Biblical Interpretation Beyond Historicity: Changing Perspectives 7 (Copenhagen International Seminar) 9781138889521, 9781315690773, 1138889520

Citation preview

B IB L I C A L I N T E R P R E T AT I ON B E Y O N D H I S T O RI CI T Y

Biblical Interpretation beyond Historicity evaluates the new perspectives that have emerged since the crisis over historicity in the 1970s and 1980s challenged biblical scholarship. Several new studies, as well as the ‘deconstructive’ side of literary criticism that emerged from writers such as Derrida and Wittgenstein, among others, have led biblical scholars today to view the texts of the Bible more as literary narratives than as sources for a history of Israel. Increased interest in archaeological and anthropological studies in writing the history of Palestine and the ancient Near East have also led to the need for an evidence-based history of Palestine. This volume analyses the consequences of the question “If the Bible is not history, what is it then?” The editors, Hjelm and Thompson, are members of the Copenhagen School, which was formed in the light of this question and the commitment to a new approach to both the history of Palestine and the Bible’s place in ancient history. This volume features essays from a range of highly regarded scholars, and is divided into three sections: “Beyond Historicity”, which explores alternative historical roles for the Bible, “Greek Connections”, which discusses the Bible’s context in the Hellenistic world and “Reception”, which explores extra-biblical functions of biblical studies. Offering a unique gathering of scholars and challenging new theories, Biblical Interpretation beyond Historicity is invaluable to students in the field of Biblical and East Mediterranean Studies, and is a crucial resource for anyone working on both the archaeology and history of Palestine and the ancient Near East, and the religious development of Europe and the Near East. Ingrid Hjelm is Associate Professor at the University of Copenhagen and Director of the Palestine History and Heritage Project. She is the author of The Samaritans and Early Judaism (2000) and Jerusalem’s Rise to Sovereignty (2004) in addition to a considerable number of articles within the field of Samaritan studies, the history of ancient Israel and the Hebrew Bible. Her latest book, co-edited with Anne Katrine de Hemmer Gudme, is Myths of Exile (2015).

Thomas L. Thompson is Professor Emeritus, University of Copenhagen and author of some 130 articles and ca. 20 books, including The Historicity of the Patriarchal Narratives (1974), The Early History of the Israelite People (1992), The Bible in History: How Writers Create a Past (1999) and Biblical Narrative and Palestine’s History (2013). He is currently working as Project Developer on the Palestine History and Heritage Project.

COPENHAGEN INTERNATIONAL SEMINAR General Editors: Ingrid Hjelm and Thomas L. Thompson both at the University of Copenhagen Editors: Niels Peter Lemche and Mogens Müller both at the University of Copenhagen Language Revision Editor: James West at the Quartz Hill School of Theology Available: JAPHETH BEN ALI’S BOOK OF JEREMIAH Joshua A. Sabih THE EMERGENCE OF ISRAEL IN ANCIENT PALESTINE Emanuel Pfoh ORIGIN MYTHS AND HOLY PLACES IN THE OLD TESTAMENT Lukasz Niesiolowski-Spanò STUDIES IN THE HISTORY, LITERATURE AND RELIGION OF BIBLICAL ISRAEL John Van Seters ARGONAUTS OF THE DESERT Philippe Wajdenbaum THE EXPRESSION ‘SON OF MAN’ AND THE DEVELOPMENT OF CHRISTOLOGY Mogens Müller BIBLICAL STUDIES AND THE FAILURE OF HISTORY Niels Peter Lemche BIBLICAL NARRATIVE AND PALESTINE’S HISTORY Thomas L. Thompson ‘IS THIS NOT THE CARPENTER?’ Edited by Thomas L. Thompson and Thomas S. Verenna

THE BIBLE AND HELLENISM Edited by Thomas L. Thompson and Philippe Wajdenbaum RETHINKING BIBLICAL SCHOLARSHIP Philip R. Davies REPRESENTING ZION Frederik Poulsen MYTHS OF EXILE Edited by Anne Katrine de Hemmer Gudme and Ingrid Hjelm REWRITING PETER AS AN INTERTEXTUAL CHARACTER IN THE CANONICAL GOSPELS Finn Damgaard BIBLICAL INTERPRETATION BEYOND HISTORICITY Edited by Ingrid Hjelm and Thomas L. Thompson HISTORY, ARCHAEOLOGY AND THE BIBLE FORTY YEARS AFTER ‘HISTORICITY’ Edited by Ingrid Hjelm and Thomas L. Thompson Forthcoming: SYRIA-PALESTINE IN THE LATE BRONZE AGE Emanuel Pfoh THE JUDAEO-KARAITE RECEPTION Of THE HEBREW BIBLE Joshua A. Sabih PLATO AND THE CREATION OF THE HEBREW BIBLE Russell E. Gmirkin

B I B L I CA L IN T E RP RE T A T IO N BE Y O N D H I S T O R I C IT Y Changing Perspectives 7

Edited by Ingrid Hjelm and Thomas L. Thompson

First published 2016 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2016 selection and editorial matter Ingrid Hjelm and Thomas L. Thompson; individual chapters, the contributors. The right of the editors to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Biblical interpretation beyond historicity / edited by Ingrid Hjelm and Thomas L. Thompson. — First [edition]. pages cm. — (Changing perspectives ; 7) (Copenhagen international seminar) Includes index. 1. Bible—Criticism, interpretation, etc.—History—20th century. 2. Bible— Criticism, interpretation, etc.—History—21st century. I. Hjelm, Ingrid, editor. BS511.3.B55 2016 220.6—dc23 2015028474 ISBN: 978-1-138-88952-1 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-69077-3 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by Swales & Willis Ltd, Exeter, Devon, UK

IN MEMORY OF A COLLEAGUE AND FRIEND FREDERICK H. CRYER 1947–2002

This Page is Intentionally Left Blank

CONTENTS

List of contributors Acknowledgements List of abbreviations

xi xiii xiv

Introduction

1

I N G R I D H J E L M AND T HOMAS L . T HOMP S ON

PART I

Beyond Historicity

13

1 A new “biblical archaeology”

15

P H I L I P R . D A V IE S

2 Old and new ways of interpreting Isaiah 40–55

29

F R E D E R I K P O UL S E N

3 Contextualizing composite works: the case of 4QMMT with a sociolinguistic twist

43

T R I N E B J Ø R N UNG HAS S E L BAL CH

PART II

Greek Connections

59

4 Is the Old Testament still a Hellenistic book?

61

N I E L S P E T E R LE MCHE

5 From Plato to Moses: Genesis-Kings as a Platonic epic P H I L I P P E W A J D E NBAUM

ix

76

 CONTENTS

6 Greek genres and the Hebrew Bible

91

R U S S E L L G MI RKI N

7 When the Septuagint came in from the cold103 M O G E N S M ÜL L E R

PART III

Reception117 8 Of Qumran, the canon, and the history of the Bible Text

119

F R E D E R I C K H. CRYE R

9 Deconstructing the continuity of Qumran Ib and II with implications for stabilizing the biblical texts

130

G R E G O R Y L . DOUDNA

10 Canon formation, canonicity, and the Qumran library

155

J E S P E R H Ø GE NHAVE N

11 New Children of Abraham in Greenland – the creation of a nation

169

F L E M M I N G A . J. NI E L S E N

12 Closing the conference: whose mythic, rhythmic, theological and cultural memory is it anyway?

187

J I M WE S T

Source Index Author Index

197 204

x

CONTRIBUTO RS

Frederick H. Cryer Formerly Research Associate in Old Testament studies, project leader for DSS 4 and founding member of the Copenhagen School. Author of Divination in Ancient Israel and its Near Eastern Environment: A Socio-Historical Investigation (1994). Philip R. Davies Professor Emeritus, University of Sheffield, founding editor of the Journal for the Study of the Old Testament and author of In Search of Ancient Israel (1992), Scribes and Schools (1998) and Rethinking Biblical Scholarship: Changing Perspectives 4 (2014). Gregory L. Doudna Received his PhD in Theology from the University of Copenhagen in 2001. He is currently engaged in independent research on the Dead Sea Scrolls, especially in regard to questions of chronology and carbon-14 dating. He is the author of 4Q Pesher Nahum: A Critical Edition (2001). Trine Bjørnung Hasselbalch Received her PhD in theology from the University of Copenhagen. She has specialized in the Dead Sea Scrolls, lately focusing on the relationship between biblical and pseudepigraphic literature. She is the author of Meaning and Context in the Thanksgiving Hymns (2015). Ingrid Hjelm Associate Professor of Old Testament at the University of Copenhagen. Author of Jerusalem’s Rise to Sovereignty: Zion and Gerizim in Competition (2004) and The Samaritans and Early Judaism: A Literary Analysis (2000). Co-edited with Anne Katrine de Hemmer Gudme, Myths of Exile (2015). She is currently director of the Palestine’s History and Heritage Project. Jesper Høgenhaven Professor of Old Testament at the University of Copenhagen since 2007. Author of Gott und Volk bei Jesaja: Eine Untersuchung zur biblischen Theologi (1988). He was formerly director of the Copenhagen Dead Sea Scrolls initiative. Russell Gmirkin An independent scholar living in Portland, Oregon, where he does research and writes on ancient Greek and biblical history and literature. xi

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

He is author of Berossus and Genesis, Manetho and Exodus: Hellenistic Histories and the Date of the Pentateuch after 2006), and Plato and the Creation of the Hebrew Bible (forthcoming). Niels Peter Lemche Professor of Old Testament at the University of Copenhagen 1987–2013, and founding member of the Copenhagen School. Author of Early Israel (1985), The Old Testament Between Theology and History (2008) and Biblical Studies and the Failure of History, Changing Perspectives 3 (2013). Mogens Müller Professor of New Testament at the University of Copenhagen since 1982. Author of The First Bible of the Church: A Plea for the Septuagint (1996) and The Expression ‘Son of Man’ and the Development of Christology: A History of Interpretation (2008). Flemming A. J. Nielsen Received his PhD from the University of Copenhagen and is currently teaching as Lecturer at the University of Greenland. He is the author of The Tragedy in History: Herodotus and the Deuteronomistic History (1997). Frederik Poulsen A postdoctoral researcher at the Department of Biblical Studies, University of Copenhagen and author of God, His Servant, and the Nations in Isaiah 42:1–9 (2014) and Representing Zion: Judgment and Salvation in the Old Testament (2015). Thomas L. Thompson Professor of Old Testament at the University of Copenhagen 1993–2009 and founding member of the Copenhagen School. Author of The Historicity of the Patriarchal Narratives (1974), The Early History of the Israelite People (1992) and Biblical Narrative and Palestine’s History (2013). He is currently working as project developer for the Palestine History and Heritage Project. Philippe Wajdenbaum PhD in anthropology from the University of Brussels, he is the author of Argonauts of the Desert: Structural Analysis of the Hebrew Bible (2011) and co-edited The Bible and Hellenism: Greek Influence on Jewish and Early Christian Literature (2014). Jim West Professor of Biblical Studies at the Quartz Hill School of Theology in California and Adjunct Professor of Old Testament at the Ming Hua Theological College, Hong Kong. He has written a series of commentaries on the Bible, and works of biblical studies, theology and Church History.

xii

ACKNOWLEDGEM ENTS

Anne Katrine de Hemmer Gudme and Jesper Høgenhaven, both from the University of Copenhagen, are to be thanked for joining us in organizing the conference on Changing Perspectives, which was held from 9–12 October 2013 at the Faculty of Theology, University of Copenhagen. Also to be thanked are the dean of the faculty, Professor Kirsten Busch Nielsen, and the faculty for housing the conference and for their support. Gratitude is also due to the H. P. Hjerl Hansen Memorial Fund for Danish Research on Palestine and The Carlsberg Foundation for funding the conference. Thanks to authors and participants of the conference. We are also grateful to Philippe Wajdenbaum for his generous help in proofreading the manuscript. Finally, Museum Tusculanums Forlag is to be thanked for permission to publish a revision of Frederick Cryer’s article, “Of Qumran, the Bible and the History of the Bible Text”, which first appeared in L. Fatum and M. Müller (eds.), Tro og Historie: Festskrift til Niels Hyldahl i anledning af 65 års fødselsdagen, den 30. December 1995. København: Museum Tusculanums Forlag: 36–46.

xiii

ABBREVIAT I ONS

BEThL BWANT BZAW CIS DJD FAT FRLANT JHS JSOT JSOTSup RGG

Bibliotheca Ephemeridum Theologicarum Lovaniensium Beiträge zur Wissenschaft vom Alten und Neuen Testament Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Copenhagen International Seminar Discoveries in the Judaean Desert Forschungen zum Alten Testament Forschungen zur Religion und Kultur des alten und neuen Testament The Journal of Hebrew Scriptures Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplements Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart. Edited by K. Galling. 7 vols. 3rd edn. Tübingen, 1957–65 SBL Society of Biblical Literature SBL.SCSS Society of Biblical Literature Septuagint and Cognate Studies SJOT Scandinavian Journal for the Old Testament VTSup Vetus Testamentum Supplements Wunt Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament ZAW Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft

xiv

INTRODUCTI ON Ingrid Hjelm and Thomas L. Thompson

Volume 7 of the Changing Perspectives series presents a broad discussion, which both evokes and evaluates several of the many different changes in perspective which have come about in the interests of biblical scholars since the 1980s, when questions of the historicity of origin stories were largely abandoned and antiquarian traditional texts were widely seen as allegorical, mythical, or fictive. Moving away from traditional historical-criticism’s positivism and its interests in a text’s historical author, context and reference, many scholars turned away from history writing and towards questions of literary strategy, hermeneutics and ideology (e.g., Garbini 1988; Thompson 2013 [1991]). The move towards minimalism and the establishment of the Copenhagen School, however, was not just a reaction to Albrecht Alt, William Foxwell Albright and their followers’ use of the Bible as a primary witness to Israel’s past. The entire academic mentality of the 1960s and 1970s fostered quite a number of works that were critical of the conservative historicism which dominated the field. Works by Bernd J. Diebner, Heike Friis, David Gunn, Morton Smith, Jan Fokkelmann, Hans Heinrich Schmid, Rolf Rendtdorff, Hans Vorländer, Manfred Weippert, James Barr and Northrop Frye opened up new avenues for interpreting Israel’s past as reflected in the Bible. They were as much an inspiration to the minimalists as were those who dealt more explicitly with Israelite archaeology and history in the Late Bronze and Iron Ages. Another source of inspiration from the 1960s onwards was the deconstruction tendencies that had become widespread in literary studies (e.g., Jacques Derrida, Ferdinand de Saussure, Gottlob Friedrich Frege, Ludwig Wittgenstein and Martin Heidegger). Such discussions naturally led to a more general scepticism in writing (biblical) history and a move towards viewing the Bible as theology and expressions of cultural memory. From seeing biblical tradition as a continuous narrative that had been updated concurrently to the history it told, biblical narrative became loosened from its own chronology and setting, and dated at a distance from the events narrated. Especially the so-called ‘Deuteronomistic History’ underwent a transformation from historical sources to historical narratives and became ‘fictional historiography’ in John Van Seters’s inversion of Otto Eissfeldt’s theory of ‘fictionalised history’ (Hjelm 2004: 19; Hjelm forthcoming). Both these authors claimed an underlying historicity with basis in oral tradition (Eissfeldt) and ancient 1

I ngrid H jelm and T homas L . T hom p son

conventions of history writing such as found in Herodotus’ Historia (Van Seters). Albeit using their paradigms and chronology, Thomas L. Thompson, Niels Peter Lemche, Philip Davies and others mainly saw biblical narratives as invention and creation with very little historical nucleus. Archaeology, for its part, moved increasingly towards independence and away from biblical archaeology’s history of Israel. As we have argued in our introduction to Volume 6 of Changing Perspectives (Hjelm and Thompson, 2016), Lemche’s Early Israel was a response to the rejection of the historicity of origin stories and of their biblically driven, historical narratives. It marks a departure from a biblically oriented, ethnocentric ‘history of Israel’ in favour of a history of Palestine. While biblical studies, following these developments in the 1980s, maintained its historical orientation in literary and intellectual history (Lemche 1985; 2008; Gunn and Davies 1987), new prospects in both archaeology and history decidedly embraced a ‘landscape’-oriented history of Palestine and its regions (Miller and Hayes 1986; Coote and Whitelam 1987).

The minimalist-maximalist debates In the years following the publication of Lemche’s Early Israel, interest in regional histories were linked to the changes of perspective on the history of Judah and Israel. A number of regional histories were published, such as those of Ernst Axel Knauf on the polities of Late Bronze Midian and Iron Age Ishmael, Stefan Timm’s on Moab, Ulrich Hübner on Ammon and, indeed, Bob Becking on Samaria (Knauf 1988, 1989; Timm 1989; Hübner 1992; Becking 1992). These studies were part of or reflected interests related to the Tübinger Atlas des vorderen Orients, which developed in Tübingen in the 1970s and early 1980s. Interest in such regional studies in Tübingen was also inspired by the earlier dissertations written under Kurt Galling, such as Siegfried Mittmann’s on the regional history of the northern Transjordan (Mittmann 1970) and that by Manfred Weippert on the history of Edom (1971). These pioneer works were followed by early studies in settlement history associated with the Tübinger Atlas, among which were seven maps and two volumes of commentary related to the Bronze Age settlements in the Sinai, the Negev and Palestine by Thomas L. Thompson. Individual problems were also addressed in the critical study of the biblical narratives, related to the settlement in the southern Transjordan, by Manfred Wüst and the survey of early synagogues in Palestine by Frowald Hüttenmeister and Gottfried Reeg (Thompson 1975, 1979; Wüst 1975; Hüttenmeister and Reeg 1977). Methodologically significant is the growing interest in the historical interpretation of settlement patterns as the point of departure for historical studies (see, today, esp. Lipschits et al. 2003, 2006, 2007, 2011) and establishing a historical strategy, which supported the new, historical orientation away from biblical studies and towards extra-biblical, i.e., inscriptional, archaeological and geographical data, with a primary anthropological perspective. Such efforts in the 1970s and 1980s changed how we looked upon Palestine’s ancient history and created a need for an inclusive, 2

I ntroduction

evidence-based history of Palestine to replace the prevailing ethnocentric and biblical history of Israel. These works laid the methodological and historiographic foundations for research on a comprehensive and regional history of ‘Greater Palestine’. In contrast, a ‘history of Israel’, as it had been defined by ‘biblical archaeology’, was, one could say, now a thin and provincial matter. Issues related to the historicity of biblical narratives and their use for the history of Palestine became subordinate to the project of writing a comprehensive history of Palestine. The new historical interests in surface surveys since the 1960s provided an interpretive matrix in geography and landscape studies that was both independent of the interests and perspectives of ‘biblical archaeology’ and potentially of great use to critical history writing. The potential of these new perspectives was exploited in Israel Finkelstein’s 1986 PhD dissertation: The Archaeology of the Israelite Settlement. Finkelstein argued well for an historical understanding of Israel’s origins within a context of the whole of Palestine. Apart from its ethnocentric bias, already implicit in his dissertation’s title, the study was largely independent of a biblical perspective, and his conclusions and detailed observations undermined the three once-popular models of Israelite origins through conquest, immigration or peasant-revolt models (Finkelstein 1988). Finkelstein’s perspective helped turn historical studies towards an independent archaeological perspective of Palestine’s history and set the stage for further development (Finkelstein 1988; cf. Thompson 1992: 158–63). The early 1990s saw a number of approaches following the collapse of historicity and the new historical directions opened up by regional archaeological surveys. As archaeology began to open up new directions for its research, great uncertainty prevailed in biblical studies, provoked by the dominant question at the time: ‘If the Bible is not history, what is it, then?’ Such uncertainty was pa­tent, for example, in the central contradictions of Gösta Ahlström’s posthumous History of Palestine, whose title and large format promised a perspective which raised expectations that this history would follow in the directions which the new histories of the 1980s had pointed out. The first seven chapters, indeed, hold to the perspective of such a history of Palestine. However, from the beginning of Chapter 8, entitled ‘Judges’, one reads a critical evaluation of the possibilities of writing a history of Israel, given the historical inadequacies of biblical narratives as historical sources for a critical history. No longer is Ahlström’s focus directed towards Palestine’s history, but rather on Israel and the Bible’s projection of this mythic past (Ahlström 1993). The uncertain, shifting strategy and focus of Ahlström’s History of Palestine reflects the theological heritage intrinsic to histories of Israel, which continues to plague the field. A more direct effort to demythologize biblical tradition was raised by a short monograph of Niels Peter Lemche, which illustrates how the biblical figure of the Canaanites represents an invented people, whose role in biblical origin stories is to play the Bible’s antithesis to Israel (Lemche 1991). A dozen years later, Mario Liverani engaged the dilemma Ahlström had faced by writing a history of Israel in two main parts (Liverani 2005). Part I presents ‘A Normal History’, from the Late Bronze Age to the end 3

I ngrid H jelm and T homas L . T hom p son

of the Neo-Babylonian period, and Part II, ‘An Invented History’, is much in the spirit of Lemche’s study on the Canaanites. Liverani treats the literary functions of the Patriarchs, Conquest, the Judges, United Monarchy, Temple and Torah. The strategy is provocative and largely convincing. His ‘normal history’, however, lacks the critical voice of Part II and still remains a rational paraphrase of biblical narrative and a synthesis based in biblical and extra-biblical sources, maintaining the perspectives of traditional histories of Israel. A year after Lemche’s study on the Canaanites appeared, Thomas L. Thompson published his Early History of the Israelite People (Thompson 1992), which raised the question of the historical context of the concept of ‘all-Israel’ as a people and drew the conclusion that this concept embraced the essential mythic themes of exile and return. It centred its argument in an historic presentation of the differences between the origins of settlement and the development of the polities of the highland regions in the small patronage kingdoms of Israel and Judah. (This theme is more adequately developed today in Pfoh 2009.) Thompson’s Early History established a sharp distinction between the historical and literary qualities of evidence used in writing a history of Palestine. Particularly at stake was the Bible’s ethnocentric understanding of ‘all-Israel’ and the once-assumed continuity of this concept with pre-exilic Palestine. A popular revision of this study was published a few years later (Thompson 1999). This was restructured in a three-fold presentation which dealt first of all with the legendary and mythic, rather than historical quality of biblical narrative, followed by an archaeologically and regionally based outline of Palestine’s known history, including the distinction between Iron Age religious forms in Palestine and literary and theological religious expressions in the Bible. The final section of the book deals with a formalistic presentation of central theological themes of the Bible. In more recent literature, we find this categorical distinction between Judah and an historical and non-Jewish Israel carried out in a growing separation of what provides evidence for the history of Palestine’s past and the biblical tradition (Hjelm 2004; Kratz 2013; Knoppers 2014). Perhaps the most influential work of the early 1990s was Philip Davies’s simple and brilliant essay, which analysed the biblical concept of ‘Israel’, clearly distinguishing three different Israels: biblical Israel, the ancient Israel of scholarship, and the Israel that once existed in the past (Davies 1992). The simplicity of the distinction – which Davies, himself, has pointed out (Davies 2008: 47–57) – was matched only by biblical archaeology’s need to maintain this trinity’s unity! Reactions to this essay launched the minimalist-maximalist debates. Alternatively, one might well consider reactions to Keith Whitelam’s essay, The Invention of Ancient Israel: The Silencing of Palestine’s History (Whitelam 1996), the title of which takes its point of departure from Davies’s scholarly construct of ‘ancient Israel’ as a product of modern scholarship. The central theme of Whitelam’s book, moreover, relates to a central Zionist myth, portraying Palestine as an empty land and the people of Palestine as ‘invented’, and thereby silencing their history. Zionist interests in biblical scholarship have hardly been invisible 4

I ntroduction

(see Masalha 1992, 1997; Prior 1995, 1997, 1998; Pappe 2016). However, it is taboo to speak of such political involvement in academic biblical studies, and Whitelam paid a heavy price for breaking the silence.

The Copenhagen School In May 1993, Thompson moved from Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin to Copenhagen. Shortly thereafter, Fred Cryer and Niels Peter Lemche joined him for a weekly lunch and seminar, shortly after the Tel Dan inscription was published. The ensuing so-called ‘minimalist-maximalist’ debates deeply divided scholarship for more than a decade over the politically explosive question of the historicity of the biblical legends of David and the ‘United Monarchy’ (see Athas 2003; Hagelia 2009). The initial intention of the meetings in Copenhagen had little to do with such issues, however, but were quite simple and directly related to the wishes of three colleagues to get to know each other better and to plan how to coordinate and further their work through the coming years. The focus, however, soon shifted towards discussions about the rapidly changing perspectives in Old Testament studies. These were particularly considerable for Lemche and Thompson, for both had concentrated their early work on the Bronze Age and ancient Near Eastern comparative studies, but were, in the early 1990s, considering the possibilities of a Hellenistic context for biblical studies and associations of the Old Testament with Greek, Qumran and New Testament literatures. Deconstruction of old paradigms and a move towards a later dating of biblical texts had become highly influenced by evidence from the Dead Sea Scrolls, which forced scholars to rethink processes of canonization of biblical texts and entities. Questions about the very existence and form of biblical texts in the seventh through fifth century bce became pertinent, and the uncertainty in regard to the historicity of the Patriarchs, the Egyptian Diaspora and the United Monarchy spread to representations of the divided kingdoms in Kings and Chronicles. Although archaeology played a major role in the deconstruction, it represented only one aspect of debates about biblical texts. Among the first fruits of these discussions was the launching of the monograph series, The Copenhagen International Seminar, dedicated to bringing the work of, especially, young non-English-speaking scholars, whose perspectives on the Old and New Testaments were open to the changes occurring in the field. It would support international and interdisciplinary studies in the Bible and its related fields, such as the early history of Palestine, Syro-Palestinian archaeology, comparative ancient Near Eastern and Greek religion and literature, as well as the physical cultural, religious, and intellectual history of Palestine, social structures and anthropology. The series was launched by the publication of Mogens Müller’s The First Bible of the Church in 1996 by the Sheffield Academic Press. The same year also marked the beginning of the European Seminar on Historical Methodo­ logy at the European Association of Biblical Studies, 1996–2012 (Grabbe 1997, 1998, 2001, 2004, 2005, 2007, 2008–10). Moving even further, archaeology had not only challenged the historicity in regard to biblical representations of 5

I ngrid H jelm and T homas L . T hom p son

the so-called ‘pre-exilic’ kingdoms of Israel and Judah, it also questioned our knowledge about the post-exilic provinces Shomron/Samaria and Yehud, the latter of which eventually came to understand itself within an ‘all Israel’ perspective. These periods, which had been usually considered ‘dark ages’, became visible in several works from the late 1990s and early twenty-first century. Many of these new achievements can be found in Proceedings (Lipschits et al. 2003, 2006, 2007, 2011) from four different congresses, which focused on Judaea in the Babylonian and Persian periods. The new information, much of which has been provided by leading Israeli archaeologists, affects our understanding of Palestine as a whole in the Persian period, but especially so the relationship between the provinces of Shomron and Yehud (Knoppers 2014). In the course of the discussions of the monograph series in the weekly seminar, Fred Cryer also urged that a volume or two should be published, bringing together some of the essays and articles from the 1970s and 1980s, which had actually changed either their own perspectives or those dominant in the field. It was with this suggestion that the volumes of Changing Perspectives were first conceived. However, as with so many interesting and distracting projects in academic life, the actual work itself was long delayed; Fred Cryer suffered an untimely death in 2002, and it was not before Thompson took retirement in 2009 that work on this project began to bear fruit. The first volume of the Changing Perspectives appeared in 2011, by John Van Seters and volumes by Thomas L. Thompson, Niels Peter Lemche, and Philip Davies quickly followed (Van Seters 2011; Thompson 2013; Lemche 2013; Davies 2014). The present volume, together with History, Archaeology and the Bible Forty Years After “Historicity”, Changing Perspectives 6, brings articles resulting from the Changing Perspectives conference, which was held in Copenhagen on 9–12 October 2013. The theme of the conference was inspired by these first four volumes of the series and included papers within Hellenistic studies, theories of composition, theories of history, anthropology, archaeology, Ancient Near Eastern religion, and comparative literature, Dead Sea texts and cultural me­mory studies. The aim of the conference was to assess some of the major changes within the field of Old Testament scholarship, to investigate those changing perspectives within a broader context and to suggest future prospects of the discipline. Each participant was asked to present and discuss the challenge of these new perspectives for his or her core area of research. In recognition of our indebtedness to Fred Cryer for this series and the conference itself, we are presenting in this volume an article of his on some of the insights he has drawn from the Dead Sea Scroll texts concerning the formation of the canon and the history of the biblical text. The chapters in this volume, Biblical Interpretation Beyond Historicity, is divided thematically into three sections, the first of which offers discussions, which give examples of interpretations of biblical texts independent of any assumption of their historicity. Davies, however, in his chapter, ‘A New Biblical Archaeology’, takes up the question of biblical texts as historical artefacts, capable of being integrated with material artefacts as a critique of tendencies towards what was once described as ‘archaeological fundamentalism’, which assumes that 6

I ntroduction

only archaeologists can write a competent history. His own strategy is to focus on the textual and material data in such a way that a history can be written that makes sense of both the Bible and archaeology. Frederick Poulsen takes up a critique of the circular argument of historicalcritical scholarship’s efforts to read and interpret Isaiah 40–55 as reflecting Judaeans in exile in Babylon in the Neo-Babylonian period: on one hand, reconstructing the history of the sixth century and, on the other, the purpose, message, and content of the chapters in light of this historical reconstruction, a process which centres the concern of ‘second Isaiah’ in the theme of ‘return’. Instead, Poulsen argues that Isaiah, here, addresses concerns about Jerusalem and its imminent restoration. Rather than a historical and literal understanding of escaping Babylon, it develops a metaphorical language to communicate ethical and spiritual matters. Moving beyond a mere historical reading, the paper explores some of the poetic and theological potentials of the metaphor of ‘the way’. The chapter also focuses on aspects of the text which reconnect modern exegesis with pre-modern interpretations. Trine Bjørnung Hasselbalch opens her discussion about the perspective of social linguistics in regard to the Hebrew Bible in the context of ‘memory studies’, pointing out that narrative plot in the Old Testament is not motivated simply by historical events, situations, and developments. Theories about entextualization (that is, the process of presenting something in a textual form) suggest, rather, a complex relationship between redacted works and their environment, which involves a number of contextual factors other than ‘history’. When choosing or rejecting material for their compositions, authors and redactors were not so much writing or constructing history, but, rather, engaging in the ‘shaping of identity’ by incorporating a number of relevant historical, spatial, social, and cultural perspectives. The volume’s second part presents three chapters, which deal with the Hellenistic context of the Bible and its Greek connections, and closes with a chapter on the growing interest in Septuagint studies. The first of these, by Niels Peter Lemche, takes up the question, once again, of the Old Testament as a Hellenistic book, with reference to his well-known article from 1992/3, an article which Fred Cryer had seen as central to understanding the rapidly changing perspectives in biblical studies. In the some twenty years since Lemche had first published this article, much has changed and Old Testament studies have moved in the direction of the Old Testament being not simply a Hellenistic, but, rather, a HellenisticRoman book. Lemche now argues that, although it may be Hellenistic, it is not a Greek book, and goes on to discuss some recent contribution to a present kind of pan-Hellenism. He also goes on to discuss some biblical texts, which have not yet been discussed in this context, most importantly the Song of Songs. Philippe Wajdenbaum takes up the argument, supporting the understanding of the Old Testament as a Hellenistic book by addressing the narratives of Genesis-Kings to conclude that they may rely on such Greek classical sources as Homer, Herodotus, and Plato. In Laws, he argues, Plato imagined a twelve-tribe State governed by divine laws, of which about fifty are common with laws in 7

I ngrid H jelm and T homas L . T hom p son

the Pentateuch. Plato encouraged his ideal state founder to use myths, tales, and fables to illustrate how obedience to the law is rewarded by the deity and how disobedience is punished. Genesis to Kings seems inspired by this Platonic project. The books from Genesis to Joshua present the story of the foundation of such a state, while Judges, Samuel, and Kings seem patterned much as Plato’s Atlantis. It is a myth of a state that could have been perfect, had its kings not neglected to obey the divine laws before its deity determined its destruction. Russell Gmirkin, in close agreement with Wajdenbaum, takes up a survey of a number of Greek and Hellenistic texts that he finds ready at hand in biblical writings, where there is no apparent parallel in ancient Near Eastern literature. These involve genres of narrative writing such as apologetic historiography and origin stories, as well as forms of legal writing, such as constitutions and collections of civil and sacred law, of ethical commandments, hortatory introductions, and particular clauses, referring to motives, which we find in Plato’s Laws. He also discusses parallels of literary oracles and diatribes, dramatic representations, and erotic poetry. Gmirkin concludes that the Hebrew Bible appears to have been based on the idea of an ethical national literature, which is centred on its law code, much in the spirit of Plato’s Laws, and argues that the consideration of such antecedents to the biblical text opens important new avenues of research. The New Testament scholar Mogens Müller closes the book’s second part on ‘Greek connections’ with a discussion on the growing interest in the Septuagint. By this, he refers to recognition during the last decade of the Old Greek translation as a witness to Jewish Scripture in its own right and not merely as a possible witness to an ‘original’ Hebrew text and support for its reconstruction. Müller points out that we have, indeed, come to recognise that the Old Greek version at times preserves an older version of the biblical text than that now accessible through the Masoretic text. The Septuagint is increasingly understood, today, as the version of the Bible for Hellenistic Jewry in the diaspora and especially in Egypt, and forms an important chapter in the reception history of biblical tradition. This, Müller goes on to argue, makes it possible to speak of a theology of the Septuagint, which, in some instances, provides the link between the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament. One of the most important developments in the scholarship of the Copenhagen School involves questions of the reception of biblical literature, not only in regard to its relationships with Hellenism and the late dating of biblical texts generally, but also with questions related to the reception of the biblical traditions as Bible. Largely due to the influence of Fred Cryer in the 1990s, such reception history in Copenhagen begins with the reception of these writings from the perspective of the Dead Sea Scrolls. It is appropriate, therefore, that our third and final section deals with the reception of biblical texts and opens with a chapter by Cryer, which deals with the history of the biblical texts from the perspective of the closing of the canon (Cryer 1996). Cryer introduces his argument with six observations regarding the special status given in the Dead Sea Scrolls to books, which became incorporated in the canonical Hebrew Bible. This stood in contrast to the status which was given 8

I ntroduction

even to the most popular non-biblical Dead Sea Scroll works. In spite of the consistency of such evaluation, Cryer feels compelled to question whether such special status implies that the canon had already been closed. He concludes, against expectations, that the community that lived and worshiped in Qumran did not know any integral canon of the Old Testament that corresponded with the canon of the later Hebrew Bible. The discrepancies in status suggests, rather, that the Old Testament canon was far from closed at the beginning of the second century ce. In the chapter following Cryer’s, Greg Doudna offers a detailed, archaeologically oriented argument, calling quite insistently for a significant revision of the chronology for the deposition of the Dead Sea Scrolls in the caves. In history and archaeology, dating is the essence of things. A radical change in date for the deposits has substantial implications for interpretation. Doudna, here, challenges Emanuel Tov’s argument for the continuation of a pluralism of Judaean biblical text-types until the last quarter of the first century ce (Tov 2012), a dating based on the existence of non-MT biblical texts in the caves at Qumran. The revision Doudna suggests lowers the deposition of these variant texts as much as a century to the time of Herod. If accepted, it introduces a radical change in our understanding the process which led to the stabilization of the biblical text. Jesper Høgenhaven also discusses the implications of the Dead Sea Scrolls from the perspective of the history of reception. Høgenhaven explores whether the notion of canonicity is necessarily associated with an actual formation of canonical collections, or whether we may, rather, have to do with developments taking place at very different and, to a great extent, independent levels. Høgenhaven argues that as long as we accept the strict definition of the term ‘canon’, Fourth Ezra and Josephus are the earliest known witnesses for the notion of a normative and exclusive collection. No direct evidence for the existence of a list of canonical books is known to be prior to the end of first century ce. He agrees with John Barton in arguing that to speak of an ongoing process of ‘canon formation’ or ‘canonization’ runs the risk of distorting the extant evidence and suggesting that there must necessarily have been a constant underlying force or ‘drive’ towards a closed canon. Of course, notions of ‘canonicity’ may have existed earlier; for example, at the time the Qumran scrolls were written and deposited. When we adopt a definition of ‘canon’ and ‘canonicity’, which is sufficiently strict and formal, however, we remain at a loss for any text to document such an intellectual enterprise. Flemming Nielsen explores the flexibility of biblical narrative’s fictional qualities, by drawing them into the context of political nation building in Greenland. As fiction rather than as sources for anyone’s historical past, Nielsen cogently argues that the origin traditions of Genesis reflect both the origin and reception history in the religious communities of Persian and Hellenistic Jewry and, similarly, numerous nations have been created and infused with new identities through the inspiration of biblical texts. He offers, as his example, Greenland. New children of Abraham have been raised from the rocks of Greenland in the wake of the arrival of a certain Norwegian missionary in 1721. Less than a century later, all the Inuit people of Western Greenland – within reach of the European vessels of 9

I ngrid H jelm and T homas L . T hom p son

the day – had been baptized and saw themselves inscribed in the Bible as one of the peoples that had been scattered throughout the earth from the Tower of Babel. Jim West closed the Changing Perspectives conference, and now this volume, with a chapter listing some of the contributions of Thompson, Lemche, Whitelam, and Davies to the field of Biblical Studies from the perspective of a generalist. In particular, West discusses the past, present, and potential future of the methodologies, which these scholars have constructed and utilized in connection with their practical application in non-technical publications as well as in pastoral work, giving particular attention to the usefulness of their approaches for the Church.

Bibliography Ahlström, G. 1993. The History of Ancient Palestine From the Palaeolithic Period to Alexander’s Conquest. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Athas, G. 2003. The Tel Dan Inscription: A Reappraisal and a New Interpretation, Copenhagen International Seminar. London: Bloomsbury Publishing. Becking, B. 1992. The Fall of Samaria: An Historical and Archaeological Study. Studies in the History of the Ancient Near East 5. Leiden: Brill. Coote, R. B. and K. W. Whitelam 1987. The Emergence of Early Israel in Historical Perspective. Social World and Biblical Archaeological Series 5. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Cryer, F. 1996. “Of Qumran, the Canon and the History of the Biblical Text”. In Tro og Historie: Festskrift til Niels Hyldahl i anledning af 65 fødselsdagen den 30. december 1995. L. Fatum and M. Müller (eds.). Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanums Forlag. Davies, P. R. 1992. In Search of Ancient Israel. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. ———. 2008. Memories of Ancient Israel: An Introduction to Biblical History – Ancient and Modern. Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox. ———. 2014. Rethinking Biblical Scholarship: Changing Perspectives 4. London: Routledge. Finkelstein, I. 1988. The Archaeology of the Israelite Settlement. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society. Garbini, G. 1988. History and Ideology in Ancient Israel. London: Crossroads. Grabbe, L. L 1997 (ed.). Can a History of Israel Be Written? European Seminar in Historical Methodology 1. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. ———. 1998 (ed.). Leading Captivity Captive, ‘the Exile’ as History and Ideology. European Seminar in Historical Methodology 2. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. ———. 2001 (ed.). Did Moses speak Attic? Jewish Historiography and Scripture in the Hellenistic Period. European Seminar in Historical Methodology 3. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. ———. 2004 (ed.). “Like a Bird in a Cage”, the Invasion of Sennacherib in 701 BCE. European Seminar in Historical Methodology 4. Sheffield : Sheffield Academic Press. ———. 2005 (ed.). Good Kings and Bad Kings. European Seminar in Historical Methodology 5. London and New York: T&T Clark International. ———. 2007 (ed.). Ahab Agonistes, the Rise and Fall of the Omri Dynasty. European Seminar in Historical Methodology 6. London and New York: T&T Clark International. ———. 2008–10 (ed.). Israel in Transition, from Late Bronze II to Iron IIa (c. 1250–850 B.C.E.) (2 vols.). European Seminar in Historical Methodology 7/8. London and New York: T&T Clark International.

10

I ntroduction

Gunn, D. and P. R. Davies 1987. “A History of Ancient Israel and Judah: A Discussion of Miller-Hayes (1986)”. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 39: 3–63. Hagelia, H. 2009. The Dan Debate: The Tel Dan Inscription in Recent Research: Recent Research in Biblical Studies 4. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press. Hjelm, I. 2004. Jerusalem’s Rise to Sovereignty: Zion and Gerizim in Competition. Copenhagen International Seminar 14. London: T&T Clark Intl. ———. 2005. “Changing Paradigms: Judaean and Samarian Histories in Light of Recent Research”. In Historie og Konstruktion. Festskrift til Niels Peter Lemche i anledning af 60 års fødselsdagen den 6. september 2005. M. Müller and T. L. Thompson (eds.). Forum for Bibelsk Eksegese 14. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanums Forlag (English): 161–79. ———. 2011. “Samaritans. History and Tradition in Relation to Jews, Christians and Muslims: Problems in Writing a Monograph”. In Samaria, Samarians, Samaritans: Studies on Bible, History and Linguistics. J. Zsengellér (ed.). Studia Judaica, Studia Samaritana. Berlin: de Gruyter. ———. forthcoming. “Maximalist and/or Minimalist Approaches in Recent Representations of Ancient Israelite and Judaean History”. In Silent No Longer. J. Crossley and J. West (eds.). Hjelm, I. and T. L. Thompson. 2016 (eds.). History, Archaeology and the Bible Forty Years After “Historicity”: Changing Perspectives 6. London: Routledge. Hübner, U. 1992. “Die Kultur und Religion eines transjordanischen Volkes im I. Jahrtausend”. Heidelberg dissertation. Hüttenmeister, F. and G. Reeg. 1977. Die antiken Synogogen in Israel, Beihefte zur Tübinger Atlas des vorderen Orients 12. Wiesbaden: Dr. Reichert Verlag. Knauf, E. A. 1988. Midian: Untersuchungen zur Geschichte Palästinas und Nordarabi­ ensam Ende des 2ten Jahrhunderts. Abhandlungen des deutschen Palästinavereins. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. ———. 1989. Ishmael: Untersuchungen zur Geschichte Palästinas und Nordarabiens im 1sten Jahrtauzend. Abhandlungen des deutschen Palästinavereins. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Knoppers, G. 2014. Jews and Samaritans: The Origins and History of their Early Relations. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kratz, R. G. 2013. Historisches und biblisches Israel. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Lemche, N. P. 1985. Early Israel: Anthropological and Historical Studies on the Israelite Society Before the Monarchy. Leiden: Brill. ———. 1991. The Canaanites and Their Land. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. ———. 2008. The Old Testament Between Theology and History: A Critical Survey. Louisville, KY and London: Westminster/John Knox. ———. 2013. Biblical Studies and the Failure of History: Changing Perspectives 3. London: Routledge. Lipschits, O., G. Knoppers and R. Albertz (eds.). 2007. Judah and the Judeans in the Fourth Century, BCE. Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns. ———. G. Knoppers and M. Oeming (eds.). 2011. Judah and the Judeans in the Achaemenid Period: Negotiating Identity in an International Context. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. ———. and J. Blenkinsopp (eds.). 2003. Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. ———. and M. Oeming (eds.). 2006. Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns.

11

I ngrid H jelm and T homas L . T hom p son

Liverani, M. 2005. Israel’s History and the History of Israel. London: Equinox. Masalha, N. 1992. Expulsion of the Palestinians: The Concept of Transfer in Zionist Political Thought, 1882–1948. Washington, DC: Institute for Palestine Studies. ———. 1997. A Land Without a People. London: Faber & Faber. Miller, J. M. and J. H. Hayes. 1986. A History of Ancient Israel and Judah. Philadelphia, PA: Westminster. Mittman, S. 1970. Beiträge zur Siedlungs- und Territorialgeschichte des nördlichen Ostjor­danslandes. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Pappe, I. 2016. “We Do Not Believe in God, but He Promised Us Palestine”. In History, Archaeology and The Bible Forty Years After “Historicity”. Changing Perspectives 6. Copenhagen International Seminar. I. Hjelm and T. L. Thompson (eds.). London: Routledge: 205–217. Pfoh, E. 2009. The Emergence of Israel in Ancient Palestine: Historical and Anthropo­ logical Perspectives. Copenhagen International Seminar. London: Equinox. Pfoh, E. and K. W. Whitelam (eds.). 2013. The Politics of Israel’s Past: The Bible, Archaeology and Nation-Building. The Social World of Biblical Antiquity, Second Series, 8. Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press. Prior, M. 1995. “The Bible as Instrument of Oppression”. Scripture Bulletin 25: 2–14. ———. 1997. The Bible and Colonialism: A Moral Critique. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. ———. ed. 1998. Western Scholarship and the History of Palestine. London: Melisende. Thompson, T. L. 2013 [1991]. “Text Context and Referent in Israelite Historiography”. In T. L. Thompson, Biblical Narrative and Palestine’s History. London: Routledge, 71–92. ———. 1975. The Settlement of Sinai and the Negev in the Bronze Age. Beihefte zum Tübinger Atlas des vorderen Orients 8. Wiesbaden: Dr. Reichert Verlag. ———. 1979. The Settlement of Palestine in the Bronze Age. Beihefte zum Tübinger Atlas des vorderen Orients 8. Wiesbaden: Dr. Reichert Verlag. ———. 1992. The Early History of the Israelite People from the Written and Archaeological Sources. Leiden: Brill. ———. 1999. The Bible in History: How Writers Create A Past. London: Jonathan Cape. The Mythic Past: Biblical Archaeology and the Myth of Israel. New York: Basic Books. ———. 2013. Changing Perspectives 2: Biblical Narrative and Palestine’s History. London: Routledge. Timm, S. 1989. Moab zwischen den Mächten: Studien zu historischen Denkmäler und Texten. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Tov, E. 2012. Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible. Assen: Van Gorcum. Van Seters, J. 2011. Changing Perspectives 1: Studies in the History, Literature and Religion of Biblical Israel. London: Routledge. Weippert, M. 1971. “Studien und Materialien zur Geschichte der Edomiter auf grundschrifliger und archäologischer Quellen”. Tübingen dissertation. Whitelam, K. W. 1996. The Invention of Ancient Israel: The Silencing of Palestinian History. London: Routledge. Wüst, M. 1975. Untersuchungen zu den siedlungsgeographischen Texten des alten Testaments: Ostjordanland. Beihefte zur Tübinger Atlas des vorderen Orients. Wiesbaden: Dr. Reichert Verlag.

12

Part I BEYOND HI ST O R ICIT Y

This Page is Intentionally Left Blank

1 A NEW “BIBLI CAL ARCHAEOLOGY” Philip R. Davies A brief retrospect To expound the principles of “new biblical archaeology”, I begin with a short retrospect on what was called “Minimalism”. This was, of course, a term coined by opponents, which entirely missed the point by focusing on the (minimal) extent of biblical narrative held to contain reliable historical data. “Minimalist” was attached to a small number of scholars who were supposed to form a “school”. In reality, what was under way was not the invention of a new revolutionary or even revisionist ideology, but a response, in an appropriate manner, to the collapse of biblical archaeology, the faults of which have now been widely recognized (see, for example, Davis 2004). “Minimalism” has remained a term of opprobrium, even while its conclusions have been quietly accepted. Its approach is now firmly in the mainstream. The collapse of biblical archaeology may seem to have occurred quite rapidly, but the entire enterprise had been under challenge for some time. Whether the patriarchs, the Exodus and the Conquest had really belonged to history was a question that occupied the teachers of my own student years in the 1960s, even if their urge was regularly to affirm some kind of historical core. Nowadays, these episodes are less of an issue than the so-called “United Monarchy”, or, more precisely, the figure of King David. In many (more ignorant) quarters, “minimalism” is symbolized by the denial of the historical existence of this figure. The reason is that a stake in biblical historicity is not now, as previously, mainly a matter of religious commitment to the Bible as scripture. It is much more the city of Jerusalem that matters, a city now annexed and its Iron Age identity named as the “City of David”, celebrated as “Israel’s eternal capital”. Biblical historicity is now more a political than a religious issue. This, I think, partly explains the animosity that the word “minimalism” still evokes in some quarters, even at times attracting the label of “anti-Semitic”, a term evidently no longer used only to mean hatred of Jews, but opposition to the claims and deeds of the government of the State of Israel. A review of the history of biblical scholarship written in fifty years’ time will surely recognize that “minimalism” represented a return to normal scholarly

15

P hilip R . D av ies

discourse after three-quarters of a century of misdirection. It will comprehend that in the twentieth century Palestinian archaeology, which had so much to offer to biblical scholarship, turned its back on biblical criticism and pursued its own naïve course up a blind alley. Reinhard Kratz has recently pointed out (Kratz 2013: 141) that Wellhausen’s distinction between the religion of “ancient Israel” and the religion of Judaism remains a fundamentally important insight. We can now entertain a much richer complex and more positive appreciation of early Judaism or Judaisms, and a rather different view of the religious practices in Iron Age Israel and Judah than did Wellhausen. But he did, following the lead of de Wette, rightly perceive that – as we would not have to put it – the biblical Israels are a product of various Judahite/Judean communities and not the other way round. The principle that biblical texts betray the history of the period of their production underlay the literary-critical reconstruction of ancient Israelite and Judahite religion, and made possible a scholarly history based on the chronological sequence of sources rather than the chronology within the narratives. The documentary sequence that emerged in Wellhausen’s work has, of course, been severely reconfigured, even dismantled, during more than a century of scholarship, and the notion of a documentary structure itself has been questioned. But the central insight and conclusion of the nineteenth-century reconstruction has survived: that the Mosaic Torah stands not at the beginning of Israel but at the beginning of Judaism. Just at the moment of this realization, the development of a scientific archaeo­ logy, an archaeology of tells and pottery, of chronology and history, and not just the exposure of walls and buildings and the collection of museum pieces, became possible. The new discipline might have provided just what literary-historical criticism lacked: an independent means of verification, improvement and correction of its critical reconstruction. Instead, confronted with the re-emergence of the biblical stage – places, ruins, names – biblical archaeology made two fundamental mistakes: rejecting the conclusions of Higher Criticism and overturning its basic principle on the dating of sources. Instead, it took a view that, because Elsinore Castle can still be seen and visited, Hamlet is, therefore, a figure of history, and Shakespeare a historian. Textual analysis was abandoned and, instead, biblical archaeology set itself to search for evidence that the biblical story was, after all, quite true, and not the critical historical reconstruction derived from it. The goal of archaeology became its premise. Because of this antagonism of “biblical archaeology” to Higher Criticism, it was never going to be finally undone by any kind of literary-critical exegesis. It was definitively brought down only in the 1970s, with the results of the West Bank survey (see Finkelstein 1988), and many of those who then quickly became ex-biblical archaeologists claimed that archaeology itself had triumphed over the “philologists” or “theologians,” who reached similar conclusions through literary-historical criticism. The belief, incidentally, that literary criticism is somehow representative of a theological or philological approach is curious, 16

A new “ biblical archaeology ”

even ridiculous, but one of the paradoxes of Albrightean “biblical archaeology” was an antipathy to theology that concealed a commitment to the integrity of the biblical literature. That it was Israeli archaeology that undid a large chunk of national history in removing from history the contents of Genesis to Joshua was ironic, but also enormously helpful. It “erased history”, to use the phrase coined by Halpern (1988), but also undermined Noth’s hypothesis (Noth 1948) that the stories of ancestral immigration, exodus and conquest were an early Israelite tradition – this hypothesis representing another backtrack from the principle established by Wellhausen. The kind of “Israel” that might have created such a tradition had not existed. Biblical archaeology had failed not only in its historical agenda but also in offering any alternative sense of the biblical narratives about the past, because it had, explicitly or implicitly, decreed that the truth of the Bible was essentially historical truth, and hence its narratives were to be read literally. This defect was avoided elsewhere through the postulation of Israelite “tradition” or “traditions”, which were not necessarily always historically reliable. Such an approach permitted archaeological data to be evaluated somewhat more critically in assessing the historicity of these written “traditions”. The essential difference between the two ways of applying archaeology to the Bible came most fully into light in a conversation in the Expository Times, between G. Ernest Wright (Wright 1960) and Gerhard von Rad (von Rad 1961). Each proposed his own different conception of biblical theology. Wright, who was a good archaeologist, also sought to make explicit the theology underpinning biblical archaeology (generating the so-called “Biblical Theology” movement): the Bible was a testimony to mighty divine acts, and it was in those acts, and not the written story about them, that the divine revelation, the “truth”, was embedded. Who had been writing these stories about the past, how, when or where, did not matter: the testimony could be evaluated quite independently by archaeology, without the aid of literaryhistorical criticism. For von Rad, the theology of the Old Testament lay in the sacred tradition of Israel, which von Rad did not confuse with historical truth; rather, it expressed a historical faith. In this von Rad anticipated the more recent fashion to regard the biblical narratives of the past as expressions of collective memory, as expressions of ideologies of identity, rather than bare records of facts, paying attention to the contours of the memory/story itself rather than merely investigating its accuracy.

Picking up the pieces of “biblical archaeology” The collapse of “biblical archaeology” and its associated “biblical theology” means that a quite different agenda is required for the historian seeking to make use of biblical narratives about the past. To begin with, the degree of discrepancy between the archaeologically reconstructed account of “Israelite origins” and the biblical stories of a pre-monarchic era suggest a substantial gap between the story’s setting and its composition. How big the gap is really does not matter 17

P hilip R . D av ies

much, although there seems to be an anxiety among some scholars to hold on as far as possible to the monarchic (“pre-exilic”) period for an early consolidation of much of the content. This is probably part of the reason why the reign of Josiah is so popular at present (see, for example, Finkelstein and Silberman 2001, 2007). Awareness of this gap does not, of course, “erase history”, but shifts our attention to a different segment of history, the time of the text, not the time it writes about; this shift creates the need for a different way of reconstructing history. From this perspective, archaeology is needed to provide a context for the creation of the writings. This is not only because, as I want to argue, the production of a text is the crucial point of intersection between exegetical and archaeological work, but also because the scriptural texts represent the most important artefacts to have come out of Palestine, the ones that ultimately explain the importance of the land and its history in our own times. The religion of Judaism – which can intelligibly be dated only to the second century ce at the earliest – is much more a product of the scriptures and the “Israels”, depicted in those scriptures, than it is the outcome of any events that occurred in the Iron Age. This enshrines a universal truth, in fact: our own actions, individually and collectively, are determined less by what happened in the past than by how we choose to remember it. Historical-critical exegesis has until recently dominated the literary approach. However, in the new perspective, the historian must also utilize other literarycritical techniques, especially those that relate to narrative analysis. The biblical stories have to be seen as works of fiction rather than as reportage, and hence we have to look more closely at literary features such as genre, point of view, type-scene, character and plot in order to understand their purpose and dynamics. While these features can be examined without any reference to the historical production of the text, my own view is that even fiction has its “political unconscious” (to use the phrase of Fredric Jameson), and that in principle no story, no telling or retelling of a story, can entirely mask its historical context, even if we cannot always decode that context adequately. Hence, even if, for instance, the stories of David (or of Jesus) are nothing more than a reworked assemblage of types and tropes, there remains the question: why tell this story? Why now? Why tell it this way, deploy this particular repertoire, impart these variations? These are also the kinds of questions which invoke the study of cultural memory, whose essential feature, in my view, is a focus on the act of remembering, its purpose and function, and not on the degree of reliability of that memory. Remembering, especially in writing, is still a historical act, and a written memory is a cultural artefact, part of the cause and effect of the historical process that we seek either to understand or to create, depending on our philosophy of history. These considerations mark the difference between the now-defunct “biblical archaeology” and whatever kind of negotiation between archaeology and the biblical text may now be necessary – which I call the “new biblical archaeology”. However, first, it is necessary to ask: is such a negotiation any longer possible or desirable? 18

A new “ biblical archaeology ”

Text and artefact In the history of altercation between biblical text and archaeology, several different methodologies have been proposed. One is the old biblical archaeology procedure of finding events and circumstances in the archaeological record that “confirm” or “correspond to” or “converge with” individual biblical data. This is what, for example, Dever maintains, though with decreasing confidence, because his latest book demonstrates very little “intersection” with the biblical text (Dever 2012). Dever exhibits some awareness of the results of literary-historical criticism, but his approach has little or no place for them. Most archaeologists working on Iron Age Palestine are knowledgeable about the biblical story but ignorant about biblical scholarship. One example of many that could be offered is the comment by Faust (Faust 2012: 2), that “In contrast to previous studies, archaeological evidence constitutes the main source of information for this work, while the information that can be obtained from the Bible . . . will be presented, in most cases, as an additional and complementary tool.” Note “information obtained from the Bible”, not “information acquired through biblical scholarship”! Israel Finkelstein is something of an exception to this general criticism, and his two books with Neil Asher Silberman (2001, 2007) show more interest than most of his colleagues in reconciling critical textual scholarship with archaeological data. But his comment (quoted in Ha-Aretz [English language edition, 27 August 2013]) that “I see myself as a historian practicing archaeology”, gives the impression that the history of ancient Israel and Judah can be conducted as a purely archaeological exercise, rather than (as his Tel Aviv colleague Ussishkin has maintained) as requiring the skills of a historian who will use archaeology among other data. The opposite view – that history should be left to literary critics – is rarely to be found nowadays (there is a hint of this in Provan, Long and Longman [2003: 47]): “History is fundamentally openness to acceptance of accounts of the past that enshrine other people’s memories” (original emphasis); how “openness” interacts, if at all, with critical analysis is not clear. Yet a good deal of biblical scholarship still operates in something of a data-vacuum, projecting historical contexts for texts without due regard to what archaeology, anthropology, or sociology may imply. On the whole, however, biblical scholars dealing with history are aware of the necessity of integrating exegesis with archaeological data. What we may be less good at is recognizing just how partial the data often are and just how provisional, open to dispute and subject to ideological bias archaeological work can be. Analysts of the biblical texts should not feel obliged to play a subsidiary role on that score. A common approach to the relationship between archaeology and text is that each addresses essentially different kinds of phenomenon. Archaeology reveals lifestyles, architecture, diet, ecology, large-scale events, while the biblical stories deal with individuals, conversations, private transactions, most of which are invisible to excavation and survey. This observation is true, but only up to a point. Increasingly, archaeology is inferring the functioning of households, distribution 19

P hilip R . D av ies

of gender roles, belief systems, symbolic universes, ethnicity and many other issues that impinge on the setting of biblical narratives. Conversely, literarycritical exegesis can amplify, explain and perhaps adjudicate on incomplete or disputed archaeological data (or more usually, their interpretation). Private conversations or transactions lie beyond recovery by archaeology, of course, but in the grey areas, where neither text nor archaeology alone can quite reach, each may, in fact, benefit from trying to touch the other, making it possible jointly to understand where neither can succeed by itself. At all events, the different kinds of data that each discipline deals with cannot be used as an excuse for non-engagement. It is true, of course, that a great deal of history lies beyond archaeology and literary sources, but more is recoverable by using both together in a properly critical relationship than by relying on either alone. The point is that both literary-historical exegesis and archaeology are human sciences. Biblical scholarship is not a theological science: the biblical texts may or may not be telling us about the nature and activity of a god, but that belief represents a historical datum. The texts tell us about how human beings, individually and collectively, imagined and lived as if gods existed, and how the thoughts and behaviours of people were informed and controlled by those who claimed to have access to the gods, and who had the power to declare what had happened, what was happening and what would happen in the future. The biblical texts show us how religion works, what it does to people and what people do with it. Both archaeology and biblical exegesis study human behaviour and aim at the same goals, by examining the relics of past human life. The word “relic” hints at how these two approaches really converge. The shared object of examination is the object, the artefact. It is from artefacts – whether buildings, art objects, flora and fauna, pottery, traces of habitation, pollen – that archaeology gleans most of its data. But the biblical text is an artefact too. In the case of literary-historical exegesis, exegetes are in effect hypothesizing or reconstructing an artefact, one that is dated to a particular time, place and kind of author, or perhaps to a series of these during its evolution. The artefact was not, of course, uncovered by the spade, but it might have been. I have had the personal pleasure of hypothesizing from exegesis of the Qumran War Scroll a certain stage of literary development that was subsequently demonstrated from a Cave IV fragment. Indeed, the Qumran manuscripts actually provide a very helpful resource as both literary and material artefacts, and indeed have to be analysed as both by the exegete and the archaeologist. In the case of biblical texts, however, only the exegete can operate. Yet while the exegete’s conjectured artefacts may be hypothetical, it cannot be denied that there were once upon a time discrete pieces of writing that became prototypes of the canonized texts that we now possess. These texts need to be explained, and until an archaeologist recovers a surviving piece of that text’s history, it is the job of the literary-historical critic to decide where best these conjectured artefacts should be placed. Then perhaps the archaeologists might dig with the spade in one hand and the scholarly monograph in the other! 20

A new “ biblical archaeology ”

Text and archaeology: contradiction, concurrence, collaboration In this last section I will offer three case studies of ways in which historical research involves, or might involve, the combination of archaeology and historicalcritical exegesis. These are meant to illustrate how collaborative historical enquiry is achievable, whether through agreement or disagreement between the two disciplines. Contradiction: Jerusalem and text production The belated arrival of archaeology in any serious sense into the sixth century bce has opened up several important new questions. Rather than do our best with the biblical stories of mass deportation and empty land, of dramatic restoration and of almost complete silence about seventy years or more of Palestinian history, we can now draw upon surveys and excavations. Who lived in Judah after 586, and where? How poor was the economy? These are questions for archaeology, and, with some disagreement, it is trying to answer them. When was Jerusalem and its temple rebuilt? Where was the Persian-era city of Jerusalem located exactly? Here, we have evidence from both kinds of data. In several recent articles, Israel Finkelstein (for example, Finkelstein 2008, 2009) has advanced an argument based purely on archaeology, deducing from the rubble from a small excavation on the Temple Mount, and from remains on the Ophel hill, that Jerusalem in the Persian and Early Hellenistic periods at this time had a very small population. He concludes that the northern part of the ridge of the City of David was uninhabited, the southern part of the ridge was probably uninhabited as well, and the population was confined to the central part of the ridge, a total of 20–25 dunams, according to his estimate containing 400–500 people, of whom there were 100 adult men. He concludes: “On a broader issue, the archaeological evidence from Jerusalem casts severe doubt on the notion that much of the biblical material was composed in the Persian and Early Hellenistic periods” (Finkelstein 2008: 514). I emailed Finkelstein to ask where he thought Haggai, Zechariah, Second Isaiah, Chronicles, and ben Sira were written, and he replied, in effect, “that is your problem”, as if archaeology dictates and the biblical scholar has to live with its verdict. But these writings were created as historical artefacts, and if he claims to be doing history and not just archaeology, it is also his job to take them into account. To be fair, Finkelstein’s reply does not really represent his position, since he has recently begun to engage with Thomas Römer on the historical setting of the figures of Abraham and Jacob (2014a, 2014b). But a similar interdisciplinarity is needed here, too. Biblical scholars might conclude that ben Sira was not written by the grandfather of the translator or that Chronicles is a Hasmonean composition, and likewise Haggai and Zechariah. They might argue that the variety of scriptural texts found at Qumran developed over a few generations. However, if all of these conclusions taken together seem improbable, then 21

P hilip R . D av ies

Finkelstein’s reasoning must be defective. In fact, his data are also defective. For example, he has not been able to accurately estimate settlement on the Temple Mount, where the bulk of the population may have lived, since Jerusalem was almost certainly a temple and palace city. Second, a disproportionate number of the population may have been adult males, namely priests and scribes, whose families did not necessarily live in the city. Moreover, even if he is right about the population estimate, how many men does it take to write a scroll? How many to staff a temple or a provincial governor’s residence? If the production of biblical books, including authoring and editing and copying, was undertaken by a small elite, sufficient to service the temple and palace and no more, we can use that information to resolve issues such as the number of copies of a text that may have existed at any one time. We might explain the conservatism of the Hebrew language and style, assess the degree of knowledge among the scribes of the entire corpus, and much else about the production of the scriptural canon. The sociology of text production is precisely an area in which biblical exegesis and archaeology need to collaborate. But there needs to be a serious conversation involving a critical look at the whole range of apparently contradictory evidence. If it were not for the literary artefacts that we have reason to think once existed there, we might well conclude, on the basis of Finkelstein’s reasoning, that nothing was written in Jerusalem. But we cannot conclude that without much more consideration. Biblical scholars and archaeologists have to query each other’s data in cases like this, for we have a problem that needs sharing, not passing over for the other side to deal with. (Since this essay was first written, Finkelstein has modified his position in the direction recommended here: Finkelstein, Koch and Lipschits 2011.) Concurrence: An original “Israel”? My second case study concerns the question of whether the populations of Israel and Judah comprised some kind of political union before the appearance of the Omride kingdom based in Samaria. The evidence of the West Bank survey, which has not been increasingly developed, tends to show a difference not only in the time and rate of political and social development but also in social habits, between the two populations, leading to the suggestion that they originated independently. That is, there was no original “Israel” comprising them together. The question formed one chapter of Thompson’s quite comprehensive and far-sighted 1992 Early History of the Israelite People, but here only archaeological evidence was considered, though there was a section on the “Intellectual Matrix of Biblical Tradition”. What I want to bring into the issue is the content of that “tradition” (I would rather speak more precisely of the “narrative” and employ narrative-analytical methods) concerning the origins of Israel and Judah. Starting with the observation that the Pentateuchal texts speak unambiguously of a twelve-tribe “Israel”, without any indication of a separate Judah, and yet the books of Samuel speak of two “houses” of Israel and Judah, which developed into the two “kingdoms” of Israel and Judah in the books of Kings. It is 22

A new “ biblical archaeology ”

remarkable, from the point of view of narrative analysis, that there is no explanation of how Judah became a separate “house” or even how it formed its own kingdom (see further, Davies 2013). The first appearance of a separate “house of Judah” is in 1 Sam. 17, where, in the battle against the Philistines, “men of Judah” suddenly materialize among “men of Israel”. The transition is not entirely unanticipated as, in Joshua and Judges, Judah has already acquired some kind of special status, though still as a member of a single twelve-tribe entity. There is also a deep shadow of ambiguity in the specifically Judahite canonical collection of Prophets. This largely condemns Israel/Samaria for apostasy and ultimately questions Samaria’s status as part of Israel, yet accepts that the two kingdoms are in some way part of a single religious entity, even as that entity is not called “Israel”, at least not in the Former Prophets. Is this ambivalence a refraction of political controversy in the PersianHellenistic era, within Judah, concerning relations with Samaria? Yes, to some extent that seems very probable. But is the portrait of two separate “houses” also reflecting a memory that accords with historical facts or with continuing historical identities, such as “Judahite=Jew”? (See Schwartz 2013 for a brilliant analysis of this identity.) Insofar as it accords with archaeological indications, it should be considered as a persistent memory rather than as a newly invented one. The appearance from nowhere of a “house of Judah” in 1 Samuel, the failure to explain how this house apparently seceded from the “house” of Israel, the failure to be clear about whether Judah was part of Saul’s kingdom or not, about whether David was an Israelite or not, all require some kind of explanation. In my view, the most plausible explanation is that these features betray an incomplete fusion of conflicting memories of, on the one hand, the origins of Judah and, on the other, the origins of a twelve-tribe Israel – which, I have argued, is a more recent memory dating from the sixth century (Davies 2007). The biblical critic might not be able to answer this with any certainty on literary analysis alone, but, if taken with other data, a more confident answer is possible. For if Judah and Israel were distinct polities from the beginning, they would have had different origin stories. There seems to be a growing consensus among those who consider the question (see Fleming 2012) that the Pentateuchal narrative is largely Samarian in content. If so, what was the story told in Judah about its own origins? It seems to begin only with David. Now, if we for a moment take the references to the “house of David” in the Tel Dan and Mesha inscriptions – despite some reservations about both of these – we have a conclusion consistent with other data; namely, that Judah and David were mutually entailed. Both archaeology and the biblical narrative suggest that the “house of David” (or the kingdom of Judah, according to Kings) behaved as a vassal of the king of Israel, and perhaps to speak of a “kingdom of Judah” before the eighth century is anachronistic. But my point is not to argue for a particular conclusion, but to show that while attempts to understand the nature of the historical relationship between the neighbouring kingdoms through either biblical exegesis or archaeology alone will transgress the limitations of either, an integration of their data, including data from inscriptions, can yield historical knowledge. 23

P hilip R . D av ies

Collaboration: the Exodus and self-identity I mentioned earlier that Moses stands not at the beginning of Israel, but at the beginning of Judaism. In this last section, I am going to deal with the origins and ethnicity of Israel. This was not the political entity that was known by others under that name (and known as “house of Omri”), but an imagined “people”, defined by its attachment to a single deity and a set of customs and behaviour, projected as divine injunction and condition of their attachment. For centuries, the recitation of the Exodus story has been the central ritual of Jewish identification, one shared by religious and non-religious Jews. The failure of efforts to verify the Exodus story, historically, has left the crucial question of how this story arose. Is it a disguised rehearsal of escape from Egyptian hegemony in Palestine? Is it an amalgam of numerous flights from Egypt by Palestinian residents, who had once fled there in times of famine? Was there a “core group” within the earliest Israelites that had experienced such an event? Here, I suggest, is a question whose answer lies within the competence of the biblical exegete and not the archaeologist. It is a case where we should also begin with the principle that the historical setting of a text is that of its telling and not of the time it narrates. From the perspective of cultural memory, we should be asking, who is remembering this, when and why. It may seem perverse to omit the question “how true is it?” However, it is unlikely that the tellers of the story had any interest in asking this question, let alone knowing the answer. It was the past as imagined, and its historicity is, frankly, quite irrelevant to an analysis of the memory. Where we can compare a memory, a story, a text, with a known historical fact, then we have a basis for studying the history of the memory, which is extremely useful both to the historian and to the analyst of cultural memory. However, here, we don’t have a historical event we can identify. So we start with a text. First, 2 Kings 17:24–9: The king of Assyria brought people from Babylon, Cuthah, Avva, Hamath, and Sepharvaim, and placed them in the cities of Samaria in place of the people of Israel; they took possession of Samaria, and settled in its cities. When they first settled there, they did not worship YHWH; therefore YHWH sent lions among them, which killed some of them. So the king of Assyria was told, “The nations that you have carried away and placed in the cities of Samaria do not know the law of the god of the land; therefore he has sent lions among them; they are killing them, because they do not know the law of the god of the land.” Then the king of Assyria commanded, “Send there one of the priests whom you carried away from there; let him go and live there, and teach them the law (mišpaṭ [mishpat]) of the god of the land”. So one of the priests whom they had carried away from Samaria came and lived in Bethel; he taught them how they should worship (yr’) YHWH. 24

A new “ biblical archaeology ”

This story is well known, because it provides the basis for the traditional Jewish belief that the Samaritans are not Israelites and their worship, though superficially Jewish, is invalid. It also has some curious features, namely the ideas that the mishpat of YHWH could be successfully disseminated by a priest from a sanctuary and that this would be authorized by the imperial ruler. It also invites us to enquire after the meaning of “the mishpat of the god of the land” and of the “worship” of YHWH. Whether the story has any historical truth in it remains to be investigated. Two factors need considering. First, the cult of YHWH was established in the province of Samaria, to the extent that the identity of “Israel” was preserved there, and an Israelite identity, based not on custom and worship, was shared with Judah, at least after the end of the Judahite kingdom. Second, this process of artificial enculturation seems to be reflected in the Book of Deuteronomy, where the king is handed a book, consisting of mishpatim by the priests, and where the Levites are dispersed among the town and villages. They are not present at the cult centres – which can no longer offer animal sacrifices – but assist in the resolution of local disputes, building up, in the process, a body of traditional customs relating mostly to social and domestic lifestyles. Within Samaria, after 722, there would have been some variety in these customs, but, within Judah, much less. Let us recognize that Deuteronomy reflects an effort to define or redefine “Israel” in terms of mishpatim and of exclusive worship of YHWH. While behaving the same way, and sharing the same customs, is an essential ingredient of identity-formation – we might say ethnic identification – it is not sufficient to endow that identity with any distinct character. For that, it is necessary to have a shared story. Here, Deuteronomy also prescribes the mechanism. While its authors express little or no interest in cultic matters, they do endorse the notion of a central sanctuary. Partly, this may be in order to remove the influence of local cults on mishpat and yir’ah, but, more importantly, to provide a single focus of national identity, a place where the name of the god was reserved and to which Israelites were expected to go for the three great festivals (Deut. 16:6). These were already well-established agricultural festivals, but probably locally celebrated. They are now converted into moments of national memory, the memory of the founding of Israel: the Exodus, the lawgiving and the wilderness wanderings. The book itself addresses the Israelites, individually and corporately, in the name of Moses, and on the eve of entry into the promised land, close to that remembered moment of foundation. From this perspective, Deuteronomy is a document that prescribes the content of Israelite ethnic identity and also shows how it is to be achieved. The text in 2 Kings 17 actually describes such a process as having occurred, and I take this little story to allude to a process that was not purely imaginary, but something that the authors knew. The question of imperial authorization is also significant, because, although it seems unlikely in the case of Assyria, such authorization in either Judah or Samaria or both under the Persians is a possibility much discussed recently. The authorization of the mishpat of YHWH is, ultimately, not imperial 25

P hilip R . D av ies

but divine in Deuteronomy. Unlike other national customs, those of Israel are not developed, but imposed. Israel remembers and configures itself as a divinely created nation. This Israel is created, according to the Kings story, in the postmonarchic period, in imperial provinces, and, after a period of crisis, when ethnic identity needs definition – something not required in a kingdom where alternative forms of collective identity are available, such as the king himself. Deuteronomy, in this view, is not a programmatic document, and certainly not a Josianic lawbook. It is the codification of an enterprise deliberately undertaken. My immediate suspicion is that this process originated not in Judah, but in Samaria, and that the story of Josiah’s law book is an effort to Judaize it as well as give it native royal authority, rather than Persian imperial authority. That, however, is for further research. This entire hypothesis may be wrong, but it has postulated an artefact, created for a specific reason that fits with a particular historical context. It places Moses and the Torah at the beginning of the biblical Israel, the beginning of monotheistic and aniconic religion of Judaism and Samarianism, which Deuteronomy addresses together as an ethnos of twelve tribes. The hypothetical artefact I have proposed can be challenged by others, who might set the scroll and perhaps even the creation of the new Israel in another time or place. I see no way in which exegesis alone can determine the correct placement. On the other hand, can, or will, the resources of archaeology be applied to clarifying this? Such a task would represent a new agenda for archaeology. Archaeology is already able to tell us about the evidence for worship of a single aniconic god in post-monarchic Judah and Samaria. Instead of pursuing the chimera of a historical Exodus, it would be looking for evidence of the birth of a new Israel, for the evidence of pilgrim festivals, including trips from communities in Egypt, across the Sinai. Negatively, it might look more closely at the reign of Josiah and his successors for any sign that a new kind of Israel had been born late in the seventh century. It would not, in short, be chasing the biblical story, but a critical reconstruction of history. It would be following biblical scholarship instead of ignoring it or dictating to it. It would be looking for the origins of a real, historical “Israel” instead of (like Faust) trying to create a spurious ethnic awareness between populations in Israel and Judah on the basis of four-roomed houses or avoidance of pork.

