Rebekah cycle may make the most sense, the present argument for the influence of the familiar framework of Gilgamesh on this material is not dependent on any one model for the dating of the Genesis texts. How, then, may we envision the accessibility of Gilgamesh to the Israelite author? It is known that Gilgamesh had a literary life in the west in the Middle Bronze Age, and was popular in scribal practice. It is unlikely, however, that Gilgamesh would have been copied in cuneiform in the region after this, since 39
George, Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic, 1:25–26. Ibid., 1:24. 41 On the popularity of Gilgamesh in scribal practice and broader culture, see George, Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic, 1:33–39; on the oral and written in Gilgamesh, 1:54–57. On the interplay of the oral and the written in ancient Israelite scribal practice in particular, see David M. Carr, Writing on the Tablet of the Heart: Origins of Scripture and Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), esp. 111–73. 42 On the influence of OB Gilgamesh on Qohelet, see Oswald Loretz, Qohelet und der alte Orient: Untersuchungen zu Stil und theologischer Thematik des Buches Qohelet (Freiburg: Herder, 1964), 116–22; also John Day, “Foreign Semitic Influence on the Wisdom of Israel and Its Appropriation in the Book of Proverbs,” in Wisdom in Ancient Israel: Essays in Honour of J. A. Emerton (ed. John Day, Robert P. Gordon, and H. G. M. Williamson; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 59–61. 40
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cuneiform was much more widely known in Middle Bronze Age Canaan than in the Iron Age.43 There are then two possibilities: either the Gilgamesh story continued to be known in the west orally, taking unknown forms, with its themes perhaps filtering through Canaanite and later Israelite storytelling, or the influence on the Jacob story came from texts of Gilgamesh as known through Israelite scribal contact in the Assyrian or Babylonian period. Given that the correspondences we see between the two stories are on the level of unexpected clusters of themes and details, but not linguistic parallels, it is more likely the former. One might compare this in a general sense to the flood story, which does not show verbal parallels or other linguistic evidence of direct copying but, in its clusters of themes and details, certainly reveals the influence of the Mesopotamian story, even with its many pronounced and quite intentional differences. Sasson has remarked that “direct borrowing of Gilgameshian motifs are, understandably, exceedingly difficult to identify in the Bible.” He suggests that Jacob’s blessing of Simeon and Levi in Gen 49:5–6 might “preserve a memory” of tales of Humbaba and the Bull of Heaven: “Simeon and Levi are a pair / Their weapons are tools of lawlessness / Let not my person be included in their council / Let not my being be counted in their assembly. / For in anger, they slew a man / and in their delight, they maimed a bull.”44 Others have of course pointed to the flood story as a place of direct or indirect influence, though this is made more complicated by the fact that the story was not native to the Gilgamesh Epic and the theme itself is by no means unusual.45 The case at hand seems more consciously contrived than a memory in a poetic couplet, and the parallels are more complex than those between the flood stories. As we have seen, the wrestling stories and surrounding material share approximately a dozen highly unusual themes in as many lines, with key elements occurring in the same sequence, and we cannot brush this off by vaguely attributing the same combination of uncommon unrelated motifs to common folklore. I suggest that the author of the Jacob story shaped his narrative so that the precise echoes of the story of Gilgamesh should throw emphasis on the ideologically essential point where he diverges from it: the point where Jacob wrestles with God, instead of with Esau, as both the plot and the Gilgamesh motifs would lead us to expect. The dramatically powerful reassigning of Enkidu motifs to two characters—Esau and
43
Wayne Horowitz and Takayoshi Oshima, Cuneiform in Canaan: Cuneiform Sources from the Land of Israel in Ancient Times (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 2006), 10–19; Karel van der Toorn, “Cuneiform Documents from Syria-Palestine: Texts, Scribes, and Schools,” ZDPV 116 (2000): 97–113. 44 Sasson, “Some Literary Motifs,” 275. 45 On the incorporation of the flood story into the Gilgamesh Epic, see Tigay, Evolution of the Gilgamesh Epic, 214–40.
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God—is a narrative decision that, as I believe, requires an author and will not allow us to posit instead a series of haphazard accretions, changes, and conflations resulting in the Jacob story as it stands. As I have said, existing Israelite traditions (perhaps about the hairy wild brother, perhaps also about the trickster-hero’s fight with a divine being) may have sparked the author’s inspiration to draw on the Gilgamesh story. It is also possible that once our author had done his work other narrators drew even tighter the net of associations with the Gilgamesh story. These uncertainties about what happened before and after our author’s work do not affect my argument. The argument presented here accounts for the parallels between Gilgamesh and the Jacob story that cannot be explained by casual reference to the ubiquity of folkloric motifs, and gives a more compelling account of the placement of the wrestling episode than is offered by the view that it is, so to speak, a foreign body in the story of Jacob and Esau.
JBL 130, no. 4 (2011): 643–662
The Origin and Interpretation of siāra vat in Leviticus 13–14 joel s. baden
[email protected] Yale Divinity School, New Haven, CT 06511
candida r. moss
[email protected] University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556
Of all the eccentricities and diversities of human embodiment, no physical abnormality seems to have captured the imagination of biblical authors so much as sāra i vat ()צרעת, “skin disease,” which is accorded detailed treatment in both Priestly legislation and non-Priestly narratives. Scholarly treatments of the condition have tended to view the diverse scriptural portraits as descriptions of the same condition: an essentially homogeneous medical condition with, importantly, a single cause. This approach rides roughshod over the diverse views of the various biblical authors. In this article we will first examine the Priestly notion of the origin of sāra i vat, with the specific intent of demonstrating that, unlike the non-Priestly narratives, the Priestly laws of Leviticus 13–14 do not present sāi ra vat as a divine punishment for human sin. The second part of the essay provides a brief overview of how three distinct hermeneutical groups—precritical interpreters, historical-critical scholars, and scholars of disability studies—understand (or fail to understand) the distinctive claims of the Priestly legislation regarding sāi ra vat.
I. The Priestly Presentation of s iāra vat In the Hebrew Bible, the non-Priestly narratives involving sāra i vat are generally in agreement that the affliction is the direct result of sinful behavior of some sort. In these texts the disease is inflicted by Yhwh on the sufferer, and it is from Yhwh alone—frequently through prophetic intermediation—that healing can be 643
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sought. Thus, in the story of Numbers 12, Miriam’s sāi ra vat is inflicted on her directly by Yhwh as a punishment for her speaking ill of Moses. Moses, acting in his prophetic intercessory role, attempts to persuade Yhwh to heal her, and it is only when Yhwh allows her punishment to end, after seven days, that she is healed and readmitted into the camp. In 2 Sam 3:29, among the divine punishments David calls down upon the house of Joab is that of sāi ra vat. In 2 Kings 5, the disease of the Aramean general Naaman is not explicitly from Yhwh, but he is healed through the prophetic action of Elisha. It is further demonstrated that Elisha has the power to cause sāra i vat, as he does with Gehazi at the end of the chapter, in this case as a clear punishment for sin. In 2 Chr 26:19–21 the king is said to commit a blatant cultic sin, namely, the illegitimate offering of incense in the sanctuary (26:16–19), and Yhwh strikes him with sāra i vat before the priests (26:19–20).1 These four passages, potentially from four different sources,2 exhibit a common conceptualization of the origin of sāi ra vat and, given the divine origin, the necessary measures by which it may be removed.3 If the narrative portions of the Hebrew Bible are united in the claim that sāi ra vat is the result of sin, the Priestly regulations concerning the disease in Leviti1
2 Chronicles 26:19–21 is the Chronicler’s expansion of the much briefer notice in 2 Kgs 15:5, in which it is reported that Yhwh struck Azariah with siāra vat. This passage from 2 Kings does not make an explicit connection between siāra vat and sin. The notice of siāra vat does follow the typical Deuteronomistic statement that the king did not remove the bāmôt, but this should not be taken as a cause-and-effect relationship. First, the Deuteronomistic assessment of Azariah is definitely positive (2 Kgs 15:3). Second, other kings are said to have let the bāmôt remain, and they are not afflicted with siāra vat or any other punishment (cf. 1 Kgs 22:44; 2 Kgs 12:4; 14:4; 15:35). Third, the very fact that the Chronicler creates a story of cultic sin when reworking this passage is good evidence that the Deuteronomistic text did not contain any specific allusion to such. In short, the notice in 2 Kgs 15:5 seems to be simply an annalistic comment on the health of the king rather than a judgment. The Chronicler, with his well-known tendency to see sin and punishment as transpiring within a single generation (rather than transgenerationally as in Dtr), transforms this brief comment into the scheme of sin and punishment that we see in the other narratives. 2 Numbers 12 is classically assigned to the Elohistic source, because of the presence of Miriam (who is known only in E), the prophetic depiction of Moses, and the location of the tent of meeting; see Alan W. Jenks, The Elohist and North Israelite Traditions (SBLMS 22; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1977), 54–55. More recent European scholarship attributes it to an independent layer of pre-Priestly writing; see, e.g., Erhard Blum, Studien zur Komposition des Pentateuch (BZAW 189; Berlin: de Gruyter, 1990), 76–88. 2 Samuel 3 is perhaps from the preDeuteronomistic narrative of David’s rise to power. 2 Kings 5 is from the originally independent cycle of Elisha stories. 2 Chronicles 26:19–21 is obviously from the Chronicler, as it is an expansion of the Deuteronomistic text from 2 Kings 5. 3 We deal here only with texts regarding siāra vat, rather than with disease in general, since the Priestly passage under discussion refers only to siāra vat. Numerous diseases and other afflictions are, of course, viewed in a wide variety of biblical texts as the result of divine displeasure.
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cus 13–14 are equally clear that this is not the case: sāi ra vat, in the Priestly presentation, carries no religious or moral guilt, is not associated with any kind of sin, but is rather a simple fact of human existence, one that, like many others, has cultic and ritual implications.4 This is evident both from the placement of the sāra i vat laws in the Priestly corpus and from the details of the evaluation and treatment of the disease in these chapters. Though this unique Priestly view of the etiology of sāi ra vat has been recognized by some scholars, it has not received a full argumentation; the following intends to rectify this situation. As most scholars have noted, sāi ra vat is not categorized with sinful actions in the Priestly laws; it is, rather, aligned both textually and conceptually with the ritual impurities resulting from genital discharge (Leviticus 15), childbirth (Leviticus 12), and corpse contact (Lev 11:24–28, 39–40); especially relevant is the combination of these elements in Num 5:2.5 In the Priestly worldview, none of these events is attributed to sin—indeed, all three are natural and largely unavoidable parts of human activity. Nowhere in these impurity regulations—including in Leviticus 13–14—is there any mention of sin, neither in the impurifying act nor in the concomitant purification rituals.6 The Priestly laws are carefully ordered, and 4
This has been recognized, if not argued fully, by Martin Noth, Leviticus (trans. J. E. Anderson; OTL; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1965), 108; John E. Hartley, Leviticus (WBC 4; Dallas: Word Books, 1992), 200; Mary Douglas, Leviticus as Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 185; Baruch J. Schwartz, “Leviticus,” in The Jewish Study Bible (ed. Adele Berlin and Marc Zvi Brettler; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 232–34; David Janzen, The Social Meanings of Sacrifice in the Hebrew Bible: A Study of Four Writings (BZAW 344; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004), 103; Roy E. Gane, Cult and Character: Purification Offerings, Day of Atonement, and Theodicy (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2005), 199; Jonathan Klawans, Purity, Sacrifice, and the Temple: Symbolism and Supersessionism in the Study of Ancient Judaism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 53–56. 5 Cf. Jacob Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (AB 3; New York: Doubleday, 1991), 818. The relationship between ritual impurity and sin is clearly drawn in the Priestly writings and has been described in painstaking detail by Milgrom and others: although sin does cause contamination of the sancta, not all impurity derives from sin. It is thus difficult to accept the reading of Nobuyoshu Kiuchi (“A Paradox of the Skin Disease,” ZAW 113 [2001]: 505–14), who states that “it could be reasonably assumed that uncleanness has a close connection with sinfulness” (p. 513), and further that “the disease of siāra vat is chosen [out of all possible skin diseases the author could have described] because its symptoms are most apt for describing the nature of human sinfulness” (ibid.). He says this despite admitting that the prescriptions of Leviticus 13–14 do not necessarily have “some kind of sin in view. There is no indication in the text itself about the possibility” (p. 511). Kiuchi’s interpretation, concluding as it does with the statement that “man tends to hide his own sinfulness, which is an affront to the omniscient God. If all his sinfulness is revealed before God, he is accepted into his presence” (p. 513), is more homiletical than exegetical. 6 The ha i tti āi 't sacrifice, prescribed for childbirth (Lev 12:6, 8), sāi ra vat (Lev 14:19, 22, 31), and genital discharge (15:15, 30), is not a “sin offering,” as commonly rendered (as in the major trans-
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we cannot ignore or underestimate the importance of the larger context of the laws of sāi ra vat in P. Comparison with the non-Priestly narratives involving sāi ra vat, on the one hand, and the Priestly regulations concerning sin, on the other, provides further evidence that sin plays no part in the Priestly sāi ra vat laws. In relation to the nonPriestly narratives of sāi ra vat, we do not find in Leviticus 13–14 any activity on the part of Yhwh, as in Numbers 12; 2 Sam 3:29; 2 Kgs 15:5; and 2 Chr 26:20; nor is there any supplication, by either the sufferer or his representative, as in Numbers 12 and 2 Kings 5. In Leviticus 13–14 there are in fact no measures the sufferer (the mĕs ōi rā v) can take to relieve his affliction, at least none that the Priestly author puts forward; he must simply wait for the disease to pass. Whereas the prophet takes on the role of healer or intermediary in Numbers 12 and 2 Kings 5, in Leviticus 13– 14 the priest has no role in the removal of sāi ra vat, but only in its diagnosis—and even in this the priest does nothing but say whether the sufferer has sāra i vat, and only for the purpose of determining whether the mĕs iōrā v is a source of impurity; all other considerations are absent.7 The affliction comes without warning and disappears only with the passage of time.8 In relation to the priestly regulations concerning sin in Leviticus 4–5, the section on sāi ra vat in Leviticus 13–14 lacks any introductory statement identifying the specific sin committed, as in Lev 5:1–4, 20– 22, or even a statement noting that there has been any sin at all, such as we find in 4:2, 13, 22, 27; 5:15, 17. There is no moment at which the sufferer realizes his sin, as in the cases of 4:13–14, 22–23, 27–28; 5:17, 23, or confesses his guilt, as in the case of 5:5. Most notably, even after the offering of sacrifices, the mĕs iōrā v is not said to lations: ESV [English Standard Version], KJV, NAB, NIB, NIV, NJB, NRSV, NJPS), but rather, as Milgrom has conclusively demonstrated (Leviticus 1–16, 253–92), a “purification offering,” required to purge the sanctum of the impurity that has accumulated there, including that which derives from the various forms of ritual impurity described in Leviticus 11–15. Thus, the prescription of this sacrifice does not serve to indicate any connection with sin. 7 Yehiezkel Kaufmann, The History of Israelite Religion (in Hebrew; 8 vols. in 4; Tel Aviv: Bialik, 1955–56), 1:549–51; Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16, 887. This seems to be true also in Deut 24:8, in which the Israelites afflicted with sāi ra vat are told to obey the instructions of the Levitical priests. Milgrom (“Profane Slaughter and a Formulaic Key to the Composition of Deuteronomy,” HUCA 47 [1976]: 1–17, here 9–10) takes this as a direct reference to the Priestly laws of Leviticus 13–14. If this is the case, then the Deuteronomic authors have adopted the Priestly protocols but not the Priestly concept of the origin of disease, as is evident from numerous other references in the book to disease as divine punishment (see Deut 7:15; 28:21–22, 27–28, 35, 59–61; 29:21; 32:39). In his analysis Milgrom ignores the subsequent verse, Deut 24:9, which links siāra vat to the narrative of Miriam in Numbers 12. It seems more likely that the Deuteronomic author, most likely a member of the priesthood, believes, like the Priestly authors, that the diagnostic role belongs to the priests. This verse is thus evidence not of textual dependence but rather of common authorial background and tradition. 8 Cf. Noth, Leviticus, 107.
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be forgiven (wĕnislahi lô), as in 4:20, 26, 31, 35; 5:10, 13, 16, 18, 26; rather, precisely in the place where we find the statement of forgiveness in Leviticus 4–5, we find in 14:20b the proclamation “he is clean” (wĕtāi hēr). It is readily admitted that the Priestly laws differ in genre from the nonPriestly narratives: the laws are not directly concerned with the manner in which i vat is contracted or healed, but rather with its diagnosis and the removal of the sāra impurity that results from it. Thus, many of the features we find in the narratives i vat are not expected in the legislation. Neverthat speak to the divine origin of sāra theless, it does not necessarily follow that, because the Priestly authors do not provide an etiology for sāi ra vat, they therefore assume the etiology evident in other biblical corpora. The lack of Priestly etiology does not entail the acceptance of the non-Priestly etiology. The logic of the Priestly concept of impurity further speaks against the notion that sāi ra vat is a punishment for sin. According to the Priestly worldview, the danger of sin is not an individual one but a corporate one: sins, both unintentional and intentional, result in the collection of impurity in the sanctum. This impurity, if left unpurged, causes the departure of Yhwh from the tabernacle, the withdrawal of the source of life from the midst of Israel, national death, and destruction. It is thus incumbent on every individual Israelite to make expiation for his unintentional sins in a prompt manner: each individual is responsible for the health of the Israelite body as a whole (the impurity resulting from intentional sins can be purged only once a year on the Day of Atonement, as described in Leviticus 16). There is no room in the Priestly system for individual punishment for sin, nor is it ever mentioned; sin and impurity threaten the entire community. Given the clarity of this system in P, sāi ra vat cannot be a punishment for unintentional sin, as the rituals for purging the impurities resulting from unintentional sin are already clearly laid out in Leviticus 4–5, and there would be no need for a specific ritual for the mĕsiōrāv; nor can it be a punishment for intentional sin, for there is no ritual except that of Leviticus 16 that can purge the impurities resulting from intentional sin. The rituals prescribed in Leviticus 11–15 as a category, including that for sāi ra vat, are elaborated precisely because they do not fall into the category of rituals connected with sin, already detailed in chs. 4–5. These impurities result from nonsinful activities and are therefore not assumed in the foregoing Priestly system. Although the placement of Leviticus 13–14 among the Priestly laws of ritual impurity and the absence in these chapters of any explicit reference to sin, supplication, or forgiveness are strong evidence, other considerations equally point away from any connection between sāi ra vat as presented in Leviticus 13–14 and sin. Among the prominent difficulties in the Priestly material is the statement that if the sāi ra vat covers the entire body, the mĕsiōrāv is pronounced clean (13:12–13). This regulation has received a variety of interpretations, but in any light it seems clear that any relationship with sin is counterindicated by this ruling. Jacob Milgrom
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argues that the complete whiteness of the skin is a sign that the sāra i vat has healed.9 If this is so, then an origin in sin is precluded, for this would suggest that the sinner has been healed (i.e., forgiven) without any sort of penance or even sacrifice, a concept entirely contrary to the rest of Priestly law. On the opposite end of the spectrum, Erhard S. Gerstenberger tentatively raises the possibility of social “consideration for the person already marked by death,” or perhaps “a positive estimation regarding the rare instance when total infection appears.”10 Neither of these possibilities is indicated in this text or any other in the Priestly source, and in neither case is it possible that the mĕsiōrāv is being punished for having sinned. Kiuchi similarly proposes that the complete whiteness of the mĕsiōrāv is an indication that he is in fact approaching death.11 Yet if the sāra i vat is considered the result of sin, one must ask how the return to cultic purity of a person who has sinned badly enough to die by sāi ra vat conforms to any aspect of Priestly legislation.12 An ostensible difficulty with the sharp division between sāra i vat and sin in the Priestly legislation would seem to be the requirement that the sufferer offer the 'āšām sacrifice (Lev 14:12), generally translated and understood as “guilt-offering” and prescribed in Lev 5:14–26 when an Israelite has trespassed against the sacred sphere.13 But the presence of the 'āšām sacrifice cannot be taken as a definitive indication that the mĕsiōrāv is being punished for a sin, as Milgrom suggests.14 Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16, 785. So also Baruch A. Levine, Leviticus: ויקרא. The Traditional Hebrew Text with the New JPS Translation (JPS Torah Commentary; Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1989), 78; August Dillmann, Die Bücher Exodus und Leviticus (3rd ed.; Kurzgefasstes exegetisches Handbuch zum Alten Testament 12; Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 1897), 556. The same interpretation is brought by Schwartz (“Leviticus,” 235), but, as he does not see any concept of sin in this section, there is no tension in his reading. 10 Gerstenberger, Leviticus: A Commentary (trans. Douglas W. Stott; OTL; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1996), 163. 11 Kiuchi, “Paradox,” 508. 12 Hartley (Leviticus, 197) suggests that a reparation offering is required because the disease has “marred a person who bears the very image of God.” It is unclear why the sacrifice would not also be necessary for other physical injuries, especially those that might lead to permanent scarring (at the very least). An entirely different interpretation is given by Hanna Liss (“Ritual Purity and the Construction of Identity: The Literary Function of the Laws of Purity in the Book of Leviticus,” in The Books of Leviticus and Numbers [ed. Thomas Römer; BETL 215; Leuven: Peeters, 2008], 329–54), who distinguishes between the “dynamic” state of siāra vat, in which the skin is patchy and the disease spreading, and the “static” state described in Lev 13:12–13. She argues that in the static state, impurity does not transfer, and that therefore the mĕsiōrāv may be declared clean, since he represents no danger to the community or the sancta. In Liss’s interpretation there is no connection between siāra vat and sin. 13 Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16, 856. Schwartz (“Leviticus,” 216) suggests that a better translation would be “reparation offering,” as the verb literally means “to incur liability” and the noun means “the payment of damages”; he considers the prescription of the 'āšām sacrifice in this context “a mystery.” 14 Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16, 856. 9
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Indeed, the very placement of the 'āšām sacrifice within the order of events regarding the mĕsiōrāv militates against this idea.15 According to the regulations of the 'āšām sacrifice in Lev 5:14–26, the offering is to be made upon the Israelite’s realization of his sin, and the guilt is removed from him (i.e., he is forgiven) after the sacrifice is successfully concluded. Yet this is not at all the process for the mĕsiōrāv in Leviticus 14. Rather, the 'āšām is offered only after the sufferer has healed. Were sāi ra vat truly an indication of sin, then the healing of it should be the result of having paid reparations for the cultic liability incurred; that is, it should follow the sacrifice, not precede it.16 Further, the fact that the rituals in Leviticus 14 do not result in forgiveness but rather in cultic purity (14:8, 9, 20b) indicates that the concern of the Priestly legislation—and the purpose of the 'āšām sacrifice required of the person healed from sāi ra vat—is not to make reparations for some sin, since none has been committed, but rather to effect the process of purification, particularly by virtue of the 'āšām’s unique utilization of blood.17 In short, the 'āšām sacrifice in Leviticus 14 does not seem to conform to the model of the 'āšām prescribed in ch. 5, at least not in its purpose or timing.18 It must be admitted that, unlike the reg15
On the irregular placement of the 'āšām in Leviticus 14, see Christophe Nihan, From Priestly Torah to Pentateuch: A Study in the Composition of the Book of Leviticus (FAT 2/25; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 278–79. 16 Cf. David P. Wright, The Disposal of Impurity: Elimination Rites in the Bible and in Hittite and Mesopotamian Literature (SBLDS 101; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987), 84–85. 17 Thus, Schwartz (“Leviticus,” 239) suggests that the 'āšām sacrifice is employed here “simply to provide blood for the final removal of residual impurity.” Noth (Leviticus, 108) suggests that the 'āšām sacrifice may be understood here as simply a part of the process of ritual cleansing, rather than as a marker of guilt per se. Levine (Leviticus, 87) proposes that the 'āšām “served as a sacrifice for purification. It provided sacrificial blood for sprinkling on the extremities of the individual being purified; blood from the burnt offering and the sin offering could not be applied to the body of a human being.” Milgrom (Leviticus 1–16, 851) cogently argues that the 'āšām sacrifice is necessary because “his daubing with the 'āšām blood renders him henceforth fit to enter the sanctuary and partake of sacred food”; in other words, it is required for procedural purposes; so also Christophe Lemardelé, “Une solution pour le 'āšām du lépreux,” VT 54 (2004): 208–15, at 213. On the ritual of Lev 14:1–20 as divinatory and exorcistic, see most recently Adriana Destro and Mauro Pesce, “The Ritual for the Leper in Leviticus 14,” in Ancient Israel: The Old Testament in Its Social Context (ed. Philip F. Esler; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006), 66–77. Their argument that the ritual preserves formal elements of divination and exorcism, though without the accompanying belief in such ideas, is plausible; it should at least be contrasted with the older view that these rituals are evidence of actual belief in demons and the like, and that siāra vat is a manifestation of demonic inhabitation (see, e.g., Roland de Vaux, Ancient Israel: Its Life and Institutions [trans. John McHugh; repr., Biblical Resource Series; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997], 462–64). 18 Note also that in the only other place in which the 'āšām is specifically prescribed—the case of the Nazirite who unintentionally defiles his consecrated head by accidental proximity to a corpse (Num 6:9–12)—the sacrifice is the last offered rather than the first, as in Leviticus 14. The fact that the case of the Nazirite conforms in function to the prescriptions of Leviticus 5, but the
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ulations regarding the other impurities of genital discharge, childbirth, and corpse contamination, only in the case of sāi ra vat is the 'āšām sacrifice prescribed, suggesting perhaps that there is something distinctive about this particular impurity.19 Yet the primary distinction, and the one with which the 'āšām should be connected, is the expulsion of the mĕsiōrāv from the camp or city for the duration of the severe impurity; crucially, according to Leviticus 4–5, this expulsion is not required for those who have sinned.20 Were it the case that the prescription of the 'āšām sacrifice is consistent throughout the entire Priestly source, it would be more difficult to claim that its use in Leviticus 14 is exceptional. A similarly problematic case is found, however, in Lev 19:20–22 (H), in which there is also no clear desecration of the sanctum.21 The case of 19:20–22 provides another counterexample to the strange appearance of the 'āšām in ch. 14: in the case of the slave girl, the law specifically states that the sacrifice is brought as expiation for a sin, hai tti āi 't, with the concomitant language of forgiveness (wĕnislahi lô), elements that are absent, as already observed, from Leviticus 14.22 Although the 'āšām sacrifice as described in Leviticus 5 is still to be understood as required in cases of sancta desecration of some sort, the case of the mĕsōi rāv in ch. 14 (along with that of 19:20–22) does not seem to conform to the standard understanding of 'āšām, and the way in which it fits into the larger Priestly scheme of sacrifices remains an open question. A final element of Leviticus 13–14 that points away from any connection between sāi ra vat and sin is the presence in these chapters of regulations regarding sāi ra vat on fabric (13:47–59) and houses (14:34–53). It is obvious that neither cloth nor a house can sin; yet both can be afflicted with sāra i vat; neither can cloth or a house repent, atone, repay, or offer sacrifice, yet they may be declared clean.23 It is timing differs from that of Leviticus 14, highlights the distinctive nature of the ritual for the mĕsiōrā v. 19 Cf. Lemardelé, “'āšām,” 212. 20 Thus, Gordon Wenham (The Book of Leviticus [NICOT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1979], 210) suggests that the 'āšām sacrifice is required “to repay all the sacrifices, tithes, and firstfruits which the afflicted man had been unable to present during his uncleanness.” See similarly Samuel J. Schultz, Leviticus: God among His People (Chicago: Moody Bible Institute, 1983), 83– 84. Yet the 'āšām sacrifice is not required in similar cases of lengthy impurity, such as the week required for a man with a genital discharge (Lev 15:13); although this man is not expelled from the community, as is the mĕsiōrā v, he is unable by virtue of his impurity to offer sacrifices. 21 See Baruch J. Schwartz, “A Literary Study of the Slave-Girl Pericope—Leviticus 19:20– 22,” in Studies in Bible (ed. Sara Japhet; ScrHier 31; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1986), 241–55, esp. 251– 55. 22 See n. 18 above. 23 Gerstenberger’s opinion that the Priestly writer’s description of fabric and houses as having siāra vat is a result of the ancient belief that “every object has a soul. Every phenomenon is personal and grounded in will, so why not also such mold formations on textiles and leather articles?”
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not by chance that the final sentence regarding the purification of the house (14:53b) is virtually identical to that regarding the purification of the human sufferer (14:20b). We cannot understand the sāra i vat of fabric or a house to be in any way a verdict on their owner, since nowhere in the legislation regarding these items is the owner involved, except to notify the priest that his house might have sāra i vat.24 The fact that the laws of sāra i vat in fabric and houses are interwoven with that of sāi ra vat in humans indicates that sāi ra vat is to be considered one common affliction, with, presumably, one common origin.25 The concluding statement of this legal section emphasizes this equality: “This is the tôrâ for every plague of sāi ra vat: for scalls, for sāra i vat of fabric or of a house, for swellings, for rashes, and for spots on the skin, to determine when they are impure and when they are pure; this is the tôrâ of sāi ra vat” (Lev 14:54–57).26 Note that the emphasis remains on the question of ritual impurity rather than on sin or guilt. If it is accepted that the Priestly legislation in Leviticus 13–14 does not attribute the outbreak of sāi ra vat to sin and divine punishment, how can we understand the relationship between the Priestly and non-Priestly texts, the latter of which decidedly do connect sāra i vat and sin? First, it is evident from the overlaps between the Priestly and non-Priestly texts that there was a social reality in ancient Israel regarding the existence of sāi ra vat and the treatment of those who suffered from it.27 All sources use the same word to describe what appears to be the same general ailment or ailments, that is, broadly, some sort of external affliction of the skin.
(Leviticus, 171) is astounding. Equally so, though for different reasons, is his assertion that “from daily experience, every woman intuitively senses the connection between humidity and the formation of mold,” and that the process of ritual purification is undertaken “much to the annoyance of thrifty housewives” (ibid., 172). One might be equally interested in his revelation of the “male perspective that delights in hair-splitting systematization” (ibid.). 24 Milgrom (Leviticus 1–16, 808) concludes that “another presupposition of this pericope [siāra vat of fabrics] is that a moldy garment in no way reflects on the character of its bearer; otherwise sacrifices or some other rite would have been prescribed for the owner of the garment, so that he could make expiation for his suspected wrong. The nexus between malady and sin has been severed.” He makes the same case regarding siāra vat of houses (ibid., 867). 25 Even if we understand the use of the term siāra vat in regard to fabric and houses as a secondary development from its original context in the human sphere (cf. Noth, Leviticus, 106–7; Levine, Leviticus, 83), this does not negate the fact that for the Priestly author here the word serves the same purpose across all three categories. 26 The very fact that the same term, siāra vat, is used to describe something that strikes fabric and houses as well as humans suggests that the translation “skin disease,” or any other that is specific to the human body, is inaccurate. The word may in fact be descriptive only of the symptoms common to skin disease and fungal growth on fabrics and houses, that is, patchiness, scaliness, and change of color. It is for this reason that we have chosen not to translate the word in this article. 27 See Gerstenberger, Leviticus, 167.
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Further, it is agreed that Israelites suffering from this ailment were kept outside the community until they had healed, as is clear from both Lev 13:45–46 and the narratives of Num 12:14–15; 2 Kgs 7:3–10; 15:5; 2 Chr 26:21. An important commonality between the Priestly and non-Priestly concepts of sāi ra vat is the divine origin of the affliction. That the sāi ra vat comes from Yhwh is very clear in the narratives, in which this is frequently stated explicitly. In the Priestly laws too, however, we can say that Yhwh is to be understood as the origin of the ailment, though perhaps in a less direct manner. As argued above, sāra i vat according to the Priestly writings is a natural phenomenon, like genital discharge and childbirth. We are misunderstanding Israelite religion anachronistically if we draw a sharp distinction between natural phenomena and the work of Yhwh. Certainly for the Priestly authors, nature, indeed the entire cosmos, is under the command of Yhwh, and, although not everything that comes from Yhwh is necessarily a reward or punishment, everything does come from Yhwh.28 Thus, we need not read the statement in Lev 14:32, “When you enter the land of Canaan, which I am giving to you as a possession, and I place a plague of sāi ra vat on your house . . . ,” as signifying divine punishment.29 Rather, these words simply make explicit what is otherwise implicit in these chapters: that sāra i vat, like all natural phenomena, comes from Yhwh. It is to be noted, however, that Lev 14:33–34, the sole mention of the divine origin of sāi ra vat in this passage, is most likely an addition of H.30 If this is the case, then we may connect the divine origin of sāi ra vat in Lev 14:34 with H’s clear statement that disease in general is a sign of divine disfavor (Lev 26:16, 25).31 The isolation of this view of disease to the H corpus serves only to highlight the lack 28
The Priestly view of Yhwh’s dominion over nature is established in Genesis 1. The nonPriestly sources of the Pentateuch are far more clear in claiming that disease and healing derive from Yhwh. This notion is prominent in Gen 20:17–18; Exod 15:26; 23:25; Numbers 12; Deut 7:15; 28:21–22, 27–28, 35, 59–61; 29:21; 32:39. We may also consider in this category the stories of matriarchal barrenness in Genesis and Yhwh’s granting of fertility (Gen 16:2; 18:14; 25:21; 29:31; 30:22). It is noteworthy that this theme is not employed in the Priestly source: Sarah has not borne Abraham children (Gen 16:1), but infertility is never given as the reason, and it is only her old age that makes the birth of Isaac miraculous (17:17–19)—in fact, Abraham’s advanced age is given greater prominence in the narrative (Gen 21:2, 5). There is no mention in the Priestly source of barrenness or any difficulty in childbirth for Rebekah, Leah, or Rachel. 29 As does Hannah Harrington, “The Rabbinic Reception of Leviticus,” in The Book of Leviticus: Composition and Reception (ed. Rolf Rendtorff and Robert A. Kugler; VTSup 93; Leiden: Brill, 2003), 383–402, at 392–93. 30 See Israel Knohl, The Sanctuary of Silence: The Priestly Torah and the Holiness School (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1995), 95 n. 119. Knohl’s delimitation of H to only these two verses is more compelling than that of Milgrom (Leviticus 1–16, 886–87), who attributes all of 14:33–57 to H. 31 It should be noted, however, that the punishments described in Leviticus 26 are corporate, not individual: it is the entirety of Israel that will suffer this variety of evils for their national failure to observe the laws, not the individual sinner.
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of such a claim in the earlier Priestly legislative stratum: were the notion of sāra i vat as resulting from divine punishment evident in the original Priestly laws, then presumably H would not have needed to supplement them in this manner. What is common to all the sources is the social reality of sāra i vat and the culturally accepted treatment of those who suffered from it, as well as the idea that the affliction originated with Yhwh. What is distinct, however, is the etiology of the disease: according to the non-Priestly authors, sāi ra vat is punishment for sin; according to the Priestly writers (perhaps with the exception of the later H), it is simply a part of nature. The Priestly legislation and non-Priestly narratives on sāi ra vat are literarily unrelated; there is no sign of dependence in either direction, nor do most scholars argue for one. Furthermore, there is no indication that the Priestly laws of sāra i vat must be a later religious development relative to the nonPriestly narratives, despite the common view that the Priestly writings belong to a late stage of Israelite religious thought—indeed, the connection of sāra i vat and sin in both early texts (Numbers 12) and late (2 Chronicles 26) makes the question of relative dating moot. Rather, what the texts demonstrate is the existence of two conceptualizations of sāra i vat, similar in many ways but distinct in the crucial area of etiology. These two concepts, like so many others that are at odds in the various biblical traditions, need not be placed in any chronological order but should rather be seen as existing simultaneously and independently, each representing the different worldview of its particular author.32
II. Three Hermeneutical Approaches Precritical Interpretation Although the Priestly and non-Priestly texts present very different notions of the origins of sāi ra vat, the distinction between the two has frequently been either missed or consciously blurred. In the precritical era, when the essential unity and divinely inspired authorship of the Bible were taken for granted, interpreters naturally sought to connect the Priestly laws of sāi ra vat in Leviticus 13–14 with the narrative traditions related to sāi ra vat elsewhere in the Bible. Josephus, in describing the procedure for the banishment of sufferers from the city described in Leviticus 14, added the possibility that one could “by supplication to God obtain release
32
The simultaneity of the concepts is not necessarily dependent on the simultaneous dating of the sources in which they are found. Rather, the lack of obvious development in the concept of siāra vat in either direction opens the possibility that the sources have preserved notions older than the texts in which they are embedded, a possibility that, without any clear textual refutation, must be taken seriously. We must also be aware of the possibility that Leviticus 13–14 in fact contains earlier material that has been reworked in its present context; see, e.g., Noth, Leviticus, 103–5.
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from this disease and recover a healthy skin” (Ant. 3.264), a possibility put forward nowhere in the laws, but rather drawn obviously from the narrative materials. Philo, in his interpretation of these laws, took sāi ra vat as a symbolic manifestation of sin (Deus 127–30).33 The classical rabbis further developed this procedure, interpreting the laws on sāi ra vat in terms of sin, even frequently identifying various unnamed biblical plagues and punishments as sāra i vat.34 They drew specific connections between the laws and the narratives dealing with sāra i vat;35 of particular note is Lev. Rab. 15.8, in which the rabbis explicitly attempted to integrate the Priestly regulations of Leviticus 13–14 into the narrative of Numbers 12. They further claimed that the sāi ra vat in garments and houses served as warnings to the sinner, encouragements to repent, before that person was actually struck.36 The fact that the rabbis frequently relied in their interpretation of sāra i vat on the creation of a pun—reading 37 mĕsōrā i v as mōsîi ' ra v, “slanderer” —may be taken as indicative of the lack of any explicit reference to sin in the text of Leviticus itself. Medieval Jewish commentators followed a similar path. Ibn Ezra (ad Lev 13:45; 14:10) stated simply that the sufferer had been afflicted as a result of his evil actions, in particular those committed through word or thought.38 Here he may have been referring to the aforementioned midrashic pun, although without using the precise language of it. Nahm i anides (ad Lev 13:47) was particularly forceful in his claim that it is when an Israelite sins that his flesh, clothes, or house appear contaminated, as a sign that God has turned away from him.39 He rejected the notion that these might be natural events, stating repeatedly that sāi ra vat is divinely inflicted (ad Lev 13:47; 14:34, 43–45).40 Recognizing the difficulty of the 'āšām sacrifice, Nahimanides (ad Lev 14:8) tentatively suggested that the 'āšām served to expiate the sins committed before the disease struck, that is, the sins that led to the 33 Early Christian exegetes were similarly unanimous in attributing sā i ra vat to sin. See Gerard Rouwhorst, “Leviticus 12–15 in Early Christianity,” in Purity and Holiness: The Heritage of Leviticus (ed. M. J. H. M. Poorthuis and J. Schwartz; Jewish and Christian Perspectives 2; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 181–93. 34 See Lev. Rab. 15.9; 16.1; 17.3; Num. Rab. 7.1, 4, 5, 10; Tanhi. Mesiorah 4; b. Sotiah 5a–b; b. Sanh. 26a; b. vArak. 16a. On the rabbinic view of siāra vat, see Jacob Neusner, The Idea of Purity in Ancient Judaism (SJLA 1; Leiden: Brill, 1973), 90–102. 35 See Sifra Mesi. 5; Lev. Rab. 15.1, 5; 16.1; 17.3; Num. Rab. 7.5; b. vArak. 16a. 36 See Lev. Rab. 17.4; Pesiq. Rab Kah. 7.10. 37 See Lev. Rab. 15.1, 2, 3, 4, 6; b. vArak. 15b. 38 Ibn Ezra (ad 14:8) also drew the comparison with the case of Miriam in Numbers 12, although only in respect to the seven days of quarantine. 39 Nahimanides relies here on the proof-text of 14:34; see discussion above. 40 So too Abarbanel, ad Lev 14:34. The rejection of such an idea may suggest that these commentators recognized the implication of the Priestly laws, even while arguing against it.
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disease, while the hiatti āi 't sacrifice might do the same for sins committed while in quarantine. Most dependent on both the earlier rabbinic treatments and the nonPriestly narratives was Sforno (ad Lev 14:12), who both cited the rabbinic connection of sāra i vat and evil speech and referred to the narrative of 2 Chr 26:19. Given precritical assumptions about the nature of the biblical text and its authorship, these readings of the sāi ra vat pericope in Leviticus 13–14 are not surprising. The relative obscurity of the legislation was well served by the standard rabbinic hermeneutic of intentionally reading one text in light of another. As this approach was used to connect numerous otherwise unrelated verses, it was certainly easy enough to draw the connections between the laws and narratives of sāi ra vat. The medievals for the most part disdained the classical hermeneutic, but even in their attempt to get at the plain contextual meaning of the text (the pĕšati) we can see that they retained the significant features of the earlier reading. The connection in precritical interpretation of sāra i vat and sin, of Leviticus 13–14 and the non-Priestly narratives, is both expected and entirely logical. What is less expected is that the same connections should be drawn by historical critics who are fully aware of the difference in authorship between Leviticus 13–14 and the other texts dealing with sāi ra vat.
Historical-Critical Analyses If there is one element of pentateuchal criticism on which virtually all scholars are agreed, it is the theological singularity of the Priestly writings. Nevertheless, the majority of critical scholars continue to understand sāi ra vat in the Priestly legislation as the result of sin, a concept that, although common in non-Priestly texts, is, as we have seen, foreign to the Priestly notion of sāi ra vat. Despite his keen insights into the distinction between impurity and sin in general, and his appreciation for the absence of sin in the cases of sāi ra vat on fabrics and houses, Milgrom is one of the strongest voices for the connection of sāi ra vat and sin. (He even cites with approval some of the rabbinic interpretations mentioned above.41 Hannah Harrington has similarly defended the association in Lev. Rab. of sāi ra vat and sin, claiming that it has its origins in a close reading of Leviticus.42) In his initial discussion of Leviticus 13–14, Milgrom adduces both Mesopotamian and Greek comparative evidence to argue that the nexus of sin and skin disease is “a universal phenomenon that cannot be confined to cultural bounds.”43 He goes
41
Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16, 823. Harrington, “Rabbinic Reception,” 392–93. Although her focus is mainly on the rationale for the rabbinic view, Harrington does suggest that the connection seen by the rabbis is authentically present in the biblical text. 43 Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16, 821. 42
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on to cite the non-Priestly texts as confirmation that s āi ra vat has “its origin in divine wrath.”44 The use of the non-Priestly narratives as evidence for the interpretation of the Priestly laws is followed by other significant scholars and commentators. Baruch Levine claims that, “generally speaking, all disease was regarded as a punishment from God for some wrongdoing. In the case of tsara‘at specifically, there was a tradition that it represented a punishment from God for acts of malice such as Miriam’s malicious criticism of Moses, reported in Numbers 12:1–3.”45 Gerstenberger similarly writes that “the stories of ‘lepers’ in the Old Testament . . . show all too clearly that the skin eruptions in question are viewed as God’s punishment. Any healing can occur only if the cause, namely Yahweh himself, rescinds the punishment.”46 Tikva Frymer-Kensky used the non-Priestly narratives as evidence for her statement that “the only instance [in the Priestly impurity laws] in which there was any moral opprobrium attached to a polluted state is in the case of the leper.”47 Christophe Nihan refers to “the specific meaning of this disease which, in Israel as elsewhere in antiquity, was typically believed to be a sanction of the deity for a major offense.”48 We can even see scholars making the connection between the Priestly legislation and the non-Priestly narratives in reverse, so to speak, reading the narratives in light of the laws: Gerstenberger, for example, argues that the narrative of Numbers 12 is in fact based on the ritual prescriptions of Leviticus 13–14.49 44 Ibid., 820–23. Despite his strong statements here, Milgrom elsewhere is somewhat more ambivalent, acknowledging that the “disease is not traceable to sancta or for that matter to any other cause,” but “other sins may have been responsible for his affliction” (ibid., 856). 45 Levine, Leviticus, 75. 46 Gerstenberger, Leviticus, 157. 47 Frymer-Kensky, “Pollution, Purification, and Purgation in Biblical Israel,” in The Word of the Lord Shall Go Forth: Essays in Honor of David Noel Freedman in Honor of His Sixtieth Birthday (ed. Carol L. Meyers and M. O’Connor; ASOR Special Volume Series 1; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1983), 399–414, here 403. Like Milgrom, Frymer-Kensky displayed some ambivalence on this point, stating elsewhere that “the formal tradition of Israel attached no blame to lepers, only impurity. Ritual pollution, even in the case of lepers, was not a moral issue” (ibid., 404). See also Henning Graf Reventlow, “Krankheit—ein Makel an heiliger Vollkommenheit. Das Urteil altisraelitischer Priester in Leviticus 13 in seinem Kontext,” in Studien zu Ritual und Sozialgeschichte im Alten Orient/Studies on Ritual and Society in the Ancient Near East (ed. Thomas Richard Kämmerer; BZAW 374; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2007), 275–90, esp. 286–87; he reads the rituals of Leviticus 13–14 in conjunction with Psalms 32 and 33. 48 Nihan, Priestly Torah, 279. 49 Gerstenberger, Leviticus, 167. He seems to base this opinion on the seven-day period in which Miriam stays outside the camp (Num 12:14–15), which he sees as the narrative representation of the seven-day periods in Leviticus 13 (here he follows Ibn Ezra; see n. 38 above). Functionally, however, these two seven-day periods differ: in the Priestly legal section, a week is prescribed as the necessary time it takes to judge with any certainty whether the siāra vat has pro-
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In defending the association in P of sāra i vat and sin, Milgrom focuses particularly on the narrative of 2 Chr 26:19–21, because there the mĕsiōrā v Uzziah is described as committing ma val, “sacrilege.” The collocation of the words sāi ra vat and ma val in 2 Chronicles 26 Milgrom then compares with the close connection of ma val and the 'āšām sacrifice in Leviticus 5.50 Drawing the circle to a close, Milgrom argues that the use of the 'āšām in Leviticus 13–14 therefore entails the notion of ma val, and that thus sāra i vat is associated with sacrilege. Milgrom does not take into account the fact that ma val is a frequent and freighted term in Chronicles for cultic offense—indeed it is used more frequently in Chronicles than anywhere else—and occurs regularly without any reference to sāi ra vat.51 It is thus overhasty to draw the conclusion that the Chronicler is, in this instance, using ma val with intentional reference to Leviticus 5. Even if one wishes to make this argument, however, it does not mean that Leviticus 13–14 has ma val in mind, only that the Chronicler drew the connection—as has Milgrom—between the two uses of the 'āšām sacrifice.52 Any use of the non-Priestly texts to explain the meaning of the Priestly legislation—here and elsewhere—is methodologically problematic. The distinctiveness of the Priestly theology is well established; it in fact forms the basis of much pentateuchal criticism. Yet scholars continue to try to understand the Priestly concept of sāra i vat as if it is not only related to that of the non-Priestly texts but in fact identical to it. Critical scholarship, rather than understanding the Priestly material on its own terms, reproduces the same intertextual mode of analysis as its pre-critical forebears, at least in this instance. gressed or regressed; in the narrative, it is a period of punishment and shaming, explicitly said to be analogous to the period of shame a woman would endure if her father spat in her face (Num 12:14; the seven-day period of shame associated with being spat upon is otherwise unattested in the Hebrew Bible, although the link between spit and shame is known; cf. Deut 25:9; Job 30:10; Isa 50:6). The period of seven days is a standard trope in the Hebrew Bible, in both Priestly and non-Priestly contexts, and by itself cannot stand as evidence of textual dependence, especially when there are significant discrepancies in the function of the period in its respective contexts. For reasons that are entirely unclear, Gerstenberger also assumes that Miriam is covered with siāra vat “from her head to her feet” (ibid., 162), and he uses this assumption to highlight the confusing nature of the regulation in Lev 13:12–13. There is, however, no indication in Numbers 12 that Miriam’s entire body is covered. 50 Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16, 821; see also his discussion of this passage in Cult and Conscience: The Asham and the Priestly Doctrine of Repentance (SJLA 18; Leiden: Brill, 1976), 80–81. 51 See 1 Chr 2:7; 5:25; 10:13; 2 Chr 12:2; 28:19, 22; 29:6; 30:7; 36:14. See Pancratius C. Beentjes, “‘They Saw That His Forehead Was Leprous’ (2 Chr 26:20): The Chronicler’s Narrative on Uzziah’s Leprosy,” in Poorthuis and Schwartz, Purity and Holiness, 61–72, here 63–64. 52 In this light we might see the Chronicler as the first author to make this association. See also Gerstenberger, Leviticus, 179; Lemardelé, “'āšām,” 208–15; Dillmann, Exodus und Leviticus, 563–64.
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Disability Studies Analyses In recent years, critical theorists and social scientists outside the enclave of biblical scholarship have begun to challenge the manner in which the interlacing categories of disability and disease are constructed in modern discourse. Disability scholars have divided historical treatments of disability into three models; a religious model, a medical model, and a social or cultural model.53 Of these, the religious model, which was operative until the Enlightenment, is the most pertinent. It posits that disability is caused by sin and removed using religious measures and divine intervention; both the disability and the disabled person are therefore aligned with sin and evil.54 The advent of critical disability theory and the recognition that the category of disability is both constructed and representative of social experiences and 53 The social model emphasizes the social constructedness of “disability” in contradistinction to “impairment.” According to this view, the impairment that leads an individual to use a wheelchair becomes a disability only when this individual encounters discrimination in society that acts to disable them (Colin Barnes, Disabled People in Britain and Discrimination [London: Hurst, 1991]). The cultural model blurs the boundaries between impairment and disability, positing that the social experience of disability includes a larger complex of social structures (see Lennard J. Davis, Enforcing Normalcy: Disability, Deafness and the Body [London: Verso, 1995], 2, 11; and Rosemary Garland Thomson, Extraordinary Bodies: Figuring Physical Disability in American Culture and Literature [New York: Columbia University Press, 1997], 1-22). With respect to the distinction between the social model and the cultural model, a certain ideological cleft can be plotted between scholars in the United Kingdom and scholars in the United States. This in turn can be attributed to the varying underlying commitments of their work. In the United Kingdom, disability studies grew out of Marxist concerns for an oppressed underclass and overemphasized society as the root of disability. For a discussion of the historical and political underpinnings of UK research, see Michael Oliver, The Politics of Disablement: A Sociological Approach (New York: St. Martin’s, 1990), 1–10. The cultural model as advocated by Davis, David Mitchell, and Sharon Snyder dominates in North American scholarship and has become the theoretical underpinning of American biblical scholarship on disability. See, e.g., Rebecca Raphael, Biblical Corpora: Representations of Disability in Hebrew Biblical Literature (Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies 445; New York: T&T Clark, 2009), 1–18. For a succinct summary of the history of disability studies, see Jeremy Schipper, Disability Studies and the Hebrew Bible: Figuring Mephibosheth in the David Story (Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies 441; New York: T&T Clark, 2006), 15–22. 54 See the assessment of David Braddock and Susan Parish, that “writings from the Old Testament suggest paradoxical attitudes, which exhorted society to be generous and kind toward individuals with impairments, while also declaring that impairment was a mark of the wrath of God” (Braddock and Parish, “An Institutional History of Disability,” in Handbook of Disability Studies [ed. Gary L. Albrecht, Katherine D. Selman, and Michael Bury; Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2001], 17). The “paradox” for Braddock and Parish is the contrast between kindness and God’s wrath; there is no acknowledgment that the etiology of disease might not be divine punishment.
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culture has had a profound impact on historical studies. This, in turn, has led to a renaissance in the study of diseases and disabilities in the Hebrew Bible and of the application of the “religious model of disability” to scriptural texts. The construction of categories of disability, especially in the Priestly literature, has been the subject of renewed interest. Much of this work has taken up the methodological finesse of disability studies as a redress to the unreflected diagnostic approach of historical criticism, and to great effect.55 With respect to disability analyses of the Hebrew Bible, sāi ra vat, uniformly translated as “skin disease,” has remained something of a central topic. The alienating and isolating treatment of sāi ra vat, its importance in the selection of priests, 55 The practice of medically diagnosing biblical characters has a storied history. It is a testament to modern intellectual arrogance that biblical scholars presume they can “identify” with modern medical categories conditions that are described using ancient terminology in a manner that resists such diagnosis. In the case of siāra vat, virtually every commentator has something diagnostic to say, even if only negative. Thus we are regularly reminded that siāra vat, though frequently translated as “leprosy,” is in fact not actually related to modern Hansen’s disease, and often that it cannot be connected with any specific disease known to modern science. Milgrom (Leviticus 1–16, 817) goes so far as to relate a personal anecdote about bringing a dermatologist into the classroom to discuss the possible identification of siāra vat with a modern disease (the dermatologist failed). There have been, however, some very detailed attempts to diagnose siāra vat, which, for all their erudition, contribute little to our understanding of the biblical text; see esp. E. V. Hulse, “The Nature of Biblical Leprosy and the Use of Alternative Medical Terms in Modern Translations of the Bible,” PEQ 107 (1975): 87–105. Even apart from the methodological difficulties that ancient texts present to trained medics (e.g., brief descriptions of conditions, the absence of important medical data such as blood tests, the incomplete nature of the medical history, etc.), this practice ignores the different cultural value ascribed to these conditions. Even if the terms “sacred disease” and “epilepsy” do refer to the same condition, equating the sacred disease with epilepsy obscures the specific cultural value attached to the sacred disease in the ancient world. In the words of M. Lynn Rose, “It is not appropriate to investigate the phenomenon of disability in ancient societies from the perspective of a medical model” (“Deaf and Dumb in Ancient Greece,” in The Disability Studies Reader [ed. Lennard J. Davis; 2nd ed.; New York: Routledge, 2006], 17). Diagnostic biblical scholarship persists, however, in JoAnn Scurlock and Burton R. Andersen, Diagnoses in Assyrian and Babylonian Medicine: Ancient Sources, Translations, and Modern Medical Analyses (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2005); and Donald Capps, Jesus the Village Psychiatrist (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2008). Recent work replacing these diagnostic analyses include Hector Avalos, Illness and Health Care in the Ancient Near East: The Role of the Temple in Greece, Mesopotamia, and Israel (HSM 54; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1995); idem, Health Care and the Rise of Christianity (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1999); This Abled Body: Rethinking Disabilities in Biblical Studies (ed. Hector Avalos, Sarah J. Melcher, and Jeremy Schipper; SemeiaSt 55: Leiden: Brill, 2007); Raphael, Biblical Corpora; Sarah J. Melcher, “Visualizing the Perfect Cult: The Priestly Rationale for Exclusion,” in Human Disability and the Service of God: Reassessing Religious Practice (ed. Nancy L. Eiseland and Don S. Saliers; Nashville: Abingdon, 1998), 55–71; Saul M. Olyan, Disability in the Hebrew Bible: Interpreting Mental and Physical Differences (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008).
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the manner in which sufferers were excluded from temple rituals, and its prominence in historical narratives are frequently discussed. The etiology of the condition is rarely the subject of debate but lingers beneath the surface of scholarly treatments of the subject. In her article “Visualizing the Perfect Cult,” Sarah J. Melcher reevaluates the social function of laws regulating purity and impurity in Leviticus. While her argument is not primarily concerned with the connection between sāi ra vat and divine punishment, she states at the outset that “the mark of sara‘at, according to the texts of the Hebrew Bible, was placed on the person’s skin as a punishment for an encroachment against G-d, so sara‘at is a sign of moral failure, much as stigma was for the Greeks.”56 The phrase “according to the texts of the Hebrew Bible” is problematic: it assumes an anachronistic homogeneity of the canonical text of the Hebrew Bible. Later in her article Melcher notes that in Lev 14:33–53 the sāi ra vat on a house is explicitly said to derive from Yhwh; she reasonably extrapolates that sāi ra vat on people originates from the same source. The difficulties arise when she attempts to connect this observation to the notion of divine punishment. Melcher fails to recognize, on the one hand, that the divine derivation of sāi ra vat does not necessarily imply that it is a punishment for sin and, on the other, that the parallel with sāra i vat on a house speaks against, rather than in support of, the origin in sin of the affliction on people.57 Crucially, she notes that sāi ra vat “is invested with the connotation of divine punishment throughout the remainder of its occurrences in the Hebrew Bible,” this time citing Numbers 12 as evidence for her argument.58 Melcher’s argument, therefore, rests almost entirely on her use of non-Priestly sources in her interpretation of Priestly material and is thus largely indistinguishable from the standard historical-critical treatments. Similarly, in his otherwise careful study Disability in the Hebrew Bible, Saul Olyan rightly categorizes sāra i vat with a group of “physical disabilities not classified as ‘defects.’”59 Yet even as he remains ambivalent on the association between sin and disease he still asks, “Were skin afflictions such as these always understood to be punitive?”60 Much of Olyan’s primary material is drawn from non-Priestly sources (Num 12:10–15; 2 Kgs 15:3–4; 2 Chr 26:16–21), yet, like Milgrom, he assumes that these sources can be used to describe sāi ra vat in general: “Whether ‘skin disease’ is often understood to be a divine punishment or always understood to be so, its frequent association with transgression and curse is nonetheless stig56
Melcher, “Visualizing,” 58. Melcher adds the requirement of the 'āšām in Leviticus 14 as further evidence that sāi ra vat connotes divine punishment (ibid., 65). As noted above, Leviticus 14 does not present compelling evidence that the condition was a form of punishment for sin. 58 Ibid., 64. 59 Olyan, Disability, 47–60. 60 Ibid., 56. 57
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matizing for all afflicted persons.”61 While Olyan is more nuanced than most, his summary assumes that statements about sāi ra vat, drawn from disparate sources in the Pentateuch, were read together to create a single general impression. Olyan, like many others, reads the Priestly sources using the decidedly non-Priestly model of divine punishment. Analyses of disability in biblical literature can make impressive inroads into our understanding of the ancient texts. A difficulty emerges, however, with the subtle importation of the “religious model of disability” into scholarly treatments of the Bible. When faced with the unique Priestly characterization of sāra i vat, disability scholars, like historical-critical scholars, feel compelled to look outside the Priestly material to explain the etiology of the condition. Given the choice between allowing the Priestly view of sāi ra vat as a naturally occurring impurity to stand and imposing a blanket religious model of “divine punishment” across the biblical corpus, disability scholars opt for the latter. In electing to use non-Priestly material to interpret Priestly texts, an implicit, perhaps even unconscious, commitment to the religious model of disability is betrayed. Glazing the surface of the scriptural text with a theoretically constructed model conceals the nuanced variations in the presentations of specific ailments in the Hebrew Bible. Ironically, when applied to biblical texts, the religious model of disability only replicates itself in modern scholarship. Rather than recognizing the diversity among ancient views of disability, scholars reproduce the old philosophy that “skin disease” is the result of sin.
III. Conclusion As we have seen, in the Priestly presentation, the connection between sin and sāi ra vat is absent. While there is a certain ambiguity in the presentation of the condition, the widespread assumption that sāi ra vat is a consequence of sin has no grounding in the priestly legislation itself. In accounting for the etiology of sāra i vat, scholars have framed their discussion of the condition’s origin using a model of the condition imported from non-Priestly literature. This interpretive move entails two assumptions: first, that there was a single understanding in ancient Israel of the origin and nature of “skin disease”; second, that the etiology of the condition provided by the Priestly author is somehow insufficient. In fact, read on its own terms, taking into account the context of the passage within the larger section on impurities, P’s view of the etiology of skin disease is relatively clear: it, like the other impurities described in Leviticus 12–15, originates with Yhwh and forms part of the natural order. The recourse to the non-Priestly material for some supplementary explanation may be a result of the long-standing belief that physical anomalies in 61
Ibid.
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general, and this anomaly in particular, cannot have been, in the ancient world, viewed as natural and must have been seen as incurred by sin. The pervasiveness of this belief, from the non-Priestly biblical texts through many generations of interpretation, perhaps accounts for the fact that, despite their hermeneutical differences, all the authors we have surveyed—precritical, historical-critical, and disability studies—read the Priestly texts in light of the non-Priestly narratives. We must, however, be on guard against reading one source in light of another, or in light of the canonical text as we have received it. The Priestly theology and worldview must be understood on its own terms first and foremost, and the Priestly construction of sāra i vat must be accorded its proper standing in scholarly accounts of ancient Israelite thought, regardless of hermeneutic. Only then can the diversity of Israelite views on sin, impurity, and disease, and the intersection of these views, be recognized and appreciated.
