Cultural Memory in Biblical Exegesis 9781463234690

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Cultural Memory in Biblical Exegesis

Perspectives on Hebrew Scriptures and its Contexts 17

This series contains volumes dealing with the study of the Hebrew Bible, ancient Israelite society and related ancient societies, biblical Hebrew and cognate languages, the reception of biblical texts through the centuries, and the history of the discipline. The series includes monographs, edited collections, and the printed version of the Journal of Hebrew Scriptures, which is also available online.

Cultural Memory in Biblical Exegesis

Edited by

Pernille Carstens Trine Bjørnung Hasselbalch Niels Peter Lemche

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34 2012

Gorgias Press LLC, 954 River Road, Piscataway, NJ, 08854, USA www.gorgiaspress.com Copyright © 2012 by Gorgias Press LLC

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise without the prior written permission of Gorgias Press LLC. 2012

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ISBN 978-1-61719-165-7

ISSN 1935-6897

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Cultural memory in biblical exegesis / edited by Pernille Carstens,Trine Hasselbalch, Niels Peter Lemche. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Memory--Biblical teaching. 2. Bible. O.T.--Criticism, interpretation, etc. I. Carstens, Pernille. II. Hasselbalch, Trine. III. Lemche, Niels Peter. BS1199.M4C85 2012 220.6'7--dc23 2012036361 Printed in the United States of America

TABLE OF CONTENTS Acknowledgments ............................................................................. xi Abbreviations .................................................................................... xiii List of Contributors ......................................................................... xv Philip R. Davies Introduction ....................................................................................

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I: The Old Testament and Cultural Memory Pernille Carstens Old Testament as the Art of Remembering: Landscape as Paideia ....................................................................................... 13 Terje Stordalen ‘His Place Does not Recognize Him’ (Job 7:10): Reflections of Non-Inscribed Memory in the Book of Job ................. 31 John Van Seters Cultural Memory and the Invention of Biblical Israel .................. 53 Niels Peter Lemche The Copenhagen School and Cultural Memory ............................ 81 Izaak de Hulster Extending the Borders of Cultural Memory Research? ............... 95

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THE BIBLE AND CULTURAL MEMORY

II: Old Testament and Forgetting Ehud Ben Zvi The Study of Forgetting and the Forgotten in Ancient Israelite Discourse/s: Observations and Test Cases ....................... 139 Niels Peter Lemche Cultural Amnesia ............................................................................... 159 III: Methodological and Terminological Issues Sandra Hübenthal Social and Cultural Memory in Biblical Exegesis: The Quest for an Adequate Application ................................................. 175 David Chalcraft Jane Addams, the Devil Baby of Chicago and the (Classical) Sociology of Gendered Memory in Ancient Biblical Social Worlds ......................................................................... 201 IV: Cultural Memory Perspectives Applied on the Old Testament Rüdiger Schmitt Yahweh’s Wars in the Pentateuch and their Function for the Cultural Memory of Ancient Israel .................................... 229 Ida Fröhlich The Temple as a Symbol of Power in Inner-biblical and Postbiblical Exegesis .................................................................... 245 Dolores G. Kamrada Urim and Thummin ......................................................................... 267 Rüdiger Schmitt Cultural Memory and Family Religion .......................................... 291

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Pernille Carstens The Torah as Canon of Masterpieces: Remembering in Archives ................................................................................... 309 V: Cultural Memory Perspectives Applied Beyond the Old Testament Johannes Schnocks Was the Maccabean Revolt the ‘First Religiously Motivated War in History’ (J. Assmann)? Exegetical, Historical and Hermeneutical Contributions to a Recent Discussion .... 327 Emmanuel Nathan Memories of the Veil: The Covenantal Contrasts in ChristianJewish Encounter .................................................................. 343 Index of Authors .............................................................................. 367 Index of References ......................................................................... 375

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The present collection of essays is the first product of the research program Cultural Memory in Biblical Exegesis at the European Association of Biblical Society Cultural memory is a way of dealing with the past in social and cultural life. It transposes the notion of memory as individuals’ negotiation and representation of past experience (commemoration and amnesia) into the collective and cultural area. Cultural memory is the shared reproduction and recalling of what has been learned and retained, normally treated as ‘the cultural heritage.’ It also involves transformation and innovation. As opposed to individual memory, it brings social institutions and power to play. The notion of location and space (Landscape, ethnoscape, mental maps) is a major contributing factor in making the fragmented retrieved past a coherent whole. Cultural memories appear as palimpsests of material artifacts (including building and monuments), text, pictures and ritual practice. Especially relevant is the negotiation of cultural memory between local identity and global culture in this area. The purpose of this research program is to study how memory is inscribed and embodied in biblical culture and its surrounding area. When dealing with a new field in research several questions appear, such as those dealing with previous approaches relevant for the cultural memory research: i.e. historiography, folklore, tradition history. We need to join forces to open new gates to cultural memory in biblical and cognate studies, and to include a plethora of methods and perspectives in present research. Such collaborative efforts will support the much needed reflection on the relationship between the cultural memory approach and postcolonialism, globalism and epistemology.

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The field of cultural memory research in the volume is approached in case studies dealing with following issues: x

The relationship between the elite/official power and the small theology belonging to the everyday life. The little tradition and the local tradition. x The formation of the canon, the scripture as a product of the elite etc. and the question about authority. x Charter-myth as identity-marker. x The working of memory, i.e. political strategy as a didactic project—connected with landscape. x Epistemology and method, about collective memory in the researchers’ head. x Temple thinking and the idealized past. x Memory construction in Biblical ‘historiographies’ as national / corporate ideology / legitmation and identity formation. x Cultural amnesia / forgetfulness and the function of what is forgotten in biblical narratives—its role in symbolization of social power and authority. x Cultural memory as a term in humanisties and social sciences—critical perspectives on Assmann and Halbwachs. x Memory and counter-memory, memory construction as opposition. x Memory of wars as utopia / contra presentic, fictitious wars as a means for constructing exilic/post exilic identity. The role of intolerance and violence as means of reconstructing the past and constructing of monotheism. x Collections of books in the Bible as expressions of style and ‘good taste’ in education. x Remembrance of practice as means of political and religious propaganda. Group memory as fabricated in discourse and conversation. Traditionally the notion of ‘memory’ has mostly been conceived archivally. But the several contributions show this view to be

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more or less superseded by the ethical and political concerns related to memory. The biblical texts are seen as embodied or inscribed memory in construction of culture and society. If Biblical texts are reflections on culture and society, on what level are the texts a part of culture? In cultural memory studies we deal with context. Memorization is a process, it is not a historical approach, but it is consciously and unconsciously incorporated in the body and becomes visible as material culture, texts, rituals and monuments. This is the human context from which one should look upon memory and remembrance and the essays in this volume are of most importance for developing an adequate method or strategy for doing so. Warm thanks to the colleagues that took part in the sessions and invested their time both preparing the papers and making them into articles for this publication. We need to pull together in creating new knowledge for a common good. I thank warmly Professor Niels Peter Lemche and Post. Doc Trine Bjørnung Hasselbalch for the cooperation on this book—and we all want to express our thanks to the Gorgias Press, and especially Katie Stott being so helpful to us. We are grateful to research assistants Michael Perlt and Susan Godsk Weile for doing the final indexes, and for any kind of help we also express our gratitude to the rest of the staff of the Centre for Cultural Memory and Biblical Studies in Copenhagen, sponsored by The Danish Council for Independent Research. Pernille Carstens, Copenhagen December 2011

ABBREVIATIONS AJSL ANET AOAT ARM AThANT BAMA BASOR BWANT BZAR BZAW CBQ CD FAT HALOT HAT HCOT HTR JAB JANES JBL JHS JNES JQR JSJ JSOT

The American Journal of Semitic Languages Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament Alter Orient und Altes Testament Archives royales de Mari Abhandlungen zur Theologie des Alten und Neuen Testaments British Academic Monographs in Archaeology Bulletin of the American School of Oriental Research Beiträge zur Wissenschaft des Alten und Neuen Testaments Beihefte zur Zeitschrift für Altorientalische und Biblische Rechtsgeschichte Beiheft Zeitschrift für die alttestamentlichen Wissenschaft Catholic Biblical Quarterly Damascus Document Forschungen zum Alten Testament The Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament Handbuch zum Alten Testament Historical Commentary on the Old Testament Harvard Theological Review Journal for the Aramaic Bible Journal of the Ancient Near Eastern Society Journal of Biblical Literature Journal of Hebrew Scripture Journal of Near Eastern Studies Jewish Quarterly Review Journal for the Study of Judaism Journal for the Study of the Old Testament

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JSOTSup JTS KAI LSTS NRSV NTOA NTT OBO OTS PEFA RGG SBT SJOT SJSJ StUNT SWBAS TQ TUAT WMANT VT VTSup WUNT ZABR ZAW ZBK

ABBREVIATIONS

Journal for the Study of the Old Testament Supplement Studies Journal of Theological Studies Kanaanäischen und aramäischen Inschriften (eds. H. Donner & W. Röllig) Library of Second Temple Studies New Revised Standard Version Novum Testamentum et Orbis Antiquus Norsk Teologisk Tidsskrift Orbis Biblicus et Orientalis Oudtestamentiesche Studien Palestine Exploration Fund Annual Die Religionen in Geschichte und Gegenwart Studies in Biblical Theology Scandinavian Journal of the Old Testament Supplements to the Journal for the Study of Juda ism Studien und Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament The Social World of Biblical Antiquity Series Theologische Quartalschift Texte zur Umwelt des Alten Testaments Wissenschaftliche Monographien zum Alten und Neuen Testaments Vetus Testamentum Vetus Testamentum Supplements Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament Zeitschrift für altorientalische und biblische Rechtsgeschichte Zeitschrift für die alttestamentliche Wissenschaft Zürcher Bibelkommentare AT

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS Pernille Carstens Center leader, Bible and Cultural Memory, The University of Copenhagen, Denmark. David Chalcraft Department of Biblical Studies, The University of Sheffield, UK. Ida Fröhlich Pázmány Péter Catholic University. Piliscsaba, Hungary. Izaak de Hulster Faculty of Theology, Georg-August-University Göttingen. Sandra Hübenthal DFG-Forschungsprojekt ‘Identitätsbildung im Spiegel der Jesuserinnerung: Das Markusevangelium als kollektives Gedächtnis.’ Eberhard Karls Universität Tübingen, Germany. Dolores G. Kamrada Pázmány Péter Catholic University. Piliscsaba, Hungary. Niels Peter Lemche Department of Biblical Studies, The University of Copenhagen, Denmark.