Prospects I fear that the prospects for this agenda for a new “biblical archaeology” are not that good. Nearly all the work integrating textual and material data is done by biblical scholars knowledgeable about archaeology and not archaeologists knowledgeable about biblical exegesis. Archaeologists and biblical scholars have separate formations, recognize largely separate goals, are institutionally and professionally isolated. On the positive side, many biblical scholars, if they can find the time, participate in digs, although they do not contribute much of their professional

26

A new “ biblical archaeology ”

expertise to these operations, and there are several conferences attended by both, with the resultant conversations. But how can biblical scholars have a conversation with an archaeologist about literary-historical criticism? Biblical scholars are not going to be able to control excavation in Israel in the way that religious fundamentalists can. Nowadays, motor shows increasingly feature concept cars, vehicles that look stunning but will never be built. Perhaps we can think of the new “biblical archaeology” as a concept vehicle and just enjoy fantasizing about it.

Bibliography Davies, P. R. 2007. The Origins of Biblical Israel. LHBOTS, 485. London: T&T Clark. ———. 2013. “1 Samuel and the ‘Deuteronomistic History’”. In Is Samuel Among the Deuteronomists? Current Views on the Place of Samuel in a Deuteronomistic History. C. Edenburg and J. Pakkala (eds.) Atlanta: SBL: 105–18. Davis, T. W. 2004. Shifting Sands: The Rise and Fall of Biblical Archaeology. New York: Oxford University Press. Dever, W. G. 2012. The Lives of Ordinary People in Ancient Israel. Where Archaeology and the Bible Intersect. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Faust, A. 2012. The Archaeology of Israelite Society in Iron Age II. Translated by Ruth Ludlum. Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns. Finkelstein, I. 1988. The Archaeology of the Israelite Settlement. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society. ———. 2007. David and Solomon: In Search of the Bible’s Sacred Kings and the Roots of the Western Tradition. New York: Free Press. ______2008. “Jerusalem in the Persian (and Early Hellenistic) Period and the Wall of Nehemiah”. JSOT 32: 501–20. ———. 2009. “Persian Period Jerusalem and Yehud: A Rejoinder”. JHS 9: 2–13. ———. Koch, I. and Lipschits, O. 2011. “The Mound on the Mount: A Possible Solution to the Problem With Jerusalem”. Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 11, article 12. ——— and T. Römer. 2014a. “Comments on the Historical Background of the Abraham Narrative. Between ‘Realia’ and ‘Exegetica’”. Hebrew Bible and Ancient Israel 3: 3–23. ———. and T. Römer. 2014b. “Comments on the Historical Background of the Jacob Narrative in Genesis”. ZAW 126: 317–38. ——— and Silberman, N. A. 2001. The Bible Unearthed. Archaeology’s New Vision of Ancient Israel and the Origin of Its Sacred Texts. New York: Free Press. Fleming, D. E. 2012. The Legacy of Israel in Judah’s Bible: History, Politics, and the Reinscribing of Tradition. New York: Cambridge University Press. Halpern, B. 1988: The First Historians: The Hebrew Bible and History. San Francisco, CA: Penn State Press. ———. 1995. “Erasing History: The Minimalist Assault on Ancient Israel”. Bible Review 11/6: 26–35, 47. Kratz, R. G. 2013. Historisches und biblisches Israel. Drei Überblicke zum alten Testament Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Noth, M. 1948. Überlieferungsgeschichte des Pentateuch. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Provan, I., Phillips Long, V. and Longman III, T. 2003. A Biblical History of Israel, Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox Press.

27

P hilip R . D av ies

Schwartz, D. R. 2013. “Judeans, Jews, and Their Neighbors”. In Between Cooperation and Hostility. Multiple Identities in Ancient Judaism and the Interaction with Foreign Powers. R. Albertz and J. Wöhrle (eds.). Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht: 13–31. Thompson, T. L. 1992. Early History of the Israelite People. Leiden: Brill. Von Rad, G. 1961. “History and the Patriarchs”. Expository Times 72: 213–16. Wright, G. E. 1960. “Modern Issues in Biblical Studies: History and the Patriarchs”. Expository Times 71: 292–6.

28

2 O LD AND NEW WAYS OF INT ERPRETING ISA I AH 4 0 – 5 5 Frederik Poulsen Introduction In the study of the prophet Isaiah, the year 1789 is a year of revolution. Until the Enlightenment, the book was – with a few notable exceptions (for example, Abraham Ibn Ezra in his 1145 Isaiah commentary) – considered to contain the visions that Isaiah ben Amoz received in the eighth century bce. Yet the rise of historical criticism challenged traditional and orthodox views on the unity of the book. In the third edition of his Isaiah commentary, published in 1789, Johann Christoph Döderlein formulated his influential theory of a dual authorship (Berges 2008: 31). Accordingly, Isaiah 40–66 should not be assigned to eighthcentury Isaiah, but rather to an anonymous sixth-century author. Furthermore, the historical setting of these chapters is best understood to reflect a time of exile and deportation after the destruction of Jerusalem in 587 bce. A hundred years later, Bernhard Duhm made his famous revision of Döderlein’s thesis by distinguishing Isaiah 40–55 from Isaiah 56–66 (see the third edition of his 1892 Isaiah commentary, Duhm 1914). According to Duhm, the former chapters called “Deutero-Isaiah” reflect the period of the Babylonian exile (587–539 bce), whereas the latter chapters called “Trito-Isaiah” reflect the period of restoration following the Persian conquest of the Babylonian empire (after 539 bce). Throughout the twentieth century, the hypotheses of Döderlein and Duhm have had a foundational impact on the scholarly approach to Isaiah, in so far as Isaiah 40–55 has largely been read as reflecting the Babylonian exile. On the one hand, these chapters have been used to reconstruct the history of the sixth century bce. This is apparent, for instance, in Peter Ackroyd’s Exile and Restoration, in which Deutero-Isaiah, along with Jeremiah and Ezekiel, is used as an “obvious” source to describe the period of exile (Ackroyd 1968: 15). On the other hand, the purpose, message and content of Isaiah 40–55 have been interpreted, subsequently, in light of historical reconstructions. As is well known, a basic assumption of historical criticism holds that the meaning of the biblical text is determined by the original author’s intention and by its historical setting. Placing the message of Isaiah 40–55 within the context of the Babylonian exile, past research has regarded the return of the Judaean exiles as the main concern of these chapters.

29

F rederi k P oulsen

Nevertheless, in the 1970s, the dominance of historical criticism began to erode, which has affected the study of Isaiah as well. Rather than merely searching for historical referents and distinct authors and editors behind the biblical texts, a series of new approaches and interests have emerged. Their manifold focuses include the final form of Isaiah and its literary and editorial unity, the poetic and dramatic nature of the book, intertextual connections and inner-biblical allusions, and the impact of the book with its history of interpretation. This chapter illuminates this change of perspective by looking at the Isaianic metaphor of “the way”. Whereas historical-critical scholars often have understood “the way imagery” literally as referring to the escape from Babylon, recent Scandinavian scholars such as Hans Barstad, Øystein Lund and Lena-Sofia Tiemeyer have challenged this view by focusing on the figurative and spiritual nature of the material. Taking Isaiah 49:8–12 as a test case, the chapter explores the poetic and theological potentials of the metaphor of “the way”. By doing so, it shows how this approach might reconnect modern exegesis with ancient interpretations.

The traditional interpretation: a literal way of out of Babylon As was indicated, historical-critical scholars have often seen the return of the Judaean exiles from Babylon as the main concern of Isaiah 40–55.1 Duhm, for instance, states: “Als seine Aufgabe bezeichnet der V[erfasser] . . . die Ankündigung, dass Jahve in nächster Zeit auf wunderbarem Wege quer durch die Wüste sein Volk von Babel nach Jerusalem zurückführen werde” (Duhm 1914: xix). Accordingly, many of the passages, which contain references to “a way”, have been interpreted literally as depicting an imminent exodus from Babylon to Jerusalem. These passages normally include Isaiah 40:3; 42:16; 43:1–7; 43:16, 19; 48:20–21; 49:8–12; 52:11–12; 55:12–13, whereas the way imagery in the remaining passages is considered to be a metaphor: 40:14; 40:27; 42:24; 48:17; 53:6; 55:7–9 (Lund 2007: 1). This view apparently builds on the following assumptions: Deutero-Isaiah, for the most part, has been written in Babylon; it addresses the needs of the exilic community living there; and its purpose is to announce the end of exile and the return to Jerusalem. According to Clifford (1984), a fresh exodus and conquest is the prophet’s answer to the frustrated Judeans living in Babylonian captivity. This interpretation of Isaiah 40–55 continues the line from the first half of the twentieth century and culminates in the 1960s with the contributions of G. von Rad, W. Zimmerli, B. W. Anderson and J. Blenkinsopp. The view, however, lives on in the following decades, and is still present in many commentaries (see Anderson 1962; Zimmerli 1963a; Blenkinsopp 1966; von Rad 1968; Stuhlmueller 1970; Baltzer 1971; Preuß 1976; Fishbane 1979: 121–40; Clifford 1984; Watts 1990). Within this historical frame, Deutero-Isaiah’s use of way and exodus motifs is not marginal, but a dominant theme. Some features in the overall composition of the sixteen chapters support such a claim. Deutero-Isaiah is introduced by a prologue in 40:1–11, which informs readers that the guilt of the people has been taken 30

I S A I A H 4 0 – 5 5 : O L D A N D N E W I N T E R P E RTAT I O N S

away, that a way will be prepared through the wilderness, and that YHWH, as a shepherd, will gather his flock. Moreover, the final epilogue (55:12–13) contains an urge to “go out”. Two minor units, which also contain admonitions to “go out”, suggest a subtle device in the composition: 48:20–21 divides the chapters into two parts, 40–48 and 49–55, whereas 52:11–12 concludes a larger text block before the passage about the suffering servant in 52:13–53:12. It is recognized that individual elements of the way and exodus motifs do not reveal a seamless picture as they occasionally stand in tension and do not form an unequivocal whole (Zimmerli 1963a: 201). The Babylonian exile still serves as the historical base for a harmonizing description of a new exodus: YHWH commissions the Persian king Cyrus as his tool (44:24–45:7), who in his task of liberating Israel will conquer and destroy Babylon (43:14–15; 46:1–2; 47). This event initiates a new exodus (43:16–21; 48:20–21; 52:11–12; 55:12–13). YHWH will once again fight for his people (40:10; 42:10–16; 49:24–6; 50:2–3; 51:9–11); a way will be made straight in the wilderness, which the redeemed people will follow (40:3–5; 42:16; 43:19); and, as in the Sinai desert, YHWH will care for his wandering people (41:17–20; 43:19–21; 48:21; 49:9–11). The journey leads to the Promised Land (49:8–12) and to the restoration of a new and holy Jerusalem (44:28; 52:1; 54:11–16). The servant figure of Isa. 49, who, in vv. 9–12, shall establish the land and apportion the desolate heritage, is said to represent a new Moses (Baltzer 1999: 44–7; Clifford 1984: 45; Hugenberger 1995: 119–38). Within this overall narrative, “the way” denotes the physical way back from Babylon that the redeemed people shall follow. As Zimmerli contends, “the way” literally refers to the way through the concrete wilderness that separates Babylonia from Syria (1963a: 199). Trito-Isaiah, however, reinterpreted and transformed it into an ethical and figurative sense (“in einem übertragenden, bildlichen Sinne”, for example, Isaiah 58; 60–62), yet in Deutero-Isaiah, the way in the exodus passages largely has a literal sense (Zimmerli 1963b: 220–21; cf. Lim 2010).

Criticism of the traditional view: a metaphorical understanding Several critical voices have emerged against the traditional interpretation that Deutero-Isaiah proclaims a new exodus out of Babylon. The criticism that began to appear in the 1970s mainly derives from the assumption that Deutero-Isaiah does not address the exiles in Babylon, but by contrast the people in Jerusalem. Rather than a new exodus, the chapters concern YHWH’s return to Zion, the return of the whole of the Diaspora and the battle against Judah’s enemies as part of the restoration and glorification of a future Jerusalem. A serious appeal against the traditional interpretation is that it first establishes a historical framework by means of the exile (that is, before 539 bce) and then assumes that the central theme or problem is Israel’s inability or unwillingness to leave Babylon (Lund 2007: 6). Redaction-critical observations downplay the importance of the exodus motif. The smaller units, which contain admonitions to depart (48:20–21; 52:11–12; 55:12–13) are later additions, whose theme has nothing to do with the original 31

F rederi k P oulsen

chapters (Spykerboer 1976: 188). Furthermore, Klaus Kiesow (1979) argues for a twofold meaning of the way imagery: Isa. 40–48 depicts the making and divine protection of the way, whereas Isa. 49–52 depicts the way as an expression of YHWH’s return. The two motifs reflect different editorial stages and cannot be fused into a coherent narrative. Kiesow emphasizes that the way in 40:3, for instance, does not concern the way out of Babylon, but YHWH’s return to Zion (cf. 40:10–11; 52:7–10). Another type of criticism has to do with the failure of recognizing the meta­ phorical nature of these texts. According to Hans Barstad’s main thesis, the language of Deutero-Isaiah (and other prophets) is strongly metaphorical (1989: 3). A common failure, however, is the attempt of many interpreters to read the metaphors literally. The so-called “exodus texts” about a way, a desert and related themes do not portray a literal and historical event; rather, they are metaphors for something different. The way image in 40:3–4 offers poetic allusions to the return of YHWH; the blooming desert in 41:17–20 refers to the spiritual restoration of the people rather than to care along their journey from Babylon, and the urge to depart in 55:12–13 concerns the idea of holy war rather than a new exodus. Even 43:14–21, which appears to juxtapose the deliverance from Egypt and that from Babylon, concerns the national restoration of Judah (Barstad 1989: 97). Øystein Lund (2007) has – in line with Barstad – focused on the ethical and meta­ phorical aspects of Deutero-Isaiah. He asserts that in the traditional interpretation, there is a tendency towards distinguishing too sharply between “the way” in a literal sense (a way between Babylon and Jerusalem) and “the way” in a metaphorical sense (ethical and spiritual matters). As an alternative, Lund seeks to demonstrate that the motif of the way, in almost all passages, can be interpreted figuratively, illustrating the relationship of the people to their God. (For a similar study, which concludes that “exile” within the Old Testament is transformed from the literal to a metaphor of physical and spiritual suffering, see Halvorson-Taylor 2011.) Finally, Lena-Sofia Tiemeyer reduces the number of exodus references to four or five text passages (43:16–21; 48:20–21; 51:9–11; 52:10–12, and perhaps 43:2), of which only two contain clear allusions to a new exodus and, as should be noted, from the Diaspora at large (51:9–11; 52:10–12).2 Tiemeyer’s approach reveals the problem at stake: the traditional interpretation starts from the few passages with explicit references to an exodus, seeks for passages with similar motifs (way, desert, etc.), harmonizes them and construes the synthesis as “the new exodus”. While focusing on the discrete units, the criticism asserts that the motif often does not occur at all, and, in the few instances where it actually does occur, it serves a specific rhetorical purpose. This criticism of the traditional interpretation argues that 1 The exodus motif is not the central theme in Isaiah 40–55, but one among many. 2 References to an exodus occur too infrequently and sporadically to be construed into a synthesis of “a new exodus”. 32

I S A I A H 4 0 – 5 5 : O L D A N D N E W I N T E R P E RTAT I O N S

3 This synthesis combines different types of motifs (YHWH’s epiphany, the shepherd motif, the battle against chaos, the way and the desert imagery) that initially have nothing in common. 4 The references do not necessarily relate to a concrete historical event; rather, they are metaphors for ethical and spiritual matters. 5 The central message of Deutero-Isaiah is not the deliverance from Babylon, but the restoration of Jerusalem. 6 The passages that do speak about the people’s return concern the whole of the Diaspora as part of the glorification of Jerusalem. There is something refreshing in Barstad’s, Lund’s and Tiemeyer’s attempts to “liberate” the texts from a preconceived historical-critical reading.3 Rather than descriptions of actual events, we are dealing with metaphors. If we, however, do want to look for an original historical setting, the nature of the language applied constitutes a special problem. Metaphorical and poetical language does not indicate the historical situation in which it emerged as easily as literal language does (Barstad 1989: 109). The given historical situation needs first to be reconstructed as historical-critical scholars have attempted. Yet the variety and richness of language and metaphors in Isaiah 40–55 suggest that much more than a mere return from Babylon is implied. Many passages can be read as general illustrations of situations of despair and hope – in Babylon, in Judah, or elsewhere. The metaphorical nature of the language thereby explains how poetry can be reused and applied to new historical situations. When studying Isaiah and other prophets, we should therefore consider the possibility that many of these texts – already when they originated – were understood within a genuine metaphorical framework. The conventional model that the meaning of the texts originally was literal and that later reception eventually produced figurative or allegorical interpretations is too simplistic. Implied in this model is that the literal or historical meaning is the single true interpretation, whereas the figurative meaning is a substitute and alteration falsely imposed from outside the text (cf. Childs 2004: 184). Yet not only the difference between metaphor and allegory can sometimes be vague, but also the difference between letter and metaphor. As Tiemeyer stresses, “the reader of a biblical text must be open to the possibility of encountering metaphors even in those cases that can be read literally” (Tiemeyer 2011: 166).

Test case: Isaiah 49:8–12 We now turn to Isaiah 49:8–12 as a test case for this approach to the biblical texts: NRSV: 8

Thus says YHWH: In a time of favour I answered you, on a day of salvation I have helped you;a I have kept you and given youb as a covenant to the people, to establish the land, to apportion the desolate heritages; 33

F rederi k P oulsen

9

saying to the prisoners, “Come out”, to those who are in darkness, “Show yourselves”. They shall feed along the ways,c on all the bare heights shall be their pasture; 10 they shall not hunger or thirst, neither scorching wind nor sun shall strike them down, for he who has pity on them will lead them, and by springs of water will guide them. 11 And I will turn all my mountainsd into a road, and my highways shall be raised up. 12 Lo, these shall come from far away, and lo, these from the north and from the west,e and these from the land of Syene.f Textual notes: Many interpreters understand the verbs, although in the perfect tense, to denote present or future actions: Kiesow 1979: 87–8; Paul 2012: 94; Tiemeyer 2011: 187; Westermann 1969: 215; cf. 1QIsaa, which renders all verbs in imperfect. Haag (1985: 43, 51) maintains the perfect tense (cf. New Revised Standard Version). b NRSV reads ָ‫ ;ו‬cf. LXX. c 1QIsaa has “all the mountains” (‫)כל הרים‬. d LXX, Peshitta and Targum lack the suffix “my”; Duhm (1914: 344) emends “my mountains” (‫הרי‬-‫ )כל‬to “every mountain” (‫הר‬-‫)כל‬. e MT reads “from Zaphon” (‫פֹון‬.ּ‫ ; ִמ ָצ‬that is, from the north) and “from the sea” (‫ ; ִמּיָם‬that is, from the west). f MT reads “Sinim” (‫)סִינִים‬, whose geographical location is unknown. NRSV follows 1QIsaa by reading Syene (‫)סוניים‬: the ancient name of modern Aswan, located at the Nile in the southern part of Egypt. a

Within Isa. 49:1–13, vv. 8–12 constitute the second of two minor oracles (vv. 7, 8–12), which have been appended to the description of the servant figure in vv. 1–6. The speech formula in v. 8a clearly separates the poetic section in vv. 8–12 from the prose section in v. 7. Yet both oracles, along with the final hymn in v. 13, function as an editorial comment to the preceding verses, unfolding and clarifying the task of the servant, which initially consists of bringing Israel back to God and restoring its survivors (vv. 5–6).4 A traditional interpretation of Isa. 49:8–12 claims that these verses depict a new exodus out of Babylon, the journey through the wilderness and the return to Zion (Bentzen 1943: 80–84; Childs 2001: 379–87). According to Childs, vv. 8–12 have been editorially shaped “to enhance a coherent description of the servant’s role in the new exodus of the chosen people . . . [and to expand] the servant’s task in terms of the restoration of the land (v. 8) and the gathering of the diaspora (v. 12)” (2001: 386–7). Blenkinsopp (2002: 306) sees the task description as a reminiscence of Cyrus’s mission (42:7; 44:26–8; 45:13): “the mission originally confided to Cyrus has now passed by default to him [that is, the prophetic 34

I S A I A H 4 0 – 5 5 : O L D A N D N E W I N T E R P E RTAT I O N S

individual]”. Accordingly, themes and language of Isa. 40–48 are simply repeated and juxtaposed: YHWH as shepherd (40:11), bare hills to pasture (41:18), hunger and thirst satisfied (48:21), sources of water (41:18; 43:20; 44:3; 48:21) and mountains no longer constituting obstacles on the way back to the land (40:4; 42:16). Goldingay and Payne (2006: 175) find parallels to the conquest narrative in Josh. 13–19: “Yhwh will re-allocate the land in the way that Joshua allocated it when Israel first came to Canaan” (2006: 175). Clifford’s commentary (1984: 150–55) offers a good example of the traditional interpretation.5 The servant figure is regarded as a new Moses, modelled on the narrative in Exod. 3:1–4:17. His task is to lead Israel to a new Exodus-conquest. The image of the people as a flock in vv. 9–11 is said to reflect passages such as Exod. 15:13–17 and Ps. 78:52–5. Israel’s “return to its own land means that its subjection to Babylon is ended (“servant of rulers,” v. 7d); kings of the world have to recognize a power superior to Babylon’s” (Clifford 1984: 153). Imprisonment in darkness is considered to be a metaphor for exile, from which the people will be released. They will be shepherded by YHWH and return to their land. Interpreters, however, acknowledge that the world-wide nature of the return in v. 12 questions the traditional interpretation of the passage. First, the prophet apparently has more than the Babylonian exiles in mind (Blenkinsopp 2002: 306; Goldingay and Payne 2006: 177). Second, the verse strongly suggests that the place, from which the speaker addresses his audience, can hardly be elsewhere than the centre of the four corners of the world, that is, Jerusalem (Hermisson 2003: 373). Furthermore, it has been argued that the passage contains no explicit allusions to an exodus event, if any: only the broadly used verb “to go out” (‫)יצא‬ in v. 9 and the indefinite reference to springs of water (‫ )מסלתי מים‬in v. 10 (Barstad 1989: 59; Tiemeyer 2011: 187). The return from the Diaspora in v. 12 is not described as a second exodus. According to Barstad, there is no evidence in Isa. 49:8–12 that the prophet thinks of the Babylonian exile, wherefore we should refrain from reading the text this way (1989: 63). The delicate matter is that the passage renders a figurative portrait in vv. 9–11 and what can be seen as a literal return in v. 12, but containing metaphorical undertones (Lund 2007: 248).6 The verses thus fluctuate between literal and metaphorical expressions, which can be interpreted as a literal return to Jerusalem and a figuratively renewed walk with YHWH (Lund 2007: 246). In vv. 8–9a, the task of the servant is described by three verbs: to establish (‫ )להקים‬the land, to apportion (‫ )להנחיל‬the desolate heritages and to speak (‫ )לאמר‬to the prisoners and those in darkness.7 Because the task fits the servant figure in exile and in Judah, the verses provide no clear warrant for seeing Babylon as the geographical centre of the events. It is thus wrong simply to understand “prisoners” as literally referring to the people in Babylonian exile (Barstad 1989: 57). Furthermore, according to Barstad, we have no evidence that the exiles suffered under bad conditions in Babylon. Along with the imagery of darkness, imprisonment is, here, a metaphor for the miserable condition of the people of God. The restoration of the land is a metaphorical picture of the restoration of this people’s 35

F rederi k P oulsen

present condition, whether dwelling in Judah, Babylon or elsewhere. The task here relates to that of v. 5, in which the servant shall gather and restore Israel before YHWH. The shepherd imagery of the people as a flock under YHWH’s guidance in vv. 9b–10 contains metaphorical potentials (Lund 2007: 239; Tiemeyer 2011: 188). The motif is well known from the Bible as an image of YHWH’s provision and care (Ps. 23; Isa. 40:10; Ezek. 34:11–12).8 Vv. 9b–10 can be interpreted in the same manner as an expression of YHWH’s renewed activity: YHWH is again going to look after them. The image of the way has been integrated into this image, suggesting that the juxtaposition of “flock” and “ways” points to the theme of divine guidance. The “bare height” thus symbolizes places of illegitimate worship. Furthermore, hunger, thirst, scorching wind and sun indicate that the scene is set in the desert. As Lund has observed, the word pair “hunger and thirsts” often describe the conditions in a desert and the implications of judgement (2007: 241–2). The desert symbolizes the miserable condition of the people, that is, spiritual suffering. Simply put, the dry desert represents divine judgement and absence of God. Analogically, the springs of water, to which YHWH now will guide his people, represent salvation. Water in the desert is a common theme in DeuteroIsaiah (41:18; 43:19–20; 48:21) and is related to the presence of God. The place where God is present – whether a garden, a mountain, a temple or a city – is associated with a life-giving fountain (cf. Gen. 2:10–14; Ps. 46:5; Ezek. 47:1–12; Joel 4:18 [ET 3:18]; Zech. 14:8). According to Ps. 84:6–8[5–7], the wandering to Zion in itself makes the dry valley of Baca into a place of springs and prosperity. In light of this psalm, we have further evidence for interpreting “the way” imagery metaphorically: the way that leads to divine water is the way of life, that is, a life in accordance with the will of God (Lund 2007: 243). There is no warrant in the text itself for reading these verses as a literal return of the Diaspora (cf. v. 12). God’s transformation of nature in v. 11 echoes the prologue to Isaiah 40–55. In 40:3–4, a way is prepared for YHWH by levelling the mountains. This language is clearly metaphorical. Rather than a physical processional road, the way here alludes to YHWH’s intervention on behalf of his people, resulting in restoration and a prosperous future (Barstad 1989: 20). The mountains are more than merely a geographical phenomenon. They symbolize the barriers and obstacles that prohibit the realization of the divine plan. Although the road (‫ )דרך‬and highways (‫ )מסלת‬can refer to literal roads which the scattered people in the Diaspora will follow (v. 12; cf. Isa. 11:16), they can also figuratively refer to the ways in which the people of YHWH will leave their sufferings and hardship behind (Tiemeyer 2011: 189). As mentioned, the gathering of peoples from the four corners of the world in v. 12 is mostly understood as a literal portrayal of the return of the Diaspora. Importantly, the text does not explicitly mention Babylon, but the entire world by means of a compass, in so far as “from far away” stands for the east9 and Syene stands for the south (cf. 43:5–6). Peoples from all over the world come to its centre, where YHWH is present. Yet who will come: the Israelites living in the Diaspora (43:5–6; 49:18, 22) or the foreign nations as such (2:2–4; 60)? In light 36

I S A I A H 4 0 – 5 5 : O L D A N D N E W I N T E R P E RTAT I O N S

of vv. 9–10, the former seems most plausible, but the text is not abundantly clear about this. Assuming the latter option would support a metaphorical interpretation of the passage, then foreign peoples come to YHWH, meaning that the entire world will worship him (cf. 45:14, 23). Nevertheless, restoring and repopulating Jerusalem expresses YHWH’s salvific action towards his people. In sum, the passage can be read as a literal description of the gathering of the exiles from Babylon and elsewhere. Yet the dense use of metaphors, common in Isaiah 40–55 and other parts of biblical tradition, suggests a figurative interpretation centred on God’s care and provision for his people. Isaiah 49:8–12 constitutes an oracle of salvation addressed to the people of God wherever they are: a general promise of divine presence and guidance.

Connecting modern exegesis and ancient interpretations Sensing the metaphorical framework that undergirds the biblical texts may connect modern exegesis with ancient interpretations preceding historical criticism. As is well known, interpreting texts allegorically was a common approach from Antiquity and roughly until the Enlightenment. Philo of Alexandria, the Church Fathers and the medieval scholars practised allegorical exegesis, even of biblical books and passages without any apparent figurative speech forms. To them, the modern insistence on the literal or historical sense as the only sense would appear as perverse. Rather than a simple technique, allegorical readings presume that the texts have deeper symbolic meanings. Pursuing multiple senses of Scripture is a fundamental recognition of the texts’ ability to work in more contexts and to be applied in new situations. The widespread allegorical approach of ancient interpreters is, of course, not a proof that the biblical narratives were composed as allegories. Originally, the laws of Moses may have been written purely as political and ritual legislation and not also – as Philo would argue – as a path for the human spirit’s encounter with God. The Song of Songs may have been composed solely as a set of erotic lyrics and not also as an allegory of God’s love for Israel. Nevertheless, later Jewish and Christian interpretations testify to the profound potential that the biblical narratives and language have for fostering metaphorical readings. Ancient interpretations of Isaiah 49:8–12 reveal a sincere understanding of “the way” imagery as a metaphor pointing to a deeper divine reality. Eusebius of Caesarea interprets the prison in v. 9 as the chains of sin, and Cyril of Alexandria relates it to death and Hades (Wilken 2007: 375–6). Furthermore, Eusebius understands Scripture itself as a path to God (cf. Philo): “The ways and the paths that the ancient men of God travelled are the inspired Scriptures. Those who have obtained the divine promise feed on them and enjoy this godly and spiritual food since they have found this good pasture” (Wilken 2007: 375). Theodoret of Cyr understands the hunger in v. 10 as hunger for the Word: “[The Lord] promises those who have believed in him that they would have an abundance of divine nourishment and that they will have sources of salvation at their disposal 37

F rederi k P oulsen

forever” (Elliott and Oden 2007: 117). Cyril of Alexandria, likewise, expounds the food and water in v. 10 allegorically: “The food there will profit their souls. For they will eat bread from heaven and drink living water” (Elliott and Oden 2007: 118). Turning to the interpreters in the medieval period and the Reformation, I was very surprised when I read Martin Luther’s lecture on this passage. (For an introduction to Luther as interpreter of Isaiah, see Sawyer 1996: 126–40; Childs 2004: 181–206; Raeder 2008). Although Luther often has been considered as a forerunner of historical criticism and its sole attention to the literal and historical sense, he is indeed aware of the metaphorical nature of biblical language. He practically regards none of the passages that have later been identified as “way passages” to concern a physical exodus from Babylon. Nevertheless, the appeal to leave Babylon in Isaiah 48:20 is an exception. Luther recognizes that these words concern the Jews and their liberator, King Cyrus. He, however, asserts that scarcely 3,000 men remained faithful in exile, and that the appeal is words of irony for all ungodly Jews (Luther 1972: 167–8). In the rest of the “exodus passages”, we find a thorough metaphorical interpretation. In v. 8, the office and task of the servant as “a covenant to the people” are transferred to the preacher; he is “the covenant between God and the people” (Luther 1972: 178). The “land” stands for the inhabitants, and the “desolate heritages” stand for those who had been seduced by ungodly teachers through idolatries. Now, “it is the church’s function through the Gospel to gather the scattered people to the sound faith . . . our entire function lies in helping people . . . by the Word of God” (Luther 1972: 179). In v. 9, the prisoners are those who – bound by the Law of Moses, the papacy, monasticism and evil traditions – hope to be saved by their own righteousness. Only the Gospel about free grace, without merit, will break this bond. Those who are in darkness are the ignorant and the blind, who will be enlightened by the message of peace and led to the right way by the light of the Gospel. Compare with this, the interpretation of Isaiah 42:7, where the blind and the prisoners stand for ignorance and impotence, because “apart from Christ there is nothing but darkness and dungeon” (Luther 1972: 69). As a result of the Gospel, the pastures on which the people shall feed are to be found everywhere: “the Word sets forth pasture for every life situation, and for all circumstances and people. The woman, the servant, the girl can hear the Word of God at home, on the hills, and in the woods” (Luther 1972: 180). In v. 10, eating and drinking refer to teaching and exhorting; the Gospel will feed the believers. The wind and sun refer to the Law of Moses and consciousness. In this figurative sense, the sun denotes “any law that afflicts consciences through sin, wrath and sting” (cf. the interpretation of Isaiah 41:17, where the desert wasteland refers to “the torments of afflicted consciences” [Luther 1972: 47]). Yet these obstacles are replaced by the freedom of the Word. The shepherd who has pity is the Lord himself. His guidance through his Word leads to the springs of water, which represent the gifts and mysteries of the Spirit. 38

I S A I A H 4 0 – 5 5 : O L D A N D N E W I N T E R P E RTAT I O N S

In v. 11, Luther briefly states that levelling the mountains means to make “every uprightness and every sin alike” and refers to his own exposition of Isaiah 40:3–5 (Luther 1972: 181). Preparing the way of YHWH here means to take up a new, divine life, because “way” in Hebrew denotes “a plan of life”; furthermore, “to prepare the way of the Lord means to prepare ourselves for the Lord’s activity in us” (Luther 1972: 8). This preparation entails humbling oneself from arrogance and glory. According to Luther, the mountains and valleys in Isaiah 40 are metaphors: “Valleys are sinners, fools, lowly. Mountains are presumptuous saints. Here before God all things must be levelled” (1972: 10). The stony, troublesome and inconvenient way symbolizes life according to the Law; “the gospel, however, teaches the straight and level way, to believe in Christ and to serve the neighbor” (Luther 1972: 10). In v. 12, the four directions of the compass denote “a gathering of all people from all places and conditions” (Luther 1972: 182). Significantly, these directions do not merely refer to geography, but to different stages and social positions in human life: the slave, the maid, the master and the old man shall come. People will come from all walks of life. Yet they will be accepted while remaining in their circumstances; only “their conscience will have been set free through the righteousness of faith” (Luther 1972: 182). In sum, Luther asserts that “this is metaphorical language to indicate that the Word of God will come to all with supreme benefit from the same Shepherd, while they all remain in their own places and circumstances” (Luther 1972: 182; my emphasis).

Conclusion The richness and variety of metaphors in Isaiah 40–55 indicate that much more than a historical return from Babylon is at stake. In these chapters, we encounter poetry and metaphors for central ethical and theological matters concerning the relationship to God. Due to the creative and changing nature of language, metaphors and the function of them are hardly stable throughout the centuries of interpretation. Their meaning is complex and readers can sense and elaborate on different aspects of their content. Without doubt, ancient interpreters may have understood the biblical metaphors differently than we do today. Nevertheless, their readings can serve as useful guides and sources of inspiration for detecting metaphors, even in cases where we would not expect to find them.

Notes 1 Parts of the following two sections have been published in Danish; see Poulsen 2012. See also Poulsen 2015: 144–63. 2 Tiemeyer 2011: 168–202. I do not agree, however, that Isa. 43:16–21 does not contain the idea of a new exodus; see Poulsen 2012: 96–105. 3 A similar attempt is made by Jesper Høgenhaven (2005) who reads the passages about the polemics against idolatry (40:18–20; 44:9–20; 46:1–7) in a different historical and intellectual perspective than the Babylonian exile.

39

F rederi k P oulsen

4 The elusive identity of the servant figure of Isa. 49:1–6 lies outside the scope of this article; for an overview of interpretations, see, for instance, Haag 1985: 34–167; North 1969: 6–116. Kratz (1991: 135–9) understands the servant as those who have already returned from Babylon and now have received the mission to gather the remaining people from the Diaspora. 5 Another good example is the commentary by Grimm and Dittert (1990: 331–8), in particular p. 332: “Zuerst formuliert das Gotteswort . . . das Ziel: die erneute Landverteilung; es wendet sich dann in 2 Halbzeilen der Voraussetzung von allem weiteren, dem Exodus, zu: die Gola wird aus der babylonischen Gefangenschaft herausgerufen . . . Der Dienstauftrag schließt mit einer verhältnismäßig breiten Schilderung des Weges durch die Wüste, auf die es Dtjes hier aus seelsorgerlichen Gründen in besonderer Weise anzukommen scheint.” 6 See also Grimm and Dittert 1990, 338: “Jes 49:8–12 spricht zwar, wie wir vermuten, in eine historische Situation hinein, zeichnet aber doch auch ein biblisches Muster von Gottes Heilshandeln am Menschen in babylonischer Gefangenschaft. Es umfaßt Aufbruch, Weg und Ziel.” Goldingay 2005: 377–8: “Admittedly up until v. 11, the language of vv. 8–12 could reflect hardship in Judah itself and could offer pictures of Yhwh’s prospering the Judaeans’ ‘walk’ rather than referring to a more literal journey from exile to Jerusalem, but v. 12 surely points to the latter.” 7 Omitting “I have kept you and given you” (‫)ואצרך ואתנך לברית עם‬, Duhm (1915: 344) understands YHWH as subject of the actions in vv. 8b–9a. Goldingay and Payne (2006: 174) and Paul (2012: 329) make the same claim without any omissions. 8 Lund (2007: 240–41), however, is right that the shepherd motif in Jeremiah and Ezekiel often occurs in connection with the motif of return (cf. Jer 3:15; 23:3–4; 31:10; 50:19; Ezek 34:11–31; 37:24). 9 Cf. Lund 2007: 245. “From far away” (‫ )מרחוק‬in Isaiah often refers to regions in the east (cf. Isa. 5:26; 39:3; 43:6). In 46:11, “from a far country” (‫ )מארץ מרחק‬parallels “from the sunrise” (‫ ;ממזרח‬i.e. from the east).

Bibliography Ackroyd, P. R. 1968. Exile and Restoration: A Study of Hebrew Thought of the Sixth Century B.C. Old Testament Library. Philadelphia, PA: Westminster. Anderson, B. W. 1962. “Exodus Typology in Second Isaiah”. In Israel’s Prophetic Heritage: Essays in honour of James Muilenburg. B. W. Anderson and W. Harrelson (eds.). London: SCM Press Ltd.: 177–95. Baltzer, D. 1971. Ezekiel und Deuterojesaja. Beiheft zur Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft 121. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Baltzer, K. 1999. Deutero-Jesaja. Kommentar zum Alten Testament X,2. Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus. Barstad, H. 1989. A Way in the Wilderness: The “Second Exodus” in the Message of Second Isaiah. Journal of Semitic Studies Monograph 12. Manchester: University of Manchester. Bentzen, A. 1943. Jesaja: Bind II: Jes. 40–66. Copenhagen: G.E.C. Gads Forlag. Berges, U. 2008. Jesaja 40–48. Herders Theologischer Kommentar zum Alten Testament. Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder. Blenkinsopp, J. 2002: Isaiah 40–55. A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary. New York: Doubleday.

40

I S A I A H 4 0 – 5 5 : O L D A N D N E W I N T E R P E RTAT I O N S

Childs, B. S. 2001. Isaiah: A Commentary. Old Testament Library. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press. ———. 2004. The Struggle to Understand Isaiah as Christian Scripture. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Clifford, R. J. 1984. Fair Spoken and Persuading: An Interpretation of Second Isaiah. Ramsey, MN: Paulist Press. Duhm, B. 1914. Das Buch Jesaia. 3. ed. Göttinger Handkommentar zum Alten Testament III, 1. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht. Elliott, M. W. and Oden, T. C. 2007. Isaiah 40–66. Ancient Christian Commentary on Scripture, Old Testament, XI. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press. Fishbane, M. 1979. Text and Texture: Close Readings of Selected Biblical Texts. New York: Schocken Books. Goldingay, J. and D. Payne. 2006. Isaiah 40–55. Volumes I–II. International Critical Commentary. London and New York: T&T Clark International. Grimm, W. and K. Dittert. 1990. Deuterojesaja: Deutung – Wirkung – Gegenwart. Calwer Bibelkommentare. Stuttgart: Calwer Verlag. Haag, H. 1985. Der Gottesknecht bei Deuterojesaja. Erträge der Forschung 22. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Halvorson-Taylor, M. A. 2011. Enduring Exile: The Metaphorization of Exile in the Hebrew Bible. Supplements to Vetus Testamentum 141. Leiden and Boston, MA: Brill. Hermisson, H.-J. 2003. Deuterojesaja. II: Jesaja 45,8–49,13. Biblischer Kommentar 11, 2. Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag. Høgenhaven, J. 2005. “‘All who make idols are nothing’: Polemics against idolatry in Second Isaiah.” In Historie og Konstruktion. FS Niels Peter Lemche. M. Müller and T. L. Thompson (eds.). Forum for Bibelsk Eksegese 14. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanums Forlag: 214–32. Hugenberger, G. P. 1995. “The Servant of the Lord in the ‘Servant Songs’ of Isaiah: A Second Moses Figure”. In The Lord’s Anointed: Interpretation of Old Testament Messianic Texts. P. E. Satterthwaite, R. S. Hess and G. J. Wenham (eds.). Tyndale House Studies. Carlisle: The Paternoster Press and Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Books: 105–40. Kiesow, K. 1979. Exodustexte im Jesajabuch. Literarkritische und Motivgeschichtliche Analysen. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht. Kratz, R. G. 1991. Kyros im Deuterojesaja-Buch: Redaktionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen zu Entstehung und Theologie von Jes 40–55. Forschungen zum Alten Testament 1. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Lim, B. H. 2010. The “Way of the Lord” in the Book of Isaiah. Library of Hebrew Bible/ Old Testament Studies 522. New York and London: T&T Clark International. Lund, Ø. 2007. Way Metaphors and Way Topics in Isaiah 40–55. Forschungen zum Alten Testament, 2. Reihe, 28. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Luther, M. 1972. Luther’s Works, vol. 17. Lectures on Isaiah: Chapters 40–66. H. C. Oswald (ed.). Saint Louis, MO: Concordia Publishing House. North, C. R. 1969. The Suffering Servant in Deutero-Isaiah: A Historical and Critical Study. 2nd edn. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Paul, S. M. 2012. Isaiah 40–66: Translation and Commentary. Eerdmans Critical Commentary. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Poulsen, F. 2012. “Eksodusbegivenheden i Deuterojesaja: Genskrivning eller overskrivning?” In Bibelske genskrivninger. M. Müller and J. Høgenhaven (eds.). Forum for Bibelsk Eksegese 17. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanums Forlag: 89–109.

41

F rederi k P oulsen

———. 2015. Representing Zion: Judgement and Salvation in the Old Testament. Copenhagen International Seminar. London and New York: Routledge. Preuß, H. D. 1976. Deuterojesaja: Eine Einführung in seine Botschaft. Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag. Raeder, S. 2008. “The Exegetical and Hermeneutical Work of Martin Luther”. In Hebrew Bible/Old Testament: The History of Its Interpretation. II: From the Renaissance to the Enlightenment. M Sæbø (ed.). Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht: 363–406. Sawyer, J. F. A. 1996. The Fifth Gospel: Isaiah in the history of Christianity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Spykerboer, H. C. 1976. The Structure and Composition of Deutero-Isaiah with Special Reference to the Polemics Against Idolatry. Meppel: Krips Repro B.V. Stuhlmueller, C. 1970. Creative Redemption in Deutero-Isaiah. Rome: Biblical Institute Press. Tiemeyer, L.-S. 2011. For the Comfort of Zion: The Geographical and Theological Location of Isaiah 40–55. Supplements to Vetus Testamentum 139. Leiden: Brill. Von Rad, G. 1968. Theologie des Alten Testaments. Band II: Die Theologie der prophetischen Überlieferungen Israels. München: Chr. Kaiser Verlag. Watts, R. E. 1990. “Consolation or Confrontation? Isaiah 40–55 and the Delay of the New Exodus”. Tyndale Bulletin 41.1: 31–59. Westermann, C. 1969. Isaiah 40–66: A Commentary. D. M. G. Stalker (trans.). Old Testament Library. London: SCM Press. Wilken, R. L. 2007. Isaiah: Interpreted by Early Christian and Medieval Commentators. Grand Rapids, MI: Ee’rdmans. Zimmerli, W. 1963a. “Der ‘neue Exodus’ in der Verkündigung der beiden großen Exilspropheten” [1960]. In his Gottes Offenbarung. Gesammelte Aufsätze zum Alten Testament. Theologische Bücherei 19. München: Chr. Kaiser Verlag: 192–204 ———. 1963b. “Zur Sprache Tritojesajas” [1950]. In his Gottes Offenbarung. Gesammelte Aufsätze zum Alten Testament. Theologische Bücherei 19. München: Chr. Kaiser Verlag: 217–33.

42

3 C ON T EXTUALIZING C OM POSI TE WORKS The case of 4QMMT with a sociolinguistic twist Trine Bjørnung Hasselbalch

Thanks to the Copenhagen School, many biblical texts have now been placed in (relatively late) socio-historical contexts not identified primarily through readings in the narratives of the Old Testament. This chapter addresses the methodological issue of how we can interpret texts as expressions of specific socio-historical contexts. More specifically, it addresses the challenge of determining the sociohistorical contexts of composite works. Naturally, the ideational contents expressed in investigated texts and comparable literature must be included in attempts at relating them to their appropriate context. Very often, however, it is the contents of a text – its representational meaning – that become the determinative factor in such analyses. This chapter also seeks to uncover the role of non-representational meanings attached to the constituent parts of a composite work, that is, their meaning in the eyes of the composers (and users). Within this approach, we will focus on the composers’ reasons for including specific and existing components in their works, even when these seem to be at odds with other parts of such works. In other words, the functions of the constituent parts come into focus. This kind of analysis may lead to surprising, yet plausible, suggestions, having the potential to challenge scholarly consensus (if such exists) on the contextual meaning of a text. 4QMMT is a case in point. This composite work is usually handled as an epistle or a tractate, written shortly before or after the Dead Sea Community established itself apart from the religious establishment in Jerusalem. The earliest manuscripts have been dated to around 75 bce, the youngest manuscripts to around 50 ce. Even if the extant 4QMMT manuscripts are to be dated to the first century bce, a majority of scholars maintain that the work as a whole was composed in the mid-second century bce (Schiffman 2010: 120; García Martínez 1996: 18–27; Strugnell 1994: 70–73). It clearly mirrors a conflict between religious and political groups with differing opinions about crucial cultic practices of Jews at the time, and scholars have eagerly debated which parties were involved and have suggested various

43

T rine B j ø rnung H asselbalch

divisions of roles between groups and noble individuals specified by name. Hasmonean, Pharisaic, Sadducee and (pre-)Qumranic groups are involved and the number of such recognizable parties in the text (two or three?) is a matter of dispute. For a review of the positions, see Reinhartz (2009: 90–95). In either case, the promotion of a particular interpretation and practice of cultic purity laws is seen as the main object of 4QMMT: either it urges the cultic authorities in Jerusalem to abide by the practice it endorses or it teaches Dead Sea Community members the importance of abiding strictly by it, now that the Jerusalem establishment has failed. In this presentation, I argue that the cult practice, as such, is not the main issue of 4QMMT. Rather, this writing is concerned with the development of a positive self-understanding among community members and an alternative way to fulfil the law away from the, by now largely irrelevant, Jerusalem establishment.

4QMMT 4QMMT has been central to researchers’ understanding of the relationship of the Dead Sea Community, or its predecessor, to religious authorities and to administrators of the Temple cult in Jerusalem. As yet, there is no consensus about its exact socio-historical setting. From the beginning, the editors suggested that 4QMMT was a genuine letter, sent from the Dead Sea Community leadership to authorities in Jerusalem at the beginning of the community’s independent history (Qimron and Strugnell 1985). For instance, references to David and other kings have been seen as indicating that the anonymous addressee must have been a noble person. Another possibility is that kings were simply used as models for pious and impious behaviour respectively, cf. 4Q521 (Messianic Apocalypse) 2ii7, which possibly conflates kingship and the idea of what it means to be pious. In light of passages in other Dead Sea Scrolls, 4QMMT has been seen as a hostile address by some, but the tone of the text itself is, in fact, rather amiable. The Editio Princeps already characterizes 4QMMT as “moderate” in its polemics (Qimron and Strugnell 1994: 116), and others underline the un-polemic tone (Schiffman 2010: 120; Eshel 1996: 59–61). In any case, as a piece of correspondence, 4QMMT would seem to throw light on the circumstances which led to the establishment of the Dead Sea Community and its separation from Jerusalem: ideologically, with regard to religious practice and geographically. According to other readings, 4QMMT was not composed as a letter in the narrow sense of the genre, but as a didactic work or a tractate in the form of an epistle. In contrast to their previous suggestion, and due to its formal characteristics, Qimron and Strugnell took this position in their Editio Princeps (1994: 113). Fraade reads 4QMMT as an “intramural” tractate created within the Dead Sea Community and addressing neophytes or prospective members (Fraade 2000: 523). Yet others suggest that it was the community’s rationalizing construction of its past and an attempt to legitimize the break from Jerusalem authorities (Brooke 1995: 81–2). Regardless of the fact that 4QMMT lacks a formal address or greeting, Jesper Høgenhaven holds that it was composed in the epistolary genre. He 44

C ontextualizing composite works : 4 Q M M T

suggests that this was done as a rhetorical device and that the composition was written with an internal addressee in mind (Høgenhaven 2003). In either case, the idea is that 4QMMT was written in a community that had distanced itself from Jerusalem for some time – ideologically, emotionally, geographically, etc. Charlotte Hempel, in contrast, rejects the common idea that 4QMMT was narrowly connected with Qumran and a dissident group. She suggests that 4QMMT was an early instance of the kind of interpretive debate on law issues that we find in the Mishna (Hempel 2010: 285–6; 291–2). My aim is neither to attack nor to defend any of these positions. I believe Maxine Grossman is correct to say that a number of different readings of 4QMMT are viable and that we are not in a position to draw firm conclusions about its sociohistorical setting. Grossman insists that one must consider the argument made in the text as well as its tone and degree of meshing with other texts (Grossman 2001: 7–8). I shall meet this reasonable requirement by dealing with the potential for the composite character and evocative meaning of 4QMMT. Not only are reflections on such evocative meaning potentials of the text an advantage if we wish to make qualified guesses about its original context(s), it is essential, and this is what I hope to demonstrate. 4QMMT is a composite text, divided by the first editors into three parts due to differences in genre, themes, linguistic features, etc. At the beginning, which is only extant in 4Q394, there are remains of a calendar (section A). 4Q394 consists of three groups of fragments, each witnessing a section of unbroken text; fragments 1–2, 3–7 and 8. Fragments 1–2, designated as such by Qimron and Strugnell in the Editio Princeps, contain 18 lines of calendrical text distributed on five columns. Fragments 3–7, presumed to follow frgs. 1–2, opens with three lines of calendrical text. Tov (1993) lists frgs. 1–2 as a separate document, 4Q327 (Calendrical Doc. Eb), and others have rejected the placing of these fragments in 4Q394 on palaeographical, linguistic and material grounds. If the sceptics are correct, only the three lines at the beginning of frgs. 3–7 witness an incipient calendrical section, but it is most likely that these three lines were preceded by a lengthy calendrical section (Schiffman 2010: 124–5; VanderKam 1997: 183). The large middle part is a halakhic section (section B) in the first-person plural and containing about 22 rulings about cultic purity. The final part (section C), also using a “we” form, is often called the epistolary section because it addresses someone (at times in the second-person singular), urging him to consider their arguments. In scholarly investigations, each of the sections is typically thought to explain a distinct aspect of 4QMMT. Section C has often been the centre of discussions about the identity of the composers and audience, as well as the rhetorical situation behind its composition. In regard to the message of the document, on the other hand, scholars mostly search the halakhic section B for answers. Observance of the strict purity regulations presented there are usually seen as the central message of the whole document. This is the general trend regardless of whether 4QMMT is seen as an attempt to address Temple authorities about a particular cultic praxis or a post festum, intramural teaching or legitimation after the split (Brooke 1995: 45

T rine B j ø rnung H asselbalch

83–7; Schiffman 2010: 114; Weissenberg 2009: 196). Roughly speaking, the halakhic section is seen as presenting the central matter, whereas the epistolary section is taken to indicate something of the social and rhetorical situation. To some degree, this also applies to Hanne von Weissenberg’s recent book-length treatment of 4QMMT, where she directs attention to the epistolary section in particular as a source for knowledge about the purpose of 4QMMT. Weissenberg investigates scriptural references and allusions in the epistolary section. She then relates the result of her analysis to the message of the halakhic section, which she finds to be central to the whole document: “The particular concern for the purity of the Temple and the Holy City in the halakhic section reflect the holiness and importance of Jerusalem and the Temple for the author/redactor of 4QMMT.” This, according to her, was not only the case at the time of composition, but was a lasting truth about 4QMMT throughout its existence at Qumran: The late copies of 4QMMT found at Qumran suggest that at least for some part of the Qumran movement, the Jerusalem Temple was the only legitimate sanctuary until the very end of their existence. The cultic regulations needed continuous attention and study in order to maintain the knowledge of the correct procedures while the community was waiting for the reformation of the cult. (Weissenberg 2009: 125) Weissenberg’s study is important because of how it involves the epistolary section in the search for the message of 4QMMT. She has made a thorough analysis of the scriptural usage taking place in the epistolary section. Analysis will have its starting point in some of her very interesting observations. The conclusions I reach differ slightly from hers, and this is largely because I include evocative meaning potentials and take a different point of view on the functions of the various sections (calendrical, halakhic, epistolary) of the work.

Methodological points: the function of text in cultural memory As a composite text, 4QMMT includes various existing texts or traditions: it includes a calendar and thus points to a particular cultic practice, that is, a tradition that was (actually or ideally) put into practice in communal life. It rehearses and interprets laws known from the law tradition. It quotes Scripture and alludes to scriptural traditions. The finding of several copies suggests that 4QMMT was adopted by the Dead Sea Community for repeated use and was thus made into some sort of tradition. The reworking of tradition is a process of creating and reviving a social memory, producing new meaning. The sociologist and cultural memory theoretician Maurice Halbwachs’s notion of tradition displays how vital communal functions have been fulfilled in the past, and it does so in order to endow the representatives or functionaries of this tradition with an aura of good virtues in the present (Halbwachs 1992: 120–66). The implication of this is that the making and use of tradition, also in literary writing, 46

C ontextualizing composite works : 4 Q M M T

is an activity undertaken by people who see themselves as fulfilling important societal functions. Writings, imbued with tradition, should be investigated as the result of a social activity to this end, rather than conveyers of certain messages. Traditions can be exchanged or revitalized if required by present-day needs. This is then to be seen as the contingent identity work of a community. The composite nature of 4QMMT – its revitalizing integration of different traditions – reflects a social process and the identity work of a community. Therefore, while the explicit propositions made in 4QMMT definitely informs us of its meaning, an understanding of the function of the juxtaposed parts is none the less paramount to a fuller understanding of the work’s socio-historical significance. With this in mind, I specifically want to direct attention to Ian Hodder’s important distinction between two kinds of meaning, which he identifies in material culture. First, there is representational meaning, which is communicative, linguistic and structured. It can be grammaticalized and can function in a symbolic way. Obviously, text and talk flourish with representational meaning, and, mostly, it is what we search for when we interpret texts. Second, there is evocative meaning, found with material objects that “come to have abstract meaning through association and practices” (Hodder 2003: 166). Hodder builds on concepts developed by Derrida (1978) on the relationship between oral and written discourse, and Ricœur’s (1971) roughly corresponding distinction between inscribed and un-inscribed meaning in discourse is also relevant. Evocative meaning is not structured or grammaticalized, and it is not easily described, because it is tied to the communal use of the material objects: “insofar as members of a society experience common practices, material symbols can come to have common evocations and common meanings” (Hodder 2003: 166). The meaning of a particular utensil, for instance, may be completely obscure to outsiders; only people familiar with its use will know its practical meaning and be capable of also attaching symbolic meaning to it. Thus, it is difficult for modern interpreters to grasp the evocations of things in their ancient contexts of production, use and re-use, because “Past and present meanings are continually being contested and reinterpreted as part of social and political strategies” (Hodder 2003: 166). It is less common to focus on this second kind of meaning in literature even though, according to Hodder, representational and evocative (or practiced) meaning “interpenetrate and feed off each other in many if not all areas of life” (Hodder 2003: 164). The idea of evocative or implicative meaning in texts will have a role to play in my analysis of 4QMMT: evocative meaning is discernible in the juxtaposition of different genres and traditions, because the relationship between the parts is not self-evident but context-dependent. Evocative meaning is “mute” and difficult to grasp. But our acknowledgement of the existence and relevance of evocative meaning may have repercussions on our interpretation of the text’s representational meanings. In order to engage the concept of evocative meaning for the analysis of texts, I apply the sociolinguistic concept of entextualizing. This concept implies that the (re-)use of known texts has a metadiscursive dimension: when someone inserts a 47

T rine B j ø rnung H asselbalch

piece of text into another text, for example, through allusion or rephrasing, she does so because she has recognized its existence and significance. She knows, or infers, something about its previous context and situation of use, something which adds to the meaning of the text she is composing. In the words of linguist Jan Blommaert: This decontextualisation and recontextualisation adds a new metadiscursive context to the text; instead of its original context-of-production, the [inserted] text is accompanied by a metadiscursive complex, suggesting all kinds of things about the text (most prominently, the suggestion that the discourse is indeed a text). (Blommaert 2010: 187) Entextualization also takes place when larger portions of texts belonging to different genres or originating in different contexts have been juxtaposed. Besides their representational meanings, these portions of texts will have carried evocative meanings that have also motivated the juxtaposition. The implication is that, in the analysis of a work such as 4QMMT, it is insufficient to take only representational meaning into account, at least if the goal is to reach back to something of an “original” meaning. For a more thorough treatment of entextualizing and evocative meaning, readers are referred to my discussion of these issues in relation to the Hodayot (Hasselbalch 2015: 12–17).

Communication in 4QMMT The addressee of 4QMMT has been seen both as neophyte and outsider. Both alternatives are paired with particular reconstructions of the historical situation. These interpretations implicitly identify the addresser in the text with the composer (and like-minded people in his group), and they assume that the argument appearing on the surface of the text represents the actual agenda of the composer. In this way, when the addresser in the epistolary section urges the addressee to act or behave in a certain manner to the benefit of himself and “the people”, the whole document is primarily seen as the composer’s attempt to urge Jerusalem authorities, neophytes, or someone else to practice cultic law regulations in accordance with the interpretation of the law by the composer. I want to pursue another option, which has been outlined by John S. Kloppenborg in an article about James’ address to “the twelve tribes in the diaspora”, where he analyses James and 4QMMT as rhetorically analogous. He finds that the identification of addressers and addressees is a rather more complicated matter that has, to some extent, been covered up by the author. It follows from this that the identification of a main purpose or agenda is far from straightforward. Both compositions, Kloppenborg says, are addressed to outsiders, and they employ similar techniques in order to persuade their ostensible audience and construct the speaker’s ethos by appealing to “exemplary figures of Israel’s past” that are reputable both to writer and addressee (Kloppenborg 2007: 260). Thus, the 48

C ontextualizing composite works : 4 Q M M T

speaker of 4QMMT explicitly refers to David, “a man of righteous deeds”, as if to appeal to this property also in the addressee – a Maccabean ruler or high priest (Kloppenborg 2007: 257). But Kloppenborg also points out a number of allusions to scriptural sources about David and makes the point that they serve to construct the speaker’s own ethos in a favourable way: Davidic echoes in the vocabulary of MMT are not only pathetical, appealing to the self-interest of a leader of Israel, as Qimron and Strugnell recognize: they are also ethical, implying that the writer is versed in the particulars of what is needful for the appropriate rule of God’s people. (Kloppenborg 2007: 258, emphasis added) In other words, the writer establishes an “ascribed ethos” for himself, rather than pointing to his factual achievements, which, due to the fact that he represented a group of dissenters, might be (and were, according to Kloppenborg) ill-received in Jerusalem. In comparison, the author of James casts his speaker in the image of Solomon, as someone who knows how to obtain wisdom and practice it according to the Torah, and as someone who defends the poor against their suppressors. When it comes to James, Kloppenborg takes his reading approach further and tries to demonstrate that the author of James did not, in fact, construct his appeal so as to reach only the ostensible audience of Jews in the Diaspora; he had a double readership and, implicitly, also addressed Jesus’ believers expected to “read over the shoulder” (Kloppenborg 2007: 268). In order to reach out to this “audience within the audience”, he made a number of subtle allusions to Jesus’ sayings. The allusions to Solomon, on the other hand, were intended to conceal that the actual addresser belonged in the Jesus movement in Jerusalem. Kloppenborg does not make a similar argument for 4QMMT, but there is reason to believe that its author, too, wrote to an “audience within an audience”. Perhaps his audience consisted of like-minded people who would be inclined to identify themselves with the addressing “we” of his composition. In the following, we shall see that allusions to Scripture, in the epistolary section, undergird this proposition.