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Lions, Serpents, and Lion-Serpents in Job 28:8 and Beyond scott c. jones
[email protected] Covenant College, Lookout Mountain, GA 30750
In the 1963 Festschrift for G. R. Driver, Sigmund Mowinckel argued that Biblical Hebrew שׁחלoriginally denoted a mythical serpent dragon and later came to be used as a poetical term for a lion. That meaning, he believed, was evident above all in Job 28:8.1 He states, “Originally שׁחלmay have meant the serpent dragon, the mythical wyvern or ‘Lindwurm’. Because of the combination of serpent (dragon) and lion in mythopoetical and artistic fancy, it has also been adopted as a term for the lion.”2 Few have been convinced by Mowinckel’s argument that ׂשחלdenotes a snake, and still fewer by his mythopoetical explanation of the term’s resultant double meaning: “lion” and “serpent.”3 Mowinckel’s position is no doubt weakened by some
The comments of Daphne Haddad, Scott Redd, Casey Strine, Bill Fullilove, Izaak de Hulster, and the editors of JBL made this a better essay, and I am grateful for their help. I alone am responsible for any remaining error. All the line drawings in this essay are my own. 1 Sigmund Mowinckel, “שַׁחל ַ ,” in Hebrew and Semitic Studies Presented to Godfrey Rolles Driver in Celebration of His Seventieth Birthday, 20 August 1962 (ed. D. Winton Thomas and W. D. McHardy; Oxford: Clarendon, 1963), 95–103. He had previously written on the topic: “Šahial,” in Gamle spor og nye veier; Tydninger og Tegninger. En hilsen til professor Lyder Brun ved hans 25-aars Professorjubilæum fra elever og venner (Kristiania: Grøndahl, 1922), 7–16. 2 Mowinckel, “שַׁחל ַ ,” 103. 3 The most recent full-scale study of the lion in the Hebrew Bible concludes that Mowinckel’s position is “intriguing but invalid” (Brent A. Strawn, What Is Stronger than a Lion? Leonine Image and Metaphor in the Hebrew Bible and the Ancient Near East [OBO 212; Fribourg: Academic Press; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2005], 324), while a massive new work on the serpent in the ancient world does not include ׂשחלamong words for “serpent” in Biblical Hebrew (James H. Charlesworth, The Good and Evil Serpent: How a Universal Symbol Became Christianized [Anchor Yale Bible Reference Library; New Haven: Yale University Press, 2010], 425–51). Those who follow
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of his more far-fetched arguments, such as the identity of ׂשחלand נחׂש,4 or the overstated claim that the meaning “lion” is “impossible” in Job 28:8.5 Yet some of his fundamental points remain cogent: that Semitic terms for “lion” and “serpent” are not entirely distinct, and that the fuzzy lines between these terms result from an ancient worldview in which animal categories were often mixed, even challening modern boundaries between the mythical and the real. This essay revisits Mowinckel’s ׂשחלas a way into the broader issues of conceptualization and classification of lions and serpents in the ancient Near East. After considering comparative philological, literary, and iconographic evidence, I argue that ׂשחלin Job 28:8 evokes both a lion and a serpent, and that semantic parallelism and phonology contribute to the animation of a dragon of which the ׂשחל is an integral part. This specific case suggests the importance of myth, poetry, and imagination in translating ancient Semitic terms for “lions” and “serpents” and the benefit of taking into account ancient conceptions of animals in philology and exegesis.6
I. Etymology Gesenius-Buhl and its English cousin, Brown-Driver-Briggs,7 follow Theodor Nöldeke in relating the Biblical Hebrew substantive ׂשחלto a hypothetical verbal root *ׂשחל, comparing Akk. šah~ ālu and Arab. sahiala.8 On this line of thought, ׂשחל means “howler” or “bellower.” However, Akk. šah~ ālu is now understood to mean “to Mowinckel are Marvin Pope (Job: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [3rd ed.; AB 15; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1973], 202), Lester L. Grabbe (Comparative Philology and the Text of Job: A Study in Methodology [SBLDS 34; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1977], 93), Stephen Geller (“‘Where Is Wisdom?’: A Literary Study of Job 28 in Its Settings,” in Judaic Perspectives on Ancient Israel [ed. Jacob Neusner et al.; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987], 179 n. 14, 155, 163–64), and the NEB. 4 “[I]n fact . . . שַׁחל ַ is fundamentally the same as ָנָחׂש. The fundamental meaning of ַשַׁחל also is a being ‘endowed’ with supernormal and mysterious force, with ‘mana’ ” (Mowinckel, “ַשַׁחל,” 102). 5 Ibid., 95, 103. 6 On ancient Near Eastern ethnozoology and folk taxonomy, see Paula Wapnish, “Towards Establishing a Conceptual Basis for Animal Categories in Archaeology,” in Methods in the Mediterranean: Historical and Archaeological Views on Texts and Archaeology (ed. David B. Small; Mnemosyne 135; Leiden/New York: Brill, 1995), 233–73. 7 Wilhelm Gesenius’ Hebräisches und Aramäisches Handwörterbuch über das alte Testament (17th ed.; ed. Frants Buhl; Leipzig: Vogel, 1921), 819. This is even clearer in Gesenius’s Thesaurus philologicus criticus linguae Hebraeae et Chaldaeae Veteris Testamenti, completed by Emil Rödiger (3 vols.; Leipzig: Vogel, 1829–53), 1388. See also BDB, 1006, s.v. שׁחל. 8 Nöldeke, review of Friedrich Delitzsch, Prolegomena eines neuen hebräisch-aramäischen Wörterbuch zum alten Testament, ZDMG 40 (1886): 725; see also the discussion in HALOT 4:1461.
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filter” rather than “to call, proclaim,” as Nöldeke and others supposed.9 Arabic sahiala refers to paring, peeling, stripping off, or filing, though it may also be used of the rolling sound in the chest of a donkey.10 Edward Lipiński has recently revived this view of Biblical Hebrew ׂשחל, though on the basis of different Akkadian evidence. He explains it as “a metaphorical appellation based on the verb šhil that means ‘to smooth’ or ‘to sharpen.’ ”11 Lipiński points especially to Akk. šêlu A (<*ŠHi L), which is used of pigs sharpening their teeth and of the sharpening of weapons,12 and he suggests that the parallel MyrIypik; yn@#i' $ // lxa#f$ lwOq in Job 4:10 alludes to the original meaning of the word: “the grinder [of the teeth].”13 Yet other evidence points in a quite different direction. The postbiblical Hebrew verb ׂשחל, widely attested in the C-stem, has to do with sliding through holes, threading a needle, and slipping between things.14 As Stephen Geller notes, this “sounds most serpentine.”15 Additionally, the Old Babylonian snake god dŠah~ an is used in personal names at Dilbat for the logogram dMUŠ (= dsēi ru).16 Finally, modern Egyptian Arabic attests sihiliyyâ, a nominal form of sahiala, meaning “lizard.”17 Rather than having to do with sharpening or bellowing, this reptile seems to have been so named because of its ability to peel off its skin.
9 CAD Š/1, 77–78; AHw 3:1128. See Franz Delitzsch, A Biblical Commentary on the Book of Job (trans. Francis Bolton; 2 vols.; 1881–82; repr., Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1966), 2:100 (originally published as Biblischer Commentar über die poetischen Bücher des alten Testaments, 2. Band, Das Buch Iob [Leipzig: Dörffling & Franke, 1876]); and Marcus Jastrow’s gloss of Akk. šah}ālu in Jastrow 2:1548, s.v. שׁחלand שׁחלא. 10 Edward William Lane, An Arabic-English Lexicon (8 vols.; London: Williams & Norgate, 1863–93), 4:1319, 1320. 11 Lipiński, “‘Lion’ and ‘Lioness’ in Northwest Semitic,” in Michael: Historical, Epigraphical and Biblical Studies in Honor of Prof. Michael Heltzer (in Hebrew; ed. Yitshak Avishur and Robert Deutsch; Tel Aviv/Jaffa: Archaeological Center Publications, 1999), 218. 12 CAD Š/2 , 275–76; AHw 3:1211. 13 Lipiński, “‘Lion’ and ‘Lioness,’” 218. 14 Jastrow 2:1548, s.v. שׁחלII; Michael Sokoloff, A Dictionary of Jewish Babylonian Aramaic of the Talmudic and Geonic Periods (Dictionaries of the Talmud, Midrash and Targum 3; RamatGan: Bar-Ilan University Press; Baltimore/London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002), 1127, s.v. (hereafter DJBA). This is a cognate of Akk. sah}ālu, “to pierce,” and its verbal adjective sah}lu (CAD S, 28–29, 61; AHw 2:1003, 1009). 15 Geller, “ ‘Where Is Wisdom?’ ” 179 n. 14. 16 Howard Wohl, “Nirah} or Šah}an,” JANES 5 (1973): 442–43 and n. 13. This is also pointed out by Geller, “ ‘Where Is Wisdom?’ ” 179–80 n. 14. On the interchange between /l/ and /n/ in Semitic, see Edward Lipiński, Semitic Languages: Outline of a Comparative Grammar (2nd ed.; OLA 80; Leuven: Peeters, 2001), §§17.3–17.4. 17 Hans Wehr, A Dictionary of Modern Written Arabic (Arabic–English) (ed. J. Milton Cowan; 4th ed.; Urbana, IL: Spoken Language Services, 1994), 466; and Elias A. Elias, Elias’ Modern Dictionary: Arabic-English (7th ed.; Cairo: Elias’ Modern Press, 1954), 293. See also Grabbe, Comparative Philology, 93; Geller, “ ‘Where Is Wisdom?’ ” 179 n. 14.
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Most problematic is the datum offered by Ugaritic. Mitchell J. Dahood considers it likely that Biblical Hebrew ׂשחלoccurs in the Ugaritic PN šhli mmt,18 but the meaning of this word, which is attested four times in the Baal Cycle (CTU 1.5 v 19; 1.5 vi 7; 1.5 vi 30 [partially reconstructed]; 1.6 ii 20), is quite difficult to determine. Gregorio del Olmo Lete and Joaquín Sanmartín gloss šhilmmt as “mythical place of the divine dead, antechamber to the Underworld.”19 Mark S. Smith seems to follow this line of thinking, rendering the term with “Death’s Realm.”20 Richard J. Clifford, however, interprets it as “lions of death.”21 Though far from certain, šhli mmt is probably best interpreted as a compound word, “mortality-shore,” or the like, where the element šhli is a cognate of Arab. sāhii lu, “shore.”22 Thus understood, it cannot contribute to an etymological discussion of Biblical Hebrew שׁחל.23 After reviewing possible cognates in Akkadian, Arabic, Ugaritic, Aramaic, and Epigraphic South Arabian, Michael M. Kaplan states, “[B]y no stretch of the imagination can the meaning ‘lion’ for ׂשחלbe related semantically to the meanings of those attested roots.”24 Indeed, the old etymology in BDB and its newer iteration offered by Lipiński are unconvincing. One alternative is that ׂשחלis a primary noun, as HALOT suggests.25 If, however, ׂשחלis de-verbal, the most impressive etymological data relate to snakelike reptiles that can peel off their skin and slide through the smallest spaces.26 18
Dahood, Psalms II: 51–100. Introduction, Translation, and Notes (AB 17; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1968), 333. 19 Olmo Lete and Sanmartín, Dictionary of the Ugaritic Language in the Alphabetic Tradition (trans. and ed. Wilfred G. E. Watson; 2nd rev. ed.; 2 vols.; HO 67; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2004), 2:812 (hereafter DUL). 20 Smith, “The Baal Cycle,” in Ugaritic Narrative Poetry (ed. Simon B. Parker; SBLWAW 9; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1997), 148–50, 156. 21 Clifford, The Cosmic Mountain in Canaan and the Old Testament (HSM 4; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1972), 84 n. 57. 22 So DUL 2:812. See also Josef Tropper’s gloss “‹Todesstrand›(?)” (Kleines Wörterbuch des Ugaritischen [Elementa linguarum orientis 4; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2008], 118). For the Arabic, see Lane 4:1320. 23 The relation between Biblical Hebrew ׂשחלand Ug. šhilmmt is made still more problematic by the fact that one would expect a cognate ŠH~ L rather than ŠHiL, as attested. 24 Kaplan, “The Lion in the Hebrew Bible: A Study of a Biblical Metaphor” (Ph.D. diss., Brandeis University, 1981), 105–6. 25 HALOT 4:1461. 26 If this etymology were accepted, ׂשחלwould be related to the hapax legomenon ׂשֵח ֶלת ְ (Exod 30:34), which is connected with a type of shell (see HALOT 4:1462). Ludwig Köhler originally related Biblical Hebrew ַׂשַחלto Arab. sahilal, “offspring, young of a lion” (“LexikologischGeographisches,” ZDPV 62 [1939]: 121, citing Ibn Manz ūi r’s Lisān al-vArab 13:352, 10), but in the first edition of KBL (1953), 961, he compared Arab. hii sl, “young one of the ġabb-lizard when it first comes forth from its egg” (Lane 2:569). Lothar Kopf justifiably calls the second into question, though he himself suggests comparing Arab. sah}la, “lamb,” which is even less likely (“Arabische Etymologien und Parallelen zum Bibelwörterbuch,” VT 8 [1958]: 207; Lane 4:1325).
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II. ׂשחלin the Hebrew Bible and Its Early History of Interpretation ׂשחלoccurs seven times in Biblical Hebrew: Job 4:10; 10:16; 28:8; Ps 91:13; Prov 26:13; and Hos 5:14; 13:7. The term is clearly used of a lion in Job 4:10 (// אריהand ;)כפירJob 10:16 (where God hunts Job like a ;)ׂשחלProv 26:13 (// ;)ארי Hos 5:14 (// ;)כפירand Hos 13:7–8 (// נמר, דוב, and )לביא. The evidence in Biblical Hebrew is supported by Talmudic Hebrew ׂשחלand Jewish Literary Aramaic ׂשחלא,27 though the latter is a loanword from Biblical Hebrew. In b. Sanh. 95a, Rabbi Yohai nan lists both ׂשחלand ( ׂשחץsee Job 28:8a; 41:26b) among the six names for the lion: “The lion has six names. They are ארי, כפיר, לביא, ליׂש, ׂשחל, and ׂשחץ.”28 However, the meaning of ׂשחלin Ps 91:13 has caused both modern and ancient interpreters some trouble, as it parallels both פתןand כפיר.29 The translations of the LXX, the Vulgate, and the Peshitta all reflect “asp.” The LXX and Symmachus read ἀσπίδα (LXX 90:13),30 Vg. asp, and Syr. gārsā '.31 Only the targum renders “lion’s whelp” ()בר אריון. The translations of the versions are likewise divided on ׂשחלin Job 28:8. While the LXX (λέων), Syr. ('ry'), Vg. (leaena), and Tg. 2 ( )ליונאall translate “lion,” Tg. 1 translates “serpent” ()חיויא. Considering the case of Ps 91:13, Brent Strawn states, “[T]he case can be made that Versions are simply mistaken or interpretive.”32 The second is more likely. Thus, the questions are ultimately why the versions interpret the text the way they do and how such a translation was possible. Presumably the parallelisms כפיר | תנין || ׂשחל | פתןin Psalm 91 and בני ׂשחץ || ׂשחלin Job 28 influenced such translations. But then what cognitive process enabled a translation of ׂשחלas “serpent” when it is translated “lion” in every other case?33 Could it be that, in the Weltanschauung of the writers of the Hebrew Bible and its early interpreters, “lions” and “serpents” were not as distinct as they are in systems of classification in the modern West? That would not be surprising, considering the terms in Semitic that may mean both “lion” and “serpent.” Jastrow 2:1548, s.v. ׂשחלא. Isidore Epstein, ed., Hebrew-English Edition of the Babylonian Talmud: Sanhedrin: New Edition (trans. Jacob Shachter and H. Freedman; London: Soncino, 1994). 29 See esp. Marvin Tate, Psalms 51–100 (WBC 20; Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 1990), 449– 50 n. 13a. 30 See Takamitsu Muraoka, A Greek-English Lexicon of the Septuagint (Leuven: Peeters, 2009), 98, s.v. ἀσπίς II (hereafter GELS). The reading of Symm. is preserved in the Syro-hexapla as 'sps. 31 It may be, however, that the Syr. and the Vg. are dependent on the LXX. 32 Strawn, What Is Stronger than a Lion? 323. 33 Aside from the mistake of the LXX in Prov 26:13 (reading ש ַלח ָׂ ), the versions in Job 4:10; 10:16; Hos 5:14; and 13:7 translate either “lion” or “panther.” 27 28
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III. Semitic Terms for “Lion” and “Serpent” Mowinckel spends more than half of his essay attempting to relate ׂשחלto various terms for “serpent” in Semitic.34 He opens the discussion with two analogies from Akkadian and Ethiopic which suggest that some Semitic cognates for words meaning “lion” or “serpent” in Biblical Hebrew have the opposite meaning in those languages. This is a particularly important point that deserves to be fleshed out a bit more. Biblical Hebrew אריand אריהare commonly used for “lion,” as are cognates in Old, Official, and Palmyrene Aramaic, as well as Syriac.35 However, cognate evidence in Ethiopic and Akkadian attest other meanings. While Ge vez 'arwe means “animal, wild animal, beast, wild beast, or reptile” in the absolute, the phrase 'arwe mĕdr means “snake, serpent, dragon.”36 Tigré attests the meaning “serpent” for 'arwe.37 Akkadian erû C, on the other hand, means “eagle,”38 which, as Wolfram von Soden states, “ist der ‘Löwe’ der Luft.”39 Biblical Hebrew לביאis used in poetic contexts for “lion” or “lioness,” as is its Akk. cognate, labbu (< *LB').40 In CT 13.33–34, however, labbu is used of a mythological serpent.41 Toward the beginning of the tale, the terrible monster that Tišpak battles is twice called a “serpent” (muš[bašmu]) (obv. lines 5–6),42 but then throughout the remainder of the text it is called a “lion” (labbu; obv. lines 17, 20, 24; rev. lines 4, 7, 9).43 The same creature, however, is undoubtedly in view. This is the monster Mowinckel, “ַשַׁחל,” 98–102. See DNWSI 1:107, s.vv. 'ry3, 'ryh1; J. Payne Smith (Mrs. Margoliouth), ed., A Compendious Syriac Dictionary, Founded Upon the Thesaurus Syriacus of R. Payne Smith (Oxford: Clarendon, 1903), 28, s.v. 'aryā' (hereafter Payne Smith); Michael Sokoloff, A Syriac Lexicon: A Translation from the Latin. Correction, Expansion, and Update of C. Brockelmann’s Lexicon syriacum (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns; Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias, 2009), 98. 36 Wolf Leslau, Comparative Dictionary of Gevez (Classical Ethiopic): Gevez–English, English– Ge vez (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1987), 40. 37 Ibid. 38 CAD E, 324–25; AHw 1:247. 39 Von Soden, “aqrabu und našru,” AfO 18 (1957): 393. 40 CAD L, 24–25; AHw 2:526. 41 For the translation, see Benjamin R. Foster, Before the Muses: An Anthology of Akkadian Literature (3rd ed.; Bethesda, MD: CDL, 2005), 581–82 (hereafter BTM3). For the text, see Erich Ebeling, “Ein Fragment aus dem Mythos von der grossen Schlange,” OLZ 19 (1916): 106–8. 42 Reading muš[baš-ma], as restored in Theodore Lewis’s edition after KAR 6 ii 21 (“CT 13.33– 34 and Ezekiel 32: Lion-Dragon Myths,” JAOS 116 [1996]: 31 and n. 18). Frans Wiggermann, however, restores MUŠ.[H} UŠ] in obv. lines 5, 6, and offers the same reading in line 3 as well (“Tišpak, His Seal, and the Dragon mušh}uššu,” in To the Euphrates and Beyond: Archaeological Studies in Honour of Maurits N. van Loon [ed. O. Haex et al.; Rotterdam: Balkema, 1989], 117). Whatever the reading, the creature is ophidian in nature, as the muš element suggests. 43 Wiggermann attempts to resolve this double designation by assuming that labbu is an 34 35
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that the Middle Assyrian version portrays as a massive snake (mušba[šmu], KAR 6 ii 21)44 that eats fish, birds, wild donkeys, and Mesopotamians, and which in the Babylonian Map of the World is grouped together with the mythological sea-serpent (mušh}uššu rabû), Anzu-bird (anzû), and scorpion-man (girtablullû)—all composite creatures of some sort.45 The Aramaic proverbs of Ahiqar, in fact, allude to the Labbu myth in an attempt to explain why a snake would be referred to as a labbu: There is no lion in the sea, therefore the sea-snake is called labbu.46
אריה ֯ל֯א ]֯א֯י[תי בימא על כן יקראון לק֯פא לבא
This explanation reflects a similar kind of analogy between lions and snakes that may also have influenced the meaning of Akk. erû as “eagle.”47 Given the lion’s sym-
epithet for the beast, meaning “the Raging One” (< labābu A; see CAD L, 24, s.v. labbu B; CAD L, 7, s.v. labābu A), rather than “lion” (“Tišpak,” 118). I am not persuaded by this line of thinking, and it does not seem as if Wiggermann is entirely convinced either (p. 126 n. 5). 44 See the translation in BTM3, 579, as “dra[gon]-snake.” 45 BM 92687 obv. 5´. See Wayne Horowitz, Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography (Mesopotamian Civilizations 8; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1998), 22–23, 35–36. 46 The translation and transcription are those of James M. Lindenberger, The Aramaic Proverbs of Ahiqar (Johns Hopkins Near Eastern Studies; Baltimore/London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1983), 105 (line 117, saying 34). The top half of either a pê or a rêš is missing in the second poetic line. Bezalel Porten and Ada Yardeni transcribe both pê and rêš (Textbook of Aramaic Documents from Ancient Egypt, vol. 3, Literature, Accounts, Lists [Jerusalem: Hebrew University Press; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 1993], 46 [line 165]) (hereafter TAD 3). Upon personal investigation of the papyrus in the Neues Museum in Berlin, I conclude that rêš is unlikely, since the vertical stroke does not extend above the line where the missing horizontal stroke would be. Compare the qôp-rêš sequence in יקראוןin the same line. See the plate in the editio princeps (Eduard Sachau, ed., Aramäische Papyrus und Ostraka aus einer jüdischen MilitärKolonie zu Elephantine: Altorientalische Sprachdenkmäler des 5. Jahrhunderts vor Chr.: Tafeln [Generalverwaltung der königlichen Museen zu Berlin; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1911], Tafel 46, plate 55). Lindenberger’s connection of קפאwith Akk. kuppû (“eel,” or “snake”) is cogent (Lindenberger, Ahiqar, 106; CAD K, 551–52, s.v. kuppû B, # 3; and Benno Landsberger, in collaboration with I. Krumbeigel, Die Fauna des alten Mesopotamien nach der 14. Tafel der Serie H} AR-RA = H} UBULLU [ASAW 42/6; Leipzig: S. Hirzel, 1934], 63). 47 From a philological perspective, J. J. M. Roberts suggests that the meaning “sea serpent” for labbu in CT 13.33–34 is due to the fact that the noun labbu (“lion”) fell together with the Akk. verb lawû (“to encircle,” from LWY, as BH לויתןand Ug. ltn; see CAD L, 69–77, s.v. lamû; AHw 1:541–42, s.vv. lawûm, lamû II) in the Ešnunna region under Assyrian influence, whence the consonantal shift w > b: lawû > labû. The Middle Assyrian version of the Labbu myth attests the verb as la-bu-na (KAR 6 ii 24), which seems to be a play on the name labbu. The labbu thus took on the qualities of both a serpent and a lion (J. J. M. Roberts, personal communication, January 12, 2010). In 1972, Roberts analyzed labbu as a parras form: *labbayu > *labbīu > labbû (The Earliest Semitic Pantheon: A Study of the Semitic Deities Attested in Mesopotamia before Ur III [Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1972], 116 n. 444). See also Lindenberger, Ahiqar, 106.
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bolic dominance in Syria-Palestine and Mesopotamia,48 it stands to reason that other animals that especially embodied predatory prowess and chaotic threat could be described functionally as the “lions” of their realms. The sea-snake, in this case, is the “lion” of the sea.49 Though לישׁis attested only three times in the Hebrew Bible (Job 4:11; Prov 30:30; Isa 30:6), it clearly means “lion,” as do cognates in Jewish Literary Aramaic50 and classical Arabic.51 Its Akkadian cognate nēšu is the common term for “lion.”52 However, nēšu (<*NHi Š) is also cognate to Biblical Hebrew נחׂש, the typical word for “snake.”53 In the Standard Babylonian Gilgamesh epic, nēšu also takes on the meaning “serpent.” In SB Gilg. XI. 305, the creature that smells the plant of heartbeat is called a siēru (MUŠ). In line 314, however, it is called a “lion of the earth” (nēši (UR.MAH} ) ša qaqqari). This same phrase is preserved in the pharmaceutical series Uruanna III, where it is equated with a “chameleon” (h}ulamēs/šu) and listed between insects: UR.MAH} qaqqari = h}u-la-m[e-šu].54 In C 5 of the medicinal commentary, the [h}u-l]a-me-su is listed between insects and worms.55 Drawing attention to a similar phrase in a lexical text at Ebla (na-iš gàr-ga-rí-im) and to the etymology of Gk. χαµαιλέων (“on the ground” + “lion”), Åke Sjöberg argues that the nēši ša qaqqari in SB Gilg. XI and the נחׂשin Genesis 3 were, in fact, chameleons (see Gen 3:14-15) and that Akk. nēšu and Biblical Hebrew נחׂשmay actually mean “reptile.”56 Whether a serpent or a chameleon, it is clear that Akk. nēšu can be used in some contexts to refer not only to animals of the modern bio-
48 Annie Caubet, “Animals in Syro-Palestinian Art,” in A History of the Animal World in the Ancient Near East (ed. Billie Jean Collins; HO I/64; Leiden/Boston: Brill, 2002), 223; and, in the same volume, Catherine Breniquet, “Animals in Mesopotamian Art,” 158, 161. 49 By analogy, see Wapnish’s discussion of the popular epithet of Akk. nāh}iru as the “horse of the sea,” either because of its peculiar snort or because of the way it rears up out of the water (“Conceptual Basis for Animal Categories,” 263–64). 50 Jastrow 2:710, s.v. ליתאII, ליתא. 51 Lane 7:2684. 52 CAD N/2, 193–97; AHw 2:783. 53 Landsberger suggests that *nayθ (Akk. nēšu) and *lab' (Akk. labbu) were the original Semitic words for “lion” and “lioness” respectively. Biblical Hebrew ליׂש, he thinks, arose from *nayθ > *layθ in order to bring the term for a male lion more closely into line with the term for a female lion (*lab') (Landsberger, Fauna, 76 and n. 7). On the /l/ and /n/ interchange, see Lipiński, Semitic Languages, §§17.3–17.4. 54 Landsberger, Fauna, 43 (B 4). See CAD H} , 227–28; AHw 1:353. This is also noted by Andrew R. George, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition, and Cuneiform Texts (2 vols.; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 2:896. 55 Landsberger, Fauna, 43 (C 5); see the discussion on pp. 116–17. 56 Sjöberg, “Eve and the Chameleon,” in In the Shelter of Elyon: Essays on Ancient Palestinian Life and Literature in Honor of G.W. Ahlström (ed. W. Boyd Barrick and John R. Spencer; JSOTSup 31; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1984), 222 and 224 n. 23.
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logical family felidae (i.e., cats) but also to animals of the order squamata (i.e., scaled reptiles).57
IV. What Have Lions to Do with Serpents? These data raise the questions of why and how words for lions and serpents seem to have been so closely connected in Semitic. The implicit analogy operative between the two in ancient Near Eastern literature and iconography is, in my estimation, fundamental. This analogy, along with the pairing of such beasts as dangerous creatures of the wilderness par excellence, facilitated the combination of these animals into a single Mischwesen. In some cases, one of the animals seems to have been able to fill the conceptual slot of the other as well.
A. Analogy and Juxtaposition The phrasing in SB Gilg. XI. 314, which refers to the serpent (siēru [MUŠ], line 305) as the “lion of the earth” (nēši [UR.MAH} ] ša qaqqari) is particularly instructive. Considering also the meaning “eagle” for Akk. erû and the use of labbu for the sea-snake in Ahiqar 165, it would seem that each domain has its own “lion.” Thus, the eagle is the “lion” of the sky, the eel the “lion” of the sea, and the serpent the “lion” of the earth. The four-legged king of beasts is the center term. So animals that might be quite distinct according to modern systems of classification were sometimes connected metaphorically on the basis of their power and threat in the animal kingdom. Andrew George comments on the logic of the phrase “lion of the earth” in the Gilgamesh epic: The “Lion of the Earth” is an epithet well suited to the snake, which when alarmed is a threat every bit as dangerous to human beings as the obviously more threatening four-legged version. In ancient Mesopotamia lions and snakes were more of a kind than one might think, for they held an equal terror for the Babylonian traveller. According to the common omen apodoses ših}it i nēši and ših}it i sēi ri, “attack by lion” and “attack by snake”, the two most feared encounters in the open were with exactly these two animals, and these alone: according to the dictionaries no other animal appears in this phrase in such texts.58 57 Akkadian h}ulmittu/h}ulmitti u i should also be noted in this connection (see CAD H} , 230; AHw 1:354). This animal is connected with the mythical mušh}uššu-dragon in A 44 of the commentary H}AR.gud (Landsberger, Fauna, 36, 62). In CT 14.7 the h}ulmittu is described as a serpent with four feet (Fauna, 53–54; CAD H} , 230). Landsberger questions the relation of the h}ulmittu to the h}ulamēšu (Fauna, 116–17), but the cognates to h}ulmittu in Biblical Hebrew ()חמט, targumic Aram. ()חומטא, and Syr. (hu i wlmātāi ') all mean “lizard, chameleon,” or the like (see HALOT 1:327– 28; Jastrow 1:435; Payne Smith, 131; and Sokoloff, Syriac Lexicon, 426), just as Akk. h}ulamēšu does. 58 George, Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic, 2:897. See CAD Š/2, 416, s.v. ših}t u i A; AHw 3:1209,
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Indeed, lions and serpents are often paired as dangerous creatures of the wilderness, as illustrated in the oracle against the beasts of the Negev in Isa 30:6: An oracle against the beasts of the Negev: In a land of trouble and distress, whence the lioness and lion, the snake and flying serpent, they lift their wealth upon donkeys’ shoulders, their treasures on camels’ humps, upon a people who do not profit.
משׂא בהמות נגב בארץ צרה וצוקה לביא וליׂש מהם אפעה ושׂרף מעופף ישׂאו על־כתף עירים חילהם ועל־דבׂשת גמלים אוצרותם על־עם לא יועילו
It is precisely these beasts from which Yhwh promises to rescue the faithful in Ps 91:13 as they travel along “the path”: 11 For he will appoint his angels for you, to guard you in all your ways. 12 With two hands they will lift you, lest you strike your foot on a stone. 13 Upon the ׂשחלand the viper you will tread. You will trample the lion and the sea serpent.59
כי מלאכיו יצוה־לך לׂשמרך בכל־דרכיך על־כפים ישׂאונך פן־תגף באבן רגלך על־ׂשחל ופתן תדרך תרמס כפיר ותנין
Robert Alter is correct to point to the actual dangers of such “noxious creatures” in ancient Palestine.60 But this trope reflects not only the realia of pedestrian travel but also an ideological spatialization between “civilized center” and “chaotic periphery” that characterizes much of ancient Near Eastern literature.61 Animals such as lions and serpents occupied what Frans Wiggermann calls “the shadow side,”62 typically depicted in travel narratives as both dangerous and exotic, over against one’s own “cultured space.” This uncultivated space was the natural habitat for creatures of the wild. An Egyptian scribe reports of his travels to the Levant in Papyrus Anastasi I: “You do not tread the road to Magara, where the sky is dark by day. It is overgrown with junipers and alluna and cedars (that) have reached the sky, where s.v. še/ih}t ui (m). Compare the comments of Lewis along the same lines (“CT 13.33–34 and Ezekiel 32,” 35–36). 59 The lion and the serpent appear together also in Amos’s famous oracle about the Day of Yhwh (5:19), where they represent the encroachment of “chaos” into that space in which one feels most secure. 60 Alter, The Book of Psalms: A Translation with Commentary (New York: Norton, 2007), 323. 61 See Horowitz, Mesopotamian Cosmic Geography, 20–42, 67–106; and Sabrina Favaro, Voyages et voyageurs à l’époque néo-assyrienne (SAAS 18; Helsinki: Neo-Assyrian Text Corpus Project, 2007), 124–29. 62 Wiggermann, “Scenes from the Shadow Side,” in Mesopotamian Poetic Language: Sumerian and Akkadian (ed. M. E. Vogelzang and H. L. J. Vanstiphout; Cuneiform Monographs 6; Groningen: Styx, 1996), 207–30.
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lions are more numerous than leopards and bears, and surrounded with Shasu on every side.”63 In the Sumerian disputation Ewe versus Wheat, Wheat observes: “Snakes, scorpions, highwaymen that dwell in the desert – / They all threaten your life in the high plains!” (lines 128–29).64 Not far removed from such seemingly prosaic reports, however, is the mythical conception of the wilderness as the haunt of terrifying composite beasts, evil spirits, and demons.65 These creatures often blur the line between the “mythical” and the “real.” So, for example, Esarhaddon claims to have encountered two-headed winged serpents in his travels between Egypt and Meluh}h}a.66 This should not be surprising, however, given that even in the “proto-scientific” Babylonian lexical lists “occasional distinctions between the real and the mythical world were overlooked, especially when dealing with animals.”67 The trampling of the characteristic beasts of the wilderness, therefore, may be indicative not only of successful travel but also of the mythic conquest of chaos. This seems to be the case in Ps 91:13, which lists the sea serpent ( )תניןamong the foes of the righteous. Erich Zenger aptly notes: “Here the topos of the conquest of wild animals as a proof of divine or royal power, widely attested in ancient Near Eastern mythology and iconography, but also in political propaganda, is taken up in order . . . to attribute to the one who previously was in trouble and persecuted . . . the role of one who fights against chaos.”68
B. Combination The implicit analogy between “lions” of various realms and the fuzzy lines between real and mythical creatures seem to have motivated the regular combination of several different animals into a single horrific beast. The clearest example is in the mušh}uššu, which, with its serpentine body, neck, and head, leonine forelegs, and the hind legs and talons of an eagle, combines the “lions” of the earth and sky
63
James P. Allen, trans., “The Craft of the Scribe (Papyrus Anastasi I),” COS 3.2:12. For translation and text, see Herman L. J. Vanstiphout, “Lore, Learning and Levity in the Sumerian Disputations: A Matter of Form, or Substance?” in Dispute Poems and Dialogues in the Ancient and Mediaeval Near East: Forms and Types of Literary Debates in Semitic and Related Literatures (ed. G. J. Reinkink and H. L. J. Vanstiphout; OLA 42; Leuven: Peeters, 1991), 27 and n. 21. 65 See Shemaryahu Talmon, “Har and Midbār: An Antithetical Pair of Biblical Motifs,” in Figurative Language in the Ancient Near East (ed. M. Mindlin et al.; London: School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London, 1987), 117–42. 66 Annals fragment f: rev. 4–7 in Riekele Borger, Die Inschriften Asarhaddons Königs von Assyrien (AfOB 9; Graz: Ernst Weidner, 1956), §76 (p. 112). 67 Wolfram von Soden, The Ancient Orient: An Introduction to the Study of the Ancient Near East (trans. Donald G. Schley; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1994; German original, 1985), 151–52. 68 Frank-Lothar Hossfeld and Erich Zenger, Psalms 2: A Commentary on Psalms 51–100 (trans. Linda M. Maloney; Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2005; German original, 2000), 431. 64
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with the four-legged predator of the steppe (fig. 1).69 It is, indeed, “a combination of the three most awesome creatures from the animal kingdom.”70 This sort of combination is apparent in ancient Near Eastern iconography of all periods, from Mesopotamia to Egypt to Anatolia.71 The following focuses on the combination of lions and serpents.
Figure 1. Tile mušh}uššu from Ištar gate. Al Hillah (Babylon), ca. 575. V A Bab 1434–1449, Pergamon Museum.
A Mesopotamian cylinder seal from the Late Uruk or early Jemdet Nasr period shows gigantic leonine figures with long, serpentine necks (fig. 2).72 This theme seems to have been somewhat common in Predynastic Mesopotamia, given the number of other Mesopotamian seals that attest similar figures73 as well as its 69 CAD M/2, 270–71; AHw 2:683; F. A. M. Wiggermann, “mušh}uššu,” RlA 8:455–62; idem, “Tišpak,” 117–33; and W. G. Lambert, “The History of the muš-h}uš in Ancient Mesopotamia,” in L’animal, l’homme, le dieu dans le Proche-Orient ancien: Actes du Colloque de Cartigny, 1981, Centre d’étude du Proche-Orient ancien (CEPOA), Université de Genève (ed. Philippe Borgeaud et al.; Cahiers du CEPOA 2; Leuven: Peeters, 1985), 87–94. See ANEP2, nos. 760, 761. 70 Lambert, “History of the muš-h}uš,” 87. As Caubet also notes, the animals in this group are complementary: “The bird in the air is the counterpart to the crawling snake” (“Animals in SyroPalestinian Art,” 231). 71 The breadth of this survey is simply meant to suggest how widespread and persistent these motifs are in the ancient Near East and thus to illustrate the possibility of similar conceptions in Syria-Palestine, without implying direct influence. 72 Dominique Collon, First Impressions: Cylinder Seals in the Ancient Near East (rev. ed.; London: British Museum Press, 2005), no. 885 (hereafter Collon). 73 See Lewis, “CT 13.33–34 and Ezekiel 32,” 34, figs. 5–6.
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Figure 2. Seal impression. Uruk, ca. 3100. MNB 1167, Louvre.
appearance in contemporaneous Egyptian art, which reflects Mesopotamian influence.74 This is evident in the Narmer Palette, from the ancient Upper Egyptian capital, Nekhen. The reverse of the palette shows two monsters with leonine bodies and heads and long, entwined necks that form a circular depression for grinding eye paint (fig. 3).75 Two other Predynastic slate palettes from Egypt show almost identical figures.76
Figure 3. Siltstone Palette of Narmer, reverse, middle register. Kom el-Ahmar (Hierakonpolis), ca. 3000. CG 14716/JE 32169, Egyptian Museum, Cairo.
74
See ibid., 35 and n. 52. Steve Vinson, “Narmer,” The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Egypt (ed. Donald B. Redford; 3 vols.; Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 2:494–95 (hereafter OEAE); Krzysztof M. Ciałowicz, “Palettes,” OEAE 3:19; ANEP2, no. 297. 76 See Lewis, “CT 13.33–34 and Ezekiel 32,” 35, figs. 8–9. 75
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The seven-headed hydra slain in cosmic battle, well known to biblicists who compare Yhwh’s battle with Leviathan, also combines leonine and serpentine features. Two impressions from Tell Asmar depict this beast in a slightly different fashion. While the earlier impression portrays a fully serpentine figure (fig. 4),77 the later impression shows the body of a lion with seven serpent heads (fig. 5).78 The latter depiction is found also in an Early Dynastic engraved shell inlay of either Ninĝirsu or Ninurta slaying the mušmah}h}u (fig. 6).79
Figure 4. Detail of seal impression, lower register. Tell Asmar (Ešnunna), ca. 2500– 2334. After Henri Frankfort, Stratified Cylinder Seals from the Diyala Region (OIP 72; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1955), no. 497.
Figure 5. Seal impression. Tell Asmar (Ešnunna), ca. 2334–2197. IM 15618, Iraq Museum.
The Neo-Sumerian libation vase from Tello dedicated by Gudea to Ningišzida juxtaposes a pair of entwined serpents (bašmu) with a pair of dragons, which stand on their hind legs, their forelegs clutching gateposts (fig. 7).80 These dragons have a serpent’s head, a spotted feline body, the wings and claws of an eagle, and a 77
Henri Frankfort, Stratified Cylinder Seals from the Diyala Region (OIP 72; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1955), no. 497; Collon, no. 839. 78 Frankfort, Stratified Cylinder Seals, no. 478; Collon, no. 840; ANEP2, no. 691. 79 Treasures of the Bible Lands: The Elie Borowski Collection (ed. Rivka Merhav; Tel Aviv: Tel Aviv Museum, 1987), 16; ANEP2, no. 671. It is now in the Bible Lands Museum, Jerusalem. 80 ANEP2, no. 511.
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Figure 6. Ivory shell plaque. Southern Mesopotamia, ca. 2500–2400. BLMJ 2051, Bible Lands Museum.
Figure 7. Steatite libation vase of Gudea. Tello (Ĝirsu), ca. 2100. AO 190, Louvre. 81
scorpion’s stinger. Wiggermann suggests that this is a depiction of the mušh}}uššu.81 Such a combination is preeminently evident in the Labbu myth (CT 13.33–34) referenced previously. Lewis concludes from his investigation of this text: “The choice of the word labbu with its leonine connotation is likely not accidental. I suggest returning to Heidel’s notion of ‘a composite monster or dragon with leonine and serpentine attributes.’ ”82 Lewis goes on to argue convincingly that such a combination of the lion and the serpent is the background for YHWH’s oracle against Pharaoh in Ezek 32:2b: “You are like a lion [ ]כפירamong the nations, / You are a dragon [ ]תניםin the seas.”83 By attributing to Pharaoh the awe and power of the כפיר and the תנים, Yhwh demonstrates sovereignty as the divine warrior who vanquishes Egypt.84
Wiggermann, “mušh}uššu,” 458. Lewis, “CT 13.33–34 and Ezekiel 32,” 34, citing Alexander Heidel, The Babylonian Genesis: The Story of Creation (2nd ed.; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1951), 141. 83 Lewis, “CT 13.33–34 and Ezekiel 32,” 38–40 (translation his). 84 Ibid., 46. 82
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Though such composite beasts figure prominently in contexts of cosmic battle,85 they appear in other contexts as well. Even if the combat myth was the original impetus for the mixing of lions and serpents, ancient Near Eastern zoology and vocabulary, as well as biblical interpretation through the Hellenistic and Roman periods, attest the persistence of such mixing far beyond that context. Moreover, even without their combination into a Mischwesen, the lion and serpent share the potential for “inspir[ing] paralyzing, heart-stopping fear when encountered.”86 It is the power, awesomeness, and deadliness of the lion that characterize it above all in ancient Near Eastern thought. And by analogy, other animals that evoke similar awesomeness and deadliness may be considered the “lions” of their realms.
C. Substitution Finally, comparison of two seals portraying scenes from Etana suggests that a lion or serpent may fill the slot of the other. In the extant versions of the legend, the eagle that eventually carries Etana to heaven befriends a serpent87 but then betrays it by devouring its offspring.88 BM 129473 from the Early Dynastic period portrays the eagle with the serpent’s young in its talons (fig. 8).89 Yet BM 129480 from the Old Akkadian period depicts a lion, not a serpent, at the foot of the poplar in which the eagle builds its nest (fig. 9).90
Figure 8. Seal impression. Western Asia, ca. 2600–2334. BM 129473, British Museum.
85
See Lewis’s thesis in ibid., 28. Ibid., 35. 87 It is referred to as a siēru. In the Old Babylonian version, its ophidian nature is underscored by a play on siēru, “serpent,” and siēru, “above,” in line 6 (Foster, BTM3, 536 n. 1). 88 See translation in Foster, BTM3, 533–54. 89 Collon, no. 852. 90 Collon, no. 851. 86
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Figure 9. Seal impression. Western Asia, ca. 2334-2197. BM 129480, British Museum.
There may also be a switch between serpents and lions in Ps 58:5–7, where the suppliant first imagines the wicked as serpents, and then as lions: 5 Their venom is like the venom91 of a serpent, like a deaf viper that stops up its ear 6 so it will not hear the sound of the charmers, the expert conjurer of spells. 7 O God, knock out the teeth in their mouths! Tear out the jaws of the lions, O Yhwh!
חמת־למו כדמות חמת־נחׂש כמו־פתן חרׂש יאטם אזנו אׂשר לא יׂשמע לקול מלחׂשים חובר חברים מחכם אלהים הרס־ׂשנימו בפימו מלתעות כפירים נתץ יהוה
Even if such alternation is uncommon, it suggests a degree of identity between lions and serpents that could facilitate substitution of roles in art and literature.
V. שׁחלin the Literary Context of Job 28 As Edward L. Greenstein has pointed out, determination of lexical meaning in Job 28:1–11 has been problematic, typically conditioned as it is by the assumption that these lines describe ancient processes of mining that are otherwise unmentioned in Israelite literature.92 One sees this assumption at work in Lester Grabbe’s reasoning about the meaning of שׁחלin v. 8: “That which is searched out is deep within the earth; therefore, one is not likely to expect the lion here since one would not normally associate the lion with mining underground.”93 In order to attend to It is possible that חמתhere is a dittograph of the preceding, as it is untranslated in the LXX and the Syr. However, the LXX may be glossing over the repetition. 92 Greenstein, “The Poem on Wisdom in Job 28 in Its Conceptual and Literary Contexts,” in Job 28: Cognition in Context (ed. Ellen van Wolde; Biblical Interpretation Series 64; Leiden/ Boston: Brill, 2003), 267. See also Scott C. Jones, Rumors of Wisdom: Job 28 as Poetry (BZAW 398; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2009), 1–2, 233. 93 Grabbe, Comparative Philology, 93; cf. Mowinckel, “שַׁחל ַ ,” 95. 91
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the literary context of ׂשחלin Job 28:1–11, I must first summarize my understanding of the conceptual background of these lines, which is somewhat different than Grabbe and others suppose.
A. The Foreign Exploits of Ancient Mesopotamian Kings The poem in Job 28 is modeled on the ancient Near Eastern motif of royal expedition to the edge of the world to plunder exotic treasure.94 This motif finds its clearest expression in the standard version of the Gilgamesh Epic, but elements of it are evident also in the epics of Enmerkar, Lugalbanda, and Sargon the Great, among others. It is not restricted to epic, however, but reverberates also in the somewhat more “realistic” Assyrian travel narratives in which kings boast of bringing home cedars from the Amanus, precious stones from the mountains, or lions from the steppe. The common theme of these corpora is that they recount the praiseworthy deeds of ancient Mesopotamian kings, who claim to have accomplished what none other before had accomplished. Mario Liverani calls this “the motif of the ‘first discoverer,’” where the achievement of reaching a remote place or possessing an exotic product is set in contrast to a past in which that achievement did not exist.95 To lay claim to being the “first discoverer,” the hero must journey from the cultured center into the chaotic wilderness, the natural habitat of terrible beings: lions and serpents, ghosts and demons, and horrifying composite beasts. In this journey to gain status, wisdom, and insight,96 the protagonist must conquer that “heroic space”97 and its inhabitants to reach the edge of the world and then return home safely again.
B. Animals at the Periphery: Job 28:7–8 The two couplets in Job 28:7–8 portray just such peripheral creatures in an eight-line description of the world in which the hero’s search is undertaken (vv. 5–8). While vv. 5–6 describe its topography, vv. 7–8 list the fauna that occupy the liminal space between the known world and the world beyond: animals of the air (v. 7) and ground (v. 8). 94 The following section summarizes the much more extensive treatment in Jones, Rumors of Wisdom, 30–104. 95 Liverani, “The Deeds of Ancient Mesopotamian Kings,” in CANE 4:2361. The portion after the quotation paraphrases Liverani. 96 See Jack M. Sasson, “Comparative Observations on the Near Eastern Epic Traditions,” in A Companion to Ancient Epic (ed. John Miles Foley; Blackwell Companions to the Ancient World; Oxford: Blackwell, 2005), 228. 97 See Favaro, Voyages et voyageurs, 124–29.
Jones: Lions, Serpents, and Lion-Serpents 7 A path no bird of prey knows, on which no falcon’s eye has gazed. 8 בני־ׂשחץhave not trod upon it, No ׂשחלhas moved over it.
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נתיב לא־ידעו עיט ולא ׂשזפתו עין איה לא־הדריכהו בני־ׂשחץ לא־עדה עליו ׂשחל
Though the exact nature of the בני־ׂשחץand the ׂשחלis in dispute, two primary interpretive options for both terms are lions and serpents. In the Hebrew Bible, as in Mesopotamian inscriptions, birds, lions, and serpents are found together in the regions beyond civilization. Serpents inhabit the wilderness (Deut 8:15; cf. Num 21:6); lions make their home in the forests and thickets (Ps 10:9; Jer 4:7; 5:6; 12:8; 49:19; 50:44; Amos 3:4; Mic 5:7); and the vulture, hawk, eagle, raven, and ostrich are “associated with desolate places, such as ruined cities from which humans have been expelled” (see Job 30:29; 38:41; 39:13, 26–30).98
C. בני־ ׂשחץin the Book of Job The phrase בני ־ׂשחץoccurs only in Job 28:8 and in Yhwh’s speech in Job 41:26 [Eng. 41:34]. In the closing lines of that final speech, Yhwh says of Leviathan: 25 [33] There is none on earth who can dominate99 him, אין־על־עפר מׂשלו one made without fear. העשׂו לבלי־חת 26 [34] He looks on all the haughty. את־כל־גבה יראה He is king over all the proud. הוא מלך על־כל־בני־ׂשחץ
As Carol Newsom has pointed out, “pride” is essential to the rhetoric of the Leviathan speech, which is aimed at underscoring its embodiment of God’s awesome workmanship.100 As an echo of Job 40:11b–12a, the statements in 41:26 remind Job of his inability to humble all the proud101 but also invest him with a renewed sense of royal authority.102 English translations of בני־ׂשחץin Job 41:26 almost invariably render “proud beasts” or the like, appropriately taking into
98 Carol A. Newsom, “The Moral Sense of Nature: Ethics in the Light of God’s Speech to Job,” PSB n.s. 15 (1994): 22, summarizing Othmar Keel, Jahwes Entgegnung an Ijob: Eine Deutung von Ijob 38–41 vor dem Hintergrund der zeitgenössischen Bildkunst (FRLANT 121; Göttingen; Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1978). 99 Translating as מׂשלII in accord with the focus on kingship, height, and power in this section, rather than מׂשלI, as all the major lexica suggest. 100 Newsom, “Moral Sense of Nature,” 24–25; eadem, The Book of Job: A Contest of Moral Imaginations (New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 251–52. 101 Newsom states, “The dynamics of the Behemoth and Leviathan speeches serve to confront Job’s own pride and fantasies of domination. Job is no god but a creature” (“Moral Sense of Nature,” 24). 102 Samuel E. Balentine, Job (Smyth & Helwys Bible Commentary 10; Macon, GA: Smyth & Helwys, 2006), 691–92, 697–98.
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account both the etymological evidence for ׂשחץhaving to do with pride, impudence, or boldness, and the literary context in which such pride is clearly emphasized.103 But the pride of Leviathan is rooted in his physical features. Job 41:7 [Eng. 41:15] makes that clear: “Rows of armor are (his) arrogance.”104 The description of Leviathan in 41:5–22 [Eng. 41:13–30] is somewhat like a moving camera, detailing the dragon’s wondrous composition. The focus moves from his head to his neck to his heart to his belly, as the creature rises and makes his way from land out to his natural habitat—the sea (cf. Ps 104:26).105 Though the בני־ׂשחץare not necessarily of the same composition as Leviathan, it is reasonable to suppose that they are, in fact, cut from the same cloth. Mowinckel states, “The context of Job xli. 26 . . . seems to indicate that the בני־ׂשחץ, whose king is Leviathan, are beings of the same kind as himself, i.e., serpent-like and dragonlike beings, primarily conceived of as living in the sea.”106 The translations of כל־בני־ׂשחץby the OG, Syr., and the Targums of Job 41:26 seem to have been conditioned by such an interpretation. The OG reads “all that are in the waters” (πάντων τῶν ἐν τοῖς ὕδασιν); the Syr. translates “all reptiles” (klh rhši '). The first rabbinic Targum on this line is “all the sons of fish” ()כל־בני כוורי,107 while the Qumran “Targum” (11Q10), like the Peshitta, reads “reptile” ()רחׂש.108 In light of the literary context and the interpretations of the ancient versions, it is no stretch, then, to identify those “proud beasts” in Job 41:26 as reptilian creatures much like Leviathan himself. Despite the fact that pride is not the point of focus in the poem on wisdom in Job 28, the meaning “proud beasts” for בני־ׂשחץin v. 8 is dominant among English translations. The only exceptions are the Geneva Bible and the KJV, which transFor etymological evidence related to Biblical Hebrew שׁחץ, see HALOT 4:1463. The OG (τὰ ἔγκατα αὐτοῦ), Aquila (σῶµα αὐτοῦ), and the Vg. (corpus illius) reflect “his back” ( ) ֵגּוֹהrather than “arrogance” (MT ) ַגֲּא ָוה. But the consistent focus on “pride” in this speech recommends against this interpretation (Carol A. Newsom, “The Book of Job: Introduction, Commentary, and Reflections,” in The New Interpreter’s Bible, vol. 4, 1 & 2 Maccabees; Introduction to Hebrew Poetry; Job; Psalms [ed. Leander Keck et al.; Nashville: Abingdon, 1996], 624). 105 Ibid., 623–25. 106 Mowinckel, “שַׁחל ַ ,” 97. 107 Tg. 2 is “lion’s whelps” ()בני אריון, while Tg. 3 is “lords of violence” ()מרי חטופא. For other variants in targumic manuscripts, see David M. Stec, The Text of the Targum of Job: An Introduction and Critical Edition (AGJU 20; Leiden: Brill, 1994), 303*. 108 Georg Beer proposed that OG, Syr., and the rabbinic Targums were translating בני־שׁרץ (Der Text des Buches Hiob untersucht [2 vols.; Marburg: Elwert, 1897], 2:255), and he was followed by Édouard Dhorme (Le livre de Job [2nd ed.; Paris: Gabalda, 1926], 588) and Marvin Pope (Job, 346). It is more likely, however, that these versions are trying to clarify the habitat of Leviathan (with Robert Gordis, The Book of Job: Commentary, New Translation, and Special Studies [Moreshet 2; New York: Jewish Theological Seminary of America, 1978], 490). 103 104
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late בני־ׂשחץwith “lion’s whelps” in 28:8, despite having rendered the same phrase as “children of pride” in 41:26. They seem to have recognized that the context in Job 28:8 calls for a somewhat different rendering, since it is more interested in naming than describing. This interpretation has precedent in the Targums and in the Talmud as well. Targum 2 reads “sons of lions” ()בנייא דאריוון, and ׂשחץis listed among six terms for “lion” in b. Sanh. 95a. 11Q10, however, reads תנ ֯י֯ן, “sea serpent” (12.5).109 In Aramaic, תנינאalways means “dragon,” “sea-snake,” or “crocodile,” but never “lion.”110 In its only occurrence in the book of Job (7:12), Biblical Hebrew תניןlikewise means “dragon” or “sea monster.” The rendering of בני־ׂשחץwith תניןin 11Q10 is particularly striking, because of both the conservatism of its translators111 and the fact that תניןoccurs therein only two other times, where it glosses ( נחׂש בריח10.4 = Job 26:13) and לויתן (35.4 = Job 40:25). There is, then (now perhaps unsurprisingly), conflicting evidence about the identity of these beasts. Are the “ בני־ׂשחץlions” or “serpents”? Given the context of the phrase in Job 41:26, I would suggest that the בני־ׂשחץare beasts of a reptilian nature in Job 28:8a, where it is aptly translated “serpents,” or perhaps even “dragons.” Yet, as I have attempted to demonstrate, the distinction between “lions” and “serpents” in the ancient Near East was not always very sharp. Thus, the possibility remains that these beasts exhibited both ophidian and leonine features. And while Mowinckel’s statement that “[t]he benē šahai s i do not so much belong to zoology as mythology”112 presents a dichotomy that is not borne out by ancient classifications (especially evident in the lexical texts), he is correct to suggest that these are animals that challenge modern conceptions of zoology.
D. ׂ שחלin the Context of Job 28:1–11 As with the בני־ׂשחץin Job 28:8a, the evidence concerning the identity of the ׂ שחלin v. 8b is divided. At the outset of the essay, I argued that the best etymological evidence relating to ( ׂשחלif it is indeed de-verbal) relates to reptiles. Such an
109 The transcription follows Michael Sokoloff, The Targum to Job from Qumran Cave XI (Bar-Ilan Studies in Near Eastern Languages and Culture; Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1974), 50. 110 Jastrow 2:1682, s.v; Sokoloff, Dictionary of Jewish Palestinian Aramaic of the Byzantine Period (2nd ed.; Dictionaries of the Talmud, Midrash and Targum 2; Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press; Baltimore/London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002), 587a; DJBA, 1223a; Payne Smith, 616; Sokoloff, Syriac Lexicon, 1655. Its earliest attestation is in Ahiqar, line 90 (TAD 3:36– 37), where it means “dragon.” 111 David Shepherd, Targum and Translation: A Reconsideration of the Qumran Aramaic Version of Job (SSN 45; Assen: Van Gorcum, 2004). 112 Mowinckel, “שַׁחל ַ ,” 97.
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identity, in fact, finds support in its early history of interpretation, which includes “asp” in Ps 91:13 (LXX 90:13; Symmachus; Vg.; Syr.) and “serpent” in Job 28:8 (Tg. 1). In its two other occurrences in the book of Job, however, ׂשחלclearly means “lion” (Job 4:10; 10:16). The ancient versions are unanimous in this interpretation of those passages,113 and ׂשחלpersists in Talmudic Hebrew as one of the six names for “lion” (b. Sanh. 95a). The rather clear use of ׂשחלin Job 4:10 and 10:16 for “lion” seems to present a simple case for the same interpretation in Job 28:8. But while “lion” is a possible—and perhaps even preferable—gloss on ׂשחלin the wisdom poem, both the cognitive context outlined throughout this essay and the literary context of Job 28:1–11 suggest that the case is hardly that simple. There are two planes of meaning at work in the first section (vv. 1–11) of Job 28. As Stephen Geller states, “[T]here is a ‘realistic,’ narrative plane comprising a description of how jewels are to be found . . . ; there [is] also the poetically dominant plane of metaphor and associations.”114 In the exposition of these planes, it is useful to employ the more historically rooted corpus of travel and campaign reports in Neo-Assyrian royal inscriptions as analogies to the wisdom poem’s “realistic” plane. On the other hand, Mesopotamian epics such as the standard version of Gilgamesh offer helpful correlates to the poem’s more “symbolic” plane. As with the nature of the “dark stone” in Job 28:3 ()אבן אפל וצלמות, initially understood as material wealth but eventually identified with wisdom, the topography and fauna of Job 28:5–8 may be understood on two levels in the course of reading and rereading the poem. These lines run as follows: 5 A land from which food springs, beneath transformed as fire. 6 A place of lapis is its stones, which has dust of gold. 7 A path no bird of prey knows, on which no falcon’s eye has gazed. 8 Serpents have not trod upon it, No lion has moved over it.115
ארץ ממנה יצא־לחם ותחתיה נהפך כמו־אׂש מקום־ספיר אבניה ועפרת זהב לו נתיב לא־ידעו עיט ולא ׂשזפתו עין איה לא־הדריכהו בני־ׂשחץ לא־עדה עליו ׂשחל
In the poem’s more “realistic” plane, vv. 5–6 depict a jungle-like mountain region encrusted with precious stones that glow like flames. The birds of v. 7 serve 113 While ׂשחלis interpreted as “lion” in these contexts, it is worth noting that כפיריםis translated by “serpents” (δρακόντων) in the parallel line in OG Job 4:10b (and also in OG Job 38:39)—a word typically used to translate לויתן, נחׂש, פתן, and תניןthroughout the LXX (see GELS, 177; and HRCS [2nd ed.; Grand Rapids: Baker, 1998], 348). 114 Geller, “ ‘Where Is Wisdom?’ ” 158. 115 I have discussed the text, grammar, and translation of vv. 5–8 extensively elsewhere and will not repeat it here (see Jones, Rumors of Wisdom, 143–59).
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as markers of distance but also of danger to any who would seek to venture beyond where even they fear to fly. That danger is underscored by juxtaposing the power of the lion and the wiliness of the serpent, both master predators, like the birds of prey in v. 7. The failure of the most skilled and feared creatures of their realms— sky, steppe, and dust—signals that the explorer will need to be still more skilled and fearless, paying no heed to the resounding “no!” ( )לאthat rings throughout these lines. However, the binding of El’s fount, which in v. 11 is called the “sources of the rivers” ()מבכי נהרות,116 and the exposure of the mysterious “dark thing” (תעלמה, v. 11b) that lies in their watery depths retrospectively imbue the preceding lines with still more cosmic and symbolic significance. Understood now as a voyage into the realm of the gods, the description of the land in vv. 5–6 becomes a divine mountain-garden with lapis boulders and gold dust. In this plane, vv. 7–8 become more than a listing of the quintessential creatures of the wild. The juxtaposition of the bird of prey, serpent, and lion animates a terrifying composite guardian of that divine realm, just as Mischwesen like scorpion-men and lion-eagles guarded the path through the mountains on the epic journeys of Gilgamesh and his father, Lugalbanda. The bird of prey, serpent, and lion, are, in fact, precisely those animals combined in Marduk’s mušh}uššu: the three “lions” of the dust, sky, and steppe. The phonology of vv. 8–9a likely impacts this semantic shift, as the repetition of šîn, hiêt, and lāmed and the emphatic siādê conjure up a “lion” that hisses and spits: ַבּ ַח ָלִּמיׂש ָׂש ַלח ָידוֹ/ ֹלא־ ָע ָדה ָעָליו ָׂשַחל/ ֹלא־ִהְד ִריֻכהוּ ְב ֵני־ָׂשַחץ. Neriglissar similarly described the mušh}uššu in VAB 4 i 26–27 as a beast “who spatter[s] enemy and foe with deadly venom.”117
VI. Conclusions The foregoing investigation of philological, iconographic, and literary evidence surrounding lions and serpents in the Hebrew Bible and the ancient Near East suggests that these animals were not viewed in Linnean categories. The case of שׁחלdemonstrates the difficulty of analytic definition for such animal terms and the necessity of considering indigenous classification, which grouped them accord-
Reading ַמ ְבֵּכי ְנָהרוֹתfor MT’s ִמ ְבִּכי ְנָהרוֹת. See ibid., 167–69. The transcription is from Stephen Langdon, Die neubabylonischen Königsinschriften (trans. Rudolf Zehnpfund; VAB 4; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1912), 210–11; the translation is that of Lambert, “History of the muš-h}uš,” 87. From the opposite angle, note also the description of a serpent that roars (ramāmu) in CT 388 (= VAT 10180b), line 12: ina lumun MUŠ ša ina É kīma UR-MAH} ir-mu-mu (my transcription; see also Lewis, “CT 13.33–34 and Ezekiel 32,” 34). 116
117
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ing to function118 and even created analogies between those that symbolized similar salient characteristics. Though the best gloss for ׂשחלin Job 28:8b is probably “lion,” as elsewhere in the book of Job, this “lion” may well be analogous to what Sîn-liqe-unninni called the “lion of the earth.” Like other Semitic terms, it seems likely that ׂשחלcould be used for either “lions” or “serpents” and, by extension, could connote both. Serpentine connotations are especially strong in the larger poetic context of Job 28, where the clustering of the ׂשחל, the birds of prey, and the בני־ׂשחץin vv. 7–8, as well as the phonology of vv. 8–9a, suggest the presence of a terrifying dragon that guards the path to a wondrous world of riches and wisdom. Despite the shortcomings of Mowinckel’s essay, his key contribution was attempting to account for nonscientific zoology in philological analysis. His recourse to Scandinavian lore, in fact, offered a helpful analogy to an ancient Near Eastern worldview that often did not make sharp distinctions between what moderns would call the “realistic” and the “fabulous.” Following his lead, studies of the fauna of ancient Israel and its neighbors must take seriously the complexities presented by indigenous perceptions and resist imposing reductive zoological conceptions onto ancient terms.119 118
On the lexicographical series H} AR-ra h}ubullu, see Benjamin R. Foster, “Animals in Mesopotamian Literature,” in Collins, History of the Animal World in the Ancient Near East, 272– 73; and Wapnish, “Conceptual Basis for Animal Categories,” 241–44. 119 See now the relevant study of Bernd Roling, Drachen und Sirenen: Die Rationalisierung und Abwicklung der Mythologie an den europäischen Universitäten (Mittellateinische Studien und Texte 42; Leiden: Brill, 2010).