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Emmanuel Nathan Katholieke Universiteit Leuven, Belgium. Rüdiger Schmitt Westfalische Wilhelms-Universität Münster, Germany. Johannes Schnocks Westfalische Wilhelms-Universität Münster, Germany. Terje Stordalen Faculty of Theology, University of Oslo, Norway. John Van Seters Waterloo, Ontario, Canada. Ehud Ben Zvi Department of History and Classics University of Alberta.

INTRODUCTION THE BIBLE AND CULTURAL MEMORY PHILIP R DAVIES ‘The good news is that social memory theory has finally found its way into Biblical Studies. The bad news is that it is often unclear what social memory theory really is about (Sandra Hübenthal).

Regardless of secularity and multiculturalism, the Bible is obviously a major component of Western culture, and necessarily so, since it has played a major part in creating it. It provides (admittedly through imperfect calculation) our reckoning of years (BC/AD); it functions as a thesaurus of narratives, persons, laws, ethical systems, myths; and it defines a world in which not only the existence but also the intervention of (a single) and benign God is presented as both natural and necessary (or to be denied in precisely these terms!) In these respects it exists not only as text but also as image (stained glass, oil, stone and many other materials) and as artifact, lodged in pulpits, homes, hospitals, libraries, schools and hotels (courtesy of the Gideons), sworn upon in a court of law. But, as the essays in this book testify, it provides us with a cultural memory. Its landscape, so long reimagined in Christian art, has in the last century and more been reimposed in Palestine by biblical archaeologists and Zionists for whom the ‘land of Israel’—never a political or social reality but an imagined religious domain—is being reclaimed, as its Jewish inhabitants would have it, from the past as much as from the remaining Palestinians. In this now materialized ‘land of

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Israel,’ modern sites are endowed with ancient biblical names, and ancient biblical ruins take their place alongside modern estates, encoding the collective memory and endorsing the identity of the modern Jewish resident, exhibiting a landscape in which past and present melt into each other and mutually derive their own significance. The biblical ‘promised land’ has been imposed on other landscapes, too, through so many colonial ventures (North, South and Central America1; Southern Africa), where the biblical myth of conquest was also actively commemorated by more recent civilizing and divinely-blessed ‘settlers’ displacing indigenous but divinely cursed ‘Canaanites.’ No other time or place in human history is so vividly present in the modern Western imagination as the ‘world of the Bible.’ The Bible is thus—in its various manifestations—what Nora calls a ‘site of memory’—‘any significant entity, whether material or non-material in nature, which by dint of human will or the work of time has become a symbolic element of the memorial heritage of any community’ (cited by Ben Zvi). Like all memory, cultural memory is a contemporary image of something perceived to belong to the past. Izaak de Hulster’s essay examines how cultural memory is not only related to past history (Vergangenheit), but also to existing places, rituals and customs. His essay offers one of several valuable introductions to the application of cultural memory in this book; he advocates in particular extending that notion to include a ‘mental map,’ that is, a ‘system of associated commonplaces, denoting a cognitive framework, constituted by a group’s shared understanding of the world which makes communication possible.’ By way of example, he cites Abraham as a component of the modern Dutch ‘mental map,’ pointing out elements in common and different between the three ‘Abrahamic’ religions and signalling the need to consider how far differences in memory between communities (representing differences in identity) need to be related on the one hand to historical roots and The notion of ‘manifest destiny,’ a phrase which invoked the idea of divine sanction for the territorial expansion of the United States, first appeared in print in 1845 and almost certainly lay behind such works as Albright’s From the Stone Age to Christianity, which celebrated the idea of a more advanced civilization conquering its divinely-given land. 1

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on the other hand to each other in a way that does not sustain antagonism and contrast, but preserves each distinct identity. This is clearly a crucial challenge, which entails any intelligent awareness of the difference between ‘history-as-memory’ and ‘history-as-fact,’ and a willingness to appreciate the function of memory as addressing present identity rather than past reality. Fundamentalist modes of belief, which possess increasingly powerful voices, cannot easily achieve this distinction and are likely to see the notion of ‘cultural memory’ as a threat. In his discussion of the Maccabean Revolt as ‘the first religiously motivated war in history’ (another idea from J. Assmann, who is rightly invoked several times in this book), Johannes Schnocks considers one implication of such a stance, asserting that there is no easy way to prevent people from trying to legitimate violence by interpreting the Bible literally, and recommending that it is the duty of the professional exegete and theologian to show in every single case that such interpretations are misguided. For there are indeed, ethical issues that the study of memory can and must raise: are there memories—violent, abusive ones— that ought to be discarded? Here the essay by Emmanuel Nathan is relevant: he treats Paul’s use of the image of a veiled (blinded) Judaism and an unveiled, clearly-seeing Christianity, and proceeds to show its later history in Christian images of a ‘veiled Moses,’ a trope that he elevates to the status of a myth. He concludes, in the words of Jonathan Sacks, ‘Memory can’t change the past, but it can help us have the courage to change the future.’ Meanwhile, in the present, Jews and Christians in the West and Jews and Muslims further East battle away with their respective conflicting memories, all of them, of course, held to be ‘the past.’ The Bible’s narratives, then, constitute part of our own (pre)history, a received cultural memory embellished by centuries of rite and interpretation. But they are, in their original forms accounts of ancient cultural memories themselves. Hence we can, and should, consider not only what Sandra Hübenthal calls an ‘aesthetic of reception,’ but an ‘aesthetic of production.’ The modern study of ‘biblical history,’ which not so long ago was still essentially a rationalizing of the ‘sacred story,’ has recently stepped into the domain of the social sciences as anthropology and archaeology play an increasingly dominant role. (It needs to be underscored again and again

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that while archaeology employs natural-scientific tools, it remains, like the other social sciences, a hermeneutical enterprise—soft, not hard science—and most of all when being translated into history). The increasing divergence between archaeologically and biblically reconstructed stories of the past, along with an awareness of the differences between the kinds of data that artifacts afford compared with written narratives, have reversed the relationship of archaeology and text from one of harmonization to one of critical confrontation and dissonance. Niels Peter Lemche offers in this volume a typically robust demonstration of the shortcomings of previous methods of doing ‘biblical history’ and the necessity of a method better adapted to the nature of the biblical narratives as memories, and not records, of the past. Some historians now wish to dispense entirely with the biblical narratives, but the majority would prefer to find a way of engaging with both sets of data in an appropriate manner: that is, both substantively and methodologically. One option is to bring a social-scientific perspective to bear on the texts as well as the material remains, and to exploit the perspective of memory studies in configuring the canonized narrative as a web of cultural memories that do not exist in a vacuum of literary tropes but in socio-historical contexts. In so doing, the biblical scholar can utilize the theoretical foundations laid down in the discourses of neuro-sciences, sociology, psychology, history and cultural sciences generally—and indeed, also contribute to many of these discourses. So biblical studies can now equally exploit both the production of texts and the reception of those texts as cultural memory of ancient Judeans and later Jews and Christians. Indeed, should these two be distinguished, or do they represent a continuum, various stages of an ongoing ‘memory-process’? We can return to this question presently. For the moment let us consider the biblical narratives as the result of the production of cultural memory, necessarily by an elite scribal community. This does not mean we should automatically assume the notion of an elite ‘official memory’ of ancient Judah or Samaria, somehow transmitted to the masses which then faithfully absorbed it. The differences of record between Kings and Chronicles or Joshua and Judges or Ezra and Nehemiah (memories later reconciled into a single narrative), suggest underly-

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ing conflicts of memory even within this elite, reflecting disagreements over identity. These are nicely illustrated by John Van Seters in a wide-ranging review of collective memories within the Bible, who concludes that ‘there was already in the late Persian period a strong dissenting voice to any ‘orthodoxy’ in the collective memory, as reflected in Ezra, and to the indoctrination of a single identity for the Jews of Yehud and the Diaspora. Lurking behind this statement is the question of how far the scriptural canon reflects a clearly ‘Jewish’ identity and how far it merely provides a basis for constructing one. If such memories do not always begin with the inventions of the elite, it is also possible to resurrect memories from a nonliterate world that have fed the text. And while the ‘literary’ memory of the text somehow (we remain unclear about the mechanisms) imposed itself as the collective memory of Judaism (thus self-defining itself as various forms of ‘Israel’), it clearly did not displace other memories that still surface in other texts. As Terje Stordalen demonstrates in his study of Job, ‘the exchange could also go in the opposite direction. And in any event, scribal memory was not alone: it would have been part of a much richer web of largely non-inscribed memory.’ The examples of memory that he presents ‘have physical objects or bodily procedures as their media: grave monuments, farming procedures, ritual, singing, recitation, domestic discourse, embodied social heritage, embodied awareness of the “agency of the land”.’ It is important not to forget that some cultural memories (again, see below) are part of the fabric of everyday life, close to what de Hulster’s ‘mental maps,’ and especially those concerning the dead, about which Rüdiger Schmitt also writes here. Memory is the mode in which dead ancestors still function as members of society. Even today in many societies they represent the relationships that bind the living. The cemetery is an important suburb (on the perpetuity of ancestors, see e.g. Stavrakpoulou 2010) No less important to the biblical scholar than ‘remembering’ is forgetting; and the inclusion of a section on this mechanism of construction of the past is especially helpful to the biblical scholar, for as Ehud Ben Zvi demonstrates, it is not only the ‘empty land’