Scriptural usage and identity construction in the epistolary section (C) It is generally recognized that the epistolary section uses Deuteronomy extensively through more and less direct reference (Brooke 1997: 83–4; Weissenberg 2009: 197; Strugnell 1994: 57–73; Bernstein 1996: 29–51). Deut. 7:26 is quoted and conflated with Deut. 12:31 in C 5–7; Deut. 31:29 and Deut. 30:1–2 are both used in C 12–16 and C 20–21 (Brooke 1997: 76, 82; Bernstein 1996: 47–50). According to Weissenberg, it is no coincidence that Deut. 12’s discussion of a reform, involving cultic centralization and purity regulation, is used twice in 4QMMT, because, in her view, 4QMMT is motivated by hope of a cultic reform, 49

T rine B j ø rnung H asselbalch

involving both of these issues. Weissenberg observes that the halakhic section (B) refers to Deut. 12:5 (4QMMT B 27–33; 58–62), focusing on cultic unity and centralization, whereas the epistolary section refers to Deut. 12:2–7; 29–31, passages concerned rather with cultic purity (Weissenberg 2009: 121–4; 193). In Weissenberg’s words, the allusions in 4QMMT (Ms 4Q398 frgs. 11–13) “signifies the author/redactor’s interest in both issues reflected in the source text, the purity and the unity of the cult” (Weissenberg 2009: 194). She makes the interesting point that the halakhic section and the epistolary section differ in their approaches to cultic purity. While the purity regulations of the halakhic section are cultic in the strict, ritual sense, the epistolary section seems to be talking about cultic purity in a broader sense, and including moral issues. Weissenberg develops her argument especially on the basis of the following passage near the beginning of the epistolary section (4Q397 14–21, l. 5–7=C 5–7): ‫ בגלל] החמס והזנות אבד[ו הרבה] מקומות [ואף] כתו[ב בספר מושה ולו]א תביא תועבה א[ל ביתכה כי] תועבה‬... ‫שנואה היאה‬

[because of] violence and fornication [many] places have been ruined. [And also] it is writ[ten in the book of Moses:] you shall [no]t bring an abomination in[to your house for] abomination is an odious thing. Looking at the biblical denotations of ‫( חמס‬violence), ‫( זנות‬fornication), ‫מקומות‬ (places), and ‫( תועבה‬abomination), Weissenberg concludes that they cover “a wide range of transgressions: actions that are against God’s will and endanger the purity of the cult and the correct praxis in the Temple” (Weissenberg 2009: 196). According to her, “places that have been ruined” could refer to the destruction of places in the vicinity of Jerusalem during Josiah’s cultic reform (2 Kgs 23) and serve as a warning about yet another destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. “Places” are, in any case, to be seen as cultic (Weissenberg 2009: 194–5). “Abomination” designates grave, moral transgressions (idolatry being the most frequently mentioned), which will render the Promised Land and its cultic praxis unclean, whereas “violence” and “fornication” cover “actions against God’s will” in a broad sense (Weissenberg 2009: 196). In Weissenberg’s view, this proves that cultic impurity was likened to grave, moral sin. In Deut. 7:26, “your house” is a reference to the home of any Israelite, as he is wandering in the wilderness, shortly to enter the Promised Land. This place is quoted in 4QMMT C (4Q497 14–21, 6–7), you shall [no]t bring an abomination into your house, and Weissenberg suggests that ‫ בית‬in the context of 4QMMT might signify the temple. This interpretation is reasonable but not unquestionable. The use of ‫ בית‬to designate temple seems straightforward in some of the literature that is unequivocally positive to the Temple service, for example, the Temple Scroll, interpolating the phrase ‫( ועושה אשמה גדול ומטמא הבית בעעוון החטאה‬and causes great guilt, and defiles the house with the sin of iniquity) into its reworking of Deut. 16:19–20 (White Crawford 2005). Sirach (Ecclus 47:9–10; 50:1–24) 50

C ontextualizing composite works : 4 Q M M T

designates the Temple ‫ בית‬on some occasions (Knibb 2005: 402–3). In the Animal Apocalypse (1 En. 83–90), a part of 1 Enoch which is openly critical to the Temple, ‫ בית‬appears to designate the Temple, but arguably also the city of Jerusalem, or the Tabernacle from the wilderness period, and perhaps even the desert camp (Tiller 1993: 36–51; Dimant 1982: 185). According to Knibb, the Apocalypse of Weeks, which is critical of the Temple and ignores its rebuilding on the return from exile, has the notion that “the state of exile continued long after the return and would only be brought to an end with the inauguration of the new age”, which was the writer’s own age (Knibb 2005: 408). According to Knibb, such a rejective stance to the contemporary, physical Temple is also found in Jubilees and may have affected the connotations of ‫ בית‬in 4QMMT, even if this document does not explicitly reject the Temple. Be that as it may, Weissenberg’s suggestion is in line with her understanding that scriptural places like Deut. 12:31 – for abomination is an odious thing – and Deut. 12:2 are central both in the epistolary section and in 4QMMT generally. In her view, namely, the concern is for the purity of the Temple cult. Moreover, cult purity is “not restricted to the correct observation of ritual purity”, but involves moral conduct in the form of “the correct implementation of Israelite religion and the purification of the cult from all foreign and idolatrous elements” (Weissenberg 2009: 197). In Weissenberg’s analysis, moral uprightness, as such, was not the agenda of 4QMMT, but it was included out of fear that moral misconduct might affect cultic purity. This way, Weissenberg basically sides with Klawans (2000: 72–5) and others, who underline the focus on Temple and cult in 4QMMT and the Temple Scroll, and contrast this with the larger role given to morality in sectarian documents like Pesher Habakkuk, the Community Rule, the Damascus Document, the Hodayot and 4Q512 Purification Ritual. Just as Klawans takes the halakhic section as his point of departure for the comparison with other Dead Sea Scrolls, Weissenberg insists on interpreting the epistolary section and its scriptural usage in light of it: 4QMMT, according to her, urges the fulfilling of the covenant “as described in the Halakhic section” (Weissenberg 2009: 218–19). This is not self-evident, however, and the use of Scripture in fact points in a different direction. For a start, Weissenberg’s view does not resonate with the way the speaking “we” characterizes itself in the subsequent lines of text 4Q397 14–21, 7–9: [‫ ] [ו]מהתערב בדברים האלה ומלבוא ע[מהם ]לגב אלה ואתם י[ודעים‬. . . ‫]ואתם יודעים ש]פרשנו מרוב הע[ם‬ ‫ ]מצא בידנו מעל ושקר ורעה כי על [אלה] אנחנו נותנים‬. . . ‫]שלוא‬

[And you know that] we have segregated ourselves from the multitude of the peop[le . . . and] from mingling in these affairs, and from associating wi[th them] in these things. And you k[now that there is not] to be found in our actions disloyalty or deceit or evil, for concerning [these things] we give [ . . . ] 51

T rine B j ø rnung H asselbalch

They do not practice “disloyalty (‫ )מעל‬or deceit (‫ )שקר‬or evil (‫”)רעה‬. In the Hebrew Bible, “disloyalty” (‫ )מעל‬often implies idolatry, but, at other times, it implies moral wrongdoing from person to person, which must be settled both through compensation from one person to another, and through a trespass offering, given to a priest (Lev. 5:21–6; Num. 5:6–8). In the Pentateuch, the noun ‫“( שקר‬deceit”) is generally used in warnings not to swear falsely against anyone (Ex. 20:16, 23:7; Lev. 19:12; Deut. 19:18). In light of this, the self-designations indicate that the addressing “we” considers itself to be morally irreproachable. Interestingly, ‫ שקר‬and ‫ מעל‬are used in parallel expressions in the just-mentioned setting of Lev. 5, which also contains other expressions met in the epistolary section of 4QMMT. It is not unlikely that the text of 4QMMT refers, by way of paraphrase, to the text of Lev. 5:20–26 (and Num. 5:6–8), with its talk about moral transgressions committed against one’s neighbour.1 In any case, by pointing to this theme and claiming freedom from guilt, the addresser directs attention away from previous talk of sin and cultic purity. Together with Weissenberg’s observations about how scriptural references to Deuteronomy points to morality as an issue, this observation impairs the idea that purity and cult reformation is actually on the agenda in the epistolary section. This brings us back to the interpretation of ‫ בית‬in the reference to Deut. 7:26. This reference would mean something different to an implicit “audience within the audience” which identified itself as the “we” of the text and found itself to be (literally or metaphorically) located outside of the Temple and cult in Jerusalem. To this audience, “home”, in a more profane sense, is exactly how the word ‫ בית‬might resonate in the quotation of Deut. 7:26. Alternatively, and perhaps even more likely, ‫ בית‬might be seen as the equivalent of Israel’s dwelling place, or the “camp” (Tiller 1993: 36–51; Dimant 1982: 185). In all likelihood, members of this audience would read 4QMMT as a text about how they could compensate for the defiling of the Temple cult by their own lawful (cultic) behaviour – not least morally. In this way, 4QMMT can be seen as a forerunner to sectarian documents promoting the idea of the community as a remnant that could atone for Israel at large, and conduct itself as an alternative temple. This way of thinking is seen, for instance, in the sectarian Community Rule (Collins 2009: 358). 1QS 8 14, in a context that repeatedly designates the community “holy house”, quotes Isa. 40:3 about preparing the way of the Lord in the wilderness. Clearly, the idea is to express the experience or idea of belonging to a distinct, dissenting community, which is nevertheless also God’s dwelling place. I suggest that 4QMMT already made a similar suggestion, albeit indirectly, through its use of scriptural allusions and other kinds of entextualization. Halakhic issues were hardly the only motivation for the use of Deuteronomy in 4QMMT. Deuteronomy introduces itself as “the words that Moses spoke to all Israel beyond the Jordan – in the wilderness” (Deut. 1:1), and therefore being in the wilderness and envisioning the future experience of being in the homeland is a major perspective. The wilderness tradition reflects a communal life without a temple, with no resort to a capital in Jerusalem or elsewhere, and it is likely that this circumstantial, exilic theme was brought into play also in 4QMMT’s usage of Deuteronomy. Recent studies show not only that the wilderness theme 52

C ontextualizing composite works : 4 Q M M T

permeates the Pentateuch to a larger degree than usually thought, but also that the stance of this literature both to wilderness and land is surprisingly ambiguous. In Laura Feldt’s view, already in the Pentateuch “The wilderness is a primary arena for intimate meetings with Yahweh, it is a place of personal and communal religious transformation, where the relation and form of communication between deity and humans are reflected upon, discussed, and negotiated” (Feldt 2012: 82). Among the so-called “sectarian” Dead Sea documents, the wilderness/Damascus is such a resource for a religious community, and this idea is also detectable in the New Testament. Brooke (1995) points out that Luke-Acts, which in other respects has been compared to 4QMMT, often depicts Jerusalem as a place of conflict, whereas the wilderness (across the Jordan) is a place of counterbalance. Clearly, when read as a letter addressed to those administering the cult in Jerusalem, 4QMMT’s use of scriptural phrases from Deuteronomy 12 can easily be seen as arguments in favour of a cultic reform in Jerusalem. However, when read as an implicit address to people who would be inclined to include themselves in the speaking “we”, the message – brought forward also through scriptural allusions – may have worked in a markedly different way: Deut. 12 as a scriptural context points to a situation where the Israelites were yet without a centralized cult, but were presented to the idea of having one and encouraged to act so as to achieve this. Deut. 7:26 is spoken in reference to a slightly different situation, where beit does not refer to an as yet non-existing temple, but to the private home!

How the sections of 4QMMT functioned Schiffman has argued that the calendrical section was added at some point after the composition of “the MMT proper” (which according to him is the halakhic and epistolary, in his words “homiletical”, section). He expresses surprise that calendrical issues had not been integrated from the beginning, because “One would certainly have expected these to have been mentioned in a document giving the legal reasons for the foundation of the sect, and that, in our view, is the purpose of MMT” (Schiffman 1996: 84–5). But this initial lack of calendrical issues makes sense if the purpose was not to give “the legal reasons for the foundation of the sect”, but to strengthen its identity as an exiled, yet lawful people. If the aim of composing 4QMMT was to edify people belonging to the “in-group” with respect to their legitimacy vis-à-vis Jerusalem, the calendar might serve the specific purpose of marking a boundary and signal to them: “if you go with this calendar, you belong to ‘us’ and here is a message for you, too.” The use of a calendar that deviates from that of an opponent group is well suited to demonstrate a difference in belief and praxis and to properly identify the people behind the message. By appending the solar calendar, 4QMMT demarcates its authors’ position over against the Jerusalem cult, which was ruled by the incompatible lunar calendar. Appended and replaceable calendars are seen in other Dead Sea Scrolls, for example, the calendrical section in 1QS X 1–8, which is not the same as the calendrical section in the parallel, but older manuscript 4QSe. Therefore, the idea 53

T rine B j ø rnung H asselbalch

is feasible that calendars demarcate social positions but do not necessarily express the central message of a text. It might, in fact, be offensive, and thus counterproductive, to insist explicitly on one’s own calendar over against that of the addressee if the purpose of the address was ultimately to persuade him to conduct cultic affairs according to the addresser’s own principles. As far as the “audience within the audience” is concerned, it makes sense to stress the evocative meaning of the calendrical section: not itself the message, its function was to indicate the social and rhetorical framework for the message of the whole document. A similar argument can be made with respect to the halakhic section B; namely, that it defined the social and ideational setting of 4QMMT, whereas the epistolary section C delivered the fundamental message. Admittedly, its lengthy and detailed treatment of purity regulations, together with its appealing form, leaves the impression that the strict and correct observance of purity regulations was the agenda of the whole composition, and this affects the contexualization of the work. Schiffman (2010: 120), for instance, argues on the basis of the halakhic section that 4QMMT in its entirety was written by people who were initially closely connected to the Sadducees, but had become discontent with their compliance with the new cultic practice introduced by the Maccabeans from 152 bce onwards. Schiffman may be correct that the halakhic section had been issued by early dissenters to their Sadducean brethren. Nevertheless, it may have been incorporated into the larger document 4QMMT at a later point in time and to a different purpose, whether as dialogue with opponents, intramural teaching, or (if we allow for “an audience within the audience”) both. In either case, the halakhic section was reused not only for what it literally says (its inscribed meaning), but for what it otherwise evoked in the composers and their ideal audience. Basically, it is the appealing form of the epistolary section that gives 4QMMT the impression of being an epistolary text of some kind. In this sense, the epistolary section is formative for the whole document. Its focus is not wholly different from that of the halakhic sections, but slightly. This has also been indicated by Hogeterp (2008: 369–70), finding in section C elements of dualistic and eschatological thinking, as well as the notion that justification to some degree depends on God’s providence. In this way, too, section C differs from section B, which focuses exclusively on lawful behaviour. In any case, by juxtaposing the halakhic and the epistolary section, the composers of 4QMMT have been able to establish common ground on matters of cultic purity, and, simultaneously, they have developed and (with some degree of subtlety) advocated new approaches to the fulfilling of the law. In this way, entextualization has provided a dynamic rhetorical instrument to a community facing a life away form their cultic centre.

Concluding remarks To return to Weissenberg, she is sympathetic to the idea that 4QMMT is a didactic text, yet she questions a trend to see in 4QMMT a continuous manifestation of the Dead Sea Community’s need to justify its schism from the establishment in 54

C ontextualizing composite works : 4 Q M M T

Jerusalem. To her, the document is a sign of a continued concern for the purity of the cult in Jerusalem, and of ongoing discussions with outsiders on this matter – not of the Dead Sea Community’s tendency to isolate itself from the larger Jewish community (Weissenberg 2009: 24). Thus, she sees the central message presented in the halakhic section as the central message of the whole document. By taking an extra look at some of the scriptural references in the epistolary section, we have found indications that its message may have been different. Where the halakhic section revolves around matters of cultic purity, the epistolary section hints at broader, moral issues, and the quotation of Deut. 7:26 may not at all be a reference to Temple affairs; Deuteronomy as a frame of reference for the epistolary section highlights the theme of exile and the awareness of living, geographically or mentally, away from Jerusalem. In the discourse of 4QMMT, the halakhic section repeats a viewpoint that was probably central to the writer’s group over time. They had probably presented their viewpoint in the face of the cultic establishment in Jerusalem, and maybe they had kept repeating their message for a good while. But this is not to say that the purpose of composing 4QMMT was to insist once more on this position. In the context of 4QMMT, the halakhic section was, instead, emblematic of a particular rhetorical situation that the composer’s community experienced and of which he expected the ideal readers to be aware. It was something he appealed to as part of the collective memory he shared with the “audience within the audience”. It served to properly retrieve the ideological base and fundamental situation of the writer’s group in relation to the message that he now wanted to pass on: that “we” lawfully take the cultic obligation upon us as best we can where we are, away from the establishment in Jerusalem. When we use the epistolary section and its use of Scripture as reading lenses, 4QMMT seems already to cultivate a wilderness identity and push the matter of cultic purity in the Temple, so prominent in the halakhic section, into the background, suggesting instead to the implied audience (within the audience) that it was possible for its members to compensate for the defiling of the Temple cult by their own morally correct behaviour on the outside, in their “homes”. Read this way, 4QMMT is a forerunner to sectarian Dead Sea Scrolls promoting the idea of a community remnant that could atone for Israel at large, and conduct itself as an alternative Temple (Collins 2009: 358). Such a function in the years leading to a full and irreversible split would explain the manifold copies and, presumably, ongoing use of 4QMMT.

Note 1 The extant text of 4QMMT is distorted, and it is impossible to draw any firm conclusions. The ending of the quoted passage is ‫ אנחנו נותנים א‬. . . (“we give . . . ”). Two possible reconstructions would be “we give trespass offering” (‫ )אשמה‬or “we give a ram of the flock” (‫ )איל צאן‬or a similar text reflecting, and responding to, the injunction in Lev. 5:24b–25 to give compensation, or to bring a trespass offering to the priest. Neither of these would be an exact reproduction of the Masoretic text (nor the similar passages in

55

T rine B j ø rnung H asselbalch

Num. 5:7; Ezra 10:19), but then again, the preceding text is not either. If this admittedly speculative suggestion is correct, it is noteworthy that atonement through the agency of the priest, not flawlessness, is the ostensible explanation for the addressers’ irreproachable morality.

Bibliography Bernstein, M. 1996. “The Employment and Interpretation of Scripture in 4QMMT: Preliminary Observations”. See Kampen and Bernstein (1996): 29–51. ———. G. Martinez and J. Kampen (eds.). 1997. Legal Texts and Legal Issues. Proceedings of the Second Meeting of the International Organization for Qumran Studies, Cambridge 1985. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Blommaert, J. 2010. The Socio-Linguistics of Globalization. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Brooke, G. J. 1995. “Luke-Acts and the Qumran Scrolls: The Case of MMT”. In Luke’s Literary Achievement. Collected Essays. C. Tuckett (ed.), 72–90. Sheffield Academic Press: Sheffield. ———. 1997. “The Explicit Presentation of Scripture in 4QMMT”. See Bernstein et al. (1997): 67–88. Collins, J. J. 2009. “Beyond the Qumran Community. Social Organization in the Dead Sea Scrolls”. Dead Sea Discoveries 16/3: 351–69. Derrida, J. 1978. Writing and Difference. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Dimant, D. 1982. “Jerusalem and the Temple in the Animal Apocalypse (1 Enoch 85–90) in Light of the Ideology of the Dead Sea Sect”. Shnaton 5–6: 177–93 (Hebrew). Eshel, H. 1996. “4QMMT and the History of the Hasmoneans Period”. See Kampen and Bernstein (1996): 53–65. Feldt, L. 2012. “Wilderness and Hebrew Bible Religion – Fertility, Apostasy and Religious Transformation in the Pentateuch.” In Wilderness in Mythology and Religion. Approaching Religious Spatialities, Cosmologies, and Ideas of Wild Nature. L. Fekdt (ed.). Berlin: De Gruyter: 55–94. Fraade, S. 2000. “To Whom It May Concern. 4QMMT and Its Addressee(s)”. Revue de Qumran 19: 507–26. García Martínez, F. 1996. “4QMMT in a Qumran Context”. See Kampen and Bernstein (1996): 15–27. Grossman, M. L. 2001. “Reading 4QMMT: Genre and History”. Revue de Qumran 20: 3–22. Halbwachs, M. 1992. On Collective Memory. Edited, Translated, and with an Introduction by Lewis A. Coser. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Hasselbalch, T. B. 2015. Meaning and Context in the Thanksgiving Hymns. Linguistic and Rhetorical Perspectives on a Collection of Prayers from Qumran. Atlanta, GA: SBL Press. Hempel, C. 2010. “The Context of 4QMMT and Comfortable theories”. In The Dead Sea Scrolls: Texts and Context. C. Hempel (ed.). Leiden: Brill. Hodder, I. 2003 [1998]. “The Interpretation of Documents and Material Culture”. In Collecting and Interpreting Qualitative Materials. N. K. Denzin and Y. S. Lincoln (eds.), 2nd edn. London: Sage Publications: 155–75. Høgenhaven, J. 2003. “Rhetorical Devices in 4QMMT.” Dead Sea Discoveries 10/2: 187–204.

56

C ontextualizing composite works : 4 Q M M T

Hogeterp, A. L. A. 2008. “4QMMT and Paradigms of Second Temple Jewish Nomism”. Dead Sea Discoveries 15: 359–79. Kampen, J. and M. J. Bernstein (eds.). 1996. Reading 4QMMT: New Perspectives on Qumran Law and History. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press. Klawans, J. 2000. Impurity and Sin in Ancient Israel. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kloppenborg, J. S. 2007. “Diaspora Discourse: The Construction of Ethos in James”. New Testament Studies 53: 242–70. Knibb, M. A. 2005. “Temple and Cult in Apocryphal and Pseudepigraphical Writings from Before the Common Era”. In Temple and Worship in Biblical Israel. Proceedings of the Oxford Old Testament Seminar. J. Day (ed.). New York: T&T Clark International: 401–16. Qimron, E. and J. Strugnell 1985. “An Unpublished Halakhic Letter from Qumran”. In Biblical Archaeology Today. Proceedings of the International Congress on Biblical Archaeology Jerusalem, April 1984. J. Amitai (ed.). Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society: 400–407. ———. 1994. Qumran Cave 4, V: Miqṣat Maʿaśe Ha-Torah. Discoveries in the Judaean Desert X. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Reinhartz, A. 2009. “We, You, They. Boundary Language in 4QMMT and the New Testament Epistles”. In Text, Thought, and Practice in Qumran and in Early Christianity. R. A. Clements and D. R. Schwartz (eds.). Leiden: Brill: 83–105. Ricœur, P. 1971. “The Model of the Text. Meaningful Action Considered as Text”. Social Research 38: 529–62. Schiffman, L. H. 1996. “The Place of 4QMMT in the Corpus of Qumran Manuscripts”. See Kampen and Bernstein (1996): 81–98. Schiffman, L. H. 2010. Qumran and Jerusalem. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Strugnell, J. 1994. “MMT: Second thoughts on a Forthcoming Edition”. In The Community of the Renewed Covenant. The Notre Dame Symposium on the Dead Sea Scrolls, E. Ulrich and J. C. VanderKam (eds.). Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press: 57–73. Tiller, P. 1993. A Commentary on the Animal Apocalypse of 1 Enoch. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press. Tov, E. 1993. The Dead Sea Scrolls on Microfiche. A Comprehensive Facsimile Edition of the Texts from the Judean Desert. Companion Volume. E. Tov in collaboration with S. J. Pfann. Leiden: Brill. Weissenberg, H. von. 2009. 4QMMT. Reevaluating the Text, the Function, and the Meaning of the Epilogue. Leiden: Brill. VanderKam, J. C. 1997. “The Calendar, 4Q327, and 4Q394”. See Bernstein et al. (1997): 179–94. White Crawford, S. A. 2005. “Reading Deuteronomy in the Second Temple Period”. In Reading the Present in the Qumran Library. The Perception of the Contemporary by Means of Scriptural Interpretations. K. DeTroyer and A. Lange (eds.). Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature: 127–40.

57

This Page is Intentionally Left Blank

Part II GR E E K C ONNE CT IO N S

This Page is Intentionally Left Blank

4 IS T HE OLD TES TAM E NT STI LL A HELLENISTIC B OOK? Niels Peter Lemche Prolegomena Isa 27:1 and KTU 1.5:I.1–2 Isaiah 27:1: On this day Yahweh will punish with his sword, the hard, big and strong one, / Leviathan the fleeing serpent, and Leviathan the winding serpent, / and kill the dragon which is in the sea. KTU 1.5:I.1–2 is part of the Ugaritic Ba’lu epic cycle: For you killed Latanu, the fleeing serpent, you finished off the winding serpent, the mighty one with seven heads.

More than a thousand years separates the two texts. The Isaiah text, belonging to the “little apocalypse”, is normally dated to about the same time as the Book of Daniel, that is the second century bce, and the Ugaritic text to the fourteenth century bce. Still, it is basically the same text with almost identical content. The victim of the god’s attack is the same, biblical Leviathan, Ugaritic Latanu (or Lotanu), and while the Isaiah text has as a parallel the dragon in the sea, the Ugaritic description of Latanu implies that the monster has seven heads; that is, Latanu is the hydra, the famous sea monster of Greek legends. This part of the parallel is not sensational. The interesting part is the use of the same two words ‫ ָּב ִר ַח‬/bāriḥa and ‫ ֲע ַקּלָתֹון‬/‛aqallatana in both passages, the Ugaritic words in the accusative. The use of one of these words in isolation may be accidental, but the use of both words as a pair is more than an accident. It simply indicates that we have here a fixed pair in tradition when it comes to the description of the monster of the sea. Moreover, both in the Hebrew Bible and in the preserved Ugaritic texts, ‫ ֲע ַקּלָתֹון‬/‛aqallatana is only found here. I open with this example to show that Middle Eastern tradition was always stronger than it is at times assumed today. Nobody is in doubt that Isaiah 27 is a late text. If we talk about the Old Testament as a Hellenistic book, Isaiah 27 is definitely Hellenistic. So maintaining that the Old Testament is a Hellenistic book or a book from the Hellenistic Period – which is not necessarily the same – does not mean that everything is Greek and, so to speak, foreign to oriental tradition. I will come back to this later. 61

N iels P eter L emche

The Old Testament: a Hellenistic book? More than twenty years ago, I gave a lecture in the Teologiske Forening in Copenhagen about the Old Testament as a Hellenistic book. It appeared in an English translation in the Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament in an English translation as “The Old Testament – A Hellenistic Book?” (Lemche 1993) The background was the growing sense at that time among Old Testament scholars that most of the literature found in the Old Testament was late, from the Postexilic or the Persian Period. I found the ascription of a major part of biblical literature to these periods disturbing and saw it as a repetition of the mania, prevalent when I was young, to date everything as early as possible, preferably to the Period of the Judges or the United Monarchy of David and Solomon. Moreover, the new late dating also increased the tendency to date everything to periods about which we have so little solid historical knowledge. The Persian Period once was such a dark period in the history of Palestine. We had, and still have, precious little information from this period. Of course, making the same kind of “links” as used before to create connections between a biblical text and a specific time when it is supposed to have been put together, there would be quite a number of informative elements about the Persian Period in the Old Testament, especially in the books of Ezra and Nehemiah. A mighty burden was laid on these books, especially the Book of Nehemiah, as reflecting actual conditions in Yehud after the exile. As it has turned out, the existence or non-existence of the wall of Nehemiah has become a crucial part of the discussion. If it could be verified that Nehemiah really had built such a wall – the demand is that the wall can be found – the mission of Nehemiah to Jerusalem could at least be verified. If it cannot be found, there is indeed a problem (Ussishkin 2006; Lipschits 2009; Finkelstein 2009). The logic has been the same as always: biblical scholars assume that biblical stories talk about something that existed not only in biblical literature, but also in the real world, the physical world of ancient Israel. Because of these stories in the Old Testament, we know about the period of, say, David and Solomon, and are therefore able to date these stories to the time of these two kings of Israel. The argumentation is, of course, false because it is circular and there is no reason to continue the discussion on this level. In the case of David and Solomon, it has also been verified – at the same time falsifying the biblical claim that there was such a period – it has been verified that there was no great Israelite state in central Palestine in the tenth century bce, the time normally ascribed to the kingdom ruled by such great biblical figures. However, to return to the Persian Period, we have literature concerning this period, including some of the Minor Prophets and maybe so-called “Third Isaiah”. In addition, we have a few references in extra-biblical literature, most notably a few letters from the colony of Yehudin in Elephantine. We do not have a history of the period, nor even a summary, comparable to the story about the kingdoms of Israel and Judah in the books of Kings. The tradition history of the books 62

T he O ld T estament : still H ellenistic ?

of Ezra and Nehemiah, as well as the source criticism necessary to distinguish between legend and history in these books, is not at all easier than is the case of the Pentateuch and the Deuteronomistic history. Here, I am not joining the position of Thomas Römer (Römer 2005), expanding this history and perhaps relying too much on a modern concept of what constitutes a book. In the form we have them, they are extremely late, and the redaction history is most complicated. The connection between the two books is being discussed, and the information contained in them spurious, not least when it comes to the person of Ezra, who would, if we follow the information about him presented in his book, have been at least 150 years old when he visited Jerusalem. Ezra is said to be the son of Seraiah, son of Azariah, son of Hilkiah, son of Shallum (Ezra 7:1; cf. 1 Chron. 5:39–41). Hilkiah was the high priest in Jerusalem in Josiah’s narrative, who found the law book (2 Kings 22). It was, therefore, that, when I was preparing the original lecture on the Old Testament as a Hellenistic book, I simply decided to pull out all the plugs. The working hypothesis was: let’s see how it works, if we assume that these writings came into being in Hellenistic times and not in the Persian Period or an even yet earlier period. And now to the content of the lecture about the Old Testament as a Hellenistic book: the Old Testament, identified as the Hebrew Bible, is not – strictly speaking – a Hellenistic book. It came into being in Roman times as a rabbinic collection of writings from the Jewish world. However, the Greek Old Testament, the Septuagint, is without doubt a Hellenistic book. After all, the language is Greek. Because it is obvious that the Septuagint includes mostly Jewish writings, originally not in Greek, this collection of writings must be older than their Greek translations. The question is, simply, how old are such writings? A major part of the discussion has to do with the physical existence of biblical books. Apart from the Priestly (Aaronite) Blessing in Numbers 6:24–6, no part of the Hebrew Old Testament is extant before the Dead Sea Scrolls. The date of these scrolls can certainly be discussed, but that date will invariably be within the Hellenistic Period. So we may agree on one thing: we have no evidence of the physical existence of Hebrew Scripture, as such, from before the Hellenistic Period. This should be the point of departure, whenever the date of biblical books is discussed, though it almost never is! Normally, scholars have assumed a date, say, in the seventh century bce, for large parts of the historiography found in the Old Testament. Even so, they also skip half a millennium and connect such an imaginary date in the Iron Age to the physical testimony of the existence of this historiography as if it were not a problem. It is a problem! It is a transgression of some of the most important principles of source criticism – not the biblical version of that discipline, but the kind of criticism employed by historians since Barthold Georg Niebuhr and refined ever since, the aim of which was and is to sift between primary and secondary sources. As the first Niebuhr applied this technique to Livy’s Roman history, it became mandatory to all subsequent, serious historians (Niebuhr 1811–12). The problem for biblical historians was, and still is, that they have tended to identify the oldest source found in a written document with 63

N iels P eter L emche

a primary source, understood as a contemporary source. To a great extent, they have ignored the fact that also the oldest part of an ancient document may be a secondary source! They have been absolutely blind to the claim of the “father” of Danish historians, Christian Erslev (1852–1930), that secondary sources are also of value if they are read as testimonies from the time when they came into being. This also implies that primary sources embedded in a document, which can only be considered a secondary source, are likewise part of the outlook of the people who drafted older information into their own retelling of the past. It has been difficult to persuade Old Testament scholars to apply the source criticism of professional historians, and it certainly still is. Those who attended the recent IOSOT congress in Munich in August 2013, and heard the opening lecture by the president, Christoph Levin (Levin 2013) will know this. After five minutes, I was ready to enlist Levin among the members of the Copenhagen School. However, after fifteen minutes, we were again back in the Iron Age in a traditional way. Time is not a problem to many colleagues. However, it is a fundamental problem that must be dealt with in any historical study, which uses later documents as the basic source. My lecture/essay “The Old Testament, a Hellenistic Book?” was reissued in a revised edition some eight years later in Did Moses Speak Attic?, edited by Lester Grabbe, which published the results of two sessions of the European Seminar in Historical Methodology in 1998 and 1999 (Grabbe 2001). At the end of this collection, Grabbe summed up my essay in four points: 1 The Old Testament has little to do with real history. It is therefore a poor source of historical information. 2 Much Old Testament literature belongs to the Diaspora. 3 The History of Israel seems to be modelled on the Greek pattern, beginning with Herodotus. 4 The Persian Period does not seem to meet the requirements of the contexts of the books of the Old Testament. This is only a general and not very accurate résumé, which does not really cover my intentions. Contemporary sources may also be imprecise and even legendary. We need only think of Suetonius’ biographies of Roman emperors. Whether or not a historical source is accurate is quite a different question, although we would be ready to accept more mistakes and distortions in a text considered to be much later than the events described by the text in question. The second point is more important and involves several issues. Among these we may mention the content of the literature in question and the tendencies found here. But we also have to consider the conditions for intellectual work at the time when we think the literature in the Old Testament was written. When it comes to content, we have to make a distinction between at least two issues: first, the physical evidence of sources used by the authors of this literature. If a certain source of the Old Testament is quoting or at least basing its text on Assyrian annals, as 64

T he O ld T estament : still H ellenistic ?

is most likely the case in the short notice of Sennacherib’s attack on Hezekiah in 2 Kings 18:13–15, we have a point of departure for a critical assessment of these verses in 2 Kings. Somehow, the author of the text in 2 Kings had access to the Assyrian version, although we do not really know when and where such was the case. However, the content of such a text goes beyond the physical impression of the text and also involves the tendencies, that is, the programme of the text in question. This is the second point: what is the idea of retelling an ancient annalistic source, as in 2 Kings 18, when the note is immediately followed by a series of legendary sections of no historical importance, except as an illustration of the aim of the author who chose to retell the past in his legendary way? Here, the issue of the conditions for the establishment of such literature as found in the historical books of the Old Testament is important. There can be no doubt that this literature represents an intellectual achievement of a major sort. Where and when do we find the preconditions for such activity? Could it be in Jerusalem in the seventh century bce after it grew to become a major regional centre as a result of a migration of intellectuals from Samaria after the Assyrian conquest in 722 bce, in the way that had been proposed by Albrecht Alt more than sixty years ago (Alt 1953)? I have dealt with this issue in a number of places recently and will not invest much energy in the question now (for example, Lemche 2010, 2012b, 2013). However, Samaria was not razed to the ground by the Assyrians in 722 bce. Rather, some 20,000 to 30,000 people were deported from Samaria to Assyria. These were not exclusively the intellectual elite, as it is known that Sargon employed prisoners from the west in building his palace. This removes the basis for identifying the expansion of Jerusalem to the settlement of a stream of refugees from Samaria to Jerusalem. A more likely explanation of the growth of Jerusalem is that Jerusalem was the only city in the south still standing after Sennacherib’s visit in 701 bce. Even Lachish, the biggest city of the south, was totally destroyed by the Assyrians. Sennacherib himself tells us this, both in writing and in pictures.1 Archaeology has also shown that nearly every built-up place in Hezekiah’s kingdom was demolished by the Assyrian army. If anything, Old Testament literature – the historical books as well as prophets – are obsessed with the idea of exile. A complete analysis of exilic motives in the first two parts of the Hebrew Bible has still to be done, but the towering theme of this literature is exile and the return from exile. I presented my case for the presence of this theme in The Old Testament between Theology and History (Lemche 2008: 186–253; see also Gudme and Hjelm 2015). The exile – no matter which exile – simply dominates. Hardly has Israel arrived in its land before it is warned of impending exile. Before the story has begun, we are almost leaving the country again, hoping for a return that will bring the Israelites back from everywhere they now live. Of course, this theme is not something that reflects an Israel that lives in its land of old; it is part of the mental matrix of a diaspora community longing to return to a land that abounds with milk and honey, or so they were told. It is not post-exilic literature; it is exilic literature, and this exile has a permanent status: the place where Israel now lives. 65

N iels P eter L emche

As to the third point, that historiography in the Old Testament presupposes Greek history writing, I must say that, in 1992, this was hardly a new idea. Already, John Van Seters had presented ideas about the relationship between the two kinds of historiography (Van Seters 1983). Several scholars, including Sarah Mandell and David Freedman (Mandell and Fredman 1993), as well as Flemming Nielsen (Nielsen 1997) and Jan-Wim Wesselius (Wesselius 2002), have since expanded the idea of Greek influence on Old Testament historiography. My main contribution to this discussion has been the argument that it is not Herodotus who presents the closest parallel to biblical narrative, but Livy. Historiography in the Old Testament does not have the work of the great Greek history writers as its closest parallel, but rather the Hellenistic type of historiography that we find in Livy’s Ab urbe condita, his enormous history of ancient Rome. Finally, I argued that it was unlikely that biblical literature had its home in Palestine in the Persian Period, nor is it likely that it originated in Iron Age Jerusalem. It is hard to find in the remains from these periods the preconditions for major intellectual activity, which is the raison d’être for establishing great literature. By and large, Palestine, and especially the southern highlands, provides one of the poorest cultural environments in the whole of the ancient Near East! Its architecture was typically substandard, not least the remains of official buildings, and there was hardly any art worth remembering. In daily life, we find evidence of the poverty of the material culture with small settlements, which, for one reason or another, are called “cities” by many scholars. I simply cannot find evidence of activity here that reflected a developing civilization, able to produce some of the finest literature of the ancient world. In contrast, we should look to Greek cities and especially Athens in the fifth century bce – to stay with a medium-sized settlement, yet larger than anything found in Palestine from the Iron Age. Here, we see the kind of prerequisites there are linked to extensive literary activity, second to none in world history, including fabulous expressions of art and architecture, in short, a developing and extrovert society. The contrast could not be greater to the poverty and anonymity of Palestine’s highlands in the Iron Age. The Ancient Near East created great literature and great art and architecture, but such was created in major cities found all over the Near East – except in Palestine. It would be easy, and probably too easy, to ascribe all the literature on an intellectual level comparable to that found in the Old Testament to a time when Greek influence created a new synthesis after the conquest of Alexander, although we find an increasing tendency to propagate such a date and environment of biblical literature. I have at different occasions spoken about a kind of “pan-Hellenism” arising and I have warned against it, at least in those cases where the argumentation is not very sophisticated. However, any criticism of the recent studies by Russell Gmirkin on Berossus and Manetho (Gmirkin 2006) and Philippe Wajdenbaum’s Argonauts of the Desert (Wajdenbaum 2011) must rely on a proper reading of these studies, rather than on an unargued rejection of the idea of, for example, seeing Plato as a model for biblical law. I believe that a strong case can be made 66

T he O ld T estament : still H ellenistic ?

in favour of both Gmirkin’s and Wajdenbaum’s approaches. My case study is the Primeval Story in Genesis 1–11.

The Primeval Story In the already mentioned collection Did Moses Speak Attic?, I published another piece on the Old Testament and Hellenism to analyse the mental set-up of biblical writers and, in this particular case, the author(s) of the Primeval Story (Lemche 2001). John Van Seters had already years ago claimed Greek influence on Genesis 1, tracing the structure of the world back to Greek natural philosophy of the sixth century bce (Van Seters 1988). However, my point was then much the same as it is today. There is a lot more than Greek tradition in Genesis 1–11. Already in Genesis 2, however, we feel at home in a Mesopotamian context, suggesting that we have a mixture of Greek and oriental traditions in the Primeval Story. This points to an author who may have lived in one of the centres of Mesopotamia, such as Seleucia, the newly founded capital of the Seleucid empire, or at least in a place where Greek and oriental traditions met and blended to form a new tradition. The major disadvantage of such a theory is that we don’t know where it really happened, although, from the physical remains – especially architecture – we can see such blending manifested all over Western Asia. I will try to be more specific in dealing with the Primeval Story, by defining its different themes and tracing their origins before returning to the collection of stories and looking for a home for the establishment of this collection. The first narrative segment deals with creation. Enough has already been said about its relation to Greek natural philosophy. The division of chaos into the four elements, in the Bible darkness and light, water and the dry land, is paralleled by Greek ideas about the composition of the universe. It is not very interesting whether Thales and his colleagues were inspired by oriental ideas, though it is likely. It is, however, important to observe that the enactment of creation in Genesis is logical and progressive and that the separation between the elements makes use of the verb ‫בדל‬, in the hif’il: “to divide”. To argue that we find Greek influence here is not a real problem. Traditionally, Genesis 1 is considered part of the Priestly source and everybody, except a few Israeli scholars, agrees that this source is late. The second major element deals with the creation and fall of man, Genesis 2–3. It opens with a description of what was not yet here. Man is created, and everything else is created after that. The first two humans are placed in God’s garden, the Eden, and are allowed to eat from its fruits apart from the fruits from the tree of wisdom, and, of course, they transgress the prohibition and are exiled from God’s presence. The third element involves murder. After their parents had been exiled from Paradise, Cain kills his brother Abel. The play is on the tragic history, which has begun. Cain is the father of civilization! Thereafter, in the fourth narrative element, we find, at the end of Genesis 4 and Genesis 5, a variation of sundry minor 67

N iels P eter L emche

themes, with reference to such figures as Lamech and Enoch. We also have a competing toledoth, presenting Enosh as the first man. A list of the ancient longliving descendants of Adam is also included (Genesis 5:3–32). The fourth narrative segment seems to be a diversion from the main line, the story of the giants, the nephilîm, which of course does not mean “giants” but “the fallen ones”. The implication of this name will soon become apparent. The fifth major narrative element relates the flood and the extinction of humankind – apart from a single family that can bear the tradition. Two more additional themes follow: the covenant between God and humankind (Genesis 9), and the mapping of humankind on the face of the earth (Genesis 10). The sixth and final major theme includes the story of the tower of Babel, the origins of languages and the dispersion of humankind over the face of the earth. Due to the character of the Old Testament, we do not have much that allows us to trace these themes in the tradition of Palestine, not to say the Levant. It is typical and has been noted that Ugarit has several legends, most notably the collection about Ba‛lu and his colleagues, but nothing about creation. While the fighting between gods constitutes a major theme in the Ba‛lu cycle, we have no creation story here and nothing linked to the stories of Genesis 1–11. However, that the ancient tradition was not entirely forgotten by the biblical writers is implied in the quotation that opened this lecture. The idea of the deity’s fight against the sea is definitely a motif found in several places in the Old Testament, sometimes linked to creation, or at least to motifs connected with creation. However, a fully developed description of the creation is unknown. It may have existed, but we can only base our argumentation on what we have. The story of the creation of humankind and the fall of man in Genesis 2–3 bristles with Mesopotamian motives, not a great surprise as the author makes it very clear that the scenery belongs to the east, even east of Sinear, an Egyptian name for Mesopotamia. The very opening, the non-being of civilization, is paralleled in Babylonian epics. Famous are the opening lines of Enuma Eliš: When above, heaven was not mentioned Below the earth, no one had pronounced a name Then follows the name of the garden of God, Eden, that is, Akkadian edinnu, a loanword from Sumerian edin, meaning “plain” or even “the grazing land between the two rivers”. The tree of life fits in, but not the tree of wisdom. The story of the fall is, on the other hand, unique to Genesis. The closest parallel could be the humanization of Gilgamesh’s friend Enkidu, when, for the sake of a harlot, he moves from a natural stage of innocence, close to gods and wild animals, to the human stage, where relations with the innocent or primeval world of the gods (and animals) are broken. The story of Cain’s murder of his brother, Abel, has no parallel in oriental literature, although the central motif of brotherly conflict is not unknown. The best parallel is probably Livy’s story of the rivalry between Romulus and his brother Remus.

68

T he O ld T estament : still H ellenistic ?

There is no reason to use much space on the story of the flood. The version in Genesis is more or less a rewritten Gilgamesh (cf. Lemche 2012a). The introduction of the raven as the first bird sent out by Noah, but not returning, is an intertextual reference to Gilgamesh (Genesis 8:7). In the version in Gilgamesh, the raven is the third bird sent out from the ark, the bird that does not return because it finds the world dry again (Gilgamesh XI: 153–4). The remaining narrative motifs found in Genesis 1–11 have no obvious parallels in Mesopotamian tradition. The Mesopotamian tradition as represented by Atraḫasis combines creation and flood, as did the Sumerian story of the creation and the flood. Enuma Eliš is only concerned with creation but links it to the motif of the god Marduk fighting the dragon/the sea Tiamat. If we now consider the themes not easily found in Babylonian tradition, we need to look at the competing Greek pre-Hellenistic tradition about the early history of the gods and earth, as found in Hesiod in his two major works Erga kai Hemerai (Works and Days) and Theogony. These two works by this great Greek author of the late eighth and early seventh century have very different subjects. Theogony deals with the birth of the gods, and Erga kai Hemerai includes the story of the different generations created by the gods. The first thing created, according to Theogony, however, is Chaos, not totally dissimilar to the text, so well-known to theologians: Verily, at the first, Chaos came to be, but, next, wide-bosomed Earth, the ever sure foundation of all the deathless ones who hold the peaks of snowy Olympus, and dim Tartarus . . . From Chaos came forth Erebus and black night; but of Night were born Aether and Day, whom she conceived and bore from a union in love with Erebus. And Earth first bore starry Heaven . . . And she brought forth long Hills . . . she bore also the fruitless deep with his raging swell, Pontus, without sweet union of love (Theogony 116–32) Thereafter follows the description of the various divine rulers of the world – Uranos, Cronos, and Zeus – followed by the battle between the Titans and the Olympic gods, resulting in the Titans being imprisoned in the depths of the Tartaros. It is of importance that Prometheus is presented as the son of Iapetos and, in some scholia to Hesiod, named the father of Deucalion, the hero of the Greek story of the flood. In Erga kai Hemerai, we find the classical division of the generations of humankind into the Golden Age, the Silver Age, the Bronze Age and the Iron Age (the present age). However, between the Bronze and Iron Ages, we have another age of the demi-gods, some of whom died in battle, while others were settled by Zeus at the end of the world (Erga kai Hemera 156–73). No account of a story of the flood is in the extant works of Hesiod. As a matter of fact, in pre-Hellenistic Greek literature not much is said about this event, although indications in Pindar (his Olympian Ode 9) and especially Plato (Critias) show that some traditions about floods existed.

69

N iels P eter L emche

It is characteristic of the pre-Hellenistic Greek evidence that, although Hesiod informs his reader about the genesis of the world, of gods and human beings, no Primeval Story exists including more of the elements in combination as told by Genesis 1–11. Invoking pre-Hellenistic Greek parallels to the Primeval Story in Genesis will engage some of the themes preserved in Genesis 1–11, but will not present a parallel to the Primeval Story as such.

The Hellenistic Period Berossus Although preserved only in fragments, it is clear that the first version of the Primeval Story, which is known and can be dated, is the one presented by Berossus in the first part of his Babyloniaca, his history of Babylon. Recent work on Berossus – especially by Russell Gmirkin (Gmirkin 2006) – makes it unnecessary to spend much time on the intention of his work, on his career and background, although both subjects are important, as they show how the ancient Near East was transformed in a Hellenistic world.2 Neither will I spend time on the intricate transmission of his works, a great story in its own right, which could have been written by Umberto Eco. Berossus, or Bel-re’u-šunu, according to his Babylonian name, who may have been born when Babylon was still ruled by the Persians, was acquainted with the ancient traditions of Mesopotamia (he is supposed to have been a priest of Bel). Adjusting to the new realities, he evidently wrote his Babyloniaca in Greek literary style for the benefit of his new Greek masters, combining motifs from different Babylonian epics, Enuma Eliš, Gilgamesh, probably the poem of Erra and more. He also incorporated the Sumerian-Babylonian tradition of the long-living antediluvian kings, as presented in the Sumerian king list. In the fragments preserved, he presents the origins of the world as the revelations of the sea monster Oannes in a fashion not dissimilar from the very beginning of Genesis 1, as everything was darkness and water. Hereafter follows the list of the kings before the flood. This is a series of long-living heroes, the last being Xisousthros, who should turn out to be the Babylonian Noah. The story of the flood according to Berossus is close to the version in Gilgamesh. As in the Babylonian epics, Xisousthros does not die but is taken away together with his wife to live with the gods. Following the flood, we have a series of kings that bring us down to Berossus’ own time. Berossus has been taken as a kind of blueprint for the Primeval Story in Genesis, and it is true that Genesis 1–11 comes very close to the version of the Primeval Story found in Berossus’ Babyloniaca. Of interest is the incorporation into Genesis of the motif from the Sumerian king-list of the original kings of Babylon in the pedigree of Seth in Genesis 5. This combination of king-lists and creation and flood is not found in older Babylonian sources and can be used when arguing that Berossus was a direct source of inspiration for the author of Genesis 1–11. However, Genesis 1–11 includes themes not present in the preserved parts of Berossus’ Babyloniaca. 70

T he O ld T estament : still H ellenistic ?

For example, the motif of the giants in Genesis 6:1–4 is not in Babyloniaca. Neither is the parable of the tower of Babel. But let us see how the Primeval Story develops in other works that can be clearly dated to the Hellenistic Period.

The Book of Jubilees The Book of Jubilees preserves the most extensive retelling of the Primeval Story found in Hellenistic literature. Its version is closely related to Genesis 1–11, although there are some significant variations from the biblical version – differences that do not owe their existence to the particular theme of Jubilees’ chronology. At times, one has the impression that the author of Jubilees may have known the narrative of Genesis 1–11 in a form rather different from the present versions. Jubilees follows Genesis 1–3 closely, but has a more expansive description of the individual parts of the creation. This author knew and had in front of him the combined story of creation and the fall of man (including both Genesis 1 and Genesis 2–3). On the other hand, the short reference to Enoch in the Hebrew Bible’s Genesis is much more extensive and detailed in Jubilees’ version, reminding us of the Enoch traditions in the Genesis Apocryphon or the Coptic and Ethiopian Enoch traditions. Here, it is likely that the author of Genesis 1–11 simply reduced this tradition about Enoch to but a short reference as he found it of little interest for the main thrust of his rewriting of the early history of the world. The same may have happened to the note about the giants in Genesis 6:1–4. Again, Jubilees has a more complete version, which makes it clear that this element – not found in ancient near eastern mythology – is linked to the Greek myth of the Titans. We hear nothing about the fate of these giants in Genesis 6, although the combination of the story of the Titans in Jubilees with the story of the flood makes the assumption likely that Genesis 6:1–4 is understood as an introduction to the story of the flood. Jubilees follows the Greek myth and has the Titans chained to the depths of the earth. Other biblical references to this myth, for example, the fate of the king of Tyre in Ezekiel 28:12–19, implies that this myth was known to biblical authors. A look at the different versions of this myth in Genesis and Jubilees confirms the impression that the author of Genesis 1–11 deliberately skipped parts of his Primeval Story, considering them unnecessary. It also suggests that the relationship between Genesis 1–11 to Jubilees is not a one-way relationship. Jubilees, in many ways, rewrites Genesis, but, thereafter, it seems that some redactions have taken place in Genesis 1–11, some shortenings and omissions which are not reflected in the version found in Jubilees. The new and most interesting point in Jubilees is the incorporation of the myth of the Titans, which, in older Greek literature, was part of the story of the origins of the gods as told by Hesiod. This linkage is not known to the ancient Near East. This seems to owe its existence to some reworking of oriental and Greek tradition, which found their way into Genesis. Josephus, who includes a retelling of the Primeval Story of Genesis in his Antiquitates, duly acknowledges the relationship between the giants in Genesis and the Greek Titans: 71

N iels P eter L emche

Many of God’s angels came together with women and begat insolent sons who despised everything that was good because they had confidence in (their) power: They dared to perform the same thing as those who are called giants among the Greeks. (Antiquitates I:III,1) Ovid’s Metamorphoses The inspiration for this chapter came to me recently, while reading the first part of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, a work from the time of Augustus. Although this work is perhaps a couple of hundred years younger than Genesis 1–11, it is probably the closest retelling of the Primeval Story in Genesis that we have. Ovid’s story of creation opens with the chaos. Everything is mixed together in struggle, with coldness fighting heat and dryness fighting moisture. No sun, no moon, no air. Then a god creates the world by separating the elements and separating earth from heaven. This god moulds the earth from clay and pours water over it, creating the ocean that surrounds the earth. After this, the greenness of the earth comes and animals begin to appear on earth as birds do in the air, and only thereafter is humanity created. Ovid then falls back on the classic tradition of the four ages of the world: the golden age, the silver age, etc. A disharmony appears when the giants try to storm heaven by piling up the mountains. They are duly punished and hurled down from high, their blood mingling with earth to create “human forms”, vertisse hominum. Hereafter, the gods decide to bring the flood over the earth. But two persons are saved: Deucalion, the son of Prometheus, and Pyrhha, his wife. They strand on the Parnassos to be instructed, after the deluge, in how to re-establish mankind. Obviously, Ovid is drawing on ancient traditions with roots both in the classical and in the oriental world. As such, his Metamorphoses is a very clear example of how Hellenism involved the blending of Greek and oriental traditions. However, much more is involved. In Ovid’s version, we find nearly all the central themes of the ancient Babylonian tradition, except a list of the antediluvian kings. In some way, it may have been substituted by the classical environment’s preferred tale of the four ages of early mankind. Ovid’s story of the Titans is more interesting as he obviously combines the story of the tower of Babel with the myth of the Titans, thus solving a problem, which is evident in Genesis and not quite solved in Jubilees: where does one place the story of the Titans, so vital to classical tradition? A preliminary version is, however, found in the Odyssey (11:305–20). We don’t know where all of this literary activity occurred. It is clear that Berossus wrote under the impression of the new, all-dominating circumstances in which the Greek world met the oriental and dominated it in a massive way. Although it is absurd to say that there were no links between the two worlds before Alexander, his conquest of the East led to a blend of civilizations on a scale never seen before. The impact of the classical world on the oriental one was also massive from the very beginning (the lingua franca also almost immediately became Greek), but it was blended with local traditions. And, as said before, what happened in art and architecture also happened in literature. 72

T he O ld T estament : still H ellenistic ?

Genesis 1–11 reflects this mixture of elements from different cultures. The basis of the collection definitely belonged to Seleucid Mesopotamia, a world that included a Jewish stratum in a diaspora that survived from the time of Nebuchadnezzar to the time of Ben Gurion. Babylon/Mesopotamia was a major centre of learning, not yet the world of the Talmud, but still reflecting a Judaism in process. But are there alternatives? Perhaps there are not, given the original formulation of the Primeval Story, which is definitely Mesopotamian. In this respect, Babylon comes to mind. Is there any other place where the elaboration on this story as found in Jubilees may have a home?

Conclusion: the Museion The establishment of the learned centre of Alexandria, especially the Museion, may have been a decisive factor in the development of Hellenism. The presence here of a Jewish population, which grew as time went by, is a fact. They may have been responsible for the intellectual activities, which, among many other things, included the formation of the biblical story of the origins of the world in an edition not far from that which has been handed down to posterity. Most contemporary scholars will react instinctively against such a theory, believing the connection between Jerusalem and Judaism to be a primary and necessary one. Evidence, however, speaks against it, especially if the two leading Israeli archaeologists, Israel Finkelstein and David Ussishkin, are correct. There was no Jerusalem of any significant size, beyond that of a large village, during the Persian and Early Hellenistic periods (Ussishkin 2006; Finkelstein 2009). According to their estimate, Jerusalem first began to grow at the beginning at the second century bce. Only from Hasmonean times and onwards might a production of literature, as found in the Old Testament, be possible. Although, arguing for the Old Testament as a Hellenistic book, I do not think that an argument can be presented for a late date of everything that is presented in this book. The broadening of perspective, allows for yet another history of this literature. On the other hand, such a theory as this, which places the formation of the Pentateuch in the Diaspora, and especially in a learned centre such as Alexandria, creates a scenario that could be of interest when applying source criticism to both this and other parts of the Old Testament as well. More than twenty years ago I proposed – more as a joke than seriously meant – that the Pentateuch came into being in four different pubs on the outskirts of ancient Babylon. One pub had the name J, with good beer and a merry company. The stories they told were brought to the other side of the road, the E-pub, where the beer was not quite as good and the people less interesting. Further down the street we find the D-pub, and at the end of this road the P-pub for Jewish fundamentalists. It all lasted for about half a year. The inspiration came from Johannes Pedersen (Pedersen 1931), arguing that the language in all four traditional sources in the Pentateuch was always the same from a morphological point of view, something which is impossible when we speak about a living language. This pub-hypothesis was at the time not for publication, but none the less became widely known. 73

N iels P eter L emche

Now, I believe that I have to change the town in this hypothesis to Alexandria, to Hebrew speaking people, living here and benefiting from the positive climate towards intellectual activities under the Ptolemaic rulers. The idea is that the strands, sources, documents, whatever found in the Pentateuch that would easily fit in as part of such an intellectual environment. I will go no further, but only add that even the inclusion in the Pentateuch of the much-discussed northern elements, as in the Jacob-traditions, would make sense here. It would probably have been easier to reconcile differences between the north and south in a place like Alexandria than in Palestine proper, where the animosities between Shechem and Samaria and Jerusalem and Hebron never ended. Living in a close proximity outside of their country of origin can create strange bedfellows. This is no more than a loose end, but something which I believe is worth exploring, so I will end with one final remark: the Old Testament as a Hellenistic book does not preclude the study of sources for this literature. I opened with the quotation from Ugarit, which is found, partly verbatim, in Isaiah 27. The oriental tradition has never been distant.

Notes 1 Thus for the pictures Ussishkin 1982, and for the text Luckenbill 1924. 2 For a recent discussion, cf. Haubold et al. 2013.

Bibliography Alt, A. 1953. “Die Heimat des Deuteronomiums”. Kleine Schriften zur Geschichte Israels, Vol. II Munich: C. H. Beck’sche Verlagsbuchhandlung: 250–75. Finkelstein, I. 2009. “Persian Period Jerusalem and Jehud: A Rejoinder”. Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 9: 24 (http://jhsonline.org/Articles/article_126.pdf). Gmirkin, R. E. 2006. Berossus and Genesis, Manetho and Exodus: Hellenistic Histories and the Date of the Pentateuch. CIS, 15. London: T&T Clark. Grabbe, L. L. 2001. Did Moses Speak Attic? Jewish Historiography and Scripture in the Hellenistic Period. JSOR Supp., 317. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Haubold, J., G. B. Lanfranchi, R. Rollinger and J. Steele (eds.). 2013. The World of Berossos. Classica et Orientalia, 5. Wiesbaden: Otto Harrassowitz. Hjelm, I. and Gudme A. (eds.). 2015. Myths of Exile. CIS. London: Routledge. Lemche, N. P., 1993. “The Old Testament-A Hellenistic Book?”. SJOT 7163–93 ———. 2001. “How Does One Date an Expression of Mental History? The Old Testament and Hellenism”. See Grabbe (2001): 200–24 ———. 2008. The Old Testament Between Theology and History: A Critical Survey. Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox Press. ———. 2010. “The Deuteronomistic History: Historical Reconsiderations”. In Raising Up a Faithful Exegete: Essays in Honor of Richard D. Nelson. K. L. Noll and B. Schramm (eds.). Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns: 41–50 ———. 2012a. “Gammeltestamentlige tekster som genskrevet litteratur”. In Bibelske Genskrivninger. J. Høgenhaven and M. Müller (eds.). Forum for Bibelsk Eksegese, 17. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum: 51–7.

74

T he O ld T estament : still H ellenistic ?

———. 2012b. “Shechem Revisited: The Formation of Biblical Collective Memory”. In Focusing Biblical Studies: The Crucial Nature of the Persian and Hellenistic Periods. Essays in Honor of Douglas A. Knight. J. Berquist and A. Hunt (eds). Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies, 544. New York: T&T Clark: 35–48. ———. 2013. “When the Past Becomes the Present”. Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament 27: 96–106. Levin, C. 2013. Die Entstehung des Judentums als Gegenstand der alttestamentlichen Wissenschaft (Lecture, 4 August 2013). Lipschits, O. 2009. “Persian Period Finds from Jerusalem: Facts and Interpretations”. Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 9: 20 (http://jhsonline.org/Articles/article_122.pdf). Luckenbill, D. D. 1924. The Annals of Sennacherib. Chicago, IL: Oriental Institute. Mandell, S. and D. N. Freedman 1993. The Relationship Between Herodotus’ History and Primary History. South Florida Studies in the History of Judaism, 60. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press. Niebuhr, B. G. 1811–12. Römische Geschichte, 2 Bde. Berlin: In der Realschulbuchhandlung. Nielsen, F. A. J. 1997. The Tragedy in History; Herodotus and the Deuteronomistic History. JSOT Supp., 251; CIS, 4. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Pedersen, J. 1931. “Die Auffassung des Alten Testaments”. ZAW 49: 161–81. Römer, T. 2005. The So-Called Deuteronomistic History: A Sociological, Historical and Literary Introduction. London: T&T Clark. Ussishkin, D. 1982. The Conquest of Lachish by Sennacherib. Tel Aviv: The Institute of Archaeology. ———. 2006. “The Borders and De Facto Size of Jerusalem in the Persian Period”. In Judah and Judeans in the Persian Period. O. Lipschits and M. Oeming (eds.). Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns: 147–66. Van Seters, J. 1982. In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. ———. 1983. In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. ———. 1988. “The Primeval Histories of Greece and Israel Compared”. ZAW 100: 1–22. Wajdenbaum, P. 2011. Argonauts of the Desert: Structural Analysis of the Hebrew Bible. CIS. Sheffield: Equinox. Wesselius, J.-W. 2002. The Origin of the History of Israel: Herodotus’ Histories as Blueprint for the First Books of the Bible. JSOT Supp., 345. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press.

75

5 FROM P LATO TO M OSES Genesis-Kings as a Platonic epic Philippe Wajdenbaum Introduction: recent theories of Greek influences on the Hebrew Bible In the past decades, there has been a significant evolution in biblical scholarship in dating the Hebrew biblical texts to the Persian and Hellenistic eras. Thomas L. Thompson and Niels Peter Lemche were at the forefront of supporting such Hellenistic dating of the Hebrew Bible (Lemche 1998b [1993]; Thompson 1992; 1999). This late dating has been bolstered by several studies that have emphasized the similarities of styles and contents between ancient Greek writings and the Bible. Previously, scholars such as Cyrus Gordon (1962), Michael Astour (1965) and Martin L. West (1997) had gathered a significant number of such parallels, and concluded that these similarities were due to a common Near Eastern matrix for both Hebrew and Archaic Greek cultures (see also Brown 1995). However, even though the early formation of Greek mythology owes to traditions from the Levant, this does not exclude the idea that the redaction of the Hebrew Bible had been directly influenced by Greek culture at a later period (Louden 2011: 12–13). In 1983, John Van Seters emphasized the resemblance between the so-called Primary History (Genesis-Kings) and Herodotus’ Histories (Van Seters 1983; see also Lemche 2013b and 2013c). In 2001, Thomas L. Brodie proposed the hypothesis that Genesis was modelled directly on Homer’s Odyssey (Brodie 2001; on Homer as a source for Genesis, see appendix 3, 447–94). For Brodie, scholars should search in existing texts from antiquity as possible direct sources of inspiration for the Hebrew Bible, rather than in the alleged JEDP sources of the documentary hypothesis. Invoking Occam’s Razor, Brodie argued that the documentary hypothesis may have long seemed a valid and plausible model, but Homer and, perhaps, also other Greek classical authors, seem far better candidates for possible sources of biblical authors from the Persian era. For Brodie, this hypothesis should be adopted, as it is both simpler than the documentary hypothesis and can be verified (Brodie 2001: 421). Brodie explains that ancient writers typically imitated earlier writers. This practice was not considered plagiarism, a modern and, therefore, anachronistic notion. Brodie further listed several criteria for determining textual dependence, such as external plausibility of contact between the compared texts, as well as similarities of 76

G enesis - K ings as a P latonic epic

themes, action, or plot, and, not least, similarity of order: “When random elements occur in two documents in the same order the similarity requires an explanation . . . If a series of details emerge then they become significant – especially if clustered together or in the same order” (Brodie 2001: 429). In 2002, independently of Brodie, Jan-Wim Wesselius produced a comparative study, concluding that the nine books of the Primary History were directly dependent upon Herodotus’ nine books of the Histories and had been written by a single author sometime in the fifth century bce (Wesselius 2002). The idea of a single author for Genesis-Kings had already been put forward by Spinoza, in the eighth chapter of his Theological and Political Treatise. In 2006, Russell Gmirkin argued that the Pentateuch had not been written before the first part of the third century bce, drawing its inspiration from the Hellenized writers Berossus and Manetho (Gmirkin 2006). As Gmirkin explains, the tradition found in The Letter of Aristeas may well reflect not only the translation of the Pentateuch into Greek, but its very redaction in Hebrew during the early Hellenistic era: the Septuagint scholars at Alexandria appear to have been occupied with both the composition of the Pentateuch in Hebrew and its translation into Greek . . . access to the Alexandrian Library will have provided a major incentive for conducting the work of composition there rather than in Jerusalem. (Gmirkin 2006: 253) In 2011, the classical scholar Bruce Louden also reached a similar conclusion, namely, that some biblical books might have been influenced, directly or indirectly, by Homer’s writings (Louden 2011: 318–24). Brodie, Louden, and I (Wajdenbaum 2011) have independently made similar observations about the story of Joseph (Gen. 37–50) in comparison to Odysseus’ return to Ithaca (Odyssey 14–24) and have also reached similar conclusions regarding the number of parallels between Homer’s Odyssey and Genesis. The similar order in which these parallels appear indicate that Genesis was modelled after the Odyssey. Louden writes (2011: 324): The parallels, and the divergences, suggest to me both that some form of the Odyssey, served as a model for individual parts of Genesis (particularly the myth of Joseph) and that, like the Odyssey, the redactors of Genesis linked together many different genres of myth to form parts of a larger nostos, return story. Brodie writes (2001: 492): there is already sufficient evidence to propose that Genesis’s use of Homer is a reasonable working hypothesis. The author of Genesis used the Odyssey, especially in composing chapters 11–50 . . . The unified way in which Genesis uses the Odyssey indicates that Genesis as a whole reflects a single process of composition. 77

P hilippe Wajdenba u m

Since the Homeric epics were written in the eighth or seventh century bce, their spreading throughout the Levant in the Persian or Hellenistic eras would make them probable sources of inspiration and emulation for Judaean writers. All these recent hypotheses converge in considering possible Greek sources of inspiration for the Hebrew Bible.