JBL 130, no. 4 (2011): 687–705
The History and Linguistic Background of Two Hebrew Titles for the High Priest noam mizrahi
[email protected] Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Jerusalem 91905, Israel Georg-August-Universität Göttingen, D-37073 Göttingen, Germany
Biblical Hebrew knows several terms denoting levels of priestly hierarchy in general, and the senior office of the high priest in particular. Most notable are the compound terms “( הכהן הגדולthe great priest”) and “( כהן הראשthe head priest”).1 The relationship between these terms is not always clear; some scholars implicitly consider them to be mere synonyms,2 while others take them to reflect historical and theological developments that took place during the First and/or Second Temple periods.3 A correct understanding of the potential historical importance of the cultic and religious institution of the high priesthood depends to some extent on the linguistic and philological clarification of these terms, both in themselves and in their mutual relationship. Surprisingly, however, no systematic linguistic analysis of this kind has been performed, and its absence has led a number of scholars to employ argumentation that is incompatible with the linguistic evidence, and 1 The relevant biblical data are conveniently presentated in Wolf Wilhelm Graf Baudissin, Die Geschichte des alttestamentlichen Priesterthums (Leipzig: Hirzel, 1889), esp. 26–28, 88–89, 127–30, 140–42, 214–16. A discussion of priestly terminology should also take into account the epithet employed in the Priestly document of the Pentateuch (P), namely, the term הכהן המשיח (“the anointed priest”; Lev 4:3, 5, 16; 6:15). Because of the limitation of space, however, the analysis of this term will be presented elsewhere. 2 See, e.g., Gary N. Knoppers, “The Relationship of the Priestly Genealogies to the History of the High Priesthood in Jerusalem,” in Judah and Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period (ed. Oded Lipschitz and Joseph Blenkinsopp; Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns, 2003), 109–33, esp. 113, 114–15 and n. 17. 3 See, e.g., Deborah W. Rooke, Zadok’s Heirs: The Role and Development of the High Priesthood in Ancient Israel (Oxford Theological Monographs; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), esp. 27–29, 150–51, 213–15.
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even to create untenable historical reconstructions. The purpose of the present study is to review the available evidence in Biblical Hebrew and present the most plausible conclusions that can be safely drawn from this type of evidence. However, at some points the available evidence is too scanty to allow for a certain solution, and a full understanding of at least one important terminological development—namely, the origin of the term —כהן הראשcannot be reached without some measure of hypothesis.4
I. The Diachronic Relationship between כהן הראשand הכהן הגדול We begin with two terms that, at first glance, complement each other as a pair denoting the high priest and his deputy, כהן הראשand כהן המשנה. But despite the seemingly perfect terminological match between them, they probably do not belong to the same linguistic phase: כהן המשנהoccurs in CBH, while כהן הראשis mostly attested in LBH and in any case does not appear before the transition period from CH to LH. This state of affairs is indicated by the distribution of these two terms: כהן המשנהis attested in the book of Kings, in a passage that tells about the days of Josiah (2 Kgs 23:4). By contrast, כהן הראשis common in the historical books of the Persian period (2 Chr 19:11; 24:11; 26:20; 31:10; Ezra 7:5),5 while it is practically absent from both the Pentateuch and the older historical works describing the preexilic period.6 Admittedly, the two terms appear together in a passage describing the 4 The abbreviations used in the following discussion deserve some clarification. The Northwest Semitic (NWS) dialect of Hebrew is divided into Classical Hebrew (CH), reflecting the preexilic or First Temple period, and Late Hebrew (LH; also referred to as Middle Hebrew, especially by Continental scholars), used in the postexilic period. It is mainly—but not solely—represented by Biblical Hebrew (BH), divided respectively into Classical Biblical Hebrew (CBH) and Late Biblical Hebrew (LBH). LH is further reflected in other textual corpora, each one also exhibiting its own unique linguistic profile: Qumran Hebrew (QH) and Mishnaic Hebrew (MH). The criticism expressed lately by some authors against this well-known model requires extended discussion that cannot be attempted here; suffice it to say that such criticism fails to grasp elementary notions of historical linguistics, and its reservations are often misguided. From a linguistic point of view, the Pentateuch and the Former Prophets (including the main bulk of the book of Kings) generally represent CBH. 5 Sara Japhet, “The Supposed Common Authorship of Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah Investigated Anew,” VT 18 (1968): 343–44; cf. David Talshir, “A Reinvestigation of the Linguistic Relationship between Chronicles and Ezra-Nehemiah,” VT 38 (1988): 177. 6 I disregard Julius Wellhausen’s emendation in 2 Sam 15:27 of צדוק הכהן הרואהto צדוק ( הכהן הר)ו(אשDer Text der Bücher Samuelis [Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1871], 198), even though he asserted that this title—whose existence in the passage, of course, is entirely hypothetical—is itself a late interpolation into the text of Samuel (see his Prolegomena zur
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days of Zedekiah, found at the end of the books of Kings and Jeremiah (2 Kgs 25:18 || Jer 52:24); but since these chapters tell about the fall of Jerusalem, they obviously must have been written only after this event took place, that is, in the exilic period at the earliest.7 The lateness of a certain linguistic element cannot be determined based on distribution alone, since this might be a product of chance. In order to make sure that the statistics are indeed meaningful, one needs to demonstrate a linguistic contrast between the element suspected of being late and an equivalent element in CH that is used in the same way.8 This procedure can indeed be applied in our case as well, since the office of the high priest is denoted in the classical literature by an alternative title. The term כהן הראשappears in a context that has a literal parallel in an earlier part of the book of Kings (2 Kgs 23:4), yet this parallel passage uses the alternative term הכהן הגדול:9 2 Kgs 25:18 || Jer 52:24
ויקח רב טבחים את שריה כהן הראש
ואת צפניה)ו( כהן )ה(משנה ואת שלשת שמרי הסף
And the captain of the executioners took Seraiah the chief priest, and Zephaniah(u) the deputy priest, and the three guardians of the threshold.
vs.
2 Kgs 23:4
ויצו המלך את חלקיהו הכהן הגדול
ואת כהני המשנה [...] ואת שמרי הסף
And the king ordered Hilkiahu the high priest, and the deputy priests, and the guardians of the threshold [...]
Geschichte Israels [6th ed.; Berlin: Reimer, 1905], 143 n. 1; this note is missing from the 1885 English translation, made from the second German edition of 1883). To be sure, the MT is not without difficulty; see, e.g., the balanced assessment of Samuel R. Driver, Notes on the Hebrew Text and the Topography of the Books of Samuel (2nd ed.; Oxford: Clarendon, 1913), 316. Still, there is no textual evidence whatsoever that supports Wellhausen’s speculative reconstruction. 7 This consideration was not mentioned by Mordechai Cogan and Hayim Tadmor (II Kings: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary [AB 11; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1988], 138), who believe that “both titles coexisted in late First Temple times.” Note that the above conclusion regarding the lateness of the final chapters of Kings is valid independently of any specific theory concerning the compositional history of this biblical book. 8 The methodological importance of this principle was underscored by Avi Hurvitz in numerous publications; see, e.g., his “Can Biblical Texts Be Dated Linguistically? Chronological Perspectives in the Historical Study of Biblical Hebrew,” in Congress Volume: Oslo 1998 (ed. André Lemaire and Magne Sæbø; VTSup 80; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 143–60. 9 The functional equivalence between ( הכהן הגדולin CBH) and ( כהן הראשin LBH) disqualifies the attempt made by a few scholars to demonstrate a semantic differentiation between these two terms; see Joshua M. Grintz, “Chapters in the History of High Priesthood” (in Hebrew), Zion 23–24 (1958–59): 124–40, esp. 130–33; Eric M. Meyers, “The Shelomith Seal and the Judean Restoration: Some Additional Considerations,” ErIsr 18 (1985): 35*–36*.
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Similar phraseological preference is reflected in the book of Chronicles, in which the term —הכהן הגדולfound in the older text of Kings—is either omitted (2 Kgs 22:8 || 2 Chr 34:15)10 or replaced by ( כהן הראש2 Kgs 12:11 || 2 Chr 24:11):11 2 Kgs 22:8
vs.
ויאמר חלקיהו הכהן הגדול על שפן הספר ספר התורה מצאתי בבית יהוה [...] ויתן חלקיה את הספר אל שפן
ויאמר אל שפן--- ויען חלקיהו הסופר ספר התורה מצאתי בבית יהוה .ויתן חלקיהו את הספר אל שפן
And Hilqiahu the high priest said to Shaphan the scribe, “I have found the book of the law in the house of God.” And Hilqiah gave the book to Shaphan [. . .] 2 Kgs 12:11
ויהי כראותם כי רב הכסף בארון ויעל ספר המלך והכהן הגדול ויצרו .וימנו את הכסף הנמצא בית יהוה When they saw that there was much money in the chest, the king’s scribe and the high priest came up and tied (it) in bags and counted the money which was found in the house of the Lord.
2 Chr 34:15
And Hilqiahu --- responded and said to Shaphan the scribe, “I have found the book of the law in the house of God.” And Hilqiahu gave the book to Shaphan. vs.
2 Chr 24:11
[ וכראותם...] ויהי בעת יביא את הארון כי רב הכסף ובא סופר המלך ופקיד .[ ויאספו כסף לרב...] כהן הראש It came about whenever the chest was brought in [. . .], and when they saw that there was much money, (then) the king’s scribe and the chief priest’s officer would come [. . .]. Thus they collected much money.
Finally, the term כהן הראשis attested in an extrabiblical source reflecting LH. It is documented several times in QH, all in the War Scroll, which refers to the chief priest as ( כהן הראש1QM 15:4; 18:5), sometimes together with משנהו, “his deputy” (1QM 2:1; cf. 19[20]:11).12 10 The term הכהן הגדולis mentioned also in 2 Kgs 23:4, and this passage too is absent from the Chronicler’s adaptation. However, in this case most of the chapter (2 Kgs 23:4–20) is missing from the parallel account of 2 Chronicles 34, and the reason for this omission is obviously not primarily linguistic. In any case, of the various occurrences of הכהן הגדולin the book of Kings, only one is left intact, in 2 Kgs 22:4 || 2 Chr 34:9. 11 Compare also ( ויקרא המלך יהואש ליהוידע הכהן2 Kgs 12:8) with ויקרא המלך ליהוידע ( הראש2 Chr 24:6). 12 Karl Elliger (Studien zum Habakuk-Kommentar vom Toten Meer [BHT 15; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1953], 198) suggested that the term הכהן הראשis also alluded to in the phonetically similar expression הכוהן הרשע, “the evil priest,” which is a standard designation in Qumran sectarian literature for an anonymous historical figure (see, e.g., 1QpHab 8:8; 9:9; 12:2, 8). For a discussion of the identity of this person, see Hanan Eshel, The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Has-
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The lateness of “the head priest” is confirmed by yet another fact, namely, its peculiar syntactic behavior in some of its occurrences. As a rule, construct phrases are made determinate in CH by the addition of the definite article to the nomen rectum alone, thus yielding the construction כהן הראש. Yet when it comes to the term in question, we sometimes find a double marking of both the nomen rectum and the nomen regens: ( הכהן הראשEzra 7:5;13 2 Chr 31:10).14 An identical construction is attested in QH, but this time in the lower rank of the deputy priest: הכוהן המשנה (11QTa 31:4).15 This syntactic peculiarity can be explained in two ways, both of which are typical of LH: (a) It may be part of a larger trend of pleonastic grammatical marking in construct phrases, comparable to the double marking of the plural in such phrases.16 An identical phenomenon is found in Neo-Punic—a related NWS dialect roughly contemporary with LH—as evidenced by inscriptions from Algiers, in which one finds the standard )רב הכהן =( רב חכעןon one stele, while another reads the doubly marked )הרב הכהן =( הרב הכען.17 monean State (Studies in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Related Literature; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008), 41–53. 13 For a different understanding of this case, see Japhet, “Supposed Common Authorship,” 343. 14 1 Chronicles 27:5 seems to attest, at first glance, a third construction in which the determination is marked by adding the definite article to the nomen regens alone: בניהו בן יהוידע הכהן ראש, and commentators disagree about the historical import and/or textual source of this piece of information in its present context. However, a different syntactic parsing is implied by the MT. The disjunctive cantillation mark under הכהןindicates that הכהןand ראשdo not form a single, compound term. Rather, they should be viewed as the titles of two different personalities: הכהן refers to ( יהוידעcf. 2 Chr 22:11; 23:8–9, 14; 24:2, 25), while ראשis the military rank of בניהו (compare v. 5: שר הצבא השלישי לחדש השלישי בניהו בן יהוידע הכהן ראש, with v. 3: מן בני פרץ )הראש לכל שרי הצבאות לחדש הראשון. Hence, regardless of the historical and/or textual (im)probability of the details of this verse, it has nothing to contribute to the present linguistic discussion. 15 For a discussion of this syntactic phenomenon in QH, see Takamitsu Muraoka, “An Approach to the Morphosyntax and Syntax of Qumran Hebrew,” in Diggers at the Well: Proceedings of a Third International Symposium on the Hebrew of the Dead Sea Scrolls and Ben Sira (ed. idem and John F. Elwolde; STDJ 36; Leiden: Brill, 2000), 193–214, esp. 201–2. 16 Although attested sporadically in CH, the phenomenon of pluralizing both the nomen regens and the nomen rectum became a typical feature of LH; see Arno Kropat, Die Syntax des Autors der Chronik verglichen mit der seiner Quellen: ein Beitrag zur historischen Syntax des Hebräischen (BZAW 16; Gießen: Töpelmann, 1909), 8–9. Such pleonastic markings seem to be the result of a nominalization of the entire construct phrase; cf. Menahem Z. Kaddari, “Determination of nomen regens in Hebrew: When?” (in Hebrew), Bet Miqra 11.3 [27] (1966): 42–58. 17 André Berthier, René Charlier, and Albert Grenier, Le sanctuaire punique d’El-Hofra à Constantine (2 vols.; Gouvernement général de l’Algérie: Missions archéologiques; Paris: Arts et métiers graphiques, 1952, 1955 [vol. 1]), 1:62 (no. 65, line 3), 63 (no. 66, line 2). For the latter reference, see also Karel Jongeling, Handbook of Neo-Punic Inscriptions (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 218: Constantine N 61. The interchange between the letters ע/ח/ הreflects the phonetic neutralization of pharyngeal consonants in this late dialect. The aforementioned similarity
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(b) It may reflect a “category shift” in which the lexemes ראשand משנהcame to be used not (only) as nouns but (also) as adjectives; the construction כהן ראש thus became equivalent to כהן ראשון, and since the latter is made determinate by adding the definite article to both the noun and its attribute ()הכהן הראשון, the same behavior is now demonstrated by the former.18 Indeed, we have an explicit indication that this development took place in LBH, in a text indisputably composed in the Persian period, which reads ( ָהֶאֶבן ָהרֹאָׂשהZech 4:7). The feminine ending added to ( ראשin order to achieve a gender agreement with )אבןis a clear indication that ראשbehaves as an adjective in LBH, and this, in turn, explains the grammatical agreement in determination. Whichever explanation one prefers, it seems that the available evidence indicates that, while הכהן הגדולwas part and parcel of CH, כהן הראשwas introduced into Hebrew only in its late, that is, exilic and/or postexilic phase.19 Interestingly, even though כהן הראשreflects LH, it did not maintain its vitality for long. In extrabiblical LH corpora, which mostly stem from the Greco-Roman period, it is either rare (QH) or practically absent (MH). Indeed, MH supplies direct evidence that כהן הראשwas already deemed obsolete by the sages, in the form of an exegetical paraphrase that replaces כהן הראשwith a reflex of the classical term הכהן הגדול: < ”ויוחנן הוליד את עזריה הוא:”ויפן אליו עזריה כהן הראש“ – עליו הוא אומ>ר “ וכי הוא כהן בלבד? והלא קדמוהו הרבה ושמשו אחריו! אלא בו.אשר כהן בבית “.< ”עבודת מתנה אתן: שנ>אמר20נתקיימה מצות כהונה גדולה “And Azariah the Chief Priest . . . turned to him” [2 Chr 26:20] – concerning him it is said: “And Yohanan begot Azariah, who ministered in the Temple” [1 Chr 5:36]. Did he minister alone? Many preceded him, and served after him! Rather, in him was the commandment of High Priesthood fulfilled, for it is said: “I give your priesthood as a gift.” (Sifre Zuta on Num 18:7 [ed. Horovitz, 293])
It is joined by other, ample evidence (presented below) that the classical term הכהן הגדולregained its position in the Greco-Roman period, so that כהן הראשwas
between Neo-Punic and LH should be added to other such features noted by E. Y. Kutscher, “Canaanite–Hebrew –Phoenician–Aramaic–Mishnaic Hebrew–Punic” (in Hebrew), Leš 33 (1969): 108–9. 18 My usage of the term “category shift” is merely descriptive, and I do not intend to argue that BH maintains a consistent morpho-syntactic distinction between nouns and adjectives. To be sure, from a syntactic point of view, the construct phrase כהן הראשis attributive, and the function of the nomen rectum is thus equivalent to that of an adjective. 19 See Jacob Milgrom, Leviticus: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (3 vols.; AB 3, 3A, 3B; New York: Doubleday, 1991–2001), 1:231, 2:1812–13. 20 The lack of definite articles in ( כהונה גדולהrather than the expected )הכהונה הגדולהis not incidental, as explained below.
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rendered a passing episode in the history of priestly terminology, one that is confined to the Persian (and perhaps early Hellenistic) period alone.
II. The Linguistic History of הכהן הגדול The assumption that הכהן הגדולis originally an item of CH is not at all agreed upon, and many biblical scholars take it to be a clear marker of a late date, that is, of the postexilic period.21 This common opinion relies on two main arguments. First, הכהן הגדולis widely attested in late writings: biblical books that are indisputably postexilic,22 the book of Ben Sira,23 and the Dead Sea Scrolls.24 Second, the equivalent Aramaic term כהנא רבאis well documented in epigraphic material from the Persian period onward, in both literary25 and nonliterary26 material. The most 21 See, e.g., Roland de Vaux, Ancient Israel: Its Life and Institutions (trans. John McHugh; London: Darton, Longman & Todd, 1961), 377–79, 397–98; J. Bergman, Helmer Ringgren, and Werner Dommershausen, “kōhēn,” TDOT 7:71; Rooke, Zadok’s Heirs, 150–51. 22 Both prophetic books of the Persian period (Hag 1:1, 12, 14; 2:2, 4; Zech 3:1, 8; 6:11) and Nehemiah’s Memoirs (Neh 3:1, 20; 13:28). 23 Ben Sira 40:24 (ms b): אשר תהיה לו ולזרעו כהונה גדולה עד עולם. In fact, this passage demonstrates that the term הכהן הגדולwas favored in the Hellenistic period, since it is based on a biblical text that lacks that title: ( והיתה לו ולזרעו אחריו ברית כהנת עולםNum 25:13). Cf. Sir 50:1, in which the Greek version reads ἱερεὺς ὁ µέγας, but the Hebrew text—as preserved by the medieval ms b—reads simply הכהן. 24 It appears several times in the Temple Scroll as part of its rewritten version of some biblical passages; compare (a) 11QTa 58:18–20 with Num 27:21; (b) 11QTa 15:15–16 || 11QTb 1:21–22 with Lev 16:32 and 21:10; (c) 11QTb 1:24 with Exod 29:10 and Lev 8:14; (d) 11QTa 25:16 with Lev 16:6. It is attested also in instances that cannot be correlated verbatim with specific biblical proof-texts: (e) 11QTa 23:9–10 and perhaps also (f) 11QTa 31:4–5. Yigael Yadin (The Temple Scroll [3 vols.; Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1983], 2:65) observed the interesting distribution of the terms הכהן הגדולand כהן הראשin QH: the former is found only in the Temple Scroll, while the latter is unique to the War Scroll. He suggested that this variation reflects a functional and intentional terminological distinction. Since the term הכהן הגדולwas employed in real life, it was used in a composition that aims at describing a real temple as it should be, while כהן הראש is reserved for describing the eschatological high priest at the end of days. Indeed, the War Scroll (like other sectarian works) is replete with archaisms underscoring the continuity—be it real or imagined—between the biblical past, the daily present of community life, and the eschatological future as perceived by the sectarians; see Shemaryahu Talmon, “Between the Bible and the Mishna,” in idem, The World of Qumran from Within: Collected Studies (Jerusalem: Magnes; Leiden: Brill, 1989), 11–52, esp. 32–48. However, there are no additional textual data that would support Yadin’s intriguing suggestion, and it remains—at least for the time being—only a thoughtprovoking hypothesis. 25 Two occurrences are attested in the New Jerusalem text, whose fragments were found in Qumran (11Q18 14 ii 5; frg. 20 line 6). 26 One of the many potsherds found at Masada—usually taken as containers of priestly tithes—bears the inscription ח]נני[ה כהנא רבא עקביא בריה, “Hi a[nani]a the high priest, Akabia
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famous example is found in a letter sent by the Jews of Elephantine to the Persian governor, written in the year 407 b.c.e., in which they relate how they requested assistance from the Jerusalem priesthood to reestablish their ruined temple but never received a reply (TAD A4.7:17-1927 [= Cowley 30]):
אף קדמת זנה בעדן זי זא באישתא עביד לן אגרה שלחן מראן ועל יהוחנן כהנא רבא וכנותה כהניא זי בירושלם ועל אוסתן אחוה זי ענני וחרי יהודיא אגרה חדה לא שלחו עלין Moreover, before this—at the time that this evil was done to us—we sent a letter (to) our lord and to Jehohai nan the high priest and his colleagues the priests who are in Jerusalem, and to Ostanes the brother of Anani and the nobles of the Judeans. (But) they did not send us a single letter.
In light of such compelling evidence, it may indeed look as if הכהן הגדולis nothing but a LH calque of an Aramaic term. However, it can be demonstrated that this is not the case, for two reasons. First, the term הכהן הגדולappears already several times in the books of Numbers, Joshua, and Kings (Num 35:25, 28; Josh 20:6; 2 Kgs 12:11; 22:4, 8; 23:4). One may argue, of course, that all these attestations are also late,28 yet their lateness is a matter of speculation; and in any case they do not belong to the distinctive Second Temple corpus, written in LBH. Second, the assumption of an Aramaic borrowing into Hebrew is implausible in our case from the point of view of Aramaic itself. The term כהנא רבאis found only in contexts that refer directly to the Jerusalem temple. Indeed, all attestations of the word כהןin Official Aramaic are in texts written by or for Jews. By contrast, the native Aramaic term for “priest” is כמר.29 There is even a funerary inscription his son.” See Yigael Yadin and Joseph Naveh, Masada: The Yigael Yadin Excavations 1963–1965. Final Reports, I, The Aramaic and Hebrew Ostraca and Jar Inscriptions (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1989), 37–38, pl. 30. If the restoration is correct, this person can be identified with the high priest Ananias, who officiated in 48–59 c.e. See James C. VanderKam, From Joshua to Caiaphas: High Priests after the Exile (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2004), 455–63, esp. 460–63. 27 Textbook of Aramaic Documents from Ancient Egypt (in Hebrew; ed. Bezalel Porten and Ada Yardeni; 4 vols.; Jerusalem: Hebrew University, 1986–99). 28 Most of Josh 20:6, for instance, is missing from the Old Greek (as represented, in this case, by LXXB), and this fact might suggest that its mention of הכהן הגדולwas not part of the original form of this verse. See Alexander Rofé, “Joshua 20: Historico-Literary Criticism Illustrated,” in Empirical Models for Biblical Criticism (ed. Jeffrey H. Tigay; Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1985), 142 and n. 22 (but note also his cautious reservation on p. 138). By contrast, there is no textual support for the suggestion that all the occurrences of this term in Kings are in fact late additions (see, e.g., Rooke, Zadok’s Heirs, 73–74 n. 75, adducing previous literature). This line of thought was developed ad absurdum by Julian Morgenstern (“A Chapter in the History of the High-Priesthood,” AJSL 55 [1938]: esp. 1–3), who argued that all the occurrences of הכהן הגדולin CH are interpolations, made as late as the Hellenistic period. 29 See Jacob Hoftijzer and Karel Jongeling, Dictionary of the North-West Semitic Inscriptions (HO 1, The Near and Middle East 21; Leiden: Brill, 1995), 1:515–16, s.v. kmr2. It is therefore not a coincidence that כּ ֶֹמרin BH is reserved for pagan priests only (2 Kgs 23:5; Hos 10:5; Zeph 1:4).
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from Hi atra that mentions a local pagan high priest, whose title was indeed כמרא רבא, not כהנא רבא:30 דכיר ובריך נשריהב בר עבדאלי בר עבדשלמא כמרא רבא קדם מרן ומרתן וברמרין ובעשמין אלהא רובא לטב ולשנפיר הו מן די רחים לה לטב ולשנפיר PN son of PN son of PN the high priest is remembered and blessed—before our lord, and our lady, and the son of our lords, and Bê-Šĕmên the great god—for goodness and for wellness; he is the one loved by him31 for goodness and for wellness.
From a lexical point of view, then, it is most unlikely that the use of the term כהנא רבאserved as the model for the Hebrew הכהן הגדול.32 Another feature of the term in question is the use of the adjective “great” as a modifier of the priestly title, as found both in kumrā rabbā, and kāhĕnā rabbā. Can this element be of Aramaic origin, and hence the ultimate source for the use of the corresponding Hebrew construction ?הכהן הגדולIn this case as well the answer must be negative, this time owing to a consideration of comparative Semitics. The Hebrew term הכהן הגדולis equivalent—in terms of its semantic structure—to the NWS term rb khnm, which denotes the high priest.33 It seems far more reasonable to take הכהן הגדולas a genuine vestige of this NWS term for the high priest, rather Francesco Vattioni, Le iscrizioni di Hi atra (Annali Supp. 28; Naples: Istituto Orientale di Napoli, 1981), 33, no. 25; Basile Aggoula, Inventaire des inscriptions hatréennes (Bibliothèque archéologique et historique 139; Paris: Geuthner, 1991), 21, no. 25. 31 The pronoun seems to refer to “the great god,” Bê-Šĕmên (< Bavl Šamayn, “Lord of the Sky”). Aggoula suggests an alternative reading: הו ]ו[מן די רחים לה, “he, and whoever is loved by him,” in which case the blessing refers to both the person himself and members of his circle. 32 Similarly, the Greek term ὁ ἱερεὺς ὁ µέγας is the equivalent of הכהן הגדולin Jewish Hellenistic literature, written or preserved only in Greek (e.g., Jdt 4:6, 8, 14; 15:8; 1 Macc 12:20; 15:2; note also the doublet ἀρχιερέως µεγάλου in 1 Macc 13:42). See John W. Bailey, “The Usage in the Post Restoration Period of Terms Descriptive of the Priest and High Priest,” JBL 70 (1951): 223; cf. Maria Brutti, The Development of the High Priesthood during the Pre-Hasmonean Period: History, Ideology, Theology (JSJSup 108; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 56–75. Nevertheless, scholars rightly refrained from suggesting, based on such data, that the Hebrew term is a calque of its Greek equivalent. 33 Its earliest attestation in NWS comes from Ugaritic, that is, from the mid-second millennium b.c.e. See Gregorio del Olmo Lete and Joaquín Sanmartín, A Dictionary of the Ugaritic Language in the Alphabetic Tradition (2nd ed.; HO 1, The Near and Middle East 67; Leiden: Brill, 2004), 1:433. It is attested also in later NWS dialects; for Phoenician see Richard S. Tomback, A Comparative Semitic Lexicon of the Phoenician and Punic Languages (SBLDS 32; Missoula, MT: Scholars Press, 1978), 139–40. A late Punic inscription from Carthage (CIS I, 5955), may even mention three priestly ranks: כהן, ( השנאsometimes interpreted as “second in command”), and ;רב הכהנםyet the correct interpretation of the second term is highly debated; see Hoftijzer and Jongeling, Dictionary, 2:1175, s.v. šnh5 (to the bibliography adduced there one should add Bernhard Stade, “Ein phönicisches Aequivalent von ”? כֵֹּהן ִמְׂש ֶנהZAW 22 [1902]: 325–27). Another late reflex of the old construction is attested in Syriac: the Peshitta version of the NT renders ἀρχιερεύς (Heb 2:17; 3:1; etc.) by ܪܐ. 30
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than to assume that it is a newcomer into Hebrew cultic terminology.34 In other words, we are dealing here with various realizations of an old Semitic term, with some dialects preferring to construe it as an adjective following the noun and others as a construct phrase. Confirmation of this conclusion may be drawn from East Semitic. Middle and Neo-Assyrian—that is, dialects spoken in the second half of the second millennium and the first half of the first millennium b.c.e. (the latter being contemporary with the First Temple period)—contain a pair of complementary priestly titles: šangû rabû (“high priest”) and šangû šaniu (“deputy priest”).35 This Akkadian pair of terms matches exactly its Hebrew counterparts, הכהן הגדולand כהני המשנה, as found in 2 Kgs 23:4. Two other considerations support the conclusion that הכהן הגדולbelongs to CH and that it cannot be viewed as a term introduced by LH. (a) The term הכהן הגדולunderwent a syntactic development in the Second Temple period, compared to which its biblical form clearly represents an older phase. The late phase is most clearly attested in MH, in which the term in question is always used in its indeterminate form כהן גדול.36 But this form is attested already in other sources from the 34 Note that הכהן הגדולis the only term that occupies this terminological slot in BH, since no other Hebrew term is equivalent to the NWS one in terms of its semantic structure. Put differently, there is no רב כהניםin BH. This absence is probably related to the fact that official titles of this type refer in BH to foreign figures: ַרב ַטָבִּחיםis the title of Nebuzaradan (2 Kgs 25:8; etc.), and ( ַרב ָסִריס2 Kgs 18:17; Jer 39:3, 13) and ( ַרב ָס ִריָסיוDan 1:3) are also designations of Babylonian officials. In CBH ַרבusually behaves as an adjective, and its usage as a substantive is an intentional stylistic device, aimed at highlighting the foreign provenance of the persons to whom this term is applied. By contrast, the native CH way of designating officials is with the term ַשׂר, hence ( ַשׂר ַהַטּ ָבִּחיםGen 37:36) and ( ַשׂר ַהָסּ ִריִסיםDan 1:7); cf. ( ָשֵׂרי ַה ִנָּצִּבים1 Kgs 9:23), ָשׂ ֵרי ָה ָר ִצים (1 Kgs 14:27 || 2 Chr 12:10), etc. Terms of the type “rab X” are marked as non-Hebrew by yet another, syntactic feature: they are normally indeterminate (Dan 1:3 notwithstanding), in contrast to their Hebrew counterparts. Such bound, indeterminate expressions may reflect their Akkadian origin (see Cogan and Tadmor, II Kings, 229–30), since the latter lacks a determination morpheme equivalent to the Hebrew definite article. Compare the famous case of ( ַר ְבָׂשֵקה2 Kgs 18:17; etc.), borrowed from Akkadian rab šāqê, as opposed to ( ַשׂר ַהַמְּׂש ִקיםGen 40:2; etc.). Nevertheless, in some instances it may be that the presence of titles of the “rab X” type is indeed a late feature resulting from Aramaic influence; see Jan Joosten, “L’excédent massorétique du livre de Jérémie et l’Hébreu post-classique,” in Conservatism and Innovation in the Hebrew Language of the Hellenistic Period (ed. idem and Jan-Sebastian Rey; STDJ 73; Leiden: Brill, 2008), 97, 100–101. 35 CAD, Š/1, 379–80. The Akkadian term šangû (“priest, temple administrator”) is borrowed from Sumerian sanga. For the relation between the Mesopotamian šangû and the Israelite kōhēn, see Aelred Cody, A History of Old Testament Priesthood (AnBib 35; Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1969), 100–102. 36 Abba Bendavid (Biblical Hebrew and Mishnaic Hebrew [in Hebrew; 2 vols.; Tel Aviv: Dvir, 1967, 1971], 2:631 §395) counts כהן גדולamong other examples of omission of the definite article in “nouns whose determination is self-evident.” But the reason for the omission in this case might be syntactic, rather than semantic, since in MH the definite article tends to drop out in
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Greco-Roman period, and, interestingly, it characterizes nonliterary sources. Thus, for instance, in the numismatic record, the Hasmonean coins minted in the second and first centuries b.c.e., the term usually appears as indeterminate: כהן גדל וחבר היהודים, “X, the high priest, and the council of the Jews.”37 In epigraphic texts one finds both forms: an ossuary inscription from the first century c.e. reads | יהוחנה יהוחנה ברת יהוחנן | בר תפלוס הכהן הגדל, “Yehoh ianna | Yehoh ianna daughter of Yehoh ianan | son of Theophilus the high priest,”38 while a legal document of the same period reads [וס כוהן גדול...], “[…]us, high priest.”39 These data indicate that the form used in the vernacular was the indeterminate כוהן גדול, while the determinate form הכהן הגדולfell into disuse, appearing only sporadically as an archaism under the influence of BH on contemporaneous scribes, who considered the language of Scripture to be a model for stylistic imitation. nouns followed by an attribute. See Moshe Bar-Asher, “Notes on the Usage of the Definite Article in Mishnaic Hebrew,” in idem, The Tradition of Mishnaic Hebrew in the Communities of Italy (in Hebrew; Jerusalem: Magnes, 1980) 104–5; Moshe Azar, “The Definite Article in the Mishna according to ms Kaufmann” (in Hebrew), Hebrew Linguistics 33–35 (1992): 24 and 29 n. 20. For a detailed treatment of this phenomenon and a presentation of the various constructions of full and partial marking of determination in MH, see Gad B. Sarfatti, “Definiteness in NounAdjective Phrases in Rabbinic Hebrew” (in Hebrew), in Studies in the Hebrew Language and the Talmudic Literature: Dedicated to the Memory of Dr. Menahei m Moreshet (ed. Menahem Z. Kaddari and Shim‘on Sharvit; Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1989), 153–67, esp. 157–58; idem, “Determination of Fixed Phrases Formed by Means of the Construct State in Mishnaic Hebrew” (in Hebrew), in Studies in Hebrew and Semitic Languages: Dedicated to the Memory of Prof. Eduard Yechezkel Kutscher (ed. idem et al.; Ramat-Gan: Bar-Ilan University Press, 1980), 140–54. 37 Ya‘akov Meshorer, A Treasury of Jewish Coins: From the Persian Period to Bar Kokhba (trans. Robert Amoils; Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi; New York: Amphora, 2001), 23–59, 201–20. See also Gad B. Sarfatti, “The Inscriptions on the Hebrew Coins of the Second Temple Period: Linguistic Comments,” in Studies in Hebrew Language in Memory of Eliezer Rubinstein (ed. Aron Dotan and Abraham Tal; Te‘uda 9; Tel Aviv: Ramot, 1995), 75–87, esp. 76–80, 84–86 (I owe this reference to Uri Mor). The indeterminate form is found alongside the fully determinate one, הכהן הגדל. In a relatively small number of coins, usually of defective quality, one finds forms with partial determination: ( כהן הגדלP51, S27), or ( הכהן גדלE11, F5, F12 et al.). 38 The ossuary was purchased on the antiquities market and was not found in situ. If it is authentic, תפלוסmay be identified with the high priest Theophilus (Josephus, Ant. 18.123–24), who served in 37–41 c.e.; see Dan Barag and David Flusser, “The Ossuary of Yehohai nah Granddaughter of the High Priest Theophilus,” IEJ 36 (1986): 39–44; cf. VanderKam, From Joshua to Caiphas, 440–43, esp. 442–43. 39 Ada Yardeni, Textbook of Aramaic, Hebrew and Nabataean Documentary Texts from the Judaean Desert and Related Material (in Hebrew; 2 vols.; Jerusalem: Dinur Center, 2000), 1:89. Despite being designated 4Q348, this document actually comes from Nahai l Hi ever; see Hannah M. Cotton and Ada Yardeni, Aramaic, Hebrew and Greek Documentary Texts from Nahai l Hi ever and Other Sites (DJD 27; Oxford: Clarendon, 1997), 283–84. Hanan Eshel (“Some Notes Concerning High Priests in the First Century C.E.” [in Hebrew], Zion 64 [1999]: 500) suggested that the text should be read and restored as ]יוסף בן קומ[ודיוס כוהן גדול, that is, as a reference to a high priest appointed in 46 c.e.
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(b) From a phraseological point of view, in MH כהן גדולforms part of a more comprehensive terminology denoting the priestly hierarchy. According to the Mishnah, during the last decades of the Herodian temple the priests were divided into three main classes: the chief priest, entitled ;כהן גדולhis deputy, סגן הכוהניםor simply ;הסגן40 and any other common priest, called ( הדיוטa term borrowed from Greek ἰδιώτης). This terminological complex is not used in either CBH or LBH, which suggests a significant chronological gap between the terminologies employed in the Bible, on the one hand, and the Mishnah, on the other. By contrast, the MH terminology is amply reflected in Targumic Aramaic. The Targums—being part and parcel of rabbinic literature—use כהנא רבאas the standard term for the high priest. It obviously translates הכהן הגדולin all its occurrences,41 but it also renders ( הכהן המשיחTg. Onq. Lev 4:3, 5, 16) and ( כהן הראשTg. Jon. 2 Kgs 25:18; Jer 52:24), thus eliminating the terminological diversity that characterizes BH. It is also found in targumic expansions (Tg. Jon. Isa 61:10; Ezek 1:1; 16:10; 21:31). Similarly, Targum Jonathan uses the term סגן כהניאto render כהן ( המשנהTg. Jon. 2 Kgs 23:4; 25:18; Jer 52:24) and ( פקידJer 20:1; 29:26).42 To summarize this part of the discussion, the term הכהן הגדולwas not coined in the postexilic period. Rather, it is a CH reflex of an old Semitic term denoting the high priest, which persisted in usage down to the Greco-Roman period. It is not a calque of the Aramaic term כהנא רבא, but vice versa: the Aramaic term, found only in contexts relating to the Judean/Jewish high priest, may well be a literal translation of the Hebrew one.
III. The Origin of the Term כהן הראש In light of the discussion above, it seems that the standard term for the high priest throughout the ages was always הכהן הגדול, since it is found in both classical and late sources. If this is so, one cannot but wonder at the sudden appearance The noun סגןis attested in BH (mostly in LBH), where it denotes a senior administrative rank (see Japhet, “Supposed Common Authorship,” 355) and not a person with a specific priestly function. In contradistinction, the official compound title סגן הכוהניםis unique to MH. For the etymology and history of the lexeme סגן, see E. Y. Kutscher, Words and Their History (in Hebrew; Jerusalem: Qiryat Sefer, 1974), 107–9. Adolf Büchler (Die Priester und der Cultus im letzten Jahrzehnt des jerusalemischen Tempels [Vienna: Hölder, 1895], 103–18) argued that the specific priestly function of סגן הכוהניםwas reintroduced into the Jerusalem temple only at a relatively late time, during the Roman period, as part of the Pharisees’ attempt to prevent the Sadducees from influencing the conduct of the high priest. 41 This is yet another piece of evidence that the Aramaic term כהנא רבאis actually a calque of the equivalent Hebrew term )ה(כהן )ה(גדולand not vice versa. 42 The term הדיוטis found in the Aramaic of Onqelos and Jonathan (e.g., Tg. Jon. 1 Sam 18:23), but not in relation to priests. 40
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of the term כהן הראש. As we have seen, this term is attested for the first time in a late stratum in the book of Kings, and it is quite common in the Persian period, especially in the book of Chronicles. Nevertheless, the term did not gain much currency and disappeared from Mishnaic Hebrew. Unlike —)ה(כהן )ה(גדולfound in numerous postbiblical sources (literary, epigraphic, and numismatic)—the documentation of כהן הראשin postbiblical sources is very scarce; in fact, it is found only in the War Scroll from Qumran as a reference to the eschatological high priest. But why did it emerge in the first place? And why did it fall out of use so quickly, giving way to the older term? One explanation for the term כהן הראשshould be rejected at the outset, namely, that this is nothing but a calque of the Greek priestly title ἀρχιερεύς, “chief priest.” It is quite unlikely that this Greek term could have made its way into Hebrew cultic terminology in the exilic and early postexilic periods. Similarly, it is linguistically unreasonable to push the date of the late biblical historiography into the Hellenistic period. Furthermore, a counterargument can be adduced from rabbinic literature. After all, no one would disagree that MH reflects the Greco-Roman period, and it is impossible to deny the influence of Greek and Latin on its vocabulary. Nevertheless, the sages are familiar with a different terminology for the priestly hierarchy: not כהן הראשand כהן המשנה, but rather כהן גדולand סגן ( הכוהניםfor which no Greek influence need be assumed).43 These data indicate that one should look for the origin of the term כהן הראשwithin Hebrew, not in alleged influence from foreign languages.44 The transition from the phrase הכהן הגדולto כהן הראשseems to form part of a larger trend discernible in the Hebrew of the Persian period. The question about the Chronicler’s conspicuous preference for כהן הראשhas of course been asked in biblical research, and it has been suggested that this usage reflects a lexical preference, common in the Restoration period, to utilize ראשin administrative terminology, especially in terms designating leadership functions.45 Closer inspection of the data reveals, however, that it is not quite a favoring of the word ראשitself that was operative in this case. Rather, it is the pair of ראשand משנהthat acquired a new meaning, which had a crucial role in the formation of the terminology examined here. The postexilic historians use this pair not only in relation to priestly hierarchy but also in reference to the Levites: 43
See above, pp. 692, 698. By the same token, the Greek term ἀρχιερεύς should be studied separately; its distribution and independent history within Hellenic and Hellenistic culture have no direct bearing on the present analysis. Hence, occurrences of ἀρχιερεύς in Greek sources of the Greco-Roman period may not be taken as evidence of free and widespread use of the Hebrew term כהן הראשduring this period. 45 Bailey, “Usage in the Post-Restoration Period,” 218–19; cf. John R. Bartlett, “The Use of the Word רׂאׂשas a Title in the Old Testament,” VT 19 (1969): 5–7. 44
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Journal of Biblical Literature 130, no. 4 (2011) Neh 11:15–17
. . . ( ומן הלוים׃ שמעיה בן חשוב בן עזריקם בן חשביה בן בוני15)
( ומתניה בן מיכא בן זבדי בן אסף ראש התחלה יהודה17) לתפלה ובקבקיה משנה מאחיו ועבדא בן שמוע בן גלל בן ידיתון .()ידותון
And from the Levites: Shemaiah the son of Hasshub, the son of Azrikam, the son of Hashabiah, the son of Bunni . . . and Mattaniah the son of Micha, the son of Zabdi, the son of Asaph, the first in beginning the thanksgiving at prayer, and Bakbukiah, the second among his brethren; and Abda the son of Shammua, the son of Galal, the son of Jeduthun. 1 Chr 16:4–5
( ויתן לפני ארון יהוה מן הלוים משרתים ולהזכיר ולהודות4) ( אסף הראש ומשנהו זכריה יעיאל5) .ולהלל ליהוה אלהי ישראל . . . ושמירמות And he appointed some of the Levites as ministers before the ark of the Lord, to celebrate and to thank and to praise the Lord God of Israel: Asaph the first, and second to him Zechariah, Jeiel, and Shemiramoth . . .
Most importantly, in one genealogy the two terms are used to denote a familial relation, regardless of any priestly or cultic matters: 1 Chr 5:11–12
( יואל12) .( ובני גד לנגדם ישבו בארץ הבשן עד סלכה11) .הראש ושפם המשנה ויעני ושפט בבשן And the sons of Gad lived opposite them in the land of Bashan as far as Salecah. Joel the first and Shapham the second, then Janai and Shaphat in Bashan.
In this case, ראשsimply means “firstborn,” while משנהrefers to the second son. This genealogical usage is particularly instructive, for CBH similarly uses משנהto refer to the second child, but the firstborn son is referred to by the term בכור: 1 Sam 8:1–2
.( ויהי כאשר זקן שמואל וישם את בניו שפטים לישראל1) ( ויהי שם בנו הבכור יואל ושם משנהו אביה שפטים בבאר2) .שבע And when Samuel became old, he made his sons judges over Israel. And the name of his firstborn son was Joel, and the name of his second, Abijah; they were judges in Beer-sheba.
1 Sam 17:13
וילכו שלשת בני ישי הגדלים הלכו אחרי שאול למלחמה ושם שלשת בניו אשר הלכו במלחמה אליאב הבכור ומשנהו אבינדב והשלשי שמה And the three eldest sons of Jesse had followed Saul to the battle; and the names of his three sons who went to the battle were Eliab the firstborn, and second to him Abinadab, and the third Shammah.
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( וילדו )ויולדו( לדוד בנים בחברון ויהי בכורו אמנון לאחינעם2) ( ומשנהו כלאב לאביגל )לאביגיל( אשת נבל3) .היזרעאלת . והשלשי אבשלום בן מעכה בת תלמי מלך גשור.הכרמלי .( והרביעי אדניה בן חגית והחמישי שפטיה בן אביטל4) . אלה ילדו לדוד בחברון.( והששי יתרעם לעגלה אשת דוד5)
2 Sam 3:2–5
And sons were born to David at Hebron: his firstborn was Amnon, of Ahinoam of Jezreel; his second, Chileab, of Abigail the widow of Nabal of Carmel; the third, Absalom son of Maacah, daughter of King Talmai of Geshur; the fourth, Adonijah son of Haggith; the fifth, Shephatiah son of Abital; and the sixth, Ithream, of David’s wife Eglah. These were born to David in Hebron.
The reason for the transition from the classical pair בכורand משנהto the late pair ראשand משנהis unknown, but a hypothesis can nevertheless be made: it may have been motivated by an attempt to achieve greater grammatical transparency (and stylistic consistency). In the genealogies quoted, it is clear that these terms are used like the ordinal adjectives “( שלישיthird”), “( רביעיfourth”), and so on. While the etymological relation of the word משנהto the ordinal “( שניsecond”) is clear enough, one cannot say the same about בכור. It seems, therefore, that בכורwas replaced by ראשeither because the latter is closer to the ordinal “( ראשוןfirst”), or because ראשitself came to be used as an adjective.46 In any case, even if the above explanation is rejected, the lexical facts are well established, and the semantic equivalence between the CBH pair בכורand משנה, on the one hand, and the LBH pair ראשand משנה, on the other, sheds new light on the pair of terms כהן ראשand כהן משנה. Taking into consideration the proposed inner-Hebrew development, it seems that this pair of priestly titles does not necessarily stem from the administrative realm. Rather, it was originally intended to mark the genealogical hierarchy of the priests within their family tree. We may now go back to the question posed earlier: Why did the term כהן הראשemerge during the Persian period, and why did it fall again into oblivion in the Greco-Roman period? With all due caution, I would like to propose that the reason for this process is not solely linguistic. Rather, the use of the term כהן הראש seems to encode a legal—and possibly also political—polemic concerning the true meaning of the more common term הכהן הגדול, which was in use in both early and late periods as the official designation of the chief priest. In biblical literature, הכהן הגדולis understood to be an elliptical formulation of a longer phrase expressed explicitly in Lev 21:10: והכהן הגדול מאחיו, “the priest who is greater than his brothers.” This description can be interpreted in several ways. One way is literal, almost on the verge of being atomistic: the high priest is understood to be “great” in age, that is, the firstborn son, or at least the eldest of his broth46
See p. 692 above.
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ers. This line of thought seems to be based on a well-established usage of the adjective גדולin BH, as demonstrated by MT 1 Samuel 17: Eliab, David’s oldest brother, is termed הבכורin v. 13, but also אחיו הגדולin v. 28 (cf. Gen 10:21). Thus, the effort to replace הכהן הגדולwith כהן הראשwas probably meant to emphasize that the high priest is indeed—or at least should be—the firstborn son of his family. Yet this emphasis was apparently not self-evident, at least when the term כהן הראשwas coined. There is a piece of evidence from a later period that Lev 21:10 was indeed interpreted quite differently, and this is found in a Tannaitic (i.e., early rabbinic) exegetical tradition: מצות כהן גדול להיות גדול מאחיו בנוי בכח בעשר בחכמה ובמראה The commandment of a “great priest” is to be greater than his brothers in beauty, strength, wealth, wisdom and appearance. (t. Kipp. 1:6 [ed. Liebermann, 222])
”והכהן הגדול מאחיו“ – שיהא גדול מאחיו בנוי בכוח בעשר בחוכמה ובמראה “And the priest who is greater than his brothers” – he should be greater than his brothers in beauty, strength, wealth, wisdom and appearance. (Sifra, 'Emor 2:1 [ed. Weiss, 94c])
The sages give a list of characteristics in which the high priest should be “greater” than his brothers, yet his age is conspicuously missing from it. The absence is made even more peculiar when one compares this list to another, very similar one, found in another context:
האב זכה לבן בנואי ובכוח ובעושר ובחכמה ובשנים A father endows his son with (the blessing) of beauty, strength, riches, wisdom and (length of) years. (m. vEd. 2:9)47
In this case, when the high priesthood is not involved, the sages have no difficulty adding the missing element of age to the very same list of personal virtues.48 The original rabbinic exegesis—which refrains from interpreting the biblical verse as referring to the high priest’s age and familial status—can be shown to go back to the early Hellenistic period, since it is reflected also in a historical account ascribed to Hecataeus of Abdera, as quoted by Diodorus of Sicily:49
47 The English translation is based on The Mishnah (trans. Herbert Danby; London: Oxford University Press, 1933), 426. 48 As might be expected, these two different lists were conflated in the much later Amoraic work Lev. Rab. 26:9: למה נקרא שמו ”כהן גדול“? שהוא גדול בה׳ דברים׃ בחכמה בכח בנוי בעושר ובשנים, “Why is he called ‘the great priest’? Because he is great in five things: in wisdom, in strength, in beauty, in richness and in years” (ed. Margulies, 3:611). Note the editor’s comment that, although this passage is found in the printed edition, it is absent from all the manuscripts of Leviticus Rabbah. He therefore asserts that it is nothing but an interpolation, taken from an even later source, namely, Tanhi. 'Emor 4 || Tanhi.-Buber, 'Emor 6. 49 Menahem Stern, Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism (3 vols.; Jerusalem: Israel
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. . . τὴν δὲ τοῦ πλήθους προστασίαν δίδοσθαι διὰ παντὸς τῷ δοκοῦντι τῶν ἱερέων φρονήσει καὶ ἀρετῇ προέχειν. τοῦτον δὲ προσαγορεύουσιν ἀρχιερέα . . . . . . and authority over the people is regularly vested in whichever priest is regarded as superior to his colleagues in wisdom and virtue. They call this man the High Priest . . .
The interpretation according to which the high priest is the wisest and most admirable of the priests (and not necessarily the eldest or the firstborn) is presented in this source already as a well established tradition, and it must therefore antedate the Hellenistic period. This historical report allows us to surmise that during the Persian period two conflicting exegetical traditions had developed concerning the interpretation of Lev 21:10. The controversy seems to reflect a more fundamental, legal and political conflict between priestly parties over their right to hold the office of the high priest, with some arguing for their genealogical right and others relying on personal virtues. Unfortunately, we have no direct evidence about this conflict and the historical personalities that were involved in the struggle. Most of what we have is distant echoes in the form of exegetical statements, on the one hand, and seemingly erratic terminological shifts, on the other, together implying a polemical set of motivations.
IV. Possible Traces of Fraternal Struggles over the High Priesthood in the Persian Period Notwithstanding the lack of any direct information concerning the conflict surrounding the legitimate way of inheriting the high priesthood, some indirect Academy of Sciences and Humanities 1976–84), 1:26, no. 11 §5. It was recently suggested that this passage stems not from Hecataeus’s lost work (written ca. 300 b.c.e.) but rather from a later Jewish work (written sometime in the second century b.c.e.) that was quoted by Josephus under Hecataeus’s name; see Daniel R. Schwartz, “Diodorus Siculus 40.3: Hecataeus or PseudoHecataeus?” in Jews and Gentiles in the Holy Land: In the Days of the Second Temple, the Mishna and the Talmud (ed. Menahem Mor et al.; Jerusalem: Yad Ben Zvi, 2003), 181–97. If this is so, the external confirmation of the rabbinic tradition is pushed from the beginning of the Hellenistic period to its middle. At the same time, however, it gains additional weight if it was written by a Jew, who obviously would have had direct access to Jewish exegetical traditions, rather than by a Gentile traveler and historian, whose knowledge of Jewish customs would necessarily have been limited and indirect. For analysis of Pseudo-Hecataeus’s work, based on its fragments as quoted in Josephus’s Against Apion, see Bezalel Bar-Kochva, Pseudo-Hecataeus ‘On the Jews’: Legitimizing the Jewish Diaspora (Hellenistic Culture and Society 21; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997). Bar-Kochva himself rejected Schwartz’s identification and defended the authenticity of the above quoted passage; see his “The Jewish Ethnography of Hecataeus of Abdera (Diodorus Siculus, Bibliotheca Historica, XL.3)” (in Hebrew), Tarbiz 75 (2006): 68–70.
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traces might be found in Josephus’s reports—embedded in the end of book 11 of Jewish Antiquities—of rivalries over the office of high priest at the close of the Persian period.50 Thus, even though these specific events hardly underlie the terminological developments discussed above, they may serve to illustrate the heightened sensitivity of this political and legal issue during the period. Two incidents in particular are relevant for the present discussion. The first concerns two brothers in competition with each other, Johanan and Jeshua, sons of the high priest Joiada and grandsons of the high priest Elyashib (Ant. 11.297–301).51 Johanan inherited his father’s office (§297), but Jeshua, who had the support of the Persian general Bagohi (Βαγώσης), also aspired to the high priesthood (§298). Jeshua confronted his brother face to face while they were both in the temple, but Johanan killed him, thus ensuring his own control of the office (§299). This act had wider implications, however, since the Persian general who supported Jeshua was so disturbed by the atrocity that he instituted a special tax on the daily rituals performed in the temple (§§297, 300–301). The second incident begins similarly, this time with Johanan’s two sons, Jaddua and Manasseh (Ant. 11.302–46). Jaddua inherited the high priesthood, but Manasseh, who desired the high office for himself, had the support of Sanballat, his Samaritan father-in-law, whom the Persians appointed as governor of Samaria (§§302–3). The legal implications of the conflict played a more explicit role in this case, since the elders of Jerusalem were deeply concerned by Manasseh’s intermarriage with a Samaritan woman. They demanded that Manasseh give up either his wife or his priestly role, and unsurprisingly this position was embraced by the high priest Jaddua (§308). According to Josephus, this ultimatum eventually deepened the schism between the Jews and the Samaritans, since Sanballat established the Samaritan temple for his son-in-law as a substitute for the Jewish high priesthood that was denied to him (§§310–11, 324, 346).52
50
I am indebted to Daniel Schwartz, who pointed out to me the relevance of the following passages for the present discussion. 51 Even though not all scholars agree on the exact identification of the personalities mentioned in this report (and hence the accurate dating of the entire chain of events), it is nonetheless clear that at least in §§298–301 Josephus quotes from a (potentially reliable) historical source, as was demonstrated convincingly by Hugh G. M. Williamson, “The Historical Value of Josephus’ Jewish Antiquities XI. 297–301,” JTS 28 (1977): 49–66. 52 Josephus’s historical reliability at this point is a notorious problem, and it is possible that his report is based on a conflation of some sources that were partly misconstrued. See especially the analysis of Daniel R. Schwartz, “On Some Papyri and Josephus’ Sources and Chronology for the Persian Period,” JSJ 21 (1990): 175–99; and the different treatment offered by VanderKam, From Joshua to Caiaphas, 43–111, esp. 63–85 (both with previous literature). To be sure, the exact dating of the personalities and events is less important for the present discussion than the very existence of struggles over the high priesthood during the Persian period and the use of certain legal arguments in such a context.
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These two cases demonstrate that during the Persian period there were personal and political rivalries among members of priestly families—and, more specifically, between brothers—over the office of high priest. These were fueled by both external factors, such as the active intervention of imperial Persian officials, and internal factors, such as personal aspirations and political agendas, and especially legal and ideological controversies, which may well go back to a time preceding the period described by Josephus. This is demonstrated by the issue of intermarriage (especially among priestly families), which was deemed acute throughout the Persian period (see Ezra 9:1–10:44; Neh 13:23-30). By the same token, the innerpriestly rivalries recorded by Josephus may plausibly echo conflicts that were operative at an earlier phase of the Persian period, a phase in which the terminological development discussed above took form.
V. Conclusion From a linguistic point of view, הכהן הגדולwas the standard term denoting the high priest in ancient Hebrew, in both preexilic and postexilic times, while כהן הראשwas coined only in the exilic and/or early postexilic period. The latter is best interpreted according to a specific semantic development in the meaning of ראש that is reflected also in the book of Chronicles, namely, to denote the eldest son. At the same time, this term emphatically encodes a specific legal interpretation of the more common term הכהן הגדול. This interpretation seems to have been contested in the Persian period, but by the Greco-Roman period it was rejected (at least by some circles) for the sake of other understandings of the biblical prescription. If these conclusions are correct, they may affect a wide variety of historical issues. For instance, histories of OT high priesthood that take for granted that usage of the term הכהן הגדולis a marker of late texts should be reconsidered in light of the linguistic evidence presented above. In addition, bearing in mind that the term כהן הראשis used in the War Scroll, while the sages prefer to use כהן גדול, the present findings may contribute to the ongoing evaluation of the (dis)continuity of biblical traditions in the Qumran sect vis-à-vis the early rabbis.
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JBL 130, no. 4 (2011): 707–728
Paul, the Goddess Religions, and Queer Sects: Romans 1:23–28 jeramy townsley
[email protected] Butler University, Indianapolis, IN 46202
Romans 1:23–28 is one of the primary texts from the NT used to justify the contemporary condemnation of both male and female homosexuals by some religious groups. This article contextualizes this passage as a unified attack on idolatry by reidentifying the subjects of the “gay” and “lesbian” behavior1 in vv. 26–27 as participants in the widespread goddess cults that posed a direct threat to Paul’s ministry. These individuals violated patriarchal norms of masculinity, femininity, and sexuality in very public ways, and also most twenty-first-century readers’ predominant experiences of heteronormativity—I refer to the subjects of the Pauline passage with the postmodern term “queer.”2 1 When referring to Greco-Roman sexualities, typically I will refer to behavior, since it is doubtful that there was a “gay/straight” dichotomy in the modern sense—thus the use here of the terms “heterogenital” and “homogenital.” See Bernadette J. Brooten, Love between Women: Early Christian Responses to Female Homoeroticism (Chicago Series on Sexuality, History, and Society; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 17–26; Eva Cantarella, Bisexuality in the Ancient World (trans. Cormac Ó Cuilleanáin; New Haven: Yale University Press, 1992), 211–22; David Halperin, How to Do the History of Homosexuality (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 48–55; Gerard Loughlin, “Pauline Conversations: Rereading Romans 1 in Christ,” Theology and Sexuality 11 (2004): 72–102, here 86; Martti Nissinen, Homoeroticism in the Biblical World: A Historical Perspective (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1998), 109; Diana Swancutt, “The Disease of Effemination,” in New Testament Masculinities (ed. Stephen D. Moore and Janice Capel Anderson; SemeiaSt 45; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 193–235, here 194–95; Johannes Vorster, “The Making of Male Same-Sex in the Graeco-Roman World and Its Implications for the Interpretation of Biblical Discourses,” Scriptura 93 (2006): 432–54; Craig A. Williams, Roman Homosexuality (2nd ed.; New York: Oxford University Press, 2010), 249–51. 2 Phillip A. Bernhardt-House, “Reenforcing Binaries, Downgrading Passions: Bisexual Invisibility in Mainstream Queer Christian Theology,” Journal of Bisexuality 10 (2010): 54–63; Adam
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Several lines of research converge to allow an interpretation that rejects the assumption that Paul here condemns “gays” and “lesbians.” First, the hypothesis that “gay”/“lesbian”/“straight” identities existed in this Greco-Roman-Jewish context is dubious. Second, the interpretation of 1:26b as referring to female homogenitality should be rejected. Third, the grammatical connection between the females in 1:26 and the males in 1:27 does not imply a relationship in the “identity” of these subjects (female and male homosexuals), but rather in action (the exchange of natural behaviors). Fourth, the natural versus unnatural behaviors (παρὰ φύσιν) likely refers not to an exchange of the identity categories “straight” for “gay” but to nonprocreative sex (or perhaps an inversion of patriarchal gender norms). Fifth, the structural and rhetorical unity of the passage seems incongruous if one assumes the dominant contemporary interpretation regarding “gay” and “lesbian” behaviors as archetypal sins followed by a more “minor” list of sins that includes, for example, murder (Rom 1:29). Finally, this era witnessed the wide growth of goddess sects whose cross-gender and sexual practices violated patriarchal norms, giving Paul graphic imagery to refer the audience back to them. This final point is the core of this article, reciprocally supporting the first five pieces of evidence.