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that signifies the deliberate omission of aspects of the past.2 Such ‘amnesia’ (to borrow the term used here by Niels Peter Lemche), as argued by Freud of the individual psyche, often masks potentially traumatic events that can fundamentally dictate the behaviour of the subject. Another respect in which memory studies can draw upon psychology for help is the well-known phenomenon of ‘confabulation,’ where fictions are instinctively generated to fill gaps in memory. Indeed, it is vital to understand the creative and revisionary character of individual human remembering as much as its capacity for genuine recollection. ‘Memory’ must never be understood solely as a trace of a real past (which it often is not), but rather as an image of the past that the individual or group experiences (or inherits)—and which, without the aid of the kind of primary sources available to modern societies, can be the only form of ‘history’ that exists.3 It is for this reason that modern arguments about the ‘historicity’ of the Bible or the ‘historical intention’ of its authors are so far off the mark, and even the claim for ‘early dating’ of sources does not eliminate the creation or distortion or even amnesia. Indeed, whether the accuracy of recall can be indexed in terms of time lapse between event and record is dubious. The third part of this book, on methodology and terminological issues, opens with the observation quoted at the head of this Introduction. For the concept of cultural memory can easily become so elastic that its usefulness is diminished. Because the themes of social, collective and cultural memory have become so important in recent research, and because the mechanisms of memorializing are so complex, it is vital to maintain precision in our study of the Bible as in any kind of literary expression of cultural Among the few important works on this topic to be added to the bibliographies in this volume is Paul Ricœur’s Memory, History, Forgetting (2004). 3 Numerous studies of eyewitness recollection, performed under laboratory conditions, demonstrate the extent to which even short-term memory is affected by cognitive and affective process that show how memory elaborates on or distorts events recently witnessed. While the analogy of human memory cannot be applied with absolute precision to cultural memory, it is easy to see how even short-term memory distortion and confabulation are both operative in collective memory, where the processes can of course also be deliberate. 2

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memory. Here we can return to some questions raised earlier. Hübenthal explains the important difference between Erinnerung and Gedächtnis and between ‘social,’ ‘collective’ and ‘cultural’ memory. Whether or not we agree precisely with her distinction, some distinction is certainly needed. In German, the terms Gedächtnis and Erinnerung refer clearly to two different things, but in English both notions are most often simply called memory (although Erinnerung is better translated as ‘recollection’ or ‘recall’). The word ‘memory’ embraces a whole spectrum of closely related, but distinct meanings: ‘remembrance, recall, recollection, reminiscence, souvenir, commemoration, memorization.’ There is also the distinction between ‘communicative’ and cultural ‘memory,’ which relies on the fieldwork of Vansina in Africa (e.g. Vansina 2006), delimiting three generations as the sphere of ‘living’ (communicative, and potentially more contested) memory, and beyond that ‘cultural (less contested, normative) memory—with what is termed a ‘floating gap’ between. Hübenthal raises the very interesting question whether the gospels consisted largely of communicative rather than cultural memory, if the contents were inscribed within three generations of the events they narrate; at all events, as canonized texts, they then become Christian cultural memory. The question one might pose here is, of course, whether any of the gospels rely on first-hand recollection, or if the distinction is valid for written texts as it may be for oral. In his essay on family religion, Rüdiger Schmitt also makes the distinction between communicative and cultural memory over burials and burial-related ritual places: the fictional tradition about Rachel’s tomb shows, in his view, that we can distinguish between a ritually generated communicative short-term memory for the family, clan and community and a national collective memory generated by texts, images and monumental structures. Clearly, cultural memory approaches do not avoid the questions of oral prehistory that have long occupied biblical scholars. Even a canonized ‘cultural memory,’ while fixed in textual form(s) can continue to develop orally or textually. To compare the modern celebration of the birth of Jesus (midwinter date, oxen and asses, three [named] kings) with the two New Testament narratives in Matthew and Luke will show to see how richly the story of the

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birth has evolved, including conflation of these narratives into one. But even comparing the two biblical narratives with each other— their different characters, motivations, circumstances and events— shows how far these have traveled from the event to which they refer: are they ‘communicative memory’ or already ‘cultural memory’? And what is the relationship of ‘memory’ to midrash? On a different issue, David Chalcraft’s sociological contribution to this book explains the fundamental difference between a social constructionist view of social reality (e.g. Berger and Luckmann 1966, probably well-known to most biblical scholars) and a social realist view. A social constructionist approach to social life holds that no elements of belief and ideology are ‘given’; social actors do not encounter already-given realities. Rather, the realities they encounter have been created by other actors in society and some are more or less permanent whilst others are fluid and in a state of emergence. If we transfer this distinction to ‘the past’ we arrive at a nice model of the difference between a positivist notion of historical research (‘what happened’) and a memory-based one (how was the past imaged, by whom, and why?). Memory is also a key issue in feminist studies (one needs only to recall the title of Schüssler Fiorenza’s In Memory of Her), and Chalcraft uses the lens of the American sociologist and social worker Jane Addams, suggesting from her work a further difference between ‘stories, poems and maxims in the Hebrew Bible that appear to have originated from triumph and victory, on the one hand, and those texts that, rather than showing a reconciliation to past suffering, actually keep the memory of violence and abuse alive, on the other.’ Again we are driven to consider less the precise circumstances of the past than the function of its contemporary image in personal and communal lives. Memory is not properly measured by its accuracy but by its meaning. In his essay on ‘Yahweh’s Wars,’ Rüdiger Schmitt also addresses the question of what strategy governs the construction of the cultural memory characterized by Assmann as ‘counterpresentic’ (kontrapräsentisch) such as the ‘holy war’ portrait in Deut 1–3 and Joshua 6–8. This kind of ‘memory’—in this case closer to confabulation than recollection—offers a hopeful future in the context of a present suffering. Schmitt’s essay also reveals the way

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in which previous historical treatments of the conquest account, which ran up against fairly definitive archaeological rebuttal, failed because of a lack of appreciation of their proper nature and function. Considering and evaluating them as cultural memory does not so much undermine their value (as historically-minded scholars, and literalists conclude) but redeems them from such abuse by asking questions to which they can respond. I have not sought to systematically review or even mention every contribution to this book, but only to highlight some of the major issues that they raise. However, apart from these highlights the reader will surely find numerous pointers towards the ways in which cultural memory will serve biblical scholars in their search for both historical and contemporary meanings. BIBLIOGRAPHY Albright, W.F. 1942 From the Stone Age to Christianity (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press). Berger, Peter L and Thomas Luckmann 1966 The Social Construction of Reality (Garden City, NY: Doubleday). Ricoeur, Paul 2004

Memory, History, Forgetting (ET Chicago: University of Chicago Press).

Schussler Fiorenza, Elizabeth, 1992 In Memory of Her: A Feminist Theological Reconstruction of Christian Origins (New York, Crossroads). Stavrakopoulou, F. 2010 Land of Our Fathers: The Roles of Ancestor Veneration in Biblical Land Claims (New York/London: T&T Clark). Vansina, Jan 1965

Oral Tradition: a Study in Historical Methodology (ET Chicago: Aldine).

OLD TESTAMENT AS THE ART OF REMEMBERING: LANDSCAPE AS PAIDEIA

PERNILLE CARSTENS TO GATHER INFORMATION Hugin and Munin are a pair of ravens associated with the Norse god Odin. They travel the world bearing news and information they have collected to Odin. Hugin is ‘thought’ and Munin is ‘memory.’ They are sent out at dawn to gather information and return in the evening. They perch on the god’s shoulders and whisper the news into his ears.1 When we want to describe a society and a culture we need obviously to collect or gather as much information as possible about the culture ‘on its own terms’; to have a closer look at selfreflection in the culture; how the culture evaluates itself, refers to

1 From Roman mythology Janus was the god of gates, door, doorways, but also beginnings and endings. He is most often depicted having two faces or heads, facing in opposite directions, to see both future and past. In Etrurian mythology we know a two-headed god named Culdans. He is god for the door, openings and probably there exists a relationship to the hittite god Gulsant, related to the word Güls, which means ‘mark’ or ‘to influence,’ cf. Usmû or Isimud is a minor god who functions as a vizir, or minister, to the god Ea. He acts as a messenger. Ea is the sweet water and god of wisdom. The name Usmû possibly means ‘with two faces.’ Iconographically he often appears telling Ea what he registers: With one face seeking in the past, with the other one looking into the future.

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the past, to something we could call tradition for instance. Can we identify a layer in the culture itself that operates with the past?

Odin from Lejre, from 900, found 2009. Height 17,5 mm. The god is sitting on his throne, called Lidskjalv, with the two birds Hugin and Munin Often I wish to have two such ravens whispering in my ear every evening. I want to send them out over the material, I am investigating and trying to understand. Is it not so, that we want to understand the past, the past we aim our life and research at? As a means to that end, cultural memory acts as a tool. I regard my work with the biblical texts as an engagement with a certain culture: The near eastern and the Mediterranean. I try to uncover its structure and to investigate the context, to get into a deeper understanding, at the end of the day, because it is a part of my own cultural heritage. Archaeological and textual studies as well may not require new targets for fieldwork; what we need is a reassessment and reuse of data already in hand, or as Pierre Nora puts it in his article ‘Between Memory and history: Les Lieux de Mémoire’: ‘This is what makes the history of lieux de mémoire at once banal and extraordi-

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nary. Obvious topics, classical material, sources ready at hand, the least sophisticated methods: one would think we were returning to long outmoded historical methods. But such is not the case…’2 But what can be done? Through texts, landscapes and monuments we can contribute by those dry channels where the living memory once coursed reconstructing the frameworks that guided memory, observing what was remembered and what was forgotten. If I sent Hugin and Munin out to look at the material from the Old Testament; I would ask them if they had observed any idea of remembering, memory and oblivion. They would return, but only with fragments. They would bring sentences such as: ‘But take care and watch yourselves closely, so as neither to forget the things that your eyes have seen nor to let them slip from your mind all the days of your life; make them known to your children and your children’s children’ (Deut 4:9f.). ‘…take care that you do not forget the LORD, who brought you out of the land of Egypt…’ (Deut 6:12). ‘…but remember the LORD your God, for it is he who gives you power to get wealth’ (Deut 8:18). ‘If you do forget the LORD your God and follow other gods to serve and worship them, I solemnly warn you….’ (Deut 8:19f.).

2 Pierre Nora, ‘Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire,’ Representations 26 (1989), 7–24, 24. Cf. Susan E. Alcock, ‘ The Reconfiguration of Memory in the Eastern Roman Empire,’ in Susan E. Alcock, Terence N. D’Altroy, Kathleen D. Morrison and Carla M. Sinopoli, Empires. Perspectives from Archaeology and History (Cambrigde: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 323–50, 327.