Plato’s Laws as a framework for the Pentateuch and Joshua In recent years, I have compared the works of Plato, and especially his political treatises such as the Republic (Politeia), Critias (or Atlantis) and the Laws (Nomoi), with Genesis-Kings (I have discussed some of these parallels in Wajdenbaum 2010, 2011, and 2013). Plato is well known for having first conceived the Republic, which describes a utopian State, where knowledge was the privilege of an educated elite, while the common people would be told myths and fables, with the social function of producing virtue (Plato, Rep. 414e–15d). According to Plato’s Letter VII, it seems that the philosopher tried to establish his ideal state in Sicily, after gaining the support of local tyrants, but he failed in this effort and returned to Athens. Therefore, in his old age, Plato conceived a revised version of the ideal state, which he understood to be based on legislation and more realistic than his earlier version in the Republic. Plato wrote the Laws around 350 bce, his last and longest dialogue. Plato’s state in the Laws was introduced through a discourse attributed to an Athenian, a Spartan and a Cretan. The three protagonists of the dialogue reflect how the future state will blend Athenian laws with Spartan and Cretan customs (Morrow 1960). Plato, through the voice of his Athenian character, describes the territorial organization of the state. It will be conquered by military force, after which the settlers will draw lots and divide the land into twelve parts given to twelve tribes. These tribes will be subdivided into paternal families, and into plots of land, one part being in the main city and one part in the countryside. These estates will be transmissible from fathers to sons, and it will be forbidden to sell them, so that the cadastre will remain eternally immutable. This territorial organization is very similar to biblical Israel as seen in Leviticus 25:23 (not to sell the plots of land // Plato, Laws 741b–c), Numbers 26 (the census of the twelve tribes and the plan for the division of the land // Laws 745b–c) and Joshua 14–19 (the division of the conquered land by lottery). It is also reminiscent of Ezekiel’s vision of a restored Israel, with twelve equal pieces of land for the twelve tribes stemming from Jerusalem (Ezek. 47:13–48:35). This similar division of the land is only the most obvious similarity between Plato’s Laws and the Pentateuch. Plato discusses all the laws of his imaginary state, among which, some thirty are common to the Pentateuch. In Exodus, children of slaves shall belong to their masters (Exod. 21:4 // Laws 930d–e). Murder and outrage to parents shall be punished by death (Exod. 21: 12–17 // Laws 872d–73b). If someone injures someone else by hitting him, he shall pay for his recovery (Exod. 21:17–19 // Laws 876e–77b). A master may kill his own slave (Exod. 21:20–21 // Laws 865c–d). If an ox kills someone, it shall 78

G enesis - K ings as a P latonic epic

be killed and so his master (Exod. 21:28–32 // Laws 873e). A thief breaking in at night can be killed (Exod. 21:37–22:3 // Laws 874c). One shall pay if he lets his flocks graze on his neighbour’s field and if a fire arises (Exod. 22:5–6 // Laws 843d–e). Although several of these laws common to Exodus and Plato can be traced back to the ancient Code of Hammurabi, most of them appear in Plato in sections 870ff. and Exodus 20–23 in a rather similar order, which might be significant evidence of literary dependence in accord with Brodie’s criterion. In Leviticus 18, the prohibition of incest and male homosexuality is formulated in rather similar terms to what is used in Plato’s Laws (836b–42a). In an excursus in this section, Plato explains that such laws against homosexuality will not easily be accepted. Therefore, writes Plato through the voice of the Athenian, the legislator should use mythical preambles so as to persuade the people of the divine origin of all the laws. These preambles should illustrate how the god rewards obedience and punishes disobedience. In these pages, Plato gives advice to the hypothetical legislator who would found the ideal state: he should become himself a poet, using myths in order to illustrate the laws. (On Plato’s use of myth as a means of persuasion in order for the people to accept the laws as divine, see Brisson 1994; Mouze 2005.) But, as explained previously by Plato in the Republic (370–83), these revised myths should depict the deity in a more moral way than in the stories found in Homer and Hesiod. In both the Republic and the Laws, Plato suggested that one rewrite Greek myths into moral tales in order to produce virtue. Another significant parallel with Leviticus defines how a bloodline for the priests will be developed for the new state. The purity of the line and the physical integrity of the priests will be accordingly checked (Leviticus 21:1–24 // Laws 759a–d). In both Plato’s state and biblical Israel, slaves (permanent slaves in the Bible) must be of foreign origin and are not to be treated with harshness (Lev. 25:39–47 // Laws 777b–d). In Numbers, not only do we find the similar tribal organization as explained above, but the rule known in Greece as epiclerate, the marriage of the daughter(s) of a man who had no sons within their tribe and preferably within their own family. This rule is applied in the story of the daughters of Zelophehad (Numbers 27 and 36 // Laws 924c–e). It is significant that this biblical law is illustrated with the help of a story in accordance with Plato’s advice. In Deuteronomy, one finds similar laws to Plato’s as in the laws concerning cult centralisation (Deut. 12 // Laws 909d-–10a). So, too, the prohibition against offering sacrifices in any place (Deut. 17:2–7 // Laws 910b–c). Also the “law of the king” reiterates Plato’s moderate king, which reflects a common notion, namely, that a king is not needed in the ideal state. However, if the people request a king, such a monarch must follow the laws (Deut. 17:14–20 // Laws 709e–10b). Other significant parallels are found among the prohibitions, such as of witchcraft (Deut. 18:9–14 // Laws 933c–e) and of judges accepting gifts (Deut. 16:18–20 // Laws 955c–d). The prescription of exile for involuntary homicide is similar (Deut. 19:4–6, the cities of refuge // Laws 865a–c, exile from the country), as is the legislation regarding proportionality of punishments (Exod. 21:22–5; Lev. 24:17–21; Deut. 19:21 // Laws 933e–34a) and the very old, ancient Near Eastern 79

P hilippe Wajdenba u m

law prohibiting the removal of the sacred boundary stones (Deut. 19:14 // Laws 843a–b). (In regard to the order of the laws in both texts, it is important to note that this law is found right after the laws against homosexuality in Plato.) Common laws are also found in regard to false witnesses (Deut. 19:16–19 // Laws 937b–c) and the honesty of merchants (Deut. 25:13–16 // Laws 916d). In both texts, the discovery of a corpse, when the murderer is unknown, is followed by a ritual purification of the city (Deut. 21:1–9 // Laws 874b). (In Plato, this law is found right after the murderous animal and the nocturnal thief.) One also finds similar laws regarding the protection of orphans (Exod. 22:22–4; Deut. 24:17 // Laws 927b–e), disowning a son (Deut. 21:18–21 // Laws 929a–d), not lending with interest (Exod. 22:25; Deut. 23:19–20 // Laws 742b), and freedom in regard to the gathering of fruit when passing through a field (Deut. 23:24–5; 24:19–22 // Laws 844d–45d). (This law is placed right after the boundary stones in Plato.) There are similar laws defining the principle that the sins of the fathers not fall on their children (Deut. 24:16 // Laws 856c–e). Finally, a juridical fiction is created to preserve a male inheritor of a plot of land: namely, that an extinct lineage be preserved through the adoption of a son who is named after the deceased (Deut. 25:5–10, the levirate // Laws 877e–78b). The resemblance between the Pentateuch’s presentation of Israel’s future laws and Plato’s ideal state in the Laws is substantial and has been noticed, at least since Josephus (Against Apion 2.222–4). In the fourth century ce, Eusebius of Caesarea, in the twelfth book of the Preparation for the Gospel, discussed the possibility that Plato had borrowed his laws from Moses, as Moses was then understood to have lived a thousand years before Plato. It is quite significant that Eusebius produced this comparison around the time that the Roman Emperor Constantine converted to Christianity. Since then, modern scholars have only rarely addressed this striking comparison. (For several exceptions, see Weinfeld 1993: 22–4; Kupitz 1997; Kaiser 2000. Hagedorn (2004: 38) states that there was a common background to Greek and Hebrew law, and does not discuss questions of possible borrowings. Sinks (1934) believes that Plato copied Moses, relaying the argument of the Church Fathers. His comparisons seem a development of those found in Eusebius’ Preparation for the Gospel. See also the work of Gmirkin in this volume, as well as his monograph, Plato and the Creation of the Hebrew Bible (forthcoming).) Rather, modern biblical scholars invented the documentary hypothesis, which posited that the legislative parts of the Pentateuch, P (“Priestly source”) and D (“Deuteronomist”), were not part of the earliest text of the Pentateuch, which consisted of narratives from J (“Yahwist”) and E (“Elohist”) strata. This “historical-critical” hypothesis of the redaction of the Pentateuch has grown into what is almost an academic dogma, which needs be addressed in any scholarly discussion. However, it has been criticized by many as being built on circular reasoning (see Rendtorff 1997). The biblical narrative from Genesis to Kings consists of both stories and laws and, today, it is entirely legitimate and hardly uncommon to doubt that there ever were independent texts such as J, E, D and P (Brodie 2001: 495–501). 80

G enesis - K ings as a P latonic epic

The parallels with Plato’s Laws, listed above, do not support the alleged distinction between P and D material in the Pentateuch. There are, indeed, more parallels with Deuteronomy 12–26. However, there are a number of significant parallels with every legislative book of the Pentateuch. Through a reductio ad absurdum, we might argue that if the documentary hypothesis, regarding biblical texts, were true, that theory would have to account for the redaction of Plato’s Laws. In other words, one would need to imagine that Plato’s text was composed much as had been the Pentateuch according to the documentary hypothesis: that is, from distinct “sources” in “strata”, and having been edited by several redactors, who are to be separated from each other by centuries. It happens, however, that classical scholars are well able to trace how Plato conceived his ideal state. Primarily, Plato seems to have used the Athenian law code from the fourth century bce (as seen in texts from Demosthenes) as well as Dorian customs, which are well attested in other sources (such as Xenophon, who was also a disciple of Socrates; see Morrow 1960). Classical scholars are unanimous on the fact that Plato wrote the Laws himself. Yet, modern philosophers often disregard this “late” dialogue on the argument that it contains poor philosophy, except for the tenth book, which speaks about the existence of the soul. This rejection of a legislative text of Plato by modern philosophers, interestingly, resonates with the “supersessionism” that biblical scholarship has used to date biblical laws of D and P as “late” and representing a priestly-governed Israel, remote from the allegedly more “authentic” J and E sources. (On supersessionist issues implicitly at stake in biblical scholarship, see Römer 2004; Lemche 2005.) Plato, who is revered as the forefather of Western philosophy, wrote his plan for an ideal state, which looks exactly like the blueprint one might use to create the story of biblical Israel. Plato wrote laws without stories, yet he specifically suggested that one support this vision of an ideal state in the form of narrative and myth, which he referred to as the “truest tragedy” (Laws, 817a). According to Occam’s Razor, which Brodie has invoked in comparing the Odyssey and Genesis, complex theories should give way to simpler ones. It is, therefore, possible to maintain that, during the Hellenistic era, a group of Hellenized Judaean scholars chose to emulate Plato’s plan by using his Laws as a source for several secular laws. These authors also used Greek myths and narratives, borrowed from various classical authors, and transcribed them into Hebrew and a Near Eastern setting, creating the story we read in Genesis-Kings.

Plato’s Republic and Critias as sources for Genesis-Kings It is likely that other Platonic dialogues have been used by the author(s) of GenesisKings. As observed by Łukasz Niesiołowski-Spanò (2007), myths about creation and primitive humanity in Genesis 1–11 could derive from Platonic myths, as found in such dialogues as Timaeus (the creation of the world), Phaedro and Phaedo (discussing the soul or spirit). One might also consider Plato’s Statesman, which tells of the first humans living in nature without working and discussing with animals (Wajdenbaum 2011: 92–9). Plato’s famous Allegory of the Cave, in 81

P hilippe Wajdenba u m

book VII of the Republic (514b–17b), shares a similar framework with the Exodus narrative. In the cave allegory, a man is freed from a cave, where his comrades and he had been held. The shadows they saw on a wall appeared to them as deities. Once freed from the cave, the man realizes that the shadows had been mere projections of objects, passing in front of a source of light. Realizing this, he understands that the light of the sun was the ultimate source of light. In this wellknown allegory, the shadows on the wall are a metaphor for the traditional Greek gods and the light of the sun is, itself, a metaphor of the single god who created the world, much as described in Plato’s Timaeus. The man freed from the cave, whom Plato compares to a philosopher, is then compelled to go back into the cave to free his comrades that he might bring them to a higher spiritual horizon. However, he might also try to refuse this difficult task for fear that he would not be heard by his former comrades. This allegory originally speaks of the fate of Plato’s master, Socrates, who was condemned to death by the Athenians on the accusations of denying the existence of the Greek gods. In the Republic and Timaeus, however, Plato showed that Socrates never did deny their existence, but rather made them the creatures of a single and eternal entity. The cave allegory might also represent a canvas for the story of Moses. Moses is freed from the slavery of the Israelites in Egypt (comparable to Plato’s cave), first by being raised at the court and, later, by fleeing to Midian. Moses meets Yahweh (comparable to Plato’s idea of the good, a metaphor of the single god) on Mount Horeb. Yahweh reveals his name to him, and grants him the task of going back to Egypt to liberate the people of Israel and bring them to the Promised Land. The plan of this Promised Land is, in fact, very similar to the twelve-tribe law-governed state, conceived by Plato in the Laws. Moses, like Plato’s character from the cave allegory, is tempted to refuse this difficult mission, because he fears that the Israelites will not listen to him (Exod. 4:1–13; see further how the Israelites wish they had stayed in Egypt, Exod. 14:11–12; and Moses fears that they will stone him, Exod. 17:2–4). In Critias or Atlantis, Plato told the tale of an ideal state that came to its demise, destroyed by the divine wrath of Zeus, because the successive generations of kings had neglected the divine laws, which their ancestors had sworn to respect forever. The ceremony for the oath sworn by the first kings of Atlantis is very similar to the narrative of Israel receiving God’s laws in the wilderness. In both stories, oxen or bulls are sacrificed, and their blood dashed on the participants (compare Exod. 24:1–11 and Plato, Critias 119d–20c). The narrative pattern of Plato’s Critias shows similarities to Judges, 1–2 Samuel and 1–2 Kings. In these narratives, Israel and Judah are eventually destroyed by the divine wrath because of the faults of their kings, starting from Saul’s disobedience (1 Sam. 15), David’s assassination of Uriah (2 Sam. 11), and Solomon’s idolatrous worship of his many concubines’ foreign gods (1 Kings 11). Atlantis’s riches and temple (Plato, Critias 115b–17a) show similarities with Solomon’s in 1 Kings 4–10. The books from Genesis to Joshua tell of the foundation of an ideal state, which is very similar to that of Plato’s in the Laws. However, this biblical state is condemned and destroyed, because of the successive generations of royal neglect of the divinely 82

G enesis - K ings as a P latonic epic

given laws, which the ancestors had sworn to respect forever, much as the cause of the destruction of Plato’s Atlantis. In its course, Genesis-Kings finely crafts a continuous epic from several central Platonic notions and narratives, beginning with the story of the creation of the world and primitive humanity (Gen. 1–5). A succession of narratives follows. The story of the great flood is followed by the construct of a patriarchal era, the founding of the first cities (Plato, Laws 677a–82e // Gen. 6–11), the liberation of prisoners (Exod. 1–15), the foundation of a twelve-tribe state (several laws of the Pentateuch, the conquest narrative and the division of the land in Joshua). An eventual downfall is caused by the faults of its successive kings (from Judges to Kings). Although some of these themes might seem “general” or “universal” in ancient literature, the considerable core of comparable laws in the two corpora forces us to consider the possibility of literary dependence. Ultimately, GenesisKings can be read as a story of a single figure, Israel, who, in Genesis, is a man with twelve sons, Jacob. In the following books, Israel becomes a nation of twelve tribes. This progressive dialectic conforms to Plato’s concept of the state as a reflection of the soul on a grand scale (Rep. 368e–69a).

The Greek epics rewritten in Genesis-Kings In addition to a Platonic framework, the author(s) of Genesis-Kings seem(s) to have rewritten parts of the Homeric epics, the myths of Hesiod, the Histories of Herodotus, and many Greek myths and stories, through the filter of monotheism, and probably through Plato’s advice on decent poetry in books II and III of the Republic. There are many examples to support this claim, which I will only briefly summarize in this chapter. The nine books of the Primary History seem deliberately to dismantle the main Greek epics and rewrite them into a different order, yet leaving here and there traces of such rewriting; for example, by keeping a similar order in the presentation of multiple episodes or laws. Each of these books seems to have a predominant Greek source. The first part of Genesis (1–11, the so-called Primeval History) displays a clear knowledge of Mesopotamian myths. However, as argued by Gmirkin (2006: 89–139; see also Lemche, in this volume), this knowledge is best accounted for in the Hellenistic era by the use of Berossus’ Babyloniaca. These first chapters of Genesis also bear echoes of Platonic philosophy and rewritten elements of Hesiod’s poems. For instance, the story of Eve and the Serpent in Gen. 3 is comparable to the story of Pandora and Prometheus in Hesiod’s Works and Days, 90–105. Evidence of Genesis’ knowledge of Hesiod’s Theogony appears in the use of the name Japheth (Gen. 10:1–2) as an ancestor of the peoples of Asia Minor, including Ionian Greeks (biblical Yavan, Gen. 10:2–5). The biblical Japheth is a homophone to Hesiod’s Iapetos, who is known to be the ancestor of the Greeks through his grandson Deucalion, the survivor of the Flood in further Greek texts (Pindar Olympian 9.40–56; see Wajdenbaum 2011: 75, 105, 108). The cycle of Abraham shows similarities to the epic of the Argonauts. Abraham almost sacrificed his son Isaac to Yahweh, but 83

P hilippe Wajdenba u m

an angel stopped him at the last moment. Instead of his son, Abraham sacrificed a ram, which he found stuck in a thicket by its horns. Yahweh then renewed the promise that Abraham’s descendants would inherit the land of Canaan (Gen. 22). Quite similarly, Athamas, king of Boeotia, almost sacrificed his son Phrixus to Zeus, but a winged golden ram took Phrixus on its back and brought him safe to Colchis, and there Phrixus sacrificed it to Zeus and hung its Golden Fleece on an oak tree (see Herodotus, 7.97; Apollonius of Rhodes Argonautica, 2.1140–95; Apollodorus Library, 1.9.1; Hyginus Fables, 2). One generation later, Jason and the Argonauts set sail to Colchis to bring the Golden Fleece back to Greece. On the way back, while the Argonauts were stranded on the coast of Libya, Euphemus received the promise by the god Triton that his descendants would inherit the land of Cyrene. Generations later, Battus, a descendant of Euphemus, consulted the oracle of Delphi about his stutter. The voice of the god Apollo ordered him to take the descendants of Euphemus to the promised land of Cyrene. Although Battus first protested that he did not feel up to this task and that he stuttered, he eventually led his people to Cyrene and ruled over them for forty years (Pindar, Pythian 4.5–10; Herodotus 4.150–55, 179; Apollonius of Rhodes, Argonautica, 4.1750–65; see Calame 2011). This story is quite strikingly similar to that of Abraham receiving the promise of a land for his descendants, and Moses fulfilling this promise by bringing the Israelites to the gates of Canaan. Like Battus, Moses, too, at first protested, arguing that he could not speak well (Exod. 4:10) and led his people for forty years in the wilderness (Deut. 1:3). The second part of Genesis, on the other hand, seems rather modelled on Homer’s Odyssey. The story of Abraham’s servant, looking for a bride for Isaac and meeting Rebecca, displays, in almost each verse, parallels to the encounter of Odysseus and the Phaeacian princess, Nausicaa, and her family in books 6–13 of the Odyssey, as demonstrated by Y. S. Kupitz (2014; see also Brodie 2001: 458, 464–5; Louden 2011: 136–48). The story of Joseph in Genesis 37–50 shows many detailed similarities with Odysseus’ return to Ithaca in books 14–24 of the Odyssey (Brodie 2001: 472–81; Louden 2011: 63–97; Wajdenbaum 2011: 136–42). Both characters are believed long dead by their relatives, and both come to them in disguise: Odysseus appears in his own palace dressed as an old beggar, whereas Joseph confronts his brothers dressed as an Egyptian minister. Odysseus relates a story, in which he claims to have spent seven years in Egypt as a friend of the king (Od. 14.277–87), a visit which is similar to Joseph’s two sets of seven years and his role as Pharaoh’s minister in Gen. 41 (cf. also, Jacob in Gen. 29–31; Brodie 2001: 472; Wajdenbaum 2011: 136). Odysseus tells how he had almost been sold as a slave by merchants who tore off his tunic (Od. 14.340–45), a story which is hardly distant from the story of Joseph, who was sold as a slave to merchants after his brothers had torn his tunic off (Gen. 37:23–8). Both characters put their relatives to the test, and both are prone to hiding to shed a tear. Both interpret a dream, involving animals being killed, as an omen of future events (Od. 19.535–65 and Gen. 41.1–7ff.). At the close of both stories, both figures reveal their identities to their loved ones, evoking scenes of embracing and weeping until, finally, both 84

G enesis - K ings as a P latonic epic

Joseph and Odysseus meet with their aged fathers. The recent studies by Kupitz, Louden, and me tend to converge in confirming Brodie’s hypothesis that Homer’s Odyssey is the predominant source of Genesis, and that chapters 11–50 tend to follow the same order as the Odyssey; as Brodie writes (2001: 491): There is also some similarity of order. The opening and closing of the Odyssey (Bks. 1 and 24) are used respectively for the opening and closing of Genesis 11–50 (chaps. 11–13 and 50) and there is a general tendency, both within Genesis 11–50 as a whole, and within each block or chapter, to follow the order of the original. The Exodus narrative, as shown above, combines elements from Plato’s cave allegory (the liberation of prisoners by a man who had received a revelation) and the story of Battus of Cyrene. Many of the laws of the so-called “Covenant Code” (Exod. 20–23) are also in Plato’s Laws. Moreover, the ritual for the oath, sworn by the Israelites, is similar to that of the kings of Plato’s Atlantis. The long chapters describing the building of the Tabernacle and the Arch (Exod. 25–31 and 35–40) seem to match Plato’s theory of imitation in book X of the Republic (595a–97e). Bezazel, the craftsman, for example, imitates a model of furniture which had been conceived by God. (Philo of Alexandria, who read the Pentateuch according to Plato’s philosophy, interpreted these chapters in such manner, in De Vita Moses, 2.14–15. See also the Epistle to the Hebrews 8:2, 9:1, 9:24–5.) The dramatic casting of the Golden Calf (Exod. 32), while Moses was with Yahweh on the mountain, finds a parallel in the story of Odysseus’ men, who devour the sacred cattle of Helios (Odyssey 12.260–425), while Odysseus was away praying (Louden 2011: 222–43). In Exodus 32:19, Moses broke the first tablets of the law, written by the finger of God, out of anger at seeing the Israelites worshiping the Golden Calf. The tablets of the law, therefore, had to be rewritten (Exod. 34:1). Perhaps, through a “meta-fictional” process, the biblical author(s) inform(s) us of their own process of writing. However, it was Plato’s Laws that were rewritten. Leviticus and Deuteronomy contain few narratives and mostly laws, whereas Exodus and Numbers blend narratives and laws. As seen above, many of these laws are paralleled in Plato’s Laws. Nevertheless, most of the religious laws of the Pentateuch find no equivalent in Plato, who writes that in his future state, religious laws and sacrificial institutions, whether coming from Delphi, any other oracle or any other tradition, should not be changed (Plato, Laws 738c). This leaves room for the biblical authors to have included Judaean/Samaritan religious customs into the writing of the Pentateuch, along with the prohibition of “Canaanite” cultic practices. The conquest of the land and its division into twelve tribes in the Book of Joshua matches Plato’s plan for the ideal state. However, the conquest narrative itself seems modelled on the fall of Troy. For instance, the story of Rahab, spared by Joshua’s army for having protected two spies by hanging an object from her window, seems borrowed from the similar story of Antenor (compare Joshua 2:1–24 and 6:22–3 with Pausanias’ Description of Greece, 10.27.2; see West 1997: 488–9; Louden 2011: 112; Wajdenbaum 2011: 209). 85

P hilippe Wajdenba u m

The Book of Judges contains many stories, which are paralleled in Herodotus’ Histories. For instance, Gideon’s three hundred elite warriors, who defeated the coalition of the Eastern armies (Judges 6–7), remind us of the Spartan king Leonidas and his three hundred soldiers who held firm against Xerxes’ immense army, until they were eventually defeated (Herodotus 7.205–20). Samson, as noted by many scholars, is reminiscent of Heracles. Several episodes of Heracles’ ancestry and youth are also paralleled in the story of Jacob (Gen. 25–8), whereas the rest of Heracles’ adult life echoes the life of Samson; as if there had been a conscious and deliberate dismantling of Heracles’ story between Genesis and Judges (Wajdenbaum 2011: 223–9). Philippe Guillaume (2014) has shown how the period of the Judges seems to match Hesiod’s Age of Heroes in Works and Days. The story closing the Book of Judges, the civil war against the tribe of Benjamin, is reminiscent of the Roman foundation myth of the abduction of the Sabine women, as has been noticed by many scholars (Gudme 2014). The Book of Samuel bears many accurate echoes of Homer’s Iliad, most specifically in battle scenes. David’s famous fight against Goliath uses several typical motifs from the Iliad. David’s cousin, Asahel who has swift feet (2 Sam. 2:18), seems modelled on Homer’s “swift-footed Achilles” (Wajdenbaum 2011: 252–3). The dramatic story of David’s assassination of his loyal soldier, Uriah (2 Sam. 11), and the subsequent revolt of his own son, Absalom (2 Sam. 13–18), find accurate parallels in the Iliad. For example, the motif of the sealed letter, containing orders to kill its bearer, is found in Il. 6.150–60 (the story of Bellerophon), and the episode of the son raping a father’s concubine(s), in an act of rebellion, is found in Il. 9.440–80 in the story of Phoenix. Finally, the Book of Kings presents its narrative as relying on accounts of events of the past and are referred to by its author as dependent on the Annals of Solomon and the Annals of the Kings of Israel and Judah (on the use of such cited references in the Hebrew Bible and Apocrypha, see Stott, 2008). Yet, the author(s) of Kings seem(s) to have also borrowed elements of such data from Herodotus’ Histories (Wesselius 2002: 94–6; Wajdenbaum 2011: 283–8). Solomon’s ostentatious wealth, in clear conflict with Deuteronomy 17 (Thompson, 1999: 65), seems modelled on the wealth of Croesus of Lydia (Wajdenbaum 2011: 270–74). The kingdoms of Israel and Judah were ultimately destroyed, according to the author(s) of Kings, because the Israelites and Judaeans worshiped Canaanite gods, since most of their kings had allowed these cults. This framework, as already mentioned above, is also found in Plato’s myth of Atlantis, where the first kings had sworn to respect the divine laws forever, engaging their offspring. However, as generations passed, they neglected these laws until Zeus decided to destroy Atlantis. To sum up this short overview, it seems that Plato’s political writings were used as a blueprint for the structure of the continuous narrative of GenesisKings, whereas Greek myths, especially the cycles of the Argonauts, Heracles, and the Trojan War, as well as Herodotus’ Histories, were used as direct sources for stories. These Greek myths and stories seem to have been rewritten in the Bible in accordance with Plato’s advice on poetry. We may observe that the first 86

G enesis - K ings as a P latonic epic

part of Genesis-Kings (the Pentateuch) seems to use the Odyssey as its predominant source for narratives of travels away from home and back (the Greek nostos), whereas the second part (from Joshua to Kings) seems to use the Iliad as its predominant source in its narratives centring on conquest and warfare. This structure, interestingly, corresponds to Virgil’s use of the Odyssey in books I–VI of the Aeneid and of the Iliad in books VII–XII. (On Virgil’s use of Homer, see Knauer 1964. On the analogy between Virgil’s use of Homer and the Primary History’s use of Herodotus, see Wesselius, 2002: 66. On the analogy between the Greek nostos, Virgil and the biblical narrative, see Lemche 1998a: 119.)

Conclusions: towards a change of paradigm The historical-critical paradigm, which has been built on the hypothesis that the earliest strata of the Pentateuch were written long before the rise of classical Greek literature, excluded, de facto, that the latter could have influenced the former. Consequently, parallels between Greek and biblical literature have long been neglected or ignored by scholars. At best, they were understood to have had a common, ancient Near Eastern background. Since the dating of the redaction of the Hebrew Bible has now convincingly been set in the Hellenistic era by several scholars, we can now contemplate the possibility that Greek classical texts may have been used as direct sources of inspiration by the biblical authors. This, most probably, is to be placed in the context of the Hellenization of Judaea and in the foundation of Alexandria’s Great Library (see Nodet 2014; Gmirkin 2014). Although alleged common background is often claimed as a more reasonable explanation than direct borrowing for the occurrence of biblical and Greek parallels, our examination of the number and details of such parallels, as well as the order in which they appear in respective texts, makes it increasingly plausible that the authors of Genesis-Kings did borrow directly from Greek sources. It is also likely that this applies to other books of the Hebrew Bible. In my opinion, the same reasoning that has brought a great number of scholars to recognize Song of Songs as a Hellenistic-era book, on the basis of parallels with Alexandrian poetry (see the studies by Burton (2005), Loprieno (2005), and Hunter (2005), all in Hagedorn (ed.), 2005), can also be applied to Genesis-Kings, on the basis of numerous parallels with Greek classical texts. The present chapter offers only a few selected examples. Most of the Greek classical texts are dated rather accurately (except for the most ancient ones, such as Homer and Hesiod), whereas the dating of the main biblical texts is still a matter of debate between the holders of pre-exilic or exilic era dates, and the holders of Persian and Hellenistic era dates. In this respect, Greek texts often present us with a firm point of comparison for biblical, undated texts. Moreover, such comparison is less circular than the model of the documentary hypothesis (in all its variants and refinements, such as Noth’s Deuteronomistic History). Indeed, the Greek sources are verifiable, whereas the JEDP sources have never been observed outside of the works of the scholars who discuss such alleged sources. As Brodie writes (2001: 421): “Consequently the 87

P hilippe Wajdenba u m

invoking of unknown documents – such as JEDP for the Pentateuch – is, at best, a last resort, to be undertaken only if there is no connection with known documents.” Finally, the model of a Bible inspired by Greek sources bears the epistemological condition of being falsifiable, in contrast to the documentary hypothesis, which posits the existence of texts that are, in essence, lost to us (on the criterion of falsifiability borrowed from Karl Popper, see Lemche 2013d: 301). If manuscripts of the Hebrew Bible, preceding the Hellenistic era, were found, this would falsify the present theory that Plato’s writings were among the sources of GenesisKings. However, the Aramaic papyri of Elephantine indicate that, in the fifth and fourth centuries bce, Judaeans in Elephantine did not know the Bible, its stories, characters, or laws (except for the Feast of Unleavened Bread). Nevertheless, they were in contact with Jerusalem’s authorities, and this could be interpreted as evidence that the Bible had not yet been written at that time (Gmirkin 2006: 28–33; Wajdenbaum 2011: 39–40). The recent theories that count Homer and Herodotus among possible direct sources for Genesis-Kings place its redaction in the Persian era, as per Brodie and Wesselius. However, if we are to consider Plato as an essential and unifying source for these books, this suggests a date in the early Hellenistic era as a terminus a quo. This chronology, in turn, allows us to read the prophecies of Noah about “Japheth dwelling in the tents of Shem” (Gen. 9:27) and Bileam, about “fleets from Kittim subjugating Eber and Assour” (Num. 24:24), as vaticinia ex eventu of the invasion of the Near East by Alexander and his Macedonian troops (see Lemche 1998a: 159–60; 2013b: 260; Wajdenbaum 2011: 77, 187; Thompson and Wajdenbaum 2014b: 1).

Bibliography Astour, M. 1965. Hellenosemitica. An Ethnic and Cultural Study in West Semitic Impact on Mycenaean Greece. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Brisson, L. 1994. Platon, les mots et les mythes, comment et pourquoi Platon nomma le mythe. Paris: La Découverte. Brodie, T. L. 2001. Genesis as Dialogue, A Literary, Historical and Theological Commentary. New York: Oxford University Press. Brown, J. P. 1995. Israel and Hellas. Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für die Alttestamentliche Wissenshaft 231. Berlin and New York: W. de Gruyter. Burton, J. B. 2005. “Themes of Female Desire and Self-Assertion in the Song of Songs and Hellenistic Poetry”. See Hagedorn (2005): 180–205. Calame, C. 2011 [1996]. Mythe et histoire dans l’antiquité grecque – La fondation symbolique d’une colonie. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Gmirkin, R. E. 2006. Berossus and Genesis, Manetho and Exodus: Hellenistic Histories and the Date of the Pentateuch. Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies, 433; Copenhagen. International Series, 15. New York and London: T&T Clark ______2014. “Greek Evidence for the Hebrew Bible”. See Thompson and Wajdenbaum (2014a): 56–88. ———. Forthcoming. Plato and the Creation of the Hebrew Bible. Copenhagen. International Seminar. London: Routledge.

88

G enesis - K ings as a P latonic epic

Gordon, C. H. 1962. Before the Bible: The Common Background of Greek and Hebrew Civilisations. London: Collins. Gudme, A.-K. de Hemmer 2014. “Sex, Violence and State Formation in Judges 19–21”. See Thompson and Wajdenbaum (2014a): 165–74. Guillaume, P. 2014. “Hesiod’s Heroic Age and the Biblical Period of the Judges”. See Thompson and Wajdenbaum (2014a): 146–64. Hagedorn, A. C. 2004. Between Moses and Plato – Individual and Society in Deuteronomy and Ancient Greek Law. Forschungen. zur Religion und Literatur des alten und neuen Testaments 204, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. ———. (ed.). 2005. Perspectives on the Song of Songs. Berlin and New York: W. de Gruyter. Hunter. R. 2005. “‘Sweet talk’ – Song of Songs and the Tradition of Greek Poetry”. See Hagedorn (2005): 228–44. Kaiser, O. 2000. “Das Deuteronomium und Platons Nomoi. Einladung zu einem Vergleich”. In Liebe und Gebot. Studien zum Deuteronomium. H. Spieckermann (Hg.) and R. G. Kratz (eds.). Forschungen. zur Religion und Literatur des alten und neuen Testaments, p. 69. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht: 60–79. Knauer, G. N. 1964. “Vergil’s Aeneid and Homer”. Greek and Byzantine Studies 5: 61–84. Kupitz, Y. S. 1997. “La Bible est-elle un plagiat?”. Science et Avenir, hors-série no. 86: 85–8. ———. 2014. “Stranger and City Girl – An Isomorphism between Genesis 24 and Homer’s Odyssey 6–13”. See Thompson and Wajdenbaum (2014a): 117–45. Lemche, N. P. 1998a. The Israelites in History and Tradition. A Critical Survey. Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox Press. ———. 1998b [1993]. “The Old Testament – a Hellenistic Book?”. In Did Moses Speak Attic? – Jewish Historiography and Scripture in the Hellenistic Period. L. L. Grabbe, (ed.). Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series, 317. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press: 287–318. ———. 2005. “Conservative Scholarship on the Move”. Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament 19:2: 203–52. ———. 2013a. Biblical Studies and the Failure of History. Changing Perspectives 3. Copenhagen. International Seminar. Sheffield: Equinox. ———. 2013b [1999]. “History Writing in the Ancient Near East and Greece”. See Lemche (2013a): 253–63. ———. 2013c [2000]. “Good and Bad in History: The Greek Connection”. See Lemche (2013a): 264-75. ———. [2001] 2013d. “How Does One Date an Expression of Mental History? The Old Testament and Hellenism.” See Lemche (2013a): 289–306. Loprieno, A. 2005. “Searching For a Common Background: Egyptian Poetry and the Biblical Song of Songs”. See Hagedorn (2005): 105–35. Louden, B. 2011. Homer’s Odyssey and the Near East. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Morrow, G. R. 1960. Plato’s Cretan City. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Mouze, L. 2005. Le Législateur et le poète, une interprétation des Lois de Platon. Lille: P.U. du Septentrion. Niesiołowski-Spanò, Ł. 2007. “Primeval History in the Persian Period?”. Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament 21: 106–26. Nodet, É. 2014. “Editing the Bible. Alexandria or Babylon?”. See Thompson and Wajdenbaum (2014a): 36–55.

89

P hilippe Wajdenba u m

Rendtorff, R. 1997. “The ‘Yahwist’ as a Theologian? The Dilemma of Pentateuchal Criticism”. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament 3: 2–9. Römer, T. 2004. “La formation du Pentateuque selon l’exégèse historico-critique”. In Introduction à l’Ancien Testament. T. Römer, J.-D. Macchi and C. Nihan (eds.). Geneva: Labor et Fides: 67–84. Sinks, P. W. 1934. “The Laws of Plato compared with the Laws of Moses”. Bibliotheca Sacra 91:361: 65–77 and 91:362 : 204–210. Stott, K. M. 2008. Why Did They Write This Way? Reflections on References to Written Documents in the Hebrew Bible and Ancient Literature. Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies 492. London: T&T Clark. Thompson, T. L. 1992. The Early History of the Israelite People from the Written and Archaeological Sources. Leiden: Brill. ———. 1999. The Mythic Past: Biblical Archaeology and the Myth of Israel. New York: Basic Books = The Bible in History: How Writers Create a Past. London: Jonathan Cape. Thompson, T. L. and P. Wajdenbaum (eds.). 2014a. The Bible and Hellenism – Greek Influence on Jewish and Early Christian Literature. Copenhagen International Seminar. London: Routledge. ———. 2014b. “Introduction: Making Room for Japheth”. See Thompson and Wajdenbaum (2014a): 1–15. Van Seters, J. 1983. In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Wajdenbaum, P. 2010. “Is the Bible a Platonic Book?”. Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament 24: 129–42. ———. 2011. Argonauts of the Desert – Structural Analysis of the Hebrew Bible. Copenhagen International Seminar. Sheffield and Oakville, CT: Equinox ———. 2013. “In Search for Platonic Israel”. In The Politics of Israel’s Past: The Bible, Archeology, Biblical Studies, and Nation Building. E. Pfoh, and K. Withelam (eds.). Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press: 28–48. Weinfeld, M. 1993. The Promise of the Land. The Inheritance of the Land of Canaan by the Israelites. Berkeley, Los Angeles and Oxford: University of California Press. Wesselius, J.-W. 2002. The Origin of the History of Israel - Herodotus’ Histories as Blueprint for the First Books of the Bible. Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Series 345. London and New York: Sheffield Academic Press. West, M. L. 1997. The East Face of Helicon – West Asiatic Elements in Greek Poetry and Myth. Oxford and New York: Clarendon Press.

90

6 GREEK GENRES AND THE HEBREW BIB LE Russell Gmirkin The Hebrew Bible has traditionally been considered a collection of texts with deep Ancient Near Eastern cultural roots, composed mostly during the monarchic period that preceded Jerusalem’s fall and the Babylonian and Persian periods that followed that event. Yet external witnesses to biblical texts first appear in the Hellenistic Era with the translation of the Pentateuch into Greek in ca. 270 bce. An exclusively Ancient Near Eastern background of the Hebrew Bible as a whole thus appears to be little more than an assumption. In the last two decades, biblical scholarship has increasingly come to accept the possibility that the major texts of the Hebrew Bible, including both the Pentateuch and the Primary History, might in fact be the product of the Hellenistic Era (Lemche 1993). These reflect Greek cultural influences that entered the Eastern world in the wake of Alexander the Great’s conquests of 333–23 bce. They perhaps even reflect Greek literary influences that also became accessible in the East, especially after the establishment of the Great Library of Alexandria around 290 bce, a library visited by Jewish scholars ca. 270 bce at the creation of the Septuagint translation, according to the tradition found in The Letter of Aristeas (Gmirkin 2006: 240–56). An important test for the Hellenistic Era composition of the Hebrew Bible is an analysis of the literary genres that appear in the biblical corpus to see if they reflect Ancient Near Eastern or Greek literary categories. Many biblical texts do in fact appear to follow distinctively Greek literary conventions. This article surveys Greek and Hellenistic literary genres that are easily detected in biblical writings and are without Ancient Near Eastern parallels. These include genres of narrative writing such as foundation stories, apologetic history and tragic history; genres of legal writing, including constitutional law, ethical commandments and hortatory legal forms; prophecies against foreign nations; tragedy, erotic poetry and philosophy, and finally, the overarching genre of the national literature. Genesis traditions (“On Nature”) Genesis 1 opens the biblical narrative with an account of the origins of the universe, of the earth and heavenly bodies, of plant life and animals. Genesis 2–6 continues with accounts of the origin of man, of woman, of knowledge, suffering 91

R u ssell G mirkin

and toil, of agriculture, of cities, of metallurgy. Genesis 10 describes the origin of the nations. While an indebtedness to Mesopotamian traditions is evident – in particular to the Babyloniaca of Berossus (Gmirkin 2006: 89–139) – the primaeval history also draws on Greek traditions, especially the literary genre Peri Phusis, “On Nature”, authored by natural philosophers. Texts with this title began in the fifth century bce, starting with Anaximander, the student of Thales. Such texts speculated on the genesis and evolution of the universe, of life, of humans, of the nations, and of political and social institutions (Naddaf 2005). Foundation stories A popular genre of Greek literature was the ktisis or foundation story, which might take either poetic or prose form, and might be set in either legendary or historical times. Several foundation stories had a prequel, typically set in the heroic age, in which a famous ancestor was promised the land as a divine gift for his descendants. This phase has an obvious parallel to the land promises made to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob in the patriarchal narratives of Genesis (Weinfeld 1993: 1–21). The main storyline of a foundation story dealt with the organization of a colonizing expedition, its travels to a new land, its peaceful or violent acquisition of territory, the establishment of a constitution and laws, cities, temples and the allotment of individual land parcels for the colonists. The reasons for setting out for a new land were varied, and included negative circumstances at home such as overpopulation, famine, plague, natural disaster, civil disturbances that resulted in the expulsion of one faction, defeat at war, or escape from impending conquest and enslavement. After a decision to send out an expedition was made, the selection of a leader or oikist was paramount and typically involved the consultation of the god at an oracle site such as Delphi. The divine selection of an oikist often took the designated leader by surprise, as it did Moses in the episode of the burning bush when Yahweh chose Moses as the Israelites’ deliverer. The oikist acted as expedition commander, military commander, religious authority and lawgiver for the new city-state. The expedition set out as an armed host, under the leadership of the oikist. The oracle sometimes provided landmarks and directions for travel to the promised land. The journey often took years, sometimes even generations, and might suffer setbacks and defeats. Some colonizing expeditions even sought to return to their original land, like the rebellious children of Israel in the wilderness. The expedition involved both the migration of the colonists and the transfer of the deity to a new land, with sacred fire transported from the home temple to its new sanctuary in the promised land. Occupation of the land might be either peaceful or violent. Some expeditions sent out spies in advance of the armies, and initial attempts to conquer territory were sometimes repelled. The oikist, after acquiring territory for the colonists, established its constitution and laws, laid out land for its chief cities and temples and allotted equal portions of land for the colonists. These activities all correspond to the actions of Moses as lawgiver and founder of the Israelite nation, together with his successor, Joshua.1 92

G reek genres and the H ebrew B ible

It can hardly be doubted that the ancestral land promises of Genesis and the stories of the exodus, sojourn, law-giving and conquest conform to the literary patterns of Greek foundation stories. Indeed, the Aegyptiaca, written by the Greek author Hecataeus of Abdera around 315 bce, contained a fictionalized foundation story of the Jewish nation as an Egyptian colony that follows the same broad outline of events. Although this foundation story was wholly independent of the biblical account,2 it contained many features in common with the biblical foundation story, including the establishment of the constitution, laws and religious institutions by Moses, his division of the people into twelve civic tribes and the assignment of inalienable land allotments to the colonists.3 The recognition of the essential unity of the patriarchs, the exodus, the Sinai theophany, sojourn and conquest accounts as individual episodes within a Greek foundation story has particular relevance to the theme of this book series: “Changing Perspectives in Old Testament Scholarship”. The literary unity of the foundation story in Genesis– Joshua is fundamentally incompatible with the old redaction critical model in which it was posited that these story units were originally independent traditions that were only unified at the end of a centuries-long process of revision and redaction (Rendtorff 1977, 1990). Apologetic historiography Greek historiography4 tended to fall into one of three categories, each supported by a different type of evidence: 1 History, that is, that evidence dealing with historical times, involving historical personalities and events of definite date, supported by eyewitness accounts and official records supplemented by literary sources; 2 Legend, usually set in the heroic age leading up to and including the Trojan War, pre-dating inscriptions and written records, but supported by widely credited literary or oral traditions, and often linked to historical times by purported genealogical connections that also provided a means of approximate calculation of era (Burns 1930: 49–50; cf. Plato, Timaeus 22a–b, 23b), and 3 Myth, in the realm of pure story, whose subject matter often dealt with interactions of gods and men in the world preceding the flood of Deucalion. The Greeks credited their legends, and many Greek historians freely combined legendary and historical sources in their efforts to reconstruct the past. The Greeks commented on their inability to write a history for periods prior to the floods in the time of Ogygus and Deucalion, since these catastrophes wiped out both the political states that existed in earlier periods and their written records (Plato, Timaeus 20e, 22b–23c; Critias 109d–110a; Laws 2.657a; 3.676a–677b). Greek sources, however, also acknowledged that Egyptian records extended back to much earlier times (Herodotus, Histories 2.142; Plato, Timaeus 21e–22a, 22e–23a, 27b; Aristotle, Politics 7.1329b). In the Hellenistic Era, instances of the emerging 93

R u ssell G mirkin

genre of apologetic historiography5, such as Manetho’s Aegyptiaca and Berossus’s Babyloniaca, exploited the great age of the earliest written records as a basis for nationalistic histories that touted the antiquity of the Egyptian and Babylonian civilizations over that of the Greeks. The Babyloniaca, in particular, advertised cuneiform records that claimed to record kings from before the Flood, which allowed quasi-historical treatment of primordial times in ancient Mesopotamia (Gmirkin 2006: 107–13). The Primary History, found in the books of Genesis to Kings, was directly modelled on the Babyloniaca. It also combines myth, legend and history, and, like the Babyloniaca, claimed to possess historical data that allowed an exact chronology that extended back to earliest primordial times, although it is evident that the biblical authors, in actuality, only possessed limited local historical sources from the monarchic period. Tragic history In the fourth century bce, a new form of history writing arose among the students of Isocrates, an Athenian sophist whose school of rhetoric emphasized the noble aims of public speaking as a device for instilling or encouraging virtue in the citizen body. The tragic style of historiography effectively subordinated history writing to the artistic aims of Greek tragedy by providing dramatized accounts of historical events to illustrate moral themes.6 Tragic history often aimed at either inspiring feelings of patriotism and pride at the bravery of the defenders of Greek liberties, or evoking emotions of horror and pity at the downfall of cities or nations. In its positive aspects, this tragic style of historiography was closely related to the genre of panegyric, a form of patriotic speech given at a public event in which noble individuals and events of an idealized past were recounted. The moralizing commentary on events effectively served the function of a Greek chorus, expressing horror from the sidelines. Biblical historiography, with its free invention of plausible events and speeches in ancient settings, conformed closely to the conventions of Greek history writing. Historical episodes written in Deuteronomistic style demonstrate special affinities with tragic Greek historiography, such as in the depiction of the downfall of Samaria and Jerusalem as cautionary examples of the consequences of impiety,7 in their conscious attempts to evoke emotions of horror and pity at these events,8 and in the explicit moral commentary that accompanied these accounts.9 Law collections The Pentateuchal law collections have traditionally been viewed as having exclusively possessed Ancient Near Eastern antecedents, such as the Hammurabi Law Code and other Old Babylonian as well as Middle Assyrian law collections. It is not my purpose here to discuss the abundant use of Athenian laws or the text of Plato’s Laws of ca. 350 bce by the biblical legislators (Wajdenbaum 2011: 147–50, 158–86; Gmirkin, forthcoming: Chapter 3). Nor will I discuss the similar 94

G reek genres and the H ebrew B ible

rites associated with the adoption of laws by citizenry in the Greek world and the biblical text (Gmirkin, forthcoming: Chapter 4). Instead, I will confine my remarks to genres of legal writings. Broadly speaking, Ancient Near Eastern law collections were confined to listing various categories of civil crimes and their penalties, sometimes accompanied by simple criteria for establishing guilt or comments regarding the need to refer the case to the king for serious cases. Such law collections never addressed religious matters. Discussions of cultic matters were exclusively found in esoteric religious texts intended for use by technical experts and temple personnel, and which sometimes featured curses against those who revealed their contents to outsiders. By contrast, it was usual among the Greeks to combine sacred laws relating to the national cults and civil law, and to publish both in inscriptional form for viewing by the citizenry (Lupu 2005; Parker 2004). This corresponds to the public character of the various Pentateuchal law collections, all of which combined sacred with civil laws. Constitutions Constitutional writings dealt with the form of government, defining the various branches and offices of government, the manner in which magistrates were selected for office, and their duties and legal limitations. The legal genre of constitution arose among the Greeks as a result of the common participation of Greek citizenry in administering their own government, which necessitated a detailed knowledge of the procedures relating to public offices. Constitutional provisions appeared in inscriptions and in quotations preserved by Athenian orators, in theoretical writings about politics by Plato, Xenophon, Aristotle and others, and in the collection of 153 constitutions assembled by Aristotle and his students, of which we still possess the Athenian Constitution. The Pentateuch contains substantial constitutional content, most explicitly in the constitutional sub-document Deut. 16:18–18:22, which detailed the selection and responsibilities of the magistrates who would govern Israel in the Promised Land.10 The legal genre of constitution was entirely unknown in the Ancient Near East (Gmirkin, forthcoming: Chapter 2). Ethical commandments Pentateuchal laws with ethical content appear to form a distinct genre, typified by the Decalogue, which contained ten divine commandments that can be interpreted as laws, but which contained no legal penalties for disobedience. Other such ethical injunctions in the same second-person format also appear elsewhere in the Pentateuch, and include such famous commands as “Love God” (Deut. 6:5) and “Love your neighbour” (Lev. 19:18). This form of commandment also widely appeared in the Book of Proverbs and in wisdom literature throughout the Ancient Near Eastern and Greek worlds, where such ethical commands were typically from a father addressed to his son. In the Greek world, this category 95

R u ssell G mirkin

of brief ethical instruction – the maxim – was often used in school settings to inculcate citizen virtues in children. A venerated collection of such sayings, “The Commandments of the Seven Wise Men”, was inscribed on a wall of the temple at Delphi, and included such sayings as “Honour the gods”, “Honour your father and your mother”, “Seek wisdom” and “Help your friends”. Their attribution to the wise legislators of the past gave these commandments a quasi-legal authority, and their publication on the walls of the temple at Delphi gave them an aura of divine authority, like the Ten Commandments.11 Hortatory legal content Biblical laws are commonly accompanied by persuasive content: lengthy hortatory introductions intended to put the listener in a receptive frame of mind, shorter exhortations attached to smaller groups of laws, and motive clauses, directly attached to individual legal provisions, which either explained the purpose of a law or exhorted the citizen to obey it. Such features are found in all the biblical law collections, and are especially prominent in Deuteronomy, but are entirely absent from Ancient Near Eastern law collections.12 These rhetorical features appear instead to have drawn from Plato’s Laws, which advocated the innovative use of persuasive introductions (prooimia) and exhortations (paramuthia) attached to the laws and gave detailed instructions for legislators on how to accomplish this.13 The related notion of law as education or teaching – that is, as Torah – was another legislative innovation found in Plato’s Laws. Deuteronomy The Book of Deuteronomy is a unique case. Close structural parallels between Deuteronomy and Plato’s Laws were first noted in Kaiser 2000 (cf. Hagedorn 2004: 36–7) and adduced as evidence of cultural contacts between Jews and Greeks. A case can be made that Deuteronomy was composed following explicit directions found in Plato’s Laws, which pictured the legislator assembling the colonists and addressing them in a speech with a lengthy introduction. This invoked the deity’s blessing on the nation about to be formed, contingent on the citizenry’s obedience to the laws, followed by an oral presentation of the entire law collection, suitably interspersed with persuasive introductions and exhortations (Plato, Laws 4.712b, 715e–720a). The correspondence to the actual text of Deuteronomy appears to show literary dependence on Plato’s Laws (Gmirkin, forthcoming: Chapter 4). Oracles Against the Nations All of the Major Prophets and several of the Minor Prophets include collections of prophecies of the genre known as Oracles Against the Nations (OAN). OAN include Isa. 13:23; Jer. 46–51; Ezek. 25–31; Amos 1:1–2:3; Zeph. 2.1:15; 96

G reek genres and the H ebrew B ible

Obadiah; Nahum; Hab. 1–2; Zech. 9:1–8. Collections of OAN typically surveyed several of Judah’s nearby neighbours or distant foreign powers, predicting dire catastrophes against each one in turn. This distinctive genre is without parallel in the Ancient Near East, but closely resembles Greek oracle collections, mostly attributed to Bakis or one of the Sibyls, which contained predictions of disaster against various foreign nations.14 The biblical OAN appear to have been written in imitation of the Sibylline Oracles, which are known to have penetrated the east with Alexander’s invasion of 333–23 bce (Parke 1983: 125–35). Indeed, Egyptian Jews produced their own collection of pseudonymous Sibylline Oracles in the second century bce, showing their familiarity with the genre.15 Plays Job is one of only two biblical books in the form of staged dialog (the other being the antiphonal poems between lovers in Song of Songs). This has led some to propose that the author of Job was acquainted with Plato’s dialogues. Indeed, one of the central tenets of Plato’s theology was that the righteous were happy and the wicked miserable, notwithstanding the apparent contrary evidence of empirical experience (Plato, Republic 3.392a–c; Laws 2.661c, 662b, 663d–e; 3.660e). But it is more commonly proposed that Job was written in the form of a Greek tragedy for public performance. Interesting literary and thematic parallels exist between Job and the Prometheus cycle of plays by Aeschylus in the fifth century bce.16 The resolution of Job’s philosophical dilemma by the appearance of God in a storm has been compared to the deus ex machina of Greek tragedy, especially in the plays of Euripides.17 The seemingly total absence of Pentateuchal references in Job suggests that the book could have been written after Alexander’s conquests of the Levant in 332 bce but before the composition of the Pentateuch. Erotic poetry The Song of Songs is a collection of erotic poems written in a pastoral setting strongly reminiscent of the bucolic or pastoral style of poetry originated by Theocritus of Syracuse, the court poet of Ptolemy II Philadelphus in the 270s bce. Many scholars have noted the affinities between Song of Songs and the Idylls of Theocritus, including subject matter, style, voice (especially with respect to the assertiveness of female sexuality), and striking instances of shared imagery.18 A Hellenistic Era date and influence from Alexandrian poetry, especially Theocritus, has wide acceptance among biblical and classical scholars. Philosophy The affinities of Ecclesiastes with Stoic and Epicurean Greek philosophy are well known.19 97

R u ssell G mirkin

National literature The Hebrew Bible, taken as a whole, was an authoritative, restrictive collection of texts with ethical content of varying genres centred on the books of Moses. This book collection does not correspond to any category of textual collection known from the Ancient Near East, such as library, document archive, or scribal school curriculum. Instead, the Hebrew Bible appears to be based directly on the idea of a restrictive national literature centred on its law code as described in Plato’s Laws. Plato’s program for creating an ethical national literature began with Laws itself, a legislative and educational document for which Plato claimed a measure of divine inspiration,20 and which was intended to serve as the supreme standard for inclusion of other books in the collection.21 Traditional hymns and prayers were to be reviewed, edited, revised and supplemented with new material in line with theological guidelines laid out in Plato’s Laws (Plato, Laws 7.800a–801d, 802b). Poetry, prose, plays, myths, music and all other literary works, oral or written, were to be reviewed by the legislators of the arts and slated for inclusion or exclusion from the national canon of literature (Plato, Laws 7.811c–e). Approved works were to be used in schools (Plato, Laws 7.811c–812a ) and performed at public festivals (Plato, Laws 2.664b–665c; 7.811a, 812e–813a; 8.840b–c ) for the education and enculturation of the citizenry. This ethical national literature provides a direct antecedent to the Hebrew Bible, which appears to have been created according to the procedures and standards that Plato laid out (Gmirkin, forthcoming: Chapter 6). In conclusion, the consideration of Greek literary antecedents to the biblical text corroborates the hypothesis that the Hebrew Bible was a Hellenistic Era creation, written by authors well conversant with Greek literary forms. Some of these literary antecedents to biblical genres appeared in the fourth century bce, such as tragic history originated by Isocrates or the synthesis of education, persuasive rhetoric and legislation originated by Plato. Others first appeared in the Hellenistic East in the third century bce, such as apologetic national histories and bucolic poetry, in sources often closely associated with Alexandria. The biblical use of written sources such as Plato, Berossus and Theocritus appears best explained by Jewish access to the Great Library of Alexandria, as supported by the later tradition found in The Letter of Aristeas in connection with the Septuagint translation. The basic realization that the biblical authors had access to Greek culture, learning and literature at nearby Alexandria opens up many important new avenues of research. Knowing some of the prominent titles on Jewish bookshelves as they wrote the Bible – especially Plato’s Laws, which appears to have exerted a profound influence – should provide keen insights into the thinking of the biblical authors who helped shape our modern cultural and literary heritage.

Notes   1 The conquest account in Joshua was extensively compared against features in Greek foundation stories in Weinfeld 1993. Although Weinfeld extensively discussed both

98

G reek genres and the H ebrew B ible

ancestral promises and the conquest of the land, he omitted any comparison between Greek foundation stories and the exodus and sojourn under Moses.   2 According to the foundation story by Hecataeus of Abdera – and in contrast to the biblical account – the land of Judaea was uninhabited before Moses and his colonizing expedition. Moses was said to have established Jerusalem and its temple and to have conquered nearby territories. The biblical independence of the story from Hecataeus is extensively discussed at Gmirkin 2006: 34–66.   3 See Gmirkin 2006: 63 for the reconstructed text of the foundation story by Hecataeus of Abdera, which was used as a major source on the Jews in the fragment of Theophanes of Mytilene quoted at Diodorus Siculus, Library 40.3.1–8.   4 History, properly speaking, is an inquiry (‘istoria) about the past. Historical inquiries into events of the past might be conducted using a variety of sources of varying credibility: eyewitness reports (autopsy), contemporary inscriptional or written records, literary traditions, oral traditions (mneme, “memory”), legends and myths. Herodotus, the “father of history”, wrote his great work, Histories, based on inquiries into all these forms of information. The literary product of such research is called “historiography” or history-writing, that is, prose narrative about the past that contains purported factual or “historical” content. Aims of historiography in antiquity included providing an objective investigation into the events of the past (Herodotus, Thucydides, Aristotle); entertaining the reader (Herodotus, Ephoros, Theopompus); providing practical examples of statesmanship or military strategy for the education of future leaders (Thucydides, Aristotle, Polybius); to moralize, motivate, or draw ethical lessons from the past by inspirational or cautionary examples (Isocrates, Ephoros, Theopompus) and to promote the national greatness of an ancient civilization (Hecataeus of Abdera, Manetho, Berossus, Megasthenes).   5 The nationalistic genre of apologetic historiography arose in the Hellenistic east with Hecataeus of Abdera’s Aegyptiaca (ca. 315 bce), soon followed by Manetho’s Aegyptiaca (ca. 285 bce), Berossus’s Babyloniaca (278 bce), and Megasthenes’ Indica (after 278 bce). See Sterling 1992: 103–36.   6 Tragic historians between the time of Isocrates and Polybius included Ephoros, Duris and Theopompus. See, generally, Ullman 1942 and Walbank 1960. See Nielsen 1997: 46–81 and Mandell and Freedman 1993: 70–71 on earlier tragic elements in Herodotus. Aristotle’s Rhetoric was in agreement with Isocrates on the usefulness of history for providing examples useful for rhetoricians to prove a case. Tragic historians effectively used history as a tool of moral rhetoric. Polybius disparaged the moralizing view of the tragic historians, but viewed history as a storehouse of examples useful for military and political leaders.   7 The fall of Samaria and Jerusalem were the result of the covenant curses of Deut. 4:25–8; 28:48–68; 29:20–28; 31:16–21, 26–9 that befell them as a result of their acts of impiety and apostasy, as described at 2 Kgs 17:6–23; 21:2–16; Jer. 7:1–26; 11:1–13; 16:10–13;19:3–6; 25:1–7; 32:26–36; 44:1–23.   8 2 Kgs 25:1–11, 18–21; Jer. 9:9–12; 15:4–6; 16:1–9; 19:2–11; 25:9–11; 26:6, 9; 34:19– 22; 39:1–8. Deut. 28:15–68 was filled with scenes of horror and pity in the form of predicted curses, and the Book of Lamentations with similar scenes of retrospective sorrow. The astonishing character of the national tragedy was artificially heightened by the fictional scene of utter desolation of the lands under God’s curse, as predicted at Deut. 4:25–6; 28:21–5, 63–4; 30:28 and reported at 2 Kgs 17.5–6, 18; 23:24, 26; Jer.

99

R u ssell G mirkin

4.26–9; 9.10–12; 12.10–11; 25.11, 18; 26.9; 32:43; 33:10, 12; 34:22; 44:2, 6. Greek tragedies often heightened the horror of events by having a prophetic figure such as Teiresias or Cassandra appear and utter dire predictions of oncoming woes, often as the result of royal impiety.   9 2 Kgs 17:6–23, 34–41; 21:2–16 (anticipating Jerusalem’s fall); Jer. 19:2–15; 44:1–14, 20–23. Ethical commentary on kings and major events are found in Deuteronomistic passages throughout Judges–Kings and Jeremiah, exclusive of the novelistic books of Samuel. The ethical evaluations of the kings of Judah and Israel are reminiscent of the rhetorical category of epideictic, a speech of praise or censure, especially at a public funeral, that was considered important as a means of shaping public behaviour (cf. Hauser 1999). 10 The constitutional character of this passage was first discussed in Lohfink 1993. 11 For inscriptions and papyri containing the Commandments of the Seven Wise Men, see Robert 1968 and Oikonomides 1987. The Commandments were widely circulated in antiquity, including in the East after Alexander’s conquests, and many ancient authors speculated on the identities of the ancient originators of specific sayings. 12 See Gmirkin, forthcoming: Chapter 4, “Greek and Ancient Near Eastern Law Collections”. Motive clauses were first discussed in Gemser 1953. Arguments for the existence of motive clauses in a few Ancient Near Eastern laws were made in Sonsino 1980, but on close analysis it can be shown in all cases that the subordinate clause dealt with the evidentiary basis for the verdict or disposition of the case, not the motive behind the law itself. 13 Plato, Laws 4.718b–723d. At Laws 4.721a–e, Plato gave an example of a law expressed in simple “single” apodictic form as a command, with a restatement in casuistic form specifying the penalty for disobedience. He then gave an example in his innovative “double” form, with an addition of persuasive explanations and exhortations that are easily seen to functionally correspond to the biblical “motive clause” as defined by Gemser and others. 14 For parallels between biblical OAN and Greek oracle collections, see Lange 2006: 266–7, 273–5; Hagedorn 2007: 432–48; Parke 1983: 13. Due to the assumed antiquity of the biblical OAN, these authors did not consider the possibility of direct literary influence from Greek oracle collections, despite the striking similarities between the two genres. 15 For the Egyptian origin of the Jewish oracles of ca. 170–40 bce in SibOr book 3, see Collins 1983: 322, 355–6; Frazier 1984: 708–9. 16 Cf. Pope 1973: xxx–xxxi. In Prometheus Bound, the protagonist was chained at Mount Caucasus in a situation reminiscent of Job in his distress. Conversations between Prometheus and various visitors centred on the tyranny of Zeus. Prometheus was eventually restored to freedom and favour and (it is thought) the reputation of Zeus was restored as the embodiment of justice in Prometheus Unbound. See also Daube 1996. 17 The use of dramatic devices from Euripides in the Book of Job (deus ex machina and Euripidean prologue) was first argued in Kallen 1918: 25–8. 18 A very thorough comparison of Theocritus and Song of Songs appears in Burton 2005: 180–205. For earlier scholarship that dated Song of Songs to the early Hellenistic Era based on its links with the poetry of Theocritus, see Burton 2005: 180 n. 1. Bloch and Bloch (1995: 24 n. 20) compared imagery at Song 1:5 and Idyll 10.26–7, Song 1:9 and Idyll 18.30–31, Song 2:15 and Idyll 1.48–9; 5.112–13.

100

G reek genres and the H ebrew B ible

19 See Bartholomew 2009: 54–8 for secondary literature and extensive discussion on possible Greek philosophical influences and Hellenistic Era date. The philosophical content of Ecclesiastes cannot be directly identified with any one of the Greek schools of philosophy, but the interaction with Greek theories of reason and natural observation seems apparent. 20 Plato, Laws 7.811c. On Plato’s theory of divine inspiration of prophets, poets (including playwrights), and certain great legislators, politicians and philosophers, see Büttner 2011. Plato’s claim that Laws (although a prose composition) was a unique form of poetry (Laws 7.811c–d) and that its constitution was the finest of tragedies (Laws 7.817b–d) thus constituted a claim to divine inspiration, as did his claim that his constitution and laws were the expression of “divine reason” (Laws 4.713e–714a). 21 Plato, Laws 3.664d; 7.802b–c, 811c–812a; 9.858c–859a; 12.957d. For Plato’s Laws as an elevated form of writing that possessed “an almost scriptural status”, see Nightingale 1999.

Bibliography Bartholomew, C. G. 2009. Ecclesiastes. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic. Bloch, A. and C. Bloch 1995. The Song of Songs: A New Translation with an Introduction and Commentary. Berkeley: University of California Press. Burns, A. R. 1930. Minoans, Philistines and Greeks. New York: Albert Knopf. Burton, J. B. 2005. “Themes of Female Desire and Self-Assertion in the Song of Songs and Hellenistic Poetry”. In Perspectives on the Song of Songs. A. C. Hagedorn (ed.). Berlin: Walter de Gruyter: 180–205. Büttner, S. 2011. “Inspiration and Inspired Poets in Plato’s Dialogues”. In Plato and the Poets, P. Destrée and F.-G. Herrmann (eds.). Leiden: Brill: 111–29. Collins, J. J. 1983. “Sibylline Oracles”. In Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, vol. 1: Apocalyptic Literature and Testaments. J. S. Charlesworth (ed.) London: Doubleday: 317–472. Daube, D. 1996. “Reflections on Job and Greek Tragedy”. In Studies in Memory of Abraham Wasserstein, vol. 1. H. M. Cotton, J. J. Price and D. J. Wasserstein (eds.). Jerusalem: Hebrew University: 72–81. Frazier, P. 1984. Ptolemaic Alexandria, vol 1. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Gemser, B. 1953. “The Importance of Motive Clauses in Old Testament Law”. VTSup 1: 50–66. Gmirkin, R. E. 2006. Berossus and Genesis, Manetho and Exodus: Hellenistic Histories and the Date of the Pentateuch. Copenhagen International Series 15. New York: T&T Clark. ———. Forthcoming. Plato and the Creation of the Hebrew Bible. Copenhagen International Series. Hagedorn, A. C. 2004. Between Moses and Plato: Individual and Society in Deuteronomy and Ancient Greek Law. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. ————. 2007. “Looking at Foreigners in Biblical and Greek Prophecy”. Vetus Testamentum 57: 445–7. Hauser, G. A. 1999. “Aristotle on Epideictic: The Formation of Public Morality”. Rhetoric Society Quarterly 29: 5–23. Kaiser, O. 2000. “Das Deuteronomium und Platons Nomoi: Einladung zu einem Vergleich”. In Liebe und Gebot: Studien zum Deuteronomium. H. Spieckermann and R. G. Kratz (eds.). Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht: 60–79.