I. Romans 1:23–28—Gays or Idolaters? (1) 23 and [they] changed [ἤλλαξαν] the glory of the incorruptible God into the likeness of an image of corruptible man, and of fowls, and of quadrupeds, and of reptiles. 24 Wherefore also God did give them up [παρέδωκεν], in the desires of their hearts, to uncleanness, to dishonour their bodies among themselves; (2) 25 who did change [µετήλλαξαν] the truth of God into a falsehood, and did honour and serve the creature rather than the Creator. . . . 26 Because of this did God give them up [παρέδωκεν] to dishonourable affections, (3) for even their females [θήλειαι αὐτῶν] did change [µετήλλαξαν] the natural use [φυσικὴν χρῆσιν] into that against nature [παρὰ φύσιν]; 27 and in like manner [ὁµοίως] also the males having left the natural use [φυσικὴν χρῆσιν] of the female, did burn in their longing toward one another. . . . 28 And, according as [καὶ καθὼς] they did not approve of having God in knowledge, God gave them up [παρέδωκεν] to a disapproved mind, to do [ποιεῖν] the things not seemly. 3
Green, “Queer Theory and Sociology,” Sociological Theory 25 (2007): 26–45; Dale B. Martin, Sex and the Single Savior: Gender and Sexuality in Biblical Interpretation (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2006), 51–64; Jeremy Punt, “Intersections in Queer Theory and Postcolonial Theory, and Hermeneutical Spin-Offs,” Bible and Critical Theory 4 (2008): 24.1–24.16, online at http:// bibleandcriticaltheory.org/index.php/bct/article/view/197. 3 [Robert] Young’s Literal Translation (YLT), online at http://www.ccel.org/bible/ylt/ Romans/1.html (accessed May 5, 2010). The Greek is from UBS4.
Townsley: Romans 1:23–28
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The structure of Rom 1:23–28 is framed around three parallels bracketed by µετ/ήλλαξαν (“they exchanged”: vv. 23, 25, 26b) and παρέδωκεν (God “surrendered” them: vv. 24, 26a, 28).4 Parallelism is common in Hebrew literature and involves repeating a thought in different ways for emphasis and clarification. Paul uses it here to emphasize God’s response to idolatry.5 He describes people engaged in philosophies and religions that worship creation and created things, not YHWH. Moreover, and incongruously to the contemporary reader, he infuses each of the parallels with eroticism. He concludes that abandoning Yahweh leads to the “sin list” at the end of the chapter (vv. 29–31). Both the first and second parallels (vv. 23–24, vv. 25–26a) explicitly describe idol worship common in the first century. 6 In each passage, the people actively exchange something holy and true to worship that which is not YHWH, and God surrenders them to eroticisms. In the first, God surrenders (παρέδωκεν) them to some form of ritual impurity (ἀκαϑαρσίαν) to do something with each other (ἐν αὐτοῖς) that disgraces their bodies (τοῦ ἀτιµάζεσϑαι τὰ σώµατα αὐτῶν). Robert Jewett asserts, “Almost all commentators . . . assume that the primary reference [of σώµατα αὐτῶν] is sexual.”7 In the second parallel, God surrenders them to “erotic passions” (πάϑη ἀτιµίας), with πάϑη similarly having a sexual meaning, continuing the link between idolatry and sex.8
4 Beverly Roberts Gaventa, “God Handed Them Over: Reading Romans 1:18–32 Apocalytpically,” ABR 53 (2005): 42–53; Johann D. Kim, “Romans 1:28–32,” Int 58 (2004): 396–98. 5 Ernst Käsemann, Commentary on Romans (trans. and ed. Geoffrey W. Bromiley; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1980), 37–38; Douglas J. Moo, Romans 1–8 (Wycliffe Exegetical Commentary; Chicago: Moody, 1991), 58–60; Nissinen, Homoeroticism, 106. 6 John R. Levison emphasizes Paul’s theological grounding of Rom 1:18–25 in Genesis 1–3 (“Adam and Eve in Romans 1.18–25 and the Greek Life of Adam and Eve,” NTS 50 [2004]: 519– 34). He highlights the first two uses of µετ/ήλλαξαν to demonstrate the relationship between this text and the Jewish text Life of Adam and Eve, demonstrating the similarities with other creation/fall texts of the era, especially how Paul draws the reader to the inversion of God’s original plan—specifically, the exchange of God’s glory for mortality and death, and the exchange of the dominion over animals for subservience to animals, referring to idolatry in the form of worshiping the images of animals. It is curious that Levison emphasizes the first two repetitions of µετ/ήλλαξαν in vv. 23 and 25, but fails even to mention the third use of µετήλλαξαν in v. 28. This is typical of the historic difficulty in grasping the deeper unity of Rom 1:18–32, since, unless the entire pericope is understood as a three-part unified attack against idolatry, the inherent parallels may otherwise seem disjointed. 7 Jewett, Romans: A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2007), 169 n. 41. 8 “The πάϑη ἀτιµίας of R. 1:26a are the scandalous vices of homosexuality, 1:26b, 27” (Wilhelm Michaelis, “πάθος,” TDNT 5:928). Erasmus, in his commentary on Romans, links πάϑη in this verse to the eunuchs in Cleopatra’s court described by Horace, who themselves are associated with the goddess Isis: “effeminate lust . . . her herd of filthy men [corrupted] by disease” (New Testament Scholarship, vol. 16, Annotations on Romans [ed. Robert D. Sider; Collected Works of
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The third parallel also is bracketed with µετ/ήλλαξαν and παρέδωκεν, but on a surface reading does not seem to follow the pattern described above. As before, God surrenders the subjects to a fallen state (v. 28, ἀδόκιμον νοῦν). But here we see an explicit sexual exchange, φυσικὴν χρῆσιν, for that which is παρὰ φύσιν, rather than a description of idol worship. One potential explanation is that the passage is about sin in general, not idolatry: Paul begins with idolatry and then finishes his thought in vv. 29-31, providing a larger sin list, with homosexuality representing an archetypal sin. However, a more likely interpretation is that the entire passage is about idolatry, with the third parallel referring to sacred sex, a common practice of certain sects in the first century. This frequently included homogenitality, and male–female παρὰ φύσιν sex.9 The grammar of the passage supports this latter interpretation. First, καὶ καθώς (“since,” v. 28) takes a causal meaning,10 separating the previous discussion from the discussion that follows it, indicating that the homogenital behavior listed in vv. 26b–28 is part of a different clause than the sin list in vv. 29–32. Second, Chamberlain identifies ποιεῖν (“to do”) as the epexegetical infinitive, used here to clarify what precedes it (vv. 23–27) by way of the example that follows it (vv. 2932).11 This seems to indicate a clear separation between the sex acts and the sin list, which places vv. 26b–27 with the previous verses (parallels on idolatry) rather than with the subsequent verses (the sin list). Preserving the single focus of the three parallels also helps to explain the persistent linkage of idolatry with eroticism in each of the parallels.
Romans 1:26b: Heterogenital or Homogenital? The subjects of Rom 1:26b–27, who constitute one group, are connected not by “sexual orientation” but by religious affiliation. In order to accept that the third parallel continues the attack on idolatry, it is necessary to understand “sacred sex” and to problematize the “lesbian” identity of the subjects in v. 26b. This is the only verse in the OT or NT that is interpreted as an explicit reference to female homosexuality—but this has not always been the interpretation of this passage. In fact, Thomas D. Hanks says, “Not until John Chrysostom (ca. 400 c.e.) does anyone (mis)interpret Romans 1:26 as referring to relations between two women.”12 Early Erasmus 56; Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1994], 56; V. G. Kiernan, Horace: Poetics and Politics [New York: St. Martin’s, 1999], 82). 9 James B. De Young, “The Meaning of Nature in Romans 1 and Its Implications for Biblical Proscriptions of Homosexual Behavior,” JETS 31 (1988): 429–41. 10 Käsemann, Romans, 49; William Douglas Chamberlain, An Exegetical Grammar of the Greek New Testament (Grand Rapids: Baker, 1941), 176. 11 Chamberlain, Grammar, 106. 12 Hanks, The Subversive Gospel: A New Testament Commentary on Liberation (Cleveland: Pilgrim, 2000), 90. See also Mathew Kuefler, The Manly Eunuch: Masculinity, Gender Ambiguity,
Townsley: Romans 1:23–28
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commentators interpreted this passage as a reference not to female homogenitality but to nonprocreative, heterosexual acts. Clement of Alexandria, in Paedagogus, explains that, as a result of excessive lusts, the hare grows a new rectum every year because of heavy sexual use, and both male and female hyenas develop a special passage (non-vaginal, non-anal) for sexual penetration. In the latter case, Clement believes that this explains why conception is rare among hyenas—sperm is diverted from the passage designed for pregnancy. Thus, such acts are παρὰ φύσιν (“contrary to nature,” 86.1). Clement then ties this discussion directly back to Paul by quoting Rom 1:26b–27 (86.3), concluding his discussion with the following: It is clear that we should reject sex between men, sex with the infertile, anal sex with women, and sex with the androgynous. We should obey nature’s prohibition through the genital structure—real men discharge semen, not receive it. As Jeremiah said . . . “The hyena’s cave has become my home,” . . . as a skilled allegory condemning idolatry. (87.3)13
Clement’s concern about sex παρὰ φύσιν assumes that sperm is being wasted; therefore it seems that a man must be involved in Rom 1:26b, not two women. Further, through the reference to Jeremiah, he ties the παρὰ φύσιν sex back to the worship of idols. It is my contention that this reference oriented the original reader to the sacred sex practices of the goddess cults. This also clarifies Clement’s reference to sex with the androgynous, a typical early characterization of the castrated and effeminate male priests of these religions, the galli. Confirming this interpretation of Clement, Bernadette J. Brooten quotes an early Christian commentator,
and Christian Ideology in Late Antiquity (Chicago Series on Sexuality, History, and Society; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001), 383; Christopher Bryan, A Preface to Romans: A Note on the Epistle in Its Literary and Cultural Setting (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 86–87. While Chrysostom’s Homily on Romans is typically described as “anti-gay,” it can be recontextualized as anti-goddess instead. For example, Homily 4, which is tightly focused on Rom 1:26– 27, seems to be an explicit discussion about the galli, using language evocative of this group of priests: κύνα (“dogs”), εὐνούχους (“eunuchs”), ἀκρωτηριάζω (“to cut off body parts”), and men who make themselves into women by destroying their manhood (John Chrysostom, In epistulam ad Romanos [PG 60:415–21], sections 3–4). Several other early Christian writers link Rom 1:26–27 to the sex practices of the goddess cults: Athanasius, C. Gent. 26; Eusebius, Praep. ev. 7.2.4; Theodore de Bruyn, Pelagius’s Commentary on St Paul’s Epistle to the Romans (Oxford Early Christian Studies; Oxford: Clarendon, 1998), 66. 13 The English above is a paraphrase of the Greek text in Otto Stählin, Clemens Alexandrinus, vol. 1, Protrepticus und Paedagogus (GCS 12; Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1905), 210: Ἐντεῦθεν συµφανὲς ἡµῖν ὁµολογουµένως παραιτεῖσθαι δεῖν τὰς ἀρρενοµιξίας καὶ τὰς ἀκάρπους σπορὰς καὶ τὰς κατόπιν εὐνὰς καὶ τὰς ἀσυµφυεῖς ἀνδρογύνους κοινωνίας, ἑποµένους τῇ φύσει αὐτῇ ἀπαγορευούσῃ διὰ τῆς τῶν µορίων κατασκευῆς, οὐκ εἰς παραδοχὴν σπέρµατος, εἰς δὲ τὴν πρόεσιν αὐτοῦ τὸ ἄρρεν ἀνδρωσάσῃ. Ὁ δὲ Ἱερεµίας ὁπηνίκα ἂν φῇ, τοῦτ’ ἔστι δι’ αὐτοῦ τὸ πνεῦµα, «σπήλαιον ὑαίνης γέγονεν ὁ οἶκός µου», τὴν ἐκ τῶν νεκρῶν σωµάτων µυσαττόµενος τροφὴν ἀλληγορίᾳ σοφῇ τὴν εἰδωλολατρείαν διαβέβληκε.
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Anastasios, who, in a marginal note on the above passage, dismisses the view that Paul was describing female homogenital acts, specifying that the women were not going to each other, but “offer themselves to men.”14 This association between idolatry and sex is present also in the Apocalypse of Peter (second century c.e.). The author describes the punishment for those who have sex in the context of idol worship; the text specifies men with men, and some kind of relationship between men and women, but absent is any clear reference to relationships between women.15 We also see mentioned a practice related to the Attic/Cybele rituals (which will be described later)—ritual castration (“cut their flesh as apostles”). These are the worshippers of idols. . . . These are they which have cut their flesh as apostles of a man, and the women who were with them . . . and thus are the men who defiled themselves with one another in the fashion of women. . . . all idols, the works of men’s hands, and what resembles the images of cats and lions, of reptiles and wild beasts, and the men and women who manufactured the images, shall be in chains of fire.16
Similarly, Augustine seems to hold a nonhomogenital view of this passage, describing this context as nonprocreative, heterogenital intercourse, explaining that men wanted to have sex with women in parts of the body “not made for begetting children”: In the apostle’s words concerning the wicked, Having abandoned natural relations with a woman, they burned in their desires for one another, men treating men shamefully (Rom 1:27), he did not speak of marital, but natural relations. He meant for us to understand those relations which are brought about by the members created for this purpose so that both sexes can be joined by them in order to beget children. For this reason, when anyone is united by these same members even to a prostitute, the relations are natural, though they are not praiseworthy, but sinful. But if one has relations even with one’s wife in a part of the body which was not made for begetting children, such relations are against nature and indecent. In fact, the same apostle earlier said the same thing about the women, For their women exchanged natural relations for those which are against nature (Rom 1:26). (Nupt. 20.35)17 14 See Brooten, Love, 337; see also Stählin, Clemens, 331: αἵ τε γαρ θήλειαι οὐκ ἀλλήλας βαίνουσαι δηλαδή, ἀλλὰ τοῖς ἀνδράσιν οὕτω παρέχουσαι ἑαυτάς. οὕτως ’Αναστάσιος ἐν τῷ εἰς τὴν πρὸς Κορινθίους ἐξηγητικῷ. 15 Brooten addresses this and assumes that the women here are engaged in female homogenitality (Love, 305–14). She explains, however, that this interpretation is clear only in the Greek fragment, admitting that the Ethiopic fragment is accepted as closer to the original. 16 Edgar Hennecke, New Testament Apocrypha (ed. Wilhelm Schneemelcher; Eng. trans. ed. R. McL. Wilson; 2 vols.; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1964), 2:676–77, Ethiopic fragment. 17 Augustine, Answer to the Pelagians II: Marriage and Desire 20.35 (ed. John E. Rotelle; trans. Roland J. Teske; New York: New City Press, 1990), 75–76.
Townsley: Romans 1:23–28
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Slightly predating Augustine, Didymus the Blind twice quotes Rom 1:26–27 in his commentary on Zechariah. In both instances he uses it as an example of what happens to idolaters. In one of these he expands on Paul: Men, having intemperate desires for other men, working disgrace; and their females left the natural use of females for that which is unnatural and pathological; and women had whorish desires for women.18
The question pertinent here is why Didymus would add the clarifying note that “women had whorish desires for women,” if this was already implied in the previous clause? It is reasonable to propose that arising in the fourth century there was controversy regarding Paul’s intent and that Didymus added what he felt Paul had mistakenly failed to include in his original condemnation of deviant sex. Ambrosiaster is cited as an early source documenting Rom 1:26b as clearly referring to female homogenitality.19 However, this is only partially true—what we see is Ambrosiaster’s transition from a heterogenital view to a homogenital view. Several recensions exist for Ambrosiaster’s commentary on Romans, and the earliest recension has a clearly heterogenital rendering: “[regarding examples of idolatry], namely, the women were offering themselves to men in ways contrary to nature.”20 Brooten and Diana Swancutt both cite Ambrosiaster’s later recensions when they claim that he interpreted Rom 1:26b as female homogenitality. The edition by H. J. Vogels in CSEL makes Ambrosiaster’s transition clear by having the three recensions in parallel. It is not unreasonable to conclude, following John Boswell, that the fourth century represents the beginning of a successful cultural and political shift toward conservative, rural morality and government absolutism, both of which give preference to patriarchal hegemonies.21 Ambrosiaster’s textual revisions evidence the theological beginnings of this shift. Another problem in interpreting Romans 1 is discerning Paul’s intended meaning of παρὰ φύσιν in v. 26b. For example, the behavior—exchanging the procreative purpose of sex for behaviors that could not produce children—could refer to sex with a barren or pregnant woman, sex with a menstruating woman, ped-
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My translation; the Greek is from Didymus the Blind, Sur Zacharie (trans. Louis Doutreleau; 3 vols.; SC 83–85; Paris: Cerf, 1962), 3:828 (4.52.8): ἀκολάστως κατ᾽ ἀλλήλων ἐπιµαινόµενοι, ἄρσενες ἐν ἄρσεσιν κατεργαζόµενοι τὴν ἀσχηµοσύνην, ἀλλὰ καὶ αἱ θήλειαι αὐτῶν τὴν φυσικὴν χρῆσιν τῆς θηλείας ἐάσασαι παρὰ φύσιν καὶ πάσχουσιν, ἀλλὰ καὶ γυναῖκες ἐν γυναιξὶν πορνικῶς ἐπιµαίνονται. 19 Brooten, Love, 356; Swancutt, “Disease of Effemination,” 208–9. 20 My translation of the Latin “propter idolatriam . . . ut se viris feminae aliter quam natura dictavit offerrent.” See Ambrosiastri qui dicitur Commentarius in Epistulas Paulinas (ed. Henri J. Vogels; 3 vols.; CSEL 81.1–3; Vienna: Hoelder-Pichler-Tempsky, 1966–69), 1:50–51. 21 Boswell, Christianity, Social Tolerance, and Homosexuality: Gay People in Western Europe from the Beginning of the Christian Era to the Fourteenth Century (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980), 119–24.
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erasty, or sex between animals of different species.22 Philo, speaking as a Jewish contemporary of Paul, affirms that sex should occur only when procreation is possible: “those who sue for marriage with women whose sterility has already been proved with other husbands, do but copulate like pigs or goats, and their names should be inscribed in the lists of the impious as adversaries of God” (Spec. 3.34; trans. Colson, LCL). Similarly, regarding pederasty, he says that the active partner (the penetrating male) is παρὰ φύσιν because he “does not procreate.” In vv. 26b– 27, Paul uses παρὰ φύσιν in the verse that involves at least one female (v. 26b), not the verse that clearly includes men. If the cultural use of the phrase in a sexual context indicates that a man was engaging in a behavior that prevented conception (wasting sperm), it seems that Paul here refers to heterogenital sex that prevents procreation, such as anal or oral sex. Several recent analyses of παρὰ φύσιν support this position.23 Similarly, David Fredrickson’s analysis of χρῆσις (“use”) finds no examples of a female “using” another female, while he does find a reference to the “wife’s use of the husband,” which he believes is parallel to Rom 1:26b.24 John J. McNeill, Boswell, and Nissinen argue that παρὰ φύσιν refers to inherent “heterosexuals” who experiment with homogenitality.25 If this were true, however, it would leave the contemporary reader to judge an individual’s sexual behavior based on some ability to determine their “true” heterosexual or homosexual nature. This position ignores the profoundly social and historically fluid nature of sexualities, as well as stigmatizing bisexuals as much as previous authors have stigmatized homosexuals.26 Others emphasize that παρὰ φύσιν refers to patriarchal social inversion, that the “man who acts like a woman” and the “woman who 22
Jamie Banister, “ὁµοίως and the Use of Parallelism in Romans 1:26–27,” JBL 128 (2009): 569–90, here 572 n. 4; Brooten, Love, 247; Roy Ward “Why Unnatural? The Tradition behind Romans 1:26–27,” HTR 90 (1997): 263–84, here 271–73; De Young, “Meaning of Nature,” 429–41; Martin, Sex, 54–57; James Miller, “The Practices of Romans 1:26: Homosexual or Heterosexual,” NovT 37 (1995): 1–11, here 8–10. 23 Brooten, Love, 325; De Young, “Meaning of Nature”; David Fredrickson, “Natural and Unnatural Use in Romans 1:24–27,” in Homosexuality, Science and the “Plain Sense” of Scripture (ed. David L. Balch; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 197–222; Ward, “Why Unnatural?” 24 Fredrickson, “Unnatural Use,” 201, here referring to Plutarch, Conjugalia praecepta (Advice to Bride and Groom). Fredrickson argues that “use” refers to inordinate sexual desire within marriage, not idolatry. 25 McNeill, The Church and the Homosexual (updated ed.; Boston: Beacon, 1993), 41–42; Boswell, Social Tolerance, 109–10; Nissinen, Homoeroticism, 109. 26 Bernhardt-House, “Reenforcing Binaries,” 54–63. McNeill, Boswell, and Nissinen all assume that Rom 1:26b refers to female homogenitality, but it does not seem that their larger perspective requires it. If their point is that παρὰ φύσιν in v. 26b refers to heterosexual males engaging in homosexual behaviors in v. 27, the case could also be made for females who violate their sexual identities as “childbearers” (a common patriarchal view of women at the time) and allow men to have παρὰ φύσιν sex with them in v. 26b.
Townsley: Romans 1:23–28
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acts like a man” threatened Roman constructions of masculinity and thus society as a whole.27 There is no necessary contradiction between this view and the perspective offered here, that Rom 1:26b–27 is a specific example of the queer identities and sexual practices in the goddess cults; these interpretations may supplement each other. For example, Swancutt describes Roman virulence against Cybele and her effeminate, eunuch priests in terms of the perceived threat they posed to Roman masculinity and political stability.28 In the social milieu of this threat, Paul and his readers may have been particularly sensitized to the goddess cults because of the intersection of these two important elements—idolatry and patriarchy—which potentially clarifies Paul’s use of sexuality in 1:26b–27 as an example of idolatry. With regard to the question of 1:26b as a reference to female homogenitality, Jamie Banister analyzes ὁµοίως (“likewise”), the connecting word between v. 26 and v. 27, and determines that this connector does not imply that v. 27 should be used to limit the meaning of v. 26.29 Even though two men are involved in the clause following ὁµοίως, the word does not lead to the conclusion that the clause preceding it involves two women, only that both clauses are examples of some larger idea, in this case that some kind of natural use was exchanged (v. 26b) or abandoned (v. 27) for something else. In this case, Banister suggests as possibilities that a woman could be using an ὄλισβος (phallus) on herself, that a woman could be using an ὄλισβος with a man, or that men were having oral or anal sex with women.30 Swancutt comes to the same conclusion, explaining that if ὁµοίως follows other usages in the NT, it indicates that “the important connection between Rom 1:26 and 27 is the action, the ‘exchange/forsaking of the natural use for what is contrary to nature’ ”;31 ὁµοίως is not intended to show similarity between the subjects of the two sentences. It thus seems unlikely that the original audience would necessarily have heard Rom 1:26b as a reference to “lesbians.” If one assumes that 1:26b is a reference to female homogenitality, the question persists why Paul would bother to mention it, and especially preceding male sex, when female sex is rarely mentioned in ancient literature, and not at all in the OT. The Judaic traditions from which Paul was drawing32 have almost no discussion of 27
Stephen D. Moore, God’s Beauty Parlor: And Other Queer Spaces in and around the Bible (Contraversions; Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2001), 140–42; Diana Swancutt, “Still before Sexuality,” in Mapping Gender in Ancient Religious Discourses (ed. Todd Penner and Caroline Vander Stichele; Biblical Interpretation Series; Leiden: Brill, 2007), 11–62. 28 Swancutt, “Still before Sexuality,” 25–26. 29 Banister, “ὁµοίως,” 589. 30 Ibid., 588–89. 31 Swancutt, “Disease of Effemination,” 207–8 (emphasis added). 32 Peter J. Tomson, Paul and the Jewish Law: Halakha in the Letters of the Apostle to the Gentiles (CRINT, Section 3: Jewish Traditions in Early Christian Literature 1; Minneapolis: Fortress; Assen: Van Gorcum, 1990), 18–19.
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female homogenitality.33 Brooten proposes that female homogenitality was so monstrous that it was worse than male homogenitality and so deserved both mention and priority.34 Jewett instead notes Paul’s “strikingly egalitarian” perspective that he would mention it at all.35 However, with a heterogenital reading the reference seems less striking, since the more common discourse about male–female παρὰ φύσιν sex becomes the logically prioritized clause. Regarding θήλειαι αὐτῶν (“their females”)36 who were engaging in sex παρὰ φύσιν, Jewett notes the “chauvinism or procreational preoccupation” in the possessive form of this phrase.37 Gwen Sayler believes that the possessive refers to the “wives and daughters of Gentile men.” Since she assumes the traditional homogenital reading of v. 26b, she does not draw the intuitive conclusion that the women are simply asking their men to perform παρὰ φύσιν sex on them.38 If this passage about sexual deviance is targeting idol worship rather than sex itself, it would not be anomalous. The association between idolatry and sex was common in early Jewish and Christian sources.39 The OT has specific references to male temple prostitutes in conjunction with non-Israelite worship (see below). In the Wisdom of Solomon (14:12–31), as in the Apocalypse of Peter above, we find statements similar to those made by Paul in Romans 1. In this literary context, Paul’s words, I argue, would have starkly drawn the first-century mind to the goddess religions.40
II. Paul versus the Goddess The religion of the great mother goddess (Magna Mater) is one of the oldest recorded religions, dating to at least 6000 b.c.e. A terra-cotta figurine from this 33 See Bradley Artson, “Judaism and Homosexuality,” Tikkun 3 (1988): 52–54, 92–93; Michael Satlow, “ ‘They Abused Him like a Woman’: Homoeroticism, Gender Blurring and the Rabbis in Late Antiquity,” Journal of the History of Sexuality 5 (1994): 1–25, here 15–17. 34 Brooten, Love, 240. 35 Jewett, Romans, 176. 36 TLG-E (2000) contains twenty-six results from a search of “θηλε αὐτῶν” (accessed April 15, 2010). Fifteen of these are quotations from or commentaries on Romans. Only one of these differs enough to merit analysis in this context, and this passage, from Didymus’s Commentary on Zechariah, is described above. The rest are found in treatises on animals, where the phrase refers to the females of the species. Six of these are in Aristotle, who, like Paul, mentions the females first, followed by the males, although I make no claim that Paul makes direct use of Aristotle. The fact that all of the references not pertaining to Romans are zoological in nature, comparing how the males and females procreate, may lend further support to the procreationist interpretation of παρὰ φύσιν. 37 Jewett, Romans, 177. 38 Sayler, “Beyond the Biblical Impasse,” Dialog 44 (2005): 81–89, here 84. 39 Moo, Romans, 113. 40 Nissinen, Homoeroticism, 106.
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era, found at Catal Huyuk, shows the Mother sitting on her throne between two large cats.41 This religion was in Asia Minor by at least the seventh century b.c.e.,42 in Greece by the fifth or early fourth century,43 and its official entry into Rome was in 204 b.c.e.44 According to tradition, the Sibylline books instructed the Roman government to bring the “Mother of Mount Ida” to Rome to defeat Hannibal.45 A minor earthquake convinced King Attalus to release the goddess to them (in the form of a small meteorite ),46 and Cybele’s temple on Palatine Hill was completed in 191 b.c.e.47 The importance of the goddess religions cannot be overerestimated.48 During Paul’s missionary travels, goddess practices were widespread, and A. T. Fear notes that while “mystery religions in general were not a focus of Christian polemic, Attis and Cybele on the other hand appear to have been a favorite target for the invective of Christian writers.”49 Temples dedicated to Cybele/Attis, Artemis, Aphrodite, Demeter, and Venus were in most large cities of the region. The temple to Artemis in Ephesus was claimed to be the largest building in the world and one of the Seven Wonders.50 Strabo (somewhat dubiously) claimed that the temple to Aphrodite in Corinth had more than one thousand temple prostitutes and that it was this business that made Ephesus prosperous (Geogr. 8.6.20).51 In Rome, the 41 Robert Turcan, The Cults of the Roman Empire (Ancient World; Cambridge, MA: Blackwell, 1996), 28; Maarten J. Vermaseren, Cybele and Attis: The Myth and the Cult (London: Thames & Hudson, 1977), 15. 42 Patricia A. Johnston, “Cybele and Her Companions on the Northern Littoral of the Black Sea,” in Cybele, Attis and Related Cults: Essays in Memory of M. J. Vermaseren (ed. Eugene N. Lane; Religions in the Graeco-Roman World 131; Leiden/New York: Brill, 1996), 101–16, here 101; Vermaseren, Cybele and Attis, 20. 43 Giulia Sfameni Gasparro, Soteriology and Mystic Aspects in the Cult of Cybele and Attis (EPRO 103; Leiden: Brill, 1985), 64; Luther H. Martin, Hellenistic Religions: An Introduction (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), 83; Vermaseren, Cybele and Attis, 32. 44 Eva Stehle, “Venus Cybele and the Sabine Women: The Roman Construction of Female Sexuality,” Helios 16 (1989): 143–64, here 153; Vermaseren, Cybele and Attis, 41 45 Livy, The History of Rome (trans. George Baker; 6 vols.; New York: Harper & Bros., 1836), 317 (24.10); Ovid, Fasti (trans. A. J. Boyle and R. D. Woodard; New York: Penguin, 2000), 87–92 (4.179–372). 46 Vermaseren, Cybele and Attis, 39, 177; Deborah F. Sawyer, Women and Religion in the First Christian Centuries (Religion in the First Christian Centuries; New York: Routledge, 1996), 119. 47 Turcan, Cults, 37; Vermaseren, Cybele and Attis, 41. 48 See Timothy Pettipiece, “From Cybele to Christ: Christianity and the Transformation of Late Roman Religious Culture,” SR 37 (2008): 41–61. 49 Fear, “Cybele and Christ,” in Lane, Cybele, Attis and Related Cults, 37–50, here 37. 50 See Tom Horner, Jonathan Loved David: Homosexuality in Biblical Times (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1978), 100. 51 The Geography of Strabo (trans. Horace Leonard Jones; 8 vols.; LCL; London: Heinemann, 1917–33).
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temples to Cybele and Aphrodite were built in the heart of the city on two of the Seven Hills, and Cybele’s image was printed on Roman coins.52 Two major city festivals (the Day of Blood and the Megalensia) were organized around Cybele, and a statue of Cybele presided over the public games.53 Lynn E. Roller describes the worship of Cybele as central to Roman life: By the first century c.e., the Magna Mater was thus a divinity with a central place in Roman life. And the place of honor created for her cult in the first two centuries of its existence in Rome continued under the early Empire. The prominence of the Magna Mater in literature, art, and practice speaks of a cult that lay at the very center of the Roman religious experience. Her temple was located in the heart of the city, near its most venerable shrines.54
Hermaphrodite Goddesses and Queer Priests There are similarities in the practices among the goddess cults,55 as well as a popular blending of goddess identities, as described by Apuleius (second century c.e.): Though I am worshipped in many aspects, known by countless names, and propitiated with all manner of different rites, yet the whole round earth venerates me. The primeval Phrygians call me Pessinuntica, Mother of the gods; the Athenians, sprung from their own soil, call me Cecropian Artemis; for the islanders of Cyprus I am Paphian Aphrodite; for the archers of Crete I am Dictynna; for the trilingual Sicilians, Stygian Proserpine; and for the Eleusians their ancient Mother of the Corn. Some know me as Juno, some as Bellona of the Battles; others as Hecate, others again as Rhamnubia, but both races of Aethiopians, whose lands the morning sun first shines upon, and the Egyptians who excel in ancient learning and worship me with ceremonies proper to my godhead, call me by my true name, namely, Queen Isis.56
52
Stehle, “Venus Cybele and the Sabine Women,” 143. Vermaseren, Cybele and Attis, 96. 54 Roller, In Search of God the Mother: The Cult of Anatolian Cybele (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 315–16. 55 Gasparro, Soteriology, 40; David F. Greenberg, The Construction of Homosexuality (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988), 98; Catherine Kroeger, “The Apostle Paul and the Greco-Roman Cults of Women,” JETS 30 (1987): 25–38, here 37; M. Renee Salzman, “Magna Mater: Great Mother of the Roman Empire,” in The Book of the Goddess Past and Present: An Introduction to Her Religion (ed. Carl Olson; New York: Crossroad, 1983), 60–67, here 60; William Blake Tyrrell, Amazons: A Study in Athenian Mythmaking (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1984), 86. 56 Apuleius, The Golden Ass (trans. Robert Graves; New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1951), 264–65. 53
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Venus was brought to Rome shortly before Cybele, and Macrobius describes Aphrodite/Venus as hermaphroditic: Moreover, there is in Cyprus a bearded statue of the goddess with female clothing but with male attributes, so that it would seem that the deity is both male and female. Aristophanes also calls her “Aphroditus”; and in Laevinus the descriptive adjective is in the masculine gender, when he says: “Therefore worshipping Venus the giver of life [almum], whether the deity is female or male—even as is the life-giving deity that shines by night.” Philochorus, too, in his Atthis says that Venus is the moon and that men offer sacrifice to the moon dressed as women, and women dressed as men, because the moon is thought to be both male and female.57
Artemis is another goddess with similarities to Cybele.58 Acts 19 describes the economic, political, and social power of Artemis in Ephesus, where Paul’s evangelizing starts a riot and a city leader exclaims, “Men of Ephesus, does not all the world know that the city of Ephesus is the guardian of the temple of the great Artemis and of her image, which fell from heaven?” (Acts 19:35). Like Cybele’s priests, Artemis’s priests were frequently eunuchs, described as effeminate, and were sexually penetrated, violating the strict patriarchal ideals of masculinity in early Rome.59 These were common practices for goddess priests throughout the ancient world. The historical connection between the goddess religions and gender-variant priests goes back at least as far as the Sumerians in the third millennium b.c.e.,60 appearing in temple records as the gala/kalu priest in relation to the goddess Innana. Anal sex in their rituals seems clear from the following epithet: “When the gala/kalu wiped his anus [he said], ‘I must not excite that which belongs to my lady Innana.’ ”61 Likely not coincidence, the word sign for gala is the combined signs for penis + anus. The goddess Innana in later cultures was called Ishtar, notoriously promiscu57
Macrobius, The Saturnalia (trans. Percival Vaughan Davies; New York: Columbia University Press, 1969), 214 (3.8.2–3). 58 Richard Clark Kroeger and Catherine Clark Kroeger, I Suffer Not a Woman: Rethinking 1 Timothy 2:11–15 in Light of Ancient Evidence (Grand Rapids: Baker, 1991), 188; Turcan, Cults, 28; Vermaseren, Cybele and Attis, 30. Rick Strelan makes the case that, by the time of the early Christians, the connections between Cybele and Artemis were “difficult to trace” (Paul, Artemis, and the Jews in Ephesus [BZAW 80; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 1996], 90–91). However, the similarity in cross-gender practices was enough to create cultural revulsion, which is the imagery Paul uses in Romans 1. 59 Kroeger, “Apostle Paul,” 37; Will Roscoe, “Priests of the Goddess: Gender Transgression in Ancient Religion,” HR 35 (1996): 195–230, here 217; Tyrrell, Amazons, 86. 60 Roscoe, “Priests,” 213. 61 Nissinen, Homoeroticism, 33; Roscoe, “Priests,” 214.
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ous and at times engaging in transvestitism.62 Ishtar similarly demands gendervariant priests—assinu (male), assinutum (female),63 kurgurrutu,64 or galatur.65 The assinu were castrated so that Ishtar could “show her mighty power,” by changing the priests’ gender forever.66 Further, the assinu engaged in cross-gender behaviors and had sexual roles in worship.67 Will Roscoe notes that “Akkadian omen texts instruct men to have intercourse with assinu to obtain luck and refers to the desire of assinu for intercourse with men.”68 The assinitu were discussed in the context of Ishtar’s female priests (harimtu, kezertu, sekretu, samhatu), who were expected to engage in anal sex with worshipers.69 During the second and early first millennia b.c.e. sacred sex practices were not uncommon in the cultures surrounding Israel. There are several references to ritualized sex in the OT, specifically, the male “holy ones” or “male temple prostitutes” (Deut 23:17; 1 Kgs 14:24; 15:12; 22:46; 2 Kgs 23:7; Job 36:4; Hos 4:14). Deuteronomy 23:17-18 reads: “None of the daughters of Israel shall be a cult prostitute, nor shall any of the sons of Israel be a cult prostitute. You shall not bring the hire of a dog into the house of the Lord your God for any votive offering, for both of these are an abomination to the Lord your God” (NASB). The term for “dog” ( )כלבwas commonly used by outsiders as a pejorative designation for the castrated male priests. In Neo-Babylonian the priests were often named using a compound of kalbu and the god: Kalbi-Sin, Kalbi-Šamaš, Kalbi-Marduk.70 The assinu mentioned above, “joins the [Sumerogram] symbols for ‘dog’ and ‘woman.’ ”71 “Dog” (κυνάς) continued into the Greco-Roman era as slang for Cybele’s priests, whom Paul mentions in Phil 3:2–3, including a reference to their castration.72 Multiple texts describe the cross-dressing and effeminate goddess priests,73 as well as the annual festivals of the galli. Initially the Romans had difficulty accept62
Roscoe, “Priests,” 219. Greenberg, Construction, 97. 64 Nissinen, Homoeroticism, 30. 65 Philippe Borgeaud, Mother of the Gods: From Cybele to the Virgin Mary (trans. Lysa Hochroth; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004), 48. 66 Nissinen, Homoeroticism, 31; D. Winton Thomas, “Kelebh ‘Dog’: Its Origin and Some Usages of It in the Old Testament,” VT 10 (1960): 410–27, here 426. 67 Meir Malul, “( ִאיׂש ִע ִתּיLeviticus 16:21): A Marginal Person,” JBL 128 (2009): 437–42; Nissinen, Homoeroticism, 30. 68 Roscoe, “Priests,” 217. 69 Greenberg, Construction, 106; Donald V. Wold, Out of Order: Homosexuality in the Bible and the Ancient Near East (Grand Rapids: Baker, 1998), 60. 70 Thomas, “Kelebh,” 425. 71 Greenberg, Construction, 95; Thomas, “Kelebh,” 426; Nissinen, Homoeroticism, 41. 72 See Mark D. Nanos, “Paul’s Reversal of Jews Calling Gentiles ‘Dogs’ (Philippians 3:2),” BibInt 17 (2009): 448–82, here 449, 475–76; Kuefler, Manly Eunuch, 257–58. 73 Martin, Hellenistic, 84. 63
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ing the galli’s gender violations, and thus the galli themselves. Roman citizens were prohibited from becoming galli until 101 b.c.e. when the laws were altered to allow certain citizens to become galli, and finally around 50 c.e., “Claudius removed all restrictions preventing citizens from becoming galli.”74 Eventually, the office of head of the galli, the Archigallus, became a state-appointed position,75 and the galli’s primary festival, the Day of Blood, was incorporated into the public religious calendar76 along with Cybele’s Megalensia, which then became a multi-week event. The galli would wander in the streets in full cross-dress regalia: amulets, flowing robes, makeup, depilated bodies, and long hair dyed blond. They would dance in a Bacchic frenzy with tambourines and flutes, often with knives or swords, with which they would cut their arms, shedding blood to help them tell the fortunes of the people who would give them money.77 These practices continued at least through the fourth century. Firmicus describes some of their beliefs, temple practices, and festivals: Tell me, is air a divinity if it looks for a woman in a man, if its band of priests can minister to it only when they have feminized their faces, rubbed smooth their skin, and disgraced their manly sex by donning women’s regalia? In their very temples one may see scandalous performances, accompanied by the moaning of the throng: men letting themselves be handled as women, and flaunting with boastful ostentatiousness this ignominy of their impure and unchaste bodies. They parade their misdeeds in the public eye, acknowledging with superlative relish in filthiness the dishonor of their polluted bodies. They nurse their tresses and pretty them up woman-fashion; they dress in soft garments; they can hardly hold their head erect on their languid necks. Next, being thus divorced from masculinity, they get intoxicated with the music of flutes and invoke their goddess to fill them with an unholy spirit so that they can ostensibly predict the future to fools. What sort of monstrous and unnatural thing is all this? They say they are not men, and indeed they aren’t; they want to pass as women, but whatever the nature of their bodies is, it tells a different story. (Err. prof. rel. 4.2)78
Augustine’s account is similar, also mentioning the galli’s castration: There are the rites of the Mother of the gods where the beautiful youth Attis, loved by her and castrated because of a woman’s jealousy, is mourned by those 74 Randy P. Conner, Blossom of Bone: Reclaiming the Connections between Homoeroticism and the Sacred (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1993), 102. 75 Grant Showerman, The Great Mother of the Gods (1901; repr., Chicago: Argonaut, 1969), 51. 76 Roscoe, “Priests,” 201. 77 Greenberg, Construction, 98; Kroeger and Kroeger, I Suffer Not, 94; Turcan, Cults, 37–41; Vermaseren, Cybele and Attis, 97. 78 Firmicus Maternus, The Error of Pagan Religions (trans. Clarence Forbes; ACW 37; New York: Newman, 1970), 50–51.
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Journal of Biblical Literature 130, no. 4 (2011) unfortunate men called Galli who are also castrated. . . . The rites which are enacted by castrated and effeminate men are indeed performed in secret; but our adversaries have certainly not been able to conceal the men themselves, so miserably emasculated and corrupted. (Civ. 6.7)79
Several other Christian and non-Christian sources describe the roaming priests similarly.80 In addition to the frenzied, effeminate behavior, other practices are consistent: castration, same-sex sex, and the presence of female galli, often paired with phalli and anal sex. Each of these deserves a separate treatment.
Castration and Male Homogenitality The male priests of many goddess religions made themselves into eunuchs.81 Many sources describe the castrated galli as well as the “frenzy” associated with the castration ritual, attesting to the longevity and widespread knowledge of the practice.82 By the time of Lucian (second century c.e.), the rituals had long since become part of the official Roman religious calendar, occurring on the Day of Blood. During these days they are made Galli. As the Galli sing and celebrate their orgies, frenzy falls on many of them and many who had come as mere spectators afterwards are found to have committed the great act. I will narrate what they do. Any young man who has resolved on this action, strips off his clothes, and with a loud shout bursts into the midst of the crowd, and picks up a sword from a number of swords which I suppose have been kept ready for many years for this purpose. He takes it and castrates himself and then runs wild through the city, bearing in his hands what he has cut off. He casts it into any house at will, and from this house he receives women’s raiment and ornaments. Thus they act during their ceremonies of castration. (Lucian, Syr. d. 61)
The act of self-castration helped the galli transcend gender. One faction of the Gnostic movement, the Naassenes, describes this idea, linking it to early Christian thought. The Naassenes, “while equally regarding the Logos [Jesus] as the centre of
79 Augustine, The City of God against the Pagans (ed. and trans. Robert H. Dyson; Cambridge Texts in the History of Political Thought; Cambridge/New York: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 254. 80 See also Catullus 63 (The Poetry of Catullus [trans. Charles H. Sisson; New York: Orion, 1967], 103–6); Clement of Alexandria, Protr. 2.14 and Paed. 3.4 (ANF 2); Juvenal, Sat. 6.315– 75 (Satires [trans. Rolfe Humphries; Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1958], 75); Lucian, Syr. d. 50–55 (The Syrian Goddess [trans. Herbert Strong; 1913; repr., London: BiblioBazaar, 2007]); Lucretius, De rerum natura 2.600–680 (trans. William Ellery Leonard; New York: Dover, 2004), 52. 81 Roller, God the Mother, 318. 82 See also Catullus 63; Juvenal, Sat. 6.500; Lucretius, De rerum natura 2.600–680 (Leonard, 52).
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their belief, held the equivalent deity to be Attis, and frequented the Phrygian Mysteries as the most direct source of spiritual enlightenment.”83 Kroeger and Kroeger date this Christo-Naassene sect to the first century c.e. and link it and the transgender beliefs to the galli practices: “There is considerable evidence that the Naassene sect developed from that of Attis of Cybele.”84 Hippolytus, a Christian apologist from the late second century, attacks the Naassenes and their gender-deviant beliefs. Such beliefs are described in the Logia, sayings the Gnostics claim are attributable to Jesus. The Gospel of Thomas describes the basis for the Naassene belief in the desirability of transcending gender: “when you make the male and female into a single one, so that the male will not be male nor the female be female . . . then you will enter [the
domain]” (brackets in the original) (logion 22).85 It is this and other teachings that Hippolytus directly critiques, and in the process links the Cybele/Rhea and Attis religion to Romans 1: For (the Naassene) says, there is the hermaphrodite man, . . . [and] Attis has been emasculated, that is, he has passed over from the earthly parts of the nether world to the everlasting substance above, where, he says, there is neither female or male, but a new creature, a new man, which is hermaphrodite. As to where, however, they use the expression “above,” I shall show when I come to the proper place (for treating this subject). But they assert that, by their account, they testify that Rhea is not absolutely isolated, but—for so I may say—the universal creature; and this they declare to be what is affirmed by the Word. Wherefore also God gave them up unto vile affections; for even their women did change the natural use into that which is against nature. What, however, the natural use is, according to them, we shall afterwards declare. And likewise also the men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lust one toward another; men with men working that which is unseemly. . . . For in these words which Paul has spoken they say the entire secret of theirs, and a hidden mystery of blessed pleasure, are comprised. (Haer. 5.2)86
In Romans 1, what many contemporary Christians see as a condemnation of homosexuality the Naassenes saw as a blessing, as it helped them to transcend the profanity of gender and thus become closer to God. The Naassenes understood Rom 1:26b–27 as sacred sex, connected with the sexual practices of the galli. Equally important to the early Christian polemicists, the practice of self-castration was not limited to the Gnostic factions of Christianity but became an issue for many Christian men, who, in their attempts to dedicate themselves wholly to their faith, 83
Jesse L. Weston From Ritual to Romance (1920; repr., Mineola: Dover, 1997), 158. Kroeger and Kroeger, I Suffer Not, 165–66. 85 Richard Valantasis, The Gospel of Thomas (New Testament Readings; New York: Routledge, 1997), 96. 86 Hippolytus, Refutation of All Heresies (ANF 5:49–50). 84
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believed they must become “eunuchs because of the reign of the heavens” (Matt 19:12 YLT), drawing inspiration from the practices of the goddess religions and castrating themselves.87 In addition to castration and transgender theology, several of the goddess religions made sex an integral part of their worship,88 practices still seen today in the Indian Hijra system.89 This practice is attested also in the OT as qādēš (“male shrine prostitutes” in 1 Kgs 15:12 and 2 Kgs 23:7 NIV). That the OT and NT recognize and condemn sacred sex is clear. That Greek and Roman society condemned sacred sex, even sacred homogenitality, is far from clear and is probably incorrect. In fact, it seems that ritualized sacred homoeroticism “experienced a kind of renaissance between the fourth century b.c.e. and the third century c.e.”90 In this form of worship, it was believed that the worshiper “receives the inner-most essence and power of a god.”91 The galli, for their part in the homogenital act, live out the sexual/gender variance of Attis and Cybele as well as transcend gender, to become more like their gods.92 That the galli participated in homogenital acts is indisputable, as seen in the gala/kalu above,93 as well as in descriptions of the galli from Roman and Greek texts.94 Apuleius tells an archetypal story of the galli, here describing a traveling band of priests of the goddess: The eunuch, whose name was Philebus, led me off to his lodgings. When he reached the door he called out: “Look, girls, Look! I have brought you a lovely 87
David Hester, “Eunuchs and the Postgender Jesus,” JSNT 28 (2005): 13–40, here 30–36; Kuefler, Manly Eunuch, 245–81. 88 Greenberg, Construction, 99. 89 The Indian devadasi system is the tradition whereby young girls are consecrated into temple service, often becoming involved in sex work. Hijra are emasculated or intersex men associated with both goddess worship and sex work. The similarities include castration, ostentatiously “effeminate” behaviors and dress, the public belief that Hijra and devadasi can bless and curse, the stigmatized nature of Hijra and devadasi, and the sexual use of these stigmatized individuals under the auspices of sacred sex practices. See Moni Nag, “Anthropological Perspectives on Prostitution and AIDS in India,” Economic and Political Weekly 36 (2001): 4025–30; John O’Neil, Treena Orchard, R. C. Swarankar, James Blanchard, Kaveri Gurav, and Stephen Moses Dhandha, “Dharma and Disease: Traditional Sex Work and HIV/AIDS in Rural India,” Social Science and Medicine 59 (2004): 851–60; Gayatri Reddy, With Respect to Sex: Negotiating Hijra Identity in South India (Worlds of Desire; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005); Karuna Sharma, “The Social World of Prostitutes and Devadasis,” Journal of International Women’s Studies 9 (2007): 297–310; Rabun Taylor, “Two Pathic Subcultures in Ancient Rome,” Journal of the History of Sexuality 7 (1997): 319–71. 90 Conner, Blossom, 116. 91 Ibid. 92 Sawyer, Women and Religion, 125. 93 Nissinen, Homoeroticism, 33; Roscoe, “Priests,” 214. 94 See Clement of Alexandria, Protr. 2.14; Firmicus, Err. prof. rel. 4.2; Martial, Epigrams 3.81 (trans. Shackleton Bailey; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993).
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new man-servant!” The girls were a set of disgusting young eunuch priests who broke into falsetto screams and hysterical giggles of joy, thinking that Philebus really meant what he said, and that they would now have a fine time with me. . . . This queer family included one real man, a great big slave, whom they had bought with money collected by begging. When they went out, leading the Goddess in procession, he would walk in front playing a horn—he played extremely well— and at home they used in him all sorts of ways, especially in bed.95
Female Galli, Temple Prostitutes, and Phalli In addition to the gender-variant males, female galli, ἑταίρας (temple prostitutes/slaves) and sacerdos (priestess) are also associated with the mother goddess.96 M. J. Vermaseren notes that many priestesses (sacerdos; ἱερετεύουσα) of the cult are known. Their choice, too, had to be sanctioned by the quindecimviri. The title of sacerdos maxima, which occurs in Rome, suggests a certain hierarchy. . . . They supervised the inferior members of the staff and they carried the sacred vessels (cernophorae), or acted as mourners (praeficae) during the days of mourning in March.97
Sawyer concurs: “Women in particular would have enjoyed the freedom that such a religion offered them as an alternative to the rigid, patriarchal structures Roman society imposed on them.”98 As already mentioned, ἑταίρας were associated with the temples of Aphrodite/Venus in Rome99 and Artemis in Ephesus (Strabo, Geogr. 8.6.20). The rituals associated with these temples were often orgiastic, and “their votaries were women and eunuchs.”100 Clement describes the practices of some female galli, pairing them with stereotyped images of the male galli: And these women are carried about over the temples, sacrificing and practicing divination day by day, spending their time with fortune-tellers, and begging priests, and disreputable old women; and they keep up old wives’ whisperings over their cups, learning charms and incantations from soothsayers, to the ruin of the nuptial bonds. And some men they keep; by others they are kept; and others are promised them by the diviners. They know not that they are cheating themselves, and giving up themselves as a vessel of pleasure to those that wish to indulge in wantonness; and exchanging their purity for the foulest outrage, they 95
Apuleius, Golden Ass, 188–89. Showerman, Great Mother, 54. 97 Vermaseren, Cybele and Attis, 109. 98 Sawyer, Women and Religion, 125. See also Ross Shepard Kraemer, “Ecstasy and Possession: The Attraction of Women to the Cult of Dionysus,” HTR 72 (1979): 55–80; and Roller, God the Mother, 232. 99 Stehle, “Venus Cybele and the Sabine Women,” 152. 100 Tyrrell, Amazons, 86. 96
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Journal of Biblical Literature 130, no. 4 (2011) think what is the most shameful ruin a great stroke of business. And there are many ministers to this meretricious licentiousness. . . . But these women delight in intercourse with the effeminate [κιναίδων]. And crowds of abominable creatures flow in, of unbridled tongue, filthy in body, filthy in language; men enough for lewd offices, ministers of adultery, giggling and whispering. (Paed. 3.4 [ANF])101
Clement here describes a surprising practice: the women were having sex with the κίναιδοι. In a simplified sense, the κίναιδοι are effeminate men who enjoy being sexually penetrated.102 This raises the question of why a κίναιδος would go to a female to have sex, and what form that sex would take. Three possibilities emerge. First, these κίναιδοι may have been sexually penetrating the women, contrary to the meaning of the term κίναιδοι as well as the contextual inferences; this is unlikely. The second possibility is that the men were performing oral sex on the women, as referenced by Martial.103 The third possibility is that the women were using an ὄλισβος (“phallus”) to perform anal sex on the men. Either of the latter two represents a dramatic gender reversal of cultural norms. If the male performs oral sex on the woman, such behavior would still put the male in the passive condition of fellare, and the woman in the active condition of irrumare.104 Such a reversal would constitute a breach of expected gender roles for any respectable man and woman. If the woman uses an ὄλισβος or φαλλός to engage in pedicare, the man allows himself to be cevare. Either case would constitute behavior that was παρὰ φύσιν, since none involved procreative possibilities and each violated patriarchal norms of gender roles. The latter interpretation of the behavior of temple ἑταίρας is supported by texts that associate the goddess temples with phalli. The goddess Diana was honored in the kordax, “a dance-drama in which women and men dressed in the garments of the opposite sex, the women, wearing lombai, ‘enormous phalli,’ pretended to penetrate the male dancers.”105 Clement describes a φαλλός given to new galli initiates. Although he does not explicitly state the function of the φαλλός, it is not 101 Stählin, Clemens, 253: Αἳ δὲ ἀνδρογύνων συνουσίαις ἥδονται, παρεισρέουσι δὲ ἔνδον κιναίδων ὄχλοι ἀθυρόγλωσσοι. 102 Or cinaedi in Latin. Williams (Roman Homosexuality, 194–97) cites several ancient writers who refer to galli as cinaedi. These may or may not have been the male galli. While most galli were κίναιδοι, it cannot similarly be concluded that most κίναιδοι were galli, since there is no evidence to suggest that most men who engaged in homogenitality were Cybele priests. 103 Martial, Epigrams 3.81 (LCL): “What concern have you, eunuch Baeticus, with the feminine abyss? This tongue of yours should be licking male middles. Why was your cock cut off with a Samian shard if you were so fond of cunt, Baeticus? Your head should be castrated. You may be a eunuch loinwise, but you cheat Cybele’s rites. With your mouth you’re a man.” 104 Using the Latin, based on Williams’s treatment of the subject (Roman Homosexuality, 202). 105 Conner, Blossom, 96.
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unreasonable to assume, in light of other texts and the rites of the gala/kalu, that the early Christians believed sex παρὰ φύσιν was occurring: Of members so lewd a worthy fruit—Aphrodite—is born. In the rites which celebrate this enjoyment of the sea, as a symbol of her birth a lump of salt and the phallus (φαλλός) are handed to those who are initiated into the art of uncleanness.106
III. Conclusion That Paul would have been familiar with the goddess religions seems inescapable. Temples and shrines to Cybele, Artemis, Venus/Aphrodite, Astarte, and others were scattered densely around the region of Paul’s upbringing and missionary travels.107 In Corinth, where Paul most likely wrote Romans,108 several gender/sexual-variant artifacts have been found. The anti-Christian riot in Ephesus (Acts 19) was important enough to be preserved in the canon, and evidence suggests that other conflicts between the goddess cults and early Christian groups occurred, not to mention Paul’s reference to the galli (κυνάς) in Phil 2:2–3. Roscoe goes so far as to say, “In some cities, worshipers clashed in the streets when the festivals of the two religions coincided, as they often did in the spring.”109 This should not be surprising, given the popularity and influence of the goddess religions on the Greek and Roman cultures. Roller notes the extent of the galli’s presence in Rome: In contrast, the evidence suggests that eunuch priests were a common sight in Rome. The prominence of these priests in Roman society may have resulted from the secure position given to eunuchs by the Magna Mater cult. Such a protected status could have caused their number to multiply, as the priesthood proved a magnet for transsexuals, transvestites, and others who found themselves on the margins of society. . . . This may well have caused their numbers to grow to the point where they became quite a conspicuous part of the social scene.110
Given the spread of castration rituals into the Christian community, likely linked directly to the goddess cults, it seems that theologically there would be heavy inter106 Clement, Protr 2.14 (ANF). The Greek φαλλός is from Stählin, Clemens, 12. See also Arnobius, The Case against the Pagans 5.19 (trans. George E. McCracken; 2 vols.; ACW 7–8; Westminster, MD: Newman, 1949), 2:427. A similar text by Arnobius refers to the exchange of “obscene tokens” referring to the Latin phallos as found in Arnobii Adversus Nationes libri VII (ed. August Riefferscheid; CSEL 4; Vienna: Geroldi Filium Bibliopolam, 1875), 7.190. 107 Vermaseren, Cybele and Attis, 37. For an exhaustive description of the extant artifacts representing Cybele and Attis, see idem, Corpus Cultus Cybelae Attidisque (CCCA) (EPRO 50; Leiden: Brill, 1966–86). 108 Nissinen, Homoeroticism, 110; Jewett, Romans, 18. 109 Roscoe, “Priests,” 205. 110 Roller, God the Mother, 319.
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nal interest in discrediting goddess beliefs and practices, in addition to the political and social conflict.111 The cumulative evidence suggests that Paul’s context for the entire pericope of Rom 1:18–32 is idolatry, and that vv. 26–27 refer to the gender and sex-variant practices of the goddess cults. Further, considering that at least six sources from the early church imply or state that v. 26b is a reference to heterogenitality, it seems that the tradition linking this verse to “lesbians” is dubious, thus problematizing the idea that in vv. 26–27, Paul is describing the “category of homosexuality.” There is little reason to believe that Paul’s intent in this passage is anything but an exhortation against the worship of other gods, and even less basis to infer the general content of Paul’s beliefs about sexual orientations, specifically the use of this passage as a condemnation of contemporary queer relationships. 111
Hester, Eunuchs, 30–36; Kuefler Manly Eunuch, 264.
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An Unworthy Foe: Heroic Ἔθη, Trickery, and an Insult in Ephesians 6:11 jeffrey r. asher [email protected] Georgetown College, Georgetown, KY 40324
The literary and conceptual frameworks within which scholars have interpreted Eph 6:10–20 have been quite limited. Various studies have pointed out the similarities between this text and the divine warrior motif, especially in Isaiah, and its subsequent adaptation in the Wisdom of Solomon and the authentic Pauline letters.1 In addition, many notable scholars have pointed out the striking similarities between the language and themes of Ephesians and certain writings from 1 The important primary texts that are often cited as parallels to Eph 6:10–20 are as follows: Isa 11:5; 52:7; 59:17–20; Wis 5:15–23; Rom 13:12; 2 Cor 6:7; 1 Thess 5:8; and T. Levi 8:2. For an excellent summary, see Frank S. Thielman, “Ephesians,” in Commentary on the New Testament Use of the Old Testament (ed. Gregory K. Beale and Donald A. Carson; Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2007), 830–33. The following is a representative though by no means exhaustive list of secondary sources that locate this passage within this conceptual framework: Thomas Kingsmill Abbott, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Epistles to the Ephesians and to the Colossians (ICC; New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1897), 184–85; Clinton E. Arnold, Ephesians: Power and Magic: The Concept of Power in Ephesians in Light of Its Historical Setting (SNTSMS 63; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 109; Markus Barth, Ephesians: Introduction, Translation and Commentary (2 vols.; AB 34, 34A; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1974), 2:768, 791–93; F. F. Bruce, The Epistles to the Colossians, to Philemon, and to the Ephesians (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1984), 407–10; Andrew T. Lincoln, Ephesians (WBC 42; Dallas: Word, 1990), 435–36, 448, 456; Margaret Y. MacDonald, Colossians and Ephesians (SP 17; Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2000), 345–47; Thomas R. Yoder Neufeld, Put on the Armour of God: The Divine Warrior from Isaiah to Ephesians (JSNTSup 140; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1997), 94–153; Pheme Perkins, Ephesians (ANTC; Nashville: Abingdon, 1997), 142–43; J. Armitage Robinson, St. Paul’s Epistle to the Ephesians: A Revised Text and Translation with Exposition and Notes (London: Macmillan, 1903), 213, 215; Heinrich Schlier, Der Brief an die Epheser: Ein Kommentar (Düsseldorf: Patmos, 1957), 294–97; and Rudolf Schnackenburg, Ephesians: A Commentary (trans. Helen Heron; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1991), 276–80.