16

PERNILLE CARSTENS

TO GATHER INFORMATION AS MUSEUM James Bradburne, director at Palazzo Strozzi in Firenze, was visiting Copenhagen in March 2008 for a conference on Memory and Oblivion—together with Paul Connerton. Bradburne had some reflections on how to make museums today. Museums of makers’ memories: 1. The museum must wean itself from the need to dispense the truth from on high—it must give up being top-down. 2. The museum does not make culture, it does not shape identity, it does not have all the answers. 3. The museum preserves culture, registers identity—it has questions. In the same direction Robert Archibald, director, Missouri Historical Museum says: ‘T he question is whether we can really still keep telling the same stories the same way and assume that we can provide lives of decent quality for those who follow us in our places….part of the solution is to find new stories that have new meanings and new value systems implicit in them…I don’t think it is the job of the historian or the museum to create the story. Our job is to create the context …’3

Our job is to create context; this was certainly a challenge, and I have been working on it since. The following unfolds this approach. I do not pretend to do anything else in this paper than to mark out some ways of working with the cultural memory approach in our field. I’m not giving a full scale investigation of any biblical text, but I try to implement an approach which puts text, artifact and landscape on the same footing. Every piece of information may be helpful in writing the history of culture in our field.

3 Slide from the powerpoint presentation of James Bradburne, Director at Palazzo Strozzi, Firenze, Copenhagen 2008, http://www. bradburne.org/.

THE OLD TESTAMENT AS THE ART OF REMEMBERING

17

LANDSCAPE Both Connerton and Halbwachs conclude in their research, that collective memory cannot exist without a reference to a specific spatial framework—I want here to use the term landscape. Memory is closely integrated with place. Objects and representations are temples, tombs, other archaeological artifacts, iconography etc.; their reflections in language as metaphors; and finally landscapes and natural features. Narratives and ritual behavior are metaphorical ‘places’ of memory.4 Narratives are histories and other forms of information about the past. Ritual behavior is shown in processions, mortuary practices, and votive deposition. I would like to stress something we, with Susan Alcock, could call ‘imperial interference in the landscape.’5 It implies a change of cultural memory on a location. Here the example is related to the Roman period in Greece—under especially Julius Caesar and Augustus. These interferences are chiefly to be found on the western side of the peninsula. There is a fundamental reworking of community and cultic structures, the social framework of people’s lives. The Roman intervention introduces new residents and new memory communities: groups of foreign businessmen, or imported residents. ‘Around this time occurred one of the most radical alterations ever observed in Greek settlement: The emptying of the rural landscape as settlements.’6 A further example of cultural memory being changed is found in Caesarea. Here the Roman occupation transports its own ‘cultural memory’ embedded in Greek artifacts into a new setting and thus creates a new cultural memory. The two following examples are from Caesarea in the Roman period: captured Greek figures being placed in the portico reused, in a new social and political context. This iconoclasm is a means of political control, a frag-

Or with Nora lieux de memoire. Alcock 2001, 332. 6 Alcock 2001, 332. 4 5

18

PERNILLE CARSTENS

mentation.7 This was another challenge for me: The emptying out of landscape.

Caesarea Maritima: ‘Byzantine Esplanade’

Caesarea Maritima: ‘Byzantine Esplanade’ 7 Thanks to assistant professor Troels Nyrup, Department of Classical Studies, University of Aarhus, for the material from Caesarea Maritima.

THE OLD TESTAMENT AS THE ART OF REMEMBERING

19

IMPERIAL INFILLING AND REUSING ‘Some very odd things happened in the Greek East under Roman rule. A 500 years-old-temple was carefully demolished, transported, and rebuilt in the centre of the city of Athens ... A shrine dedicated to worship of the Roman emperor was placed inside a Bronze Age tholos tomb some 2000 years old.’8 This kind of reconfiguration of memory was earlier judged as ‘escapist nostalgia,’ and therefore unsympathetically—according to Alcock, this is how we often evaluate the presence of the past in the present; what we see, or hear about, is collective memory. But people remember and forget their past according to the needs and stimuli of their present; and out of all this cultural memory is born. Society remembers its past as its present, and the future is reshaped through the interventions of others. Social memory is characterized as a dynamic and powerful process where memories are dramatically transformed and manipulated. There exists a debate over this extraordinary reuse of classical material; what have been called ‘imperial infilling.’9 There is no single motivation that can explain this kind of reuse; it is an obvious way of controlling the memory ‘so our monuments and our texts and artifacts have embodied “horizons of meaning”.’10 Is social memory a helpful tool for analying empires, so that their past—what was forgotten or what was remembered—helps to define parameters? Do we have tools to describe the presence of the past in the present? People remember and forget their past according to the needs and stimuli of their present; out of all this cultural memory is born, as mentioned before, but how could we register such things in our analysis of our material? I want to give you some examples from an area rather familiar to me, namely the Lazio-province in Italy, the land of the Etrus-

Alcock 2001, 323. Alcock 2001, 336. 10 Alcock 2001, 345. This is very much the same as to look upon the material as an index, see Carl Knappett, Lambros Malafouris (eds.), Material Agency, Towards a Non-Anthropocentric Approach (New York: Springer, 2008) and Alfred Gell. Art and Agency, an Anthropological Theory (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998). 8 9

20

PERNILLE CARSTENS

cans. The most well known cities of Etruria are Cerveteri from the 9-8 th. century BCE, Tarquinia, Tuscania and Viterbo. The necropolis, close to the present day villages of Barbarano Romana, Blera and Sutri, are all rock cut tombs in tufa stone and the area is volcanic. The examples will show that we have to differentiate between different forms of re-use. Re-use is not always imperial infilling, sometimes it continues previous usages, within the same sphere—otherwise reusing could be to something completely different, sometimes fragmented, like the captured statues from Caesarea. The chamber tombs in Sutri are arranged in two or three rows. Once the chamber tombs have been reused, or transformed, the largest first as a Mithraeum 3rd century BCE and later on to a Christian Church. This is an example of reusing as a continuum, from tomb to temple to church in a sacred area, as the tomb properly is.

The Etruscan necropolis at Sutri The next example is from Barbarano Romana, formerly San Giuliano, inhabited from the 6th Century BCE. The burial ground lies close to the present day village and is now part of a Parco Regionale Marturanum, in a thick silent forest. The tombs belong

THE OLD TESTAMENT AS THE ART OF REMEMBERING

21

to the rock-type, and are a cornerstone in Etruscan funerary architecture.

Etruscan rock cut tombs at Barbarano Romano, Tombe a Portico

Etruscan rock cut tomb in Barbarano Romano

22

PERNILLE CARSTENS

The examples from the city wall in Barbarano show another form of reusing:

Rock cut tomb / garage at Barbarano Romano

THE OLD TESTAMENT AS THE ART OF REMEMBERING

23

Rock cut tomb / garage at Barbarano Romano What happens when things are embedded in new contexts? In the Sancta Maria church in Blera, in Lazio, we have an illustrative example like that. A closer look at the altar in the church reveals that it is in fact a roman sarcophagus. We are obviously still in the religious sphere, but does the sarcophagus change meaning when changing context?

24

PERNILLE CARSTENS

The altar at the Santa Maria church at Blera; a transformed Roman sarcophagus, depicting the Phaedra myth Here we seem to have an obvious example of ‘imperial infilling’ from the Christian period. When decapitating the Greek statues in Caesarea the Romans emphasized their power. But is the re-use of the figures, the placing of them in a portico in Caesarea, just ideological manipulation, or are the statues still statues in a sense—and in what sense? The next example is a niche in the Etruscan rock tomb, having been carved by the Romans for placing urns. Nowadays local Catholics have placed a Madonna and the local patron saint in the niche—this is a reuse focusing on the sacred place, from tomb to urn niche and to memorial place for praying or remembering, marked by a Madonna figure. To place a Madonna figure today, or to carve a niche for urns, is a marker of the past saying we refer to the past, the ancient past, because we belong to that history. Such a reference lends authenticity to the site.

THE OLD TESTAMENT AS THE ART OF REMEMBERING

25

Cult niche, Barbarano Romano What I try to do here is to organize known material in a new way to get to a more precise description and a deeper understanding of context. It is possible to differentiate between several levels of reusing. I have not finished thinking of those categories concerning reusing and transformation. Hopefully we could start thinking in the same way about the cultural memory ‘level’ in texts as well.

26

PERNILLE CARSTENS

TEXTS ABOUT DEPORTATIONS—EXAMPLES OF THE ING OF LANDSCAPE.

EMPTY-

‘Understanding the position of the vanquished not only involves reconstructing their political system, but also the geographical location of their territory … and their past history of interaction with the enemy.’11 This also seems to be the case in The Old Testament. In 2 Kings 17:5 we read: ‘T hen the king of Assyria invaded all the land and came to Samaria; for three years he besieged it. In the ninth year of Hoshea, the king of Assyria captured Samaria; he carried the Israelites away to Assyria. He placed them in Halah, on the Habor, the river of Gozan, and in the cities of the Medes.’

And further in the same chapter, 2 Kings 17:24: ‘T he 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…’

In 2 Kings 18:11f.: ‘The king of Assyria carried the Israelites away to Assyria, settled them in Halah, on the Habor, the river of Gozan, and in the cities of the Medes, because they did not obey the voice of the Lord their God but transgressed his covenant…’ From the text about Sargon II we have a description of a parallel situation: the imperial infilling, emptying out of the land: ‘At the begi[nning] of my royal rule, I …the town of the Sama] rians I besieged, conquered for the god … who let me achieve this my triumph… I led away as prisoners 27.290 inhabitants of it and equipped from among them soldiers to man 50 chariots for my royal corps…The town I rebuilt better than it was before and settled therein people from countries which I myself had conquered.’ (Examples

11 Susan E. Alcock, Graecia Capta, the Landscapes of Roman Greece (Cambridge; Cambridge University Press, 1996), 131.

THE OLD TESTAMENT AS THE ART OF REMEMBERING

27

from ‘7. Sargon II (721-705) The fall of Samaria’ (ANET 284: 10–17). 12

And from the same passage: ‘I crushed the tribes of Tamud, Ibadidi, Marsimanu, and Haiapa, the Arabs who live, far away, in the desert and who know neither overseers nor officials and who had not yet brought their tribute to any king. I deported their survivors and settled them in Samaria.’ (ANET 286:120–125).13