101

R u ssell G mirkin

Kallen, H. M. 1918. The Book of Job as a Greek Tragedy. New York: Moffat, Yard and Company. Lange, A. 2006. “Literary Prophecy and Oracle Collection: A Comparison between Judah and Greece in Persian Times”. In Prophets, Prophecy, and Prophetic Texts in Second Temple Judaism. M. H. Floyd and R. Donel Haak (eds.). New York: T&T Clark: 248–75. Lemche, N. P. 1993. “The Old Testament – A Hellenistic Book?”. Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament 7: 163–93. Lohfink, N. 1993. “Distribution of the Functions of Power: the Laws Concerning Public Offices in Deuteronomy 16:18–18:22”. In A Song of Power and the Power of Song: Essays on the Book of Deuteronomy. D. L. Christenson (ed.). Winona Lake, ID: Eisenbrauns: 336–55. Lupu, E. 2005. Greek Sacred Law: A Collection of New Documents. Leiden: Brill. Mandell, S. and D. N. Freedman. 1993. The Relationship between Herodotus’ History and Primary History. South Florida Studies in the History of Judaism, 60. Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press. Naddaf, G. 2005. Greek Concepts of Nature. Albany: State University of New York Press. Nielsen, F.A. J. 1997. The Tragedy in History: Herodotus and the Deuteronomist History. Copenhagen International Seminar. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Nightingale, A. W. 1999. “Plato’s Lawcode in Perspective: Rule by Written Law in Athens in Magnesia”. Classical Quarterly 49: 100–22. Oikonomides, A. N. 1987. “Records of ‘The Commandments of the Seven Wise Men’ in the 3rd century B.C.”. The Classical Bulletin 63: 67–76. Parke, H. W. 1983. Sibyls and Sibylline Prophecy in Classical Antiquity. New York: Routledge. Parker, R. 2004. “What Are Sacred Laws?”. In The Law and the Courts in Ancient Greece. E. M. Harris and L. Rubenstein (eds.). London: Duckworth: 57–70. Pope, M. H. 1973. Job. Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Company. Rendtorff, R. 1977. Das Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Problem des Pentateuch. BZAW 147. Berlin: de Gruyter. ———. 1990. The Problem of the Process of Transmission in the Pentateuch. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. Robert, L. 1968. “De Delphes a l’Oxus: Inscriptions grecques nouvelles de la Bactriane”. Comptes Rendus de l’Académie des Inscriptions 112: 442–54. Sonsino, R. 1980. Motive Clauses in Hebrew Law: Biblical Forms and Near Eastern Parallels. Chico, CA: Scholars Press. Sterling, G. E. 1992. Historiography and Self-Definition: Josephus, Luke-Acts and Apologetic Historiography. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Ullman, B. L. 1942. “History and Tragedy”. Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association 73: 25–53. Wajdenbaum, P. 2011. Argonauts of the Desert: Structural Analysis of the Hebrew Bible. Sheffield: Equinox Publishing. Walbank, F. W. 1960. “History and Tragedy”. Historia: Zeitschrift für Alte Geschichte 9: 216–34. Weinfeld, M. 1993. The Promise of the Land: The Inheritance of the Land of Canaan by the Israelites. Berkeley: University of California Press.

102

7 W H E N THE S EP TUAGI NT CAM E I N FROM THE CO LD Mogens Müller I To a generation of scholars, educated with a more or less fixed conception of the Masoretic text as something of a Grundtext and the Septuagint as primarily a translation and thus of secondary interest, a lot has really happened during the last three or four decennia. The concept of a principally reliable Hebrew Grundtext of the Old Testament has gradually been replaced by an attitude, for which Emanuel Tov is a representative spokesman. He states that “it is probably accepted by most scholars that equal attention should be paid to MT and the LXX, and that both MT and the LXX could reflect an original reading” (Tov 2013: 376). Tov further declares: Now more than ever it seems to me that there never was an “archetype” or “original text” of most scripture books. For most biblical scholars assume editorial changes over the course of many generations or even several centuries. If this assumption is correct, this development implies that there never was a single text that may be considered the original text for textual criticism; rather, we have to assume compositional stages, each of which was meant to be authoritative when completed. (Tov 2013: 380, original emphasis) In 1985, leading up to the new Danish Bible translation, which appeared in 1992, I asked in a newspaper review of the volume with the preliminary translation of the Twelve Minor Prophets, why it was not the Septuagint to be translated, but rather the Hebrew text (Müller 1985, but also Müller 1996 and 2012a, an answer to Holst 2006). Nearly unanimously, my question met with rejection. I was questioning the obvious. At that time, it did not make any notable impression that, in the New Testament, for instance, Habakkuk 2:4 is quoted by Paul in its Septuagint form. The Masoretic wording would have been unfit for the apostle’s argument in Galatians 3:11 and Romans 1:17: ὁ δὲ δίκαιος ἐκ πίστεως ζήσεται (although similarly resembling the Septuagint, the meaning of the same quotation in Hebrews 10:38 with an inserted μου after δίκαιος seemingly offers another understanding of πίστις). The fact that the New Testament authors generally held the Old Greek

103

M ogens M ü ller

translation as their authoritative biblical text was earlier neutralized by the belief in the Hebrew text as the text, a tradition going all the way back to Jerome, and resumed by Luther and the other reformers, who worked on Bible translations into the vernaculars. I refer to the designation “Old Greek”, the Old Testament of the Christian Bible, to avoid identification with the Septuagint also including the Apocrypha (I am aware that speaking of a Bible in New Testament times is an anachronism, although I think that, generally, the number of “holy” books was fixed at this period (cf. Josephus, Contra Apionem I 38–41).

II There is no sign that any of the New Testament authors were conscious of a choice between alternatives. At least some of them would only have had access to the Greek text. Awareness of differences between the Hebrew and the Greek wording of certain biblical sayings first became apparent towards the middle of the second century ce. From the very beginning, a bone of contention had been the virgin in the Septuagint version of Isaiah 7:14 (quoted in Matthew 1:23). The earliest known author to testify to this discrepancy is Justin. In his Apology/ies from ca. 150, he quotes the Greek version of Isaiah 7:14 in a ‘proof from Scripture’ argument (I 33.1–4; cf. 54.8). Later, however, in his Dialogue with the Jew Tryphon, he discusses the saying at several places, defending the Greek wording over against new Jewish translations being made in the second century ce, replacing παρθένος with νεᾶνις (43.5–8; cf. 66.1–4; 67.1; 68.7–8; 71.3; 84.1–3). As the first Christian author known to us to do so, Justin introduced the story about the genesis of the Greek translation of the Holy Scriptures of Judaism as initiated by the Egyptian king Ptolemaeus. He does not refer to any source. Without further ado, he expands the narrative as we know it from Aristeas, Philo and Josephus in order to cover the translation, not only encompassing the Pentateuch (as its Jewish authors would have it), but all of the holy books, which he summarily refers to as the “prophecies” (αἱ προφητείαι, Apology I 31.1). (For the developments in the Jewish and Christian reception of the story of the genesis of the Greek translation of the Pentateuch, see Müller 1996, esp. ch. 3 and ch. 4.) The proscriptive right of the translation of the seventy is affirmed a little later (ca. 180) by Irenaeus by reference to its use by the apostles. As the deciding argument for not attending to the new Greek translations (that is, those by Aquila and Theodotion), this bishop of Lyon thus argues in Adversus haereses III 21.3: For the apostles, since they are of more ancient date than all these [heretics], agree with this aforesaid translation [interpretatio]; and the translation harmonizes with the tradition of the apostles. For Peter, and John, and Matthew, and Paul and the rest successively, as well as their followers, did set forth all prophetical [announcements] just as the interpretation of the elders contains them [quemadmodum Seniorum interpretatio 104

T he S eptuagint comes in from the cold

continet]. For the one and the same Spirit of God, who proclaimed by the prophets what and of what sort the advent of the Lord should be, did by these elders give a just interpretation of what had been truly prophesied. (21, 3–4; translation according to The Ante-Nicene Fathers) This is not the place to go into detail regarding the ever more fantastic versions of the story about the genesis of the Greek translation. It should, however, be remarked that some authors express the conviction that the Septuagint actually represents alternative readings. The most prominent spokesman for this understanding is Augustine, who, in concluding a longer discussion of the problem in De civitate Dei XVIII 42–3, writes: If then, we see, as it behoves us to see in these Scriptures no words that the Spirit of God did not speak through men, it follows that whatever is in the Hebrew text but not in that of the seventy translators is something that the Spirit of God did not choose to say through the latter, but only through the prophets. Likewise he spoke, as he pleased, some things through Jeremiah, still others through one or another prophet, or the same things but in different forms through the latter prophet as well as the former. Moreover, anything that is found in both places is something that one and the same Spirit chose to say through both kinds of instrument, but in such wise that the one kind led the way in prophesying and the other came after with a prophetic translation of their words [prophetice illos interpretando]. For just as a single Spirit of peace inspired the former when they spoke true and concordant words, so the same single Spirit manifested himself in the latter when without mutual consultation they nevertheless translated the whole as with one mouth. (43; translation according to LCL)

III Confronted with the task of creating a Latin Bible, consisting partly of revisions, partly of new translations, Jerome (after 390 ce) came to the decision regarding which text to translate, choosing the Hebrew at the expense of the Septuagint, referring to the Hebraica veritas. In this connection, Jerome flatly rejected the whole story of the creation of the Greek translation with all the fantastic traits it had come to enjoy in Christian reception. He declared outright that he did not know who the first author was, who, with his lie, had set up the seventy huts in Alexandria, where the translators, separated from each other, wrote the same, when Aristeas . . . and, much later, Josephus had said nothing of the kind, but, instead, that they were assembled in a basilica [sic!], where they wrote: collating, not prophesying (contulisse scribant, non prophetasse). For it is one thing to be a prophet, another 105

M ogens M ü ller

to be a translator; one predicts when the Spirit inspires him, the other translates what he has achieved insight into by learning and hard work with the words (Aliud est enim vatem, aliud esse interpretem: ibi spiritus ventura praedicit, hic eruditio et verborum copia ea quae intellegit transfert). (Prologus in Pentateucho, my translation) The only inspired text, accordingly, was the Hebrew, which, moreover, in the perception of Jerome, was uniformly transmitted – in strong contrast to the Greek, where confusion was widespread. Through his Hexapla, Origen had tried to offer a remedy for this calamity, but without success. The rejection of any consideration of a prophetic translation clearly invited Jerome to use the Hebraica veritas as the obvious point of departure for his Latin version. Accordingly, whereas Jerome had spoken earlier of the translation used by the apostles as the vera interpretatio (Praefatio in evangelio II 1515.19), he was later convinced that, because they had translated before the coming of Christ, but had not known of it, the seventy “expressed themselves in dubious sentences”. However after His suffering and resurrection, we are not as much writing prophecy as history; you narrate what you have heard otherwise than what you have seen. The better the understanding, the better the rendering (quod melius intellegimus, melius et proferimus). (Prologus in Pentateucho I 4.35–9) This de-mythologized view of the Septuagint was – as stated above – taken over much later by Luther, and it was only after the textual discoveries in the caves in the neighbourhood of Qumran that it became clear that any idea of a fixed Hebrew Grundtext is an illusion. Nevertheless, it took a generation for scholars to realize the impact of what this meant for evaluating the Septuagint as not only a more or less trustworthy rendering of a Hebrew text, but as expressing a reception of its Holy Scriptures by Hellenistic Judaism. Although we also have testimony of efforts to bring the Greek wording into greater accord with a Hebrew text, which was later labelled a Proto-Masoretic text, from the period before the beginning of the Christian era, we must realize that the Hebrew and Greek versions existed for centuries as valid and fully representative editions of the biblical text. The widespread idea that, already by the second and third centuries ce, the Jews had withdrawn from Hellenistic culture and, thereby, had also resigned from the use of a Greek Bible, is contested by Lange (Lange 2012). That Judaism had not withdrawn from Hellenism has been clearly confirmed by the excavations of early Jewish synagogues in Palestine, including the fifth-century synagogue of Beit Alpha with a Greek dedicatory inscription and numerous Greco-Roman themes, such as the zodiac and sun chariot of Hellas (see Hüttenmeister and Reeg 1977; Sukenik 2003: cf. articles in Lange, Krivoruchko and Boyd-Taylor 2009). 106

T he S eptuagint comes in from the cold

IV Where the concept of a Grundtext dissolves, it becomes problematic to speak of the original wording, and it invites us to consider the possibility that the surviving textual versions are expressions of an ongoing reception of holy traditions. Thus, the old truism that all translation is interpretation should be remembered, the more so as every acceptance of a tradition demands interpretation. As Hans Hübner has formulated it (Hübner 1995: 244), there is no such thing as Sacra Scriptura per seipsam: “Denn wo Geschichtlichkeit ist, da ist Rezeption. Rezeptionslosigkeit ist eine ontologische Unmöglichkeit . . . Es gibt nie Tradition an sich, es gibt nur interpretierte Tradition” (original emphasis). This is reflected in different ways in the translations of the various biblical books contained in the Septuagint. In general, there is a tendency towards a growing literal rendering in the later translations, a tendency probably coinciding with the efforts to revise older translations in greater harmony with the Hebrew text and further cultivated in the new translations of the second century ce. Old witnesses to this endeavour are the fragments of a Greek version of the Minor Prophets found at Wadi Murabba’at in 1952 and Nahal Hever in 1962 (8HevXIIGr), supporting the notion of the existence of forerunners to Aquila (as expressed in the title of Barthélemy 1963). An impact of these earlier revisions has now also been introduced in explaining some of the deviations from the Septuagint in the so-called “reflection quotations” in the Gospel of Matthew, otherwise the “Bible” of the author of this gospel (see Menken 2004). The very attempt to offer a literal rendering, regardless of the grammar of the target language, was not necessarily determined by ineptitude, but perhaps offered as an expression of resistance, a “kind of recalcitrance, a reluctance to accede totally to a Hellenizing ‘project’, which, by the same token, could not be ignored” (Rajak 2009: 153). At the other end of the spectrum we find the Septuagint version of the Book of Isaiah. One of the pioneers in recent times of evaluating the Septuagint as an independent theological document, Isaac Seeligmann (1907–82), characterized it: This translation, in fact, is almost the only one among the various parts of the Septuagint which repeatedly reflects contemporaneous history . . . those places where the paraphrase of the text contains allusions to events happening in the more or less immediate neighbourhood of the translator’s place of residence give one a surprising image of the translator’s notion that the period in which he lived was to be the time for the fulfillment of ancient prophecies, and of his efforts to contemporize the old biblical text and revive it by inspiring it with the religious conceptions of a new age. (Seeligmann 1948: 4; cf. the conclusion drawn by A. van der Kooij and F. Wilk (Karrer and Kraus 2011: 2491): “Die JesLXX stellt eine frühe Interpretation des Jesajabuches dar, bezeugt also eine Etappe in der Rezeptionsgeschichte des hebr. Jesajatextes.”) 107

M ogens M ü ller

And Seeligmann concluded: “it is . . . as ancient testimonies of the Jewish exegesis that the Books of the Septuagint must be investigated and studied” (Seeligmann 1948: 121). This interpretative character of the Greek translation was already recognized by one of the fathers of Septuagint scholarship, Zacharias Frankel (1801–75) (Frankel 1841 and 1851; cf. Rösel 1994: 4). Later, Adolf Deissmann (1866–1937) could speak of Paul as a “Septuagint Jew”. Therefore – according to him – to understand Paul from the perspective of religious history, it is necessary to “know the spirit of the Septuagint . . . The historical presupposition of Paul’s religious life is not the Hebrew Old Testament, and not necessarily what we should call ‘Old Testament Theology,’ but the faith contained in the Greek Old Testament” (Deissmann 1925: 79–80, quoted according to English translation 1957: 99). Next, Georg Bertram (1896–1979), controversial because of his National Socialist sympathies, coined the term “Septuagint piety” and characterized the Septuagint as praeparatio evangelica (see Bertram 1954–59; 1961 and 1967). (Cf. for instance also Bertram 1936: 109: “Die Septuaginta gehört mehr in die Geschichte der Auslegung des Alten Testamentes als in die des alttestamentlichen Textes.” Bertram’s perception of the meaning of the Septuagint got a prolonged afterlife through his many contributions to Gerhard Kittel (ed.), Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Neuen Testament, and its English edition Theological Dictionary to the New Testament.) The Jewish religious historian, Hans-Joachim Schoeps (1909–80) accepted this characterization, but evaluated this development negatively, precisely because he saw the deviations in the Greek from the Hebrew as the source of many Pauline misunderstandings in regard to covenant and law caused by the legalistic shift in perspective in Hellenistic Judaism (Schoeps 1959: esp. 16–21; further also 224–30). One way or the other, however, it was accepted that the Septuagint represented something different, theologically, when compared to the Hebrew Bible (cf. also Tov 1987).

V When the Septuagint had been brought back from its exile and it became clear that it represented the reception of biblical traditions in Hellenistic Judaism, it invited a scrutiny of its own theology and ideology. Of course, it is important not to imply that yet later understandings and interpretations were the intent of the translator or translators. A number of scholars have called for greater caution in this regard. Not least, Anneli Aejmelaeus has, time and again, pointed out that neither the Septuagint nor the translator should be made responsible for what is found in the Hebrew Vorlage or for what was the result of a new interpretation of the Greek. Nor should it be overlooked that the translators avoided dead metaphors and that they – more than is usually thought – were both led by conventions of translation and were influenced by extant translations. Also, although the translation could possess personal characteristics, it was not a private affair, calling for creativity and innovation. It may be expected that, even 108

T he S eptuagint comes in from the cold

when they seem to offer independent translations, they may be dependent on the usage and beliefs of the community. Without knowing the intention of the translator, one should not talk about interpretations, at least not new interpretations. So, at the end of the day, against what she labels “maximal interpretation” (Maximalauslegung), Anneli Aejmelaeus pleads for a minimal scholarly interpretation (Minimalauslegung). Even when there are changes, both versions of Scripture are parts of a greater stream of tradition, through which gradual developments of theological views are independently effected (summary of Aejmelaeus 2006: esp. 24, 33, 39, 40, 42, 47–8). (A collection of earlier contributions is available in Aejmelaeus 1993.) In a less minimalistic way, Albert Pietersma distinguishes between “the Septuagint as produced” and “the Septuagint as received”. A certain translation may have furthered an understanding among readers with access only to the Greek rendering that was not intended by the translator (see, for instance, Pietersma 2006: esp. 50–52). (The article’s “proof-text” is Psalm 28(29), esp. v. 6.) The interpreter of the Septuagint, therefore, has to be very cautious not to exegete the text on the basis of its reception, but instead to concentrate on the possible decisions made by the translators on the basis of the Hebrew text during their production. With regard to the Psalms, Pietersma presupposes “that the Greek translation of Psalms typically makes sense”, “that at times the Greek translator exegetes the source text” and “that messianic interpretation can be found in the Greek Psalter” (Pietersma 2006: 50). In conclusion, however, he insists that just as one has to distinguish between “original text-form and text-forms of transmission”, “a similar distinction should be applied to the semantics of the text as produced and the semantics of the text as received” (Pietersma 2006: 75, original emphasis). These considerations, of course, are especially apposite with regard to the sayings in Christian reception interpreted as prophecies of the Messiah and consequently applied to Jesus Christ (cf. the overview article by Knibb 2006 for references). Maybe it is symptomatic that most of the references to prophetic predictions of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ are not specified, but in an inclusive way described of Scripture as such (as, for example, 1 Corinthians 15:3–4, with the repeated κατὰ γραφάς). The interpretative strategy of the peshercommentary, known from the Qumran writings and obviously in use in Paul and the oldest gospels (see Müller 2011), allows the “fulfillment” to decide the, until then, hidden meaning of the “prophecy” (cf. esp. 1QpHab 7.1–5). It does not suggest verbatim agreement as later presupposed in the “proof from Scripture” argument found in the Lukan writings and expressly in Justin. In these cases, it would be senseless to reckon with an intended meaning on behalf of the translators. However, their wording may have unintentionally invited the application.

VI The translation which Jerome at first had characterized as the vera interpretatio because of the apostles’ use of it, turned out to be a version of the Jewish Holy Writ 109

M ogens M ü ller

in its own right. Interestingly, at various places it is even probable that the Greek version reflects a Hebrew text earlier than the Masoretic. Thus, the Swiss scholar Adrian Schenker has shown, in a series of studies, that the Masoretic text, in fact, has eliminated older readings, presumably for theological reasons. A crucial case is Jeremiah 31:34 – in LXX 38:34 – where the singular “law” in the Masoretic text seems to be a correction of an older plural preserved in the Septuagint’s νόμους, pointing to new commandments and not to the law from Sinai (see Schenker 2006; cf. for instance also Schenker 2007). The plural form is taken over in the quotation in Hebrews 8:10, with the result that all Bible translations from the Vulgate onwards contain both readings. To a certain degree, this supports the old accusation raised by Justin (Dialogue with the Jew Trypho, 71.1–2), that the Jews had made changes in their Bible to preclude Christian use of it. This accusation turned up again in the seventeenth century where some few Catholic scholars made a frontal attack on the Protestant divinization of the Hebrew Bible (Müller 2008: 723–4 for more details). Thus, the Septuagint is not only expressing a later reception of what became the Masoretic Bible, but in some cases it even reaches behind this text. It also confirms that the Septuagint, in some respects, stands as an alternative to the Masoretic text. Naturally, this raises the question of whether it is possible to write a theology of the Septuagint as a pendant to the theology of the Hebrew Bible. Some of the same problems arise. The various books in the Hebrew Bible reached their actual form over a long period and derive from different authors, or better, from different redactors and their circles. In contrast, the Greek translations were made in a shorter period – the later of them also being influenced by the former – but varying in their commitment to the original. In more recent times, the question of the alternative character of the Septuagint has been put on the agenda by Martin Rösel, not least in his monograph from 1994 (Rösel 1994), and later in a series of articles (see esp. Rösel 2006a, and also the recent summary in Rösel 2010). Another scholar, Natalio Fernández Marcos, has also pleaded for the fruitfulness of studying the books of the Septuagint as a “source of historical and religious information for the exegesis and development of Jewish thought in the first three centuries before Christ” (see Marcos 2001: 313). It has to be reckoned a fact that, in various cases, the Septuagint translators transformed the biblical text to be more appropriate for their new context. This concern shows itself expressly in the allegorical interpretation in the High Priest’s instruction to his Egyptian guests in Aristeas 128–71. For instance, this interpretation indicates that the “cultic” regulations about clean and unclean animals, in fact, are about moral virtues. To a lesser degree, in a series of cases, a similar allegorical interpretation is active. This “theology of the Septuagint” is an object of study in its own right, and scholarship on it is just beginning. Thus, Rösel (Rösel 2006b: 251) proposes the following topics for a “theology of the Septuagint”: “Designations and imagery of God”, “God and foreign Gods”, “Israel and the nations”, “humanity and its fate” and “νόμος and ethics”. Timothy McLay (McLay 2010: 610) even offers a definition: “Theology is a reflective activity in which the content of religious expressions is to some extent abstracted, contemplated, 110

T he S eptuagint comes in from the cold

subjected to reflection and discussion, and deliberately reformulated.” (Cf. also M. Müller, “Theology in the LXX?”, in the forthcoming The Oxford Handbook of the Septuagint.)

VII It could be said that a Septuagint “theology” somehow hibernated in the New Testament, at many places displaying the special wording of the Old Greek translation, building its argument on it. The quotation from Isaiah 7:14 in Matthew 1:23 is a prominent example, but certainly not the only one. Sometimes the difference between the Hebrew Grundtext and the employment of the Greek rendering in the New Testament was felt to be so embarrassing that Christian Bible translation tradition, at various places in the Old Testament, simply replaced the Hebrew wording with the Septuagint’s, among them Isaiah 7:14; 40:3. In the latest generation of Bible translations, such discrepancies have been tolerated. For instance, in the Danish official Bibles, the 1931 translation of the Old Testament has a footnote to Isaiah 7:14, declaring that the Septuagint wording was preferred. Later, in 1992, a footnote explains that the Hebrew word translated with “young woman” is rendered in the Greek translation with “virgin”. A reference is given to Matthew 1:23 and Luke 1:27. The “apostles” use had left its sacrosanct traces and there was no option for the New Testament to conform its quotations to the Hebrew text. However, where the text is no longer seen as primarily static and the interest no longer in the reconstruction of an original text (Urtext), readers are called to consider it from the perspective of creative reception. The next step could be rewriting, exactly as it occurred in the numerous examples of this genre or interpretation strategy, which is commonly labelled “rewritten Bible/ Scripture”. At least, such “rewritings” show that the tertium comparationis between original books and their rewritings has not – to say the least – been exclusively seen in terms of “referentiality”, but in the theology or ideology they sought to propagate. What, in our eyes, is related as a historical fact, they treat in a fictional way, the intended effect on the hearers or readers obviously having priority. In other words, we observe a freedom, which may explain why the translators allowed themselves to behave as theologians. This development should not be characterized as a sidetrack or even a blind alley in the history of Judaism. In several cases, it represented an understanding, which was also present in periods of early Judaism, other than the Hellenistic and becomes constitutional in yet later history. This pertains, for instance, to the introduction of the term κύριος to represent the tetragramaton. Perhaps κύριος, in the LXX, reflects the circumstance that adonai had filled in replacing Yahweh in the reading of scripture in the liturgy. At least, κύριος substitutes for Yahweh in the LXX as well as adonai, a title introduced in prophetic speech addressing God. This usage has to be seen in the context of the development towards a monotheistic conception of God and a growing reluctance to pronounce his name. Thus, 111

M ogens M ü ller

where the Hebrew text of Leviticus 24:16 prescribes the death penalty if anyone blasphemes the name of the Lord, the Greek translation orders the same penalty if any “names the name of the Lord (ὀνομάζων δὲ τὸ ὄνομα κυρίου)” (see Rösel 1998 and 2000: esp. 222–30, but also Rösel 1991 and 2006b: 245–8).

VIII The premises of Jerome and Luther for preferring the Hebrew text, namely, that it represented a Grundtext and that the Septuagint was “only” a translation, have proved false. More or less reluctantly, consequences have been drawn in the recent decades, as already mentioned, not least provoked by the Dead Sea Scrolls, which showed that a uniformly transmitted Hebrew text was not a point of departure, but rather the result of generations of learned Jews’ hard work in establishing what, in the Middle Ages, became the Masoretic text. As a consequence, the Old Greek translations of the books, which were later to be included in the Biblia Hebraica, stand out as a representative version of the Holy Scripture of early Judaism. The later Septuagint, which included the Old Testament Apocrypha, was, of course, a Christian affair, as we have no evidence that the apocryphal books ever gained the same status as the writings included in Biblia Hebraica. The Old Testament of the Church can, therefore, no longer be seen as merely a translation of a Masoretic Biblia Hebraica. Moreover, the Septuagint is the Old Testament of the Church – as it had been, by the way, all the while for the Eastern churches, which had not bothered with the Hebraica veritas for some time. How one manages two Old Testaments is but a practical problem. As the situation is now, in a Christian context, it should be just as possible to have an Old Testament translated from the Septuagint as we have one from the Masoretic text. To some degree, the problem resembles having four gospels in the New Testament, all pretending to tell the same story. This situation is also reflected in the history of translations of the Septuagint. It took more than a hundred years to create a successor to the first translation into a modern language, namely, L. C. L. Brenton’s The Septuagint Version of the Old Testament According to the Vatican Text (Brenton 1844), in a new edition from 1851 also including the Apocrypha (Brenton 1851). Thus, the first volume of the scholarly ambitious La Bible d’Alexandrie was first published in 1986 – and since then, sixteen other volumes have followed, though the project is not yet completed. More recently, we have seen A New English Translation of the Septuagint and Other Greek Translations Traditionally Included under That Title, edited by Albert Pietersma in 2007, to be followed in 2009 by the Septuaginta Deutsch: Das griechische Alte Testament in deutscher Übersetzung, edited by Wolfgang Kraus and Martin Karrer and published by the German Bible Society, in 2011, followed by two volumes, Erläuterungen und Kommentare, amounting to more than 3,000 pages (see M. Müller 2012b). It is interesting to note, as confirmed by the names of the editors of Septuaginta Deutsch, that interest in the Septuagint is not restricted to Old Testament scholars. Obviously, it transcends the old division between Old and New Testament

112

T he S eptuagint comes in from the cold

scholarship, which had been created by the specialization initiated in the period of the Enlightenment. This division of tasks was not only motivated by the existence of the different languages of the Bible, but certainly also by the emancipation from the understanding of the Old Testament in dogmatic theology. Today, however, there is a tendency in segments of biblical scholarship to work across the boundaries between the two Testaments. That tendency has also been supported by the paradigmatic shift in biblical exegesis to concentrate more attention on the people producing the biblical texts than on the story they are telling and its “referentiality”. This new development is not least a merit of the so-called “Copenhagen School”, not Niels Bohr’s concerning quantum mechanics (the centenary of which we celebrated in 2013), nor Louis Hjelmslev’s concerning linguistics, but that of Niels Peter Lemche, Thomas L. Thompson and Philip Davies. As a result, that big gap between the two parts of the Bible in earlier scholarship has diminished. The virtual continuity has also been emphasized through a growing awareness of the fact that Jesus had been a Jew, not only in origin, but also in his interpretation of Judaism, as well as that earliest Christianity began within Judaism.

IX The reinvigoration of the study of the Septuagint is a result of a “canonical” approach to the text of the Old Testament. It is due to a secular version of what Augustine labelled “prophetic translation”, now explaining the various differences as having been the result of an ongoing reception of biblical traditions. Along with the acknowledgement that the transmitted Hebrew text is the result of a longer process of transmission and, in some cases, several redactions, the Old Greek version generally represents a new step in this development. In other cases, it went forth in the shape of “rewritten Bible/Scripture”. In a number of places, the Old Greek text inspired and facilitated an adoption by the New Testament authors in their attempt to recount the Jesus story as the fulfilment of the prophecy contained in the holy books of Judaism. Further, in a series of cases, crucial concepts in the New Testament – as for instance εὐαγγέλιον – were taken over from the Septuagint. Thus the New Testament’s employment of the Septuagint simply “canonizes” this version by making it the “first Bible of the Church”. Realizing the consequences of this insight is an important step forward. However, recent developments in scholarship seem to indicate that the Ice Age of the Septuagint, first advanced by Jerome and then by Luther, is, at last, drawing to a close. With warm thanks to Dr Jim West, Tennessee, for having helped me, once again, improve my English.

Bibliography Aejmelaeus, A. 1993. On the Trail of the Septuagint Translators. Kampen: Kok. ———. 2006. “Von Sprache zur Theologie. Methodologische Überlegungen zur Theologie der Septuaginta”. See Knibb (ed.) (2006): 21–48.

113

M ogens M ü ller

Barthélemy, D. 1963. Les Devanciers d’Aquila: Première publication intégrale du texte des fragments du Dodécapropheton. VTSup 10. Leiden: Brill. Bertram, G. 1936. “Das Problem der Umschrift und die religionsgeschichtliche Erforschung der Septuaginta”. BZAW 66: 97–109. ———. 1954–59. “Vom Wesen der Septuaginta-Frömmigkeit”. WO 2, 274–84. ———. 1961. “Septuaginta-Frömmigkeit”. In RGG, 3rd edn. Vol. 5, 1707–9. ———. 1967. “Praeparatio evangelica in der Septuaginta”. VT 7, 225–49. Deissmann, A. 1925. Paulus. Tübingen: Mohr (Siebeck), 2nd edn. English: Paul. A Study in Social and Religious History. Translated by William E. Wilson 1927. Reprint Harper Torchbooks. New York: Harper & Brothers 1957. Frankel, Z. 1841. Vorstudien zu der Septuaginta. Leipzig: Vogel. ———. 1851. Ueber den Einfluss der palästinischen Exegese auf die alexandrinische Hermeneutik. Leipzig: Joh. Ambr. Barth. Holst, S. 2006. "Hebraica veritas! . . . aber was heisst hier schon 'Wahrheit'?" In Kanon. Bibelens tilblivelse og normative status. Festschrift til Mogens Müller i anledning af 60-års-fødselsdagen den 25. januar 2006. T. Engberg-Pedersen, N.P. Lemche, and H. Tronier (eds.). Forum for Bibelsk Eksegese15. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum. Hübner, H. 1995. Biblische Theologie des Neuen Testaments. Band 3. Hebräerbrief, Evangelien und Offenbarung. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Hüttenmeister, F. and G. Reeg. 1977. Die antiken Synagogen in Israel, Beihefte zum Tübinger Atlas des vorderen Orients 12. Wiesbaden: Dr. Reichert Verlag. Karrer, M. and W. Kraus (eds.). 2011. Septuaginta Deutsch. Erläuterungen und Kommentare zum griechischen Alten Testament. Band II. Psalmen bis Daniel. Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft. Knibb, M. A. 2006. “The Septuagint and Messianism. Problems and Issues”. See Knibb, (ed., 2006): 3–19. Knibb, M. A. (ed.). 2006. The Septuagint and Messianism. BEThL 195. Leuven: Peeters. Lange, N. de. 2012. “Jewish Greek Bible versions”. In The New Cambridge History of the Bible. Volume 2. From 600 to 1450. R. Marsden and E. A. Matter (eds.). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: 56–68. Lange, N., J. G. Krivoruchko and C. Boyd-Taylor. 2009. Jewish Reception of Greek Bible Versions: Studies in Their Use in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Marcos, N. F. 2001. The Septuagint in Context. Introduction to the Greek Version of the Bible, translated by W. G. E. Watson. Leiden: Brill. McLay, T. 2010. “Why Not a Theology of the Septuagint?”. In Die Septuaginta – Texte, Theologien, Einflüsse. W. Kraus and M. Karrer (eds.) unter Mitarbeit von M. Meiser. WUNT 252. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck: 607–20. Menken, M. J. J. 2004. Matthew’s Bible. The Old Testament Text of the Evangelist. BEThL 173. Leuven: Peeters. Müller, M. 1985. “Tolv små profeter”. Review in Kristeligt Dagblad vol. 90, 16. November. ———. 1996. The First Bible of the Church. A Plea for the Septuagint. JSOTSup 206 = CIS 1, Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press (Danish edn. 1994). ———. 2008. “Die Septuaginta als Teil des christlichen Kanons”. In Die Septuaginta – Texte, Kontexte, Lebenswelten, M. Martin Karrer and W. Kraus (eds.) unter Mitarbeit von Martin Meiser. WUNT 219. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck: 708–27.

114

T he S eptuagint comes in from the cold

———. 2011. “Pesher Commentary and Its Afterlife in the New Testament”. In The Mermaid and the Partridge. Essays from the Copenhagen Conference on Revising Texts from Cave Four. G. Brooke and J. Høgenhaven (eds.). Studies on the Texts of the Desert of Judah 96. Leiden: Brill: 279–87. ———. 2012a. “Biblia semper interpretanda est. The Role of the Septuagint as a Hellenistic Version of the Old Testament”. In Sophia-Paideia. Sapienza e educazione (Sir 1,27). Miscellanea di studi offerti in onore del prof. Don Mario Cimosa. G. Gillian and R. Vicent (eds.). Nuova Biblioteca di Scienze Religiose 34. Roma: LAS: 17–31. ———. 2012b. “A German Translation of the Septuagint. A reminder of an unsolved canonical problem”, Literaturberichte, ThLZ 137: 1276–87. ———. Forthcoming. “Theology in the LXX?”. In The Oxford Handbook of the Septuagint. A. Salvesen and M. Law (eds.). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pietersma, A. 2006. “Messianism and the Greek Psalter. In Search of the Messiah”. See Knibb (ed., 2006): 49–75. Rajak, T. 2009. Translation and Survival: The Greek Bible and the Ancient Jewish Diaspora. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rösel, M. 1991. “Die Übersetzung der Gottesnamen in der Genesis-Septuaginta”. In Ernten was man sät. FS K. Koch. D. R. Daniels, U. Glessmer and M. Rösel (eds.). NeukirchenVluyn: Neukirchener Verlag, 357–77. ———. 1994, Übersetzung als Vollendung der Auslegung. Studien zur GenesisSeptuaginta. BZAW 223. Berlin: de Gruyter. ———. 1998. “Theo-logie der griechischen Bibel. Zur Wiedergabe der Gottesaussagen im LXX-Pentateuch”. Vetus Testamentum 48: 49–62. ———. 2000. Adonaj – warum Gott‚ Herr‘ genannt wird. FAT 29. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. ———. 2006a. “Der griechische Bibelkanon und seine Theologie”. See Müller et al. (2006): 60–80. ———. 2006b. “Towards a ‘Theology of the Septuagint’”. In Septuagint Research. Issues and Challenges in the Study of the Greek Jewish Scriptures. W. Kraus and R. G. Wooden (eds.). SBL.SCSS 53. Atlanta, GA: 239–52. ———. 2010. “Die graphe gewinnt Kontur. Die Stellung der Septuaginta in der Theologiegeschichte des Alten Testaments”. ThLZ 135: 639–52. Schenker, A. 2006. Das Neue am neuen Bund und das Alte am alten. Jer 31 in der hebräischen und griechischen Bibel. FRLANT 212. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. ———. 2007. “Gibt es eine graeca veritas für die hebräische Bibel? Die “Siebzig” als Textzeugen im Buch Haggai als Testfall”. In Im Brennpunkt. Die Septuaginta, Band 3: Studien zur Theologie, Anthropologie, Ekklesiologie, Eschatologie und Liturgie der griechischen Bibel. H.-J. Fabry and D. Böhler (eds.), 57–77. BWANT 174. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Schoeps, H.-J. 1959. Paulus. Die Theologie des Apostels im Lichte der jüdischen Religionsgeschichte. Tübingen: Mohr (Siebeck). English: Paul: The Theology of the Apostle in the Light of Jewish Religious History. Translated by Harold Knight. Philadelphia, PA: Westminster 1961. Seeligmann, I. L. 1948. The Septuagint Version of Isaiah. A Discussion of its Problems, MEOL 9. Reprint in The Septuagint Version of Isaiah and Cognate Studies. R. Hanhart and H. Spieckermann (eds.). FAT 40. Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck 2004: 119–294.

115

M ogens M ü ller

Sukenik, E. 2003. The Ancient Synagogue of Beit Alpha. Jerusalem: IES. Tov, E. 1987. “Die Septuaginta in ihrem theologischen und traditionsgeschichtlichen Verhältnis zur hebräischen Bibel”. In Mitte der Schrift? Ein jüdisch-christliches Gespräch, Texte der Berner Symposions vom 6.–12. Januar 1985. M. Klopfenstein et al. (eds.). Judaica et Christiana 11. Bern, Frankfurt, New York and Paris: 237–65. ———. 2013. “Modern editions of the Hebrew Bible”. In The New Cambridge History of the Bible. Volume 1. From the Beginnings to 600. J. C. Paget, and J. Schaper (eds.). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: 365–85.

116

Part III R E C E PT I O N

This Page is Intentionally Left Blank

8 O F Q UM RAN, THE CA NON, AND T H E HISTORY OF THE BI BLE TEXT Frederick H. Cryer The closing of the canon of the Old Testament is a matter of primary importance for the study of the Old Testament, the New Testament and emerging Judaism (Lemche 1993). If the canon was more or less well-formed and unalterable, already as early as the sixth, fifth, or fourth centuries bce, as was once assumed, then such movements as the establishment of the Samaritan cultus, with its severely delimited (Pentateuchal) canon, or the expansive (Septuagintal) canon of the diasporan community in Egypt, which, in turn, is reflected in the canon of the fledgling Christian movement, can only be seen as sectarian reactions to an already-existing “orthodoxy”. The tradition itself, as represented by, for example, 4 Ezra (14:18–48), dates Ezra’s writing down of the canon to the thirtieth year after the fall of Jerusalem: that is, in 557 bce. Scholars have, however, long been aware that this cannot hold; after all, already, Chronicles, Daniel, and Esther, at the very least, were written after this date. It was once conventionally assumed that the schism between infant Judaism and the Samaritan movement provided a date for the completion of the Pentateuch. However, this date has proved elusive and has moved steadily downwards in recent decades. Most recently, a second-century date has been proposed. However, it is worth observing that we possess no ancient copies of the Samaritan Pentateuch, so the identification of the SP at the time of the schism with its medieval version is problematic. If, however, the canon should prove to have closed at a much later date, then the picture becomes one of multi-formed and luxuriantly explosive growth, which took its departure from, more or less, the same roots. Therefore, much depends not only on our dating of the development of the canon, but also on our characterization of the processes by which it took place. Early in the years subsequent to the discovery of the finds in Khirbet Qumran, it was determined, as so many biblical scholars have preferred to think, that the community in Qumran knew a collection corresponding to the canonical Masoretic text (MT), and that they, in addition to this collection, also possessed some books on which the members of the community, being sectarians, placed special emphasis. In other words, it has been thought that there existed an OT canon in Qumran which reflected the interests of some form of “orthodoxy” — however inchoate at the time, and which was in a sense garnished by supplementary “sectarian” works. Although our understanding of the situation within early Judaism from 119

F rederick H . C ryer

the close of the first millennium bce and later has naturally gained greatly in nuance since 1947, this view is still shared in one form or another by many biblical scholars and semitists. To support it, the following arguments either have been or conceivably could be advanced: 1

All the books of the canonical MT, with the exception of Esther and Nehemiah, are attested at Qumran. It is often claimed that all but Esther are attested (cf., for example, Boling 1971: 94), but in fact there is no sign of Nehemiah at all, and the presence of 1 Chronicles is also doubtful. 1 Chronicles 19:6 is thought to be identical with 4Q5I. It has long been known that Chronicles is dependent on a different version of Samuel than MT Samuel, so the hypothetical 1 Chronicles 19:6 of Qumran, which equals 2 Sam. 10:6 in terms of content, but not in wording, may, in reality, merely be a quotation from that version. Nor can it be proved that 4QM126a is a quotation from 1 Chronicles or from some other source. The Temple Scroll also cites some information in the same sequence as 1 Chronicles 28. This, however, cannot count as evidence for literal dependence on Chronicles (pace D. Swanson 1992), as, once again, the model may have been the Chronicler’s source. 2 The Qumran Pesharim interpret only works (primarily prophetic ones) which we happen to know from the canonical MT. Note, for example, the following statement of D. N. Freedman: “Even more important . . . are the numerous commentaries on the books of the Bible. These demonstrate beyond cavil the authority of the Hebrew Bible, in the community” (Freedman 1971: 131). Actually, though, even in 1971, the discrepancy between the MT and the Qumran “proto-biblical” texts was becoming evident. Either Freedman cannot really have read some of the other contributions in the work he edited, such as J. A. Sanders (1971: 113–31), which shows how immense the variation within the Qumran “biblical” materials were already known to be twentyodd years ago, or else he is operating with some kind of transcendent concept of the “Hebrew Bible”. 3 Qumran’s phylacteries contain only snippets of Exodus and Deuteronomy, but no works extraneous to the canon. 4 Qumran understands the nature of the community’s transmission of the divine word to be largely interpretative, whether in the form of Pesharim, Halakah, or otherwise (Fishbane 1988). Interestingly, Fishbane’s concept of Mikra is as strangely transcendent of the actual textual picture at Qumran as had been Freedman’s “Hebrew Bible” earlier. 5 When Qumran’s special literature quotes an authoritative source, it is virtually always some part of the canonical MT, and only very rarely the Pseudepigrapha. 6 When various citation formulas are used, what is quoted almost always comes from the MT (cf. Fishbane 1988: 347–56). 7 The “special writings” so popular in Qumran (for example, the Manual of Discipline, Jubilees, Enoch, the Damascus Document, the War Scroll) quote 120

O f Q umran , the canon , and the B ible T ext

or gloss the canonical MT. Contrariwise, the works contained in the MT do not quote them. This is not to say that they were all composed at Qumran. In fact, it is extremely likely that the Qumran collection not only included texts that came from outside of the community, but also some texts that were not even representative of the views of the community. All of this might lead one to conclude that there existed in Palestine, prior to the existence of the Qumran community, a more or less integral and well-defined collection of texts that either enjoyed or was approaching “canonical” status in the first century ce – or even earlier – and which was reasonably equivalent to our MT. The most extreme adherent of an early Old Testament canon is the conservative scholar R. T. Beckwith (1985). It is the purpose of this chapter to add my voice to those who point out that there is reason to doubt the adequacy of this claim. One reason for doubt consists in the fact that no single one of the 11 caves so far excavated contained only the 39 works of the Masoretic collection, or even the 54 works of the more expansive collection underlying the LXX, whose Pentateuch Jewish tradition already dates to the third century bce. Rather, the collection in Qumran numbered around 800 documents (ca. 550 of them in Cave 4 alone), and of these only about one-quarter correspond to the works which make up the canonical MT. In short, any claim that the books contained in the canonical MT was already known and acknowledged as distinct from the other works in use in the Qumran community would have to be based on some obvious formal criterion, sufficient to distinguish works belonging to the former body from works proper to the latter. I am thinking of such characteristics as 1 The means of preserving the texts, on the assumption that “proto-biblical” texts might have been stored differently than others, whether to ensure their survival, to enable easy access to such hypothetically central texts or for whatever reason. 2 The means of recording the texts, that is, on the assumption that the texts of an authoritative (“canonical”) tradition, would have been more carefully copied than other texts, collected by the community. 3 The number of copies of the “biblical” texts, as opposed to texts in other categories, on the assumption that the works of an established and quasi“canonical” tradition, would have achieved maximal distribution, as a result of their centrality to the tradition and their having been longest in circulation. Now it is a fact that storage jars were in use in Qumran to preserve the community’s documents as well as possible; but their use was entirely general, with no distinctions as to genre or whatever. Moreover, as was previously remarked, one might have imagined that a single cave might have been singled out to protect the works of a highly sacred “canon” either from contact with works of (presumably) less purity or from dangers of a more general (and physical) nature. However, 121

F rederick H . C ryer

this, too, was not the case in Qumran with the “proto-biblical” manuscripts, as is shown by a brief look at the list of Qumran documents, organized by cave and type (that is, “biblical” vs “non-biblical”) by type, which have been published in Florentino Martinez’s recent volume of translations (Martinez 1994). As far as the recording of the texts is concerned, Emanuel Tov has recently pointed out that the apparently slipshod and highly plene orthographic style of recording the sect’s own particular documents, a style which is accompanied by a range of morphological features that are peculiar to Qumran and, to a more limited extent, the Samaritan tradition, recurs in conjunction with attempts to copy specifically “biblical” manuscripts. He goes so far as to designate this orthographic style a “peculiarity of Qumran” (cf. Tov 1986; see, further, Lübbe 1994; Ulrich 1991: 30–31). It seems to me that Ulrich, who is usually a most careful scholar, over-hastily identifies the categories of textual transmission studied by Tov into the categories “full-defective”, whereas, in reality, he identifies a sizable number of distinct morphological features, and even correlates them with aspects of the Samaritan oral tradition (see Tov 1986: 38–9). Note also the following remark of S. A. White, in conjunction with the materials preserved in two of the “Pentateuchal paraphrases”: “There is no scribal indication that this is non-biblical material; the text simply flows out of biblical and into non-biblical material as if there were no difference between the two” (White 1991: 226). Hence, it is quite clear that there were no obvious physical features which might have informed a reader in Qumran that the “proto-Masoretic” scroll he was now about to read differed markedly from other scrolls in Qumran. This conclusion is also supported by Tov’s study, which notes, among many other things, that the two morphological and orthographical styles, which he uncovers in the documents at Qumran, do not follow the lines of “canonical – non-canonical” (Tov 1986: 41). As far as sheer numbers are concerned, it is important to note that the so-called “biblical” manuscripts are by no means as dominant as one might expect, if there is a question of a pre-existent “canon”. Admittedly, Deuteronomy was the most popular work in Qumran, with fragments of twenty-seven distinct texts. Of works of the classical Torah, this was followed by the numbers sixteen each for Genesis and Exodus, followed by ten for Leviticus, and only six for Numbers. With the exception of the Book of Isaiah, with twenty-one manuscripts, the remaining “biblical” books are quite limited in number (five copies of Jeremiah; six of Ezekiel; seven of the Dodekapropheton). These numbers are hardly overwhelming when compared with the nineteen copies of Jubilees found in Qumran, plus the fifteen copies of Enoch and the twelve copies of the Damascus Document, not to speak of the ten copies of the Rule of the Community, the eight copies of the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice or the six copies of the recently-published Halakhic Letter (4QMMT). I use the word “copies” with reservations and it is likely that we shall be forced to work out a new terminology to describe the actual situation. A weekly seminar conducted by Thomas. L. Thompson, Niels Peter Lemche, and myself at the University of Copenhagen on the developmental history of the Old Testament text recently concluded that the only materials in the Ancient Near East that were 122

O f Q umran , the canon , and the B ible T ext

ordinarily “copied”, that is, which scribes attempted to reproduce verbatim, usually were liturgical and ritual texts. As far as I am aware, narrative texts were very freely rendered. The variation within the tradition of a given narrative text will range from alternative orthographies (plene versus defective and the admission of dialectal peculiarities) to the admixture of additional vocabulary stock (for example, glossation for enrichment or intelligibility). This goes all the way to the creation and inclusion of entire sequences, as well as the deletion of others. To illustrate this, we might compare the LXX and MT David and Goliath narrative (already, Wellhausen 1871: 104–5; Barthélemy et al. 1986). Ulrich has pointed to the essence of the problem at stake here (Ulrich 1988; 1991), although it seems that he has not always been prepared to admit the consequences of his own insight (see, however, Ulrich 1992). If the book, rather than the line or phrase, is the unit the scribes strove to reproduce, then they were prepared not merely to tolerate a great deal of variation; they also actively produced it themselves. Thus, the classical pursuit of the archetypical text, while not wrong (the dependency relationship between texts A and B, where both possess common material, is inevitably a matter of whether A is dependent on B, B on A, or both on a third source, C), is nevertheless irrelevant, at least for the exciting centuries preceding the closure of the canon. We need a perspective – and a terminology that enables it – that expresses the relative richness of a creatively developing textual tradition, rather than one which insists on ignoring all the variation in favour of a simplified model of origins. Numbers, then, do not suggest that the works later enshrined in the Masoretic canon already defined that canon in the community, which worshiped for a few centuries in Khirbet Qumran. At the most, what can be said is that they, at that time, shared a place of honour together with a wide number of other materials. I submit that the above considerations are sufficient to enable us to conclude that, as attested by the Qumran documents and approximately contemporary works attested elsewhere, there did not exist in early Judaism any well-defined inventory of texts corresponding to the notion of “canon” in later ecclesiastical usage (Ulrich 1992: 269–76). Now it is important to acknowledge that the Qumran finds comprise the earliest historical evidence in our possession as to the development of the canon. Our earliest copies of the Septuagint derive from the fourth and fifth post-Christian centuries. Despite the faith generally invested in the Aristeas Letter by New Testament scholars and others, it is and remains a mere tradition in regard to the date of the LXX. The Mishna, which does not mention the extensive “extra” materials from Qumran, exists only in medieval editions. These may naturally have been edited so as to bring them into line with the understanding of canon from a much later time. New Testament citations of Septuagintal documents are so limited and specialized that it can’t be argued on that ground that the New Testament authors knew of an integral Old Testament canon. Moreover, there is sufficient variation in the Greek text underlying the New Testament citations of the LXX that it may be doubted whether that text, too, had any stability in the first century ce. Evidence of the lack of closure of the Old Testament may 123

F rederick H . C ryer

be seen in the fact that the New Testament quotes the Book of Enoch as if it were authoritative, just as 1 Corinthians 2:9 cites an unidentified apocryphal or pseudepigraphic work. Interestingly, I Corinthians 2:9 uses the Septuagintal kathos gégraptai formula, which corresponds to the omnipresent kî’ kāthûb of Qumran and emphasizes the authoritative nature of the source in question. Similarly, in Qumran, Hebrew-language works which later figure in the Apocrypha in Greek (for example, Tobit, Ben Sira) are attested, which suggests that, if Qumran knew any sort of “canon”, it was rather larger than was that of the future MT. Moreover, as was already pointed out by G. Vermes almost twenty years ago, the Damascus Document (CD), which has been found in fragmentary form in Qumran and in medieval copies from the Cairo Geniza, cites both Jubilees and the Testament of Levi “as though they were Scripture (CD 16:3–4 and 4:16)”. He proceeded to add, “the Psalms Scroll from Cave 11 includes a number of apocryphal poems not appended to, but interspersed among, the canonical compositions” (Vermes 1977: 203; cf. VanderKam 1993). In other words, if there was a “canon” of the Hebrew Bible; they did not know this in Qumran; nor, on the evidence of the Septuagint, did they do so in Alexandria. Now I think it is possible to argue for the existence in Qumran of a sort of “two-tier” system with respect to the question of canonical status. There were clearly a large number of works, most of which are reflected in the Masoretic canon of the medieval period, which are cited in Qumran’s “special” works, but which do not cite them in return. Conversely, works in the “second tier” – that is, such documents as Jubilees, Enoch, or the Damascus Document – may on occasion cite each other. There were, then, two bodies of literature, which at least some groups within early Judaism regarded as defining God’s self-revelation to Israel. It remains to say a few words about the relative degrees of authority enjoyed by each of these two tiers. It might be thought that the first tier, the one consisting of works which are later reflected in the canon of the MT, enjoyed undisputed primacy. However, it is a simple fact that the textual tradition in Qumran was multi-textual and multiformal, which is to say that a number of variant texts competed with one another, and there are no clear indications that “Masoretic” or “proto-Masoretic” texts or text types enjoyed any sort of supremacy. This led Ulrich to conclude that “it was the sacred work or book that was important, not the specific edition or specific wording of the work” (Ulrich 1991: 36; 1994: 221–4; on Qumran variant texts, see Barrera 1994a: 238–9; 1994b: 97). To this consideration must be added the fact that the Qumran tradents thought it was permissible to improve on the “biblical” writings. This is, for example, clear in their attempts to reformulate such works more or less completely, as is the case with Genesis in the books of Jubilees, the Temple Scroll as a replacement of the Pentateuch (Wacholder 1983), or the Aramaic-language Genesis Apocryphon. It is also obviously the case with the so-called “Pentateuchal paraphrases”, for which some scholars prefer the designation “rewritten Bible”, a phrase which has been current in the literature since Vermes launched this understanding as far back as in 124

O f Q umran , the canon , and the B ible T ext

1961 (Vermes 1961; Dimant 1994: 154 n. 15). Moreover, it was possible for Jewish figures outside of Qumran to place “rewritten Pentateuchal” documents on the same footing as the “biblical” texts, as, for example in Josephus’ use of a text, which combines Genesis 12:10–20 with 14:1–16 in his putative address to the rebels, who are ensconced in and defending Jerusalem in De Bello Judaico V, 9.4.379–81: In old times, there was one Necao, king of Egypt, who was also called Pharaoh; he came with a prodigious army of soldiers, and seized Queen Sarah, the mother of our nation. What did Abraham our progenitor then do? Did he defend himself from this injurious person by war, although he had three hundred and eighteen captains under him and an immense army under each of them? (Josephus, De Bello Judaico, 1960: 209–10). For some reason, this wonderful passage is ignored by most Old Testament scholars. It shows that Josephus, a scholar who had rigorously pursued Greco-Roman models in his attempts to write about the past, was capable of holding the seventhcentury Egyptian Pharaoh Neco (elsewhere mentioned in the Old Testament in 2 Kings 23:29, 33–35 to be the contemporary of Abraham, dated by the MT Bible to about a thousand years earlier). The conflationary nature of this passage puzzled me for years, until I became aware of the relevance of the Qumran genre of “rewritten Pentateuch”. If we ignore that we are dealing with a convention of classical “history writing” (Cryer 1994: 22–40) and that there is no reason to suppose that the address itself ever took place, it nevertheless remains clear that Josephus is assuming, in the passage in question, that this bit of “rewritten Pentateuch” has sufficient authority to carry some conviction to contemporary Jews. Josephus’ speech is of a piece with the similar inventions in Greek and Roman “history writing”. I put the phrase in inverted commas because I have long felt that there is no such thing as “historiography” in ancient texts, but only a variety of rhetorical canons for talking about the past (Cryer 1994: 35–40; Thompson 1992: 372–83). Naturally, Josephus’ rhetorical point of departure must not be left out of account. He saw it as his task to depict the Jewish revolt to the Romans as the work of a handful of fanatics who were operating in defiance of their own religious tradition. Hence, it is at least possible that Josephus, in this passage, simply creates his own bit of “Scripture” to illustrate his point. After all, the Romans will have had neither the means nor the interest in checking his citations, and we do not know whether Jews resident in Rome, who no doubt regarded Josephus as a traitor and pariah, would have entered into dialogue with him. It thus functions on the same level as his countless Old Testament citations; that is, as a legitimating instance for the point he is attempting to make. It should, in justice, be added that we do not, to my knowledge, possess this specific bit of “rewritten Pentateuch” in Qumran, but it is nevertheless a fair inference that some such document underlies Josephus’ speech. 125

F rederick H . C ryer

All of this suggests that the “proto-Masoretic” documents did not enjoy such high status that they were inviolate against alteration or simple replacement. This should be more than evident when we consider the version of the Pentateuch which was quoted by the author of Acts 7. Here, the author apparently assumes that he is citing the very essence of Jewish tradition, as the summary of events in the Pentateuch, placed in the mouth of the martyr Stephen, is, at least in its context, supposed to be recognized by the Jewish “council” and “high priest” as corresponding to Jewish self-understanding. Here, I think, the rhetorical stance of the author is of less potential importance. If it had adhered in this instance to an aberrant textual basis, the nascent Christian Church was in jeopardy of being flatly contradicted by Jewish polemicists. Hence, I believe that the text being cited in Acts 7 was probably thought by both Jews and Christians of the time as legitimate representation of the Hebrew tradition – or, at least, its author had reason to believe that this was the case. However, the version of Genesis cited by Stephen has Abraham purchasing a burial place for his family “from the sons of Hamor in Shechem”, which represents a conflation of MT Gen. 23:1ff. (where he buys a burial cave from “Ephron the Hittite ” in “Machpelah east of Mamre (that is, Hebron)” (Gen. 23:19) with MT Gen. 34:1ff., which deals with the rape of Jacob’s daughter Dinah and with the retaliatory massacre of Shechem by Simeon and Levi. Moreover, whereas the Masoretic text has only Joseph being buried in Shechem (cf. Josh. 24:32), Acts 7:16 presupposes that all of the patriarchs were eventually interred there. Furthermore, of the numerous covenants contracted between Yahweh and the fathers in MT Genesis, the version used by the author of Acts apparently knew only a version, which emphasized the covenant of circumcision, as recorded in MT Gen. 17 (cf. Acts 7:8). The Pentateuch, cited in Acts, also divides the career of Moses into three forty-year phases of activity. The first phase is in Acts 7:23, where forty years is given, which has Moses “instructed in all the wisdom of the Egyptians”, about which the MT says nothing whatever. Acts 7:30 has a second phase, in which Moses lived forty years “in the land of Midian, where he became the father of two sons”, which fails to mention the oasis of Kadesh. The third phase in Acts 7:36 counts forty years after “having performed wonders and signs in Egypt and at the Red Sea and in the wilderness”. The only apparent diversion from this is the mention of the death of Aaron, which is described in Numbers 33:38–9 as having taken place “in the 40th year after the people of Israel had come out of the land of Egypt”. Finally, whereas the MT is careful to stress that Moses received his oracles “face to face” from Yahweh (Num. 12:7–8; Deut. 34:10), Acts’ Pentateuch insists on the intermediation of angels in conjunction with the giving of the Law (Acts 7:30, 38, 53). In other words, neither the New Testament authors nor Josephus regarded the direct ancestor manuscripts of the modern Masoretic Pentateuch as so authoritative that they defined the centre of the Pentateuchal tradition. In short, there was clearly no “canon” of the OT, not even of as important a part of it as the Pentateuch, by as late a date as the time of the composition of Acts (usually 126

O f Q umran , the canon , and the B ible T ext

thought to be at the end of the first century ce or the beginning of the second century, or even later). Moreover, although it goes beyond our present purposes to discuss the matter at more detail in this connection, it cannot even be proved that the Pentateuchal works in Qumran were identical in terms of such macrostructural elements as whole verses and chapters with those known to us from the Masoretic and Septuagintal traditions (Cryer 1998). The reader is invited to consider that, if this may be argued with any degree of plausibility with respect to the works of the Pentateuch, how much more flexibility there is apt to have been with works of less centrality. Actually, this should have been obvious to us all along. We should consider that the business of “rewriting” (a notion that requires more precision than has been accorded to it as yet) the Bible is already fully and extensively present in the editions of narrative tradition from the Pentateuch and the Deuteronomistic History that we find in the Chronicles 1 and 2. In other words, some materials inside the Hebrew Bible patently “rewrite” other materials contained in it. The “rewriting” of proto-Masoretic tradition that we encounter in Qumran, and which is additionally presupposed by both Josephus and Acts 7, is precisely this sort of thing. To sum up: the community that lived and worshiped in Qumran did not know an integral canon of the Old Testament corresponding to the later Masoretic Text. Indeed, the freedom, in respect to tradition, which is displayed by the “proto-biblical” texts in Qumran, the New Testament, Josephus, as well as by inner-biblical rewritings of Pentateuchal and Deuteronomistic narratives, all show that there was no conception of an integral canon of the Old Testament within nascent Judaism from the second century bce to the beginning of the second century ce at the earliest. This conclusion has at least one important corollary. If there was no firm conception as to which texts defined early Judaism, the religio-historical picture of first-century Palestine changes from that delineated at the beginning of this chapter to a number of competitions among religious groups, which possessed varying sociological and power-political bases. There was, apparently, a temple-based Judaism in Jerusalem which competed with that advocated by the “Qumran community” (to use a threadbare notion that might best be dropped for a more inclusive concept), that of Samaria, of the diaspora movements, and of emergent Christianity. It would, hence, be inappropriate to speak of a conflict between a coalescing “orthodoxy” and various “sects”. Indeed, orthodoxy may perhaps have developed in the aftermath of the devastations of Palestine in 70 and 135 ce, which relegated Qumran to destruction and Samaria to backwater irrelevance, leaving the diaspora communities to choose between representatives of the Jerusalemite tradition and those representing the new Christian movement. Whatever the truth of the matter may ultimately prove to be, the acknowledgement that the Old Testament canon was far from closed at the beginning of the second century ce has important consequences, which it may take some time for us to appreciate; but we must do so, for it is a fact. 127

F rederick H . C ryer

Bibliography Barrera, J. Trebolle. 1994a. “Textual Variants in 4QJudges and the Textual and Editonal History of the Book of Judges”. Revue de Qumran 14: 229–45. ———. 1994b. “Édition préliminaire de 4QJudgesb. Contribution des manuscrits Qumraniens des Juges à l’étude textuelle et littéraire du livre”. Revue de Qumran 15: 79–100. Barthélemy R. et al. 1986. The Story of David and Goliath: Textual and Literary Criticism: Papers of a Joint Research Venture. Freiburg: Universitetsverlag. Beckwith, R. T. 1985. The Old Testament Canon of the New Testament Church and Its Background in Early Judaism. London: SPCK. Boling, R. G. 1971. “Twenty Years of Discovery”. In New Directions in Biblical Archaeology. D. N. Freedman and J. C. Greenfield (eds.). New York: Doubleday: 90–99. Cryer, F. 1994. Divination in Ancient Israel and Its Near Eastern Environment. Sheffield: Sheffield University Press. ———. 1998. “Genesis in Qumran”. In Qumran Between the Old and New Testaments. F. Cryer and T. L. Thompson (eds.). Copenhagen International Seminar 6. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press: 98–112. Dimant, D. 1994. “Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha at Qumran”. Dead Sea Discoveries 1/2: 151–9. Fishbane, M. 1988. “Use, Authority and Interpretation of Mikra at Qumran”. In Mikra: Text, Translation, Reading and Interpretation of the Hebrew Bible in Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity. J. Mulder and H. Sysling (eds.). Assen/Maastricht and Philadelphia, PA: Van Gorcum/Fortress: 339–78. Freedman, D. N. 1971. “The Old Testament at Qumran”. In New Directions in Biblical Archaeology. D. N. Freedman and J. C. Greenfield (eds.). New York: Doubleday: 131–42. Josephus, F. 1960. The Great Roman-Jewish War: AD. 66–70 (De Bello Judaico). Transl. W. Whiston, rev. and ed. by D. S. Margoliouth. New York: Harper and Row. Lemche, N. P. 1993. “The Old Testament – a Hellenistic Book?” Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament 7/2: 163–94. Lübbe, J. 1994. “Certain Implications of the Scribal Process of 4QSamc”, Revue de Qumran 14: 255–65. Martinez. F. G. 1994. The Dead Sea Scrolls Translated. The Qumran Texts in English. Transl. W. G. E. Watson of Textos de Qumrán, 1992. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Sanders, J. A. 1971. “Cave 11 Surprises and the Question of Canon”. In New Directions in Biblical Archaeology. D. N. Freedman and J. C. Greenfield (eds.). New York: Doubleday: 113–30. Swanson, D. 1992: “The Use of the Chronicles in 11QT: Aspects of a Relationship”. In The Dead Sea Scrolls: Forty Years of Research. D. Dimant and U. Rappaport (eds.). Leiden and Jerusalem: E. J. Brill/Magnes: 290–98. Thompson, T. L. 1992. The Early History of the Israelite People From the Written and Archaeological Sources. Studies in the History of the Ancient Near East 4. Leiden: E. J. Brill. Tov, E. 1986. “The Orthography and Language of the Hebrew Scrolls Found at Qumran and the Origin of These Scrolls”. Textus 13: 31–57. Ulrich, E. 1988. “Double Literary Edition of Biblical Narrative and Reflections on Determining the Form to be Translated”. In Perspectives on the Hebrew Bible: Essays

128

O f Q umran , the canon , and the B ible T ext

in Honor of Walter J. Harrelson. J. L. Crenshaw (ed.). Macon, GA: Mercer University Press: 101–16. ———. 1991: “Pluriformity in the Biblical Text, Text Groups, and Questions of Canon”. In The Madrid Qumran Congress. Proceedings of the International Congress on the Dead Sea Scrolls. J. Trebolle Barrera and L. Vegas Montaner (eds.). Leiden: E. J. Brill: Vol. 1, 23–41. ———. 1992. “The Canonical Process and Textual Criticism”. In “Sha’arei Talmon”. Studies in the Bible, Qumran and the Ancient Near East Presented to Shemaryahu Talmon. E. Tov et al. (eds.).Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbraun: 267–91. ———. 1994. “The Biblical Scrolls from Qumran Cave 4. An Overview and a Progress Report on their Publication”. Revue de Qumran 14: 207–28. VanderKam, J. C. 1993. “The Scrolls, the Apocrypha, and the Pseudepigrapha”. Hebrew Studies 34: 35–51. Vermes, G. 1977 [1981]. The Dead Sea Scrolls: Qumran in Perspective. London: William Collins and Son Ltd [Philadelphia, PA: Fortress Press]. Wacholder, B. 1983. The Dawn of Qumran. Cincinnati, OH: KTAV. Wellhausen, J. 1871. Der Text der Bücher Samuels. Gottingen: Vandenhocck und Ruprecht. White, S. A. 1991. “4Q364 & 365: A Preliminary Report”. In The Madrid Qumran Congress. Proceedings of the International Congress on the Dead Sea Scrolls. J. Trebolle Barrera and L. Vegas Montaner (eds.). Leiden: E. J. Brill: Vol. 1, 226.