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Qumran.2 In my opinion, both of these approaches are legitimate to the extent that the similarities and parallels clearly exist and must be accounted for in any interpretation of the text. Apart from these literary sources, other commentators have attempted to explain the language of Eph 6:10–20 by speculating that the author merely drew on his own experiences and observations, which were subsequently included in the metaphors of the panoply in vv. 14–17, or that the author is adapting the language of a baptismal catechesis.3 These linguistic and contextual frameworks have clearly impacted the way in which the passage has been understood, with interpretations ranging from a reference to an eschatological battle to a practical theology reading involving individuals in their struggle with evil. Nevertheless, in spite of many significant advances in our understanding of Eph 6:10–20, much of the language remains unexplained. For example, why does the author divide the combatants into two clearly defined groups by assigning to each group distinctive martial characteristics and practices? Why is strength the distinctive goal of the believers, and why is there a specific focus on heavy armament? Why is the enemy of the believers depicted as one who uses stratagems or tricks (6:11) and missile weapons (6:16)? In this article, I will argue that another literary and conceptual context needs to be considered, especially since previous studies have failed to explain the antithetical descriptions of the combatants in vv. 10–12 2
See Nils Alstrup Dahl, Studies in Ephesians: Introductory Questions, Text- & EditionCritical Issues, Interpretation of Texts and Themes (ed. David Hellholm et al.; WUNT 131; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2000), 115–44; Margaret Y. MacDonald, “The Politics of Identity in Ephesians,” JSNT 26 (2004): 422; and Perkins, Ephesians, 29–30, 142–44. 3 For the Roman soldier as a possible model for the author, see Larry J. Kreitzer, The Epistle to the Ephesians (Epworth Commentaries; Peterborough: Epworth, 1997), 178, 180; Ralph P. Martin, Ephesians, Colossians, and Philemon (IBC; Atlanta: John Knox, 1991), 75–76; and Perkins, Ephesians, 144; Schlier, An die Epheser, 295; and esp. Albrecht Oepke, “πανοπλία,” TDNT 5:295– 315. In this article, I am not challenging the allusion to a Roman legionnaire in vv. 14–17, a point ably made by Oepke and Edgar Krentz (“Paul, Games, and the Military,” in Paul in the GrecoRoman World: A Handbook [ed. J. Paul Sampley; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2003], 378 n. 106). This allusion to a Roman soldier, however, would not preclude additional and even more pronounced allusions to heroic characters such as Achilles and Odysseus (see below). Achilles was an adaptable character who was often “modernized” to meet the needs of a new literary and artistic generation. For example, classical Greek art is replete with examples of Achilles depicted as a hoplite or of anonymous hoplites depicted as Achilles (see François Lissarrague, “The World of the Warrior,” in A City of Images: Iconography and Society in Ancient Greece [ed. Claude Bérard et al.; Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989], 38–51). Ephesians 6:10–20 is analogous in that Christian warriors are depicted with an allusion to Achilles but also in contemporary terms with an allusion to Roman legionnaires. The thesis that the passage is a baptismal catechesis appears to be largely based on the presence of clothing imagery in the text. Lincoln observes that “there are no particularly compelling reasons for thinking that it is such people [baptismal candidates] who are being addressed by the material in its present form and position in the letter” (Ephesians, 440).
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and 16 and the devil as a trickster in v. 11. More specifically, I will argue that the evidence strongly suggests that this portrayal of the devil is based on an ancient Greek model of cunning in warfare. This model originated in the heroic tradition, principally Homer, and served as the antithesis of a competitive heroic virtue, strength. When combined with its opposite, it often carried negative connotations, implications that I will argue carry over into Eph 6:11. When the author labels the archenemy of believers as a trickster, he is not only issuing the literary equivalent of a “challenge–riposte,” but he is also slandering the enemy of the community with a traditional insult drawn from one of the important symbols of Greek culture.4 The language thus symbolically encodes various honorific and shameful attributes to the different combatants and labels the enemy of the believers as an unworthy foe. The evidence for this position is threefold. First, Eph 6:10–20 is structured to emphasize the contrast between the two combatants and their characteristic forms of combat. Second, the believers are clearly depicted in a manner reminiscent of the primary qualities of what has been labeled by Everett Wheeler as the “Achilles ethos,” which was a common paradigm of strength and openness in battle.5 Finally, the devil/evil one conducts his combat in a manner reminiscent of the so-called “Odysseus ethos,” which was a common paradigm of trickery and guile in warfare.6 4 On the “challenge–riposte” as a component of an honor and shame culture, see especially Richard P. Martin, The Language of Heroes: Speech and Performance in the Iliad (Myth and Poetics; Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1989). This has also been a major topic of the socialscientific group in NT studies: see, e.g., Bruce J. Malina and Jerome H. Neyrey, “Honor and Shame in Luke-Acts: Pivotal Values of the Mediterranean World,” in The Social World of LukeActs: Models for Interpretation (ed. Jerome H. Neyrey; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1991), 29–32, 49–52; Bruce J. Malina and John J. Pilch, Social-Science Commentary on the Letters of Paul (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006), 334–35; Halvor Moxnes, “Honor and Shame,” in The Social Sciences and New Testament Interpretation (ed. Richard L. Rohrbaugh; Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 1996), 20–21; Jerome H. Neyrey, “The Trials (Forensic) and Tribulations (Honor Challenges) of Jesus: John 7 in Social Science Perspective,” BTB 26 (1996): 116–23; and Richard L. Rohrbaugh, “Legitimating Sonship—A Test of Honour: A Social-Scientific Study of Luke 4:1–30,” in Modelling Early Christianity: Social-Scientific Studies of the New Testament in Its Context (ed. Philip F. Esler; London: Routledge, 1995), 183–97. These studies are largely based on comparative studies with modern Mediterranean cultures; Péristiany’s study is useful, but caution is warranted (Jon Hesk, Deception and Democracy in Classical Athens [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000], 1–19). 5 Most recently, see Everett L. Wheeler and Barry Strauss, “Battle,” in The Cambridge History of Greek and Roman Warfare, vol. 1, Greece, the Hellenistic World, and the Rise of Rome (ed. Philip Sabin et al.; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 189–91. 6 See Wheeler, Stratagem and the Vocabulary of Military Trickery (Mnemosyne 108; Leiden: Brill, 1988), 3; and idem, “The General as Hoplite,” in Hoplites: The Classical Greek Battle Experience (ed. Victor Davis Hanson; New York: Routledge, 1993), 121–70. For the conflict and contrast between Achilles and Odysseus, see Gregory Nagy, The Best of the Achaeans: Concepts of the Hero in Archaic Greek Poetry (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1979); Jim Marks, “The
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These three elements combine to portray the enemy of the believers in Eph 6:11 in a negative light, especially as a shameful and dishonorable opponent.
I. Ephesians 6:10–20 Using a series of metaphors whose secondary subjects are drawn from the realm of ancient warfare, the author of Ephesians classifies the combatants into two groups: the believers, who are to be empowered by God and the supernatural, and cosmic forces of evil, who are labeled as the devil/evil one in vv. 11 and 16 and as the cosmic evil powers in v. 12. These two sets of combatants are metaphorically associated with distinct forms of combat. Three specific motifs are associated with the believers: strength, armoring, and standing. These three motifs not only describe the believers but are also essential to understanding the structure of this paraenetic section. The structure of 6:10–20 is governed by three principal imperatives in vv. 10, 11, and 14, thus dividing the passage into three parts. In spite of claims to the contrary, the primary thrust of this pericope is announced in v. 10 with the command to “be strong” (ἐνδυναµοῦσθε) followed by two instrumental datives that explain the source of the strength: “in the Lord and in his mighty power” (ἐν κυρίῳ καὶ ἐν τῷ κράτει τῆς ἰσχύος αὐτοῦ). Two subsequent sections introduced by imperatives explain this command in more detail. Verses 11– 13 explain three aspects of the command to be strong: (1) how the strength is obtained, that is, “Put on the panoply that God provides” (ἐνδύσασθε τὴν πανοπλίαν τοῦ θεοῦ),7 (2) why the panoply should be donned (a purpose clause), that is, “so that you may be able to stand” (πρὸς τὸ δύνασθαι ὑµᾶς στῆναι), and finally (3) why this gesture of standing fully armed should be undertaken, that is, to stand “against the tricks of the devil” (πρὸς τὰς µεθοδείας τοῦ διαβόλου) and the cosmic adversaries in vv. 11b–12. The second subsection, vv. 14–17, focuses on the display of strength in wearing the appropriate objects of the panoply. In contrast, the devil and the cosmic powers are described as employing cunning devices or tricks (µεθοδείας, v. 11) and missile warfare (βέλη, v. 16). This strong contrast in the martial metaphors describing the combatants suggests that the author of Ephesians is portraying the conflict in a manner reminiscent of the antithesis between armored strength displayed in the gesture of standing, on the one hand, and cunning and missile warfare, on the other.
Ongoing Neikos: Thersites, Odysseus, and Achilleus,” AJP 126 (2005): 1–31; Anthony T. Edwards, Achilles in the Odyssey: Ideologies of Heroism in the Homeric Epic (Beiträge zur klassischen Philologie 171; Königstein/Ts.: Anton Hain, 1985); and Richard G. A. Buxton, Persuasion in Greek Tragedy: A Study of Peitho (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1982), 64–65. 7 This point also made by Lincoln, Ephesians, 431.
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II. The Strength of Achilles The Homeric virtues of strength and close combat resided most notably in Achilles, who is labeled in the Iliad as the “best of the Achaeans.”8 Achilles is one “who stands as a great bulwark of battle over all the Achaeans” (Il. 1.284),9 and, as a result of his anger and the subsequent removal of his strength from the battlefield, the Greeks were unable to defeat the Trojans. In 19.216–19, Odysseus concedes to the superior strength of Achilles. Later, Pindar (Paean. 6.84) says that Achilles, like the generation of bronze in Hesiod’s Works and Days, was βίαταν (endowed with βίη). Strength clearly served as the principal virtue of the warriors in the Iliad, and perhaps it was because of its popularity that strength continued to play a much larger role in the cataloging of heroic virtues. It resonated well with the later closequarter engagements of the hoplite armies and served as the principle of “battle rhetoric” for historians, rhetoricians, and poets in terms of physical metaphors that implied strength and close combat.10 In view of the status of Achilles in the Iliad, it is not surprising that he became the archetype of hoplite warfare, especially in Athens, and even served as the paradigm for Alexander the Great.11 8
See esp. Nagy, Best of the Achaeans. All translations of the Iliad are taken from Richmond Lattimore, The Iliad of Homer (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1951). 10 See Jon E. Lendon, “The Rhetoric of Combat: Greek Military Theory and Roman Culture in Julius Caesar’s Battle Descriptions,” Classical Antiquity 18 (1999): 285; and Peter Krentz, “The Nature of Hoplite Battle,” Classical Antiquity 4 (1985): 55–56 for the physical metaphors of battle descriptions. 11 For Achilles as a paradigm of the warrior in ancient Greece, see Katherine Callen King, fchilles: Paradigms of the War Hero from Homer to the Middle Ages (illustrated by Deborah Nourse Lattimore; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987). She ably demonstrates that Achilles is a multifaceted character in Greek literature and art whose literary presence is quite nuanced and specific depending on the context. Nevertheless, for this article I am interested only in the “warrior” Achilles who persistently embodies strength and openness. For Achilles as a paradigm of a warrior for Athens in the Persian wars, see Bernhard Döhle, “Die ‘Achilleis’ des Aischylos in ihrer Auswirkung auf die attische Vasenmalerie des 5. Jahrhunderts,” Klio 49 (1967): 63–149; Hedwig Kenner, “Zur Achilleis des Aischylos,” JÖAI 33 (1941): 1–24; and Pantelis Michelakis, Achilles in Greek Tragedy (Cambridge Classical Studies; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). For Alexander emulating Achilles, see Andrew Stewart, Faces of Power: Alexander’s Image and Hellenistic Politics (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), 78–86; Philip R. Hardie, “Imago Mundi: Cosmological and Ideological Aspects of the Shield of Achilles, JHS 107 (1987): 25–31; Philip A. Stadter, Arrian of Nicomedia (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1980), 74– 76; and A. B. Bosworth, Conquest and Empire: The Reign of Alexander the Great (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 38–39. This emulation did not end with Alexander; it is encountered throughout the Hellenistic period, in the Roman era, and as late as the emperor Justinian (see Glanville Downey, “Justinian as Achilles,” TAPA 71 [1940]: 68–77). 9
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In the Iliad, strength is associated with two principal motifs: with the donning of armor, with which the hero obtains strength, and with the gesture of standing, in which the strength of the hero is displayed. First, there are two important themes that illustrate that strength is obtained through the wearing of armor: the divine origins of the armor and the physical and psychological effects that the armor had on the combatants. Both sets of Achilles’ armor originated with the gods; the first set was a divine gift to his father Peleus, and the second was forged in the divine foundry of Hephaestus.12 When the armor was “put on” the hero was transformed into a raging aggressor, which may indicate that the armor had a talismanic effect on the wearer. In 17.210, when Hektor had stripped Achilles’ armor from Patroklos, “The armor was fitted to Hektor’s skin, and Ares the dangerous entered into him, so that the inward body was packed full of force and fighting strength.”13 On this phenomenon, Richard Stoll Shannon remarks that strength resides in the armor and can be “put on and taken off.”14 Often the armor depicted frightening images of snakes and gorgons, and Jasper Griffin argues that these powers were inherent in the armor itself.15 The source of this strength lay with the gods, transforming the heroes into ἶσος Ἄρεϊ (“equal to Ares”) or δαίµονι ἶσος (“equal to a god”).16 In 1.178 Agamemnon says to Achilles, “if you are very strong, indeed, that is god’s gift.” Gregory Nagy argues that strength (κράτος) is the possession of Zeus, and he “puts strength into the” combatants (1.509).17 Athena breathed µένος (“might”) into the armed Diomedes and caused him to rage across the battlefield and made fire blaze from his armor and weapons (5.1–8).18 This fire simile occurs nearly two hundred times in the Iliad and closely relates the armor-clad heroes to the strength of the gods.19 Armor served as a symbol of the strength of the hero in battle. This occurred not only in the Iliad but also in later Greek art and literature, 12 For Achilles’ armor as a gift of the gods to Peleus, see Il. 17.194–97 and 18.82–85. On the two sets of Achilles’ armor, see Judith M. Barringer, Divine Escorts: Nereids in Archaic and Classical Greek Art (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1995), 17–48. 13 See esp. Derek Collins (Immortal Armor: The Concept of Alkē in Archaic Greek Poetry [Greek Studies; Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 1998], 15–45), who interprets this passage in the Iliad as alluding to a form of divine possession. 14 Shannon, The Arms of Achilles and Homeric Compositional Technique (Mnemosyne 36; Leiden: Brill, 1975), 26. Nagy notes that, by donning the armor of Achilles, Patroklos “has taken upon himself not only the armor but also the heroic identity of Achilles” (Best of the Achaeans, 34). 15 Griffin, Homer on Life and Death (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980), 30–31. For the overall talismanic effects of armor, see pp. 30–36; and Collins, Immortal Armor, 15–45. 16 ἶσος Ἄρεϊ: Il 11.295, 604; 13.802; and δαίµονι ἶσος: 16.786. See also “peer of Ares” (ἀτάλαντος //Ἄρεϊ): Il 8.215; 16.784; 17.72. 17 Nagy, Best of the Achaeans, 81. 18 See also Il. 5.125–26, 134–43. 19 For the fire simile, see Cedric H. Whitman, Homer and the Heroic Tradition (New York: Norton, 1958), 129–46; and Shannon, Arms of Achilles, 26–28.
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where we frequently find anonymous hoplites depicted in “arming scenes” akin to those in the Iliad and emulating Achilles by wearing armor as a display of their strength.20 Second, Jan Bremmer has argued that the two principal gestures of the heroic warrior are “striding” with an aggressive gate and “standing” and that ἵστηµι and its substantival cognates are common gestures for strength in the Iliad.21 It was used as a description of one of the two types of warfare described in the Iliad (the σταδίη µαχή [the “standing fight”] versus missile warfare) and was the standard term for describing the warrior engaged in open, close-order battle.22 Homer tells us that “if one is to win honor in battle, he must by all means stand his ground strongly [τὸν δὲ µάλα χρεὼ ἑστάµεναι κρατερῶς]” (Il. 11.409–10). Before battle, Alexandros and Menelaos strode aggressively to the space between the two armies in 3.341. Teukros in 15.483 moved swiftly and took his stand (παρέστη) beside Aias. Aias went forth into battle (7.206–11) with long strides (7.212–13) and stood near (στῆ ἐγγύς) Hektor (7.224). Odysseus and Diomedes also display the gestures of aggressive striding (10.273) and standing (10.279). In the Iliad, the opposite of standing is not necessarily flight (φεύγω) but rather falling, for which the dominant simile is that of a falling tree.23 This symbolic gesture for strength continued to influence Greek 20
Lissarrague, “World of the Warrior,” 38–51. I have addressed the issue of an allusion to arming scenes in Eph 6:13 in “The Evil Day” (paper presented to the Corpus Hellenisticum Novi Testamenti section at the annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature in Boston, Massachusetts, November 2008). 21 Bremmer, “Walking, Standing, and Sitting in Ancient Greek Culture,” in A Cultural History of Gesture (ed. Jan Bremmer and Herman Roodenburg; Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 15–35. For ancient Greek gesture in general, see Alan Lindley Boegehold, When a Gesture Was Expected: A Selection of Examples from Archaic and Classical Greek Literature (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999); and Catherine M. Keesling, “Misunderstood Gestures: Iconatrophy and the Reception of Greek Sculpture in the Roman Imperial Period,” Classical Antiquity 24 (2005): 41–79. For ἵστηµι as a gesture of strength in the Iliad and elsewhere, see Il. 7.211–14; 15.676, 686; 16.534; Aristophanes, Av. 486; Ps.-Aristotle, Physiogn. 809a, 813a; and Archilochus, fr. 114 (West). 22 For a description of the two types of warfare, see Il. 13.314, 713; 15.282–23; and Franz Albracht, Battle and Battle Description in Homer: A Contribution to the History of War (trans. and ed. Peter Jones et al.; London: Duckworth, 2005), esp. the editors’ assessment of his views on p. 139. See also Hans van Wees “Heroes, Nights, and Nutters,” in Battle in Antiquity (ed. Alan B. Lloyd; London: Duckworth, 1996), 3. For the standard term used to describe open, close-order battle, see Il. 3.320, 344, 497; 11.409; 12.310–28; 16.166; 17.267, 287; and Od. 9.47–61. 23 See Il. 4.482; 12.131–32; 13.178, 389, 437; 14.414; 16.482; and 17.53. There are anthropomorphic connotations to this simile. See Shannon, Arms of Achilles, ch. 3; Martin Mueller, The Iliad (London: G. Allen & Unwin, 1984), 109, 113; Bernard Fenik, Typical Battle Scenes in the Iliad: Studies in the Narrative Techniques of Homeric Battle Description (Hermes, Einzelschriften 21; Wiesbaden: F. Steiner, 1968), 126; and Bremmer, “Walking, Standing, and Sitting,” 23.
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thought long after Homer. Tyrtaeus tells us that warriors are to “stand legs well apart both feet planted firmly on the ground, biting your lip” (Fr. 10.31–32; 11.21– 22).24 Euripides describes hoplite battle as “standing your ground, looking straight at the swift swathe cut by enemy spears, and holding ranks” (Euripides, Herc. fur. 163–64; trans. Kovacs, LCL). In archaic art, the gods (with the exception of Zeus) and men are depicted as standing. After 600 b.c.e., this seems to have fallen somewhat into disfavor except in depictions of warriors.25 A common motif was to portray the heavy infantryman in a standing posture while an archer was depicted as crouching, especially when setting an ambush (a form of trickery).26 Standing was understood as a gesture of strength also in the physiognomic texts.27 Like the warrior’s armor, the gesture of standing continued to carry the connotations of manliness, warrior identity, and strength. In Eph 6:10–20, not only is strength associated with the believers, but, as in the Iliad, the strength is obtained through the wearing of divine armor and is displayed through the gesture of standing. In the Iliad, there are as many as eleven terms, with various connotations, used to describe strength.28 Of the three terms used for strength in Eph 6:10, two have Homeric parallels, δύναµαι and κράτος, and the third, ἰσχύς, is a later cognate of the archaic ἴς. The command to “put on the panoply of God” in v. 11 follows immediately after the command to be strong in v. 10, which implies a close association between the two, even a cause-and-effect relationship.29 In addition, the verb ἵστηµι in its simple and compound forms occurs four times in vv. 11, 13, and 14. While scholars often interpret it as expressing a defensive posture or even one’s “resolve to remain in the battle,”30 in this context, its close asso24
Cf. Archilochus, fr. 114.3–4. Bremmer, “Walking, Standing, and Sitting,” 24–25. 26 Lissarrague includes the crouching warrior in “World of the Warrior,” figs. 55 (p. 41), 56 (p. 42), 58 (p. 43). The ambushers and archers are considered “marginal fighters” (p. 45), and the heavy infantry are often depicted as an epic hero (Achilles?) on p. 46. In the eighth century B.C.E., archers were originally depicted as standing, but as squatting or crouching from the seventh century on, indicating their loss of status (Hans van Wees, Greek Warfare: Myth and Realities [London: Duckworth, 2004], 252). 27 Ps.-Aristotle, Physiogn. 810a; Polemon 204–6; and Adamantius in Richardus Foerster, Scriptores Physiognomonici graeci et latini (2 vols.; Leipzig: Teubner, 1893). 28 See Bruno Snell, Die Entdeckung des Geistes: Studien zur Entstehung des europäischen Denkens bei den Griechen (Hamburg: Claassen & Goverts, 1948), 25; and Collins, Immortal Armor, 14. 29 Lincoln, Ephesians, 431. 30 For a defensive posture, see John Muddiman, A Commentary on the Epistle to the Ephesians (BNTC; London/New York: Continuum, 2001), 285. The quotation is from Charles H. Talbert, Ephesians and Colossians (Paideia; Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2007), 160. His position resonates well with the analysis of the terms µένω and ἵστηµι in Greek military writings by Edgar Krentz (“Military Language and Metaphors in Philippians,” in Origins and Method: Towards 25
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ciation with the commands to be strong and to put on the panoply of God would indicate otherwise. Clearly, it functions as a display of strength, a gesture that occurs after the panoply is donned. This is indicated in v. 11, where putting on the armor is a precursor of standing, and in v. 13, where κατεργασάµενοι logically refers to the armoring of the believers with the panoply so that they will be able to display their strength through the gesture of standing (that is, “when you have accomplished everything [that would enable you] to stand” [ἅπαντα κατεργασάµενοι στῆναι]).
III. The Deception of Odysseus The purpose of obtaining divine strength through the wearing of the divine panoply and of displaying this strength through the gesture of standing is to enable the followers of Jesus to stand against the tricks or cunning devices of the devil. In other words, the author anticipates that divine strength and heavy weaponry are appropriate measures against more devious and crafty forms of combat. In extant Greek literature, the term µεθοδεία is found no earlier than the NT. Its cognates, however, are found as early as Xenophon.31 Although it is not one of the more common terms for cunning or trickery, the word clearly emerged from that context. Wheeler has catalogued and discussed the development of the terminology of deception from the archaic Greek to the Roman imperial period, including the use of µεθοδεία. He notes that the term is late and that we have very limited lexicographical evidence. Nevertheless, he claims that the term is a general one for a ruse and functions as part of the larger collection of technical terms for tricks.32 Its meaning in Eph 6:11 is largely determined by its context, which is clearly martial, and thus it carries the connotations of trickery in warfare. The evidence is threefold: (1) the word is used in terms of a trick or ruse in Eph 4:14; (2) the presence of the notions of strength and heavy armament in the text would naturally imply a reference or an allusion to their antithesis, cunning; and (3) the term is identified in antiquity as a ruse. The Suda (tenth century) defines µεθοδεία as “Τέχνας ἢ δόλους” (LSJ), “crafts or tricks.” In contrast to Achilles, who served as the paradigm of strength and open battle, Odysseus served as the paradigm of the heroic virtues of trickery and cun-
a New Understanding of Judaism and Christianity. Essays in Honour of John C. Hurd [ed. Bradley H. McLean; JSNTSup 86; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1993], 120–22), who understands the term µένω as a reference to one’s place and position in a formation, that is, a phalanx. 31 LSJ; BDAG; and Wilhelm Michaelis, “µεθοδεία,” TDNT 5:102–3. 32 Wheeler, Stratagem and the Vocabulary of Military Trickery, 42.
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ning.33 Although many heroes were praised for their cunning and trickery—even Achilles (Il. 21.35–40)—Odysseus served as the champion of this virtue. He was given the epithets of πολύµητις (“of many wiles”) and πολύτροπος (“of many devices”), and his deeds of cunning abound in the Odyssey but also in the Iliad, where he “knows every manner of tricks [δόλοι] and crafty councils” (Il. 3.202). Athena sums up her assessment of the heroic character of Odysseus in Od. 13.290–95: It would be a sharp one and a stealthy one, who would ever get past you in any contriving; even if it were a god against you. You wretch, so devious, never weary of tricks, then you would not even in your own country give over your ways of deceiving and your thievish tales. They are near to you in your very nature (Lattimore).
Although Odysseus is a complicated and multifaceted figure in subsequent Greek literature serving as a paradigm of virtue and self-control, and even as a sophist, he remained throughout subsequent Greek history a model for the use of the heroic ethos of cunning in battle.34 Thus, in the heroic tradition and subsequent Greek literature, cunning intelligence and archery were closely associated with Odysseus, and it is probably no accident that the devil/evil one is described in Ephesians as one who uses cunning devices (v. 11) and missile weapons (v. 16).35 Not only do vv. 10–11 evoke the antithesis between strength and deception, but v. 12 alludes to this antithesis as well. The use of the word πάλη in v. 12 evokes the traditional antithesis between tricks and strength. Michael E. Gudorf has clearly demonstrated the association of this term with the agonistic art of wrestling and with hoplite warfare, thus clarifying the relationship between the two.36 In addition to the evidence that he cites, there is also a connection between wrestling and warfare in the ancient discussions of the value of athletics. Philostratus (Gymn. 33
On Odysseus as the paradigm of trickery and cunning, see Peter Walcot, “Odysseus and the Art of Lying,” Ancient Society 8 (1972): 1–19. In Polyaenus (Strat. 1), Odysseus serves as the paradigm of military tricks and stratagems. 34 The classic study is William Bedell Stanford, The Ulysses Theme: A Study in the Adaptability of a Traditional Hero (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1954). Odysseus is a complex literary character and cultural icon who often represented less than the most highly valued behavior. On this, see Margalit Finkelberg, “Odysseus and the Genus ‘Hero,’” GR 42 (1995): 1–14. In addition, see the excellent summary in Donald Dale Walker, Paul’s Offer of Leniency (2 Cor 10:1): Populist Ideology and Rhetoric in a Pauline Letter Fragment (WUNT 152; Tubingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2002), 341–47. 35 The depiction of the evil one as an archer in Eph 6:16 was addressed by me in “Weapons of Shame” (paper presented at the Chicago Society of Biblical Research; Chicago, Illinois, February 2008). Space does not permit me to deal with that issue here, and it will be addressed in a separate article. 36 Gudorf, “The Use of πάλη in Ephesians 6:12,” JBL 117 (1998): 331–35.
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11) suggested that wrestling was introduced because of its application to war. In addition, Lucian (Anach. 25) related that Solon defended wrestling to a visiting Scythian because it can be useful in warfare and prepares a soldier for such combat. In fr. 12, Tyrtaeus portrayed the warrior as one who possesses the ἀρεταί (“virtues”) of athletics: “size, strength, quickness, competitive spirit, endurance” (Early Greek Elegy, trans. Hudson-Williams, LCL). H. James Shey also notes that Tyrtaeus associated the firmly planted feet of the warrior with the stance of the wrestler.37 Philostratus (Gymn. 3) claimed that, of the Argonauts, Peleus was the superior wrestler and therefore the best warrior.38 Finally, Aristophanes (fr. 558) called a combat scene between two adversaries “wrestling.” In addition to its association with warfare, πάλη recalls the heroic competition between the virtues of strength and deception. Philostratus (Gymn. 43) referred to wrestling as a “heavy” event because of the importance of size and strength for success; the training for these events consisted largely of strength building.39 Nevertheless, trickery was also a major factor in wresting. In the Anthologia graeca 16.1 (trans. William Roger Paton, LCL), Damagetos draws a contrast between the two when he claims that he is not a wrestler (παλαιστής) and is not like those who are skilled in that craft (τεχνάεντες), but, as a good Spartan, will exercise power with strength (βίᾳ κρατέω). There appears to be an allusion to the contrast between trickery and strength in wrestling also in a statement made by Euripides (Phoen. 1407–13) where a connection is made between a “Thessalian trick” (θεσσαλὸν σοφίσµα) and wrestling (πάλη). E. Kerr Borthwick understands this to mean that Eteocles uses a wrestler’s trick when fighting in close combat, a trick that was “notably associated with some Thessalian wrestler or wrestlers.”40 Plutarch (Quaest. conv. 2.4, 638D, F) tries to connect wrestling etymologically with trickery and with close-order battle: Sosicles claims that πάλη (“wrestling”) is derived from παλεύειν (“to trick”), while Philinus claims that it may have been derived from πλησιάζειν (“to draw near”) or γίγνεσθαι πέλας (“to be close”), implying more conventional, close-order battle. Consequently, the author of Ephesians may have been quite deliberate in his selection of the term πάλη to describe the conflict between the followers of Jesus and the cosmic forces of evil. It is quite likely that the dominant antithesis between strength and deception continues into v. 12, describing the struggle between believers and
37
Shey, “Tyrtaeus and the Art of Propaganda,” Arethusa 9 (1976): 14. See ibid., 27 n. 26; and Waldo E. Sweet, Sport and Recreation in Ancient Greece: A Sourcebook with Translations (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987), 214. 39 See also E. Norman Gardiner, Athletics in the Ancient World (London: Oxford University Press, 1930), 53; and Harold Arthur Harris, Sport in Greece and Rome (Aspects of Greek and Roman Life; Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1972), 21. 40 Borthwick, “Two Scenes of Combat in Euripides,” JHS 90 (1970): 18. For wrestling as training for hoplite warfare, see ibid., p. 18 n. 11. 38
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the forces of evil in a metaphor alluding to close combat between the heavily armored believers, who employ strength, and the forces of evil, who rely on tricks and deception.
IV. Honor and Shame The evidence thus strongly suggests that the author of Ephesians depicted the two categories of combatants in Eph 6:10–20 according to the pervasive antithesis of strength versus cunning in warfare. The commands for the believers to be strong, to obtain this strength through the donning of divine armor, and to display this strength through the gesture of standing are too similar to that of the heroic ethos of Achilles to be coincidental. The same can be said for the similarity of the “Odysseus ethos” with Ephesians’ depiction of the devil as a trickster and even an archer. This contrast between the two is continued in the description of the combat between the two forces in v. 12, which implies that the forces of evil employ deception and that the believers use strength in their struggle. This, however, does not explain why the author would have used this antithesis. The answer to that question lies not in the specific language of Ephesians but in the social dynamics of an honor and shame culture. Bruce J. Malina defines honor as “a claim to worth and the social acknowledgement of that worth,” and a challenge consists of “a claim to enter into the social space of another.”41 Since honor is a limited commodity, the claim and the challenge of honor would also normally entail a diminishing of the opposition in terms of reproach, humiliation, or judging one to be inferior.42 As I shall demonstrate below, the evidence strongly suggests that the author of Ephesians is making such a claim (albeit ironically and metaphorically) and thus is insulting and shaming the archenemy of the believers by depicting him as a trickster. Deception and cunning were used, recognized, and often admired as heroic virtues in Homer, and this continued as a cultural pattern throughout Greek history. Because of its status as a heroic virtue and because of its importance in Greek literature (especially in Homer, but also in lyric and elegiac poetry, history, and philosophy), a number of studies have been devoted to the virtue of craft and guile, and we will only summarize the issue here.43 In Homer, the gods deceive and
41 Malina, The New Testament World: Insights from Cultural Anthropology (Atlanta: John Knox, 1981), 29–30. 42 K. J. Dover, Greek Popular Morality in the Time of Plato and Aristotle (1974; repr., Indianapolis: Hackett, 1984), 236–42. 43 See esp. Marcel Detienne and Jean-Pierre Vernant, Cunning Intelligence in Greek Culture and Society (trans. Janet Lloyd; Hassocks: Harvester; Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Humanities, 1978).
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“bewitch” (θέλγειν) humans. Ruses and cunning are also widely used by the heroes.44 It was a topic of some import also for the philosophers of the fifth and fourth centuries b.c.e. and a major topic of discussion in Athenian literature of the fifth century b.c.e., especially among the historians and tragedians. Trickery and ruses were also widely used in Greek warfare from the archaic era into the Hellenistic period. Cunning was prized by the Spartans, used at the battle of Marathon, and served as the principal virtue with which Greek generals understood themselves in Homeric terms, championing the Homeric virtues of arraying troops, stratagems, and cunning.45 Peter Krentz has demonstrated the pervasiveness of the use of cunning in warfare in ancient Greece by cataloging the 143 occurrences of trickery in warfare in archaic and classical Greek literature, and there are numerous cases where this trickery was given a positive, honorific assessment.46 This pattern of military behavior became even more pronounced in the Hellenistic era.47 Nevertheless, there are numerous examples in our ancient sources where trickery, deception, and cunning were held in contempt, especially in warfare. Cunning in warfare was generally deprecated in the Iliad and in much of the subsequent classical literature. Achilles says that he “detest[s] the man who hides one thing in the depths of his chest and speaks forth another” (Il. 9.312–13).48 Later in the Philoctetes of Sophocles, the cunning Odysseus is condemned while the son of Achilles, Neoptolemos, who represents strength and openness, is honored because he embodies virtue.49 These two heroes display antithetical ἔθη: Odysseus represents an “amoral devotion to ends rather than means,” and Neoptolemos, as the son of Achilles, would prefer to stand and fight with strength and openness rather
44 For the deception of humans by the gods, see Il. 2.188–206; 12.254; 13.434; 15.594; 21.604; for the cunning of the heroes, see, e.g., Il. 22.281 for Achilles and 22.216–24 for Odysseus. See esp. Griffin, Homer on Life and Death, 41, 169. 45 For the Spartans, see Hesk, Deception and Democracy, 23–40; and Anton Powell, “Mendacity and Sparta’s Use of the Visual,” in Classical Sparta: Techniques behind Her Success (ed. Anton Powell; Oklahoma Series in Classical Culture 1; Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1988), 173–92. For the general modeling himself on the Homeric virtues of guile and cunning, see Wheeler, “General as Hoplite,” 121–70; and Jon E. Lendon, Soldiers and Ghosts: A History of Battle in Classical Antiquity (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2005), 78–90. 46 P. Krentz, “Deception in Archaic and Classical Greek Warfare,” in War and Violence in Ancient Greece (ed. Hans van Wees; London: Duckworth, 2000), 182–99. 47 Lendon, Soldiers and Ghosts, 78–90. 48 For subsequent Greek literature, see Douglas L. Cairns, Aidos: The Psychology and Ethics of Honour and Shame in Greek Literature (Oxford: Clarendon, 1993), 68–87, 171 n. 84, 250–64. 49 Hesk, Deception and Democracy, 190–201. He relates the problem of deception in the play to the circumstances of the war and the realities of the fighting that the Athenians were experiencing.
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than resort to trickery or craft (see esp. lines 86–95).50 Euripides (Rhes. 510–11) claims, “No brave man designs to kill the enemy by stealth but fights face to face” (trans. Kovacs, LCL). In Thucydides (4.86.6), Brasidas advised the Akanthians that “it is more shameful [αἰσχρόν], at least to men of reputation, to gain advantage by specious deceit [ἀπάτη] than by open force [βία]” (trans. C. F. Smith, LCL). In Xenophon (Hell. 6.5.16), Agesilaos chose to fight an open battle rather than use a ruse to defeat the Tegeans. When Alexander the Great was advised by Parmenion to attack the Persians at night, he replied, The craft which you recommend to me is that of petty robbers and thieves; for their sole desire is to deceive. I will not suffer my glory always to be impaired by the absence of Darius, or by confined places, or by deceit by night. I am determined to attack openly by daylight; I prefer to regret my fortune rather than be ashamed of my victory. Besides, this consideration too is added; I am well aware that the barbarians keep watch by night and stand under arms, so that it is not really possible to deceive them. Therefore do you prepare for battle. (Quintus Curtius Rufus Alex. 4.13 [trans. Rolfe, LCL])
Further, Polybius says, The ancients, as we know, were far removed from such malpractices [those of Philip]. For so far were they from plotting mischief against their friends with the purpose of aggrandizing their own power, that they would not even consent to get the better of their enemies by fraud [ἀπάτε], regarding no success as brilliant or secure unless they crushed the spirit of their adversaries in open battle. For this reason they entered into a convention among themselves to use against each other neither secret missiles nor those discharged from a distance, and considered that it was only a hand-to-hand battle at close quarters which was truly decisive. Hence they preceded war by a declaration, and when they intended to do battle gave notice of the fact and of the spot to which they would proceed and array their army. But at the present they say it is a sign of poor generalship to do anything openly in war. (13.3.2–6; trans. Paton, LCL)
Consequently, significant numbers of texts, on the one hand, condemn trickery and cunning, while an equally large corpus of work, on the other, accepts and even praises the practice. Scholars have attempted to explain this apparent discrepancy in various ways. Some have argued that deception was admired and practiced widely in the archaic era, was condemned in classical warfare, and was revived again in Hellenistic warfare following the collapse of the polis and its associated hoplite warfare. Victor Davis Hanson claims that the classical Greeks possessed a disdain for tricks and bases his assessment on texts like Quintus Curtius and Poly-
50 Richard Hunter, “Homer and Greek Literature,” in The Cambridge Companion to Homer (ed. Robert Fowler; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 237.
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bius.51 W. Kendrick Pritchett seems to follow the same line of reasoning.52 Martin Mueller even goes so far as to claim that this disdain for trickery goes back to the Iliad itself: “Warfare in the Iliad depends entirely on the strength and courage of the individual fighter. There is no room for strategy or cunning.”53 On the other hand, P. Krentz claims that deception was a widely used and respected practice and that statements condemning trickery are usually made by a defeated enemy, represent rhetorical exaggeration (as in the case of Polybius), or even function as a trick itself (as in the case of Brasidas in Thucydides).54 Along the same lines van Wees argues that those writers who claim that the Greeks used only open battle and not deception or tricks are simply reflecting a fanciful nostalgia.55 The answer to this dilemma appears to lie in understanding these heroic virtues on a graduated scale rather than in embracing one of these extreme positions. Using deception and trickery was better than failure, but when these methods were compared side by side with competing heroic virtues, especially those of strength and close combat, they were often held in contempt since they were commonly associated with weakness, fear, and effeminacy.56 Van Wees claims that we 51 Hanson, The Western Way of War: Infantry Battle in Classical Greece (2nd ed.; Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 13–15. See also David Whitehead, “ΚΛΟΠΗ ΠΟΛΕΜΟΥ: ‘Theft’ in Ancient Greek Warfare,” Classica et Mediaevalia 39 (1988): 43–53. These positions are predicated on the notion that Greek warfare was largely ritualized. See Josiah Ober, “The Rules of War in Classical Greece,” in The Athenian Revolution: Essays on Ancient Greek Democracy and Political Theory (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996), 53–71; for a counter-position, see P. Krentz, “Fighting by the Rules: The Invention of the Hoplite Agôn,” Hesperia 71 (2002): 23–39. 52 Pritchett, The Greek State at War (5 vols.; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1971– 91), “Surprise Attacks,” 2:156–76; “Ambuscades,” 2:177–89; and “Religion for Discipline,” 3:330. 53 Mueller, Iliad, 77. This would appear to be an insupportable claim. While strength is clearly superior to cunning in the Iliad, the work is replete with deceptions and stratagems. 54 P. Krentz, “Deception in Archaic and Classical Greek Warfare,” 167–200. 55 Van Wees, Greek Warfare: Myths and Realities, 115–17. 56 Cunning was often used by those who did not possess a sufficient amount of strength. In the Homeric Hymn to Hermes, the weaker Hermes, who possesses δόλος, is able to overcome the stronger Apollo. On the use of deception by the weak against the strong, see Detienne and Vernant, Cunning Intelligence in Greek Culture and Society, 13–14, 28–43. Mary Whitlock Blundell describes δόλος as a “tool of the weaker against the stronger” and “especially a woman’s weapon” (Helping Friends and Harming Enemies: A Study in Sophocles and Greek Ethics [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989], 83). Deception and tricks were often associated with women; see Dover, Greek Popular Morality, 100; and William Bedell Stanford, “Studies in the Characterization of Ulysses: III. The Lies of Odysseus,” Hermathena 75 (1950): 35–48. On the association of δόλος with darkness, see Sophocles Aj. 47, 1056; and Buxton, Persuasion in Greek Tragedy, 64. In his essay on the “Black Hunter,” Pierre Vidal-Naquet notes that black was used as a contrast with the Athenian ephebeia and hoplite values (The Black Hunter: Forms of Thought and Forms of Society in the Greek World [trans. Andrew Szegedy-Maszak; Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1983], 106–28).
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must also draw a distinction between a “military ideal” and “military practice.” The ancients practiced ambushes and deception, but the idea that these were sometimes shameful was also present.57 Generals were able to display their heroic virtues by means of stratagems and cunning, creating a tension with the heroic virtues of strength and openness expressed in the “passive courage” of the hoplite ranks.58 The tension among these virtues originated in Homer and was represented by Achilles and Odysseus. Nagy argues that the νεῖκος (“conflict”) between Achilles and Odysseus in Od. 7.75 “seems to be based on an epic tradition that contrasted the heroic worth of Odysseus with that of Achilles in terms of a contrast between µῆτις and βίη.”59 Thus, two principal archetypes and their associated heroic virtues emerged: Odysseus as the archetype of cunning and Achilles as the archetype of strength and openness.60 The subsequent history of Greek warfare is largely informed by this antithesis.61 According to Wheeler, “This duality of alternate means of warfare characterizes the western tradition.”62 Thus, this duality originated in Homer and grew out of a competitive culture of honor and shame in which warriors competed with one another for status. Their ultimate objective was to win fame (κλέος), glory (κῦδος), and honor/respect (τιµή). Although these objectives were normally achieved in battle, they sometimes took the form of verbal abuse. One could achieve honor by besting an enemy in battle or publically insulting or diminishing a foe. While one was granted the public recognition of honor, the other was humiliated by the shame of defeat or abuse. Arthur W. H. Adkins, in his seminal work on ancient ethics, noted that verbal attacks in Homer were part of the competitive honor and shame culture. Insulting someone who was deficient in ἀρετή was referred to as a νικεῖν, and a νικεῖν generally functioned as an insult, a rebuke, and even a threat.63 Numerous examples of 57
Van Wees, Greek Warfare: Myths and Realities, 131–33. The phrase “passive courage” is from Lendon, Soldiers and Ghosts, 51–56, 63–65, 86–87, 404. See also Wheeler, “General as Hoplite,” 121–70. 59 Nagy, Best of the Achaeans, 45. 60 This is the primary thesis of Nagy (Best of the Achaeans), who argues on the basis of Odyssey book 7 that a νεῖκος existed between Odysseus and Achilles that is independent of the Iliad and Odyssey yet informs both of them. For example, in the Iliad strength is the principal virtue that makes Achilles the “best of the Achaeans.” Yet, in the Odyssey, Odysseus is able to best the Cyclops (who represents strength) through cunning. Nevertheless, κλέος is won by Odysseus in the Odyssey not through cunning but through strength (βίη) in the drawing of the bow and the slaughtering of the suitors. 61 For the influence of Homer on subsequent Greek warfare, see esp. Lendon, Soldiers and Ghosts, 39–161. 62 Wheeler, Stratagem and the Vocabulary of Military Trickery, 3. 63 Adkins, “Threatening, Abusing and Feeling Angry in the Homeric Poems,” JHS 89 (1969): 7–21; idem, Merit and Responsibility: A Study in Greek Values (Oxford: Clarendon, 1960); and Martin, Language of Heroes, 65–77. See also Deborah Steiner, “Slander’s Bite: Nemean 7.102–5 58
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this exist, but those insults directed against trickery are of particular interest. For example, in his νεῖκος speech against Odysseus and Diomedes, Agamemnon insults Odysseus by implying that he is motivated by profit and uses treachery rather than standing in the forefront of the battle (Il. 4.339, 341–42). Again, in responding to Aias’s boasts of a standing fight, Hektor claims, “I know how to tread my measures on the grim floor of the war god. Yet great as you are I would not strike you by stealth, watching for my chance, but openly, so, if perhaps I might hit you” (Il. 7.241–43). This boast functioned to deflect insults that would suggest that Hektor would use anything other than pure strength and open battle against such a formidable foe. This form of slander did not end with Homer. For example, in the “Funeral Oration” in Thucydides, Pericles slanders the Spartans for their mendacity compared to the openness of the Athenians. Consequently, cunning was both used and verbally abused because, although it reflected a heroic virtue, it was deemed by competitors to be of lesser value than the virtue of strength. If the author of Ephesians has portrayed the two sets of combatants with an allusion to the antithesis between the “Achilles ethos” and the “Odysseus ethos,” this context would normally imply a deprecation of the latter (cunning) along the lines of the verbal νικεῖν of the Iliad.
V. Conclusion Andrew T. Lincoln has persuasively argued that Eph 6:10–13 functions as the peroratio of the letter, creating a climax in which numerous epistolary themes converge in this emotive “call to battle.”64 This convergence magnifies certain themes in the letter, such as the cosmic setting and power, and recapitulates others, especially those involving the identity of the followers of Jesus and the unity of Jews and Gentiles in the church. Indeed, the theme of unity climaxes in 6:10–20. Every verb and noun referring to the followers of Jesus in vv. 10–17 is plural, illustrating and the Language of Invective,” JHS 121 (2001): 154–58. For the competition of virtues, see Il. 1.69; 2.553–55; 8.173; 13.313–14; 16.809; 20.432–33; and 23.483. For the ranking of heroes according to their possession of these virtues, see Il. 12.269–71, which indicates a threefold ranking system—low, medium, and high—determined largely by one’s skill in battle. 64 Lincoln, “‘Stand, Therefore . . .’: Ephesians 6:10-20 as a Peroratio,” BibInt 3 (1995): 99-114. There is clearly something to be said for his position that the passage shares rhetorical features with the exhortations of generals to their troops before battle. While the parallels are not precise, the passage does share with this unique historical genre the paraenetic features of exhortation and the verbiage of classical warfare, especially with regard to the close-order battle weaponry and an emphasis on strength in battle. On the latter, see Lendon, “The Rhetoric of Combat,” 285. One should not assume, however, that these speeches were historical events; rather, they are most likely the rhetorical and literary inventions of the historians. See Mogens Herman Hansen, “The Battle Exhortation in Ancient Historiography: Fact or Fiction?” Historia 42 (1993): 161–80.
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what the ancients rightly and widely understood: success on the battlefield was dependent on cooperative and unified effort. Additionally, the themes of mission and message (Eph 3:1–21) are dominant throughout the letter. Two of the metaphors in 6:14–17 are mission metaphors specifically associated with the journey of the proclamation of peace (v. 15) and with the proclamation of the word (v. 17). In fact, the virtues of the believers in vv. 14–17 enhance their responsibilities in the cosmic reconciliation announced in the epistolary thanksgiving section in 1:8–10. Finally, the theme of institutional identity is a driving force in the letter. Talbert is quite correct when he observes that “Ephesians is not focused against a specific problem but directed to Christian identity formation and growth within the context of the general cultural ethos of the early imperial period.”65 MacDonald is even more intentional by interpreting the letter in light of social models involving community formation and institutionalization. In the process, she observes that the letter to the Ephesians displays a far more “introversionist” perspective than Colossians, and one of the functions of the letter is “to encourage greater isolation from the outside world.” Again, she claims, “In sociological terms, Ephesians recommends a strongly ‘sectarian’ response to the wider social order.”66 The theme of institutional identity is a dominant one in 6:10–20, especially with regard to the identity of the opponents of the church in vv. 11–12 and 16 and the adversarial relationship between the forces of good and evil. It is in the area of institutional identity that I have attempted to make an additional contribution. Although it is common to interpret the passage as a personal struggle with evil in the form of temptations or false doctrine, Eph 6:10–20 functions not as moral paraenesis but, more specifically, as paraenesis aimed at defining the community in sharp, even harsh contrast with the world that lay outside its boundaries. In other words, this paraenetic section provides the community with its identity, using a strongly emotive, symbolic, and evocative set of metaphors. The evidence for reading vv. 10–20 as a pericope involving institutional self-identity is twofold. First, the arguments above indicate that the purpose of vv. 10–17 is to depict the believers in honorific terms and the powers of evil in shameful terms. The author draws upon the heroic ἔθη of Achilles and Odysseus to accomplish this task. Second, this argument is confirmed in the conclusion of this pericope in vv. 18–20, where the author describes Paul and his mission in ironic terms of honor and shame, the same theme that dominates vv. 10–17. The irony exists in two areas. First, the contrast between παρρησία in v. 19 and ἅλυσις in v. 20 creates an irony of “free speech” versus the bonds of imprisonment.67 More important for our pur65
Talbert, Ephesians and Colossians, 15. MacDonald, Colossians and Ephesians, 210, 212, and 236, respectively. 67 Heinrich Schlier (“παρρησία, παρρησιάζοµαι,” TDNT 5:871–86; idem, An die Epheser, 304) and Stanley B. Marrow (“Parrhēsia and the New Testament,” CBQ 44 [1982]: 431–46) locate 66
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poses, the combination of the prepositional phrase ἐν ἁλλύσει and the verb πρεσβεύω (“to serve as an ambassador”) is oxymoronic, and the contrast between the two is ironic.68 The use of the verb πρεσβεύω heightens the paradox in that one of the most noble and honorable positions is now subjected to the humiliation and shame of chains. In other words, Paul occupies one of the highest cosmic positions imaginable as an ambassador of the supreme ruler of the cosmos.69 Yet the apostle is experiencing human degradation by being humiliated and shamed in imprisonment. Talbert refers to the ambassador in chains as a “gross insult.”70 Cassidy says that “according to Roman valuation, the outcome for Paul was not advancement in secular honor, but rather descent into civil shame.”71 This ironic portrayal is quite intentional in the passage and is a continuation of the honorific language in vv. 10– 17, especially the strong contrast in the symbols and allusions to honor and shame embodied in the martial virtues of the two sets of combatants. Because of their status in the cosmic order, the believers ironically possess the highest form of honor even if they must temporally suffer social degradation. When Ephesians was composed, sometime near the end of the first century c.e., the works of Homer, in particular the Iliad, continued to exercise an enormous influence in the Greco-Roman world. It was the principal text in education, and its characters and themes continued to inspire and function as an important symbol of Greek cultural identity and literary heritage.72 I suggest that the author of Ephesians may have drawn on the heroic tradition, with its significant cultural and ideological symbolism, to denigrate those outside the Ephesian community. He has already demonstrated his capacity and propensity to draw his language from παρρησία in the context of free political speech in ancient Greek literature. On the other hand, Robert A. Wild (“The Warrior and the Prisoner: Some Reflections on Ephesians 6:10–20,” CBQ 46 [1984]: 290–94) identifies Lev 26:13 in the LXX as the provenance of the usage in Ephesians. 68 Lincoln (Ephesians, 454) refers to an ambassador in chains as an oxymoron. For the paradoxical nature of the language, see Ernest Best, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Ephesians (ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998), 609; Barth, Ephesians, 2:782; and Kreitzer, Ephesians, 191. 69 Richard J. Cassidy, Paul in Chains: Roman Imprisonment and the Letters of Paul (New York: Crossroad, 2001), 101–2. 70 Talbert, Ephesians and Colossians, 167 71 Cassidy, Paul in Chains, 102. 72 For the use of Homer (especially the Iliad) in Greco-Roman education, see Ronald F. Hock, “Paul and Greco-Roman Education,” in Sampley, Paul in the Greco-Roman World, 202–3. In addition, for the influence of Homer in Greek literature, see Hunter, “Homer and Greek Literature,” 235–53; for the popularity of Homer in Athens, see Nicholas James Richardson, “Homeric Professors in the Age of Sophists,” Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 21 (1975): 65–81; for the popularity of Homer in the Hellenistic age, see Kathleen McNamee, “Aristarchus and ‘Everyman’s Homer,’” GRBS 22 (1981): 247–55; and for the influence of Homer in Rome, see Joseph Farrell, “Roman Homer,” in Fowler, Cambridge Companion to Homer, 254–71.
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more popular uses, for example, with the appropriation of the term ἄθεοι in Eph 2:12 to describe the status of believers before their conversion.73 He has taken a term generally wielded by the opposition and used it against them. This point is supported also by the use of such terms as “gospel” and “peace,” which may have significant countercultural and even anti-imperialistic overtones.74 The irony is that the value system that exerted so much influence on the Greek world has been turned against it. By connecting the virtues of the saints metaphorically with the virtues of classical warfare, the author demonstrates that the followers of Jesus rightfully possess honor. The virtues of the opposition—the cosmic forces of evil and their human subjects—however, are of lower quality and shameful; they ultimately reflect the qualities of unworthy foes. 73 Non-Christians often attached this label to Christians because they failed to honor the gods with traditional, cultic practices. 74 Eberhard Faust (Pax Christi et pax Caesaris: Religionsgeschichtliche, traditionsgeschichtliche und sozialgeschichtliche Studien zum Epheserbrief [NTOA 24; Freiburg: Universitätsverlag; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1993], 115–81, 360–430, 471–83) has argued on the basis of Eph 2:14–16 that the author of Ephesians is contrasting Christianity with a Roman imperial ideology. Along similar lines, Andreas Lindemann (“Bemerkungen zu den Adressaten und zum Anlass des Epheserbriefes,” ZNW 67 [1976]: 235–51) has argued that the metaphors of 6:10–17 allude to a Roman imperial soldier and to the existence of imperial persecution in western Asia in the first century c.e.
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The Usefulness of an Onesimus: The Sexual Use of Slaves and Paul’s Letter to Philemon joseph a. marchal [email protected] Ball State University, Muncie, IN 47306
Bitinna, I am a slave: use me as you wish. —Herodas, Mimes 5.6 You are her master, with full power over her, so she must do your will whether she likes it or not. —Chariton, Chaereas and Callirhoe 2.6.2 For fourteen years I pleasured him; it is no disgrace to do what a master commands. I also gave my mistress satisfaction. —Petronius, Satyricon 75.11 I like sex that is easy and obtainable. —Horace, Satires 1.2.119 Unchastity is a crime in the freeborn, a necessity for a slave, a duty for the freedman. —Seneca, Controversies 4, Praef. 101
The proper “background” to Paul’s all too brief arguments in the letter to Philemon has long proven elusive. The difficulty in articulating an adequate conThe completion of this article was made possible by the generous support of a faculty research grant from Ball State University. 1 Unless otherwise noted, all classical references follow the available LCL translations. The translation of Horace is taken from Craig A. Williams, Roman Homosexuality: Ideologies of Masculinity in Classical Antiquity (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999), 32, while the Petronius and Seneca translations can be found in Moses I. Finley, Ancient Slavery and Modern Ideology (New York: Viking, 1980), 96.
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textualization for this letter might be remedied, however, if one were to begin considering the sexual use (χρῆσις) of slaves in antiquity as providing some relevant historical clues or rhetorical cues. Indeed, a few interpreters have begun to consider this element in examining Pauline materials, but rarely have they done so with concentrated effort on the letter to Philemon.2 As reflected in the quick sampling of ancient selections opening this article, various sources show that this use of slaves was both ubiquitous and unexceptional for the centuries preceding and following the creation and circulation of Paul’s letters. Nevertheless, an appreciation of this ubiquity is itself far from ubiquitous among Pauline scholars, since the limited considerations of the sexual use of slaves have yet to extend to understanding the terminologies of use and the figure of Onesimus in Paul’s shortest letter. Each of the opening selections reflects the expectation that slaves’ bodies will be accessible and available for sexual use, whether directly or more implicitly, given further context. A couple of the quotations communicate this expectation by seemingly presenting more idealized depictions of slaves willingly offering to comply with the master’s desires, thus exemplifying their default status as erotically available, while the rest reflect that the will or desire of the enslaved is almost entirely inconsequential. This lack of interest in the slaves’ will is reflected also in the casual, even flip remarks quoted both above and below. Such an indifferent and often humorous attitude to the sexual use of slaves (and freed slaves) indicates how utterly conventional and uncontroversial such use was in these slave societies. When Greeks, Romans, and Judeans do place limits on or offer moralizing condemnations of some sexual uses of slaves, their focus is not on what some in the twentyfirst century would call homosexual (or “same-sex”) erotic contact but on containing elite women’s practice in order to preserve matronly chastity and patrifamilial honor.3 Such concerns stress that the perspective of most of our sources is primarily ordered and oriented around those of the freeborn and slave-owning ranks. These perspectives do manage to indicate some of the social conditions and expectations for slaves in the Roman imperial era. However, since the study of slavery is too often seen as divorced or isolated from the study of sexuality (and vice 2
The most persistent presentation of the sexual use of slaves and its impact for understanding biblical materials is Jennifer A. Glancy, Slavery in Early Christianity (2002; repr., Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006). See also Sheila Briggs, “Paul on Bondage and Freedom in Imperial Roman Society,” in Paul and Politics: Ekklesia, Israel, Imperium, Interpretation. Essays in Honor of Krister Stendahl (ed. Richard A. Horsley; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2000), 110– 23; J. Albert Harrill, Slaves in the New Testament: Literary, Social, and Moral Dimensions (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006); and Richard A. Horsley, “The Slave Systems of Classical Antiquity and Their Reluctant Recognition by Modern Scholars,” Semeia 83–84 (1998): 19–66. 3 The texts more consistently assert the nonproblematic use of slaves by male masters, even as they often reflect on the female master’s uses of slaves. For further reflections, see Women and Slaves in Greco-Roman Culture: Differential Equations (ed. Sandra R. Joshel and Sheila Murnaghan; London: Routledge, 1998).
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versa), the relevance of the sexual use of slaves has often been obscured, and not only in Pauline studies. In the interpretation of the letter to Philemon, this disconnect is all the more stark, given the richly troubling exegetical possibilities raised by Paul’s argumentation and the vital importance of finding suitable context(s) for the slim epistle. Philemon is a letter that discusses the utility of Onesimus and selects arguments in an effort to gain the consent of an owner. I suggest that these kinds of rhetorical choices signal the letter’s place within, rather than distance from, the imperially gendered slave system reflected in the opening quotations and the following discussion. Paul’s punning characterization of Onesimus and seemingly deferential appeal to the autonomous authority of a slave owner take on different hues in light of the sharp shadows of the sexual use of slaves.
I. The Use of Slaves The second volume of Michel Foucault’s History of Sexuality asks, “[H]ow could one, how must one ‘make use’ (chrēsthai) of this dynamic of pleasures, desires, and acts?”4 This question of right use (avoiding both excess and passivity in the use of food, drink, and sexual activity) is about the proper Use of Pleasure, the title for this second volume, from the Greek expression χρῆσις ἀφροδισίων. The correct forms of χρῆσις relate to and communicate one’s status both generally, in a context where there is an “isomorphism between sexual relations and social relations,” and thus, specifically, where women, slaves, and other males of lower status and age were the proper objects for use.5
A Priapic Protocol This disposition of austerity and its practice in the context of a series of interlocking sociopolitical relations cannot be isolated either to the Greeks or to the attimes-controversial study of them by Foucault.6 Indeed, such attitudes and arguments about erotic practice in general and the sexual use of slaves in particular persist as similar dynamics in the Roman imperial era. The Romans’ priapic model of gendered and erotic practice details a protocol for the maintenance of Roman masculinity that centers on the insertive role as “the prime directive of mas-
4
Foucault, The History of Sexuality, vol. 2, The Use of Pleasure (trans. Robert Hurley; New York: Vintage, 1990; French original, 1976), 52. 5 Ibid., 215. 6 Such interlocking sociopolitical relations are likely best described as kyriarchal, where multiple and mutually influential structures of domination and subordination function together in pyramidal relations. On kyriarchy, see Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, Rhetoric and Ethic: The Politics of Biblical Studies (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1999), ix.
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culine sexual behavior.”7 This model of masculinity does not differentiate between the gender or status of the receptive party in a sex act, except to exclude the use of freeborn Roman males or freeborn Roman females who are not one’s wife. When the prime directive of penetration meets the exceptions to this prerogative, it also generates a corollary: slaves’ bodies were entirely at the masters’ disposal, and from the earliest of times it seems to have been understood that among the services that Roman men might expect their slaves to perform was the satisfaction of sexual desires . . . it seems always to have been assumed that the master would make such use of his slaves of both sexes.8
These two parts of the priapic protocol, aggressive pursuit of insertion and disposability of slave bodies in this pursuit, thus expound on the formulation found in Seneca: the necessity of receptive use for slaves and the reprehensive criminality of the same for the freeborn elite (Seneca, Controversies 4, Praef. 10). As our sources and a wealth of classical scholarship are increasingly acknowledging, this sexual use of slaves was not sporadic. Indeed, it was so ubiquitous that Craig Williams can fittingly argue that a “comprehensive catalogue of Roman texts that refer to men’s sexual use of their male and female slaves would be massive,” since “it was simply taken for granted that this kind of freedom (or rather, dominion) was one of the many perquisites of being a Roman slave owner.”9 What the owner held in dominion is what the slave lacked in slavery; owners demonstrated control of self and surroundings (both locally and more imperially) through their control over the body of the slave. The slaves’ status as property is indicated by what Moses Finley described three decades ago as slaves’ “unrestricted availability in sexual relations.”10 Since Finley, scholars such as Thomas A. J. McGinn and Keith Bradley have affirmed and expanded that slaves “were sexually available and completely subject to the will of their owners,”11 so that “it is taken without question that slaves can and do become objects of sexual gratification for both the men and women who own them. It is one of the prerogatives of ownership and the servile response is scarcely worth considering.”12 This sexual use of slaves cannot be limited to any one period of Greek or Roman preeminence or isolated as
7 Williams, Roman Homosexuality, 18. See also Amy Richlin, The Garden of Priapus: Sexuality and Aggression in Roman Humor (rev. ed.; New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), 57–64. 8 Williams, Roman Homosexuality, 30–31. 9 Ibid., 31. 10 Finley, Ancient Slavery, 95. 11 McGinn, Prostitution, Sexuality, and the Law in Ancient Rome (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998), 196. 12 Bradley, Slavery and Society at Rome (Key Themes in Ancient History; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 28.