In Assyrian ideology this destructive activity makes sense in itself, as a punishment of opposition to the god Ashur and the king, his military agent. This destructive moment is succeeded by constructive action: the destroyed royal palace and local elite are replaced by a provincial Assyrian palace to house Assyrian officials.14 This is a process of assimilation from the imperial point of view. From a local point of view it is no doubt a destruction of a culture. I now want to bring up an example from a local point of view, trying to tell the history from another angle, not from the elite or the conqueror. Here a pueblo Indian retells the Spanish invasion: ‘When I was a graduate student at the University of New Mexico I was assigned to task of doing oral histories of the local Native Indians. I interviewed Tony Lucero. Tony’s people have inhabited the Rio Grande Valley for thousands of years. I asked Tony about what happened according to his tribal traditions on the day the Spanish first arrived in the Rio Grande Valley south of Albequerque. Tony looked K. Lawson Younger jr., ‘T he Deportations of the Israelites,’ JBL 117 (1998), 201-27; M. Cogan, ‘Judah under Assyrian Hegemony: A Reexamination of Imperialism and Religion,’ JBL 112 (1993), 403–14 and S. Yamada, The Construction of the Assyrian Empire (Leiden: Brill, 2000). 13 No 5, Prayer of Arnuwanda and Asminikal to the Sun-goddess of Arinna about the Ravages of the Kaska: ‘ They plundered silver and gold, rhyta and cups of silver, gold and copper, your implements of bronze, and your garments ... the scattered the priest, the holy priest ... the musicians, the singers, the cooks, the bakers, the plowmen, and the gardeners, and they made them their slaves’ (ANET 399, 25). 14 Mario Liverani, Israel’s History and the History of Israel (London: Equinox, 2005), 149. 12

28

PERNILLE CARSTENS

and said ‘we got on our horses and rode into mountains’ gesturing at the line of hills on the horizons.’ As a young anthropologist, I said the obvious: ‘but that can’t be true—you didn’t have horses until after the Spanish arrived.’ Tony walked slowly back into adobe home in which he lived and came back with a big book under his arm. He held it out, it was an anthropology textbook: ‘If you wanted that answer, why didn’t you just look it up?’ 15

What do people do to handle a difficult past? Oblivion or long term forgetting is one way to solve the problems; or remembering. The angle in 2 Kings 17 is the annalistic, not taking part in the suffering connected to the deportation. 2 Kings 18:11 points to the transgression of ‘the covenant of the Lord their God’ as an explanation. So, the ‘will of God’ is a factor in cultural memory. If we remember Bob Archibald’s words about making museums: ‘T he question is whether we can really still keep telling the same stories the same way and assume that we can provide lives of decent quality for those who follow us in our places….part of [the] solution is to find new stories that have new meanings and new value systems implicit them…I don’t think it is the job of the historian or the museum to create the story. Our job is to create the context …’

In 2 Kings we found both an annalistic and a theological or religious context. DIDACTISM In different landscape studies several episodes of imperial interference in the landscape appear. In my view we have in 2 Kings 17 an example of a fundamental reworking of cultural memory (community and cultic structures) under Assyrian control. It is an emptying out of the landscape and a reusing of the area due to the Assyrian 15 Robert Archibald, Director, Missouri Historical Museum, http://www.mohistory.org/welcome; A Place to Remember. Using History to Build Community (Oxford: Altamira Press, 1999), 89ff.

THE OLD TESTAMENT AS THE ART OF REMEMBERING

29

settlement, i.e. a reconfiguration of the landscape. Why do we have this passage in 2 Kings? Why is it important to remember this punishment? Should this now memorial landscape in Samaria not be redeployed? Is it reasonable to regard the intention in the National Epic a kind of paideia—the remembrance creating a kind of national identity. ‘Keep these words that I am commanding you today in your heart. Recite them to your children and talk about them when you are at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you rise.’ (Deut. 6:4) ‘But take care and watch yourselves closely, so as neither to forget the things that your eyes have seen nor to let them slip from your mind all days of your life; make them known to your children and your children’s children.’ (Deut. 4:9)

Paideia is always related to the national identity, the nomos, the law, and to the history of the people. In the Torah, we have a text explaining for the reader how it happens that Samaria falls. The emptying of the land by the Assyrians is a part of the National Epic. The episode gives identity, it relates the Israelites to the area from where they were deported. ‘T his occurred because the people of Israel had sinned against the LORD their God, who had brought them out of the land of Egypt under the hand of Pharaoh king of Egypt.’ (2 Kgs. 17:7)

This collective memory is the matrix of the writing of history, the creation of oneself as a nation, as an ethnic group or identity; it even works in the creation of nostalgia. Manipulation of memories is common, and we find examples in the Old Testament as well. Those who could control the past could direct the present. But how do societies remember? Landscape is one of the domains for cultural memory research.

‘HIS PLACE DOES NOT RECOGNIZE HIM’ (JOB 7:10): REFLECTIONS OF NON-INSCRIBED MEMORY IN THE BOOK OF JOB TERJE STORDALEN The memory perspective has been important in humanist research of the last some two decades, and recently also in biblical studies. Studies of ancient Hebrew memory have had a tendency to emphasize its written forms—not unreasonably, since biblical literature is the main source of evidence. Writing at the time was confined to the scribal class ‘who were part of the apparatus of state administration, economically and ideologically.’ Therefore the memory promoted by biblical writings is seen as an elite phenomenon that ‘fed and absorbed into the public memory, through public recitation, by word of mouth, and ultimately by formal instruction and by being adopted into popular liturgy.’1 It is obvious that the identities enshrined in biblical writings would often be elitist. However, scribal literature would not have had a monopoly on the construction of collective memory in early Jewish societies.2 Moreover, shared identities and collective memories were hardly invented ex novo at the scribal desk. If they were in fact absorbed in common culture, one Davies 2008, 113, who also makes a distinction between biblical stories and folk memory and compares the function of ancient Hebrew scribes to those of ‘Orwell’s famous Ministry of Truth.’ 2 Alcock 2002, 2, 18, 23–28, etc. addresses the problem in relying solely on surviving documentary evidence when recovering past collective memory. 1

31

32

TERJE STORDALEN

would imagine that they had some public resonance at the outset and that they had gone through a process of negotiation and interpretation during its formation and its popularization. Researchers should therefore try to form more precise ideas about exchange between collective memory in popular culture and that of scribes and other elites. The purpose of this essay is to start contributing to such research. For the occasion I would focus on a clearly elitist production: the Book of Job. This composition reflects the presence of, and scribal reflection upon, what Paul Connerton called non inscribed memory; that is, memory linked to bodily practices and topographic locations. Such memory is very unlikely to have been produced, transmitted, or maintained primarily in elitist circles.3 TOPOGRAPHY AND MEMORY IN THE BOOK OF JOB Space and place have important functions for the formation of memory. The classical passage on the significance of place to memory is Cicero’s narrative on Simon of Keos who remembered people through their associations to specific locations in a room.4 The use of place as means of remembering flourished in ars memorandi (Yates 1966). Recently notions of place have been transformed into prominent categories in the study of collective memory, for instance in Halbwachs’ (1941) la topographie, Nora’s (1984) les lieux de mémoire, or Aleida Assmann’s (1999) Erinnerungsräume. On this basis a number of passages in the Book of Job attract attention. Several of these are philologically difficult, which is evident already in translations offered in Western bibles and exegetical commentaries. I limit myself to offering germane philological comments in the footnotes. Relevant exegetical matters will be treated in the text below:

Connerton 1989, 4f. In his first, much celebrated, book Connerton coined the concept non-inscribed memory and associated it primarily to bodily practices. In the sequel Connerton 2009, 5 etc. the perspective includes also places and topography. 4 Cicero, De oratore II, lxxxvi (paragraphs 351–54), see also the exposition in section lxxxvii. 3

‘HIS PLACE DOES NOT RECOGNIZE HIM’

7:10

33

He returns no more to his home, his place does not recognize him.

8:18

16:18

18:16–217

‫לֹא־יָ ׁשּוב עֹוד ְל ֵביתֹו‬ ‫א־יַכ ֶירּנּו עֹוד‬ ִּ ֹ ‫וְ ל‬ ‫ְמקֹמֹו‬ 5 6 If one destroys him at his place, ‫ם־יְב ְל ֶעּנּו ִּמ ְמקֹומֹו‬ ַ ‫ִּא‬ it will deny him: ‘I have never seen you!’ ‫וְ ִּכ ֶחׁש ּבֹו לֹא‬ ‫יתיָך‬ ִּ ‫ְר ִּא‬ O earth, do not hide my blood, ‫ל־ת ַכ ִּסי ָד ִּמי‬ ְ ‫ֶא ֶרץ ַא‬ let there be no resting place for my cry! ‫ל־יְהי ָמקֹום‬ ִּ ‫וְ ַא‬ ‫ְלזַ ֲע ָק ִּתי‬ Down below his root dries out, ‫יִּבׁשּו‬ ָ ‫ִּמ ַת ַחת ָׁש ָר ָׁשיו‬ and up above his branches wither. ‫יִּמל ְק ִּצירֹו‬ ַ ‫ּומ ַמ ַעל‬ ִּ The memory about him perishes in the land, ‫רֹו־א ַבד‬ ָ ‫זִּ ְכ‬ ‫י־א ֶרץ‬ ָ ִּ‫ִּמּנ‬ he has no name in the streets. ‫ל־פנֵ י־חּוץ׃‬ ְ ‫א־ׁשם לֹו ַע‬ ֵ ֹ ‫וְ ל‬ They are pushed from light to darkness, ‫יֶה ְד ֻפהּו ֵמאֹור‬ ְ ‫ֶאל־ח ֶֹשְך‬ chased away from the world. ‫ּומ ֵת ֵבל יְ נִּ ֻדהּו׃‬ ִּ He has no offspring, no posterity in his people, ‫לֹא נִּ ין לֹו‬ ‫וְ לֹא־נֶ ֶכד ְּב ַעמֹו‬ 8 there is no survivor from his camp. ‫גּוריו׃‬ ָ ‫וְ ֵאין ָש ִּריד ִּּב ְמ‬

On account of his day people of the west shudder, ‫ַעל־יֹומֹו נָ ַׁשמּו ַא ֲחר ֹנִּ ים‬

In the context, the referent for the pronoun would be the tree. Given the convention to see humans as plants (below), I render the masculine pronoun. The verb means ‘swallow’ but is read as a general figure for destruction, cf. Clines 1989, 200. 6 Habel 1985,169, following Gordis deletes the first ‫ מ‬in ‫ ממקומו‬and renders the place as grammatical subject. Clines 1989, 198, rather translates ‘torn from its place.’ The pragmatic problem then is how the place and the tree should communicate in part b of the verse. I read a locative sense of the preposition ‫מן‬. The grammatical subject for the third person masc. verb is not clear: is it God or some indefinite subject? 7 These verses cut across more than one unit. Clines 1989, 404, 407f. identifies these sections: vv. 15–17, 18–21. Fohrer 1963, 298f., 303–06 reads 14–16, 17–19, 20f. In any event the topos of the chapter is consistent throughout, wich allows for reading these verses in light of each other. 8 The choice to translate ‘camp (of tents)’ resonates with the mention of Job’s tent in v. 14. 5

34

TERJE STORDALEN

and those of the east hold on to terror.