129

9 DECONSTRUCTI NG THE C ONTINUITY OF QUM RAN I B A ND I I WITH IM P LIC ATI ONS FOR ST ABILIZING THE BI BLI CAL TEXTS Gregory L. Doudna At a certain point, there was a change from pluriformity, or multiple versions of biblical or pre-biblical texts, to a stabilized or fixed biblical text. For Jews associated with the Jerusalem Temple, this is what came to be known as the Masoretic Text (MT). The prevailing scholarly understanding is that this stabilization of the biblical text happened following the destruction of the Temple of Jerusalem of 70 ce in the era between the First and Second Jewish Revolts (ca. 70–135 ce). In this scenario, the destruction of the Temple was what Shemaryahu Talmon called “the Great Divide” (Talmon 2002). Before the destruction of the Temple, there was textual pluriformity or pluralism; after the destruction of the Temple, there emerged uniformity, whether by accident or by purposeful human action. Critical to this scholarly understanding is the range and variety of versions of biblical texts found at Qumran, combined with a certainty that the Qumran texts came to an end at the time of the First Revolt (66–70 ce). The Qumran texts are believed to be evidence for pluriformity or pluralism in biblical texts in Judea in the first century ce before the Temple was destroyed. Starting in the late 1990s, a small number of voices have challenged the dating of the Qumran text deposits to as late as the First Revolt, but those challenges have had little discernible impact on scholarly discourse concerned with the Qumran texts (Crown 2005; Doudna 1998: 458–64; 1999; 2001: 683–754; 2006; 2013: 107–19; Hutchesson 1999; Young 2002; 2005; 2013). While, on one level, dates for the stabilization of biblical texts and of deposits of scrolls in caves are issues regarding the assessment of evidence – analyses of archaeology, palaeography, radiocarbon datings, and so on – on another level, there has been a strong continuing influence on scholarly thinking of an underlying story which filters perception of external data. This story is of a single community which occupied Qumran from the earlier part of the first century bce until 68 ce, when Qumran was destroyed by fire by Romans. External evidence or 130

D econstructing Q umran I b and I I ’ s continuity

data is made to fit within this story and, in somewhat circular form, is perceived to reinforce or prove the correctness of the story. As Jean-Baptiste Humbert so well put it: “The narrative takes over and imposes its authority upon the process of archaeological interpretation” (2003b: 426). The story is that which is alluded to ubiquitously in scholarly language of a “Qumran community”, Qumran’s “main period of habitation ending 68 ce”, Qumran’s “period of sectarian habitation”, and the like. These expressions are shorthand for a larger story. Scholars know this story and what these terms imply and assume: they refer to the underlying story. This chapter examines several lines of argument relevant to the notion that there was a single community at Qumran through both of what Qumran excavator Roland de Vaux called Period “Ib” (ca. early first to late first century bce according to current understanding) and “Period II” (?–68 ce). This chapter will argue against the notion that the same community or people continued in both of these two periods. Indeed, there was a “main period” of Qumran’s activity and people associated with the site in that period placed the deposits of scrolls in caves near the site, but that “main period” was Period Ib and did not include activity at Qumran after that – neither in Period II, III, or at the time of Bar Kokhba. The significance of this argument is that it removes the main obstacle to a scholarly realization that stabilization of the Hebrew biblical text happened before, not after, the destruction of the Temple of Jerusalem of 70 ce, otherwise suggested by the character of first-century ce biblical texts before 70 ce found at Judaean Desert sites other than Qumran. All biblical texts found at the other Judaean Desert sites are identical to MT, whereas none of the Qumran biblical texts are. This description has been established in a large number of studies by many scholars, notably Emanuel Tov (2012), and recently confirmed anew by tables of data with counts of variants of Qumran and Judaean Desert biblical texts compared to the medieval Leningrad Codex compiled by Ian Young (2002; 2005; 2013). Getting the date right for the Qumran scroll deposits removes the obstacle to seeing that the transition from the pluralism and variety reflected in the Qumran texts to the uniform, post-stabilization, carefully copied, exact-MT biblical texts found in all cases at all other Judaean Desert sites is best dated ca. late first century bce or early first century ce. In this light, the later First Revolt and destruction of the Temple had nothing to do with either the stabilization of the biblical text or the deposits of the scrolls of Qumran, both of which were earlier than the disasters of 70 ce.

The story of Ib/II continuity at Qumran A foundational assumption of the excavators of Qumran of the 1950s, which continues in scholarly discourse today, was the belief that a single group, associated with the texts in the caves, inhabited the site – from the beginning to the end, in the midst of the region’s political upheavals for close to two centuries, until the site’s destruction at the time of the First Revolt. There was one break between the end of Period Ib and the start of Period II (when the site was abandoned, then resettled by the same group). Below are representative statements of this story: 131

G regory L . D oudna

The essential fact is the communal occupation of Periods I and II . . . In 31 B.C. an earthquake damaged the buildings which afterwards remained abandoned up to the years just before and just after the beginning of the Christian era. They were then reoccupied by the same community, Period II, and survived until A.D. 68, when they were destroyed by the Roman army . . . For a period of almost two centuries, therefore, a community lived in this abandoned region. (de Vaux 1973: 48, 86) The Qumran settlement existed for over 150 years until its destruction in 68 ce . . . communal meals and assemblies were a feature of Khirbet Qumran during its entire occupational history . . . the rebuilding of these dining halls provides strong evidence that Khirbet Qumran not only was inhabited by the same group during all of its main phases (de Vaux’s Periods I and II), but that these buildings retained their same functions; in other words, communal living and dining were key components of the lifestyle at this site for over 150 years. (Atkinson and Magness 2010: 340–41) An alert reader might notice at the outset an incongruity in the language of the “entire occupational history” of Qumran as having ended in 68 ce. The incongruity is: the destruction at the time of the First Revolt was not the end of the site’s occupational history, since there was repair, resettlement and reuse of the site after the fire of 68 ce. Use of the site did not end until some years later (“Period III”). Furthermore, the destruction of Qumran at the time of the First Revolt was simply the second of two major destructions according to the reconstruction of the excavators (the first at the end of Period Ib late first century bce; the second at the end of Period II 68 ce). That is, the occupation of the site ended twice before the third and final time in the first century ce, according to the reconstruction of the excavators. However, it was the second time Qumran came to an end that was the focus of this story. The excavators assumed as certain that there was discontinuity between the people of Period II and of III who occupied Qumran after the fire of 68 ce. This interpretation of discontinuity between Periods II and III stands in contrast to the people of Period Ib and of II who had occupied the site at some point after an abandonment at the end of Ib. The excavators were certain that the people of Ib and II were identical, despite some greater differences between Ib and II than between II and III. The First Revolt was the fulcrum of the story of Qumran and the perceived endpoint of the scrolls in the Qumran caves. This story was established at the time of the original excavation of Qumran in 1951 when first-century ce pottery and coins were discovered and before the excavators had knowledge of the existence of Period III and of Bar Kokhba-era activity at the site or of an earlier Period Ib or a yet earlier Period Ia (de Vaux 1953). When these four additional periods were discovered in 1953–56, these were interpreted within the story already fixed around the hypothesis of a single group at Qumran, ending in the first century ce during the First Revolt (de Vaux 1954; 1956).

132

D econstructing Q umran I b and I I ’ s continuity

Today, there is not the same certainty among archaeologists regarding the continuity between the first century bce and the first century ce that was held by the original excavators. A number of archaeologists have explicitly rejected the notion of continuity of a single group through Periods Ia, Ib and II, for example, Bar-Adon (1981), Humbert (1994), Hirschfeld (2004), and Magen and Peleg (2007). These archaeologists do not all use the terminology of “Ia”, “Ib” and “II” in their periodizations, but each argue for discontinuities in people and functions of the site ca. the second half of the first century bce, corresponding to de Vaux’s Ia/Ib or Ib/II transitions. A deconstruction of such arguments of discontinuity between Qumran’s Period II and III now appears to be under way, with the Oxford dissertation of Dennis Mizzi (2009) and a publication of Mizzi’s (2010) on the glassware of Qumran. These have shown a continuity of archaeological finds in Periods II and III, as well as Joan Taylor’s book, The Essenes, the Scrolls, and the Dead Sea (2012b), which argues for continuity between Periods II and III. Other archaeologists and scholars have proposed a discontinuity in habitation within Period II itself, in which an earlier group was replaced by a later one. De Vaux himself suggested that, at some point before the end of Period II, “the community” had abandoned Qumran, and persons other than the community inhabited Qumran in the community’s place until the end of Period II, when the site was destroyed during the First Revolt: “On peut supposer que l’ensemble de celle-ci [la Communauté] avait en effet quitté les lieux, en mettant ses trésors à l’abri, mais qu’un parti d’hommes résolus avait tenté de défendre le bâtiment” (de Vaux 1954: 234). De Vaux did not think that these later people of Period II inhabited Qumran for a long time. However, more importantly, de Vaux saw a change in habitation in the course of Period II as compatible with the finds at the site. More recently, Frederick Bruce and Stephen Pfann, in the article “Qumran” in the Encyclopedia Judaica (2007), state that there is sufficient archaeological evidence indicating a change in people between the sectarian inhabitants of Period Ib and the occupants of Qumran before the destruction of the site in 68 CE to justify the identification OF a new archaeological period, representing a non-sectarian habitation which they called "Period IIb". Bruce and Pfann state that Period IIb might have lasted some two to three years, although their archaeological grounds for supposing this period was only two to three years and no longer are unclear.1 David Stacey argues that Qumran was linked to the Royal Estate at Jericho and that Qumran served as a military watchtower, and also for water-intensive industrial processes, supplying the demands of the Estate, especially during Herod’s extensive building activity of the late first century bce. As the Royal Estate at Jericho declined after the death of Herod, so too did the demand for goods produced at Qumran. With the abandonment of the Royal Estate and its use of Qumran ca. 50 ce, there would have been an influx of people at Qumran with a different impetus and purpose (Stacey 2013: 70). (However, that the Royal Estate in Jericho was active during the first century ce after Herod (37–4 bce) and Archelaus (4 bce–6 ce) has been questioned.2)

133

G regory L . D oudna

De Vaux, Bruce and Pfann, and Stacey have each supposed that the final stage of occupation of Period II, which ended at the destruction of the First Revolt, postdated the major scroll deposits of Cave 1Q, Cave 4Q, and so on, which they suppose were done earlier by different people than the occupants of Qumran of Period II at the time of the First Revolt. That is, this is a picture in which the scroll deposits of Caves 1Q, 4Q, and so on, were done by a next-to-last occupation group at Qumran before the destruction at the time of the First Revolt, instead of the last occupation. But, traditionally, Period Ib was regarded as the next-to-last occupation before the First Revolt. A notion of discontinuity between the people of the scroll deposits in contrast to a later people in Period II has therefore long been present in some archaeological interpretations of Qumran, even though it has been little recognized or acknowledged. Few archaeologists today, apart from Jodi Magness, assume linkage of the scrolls in the caves of Qumran to all occupants of the site prior to 68 ce. Nevertheless, the language of de Vaux and Magness is ubiquitous in scholarly books, articles, and discussions, referring to “the” people of Qumran and “the main period” of the community’s habitation as having ended with the First Revolt. Conflating the activity in Periods Ib and II, this language simply takes for granted the existence of a single group in both periods. Date of the end of Period Ib De Vaux supposed “Period Ib” ended in 31 bce with a destruction by earthquake and fire. However, publication of the pottery of the Netzer excavations of Jericho by Rachel Bar-Nathan (2002) has shown that pottery of Qumran’s Period Ib was identical to pottery from the first part of the reign of Herod uncovered at Jericho. It became clear that Qumran Ib continued into the reign of Herod later than the 31 bce date of de Vaux, a conclusion earlier argued by Magness (1995; 1998a) and now confirmed correct: The earthquake of 31 b.c.e did not put an end to the settlement at the two sites nor did it cause any change in the repertoire of vessels. In fact, between 31 and 20 b.c.e (designated at Jericho as Herodian I), there was continuity in Hasmonaean pottery types while very few new types were introduced. The greatest change in pottery, according to the ceramic evidence from Jericho, occurred with the Romanization of pottery types in Judaea during the middle of Herod’s reign, toward 20 b.c.e (designated at Jericho as Herodian II). (Bar-Nathan 2006: 274) . . . the final dating of Period Ib at Qumran, which seems to be HR1.3 (Bar Nathan 2002: 100) The revised stratigraphic chronology suggested by Magness is in accordance with our research (Magness dates . . . Period Ib to 31 [sic]–ca. 4 [sic] bce, and Period II to ca. 1–68 ce). (Bar Nathan 2002: 203 n. 3) 134

D econstructing Q umran I b and I I ’ s continuity

The 4 bce date for the end of Ib attributed by Bar-Nathan to Magness is not quite accurate. Magness has consistently dated the end of Ib as “9/8 bce or some time thereafter”, sometimes expressed as simply “ca. 9/8 bce” (1995: 64; 2004: 57). Magness’s focus on 9/8 bce is based on an argument from a hoard of Tyrian silver tetradrachmas found buried at Qumran’s Locus 120 of latest date 9/8 bce. Magness argued that the L120 hoard was buried before the end of Ib and not after the end of Ib, as de Vaux had supposed. In Magness’s reconstruction, the hiding of the hoard was prompted by a crisis after the latest coins. The crisis resulted in the end of Ib almost immediately after the hiding of the hoard. After an abandonment of unknown duration of one or more winter flooding seasons following the end of Ib, Qumran was resettled (beginning of Period II). Those who resettled the site did not know of the valuable hoard, hidden under the floor of Locus 120. Since it was buried under the upper of two floor levels of L120, the upper floor in Magness’s reconstruction becomes a second Ib floor (a post-31 bce floor level above an earlier, pre-31 bce floor level), not a floor built in Period II as de Vaux had thought. In Magness’s scenario, there is no Period II floor in L120 (Magness 2007: 250). As a distinct issue, Magness argued that the people who resettled Qumran in Period II, were the same as those who had abandoned the site at the end of Period Ib. This raises the question of why, then, the returning people would have no knowledge of the hoard which Magness proposes had been wealth accumulated and hidden by the community before the end of Ib (Magness 1998b; 2004: 73–9). Magness leaves this question unanswered (2004: 45). One obvious possibility would be that the people of Period II did not know of the L120 hoard’s existence because they were not the same people who had buried it; that is, there was discontinuity between Periods Ib and II. The appeal of Magness’s scenario, in addition to its compatibility with downdating the end of Ib to later in the reign of Herod, is that the latest date of the coins (9/8 bce) is close to the time of the death of Herod (4 bce). This was a period with upheaval and civil war, as recounted by Josephus, and provided a context for the crisis that, as de Vaux and Magness interpreted it, resulted in the end of Qumran’s Period Ib in destruction by fire. (The Ib fire has, however, been questioned.4) Although the specifics of the end of “Period Ib” remain disputed, there is no doubt, in the wake of the Bar-Nathan 2002 Jericho pottery publication, that Qumran’s Period Ib ended later than de Vaux had thought. Minimally, it extended into some part of Herod’s reign after 31 bce and, possibly, just before the end of the first century bce. Let us now turn to specific aspects of the assumption of continuity of a “community” at Qumran through both Periods Ib and II until 68 ce.

Pottery Based on parallels at Jericho, Bar-Nathan reported that the 708 bowls of Qumran L86/89 appear to have ended in Period Ib and not in Period II or III: “In view of the absence of this bowl from first-century ce contexts at Jericho, the dating of the material from Qumran Period II might have to be revised” (Bar-Nathan 2002: 89; contra Humbert 2006: 39: “This pottery [of L86/89] belongs to the final phase of 135

G regory L . D oudna

Qumran occupation, i.e. to the middle of the first century A.D”, and contra Cross 1995: 62 n. 3: “an inscribed bowl from 86/89 seems clearly to be dated, palaeographically, to the first century AD”). Similarly, distinctive wheel-made “Qumran lamps” (called “hellenistic lamps” by de Vaux) were manufactured at Qumran exclusively in Ib and not in II or III. Thirty-nine of these lamps were found in the excavations of Qumran, according to the latest count by Jolanta Mlynarczyk (2013). All are from Qumran’s Period Ib, late first century bce. These lamps also turn up in smaller numbers at Masada, Jericho, and Qumran Cave 1Q all dated narrowly to the time of Herod late in the first century bce, none from first century ce (Bar-Nathan 2002: 110–12). Mlynarczyk concluded on the basis of the numbers of the distributions that all lamps of this type had been manufactured at Qumran. When Period Ib ends, these lamps end everywhere. In contrast to the significant numbers of these items produced at Qumran in Period Ib, none of these bowls or lamps were likely from Periods II or III. These two items suggest that the most distinctive pottery from Qumran may have been manufactured exclusively during Period Ib, whereas the pottery of Qumran Periods II and III was either not unique to Qumran or, perhaps, not manufactured there. De Vaux’s later writing moved in this direction. In his 1959 Schweich Lectures, he stated: The pottery of Period II is very plentiful . . . There are certain features which underline the autonomy of Khirbet Qumran, where, as we have said, there was a manufacturing centre, but, taken as a whole, this pottery [of Period II] has exact counterparts in that found in Jewish tombs of the first century a.d. in the Jerusalem area, in the soundings against the north wall of Jerusalem (the dates of these have been established by coins of the Procurators and Agrippa I), and finally in the excavations of Herodian Jericho. (de Vaux 1973: 33) To the above, de Vaux added a footnote, in the context of this Period II discussion: “The pottery of Qumran now appears less ‘autonomous’ or ‘original’ than I stated it to be at an earlier stage” (1973: 33 n. 2). Also of relevance on this point, attempts to classify locations of original manufacture of pottery found at Qumran based on INAA (Instrumental Neutron Activation Analysis) were published by Jan Gunneweg and Marta Balla (2003: 3–57, 2010). An alternative analysis has been published, with a differing interpretations by Jacek Michniewicz (Michniewicz 2009). Michniewicz disagrees with one of the basic claims of Gunneweg and Balla – that pottery found at Qumran manufactured at Jericho can be distinguished by technical means from pottery found at Qumran manufactured at Qumran (Michniewicz: “there are no clues that would allow even a part of the vessels to be ascribed to a workshop in Jericho or Qumran” (2009: 142)). Michniewicz’s analyses render equivocal some previously published identifications of non-Qumran sites of origin for pottery found at Qumran. Michniewicz characterizes the disagreements not as disputes over the validity of the published scientific data, but rather as issues of interpretation. 136

D econstructing Q umran I b and I I ’ s continuity

Language There appears to be a shift in language from an apparently exclusive use of Hebrew/ Aramaic by people at the site in Ib to a substantial use of Greek in II and III, as reflected in the inscriptional material of Qumran published by André Lemaire (2003). In Ib, there are practice alphabets and writing exercises in Hebrew/ Aramaic and numerous Hebrew/Aramaic inscriptions. In L124 (interpreted by de Vaux as debris from Ib), there were eight inscriptions, all in Hebrew/Aramaic and one with a possible word “priest”.5 The unusual “deed of gift”, published in DJD 36 as KhQ1 and the KhQ2 ostracon found with it, with some male names and a possible reading of “priest”, found next to the Qumran cemetery in 1996, are probably late first century bce, in keeping with the palaeographic description of Ada Yardeni of the writing of KhQ1 as “early Herodian semi-cursive”.6 The situation is very different in Period II. David Hamidović adds inscriptions reported by Magen and Peleg, Émile Puech, and James Strange to the inscriptions from Qumran, the caves, and Ain Feshkha, published by Lemaire, to arrive at 93 total inscriptions of which 21 are in Greek. However, “none of the Greek inscriptions dates from Period I” (Hamidović 2009: 466, 471). Whereas the Hebrew/Aramaic inscriptions, so prevalent at Qumran in Period Ib, continue to a reduced extent in Period II, the change is dramatic. Of seven certain plus two uncertain Greek inscriptions from the buildings of Qumran published by Lemaire (at L8, L27, L30, L35, L54, L110, L121, and uncertainly L78 and L111), seven are attributed to Period II and an inscribed jar from L8 to either II or III. Lemaire summarizes: “Pour les autres inscriptions grecques, seule une analyse stratigraphique détaillée permettrait de distinguer celles postérieures à 68; mais le plupart sont probablement antérieures” (Lemaire 2003: 381). The only one not given a date by Lemaire is a stone weight with Greek letters found in L110 among debris including three coins all of which are first century ce. Therefore, that Greek inscription also appears to be Period II/III. These Greek inscriptions of Period II and/or III include the name “Joseph” in Greek on a stamp found in L30 apparently in use at the time of the First Revolt. According to Josephus, a “Joseph son of Simon” was made commander of Jericho at the time of the First Revolt of 66–70 ce (J.W. 2.567). This “Joseph son of Simon” may be identified with Joseph Cabi b. Simon, a former high priest of the Jerusalem Temple of ca. 62 ce of Ant. 20.196. Was this the Joseph of the Qumran L30 stamp?7 A small percentage (ca. 3 per cent) of the 900 plus texts in the caves of Qumran is in Greek, and these are probably all or mostly first century bce, contemporary with the many Hebrew and Aramaic texts. Out of ca. 930 Qumran texts, 27 are in Greek, compared to ca. 750 Hebrew and ca. 150 Aramaic, according to Tov (2008: 339). However, given the possibility that those Greek texts originated and were used elsewhere than Qumran and were brought to the site for disposal or hiding, it is unclear that that bears on the language in use at Qumran in Ib as indicated by the inscriptional material. An opisthograph, 4Q460/4Q350, on which a list of quantities in Greek with check marks (4Q350) is written on the back of a Hebrew literary text (4Q460), 137

G regory L . D oudna

has occasioned much discussion. The Qumran provenance of 4Q460/4Q350 need not be doubted for reasons discussed elsewhere (for example, Cotton and Larson 2003: 113–26), but what is to be made of the Greek checklist? If the scrolls in the caves were imported for the purpose of permanent disposal, the secondary use of the reverse side of one of the imported texts, 4Q460, may have been to write an ephemeral checklist either before its shipment to Qumran, while en route or at Qumran – in any case, before the text was put in Cave 4Q. In favour of the first or second possibilities and against the third is the lack of evidence at the site for the use of Greek in daily life at Qumran in Period Ib, the era of the deposits of the scrolls per the present argument. The possibility that the Greek list was written on the back of 4Q460 by a later rummager in Cave 4 (at some point after the texts had been deposited) is difficult to exclude, however. There is no reason to suppose from the absence of Greek inscriptions at Qumran in Ib that there were scruples against using Greek, or that absolutely no one knew Greek. But it does suggest that Greek was not much in use by the people at Qumran in Ib. It heightens the question of whether the non-Greek users of Ib and the heavy Greek users of II were the same group as is commonly supposed.

Women For Period Ib, there seems to be no evidence for women at Qumran. There are no women’s names among the names of the ostraca from Period Ib, nor are there any known clear cases of gendered finds from Period Ib suggesting the presence of women. But it is certain that there were women at Qumran in both Periods II and III in the first century ce. Evidence of the presence of women is based on gendered finds such as jewellery, beads, and spindle whorls, as discussed in the studies of Taylor (1999: 317–21) and Magness (2004: 113–49). Whereas none of these items seem to have been found in Ib contexts at Qumran, the situation in II and III is very different. A spindle whorl (No. 633) was found in 1953 in de Vaux’s L99 “Railway” Trench in a fill of Period II items. Two years later in the same area the excavators found an earring (No. 2003), presumably also from Period II. For Period III, a spindle whorl (No. 401) was found in L20, and a bracelet and a green bead were found in L43 in a Period III context. A bead was found at L35 in a context which has a Vespasian 69–70 ce coin, and therefore belongs to III. A bead from L44 is either II or III. Fibulae, possibly from women, were found in several II/III contexts, including L44, L56, L96. A fourth is possible from the “Railway” Trench. That some of these fibulae had belonged to women is suggested by the fibula from L44 (No. 1020), found with two bronze rings (Nos. 1018, 1019). In the “Railway” Trench, a “rod or fibula of bronze” (No. 2007) was found with the earring mentioned above. In addition to the de Vaux finds, Magen and Peleg also reported finding “bracelets” and “rings (some with stone insets)”, though without disclosure of locus or stratum (2007: 21). A wooden comb was found in Cave 1Q. That comb might have belonged to a woman. However, no other women’s item was found with it and it is difficult to exclude the possibility that men also used 138

D econstructing Q umran I b and I I ’ s continuity

combs. Ton Derks and Wouter Vos comment on the comb/gender issue of the era in the wider Mediterranean world: there is a wealth of contextual data that supports the association of combs with women . . . representations of combs and other grooming tools, for instance, seem to figure nearly exclusively on memorials for women . . . long lists of comb finds from more prosaic burials may be cited as references to the same virtue of female beauty . . . comb finds and iconographic depictions of combs provide strong arguments for the comb as a marked symbol of female identity, especially in the ritual context of the funeral. Against this background, the apparent absence of combs, real or depicted, on male funerary monuments or in tombs for men, is most striking. (Derks and Vos 2010: 62–3) However, Derks and Vos also cite literary allusions to upper-class Roman men using combs (for example, a mocking question to a bald man: “of what use will be this piece of box-wood, cut into so many teeth, and now presented to you, seeing that you have no hair?” (Martial, Epigrams 14.25). A remark that a worthy centurion had broad shoulders and wild, uncombed hair may imply that some men did comb their hair (Juvenal, Satires 14.194). Taylor’s study characterized combs as a gendered women’s item (1999: 318), but Katharina Galor disagrees: “combs do not elucidate any matters of gender as both archaeological and literary evidence suggest that combs were used by both male and female (Whitehouse 200[6]: 748)” (Galor 2010: 32). Possibly weighing against Galor however, Magness cites an excavation at Khirbet ed-Deir of a sixth-seventh century ce Byzantine monastery inhabited by a male population published by Hirschfeld in which “no spindle whorls or shafts, beads, or jewelry, combs, hairnets, mirrors, or cosmetic items” were found; note the absence of combs (Magness 2004: 131, citing Hirschfeld 1999). It is intriguing to consider a woman associated with the comb and the domestic pottery stored in Cave 1Q at the time of the First Revolt. The woman (?) of Cave 1Q probably would not have been alone, based on the two knife-pared, bow-spouted “Herodian” lamps found in Cave 1Q, as reported in DJD 1. The trapezoidal shape of, and double line incisions on, those lamps' nozzles, indicate those lamps belong to Smith's Type 2 class of "Herodian" lamps, believed to have begun in Judaea ca. 35 ce and the most common type of lamp in Judaea at the time of the First Revolt (de Vaux 1955:11, Fig. 3.1; Mlynarczyk 2013: 108–10). So this is plausibly activity dated to the time of the First Revolt (based on the Smith Type 2 “Herodian” lamps), activity possibly including a woman (based on the comb) in Cave 1Q at that time. A bronze earring or nose-ring, with domestic pottery from the approximate time of the First Revolt, was found in Cave 24, about 50 metres north of the scrollbearing Cave 11Q.8 Unlike Caves 1Q and 11Q, there were no scrolls or scroll jars found in Cave 24. There was only an indication of the use of that cave by refugees or possibly shepherds in the latter half of the first century ce. This activity appears to have included the presence of at least one woman, analogous to the possible 139

G regory L . D oudna

presence of a woman in Cave 1Q at approximately the same time, and perhaps for similar reasons, as Cave 24. Therefore, it seems likely that women were among the refugees or fugitives using caves around Qumran for temporary habitation or storage of personal supplies at the time of the upheavals of the First Revolt, and this is consistent with the finds indicating the presence of women at the site of Qumran in the first century ce. Again, there is an apparent qualitative difference between Ib and II/III at Qumran. All of the known signs of women’s presence appear only in Periods II and III, with no sign of women at Qumran in Period Ib. It is true that no women’s names have turned up in the ostraca from Qumran Periods II or III, just as is the case with Ib. There seem to be no names securely identified from Qumran’s Period III at all, and the absence of women’s names in the finds from II may be attributable to the smaller database of such names and accident, in contrast to the larger number of 100 per cent men’s names in Ib which do give an impression of an actual absence of women at the site in Ib (with both of these interpretations of Ib and II in keeping with the gendered finds pertaining to these periods).

Animal bone deposits Distinctive animal bone deposits found inside and under pottery in open areas of the site of Qumran were said by de Vaux to be “the clearest proof” that the people of Periods Ib and II were identical (de Vaux 1973: 120). De Vaux acknowledged that most of the animal bone deposits were Ib (“the majority belong to Period Ib”) (de Vaux 1973: 13). But de Vaux claimed that the same kind of deposits were also found in Period II at loci 73, 80, 130, and 132 (de Vaux 1973: 13 n. 1). Followed and cited by countless scholarly expositors has been de Vaux’s view that Period II animal bone deposits were evidence that the same people of Period Ib returned to Qumran to inhabit the site throughout Period II. However, after detailed analysis of Locus 130 by Robert Donceel based on hitherto unpublished pencil drawings and a topographical map, as well as stratigraphy, Donceel concluded that de Vaux had erred in saying that any of the animal bone deposits of L130 date to Period II: “nothing justifies the supposition according to which the so-called practice of ‘under-jar bone-deposits’ continued after the end of de Vaux’s ‘Period I’ (end of the 1st cent. b.c.), at least in locus 130; the evidence of the pottery, lamps, and the coins is unequivocal” (Donceel 2005: 69). Donceel allowed for the possibility that the animal bone deposits could have continued at later times elsewhere at the site. “Rien n’interdit d’ailleurs a priori d’envisager que le processus ait pu être continué ailleurs sur le site (c à d. en d’autres endroits de la périphérie des bâtiments) à une époque plus récente” (Donceel 2005: 46). However, Donceel noted that it would raise the question of why the animal bones stopped at the end of Period Ib in L130, if they continued in Period II elsewhere. Turning to L132, which adjoins L130, de Vaux claimed that only Period II animal bone deposits were found in L132 (de Vaux 1973: 13 n. 1). But in his field notes he noted that L132’s pottery was like that of L130 (“cleaning and removal 140

D econstructing Q umran I b and I I ’ s continuity

of the pottery items with [bone deposits] 1, 2 and 3 in the southwest corner. The ceramics are analogous to those of locus 130” (L132, 9/3/55)), and de Vaux understood that L130’s pottery was from Period I (L130, 2/3/55). De Vaux’s field notes also reported two coins (Nos. 2425, 2426) found with one of the animal bone deposits at L132 at his entry for 14/3/55. Those two coins are now identified, albeit with question marks, as being from Alexander Jannaeus and [John] Hyrcanus [I] (Pfann 2003: 57–8), which point to Period Ib, not II. As early as 1998, Robert Donceel reported that, on the basis of the de Vaux excavation materials, all of the animal bones in the northern enclosure (L130, 132, 135) belonged to Ib (Donceel 1998: 99–104).9 Yet, to the present day, Donceel’s detailed correction of the dating of the animal bone deposits remains almost completely unacknowledged and unaddressed in relevant secondary literature as if it were unknown. In a 2001 lecture, Humbert also reassessed de Vaux’s interpretation of L130 and concluded that de Vaux had been mistaken, suggesting a “halting of bone deposits” in the first century bce by new settlers at Qumran, possibly reflecting a change in religious practice (Humbert 2003b: 435–6). These analyses concerning L130 and L132 – and their conclusions that the animal bone deposits in L130 and L132 ended in Period Ib – call for critical scrutiny of the two remaining loci in which de Vaux claimed to have found Period II animal bone deposits: namely, L73 and L80. Unfortunately the publication of loci L73 and L80 has been inadequate. Yitzhak Magen and Yuval Peleg reported animal bone deposits in the first century ce (Period II) from their excavations in 1993–2004: “vessels containing bones dating from the Hasmonean period were found in the southern dump, and elsewhere from later periods, up to the site’s destruction. The disposal of bones within the site was thus a permanent feature” (Magen and Peleg 2007: 43). Unfortunately, Magen and Peleg did not disclose where “elsewhere” was. Nor did they offer any other information concerning their claim. The excavations of Randall Price and Oren Gutfeld of 2002–12 found still more animal bone deposits, but none, in their estimation, were of first-century ce date. These deposits were “concentrated along (and even under) the eastern wall marking the eastern edge of the settlement . . . Price assigns the animal bone deposits that he found to the pre-31 bce phase of Period Ib” (Magness 2011: 358–9). The currently available information can be summarized as follows: the animal bone deposits are extensive, certain, and verified in Period Ib (possibly the remains of some industrial process carried out at the site in addition to meals, suggest Donceel (2005: 49, 72) and Stacey (2013: 55)). There are, moreover, unverified claims of a few more such deposits from Period II. Is such lack of published documentation and verification for Period II animal bone deposits a solid foundation for the assumption of Period Ib/Period II continuity (de Vaux’s “clearest proof”)?

Quantity of tableware De Vaux’s, now traditional, view was that Qumran had communal dining through both Periods Ib and II, ending in 68 ce. There was, however, no such dining in 141

G regory L . D oudna

Period III. The destruction of 68 ce was the point at which, as de Vaux put it, “community life at Qumran no longer exists” (de Vaux 1973: 43). This understanding is not supported by actual evidence. The argument for the practice of communal dining at Qumran, even in Period Ib in which large quantities of tableware were found, has been contested: The idea of ”community” was the intuition that very early on determined the historic-archaeological characterization of the site . . . The collective installations [at Qumran] that [de Vaux said] support his idea of community are not at all convincing . . . An impartial archaeological examination of the entire ruin does not detect the morphology necessary to shelter a large society . . . The housing of a large group is not practical here . . . To suggest that the most important members of the community lived in the cliffs’ caves and in “camps” set up near the site is surprising. The caves are merely erosion pockets or crevices and one cannot imagine that, even in antiquity, a group of sedentary people would have lived for two centuries in tents . . . We must accept that Qumran does not present any of the necessary criteria for an identification of a communal life . . . The community at Qumran does not have substance. The two hundred or two hundred fifty members that one wishes to place there are a fabrication of the mind, and the archaeology does not lead in this direction. (Humbert 2003b: 425–32) De Vaux, influenced by the concept of Qumran as a communally-eating, sectarian settlement, extravagantly identified this room [L77] as a “refectory” and “a place where the president of the assembly would have taken his stand”, although evidence from Masada, already available to de Vaux before his death, shows that such long, comparatively narrow, rooms were used as storerooms. Similar storerooms have since been found at Herodium and Jericho. (Stacey 2013: 41) Atkinson and Magness’s response in defence of the traditional view paradoxically seems only to further weaken the argument for Qumran’s uniqueness underlying the sectarian community interpretation: The sectarian practice of dining from individual dishes accounts for the discovery of hundreds of small plates, cups, and bowls in pantries attached to the communal dining rooms at Qumran (L86 and L114) . . . this custom seems to have been widespread in the first century bce, judging from the large numbers of plates, saucers, and bowls found at sites around the country. Andrea Berlin describes as follows the evidence from Gamla: “Each person had a small plain buff fabric bowl for his own portion.” (Atkinson and Magness 2010: 332) 142

D econstructing Q umran I b and I I ’ s continuity

However, that debate is ultimately resolved with respect to Period Ib; the important point is that the two large inventories of dining pottery found at the site at L86/89 and L114 – the main basis for the argument for the interpretation of communal dining at Qumran – both ended at the end of Ib (for L86/89: de Vaux 1973: 11–12; Magness 2004: 91–2; Bar-Nathan 2002: 203–4; 2006: 266–74. For L114: de Vaux 1973: 5 n. 1; Magness 2004: 103–4; Atkinson and Magness 2010: 332 n. 48; Bar-Nathan 2002: 89 (J-BL5 bowls at L114)). There is nothing found at Qumran from either Period II or III comparable to the scale of the tableware of L86/89 and L114 of Period Ib. At the destruction of Qumran during the First Revolt, there were multiple loci with small amounts of dining pottery used by people living in rooms, reflective of individual or nuclearfamily/small household-scale or refugee levels in different rooms, with no evidence of communal or large-scale dining. Period II is essentially indistinguishable from Period III with respect to quantities of tableware per person. Period Ib differs dramatically from both II and III in quantity of tableware. The large quantities of cups and bowls are specific to Period Ib. Magness reconstructs an upper-storey room built over L77 used for communal dining in Period II. Her main arguments for the existence of communal dining in Period II appear to be two. First, that communal dining would be expected to have continued in II on the assumption of continuity of the same group from Ib. And second, the animal bone deposits claimed by de Vaux to have continued in Period II are interpreted to mean that communal dining continued in Period II. After arguing for the existence of the L77 upstairs room, Magness cites tableware in Period II debris in nearby L58 as having come from the communal dining conjectured to have taken place in L77 upstairs (Magness 2004: 101; Atkinson and Magness 2010: 341). The problem in Magness’s argument is in the numbers. In L86/89 of Period Ib were found, according to Magness, 279 shallow bowls, 798 hemispherical cups, 150 deep cups, 37 deep bowls and 11 table jugs for pouring wine. The other main tableware find of Ib, L114, had 39 shallow bowls, 111 hemispherical cups, 9 deep cups, 1 large bowl, and 1 table jug. In L58 of Period II, however, no cups, and only 3 goblets, 7 bowls, 2 plates, 18 jugs, and 1 flask were found. The numbers are hardly comparable between the Ib loci on the one hand, and L58 from II on the other. The low total numbers of dishes in L58 (found in two separate piles) are not distinguishable from the domestic pottery of a household, as in the cooking pottery and dishes found at other loci in II and III. There is no evidence from L58 for the existence of communal dining in Period II, whether in upstairs L77 or at any other locus. Magness conjectured the existence of another upper-storey room used for communal dining on the western side of the site in Period Ib associated with the pottery of L114 (2004: 81–112). Even though the L114 pottery ended in Ib and there is no comparable find of large numbers of tableware from Period II on the western side, Magness nevertheless suggested that communal dining on the west side also continued in Period II. In support of this, Magness cited de Vaux’s claim of animal bone deposits in Period II in the northern enclosure (but that has been 143

G regory L . D oudna

convincingly argued by Donceel and Humbert to have been unsupported and mistaken). Magness also conjectured that de Vaux’s description at L126 of “much pottery, several bowls or plates, a flask, etc.” (23/2/55) could have been from the conjectured Period II communal dining on the western side (Magness 2004: 104–5 n. 110). In short, Magness has made an argument for communal dining at Qumran based on an interpretation of the real finds of Ib and then conjectured its continuation in Period II without evidence. As pointed out by Bar-Nathan, disposals of huge numbers of bowls in miqvehs or pools at Jericho during the Hasmonean era and HR1 appear to have some relationship to L86/89 of Ib at Qumran. The same kind of bowls appear in large numbers – so many similar kinds of bowls at the two nearby sites, with possible evocation of ritual uses, that the question was raised by Bar-Nathan whether the finds from Qumran Ib and the Hasmonean Palaces at Jericho reflect practices of the same sect at the two sites: the finds from Qumran (Period Ib) which are, in fact, identical to those exposed in the Hasmonean palace complex at Jericho . . . the abundance of mikva’ot [at the Hasmonean palace in Jericho] and the many bowls and plates in them may be connected with the laws of impurity and cleanliness in force in Jericho at this time. (Bar-Nathan 2002: 5) the lack of imported pottery, and the profusion of bowls and their relationship to the miqvaot [at Jericho], might all be related to unwritten Sadducee laws and customs . . . the great resemblance of the pottery in Hasmonean Jericho to that of Qumran Period Ib is notable. (In this frame we shall not discuss whether this similarity indicates a similar sect in both sites, or common Jewish laws or habits, which were practised throughout Judea.) (Bar-Nathan 2002: 198) The large numbers of cups and bowls at Qumran in Period Ib are therefore neither unusual nor unique. What is unusual are scholarly claims that distinctive dining practices or purity concerns, correlating to the profligate use of tableware common to the Hasmonean Palaces at Jericho and at Qumran in Period Ib, were present at Qumran in the first century ce and in Period II, and differed from practices at other first-century ce Judean sites, as well as in Qumran Period III. That notion is without evidence.

Ownership of the site An interpretation that Qumran Ib was an extension of the Hasmonean and Royal Estate in Jericho is implicit in the Jericho Netzer excavations’ pottery volume of Bar-Nathan of 2002. That interpretation has been developed explicitly by David Stacey (2007: 237: “Qumran must be considered an integral, though outlying, part of the Royal Estate”; 2013). If that interpretation is correct, Qumran may have been owned or controlled by high priests during much of the first century bce. As 144

D econstructing Q umran I b and I I ’ s continuity

Humbert put it, “Qumrân, par proximité appartient à Jéricho et qui tenait Jéricho tenait Qumrân” (Humbert 2003a: 469). Historian Samuel Rocca refers to the firstcentury bce high priest “Hyrcanus II who was, in fact, the owner of the palatial environs [at Jericho]” (Rocca 2008: 115). Ownership of the site of Qumran would be expected to have changed with political changes. There is no reason to suppose the same ownership continued in Period II as in Period Ib. It follows that the assumption that the people of Qumran of II were the same as the people of Qumran of Ib is further weakened.

Scrolls In all of the scrolls found in Qumran’s caves, nearly one thousand texts in all, there is not one allusion to an event, name, ruler, figure, or historical context as late as the first century ce. Nor is there a single text composed later than the first century bce. On the other hand, there are numerous allusions to earlier figures and contexts of the first century bce, as well as many scrolls among the finds which were written in the first century bce (Atkinson 2007; Vermes 2007; Wise 2003). Oddly, the most obvious conclusion from such distribution is hardly considered: namely, that the Qumran texts had been deposited by the end of the first century bce. The latest formal scribal hands in the Qumran texts are “late Herodian formal” and were, accordingly, dated to the mid-first century ce by Frank M. Cross (1961) – a date which has been applied to the Qumran texts ever since. However, the naming and dating of the scripts of the Qumran texts originated in the prior belief that the dating of the text deposits had already been established in the First Revolt. On that only apparently secure starting point, it was assumed that scribal copies among the Qumran texts had been produced continuously until just before the First Revolt. In this way, the latest scribal hands in the Qumran texts became “late Herodian formal” and dated to ca. 50 ce. The origin of the dating of “late Herodian formal” script has been lost in collective scholarly memory to such an extent that such palaeographic datings are today often regarded as evidence that Qumran texts were produced as late as ca. 50 ce and that the interpretation which had created those dates is therefore confirmed, without awareness of the circularity in the reasoning. In fact, such palaeographic dating provides no independent verification that Qumran texts were produced as late as the first century ce, since that result had been based on the premise that the First Revolt was the endpoint. First-century ce Qumran text palaeographic datings are no stronger than the archaeological grounds for the “First Revolt” scroll deposits. The radiocarbon datings, carried out on 19 Qumran texts at Zurich and Tucson in the 1990s, confirmed first-century bce dates of scribal copying of many Qumran texts and also that a smaller percentage of second-century bce texts is plausible or likely, but those radiocarbon datings have not confirmed Qumran cave literary text activity from the first century ce.10 Compare this assessment from two radiocarbon scientists: “The dates suggest a possible range from the third century bc to 145

G regory L . D oudna

the first century ad for texts from caves near Qumran, with a strong concentration of probable dates in the second or first century bc” (van der Plicht and Rasmussen 2010: 111). A revised palaeographic chronology, in which neither the latest formal nor latest semi-cursive scribal hands among the literary texts of the Qumran caves postdate the first century bce, does not create a problematic gap in typological development in the first century ce. The gap is filled by “late Herodian formal” writing, recognized to have begun earlier than previously supposed, and recognition of post-Qumran-scrolls’ formal and semicursive scripts which are pre-70 ce. This direction of revision in palaeographic dating seems to be already under way. Two of the three biblical texts used by Cross in 1961 to define post-70 ce “post-Herodian formal” scripts (5/6HevPs, MurXII, MurGena) are now dated before the First Revolt: namely, the Nahal Hever Psalms Scroll and the Murabba‘at Minor Prophets scroll. The Psalms Scroll, characterized from the beginning as postdating the latest Qumran scribal hands and listed in Cross’s charts as such, was dated in DJD 38, “c.50–68 ce” (Flint 2000: 143). In 2006, Cross redated the Minor Prophets Scroll of Murabba‘at (MurXII), which also had been understood from the beginning to postdate all Qumran texts and to be of ca. early second-century ce date, before the First Revolt (Cross 2006: 67: “the great Minor Prophets Scroll from Murabba‘at, dating to ca 50–70 ce”). The existence of a well-attested class of semicursive writing of the first-century ce prior to the First Revolt which postdates even the latest semicursive scripts in all of the Qumran texts, meanwhile, has already long been recognized by Cross (1961: 190 n. 9)

Toward a better understanding of the ending of the scroll deposits David Stacey has argued that, for the greater part of its history, Qumran was a site of seasonal economic activity based on its supply of fresh water, which came in quantity once per year in the winter rains (captured and stored in cisterns within the buildings’ walls), which was used for industrial purposes for as long as the water lasted. The site was largely abandoned until the next winter’s rains. In this reassessment, Stacey criticizes the scholarly language regarding notions of “full-time habitation” and “community” at Qumran as inaccurate. Such concepts were, at most times in Qumran’s history, foreign to Qumran’s actual function as a site of dirty, smelly industries, which bustled with activity part of the year when there was water and, in Stacey’s view, lay dormant much of the rest of the time (Stacey 2013). It is possible to distinguish discontinuity in ownership or control of the site (landlords and overseers) from continuity at the level of the ones carrying out such economic activities (labourers and craftsmen), willing to work under the new employer or landlord. For scholars attempting to understand the scrolls found near Qumran, the relevant focus might be on those in control of the site (and the site’s discontinuities) rather than on a hypothetical local workforce (and its continuities). The scrolls in the caves are unlikely to have been possessions of a seasonal workforce. They represent a specialized literature, apparently for priests or those associated with priests: namely, the literate and the elite. The priestly oriented 146

D econstructing Q umran I b and I I ’ s continuity

contents of the texts and the physical proximity of Qumran to Jericho point toward the Hasmoneans and priests for the source of the scrolls. An objection to this observation – as deeply-rooted as it is illusory – is a notion that the Qumran texts reflect programmatic opposition to Hasmonean high priests. As I wrote in 2013, in an introduction to an essay addressing this point, a reader, following the discussion closely to this point, might ask, rather, if the people of the scrolls should be identified as the people operating the site when Qumran was a Hasmonean outpost? Why should it be necessary to suppose two distinct sets of people, that is, a Hasmonean operation of Qumran succeeded by a sect of the scrolls? Such a question seems to come from a naive reader, unfamiliar with Qumran scholarship. There is one point upon which scholars seem to have been in agreement for as long as anyone can remember: it is that the sect of the Qumran texts was opposed to the Hasmonean high priests. In prevailing Qumran scholarship, it is simply inconceivable that the people of the texts of Qumran could have been favourable to, for example, Hyrcanus II, the high priest of the Temple in Jerusalem in 76–67 and 63–40 bce. However, the imagined, naive reader’s question referred to above is actually quite astute. The reasons claimed for supposing that the Qumran texts were written in opposition to all Hasmonean high priests, it turns out, are far less secure than they have seemed. Surprisingly, as I develop in my study of Doudna 2013, nothing in the Qumran Community Rule (S) texts calls for reading those texts as opposed to the Temple or to priests who controlled the Temple. Such interpretations are unfounded and chimerical, no matter how deeply ingrained such interpretations have been in scholarly discourse. Nothing in the Qumran texts calls for supposing the authors of the sectarian texts were other than supportive of most Hasmonean high priests. Texts which have been interpreted as polemical against all Hasmonean rulers and their regimes instead reflect an antagonism to one Hasmonean ruler’s regime from supporters of the previous high priest. Condemnations in some texts of a Hasmonean regime are not a rejection of all Hasmonean high priests, but rather arise out of the authors’ loyalty to what they understood to be the legitimate Hasmonean high priest, who had been forced into exile. Traditional arguments for supposing an intrinsically adversarial relationship between the authors and scribes of the Qumran texts and the Hasmonean high priests evaporate upon examination. There is no evidence in the texts of calendar conflict with Hasmonean high priests; no criticism for combining king and high priest; no notion that the Hasmoneans had wrong priestly ancestry; no opposition to Alexander Jannaeus, or to John Hyrcanus I before him. Contrary to common conceptions, none of these notions are in the Qumran texts. Instead of the Qumran texts being opposed to the Hasmonean high priests, the sect of the texts was the sect of – a network of synagogues loyal to – the Hasmonean high priests and Jerusalem Temple, except at the end when rival Hasmonean high priests competed for allegiance (Doudna 2013). We may well imagine that the scroll deposits were texts from Jericho or from synagogues in the vicinity of Jericho and that they were taken to Qumran for deposit in the caves during an era that came to an end within a context of change 147

G regory L . D oudna

in the control of the Palaces in Jericho. It was a time when the palaces were placed under Herodian ownership, a situation with new relationships between Herod and the priests associated with the last Hasmoneans. Under a scenario of discontinuity in ownership of the site or interruption in the source of the scrolls as the reason for the end of the scrolls in the caves of Qumran, the scrolls deposits might have been an activity directed by priests or officials associated or formerly associated with the Hasmonean Estate in Jericho. Local seasonal workers engaged in industries at Qumran need not have been involved in decisions to deposit scrolls in the caves, or in the circumstances in which those deposits ceased. The argument that the scrolls in the caves were long-term or permanent disposals has been well made by Joan Taylor (2012a; 2012b: 273–303; cf. Stacey 2013: 63). Probably the best recent argument for a different theory of an emergency hiding (with the intent of retrieving the scrolls never realized) is that of Mladen Popović (2012). Whether the scrolls were deposited with or without intent to recover them, the scroll-bearing caves close to the site of Qumran show signs of significant disturbances and intrusions, subsequent to the deposits. For example, it is unlikely the scrolls in Cave 4Q had originally been deposited unrolled, opened, and strewn about. Yet at the same time, as has often been remarked, the disturbed conditions of the scrolls in Cave 4Q were ancient and not far removed in time from the deposits of those scrolls, since the strewn and scattered scrolls in Cave 4Q were found on the cave’s floor, below ca. 1,900 years of dirt and animal dung (Cross 1995: 34 n. 1). In light of the known phenomenon of temporary habitation and refugee activity around the time of the First Revolt in the caves near Qumran and at the site itself, such activity is one possibility for the early disturbances of the scrolls in the caves. Another possibility would be from first-century ce persons earlier in Period II. In the case of Cave 4Q, the unwrapped and unrolled scrolls strewn on the cave’s floor could suggest that scrolls, originally placed in the cave in an orderly manner wrapped and tied, had been successively torn open and looked at, then discarded, that is, rummaging by someone literate. An hypothesis of ancient rummaging by literate scroll readers could account for the presence of the unattached leather straps and tabs found in Caves 4Q and 8Q of the kind used to secure rolled-up scrolls. That is, they were torn off and discarded in the process of opening scrolls for examination, anciently – by people at Qumran of the first century ce, not depositing those texts but accidentally finding them there. As the tables of data of Ian Young have confirmed, the Qumran biblical texts are pre-stabilization and not exact MT texts, whereas the biblical texts found at other Judaean Desert sites are post-stabilization exact MT texts. In agreement with Young in the interpretation of these data distributions, we conclude that the exact MT stabilized Judaean Desert biblical texts reflect the true circumstances of Hebrew biblical texts in first-century ce Judea before the First Revolt, while the Temple of Jerusalem was still standing. All of the Qumran scrolls are earlier than this. They are, therefore, associated with the end of Qumran’s Period Ib, and the dating of the stabilization of the biblical text seems best dated late in the first century bce or early first century ce, perhaps related to the new temple of Herod. 148

D econstructing Q umran I b and I I ’ s continuity

Conclusion This chapter has surveyed several issues bearing on the assumption of continuity between Qumran’s Periods Ib and II, including pottery, language, women, dining, animal bone deposits, ownership, and scrolls. Such considerations suggest that it is misleading to speak of a single “main period of habitation” of a single group or community at Qumran, which ended at the time of the First Revolt. Qumran’s Periods Ib and II should not be conflated in scholarly discourse as if they imply a single context. A less inaccurate picture may be that the true “main period” of Qumran was simply “Period Ib” of the first century bce. This “main period” of Qumran – Ib – is to be distinguished from all subsequent activity at the site, which was reduced in scale. And the functioning of the site during its height of activity in the first century bce was dependent upon control from nearby Jericho more than has been appreciated. An earlier dating of the latest Qumran scrolls, toward the close of the first century bce, may support a better understanding of the formation of the Jewish Bible from multiple editions and fluid forms of copying, before the final text stabilized. This may not only have begun later than traditionally supposed (as per other studies in the present volume), but also have ended earlier than traditionally supposed, compressing the span of this process.

Notes   1 Bruce and Pfann: “Period IIb: During the last years of Period II (ca. 66–68 ce) . . . Qumran was taken over by another group . . . Hoards of Revolt coins, stoneware, new pottery forms (differing in form and proportions from the communal pantries of loci 89 and 114), and light weapons (including knives and arrow heads) were recovered from this period, which preceded the Roman occupation of the site” (Bruce and Pfann 2007: 771). Since both of Bruce and Pfann’s examples of communal pottery found at Qumran in contrast to remains of IIb – L89 and L114 – ended in Ib (de Vaux 1973: 5 n. 1 [L114], 11–12 [L89]), it is not clear on what archaeological grounds Bruce and Pfann’s “IIb” should not be regarded as having begun earlier than 66 ce, conceivably as early as the time Bruce and Pfann suppose IIa to have begun, raising the question whether Bruce and Pfann’s IIa has evidence for existence.   2 Magness comments: “The fact that only 37 coins dating between the years 6 and 48 ce were found in the excavations [of the Palaces at Jericho], together with an apparent drop in the amount of pottery recovered and the discovery of only four fragments of imported Roman discus lamps, suggest to me that these buildings were no longer used or maintained as palaces after Archelaus was removed from rule” (Magness 2003: 424–5).   3 Note that Bar-Nathan’s dating here of the end of Qumran Ib to the time of Jericho HR1 is not clearly a misprint and is in keeping with Bar-Nathan’s logic and argument, despite Bar-Nathan’s expressed agreement later in the volume with Magness’s later dating of the end of Qumran Ib to the time of HR2.   4 Following the publication of de Vaux’s excavation notes in 1994, I noted that evidence seemed lacking in those notes for a Qumran Ib fire, and I suggested that “the notion that Qumran Period Ib ended with a destruction by fire should probably be dispensed with for lack of evidence. As basic as a Ib fire has been in almost all discussions of Qumran

149

G regory L . D oudna

archaeology up to now, I was surprised to discover in de Vaux’s excavation notes in Humbert & Chambon 1994 that in not a single locus can a Period II fire layer be identified over a Period Ib fire” (Doudna 1999: 35–6). This interpretation was subsequently taken up by Humbert (2003b: 436) and Hirschfeld (2004: 88). Atkinson and Magness, however, without noting these discussions or offering new argument, continue to refer to the end of Qumran Ib by fire as if it is an uncontested fact (2010: 325).   5 De Vaux wrote in his field notes concerning L124: “We continued the excavation in the area where the inscribed potsherds were found . . . It appears that this pottery had been thrown there after the earthquake [of 31 bce], during the cleaning of the building. It was therefore outside. We collected one or two more inscribed potsherds” (L124, 16/3/55). Throughout the present article, references to and renderings in English from de Vaux’s synthesis of his Qumran excavation field notes are from the Pfann (2003) edition.   6 Rather than the Period II/First Revolt dating of Cross and Eshel in DJD 36 (Cross and Eshel 2000; Doudna 2007: 106–11 (Ib dating); 2007: 112–14 (possible “priest” reading); Puech 2007: 21 (“sa datation paléographique peut s’étaler sur un siècle auparavant, avec une forte préférence dans la période hérodienne ancienne et même hasmonéenne tardive”); Yardeni 1997 (“early Herodian semi-cursive”)). No inscription in Greek was found at Qumran from Period Ib.   7 With regard to L30, in light of the often-remarked pattern of an absence of major new building features in Period II at Qumran in contrast to Ib, it may be that the plastered furniture from the upper storey of L30, which has occasioned so much discussion, was from Period Ib, that is, inherited already there in L30 by the people of II. Note the plastered furniture debris item (No. 2465) found in the sediment of L130 of Period Ib which Robert Donceel observed was “de même apparence que le mobilier tombé de l’étage du locus 30” (Donceel 2005: 36).   8 “the entire ceramic corpus from this cave [Cave 24] – jars (at least ten), cooking-pots (at least six), juglets (at least five), and the oil-lamp, suggest the last phase of the Herodian period or even a post 70 ce date” (Patrich 1994: 90).   9 “Tout en travaillant sur les lampes de terre-cuite qui en proviennent nous avons tenté de recomposer la stratigraphie de cet emplacement du N-O du site à partir de toutes les informations disponibles, et sommes arrivés à la conclusion qu’aucune de ces dépositions n’y est postérieure à la phase Ib du R.P. de Vaux (c’est-à-dire la fin du Ier s. av. J.C.) . . . la date la plus récente pour ces dépositions dans ce locus 130 d’ossements d’animaux dans les vases ou des tessons (date étayée notamment par les monnaies) est la fin de la période Ib du R.P. de Vaux” (Donceel 1998: 99–104). 10 See my analysis at Doudna 2013: 108–12.

Bibliography Atkinson, K. 2007. “Representations of History in 4Q331 (4QPapHistorical Text C), 4Q332 (4QHistorical Text D), 4Q333 (4QHistorical Text E), and 4Q468e (4QHistorical Text F): An Annalistic Calendar Documenting Portentous Events?”. Dead Sea Discoveries 14: 125–51. Atkinson, K. and J. Magness. 2010. “Josephus’s Essenes and the Qumran Community”. Journal of Biblical Literature 129: 317–42. Bar-Adon, P. 1981. “The Hasmonean Fortresses and the Status of Khirbet Qumran”. EretzIsrael 15: 349–52 (p. 65 Eng. summary).

150

D econstructing Q umran I b and I I ’ s continuity

Bar-Nathan, R. 2002. Hasmonean and Herodian Palaces at Jericho, Vol. III: The Pottery. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society. ———. 2006. “Qumran and the Hasmonean and Herodian Winter Palaces of Jericho: The Implication of the Pottery Finds on the Interpretation of the Settlement at Qumran”. See Galor, Humbert, and Zangenberg (2006): 263–77. Bruce, F. F. and S. J. Pfann. 2007. “Qumran”. In Encyclopedia Judaica, Vol. 16. 2nd edn. M. Berenbaum and F. Skolnik (eds.). Detroit, MI: MacMillan: 768–75. Cotton, H. and E. Larson. 2003. “4Q460/4Q350 and Tampering with Qumran Texts in Antiquity?”. In Emanuel: Studies in Hebrew Bible, Septuagint and Dead Sea Scrolls in Honor of Emanuel Tov. S. M. Paul, et al. (eds.). Leiden: Brill: 113–26. Cross, F. M. 1961. “The Development of the Jewish Scripts”. In The Bible and the Ancient Near East: Essays in Honor of W. F. Albright. G. E. Wright (ed.). Garden City, NY: Doubleday: 133–202. ———. 1995. The Ancient Library of Qumran. 3rd edn. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. ———. 2006. “The Biblical Scrolls from Qumran and the Canonical Text”. In The Bible and the Dead Sea Scrolls: The Princeton Symposium on the Dead Sea Scrolls, Vol. I. J. Charlesworth (ed.). Waco, TX: Baylor University Press: 67–75. Cross, F. M. and E. Eshel. 2000. “KhQOstracon”. In Miscellanea, Part I: Qumran Cave 4, XXVI. P. Alexander et al. (eds.). DJD 36. Oxford: Clarendon Press: 497–507. Crown, A. 2005. “An Alternative View of Qumran”. In Samaritan, Hebrew, and Aramaic Studies Presented to Professor Abraham Tal. M. Bar-Asher and M. Florentin (eds.). Jerusalem: Bialik Institute: 1–24. Derks, T. and W. Vos. 2010. “Wooden Combs from the Roman Fort at Vechten: the Bodily Appearance of Soldiers”. Journal of Archaeology in the Low Countries 2/2: http:// www.jalc.nl/cgi/t/text/text-idxa32f.html?c=jalc;sid=095741f1231d8f86c4f63866855fb f08;rgn=main;idno=m0202a03;view=text. Donceel, R. 1998. “Poursuite des travaux de publication du matériel archéologique de Khirbet Qumrân: Les lampes en terre-cuite”. See Kapera (1998): 87–104. ———. 2005. Khirbet Qumrân (Palestine): Le Locus 130 et les “Ossements sous Jarre.” Mise à jour de la documentation. Qumran Chronicle 13/1 Special Issue. Cracow: Enigma Press. Doudna, G. 1998. “Dating the Scrolls on the Basis of Radiocarbon Analysis”. In The Dead Sea Scrolls after Fifty Years, Vol 1. P. Flint and J. VanderKam (eds.). Leiden: Brill: 430–71. ———. 1999. Redating the Dead Sea Scrolls Found at Qumran. Qumran Chronicle Special Issue 8/4. Cracow: Enigma Press. ———. 2001. Pesher Nahum: A Critical Edition. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press. ———. 2006. “The Legacy of an Error in Archaeological Interpretation: The Dating of the Qumran Cave Scroll Deposits”. See Galor, Humbert, and Zangenberg (2006): 147–57. ———. 2007. “Ostraca KhQ1 and KhQ2 from the Cemetery of Qumran: A New Edition”. In Perspectives on Hebrew Scriptures II, Vol. 5. Ben Zvi, E. (ed.). Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press: 59–116. ———. 2013. “The Sect of the Qumran Texts and its Leading Role in the Temple in Jerusalem in the First Century BCE: Toward a New Framework for Understanding”. See Stacey and Doudna (2013): 75–124. Flint, P. 2000. “5/6HevPsalms”. In Miscellaneous Texts from the Judean Desert. J. Charlesworth, et al. (eds.). DJD 38. Oxford: Clarendon: 141–66.

151

G regory L . D oudna

Galor, K. 2010. “Gender and Qumran”. See Gunneweg, Adriaens and Dik (2010): 29–38. Galor, K., J.-B. Humbert and J. Zangenberg (eds.). 2006. Qumran the Site of the Dead Sea Scrolls: Archaeological Interpretations and Debates. Proceedings of a Conference held at Brown University, November 17–19, 2002. Leiden: Brill. Gunneweg, J., A. Adriaens, and J. Dik (eds.). 2010. Holistic Qumran: Trans-Disciplinary Research of Qumran and the Dead Sea Scrolls. Proceedings of the NIAS-Lorentz Center Qumran Workshop, 21–25 April 2008. Leiden: Brill. Gunneweg, J. and M. Balla. 2003. “Neutron Activation Analysis: Scroll Jars and Common Ware”. See Humbert and Gunneweg (2003): 3–53. ———. 2010. “Was the Qumran Settlement a Mere Pottery Production Center? What Instrumental Neutron Activation Revealed”. See Gunneweg, Adriaens and Dik (2010): 39–61. Hamidović, D. 2009. “Do Qumran Inscriptions Show Hellenization of Qumran Residents?”. In Names in a Multi-Lingual, Multi-Cultural, and Multi-Ethnic Contact: Proceedings of the 23rd International Congress of Onomastic Sciences (Toronto: August 17–22, 2008). W. Ahrens et al. (eds.). Toronto: York University Press: 465–72. Hirschfeld, Y. 1999. The Early Byzantine Monastery at Khirbet ed-Deir in the Judean Desert: The Excavations in 1981–1987. Jerusalem: Hebrew University, Institute of Archaeology. ———. 2004. Qumran in Context: Reassessing the Archaeological Evidence. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson. Humbert, J.-B. 1994. “L’espace sacré à Qumran: Propositions pour l’archéologie”. Revue biblique 101: 161–214. ———. 2003a. “Arguments en faveur d’une résidence pré-essénienne”. See Humbert and Gunneweg (2003): 467–82. ———. 2003b. “The Chronology During the First Century B.C., de Vaux and his Method: a Debate”. See Humbert and Gunneweg (2003): 425–37. ———. 2006. “Some Remarks on the Archaeology of Qumran”. See Galor, Humbert and Zangenberg (2006): 30–39. ——— and A. Chambon. 1994. Fouilles de Khirbet Qumrân et de ‘Ain Feshka, Vol. I. NTOA Series Archaeologica 1. Fribourg: Éditions Universitaires. ——— and J. Gunneweg (eds.) 2003. Khirbet Qumrân et ‘Aïn Feshkha, II: Études d’anthropologie, de physique et de chimie. Fribourg: Academic Press; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Hutchesson, I. 1999. “63 BCE: A Revised Dating for the Depositation of the Dead Sea Scrolls”. Qumran Chronicle 8: 177–94. Kapera, Z. (ed.). 1998. Mogilany 1995: Papers on the Dead Sea Scrolls Offered in Memory of Aleksy Klawek. Cracow: Enigma Press. Lemaire, A. 2003. “Inscriptions du Khirbeh, des grottes et de ‘Aïn Feshkha”. See Humbert and Gunneweg (2003): 341–88. Magen, Y. and Y. Peleg. 2007. The Qumran Excavations 1993–2004: Preliminary Report. Jerusalem: Israel Antiquities Authority. Magness, J. 1995. “The Chronology of the Settlement at Qumran in the Herodian Period”. Dead Sea Discoveries 2: 58–65. ———. 1998a. “The Chronology of Qumran, Ein Feshkha, and Ein El-Ghuweir”. See Kapera (1998): 55–76. ———. 1998b. “Two Notes on the Archaeology of Qumran”. Bulletin of the American Schools of Oriental Research 312: 37–44.