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an idiosyncratically fleeting anomaly, in view of how commonly it is reflected in the literature from Homer up to and through the height of the Roman empire.13
Sexual Use While this overview provides the broader system and protocol for the elite slave owner’s use of pleasure, it does not specify how the terminologies of use (χρῆσις) specifically relate to and reflect upon slaves in antiquity. To clarify, one can return to the quote that opened this article. Here, the male slave Gastron’s response is given in a context where the female master has already used him sexually and she is currently angry that he has had sexual relations with another. Gastron links his slave status with his availability for use: “use me as you wish” (χρῶ ὅτι βούληι, 5.6).14 A reply containing the verbal form of χρῆσις (χράοµαι) stresses that the use of this slave has already included sexual use. The erotic resonance of this verb can be confirmed by its recurrence in the following mime, where two slave-owning women discuss acquiring a particularly finely crafted dildo, but Koritto complains about a third friend who has borrowed it before she even had a chance to use it (χρήσασθαι, 6.29) herself.15 In such instances, slaves and dildos are similar “objects.” As a result, Page DuBois can characterize “slave bodies as ubiquitous and serviceable . . . as sexually desirable and available,” since in Herodas slaves fall somewhere in a kyriarchal hierarchy of objects, “as a slightly higher form of dildo for the women of the master class.”16 The influence of Mime 5 in particular extends into the first century c.e., as an anonymous papyrus mime fragment is clearly modeled on this mime of Herodas in character and setting (only harsher, since the female slave owner angrily plans to execute the slave Aesopus for trying to choose his own sexual partner).17 The repetition, or miming, of Herodas’s mime in the first century indicates the persistent continuities across the centuries when it comes to the sexual use of slaves and the terminologies of use. Indeed, the χρῆσις of male slaves continues to appear in later imperial works such as Athenaeus’s Deipnosophistae, where both Sophocles
13 See Finley, Ancient Slavery, 95. For references to the sexual use of slaves in Homer’s Iliad (2.1.366; 2.9.128–34; 2.22.164; and 2.23.257–61), see Bettina Eva Stumpp, Prostitution in der römischen Antike (Berlin: Akademie, 1998), 26. See also Hans Klees, Sklavenleben im klassischen Griechenland (Forschungen zur antiken Sklaverei 30; Stuttgart: F. Steiner, 1998), 155–75. 14 For further discussion of this passage, including the connection between dildos and slaves, see Page DuBois, Slaves and Other Objects (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003), 99–109. 15 The sexual resonance of the “use” of Gastron (in 5.6) is reinforced by such continuing erotic references for this verb (see also ἐχρῆτο, 6.55; χρήσασθαι, 6.78). 16 DuBois, Slaves, 102, 104, respectively. 17 See P.Oxy. 413 verso in Select Papyri, vol. 3, Literary Papyri; Poetry (text, trans., and notes by D. L. Page; LCL; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1962), 350–61.
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and Euripides were described as “consorting” with the same handsome boy (χρησόµενος αὐτῷ in 604D and κεχρῆσθαι τῷ παιδί in 604E).18 In discussing the relevance of this asymmetrically gendered sexual protocol for the interpretation of another of Paul’s letters (Romans), Bernadette J. Brooten stresses that “Greek authors from the classical period through late antiquity use both the noun chrēsis and the verb chraomai (‘to use’) in a sexual sense. A man ‘uses’ or ‘makes use of ’ a woman or a boy.”19 For example, when Charicles argues that the sexual “services rendered by a woman are far superior to those of a boy” (Lucian, Erōtes 25), this service is χρήσεως. Indeed, he furthers this point by highlighting that a woman can also “be used like a boy” (καὶ παιδικώτερον χρώµενον ἔξεστιν [Erōtes 27]). In this landmark study of female homoeroticism, Brooten discusses how the sexual use of slaves would have fit with common perceptions of “natural” use, acknowledging the role of slaves as appropriate receivers as well as formulaic figures for describing those who are possessed by love.20 To find an overlap between slavery and sexuality, though, one need look no further than this dialogue on erotic relations in Lucian. In recounting the conditions of Callicratidas and Charicles’ living arrangements, the text stresses each of their inclinations through the slaves attending them. The “love of boys” advocated by Callicratidas involved male slaves since he “was well provided with handsome slave-boys and all of his servants were pretty well beardless” (Erōtes 10). Likewise, Charicles’ “love of women” is displayed in “a large band of dancing girls and singing girls” that so filled the house with an almost exclusively female presence (ibid.).21
In most of the following instances, it is more likely that puer and παῖς refer to a male slave (rather than simply a male of “minor” age). See Mark Golden, “Pais, ‘Child’ and ‘Slave,’” L’Antiquité classique 54 (1985): 91–104; and Peter Garnsey, “Sons, Slaves—and Christians,” in The Roman Family in Italy: Status, Sentiment, and Space (ed. Beryl Rawson and Paul Weaver; Oxford: Clarendon, 1997), 101–21. 19 Brooten, Love between Women: Early Christian Responses to Female Homoeroticism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996), 245. Here Brooten also cites (as this article might) the standard dictionary entries for χρῆσις and χράοµαι in LSJ and BAGD. 20 Brooten discusses the sexual use of slaves (Love between Women, 250–51 and notes on pp. 179 and 182) and details the role of slaves and slave imagery in erotic spells (pp. 87–106). More recently, see Beyond Slavery: Overcoming Its Religious and Sexual Legacies (ed. Bernadette J. Brooten with Jacqueline L. Hazelton; Black Religion/Womanist Thought/Social Justice; New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010); and eadem, “Sexual Freedom: Overcoming Slavery’s Legacy in Jewish, Christian, and Islamic Foundational Texts,” SBL Forum http://sbl-site.org/Article.aspx? ArticleID=793 (accessed August 2008). 21 Ironically, David M. Halperin’s observations about these groups of slaves (How to Do the History of Homosexuality [Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 2002], 96) called my attention to this passage, even as Halperin failed to consider more fully the significance of slaves as included in his consideration of ancient inclinations and more modern orientations. 18
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Acceptable Accessibility Thus, the Greek Lucianic text illustrates a disposition similar to the one Horace communicates in a fuller version of one of the Latin quotations that open the present article. There Horace recommends a utilitarian attitude to fulfilling one’s desires for food, drink, and, of course, sex: Now really, when your throat is parched with thirst, you don’t ask for golden goblets, do you? When you’re hungry, you don’t turn your nose up at everything but peacock and turbot, do you? When your crotch is throbbing and there is a slavegirl or home-grown slave-boy ready at hand, whom you could jump right away, you don’t prefer to burst with your hard-on, do you? I certainly don’t. I like sex that is easy and obtainable. (Sat. 1.2.114–19)22
The sentiment reflected in the text, though satiric, is also indicative of an attitude about the appropriate, fulfilling, and perhaps safest outlet for satisfying one’s urges and needs: slaves function interchangeably with each other (across gender) and with other “basics” to keep one sated and out of trouble. The trouble avoided by the elite male slave owner becomes a recurring problem, however, for the protagonists of ancient Greek novels from Chariton, Longus, Achilles Tatius, and Xenophon of Ephesus. In these, male and female masters dispose of enslaved heroes as they please, arranging for sexual exchanges or seeking their own fulfillment with both female and male slaves.23 Though the heroes in most Greek novels escape without being used sexually, their stories repeatedly reflect a reality about slave life. As Bradley asserts about an episode in Chariton’s novel: “The significant point here is that the owner’s sexual access to slaves was regarded as conventional, a norm made explicit.”24 This normative access to slave bodies, then, is part of a more general ethos and practice of χρῆσις in the ancient world. Thus, even when figures like Epictetus and Plutarch argue for an elite male prioritizing of moderation, the terminologies of use and the management of food, drink, and slaves in the household recur.25 If one properly manages oneself and others, purity and sexual use need not be incompatible: 22
The translation can be found in Williams, Roman Homosexuality, 32. (Compare, for example, the more sanitizing translations in the LCL edition of Horace.) 23 See, e.g., Achilles Tatius, Leuc. Clit. 5.17; Chariton, Chaer. 2.6; Longus, Daphn. 4.11–19; and Xenophon of Ephesus, The Ephesian Tale (of Anthia and Habrocomes) 1.16; 2.9; 5.7. 24 Bradley, Slavery and Society at Rome, 49. 25 For example, Epictetus prefaces his advice on χρῆσις by instructing: “In things that pertain to the body take only as much as your bare need requires, I mean such things as food, drink, clothing, shelter, and household slaves; but cut down everything which is for outward show or luxury” (Ench. 33.7). See also Ench. 41, where he worries over excessive time spent on bodily matters like exercise, eating, drinking, defecating, and sex.
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Journal of Biblical Literature 130, no. 4 (2011) In your sex-life preserve purity, as far as you can, before marriage, and, if you indulge, take only those privileges which are lawful. However, do not make yourself offensive, or censorious, to those who do indulge, and do not make frequent mention of the fact that you do not yourself indulge. (Epictetus, Ench. 33.8)26
Thus, even for a philosophical champion of detached moderation seeking to put limits on the predominant priapic protocol, it is not contradictory for one to be virtuously pure and moderate while making use or “indulging” (χρή) in nonexclusive erotic contact. Of course, those “privileges which are lawful” include the erotic use of slaves. These privileges are useful because they violate neither the law nor one’s reputation (Plutarch, Mor. 288A).27 For Plutarch, the sexual use of slaves is even a sign of a good husband, one who shows respect for his wife by engaging in debauchery with parties held in much lower esteem (Mor. 140B).28 Thus, not only are virtues of purity, moderation, and even chastity left unviolated by erotic contact with slaves and other non-elite bodies, but this sexual use could also be the means of maintaining one’s status as virtuous in the kyriarchal management of one’s wider household (and often, by extension, the empire). Though it might sound strange, figures like Virgil can practice a passion for young male slaves and become sexually involved with a woman and still be so associated with virginity and austerity as to be called “Parthenias.”29 The sexual use of slaves is itself not a moral problem, so long as the elite participant maintains a proper disposition in this, or any other, activity. While these authors convey attitudes about preferable practices for the typically elite, mostly male slave owner, the evaluation of these acts also communicates a fair amount about the value of the slave. In certain ways, such activities with slaves do not “count” as ethically or socially significant, showing in turn the lesser significance of slaves in general. This view toward sexual use, in particular, is evident in Trimalchio’s exaggerated pride in his days as a slave, or the jokes that follow upon Haterius’s explanation in Seneca: [H]e said, while defending a freedman who was charged with being his patron’s lover: “Losing one’s virtue is a crime in the freeborn, a necessity in a slave, a duty for the freedman.” The idea became a handle for jokes, like “you aren’t doing your duty by me” and “he gets in a lot of duty for him.” As a result the unchaste and obscene got called “dutiful” for some while afterwards. (Controversies 4, Praef. 10). 26
See also the discussion in David E. Frederickson, “Natural and Unnatural Use in Romans 1:24–27: Paul and the Philosophic Critique of Eros,” in Homosexuality, Science, and the “Plain Sense” of Scripture (ed. David L. Balch; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 197–222, esp. 199–207. 27 See also Horsley, “Slave Systems,” 45. 28 Ibid., 44; Glancy, Slavery, 21. 29 See Seutonius, Virgil 9–11; and the discussion of this passage in Williams, Roman Homosexuality, 33.
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The sequence described by Seneca illustrates the elite Roman predisposition to joke about others’ sexual vulnerability: officiosi became a demeaning pun for “doing one’s duty” sexually.30 In these sources, then, the joke is perhaps even more “on” the slave and the freed slave. Indeed, Haterius’s words in Seneca reflect the ongoing vulnerability of even the freed slave, the figure presumed to be dutiful in continuing to submit to a sexual use by the master. This expectation of ongoing service demonstrates how the relative frequency of manumission should not be mistaken for the emancipation of slaves from within a flawed but mostly altruistic institution. As Keith Hopkins has detailed, manumission functions “not as a solvent of the slave system, but as a major reinforcement.”31 Manumission is not a softening but a tightening strategy for keeping slaves under control. The promise or prospect of manumission was apparently enough to keep many slaves obedient until their bodies were worth less than a younger replacement.32 These ongoing obligations reinforced the (freed) slaves’ continuing place as implements, not as people but as bodies, τὰ σώµατα.33
Some Suasion and Affection There is often little to no interest in the view of the slave or freed slave in these bodily uses. From the slave owner’s perspective, though, dutiful compliance certainly makes it easier to manage dominion over slaves, as reflected in the acquiescent words of freed slave characters such as Petronius’s Trimalchio or in Arrian’s accounts of the freed slave philosopher Epictetus. While Epictetus associates the use (χρεία) of a slave with that of a dog or ox (Diatr. 2.23.24), Trimalchio insists that it is not disgraceful to do what is commanded when a slave (Petronius, Sat. 75.11). In Chariton’s novel Chaereas and Callirhoe, the slave owner Dionysius initially feels spurned by his new slave Callirhoe. Yet he is shortly reminded by his steward that this is mostly irrelevant: “You are her master, with full power over her, so she must do your will whether she likes it or not” (Chaer. 2.6.2).34 While agreeing to or obeying a master’s order would be nice (doing something willingly, ἑκοῦσα), it is not 30
For a fuller grasp of the often ugly, if colorful, sexual humor of the Romans, see Richlin, Garden of Priapus. 31 Hopkins, Conquerors and Slaves (Sociological Studies in Roman History 1; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), 118. 32 For this strategy of recapitalizing on the original value, not the declining value, of a slave body by requiring the manumitted slave to earn the cost of a younger, healthier (and far more valuable) slave, see Hopkins, Conquerors, 118, 128. 33 See esp. Glancy, Slavery, 10–38. Inscriptions at Delphi show how the slaves are still described mainly as things, as bodies, even as they are being manumitted. See Hopkins, Conquerors, 142–44. 34 The Greek of the second clause is: ὥστε καὶ ἑκοῦσα καὶ ἄκουσα ποιήσει τὸ σοὶ δοκοῦν. See the discussion of the adverbial willingly (ἑκοῦσα) and unwillingly (ἄκουσα) above.
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necessary. The slave may be unwilling (ἄκουσα) but the authority of the master is what counts in such situations. One might even say that the typical state of living for the slave is to be lacking the free will, autonomy, or authority to act on his or her own volition. As Jennifer Glancy so succinctly puts it: “Slaves did not have the legal right nor cultural power to say ‘no’ to their owners’ sexual demands.”35 Even as slaves had no legal or cultural right to refuse commands, masters frequently chose suasion as much as force in order more effectively to exercise control. The incentive and promise of manumission and the various stories and sayings that justify the social order described thus far would be just two examples of masters’ attempts to rule through persuasion. In the scheme to get the enslaved hero Habrocomes for his pirate master’s sexual use in Xenophon’s Ephesian Tale, Habrocomes is advised to show affection (ἀγαπᾶν, 1.16.3) to his new master. Yet, as part of the same attempt at suasion, he is told to obey (ὑπακούειν, 1.16.5) his master when he is commanded. Later in the novel, when the other half of the star-crossed couple, Anthia, is sold into prostitution, a similar strategy is applied with the pimp “alternately asking her to cheer up and making threats” (5.7.3). Hopkins observes: “As in other slave societies, the tie between master and slave could be warm; this warmth did not necessarily lessen exploitation; though it may have softened the slave’s feelings about it.”36 Plautus’s comedy Epidicus depicts a slave fretting over whether a new captive has usurped his place in the master’s love (64–66). Another slave taunts him in reply: “He loves her more than he ever loved you” (66). Here love is not incompatible with the buying, selling, and casting off of various slave bodies. The love, affection, and positive feeling toward the slave or between master and slave are not mitigations of the imperially gendered slave system but expressions of its inner workings.
Family and Friends Cultivating this feeling of connection to the master is a savvy strategy for running the hierarchical household in antiquity, especially because slaves are bodies that have been removed from various forms of connection. Orlando Patterson’s acute formulation of the constituent elements of slavery stresses slaves’ permanent natal alienation, their symbolic and social removal from the bonds of their ancestral kinship.37 As Finley has described these conditions, the slave is “always a deracinated outsider—an outsider first in the sense that he originated from outside the society into which he was introduced as a slave, second in the sense that he was
35
Glancy, Slavery, 52. Hopkins, Conquerors, 154. 37 See Patterson, Slavery and Social Death: A Comparative Study (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1982). 36
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denied the most elementary of social bonds, kinship.”38 Slaves are dissociated from their ethnicity, kinship, culture, and locale, so that they might be integrated into a different family (the master’s) and incorporated into a particular role in a stratified household structure. Slaves simultaneously “had no family” and were deeply embedded in a familia and domus to be managed by the paterfamilias.39 Their sexual availability stresses the inherently tensive place of the slave “in” the family. The slave can cause jealousy and anger in a marriage as an “external” factor, yet the occurrence of this threat is likely because the slave is, in Horace’s words, “easy and obtainable”—one who is “within” these structures and relations.40 Not only, then, should one consider an expanded version of family in examining Roman imperial-era slavery, but one must also grapple with an expanded ambit of relations for whom the slave is sexually available. This latter expansion includes two different aspects, as Finley highlighted: “Prostitution is only one aspect. More interesting in the present context is the direct sexual exploitation of slaves by their masters and the latter’s family and friends.”41 Typically, prostitutes were slaves whose clientele were lower in status, but slave owners did not need to go to brothels since their slaves could serve as “private prostitutes” for them and their friends and family.42 Just as the sexual use of slaves introduced some tensions and concerns in “family life” between husband and wife, providing this service to friends and family could be a matter to be carefully negotiated between friends in terms of the roles of patron and client. On this matter Horace gives a warning: “Let no maid or boy within your worshipful friend’s marble threshold inflame your heart, lest the owner of the pretty boy or dear girl make you happy with a present so trifling or torment you if disobliging” (Ep. 1.18.72–75). Horace indicates that one has to be deliberately prudent when developing a friendship with a powerful man. If one owes the new friend (too much), the minimal gain in political advantage could be outweighed by the loss of self-determination or control in new obligations. The advice, of course, assumes that free men are giving slaves for these purposes, even as it advises care. It stresses once more that this sexual use is mostly 38
Finley, Ancient Slavery, 75. On slavery within conceptions of “family,” see The Family in Ancient Rome: New Perspectives (ed. Beryl Rawson; Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986); Carolyn Osiek and David L. Balch, Families in the New Testament World: Households and House Churches (Family, Religion, and Culture; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1997); and Early Christian Families in Context: An Interdisciplinary Dialogue (ed. Balch and Osiek; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2003). 40 Thus, to understand Philemon, an examination of slave institutions and images is neither contradictory to nor incompatible with family institutions and images (as found, for example, in Chris Frilingos, “ ‘For My Child, Onesimus’: Paul and Domestic Power in Philemon,” JBL 119 [2000]: 91–104). 41 Finley, Ancient Slavery, 96. 42 On this status differentiation in terms of the sexual use of slaves and prostitutes, see Stumpp, Prostitution, 26. 39
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trivial; the significance of the exchange is not in the treatment of the slave but in the relationship with the master and the friend.43
II. The Use of Onesimus The ubiquity, acceptability, virtue, and even the occasional political peril (for the “user” not the “used”) in and of the sexual use of slaves put the letter to Philemon in a different light. As reflected in the context delineated above, the imperially gendered protocol of penetration presumes the relatively uncontroversial availability of slave bodies for such use. It seems that most interpreters of Philemon, though, have failed to consider more fully how this part of the kyriarchal context might provide insight into the argumentation and, thus, the potential background of this slim and elusive letter.
Χρῆσις and Consent The first and most pressing phrase to notice is Paul’s characterization of Onesimus as “once ἄχρηστον to you, but now εὔχρηστον (both) to you and to me” (v. 11). Having demonstrated how regularly the χρῆσις of slaves involved sexual uses of their bodies, such descriptions of Onesimus as previously “useless” or “not-useful,” but currently “good-for-use,” “well-used,” or even “easy-to-use” strikingly evoke the embodied aspect of his (likely) role as a slave. This description of Onesimus is completely compatible with, rather than counter to, the context delineated above, where the sexual use of slaves is acceptable, even preferred in some instances, and such use is consistently described in the terms of χρῆσις. Indeed, the letter’s use of two χρῆσις terms resonates even further with Onesimus’s name, as ὄνησις is similar to (if not exactly synonymous with) χρῆσις in describing something useful, beneficial, profitable, or enjoyable. Onesimus’s name reflects his own placement within this imperially gendered slave system, since it contains a constellation of characteristics sought by owners in their slaves. The slave exists not for his or her own benefit, profit, or pleasure but for the enjoyable use of the master, and Paul’s description of Onesimus in terms of his utility (ἄχρηστον/εὔχρηστον) reinforces the status quo of this erotically kyriarchal system. Scholarship on the letter has justifiably focused on this verse’s pun with Onesimus’s name in explicating the likely slave status of Onesimus; Carolyn Osiek
43 Though these sources mostly reflect their elite male Greek and Roman origins, scholars of Judean slave and family relations agree that such ruling perspectives governed these relations also. See Dale B. Martin, “Slavery and the Ancient Jewish Family,” in The Jewish Family in Antiquity (ed. Shaye J. D. Cohen; BJS 289; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1993), 113–29; and Catherine Hezser, Jewish Slavery in Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005).
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even remarks that Paul is here using a “condescending pun.”44 Yet most if not all scholarly treatments of Philemon have not mentioned that these terms of χρῆσις could connect Onesimus’s slave (or potentially manumitted) status to the sexual use (χρῆσις ἀφροδισίων) of slaves. This gap includes even those scholars who note the ubiquity of this use in antiquity. Yet one must recognize and begin to consider the significance of an argument that depicts Onesimus as an “easy-to-use” entity. Given an ancient background benignly neutral to and even encouraging of the sexual use of such embodied entities, it is not impossible that Paul is arguing that Onesimus is “good-for-use” as a slave, and thus “easy-to-use” sexually, for the letter’s addressee, for other community members, but also even for Paul himself. This gap in considering the usefulness of Onesimus would likely strike a host of Pauline scholars as odd, particularly given studies of other Pauline letters. In Romans, for example, the sexual meaning of χρῆσις (in 1:26 and 1:27) is patently uncontroversial, even as different understandings of this passage continue to spark ecclesial and public controversy. One of the most common ancient Greek words for sexual relations is χρῆσις, so common that the NRSV simply translates (if softens) the word in Romans 1 as “intercourse.” Thus, if there were some consistency across the translations of Paul’s letters, Paul’s characterization of Onesimus in Philemon could have been translated as “good for intercourse” rather than simply “useful.” The resulting gap in fuller considerations of the rhetorical and historical contexts of Philemon, then, is likely a product of the splintering of scholarship into specialties and subspecialties. The division of labor in biblical studies means that interpreters of particular letters, or experts on certain topics, focus on their own passages and perspectives, obscuring the places where topics such as slavery and sexuality meet and obstructing potentially illuminating connections to texts that trouble. A letter such as Philemon and passages like this might prove troubling precisely because they reflect a cold, even flip attitude toward slave bodies and their disposability for a range of uses. Paul’s playing on Onesimus’s name and station (or lack thereof) are akin to puns and wordplays in ancient sources that joke about the sexual duties and uses of slaves and freed slaves. Onesimus’s name and Paul’s description of him as “good-for-use” in this letter resonate with demeaning descriptions like Seneca’s erotically “dutiful” freedman (Controversies 4, Praef. 10) or Horace’s preference for slaves as “sex that is easy and obtainable” (Sat. 1.2.119). The rhetoric of Philemon is more consonant with than counter to such conditions and sentiments, callously indifferent to the fate of the figures behind these asymmetrical dynamics and descriptions. Paul’s claim that he sought to do nothing without the addressee’s consent, knowledge, or judgment (γνώµης, v. 14) also coheres seamlessly with a slave master’s perspective on the use of slaves (and his description of a εὔχρηστον 44
Osiek, Philippians, Philemon (ANTC; Nashville: Abingdon, 2000), 137.
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Onesimus).45 Paul appeals to the owner to agree with his exhortation “not according to constraint but according to a voluntary [ἑκούσιον] act” (v. 14). The direction of the argument demonstrates whose will matters here: Paul does not speak of Onesimus willingly (ἑκοῦσα) acting, but of his master’s “good” in this exchange. As with the slave owner and the enslaved Callirhoe in Chariton’s novel (see 2.6.2, discussed above), the enslaved Onesimus’s preference does not matter; he must do the will of his master. J. Albert Harrill recognizes, for example, that in this instance Onesimus is “a ‘living tool’ caught between ‘masters’ deciding on the use of his services.”46 Paul’s rhetoric exemplifies how inconsequential Onesimus’s will is; the letter rather attempts to steer a discussion between Paul and Onesimus’s owner.
A Warm Body Yet Paul does describe Onesimus as “my σπλάγχνα” (typically translated as “heart”) in v. 12 and applies a number of kinship terms to their relationship (vv. 10, 16). Affectionate language is not foreign to the imperially and erotically asymmetrical dynamics of ancient slavery: the mostly elite, master, male (or kyriarchal) sources frequently describe and prescribe the relations between slaves and their user-owners as warm. They comfortably speak of intimacy and harmony in the slave-owning household and society, but these affections do not contradict the harsh coercion of slavery, where “generosity” and “love” are accompanied by force, threats, and fear.47 As Hopkins argues, “this warmth did not necessarily lessen exploitation; though it may have softened the slave’s feelings about it.”48 As with the condescending and chilling turn of phrase (in v. 11), even the affection reflected by Paul’s perspective (in vv. 12 and 16) aligns comfortably with that of the slave owners.49 If this anatomy of affection is indeed compatible with the priapic protocol of penetration followed and maintained by slave user-owners, then it raises further questions about any assembly that gathers in an extended household of the Roman imperial era (v. 2). The letter highlights Paul’s joy at this community’s relieved σπλάγχνα (v. 7), the same refreshing release of σπλάγχνα that Paul later seeks from 45 For arguments that the letter’s “addressee” is not Philemon, see John Knox, Philemon among the Letters of Paul: A New View of Its Place and Importance (1935; rev. ed.; New York: Abingdon, 1959); and Sara B. C. Winter, “Paul’s Letter to Philemon,” NTS 33 (1987): 1–15. 46 Harrill, Slaves, 16. 47 See, e.g., K. R. Bradley, Slaves and Masters in the Roman Empire: A Study in Social Control (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987), 13–14, 113. 48 Hopkins, Conquerors, 154. 49 Further reflections about embodied terms such as σπλάγχνα (v. 12; cf. vv. 7, 20) should include its relation (as “the guts”) to erotic contact, as with the “heart,” “lips,” and “mouth” in Achilles Tatius 2.37.10, or with graphic uses of slaves in Juvenal, Sat. 9.43–46.
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the addressee (v. 20). In light of the commonly unexceptional sexual use of slaves, what could this refreshment of the body entail? As Glancy observes: We have no evidence to suggest that Paul interacted with slaves or slaveholders as lavish as Trimalchio’s. Still, when he accepted hospitality from a slaveholder, domestic slaves would have tended to his needs, from washing his feet upon entering the household to preparing the food for communal meals.50
Glancy stops short of imagining the full range of Paul’s bodily needs, even as Paul specifically seeks hospitality (ξενίαν, v. 22) from a slave owner. For such an owner, though, one of the advantages of having slaves to use was to provide the kind of hospitality that would have included sexual uses for family and friends. Indeed, despite the potential warmth of Onesimus’s description as Paul’s σπλάγχνα (in v. 12), the place of Onesimus in Paul’s vision of the wider community is made clear in this same verse, since he is the animate object being sent to the owner-addressee. Onesimus is a thing to pass along, to send at Paul’s will, even as Paul also claims that he wants to continue holding or possessing (κατέχειν, v. 13) this “good-for-use” tool. Such expressions recall a context where humans can be given, sold, or simply exchanged between parties for any number of reasons, including sexual ones.51 Again, Paul specifies in the following verses that this interaction is between the owning addressee (whose consent he seeks in v. 14, and with whom he shares a partnership, v. 17) and Paul. In this matter, two people besides Onesimus are negotiating over the now “easy-to-use” figure sent by Paul.52 Thus, even when Paul enlists warmly affectionate language like “beloved” (ἀγαπητόν, v. 16) to describe Onesimus as a “brother” to both of the parties negotiating over him, it is from a context of coercion and the customary χρῆσις of slaves. Affection and the many uses of slaves can and do go together; love and obedience do in fact work together in the imperially gendered slave system. Since the enslaved Habrocomes can be advised to show ἀγάπη and remain obedient (ὑπακούειν) at the same time, it is not so strange for Paul to describe a (freed) slave as beloved while still expecting compliance and obedience, both from Onesimus (v. 12) and from the addressee (v. 21).53 Thus, on its own, the rhetoric of affection and emotion does not cancel out the rhetoric of use in this letter; rather, it can be a subtle support for the social and sexual practices of slave use.
50
Glancy, Slavery, 45. See, for example, the gift of the beautiful Alexander from Pollio to Virgil, described in Seutonius, Virgil 9. 52 In this light, Onesimus is not really a substitute for Paul (as perhaps indicated by v. 17). This is made clear by the letter’s emphasis on Paul coming soon himself (vv. 19–22). 53 See Xenophon, Ephesian Tale 1.16.3–5, and the discussion above. On obedience (ὑπακοή), see Cynthia Briggs Kittredge, Community and Authority: The Rhetoric of Obedience in the Pauline Tradition (HTS 45; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1998), esp. 13–51. 51
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Keeping It among Kin The expression “beloved brother” also raises the issue of Paul’s use of kinship terminologies in his letters. In the first and only instance in which Paul explicitly names Onesimus in this letter, he introduces him in the clause: “I exhort you concerning my child, whom I begat in chains, Onesimus” (v. 10). One should not presume that such terms of kinship connote the same degrees of warmth and closeness as our contemporary terms (at least claim to) do, especially given the relatively nonaffectionate and hierarchical view of the ancient paterfamilias.54 In the Roman imperial context, the forms of emotion owed to and bestowed by one’s social superior do not negate or “relativize” the dominant position and power of those sharing in some form of kyriarchal privilege (lord, owner, father, emperor). Specifically, in the context of slaves and their owner-users, diminuitive terms were applied to the slave so as to demean and even dehumanize the slave. As Finley warns, “We must rid our minds of the warm overtones of the word ‘child’ in this connection.”55 However, such words were often used to manipulate or maintain slave acquiescence and obedience, since the “natally alienated” and “deracinated outsider” slave was uniquely and oddly positioned to be incorporated into his or her role in the household—somehow “in” the familia but not of it. It is possible that just such a tensive flexibility can account for how Paul can claim to be both father (v. 10) and brother (v. 16) and still not disrupt the agenda and arc of his argumentation.56 In both the ancient context and the Pauline corpus, such argumentation fits a pattern that comfortably mixes affection with asymmetry, harmony with hierarchy.57 “My child” Onesimus (v. 10) is also described as “no longer a slave, but ὑπέρ slave, a beloved brother, especially to me, but how much (more) especially to you, both in the flesh and in the lord” (v. 16). Onesimus is not just a slave, but acts as “more than” (ὑπέρ) a slave, somehow exceeding his previous role.58 Once harder to 54 On the mostly nonaffectionate and hierarchical view of the parent–child relationship in the ancient world, see Antoinette Clark Wire, The Corinthian Women Prophets: A Reconstruction through Paul’s Rhetoric (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), 45–47; and Elizabeth A. Castelli, Imitating Paul: A Discourse of Power (Literary Currents in Biblical Interpretation; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1991), 99–102. On the interconnection of kinship with power dynamics in Philemon, see Frilingos, “‘For My Child,’” 91–104. 55 Finley, Ancient Slavery, 96. 56 This argument is counter to the key thesis of Lloyd A. Lewis, “An African American Appraisal of the Philemon–Paul–Onesimus Triangle,” in Stony the Road We Trod: African American Biblical Interpretation (ed. Cain Hope Felder; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991), 232–46. 57 For more on Paul’s hierarchical argumentation, see Joseph A. Marchal, Hierarchy, Unity, and Imitation: A Feminist Rhetorical Analysis of Power Dynamics in Paul’s Letter to the Philippians (SBL Academia Biblica 24; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2006). 58 For the argument that Paul is seeking Onesimus’s manumission, see Knox, Philemon, 24– 27, 36–37; Winter, “Paul’s Letter,” 1, 4, 11–12; and Clarice J. Martin, “The Rhetorical Function of Commercial Language in Paul’s Letter to Philemon (Verse 18),” in Persuasive Artistry: Studies in
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use and now much better or easier to use (v. 11), he has more uses now, even possibly as a (freed) slave. Indeed, this role change for Onesimus could mean that he is a particular kind of (freed) slave, perhaps not unlike those “favorites” (sexual or otherwise) of an owner-user. In such an ancient “family” situation, a slave owner and his friends would have no difficulty in using such terms of loving kinship.59 Of course, Paul often argues about communal belonging in similar terms, even negotiating and commending particular uses of “kin” for erotic purposes in the community and for ἀπόστολοι (1 Cor 7:1–16, 25–40; 9:5; 1 Thess 4:1–6). There was at least some sex “in the family” of the ancient communities addressed by Paul’s letters. In such arguments a (freed) slave being or becoming a “brother” in an assembly does not, by itself, rule out sexual relations with this “brother.” In fact, Paul nowhere condemns or rules out the sexual use of (freed) slaves for such “brothers and sisters.”60 In this context, the strange dual prepositional phrases that conclude v. 16 (“both in the flesh and in the lord”) can be clarified. Allen Callahan has pointed to this description of the relationship between the addressee and Onesimus to argue that they are “indeed brothers both literally and spiritually. They are siblings at odds with each other.”61 Callahan is right to highlight that the “fleshly” role goes with the “lordly” role in this argument and in this community of a κύριος. However, this ignores that the sexual uses of slaves are “lordly” uses in the Roman imperial context: the κύριος, or one of his family and friends, is the presumed user (this is simply one of the presumed privileges of being in a “lordly” kyriarchal role). This need not (yet) rule out that Onesimus and the addressee are actual kin, though to propose this one would be wise to attend more closely to the sexual use of slaves. In the context of the history of interpretation and the experiences of African Americans, Demetrius K. Williams argues that being a slave and being a “brother” are not
New Testament Rhetoric in Honor of George A. Kennedy (ed. Duane F. Watson; JSNTSup 50; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1991), 321–37. For the creative (if rarely affirmed) argument that Onesimus is the actual brother of the addressee, see Allen Callahan, “Paul’s Epistle to Philemon: Toward an Alternative Argumentum,” HTR 86 (1993): 357–76; idem, Embassy of Onesimus: The Letter of Paul to Philemon (New Testament in Context; Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International, 1997). For more on the resonance of excess and elite male aims of moderation, see Dale B. Martin, “Heterosexism and the Interpretation of Romans 1:18–32,” BibInt 3 (1995): 332– 55. 59 Dale Martin stresses that slaves can play a variety of “family” roles, simultaneously blurring yet maintaining authority structures (“Slave Families and Slaves in Families,” in Balch and Osiek, Early Christian Families in Context, 207–30, esp. 207, 222–30). 60 See, e.g., S. Scott Bartchy, “Slavery, Greco-Roman,” ABD 6:65–73, esp. 69; Briggs, “Paul on Bondage and Freedom,” 114–15, 117; Glancy, Slavery, 49, 58, 70; Osiek, “Female Slaves, Porneia, and the Limits of Obedience,” in Balch and Osiek, Early Christian Families in Context, 255–74, esp. 269–70, 274. 61 Callahan, Embassy, 50.
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mutually exclusive possibilities.62 Whether in Roman imperial or Southern U.S. contexts, slaves were “children” if not heirs; slaves were “brothers” if not equals; and slaves were “loved” if still obedient and useful (even because of the sexual use of slaves).63 Thus, depending on Onesimus’s origins (as a “homegrown” product or one otherwise acquired), he could even be an incarnate sign of this use: a product of the use of a female slave by an owner-user. This distinct, but seldom considered historical possibility is all the more stark in this epistolary instance, given Paul’s use of a verb of embodied generation earlier in the letter (“begetting,” v. 10). From an owner-user’s perspective, such a verbal expression might serve adequately, even affectionately, to describe the products of his (or even her) use of slave bodies.64
On Puns and Patrons Conditions such as those discussed above also recontextualize some of the more troublesome passages in the letter. For instance, if Paul is in fact angling his argument to achieve the manumission of Onesimus (e.g., vv. 16 and 21), it does not necessarily function as a counter to the coercion and χρῆσις delineated here. Manumission is not a lessening of the exploitation of this system but a continuation of it through the management and replacement of less useful bodies. Such argumentation, then, more likely reflects rather than diminishes the ongoing vulnerability of even the freed slave, as these conditions can require erotic duties even after manumission.65 These kinds of arguments, whether focused on manumission or some other outcome, tend not to narrow the hierarchical relations Paul expects between the addressee and himself, between the owner-user and Onesimus, or between Paul and Onesimus.66 In discussing the hospitality he seeks from the addressee (vv. 20– 62
Williams, “Philemon Interpreted: A History,” in Onesimus, Our Brother: Reading Religion, Race, and Slavery in Philemon (ed. Matthew V. Johnson Jr., James A. Noel, and Demetrius K. Williams; Minneapolis: Fortress, forthcoming). My thanks go to Dr. Williams for generously sharing a pre-publication draft of his contribution. 63 Dale Martin also discusses a number of inscriptions that combine dominus with familial terms like father, mother, brother, and son. See CIL 6.21787; 6.36351; 6.2233; and 6.11511; and the discussion in Martin, “Slave Families,” 226 n. 43. 64 The same Greek verb (γεννάω) is used for the production of a slave “child” in Phlm 10 and in Gal 4:23. These expressions are compatible with the attitude displayed by the “joke” about Quirinalis in Martial, Epigrams 1.84. 65 On this ongoing vulnerability, see Horsley, “Slave Systems,” 48–53; Briggs, “Paul on Bondage and Freedom,” 111–13; and Glancy, Slavery, 14. 66 For further reflections on the relationships between all of these figures and/in the community receiving the letter, in terms of both Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick’s concept of erotic triangulation (Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial Desire [New York: Columbia University Press, 1985], esp. 21–27) and the ethos of contemporary S/M communities, see Marchal, “Foucault at the Foot of Philemon: The Sexual Use of Slaves and Scholarly Evasion” (paper
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22), Paul uses the rare optative verb ὀναίµην (“may I have this benefit,” v. 20), derived from the same root as Onesimus’s name. Another wordplay and the continuing exchange between Paul and the addressee indicate that the letter’s arguments have not moved past the mind-set of disparaging utility and glib diminution reflected earlier in the letter. While these arguments reflect and maintain a hierarchical difference between Paul and Onesimus, they also seek to negotiate the situation with the letter’s addressee to generate a similar kind of hierarchical differentiation. Though Paul seeks hospitality from this (likely) owner-user (v. 22) and makes use of Onesimus (vv. 10–13), he also appears to be arguing carefully for how such conditions do not make him the client of the owner-user. To manage such a situation, Paul stresses that he could command this potential patron (v. 8) and that the addressee “owes” the considerable debt of his very self (v. 20). By the end of the argument, Paul declares his confidence in the addressee’s obedience (v. 21), or, as Osiek sums the sentiment of this verse, “if nothing else, you will be obedient.”67 If Onesimus was the property or even a gift of this owner-user to Paul, such an argumentative arc is a savvy way to deflect a focus on the benefits Paul has already received from this potential patron. By attempting to show indifference to the benefits of such a useful tool, Paul shapes an implicit claim that he did not need the service of someone else’s (freed) slave (even if he did use the good-to-use Onesimus [v. 11] or does demand hospitality [v. 22]). If Paul does not want to become someone’s client, his actions and arguments nevertheless indicate that he is willing to take the benefits typically viewed as patronly in the Roman imperial context.68 To avoid “owing” the one whom he claims owes him dutiful obedience, then, Paul must recognize that using someone else’s slave, sexually or otherwise, is a matter to be carefully negotiated by the friends and family of the owner-user.69 This is likely why Paul implements these patron–client rhetorics of owing and obedience in this letter, because Paul’s apparent actions violated the advice offered by Horace above (he made use of another’s slave). Further, Paul is aiming not simply to avoid this dynamic but to reverse the ancient expectations about such an exchange by seeking obedience from the potential patron. This likely explains the oddly emphatic comparative turn of phrase when Paul insists that Onesimus is also “a beloved brother, especially to me, but presented at the annual meeting of the Society of Biblical Literature, Boston, Massachusetts, November 2008). 67 Osiek, Philippians, Philemon, 142. Callahan (Embassy, 64) also sees the following verse as a “tacit threat.” 68 On patronage and friendship, see John T. Fitzgerald, “Paul and Friendship,” in Paul in the Greco-Roman World: A Handbook (ed. J. Paul Sampley; Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2003), 319–43; and Marchal, “‘With Friends Like These . . .’: A Feminist Rhetorical Reconsideration of Scholarship and the Letter to the Philippians,” JSNT 29 (2006): 77–106. 69 See the caution required for this situation (noted above) in Horace, Ep. 1.18.72–75.
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how much (more) especially to you” (v. 16). The one whom Paul is sending, described as his “child” and his “brother,” is even more the “brother” of the addressee. Even if and as some differentiations persisted among “kin” in the communities (which is why Paul addresses the owner-user, not Onesimus), Paul is indicating that he is more above and less like (or “akin” to) the (freed) slave than the addressee is. Thus, even as Paul may be trying to rearrange the format of patronage through this letter, there are few indications that the forms and practices of the use of slaves (sexual or otherwise) are reordered. Rather, it demonstrates just another instance where grappling with the unexceptional historical conditions of the χρῆσις of slaves offers vital contextual clues and rhetorical cues for a richer understanding of the letter to Philemon.
III. A Conclusion by Way of Objections and Hypotheses The largest scholarly objection to the argument of this article is likely to invoke Paul’s arguments elsewhere for particular kinds of erotic austerity, moderation, and self-control. There is little in these letters that is incompatible with reading Philemon in light of the sexual use of slaves. In both Paul’s letters and the ancient priapic protocol discussed above, the priority is on managing one’s self, treating a wife, and generally expressing one’s status (particularly that of dominion) in appropriate ways. In the priapic protocol, the sexual use of slaves is a mostly consequencefree strategy for properly fulfilling these roles. Recall that in this context the χρῆσις of slaves is one way to show respect to one’s wife (Plutarch) or to indulge in ways that still preserve one’s purity (Epictetus). In such a worldview, sexual contact with women and young male slaves need not contradict the reputation for chastity of a figure such as Virgil (in Seutonius). Thus, Paul’s stated preference in 1 Corinthians for the community members to be as he is, unmarried and implicitly self-controlled (7:8–9), is not necessarily incompatible with ancient views of the sexual use of slaves. Paul’s earlier condemnations of contact with prostitutes (πόρνη, 6:15–17) suggest some limits on the use of at least those slaves who were prostitutes (that is, many prostitutes). Yet one cannot safely and responsibly argue that such condemnations extend the category of πορνεία (“prostitution”) to the sexual use of all slaves, including especially the use of a household slave.70 As Glancy’s work continuously stresses, Paul’s own arguments are evidence that he was not particularly concerned with this vulnerability. 70 There is considerable ambiguity as to whether making use of a πόρνη would be viewed as πορνεία in the Roman imperial context. Paul’s letters never clearly delineate what πορνεία is, only that it is problematic. See Briggs, “Paul on Bondage and Freedom,” 116–17; Glancy, Slavery, 49–50, 58–66; and Osiek, “Female Slaves,” 268–70. As in Philemon, Paul is comfortable using slave images and arguments in 1 Cor 6:19–20.
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Indeed, Glancy also highlights how other passages might, in fact, fit rather than contradict such use in the communities. For instance, Paul similarly exhorts an (androcentric) audience to “obtain his own vessel” (1 Thess 4:4) in order to avoid πορνεία (4:3-6).71 Glancy suggests that Paul is calling for them to “find morally neutral outlets for their sexual urges. . . . domestic slaves were considered to be morally neutral outlets for sexual urges—vessels, we might say.”72 This suggestion looks even stronger when one notes how the purpose of getting such a vessel (σκεῦος) is to prevent wronging another “brother” (4:6).73 Viewed this way, Philemon and 1 Thessalonians are similarly negotiating issues around the sexual use of slaves without damaging the rights of another in the community. In his letters, Paul is not outraged by χρῆσις but only by “unnatural” uses, those that violate the isomorphism between erotic contact and the kyriarchal order.74 The χρῆσις of slaves was not considered an unnatural use, nor would it have been necessarily thought a violation of calls for chastity or an infringement on marriage practices. The interpretation of Philemon under development here, then, need not be viewed as inconsistent with the arguments found elsewhere in Paul’s letters. In terms of the specific contextualization of this letter, the additional virtue of my argument here is that it can act as a complement to, an addition to, or an elaboration of many of the rhetorical and historical analyses of Philemon. As we scholars struggle to find a sufficient context for this brief epistle, the sexual use of slaves can add shade and nuance to various hypotheses regarding the occasion of this letter. In terms of ancient legal, social, literary, and moral background, this condition of slavery has nearly as much historical attestation as the conditions lifted up by various fugitive slave, emissary, apprenticed slave, and third-party intercession hypotheses that have assembled around the interpretation of this letter.75 71 See Glancy, Slavery, 60; but also Beverly Roberts Gaventa, First and Second Thessalonians (Interpretation; Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 1998), 53. 72 Glancy, Slavery, 60. For a similarly instrumental argument that makes an exception for the adult male community member(s), see 1 Cor 7:36–38. 73 This “vessel” (σκεῦος) recurs in the only other letter where εὔχρηστος appears (2 Tim 2:21; 4:11). Dominion and utility arguments persist into later “Pauline” traditions, as the purpose of preparing a vessel is to become useful to the master of the house (δεσπότης, 2 Tim 2:21). 74 See Brooten, Love between Women, 216, 241–53. 75 The fugitive slave hypothesis is the traditional and predominant interpretation, as reflected in recent works such as Larry J. Kreitzer, Philemon (Readings; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2008), 38–52; and John Byron, Recent Research on Paul and Slavery (Recent Research in Biblical Studies 3; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix, 2008), 116–27. On the theory that Onesimus was sent as an emissary, see especially Winter, “Paul’s Letter.” For the influential (if contested) suggestion that Onesimus legally sought a friend of the owner to intercede on his behalf, see Peter Lampe, “Keine ‘Sklavenflucht’ des Onesimus,” ZNW 76 (1985): 133–37. Harrill (Slaves, 7–11, 14– 18) disputes Lampe’s hypothesis and proposes the relevance of different materials, for example, journeyman apprentice contracts.
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Though this element of slavery is both ubiquitous and unexceptional in the ancient sources on slavery, it has been neither in interpretations of Philemon. This is unfortunate, since the argument of this article does not require the sexual use of slaves to be the exclusive explanatory condition or exegetical illumination for the letter. This use of slaves, for instance, can provide additional historical and rhetorical support to hypotheses about Onesimus as a runaway slave, but not only to these theories. My present argument about the letter, then, is compatible not only with arguments from other Pauline letters but also with arguments from many other Philemon interpreters. If taken seriously, such compatibilities should continue to be disturbing challenges, as they generate significantly different and troubling questions and consequences for the interpretation of Paul’s letters. The letter’s echo of a kyriarchal ethos requires that we find other, ethically and politically accountable uses for letters that reflect this kind of χρῆσις.
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Were the Early Christians Sectarians? eyal regev [email protected] Bar-Ilan University, Ramat-Gan 52900, Israel
Two leading figures in the social-scientific study of the NT declared in the 1980s that the view that early Christianity was a sect within Judaism had become “a commonplace.”1 Since then, a growing number of scholars have adopted this view. Consequently, different groups and communities reflected (whether directly or implicitly) in the NT Gospels and epistles are usually regarded as having departed from Jewish society (but not necessarily from the Jewish religion, that is, the later “parting of the ways”) already in the initial phases of early Christianity . In the present article, I will question this claim by showing that the sociological concept “sect” is narrower than many NT scholars realize. I will survey the studies expressing the consensus and discuss the models of sectarianism they employ and the ways they apply them to the NT, in whole or in part. Later on, I will demonstrate the absence of three essential sectarian criteria from many NT texts: social separation, social requirements and sanctions, and a fixed organization or institutionalization. By examining whether the community reflected in a given Gospel or epistle was a sect—or at the very least, displays a sectarian worldview—I aim to question whether the author perceived his group or close associates as a distinct social body apart from the larger Jewish society. The following discussion will not be limited to the Jewish Christians and their relationship with fellow Jews; given the blurred distinctions between the so-called “Jewish” and “Gentile” Christian communities, and since many communities were mixed,2 many of the NT writings will be examined for the insights they offer. 1 John H. Elliott, A Home for the Homeless: A Social-Scientific Criticism of 1 Peter, Its Situation and Strategy (1981; 2nd ed.; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), 74; Wayne A. Meeks, The Moral World of the First Christians (Library of Early Christianity 6; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1986), 98. 2 See Gal 2:11–14; Romans 9–11, esp. 11:17–21; Philip F. Esler, Community and Gospel in Luke-Acts: Social and Political Motivations of Lucan Theology (SNTSMS 57; Cambridge:
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I. The Sect Model in New Testament Scholarship: A Critical Appraisal The Absence of a Social-Scientific Model Several articles take for granted that early Christianity was a sect but do not provide any definition of sectarianism or clarification of the sectarian character.3 Others are familiar with studies on sectarianism but still lack a clear sociological definition of a sect and do not support their arguments with evidence from the NT.4
Troeltsch’s Church-Sect Model According to Ernst Troeltsch’s so-called church-sect model, the sect refuses to accept the world as it is, seeking instead to replace the church’s sacramental means of salvation with redemption through complete faith.5 Troeltsch listed several general characteristics of a sect: it (1) is a voluntary community; (2) is independent of the world, or even opposed to it; (3) separates religious life from economic struggle by means of the ideal of poverty and frugality; (4) is critical of “official” spiritual guides; (5) conditions entry into the community on conscious conversion; (6) aims at religious equality of the laity; (7) emphasizes personal service and cooperation; and (8) aspires to personal, inward perfection. Wayne A. Meeks drew on Troeltsch’s church-sect model, arguing that early Christians were “sectarians” because they shared “beliefs and patterns of behavior that were not . . . shared by other groups of Jews”; they “drew the boundaries of the sacred community differently and more narrowly than did the established leaders in Jerusalem,” for example, in baptism (i.e., ritual initiation), which was “a major step toward sectarianism”; and they had “a very particularistic ethos” of separation from the world, since the world is on the road to damnation.6 Cambridge University Press, 1987), 30–45; E. P. Sanders, Paul, the Law and the Jewish People (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983), 171–206, esp. 174, 192; James D. G. Dunn, The Theology of Paul the Apostle (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 504–32. 3 One famous example is Wayne A. Meeks, “The Man from Heaven and Johannine Sectarianism,” JBL 91 (1972): 44–72. 4 E.g., Francis Watson, Paul, Judaism and the Gentiles: A Sociological Approach (SNTSMS 56; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 38-40; David C. Sim, The Gospel of Matthew and Christian Judaism: The History and Social Setting of the Matthean Community (Studies of the New Testament and Its World; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998), 108–23; Graham N. Stanton, “The Gospel of Matthew and Judaism,” BJRL 66 (1984): 264–84, esp. 274, 277, 282. 5 Troeltsch, The Social Teachings of the Christian Churches (2 vols.; London: George Allen & Unwin; New York: Macmillan, 1931; German, 1911), 1:331–39. 6 Meeks, Moral World, 98–99, 103.
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Philip F. Esler similarly maintained that “Luke’s community is sectarian within the terms of Troeltsch’s typology” since it was autonomous and had a separate identity vis-à-vis Judaism.7 He concluded that Luke had an exclusive commitment to the ekklēsia, as well as a lack of simultaneous allegiance to the synagogue, and he refers to the exclusion of the early Christian communities from the synagogue, which would seem to indicate an irrevocable split between the two.8 Some of these assertions by Meeks and Esler will be disputed below. More important to the present purpose, however, is to question their sociological definition of a sect. The use of Troeltsch’s church-sect model for defining a sect is problematic for several reasons. First, later sociologists of religion have criticized this model as historically confining and religiously specific: the very notion of a church and the organizational and doctrinal characteristics of the sect are pertinent mainly to medieval Christianity.9 The contradictory aspects of the church-sect are too broad and imprecise and therefore cannot serve as a cross-cultural model.10 Second, as several NT scholars have argued, the entire concept of a monolithic church does not fit pre-70 c.e. Judaism, which contained within it various groups and currents.11 Third, Meeks, Esler, and others employed a limited number of general examples to illustrate the church-sect model’s applicability. They did not, for example, conduct an in-depth analysis of the relationship between the early Christian communities and “mainstream” Judaism (e.g., the high priests and the Pharisees), nor did they refer to the eight specific sectarian characteristics listed by Troeltsch. It would seem as though the fitness of the model was simply taken for granted.12
7 Esler, Community and Gospel in Luke-Acts, 48–49, 54, 57 (on pp. 47–49, 233–34, he also refers to Max Weber and Bryan Wilson). 8 Ibid., 54-56. 9 Bryan Wilson in his Magic and the Millennium: A Sociological Study of Religious Movements of Protest among Tribal and Third-World Peoples (London: Heinemann, 1973), 12-16; idem, “The Sociology of Sects,” Religion in Sociological Perspective (Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 1982), 89-91, 101. 10 Benton Johnson, “On Church and Sect,” American Sociological Review 28 (1963): 539– 49; idem, “Church and Sect Revisited,” JSSR 10 (1971): 124–37; Alan W. Eister, “Toward a Radical Critique of Church-Sect Typologizing,” JSSR 6 (1967): 85–90. 11 L. Michael White, “Shifting Sectarian Boundaries in Early Christianity,” BJRL 70 (1988): 10–15; Torrey Seland, “Jesus as a Faction Leader: On the Exit of the Category ‘Sect,’ ” in Context: Festskrift til Peder Johan Borgen (ed. Peter Wilhelm Bøckman and Roald E. Kristiansen; Relieff 24; Trondheim: Tapir, 1987), 198, 208; Bengt Holmberg, Sociology and the New Testament: An Appraisal (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), 91. 12 Meeks himself raises doubts regarding the applicability of the church-sect model and whether debates concerning laws and rituals actually led to social separation. As he concedes, there was wide variation in practice among other Jews as well as internal Christian disputes (Moral World, 100). Although he uses the terms “sect” and “the Jesus sect,” he explains that early Christianity is not exactly a sect but also a meeting club or school, admitting that it is hard to classify it sociologically (ibid., 119–20).
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Scroggs’s Use of Werner Stark Robin Scroggs offered the first detailed attempt to define the early Christians as sectarians, although his discussion was limited to Jesus and his direct disciples.13 Scroggs’s theoretical framework is eclectic, referring to the works of Wilson and others but relying mainly on Werner Stark’s volume Sectarian Religion.14 Scroggs lists six major sectarian characteristics, supported by evidence from the Gospels: a sect (1) is a voluntary association, (2) begins as a protest movement, (3) rejects the establishment’s view of reality, (4) is egalitarian, (5) offers love and acceptance to those within the community, and (6) commands a total commitment. According to Scroggs, Christianity began to emerge as sect in the period when Jesus taught his disciples. Scroggs’s work has been cited extensively as proof of the sectarian character of early Christianity; however, his analysis is methodologically premature. To begin with, his reliance on Stark’s portrayal of sectarianism is problematic and far from promising. Stark’s study is replete with historical allusions but lacks a definition of a sect. It has been criticized for its classification of sectarianism in terms of doctrine and degree of institutionalization and, therefore, has not gained acceptance among sociologists.15 Furthermore, Scroggs’s use of Stark is somewhat selective and idiosyncratic.16 He fails to mention Stark’s discussion of the sectarian “depreciation of everything that is in, and belongs to, the world,” and of the sect as a “religiously conceived élite,” which probably does not fit the earliest Jesus movement.17 At the same time, Scroggs rephrases Stark’s portrayal of the sectarian characteristics to reduce their radical social character, thus allowing them to correspond more easily to the social features of the Gospels.18 Moreover, the NT passages on which Scroggs draws are not convincing. Scroggs does not point to an active rejection of major Jewish social institutions, 13 Scroggs, “The Earliest Christian Communities as Sectarian Movement,” in Christianity, Judaism, and Other Greco-Roman Cults: Studies for Morton Smith at Sixty (ed. Jacob Neusner; 4 vols.; SJLA 12; Leiden: Brill, 1975), 2:1–23. 14 Stark, The Sociology of Religion: A Study of Christendom, vol. 2, Sectarian Religion (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1967). 15 Wilson, Magic and the Millennium, 15–16 nn. 9–10, and the studies cited there. In fact, Stark does not differ dramatically from Troeltsch (see Stark, Sociology of Religion, 60, 83–93, 159). 16 See S. C. Barton, “Early Christianity and the Sociology of the Sect,” in The Open Text: New Directions for Biblical Studies? (ed. Francis Watson; London: SCM, 1993), 144: “[T]he idea of a sect itself is described in a very general and monolithic way so that it is hardly surprising that the early church can be described as sectarian, especially when one begins to suspect that the characteristics of the ideal type have been taken from early Christianity in the first place.” 17 Stark, Sociology of Religion, 93, 98–111. 18 Stark refers not to egalitarianism but to “anti-authoritarianism” (Sociology of Religion, 115, 120), and not to the refutation of reality but to the creation of “counterculture” (pp. 128–58). Moreover, love and acceptance are not defined as sectarian characteristics (p. 133).
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notions of morality, covenant by law, and so on.19 He is unsuccessful in demonstrating egalitarianism,20 and his references to the disciples’ total commitment are rather general.21 In fact, Scroggs even appears to contradict himself, stating that Jesus did not aim to withdraw from the world or to “further rigidly the boundaries between the establishment and the outcasts.”22 Indeed, recent studies have argued that the earliest “Jesus movement” was not a sect but a faction.23
Wilson’s Sect Model(s) In his “Analysis of Sect Development,” Bryan Wilson identified several sectarian characteristics according to patterns of self-conception and social organization: (1) membership is determined by sect authorities and is contingent upon some claim of personal merit, such as knowledge of doctrine or affirmation of a conversion experience; (2) exclusiveness is emphasized, and expulsion is exercised; (3) self-conception is of an elect group or gathered remnant; (4) personal perfection is expected; (5) there is hostility or indifference toward the surrounding society.24 He later added additional characteristics: (6) a sect is a protest group; (7) it claims a monopoly on complete religious truth;25 and (8) it provides better access to salvation than is elsewhere available.26 This characterization of sectarianism was applied fully and successfully to the Qumran sects, and therefore it is appropriate to employ it in the study of Second Temple Judaism.27 Unfortunately, no NT scholar has used this specific, more 19 Scroggs, “Earliest Christian Communities,” 14–15. See also the criticism of Holmberg, Sociology and the New Testament, 90–91, and the discussion below. 20 Scroggs (“Earliest Christian Communities,” 18) refers to the rhetorical aphorisms of Gal 3:28 and Mark 10:43–44 but acknowledges the hierarchical structure of the Jerusalem church. 21 He (“Earliest Christian Communities,” 20) refers to taking up one’s cross, selling one’s possessions, and general “ethical injunctions.” Scroggs’s “total commitment to a totally different lifestyle” is not identical to a total commitment to a social institution or leadership (that is, a sectarian one). See Jack T. Sanders, Schismatics, Sectarians, Dissidents, Deviants: The First One Hundred Years of Jewish–Christian Relations (London: SCM, 1993), 115–16. 22 Scroggs, “Earliest Christian Communities,” 13. 23 Seland, “Jesus as a Faction Leader,” 197–211; Bruce Malina, “A Conflict Approach to Mark 7,” Forum 4.3 (1988): 3–30. See also the articles by Elliott cited in n. 36 and discussed below. 24 Wilson, “An Analysis of Sect Development,” American Sociological Review 24 (1959): 3– 15, here 4; reprinted in Patterns of Sectarianism: Organisation and Ideology in Social and Religious Movements (ed. Bryan R. Wilson; London: Heinemann, 1967), 22–45. 25 Wilson, “Sociology of Sects,” 91–93. 26 Wilson, The Social Dimensions of Sectarianism: Sects and New Religious Movements in Contemporary Society (Oxford: Clarendon, 1990), 47. 27 John W. Martens, “A Sectarian Analysis of the Damascus Document,” in Essays in the Social Scientific Study of Judaism and Jewish Society (ed. Simcha Fishbane and John N. Lightstone; Montréal: Concordia University, 1990), 27–46; Eyal Regev, Sectarianism in Qumran: A CrossCultural Perspective (Religion and Society 45; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2007), 39–42.
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detailed model. Several scholars, however, used more simplified and general characterizations listed by Wilson. 28 In his Sects and Society, Wilson used an abridged and more general definition of a sect, with the following characteristics: (1) a clearly defined community; (2) minimal diversity and/or rigid patterns of conduct; (3) active contention against every other organization of values and ideas; (4) not only an ideological unit but a social unit that seeks to enforce behavior among those who accept its beliefs; (5) drawing the faithful apart from the rest of society and into the company of each other; and (6) a protest group, which develops its own distinctive ethic, beliefs, and practices.29 In his study of 1 Peter, A Home for the Homeless, John H. Elliot defines the community of 1 Peter as a sect on the basis of this last definition. He argues that 1 Peter represents a community (1) separated from the rest of society through a voluntary termination of, and conversion from, past familial, social, and religious ties (1 Pet 1:3–5, 10–12, 18–21; 2:4–10); (2) defined by strict internal discipline (1:22; 2:1; 3:8; 4:7–11; 5:1–5); (3) aiming to contend vigorously with any encroachment by, or infiltration of, outside forces (1:14–16, 18–21; 2:11; 3:9, 13–17; 4:1–6, 12–19; 5:8–9); and (4) characterized by an ethic that prescribes religious allegiance, “fear” (1:17; 2:17; cf. 3:6, 14), and “obedience” (cf. 2:8; 3:20; 4:17) to the will of God alone (2:15; 3:17; 4:2, 19).30 In his dependence on Wilson’s abridged definition, Elliott omits several important characteristics listed in Wilson’s original and more detailed description: conditional admission, exclusivity, and expulsion, all of which are lacking in 1 Peter. Moreover, Elliot overstresses the idea of separation in 1 Peter. Although the addressees adhere to a distinctive religious ethos and experience alienation from the surrounding society—they are called “aliens and exiles” (2:11)—there is almost no sign of social separation. On the contrary, they are guided by the premise that the Gentiles “may see your honorable deeds and glorify God when He comes to judge.”