20:9–11

31:38–40

‫וְ ַק ְדמֹנִּ ים ָא ֲחזּו‬ ‫ָש ַער׃‬ Verily: such are the dwellings of the unjust, ‫ְך־א ֶלה‬ ֵ ‫ַא‬ ‫ִּמ ְׁש ְכנֹות ַעּוָ ל‬ the place of him who does not now El. ‫וְ זֶ ה ְמקֹום‬ ‫ע־אל׃‬ ֵ ‫לֹא־יָ ַד‬ The eye that saw him, does so no more, ‫ַעיִּ ן ְׁשזָ ַפתּו וְ לֹא‬ ‫תֹוסיף‬ ִּ and his place no longer regards9 him. ‫ׁשּורּנּו‬ ֶ ‫וְ לֹא־עֹוד ְת‬ ‫ְמקֹומֹו‬ His children seek favors10 of the poor, ‫ָּבנָ יו יְ ַרּצּו ַד ִּלים‬ while his hand surrenders his strength. ‫וְ יָ ָדיו ָת ֵׁש ְבנָ ה אֹונֹו‬ His bones, once full of his youth, ‫לּומו‬ ָ ‫מֹותיו ָמ ְלאּו ֲע‬ ָ ‫ַע ְצ‬ now rest with him in the dust. ‫ל־ע ָפר ִּת ְׁש ָכב‬ ָ ‫וְ ִּעמֹו ַע‬

If my soil cries out against me ‫ם־ע ַלי ַא ְד ָמ ִּתי ִּתזְ ָעק‬ ָ ‫ִּא‬ and its furrows weep along with it, ‫יִּב ָכיּון‬ ְ ‫יה‬ ָ ‫וְ יַ ַחד ְת ָל ֶמ‬ if I ate the soil’s strength without payment, ‫ִּאם־כ ָֹחּה‬ causing its

masters’11

soul to breathe out:

‫י־כ ֶסף‬ ָ ‫ָא ַכ ְל ִּתי ְב ִּל‬ ‫יה‬ ָ ‫וְ נֶ ֶפׁש ְּב ָע ֶל‬

According to HALOT, the root ‘‫ ׁשור‬I’ has a sense ‘to look at from a bent position.’ If regarding the proponent metaphorically as a tree, the eye that regards in this fashion would be the eye of the soil in which the tree (i.e. the proponent) is rooted. Symbolic support for such a reading is the ‘rising’ pride in v. 6. The verb has a feminine form, but ‫ מקום‬sometimes is fem., see Clines 1989, 474. 10 Translating the verb and verse is difficult, see Clines 1989, 487. The translation here is close to the conventional sense of the Hebrew terms. I assume with Clines that when ‘his hands’ are forced to surrender his strength, his children become unprotected. An alternative interpretation is to read ‫( יד‬hand) as euphemism for the sexual organ and take the sense to be that his children become weak and he is unable to beget further offspring. 11 The referent for ‫יה‬ ָ ‫ נֶ ֶפׁש ְּב ָע ֶל‬is not clear. The word ‘ ‫ בעל‬I’ means ‘lord,’ ‘husband,’ and the reference could go to someone with moral rights to the land, to the land’s deceased owners, or to some divine figure associated (‘married’) to the land. Fohrer 1963, 426 and Clines 2003, 973 follow M. Dahood to read ‫ בעל‬as a by-form of ‫‘ פעל‬do.’ Clines suggest further 9

‘HIS PLACE DOES NOT RECOGNIZE HIM’

instead of wheat will spring thorns, instead of barley, there is foul weed.

35

‫ִּה ָפ ְח ִּתי‬ ‫חֹוח‬ ַ ‫ַת ַחת ִּח ָטה יֵ ֵצא‬ ‫ת־שע ָֹרה ָב ְא ָׁשה‬ ְ ‫וְ ַת ַח‬

Perhaps a word is needed to justify my attempt below to read these passages in light of each others as if they could reflect a contiguous apprehension of the land as a memory agent. The utterances occur in different speakers’ mouths (Job, Bildad, and Zophar). If the book relies on diverse material from various sources which now occur in the various speakers, why should the apprehension of a ‘remembering place’ be continuous across the material? A full justification cannot be offered here. Suffice it to say, first, that the apprehension of the land that emerges below seems to be non premeditated. These are reflections of everyday thought, not of scribal ideology. Second, this notion seems to be both fundamental and traditional to an ancient Hebrew ‘worldview’. As such it could be shared across social and historical sections. Third, I do conceive of the Book of Job as a composition that tends to bring discrete positions together in a focused dialogue on particular topics (Stordalen 2006,18–37). As I hope to demonstrate, the issue of human relations to the earth or place is one such topic in the book. If so, it would be in accordance with the ‘readerly contract’ implied in this work to see these passages together. MEMORY, NAME, AND POSTERITY The above passages from the Book of Job are rather implicit and often metaphorical, and the practices they might reflect are not all well documented in Jewish culture of the late Babylonian or early Persian periods. It will seem that we may identify different types of collective memory in the interplay between an ancestor, the descendants, and the place they inhabit. i) Filial piety and remembrance: Perhaps the clearest case is Job 18, especially verses 17 and 19.12 The passage opens with the image of examples of a verb from the stem ‘ ‫ בעל‬II’ ‘do, work.’ The translation then is ‘workers,’ ‘tennants.’ 12 The verse in between, with its unexpected 3p. plur. may have been an insertion or perhaps rather a citation of a traditional maxim. In any event the two verses 17 and 19 read well together.

36

TERJE STORDALEN

a human as a withering tree, a metaphor that is conventional in biblical literature (Stordalen 2000b,87–94). The precise figure from Job 18 is found also in Akkadian literature where it is offered by the king of Sidon as a curse for those who might wish to desecrate his grave: ‘No fruits above and no roots below // No name with those living under the sun.’13 The image of the tree unites the living members of the family (those above) with the dead ones (those below).14 When both fall, it is the end of the presence of the family in the nation: no offspring survives and the ancestors are forgotten. This is explicit in Job 18 where the name of the proponent is forgotten in the land (‫ )ארץ‬because he has no offspring in his nation (‫)עם‬. Job 18:20 associates this forgetfulness to memorials when referring to ‘his day’ (‫)יומו‬. As in Job 3:1.3–5, the day in question would be associated to defining moments of the protagonist’s life—probably the day of birth (as in ch. 3), or possibly also the day of death, or of particular achievements: all these might be relevant for a memorial service. On such a memorial day the proponent is now remembered with horror and dismay (v. 20) instead of respect and love. Similar connections between the lack of memory and offspring to perform the ancestral veneration seem to be reflected in the forgetful places in Job 7:10; 8:18; 20:9–11. The latter describesoffspring who would be unable to perform worthy memorial services. Job 8:18 is part of a pericope rather similar to 18:16– 21, and with the proponent identified as a tree (8:16–17). Job 7:10 is less explicit, but it makes good sense if read in a similar setting. The ancient Jewish habit of gathering and offering food to the dead at the burial place is fairly well documented. Explicit evidence comes from the denunciation of such practices in Deuteronomic and related literature.15 The biblical record also holds reflections of more positive engagement in memorials for the dead and more assertive descriptions of their world (Spronk 1986; Translation in Jonker 1995, 195f. Source: TUAT II/4 591–3:11f. The same image is found in Amos 2:9; Mal. 4:1 (cf. Ezek. 17:9), and in the inverse: 2 Kgs. 19:30/Isa. 37:31. 15 See conveniently Schmidt, 1994. Do note that for the present purpose it is not necessary to decide whether or not these instances indicate the presence of ‘ancestor cult’ or some less qualified kind of commemoration: both would certainly be relevant to the production of collective memory. 13 14

‘HIS PLACE DOES NOT RECOGNIZE HIM’

37

Tromp 1969). Ancient Jewish engagements with the deceased are documented in the archaeological record (Bloch-Smith 1992a; Bloch-Smith 1992b). It makes sense to assume that Job 16:18–21; 20:9–11 describe a situation where someone dies without anyone to perform proper care for the name and the memory of the deceased. This situation is called ‘a perishing of memory in the land’ (18:7 ‫י־א ֶרץ‬ ָ ִּ‫רֹו־א ַבד ִּמּנ‬ ָ ‫)זִּ ְכ‬, an epitome of ‘the place of him who does not know El’ (18:21, ‫ע־אל‬ ֵ ‫) ְמקֹום לֹא־יָ ַד‬, a place that ‘no longer regards him’ (20:9: ‫ׁשּורּנּו ְמקֹומֹו‬ ֶ ‫)וְ לֹא־עֹוד ְת‬. Why is such memory linked to the land and the place? At this point we encounter what archaeologist Susan Alcock, inspired by Maurice Halbwachs, termed ‘the materiality of memory’ (Alcock 2002:27). Memories are anchored in, kept alive through, and shaped by material phenomena to which they are associated. Obviously, the presence of a well kept grave monument would have been a marker in local topography—and not just for the kin of the deceased.16 Monuments have the potential to concentrate and disseminate particular memories (Cubitt 2007:182f., 192–97). They would help local people recall stories about the dead and inspire visitors to inquire about the deceased. Connerton (2009:27f.) points out that installations to assist remembering are usually erected because of the threat of forgetting. The grave marker and repeated graveyard habits are archetypal examples of this procedure, still functioning even in present-day Western societies.17 They certainly would have been so in ancient Israel. In a biblical agricultural environment, the land would serve as a mnemonic device also in a more specific sense. As every farmer is aware, it is necessary to know specific characteristics of portions of one’s arable land: whether it is dry or wet, what kind of seed it produces well, how to best till and harvest it, etc. Such matters are passed from father to son. After the father’s death the son would associate different lessons and various insights to particular topoi on the ground. Such mechanics of memory and schooling in Combine the many grave inscriptions documented in Renz 1995 with the awareness of ‘foreign’ graves reflected for instance in Gen 49:30; 2 Kgs. 23:16f.; Isa 22:16. 17 Cf. Hallam & Hockey 2001, 77–100, etc; Francis, Kellaher, & Neophytou 2002. 16