152

D econstructing Q umran I b and I I ’ s continuity

———. 2003. “Review of R. Bar-Nathan, Hasmonean and Herodian Palaces at Jericho: Final Reports of the 1973–1987 Excavations, Volume III: The Pottery (2002)”. Dead Sea Discoveries 10: 424–5. ———. 2004. Debating Qumran: Collected Essays on its Archaeology. Leuven: Peeters. ———. 2007. “A Response to D. Stacey, ‘Some Archaeological Observations on the Aqueducts of Qumran’”. Dead Sea Discoveries 14/2: 223–44. ———. 2011. “Dogs and Chickens at Qumran”. In The Dead Sea Scrolls and Contemporary Culture: Proceedings of the International Conference at the Israel Museum (July 6–8, 2008). A. Roitman, L. Schiffman and S. Tzoref (eds.). Leiden: Brill: 349–62. Michniewicz, J. 2009. Qumran and Jericho Pottery: A Petrographic and Chemical Provenance Study. Poznań: Adam Mickiewicz University Press. Mizzi, D. 2009. “The Archaeology of Qumran: Studies in a Contextual Approach”. D.Phil. thesis. University of Oxford. ———. 2010. “The Glass from Khirbet Qumran: What Does it Tell Us about the Qumran Community?”. In The Dead Sea Scrolls: Texts and Contexts. C. Hempel (ed.). Leiden: Brill: 99–198. Mlynarczyk, J. 2013. “Terracotta Oil Lamps from Qumran: The Typology”. Revue biblique 120: 99–133. Patrich, J. 1994. “Khirbet Qumran in Light of New Archaeological Explorations in the Qumran Caves”. In Methods of Investigation of the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Khirbet Qumran Site: Present Realities and Future Prospects. M. Wise et al. (eds.). New York: New York Academy of Sciences: 73–95. Pfann, S. J. 2003. The Excavations of Khirbet Qumran and Ain Feshkha: Synthesis of Roland de Vaux’s Field Notes. S. J. Pfann, trans. and rev. J.-B. Humbert, and A. Chambon (eds.). Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Popović, M. 2012. “Qumran as Scroll Storehouse in Times of Crisis? A Comparative Perspective on Judaean Desert Manuscript Collections”. Journal for the Study of Judaism 43: 551–94. Puech, É. 2007. “L’ostracon de Khirbet Qumrân (KhQ1996/1) et une vente de terrain à Jéricho, témoin de l’occupation Essénienne à Qumrân”. In Flores Florentino: Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Early Jewish Studies in Honour of Florentino García Martínez. A. Hilhorst, É. Puech and E. Tigchelaar (eds.). Leiden: Brill: 1–30. Rocca, S. 2008. Herod’s Judaea: A Mediterranean State in the Classical World. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Stacey, D. 2007. “Some Archaeological Observations on the Aqueducts of Qumran”. Dead Sea Discoveries 14: 222–43. ———. 2013. “A Reassessment of the Stratigraphy of Qumran”. See Stacey and Doudna (2013): 7–74. Stacey, D. and G. Doudna, with a contribution from G. Avni. 2013. Qumran Revisited: A Reassessment of the Archaeology of the Site and its Texts. Oxford: Archaeopress. Talmon, S. 2002. “The Crystallization of the ‘Canon of the Hebrew Scriptures’ in the Light of the Biblical Scrolls from Qumran”. In The Bible as Book: The Hebrew Bible and the Judaean Desert Discoveries. E. Herbert and E. Tov (eds.). London: British Library & Oak Knoll Press: 5–20. Taylor, J. 1999. “The Cemeteries of Khirbet Qumran and Women’s Presence at the Site”. Dead Sea Discoveries 6: 285–323.

153

G regory L . D oudna

———. 2012a: “Buried Manuscripts and Empty Tombs: The Qumran Genizah Theory Revisited”. In ‘Go Out and Study the Land’ (Judges 18:2): Archaeological, Historical and Textual Studies in Honor of Hanan Eshel. A. Maeir, J. Magness and L. Schiffman (eds.). Leiden: Brill: 269–315. ———. 2012b. The Essenes, the Scrolls, and the Dead Sea. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tov, E. 2008. Hebrew Bible, Greek Bible, and Qumran: Collected Essays. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. ———. 2012. Textual Criticism of the Hebrew Bible. 3rd rev. edn. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. de Vaux, R. 1953. “Fouille au Khirbet Qumrân”. Revue biblique 60: 83–106. ———. 1954. “Fouilles au Khirbet Qumrân. Rapport préliminaire sur la deuxième campagne”. Revue biblique 61: 206–36. ———. 1955. “La Poterie”. In Qumran Cave 1. D. Barthelemy and J. Milik (eds.). DJD 1. Oxford: Clarendon Press: 8–17. ———. 1956. “Fouilles de Khirbet Qumrân. Rapport préliminaire sur les 3e, 4e et 5e campagnes”. Revue biblique 63: 533–77. ———. 1973. Archaeology and the Dead Sea Scrolls: The Schweich Lectures of the British Academy 1959. Rev. and trans. Oxford: Oxford University Press. van der Plicht, J. and K. L. Rasmussen. 2010. “Radiocarbon Dating and Qumran”. See Gunneweg, Adriaens and Dik (2010): 99–121. Vermes, G. 2007. “Historiographical Elements in the Qumran Writings: A Synopsis of the Textual Evidence”. Journal of Jewish Studies 58: 121–39. Whitehouse, R. 2006. “Gender Archaeology in Europe”. In Handbook of Gender in Archaeology. S. Milledge Nelson (ed.). Lanham, MD: AltaMira Press: 733–84. Wise, M. 2003. “Dating the Teacher of Righteousness and the Floruit of his Movement”. Journal of Biblical Literature 122: 53–87. Yardeni, A. 1997. “A Draft of a Deed on an Ostracon from Khirbet Qumrân”. Israel Exploration Journal 47: 233–7. Young, I. 2002. “The Stabilization of the Biblical Text in the Light of Qumran and Masada: A Challenge for Conventional Qumran Chronology?”. Dead Sea Discoveries 9: 364–90. ———. 2005. “The Biblical Scrolls from Qumran and the Masoretic Text: A Statistical Approach”. In Feasts and Fasts: A Festschrift in Honour of Alan David Crown. M. Dacy, J. Dowling, and M. Fowling (eds.). Sydney: Mandelbaum Publishing and University of Sydney: 81–139. ———. 2013. “The Contrast Between the Qumran and Masada Biblical Scrolls in the Light of New Data: A Note in Light of the Alan Crown Festschrift”. In Keter Shem Tov: Essays on the Dead Sea Scrolls in Memory of Alan David Crown. S. Tzoref and I. Young (eds.). Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press: 113–19.

154

10 C AN ON FORM ATION, CANONI CI TY, AN D THE QUM RAN LI BRARY Jesper Høgenhaven The discovery and publication of the Qumran manuscripts has shed new light on the early history of the Hebrew biblical text, as well as on the history of interpretation of Jewish sacred writings. A great part of the literary material which eventually became part of the various biblical canons is clearly present in the scrolls in the form of texts identical to or very closely resembling the texts that later came to constitute the Jewish and Christian canonical collections of holy scripture. Of the roughly 930 identifiable manuscripts found at Qumran a reasonable estimate is that between a fourth and a fifth part of these manuscripts contain texts that are “biblical” in this sense. Exact numbers cannot be given because of the fragmentary state of most Qumran manuscripts, but Emanuel Tov (2010: 113) estimates that 24.09–24.30 per cent of the manuscripts contain biblical texts (224–6 manuscripts out of a total of some 930 texts from Qumran, not counting tefilin and mezuzot). Eugene Ulrich (1999: 18) arrives at the figure 25 per cent (200 out of roughly 800 manuscripts). On the problems of definition and identification, see further below. It is not surprising, then, that the findings of Qumran have been cited as providing important information regarding the processes leading to the formation of canonical collections of Hebrew Bible and Old Testament writings. In the following, I argue that the material realities of the Qumran library yield little, if any, information on the actual formation of a biblical “canon” of the Hebrew Bible. Notions of “canonicity” and interest in canonical collections are at home, at a level and in a context which is quite different from the world of the Qumran caves.

Terminology and definitions When addressing topics such as canon, canonicity, Bible, and biblical texts, one runs the risk of getting entangled in one or more extensive debates on terminology. This is not the concern in this chapter. Suffice it to say, a significant number of the terms we are accustomed to use is, by common acknowledgement, anachronistic, in the sense that there obviously was no “Bible” at the time that the Qumran manuscripts were written. Hence, there were no “biblical” manuscripts or “biblical” texts at Qumran in a strict sense. I depend on a recent clarifying article by Søren Holst for the useful distinction between two meanings of “biblical”, 155

J es p er H ø g enhav en

both of which are used by scholars with regard to texts from the Qumran library. “Biblical”, according to Holst, may be taken to describe a quality assigned to specific texts and literary works by the Qumranites themselves, a meaning that would use the term “biblical” very much as a synonym for “scriptural”, “sacred”, “authoritative”, or “divinely inspired”. The second function, given to the term “biblical”, in this context, is to designate texts or literary compositions which are virtually identical or reasonably close to texts which are part of later biblical collections (Holst 2012: 112–14). In this usage, “biblical” may be said to function as a deliberate and useful anachronism: a pragmatic and implicit reference to an abbreviated discourse. To my knowledge, this second meaning is by far the most common, and if we can peacefully agree that this is what is actually meant when we speak of a “biblical” Qumran scroll or manuscript, little harm would be done. As regards the terms “canon” and “canonical”, however, it must be admitted that the issues are slightly more complicated, and a few words on definitions and usage cannot be avoided. For practical purposes, and to save time, I follow Eugene Ulrich’s argument for a strict definition of “canon” as “the collection or list of books of the Scriptures” (Ulrich 1999: 56). Ulrich emphasizes three aspects of this use of the term: 1 It represents a reflective judgement; that is, it involves conscious reflection on the authoritative status of the canonical collection, as distinct from the simple practice, within a community, of regarding certain books as authoritative or inspired; 2 It denotes a closed list, and 3 It concerns “biblical” (in the broad sense argued above) books (Ulrich 1999: 57–8). To the notion of canon, belongs the idea of the authority of the books within such a canon and the notion of the exclusive character of the list. To speak of an “open canon”, accordingly, defies the definition of the term. A canon implies, to use Bruce Metzger’s expression, an “authoritative collection of books”, as distinguished from a “collection of authoritative books” (Metzger 1987: 282). To “canon” belong notions of normativity and exclusivity. Emphasis is on the exact limits of a collection, with specific books included and all others excluded. Such a narrow definition of canon has the advantage of avoiding a number of disputes, regarding allegedly early testimonies to the existence of a Jewish canon. As John Barton has convincingly shown, discussions about the formation of a Jewish canon have often been confused by the lack of a common definition of what is meant by “canon”. Some scholars use the term in a much broader sense than the definition advocated here, taking “canonical” status to mean simply the recognition of a given book as authoritative, but without the implication that the book belongs to an exclusive group of books with fixed and unchangeable limits (Barton 2007: 27–8). If we test the strict definition of “canon”, with emphasis on the understanding of an “authoritative collection” with closed and well-defined borders, against the earliest extant references to collections of sacred books within Judaism, we arrive easily at the negative result we would expect. As Ulrich states: 156

C anonicity and the Q umran library

There is, to my knowledge, no evidence prior to the late first century ce, either in Judaism or Christianity, to suggest that there was either a fixed list of books, or a fixed text of either individual books or, a fortiori, a unified collection of books. Thus, prior to the end of the first century, we do not have a canon in either Judaism or Christianity. (Ulrich 1999: 59) Or, with a slightly different formulation: There was no canon as yet, no clearly agreed-upon list of which books were “scripture” and which were not. This was the situation at least up to the fall of the Second Temple in 70 ce probably as late as the end of the first century and, arguably, even up to the second Jewish revolt against Rome in 132–135 ce. (Ulrich 1999: 20–21)

The earliest references to a collection of holy books (Ben Sira, Qumran, New Testament) To be sure, there are earlier sources that testify to the existence, within Jewish circles, of a notion of collections of sacred books, held in high regard and, in some sense, recognized as authoritative. It is also possible to find references to such collections as having certain shapes, which resemble the later tripartite canon. Ben Sira’s prologue, with its reference to “the law and the prophets and the other books of the fathers”, has often been understood as pointing to the existence of three groups of sacred writings (Buhl 1885: 8–9; Beckwith 1985: 110–11). While the identification of the law with the books of the Pentateuch seems inevitable, it has been argued that the catalogue of great persons from Israel’s past, which we find in Ben Sira 44–9, suggests that the prologue refers to a collection closely resembling the prophets of later Jewish canons. This praise of the fathers, however, is not directly concerned with the recognition of literary collections. The prominent place of figures like Enoch (44:16, cf. the repeated praise of Enoch in 49:14) and Noah (44:17–18) in the list makes it at least theoretically possible that Ben Sira would have thought of the Enochic literature (and in theory, books associated with Noah such as the Birth of Noah texts (4Q534–6) from Qumran, too) as belonging to the “prophecies”. In any event, it is uncertain whether the books labelled “prophets” or “prophecies” are understood to form a closed collection. Furthermore, it is not clear that the prologue refers to three categories of sacred writings, since “the law and the prophets” could be a comprehensive designation for what the author saw as sacred literature (“scripture”), while “the other books of the fathers” might simply mean “all other books” (Barton 2007: 47). As most interpreters would agree, we possess no means of establishing exactly which writings are subsumed under the heading “the other books of the fathers”, or whether, indeed, a closed or an open body of writings is connoted. The sequence of the prologue, introducing the literary contribution by Ben Sira in direct continuation of the reference to his studying the books of the fathers, could plausibly be 157

J es p er H ø g enhav en

interpreted as an indication that the third group of writings was not perceived as having closed borders (see, however Beckwith (1985: 111), for a different view). What the prologue does show, then, is that there was, at the time of its composition, a recognized authoritative body of writings called the “law” – by all indications identical to the Pentateuch – and, apart from the law, an unknown number of authoritative books, some of which could be called “prophets” or “prophecies”. There is no evidence in the text for any particular interest in delineating fixed borders for sacred literature. Along with such known references to an established collection of holy writings, implied in the Ben Sira prologue and the New Testament, the Qumran library has added the often cited passage in Miqsat Ma’ase ha-Torah (or Halakhic Letter, 4QMMT). This admonishes the reader to search “the Book of Moses, the books of the prophets and of David”, an expression which formally comes rather close to the reference in Luke 24:44 to “the law of Moses, the prophets, and the psalms”. (The passage – 4QMMT C 10 in the composite text established by Qimron and Strugnell – is partly restored. The words “in the book of Moses” (‫ )בספר מושה‬are readable in two manuscripts – 4Q397 14–21 10 and 4Q498 14 i 2 – while “in the book of the prophets and in David” (‫ )בספר הנבאים ובדויד‬is preserved only in one manuscript – 4Q497 14–21 10 – with the first letter of ‫ נביאים‬and the last letter of ‫ דויד‬missing; cf. Qimron and Strugnell 1994: 58–9 and plates VI and VIII.) While it is possible to interpret these texts as witnesses to a tripartite collection, it is not certain that “prophets” and “David” (or “prophets” and “Psalms”) should be taken as designations of different parts of such a collection, and the passage can also be read as referring to a bipartite collection (Trebolle Barrera 2002: 130). A further New Testament passage, the saying of Jesus concerning the blood of the righteous: “from the blood of Abel to the blood of Zechariah” (Matt 23:35; Luke 11:51), has also been regarded as indirect evidence for the existence of a “canonical” collection, beginning with Genesis and ending with Chronicles (cf. Beckwith 1985: 115). At any rate, these references do not yield any information regarding either the scope or content of the literary bodies in question or any notion of collections with fixed borders. Viewed against the strict definition of “canon”, none of these references presuppose or establish the notion of a canon. They, rather, refer to bodies of sacred writings, which may or may not have had well-established limits at the time, but delineating such limits was not the concern of the sources. The exclusive character of the collection is not the focus. The references, to sum up, using Metzger’s formulation, are to collections of authoritative books, not to authoritative collections.

The earliest references to a fixed canon (Fourth Ezra and Josephus) The notion of “authoritative collections”, which are perceived as both normative and exclusive, seems to appear for the first time in ancient Jewish writings at the end of the first century ce. 158

C anonicity and the Q umran library

In the closing vision of Fourth Ezra (14:18–50), Ezra, having received a number of divine revelations, is instructed by the divine voice to retreat into solitude, taking with him five skilled scribes, trained in writing rapidly, to whom Ezra, who has been given the Holy Spirit, over a period of forty days dictates the sacred books, which comprise ninety-four writings. Ezra is then instructed to make the twenty-four books public, for those both worthy and unworthy to read them, but to keep the seventy books, which are destined for the wise and which are described as the spring of understanding, the fountain of wisdom and river of knowledge. While the emphasis of the writer is clearly on the writings which are not included among the twenty-four public books, it seems obvious that the reader’s familiarity with such a numbered body of books is implied, although not explicit. The number of “canonical” books given (twenty-four) is, of course, the same number as we find in later rabbinic sources. An identification with the books of the rabbinic tripartite canon, therefore, seems to suggest itself. A roughly contemporary source is Josephus’ famous “canonical” passage in Against Apion, which has a partial list, including five books of Moses, thirteen prophetic books and four books said to contain “hymns to God and precepts for the conduct of human life” (Contra Ap I, 37–46). While the passage is not in itself a full list of the twenty-two authoritative books, said to be the acknowledged corpus of Jewish literature, Josephus clearly implies that he would, upon demand and without hesitation or difficulty, be able to produce such a list. It is not clear, obviously, either from Fourth Ezra or Josephus, exactly which books were understood to belong to the respective “canons” or how they were counted to attain the numbers twenty-two or twenty-four (cf. Beckwith 1985: 235–41). It is important to understand Josephus’ statements about the well-defined and exclusive nature of the holy books, recognized by the Jews, within the context of his work, which is clearly apologetic and to which I will return below. His emphasis, at any rate, is clearly on the exclusive and unchangeable character of the collection – “no one has dared either to add anything or to take away from them or to alter them” – which makes it, in my view, very difficult indeed to imagine that Josephus would have been open to including any new books in his canon. (In other words, I disagree with Barton’s assessment: “In maintaining the small compass of Jewish Scripture, he [Josephus] does not, as a matter of fact, say that no other book could conceivably be found that would meet the criterion of prophetic authorship, only that no more than twenty-two have until now been found to do so” (Barton 2007: 59).) Josephus’ notion does indeed appear to be that of a normative and exclusive collection, and it, furthermore, seems a difficult and somewhat awkward assumption that he should have held an isolated position or have been, to use Barton’s formulation, “out of step with his contemporaries” in this respect (Barton 2007: 59; cf. Mason 2002: 125–6). As recently shown by Steve Mason, the phenomena, found in contemporary Jewish literature, which are considered evidence against a closed canon: the fluidity of text forms, the lack of any clear distinction between “biblical” and “non-biblical” material and the freedom with which biblical texts 159

J es p er H ø g enhav en

and narratives are rearranged, are found in abundance in Josephus’ own work (Mason 2002: 126). This observation leads to the point that canonical catalogues and references to the existence of well-defined, exclusive, and, in some sense, logically structured “canons” are statements on a formal or theoretical level. They are in fact literary phenomena in their own right, and must be viewed and interpreted as such. They do not necessarily function as prescriptive texts regulating the actual interpretation and use of biblical texts; nor do they necessarily describe with any degree of accuracy an existing practice when it comes to producing, handling, and interpreting texts.

No canon at Qumran? The Qumran library – which is chronologically situated between the two groups of sources mentioned, the early references to (non-exclusive) collections of “authoritative texts” and the later witnesses to an exclusive “authoritative collection” – has been described as “a new window on the ancient world and the biblical text in the making” (Ulrich 1999: 24). The material remains in the Qumran caves have often been cited as if they were evidence against a fixed canon at the time of the scroll deposit. However, it is not obvious how the existence of a “canon” could have manifested itself in the library found in those caves. First and foremost, there are no codices at Qumran. Books, including sacred books, were individual scrolls (Ulrich 1999: 19–20; cf. Kraft 2002). Materially, there could be no Bible before the introduction of the codex, allowing the entire “canonical” collection of works to be bound and preserved in the third or fourth century ce. It is difficult to assert exactly when the codex became the dominant form of Hebrew Bible manuscripts. The oldest known Hebrew Bible codices are the ninth-century codices found in the Cairo Genizah (cf. Kraft 2002; and see Roberts and Skeat 1983 for the importance of Christian practice for the adaptation of the codex form). Since we have no catalogues of “canonical writings” at Qumran or in any earlier or contemporary source, this means, in practice, that we have no means of determining whether a particular selection of the literary works found in the Qumran library was regarded as belonging to a closed and recognized authoritative collection. At the material level, no discernible distinction can be demonstrated between biblical and non-biblical manuscripts, as far as scribal practices in the production, handling, or preservation of scrolls are concerned. The practice of writing the divine name in regular Hebrew letters as opposed to Paleo-Hebrew letters has been understood as a possible distinctive marker of “scriptural” manuscripts, but the distinction is not carried through in all manuscripts at Qumran (VanderKam 1998: 385–6). Generally, this is due to the lack of any clear and consistent distinctions in scribal practice between “biblical” and “non-biblical” Qumran manuscripts (Tov 2004: 250–54). This feature of the Qumran library has often been regarded as evidence that there was no canon at the time of the deposit. Significantly, the lack 160

C anonicity and the Q umran library

of any tangible distinctive markers associated with literature regarded as “canonical” is, of course, the very reason that makes it equally possible for scholars to argue that there was, indeed, a Jewish canon at the time the scrolls went into the caves at Qumran. The Qumranites did, in fact, view certain books as part of a recognized collection, while other works stood beyond its borders (Beckwith 1985: 358–66). The important point is that there is no way of settling the dispute by appealing to the materiality of the manuscripts. The “new window” provided by the Qumran library, interesting as it is in its own right, hardly gives us any information regarding the rise, background, or early development of the notion of a fixed canon. This is an intellectual endeavour, which we should expect to take place and unfold in a different context and on a different level from the material findings of those caves. Nevertheless, the existence and circulation of certain books and their treatment in the Qumran library have, at times, been regarded as indirect evidence for an early canonical collection. The library includes both most of the works later to be recognized as canonical and works which were later regarded by Rabbinic Judaism (and various Christian communities) as not belonging to the canon. Some of the books central to the later Jewish canon were, indeed, among the most widely distributed and most often copied works found in the caves, such as Psalms, Deuteronomy, Genesis, Exodus, and Isaiah, as well as the remaining parts of the Pentateuch. Popularity, in terms of the number of copies, was not limited to books later to become canonical, however. In fact, First Enoch seems to have been among the most popular works at Qumran, judging from the number of manuscripts preserved: Tov (2010) counts 36 copies of Psalms, 35 copies of Deuteronomy, 23–4 copies of Genesis, 21 copies of Exodus, and 21 copies of Isaiah. Copies of First Enoch (including fragments of the Book of Giants) number approximately twenty. In other words, if, theoretically, the notion of an exclusive canon did exist at the time of the deposit, and if the borders of the canon had resembled the canon of Rabbinic Judaism as it was later defined, there is no indication that such a notion influenced the popularity, reproduction, or handling of books regarded as authoritative or important.

Normative or authoritative texts in the Qumran library When we look at the way texts are cited and alluded to by other texts within the Qumran library – an important sign of how their authority or normative status was perceived – the picture becomes somewhat more complex. It is possible to point to certain patterns of intertextual treatment which seem to be reserved for certain – but not all – older works. Within the Qumran library, it appears that Isaiah, some of the Minor Prophets and Psalms were works deemed worthy of being the object of pesher commentaries. The commentary genre is significant in this respect because, apart from its many other interesting aspects, it explicitly establishes and articulates, on the formal and literary level, a hierarchy between the text commented upon and the comments, thus recognizing the former text as 161

J es p er H ø g enhav en

in some sense an authoritative source or vehicle for divinely inspired truth. At the same time, the commentary also testifies, inevitably, to a notion that the divinely inspired truth needs to be clarified through a process of commenting and interpreting, pointing to an ever-present dialectic between scripture and tradition (cf. the formulation by John Barton (1996: 76): “The more ‘strained’ the interpretation, it may be said, the more ‘canonical’ the text being interpreted must have been – why should people trouble to extract improbable meanings from a text, unless that text is somehow a given for them?” (as quoted in VanderKam 1998: 386). Judging from the extant writings in the Qumran library, then, only a limited number of books were considered suitable for treatment in pesher commentaries, all later to become part of the Jewish canon and all, except for Psalms, included in the prophetic section of the canon. This exclusive treatment of certain books could, of course, be understood as a witness to the particular authority and importance ascribed. It is also clear, however, that the ancient practice of commenting on certain books – and not on others – testifies only to the fact that the books commented on were regarded as sacred and authoritative, perhaps to a greater degree than other works. This interpretative practice – which regards individual books or works – tells us nothing about the existence of an “authoritative collection”. It could, however, very plausibly be interpreted as a significant element in the intellectual background that would have been a necessary condition for the emergence of “canonicity” as an ideal. It may well be – though we have no means of testing the assumption – that the books reserved for pesher commentaries, in fact, constituted a kind of “core group” of texts alongside the Pentateuch, holding a special kind of authority and that this very idea made them the inevitable “core” of the canon, when its limits were defined. At the same time, one must bear in mind that the Qumran texts also provide a number of examples of extensive rewriting and rearrangement of texts, which later became “canonical” biblical texts. These existed both in the form of expanded versions of existing works, which had been restructured or given harmonizing or explanatory supplements (as in the Reworked Pentateuch texts), and in the form of entirely new literary compositions (as, for example, the Temple Scroll or the Genesis Apocryphon). This literary activity would seem to represent a very different approach to the traditional sacred books, but, again, it is hardly possible to draw any conclusions regarding the existence or non-existence of the notion of a closed “canon” (On the concept of “Rewritten Bible”, cf. Zahn, 2011. When Geza Vermes (1961) introduced the term, he had in mind, among other ancient Jewish writings, the Genesis Apocryphon.) The scope of books which were clearly and explicitly treated and referred to as authoritative in writings dependent on them can be significantly widened when we examine the practice of quoting explicitly from other works. Sometimes, specific quotation formulae are used, such as ‫כתוב‬, “it is written”, or references to the title of the composition cited, such as “the book of the prophet Jeremiah” or “the book of the prophet Daniel” (for an overview of quotation formulae containing either ‫ כתוב‬or ‫אמר‬, see VanderKam (1998: 392–4), and cf. Bernstein, 2000: 840). 162

C anonicity and the Q umran library

4QEschatological Midrash (4Q174 1–3 ii 3) introduces a quotation with the formula ‫בספר דניאל הנביא כתוב‬.Q 4Q182 has the introduction ‫כתוב עליהם בספר ירמיה‬ (Q 4Q182 1,4, partly restored), and the same formula is found in Isaiah commentary C (4Q163 1,4). Interestingly, the body of sacred writings cited in Qumran compositions includes, apart from the obvious inclusion of the Pentateuch, the Book of Jubilees, which is quoted twice, as authoritative or as sacred scripture, in the Damascus Document. CD 16:2–4 explicitly quotes Jubilees with its title (“The Book of the Divisions of the Times in their Jubilees and in their Weeks”) as the source for a time when Israel was blind to the Torah. CD 10:8–10 seems to quote Jub. 23:11 without an explicit quotation formula (but with the introduction “he has said” ascribing divine authority to the text quoted). (Another Qumran text, 4Q228, seems to quote Jubilees as an authoritative work, using the formula ‫כי כן‬ ‫“( כתוב‬for thus is it written”) and apparently the same title for the work (“Divisions”) as in CD 10:8–10 (Attridge et al. 1994: 178–83).) Such habits of quoting, of course, do not, in themselves, give us any information regarding the existence or non-existence of a “canonically” defined collection, but should, obviously, warn us against too hastily made assumptions about what a hypothetical canon list at the time of the Qumran library might and might not have comprised.

The function of canon lists The passages in Fourth Ezra and Josephus, roughly contemporary, constitute the earliest extant witnesses to the idea of a Jewish scriptural canon in the sense of a fixed and exclusive body of writings – an “authoritative collection” – recognized for their divine authority. Although, apparently, no canon had been heard of, there seems to be a relatively narrow span of time from the apparent fluidity reigning in the caves at Qumran, to the only slightly later claims that Jewish sacred books were meticulously numbered, whether that count be 24 as in Fourth Ezra or 22 as in Josephus – no more and no less. So, was the well-defined canon, presupposed in Fourth Ezra and Against Apion, a recent invention? In this context, it becomes important to analyse and understand the function and purpose of canon lists in their own right. This type of catalogue is not simply a report of a given factual situation, describing an existing practice in a 1:1 relationship. Quite to the contrary, the purpose of writing and divulging lists of canonical scriptures is inevitably to further theological or ideological agendas, affirming or reformulating notions of identity and belonging, emphasizing and insisting on the authenticity of one’s traditions, or a combination of several of the above. An important observation concerning canon lists is that they do not, in their own understanding, reflect or relate decisions made by the religious or political communities from which they spring. The canons they refer to are not presented as the result of some decision made at any certain time, a notion which would involve the risk of having, in some sense, a necessarily arbitrary character. Rather, the canon is presented as loaded with authority, venerated for many generations 163

J es p er H ø g enhav en

and inevitably recognized by the community without dispute. This way of presenting the fixed body of authoritative writings belongs intrinsically or generically to the nature of canon lists. As modern interpreters of these texts, we need to take care not to translate what they claim into assumptions about ancient practice. This is not to say that the notions conveyed by Fourth Ezra and Josephus could not have been significantly older. Indeed, it seems plausible to assume that these texts are building on existing tradition, but in the absence of older references, we have no means for determining when the interest in a fixed authoritative collection was first introduced or formulated. At any rate, the apologetic agenda of Josephus’ passage in Against Apion is easily to be seen (cf. Mason 2002). Josephus makes the point that the Jews possess particularly excellent instruments for preserving their traditions unchanged in their authentic and original shape. In close connection with the remarks concerning the unchangeable, fixed body of holy writings, which stands in contrast to the myriads of mutually conflicting books of the Greeks, he cites the meticulously documented genealogies as defining the uniqueness and purity of the priestly lineage. His concern is obviously the demonstration of the authenticity of Jewish sacred tradition over against any other extant tradition. As Steve Mason has recently shown, the point Josephus is striving to establish does not primarily concern the shape or content of the Jewish canon, but rather its significance as an expression of the harmonious and age-old character of the Jewish records of their origins and history (Mason 2002: 114–15). Against this background, it is hardly surprising that the notion of a closed and well-defined canon seems to have little influence on Josephus’ own way of selecting, rearranging, and rewriting material from his “biblical” sources. Not only do canon lists not correspond exactly to material realities or practices; in general, they can stand in conflict with them. It is quite apparent from Athanasius’ 39th festal epistle (367 ce), which produces lists of the canonical writings in the Old and the New Testaments and is the earliest known source to do so explicitly, with reference to “canon”. Athanasius struggles with the untidiness of ecclesiastical practice and makes concessions by admitting certain books not recognized as belonging to the canon, to be read in churches for the edification of the communities (the Greek text with English translation of Athanasius’ 39th festal epistle, conveniently, can be read at http://www.bible-researcher.com/athanasius. html). While making such necessary concessions, he insists on the canonical list as the established truth and that it be recognized by the entire Church.

Canon lists and “canonical” manuscripts Apart from explicit lists of canonical books or references to such lists, canons, once articulated and put into writing, would be expected to have a material existence in the form of collections of writings, corresponding or conforming to such canonical lists. With the introduction of the codex, it becomes possible to bind all the writings regarded as belonging to an exclusive authoritative collection 164

C anonicity and the Q umran library

together in a single manuscript, thus materially reflecting and manifesting the borders of the “canon”. However, when we study the situation before the invention of the printing press, manuscripts very often exhibit more variation with regard to writings included and excluded, and to the order and arrangement of books, than the canon lists seem to demand. We need only take a glance at some of the most important Greek Bible codices to be assured of the variety, which actually prevailed on the practical level: Codex Sinaiticus, in addition to the canonical books of the OT, includes 2 Esdras, Tobit, Judith, 1–4 Maccabees, Wisdom, and Ben Sira, but it lacks the remaining apocrypha. In its NT section, this codex includes the Epistle of Barnabas as well as that of the Shepherd of Hermas. Codex Vaticanus has a different selection of OT writings, lacking Maccabees. Codex Alexandrinus includes Maccabees, the Odes, and, in the New Testament section, 1 and 2 Clement. The index at the beginning of the codex shows that it must have included the Psalms of Solomon, which appear placed rather as an appendix, after the New Testament. An example from outside the Greek world is the famous sixth-century Syriac Milano codex, which includes Wisdom, Jeremiah’s letter, two letters of Baruch, Judith, Sirach, the Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch, Fourth Ezra, 1–4 Maccabees, and Book 6 of Josephus’ Bellum. The point to be gained here is that even after the introduction of the manuscript codex, which, by nature, entails a much more definite sense of a closed collection than the plurality of scrolls in a library, the fluctuation of what is included and excluded does not cease at the level of individual manuscripts. This is not to say that there was no contact or mutual influence between the levels of canon lists and manuscript production. All indications are that there were. There can be little doubt that canon lists had been produced with the purpose of influencing and shaping the treatment, reading and transmission of books in the real world. Athanasius, again, provides a good example of this. In fact, the Jewish Hebrew Bible manuscripts of the Middle Ages exhibit a high degree of conformity to the canonical standards as far the borders of the collection are concerned. When it comes to the order of books within the canon, however, variations are still considerable, until the introduction of printed editions (Ginsburg 1966: 1–8; Beckwith 1985: 206–11, and the tables 449–68 (Appendix 2)). It is a well-known fact that Codex Leningradensis, on which modern editions of Biblia Hebraica are based, places Chronicles at the beginning of its third section, which ends with Ezra-Nehemiah. Variations in the order of books did not cease entirely with the appearance of printed Bibles (Cf. Ginsburg 1966: 779–976). Nevertheless, this relatively homogenous picture probably emerged as the result of a long and complicated process.

Canon formation In an excellent introduction to the canon and text of the Old Testament, Frants Buhl, in 1885, stated that, even if we were perfectly justified in looking for lists of canonical writings in the period, leading up to the Christian era, the oldest, 165

J es p er H ø g enhav en

unambiguous catalogues of this nature do not occur until a century later, around 100 ce (Buhl 1885: 16). Interestingly, Buhl’s remark about the plausibility of earlier canonical lists is not repeated in the reworked and expanded German translation of his introduction (Buhl 1891). Somewhat anachronistically, we might, then, pose the question: if Buhl had been able to foresee the discovery of the Qumran scrolls, would he have had to change anything substantial? The lack of direct evidence in the Qumran library for the existence of a welldefined “canonical” collection has, at times, been contrasted to the explicit emphasis on an exclusive collection of Jewish holy writings found in Fourth Ezra and Josephus. The pluriformity and fluctuation of sacred writings on the practical level of manuscripts and copies found in the caves have been compared to the apparent orderliness presupposed in the only slightly later Jewish sources. As we have tried to argue, however, the theological and ideological notion of canonicity is not necessarily or very firmly associated with an actual formation of canonical collections at the material level. The development of canon theories seems to unfold in a different context. Nothing prevents us from asking if notions of “canonicity” could have existed prior to their earliest recording in late first-century sources. However, given the lack of extant sources dealing with this particular topic, answers remain hard to find. In other words, as long as we accept the strict definition of the term “canon”, we are stuck with Buhl’s statement that Fourth Ezra and Josephus are the earliest known witnesses for the notion of a normative and exclusive collection. The evidence of the Qumran library makes it more than doubtful whether we could join Buhl in his bold statement that we would be entitled to expect any such list from the first century bce to correspond exactly to the later scope of the canon. The popularity and distribution of books at Qumran, such as First Enoch and Jubilees, should warn us against this assumption. The clear-cut distinction made by Buhl in his day, based on the evidence then available, between a narrowly delineated Palestinian canon and a broader Alexandrian canon, is obsolete. The general observation that no direct evidence for the existence of a list of canonical books is known, prior to the end of the first century ce, remains valid. Granted, it is not difficult to point to historical and social factors which might be interpreted as prompting or furthering the development of canonical ideas in that period. For example, the destruction of the Jerusalem temple, the threat to Jewish traditions following the uprisings of 66–72 ce and 132–35 ce, and the emergence of Christianity being among the most obvious. As far as the earlier period is concerned, to speak of an ongoing process of “canon formation” or “canonization” is, as John Barton has convincingly argued, not only anachronistic but runs the risk of distorting the extant evidence and suggesting that there must necessarily have been a constant underlying force or “drive” towards a closed canon (Barton 2007: 61–3). This does not exclude, of course, that notions of “canonicity”, in Jewish circles, may have existed earlier, for example, at the time the Qumran scrolls were written and deposited. We may even point to certain aspects of handling and interpreting selected older texts within the Qumran literature (notably in the form 166

C anonicity and the Q umran library

of pesher commentaries), which would accord very well with such notions. When we adopt a definition of “canon” and “canonicity” which is sufficiently strict and formal, however, we remain at a loss, so far at least, for any text to document such an intellectual enterprise prior to our well-known first-century ce sources.

Bibliography Attridge, H. et al. 1994. Qumran Cave 4. VIII: Parabiblical Texts, Part 1, Discoveries in the Judaean Desert XIII. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Barton, J. 1996. “The Significance of a Fixed Canon of the Hebrew Bible”. In Hebrew Bible/ Old Testament. The History of Its Interpretation. Vol. I: From the beginnings to the Middle Ages (Until 1300). Part 1: Antiquity. M. Sæbø (ed.). Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht: 67–83. ———. 2007, Oracles of God. Perceptions of Ancient Prophecy in Israel after the Exile. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Beckwith, R. 1985. The Old Testament Canon of the New Testament Church and Its Background in Early Judaism. London: SPCK. Bernstein, M. 2000. “Scriptures: Quotations and Use”. In Encyclopedia of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Volume 2. L. H. Schiffman and J. C. VanderKam (eds.). Oxford: Oxford University Press: 839–42. Buhl, F. 1885. Den gammeltestamentlige Skriftoverlevering. Copenhagen: Gyldendalske Boghandels Forlag. ———. 1891. Kanon und Text des Alten Testamentes. Leipzig: Akademische Buchhandlung (W. Faber). Ginsburg, C. D. 1966. Introduction to the Massoretico-Critical Edition of the Hebrew Bible. With a Prolegomenon by Harry M. Orlinsky: The Massoretic Text: A Critical Evaluation. New York: Ktav Publishing House. Holst, S. 2012. “Hvornår er en tekst bibelsk? Bearbejdede Mosebøger blandt Dødehavsrullerne”. In Bibelske genskrivninger. Forum for bibelsk eksegese 17. J. Høgenhaven and M. Muller (ed.). Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanums Forlag: 111–38. Kraft, R. A. 2002. “The Codex and Canon Consciousness”. See McDonald and Sanders (2002): 229–32. McDonald, L. M. and J. A. Sanders. (eds.). 2002. The Canon Debate. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson Publishers. Mason, S. 2002. “Josephus and his Twenty-Two Book Canon”. See McDonald and Sanders (2002): 110–27. Metzger, B. 1987. The Canon of the New Testament. Its Origins, Development, and Significance. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Qimron, E. and J. Strugnell. 1994. Qumran Cave 4. V: Miqsat Ma’ase ha-Torah. Discoveries in the Judaean Desert X. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Roberts, C. H. and T. C. Skeat. 1983. The Birth of the Codex. London: The British Academy/Oxford University Press. ———. 2004. Scribal Practices and Approaches Reflected in the Texts from the Judaean Desert. Studies on the Texts from the Desert of Judah 54. Leiden and Boston, MA: Brill. ______ 2010. Revised Lists of the Texts from the Judaean Desert. Leiden and Boston, MA: Brill.

167

J es p er H ø g enhav en

Trebolle Barrera, J. C. 2002. “Origins of a Tripartite Old Testament Canon”. See McDonald, and Sanders (2002): 128–45. Ulrich, E. 1999. The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Origins of the Bible. Grand Rapids, MI and Cambridge: Eerdmans/Brill. VanderKam, J. C. 1998. “Authoritative Literature in the Dead Sea Scrolls”. Dead Sea Discoveries 5 (3): 382–402. Vermes, G. 1961. Scripture and Tradition in Judaism: Haggadic Studies. Studia PostBiblica 4: Leiden: Brill. Zahn, M. 2011. Rethinking Rewritten Bible: Composition and Exegesis in the 4QReworked Pentateuch Manuscripts. Studies on the Texts of the Desert of Judah 95: Leiden and Boston, MA: Brill.

168

11 NE W CHILDREN OF ABRAHAM IN GREENLAND – THE C REATION OF A NATI ON Flemming A. J. Nielsen

The realization that the biblical collection of stories is exactly a collection of stories and “not a history of anyone’s past” (Thompson 1999: xv) encourages us to deal with their origin in the religious communities of Persian and Hellenistic Jewry as well as their stupendous reception history throughout the world. During this reception history, more and more oral cultures have become cultures of literacy and have seen themselves inscribed in the biblical texts. In the fourth century ce, Bishop Ulfilas produced the world’s earliest translation of the Bible into the language of an oral culture, Gothic (Schäferdiek 2007: 53). In the wake of the disintegrating Roman Empire, Ulfilas’ Arian Christianity spread to other Teutonic peoples, as did the religious language that the translator had developed. For instance, the very word ‘God’ – common to all present-day Germanic languages (Bjorvand and Lindeman 2007: 395) – was introduced in writing by the bishop. When these peoples later became Roman Catholic, Christian nations, significant parts of Ulfilas’ religious language were retained, and their Christian sovereigns soon considered themselves to be heirs of the biblical kings, David and Solomon. Among the Frankish kings, already, Clothar II (584–629) had been compared to David, and his son Dagobert I (ca. 603–39) was compared to Solomon (Ewig 1956: 21–2; Renna 1986), and two of the epithets used by the Carolingian emperors were Novus Salomon and Pax mundi (Ewig 1956: 70). These are but a few examples of how the evolving European nations came to see themselves inscribed in the Bible.

Greenland and the dual monarchy of Norway and Denmark Greenland is a late offshoot from the European family of Christian nations. Even though it is situated in the American hemisphere, Greenland is closely connected to Europe: historically, politically, economically and culturally. Today, only 57,000 people share more than 2 million sq km, most of which is an Arctic desert dominated by an ice sheet, which alone covers 1.7 million sq km. The habitable 169

F lemming A . J . N ielsen

area is roughly the size of the British Isles. At the end of the tenth century ce, Norse migrants settled in the south-western part of Greenland (Gad 1970: 26–89; Seaver 2010) at a time when the island was, on the whole, uninhabited. Only in the Smith Sound area in the extreme north are there remnants of the so-called “Late Dorset” culture present from the eighth to the thirteenth century (Appelt and Gulløv 1999). The Norsemen remained in the south for half a millennium. From the beginning, they constituted a Christian free state run by chieftains, but in 1261 this state became incorporated into the kingdom of Norway, at the time a seaborne empire that stretched from Scandinavia to the shores of Labrador in present-day Canada (Gad 1970: 119–21). Late in the twelfth century, the people belonging to the so-called “Neo-Eskimo culture” arrived in Greenland from America (Gulløv 2011: 24–5), without knowing, of course, that their arrival marked their impending absorption into the multicultural North Atlantic empire ruled by the distant Norwegian king. This expansive culture based on new techniques for whaling had originated on the Siberian coasts of the Bering Straits and on St. Lawrence Island about 500 ce, and spread across the Bering Straits and the Alaskan and Canadian coasts during the following centuries (Gulløv 2004). In the eastern part of the vast territories that they controlled, they called themselves inuit, “human beings”. In around 1350, the notorious Black Death devastated significant parts of Europe, including Norway, and it proved impossible for Norway to sustain its independence over the long term. In 1380, Norway and Denmark formed a united monarchy, with a shared king from 1397. Conforming to general centripetal migration patterns in Europe, after the Black Death had created space in formerly over-populated areas, the Norsemen left Greenland – the periphery of the old Norwegian empire – in search of more favourable living conditions in the fertile lands of their ancestors (Kjærgaard 2010). The dual kingdom of Denmark and Norway lasted until the time of the Napoleonic wars, in the beginning of the nineteenth century, when the region was caught between the conflicting interests of two European superpowers: France and Great Britain. In 1814, the dual monarchy was dissolved, and Norway entered into a personal union with Sweden, which lasted until 1905 when Norway regained its independence.1 From 1380 to 1814, the dual monarchy of Denmark and Norway controlled possessions and dependencies in present-day Germany and in the North Atlantic, most notably the Faroe Islands, Iceland and Greenland. In 1620, the dual kingdom became a colonial power, when a small territory in Tamil Nadu on the south-eastern coast of India was leased from the local lord and called Tranquebar. In the Caribbean, three islands were acquired in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and named the Danish West Indies. On the Gold Coast in Ghana, West Africa, trading posts were established in the seventeenth century.2 Though not exactly a superpower, the dual kingdom was sizable, an empire acknowledged as one of the important European powers of the day. It included several peoples, speaking different languages: Danes, Germans and Frisians living in the Danish part of the kingdom. In continental Norway, there were Norwegians, Sami and Finns. In the North Atlantic part of Norway, there were Icelanders, Faroese and Inuit. There 170

N ew C hildren of A braham in G reenland

were also the peoples of the overseas possessions: the Tamils in Southern India and those living in what was called the Danish West Indies (today the Virgin Islands). Tranquebar and the trading posts in Ghana were sold to Great Britain in the mid-nineteenth century and the last of Denmark’s overseas colonies, the Virgin Islands, were sold to the US in 1916. As regards the dependencies in the North Atlantic, Denmark reluctantly kept the old Norwegian possessions when continental Norway became part of the kingdom of Sweden in 1814 (T. Kjærgaard 2014a; Gad 1979). Iceland declared independence during the Second World War, in 1944, but the Faroe Islands and Greenland are still self-governing dependencies of the kingdom of Denmark.

Sacral kingship The Old Testament has been an important inspiration for the self-image of European rulers. From 1660 to 1849, Denmark had autocratic kings. They exercised kingship in a way that can be compared to medieval ideas of sacral kingship, inasmuch as the biblical kings Solomon and David were their role models. Already, King Frederik II (1534–88) personally selected biblical texts attributed to Solomon and David and had these texts printed for the use of both his family and close friends, as well as the general public. One of his descendants, King Christian V (1646–99), had them reprinted in fine editions (Hein 2009, vol. 2: 87). According to 1 Kgs 10:18–20, King Solomon made an ivory throne overlaid with gold and surrounded by no less than fourteen lions. Among the regalia of the Danish king was a spectacular throne made of narwhal tusk, the ivory of the North Atlantic. It was surrounded, by not fourteen, but only three silver lions. As Saul and David had been anointed by the prophet Samuel, the kings of Denmark commenced their rule by being anointed by a bishop. During this important religious ceremony, the king, dressed in a cloak of velvet and ermine, sat on his ivory throne, guarded by the silver lions.3 According to the Danish Lex Regia – the Danish constitution of 1665 – no one but almighty God outranked the king.4 He exercised both temporal and ecclesiastical jurisdiction and was under an obligation to safeguard the well-being of the Lutheran national church and to proclaim the Gospel throughout his empire. With this latter end in view, a veritable Government Department for the Dissemination of the Gospel – Collegium de cursu Evangelii promovendo – was established, overseeing missionary work among the Sami people in Lapland (Northern Norway), the Tamils in Tranquebar, the Inuit in Greenland and, for a while, the population of the Virgin Islands (Stampe 1946). No other European nation has ever had anything similar to this department. The existence of such a singular institution under the Danish, absolute monarchy and its remarkable achievements, not least in the North Atlantic, are spectacular examples of the Bible’s reception history. In Lapland, in northern Norway, religious books in the various Sami languages were produced since early in the seventeenth century. The religion of the Sami people was animistic, but the indigenous population was affected in various ways by the neighbouring Christian culture from the Middle Ages. During the eighteenth 171

F lemming A . J . N ielsen

century, missionary work was intensified and systematized, and gradually the religion of the Sami people changed, not least because their shamans, sorcerers and witches were persecuted by the Christian rulers (The Sami People 1990). Tranquebar, in Tamil Nadu, became the basis of the world’s earliest missionary work to be carried out by Lutherans in the non-western world, when the Danish king allowed two German missionaries, Bartholomäus Ziegenbalg and Heinrich Plütschau, to go to India in 1706. Initially, the missionaries encountered hostility, as the Danish merchants wanted no meddling, which might endanger their profits. However, in spite of all difficulties, the Danish mission in Tranquebar was successful. Ziegenbalg was extremely gifted in languages and became a master of Tamil, in both its classical and local varieties, and brought learned Tamil closer to ordinary people. He was the first scholar to complete a Tamil translation of the entire New Testament, which was printed in 1715. The missionaries established local schools for as many students as possible, including a seminary for training Tamil teachers. They translated schoolbooks, including both Scripture and sciences, into Tamil, set up printing presses and collected and studied as many Tamil manuscripts as they were able to acquire.5 Even so, nowhere in the Danish-Norwegian empire had the endeavours of the Danish king and his Government Department for the Dissemination of the Gospel such dramatic and long-term effects as they had in Greenland, where an entirely oral, animistic culture was changed and incorporated into the Danish-Norwegian empire, and hence the western world. At the second coming of Christianity in 1721, it is estimated that little more than 5,000 Inuit subsisted in Greenland (Nielsen 2012a: 115–16). The European resettlement was accomplished by the Norwegian missionary Hans Egede and a circle of businessmen in the Norwegian town of Bergen, who funded the project from its earliest years until 1726 (Solberg 1917). Hans Egede arrived as the king’s representative and “royal Danish missionary and commissioned chief of the royally chartered Bergen colony in Greenland” (Bobé 1952: 51).

Greenland as a dependency of Denmark-Norway It is important to bear in mind that histories of colonization are very different in the various parts of the world. There are good reasons why Greenland is not mentioned in Marc Ferro’s famous book Le livre noir du colonialisme (2003). The Inuit of Greenland were never enslaved or dislodged; no locals were ever killed by Europeans under the jurisdiction of the Danish-Norwegian authorities; Greenlanders have never been imprisoned before the twentieth century; no land was confiscated and, from the very beginning of European presence in Greenland, great efforts were made to preserve and develop the local language. Today Greenlandic is the official language in Greenland, and it is spoken by the vast majority of the population. No other aboriginal language in the whole American hemisphere has a comparable status. As has already been mentioned, Denmark-Norway was an empire populated by several peoples. In the language of the day, the non-Christian peoples living in Greenland and Lapland were termed “savages”, but all the same, they were also 172

N ew C hildren of A braham in G reenland

termed subjects of the king on a par with other citizens of the empire. As regards Greenland, this can be shown as early as in 1605. Even though the Norsemen abandoned their settlements some time in the fifteenth century, Greenland was never forgotten in Europe, and the sovereignty of the dual kingdom over Greenland was continuously recognized by the other states of Europe, as had been the case since the Middle Ages.6 Among the less memorable endeavours to become acquainted with the dual kingdom’s remotest peoples were a series of brutal abductions in the seventeenth century. A number of Greenlanders were captured and brought to Denmark on three known occasions in 1605, 1606 and 1654; a fourth attempt in 1636 was unsuccessful (Bertelsen 1945: 9–25). Even though they were forcibly removed from their native country, these Inuit were treated well during their stay in Denmark, and a letter written by king Christian IV (1577–1648) to one of his noblemen, Arild Huitfeld, instructs the addressee to house and provide for one of the Greenlanders who were brought to Denmark in 1605: “Know that we herewith send to you one of our subjects whom we have recently received from our land, Greenland”, the king wrote.7 This is a very early testimony that the Danish king regarded Greenland as one of his lands and that its inhabitants were the king’s subjects like all other residents in the empire. The Danish historian Thorkild Kjærgaard has shown that the Inuit people in Greenland were, from the beginning of the European resettlement in 1721, regarded as Danish compatriots (Kjærgaard 2014b). The Norwegian missionary Hans Egede did not, in his own understanding, travel to a colony or some developing country; he simply went to a remote part of the old Norwegian empire (Danbolt 1973: 1–2). In obvious contradistinction to their mode of conduct in continental Denmark and Norway, the Danish-Norwegian authorities abstained from upholding a monopoly of violence as regards the Inuit in Greenland. The local government officials and the clergy had no jurisdiction over the indigenous, non-Christian population. Danish and Norwegian legislation did not apply to them, and no one could sentence them for any crime whatsoever. The Danes and Norwegians working in Greenland were instructed to treat the Inuit respectfully, and any kind of violence was prohibited. These regulations were observed to such a surprisingly considerable extent that there is not a single known instance of a murder of a native person committed by a European citizen of Denmark-Norway in the whole eighteenth century, a time when bloodshed was generally widespread in the American hemisphere (Kjærgaard 2014b: 111). Nothing could be forced on the indigenous people of Greenland, who were nomads and much more mobile in the Arctic climate than the European settlers of the day. The only ways of exerting an influence on them were barter, trade and missionary and educational activities. Soon, Christianity began to spread among the Inuit and, as a precondition for being baptized, the catechumens promised to abstain from blood feuds and acknowledge that life is holy and untouchable. If the catechumen had already committed a murder, (s)he had to repent and promise to persist in doing good things in future. If a convert relapsed into their old habits and committed a murder, the punishment was very mild. At a time when 173

F lemming A . J . N ielsen

capital punishment was common in Denmark and Norway, murders committed by Greenlandic converts were punished by exclusion from the religious fellowship. Murderers could not receive Communion or attend other church services for a while, or, even worse, they were forbidden from participating in the Christmas or Easter services, which were important social events in the eighteenth century. The punishment could be made even more rigorous by forbidding the culprit from buying the European goods that became more and more indispensable to the natives: coffee, tobacco and ammunition in particular. However, there were no prisons (Kjærgaard 2014b: 113–15). Hans Egede’s arrival marked the beginning of a project of development. What was essentially an egalitarian indigenous society was Christianized and changed into a stratified society within the first century of European presence in the country. Before the Second World War, the purpose of the Danish Greenland policy was to ensure a steady development of society, protect the Inuit culture, and safeguard the population against exploitation (Petersen 1975: 19). Therefore, the territory was administered differently from the rest of the kingdom of Denmark (and, before 1814, Norway). However, the administrative practice was of no importance as regards the legal status of the native population. In 1931, the chief administrative officer (Landsfoged) of South Greenland, Knud Oldendow, issued a textbook on Greenlandic citizenship written in Danish and Greenlandic. In the book, he quoted a letter from the Danish Ministry of the Interior stating what had been the case for centuries at the time (1926): “native Greenlanders are citizens of Denmark and enjoy the benefits of every Danish citizen”.8 After the Second World War, in 1946, the Danish diplomats at the United Nations were pressurized into acknowledging that Denmark was a colonial power on a par with nations such as the UK, France, and Belgium, even though Denmark’s last real colony, the Virgin Islands, had been transferred to the US in 1916 (Beukel et al. 2007: 376). By changing the Constitutional Act of the Kingdom of Denmark in 1953, Denmark quickly managed to escape the embarrassing position as a colonial power that was enforced on her by the most powerful members of the UN. At that time, according to the influential Greenlandic politician, Avgo Lynge, the Greenlanders had ceased to be “Eskimos”, but had become “Danish Eskimos”. “Our present culture has arisen from an amalgam”, he wrote, and he proudly stated that “we love all this because it is ours” (Lynge 1945: 224; my translation from Danish).

Inuit and inuiit As is well known, the idea that a group of people or several groups of peoples may constitute a nation is not a matter of course. Such ideas may be imported from outside. Inuit is what numerous groups of people call themselves. They are dispersed along vast coastal areas of present-day Alaska, Canada, and Greenland, and their languages constitute a dialect continuum. Inuit is the plural of inuk, meaning “human being”. All Inuit groups considered themselves to be inuiit (ī), a term denoting “real human beings” in contradistinction to inuit (ĭ) (Kleivan and 174

N ew C hildren of A braham in G reenland

Sonne 1985: 6). The same word, inuk, has possessed grammatical forms, inua (the singular) and inui (the plural) used in the sense “owner”. All denizens of the universe – as well as natural phenomena such as the sun, the moon, rocks, lakes, the sea, the air and the weather, and immaterial phenomena such as fear and hunger – had their inui, “owners”, and to the chosen ones, the shamans, it was possible to communicate with the inui of all those beings and phenomena. Such dealings with unseen forces of nature were rendered possible by assistant spirits, toornat, and a complicated system of shamanistic rituals and taboo regulations served to secure the proceeds of the chase.9 As regards other groups of people, Inuit of course interacted with Native Americans. They called them eqqillit, meaning “those infested with nits”. As the memory of the native Americans faded among those Inuit, whose ancestors had migrated to Greenland as early as the twelfth century, the term eqqillit became a name for “a legendary underground people, half human, half dog” (Fortescue et al. 2010: 149: iŋqiliʀ). Inuit also had a name for European visitors, colonizers, and migrants: qallunaat, meaning “frowning brows” (Fortescue et al. 2010: 318: qavlunaaq). In addition, there were several groups of supernatural beings, some of whom, the tornit, meaning “the strong ones”, are usually identified with an earlier culture, the so-called “Dorset people” (Fortescue et al. 2010: 382: tunǝq) that were superseded by the Neo-Eskimo culture (Gulløv 2004). The Inuit had no idea that they were a particular people or nation; other Inuit were merely persons whom they could easily talk to, negotiate with, and combat, if necessary. Some Inuit groups had no or only sparse contact with other human beings. In the far North of Greenland, a small isolated tribe of Inuit were discovered by Europeans in 1818, when two British ships commanded by John Ross came in search of the Northwest Passage and spent ten days on the coast of the land of the Inughuit, “the great people”, as the natives there called themselves. These English brought with them a West Greenlander, who had lived in Scotland for two years. Through this interpreter, the expedition learned that the “Arctic Highlanders”, living in what was later called the Thule area, considered themselves to be the only inhabitants of the universe. They believed that all the rest of the world was an uninhabitable mass of ice. Their language did not contain a word for “tomorrow”. Nor had they any word denoting possible inhabitants of the Canadian shores of the Davis Strait. Not only were they unknown to the rest of the world, the world was also unknown to them. They were terrified at the sight of two European ships and hid their women and children in the mountains for protection against what they thought were visitors from either the moon or the sun (Ross 1819: xxxviii–xl, 103–50, 163–87; Gilberg 1996; Kjærgaard 2011: 133). The case of each individual group of Inuit is, of course, different. Basque ships navigated North Atlantic and West Greenlandic waters late in the Middle Ages (Nogaret 1928: 152), Portuguese and British explorers came by in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and the Dutch traffic became heavy in the early seventeenth century. The first successful Danish-Norwegian expedition to West Greenland since the Middle Ages was carried out in 1605, ‌under the command of British 175

F lemming A . J . N ielsen

naval officers (Gad 1970: 153–219). The Inuit in West Greenland were therefore well aware of the existence of a world beyond the sea, even though some believed that the Europeans spent their whole lives at sea and possessed neither land nor houses (Egede 1738: 150). In East Greenland, the Inuit were never completely unaware of the rest of the world since trade routes between West and East Greenland existed. However, a journey by boat from the east coast around the southern tip of Greenland, Cape Farewell, to the west coast and back easily took two or even three years, so communication between east and west was sparse and difficult (Jensen 2011: 76). However, commodities and stories were exchanged and, when the first European expedition to East Greenland led by the Danish naval officer Wilhelm August Graah (1793–1863) had contact with the Inuit there in 1829–30, the Danes found European goods in their houses and tents. Graah discovered that such goods – spear and arrow heads, knives, needles, handkerchiefs and tobacco – were exchanged for skins of polar bears, seals and dogs at market places frequented annually by East and West Greenlanders. Graah also learned that the West Greenlanders charged exorbitant prices for their European wares (Graah 1837: 81). In one tent, he even found earthenware vessels, a copper kettle, mirrors and a ‌couple of boxes with locks (Graah 1837: 86).

The Decalogue and the building of a Christian nation By the time of the arrival of Christianity, completely new ideas were introduced into the local pictures of the world. Paraphrasing Matt 3:9, it would be possible to say that new children of Abraham were roused from the rocks of Greenland in the wake of the arrival of the Norwegian missionary Hans Egede in 1721. Within less than a century, all the Inuit of West Greenland within reach of the European ships of the day had been baptized. The Bible was highly instrumental in the building of the nation of Greenland. The first written law in Greenlandic was the Decalogue, part of a short catechism translated by Hans Egede in his own newly developed written Greenlandic as early as in 1724.10 It contributed significantly to changing the conditions of life in the Inuit society. The demand that you should worship only one God discarded substantial parts of the animistic religion. The shaman’s favourite assistant spirit was called Toornaarsuk, but the Europeans understood this figure to be the supreme god of the Inuit (Sonne 1986). Known in Europe before Hans Egede’s departure to Greenland, this spirit’s name was translated as “devil” in one printed Greenlandic vocabulary (Bartholin 1673). This interpretation was adopted by the missionaries and, as a result, the most important figure of Greenlandic shamanism was demonized. Less prominent figures of tradition, such as the man in the moon or the woman at the bottom of the sea, who controlled the Inuit’s prey were ignored or ridiculed by the missionaries and their converts, as were the shamans (angakkut). They quickly lost their general esteem as Christianity spread. The famous Hinrich Johannes Rink (1819–1893), a Danish government official in the 176

N ew C hildren of A braham in G reenland

southern part of Greenland in 1855–68 and a well-known scholar of Greenland, issued a treatise, concerning “the Greenlanders’ old faith and what has been preserved of it under Christianity” (Rink 1868). Rink emphasized that the Europeans, including the missionaries, ignored Greenland’s spirit world, which they deemed inferior, with the result that much of the old faith had actually been preserved (Rink 1868: 192), even though the entire population of West Greenland had been Christianized for two or three generations by his time. Traditional Inuit tales often emphasize that conversion to Christianity had been accomplished by free choice. They had been, themselves, the agents of such change and nothing had been forced on them. Stories narrated how God had spoken directly to the Greenlanders and continued to do so, without considering the will of the Danish authorities. As a consequence, a number of Greenlandic “false” prophets and prophetesses appeared (Thisted 1997: 14–17). The fact that many old customs were abandoned, including all kinds of traditional public gatherings, was due to the natives’ own conceptions of what the consequences of their new faith ought to be (Rink 1868: 250). The idea that “[t]he missionaries banned the [traditional] song contests” (Larsen 1974) is a modern misunderstanding, though often repeated. “It is a well-known fact that the missionaries banned drum dance”, my esteemed colleague Birgit Kleist Pedersen wrote in a recent piece (Pedersen 2014: 52, n. 2; my translation). In 1740, Poul Egede, then missionary in the Disko Bay area, met a group of converts who had been sadly observing some non-Christians having a good time, with their traditional drumming and dancing. When the converts asked whether the merry crowd belonged to Toornaarsuk, by which they meant the devil, the missionary answered mildly, confident that many of the singers and dancers would, in due time, be praising God. In his diary, he added that he had known of many good people who were unaware that their mere presence at drum-dance events could be offensive to many believers (Egede 1788: 203). However, the missionary did not indicate that he himself was offended or that the believers should keep away from such occasions. Lars Dalager, trade assistant and merchant in Godthaab and Frederikshaab in 1742–67, observed that the individual missionaries had each their own thoughts about what Christianity should require among the converts (Dalager 1915: 28). According to Rink, the Moravian Brethren generally adopted more drastic measures against the old Greenlandic customs than did the Danish state mission (Rink 1866: 38).11 One of the latter’s most remarkable representatives, Henric Christopher Glahn (1738–1804), distinguished between permissible and inadmissible songs (Glahn 1921: 81–4). Inadmissible were songs connected with activities that the missionary regarded as superstitious, such as shamanistic seances. Permissible were songs of entertaining and traditional war songs. In the traditional culture, song contests had great entertainment value. They were also used for settling quarrels and, to some extent, they even could ward off blood feuds. Accordingly, Glahn wrote a sympathetic paper about Greenlandic songs in 1766 and included it in his diary. A century later, Rink n‌ oted that “dancing in the European fashion is a very favourite amusement”, but “remains of the ancient 177

F lemming A . J . N ielsen

singing entertainments still exist in remote places” (Rink 1974: 223). He quoted “[a] native more than usually gifted and educated” for stating the opinion that “the ancient dance and song are neither blameable nor wrong . . . If kitingnek [qitinneq, European dancing] be not hurtful, tivanek [tivaneq, traditional Green­ landic dancing] cannot be so. But if kitingnek be wrong, tivanek will be wrong too” (Rink 1974: 277). The matter is still subject to discussions in the Greenlandic Church today (Pedersen 2014: 52). The third commandment of the Decalogue defines the rhythm of life in the Christian community: six days’ work, followed by the Sabbath. In the pre-Christian Inuit society, days had no names, and, in a subsistence economy, it may not always be wise to forbid work every seventh day, even when the weather is perfect for hunting and the country is teeming with prey. Already, Poul Egede reported that the local converts had noted that the weather was generally foul on Sundays because God would not tolerate work on the day of rest. In the interest of truth, the missionary did correct his eager adherents, reminding them that the weather had been fine the previous Sunday (Egede 1788: 196). However, the incident illustrates that the idea of Sundays had struck root and the quandary caused by the implantation of Christian ideals in the subsistence economy endured as long as the subsistence economy persisted. This dilemma was articulated in the early Greenlandic novel Tuumarsi, by Frederik Nielsen (Nielsen 1934). The story takes places in a fictive settlement, where some of the families had no scruples about trying to procure food on Sundays. The father of the main character of the novel, however, observes the holiday, which causes the family to starve until an observant neighbour presents them with meat, which had been acquired on a Sunday (Nielsen 1934: 17–18; Danish translation: Nielsen 1980: 19–20). The sixth commandment, forbidding adultery, was recast as a ban on polygamy, which was permissible in the traditional society where men were in a minority because their work was dangerous and caused many fatal accidents. Nobody can survive on their own in traditional Arctic societies and widowed women had no choice but to become members of new extended families that would appreciate their working skills. Still, judging from the missionaries’ descriptions of their discussions with the locals, it seems that it was mostly men who thought that polygamy was absolutely necessary. Women were more open-minded about the new ideas about monogamy (Egede 1788: 123–4). Another novelty was the concept of private property in the ninth and tenth commandments, implying that a man can own a house, wife, servants, and livestock. Traditional Arctic societies are nomadic. In Greenland, people lived in half-buried long-houses, built of stone and roofed with driftwood, whale bones, and sod during the winter. In the summer, they lived in tents. In early spring, roofs were removed from the houses to leave only the walls upright. When winter came, new constellations of extended families were formed and the long houses were re-roofed and reused by the first groups to arrive at them. Groups, arriving later, had to search for other houses or build anew for themselves. Nobody owned such houses permanently. Likewise, nobody owned his own bag. Every hunter had to 178

N ew C hildren of A braham in G reenland

share what he had, following detailed customary rules. If he refused to do so, his kinsmen would either exclude him or ridicule him with satirical songs.