28 Margaret Y. MacDonald (The Pauline Churches: A Socio-Historical Study of Institutionalization in the Pauline and Deutero-Pauline Writings [SNTSMS 60; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988], 34, 39) relies on Wilson without actually discussing the model. Scroggs (“Earliest Christian Communities”) has occasional references to some of Wilson’s characteristics, omitting at least four essential ones. 29 Wilson, Sects and Society: A Sociological Study of the Elim Tabernacle, Christian Science, and Christadelphians (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1961), 1. Wilson admits that “throughout this study, a minimal definition of sect has been adopted, a definition broadly conforming to popular usage” (p. 325; cf. 3); that at least two of the three sects discussed in this book bear “denominational tendencies” (pp. 10, 326; cf. 58, 328–30, 332–33); and that he prefers the designation “minority religious movements” (e.g., pp. 326, 331, 342). 30 Elliott, Home for the Homeless, 75. On separation (referring to 1 Pet 1:14; 2:11; 4:1–4), see also pp. 82, 102, 108, 119, 135. On self-election and elitism (1 Pet 1:1; 2:4–10), see pp. 121–29.
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The addressees are also required to accept relevant governmental authority and to “honor everyone.”31 While 1 Peter distinguishes its community from the Gentile realm, turning away from idolatry, deceit, envy, and lust,32 it does not have an explicit relationship (and hence conflict or tension) with the Jewish realm. Interestingly, this quasi-sectarian approach to the Gentile world is regarded by Elliott as exceptional in the NT,33 a position that, in itself, may imply a belief in the nonsectarian tendency of the early Christians. John E. Stanley applies Wilson’s model to Revelation, arguing that the author’s worldview corresponds to the characteristics of voluntary association, the monopoly over truth, an ideology of protest, exclusivity, and a demand for total allegiance. However, he neglects at least two of Wilson’s sectarian characteristics: admission based on some kind of merit, and the use of sanctions and/or expulsion.34 Stanley’s references to exclusivity and separation (i.e., the call to come out of Babylon because of its sins in Rev 18:4, and the adulation of virginity in 14:4), as well as to the demand for total allegiance (the suffering of the believers in 13:10), are not a conclusive enough foundation on which to rest such strong claims. Revelation can be read as a protest against the idolatrous Gentile world using Jewish apocalyptic imagery in which the intra-Jewish debate typical of a Jewish sect plays only a marginal role.35 In two overlapping articles, Elliott tried to demonstrate that, after the death of Jesus, the “Jesus movement” gradually began to adopt the features and strategies of a Jewish sect that remained outside “the corporate body of Israel.”36 In defining a 31 See 1 Pet 2:12–14, 17; 3:8–17; David L. Balch, Let Wives Be Submissive: The Domestic Code in I Peter (SBLMS 26; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1981), 86–95, 109, 119–21. 32 Elliott, Home for the Homeless, 119; cf. 1 Pet 1:14; 2:1, 11–12; 4:2–4. 33 According to Elliott (Home for the Homeless, 13), 1 Peter “is the only New Testament writing which systematically and thematically has addressed the issue of Christian alien residence within the structures of society.” 34 John E. Stanley, “The Apocalypse and Contemporary Sect Analysis,” SBL 1986 Seminar Papers, 412–15. 35 On protest against the Gentiles, see Rev 2:6, 14–15, 20; 11:2; 20:7; cf. 21:24, 26; see also Adela Yarbro Collins, Crisis & Catharsis: The Power of the Apocalypse (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1984), 84–110. Inter-Jewish polemic is implied only in Rev 2:9–10; 3:9 (and 11:8), but these passages may actually reflect intra-church conflicts. See David Frankfurter, “Jews or Not? Reconstructing the Other in Rev 2:9 and 3:9,” HTR 94 (2001): 403–25. 36 Elliott, “The Jewish Messianic Movement: From Faction to Sect,” in Modeling Early Christianity: Social-Scientific Studies of the New Testament and Its Context (ed. Philip F. Esler; London/ New York: Routledge, 1995), 75-95; idem, “Phases in the Social Formation of Early Christianity from Faction to Sect: A Social-Scientific Perspective,” in Recruitment, Conquest, and Conflict: Strategies in Judaism, Early Christianity, and the Greco-Roman World (ed. Peder Borgen, Vernon K. Robbins, and David B. Gowler; Emory Studies in Early Christianity 6; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1998), 273–313.
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sect, Elliott discusses Troeltsch and others but relies on the model that Wilson outlines in his Sects and Society37 and lists twenty-one sectarian features found in NT writings. Four of these sectarian features, which are essential for any characterization of a sect, should be disputed, since the NT attestations that Elliott offers are insufficient. They are either irrelevant or do not represent early Christianity as a whole. 1. Enforcing behavior by threat of expulsion and excommunication.38 Matthew 18:15–17 is exceptional in the NT. Nonetheless, the sanction is less decisive than it seems.39 In comparison with parallel regulations in the Qumran scrolls, Matthew’s initial concern is with forgiveness and repentance, not judgment. He is interested in convincing and not convicting, and the community has moral influence but lacks disciplinary power.40 Paul’s exhortation to separate oneself from adulterous and idolatrous Christians (1 Cor 5:9–13) merely reflects self-segregation, such as avoiding communal meals with such persons, not an active expulsion.41 2. Drawing members apart from the rest of society by requiring termination and separation from previous associations and loyalties, insisting on exclusive allegiance and total commitment.42 As already noted, 1 Peter and Revelation do not attest to social boundaries or behavioral restrictions, nor do John and James (see below). Matthew 22:21 and parallels refer to submission to Rome or any other government.43 Ephesians 4:17–5:20; Col 3:1–17; and 1 Thess 4:1–8 are moral exhortations, urging the desertion of past, Gentile (read: immoral) ways, but they do not speak of avoiding social contacts with outsiders (see also below). 3. Rigid patterns of conduct: perfection.44 Matthew 5:48 is general and obscure.45 2 Corinthians 6:14–7:2; Eph 5:2–3; 1 Thess 4:1–8; and 1 Pet 1:14–16 do 37
Elliott, “Phases,” 275–78, 280–81, 285, referring to Wilson, Sects and Society, 1; and Wilson, Magic and the Millennium, 19 [sic], 21–26, 58. 38 Elliot, “Jewish Messianic Movement,” 83; idem, “Phases,” 294. 39 Expulsion may seem anomalous to both the immediate context of these verses and Matthew’s ethos of forgiveness. See the studies cited in Ulrich Luz, Matthew 8–20: A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001), 450–57. 40 Timothy R. Carmody, “Matt. 18:15–17 in Relation to Three Texts from Qumran Literature (CD 9:2–8, 16–22; 1QS 5:25–6:1),” in To Touch the Text: Biblical and Related Studies in Honor of Joseph A. Fitzmyer, S.J. (ed. Maurya P. Horgan and Paul J. Kobelski; New York: Crossroad, 1989), 141–58. 41 The same applies to the avoidance of contact with false apostles in 2 John 10–11. 1 Timothy 1:20 and 6:3 are irrelevant, since they lack any social bearing. 42 Elliott, “Jewish Messianic Movement,” 82; idem, “Phases,” 293. 43 Compare Christopher Bryan, Render to Caesar: Jesus, the Early Church, and the Roman Superpower (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005). 44 Elliott, “Jewish Messianic Movement,” 83; idem, “Phases,” 294. 45 So W. D. Davies and Dale C. Allison, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel according to Saint Matthew (3 vols.; ICC; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1988), 1:560–63, who interpret it as unrestrained love. Romans 12:2 alludes to perfection but does not actually require it; Jas 1:26
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not demand perfection, or distinctive moral restrictions, but rather holiness— namely, a belief in Jesus and a rejection of the Gentiles’ way of life. A sect would have required more. 4. A defined social (and not merely ideological) unit: a clearly defined community, perceived by its members as an identifiable social, organized entity. Elliott refers to several self-designations, such as ekklēsia, the “household of God,” the “body of Christ,” and “Israel of God,”46 but none of them attests to an organized body, only to aspired-to religious sensibilities. He does not demonstrate behavioral norms. A large number of NT scholars have based their assertion that the early Christians were a sect on Wilson’s Magic and the Millennium. Here Wilson introduced a model of conversionist and revolutionist “responses to the world,” namely, the different ways in which these responses are employed to overcome evil.47 This model aimed to overcome methodological difficulties and to provide a much more flexible approach to the study of “new religious movements arising among lessdeveloped peoples.”48 Wilson’s “responses” were criticized as too general, abstract, and flexible to be applied to early Christianity, since they do not deal with the organizational aspects of the movement but merely reflect the strategy of the deviant group.49 In fact, Wilson does not discuss sectarianism per se, but rather new reli-
and 4:8 relate to idolatry; and 1 John 3:2 and passim do not demand holiness but argue that the believers are Godlike. 46 Elliott, “Jewish Messianic Movement,” 81; idem, “Phases,” 291. 47 Wilson, Magic and the Millennium, esp. 18–30. See, e.g., Meeks, Moral World, 100; Elliott, Home for the Homeless, 102; idem, “Jewish Messianic Movement,” 83; idem, “Phases,” 295; Esler, Community and Gospel, 49–50, 58–60; idem, “Introverted Sectarianism at Qumran and in the Johannine Community,” in idem, The First Christians in Their Social Worlds: Social Scientific Approaches to New Testament Interpretation (London/New York: Routledge, 1994), 70–91; MacDonald, Pauline Churches, 34–35, 80; Howard Clark Kee, Community of the New Age: Studies in Mark’s Gospel (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1977), 162–63; J. Andrew Overman, Matthew’s Gospel and Formative Judaism: The Social World of the Matthean Community (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), 107, 112; Petri Luomanen, “The ‘Sociology of Sectarianism’ in Matthew: Modeling the Genesis of Early Jewish and Christian Communities,” in Fair Play: Diversity and Conflict in Early Christianity. Essays in Honor of Heikki Räisänen (ed. Ismo Dunderberg, Christopher Tuckett, and Kari Syreeni; NovTSup 103; Leiden: Brill, 2002), 109–13; Jutta Jokiranta, “Learning from Sectarian Responses: Windows on Qumran Sects and Emerging Christian Sects,” in Echoes from the Caves: Qumran and the New Testament (ed. Florentino García Martínez; STDJ 85; Leiden: Brill, 2009), 177–209. 48 Wilson, Magic and the Millennium, 1. 49 Pieter F. Craffert, “An Exercise in the Critical Use of Models: The ‘Goodness of Fit’ of Wilson’s Sect Model,” in Social Scientific Models for Interpreting the Bible: Essays by the Context Group in Honor of Bruce J. Malina (ed. John J. Pilch; Biblical Interpretation Series 53; Leiden: Brill, 2001), 36-42; Ekkehard W. Stegemann and Wolfgang Stegemann, The Jesus Movement: A Social History of Its First Century (trans. O. C. Dean, Jr.; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1999), 150–51, 191–92, 242–43, 285.
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gious movements in general.50 Hence, demonstrating that a certain text or movement corresponds to one of Wilson’s “responses” cannot suffice for evidence of its sectarian character, since a conversionist or revolutionist movement is not necessarily a sect in the sociological sense of the term.51
Stark and Bainbridge’s Model According to Rodney Stark and William Sims Bainbridge, “a sect is a religious group in a state of tension with the surrounding environment.” Sects reject integration into the social order and instead develop a separate subculture that stresses rigid behavioral requirements for their members. Three elements characterize this subcultural deviance or tension: (1) antagonism: only the sect’s own religion is legitimate; (2) separation: relations with outsiders are discouraged; and (3) difference: enforcement of norms that are dramatically distinct from those of the surrounding society, and a rejection of the normative standards accepted by society at large.52 Like Stark and Bainbridge, Wilson regards separation as an essential characteristic of sectarianism.53 While antagonism and difference were certainly typical of the early Christian belief system, I do not believe that separation was also present. Kåre Sigvald Fuglseth’s Johannine Sectarianism in Perspective is perhaps the only study that examines any of the NT texts in light of Stark and Bainbridge’s model. Fuglseth concludes that the Gospel of John does not reflect a sect, since “the Gospel as a whole still announces a willingness to stay within the parent body.” He maintains that, unlike the case of the Qumran sects, in John there is no evidence of tension, detachment, or a complete break from the surrounding Jewish society and the temple.54 Fuglseth regards John’s community as a cult, namely, a religious group that is novel both in practice and belief and that, while it may turn into a new religion, nonetheless accommodates itself to the outside world.55 50
“Where the term ‘sects’ is employed in this discourse, its use is not technical, but is in general continuity with popular usage, even though that usage is sometimes extremely loose” (Wilson, Magic and the Millennium, 31). 51 New religious movements may not be sectarian (or “world-denying”) but rather “worldaccommodating” or “world-affirming.” See Eileen Barker, New Religious Movements: A Practical Introduction (London: HMSO, 1992), 27. 52 Stark and Bainbridge, The Future of Religion: Secularization, Revival, and Cult Formation (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985), 23, 49–60. For applying this model to the Qumran sects, see Regev, Sectarianism in Qumran, 34–39. 53 “All sects . . . maintain separation from the world, although the forms of separation vary” (Wilson, “Introduction,” in Patterns of Sectarianism, 9). Wilson stresses separation also in “Analysis of Sect Development,” 10–12. 54 Fuglseth, Johannine Sectarianism in Perspective: A Sociological, Historical, and Comparative Analysis of Temple and Social Relationships in the Gospel of John, Philo, and Qumran (NovTSup 119; Leiden: Brill, 2005), 316–17. For a survey of sectarianism in John, see ibid., 6–21. 55 Ibid., 52–53, 360–74, following Stark and Bainbridge, Future of Religion, 24–35, 249–50.
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In sum, none of the attempts to demonstrate that the early Christians were sectarians is successful. The reason, I suggest, lies not only in the use of inaccurate models or a flawed use of Wilson’s model(s) but in the inappropriateness of the sect model to the NT evidence.
II. The Lack of Sectarian Characteristics in Early Christianity The NT texts lack several social features that, according to Wilson and Stark and Bainbridge, are essential for the classification of a sect: social separation, discipline and sanctions, and fixed social organization.
Social Separation General Observations Several basic nonseparatist tendencies recur in both the Gospels and Acts. Jesus’ disciples were sent out not only to evangelize but also to stay wherever they found acceptance (Mark 6:7–10; Luke 10:1–9). Jesus, his disciples, and the later apostles preached in the local synagogue; when their preaching was deemed blasphemous, they were banished from certain of them.56 This exclusion was not voluntary. Members of the Lukan and Matthean communities were “painfully excluded from the synagogue” and experienced a “trauma of separation from Judaism,”57 but this did not result in social withdrawal: Christians continued to worship at Jewish synagogues in subsequent generations.58 Despite the high priests’ persecutions of Jesus and the apostles, Luke and John acknowledge the high priests as the legitimate leaders of the Jews. Luke does not specifically condemn the high priest(s), but rather places a vague blame on the Jewish people and their leaders. Joseph Caiaphas and Ananias, the high priest who prosecuted Paul, are treated with more than a modicum of honor.59 56
For attendance, see Matt 9:35; 12:9; 13:54; Mark 1:39; John 6:59; 18:20; Acts 13:5; 18:4 and passim. For punishment, see Mark 13:9; Luke 12:11; Acts 22:19; 26:11; cf. Acts 9:2; 2 Cor 11:23–25. For exclusion, see John 9:22; 12:42; 16:2; cf. Luke 6:22; Acts 13:50; 18:6–7; 19:9. See also Esler, Community and Gospel, 55–57. 57 Esler, Community and Gospel, 65–67, 69; Stanton, “Gospel of Matthew and Judaism,” 274. See also Wayne A. Meeks, “Breaking Away: Three New Testament Pictures of Christianity’s Separation from Jewish Communities,” in “To See Ourselves as Others See Us”: Christians, Jews, “Others” in Late Antiquity (ed. Jacob Neusner and Ernest S. Frerichs; Scholars Press Studies in the Humanities; Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1985), 114. 58 Paul preached in the synagogues not long after he himself punished believers there (Acts 18:4; 22:19; 26:11). For fourth-century evidence, see Robert L. Wilken, John Chrysostom and the Jews: Rhetoric and Reality in the Late Fourth Century (Transformation of the Classical Heritage 4; Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), 79–80. 59 Jon A. Weatherly, Jewish Responsibility for the Death of Jesus in Luke-Acts (JSNTSup 106;
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Matthew While it is widely recognized that Matthew is attempting to distance his audience from the Pharisees and scribes,60 he nonetheless continues to regard these groups as the legitimate leaders of the Jews (5:20). Matthew 23:2–3 acknowledges their authority backhandedly, saying, “Practice and observe whatever they tell you, but not what they do.”61 In ch. 23, Matthew seeks to undermine the audience’s regard for the Pharisees’ traditional, established leadership in order to legitimate his own group instead.62 Hence, it seems that the Pharisees enjoy a certain religious credibility among Matthew’s audience.63 While the use of the pronoun “your/their” in describing synagogues (12:9; 13:54) may imply the existence of Christian alternatives to the Jewish ones,64 the flogging of the Matthean members (10:17; 23:34) in non-Christian synagogues shows that the Christians continued to pray among Jews.65 The Galilean “crowds” that Jesus approaches are usually presented as neutral or good-willed, and they treat John the Baptist and Jesus as prophets. Although they are not committed followers of Jesus, they are not condemned by Matthew. These “crowds” may symbolize the Jewish community that Matthew hopes to lure away from their false leaders.66 Saldarini aptly concludes that Matthew’s community, much like that of the early rabbis, “sought not to form a new sect, but to gather the disparate groups and forms of Judaism into one fold.”67 Runesson goes even further, concluding that, in Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1994). Caiaphas is granted a prophecy in John 11:49–52. John 18:15–16 mentions that one of Jesus’ disciples was “known to the high priest.” Paul respected Ananias even after the latter struck him on his mouth (Acts 23:2–5), and Jesus also seems to respect the authority of the high priest (John 18:22–23). 60 Sim, Gospel of Matthew and Christian Judaism, 121–24. 61 Mark Alan Powell, “Do and Keep What Moses Says (Matthew 23:2–7),” JBL 114 (1995): 419–35. Jesus’ disciples are urged to pay the temple tax in order to avoid giving offense (Matt 17:24–27), expressing a conciliatory attitude toward fellow Jews and actually acknowledging a Pharisaic regulation. 62 Anthony J. Saldarini, Matthew’s Christian-Jewish Community (Chicago Studies in the History of Judaism; Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), 40, 46, 52, 64. Benedict T. Viviano (“Social World and Community Leadership: The Case of Matthew 23:1–12, 34,” JSNT 39 [1990]: 3–21) concludes that Matthew’s critique of early rabbinic titles attests to close interaction. 63 Anders Runesson, “Rethinking Early Jewish–Christian Relations: Matthean Community History as Pharisaic Intergroup Conflict,” JBL 127 (2008): 95–132, here 120, 124–28. 64 Sim, Gospel of Matthew and Christian Judaism, 147. 65 Runesson, “Matthean Community History,” 117–19, 121–24. 66 Saldarini, Matthew’s Christian-Jewish Community, 37–40, 43, 232 n. 50; cf. Matt 4:25; 5:1; 7:28–8:1; 13:1–15, 34, 36; 14:5; 15:30–31; 21:8–9, 46; 22:33; 23:1. 67 Saldarini, “Delegitimation of Leaders in Matthew 23,” CBQ 54 (1992): 663–64. Saldarini (Matthew’s Christian-Jewish Community, 43, 46, 87) states that Matthew’s group is “part of the larger Jewish community,” sharing the same sense of identity and culture. He refers to the
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their initial form, “the Mattheans were not taking a sectarian stance” but rather were Pharisees who believed in Christ and were engaged in a process of internal conflict and gradual separation from their leaders.68 John It is commonly argued that John introduces social tension between the Johannine community and mainstream Judaism. Some have inferred that the Johannine community was gradually alienated from Judaism and the Jewish community,69 while others have argued for its sectarian character.70 There are, however, several indications that John reflects a community that did not aim to segregate itself from other Jews. J. Louis Martyn, who introduced the widely held thesis of the expulsion of the Johannine community from the synagogue (John 9:22; 12:42; 16:2), stressed that this situation was imposed on its members. In its earliest phase, the Johannine community assumed that confessing a belief in Jesus was perfectly compatible with continued membership in the synagogue and thus did not consider itself a socially distinct entity.71
Matthean group as a sect or “sectarian” in the common use of the term (ibid., 48, 49, 93, 100, 116, 198) and concludes that the Matthean group “functioned as a reformist movement or sect within Judaism” (ibid., 114) without noticing that the two cannot be equated. Saldarini acknowledges a rather flexible use of the term “sect,” focusing on conflict and cohesion (ibid., 87, 115). Luomanen (“ ‘Sociology of Sectarianism,’ ” 129–30; idem, Entering the Kingdom of Heaven: A Study on the Structure of Matthew’s View of Salvation [WUNT 2/101; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1998], 263–65, 273–75) acknowledges certain sectarian characteristics but does not regard Matthew’s group as a sect per se. 68 Runesson, “Matthean Community History,” 116–17, referring to Matthew’s attitude toward the temple and “civil religion.” However, Runesson (pp. 126–29) further argues that Matthew’s final (post-70 c.e.) stratum represents a sect in relation to the Pharisees, although he is unable to demonstrate his claim and merely draws on a very general church-denomination typology. 69 E.g., Raymond E. Brown, The Community of the Beloved Disciple (New York: Paulist, 1979), 40–43, 63–68; Raimo Hakola, Identity Matters: John, the Jews, and Jewishness (NovTSup 118; Leiden: Brill, 2005). 70 Meeks, “Man from Heaven”; Esler, “Introverted Sectarianism at Qumran and in the Johannine Community”. 71 Martyn, History and Theology in the Fourth Gospel (1968; 3rd ed.; Louisville/London: Westminster John Knox, 2003), 46–66, esp. 47, 69, 152–53; Fuglseth, Johannine Sectarianism, 74– 82, 314–17, 359. Adele Reinhartz (“The Johannine Community and Its Jewish Neighbors: A Reapprisal,” in What Is John?, vol. 2, Literary and Social Reading of the Fourth Gospel [ed. Fernando F. Segovia; SBLSymS 7; Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1998], 111–38) challenged Martyn’s expulsion theory but still acknowledged that the Gospel testifies to “ongoing social contacts” or “social relationship” with the Jewish community.
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Although some have pointed to John’s “reconceptualization” of the temple,72 the evangelist basically introduces a positive, accepting view of it, drawing on its symbolism. Jesus’ activities in the temple and the synagogue are emphasized (18:20; cf. his acts in the temple in 2:14; 4:21; 5:1, 14; 8:2, 20; 10:22), as are his explicit acknowledgments of the temple’s sanctity (2:17; 14:2). Unlike in the Synoptic Gospels, when Jesus teaches in the Fourth Gospel he does so exclusively in the synagogue (6:59) and in the temple (7:14, 28; 8:20); Jesus does not anticipate the temple’s judgment and destruction. It seems that John uses the symbolism and special constructs of both the temple and the synagogue to explore the identity of Jesus and those who believe in him.73 Although John 2:21 and 4:21–24 imply the transference of the temple, they do not declare its replacement. The sacrificial cult is not explicitly superseded, and the contexts of these two passages (2:16; 4:22) acknowledge the temple’s validity.74 John’s antagonistic references to “the Jews” do not testify to detachment from Judaism or Jewish society,75 since they usually refer strictly to Jewish authorities who were hostile to those who professed belief in Jesus rather than to the Jewish people as a whole.76 In fact, John also contains many neutral and positive references to “the Jews,”77 as well as several positive references to “Israel,” which is an insider’s self-designation. Hence, the Gospel was addressed also to the entire people of Israel, not just the Johannine community.78
72
Mary L. Coloe, God Dwells with Us: Temple Symbolism in the Fourth Gospel (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2001); Alan R. Kerr, The Temple of Jesus’ Body: The Temple Theme in the Gospel of John (JSNTSup 220; London/New York: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002). 73 Judith Lieu, “Temple and Synagogue in John,” NTS 45 (1999): 51–69. 74 Similar transference is evident also in Philo (a nonsectarian author who upheld the temple practices), whereas in the Qumran writings the temple is explicitly replaced. See Fuglseth, Johannine Sectarianism, 117–284; cf. 1QS 8:8–10; 9:4–6; Philo, Spec. Laws 1.66, 96–97. 75 Pace Reinhartz, “‘Jews’ and Jews in the Fourth Gospel,” in Anti-Judaism and the Fourth Gospel (ed. R. Bieringer et al.; Assen: Van Gorcum, 2001), 213–28; and the studies cited by von Wahlde and Ashton (see next note). 76 See Urban C. von Wahlde, “The ‘Johannine Jews’: A Critical Survey,” NTS 28 (1982): 33– 60; John Ashton, “The Identity and Function of the IOUDAIOI”, NovT 27 (1985): 40–75. The negative references to “the Jews” mainly illustrate the world’s rejection and persecution of Jesus and his followers. John universalizes the opposition to Christians, applying it to the entire Roman Empire—Jews and Gentiles (“the world”) alike. See Lars Kierspel, The Jews and the World in the Fourth Gospel: Parallelism, Function, and Context (WUNT 2/220; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 166–79. 77 Jesus proclaims the gospel to all Jews (18:20); John’s Jesus is remarkably Jewish (4:9, 22); salvation is from the Jews (4:22); and many Jewish leaders recognized Jesus as a messiah (12:42). See Kierspel, Jews and the World, 63–75. 78 Jesus is revealed to Israel (1:31) and to Nathanael the Israelite (1:47); Jesus is acknowledged by Nicodemus, a teacher of Israel (3:10); and Jesus is designated “the king of Israel” (1:49; 12:13).
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Finally, despite the theological distance between Jesus and “the world,” John does not demand a renunciation of this world. The disciples are sent into “the world” (3:16–17; 17:18; 20:21), just as Jesus and his disciples act within “the world” (17:13–18). Indeed, Fuglseth concludes that John does not reflect a sectarian stance, since the Gospel’s level of exclusiveness and segregation is lower than in the Qumran community. Rather, John aims at accommodation to the surrounding culture.79 James The letter of James calls upon its addressees to remain unstained (ἄσπιλον) and unblemished by “the world” (1:27; 2:5; 3:6; 4:4). At first glance, this seems to reflect a sectarian segregation.80 However, “the world” is used in the general theological sense of the “ungodly” and is not intended to condemn a particular practical, social, or economic engagement with outsiders.81 “The world” is in fact an ethical construction, a system of meaning distinct from God’s. In its Hellenistic sense, “friendship with the world” means being in agreement with this system (in Jas 2:23 Abraham is a “friend of God”). In the letter of James, it denotes living in harmony with the values and logic of the world, namely, rivalry, competition, and murder, or disobedience to God in general. Renouncing friendship with the world, then, does not mean opposing interaction with certain people or groups, but rather turning away from lust, jealousy, and so on.82 As Lockett maintains, “James ought not be read as prompting sectarian separation from the world but only the specific separation from particular alien values embodied in the ambient culture.”83 79 Fuglseth, Johannine Sectarianism, 357–60, 369–74. On the Johannine attitude toward outsiders, see ibid., 285–319. For Timothy J. M. Ling, the Johannine community is a religious virtuoso that maintains an alternative social structure while nonetheless remaining within society’s institutional boundaries (The Judaean Poor and the Fourth Gospel [SNTSMS 136; Cambridge/ New York: Cambridge University Press, 2006], 152–65, 206). 80 E.g., Robert W. Wall, The Community of the Wise: The Letter of James (New Testament in Context; Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International, 1997), 14–15. 81 Darian Lockett, “‘Unstained by the World’: Purity and Pollution as an Indicator of Cultural Interaction in the Letter of James,” in Reading James with New Eyes: Methodological Reassessments of the Letter of James (ed. Robert L. Webb and John S. Kloppenborg; Library of New Testament Studies; London: T&T Clark, 2007), 49–74, esp. 58–59. 82 Luke Timothy Johnson, “Friendship with the World and Friendship with God: A Study of Discipleship in James,” in Brother of Jesus, Friend of God: Studies in the Letter of James (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004), 202–20, esp. 210–16; Lockett, “ ‘Unstained by the World,’ ” 58–59, 64, 68. 83 Lockett, “‘Unstained by the World,’” 58, 73–74. The same approach may be applied to 1 John 2:15–17. According to Johnson (“Friendship with the World,” 212), James “envisages Christians taking full part in the affairs of the world: commerce, landowning, judging, owning and distributing possessions, having houses for hospitality.” For commerce, see Jas 4:13–16.
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Nor does the call to be “pure and undefiled . . . unstained by the world” (1:26– 27) require social separation. Rather, it requires one to hold one’s tongue and “care for orphans and widows”—that is, to engage in moral behavior (cf. the call to refrain from anger in 1:19–21). The language of purity is clearly not one of ritual observance (in 3:17 “wisdom” is described as pure!). The call to “cleanse your hands . . . and purify your hearts” (4:8) uses purity language in a figurative sense, referring to the act of humility (5:9–10) and not to actual bodily practices or boundaries.84 Hence, James discourages not social involvement with the world but rather close cultural interaction with its values. Moreover, there is no indication in James of hostility between the author/addressees and other Jews.85 Paul’s Letters Meeks points to Paul’s “language of separation,” namely, terms used to distinguish community members from those who do not belong or are nonbelievers.86 MacDonald concludes that the Pauline churches were sectarian, since they set themselves apart from those who rejected Christ, although she acknowledges that Paul preaches to the entire world and calls upon all humanity to respond to evil. 87 MacDonald recognizes that these Pauline characteristics do not accord with the sectarian requirement of separation from wider society. Her solution to this contradiction is to argue that, since Pauline Christianity was a conversionist sect (i.e., a movement, according to Wilson, that seeks the emotional transformation of the member), in order to succeed in its missionary enterprise it had to accommodate to the larger world. Conversionist Pauline Christianity was therefore “a more church-like organization or ‘denomination.’ ”88 Yet comparative evidence on modern sects engaged in intensive evangelism invalidates MacDonald’s theory. The Mormons in the 1830s (before the establishment of a separate commonwealth in Utah) attempted to form separate self-
84 Lockett, “‘Unstained by the World,’” 55–59, 66–67, 68–70; Richard J. Bauckham, James: Wisdom of James, Disciple of Jesus the Sage (New Testament Readings; London: Routledge, 1999), 146. 85 David Hutchinson Edgar, Had God Not Chosen the Poor? The Social Setting of the Epistle of James (JSNTSup 206; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2001), 230. See also Lockett “The Spectrum of Wisdom and Eschatology in the Epistle of James and 4QInstruction,” TynBul 56 (2005): 131–48. 86 Meeks, The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983), 94–103, 169. Cf. 1 Cor 8:1–13; 10:23–28. Note, however, that Meeks states that “social intercourse with outsiders is not discouraged” (p. 100). 87 MacDonald, Pauline Churches, 41–42. On Paul’s call to all the nations, see Rom 1:8–15; 1 Cor 9:19–23. On finding accommodation with the world, see 1 Cor 5:10; 7:12–16; 8. 88 MacDonald, Pauline Churches, 39–40, following Wilson, “Analysis of Sect Development”; and idem, Magic and the Millennium.
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sufficient unit-communities.89 Jehovah’s Witnesses aimed to insulate their members against potential sources of ideological “contamination” by keeping contacts with unbelievers to a minimum.90 In fact, it is not clear against whom the Pauline communities directed their protest;91 it does not seem to be the Jews, with whom they had little interaction. As Meeks already admitted, “Sociologically . . . the Pauline groups were never a sect of Judaism.”92 In fact, both Meeks and MacDonald overemphasize the separatist character of the Pauline communities to begin with. In Rom 12:14–13:10 Paul encourages good citizenship and social harmony and calls upon his readers to integrate into their surroundings. Paul’s orders regarding the setting of social boundaries in 1 Corinthians 5; 7–8 actually attest to his attempt to underscore the weakness of the social boundaries upheld by the Corinthians and their conformity with their (Gentile) social environment.93 Early Rabbinic Literature The early rabbinic halakah reflects a relatively tolerant approach toward the Jewish Christians, although they were regarded as heretical Jews.94 Tosefta Hiullin attests to a close relationship between the two movements: (1) R. Elazar ben Dama was bitten by a snake and Jacob of Cephar Sama came to cure him “in the name of Jesus ben Pantera, but R. Ishmael did not allow it.” R. Elazar therefore looked for a proof that the healing would work. (2) R. Eliezer was accused by the Roman governor of heresy (namely, of being a Christian). He then recalls that when he was walking in Sepphoris, he had discussed with a Jewish Christian from Cephar Schinin a certain midrash of Scripture in the name of Jesus ben Pantiri, which R. Eliezer later reconsidered as “words of heresy [minuth].” These stories, dated approximately to the beginning of the second century c.e., show that Jewish Christians did have religious interactions with certain rabbis—although such contacts
89
Thomas F. O’Dea, The Mormons (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1957), 41–56. James A. Beckford, The Trumpet of Prophecy: A Sociological Study of Jehovah’s Witnesses (Oxford: Blackwell, 1975), 89; Alan Rogerson, Millions Now Living Will Never Die: A Study of Jehovah’s Witnesses (London: Constable, 1969), 181–83. On their practice of door-to-door evangelism, see Beckford, Trumpet of Prophecy, 7, 10–13, 32, 39, 162–64, 185. 91 MacDonald, Pauline Churches, 38. She mentions the possibilities of estrangement by political powers, or problems involving economic security or social mobility. 92 Meeks, “Breaking Away,” 106–7; William Horbury, Jews and Christians in Contact and Controversy (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998), 12 93 Edward Adams, Constructing the World: A Study in Paul’s Cosmological Language (Studies of the New Testament and Its World; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 2000), 85–104, 184–220. 94 Lawrence H. Schiffman, “At the Crossroads: Tannaitic Perspectives on the Jewish– Christian Schism,” in Jewish and Christian Self-Definition, vol. 2, Aspects of Judaism in the GrecoRoman Period (ed. E. P. Sanders et al.; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1981), 115–56. 90
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were discouraged by other rabbis. Other, more lax Jews probably had even more extensive ties with them.95 The evidence presented above underscores Judith Lieu’s claims that “Jews and Christians behaved as if there were no rigid boundaries to separate them, and . . . [that they] shared a common culture.”96
Prerequisites, Discipline, and Sanctions According to Wilson, “the individual member’s commitment to the sect must be total.”97 Early Christian believers were expected to be highly committed to Jesus’ teachings and to believe in Christ despite the potential for persecution and the risk of execution. Yet the practical requirements of members remain vague. Converts were accepted into the early Christian communities without special qualifications. Sinners, tax collectors, Gentiles, and eunuchs were all admitted without further examination, in a manner opposed to the sectarian selective-admission process described by Wilson.98 Only after their conversion were members expected to go through “the basic teachings about Christ” and then to receive “instructions about baptisms, laying on of hands, resurrection of the dead, and eternal judgments” (Heb 6:1–2). Significantly, commitment was not enforced through rules and prohibitions. While the moral exhortations are extensive, there is relatively slight evidence of the existence of special rules of conduct and communal discipline.99 For example, rites of atonement or repentance, which enhance sectarian communal discipline and social cohesiveness,100 are rare. Further, although redemption is central to the early Christian religious ethos,101 the prescribed or ritualized confession of
95 Tosefta Hi ullin 2.22–24 (ed. Zuckermandel, 503) and par.; Sanders, Schismatics, Sectarians, Dissidents, Deviants, 61–63. 96 Lieu, Christian Identity in the Jewish and Graeco-Roman World (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 133, 307. 97 Wilson, “Analysis of Sect Development,” 13. Wilson lists conditional affirmation of membership, the enforcement of exclusiveness and expulsion, and contention against every other organization of values and ideas (“Analysis of Sect Development,” 4; Sects and Society, 1). 98 Eyal Regev, “Moral Impurity and the Temple in Early Christianity in Light of Qumranic Ideology and Ancient Greek Practice,” HTR 79 (2004): 383–411, esp. 402–9. Cf. Did. 12.1. 99 The requirement to abandon pagan ways (2 Cor 6:14–7:1; Eph 4:20–32; Col 3:5–15; 1 Pet 4:3–5) did not distinguish non-Jewish converts from the non-Christian Jews. Other moral vices are “universal.” See Meeks, The Origins of Christian Morality: The First Two Centuries (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1993), 67–69. 100 On the quest for atonement as a sectarian characteristic, see Regev, Sectarianism in Qumran, 74–80 and passim. 101 See Matt 3:6; Mark 1:5, 15; Acts 3:19; 1 Cor 15:3; Heb 6:1–2; 10; Rev 2:4.
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sins on a regular basis is restricted mostly to the baptism of converts.102 Slightly later, however, repentance and confessions became prevalent in the Didache.103 The early Christian community’s moral standards are not strictly enforced. Evidence of sanctions brought against transgressors and heretics is far from abundant, and the sanctions described seem somewhat feeble.104 Paul warns that failure to follow the moral commandments will result in divine punishment (Gal 6:6–9).105 In fact, sanctions against deviating members of a community stand in opposition to Jesus’ teachings, such as “judge not, lest you be judged” (Luke 6:37//Matt 7:1).106 Given the abundance of references to false prophets in the NT and the Didache, which attests to a crisis and conflict between competing authorities in the early Christian congregations,107 one might have expected a much more intense enforcement of discipline and obligations of loyalty.
Social Organization: Name, Leaders, Institutions According to Wilson, a sect is a group with an organizational structure, leadership, and attendant social institutions. Movements that lack these features may show sectarian ideological tendencies, but they cannot be defined as sects, since they are not social groups in the full sociological meaning of the term. Unlike the sectarian tendency toward minimal diversity and rigid patterns of conduct, the organizational structure (and religious worldview) of the early Christian move102 See Acts 2:38; 19:18; 22:16 (cf. also Luke 3:3 and par.). The only traces of regular prescription of confession in the NT are in Jas 5:16 and 1 John 1:9. 103 Didache 8.1 also requires fasting (which is quite rare in the NT; cf. Mark 2:19–20). For later sources on repentance, see Meeks, Origins of Christian Morality, 124–25. 104 The sanctions included social avoidance (Matt 18:18 [discussed above]; 1 Cor 5:5; 16:22 [perhaps mere rhetoric]; 1 Tim 1:20; Titus 3:10) and admonition (2 Cor 2:5–10 [note the forgiveness shown to the transgressor]; 2 Thess 3:14; 1 Tim 5:20; 2 John 10–11). The severity of these sanctions remains questionable, and most of them are found in the relatively late Deutero-Pauline and Pastoral Epistles. See Meeks, First Urban Christians, 130–31. According to Abraham J. Malherbe (Social Aspects of Early Christianity [2nd ed.; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983], 108, 110), the exclusion from the assembly meeting at home in 3 John 9–10 does not represent an official action, and Gaius’s hospitality does not indicate any claim to authority. In the Gospel of John (as well as in the other Gospels), there is no establishment of norms and sanctions governing interaction with outsiders and with society at large. See Fuglseth, Johannine Sectarianism, 51. 105 Compare Mark 9:42–48; Heb 10:26–31; Didache 16. 106 Compare Luke 6:41//Matt 7:3–5; Jas 4:11–12; Meeks, Origins of Christian Morality, 119–20. 107 See Matt 7:15–23; Mark 13:5–6, 21–22; 1 Cor 12:3; 14:37–38; 2 Cor 11:13–15; 2 Tim 2:18; 2 Peter 2; 1 John 4:1–5; Jude 4, 8–16; Did. 6.1; 11.2, 5; 16.3; cf. Acts 20:30; Gal 2:4–5. See also David E. Aune, Prophecy in Early Christianity and the Ancient Mediterranean World (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1983), 222–30.
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ment as a whole was highly heterogeneous, comprised of extremely diverse communities.108 The tenuousness of the various early Christian groups’ social organization is attested to by the fact that they did not have a formal, definitive name. The term Christianoi (Χριστιανοί), which refers to those who follow or believe in an executed messiah, first emerged as a derogatory word used by the group’s opponents. It was adopted as a self-designation only at a relatively later stage.109 The other selfdesignations—ekklēsia (ἐκκλησία),110 oikos (οἶκος, “house”),111 hagioi (ἅγιοι, “saints”),112 hodos (ὁδός, “way”)113 and so on—are merely descriptive, referring to the character of the community or movement without using a proper name. Several NT texts attest to a low level of social organization—in particular, weak regulation of social relations—which is uncharacteristic of a sect. The Markan community “offers nearly no evidence of organization.”114 Matthew negates the notion of an authority structure (20:25–27; 23:8–12), and his established leadership is limited to prophets and scribes (13:51–52; 23:34). Hence, “the Matthean group had not yet developed formal institutions, such as a publicly recognized leadership.”115 Hans von Campenhausen concluded that, in the Pauline churches, there was no office apart from Paul’s quasi-office of apostolate. Only in the postapostolic third generation do we see the beginning of an interplay between spiritual power and official authority. Elders are mentioned in Acts, 1 Peter, James, and Revelation, but bishops and deacons are missing (although they are mentioned later in the Deutero-
108 Fredrick Bird, “Early Christianity as an Unorganized Ecumenical Religious Movement,” in Handbook of Early Christianity: Social Science Approaches (ed. Anthony J. Blasi, Jean Duhaime, and Paul-André Turcotte; Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira, 2002), 225–46. Cf. Wilson, Sects and Society, 1 (discussed above). 109 See Acts 11:26; 26:28; Tacitus, Ann. 15.44.2; Suetonius, Nero 16; Justin Taylor, “Why Were the Disciples First Called ‘Christians’ at Antioch? (Acts 11, 26),” RB 101 (1994): 75–94. For Christianoi as a self-designation, see 1 Pet 4:16; Did. 12.4. The self-designation Christianismos (Χριστιανισµός) first appears in Ignatius of Antioch (e.g., Philad. 6.1). See Lieu, Christian Identity, 250–53. 110 Meeks, First Urban Christians, 75, 108; Stegemann and Stegemann, Jesus Movement, 262– 64, 273, 281, 446. Although he refers to ekklēsia, several times, Matthew does not have a distinctive name for his group. See Saldarini, Matthew’s Christian-Jewish Community, 116. 111 See Eph 2:19; 1 Tim 3:15; Stegemann and Stegemann, Jesus Movement, 277. 112 E.g., Rom 15:25; 2 Cor 1:2; Meeks, First Urban Christians, 85. 113 Acts 18:25–26; 22:4; 24:14; see also Henry J. Cadbury, “Names for the Christians in Acts,” in The Beginnings of Christianity, part 1, The Acts of the Apostles (ed. F. J. Foakes Jackson and Kirsopp Lake; 5 vols.; London: Macmillan, 1920–33), 5:375–93. 114 Kee, Community of the New Age, 152. 115 Saldarini Matthew’s Christian-Jewish Community, 91. Overman (Matthew’s Gospel, 113– 24) discusses “institutionalization” in Matthew, but merely points to the implicit roles of scribes, prophets, and missionaries.
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Pauline and Pastoral Epistles).116 MacDonald also maintained that “there is no mention of the existence of formal officers in Paul’s letters,” ascribing this fact to the “freedom of charismatic leadership.” Hence, the Pauline churches represent “loosely organized, charismatic beginnings.”117 Finally, another indication of the loosely organized character of early Christian communities is the fact that they were based in house-churches with the corresponding hospitality, instead of in community buildings specifically constructed for religious activities118
Comparisons with the Qumran Sects and the Essenes The Community Rule and the Damascus Document found at Qumran and Josephus’s descriptions of the Essenes provide descriptions of sectarian notions and practices that are absent from the NT. Both the Qumran sects and the Essenes shunned the temple as morally impure, or else had restrictions regarding attendance at the temple.119 By contrast, many NT authors stress that Jesus and the apostles attended the temple regularly, and they imply a positive appreciation of the temple cult through their use of sacrificial metaphors.120
116 Campenhausen, Ecclesiastical Authority and Spiritual Power in the Church of the First Three Centuries (London: A. & C. Black, 1969), 77–84, 107–19, 294–97. He does not view early Christian communities as a sociological entity and claims that the Spirit that governs them does not act within the framework of a particular church order or constitution. See also Malherbe, Social Aspects, 89–90. Didache 11.9–12 and 15.1–2 indicate that the replacement of charismatic leaders (apostles, prophets, and teachers) with hierarchical functionaries may be dated to the end of the first century c.e. 117 MacDonald, Pauline Churches, 57, 235; Meeks, First Urban Christians, 134, 136. Cf. 1 Corinthians 12; David Horrell, “Leadership Patterns and the Development of Ideology in Early Christianity,” Sociology of Religion 58 (1997): 323–41. MacDonald (Pauline Churches, 52–58) stressed that “a fluid and complex network of leaders” is described in the Pauline letters, but according to Stegemann and Stegemann (Jesus Movement, 279) “the designations of certain functions are probably used in the Pauline letters only in a figurative sense.” 118 Malherbe, Social Aspects, 60–112, here 68; cf. Saldarini, Matthew’s Christian-Jewish Community, 191, 100–102. 119 Josephus, Ant. 18.19; Lawrence H. Schiffman, “Community without Temple: The Qumran Community’s Withdrawal from the Jerusalem Temple,” in Gemeinde ohne Tempel: Community without Temple (ed. Beate Ego et al.; WUNT 118; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1999), 269–84; Eyal Regev, “Abominated Temple and A Holy Community: The Formation of the Concepts of Purity and Impurity in Qumran,” DSD 10 (2003): 243–78. 120 E.g., Albert L. A. Hogeterp, Paul and God’s Temple: A Historical Interpretation of Cultic Imagery in the Corinthian Correspondence (Biblical Tools and Studies 2; Leuven: Peeters, 2006); Eyal Regev, “Temple Concerns and High Priestly Persecutions from Peter to James: Between Narrative and History,” NTS 56 (2010): 64–89; on John, see above.
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Unlike the early Christians, the Qumran sects and the Essenes mandated strict social separation from outsiders (e.g., rules against sharing meals) and established clear restrictions on marriage and commerce.121 The Qumran sects, the Essenes, Jesus, and the disciples all treated wealth negatively; only in the scrolls and among the Essenes do we see practical restrictions related to wealth and its accumulation.122 Finally, the scrolls set out an abundance of sanctions against and punishment of members who transgressed, all of which attest to the existence of communal discipline—something that hardly resembles the NT approach to sinners.123
III. Conclusions Once agreement is reached on a strict and precise sociological definition of a sect following the criteria set forth by Wilson and Stark and Bainbridge, we are forced to conclude that none of the numerous studies discussed above is successful in demonstrating the sectarian character of early Christianity. This failure derives from a combination of factors: (1) the use of inadequate sociological models; (2) partial or inconsistent application of available sociological models; and, most important, (3) insufficient NT evidence of sectarian characteristics. The early Christian communities undoubtedly held a distinctive religious worldview and a sense of exclusivity and solidarity (as stressed by Elliott and others). They shared the sectarian characteristics, delineated by Stark and Bainbridge, of antagonism and difference (viz., rituals). However, the evidence collected above —which is illustrative rather than conclusive—points to the absence of certain other features that are essential to the creation and survival of any sect: social separation, communal discipline and sanctions, and social organization and institutionalization. Although some communities probably displayed stronger sectarian tendencies than others, many early Christians regarded themselves as an integral part of the larger Jewish society and did not attempt to create a distinct social system. Despite their own religious beliefs and rituals, they maintained conventional social interaction with non-Christian Jews. They may have regarded themselves as not of the world, but the NT evidence suggests that they were, after all, in the world (see John 17:14–18). Such a unique pattern of behavior is typical of cults, which usually boast 121
See 1QS 5:13–20; 6:13–23; CD 6:14–15; 13:15–17; 20:2–8; Josephus, War 2.139–42. Eyal Regev, “Wealth and Sectarianism: Comparing Qumranic and Early Christian Social Approaches,” in García Martínez, Echoes from the Caves, 211–30. The communal ownership of wealth in Acts is a notable exception. 123 See the penal codes in 1QS 6:24–7:25, 8:20–9:1; CD 14:18–22; 4QDa 10 i–iii and par. Cf. Josephus, War 2.143–46. 122
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distinctive beliefs and rituals but are not, like sects, dissenting, segregated groups, and are sometimes loosely organized.124 The numerous yet unsuccessful attempts to apply the sect model to the NT demonstrate the presupposition of many scholars that, since the early Christians held distinctive and revolutionary religious beliefs (i.e., Jesus as Christ and the inclusion of Gentiles), they must have stood apart from wider Jewish society. The inadequacy of the sect model, however, calls this assumption into question and shows that the early Christian communities had a closer social relationship with their Jewish environs than a plain reading of the NT’s polemical discourse would suggest. The lack of social segregation, disciplinary sanctions, and fixed social organization is instructive in an additional sense: the evidence collected here suggests not only that the early Christian communities were not sects in the pure sociological sense of the term but also that they were still in the early process of social formation and institutionalization. This fluid social organization of the early Christian communities may have been closely related to the reluctance of many of them to dissociate themselves from the Jewish society at large. 124 Roy Wallis, “The Cult and Its Transformation,” in Sectarianism: Analyses of Religious and Non-Religious Sects (ed. Roy Wallis; Contemporary Issues 10; London: Owen, 1975), 35–49. There are indeed several different definitions of a cult; see, e.g., Stark and Bainbridge, Future of Religion, 24–35, 249–50. For the early Christian communities as cults, see Rodney Stark, The Rise of Christianity: A Sociologist Reconsiders History (San Francisco: HarperCollins, 1997), 29–47. For the application of this model to John and Matthew, see Fuglseth, Johannine Sectarianism, 52–53, 360– 74; Luomanen, “ ‘Sociology of Sectarianism.’ ”
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JBL 130, no. 4 (2011): 795–817
Apocalypticism or Prophecy and the Problem of Polyvalence: Lessons from the Gospel of Thomas stephen j. patterson [email protected] Willamette University, Salem, OR 97301
Since its discovery in 1945 and subsequent publication in 1956, the Gospel of Thomas has played an increasingly important and sometimes controversial role in the discussion of Christian beginnings.1 Among the most important developments 1
Early landmark essays include Gilles Quispel, “The Gospel of Thomas and the New Testament,” VC 11 (1957): 189–207; James M. Robinson, “LOGOI SOPHON: Zur Gattung der Spruchquelle,” in Zeit und Geschichte: Dankesgabe an Rudolf Bultmann zum 80. Geburtstag (ed. Erich Dinkler; Tübingen: Mohr, 1964), 77–96; revised Eng. trans. “LOGOI SOPHON: On the Gattung of Q,” in Robinson and Helmut Koester, Trajectories through Early Christianity (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1971), 71–113; Helmut Koester, “GNOMAI DIAPHOROI: The Origin and Nature of Diversification in the History of Christianity,” HTR 58 (1965): 279–318; reprinted in Robinson and Koester, Trajectories, 114–57; idem, “One Jesus and Four Primitive Gospels,” HTR 61 (1968): 203–47; reprinted in Robinson and Koester, Trajectories, 158–204. Later attempts to integrate Thomas into the discussion of Christian origins include Stephen J. Patterson, The Gospel of Thomas and Jesus (FF: Reference Series; Sonoma, CA: Polebridge, 1993); John Dominic Crossan, The Birth of Christianity: Discovering What Happened in the Years Immediately after the Execution of Jesus (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1998); and Risto Uro, Thomas: Seeking the Historical Context of the Gospel of Thomas (London/New York: T&T Clark, 2003). Surveys and analyses include Ron Cameron, “The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Origins,” in The Future of Early Christianity: Essays in Honor of Helmut Koester (ed. Birger A. Pearson et al.; Minneapolis: Fortress, 1991), 381–92; idem, “Alternate Beginnings—Different Ends: Eusebius, Thomas, and the Construction of Christian origins,” in Religious Propaganda and Missionary Competition in the New Testament World: Essays Honoring Dieter Georgi (ed. Lukas Bormann et al.; NovTSup 74; Leiden: Brill, 1994), 501–25; and Stephen J. Patterson, “The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Beginnings,” in Thomasine Traditions in Antiquity: The Social and Cultural World of the Gospel of Thomas (ed. Jon Ma. Asgeirsson et al.; Nag Hammadi and Manichaean Studies 59; Leiden: Brill, 2006), 1–18. Also see the several essays in this last-cited volume and in Das Thomasevangelium: Entstehung – Rezeption – Theologie (ed. Jörg Frey et al.; BZNW 157; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2008).
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associated with the entry of this new Gospel into the discussion is the reconsideration of the once (and for the most part, still) regnant view that early Christianity was fundamentally an apocalyptic movement. In the Gospel of Thomas we find an interpretation of the Jesus tradition that, on the one hand, is more sapiential than apocalyptic and, on the other, relies on Jesus’ sayings that are, from a form-critical point of view, often more primitive than their Synoptic counterparts. This peculiar combination of factors makes Thomas an outlier to the story of Christian beginnings that was accepted for the most part without question a generation ago and, for this reason, a flashpoint both for advocates of the new view and defenders of the old. Still, the discussion of the Gospel of Thomas itself has not yet produced a consensus about the role of apocalypticism in this Gospel. Some assume that Thomas is utterly devoid of apocalypticism, while others believe that it is fundamentally an apocalyptic document. In this study I wish to shine a light on this unresolved question in hopes of bringing a measure of clarity to an unresolved problem. In it I will show that, while Thomas is not entirely devoid of apocalyptic language and imagery, those who argue for a great deal of apocalypticism in Thomas do so on the basis of prophetic sayings, whose polyvalent quality permits one to read them in a variety of ways. In the Synoptic tradition, they often occur in contexts that harness them in the service of an apocalyptic worldview. But this apocalyptic use of prophetic sayings in the Synoptic tradition is for the most part not mimicked in the Gospel of Thomas. Rather, Thomas offers these sayings in contexts that cast them in an entirely different light.
I. Apocalypticism in the Gospel of Thomas? Are there apocalyptic sayings in the Gospel of Thomas? Helmut Koester could be said once to have thought so. In his 1968 essay “One Jesus and Four Primitive Gospels,” he observes that Thomas contains “a number of apocalyptic sayings,” and he then goes on to illustrate the point by listing all the sayings in which the term “kingdom” occurs.2 However, careful attention to Koester’s observations reveals an important nuance to his argument. In searching for a place to locate Thomas’s peculiar eschatological perspective, he distinguishes three different concepts of eschatology in the Jesus tradition: (1) a developed, and even elaborate, “revelation” about future events, as it occurs in the synoptic apocalypse of Mark 13; (2) the expectation of the Son of man and of “his day,” as it is represented in Q, but which is also evident in isolated sayings of Mark (e.g. Mark 8:38) and in the synoptic apocalypse in its present form; (3) the proclamation of the coming of the kingdom, which is older than the two other apocalyptic theories, and ultimately has its roots in the preaching of Jesus.3 2 3
Koester, “One Jesus,” 172 (pages are cited from Trajectories). Ibid.
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Thomas, he notes, shows no evidence of the first two eschatological concepts, but of the third there are many examples, “apocalyptic sayings” about the kingdom (Gos. Thom. 3, 22, 27, 46, 82, 107, 109, 113), the kingdom of heaven (20, 54, 114), or the kingdom of the Father (57, 76, 96–99, 113). “To be sure,” he writes, “these sayings in the Gospel of Thomas almost always show a tendency to emphasize the presence of the kingdom for the believer, rather than its future coming.” Koester confesses that he once would have agreed with Robert Grant that this must represent a later “spiritualization” of the earlier canonical tradition.4 But now he would revise that view. Thomas, he argues, represents not a revision of the more original canonical, apocalyptic tradition but a continuation of the distinctive eschatological message of Jesus himself: Jesus radicalized the traditional apocalyptic expectation of the kingdom; his message demands that the mysterious presence of the kingdom in his words be recognized. The Gnosticism of the Gospel of Thomas appears to be a direct continuation of the eschatological sayings of Jesus. But the disclosure of the mysterious presence of the kingdom is no longer an eschatological event; it has become a matter of the interpretation of Jesus’ words.5
In his first encounter with the Gospel of Thomas, Koester instinctively read the material that was already known to him from the Synoptic tradition in a familiar way. He assumed that what had functioned apocalyptically in the Synoptic tradition was to be understood apocalyptically here as well.6 But with careful study and a more nuanced view of the eschatology of the Synoptic tradition itself,7 Koester came to the realization that these sayings were not to be read apocalyptically after all. The Synoptic tradition, it turned out, was not the only trail leading back to Jesus. This, of course, unleashed a storm of controversy that has not subsided to this day. Margaretha Lelyveld’s approach to the question was quite different. In her thesis, written under the direction of Jacques Ménard, she attempted to place Thomas in a Hellenistic Jewish context that was fundamentally apocalyptic but with strong sacerdotal and sapiential undercurrents.8 Key to her reading, however, was not the 4 See, e.g., Koester, “GNOMAI DIAPHOROI,” esp. 137 and 139 (pages are cited from Trajectories). 5 Koester, “One Jesus,” 175. 6 Koester, “GNOMAI DIAPHOROI,” 137, 139. 7 In “One Jesus” Koester was especially influenced by Philipp Vielhauer’s then recent study of the Son of Man sayings, in which he showed that the proclamation of the kingdom and the apocalyptic expectation about the Son of man are incompatible from a history-of-religions point of view and, moreover, that the latter presupposed christological developments that were later rather than older (see Vielhauer, “Gottesreich und Menschensohn in der Verkundigung Jesu,” in Festschrift für Günther Dehn zum 75. Geburtstag am 18. April 1957 [ed. Wilhelm Schneemelcher; Neukirchen: Kreis Moers, 1957], 51–79; and idem, “Jesus und der Menchensohn,” ZTK 60 [1963]: 133–77). 8 Lelyveld, Les logia de la vie dans l’Évangile selon Thomas: à la recherche d’une tradition et d’une rédaction (NHS 34; Leiden: Brill, 1987).
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Synoptic material in Thomas but the rather more enigmatic saying 4: “The man old in his days will not hesitate to ask a child of seven days about the place of life, and he shall live.” In her view, the inscrutable expression “child of seven days” must refer to Jewish speculation about the creation of Adam. It evokes, she thinks, the idea, common in Hellenistic Jewish exegesis of Genesis, that the first account of Adam’s creation in Gen 1:27 intends to describe the creation of the heavenly prototype of humanity, not physical but immortal and perfect like God, and androgynous—“male and female he created them.” The creation of the first earthly human —the one formed of the dust of the earth—is narrated later, in Gen 2:7. The “child of seven days,” Lelyveld argues, would be the child of the “perfect week,” that is, the first week, in which the heavenly prototype, the first Adam, was created in the image of God, perfect, immortal, and androgynous.9 This may well be.10 But then Lelyveld makes an assumption: the context for such exegesis was Jewish apocalypticism, especially the Enoch literature. Ultimately she speculates that the “child of seven days” must be one of the “children of the elect” who descend to earth in the last days to mingle with the children of humanity (1 Enoch 39).11 This is no small leap: “the child of seven days” is a reference to the first week; the first Adam was created in the first week; this Adam was a heavenly being; the children of the elect in 1 Enoch descend from heaven; ergo, the child of seven days is one of the children of the elect, created, like Adam, in the first (not second) week of creation, who will descend to earth and mingle with the children of humanity in the final days. By this thread Lelyveld suspends Thomas in the world of Jewish apocalypticism. Adamic speculation does play a role in many sayings in the Gospel of Thomas,12 but it is a mistake to think that this tradition was at home primarily in Jewish apocalypticism. The idea that Gen 1:27 describes the creation of a heavenly prototype of sorts, a perfect version of humanity “in the image of God,” is laid out most explicitly in Philo’s account of the creation, De Opificio Mundi (69, 134–35), where it serves to draw the Jewish tradition into sync with a then-resurgent interest in Platonism.13 More than this, however, it turns out that such thinking was quite widespread in Hellenistic Jewish circles; in no sense can it be isolated within apocalyptic or even sapiential strains of thought.14 Still, Lelyveld’s convictions about 9
Ibid., 27. Stevan L. Davies, “The Christology and Protology of the Gospel of Thomas,” JBL 111 (1992): 668; Elaine Pagels, “Exegesis of Genesis 1 in Gospel of Thomas and John,” JBL 118 (1999): 482. 11 Lelyveld, Logia de la vie, 27–29. 12 Pagels especially has shown this (“Exegesis of Genesis,” 479–88); see also Stephen J. Patterson, “Jesus Meets Plato: The Theology of the Gospel of Thomas,” in Frey et al., Das Thomasevangelium, 181–205. 13 See also Leg. 1.31. Lelyveld mentions Philo (Logia de la vie, 28) but does not exploit his significance. 14 See esp. Jacob Jervell, Imago Dei: Gen 1, 26f. im Spätjudentum, in der Gnosis und in der 10
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logion 4 lead her to look for other apocalyptic sayings in Thomas, and thus to our concern. She finds them in Gos. Thom. 11.1–2; 111.1–2; and 61.1.15 Logion 11.1–2 Jesus said, “This heaven will pass away and the one above it will pass away and the dead are not alive and the living will not die. Logion 111.1–2 Jesus said: “The heavens and the earth will roll up before you, and whoever is living from the living one will not see death.” Logion 61.1 Jesus said, “Two will rest on a bed. The one will die and the other will live.”