38

TERJE STORDALEN

an agricultural society are evident. They are, nevertheless, usually absent from current scholarly discussion of ancient Jewish collective memory and identity—which perhaps illustrates the bias away from non-inscribed knowledge and memory in the European academic tradition.18 Paul Connerton identifies a type of place memory where ‘toponyms are mnemonics’: it is impossible to talk about places without encompassing biographies, events, social activities, etc. Connerton illustrates by referring to the Wamirans of Papua New Guinea for whom ‘each stone, each tree, each dip in the ground has a name and a story, and identity is claimed and rights acquired through association with specific places in the landscape’ (Connerton 2009:13, cf. 10–18). Stewart and Strathern (2003:6f.) confirm the importance of naming landscape in Papua New Guinea. Moreover, they claim this is a fairly universal phenomenon. One might well argue that the references to ‫‘( קומו‬his place’) above do imply an association of a name with a place. ii) Social values and remembrance: The spatial setting for instance in Job 18:16–21 is not confined to domestic premises, but extends to the public world as well. In Job 18 implied locations are the dwelling (‫מׁשכן‬, which could include the grave), the space of daily life (‫)מגור‬, and a phrase, ‫על־פני־חוץ‬, that is conventionally rendered ‘the street’: This phrase could also be transcribed as ‘the outside,’ ‘fields,’ which would perhaps better suit the portrayal of Job as a chief (often called ‫ )גבר‬living in tents. In 20:9 the group ‘the poor’ (‫ )דלים‬must also be outside the domestic sphere. Throughout the Book of Job the proponent is concerned about his social standing. He repeatedly points to arenas where he has lost public respect (see 16:7–14; 30:1–15, etc.). Job 18 and 20 extend this portrayal of decline in public respect to include Job’s aftermath. He leaves no lasting impression on society and so his offspring have to live as if they were of inconsequential origin. Paul Connerton (2009: 13, cf. 10–18) finds a kind of place memory that he calls a locus memory. The arrangement of, say, 18 In his magisterial book on Education Crenshaw, 1998 at one single point (p. viii) recognizes the presence of what he calls ‘vocational’ (i.e. habitual and non-inscribed) education in ancient Israel. His comments are limited to the effect of such learning on the guild of scribes only.

‘HIS PLACE DOES NOT RECOGNIZE HIM’

39

domestic space represents hierarchies and social values that encompass the people occupying that space. Such memory would include artifacts that embody personal relations or significant events. Veronica Strang (2003) documents that memorials have the capacity to symbolize beliefs and values of groups of people that associate with them, and these values become incorporated into habits and practices that support group identity. Connerton points out that the pre-modern world was ‘a handmade world, in which all things were made one by one.’ It was a ‘slow’ world, and one that allowed for continued experience of processes of becoming and for attaching memories to the production of objects (Connerton 2009:20, see 30–35). One might add that in such a world the readily fabricated objects also did not vanish very quickly. When a generation passed on, objects from their lives remained after them. Such objects expressed the social standing of their original owners and certain values associated with parts of their lives and productivity. This explains why locus memory in a pre-Modern world would have had great importance. Now, the world of the Book of Job is gone. Therefore it is very difficult to form more precise ideas of how implied readers of the book would have imagined that a patron like Job should normally have been remembered in society. Nevertheless, in order to attempt to give an answer, let us for a moment consider comparative material. Harvesting the rich cultural remains from secondthird millennium Mesopotamian sources, Gerdien Jonker (1995:68) identified acts of memory that could perhaps be heuristically relevant. The richest material is offered by texts reflecting the world of Mesopotamian rulers of the late third and early second millennium. Clearly, the cultural, technical, and economical conditions behind these texts were different from those of the reader of the Book of Job. Still, Job too is imagined to have exercised social influence, and it is the forgetting of such a socially significant character that is the topic in the above passages. Therefore we enter the imagined world of ‘chief Job’ wearing lenses provided by Jonker while keeping the relevant archaeological and biblical records in mind. In that imaginary world a prominent man like Job freely performs cultic service at a local shrine (Job 1:5). It seems likely that people from his household would on some occasion assist or ac-

40

TERJE STORDALEN

company him. If coming to such a sanctuary after the proponent’s graceful death, the place would likely have evoked a respectful memory of his service, perhaps an involvement with his deity (‘the god of my father’) as seems conventional in biblical literature (Gen. 31:5.42; 32:10; Exod. 15:2, etc.). A more specific memory would occur if Job had followed the habit attested in the epigraphic material to print his name on cultic and other vessels used at the location.19 It is perhaps unlikely that a man like Job should have erected his statue in the shrine to have his descendants do libation service on his account after his death.20 Still, he might have erected a pithos or donated votive objects still used for cultic service (Renz 1995:272f; 56f; 127f.). Both would preserve Job’s memory and invite new generations to inscribe their own practices onto them as palimpsests. Secondly, if the implied reader is to assume that Job lived in a regular house and not a tent (cf. Job 1:19; 15:28) one could imagine that this rich man dedicated parts of his domestic walls to symbols or inscriptions, as was a documented practice (Renz 1995:249, etc.). One might then imagine that the reader expected that anyone from the ‘outside world’ (‫ )על־פני־חוץ‬later visiting the house of Job’s family, would be involved in the public memory of the ancestor. Thirdly, perhaps the reader had the idea that Job was not only a magnificent rhetorician (as his speeches document) but also a great singer (as is implied in 29:13; 33:27, and perhaps in 30:9). If so, Job would again conform to expectations for Mesopotamian rulers (Jonker 1995:85–89), and the reader’s impression would be formed accordingly. Perhaps the reader would find it reasonable that Job’s descendants would have honored his memory by using and perhaps amending his songs. Obviously, there is no known psalm ‘by Job.’ But some of the many songs and psalms to David ‫ לדויד‬are easily read as documentation for this kind of practice. Another conceivable act of collective memory after a man like Job would have been public remembering his part in making 19

1995.

A full range of examples of property markers are found in Renz

20 This is what Mesopotamian rulers did, cf. Jonker 1995, 76–83. Fragments of a stela was found in Samaria, cf. Renz 1995, 135, see esp. 122–9.

‘HIS PLACE DOES NOT RECOGNIZE HIM’

41

important decisions in the city assembly (29:7–25, etc.), or perhaps pondering his wise advice (4:3f; 16:4–6, etc.). The books of Leviticus and Deuteronomy document the habit of collecting legal decisions, although in their canonical forms these decisions are all associated with one man only: Moses. This may conceivably have been different at a time when people remembered who actually made new decisions. Similarly, the Book of Proverbs indicates a rich activity in collecting sayings (‫)מׁשלים‬: Prov. 10:1; 25:1; 30:1; 31:1. In Proverbs these are associated with the authors or the scribes responsible for collecting them. Still, it is perhaps not farfetched to suggest that a wise man like Job could also have been publicly remembered for his wisdom. Any of these practices would have promoted a certain memory and disseminated values and identities inscribed in objects, habits, bodily practices and collective apprehensions in ways similar to those described by Connerton and Strang above. These, then, are the kinds of lost or lacking collective, non inscribed memories that are bemoaned in the Book of Job. SACRED HOMELAND Before leaving the world to be imagined by the reader of the Book of Job, let us consider a third kind of topographical remembrance, what Anthony D. Smith called ‘sacred homelands’ (2003:131–65). These come in many fashions. For the Book of Job the nationalist aspect of the phenomenon is of less importance. A sense of the sacred homeland reflects the landscape as ‘the resting place of our immediate progenitors’ […] ‘the place of home and work, family and burial, for the community and its members’ (Smith 2003:147f.). Such homelands are places where ‘nature is historicized’ (Smith 2003:135f.). In biblical literature this movement is evident for instance for Sinai, Jerusalem, Shechem, and Shiloh. They are all written into the sacred story and become historical as much as topographical places. In sacred homelands one also finds the opposite movement: a ‘naturalization of history’ (Smith 2003:136f.). This phenomenon is prominent in Genesis, where cultural products like shrines, wells, etc., are described as parts of the natural topography, timelessly present, like the landscape itself.

42

TERJE STORDALEN

Sacred homeland ideologies may develop ‘popular beliefs in the sanctity of specific places and terrains’ (Smith 2003:134). Such beliefs tend to invest the homeland with new characteristics. In biblical literature there is a widespread view that the temple and the temple mount are holy. This, clearly, has consequences for how one may enter these places and behave there. Also, there are manners of speech and habit that see the land as consecrated to the Lord. This view too has practical implications (cf. Lev. 25:10; 27:30; Num. 3:13; 8:17). Additionally, there are, in biblical literature, expressions concerning the holiness of the land that expand dramatically on these views. In some instances the land is portrayed so as to take active part in God’s agency to bring about the fate of Israel. Some of the more obvious examples would be Gen. 1:11f. 24; Lev. 18:25.28; 20:22; Num. 16:34; Deut. 9:28. There are also passages that portray the earth or land as mother of humankind. While such passages are presently largely neglected in scholarship, this topic did receive some attention in earlier research.21 I have elsewhere argued that these two groups of passages are preferably interpreted in light of each other (Stordalen 2000a; Stordalen 2010). The homeland, which is also metaphorically identified as the mother of humankind, is in fact haunting those of her ‘children’ that violate cosmic law. The earth or land may also revenge her ‘children’ by keeping their memory alive and seeking to punish those who violate them. These topics are richly attested in the Book of Job. Several instances indicate the earth as mother of humankind, a cosmological instance that seeks to preserve justice. The most famous passages discussed by Mowinckel, Vall, and others are of course Job 1:21, and 38:8–10. In addition, see for instance 5:23; 10:8–11; 31:15.18. As for the earth as a moral agent, see 20:27, cf. 24:6. In addition, hardly any other biblical book displays such awareness of an intimate relationship between humankind and land / earth / place (‫ארץ‬ and ‫)מקום‬, see for instance Job 1:10.20; 2:13; 5:23; 12:8; 14:8; 15:29; 24:18. That awareness finds expression in instances referring to ‘his/their place’ (‫מקומם‬/‫ )מקומו‬of particular human beings (Job 2:11; 6:17; 7:10; 8:18; 20:9; 27:21.23).