The biblical picture of the world prevails In November 1724, Hans Egede was able to read out his translation of the Primeval History to an audience of natives who were very pleased to learn about the creation of the world and the flood. At least, this is what the missionary wrote in his diary (Egede 1725: 150). The translation is included in a comprehensive manuscript collection from 1725, a veritable anthology of religious and linguistic texts for the use of missionaries and converts: biblical texts from both Testaments, a lengthy catechism, a prayer book, a small Greenlandic dictionary, a collection of admonitory speeches, and a rudimentary Greenlandic grammar (Nielsen 2012a: 125–9). The material gives its reader precious insight into the world of ideas, which the missionary presented to his audience. This type of Christianity is characterized by fantasy stories, complicated dogmatics, and severe demands for obedience. The stories concern spectacular events such as creation, resurrection, Doomsday, and the “virgin birth”, with figures such as God, God’s son, the Holy Spirit, guardian angels, and the dreadful devil with his talons, as well as places such as heaven and hell with its eternal fire. Complicated dogmatics describes the trinity, how Christ is both human and divine, original sin and the necessity of Christ’s death. There is even an attempt at a philosophy of religion as Egede tries to prove the existence of God. The Christian god, who will throw the infidels to the devil and his hellfire at doomsday, is characterized as vindictive and irritable, and, hence, recognisable to a people who are conversant with spirits and taboos (Nielsen 2012b). Through the “primeval history”, knowledge of a new and exotic world was imparted to the Inuit and Greenland became part of this biblical world, created by the Christian God. The Greenlandic nation evolved from the contact with the Christian missionaries, whose ideas and stories were received enthusiastically. When the missionaries arrived at new places in Greenland, they often found that their own stories had travelled ahead of them (Nielsen 2012a: 129–30). The story of the Flood proved to be perfectly understandable in Greenland and the locals even found evidence for the catastrophe in the form of inland traces of marine creatures, such as seashells and whale bones. The story itself was subjected to lively theological discussion among the natives. They liked the fact that Noah had been saved, but expressed their doubts as to whether all of the dead could really have been evil. What about the women and children, they asked. Were they really all that wicked (Egede 1788: 190–91)? A number of such incidents, reported by the missionaries, show that their stories and teachings were questioned. Inuit, themselves, contributed significantly to the theological discussions and the phrasings of Christian concepts in their own tongue (Nielsen 2012b: 47; Kjærgaard 2011: 141). In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the European learned world was preoccupied with the physico-theological thinking that integrated natural history 179

F lemming A . J . N ielsen

and theology. A number of the missionaries to Greenland, accordingly, conducted extensive studies of Greenlandic geography, flora, and fauna, since nature itself testified to the existence of God, to Creation, and to God’s solicitude for nature and mankind (K. Kjærgaard 2014). They had no difficulty convincing the locals about the meaningfulness of this type of discourse. Soon the converts learned that they were a nation, one of many in the world, created by the Christian god. In 1859, Samuel Kleinschmidt (1814–86), famous for his linguistic and educational achievements in Greenland (Wilhjelm 2013), issued a Greenlandic textbook on world history (Kleinschmidt 1859). It appears from this book that Adam was born in the year 4000 bce and that the Flood took place in the year 2345 bce. This is a striking piece of testimony that, in Greenland as well as in Europe of the day, the Bible had become the key to understanding the world.

Widening the intellectual horizons in Europe and Greenland Biblical texts, through the interpretation of the missionaries, constituted the earliest teaching material, cultivating the emerging Christian nation. Because Hans Egede and his fellow missionaries had sent annual reports to Europe about their work, Egede’s early Greenlandic manuscripts also came to the knowledge of the learned world, where they caused a sensation. They are the earliest texts written in any of the Eskaleut family of languages, and autographs and eighteenth-century copies of Hans Egede’s Greenlandic texts, written in his early years in Greenland, 1723 to 1725, are today kept in libraries and archives in at least five European countries: Denmark, Norway, Germany, France, and Great Britain (Nielsen 2014a: 132). Knowledge of a ‘new’ language and culture widened the intellectual horizon in Europe. Everything available about Greenland was studied eagerly. As mentioned above, Dutch whalers and merchants, in particular, had frequented Greenlandic waters every year and had bartered with the locals since early in the seventeenth century. A Germanic-Greenlandic pidgin had developed and mutual knowledge about the worlds of the bartering parties was spreading among both Greenlanders and Europeans, even as misunderstandings could hardly be avoided. The Greenlanders’ assumption that Europeans lived their whole lives at sea and that they did not possess any land, much less houses, has already been mentioned. This was one of the reasons why a young Greenlander, Pooq, and his friend Qiperoq were sent to Denmark in 1724 (Egede 1738: 149–50). Qiperoq was reluctant, but Pooq was the first Greenlander ever to voluntarily travel by European ship (Harbsmeier 2006: 356). Qiperoq died abroad while Pooq returned safely to his homeland to tell of his adventures. It has recently been demonstrated that Pooq’s song about his voyage was written down by Hans Egede shortly after Pooq’s return and translated into Danish with the singer’s assistance (Nielsen 2014c). This was the earliest Greenlandic drum song that had ever been committed to writing and it was very influential in the early missionary years. More than two centuries later, it appeared that a version of Pooq’s song was still being sung on the east coast of Greenland. Even though the East Greenlandic version had 180

N ew C hildren of A braham in G reenland

changed much compared to the version Hans Egede had written down, Pooq’s song, along with its mention of the Round Tower in the centre of Copenhagen, with its spectacular interior spiral ramp, was still recognizable (Rosing 1968). It has also been demonstrated that Pooq carried a small bilingual catechism in the form of a handwritten manuscript by Hans Egede (Nielsen 2014a). Professional scribes produced at least two copies of this catechism after Pooq’s arrival in Copenhagen and the copies were acquired by two noblemen. One of them, Frederik Rostgaard, a high-ranking member of the absolute monarch’s government, was forced to auction off his vast collection only two years later. The other, Count Christian Danneskiold-Samsøe, died in 1728, which is why his collections were sold at auction a few years later, in 1732. Both the sales catalogues and the auction ledgers have been preserved and show that Danneskiold-Samsøe bought many items at Rostgaard’s auction, including numerous Groenlandica. Detailed lists in the two catalogues include several books about Greenland, Greenlandic artifacts, and two copies of Pooq’s catechism (Nielsen 2014a: 130–32). These are important examples of learned men’s fascination with the poorly known Arctic world which was now in the process of being incorporated into the western world. When Hans Egede settled in Greenland, time had come to correct many false assumptions about what was known as mare septentrionalis. The Government Department for the Dissemination of the Gospel and the businessmen in Bergen, who had funded Egede’s project, sent questionnaires to Greenland in 1724. Hans Egede’s answers are well preserved (Nielsen 2014b) and they correct several European misunderstandings about Greenland and its inhabitants. A short description of Greenland and Greenlandic culture, based on Egede’s reports, was printed in two languages already in 1729 (Egede 1729) and 1730.12 A revised and expanded edition of the work came out in 1741 after the missionary’s return to Denmark (Egede 1741). It became a great success and, before the end of the century, the book had been translated into German, Dutch, English, and French (Bruun 1962: 640–41).

Conclusion Thanks to the missionary activities initiated by a Norwegian priest and a king’s dream of re-creating a medieval seaborne empire, an oral culture became a culture of literacy and a self-aware, Inuit Christian nation emerged. The Inuit themselves participated eagerly in the process and made important contributions to the formulation of central Christian concepts in their own language. Since the Bible was both an important part of the royal propaganda of the day and the Evangelical mission’s primary source of inspiration, it was highly instrumental. Even though Greenland is in the American hemisphere, the situation with the Inuit in continental America (Alaska and Canada) has been quite different. They have also been Christianized and, thereby, markedly influenced by the biblical world. However, like so many other native American nations, their 181

F lemming A . J . N ielsen

languages and cultures are highly endangered and their level of self-governance does not compare favourably with that of the Inuit in Greenland, who are today incorporated in the European state system as a self-governing part of the Danish national community. Greenlandic (Kalaallisut) is the official language spoken by the vast majority of the population. The cultural changes on both sides of the Atlantic are important examples of the Bible’s reception history, which deserves further study.

Notes   1 A short introduction to the history of Denmark can be found in Jespersen 2004. As regards the dual monarchy and the Danish empire, see Albrechtsen et al. 1997–98; Heinzelmann et al. 2006; Bregnsbo and Jensen 2005.   2 Introductions to the Danish colonial history are Rostgaard and Schou 2010; Brøndsted (ed.) 1966–68.   3 Eller 1976; Møller 2012. For a thorough description of the throne, see Petterson 2012: 428–33.   4 A recent edition of the Danish Lex Regia is Tamm and Jørgensen (eds.) 2012.   5 Frykenberg 2008. An interesting anthology of Tranquebar studies is Fihl and Venkatachalapathy (eds.) 2009.   6 T. Kjærgaard 2014b: 109. A detailed study of the early history of Greenland is Gad 1970.   7 My translation from Danish. The letter is printed in Bobé 1936: 14 (text no. 19).   8 Oldendow 1931: 31; my translation from Danish. I am indebted to my friend and colleague, Thorkild Kjærgaard, for drawing my attention to Oldendow’s book.   9 For a short introduction to Inuit shamanism, see Kleivan and Sonne 1985. A full treatment is Haase 1987. 10 H. Egede 1724: 132–40; the Decalogue is seen in Part 2 (pp. 136–7). Two versions of the catechism are known after recent manuscript discoveries in London and Paris (F. A. J. Nielsen 2014a). 11 Rink’s criticism of the Moravian Brethren is part of the introduction to the Danish first edition of his famous Tales and traditions of the Eskimo. It was omitted from the English translation (Rink 1997). 12 German; see Bruun 1962: 640.

Bibliography Albrechtsen, E., Ø. Rian, S. Dyrvik and O. Feldbæk. 1997–98. Danmark-Norge 1380– 1814, 4 vols. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget. Appelt, M. and H. C. Gulløv (eds.). 1999. Late Dorset in High Arctic Greenland: Final Report on the Gateway to Greenland Project. Danish Polar Center Publication, 7. Copenhagen: Danish National Museum. Bartholin, C. 1673. “Vocabula Gróenlandica”, Acta Medica & Philosophica Hafniensia, 71–7. Bertelsen, A. 1945. Grønlænderne i Danmark. Bidrag til Belysning af grønlandsk Kolonisationsarbejde fra 1605 til vor Tid. Meddelelser om Grønland, 145.2. Copenhagen: Reitzel.

182

N ew C hildren of A braham in G reenland

Beukel, E., F. P. Jensen, and J. E. Rytter. 2007. Afvikling af Grønlands kolonistatus 1945–54. En historisk udredning. Copenhagen: Danish Institute for International Studies. Bjorvand, H. and F. O. Lindeman. 2007. Våre arveord. Etymologisk ordbok. Oslo: Novus. Bobé, L. 1936. Diplomatarium Groenlandicum 1492–1814. Aktstykker og Breve til Oplysning om Grønlands Besejling, Kolonisation og Missionering. Meddelelser om Grønland, 55.3. Copenhagen: Reitzel ———. 1952. Hans Egede: Colonizer and Missionary of Greenland. Copenhagen: Rosenkilde and Bagger. Bobé, L. (ed.). 1925. Hans Egede. Relationer fra Grønland 1721–36 og Det gamle Grønlands ny Perlustration 1741. Meddelelser om Grønland, 54. Copenhagen: Reitzel. Bregnsbo, M. and K. V. Jensen. 2005. Det danske imperium – storhed og fald. Copenhagen: Aschehoug. Bruun, C. V. 1962. Bibliotheca Danica. III. Copenhagen: Rosenkilde og Bagger. Brøndsted, J. (ed.). 1966–68. Vore gamle tropekolonier. I–VIII. Copenhagen: Fremad. Dalager, L. 1915 (1758). Grønlandske Relationer: Indeholdende Grønlændernes Liv og Levnet deres Skikke og Vedtægter samt Temperament og Superstitioner tillige nogle korte Reflectioner over Missionen. In Det Grønlandske Selskabs Skrifter, 2. L. Bobé (ed.). Copenhagen: Gad. Danbolt, E. 1973. “Den ukjente Egede”. Tidsskrift for Teologi og Kirke 44: 1–26. Egede, H. 1724. Continuation af Journal-Relationen Angaaende dend foretagne Mission till de Hedenske Grønlænders Omvendelse fra Julio 1723 indtill Julium 1724. See Bobé (1925): 89–140. ———. 1725. Dend fierde Continuation udaf Journal-Relationen Betreffende det Grønlandske Missions-Verch fra d. 30. Julij 1724 indtil d. 31. Maij Indeværende 1725. See Bobé (1925): 141–66. ———. 1729. Det gamle Grønlands Nye Perlustration Eller Naturel-Historie Copenhagen. ———. 1738. Omstændelig og udførlig Relation Angaaende Den Grønlandske Missions Begyndelse og Fortsættelse. Copenhagen. ———. 1741. Det gamle Grønlands Nye Perlustration Eller Naturel-Historie. Copenhagen. ———. 1788. Efterretninger om Grønland uddragne af en Journal holden fra 1721 til 1788. Copenhagen. Eller, P. 1976. Salvningerne på Frederiksborg. Det Nationalhistoriske Museum på Fredensborg. Ewig, E. 1956. “Zum christlichen Königsgedanken im Frühmittelalter”. Vorträge und Forschungen 3: 7–73. Ferro, M. 2003. Le livre noir du colonialisme. Paris: Robert Laffont. Fihl, E. and A. R. Venkatachalapathy (eds.). 2009. Indo-Danish Cultural Encounters in Tranquebar: Past and Present. Special double issue of Review of Development and Change. 14.1–2. Fortescue, M., S. Jacobsen and L. Kaplan. 2010. Comparative Eskimo Dictionary with Aleut Cognates. 2nd edn. Alaska Native Language Center Research Paper, 9. Fairbanks: University of Alaska. Frykenberg, R. E. 2008. Christianity in India. From Beginnings to the Present. Oxford History of the Christian Church. New York: Oxford University Press. Gad, F. 1970. The History of Greenland. I. Earliest Times to 1700. London: C. Hurst. ———. 1979. “La Grönlande, les Isles de Ferröe et l’Islande non comprises – A new look at the origins of the addition to Article IV of the Treaty of Kiel of 1814”. Scandinavian Journal of History 4: 187–205.

183

F lemming A . J . N ielsen

Gilberg, R. 1996. “When the ‘Moon Beings’ visited the only people in the world. The first ethnographical notes on the Inughuit, a North Greenland Inuit people”. Grønlandsk Kultur- og Samfundsforskning 1995–96: 54–72. Glahn, H. C. 1921. Missionær i Grønland Henric Christopher Glahns Dagbøger for Aarene 1763–64, 1766–67 og 1767–68. In Det Grønlandske Selskabs Skrifter, 4. H. Ostermann (ed.). Copenhagen: Gad. Graah, W. A. 1837. Narrative of an Expedition to the East Coast of Greenland Sent by Order of the King of Denmark, in Search of the Lost Colonies. London: John W. Parker. Gulløv, H. C. 2004. “Arktiske hvalfangere”. In Grønlands forhistorie. H. C. Gulløv (ed.). Copenhagen: Gyldendal: 201–10. ———. 2011. “Prehistory”. See Jensen et al. (2011): 24–64. Haase, E. 1987. Der Schamanismus der Eskimos. Acta culturologica, 3. Aachen: Rader Verlag. Harbsmeier, M. 2006. “Pietisten, Schamanen und die Authentizität des Anderen: grönländische Stimmen im 18. Jahrhundert”. In Das Europa der Aufklärung und die außereuropäische koloniale Welt. H.-J. Lüsebrink (ed.). Wallstein Verlag: Göttingen: 355–70. Hein, J. 2009. The Treasure Collection at Rosenborg Castle. The Inventories of 1696 and 1718. Royal Heritage and Collecting in Denmark-Norway 1500–1900. 3 vols. Copenhagen: Selskabet til Udgivelse af danske Mindesmærker, Museum Tusculanum Press. Heinzelmann, E., S. Robl and T. Riis. (eds.) 2006. The Oldenburg Monarchy. An Underestimated Empire? Kiel: Ludwig Verlag. Jensen, E. L. 2011. “South Greenland in the 18th century – contacts and colonisation”. See Jensen et al. (2011): 65–80. Jensen, E. L., K. Raahauge and H. C. Gulløv. 2011. Cultural Encounters at Cape Farewell. The East Greenlandic Immigrants and the German Moravian Mission in the 19th Century. Monographs on Greenland, 348; ‘Man & Society, 38. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press. Kjærgaard, K. 2014.“‘Skaberens Godhed og Visdom som giver hvert Land det nødvendige’ – grønlandsmissionæren Henrik Christopher Glahn som fysikoteolog”. Grønlandsk Kultur- og Samfundsforskning 2013–14: 105–22. Kjærgaard, T. 2010. “An unnoticed example of how the Black Death altered the course of history: Why America was discovered from Spain and not from Scandinavia”. In Le interazioni fra economia e ambiente biologico nell’Europa preindustriale secc. XIII–XVIII. S. Cavaciocchi (ed.). Florence: Firenze University Press: 273–81. ———. 2011. “Genesis in the longhouse: Religious reading in Greenland in the eighteenth century”. In Religious Reading in the Lutheran North: Studies in Early Modern Scandinavian Book Culture. C. Appel and M. Fink-Jensen (eds.). Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars: 133–58. ———. 2014a. “Freden i Kiel 1814: Da de nordatlantiske øer blev danske – og Grønland fik lov at forblive grønlandsk”. Tidsskriftet Grønland 62: 36–42. ———. 2014b. “Landsmænd”. Tidsskriftet Grønland 62: 109–20. Kleinschmidt, S. 1859. Silami iliornerit pingârnerit ilait. Nuuk. Kleivan, I., and B. Sonne. 1985. Eskimos. Greenland and Canada. Iconography of Religions, 8.2. Leiden: Brill. Larsen, H. 1974. ‘Introduction’. See Rink (1974). Lynge, A. 1945. “Omkring ‘det nationale’”. Grønlandsposten 17: 223–5. Møller, A. M. 2012. Enevældens kroninger. Copenhagen: Falcon.

184

N ew C hildren of A braham in G reenland

Nielsen, F. A. J. 2012a. “The earliest Greenlandic Bible: A study of the ur-text from 1725”. In Ideology, Culture, and Translation. S. S. Elliott and R. Boer (eds.). Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature: 113–37. ———. 2012b. “Da apokalyptikken kom til Grønland – de første grønlandske tekster og hvad deraf fulgte”. Grønlandsk Kultur- og Samfundsforskning 2010–12: 31–50. ———. 2014a. “En ukendt grønlandsk katekismus fra 1724”. Grønlandsk Kultur- og Samfundsforskning 2013–14: 123–44. ———. 2014b. “Halvfems spørgsmål til missionæren på Håbets Ø”. Tidsskriftet Grønland 62, 188–203. ———. 2014c. “Fire gammelgrønlandske sange”. Tidsskriftet Grønland 62: 204–11. Nielsen, Fr. 1934. Tûmarse. Kinguârîngnik oĸalugtuak. Nuuk. ———. 1980, Tuumarsi. Roman om en vestgrønlandsk fangerfamilie. Det grønlandske selskabs skrifter, 24. Copenhagen. Nogaret, J. 1928. Petite histoire du pays basque français. Les cahiers bayonnais, 2. Bayonne: La Société des Sciences, Lettres, Arts et d’Etudes Régionales. Oldendow, K. 1931. Den grønlandske Samfundslære. Godthaab: Sydgrønlands Bogtrykkeri. Pedersen, B. K. 2014. “Kulturel revitalisering – hvorfor?”. Grønlandsk Kultur- og Samfundsforskning 2013–14: 51–68. Petersen, F. 1975. Grønlandssagens behandling i FN 1946–54. Odense Universitetsforlag. Petterson, C. 2012. “En konge i sin faders sted – Bibel og konge i den danske enevælde”. In Bibelske genskrivninger. Forum for Bibelsk Eksegese, 17. J. Høgenhaven and M. Müller (eds.). Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum: 413–34. Renna, T. 1986. “Kingship, theories of”. In Dictionary of the Middle Ages. VII. J. R. Strayer (ed.). New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons: 259–71. Rink, H. J. 1866. Eskimoiske Eventyr og Sagn. Copenhagen: Reitzel. ———. 1868. “Om Grønlændernes gamle Tro og hvad der af Samme er bevaret under Kristendommen”. Aarbøger for Nordisk Oldkyndighed og Historie: 192–256. ———. 1974 [1877], Danish Greenland. Its People and Products. London: C. Hurst. ———. 1997 [1875]. Tales and traditions of the Eskimo. Mineola, NY: Dover Publications. Rosing, J. 1968. “Sangen om det menneskegjorte fjeld”. Nationalmuseets Arbejdsmark: 171–80. Ross, J. 1819. A Voyage of Discovery Made under the Orders of the Admiralty in His Majesty’s Ships Isabella and Alexander for the Purpose of Exploring Baffin’s Bay, and Enquiring into the Probability of a North-West Passage. I. London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown. Rostgaard, M. and L. Schou. 2010. Kulturmøder i dansk kolonihistorie. Copenhagen: Gyldendal. Schäferdiek, K. 2007. “Germanic and Celtic Christianities”. In The Cambridge History of Christianity. II. Constantine to c. 600. A. Casiday and F. W. Norris (eds.). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: 52–69. Seaver, K. A. 2010. The Last Vikings: The Epic Story of the Great Norse Voyagers. London and New York: Tauris. Solberg, O. 1917 “Det bergenske handelskompani av 1721 og Grønlands kolonisation”. Bergens historiske forening. Skrifter 23: 5–61. Sonne, B. 1986 “Toornaarsuk, an historical Proteus”. Arctic Anthropology 23: 199–219. Stampe, L. 1946. “Collegium de cursu Evangelii promovendo. Omkring dets Stiftelse og første Aar”. Dansk Teologisk Tidsskrift 9: 65–88.

185

F lemming A . J . N ielsen

Tamm, D. and J. D. Jørgensen. 2012. Kongeloven. Thomæsons Håndskrift. Copenhagen: Jurist- og Økonomforbundets Forlag. The Sami People, 1990, Kautokeino: Nordic Sami Institute. Thisted, K. (ed.). 1997. Jens Kreuzmann. Fortællinger og akvareller. Nuuk: Atuakkiorfik. Thompson, T. L. 1999. The Bible in History. How Writers Create a Past. London: Jonathan Cape. Wilhjelm, H. 2013. Grönländer aus Leidenschaft. Das Leben und Werk von Samuel Kleinschmidt. Neuendettelsau: Erlanger Verlag für Mission und Ökumene.

186

12 C L OS ING THE CONFERENCE Whose mythic, rhythmic, theological and cultural memory is it anyway? Jim West

Setting the stage There was a rich man who was dressed in purple and fine linen and who feasted sumptuously every day. And at his gate lay a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores, who longed to satisfy his hunger with what fell from the rich man’s table; even the dogs would come and lick his sores. The poor man died and was carried away by the angels to be with Abraham. The rich man also died and was buried. In Hades, where he was being tormented, he looked up and saw Abraham far away with Lazarus by his side. He called out, “Father Abraham, have mercy on me, and send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue; for I am in agony in these flames.” But Abraham said, “Child, remember that during your lifetime you received your good things, and Lazarus in like manner evil things; but now he is comforted here, and you are in agony. Besides all this, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed, so that those who might want to pass from here to you cannot do so, and no one can cross from there to us.” (Luke 16:19–26 NRSV) Along the lines of the story of Lazarus and the Rich Man, many in academic biblical studies believe that a great gulf separates the scholar from the thirsting layman. They believe, moreover, that biblical studies are too complex and convoluted for the laity to understand the results of research and that few lay folk are, actually, even remotely interested in them. Furthermore, few academics attempt to traverse the gap to bring just a cool drip of water to the suffering ignorant unwashed masses. Leaving aside the possibility that the biblical scholar be represented by the role of poor Lazarus and the thirsty rich man might stand in the place of the unlearned massa perditionis, let me move quickly to my point, which is, simply stated, that no such gulf, as is spoken of, exists. It is only skewed perception and myopic vision which asserts that it does. Lay people, by and large, are quite interested in 187

J im W est

the intricacies of biblical research. They love to hear about archaeological discoveries. Newly found textual evidence thrills them and in-depth descriptions of the meanings of biblical texts are “food for their souls”. To be sure, they do not necessarily know the difference between a “minimalist” and a “maximalist”. Nor do they necessarily know Sinaiticus from Vaticanus or a Qumran variant from a Masoretic one. Plop a Hebrew Bible, a Greek New Testament, a Septuagint or a Vulgate down on their living room table and they will look at it and invariably say something like “it’s all Greek to me”. But all of that does not mean that they are not interested in the Bible. They are (as I have learned over and over again in thirty years of parish ministry and in teaching the Bible to college students). Enter the Infamous Five and what I will assert in what follows are their contributions to biblical studies for people occupying the pews. When the “Infamous Five” bounded onto the scene in the late 1980s and early ’90s, they were immediately besieged by Hershel Shanks, William Dever and others, who – in one way or other – could trace their intellectual/academic lineage to roots of the Albright/Wright/Bright family tree. For reasons which remain mysterious (though I believe rooted in their ideological proclivities), they took up the gauntlet presented by the new research and attacked, full steam ahead. Well known, surely, is the fact that Keith Whitelam, in particular, became the primary victim of the indignity of being smeared by Shanks et al. as an “anti-Semite”. That shameful behaviour accelerated when Whitelam’s book on Palestinian history hit the shelves (Whitelam: 1996).1 The mere suggestion, it seemed, that the Palestinians be viewed as human beings worthy of respect, with a history of their own worthy of investigation, annoyed, in the extreme, those whose concern was strictly and merely and completely focused on “Israelite” or “Jewish” history. Of course, Whitelam was not alone in being excoriated by the Albrightians. Thomas L. Thompson was effectively excluded from academia for a decade or so after the appearance of his ground-breaking volume on the Patriarchs (Thompson: 1974). Niels Peter Lemche has been described to me as “a very suspect character”2 and Philip Davies and John Van Seters are seen by some as the “bad boys” of “history of Israel” studies or, if you will, “just as bad as N.T. Wrong”.3 All of this may lead people to believe, mistakenly, that the “Copenhagen School” and the “Sheffield School” or the “Copenhagen/Sheffield School” or the “Minimalists” or whichever label they are given have nothing to say that may or should be of interest to those outside their very narrow circle. Indeed, if certain “maximalists” and their publications had their way, it would not just be the history of the Palestinians that would be silenced; it would be Lemche and Whitelam, Davies and Thompson, and Van Seters too. And yet, as the collections of essays in the “Changing Perspectives” series, published now by Routledge by these scholars and their colleagues have shown and are showing, they’ve contributed much and their minds have changed, and their methodologies have evolved; that is, they have not just “taught” but that they are “teaching” even now. And they are teaching interested lay people. 188

C losing the C onference

Specifically, concerning their carefully crafted contributions to the guild (and beyond), Thompson has moved into the arena of what I’ll describe as “mythstudies” (Mythosgeschichte); Davies is experimenting with “cultural memory”; Lemche as well (Erinnerungsgeschichte). Whitelam has most recently written a volume which examines the history of Palestine in light of its “rhythms” (Rhythmusgeschichte), and Van Seters has been practicing a variant (his opponents would say deviant) methodological course for many decades. All are “toying” with methodologies which are quite far away from the widely practiced, highly vaunted and utterly bankrupt “historical criticism” (which I term “Bullgeschichte”). But more importantly, and more to the point for present purposes, their work is not – I repeat – is not, of interest only to radicalized, left-leaning Marxist specialists (as is so often implied by their academic adversaries).4 Rather, their work has much to contribute and indeed has contributed much to congregational life. Allow me to say that again: the work of Thompson, Lemche, Davies, Whitelam and Van Seters has much to say to pastors and preachers and people in pews. Their work has not been and cannot be and should not be confined to academic conferences and student assignments. Instead, it has much to say to the average congregation and has a great deal to contribute to theological dialogue. Hence, we arrive at the question which I wish to address today . . . .

Whose mythic, rhythmic, theological cultural memory is it anyway? Naturally, those gathered here for this Conference will hear echoes of books authored by assorted Sheffieldien-Copenhageners in my question, and have probably already guessed that in the space remaining to me I intend to draw from those texts observations worthy of inclusion in extremely practical parish exercises like sermons, Bible studies and religious education classes. After all, excellent critical scholarship is not just for ivory towers anymore (and never has been). Myth? Thomas L. Thompson explains his work of recent years thusly: The Messiah Myth, moreover, is neither a book dealing with the history of the New Testament, a history of Jesus nor of the early church. It rather analyzes and attempts to trace the antiquity and nature of the sources for the messiah myth. It is a study in comparative literature. It deals only indirectly with the historicity of Jesus, as it treats many of the proverbs and parables that have been associated with such a figure. It comes to deal with the use of the Gospels’ for such historical questions, only insofar as they are related to the many sayings found in Matthew and Luke, such as the sermon on the mount or, respectively, the plain, 189

J im W est

sayings, which some conservative New Testament scholars, such as those involved in the Jesus seminar – and Maurice Casey – have considered ipsissima verba of Jesus. My purpose was quite different: to demonstrate that they were, in fact, sayings and tropes that were considerably older than either the gospels or any hypothetical, historical Jesus. I preferred to concentrate on Matthew, Luke and Isaiah in this study, because it is in these texts that many messianic tropes, not least those associated with the literary stereotype I have called a ‘Poor Man’s Song’ and the ancient Near Eastern tale-type ‘A Testament of the Good King.’ To give priority to Mark in such a monograph would make no sense whatever, as many New Testament scholars have been able to recognize. (Thompson, 2013) Will “this dog hunt”,5 in the community of faith? Indeed it will, for it gives leaders in churches opportunities to discuss the theology of the Gospels, the question of the Jesus of History or the Christ of Faith, the roots of the Gospel stories and many related themes. And, whereas it may seem to some that people occupying pews would shrink from such issues, I can insist that not only will they enjoy the topics but they will be reinvigorated in their own study of the biblical text from them. Even more, these issues are incredibly important as they stand at the very heart of Christian faith. Was Jesus what the Gospels portray him to be, or was his image an invention of the Church or was he some mixture of what the Gospels portray him to be and a slathering of theological accretion? Or are the thoroughgoing “mythicists” correct to assert that he never existed at all? Nothing stirs discussion quite like those questions. Rhythm? Keith Whitelam writes: The events of the Late Bronze Age allow us to see one phase of the regular rhythms of economic life in Palestine and the eastern Mediterranean. These events are not the result of the collapse of a supposedly morally inferior society (the Canaanites) being replaced by supposedly spiritually superior invaders (the Israelites) who reinvigorate and redirect the history of Palestine. If we cast a glance at the extended history of Palestine, we can see that the situation at the end of the Late Bronze Age, far from being unique in its history, was but a recurring moment in time. Periods of crisis throughout the region, following periods of relative prosperity – at least for the privileged of society – are a regular, and we might say, natural feature of the patterns of Palestinian history. If such periods were to be termed pivotal moments, then the hinges of Palestinian history were incredibly well oiled. The recession at the end of the Late Bronze Age and the revival in the countryside that followed at the beginning of the Iron Age is similar to many others in the history of Palestine. 190

C losing the C onference

The conditions at the end of the Late Bronze Age represent less a turning point in the history of the region than a drawing to our attention of the rhythms and patterns that underlie that history. The way in which the vast majority of the inhabitants of the countryside responded with their ingenuity, adaptability and mobility – provided the underlying continuities, the threads that help to bind together the history of Palestine. The indigenous population and its culture was not wiped out or replaced. For countless individuals – who were wounded in local conflicts, or who witnessed the death of loved ones, or who were made homeless or who saw their crops and livestock destroyed – this was a catastrophe. But it was not the pivot on which a new age turned; it was not ‘the Catastrophe’, as it has been termed. (Whitelam, 2013: 32) It is, to be direct, exceedingly difficult to overstate the importance of Whitelam’s views for Christians. With the preponderance of space in the news given to Christian Zionists, their views and their unwavering and blind support of the modern State of Israel, as if that State were the same entity as Ancient Israel (whatever that was), Whitelam’s corrective is essential. Christians, church folk, not only wish to understand the issues concerning Israel, the Palestinians and peace in the Middle East, but they need to. No one working presently opens reader’s eyes to the underlying historical issues as well. Naturally, the practical implications of Whitelam’s views have serious consequences for policy makers and their constituents. If Palestinian history is taken as seriously as it ought to be, as seriously as Jewish history is at present, then the conflict in the Middle East would have a completely different hue as covered in the Western media. This, as one can imagine, is essential. Theology? Niels Peter Lemche has written: Old Testament scholars of the last two centuries invested enormous energy in the study of the history of ancient Israel. They only helped to sharpen the crisis, as the gulf between real history and biblical story continued to widen. Many Old Testament scholars tried in vain to stop this development. Instead of accepting modern historical research, they used the method of the ostrich and argued that nothing had happened that damaged the impression of ancient Israel found on the pages of the Old Testament in a serious way. For too long a time, scholars have maintained that the history of ancient Israel and the story of biblical Israel in the Old Testament were more or less identical as far as the big picture was concerned. We only need accept the biblical story as real history. For many years scholars have tried to convince the laity that there is no danger. The bible’s story and real history are the same. They did not see 191

J im W est

that they were building a palace on sand. Real history, following its own rules, would sooner or later break down the edifice, and the consequence could well be that the laity would simply regard the Old Testament as a book of lies. (Lemche, 2008: 349) It is precisely at the intersection of history and the Bible that the central question, indeed, the question above all questions, comes to the surface: the question of the purpose of the Bible. If, as some assert, the Bible’s purpose is to relate historical facts then there is a serious problem with its reliability. Very few historical facts have been verified in support of the biblical telling of things. On the other hand, if the Bible is seen as a theological text, relating theological themes which have, at best, a spider-web’s connection to their underlying history, then we are, surprisingly, on much firmer ground. Here, for people in the Church, the issues boil down to a proper understanding of the function of Scripture. Is it to be seen as a sort of historical textbook? If so, how can it be relied upon as such when there is so much contrary historical evidence or, in some respects even worse, total silence? If not, then how can it be understood and how can its truths be reconciled with the Truth? Lemche, in my view, points us in the right direction here. The Bible is not about history per se, but about something more profound and important: it is about God’s interaction with humanity as reflected in “sermons” by the faithful and their tradents. Cultural memory? Philip Davies opines: The minimalist option starts, typically, from recent archaeological data that have been interpreted by the great majority of archaeologists as configuring the origins of Israel in terms quite different from those in the Bible. As a result, the fictionality of a great deal of that narrative has to be taken seriously, in the sense of being provided with an explanation. The unreliability of such a large part of the narrative also encourages a very cautious attitude towards the remainder, with the view that nothing unverified can be assumed to have occurred. Those following the minimalist option prefer later dates for the composition of the Pentateuchal narrative and, indeed, other biblical literature, because later dates provide better contexts for the creation of the stories, not just because of the gap in time that would be necessary to explain such fictions, but because later dates afford better political, social and religious contexts for the enterprise. The later dates proposed dates range from the reign of Josiah (late 7th century, shortly before the end of the Judean monarchy) to the Hellenistic period, with the Persian period figuring prominently. But how are these contexts determined? The answer

192

C losing the C onference

is, by looking at ideology. The ideology of the texts does not lie all on the surface, but also within and beneath the text. The concept, itself, and the tools for analyzing it have long been available from Marxist analysis and applied in other historical work. But there are other considerations. Most of the biblical literature is agreed by all biblical scholars to have reached its final shape after the end of the Judean monarchy: this can support the ‘minimalist’ option because if literary editing was obviously taking place, then the resources and motives for authoring texts can also have been present. Whether such writing and rewriting took place earlier remains, by contrast, conjectural. (Davies, 2008: 147–8) As a thoroughly acclimated Bultmannian with tinges of minimalist tendencies, it is very difficult for me to be objective concerning Davies’ assertions in this passage. The lateness of the biblical text and the paucity of archaeological support for many of the “historical” claims made in it force readers to conclude either that Bultmann and Davies and the minimalists are right and that, in Bultmannian terms, the Bible is utterly theological and minimally historical in its interests and goals – or it is wrong. For myself, I prefer to assert that the text of the Bible is correct – even inspired – even “inerrant” – because its function is theological historiography rather than “history as it actually was”. My view of “inerrancy” can be summarized thusly: the belief that the Bible is “inerrant” or that Evangelicals must and, by and large, do adhere to a doctrine of “inerrancy” has been around for a pretty good while now. Usually, however, the doctrine is approached from “below”, from the perspective of the Bible’s putative inability to relate inaccurate historical details. Taken “from below”, the doctrine takes a beating. Perhaps, then, it’s time to consider the doctrine “from above”; that is, from the perspective of what the Bible actually is about and its ability to rightly inform and guide. Rethinking the doctrine of scriptural inerrancy necessitates that we begin to think of the Bible on its own terms and speak of it correctly along the lines of those terms. Doing so allows us, it seems to me, to adopt (!) a doctrine of inerrancy that is both scriptural and – from the point of view of believers – sustainable and meaningful. What, then, does it mean to speak of inerrancy from above? Simply put, it means to speak of the Bible as incapable of causing believers to err or stray from the revealed will of God. The Bible reveals the truth about the Divine and the Human. Believers who adhere to that revelation are kept safe from errant behaviour or belief, and the Scriptures do not err in teaching said proper behaviour or belief. Furthermore, those who plant themselves in that revelation are “like a tree planted by the waters” to borrow a phrase from Psalm 1. Scripture is inerrant, then, because, rightly understood, it cannot and does not cause error in faith or practice. As an aside or addendum, the little phrase “rightly understood” is absolutely essential. Scripture can be and regularly is distorted by those who can and do wish to twist it to fit their own ends or suit their own needs. Scripture “rightly divided” is inerrant. Scripture distorted or perverted is no longer Scripture, but mere text.

193

J im W est

Who then is capable of rightly interpreting Scripture? The person who has, first, the requisite linguistic and hermeneutical skills, along with, then, the guiding presence of the Holy Spirit. One without the other results, always, respectively, in error or fanaticism. As Zwingli rightly put it, on the one hand, “without the Spirit one is guided by the flesh or human understanding and is therefore blind”, and on the other, “the Spirit doesn’t depart from Scripture, but adheres to it (so that those who speak of ecstatic utterances or secondary revelations are deceivers).” For this reason, and this reason alone, the date of origin for any passage of Scripture is irrelevant. “Who, what, how and when” are not the central questions: “why” is. Similarly, even when we bring into consideration the final form of a passage or book the central concern remains “why”. Why was this text written? Why would its author deem the material important for his or her audience? Why would readers or hearers respond to it? Accordingly, Davies’ views are neither troublesome nor concerning; they are wisdom and nurture because they virtually force people of faith to come to terms with the actual nature and purpose of Scripture and disallow them from attempting to substitute that question or aim with inferior ones like historicity and Sitz im Leben. History? John van Seters achieved fame (or infamy) with the publication of his volume titled Abraham in History and Tradition (1975). A flurry of books have followed, all following the same track set in that first ground-breaking and epoch-making bombshell on the playground of the theologians and historians.6 The most recent work, in the “Changing Perspectives” series, with which readers of this collection of essays will be familiar, includes essays from the earliest period of his work to the most recent, and users of that volume will be able to see how his thoughts have not only developed, but been consistent in many significant aspects. Of van Seters’ work, Niels Peter Lemche observed in a 1995 essay:7 In John Van Seters’ 1992 publication, Prologue to History, he continues his re-evaluation of Wellhausen’s documentary hypothesis by attempting to define the work of J as a blend of historiographical and antiquarian interests which is drawn from Greek historiography within a context in the Jewish Diaspora in Babylon during the exilic period. Van Seters resolutely and convincingly establishes the thesis that the Yahwistic tradition is a product of the reemergence of Israel rather than of its “Golden Age.” The completion of this huge project and Van Seters’ rejection of any possible context for the Pentateuchal tradition within the time periods reflected in Genesis-II Kings is unequivocally a major achievement.8 What van Seters did, over the course of his fruitful career, was call into question the widespread misprisions of the Patriarchal history, the development of biblical 194

C losing the C onference

texts, and the way in which the Bible as a collection has come to be. Few things are as important, or can be so important, to the average church-attending person, since it is the Bible which is at the core of their understanding of faith and practice. Indeed, it is precisely the issue of “historicity” which the so-called “minimalists” have so cogently addressed and, in my estimation, appropriately. They have “undermined” the faulty faith in history which has become so central to many segments of Christianity, becoming not only idol but fetish. As Bultmann wrote in the middle of the twentieth century in his epoch-making Kerygma and Myth (1953): We are therefore bound to ask whether, when we preach the Gospel today, we expect our converts to accept not only the Gospel message, but also the mythical view of the world in which it is set. If not, does the New Testament embody a truth, which is quite independent of its mythical setting? If it does, theology must undertake the task of stripping the Kerygma from its mythical framework, of “demythologizing” it. Can Christian preaching expect modern man to accept the mythical view of the world as true? To do so would be both senseless and impossible. It would be senseless, because there is nothing specifically Christian in the mythical view of the world as such. It is simply the cosmology of a pre-scientific age. Again, it would be impossible, because no man can adopt a view of the world by his own volition – it is already determined for him by his place in history. Of course such a view is not absolutely unalterable, and the individual may even contribute to its change. But he can do so only when he is faced by a new set of facts, so compelling as to make his previous view of the world untenable. He has then no alternative but to modify his view of the world or produce a new one. The discoveries of Copernicus and the atomic theory are instances of this, and so was Romanticism, with its discovery that the human subject is richer and more complex than the Enlightenment or idealism had allowed and nationalism, with its new realization of the importance of history and the tradition of peoples.9

Summation Whose mythic, rhythmic, theological, cultural memory is it anyway? The answer is, by now, I hope, crystal clear: the Church’s as much as the Academy’s. Perhaps, just perhaps, even more so. After all, the Bible is the Church’s Book.10 Our colleagues, our learned and wise co-workers in the field of biblical studies have done the Church, the community of faith, a genuine service by forcing it and its members (if they have ears to hear) to reconsider from a new and fresh perspective central concerns which occupy it every day. What is the Bible? Who was (or is) Jesus? What are we to make of all of these things? In short, the modern-day “minimalists” and their kindred spirits are reborn Bultmannians whose time has come and who have arisen in the ranks of academia to carry on the work of the Marburg Professor. And they are doing a magnificent job of it. 195

J im W est

On behalf of the Church, I thank the Academy (in general) for its contribution to our life and these five in particular for turning our attention to ultimate matters away from what can scarcely be called the penultimate-ness of history for history’s sake.

Notes   1 The lamentable mistreatment Prof. Whitelam was subjected to at one of the meetings of the Society for Old Testament Study is legendary.   2 Name withheld to protect the guilty. Suffice it to say that in a personal communication at a meeting of SBL one of my former profs, who had seen Lemche and me having breakfast together, came over later and said “You’re associating with a very suspect character.”   3 Again, name withheld to ensure the safety of the person thus declaring.   4 I recall sitting at a table in New Orleans at SBL and hearing a colleague say that “all those minimalists are left-leaning Marxists”. I asked how such a claim could be made since Marxism figured virtually not at all in their writings either implicitly or explicitly and was told “well they just are”.   5 In the States, in the South in particular, this phrase is a metaphor for “workable”.   6 A list of van Seters’s books is available online here: http://www.amazon.com/JohnVan-Seters/e/B001HCYQ7S/.   7 Agreeing with and citing Thompson.   8 In the essay titled The Intellectual Matrix of Early Biblical Narrative: Inclusive Monotheism in Persian Period Palestine (in Lemche’s ‘Changing Perspectives’ volume.)   9 Bultmann’s work is available online here: http://www.religion-online.org/showchapter. asp?title=431&C=292. 10 Here, clearly I am attempting to goad Philip Davies and his suggestions in Whose Bible is it, Anyway.

Bibliography Bultmann, R. 1953. Kerygma and Myth. London: S.P.C.K. Davies, P. R. 2008. Memories of Ancient Israel: An Introduction to Biblical History – Ancient and Modern. Philadelphia, PA: Westminster John Knox Press. Lemche, N. P. 2008. The Old Testament Between Theology and History: A Critical History. Philadelphia, PA: Westminster John Knox Press. Thompson, T. L. 1974. The Historicity of the Patriarchal Narratives; the Quest for the Historical Abraham. Berlin: De Gruyter. ———. 2013. “Competence and New Testament Scholarship”. The Bible and Interpretation, http://www.bibleinterp.com/articles/tho368003.shtml. Van Seters, J. 1975. Abraham in History and Tradition. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Whitelam, K. 1996. The Invention of Ancient Israel: The Silencing of Palestinian History. New York: Routledge. ———. 2013. Rhythms of Time: Reconnecting Palestine’s Past. Sheffield: Ben Black Books.

196

SOURCE IND EX

Hebrew Bible Genesis 1 91 1–3 71 1–5 83 1–11 67–70, 71, 73, 81, 83 2:10–14 36 2 67 2–3 67, 68, 71 2–6 91–2 3 83 4 67 5:3–32 68 5 67 6:1–4 71 6–11 83 8:7 69 9 68 9–27 88 10:1–2 83 10:2–5 83 10 68, 92 11–50 85 12:10–20 125 14:1–16 125 22 84 23:1 ff. 126 23:19 126 25–28 86 29–31 84 37:23–28 84 37–50 84 41 84 41:1–7ff. 84

Exodus 1–15 83 3:1–4 35 4:1–13 82 4:10 84 14:11–12 82 15:13–17 35 17:2–4 82 20:16 52 20–23 79, 85 21:4 78 21:12–17 78 21:17–19 78 21:20–21 78 21:22–25 79 21:28–32 79 21:37–22:3 79 22:5–6 79 22:22–24 80 22:25 80 23:7 52 24:1–11 82 25–31 85 32:19 85 32 85 34:1 85 35–40 85 Leviticus 5:20–26 52, 55–6n1 5:21–26 52 5:24b–25 55n1 5 52 18 79 19:12 52

197

S ource I ndex

24:17 80 24:19–22 80 25:5–10 80 25:13–16 80 28:15–68 99n8 28:21–25 99n8 28:48–68 99n7 29:20–28 99n7 30:1–2 49 30:28 99n8 31:16–21 99n7 31:26–9 99n7 31:29 49 34:10 126 Josuah 2:1–24 85 6:22–3 85 13–19 35 14–19 78 24:32 126 Judges 6–7 86 1 Samuel 15 82 17 23 2 Samuel 2:18 86 10:6 120 11 82, 86 13–18 86 1 Kings 4–10 82 10:18–20 171 11 82 2 Kings 17:6–23 99, 100n9 17:24–29 24 17 25 17.5–6 99n8 17:34–41 99, 100n9 18:13–15 65 18 99n8 21:2–16 99, 100n9 22 63 23:29 125 23 50, 99n8 23:24:26 99n8 23:33–35 125

19:18 95 21:1–24 79 24:16 112 24:17–21 79 25:23 78 25:39–47 79 Numbers 5:6–8 52 5:7 56n1 6:24–26 63 12:7–8 79 24:24 88 26 78 27 79 33:38–39 126 36 79 Deuteronomy 1:1 52 1:3 84 4:25–26 99n8 4:25–28 99n7 6:5 95 7:26 49, 50, 52, 53, 55 12:2 51 12:2–7 50 12:5 50 12:29–31 50 12:31 49, 51 12 49, 53, 79 12–26 81 16:6 25 16:18–18:22 95 16:18–20 79 16:19–20 51 17 86 17:2–7 79 17:14–20 79 18:9–14 79 19:4–6 79 19:14 80 19:16–19 80 19:18 52 19:21 79 21:1–9 80 21:18–21 80 23:19–20 80 23:24–5 80 24:16 80

198

S ource I ndex

43:14–21 32 43:16 30 43:16–21 31, 32, 39n 43:19 30, 31 43:19–20 36 43:19–21 31 43:20 35 44:3 35 44:9–20 39 44:24–45:7 31 44:26–8 34 44:28 31 45:13 34 45:14 37 45:23 37 46:1–2 31 46:1–7 39 46:11 40n9 47 31 48:17 30 48:20 38 48:20–21 30, 31, 32 48:21 31, 35, 36 49:1–6 40n4 49:1–13 34 49:8–12 30, 31, 33–7, 38, 40n6 49:9–11 31 49:9–12 31 49:18 36 49:22 36 49–52 32 51:9–11 31, 32 52:1 31 52:7–10 32 52:10–12 32 52:11–12 30, 31 52:13–53:12 31 53:6 30 54:11–16 31 55:7–9 30 55:12–13 30, 31, 32 58 31 60 36 60–62 31 Jeremiah 3:15 40n8 4.26–9 100n8 6 100n8

1 Chronicles 5:39–41 63 19:6 120 28 120 Ezra 7:1 63 10:19 56n1 Psalms 1 193 23 36 28(29) 109 46:5 36 78:52–55 35 84:6–8 36 Song of Songs, 97 1:5 100n18 1:9 100n18 2:15 100n18 Isaiah 2:2–4 36 5:26 40n9 11:16 36 13:23 97 27:1 61, 74 39:3 40n9 40:1–11 30–1 40:3 30, 32, 52 40:3–4 32, 36 40:3–5 31, 39 40:10 36 40:10–11 30–1, 32 40:11 35 40:14 30 40:18–20 39n3 40:27 30 40–48 32, 35 40–55 7, 32, 33, 39 41:17 38 41:17–20 31, 32 41:18 35, 36 42:7 34, 38 42:16 30, 31 42:24 30 43:1–7 30 43:2 32 43:5–6 36 43:6 40n9 43:14–15 31

199

S ource I ndex

7:1–26 99n7 9:9–12 99n8 9 99n8 9.10–12 100n8 11:1–13 99n7 12 100n8 12.10–11 100n8 15:4–6 99n8 16:1–9 99n8 16:10–13 99n7 18 100n8 18–21 99n8 19:2–11 99n8 19:2–15 100n9 19:3–6 99n7 20–23 100n9 23:3–4 40n8 25:1–7 99n7 25:1–11 99n8 25:9–11 99n8 25.11 100n8 26:6 99n8 26.9 100n8 31:10 40n8 31:34 110 32:26–36 99n7 32:43 100n8 33:10 100n8 34:19–22 99n8 34:22 100n8 39:1–8 99n8 44:1–14 100n9 44:1–23 99n7 44:2 100n8 46–51 97 50:19 40n8 Ezekiel 25–31 97 28:12–19 71 34:11–12 36 34:11–31 40n8 37:24 40n8 47:1–12 36 47:13–48:35 78 Joel 4:18 36 Amos 1:1–2:3 97

Habakkuk 1–2 97 2:4 103 Zephaniah 2.1:15 97 Zechariah 9:1–8 97 14:8 36 Matthew 1:23 104, 111 23:35 158 Luke 1:27 111 11:51 158 16:19–26 187 24:44 158 Acts 7:8 126 7:16 126 7:23 126 7:30 126 7:36 126 7:38 126 7:53 126 7 126, 127 Romans 1:17 103 1 Corinthians 2:9 124 15:3–4 109 Galatians 3:11 103 Epistle to the Hebrews 8:2 85 8:10 110 9:1 85 9:24–5 85 10:38 103 Septuagint Isaiah 7:14 104, 111 40:3 111 Dead Sea Scrolls 1QpHab 7.1–5 109 1QS 8 14 52 10 1–8 53–4

200

S ource I ndex

Apollonius of Rhodes Argonautica 2.1140–95 84 4.1750–65 84 Aristotle Politics 7.1329b 93 Athanasius 164 Berossus Babyloniaca 70–1, 83, 92, 94, 99n Cyril of Alexandria 37, 38 Diodorus Siculus 99n Euripides 97, 100n Hecataeus of Abdera Aegyptiaca 93, 99n Herodotus Histories 2.142 93 4.150–55 84 7.205–20 86 7.97 84 179 84 Hesiod Erga kai Hemerai (Works   and Days) 156–73 69, 70, 83, 86 Theogony 116–32 69, 70, 83 Homer Illiad 6.150–60 86 9.440–80 86 Odyssey 1 85 6–13 84 11:305–20 72 12.260–425 85 14–24 77, 84 14.277–87 77, 84 14.340–45 77, 84 19.535–65 77, 84 24 85 Hyginus Fables 2 84 Juvenal Satires 14.194 139

4Q397 14–21 50, 51, 158 4Q497 14–21 158 4Q498 14 158 Damascus Document (CD) 4:16 124 10:8–10 163 16:2–4 163 16:3–4 124 4QMMT (Miqsat Ma’ase ha-Torah) 43–56, 122, 158 5/6HevPsalms 146 Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha Aristeas, The Letter of 128–71 110 Book of Jubilees 23:11 163 Book of Judith 165 1 Enoch 83–90 51 4 Ezra 165 14:18–48 119 14:18–50 159 Letters of Baruch 165 1–4 Maccabees 165 Psalms of Solomon 165 Ben Sira/Sirach/Ecclesiasticus 165 44:16 157 44:17–18 157 44–9 157 47:9–10 51 49:14 157 50:1–24 51 Sibylline Oracles 97 Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch 165 Ancient Near East Ba’lu Epic Cycle KTU 1.5:I.1–2 61 Gilgamesh XI:153–4 69 Enuma Eliš 68 Classical authors Aeschylus 100n Anaximander 92 Apollodorus Library 1.9.1 84

201

S ource I ndex

677a–82e 83 709e–10b 79 715e–720a 96 738c 85 741b–c 78 742b 80 745b–c 78 759a–d 79 777b–d 79 802b 98 811c–812a 101n21 812e–813a 98 817a 81 836b–42a 79 843a–b 80 843d–e 79 844d–45d 80 856c–e 80 865a–c 79 865c–d 78 870ff. 79 872d–73b 78 873e 79 874b 80 874c 79 876e–77b 78 877e–78b 80 909d–10a 79 910b–c 79 916d 80 924c–e 79 927b–e 80 929a–d 80 930d–e 78 933c–e 79 933e–34a 79 937b–c 80 955c–d 79 Republic 3.392a–c 97 368e–69a 83 370–83 79 414e–15d 78 514b–17b 81–2 595a–97e 85 Timaeus 20e 93 21e–22a 93

Livy Ab urbe condita 66 Martial Epigrams 14.25 139 Manetho Ægyptiaca 94, 99 n Megasthenes Indica 99 Ovid Metamorphoses, 72–73 Pausanias Description of Greece 10.27.2 85 Pindar Olympian Ode, 69 9.40–56 83 Pythian 4.5–10 84 Plato Critias 109d–110a 93 115b–17a 82 119d–20c 82 Laws 2.657a 93 2.661c 97 2.664b–665c 98 3.660e 97 3.664d 101n21 3.676a–677b 93 4.712b 96 4.713e–714a 101n20 4.718b–723d 100n13 4.721a–e 100n13 7.800a–801d 98 7.802b–c 101n21 7.811a 98 7.811c. 101n20 7.811c–812a 98 7.811c–d 101n20 7.811c–e 98 7.817b–d 101n20 8.840b–c 98 9.858c–859a 101n21 12.957d 101n21 662b 97 663d–e 97

202

S ource I ndex

22a–b 93 22b–23c 93 22e–23a 93 23b 93 27b 93 Theocritus Idyll 1.48–9 100n18 5.112–13 100n18 10.26–7 100n18 18.30–31 100n18 Theodoret of  Cyrenaica 37–8 Theophanes of Mytilene 99n Virgil Aeneid 87 Early Jewish authors Philo of Alexandria De Vita Moses, 2.14–15 85 Josephus Against Apion 1.37–46 159 1.38–41 104 2.222–4 80 Antiquitates 1. 721. –3.1 72 20.196 137 De Bello Judaico 165 V 9.4.379–81 125

Early Christian authors Augustine De civitate Dei XVIII 42–3 105 Eusebius Preparation for the Gospel 80 Irenaeus Adversus haereses III 21.3 104–5 Jerome Praefatio in evangelio II 1515.19 106 Prologus in Pentateucho I 4.35–9 106 Justin Apology/ies 54.8 104 I 31.1 104 I 33.1–4 104 Dialogue with the Jew Tryphon 43.5–8 104 66.1–4 104 67.1 104 68.7–8 104 71.1–2 110 71.3 104 84.1–3 104 Origen Hexapla 106

203

AUTHOR INDEX

Blommaert, J. 48 Bobé, L. 172, 182n7 Boling, R.G. 120 Boyd-Taylor, C. 106 Bregnsbo, M. 182n1 Brenton, L.C.L. 112 Brisson, L. 79 Brodie, T.L. 76–7, 80, 81, 84, 85, 87–8 Brøndsted, J. 182n2 Brooke, G.J. 44, 45, 49, 53 Brown, J.P. 76 Bruce, F.F. 133, 134, 149n1 Bruun, C.V. 181, 182n12 Buhl, F. 157, 165, 166 Bultmann, R. 195, 196n9 Burns, A.R. 93 Burton, J.B. 87, 100n18 Büttner, S. 101n20

Ackroyd, P. 29 Aejmelaeus, A. 108–9 Ahlström, G. 3 Albrechtsen, E. 182n1 Albright, W.F. 1 Alt, A. 1, 65 Anderson, B.W. 30 Appelt, M. 170 Astour, M. 76 Athas, G. 5 Atkinson, K. 132, 142, 143, 145, 150n4 Attridge, H. 163 Balla, M. 136 Baltzer, D. 30 Baltzer, K. 31 Bar-Adon, P. 133 Bar-Nathan, R. 134–5, 143, 144, 149n3 Barstad, H. 32, 33, 35, 36 Barthélemy, D. 107, 123 Bartholin, C. 176 Bartholomew, C.G. 101n19 Barton, J. 157, 159, 162, 166 Becking, B. 2 Beckwith, R.T. 121, 157, 158, 159, 161, 165 Bentzen, A. 34 Berges, U. 29 Bernstein, M. 49, 162 Bertelsen, A. 173 Bertram, G. 108 Beukel, E. 174 Bjorvand, H. 169 Blenkinsopp, J. 30, 34–5 Bloch, A. and C. 100n18

Calame, C. 84 Childs, B.S. 33, 34, 38 Clifford, R.J. 30, 31, 35 Collins, J.J. 52, 100n15 Coote, R.B. 2 Cotton, H. 138 Cross, F.M. 145, 146, 150n6 Crown, A. 130 Cryer, F. 8, 125, 127 Dalager, L. 177 Danbolt, E. 173 Daube, D. 100n16 Davies, P.R. 2, 4, 6, 23, 189, 192–3, 196n10 Davis, T.W. 15

204

AUTHOR INDEX

de Vaux, R. 132–6, 139–42, 143, 144, 149n1, 149–50n4, 150n5;9 de Wette, W.M.L. 16 Deissmann, A. 108 Derks, T. 139 Derrida, J. 47 Dever, W.G. 19 Dimant, D. 51, 52, 125 Dittert, K. 40n5;6 Döderlein, J.C. 29 Donceel, R. 140, 141, 144, 150n7 Doudna, G. 130, 147, 150n4;6;10 Duhm, B. 29, 30, 34, 40n7 Egede, H. 176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182n10 Egede, P. 177-179 Eissfeldt, O. 1, 2 Eller, P. 182n3 Elliott, M.W. 38 Erslev, C. 64 Eshel, H. 44 Ewig, E. 169 Faust, A. 19 Feldt, L. 52, 53 Ferro, M. 172 Fihl, E. 182n5 Finkelstein, I. 3, 16, 18, 19, 21–2, 62, 73 Fishbane, M. 30, 120 Fleming, D.E. 23 Flint, P. 146 Fortescue, M. 175 Fraade, S. 44 Frankel, Z. 108 Frazier, P. 100n15 Freedman, D.N. 66, 99n5, 120 Frykenberg, R.E. 182n5 Gad, F. 170, 171, 176, 182n6 Galling, K. 2 Galor, K. 139 Garbini, G. 1 García Martínez, F. 43 Gemser, B. 100n12 Gilberg, R. 175 Ginsburg, C.D. 165

Glahn, H.C. 177 Gmirkin, R.E. 66, 67, 70, 77, 80, 83, 88, 91, 92, 94, 95, 96, 98, 99n2, 100n12 Goldingay, J. 35, 40n6 Gordon, C. 76 Graah, W.A. 176 Grabbe, L.L. 5, 64, 67 Grimm, W. 40n Grossman, M. 45 Gudme, A.K. 65, 86 Guillaume, P. 86 Gulløv, H.C. 170, 175 Gunn, D. 2 Gunneweg, J. 136 Haag, H. 34, 40n4 Haase, E. 182n9 Hagedorn, A.C. 80, 87, 96, 100n14 Hagelia, H. 5 Halbwachs, M. 46 Halpern, B. 17 Halvorson-Taylor, M.A. 32 Hamidović, D. 137 Harbsmeier, M. 180 Hasselbalch, T.B. 48 Haubold, J. 74n2 Hauser, G.A. 100n5 Hayes, J.H. 2 Hein, J. 171 Heinzelmann, E. 182n1 Hempel, C. 45 Hermisson, H.-J. 35 Hirschfeld, Y. 133, 139, 150n4 Hjelm, I. 1, 4, 65 Hodder, I. 47 Høgenhaven, J. 39n3, 44–5 Hogeterp, A.L.A. 54 Holst, S. 103, 156 Homer 72, 76, 77, 79, 81, 83, 84, 86, 87, 88 Hübner, U. 2, 107 Hugenberger, G.P. 31 Humbert, J.-B. 131, 133, 135, 141, 142, 144, 145, 150n4 Hunter, R. 87 Hutchesson, I. 130 Hüttenmeister, F. 2, 106

205

AUTHOR INDEX

Jensen, E.L. 176 Jensen, K.V. 182n1 Jørgensen, J.D. 182n4 Kaiser, O. 80, 96 Kallen, H.M. 100n17 Kampen, J. 49 Karrer, M. 107, 112 Kiesow, K. 32, 34 Kjærgaard, K. 173, 174, 180 Kjærgaard, T. 170, 171, 175, 179, 182n6 Klawans, J. 51 Kleinschmidt, S. 180 Kleivan, I. 174–5, 182n9 Kloppenborg, J.S. 48–9 Knauer, G.N. 87 Knauf, E.A. 2 Knibb, M.A. 51, 109 Knoppers, G. 4, 6 Koch, I. 22 Kraft, R.A. 160 Kratz, R.G. 4, 16, 40n4 Kraus, W. 107, 112 Krivoruchko, J.G. 106 Kupitz, Y.S. 80, 84, 85 Lange, A. 100n14 Lange, N. de. 106 Larsen, H. 177 Larson, E. 138 Lemaire, A. 137 Lemche, N.P. 2, 3, 4, 6, 65, 67, 69, 76, 81, 87, 88, 91, 119, 189, 191–2, 194, 196n2 Levin, C. 64 Lim, B.H. 31 Lindeman, F.O. 169 Lipschits, O. 2, 6, 22, 62 Liverani, M. 3 Lohfink, N. 100n10 Longman III, T. 19 Loprieno, A. 87 Louden, B. 76, 77, 84, 85 Lübbe, J. 122 Luckenbill, D.D. 74n1 Lund, Ø. 30, 31, 32, 35, 36, 40n8;9 Lupu, E. 95 Lynge, A. 174

McLay, T. 110–11 Magen, Y. 133, 138, 141 Magness, J. 132, 134, 135, 138, 139, 141, 142, 143–4, 149n2, 150n4 Mandell, S. 66, 99n5 Marcos, N.F. 110 Martinez, F.G. 122 Masalha, N. 5 Mason, S. 159–60, 164 Menken, M.J.J. 107 Metzger, B. 156 Michniewicz, J. 136 Miller, J.M. 2 Mittman, S. Mizzi, D. 133 Mlynarczyk, J. 136, 139 Møller, A.M. 182n3 Morrow, G.R. 78, 81 Mouze, L. 79 Müller, M. 5, 103, 104, 110, 111, 112 Naddaf, G. 92 Niebuhr, B.G. 63 Nielsen, F.A.J. 66, 99n5, 172, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182n10 Niesiołowski-Spanò, Ł. 81 Nightingale, A.W. 101n21 Nodet, É. 87 Nogaret, J. 175 North, C.R. 40n4 Noth, M. 17 Oden, T.C. 38 Oikonomides, A.N. 100n11 Oldendow, K. 182n8 Oswald, H.C. (ed.) 38 Pappe, I. 5 Parke, H.W. 97, 100n14 Parker, R. 95 Patrich, J. 150n8 Paul, S.M. 34, 40n7 Payne, D. 35, 40n7 Pedersen, B.K. 177, 178 Pedersen, J. 73 Peleg, Y. 133, 138, 141 Petersen, F. 174 Petterson, C. 182n3

206

AUTHOR INDEX

Pfann, S.J. 133, 134, 141, 149n1, 150n5 Pfoh, E. 4 Phillips Long, V. 19 Pietersma, A. 109, 112 Pope, M.H. 100n16 Popović, M. 148 Poulsen, F. 7, 39n1 Preuβ, H.D. 30 Prior, M. 5 Provan, I. 19 Puech, É. 150n6

Spinoza, B. 77 Spykerboer, H.C. 32 Stacey, D. 133, 134, 141, 142, 144, 146, 148 Stampe, L. 171 Sterling, G.E. 99n5 Stott, K.M. 86 Strugnell, J. 43, 44, 45, 49, 158 Stuhlmueller, C. 30 Sukenik, E. 106 Swanson, D. 120

Qimron, E. 44, 45, 158

Talmon, S. 130 Tamm, D. 182n4 Taylor, J. 133, 138, 139, 148 Thisted, K. 177 Thompson, T.L. 2, 3, 4, 6, 22, 76, 88, 125, 169, 188, 189–90, 196n7 Tiemeyer, L.-S. 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 39n2 Tiller, P. 51, 52 Timm, S. 2 Tov, E. 9, 45, 103, 108, 122, 131, 137, 155, 160, 161 Trebolle Barrera, J. 124, 158

Raeder, S. 38 Rajak, T. 107 Rasmussen, K.L. 146 Reeg, G. 2, 106 Reinhartz, A. 44 Rendtorff, R. 80, 93 Renna, T. 169 Ricoeur, P. 47 Rink, H.J. 176–7, 177–8, 182n11 Robert, L. 100n11 Roberts, C.H. 160 Rocca, S. 145 Römer, T. 21, 63, 81 Rösel, M. 108, 110, 112 Rosing, J. 181 Ross, J. 175 Rostgaard, M. 182n2 Sanders, J.A. 120 Sawyer, J.F.A. 38 Schäferdiek, K. 169 Schenker, A. 110 Schiffman, L.H. 43, 44, 45, 46, 53, 54 Schoeps, H.-J. 108 Schou, L. 182n2 Schwartz, D.R. 23 Seaver, K.A. 170 Seeligmann, I.L. 107–8 Silberman, N.A. 18, 19 Sinks, P.W. 80 Skeat, T.C. 160 Solberg, O. 172 Sonne, B. 174–5, 182n9 Sonsino, R. 100n12

Ullman, B.L. 99n5 Ulrich, E. 122, 123, 124, 156–7, 160 Ussishkin, D. 62, 73, 74n1 Van der Plicht, J. 146 Van Seters, J. 1, 2, 6, 66, 67, 76, 189, 194–5, 196n6 VanderKam, J.C. 45, 124, 160, 162 Venkatachalapathy, A.R. 182n5 Vermes, G. 124–5, 145, 162 Von Rad, G. 17, 30 Vos, W. 139 Wacholder, B. 124 Wajdenbaum, P. 66, 67, 77, 78, 81, 83, 84, 85, 86, 88, 94 Walbank, F.W. 99n5 Watts, R.E. 30 Weinfeld, M. 80, 92, 98n1 Weippert, M. 2 Weissenberg, H. von 45, 46, 49–50, 51, 52, 54–5 Wellhausen, J. 16, 17, 123

207

AUTHOR INDEX

Wesselius, J.-W. 66, 77, 87 West, M.L. 76, 85 Westermann, C. 34 White Crawford, S.A. 51 White, S.A. 122 Whitehouse, R. 139 Whitelam, K. 2, 4–5, 188, 189, 190–1, 196n1 Wilhjelm, H. 180

Wilken, R.L. 37 Wise, M. 145 Wright, G.E. 17 Wüst, M. 2 Yardeni, A. 150n6 Young, I. 130, 131 Zimmerli, W. 30, 31

208