These sayings are quite enigmatic. Are they to be read apocalyptically? Possibly. But how does Lelyveld divine that they ought to be? For sayings 11.1–2 and 111.1–2 she turns to the possible Synoptic parallel in Mark 13:30: “Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.” This, in her view, determines their meaning.16 There, in the middle of the Markan apocalypse, this brief phrase would seem to be taken apocalyptically. But if we broaden our lens to take in the parallel in Q, we can see that the phrase “heaven and earth will pass away” was a more broadly used expression. Consider its use in Luke 16:17 (from Q): “But it is easier for heaven and earth to pass away than for one jot of the law to perish.” It is used similarly in Matt 5:18: “. . . until heaven and earth pass away, not one iota, not one jot will pass from the law. . . .” Now we can see that the phrase is really a cliché meaning “a very long time”—as long as one can imagine. This has nothing to do with the notion of an imminent apocalyptic cataclysm, such as might be envisioned in Mark 13. The point is really the opposite: heaven and earth are not going to vanish any time soon, and neither is the law. Even in Mark 13:30, where the context is apocalyptic speculation, this phrase does not function apocalyptically. Surely the point here is not that Jesus’ words are about to pass away, but that they will endure forever. In Gos. Thom. 11.1–2, the phrase functions similarly: those who
paulinischen Briefen (FRLANT 76; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1960); also Hans-Martin Schenke, Der Gott “Mensch” in der Gnosis: Ein religionsgeschichtlicher Beitrag zur Diskussion über die paulinische Anschauung von der Kirche als Leib Christi (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1962), 120–43; Jarl Fossum, “Gen 1:26 and 2:7 in Judaism, Samaritanism, and Gnosticism,” JSJ 16 (1985): 202–39; Pagels, “Exegesis of Genesis,” 479; and the comprehensive survey of John R. Levison, Portraits of Adam in Early Judaism: From Sirach to 2 Baruch (JSPSup 1; Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1988). Philo’s own exegetical work was part of a larger Alexandrian tradition that was considering such issues (see Thomas H. Tobin, The Creation of Man: Philo and the History of Interpretation [CBQMS 14; Washington, DC: Catholic Biblical Association of America, 1983], 32–33, 172–74). 15 Lelyveld, Logia de la vie, 55–68. 16 Ibid., 63–64.
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are not truly alive will surely die, but those who are truly alive will never die— heaven and earth could pass away and this would not change.17 But what about saying 111? Of all the various uses of the cliché, this may be the only one that is truly meant to be taken apocalyptically.18 One will note immediately the altered phraseology in this version: “Heaven and earth will roll up before you. . . .” This colorful expression is a relatively common apocalyptic phrase,19 based ultimately perhaps on Isa 34:4: “For the host of heaven will waste away, and the skies roll up like a scroll.”20 This is arguably the most apocalyptic of the Isaian prophecies, and here the point is not some distant frame but, indeed, the imminent doom that awaits the Edomites. Perhaps logion 111 envisions this sort of end, which those who “live from the living one” will survive—one thinks, perhaps, of the Jewish War or some other war-related catastrophe from the period. However, this genuinely apocalyptic interpretation of the saying is achieved not through reference to one or another Synoptic usage but by a seemingly independent appeal to the Jewish prophetic tradition and the imagination of Isaiah. Lelyveld’s interpretation of logion 61 also is achieved with reference to the canonical versions of the saying. Without recourse to how Thomas uses the saying (cf. 61.2–5), she calls attention to its use in the Q apocalypse (Luke 17:34//Matt 24:40) and assumes that it means something similar here.21 In Q the saying is used in reference to the coming day of judgment: two will be doing something together —sleeping, grinding, tending the fields—and one will be taken and the other will be left. The wording of the saying—one is taken (παραλαµβάνειν) and another is left ἀποτιθέναι (Luke), ἀφιέναι (Matthew)—probably derives from the setting in Q (Luke 17:26–37//Matt 24:37–44 [Q]): some were taken onto the ark with Noah, others were left behind; some were taken out of the city with Lot, others were left behind. But in Q the fit is a little awkward. The saying seems to underscore the surprise involved in the moment: two people are doing exactly the same thing and suddenly one is taken while the other is left. This is not at all like Noah’s months of preparation, or even Lot’s more hastily arranged escape. In Thomas there is no imminent judgment and so no reason to assume that this meaning is presupposed here as well.22 Rather, here the saying is worded rather more generically: one will 17
Richard Valantasis, The Gospel of Thomas (New Testament Readings; London: Routledge, 1997), 71; but cf. Uwe-Karsten Plisch, The Gospel of Thomas: Original Text with Commentary (Stuttgart: Deutsche Biblegesellschaft, 2008), 58–60, who detects in the saying an “eschatological” aspect. This may well be correct. 18 See Valantasis, Gospel of Thomas, 191–92; Petr Pokorný, A Commentary on the Gospel of Thomas: From Interpretations to the Interpreted (New York: T&T Clark, 2009; Czech original, 1980), 152. 19 See Rev 6:14; Sib. Or. 3:81–84; also possibly Heb 1:12. 20 The insight belongs to Lawrence Wills, who kindly responded to early drafts of this essay. 21 Lelyveld, Logia de la vie, 64–65. 22 Contra Pokorný, Commentary, 106; April D. DeConick, The Original Gospel of Thomas in Translation, with a Commentary and New English Translation of the Complete Gospel (Library
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live and another will die. This is a simple and wise observation based on the common experience that death often comes as a surprise. Two people lie down together one evening, and in the morning one discovers that the other has died. In this sense, though cast in the form of a prophetic saying, the logion makes a point that seems more sapiential than prophetic: you never know when death will come calling and you never know whom it will take. These sayings are not apocalyptic sayings. They are more properly prophetic sayings, though traditional form critics have never made a clear distinction between the two.23 Prophetic sayings often comment on life. They share this function with wisdom sayings. They inspire reflection on current events or circumstances, and so, like wisdom sayings, they are malleable—polyvalent. This will deserve further comment below. For now, it is enough to note the way in which this polyvalency requires the interpreter to pay careful attention to context and specific use. Prophetic sayings that function apocalyptically in a Synoptic context cannot be assumed to function similarly in Thomas. Recently April DeConick has mustered the most elaborate argument to date for apocalypticism in the Gospel of Thomas.24 Her thesis is that behind this Gospel lies an early collection of five “eschatological” speeches, now overlaid with a series of accretions, each of which has deposited a new layer of interpretation on that original “kernel” Gospel. This kernel, she argues, was fundamentally apocalyptic, as was the community that created it. The idea that the Gospel of Thomas came to be over the course of several generations, each depositing its own layer of material in the collection, is not novel. Most scholars who have worked on this Gospel over the last fifty years would agree that there is very likely a series of literary layers in it.25 But no one has yet been able
of New Testament Studies 287; London/New York: T&T Clark, 2006), 200, in addition to Lelyveld. Alternatively, Bertil Gärtner (The Theology of the Gospel of Thomas [London: Collins, 1961], 170– 71) and Jacques E. Ménard (L’Évangile selon Thomas [NHS 5; Leiden: Brill, 1975], 161–62) presume that the eschatological context of the Synoptic version has been replaced by a Gnostic one. 23 See Rudolf Bultmann, The History of the Synoptic Tradition (rev. ed.; trans. John Marsh; New York: Harper & Row, 1968), 108–30. 24 DeConick, Recovering the Original Gospel of Thomas: A History of the Gospel and Its Growth (Library of New Testament Studies 286; London/New York: T&T Clark, 2005); and eadem, Original Gospel of Thomas, 287; DeConick originally made the argument in “The Original Gospel of Thomas,” VC 56 (2002): 167–99. 25 Henry Chadwick observed what he called the “snow-balling effect” of such lists in connection with another collection, the Sentences of Sextus (The Sentences of Sextus: A Contribution to the History of Early Christian Ethics [Texts and Studies: Contributions to Biblical and Patristic Literature, n.s. 5; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1959], 159), which Robert McL. Wilson later applied to the Gospel of Thomas (“Thomas and the Growth of the Gospels,” HTR 53 [1960]: 231; see also idem, Studies in the Gospel of Thomas [London: Mowbray, 1960], 9, 145). For similar views, see also Ernst Haenchen, “Literatur zum Thomasevangelium,” TRu 27 (1961–62): 306–7; Henri-Ch. Puech, “The Gospel of Thomas,” in Edgar Hennecke, New Testament Apocrypha (ed.
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to uncover the original Gospel beneath the many layers. The problem is one of method. To accomplish a literary task, one needs a literary method—John S. Kloppenborg’s work on Q is perhaps the example that has inspired similar attempts to parse out the layers in Thomas.26 Is there a literary method that would expose a literary substratum comprising a series of eschatological speeches in Thomas? So far, no. The text of Thomas simply does not provide the sort of literary clues one needs to see the various layers more clearly. DeConick’s method is not literary but form-critical.27 She observes that the sayings in the Gospel of Thomas exhibit several rhetorical features: they are sometimes organized into dialogues; there are secondary interpretive and explanatory clauses; and there are many brief chreia. These, she notes, are typical ways in which a rhetor might actively remodel traditional material in the course of oral performance. This much is sound. But then she assumes that these secondary features may be used to isolate and peel back secondary layers in the Thomas Gospel. Tradition history is pressed into service as a literary method to discover the text’s stratigraphy. This is a serious methodological misstep, for it overlooks the fact that Thomas is not actually an oral performance but a document that incorporates material from countless prior oral performances in which all manner of development and remodeling has already taken place. That a particular saying in Thomas bears the oral marks of secondary development is not an indication that it represents a secondary development in the literary history of the Gospel in which it has landed. Tradition history can help one identify secondary features in particular sayings (within limits), but it cannot help one know when this or that development took place. A brief dialogue might have been worked up by some author/editor of the Thomas Wilhelm Schneemelcher; Eng. trans. ed. R. McL. Wilson; 2 vols.; Philadelphia: Westminster, 1965), 1:305; Wolfgang Schrage, Das Verhältnis des Thomas-Evangeliums zur synoptischen Tradition und zu den koptischen Evangelienübersetzungen: Zugleich ein Beitrag zur gnostischen Synoptikerdeutung (BZNW 29; Berlin: Töpelmann, 1964), 10; Stephen J. Patterson, “The Gospel of Thomas and the Synoptic Tradition: A Forschungsbericht and Critique,” Forum 8 (1992): 65; idem, “Understanding the Gospel of Thomas Today,” in Stephen J. Patterson and James M. Robinson, The Fifth Gospel: The Gospel of Thomas Comes of Age (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 1998), 35–36; idem, “The Gospel of Thomas and the Historical Jesus,” in Coptica—Gnostica— Manichaica: Mélanges offerts à Wolf-Peter Funk (ed. Louis Painchaud and Paul-H. Poirier; Bibliothèque copte de Nag Hammadi, Section “Études” 7; Laval: Presses de l’Université Laval, 2006), 672–73; and Werner Kelber, “Die Anfangsprozesse der Verschriftlichung in Frühchristentum,” ANRW II.26.1 (1992): 26: “Listen haben weder Anfang noch Ende.” The general point is made also by Kenneth V. Neller, “Diversity in the Gospel of Thomas: Clues for a New Direction?” SecCent 7 (1989–90): 1–17. 26 Kloppenborg, The Formation of Q: Trajectories in Ancient Wisdom Collections (SAC; Philadelphia: Fortress, 1987). For an earlier attempt to identify layers in Thomas with quite different results, see William Arnal, “The Rhetoric of Marginality: Apocalypticism, Gnosticism, and Sayings Gospels,” HTR 88 (1995): 471–94. 27 See DeConick, “Original Gospel of Thomas,” 188–89; eadem, Recovering, 64–65.
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Gospel itself, but it could have been formulated earlier as well, in some now anonymous setting in the life of the community (Sitz im Leben) long before the material was included in the written form of the Gospel. The implications of this methodological error are catastrophic for DeConick’s reconstruction of the original Gospel. A single example will illustrate the problem. In DeConick’s view, saying 20, the parable of the mustard seed, belongs to the original Gospel of Thomas, and thus should be read as a metaphor for the imminent arrival of the apocalypse.28 To accomplish this reading, she begins by severing the introduction (20.1) from the parable (20.2–4), on the supposition that such introductions are form-critically secondary. The parable now stands alone as a simple form belonging to her “kernel” Gospel. Its interpretation is to be governed by the context she then constructs around it. Immediately preceding the parable would have been saying 17. It is form-critically simple and therefore belongs to the kernel Gospel. Sayings 18 and 19 are form-critically complex and are thus judged to be accretions in the literary development of the Gospel. Immediately following our parable would have been 21.5, and then 21.10. These are simple sayings, and so belong to the kernel Gospel. Logion 21:1–4 is a dialogue and is therefore an accretion; 21.6–8 is judged to be Encratite, and so an accretion; and 21:9 is an accretion. So the new “rhetorical context” for the parable comprises Thomas 17 before the parable, and 21.5 and 21.10 after it. An apocalyptic interpretation of these three sayings leads to an interpretation of the parable: it means to show that the kingdom, understood as the apocalypse, is already beginning and the disciple must be ready for it.29 As for 20.1 (the simple introduction to the parable: “The disciples said to Jesus, ‘Tell us what the kingdom is like’”), it was added later and expresses a “concern over the delayed Eschaton.”30 Here the problems with using tradition-historical analysis to do literarycritical work are evident. While form criticism might suggest that the introduction to the parable (20.1) is secondary (20.2–4), there is no way to know whether it was added by an author/editor working with the text of the Thomas Gospel, or in some earlier anonymous oral setting in the life of a community. Form criticism offers no literary warrant for peeling off 20.1 to reveal a simpler form of the Thomas text. As a text, 20.1–4 has integrity as a well-formulated apocritical chreia,31 in which the sage responds to certain interlocutors with an extended answer. It is perhaps the most common literary form in the many chreia collections and gnōmologia known from Hellenistic literature. At the level of the text, there is nothing intrinsically secondary about the introduction. Similarly, one might well suppose that logion 17 and the parable of the mustard seed (logion 20) are older than the sayings in logia 28
See DeConick, Original Gospel of Thomas, 99–114, for the following details. Ibid., 107. 30 Ibid. 31 Theon, Progymnasmata 61–66: εἶδος ἀποκριτικὸν κατὰ πύσµα. 29
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18, 19, or 21, but there is no literary warrant for supposing that, in the textual history of the Gospel of Thomas, sayings 17 and 20 predate 18, 19, and 21. Another kind of problem arises when DeConick assigns a meaning to these artificially isolated sayings. In the context of Thomas 21, the prophetic sayings in 21.5 and 21.10 serve as warnings to watchfulness against an intruding world. The thief in the night and the harvester’s sharp knife provide apt metaphors for the perceived threat of a hostile world. But in DeConick’s analysis they are left to stand alone as the rest of logion 21 is peeled away as an accretion. Logion 21.5 now indicates that “the Eschaton is near and that preparations should be made for it”32—an interpretation derived from the saying’s use in Q 12 (Luke 12:29//Matt 24:43). Logion 21:10 indicates “the eschatological nature of the times” and that “soon the harvest or Judgment would occur.”33 Again, the meaning is determined by the Synoptic parallel in Mark 4:29. In these examples one may observe the same problem that one encounters in Lelyveld’s work: prophetic sayings that are used in an apocalyptic context in the Synoptic tradition are assumed to have an apocalyptic meaning also in the Gospel of Thomas, even when there is a context in Thomas that would belie the assumption. This involves a fundamental miscalculation of the polyvalence of individual prophetic sayings and, even when this polyvalence is acknowledged, the presumed originality and normative status of the Synoptic valence. This is what made Koester’s insight in “One Jesus and Four Primitive Gospels” a breakthrough of sorts. When he acknowledged that his earlier judgment in “GNOMAI DIAPHOROI” had been mistaken, that the kingdom sayings in the Gospel of Thomas do not represent a secondary development of the more original apocalyptic concept that is found in the Synoptic tradition but derive in their own way from the prophetic preaching of Jesus, he focused the problem of Christian origins more clearly on the propensity of the Jesus tradition to adapt and develop in different ways. The sayings that had fooled Koester at first glance, and that would prompt him eventually to backtrack, were all sayings that he would later classify as “prophetic sayings.”34 The sayings that Lelyveld took to be apocalyptic were also prophetic sayings, as are many of the “eschatological” sayings in DeConick’s kernel Gospel. It is these prophetic sayings that have proven to be so misleading in the discussion so far. They clearly warrant further attention.
II. Prophetic Sayings in the Gospel of Thomas There are many prophetic sayings in the Gospel of Thomas, and they come in a variety of forms. These sayings generally offer admonishment, reprimand, or 32
DeConick, Original Gospel of Thomas, 110. Ibid., 114. 34 See Helmut Koester, Ancient Christian Gospels: Their History and Development (London: SCM, 1990), esp. 87–89. 33
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warning, often (though not always) by referencing the future. In this way, prophetic sayings forward an agenda of social, political, or cultural criticism with the intention of bringing about change. In Rudolf Bultmann’s treatment of the Synoptic tradition they include beatitudes (Makarismen), sayings of warning or threat (Drohworte), and admonitions (Mahnrede).35 These sayings are not formally distinct from apocalyptic sayings. Their future cast, together with elements of warning or foreboding, makes them particularly adaptable to apocalyptic contexts. But admonitions, warnings, and even threats are by no means limited to apocalypticism. These forms are to be found also in wisdom literature. Consider, for example, Proverbs 1– 8, where Wisdom takes up the function and persona of the prophet (e.g., 1:20–33; 2:20–22; etc.). Wisdom and prophecy are just as intertwined in the history and literature of Israel as prophecy and apocalypticism.36 When discerning the function and meaning of prophetic forms, one must constantly attend to context. In my view, the interpretation of the Gospel of Thomas has suffered because this basic methodological issue has not been sufficiently registered in the discussion. In the remaining pages of this essay, I will examine the prophetic sayings in the Gospel of Thomas together with their Synoptic parallels. This comparative analysis will show that prophetic sayings that are used in apocalyptic contexts in the Synoptic Gospels do not necessarily function with the same apocalyptic valence in the Gospel of Thomas. Rather, these sayings, not unlike wisdom sayings, also exhibit a considerable degree of polyvalence and must therefore be studied in context to determine what precisely they might mean. In their Thomas context they function to bolster the cultural critique and life choices that the Thomas Christians have made.
Macarisms Among the prophetic sayings shared by Thomas and the Synoptic tradition, we might number several macarisms: Gos. Thom. 54//Q 6:20 Gos. Thom. 68.1; 69.1//Q 6:22 Gos. Thom. 69.2//Q 6:21 Gos. Thom. 79.1–2//Luke 11:27 Gos. Thom. 79.3//Luke 23:29 Gos. Thom. 103//Q 12:39
35
Blessed are the poor . . . Blessed are the persecuted . . . Blessed are the hungry . . . Blessed is the one who has heard . . . Blessed is the barren one . . . Blessed is the vigilant one
Bultmann, History of the Synoptic Tradition, 108–20. On the subject of wisdom and prophecy, see J. Fichtner, “Jesaja under den Weisen,” TLZ 74 (1949): 75–80; J. Lindblom, “Wisdom in the Old Testament Prophets,” in Wisdom in Israel and in the Ancient Near East (ed. Martin Noth and D. Winton Thomas; VTSup 3; Leiden: Brill, 1955), 192–204; J. William Whedbee, Isaiah and Wisdom (Nashville: Abingdon, 1971). 36
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The macarism, as a form, occurs in sapiential, prophetic, and apocalyptic contexts.37 Are these sayings, then, to be seen as sapiential admonitions, prophetic critique, or apocalyptic hope? It depends on the context in which they are found. Gos. Thom 54//Q 6:20b; Gos. Thom 68.1; 69.1//Q 6:22; Gos. Thom 69.2//Q 6:21. The first three of these beatitudes are, of course, also to be found in Q’s inaugural sermon, where they probably are to be read as wisdom sayings, albeit of a countercultural sort.38 In Matthew’s expanded list they become ethical admonitions promising happiness to the disciple who embraces spiritual poverty, hunger for justice, meekness, peacemaking, and so on. But if one pairs them with matching woes, as in Luke, they sound more like the promise of divine intervention on behalf of the poor and hungry when the apocalypse finally comes. In Thomas they are not grouped together and they do not function in concert. Logion 54 is probably an admonition to embrace poverty as a mode of discipleship.39 Saying 69.1 (possibly 68.1 as well) offers encouragement to those who struggle for enlightenment.40 Saying 69.2 in its Coptic form is ambiguous.41 It too may offer the promise of enlightenment,42 or it may praise the altruism of feeding the hungry beggar.43 In any event, literary and social contexts always matter. Gos. Thom 79.1–2//Luke 11:27; Gos. Thom 79.3//Luke 23:29. The importance of context is most evident with the clustered macarisms in Thomas 79. Gathered together in saying 79, they probably function to endorse the ascetical practice of 37
In wisdom: Job 5:17; Pss 1:1–2; 2:12; 32:1–2; 34:8; 41:1; 84:12; 119:1; Tob 13:14; Wis 3:13– 14; Sir 14:20; 26:1; 28:19; etc.; in prophetic texts: Isa 30:18; 31:9 (LXX); in apocalyptic texts: Sir 48:11; 1 En. 82:4; 2 En. 42:6–14; 52:1–14; Pss. Sol. 18:6; 2 Bar. 10:6–7; etc. 38 See, e.g., Hans Dieter Betz, “The Beatitudes of the Sermon on the Mount (Matt 5:3–12): Observations on Their Literary Form and Theological Significance,” in idem, Essays on the Sermon on the Mount (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985), 32. 39 Patterson, Gospel of Thomas and Jesus, 139; Valantasis, Gospel of Thomas, 131–32; Plisch, Gospel of Thomas, 54; Pokorný, Commentary, 99; DeConick, Original Gospel of Thomas, 187. 40 Ernst Haenchen, “Spruch 68 des Thomasevangeliums,” Mus 75 (1962): 28; Patterson, Gospel of Thomas and Jesus, 201–2; Valantasis, Gospel of Thomas, 148; Pokorný, Commentary, 117; DeConick, Original Gospel of Thomas, 223. 41 For discussion, see Peter Nagel, “Die Neuübersetzung des Thomasevangeliums in der Synopsis quattuor Evangeliorum und in Nag Hammadi Deutsch Bd. 1,” ZNW 95 (2004): 247–48. 42 Thomas O. Lambdin’s rendering (“Translation [of the Gospel of Thomas],” in Nag Hammadi Codex II,2–7 together with XII,2*, Brit. Lib. Or. 4926[1], and P. Oxy. 1, 654, 655 [ed. Bentley Layton; 2 vols.; NHS 20, 21; Leiden: Brill, 1989], 1:53–93) leaves open the possible metaphoric interpretation of hunger: “Blessed are the hungry, for the belly of him who desires will be filled”; for discussion, see Valantasis, Gospel of Thomas, 149. 43 As suggested by the Berliner Arbeitskreis translation (in Hans-Gebhard Bethge et al., “Das Thomas-Evangelium,” in Synopsis Quattuor Evangeliorum [ed. Kurt Aland; 15. Aufl.; Stuttgart: Deutche Bibelgesellschaft, 1996; 2nd, corrected printing, 1997], 515–46): “Blessed are those who suffer from hunger so that the belly of the one who wishes (it) will be satisfied”; for discussion, see Plisch, Gospel of Thomas, 168.
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women.44 But one would never guess this from looking at Luke’s use of them. The beatitude in 79.3 functions in Luke 23:29 as a prophetic saying, probably referring to the fall of Jerusalem during the war. Luke inserts the little chreia found in 79.1–2 at the end of the Beelzebul controversy (Luke 11:27–28), where it serves to turn back empty praise in favor of a more serious engagement in the spiritual warfare Jesus has just described. In all of these examples we can see that the macarism form is especially polyvalent. Gos. Thom 103//Q 12:39. Polyvalence is illustrated also by the macarism in Thomas 103: Blessed is the one who knows in which quarter the robbers are going to enter, so that [he] might arise, gather together his [domain], (and) arm himself before they invade.
The tradition history of this saying is very complex: there is a Q version, which Luke and Matthew use variously: Luke retains its original Q position (see Luke 12:39), where it forms part of a warning to stay alert for the arrival of the Son of Man.45 Matthew retains the thrust of the Q version but includes the saying as part of his omnibus apocalypse in chs. 24–25 (see 24:43). That such a saying must have existed very early is shown by 1 Thess 5:2, where Paul seems to presuppose something like the Q saying in its apocalyptic valence. From all of this one might assume that the logion carries the same apocalyptic overtones when it is taken up in the Thomas Gospel as saying 103. But here there is no context to give it that meaning, and the wording is a little different. Thomas 103 appears to contemplate brigands who ride in from the desert raiding villages for booty, not a thief breaking into a house at night.46 The saying is a call to arms to defend against some metaphoric invader. In Thomas, it is probably to be taken as a call to watchfulness against a world hostile to the ascetical lifestyle of Thomas’s “solitaries.”47 Or perhaps it is sim-
44
Patterson, Gospel of Thomas and Jesus, 154–55; Valantasis, Gospel of Thomas, 159. Others, however, have seen it as a reference to some future apocalyptic event, e.g., Plisch, Gospel of Thomas, 187; and Pokorný, Commentary, 125. For discussion, see Risto Uro, “Is Thomas an Encratite Gospel?” in Thomas at the Crossroads: Essays on the Gospel of Thomas (ed. Risto Uro; Studies of the New Testament and Its World; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1998), 147–49. 45 The placement of the saying by the International Q Project (see in James M. Robinson, Paul Hoffmann, and John Kloppenborg, The Sayings Gospel Q in Greek and English: With Parallels from the Gospels of Mark and Thomas [Minneapolis: Fortress, 2002], 124–25) assumes its original position in the Lukan order. For discussion of this section of Q and its announcement of judgment, see Kloppenborg, Formation of Q, 148–54. 46 While Q speaks of a “thief ” (κλέπτης) who breaks into a house (οἶκος) sometime during the night watch (φυλακή), the Coptic of Thomas employs the Greek loan word lhsths in the plural (thus “brigands”) and does not mention a house. Presumably desert brigands might attack anywhere—houses, villages, caravans. 47 This is suggested more strongly in the doublet in Gos. Thom. 21.5 to be taken up below.
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ply a warning against marauding brigands. The point is that the saying is polyvalent. Context determines its meaning.
Prophetic Sayings in the Synoptic Apocalypses The lesson to be learned from Gos. Thom. 103 is one that could be reiterated many times over, for there are several prophetic sayings in Thomas with Synoptic parallels in either the apocalyptic warnings at the end of Q 12 or the apocalypse in Q 17. Consider first the sayings with parallels to Q 12: Parallels to Q 12 Gos. Thom. 21.5–7//Q12:39–40 Gos. Thom. 10//Luke 12:49 Gos. Thom. 16.1–3//Q 12:51–53 Gos. Thom. 91//Q 12:56
Knowing when the thief comes . . . Casting fire on the world . . . Not peace, but dissension . . . Interpreting the present moment . . .
Gos. Thom. 21.5–7//Q12:39–40. Logion 21.5–7 is a doublet of saying 10348 and so must be seen against the same tradition-historical backdrop: an early Q version, used variously by Matthew and Luke, and evidence that this saying, or something very like it, predates 1 Thessalonians, where Paul seems to refer to it (1 Thess 5:2).49 But the apparent apocalyptic meaning of the saying in Q does not determine the meaning of the same material in Thomas. Logion 21.6 gives the Thomas version of the sayings their distinct valence here: “But you, be on guard against the world. . . .” In this version the threat is not the approaching Son of Man, or the Day of the Lord, but an actual threat to the life choices of the Thomas itinerants: “the world.”50 It is probably futile to speculate whether this use or the alternate reading in Q is more original. But it is worth noting that the threatening image of the thief hardly offers a flattering tertium comparationis for the Son of Man. Whether primary or secondary, the usage found in Thomas is certainly explicable, and perhaps more natural. Gos. Thom. 10//Luke 12:49; Gos. Thom. 16:1–3//Q 12:51–53. In Q 12 the “Isayings” in vv. 49, 51–53 seem quite natural as the threatening words of the judge who will return to finish the work he has already started. But apart from the Q context, they are simply a comment on the disruptive effects of a radical teacher’s message.51 Thus, they turn out to be appropriate to the Thomas context as well, where 48
Note the similarity in wording between these verses and Gos. Thom. 103, which also speaks of “brigands” or “robbers” (nlhsths) and of “arming” (lit., “girding the loins” [mour . . . 5pe]). 49 See discussion above. 50 John Dominic Crossan, In Fragments: The Aphorisms of Jesus (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1983), 62; Patterson, Gospel of Thomas and Jesus, 127–28; Valantasis, Gospel of Thomas, 93– 94; alternately, the spiritual body of the Thomas believer (Pokorný, Commentary, 66). 51 On Gos. Thom. 10, see Valantasis, Gospel of Thomas, 69–70; Stephen J. Patterson, “Fire and
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such radical proposals as leaving home and family (see, e.g., logia 55, 101) were still contemplated. Gos. Thom. 91//Q 12:56. The ironic rebuke of those who are able to predict tomorrow’s weather but are unable to see the things happening right in front of them today is equally effective in the apocalyptic context of Q 12 or the sapiential setting of Gos. Thom. 91. In Q 12 the saying criticizes those who misread the signs of the times. The apocalyptic context lends to it an apocalyptic valence. But in Thomas the saying is both framed and worded differently. It occurs within a string of sayings governed by the theme of the pursuit of wisdom (see sayings 90–94). This probably accounts for the peculiar wording of the Thomas version. First, it is introduced by a question about Jesus’ identity: “Tell us who you are, that we might believe in you” (91.1). Then follows the familiar saying, but between the familiar clauses (“you interpret the sky / you cannot interpret the times”) there is sandwiched an additional clause: “but the one who is in your presence you have not recognized.” This expresses the common wisdom motif of humankind’s failure to recognize Wisdom in her earthly sojourn.52 Again, it is probably pointless to argue about the original meaning of this saying, except to note that its polyvalence should make us skeptical of any assumed original apocalyptic meaning. Framing and wording make all the difference in the world. The same lessons are evident in those sayings that have parallels to Q 17, two of which also have parallels in Mark 13: Parallels to Q 17 and Mark 13 Gos. Thom. 38.2//Q 17:22 Gos. Thom. 113//Q 17:23 //Mark 13:21 Gos. Thom. 61.1//Q 17:34 Gos. Thom. 11.1; 111.1//Q 16:17 //Mark 13:31
You will look for me and not find me . . . Look here; look there . . . Two on a bed . . . Heaven and earth will pass away . . .
Dissention: Ipsissima Vox Jesu in Q 12:49, 51–53?” Forum 5 (1989): 134–35; Plisch, Gospel of Thomas, 57–58; Pokorný, Commentary, 50; but cf. DeConick, Original Gospel of Thomas, 76: “part of a rhetorical speech about the urgency of the Eschaton.” On Gos. Thom. 16, see Patterson, Gospel of Thomas and Jesus, 136–37; Valantasis, Gospel of Thomas, 83–84; Plisch, Gospel of Thomas, 71– 72; Pokorný, Commentary, 59; but cf. DeConick (Original Gospel of Thomas, 93), who sees it as apocalyptic in her “kernel Gospel,” but in the “complete Gospel” as referring to the social disruption of breaking family ties. 52 Early interpreters saw this as a particularly “Gnostic” use of the saying (so Gärtner, Theology, 139–40; Ernst Haenchen, Die Botschaft des Thomas-Evangeliums [Theologische Bibliothek Töpelmann 6; Berlin: Töpelmann, 1961], 64; Schrage, Das Verhältnis, 176–77), but the motif is equally at home in wisdom theology, as well as in the Jesus tradition generally speaking (see, e.g. Mark 8:27–30 par.).
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Gos. Thom. 38.2//Q 17:22. The dominical saying in Gos. Thom. 38.2 and Luke 17:22 is perhaps the best example of how a single prophetic saying might serve equally well in different settings.53 Luke uses it to segue from the anti-apocalyptic logion in 17:20–21 to the Q apocalypse in 17:23–37. There it takes on the apocalyptic coloring of the section in general, including reference to the Son of Man. But in Thomas the saying is joined to the wisdom logion in 38.1 (cf. Q 10:24) and so is to be heard as the words of Wisdom’s envoy rebuking those who should have listened to her before but refused and therefore missed their chance (cf. Prov. 1:28).54 The fact that John also has this saying (see John 7:34)—and in its Thomas form and valence—shows that the Q version is not necessarily prior or normative. Its meaning is determined by its literary frame of reference. Gos. Thom. 113.3//Q 17:23//Mark 13:21//Luke 17:21. The “Look here; look there” saying, warning against false claims about the arrival of the kingdom, is obviously based on a very old tradition.55 In Q 17:23 and Mark 13:21 it is taken as a warning against false apocalyptic hopes in the promise that the real thing is not far away. In Gos. Thom. 113 and Luke 17:21 it is used to dissuade apocalyptic expectation in general. Is this saying, then, an apocalyptic saying, or an anti-apocalyptic saying?56 Context sometimes changes everything. Gos. Thom. 61.1//Q 17:34. As we have already seen,57 the saying in Gos. Thom. 61.1 and Q 17:34 is equally at home in both contexts, but it has very different meaning in each. In Q it clearly has an apocalyptic meaning, placed as it is in the Q apocalypse. Presumably, when the apocalypse comes, “as in the days of Noah” (Q 17:26) some will be rescued and some will perish. But the observation that some live while others die turns out to be useful in pointing out the capriciousness of death in general. Thus, the Gospel of Thomas uses the saying to pose a problem, to which the following answer is offered: some have the key to life and others do not. Yet again, the meaning of the saying is wholly dependent on its context. Gos. Thom. 11.1; 111.1//Q 16:17//Mark 13:31. Finally, there is the doublet in 11.1 and 111.1. As noted above, logion 111 is perhaps the closest thing we have to an apocalyptic saying in the Gospel of Thomas.58 The version in 111.1 is particularly valenced in this direction. Here alone one finds the wording “the heavens and the
53
Are they two versions of the same saying? My earlier view that they are not (Patterson, Gospel of Thomas and Jesus, 87) seems to me now to be mistaken. The parallel in John 7:36 shows that the saying is relatively old. 54 Stevan L. Davies, The Gospel of Thomas and Christian Wisdom (New York: Seabury, 1983), 37–38; Valantasis, Gospel of Thomas, 114; Pokorný, Commentary, 84. 55 See Crossan, Birth of Christianity, 311–13. 56 Ibid., 316. 57 See pp. 800–801 above. 58 See p. 800 above.
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earth will be rolled up in your presence,” language that certainly means to evoke something of Isa 34:4: “and the heavens will roll up like a scroll.” Indeed, the whole of logion 111 seems to read as a tiny apocalypse, in which the enlightened one is said to merit survival beyond this world’s end: Jesus said: “The heavens and the earth will roll up before you, and whoever is living from the living one will not see death.” Does not Jesus say: “Whoever has found himself, of him the world is not worthy?”
But the peculiar thing about this saying is that its Synoptic versions actually seem less apocalyptically tuned, and this even in Mark, where it is used in a specifically apocalyptic context. As noted above, the phrase “heaven and earth will pass away” in Mark 13:31 is used not so much as a prophecy of this world’s end but more as a cliché for transitory, as opposed to eternal, things: “heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away.” The point here is not that Jesus’ words will survive the apocalypse but that they are eternal. Matthew 5:18 uses the Q version of the saying similarly to underscore the permanence of the law: heaven and earth will pass away, but the law will endure “until all is accomplished.” Luke uses the Q saying to make the same point, only now with a strong ironic sense: “It is easier for heaven and earth to pass away than for one jot of the law to become void” (Luke 16:17). Here more than ever we can see how freely these prophetic sayings are used to various rhetorical ends. They are not simply the expression of an apocalyptic mentality.
Other Prophetic Sayings The other sayings common to Thomas and the Synoptic tradition that one might classify as prophetic can now be listed for further reflection on this problem: Other Common Prophetic Sayings Gos. Thom. 4.2//Q 13:30 //Mark 10:31 Gos. Thom. 5.2; 6.4//Q 12:2 //Mark 4:22 Gos. Thom. 21.10//Mark 4:29 Gos. Thom. 39.1–2//Q 11:52 Gos. Thom. 40//Matt 15:12–13 Gos. Thom. 41.1–2//Q 19:26–27 //Mark 4:24–25 Gos. Thom. 46.1//Q 7:28 Gos. Thom. 71//Mark 14:58 Gos. Thom. 73//Q 10:2
First/last; last/first . . . Hidden/revealed . . . When the grain is ripe . . . Hiding the keys . . . The plant rooted up . . . The one who has, receives more . . . Superior to John . . . Destroy this house . . . Who has made me a divider . . .
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Gos. Thom. 4.2//Q 13:30//Mark 10:31. The saying about the “last becoming first” is so malleable that the Synoptic evangelists end up using the saying in three different contexts: Mark, at the end of the third passion prediction (10:31); Matthew, to interpret the parable of the vineyard laborers (20:16); and Luke, to conclude his speech on entering by the narrow door (13:30). In each, the apocalyptic framework in which the saying is embedded lends to it an apocalyptic valence. But the concept of reversal need not be tied to an apocalyptic scenario. In logion 4 of the Gospel of Thomas it describes the paradox of the old seeking instruction from the young. Gos. Thom. 5.2; 6.4//Q 12:2//Mark 4:22. Q’s use of the hidden/revealed logion to introduce an exhortation to fearless witnessing (Q 12:2–10; similarly Mark 4:22) is comprehensible but awkward. Why hide things only to reveal them later?59 Better would be a saying that simply says “do not hide things; instead, reveal them.” In Thomas the saying has two entirely different meanings. In logion 5 it comments on the wisdom hiding in plain sight (“know what is in front of you”) that will presently be revealed to the diligent seeker.60 In saying 6 it is a warning: if you lie and do things you abhor, someone will eventually find out.61 In any event, neither has an apocalyptic valence. Gos. Thom. 21.10//Mark 4:29. The reaping of grain is, to be sure, a well-known metaphor for judgment (see, e.g., Isaiah 27; Joel 3:13; Rev 14:15–16), but as a metaphor it has a wide range of possible applications. Philo, for example, uses it as a metaphor for the gains of the wise and the understanding (Somn. 2.23–24)—it is a polyvalent image. Gos. Thom. 40//Matt 15:12–13. At first glimpse the saying about the tree that shall be uprooted might seem to carry apocalyptic overtones—and one could certainly imagine it in an apocalypse. But the image derives not from some imagined apocalyptic scenario but from a much older prophetic idea that the righteous are planted by God in the land of Israel (e.g., Isa 61:3; Pss. Sol. 14:3–4). Its polemical thrust comes from the prophetic tradition, not the apocalypses. Even Matthew uses it in a manner that is more prophetic than apocalyptic. Following on logion 39, with its critique of the scribes and the Pharisees, Thomas’s use of the saying would appear to be quite similar to Matthew’s. Gos. Thom. 71//Mark 14:58. Finally, logion 71, which speaks of destruction, might initially be understood to refer to some impending apocalypse. Its various
59 Mark 4:20 actually claims that one only hides things in order to (ἵνα) reveal them. Only magicians do this; most people hide things in order to conceal them. 60 Valantasis, Gospel of Thomas, 61–62. 61 Patterson, Gospel of Thomas and Jesus, 21; Valantasis, Gospel of Thomas, 63–64.
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Synoptic versions refer to the destruction of the Jerusalem temple,62 which Mark and Matthew associate with the apocalypse (Mark 13:14//Matt 24:15). John, of course, reinterpreted the saying to refer to the death of Jesus (2:16). But these various associations are not present in Thomas, which comments neither on the destruction of the temple nor on the death of Jesus. The saying, moreover, is formulated differently in Thomas, referring not to the temple but instead to a “house.” The reference may be to some ruling house—perhaps the House of Herod, or the House of David63—or simply to the household and the social relationships this entailed.64 In any event, the saying should not be read as though it were simply a re-iteration of the Synoptic or Johannine versions. Of the remaining sayings, none could be construed as apocalyptic in Thomas. They offer straightforward prophetic critique (Gos. Thom. 39.1–2//Q 11:52), or ironic critical observation (Gos. Thom. 41.1–2//Q 19:26–27//Mark 4:24–25), or serve an apologetic function (Gos. Thom. 46:1//Q 7:28; Gos. Thom. 73//Q 10:2). This is not the only way they could have been used. They have a kind of gnomic polyvalency. This makes them amenable to a number of different contexts, including but not limited to the apocalyptic context of the Synoptic tradition. In the Gospel of Thomas, in the absence of apocalyptic contexts, they function as prophetic sayings, leveling critique at the ways of the world, or sometimes against more specific foes.
III. The Presence of an Absence If this analysis holds up, it must be said that the Gospel of Thomas, for the most part, is lacking an apocalyptic element. It is not entirely absent, but almost. We have seen how logion 111 was probably to be read in an apocalyptic way. Logion 57, the parable of the Wheat and the Weeds, might also have been read apocalyptically. But other sayings that have sometimes been read apocalyptically have, on closer examination, turned out to carry a slightly different pedigree. They are prophetic sayings. What is surprising about them is their rather remarkable polyvalency. Like 62
In Mark and Matthew it is not actually a saying of Jesus, but something attributed to him by his opponents (Mark 14:58//Matt 26:61; Mark 15:29//Matt 27:40). Elsewhere Mark depicts Jesus as predicting the temple’s destruction (Mark 13:2), and later the desolation of the temple is taken as a sign of the end (13:14), so that Mark’s apparent reticence to ascribe the saying directly to Jesus is curious. John assigns it to Jesus (2:19) but reinterprets it to refer to Jesus’ crucified and risen body (2:16). Again, the reluctance to admit that Jesus might have actually said something like this about the temple’s destruction is curious. 63 Patterson, Gospel of Thomas and Jesus, 150; Plisch, Gospel of Thomas, 172. 64 Valantasis, Gospel of Thomas, 150.
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so many aphorisms and proverbs, they derive their meaning from the context in which they occur. In the Gospel of Thomas in case after case, these sayings simply take on a variety of meanings; seldom do they take on the mantle of apocalypticism. In the Gospel of Thomas, apocalypticism is notably absent. The presence of this absence is noteworthy because many believe, largely on the basis of the apocalypticism of the Synoptic tradition, that the preaching of Jesus and the early Jesus movement were defined by imminent apocalyptic expectation. The fact that Thomas shares so much with the Synoptic tradition and yet has so little of its apocalypticism therefore calls for some explanation. DeConick believes that originally the Gospel of Thomas would have shared this apocalyptic perspective, but, when the apocalyptic expectations of the Thomas group failed to materialize, someone undertook to alter radically the nature of the book by adding material here and there that would recast the book in a different light.65 Sayings such as logia 3 and 113 were added, she avers, in an explicit effort to guide the community away from its earlier apocalyptic expectations. But as she tracks her accretions form-critically from saying to saying, the editorial changes she assumes were made take on an extraordinary complexity. If she is right, the result would have been an extensive and elaborate endeavor to camouflage what had once been a collection of apocalyptic sayings. But we have already seen that the method by which DeConick arrives at her alleged early apocalyptic layer is highly problematic. Moreover, the imagined original collection would have been unique: an apocalypse devoid of narrative or scenario and lacking any clear historical or cultural markers. James D. G. Dunn, among many others, has offered a similar solution but without the problems that attend DeConick’s elusive original Gospel layer. Angling against Koester’s view of Thomas as the surviving strand of a pre-Son-of-Man, nonapocalyptic version of the Jesus tradition, Dunn thinks that the author of this Gospel was opposed to apocalypticism in principle (thus sayings 3 and 113) and therefore simply scrubbed the eschatology out of the tradition that came down to him, leaving a few sayings such as the parable of the Wheat and the Weeds (logion 57) behind as the “un-removed residue” of the more original apocalyptic Jesus tradition.66 None of this is impossible. But when confronted with the details, the scenarios imagined by DeConick and Dunn do require considerable imaginative effort. Let us take the parables. Of the several shared by Thomas and the Synoptics, only four are given explicitly apocalyptic interpretations in the Synoptic texts: the Great Feast (Gos. Thom. 64; Luke 14:16–23//Matt 22:2–13), the Tenants (Gos. Thom. 65; 65
See esp. DeConick, Recovering, 159–74; also eadem, “Original Gospel of Thomas,” 195–96. Dunn, Unity and Diversity in the New Testament: An Inquiry into the Character of Earliest Christianity (1977; 3rd ed.; London: SCM, 2006), 310. 66
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Mark 12:1–11 par.), the Fisher (Gos. Thom. 8; Matt 13:47–50), and the Wheat and the Weeds (Gos. Thom. 57; Matt 13:24–30). It is possible that Thomas’s author preferred Luke’s nonapocalyptic version of the Feast to Matthew’s elaborately allegorized apocalyptic version, that he meticulously removed the allegorical (apocalyptic) features of Mark’s version of the Tenants, that he rewrote Matthew’s version of the Fisher, and that he let the Wheat and the Weeds slip through his apocalyptic filter without notice. But this is probably not what happened. Luke’s Feast is probably much closer to the original parable than Matthew’s elaborate allegory for the history and future of salvation,67 save for one redactional phrase added to encourage charity (Luke 14:21; cf. 14:13).68 Since the Thomas version is structurally very close to Luke’s but lacks precisely this redactional phrase, it may be assumed that Thomas also knew an early (nonapocalyptic) version of the parable, but independently of Luke.69 It is possible that Thomas knew the elaborately allegorized Markan version of the Tenants and de-allegorized it,70 but if there was a pre-Markan version of the parable that was not an allegory,71 but simply a story based on the struggle between owners and tenants,72 it seems prima facie more likely that the Thomas version would have been derived from that earlier form of the parable.73 Is logion 8 a de-allegorized version of Matt 13:47–50? Probably not. The structural similarity of Thomas’s Fisher parable to Matthew’s Treasure and Pearl parables (see 67
So, e.g., Robert H. Gundry, Matthew: A Commentary on His Literary and Theological Art (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1982), 433; W. D. Davies and Dale C. Allison, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel according to Saint Matthew (3 vols.; ICC; London/New York: T&T Clark, 1988–97), 3:196–97; Arland J. Hultgren, The Parables of Jesus: A Commentary (Bible and Its World; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2000), 342–43; Bernard Brandon Scott, Hear, Then, the Parable: A Commentary on the Parables of Jesus (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1989), 162–63. 68 Joseph A. Fitzmyer, The Gospel according to Luke: Introduction, Translation, and Notes (2 vols.; AB 28, 28A; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1981, 1985), 2:1052; Scott, Hear, Then, the Parable, 162–65; Hultgren, Parables of Jesus, 337; Michael Wolter, Das Lukasevangelium (HNT 5; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), 512. 69 Helmut Koester, “Three Thomas Parables,” in The New Testament and Gnosis: Essays in Honor of Robert McL. Wilson (ed. A. H. B. Logan and A. J. M. Wedderburn; Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1983), 197–98; Patterson, Gospel of Thomas and Jesus, 77. 70 Thus Andreas Lindemann, “Zur Gleichnisinterpretation im Thomasevangelium,” ZNW 71 (1980): 236. 71 The issue is a matter of dispute. A few have argued that it was always an allegory, but most would ascribe this development to secondary stages—whether Markan or pre-Markan. For a thorough discussion see John S. Kloppenborg, The Tenants in the Vineyard: Ideology, Economics, and Agrarian Conflict in Jewish Palestine (WUNT 195; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 50–148; on Markan redaction of the parable, see 223–41). 72 For proposals, see Kloppenborg, Tenants, 106–48. 73 The matter would be different if there were significant evidence otherwise to suggest that Thomas knew one or another of the Synoptic versions. But this appears not to be so: see Kloppenborg, Tenants, 257–71, for a thorough discussion.
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Matt 13:44–46) suggests that these three likely circulated together as a trio of wisdom parables. It was Matthew who scooped them up and altered the Fisher to form an inclusio with the Wheat and the Weeds in his parables chapter (13).74 Logion 8 therefore reflects a pre-, not post-, Matthean tradition. That leaves Thomas’s version of the Wheat and the Weeds (logion 57). It makes little sense that an editor would have meticulously removed the apocalyptic, allegorical features of the Fisher parable to create logion 8 but then left the Wheat and the Weeds virtually untouched. As one continues to think through this scenario saying by saying, problems of a similar nature begin to pile up. For example, by Dunn’s reckoning, the Thomas redactor will have peeled 21.5 (the Thief in the Night) out of its original Matthean (24:37–44) or Lukan (12:35–40) context to use in a new composition, leaving behind the rest of this material so as to avoid, presumably, the apocalyptic connotations of the original. But what an unfortunate (or inept) choice this would have been. For it is precisely this saying that Paul knew and used apocalyptically (see 1 Thess 5:2), and after him Revelation (3:3; 16:15) and 2 Peter (3:10). If the author’s intention was to avoid the apocalypticism of the original, why would he have saved from the original composition the one saying most associated in the tradition with apocalyptic expectation? In addition, Thomas concludes logion 21 with the saying derived from Joel 3:13 that Mark used (see 4:29) to turn the parable of the Growing Seed (4:26–28) in a more decidedly apocalyptic direction. Again, this would be a very peculiar redactional choice if the aim was to scrub the tradition clean of all apocalypticism. If the author had truly wished to wash the apocalypticism out of the tradition, one could much more easily imagine him dropping the saying from Joel and retaining the parable, an image of growth comparable to the Mustard or the Leaven. Finally, we might simply recall the peculiar case of logion 111. Here is an instance where a Synoptic phrase (“heaven and earth will pass away”) is found in a form that actually seems more apocalyptically attuned in Thomas than in Mark, Matthew, or Luke (see discussion above). It is true that sayings 3 and 113 indicate that, at some point in the history of this tradition, a redactor had decided that an apocalyptic reading of the Jesus tradition was wrong. In theory, this has seemed enough of an explanation to account for the near absence of apocalypticism in the Gospel of Thomas: a Thomas redactor must have removed or obscured the original apocalypticism of the tradition. But a more detailed examination of individual sayings cannot sustain this theory. There must be another explanation. 74
Stephen J. Patterson, “The Parable of the Catch of Fish: A Brief History (On Matthew 13:47–50 and Gospel of Thom 8),” in Colloque International: “l’Évangile selon Thomas et les Textes de Nag Hammadi,” Québec, 29–31 mai 2003 (ed. Louis Painchaud and Paul-H. Poirier; Bibliothèque copte de Nag Hammadi, Section “Études” 8; Laval: Presses de l’Université Laval, 2007), 363–78.
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In this analysis of prophetic sayings held in common by Thomas and the Synoptic Gospels I believe we have found an explanation that is much simpler and more straightforward. In examining these roughly two dozen sayings, we have found them to be remarkably polyvalent. In this regard they are very similar to the many more aphorisms and proverbs shared by Thomas and the Synoptic Gospels, and of course the parables. This accounts for a large portion of the Jesus tradition generally speaking, enough to say that the legacy of Jesus’ teaching carried with it a great deal of malleability. As frustrating as this may be to historians, who wish, perhaps, to know what Jesus really said or, more important, what he really meant, the reality of the polyvalence of this tradition cannot be avoided. As those who created the Gospel of Thomas set about gathering up the sayings that they would include in it, they apparently chose sayings they thought they could use to provoke reflection on the nature of the world, human beings, and the divine light within. These included aphorisms, parables, and a good many prophetic sayings in which others could, and did, see quite another potential. Mark and the author/redactor of Q saw in them the seeds of an apocalyptic theology, which Matthew and Luke would, each in his own way, eventually endorse. The Thomas folk must have been aware of these or similar apocalyptic interpretations and so made it clear that theirs was an alternative interpretation—thus the placement of sayings 3 and 113 near the beginning and the end of the Gospel. Further, they must have felt justified in their resistance to an apocalyptic interpretation of the tradition they contested. After all, the existence of a Synoptic version of these two sayings (Luke 17:20–21) indicates that the Thomas people were not idiosyncratic in their views, and that even in Synoptic circles the sentiment was shared, even if as a minority report. For many years scholars have felt a certain assurance that the Synoptic interpretation of the sayings of Jesus is more or less natural, and therefore normative. This, of course, has had implications for our understanding of the preaching of Jesus himself. But the Gospel of Thomas, which offers such a different reading of this familiar material, offers a substantial challenge to this long-standing view. Attempts to fit Thomas into that older view, like DeConick’s argument for an original apocalyptic version of this Gospel, or Dunn’s hypothesis of redactional efforts to deapocalypticize the tradition, may sound good in theory, but they ultimately founder in the details. This study of the prophetic sayings in Thomas and the Synoptic tradition has shown that, like the aphorisms and parables, these sayings have a certain polyvalent quality. It was this quality that made them available for the several interpretations of the Jesus tradition that would unfold in the decades and centuries following the brief period of Jesus’ own career. As these multiple interpretations come to light and compete once again for attention and legitimacy, history cannot weigh in by pronouncing one of them to be the original, earliest, or natural interpretation. Each will have to stand on its own merits as a very old and venerable interpretation of the Jesus tradition.
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MEMORY, JESUS, AND THE SYNOPTIC GOSPELS Robert K. McIver i.D*WFSTTUVEZGVMMZ BOEmOBMMZ CSJOHTQTZDIPMPHZBOEIVNBO NFNPSZJOUPUIFEJTDVTTJPOPG+FTVTBOE$ISJTUJBOPSJHJOT8IBUEPFT IVNBONFNPSZIBWFUPEPXJUI+FTVTBOEUIF(PTQFMT .D*WFSTBT TFTTNFOUJTTVSFUPTQBSLEFCBUFwApril D. DeConick, Isla Carroll and Percy E. Turner Professor of Biblical Studies, Rice University
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Annual Index Volume 130 (2011) Allison, Dale C., Jr. “Blessing God and Cursing People: James 3:9–10,” 397–405 Asher, Jeffrey R., “An Unworthy Foe: Heroic Ἔθη, Trickery, and an Insult in Ephesians 6:11,” 729–48 Baden, Joel S., and Candida R. Moss, “The Origin and Interpretation of siāravat in Leviticus 13–14,” 643–62 Barton, Stephen C., “Eschatology and the Emotions in Early Christianity,” 571–91 Bergren, Theodore A., “Gentile Christians, Exile, and Return in 5 Ezra 1:35–40,” 593– 612 Berman, Joshua, “CTH 133 and the Hittite Provenance of Deuteronomy 13,” 25–44 Ciampa, Roy E., “‘Examined the Scriptures?’ The Meaning of ἀνακρίνοντες τὰς γραφάς in Acts 17:11,” 527–41 Cooley, Jeffrey L., “The Story of Saul’s Election (1 Samuel 9–10) in the Light of Mantic Practice in Ancient Iraq,” 247–61 Crouch, C. L., “Ezekiel’s Oracles against the Nations in Light of a Royal Ideology of Warfare,” 473–92 Erho, Ted M., “Historical-Allusional Dating and the Similitudes of Enoch,” 493–511 Frolov, Serge, and Allen Wright, “Homeric and Ancient Near Eastern Intertextuality in 1 Samuel 17,” 451–71 Gile, Jason, “Ezekiel 16 and the Song of Moses: A Prophetic Transformation?” 87–108 Glancy, Jennifer A., and Stephen D. Moore, “How Typical a Roman Prostitute Is Revelation’s ‘Great Whore’?” 551–69 Goodacre, Mark, “Does περιβόλαιον Mean ‘Testicle’ in 1 Corinthians 11:15?” 391–96 Hamori, Esther J., “Echoes of Gilgamesh in the Jacob Story,” 625–42 Harrill, J. Albert, “Divine Judgment against Ananias and Sapphira (Acts 5:1–11): A Stock Scene of Perjury and Death,” 351–69 Hernández, Juan, Jr., “The Relevance of Andrew of Caesarea for New Testament Textual Criticism,” 183–96 Iverson, Kelly R., “A Centurion’s ‘Confession’: A Performance-Critical Analysis of Mark 15:39,” 329–50 Jones, Scott C., “Lions, Serpents, and Lion-Serpents in Job 28:8 and Beyond,” 663–86 Kalmanofsky, Amy, “The Dangerous Sisters of Jeremiah and Ezekiel,” 299–312 Leuchter, Mark, “The Ambiguous Details in the Blasphemer Narrative: Sources and Redaction in Leviticus 24:10–23,” 431–50 Lohr, Joel N., “Sexual Desire? Eve, Genesis 3:16, and תשוקה,” 227–46 Marchal, Joseph A., “The Usefulness of an Onesimus: The Sexual Use of Slaves and Paul’s Letter to Philemon,” 749–70
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Journal of Biblical Literature 130, no. 4 (2011)
McRae, Rachel M., “Eating with Honor: The Corinthian Lord’s Supper in Light of Voluntary Association Meal Practices,” 165–81 Mizrahi, Noam, “The History and Linguistic Background of Two Hebrew Titles for the High Priest,” 687–705 Moore, Stephen D. See Glancy, Jennifer A. Moss, Candida R. See Baden, Joel S. Na’aman, Nadav, “The ‘Discovered Book’ and the Legitimation of Josiah’s Reform,” 47– 62 Neville, Richard, “Differentiation in Genesis 1: An Exegetical Creation ex nihilo,” 209– 26 Noonan, Benjamin J., “Did Nehemiah Own Tyrian Goods? Trade between Judea and Phoenicia during the Achaemenid Period,” 281–98 Novick, Tzvi, “Peddling Scents: Merchandise and Meaning in 2 Corinthians 2:14–17,” 543–49 Pao, David W., “Waiters or Preachers: Acts 6:1–7 and the Lukan Table Fellowship Motif,” 127–44 Patterson, Stephen J., “Apocalypticism or Prophecy and the Problem of Polyvalence: Lessons from the Gospel of Thomas,” 795–817 Paul, Shalom M., “A Rejoinder concerning 1 Samuel 1:11,” 45 Ramelli, Ilaria L. E., “Spiritual Weakness, Illness, and Death in 1 Corinthians 11:30,” 145–63 Regev, Eyal, “Were the Early Christians Sectarians?” 771–93 Schellenberg, Ryan S., “Suspense, Simultaneity, and Divine Providence in the Book of Tobit,” 313–27 Seow, C. L., “Orthography, Textual Criticism, and the Poetry of Job,” 63–85 Sick, David H., “The Architriklinos at Cana,” 513–26 Staples, Jason A., “What Do the Gentiles Have to Do with ‘All Israel’? A Fresh Look at Romans 11:25–27,” 371–90 Thames, John Tracy, Jr., “A New Discussion of the Meaning of the Phrase vam hā 'āresi in the Hebrew Bible,” 109–25 Townsley, Jeramy, “Paul, the Goddess Religions, and Queer Sects: Romans 1:23–28,” 707–28 Walsh, Jerome T., “The Rab Šāqēh between Rhetoric and Redaction,” 263–79 Watts, James W., “Aaron and the Golden Calf in the Rhetoric of the Pentateuch,” 417– 30 Wimbush, Vincent L., “Interpreters—Enslaving/Enslaved/Runagate,” 5–24 Wright, Allen. See Frolov, Serge
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JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE PUBLISHED QUARTERLY BY THE
General Editor: JAMES C. VANDERKAM, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556
EDITORIAL BOARD
Term Expiring 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, Marian University, Indianapolis, IN 46222 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
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JO-ANN BRANT, Goshen College, Goshen, IN 46526 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 LAURA NASRALLAH, Harvard Divinity School, Cambridge, MA 02138 EMERSON POWERY, Messiah College, Grantham, PA 17027 THOMAS RÖMER, Collège de France, Paris, and University of Lausanne, Lausanne, Switzerland SIDNIE WHITE CRAWFORD, University of Nebraska-Lincoln, Lincoln, NE 68588-0337 DAVID WRIGHT, Brandeis University, Waltham, MA 02454 Editorial Assistants: Monica Brady and Sarah Schreiber, University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN 46556 President of the Society: Carol Newsom, Candler School of Theology, Emory University, Atlanta, GA 30322; Vice President: John Dominic Crossan, DePaul University, Chicago, IL 60604; Chair, Research and Publications Committee: Adele Reinhartz, University of Ottawa, Ottawa, ON K1N 6N5 Canada; Executive Director: John F. Kutsko, Society of Biblical Literature, 825 Houston Mill Road, Suite 350, Atlanta, GA 30329. 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. The annual subscription price is US$40.00 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. 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. Copyright © 2011 by the Society of Biblical Literature. The Hebrew and Greek fonts used in JBL are SBL Hebrew and SBL Greek; they are available from www.sblsite.org/Resources/default.aspx. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
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JBLcoverwinter2011_JBLcover2007.qxd 11/17/2011 10:20 AM Page 1
130 4 2011
JOURNAL OF
BIBLICAL LITERATURE WINTER 2011
JOURNAL OF BIBLICAL LITERATURE
VOLUME 130, NO. 4 Echoes of Gilgamesh in the Jacob Story Esther J. Hamori
625–642
The Origin and Interpretation of .sara ! vat in Leviticus 13–14 Joel S. Baden and Candida R. Moss
643–662
Lions, Serpents, and Lion-Serpents in Job 28:8 and Beyond Scott C. Jones
663–686
The History and Linguistic Background of Two Hebrew Titles for the High Priest Noam Mizrahi
687–705
Paul, the Goddess Religions, and Queer Sects: Romans 1:23–28 Jeramy Townsley
707–728
An Unworthy Foe: Heroic Ἔθη, Trickery, and an Insult in Ephesians 6:11 Jeffrey R. Asher
729–748
The Usefulness of an Onesimus: The Sexual Use of Slaves and Paul’s Letter to Philemon Joseph A. Marchal
749–770
Were the Early Christians Sectarians? Eyal Regev
771–793
Apocalypticism or Prophecy and the Problem of Polyvalence: Lessons from the Gospel of Thomas Stephen J. Patterson
795–817 US ISSN 0021-9231