21 See for instance Mowinckel 1927, 130–41; Ohler 1969, 139f.; Fuchs 1993, 187; and in particular Vall 1995.

‘HIS PLACE DOES NOT RECOGNIZE HIM’

43

This seems to be an adequate context for reading Job 31:38– 40 and 16:18. In the first, admittedly difficult passage, the point seems to be that the land would have recognized and punished any unjustifiable agricultural activity that Job should have done. In the second, earth is conjured to promote Job’s cry of injustice much in the same way that it does for Abel in Gen. 4:10. Within this concept of sacred land, a successful forebear like Job would be imagined to have been morally approved by the very land that still ‘watches over’ his offspring—in a guarding as well as a haunting capacity. The land ‘remembers’ him by continuing to support his aftermath. The wise descendant would then naturally pay heed to the successful ways of Job. Summing up, from within recent analyses of collective commemorative practices, it seems very apt indeed to say with the author of the Book of Job that ‘places do remember.’ It is of course not my point to suggest that the implied readers of the Book of Job must have imagined all or any of the acts of memory sketched above. I simply offer these as historically reasonable examples of what might have been practiced and hence also imagined. All examples have physical objects or bodily procedures as their media: grave monuments, farming procedures, ritual, singing, recitation, domestic discourse, embodied social heritage, embodied awareness of the ‘agency of the land.’ They all count as non-inscribed memory practices. These and similar memory practices would have been liable to fall into oblivion when the cultural world sustaining the Book of Job fainted. The only memory remaining would be the inscribed memory of Job, i.e. the book. It is fortunate, therefore, that the inscribed memory of Job holds such rich reflections also of non-inscribed memory practices. This helps our reconstructing discourses of memory in the biblical world. MEMORIES AND IDENTITIES IN THE BOOK OF JOB So, how did, in fact, scribal and non scribal memory interact in ancient Israel? Providing an answer is not easy. Initially, it would seem that available sources do not offer clear indications. Indeed, it may turn out that the Book of Job with its reflections of popular, non-inscribed memory is untypical in biblical literature. Precisely

44

TERJE STORDALEN

for this reason the Book of Job may be a good place to start an attempt at such research. i) Inscribed and non-inscribed identities: The above examples of non-inscribed memory would have formed part of particular identities. Individuals and communities referring to this memory could, for instance, conceive of themselves as descendants of Job, as inhabitants of his domestic or ritual world, as his successors in the city council, as inheritors of his land and agricultural strategies, etc. These and similar apprehensions would contribute substantially to forming individual and collective identities. Such identities were not created by scribal activity. They related primarily to a world outside of the scribal universe and reflected separately existing systems of memories and identities. These memories were used, discussed, contested by the scribe(s) of this book (see below), but their initial formation took place outside of the scriptoria. ii) The moral vision of remembering places: In her brilliant discussion of the Book of Job, Carol Newsom describes the contesting moral visions of characters in the book. A ‘moral vision’ in her view is something that emerges in the claim on the reader generated by the interrelation between the aesthetic form of the text and the values it endorses or embodies (Newsom 2003:34, cf. 32–36). ‘Moral vision’ is a suitable designation also for the aesthetics and pragmatics inherent in that non-inscribed memory reflected above. That memory envisions that it should be good for a human being to have recognition from the place and to recognize one’s ties to the earth. It is a good thing when people inhabiting a place acknowledge and cherish the memory of those whose place this used to be, when one’s memory is honored through installations and practices. Correspondingly, it is a bad thing if the land should rise against its inhabitant, visit his iniquities upon his descendants, deny its produce and its recognition to his posteriority. In such cases, one will be forgotten. The people living at the place do not prolong one’s memory—except, perhaps, for ironic purposes. iii) Moral vision of non-inscribed memory and the Book of Job: How do the implied author or readers of the Book of Job relate to that moral vision? Let me try to sketch some presuppositions for my answering this complicated question and then briefly indicate an answer. The Book of Job seems like a choir of voices uttering in

‘HIS PLACE DOES NOT RECOGNIZE HIM’

45

part conflicting views. The literary mechanics used to generate this choir has similarities with what the early Bakhtin called the poetics of Dostoyevsky (Stordalen 2006:24–35). However, while in Dostoyevsky each dramatic person tends to represent one voice, one idea; in the Book of Job several characters seem able to represent more than one voice each. The composition of the book does not leave unambiguous traces to decide which voices speak truthfully and which do not. Contrary to convention in biblical narrative, even the narrator of the Book of Job cannot safely be trusted: the book is void of any objective voice to referee the discussion. Every matter is seen through the eyes of the current speaker. The reader must decide whether or not that particular view is adequate, and if so: how it might relate to other views that perhaps also could not be dismissed altogether. In each character’s utterances there is typically ‘a sideward glance’—an awareness of, and (mostly not explicit) reference to the positions of other speakers. This renders the opinion of the others present even in the serial monologues of the book. This presence is enhanced by the compositional strategy to focus a number of topoi and let the different voices speak to these topics in sequence (Stordalen 2006:33f.). As a result, a number of voices speak to a number of themes rather than to each other, and in a non-hierarchical presentation. Given this understanding: how does the Book of Job seem to relate to moral vision of remembering places? All voices seem to have similar ‘default’ positions. There is no apparent difference in views of human relations to the earth between Job (7:10) and Bildad (8:18). Job in 31:38–40 seems to be no less impressed by the agency of the remembering earth than Bildad is in 18:16–21, or Zophar in 20:9–11. All confirm the desirability of the idyllic moral vision of the remembering land or place. Beneath the surface, however, there are differences and these occur in a pattern that is consistent with larger conflict lines in the book. Bildad in 8:18 applies the forgetful land as proof of the morally adequate punishment that falls upon him who forgets El (v. 13). The proponents in Bildad’s speech in 18:16–21 are the wicked (‫) ְר ָׁש ִּעים‬. The moral agency of the earth has the same direction and character as in the previous speech. The case is similar in Zophar’s

46

TERJE STORDALEN

exposition in 20:9–11, referring again to the fate of the wicked (‫ ) ְר ָׁש ִּעים‬and the godless (‫( ) ָחנֵ ף‬v. 5). Job, on the other hand, applies the vision of the forgetful place to display the loss that death brings—and in his view, unjustly so (7:10). In 16:18 he addresses the land in order to confront precisely such injustice. Job fears that justice will not prevail (v. 17) and attempts to summon earth and heaven to offer testimony as witnesses (vv. 18–19). The implication is that whoever it is that violates Job’s justice, does not pay due attention to the witness of earth and heaven. In this passage the remembering earth is clearly much less influential upon the administration of cosmic justice than in 8:18. Job’s address in 31:38–40 appears in what should still be regarded an oath of innocence. On that level the passage evokes the calamities that would befall Job if he were to violate the land. However, in the larger rhetoric of the book, the oath is offered as Job’s last chance to prove his innocence. The implication is that since Job is innocent, the earth would not do to him what is conjured in his section. Nevertheless, something did happen to Job, something that could be seen as an act of punishment from the land / place: Job 7:10; 8:18; 18:16–21; 20:9–11. It seems reasonable, therefore, to interpret the rhetoric of 31:38–40 in light of 16:18 and take it as a protest to the voices that praise the remembering earth that punishes iniquity. The protest says that the land / place does not always fulfill its function in the expected manner. In other words as its initial position the book confirms the desirability of the vision of the remembering earth. However, the composition invites its readers into a discourse on whether or not this moral vision can in fact be trusted. And, if it could be trusted at least on some occasions, why does it not apply consistently? But if indeed this vision applies inconsistently, should it simply be discarded? Or does it still name relations between land / place, individual, and family that need to be expressed and understood? Different readers might answer differently depending i.e. upon their sense of human-earth relations. I, for one, think that the vision of the remembering earth does not lose all its relevance through the discourse of this book. iv) Scribal and non-inscribed memory: It now seems possible to speak more specifically about the interchange between scribal

‘HIS PLACE DOES NOT RECOGNIZE HIM’

47

and non-inscribed memory and identity formation in the book of Job. The friends in the Book of Job represent conventional wisdom ideology, although perhaps in a simplified and schematic version.22 Their theology too must be seen as scribal and in some sense elitist. The indication from the above analysis is that this elite ideology incorporated a vision of the remembering earth that had originated as non-inscribed memory and therefore had public resonance prior to its inclusion in the universe of traditional sapiential theology. The character of Job protests against aspects of this ideology, and the composition as a whole attempts to provoke a reader’s refusal of simplistic apprehensions of the remembering place. This is done by confronting that scribal ideology with the original noninscribed memory itself and the social processes that embodied it. For instance the prayer that the land would revenge any unjustified death (Job 16:18) is easily imagined as a folk memory practice executed at graves or memorial monuments (cf. Gen. 4:10). In the Book of Job such a popular vision of the not-yet-acting earth serves to destabilize elitist views like those of the remembering and forgetting earth in Job 20:9–11. In this case, therefore, one elitist author appears to discard the vision of another by re-interpreting a popular memory that is used by the other scribe but primarily known through its original, non-inscribed media. I have elsewhere argued that the one voice that is most conspicuously present in the ‘sideward glances’ of the Book of Job, is the voice of tradition (Stordalen 2006:29f.). The composition engages various kinds of tradition: social convention, literary convention, Yahwistic and folk religious tradition, sapiential, liturgical, prophetical traditions, etc. In that bulk of traditional material there must have been considerable amounts of memory that were not created by the scribes. Other memories that had been created by the scribes, still became popular because the scribes connected to them to popular memory. All this should come as no surprise: based on a common sense apprehension of how thinking and identity develop historically, something like this would be the typical 22 One must consider the possibility that the author of Book of Job has schematised traditional wisdom theology and its apprehension of iconic suffering almost in absurdum in order to be able to launch a sustained argument against it.

48

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case. The complex confirms something that could be formulated also for different reasons: the role of scribes was not to invent the canonical tradition, but to interpret and to mend it (Stordalen 2007:17f.). v) This article was an attempt to start formulating more specific views of ancient Hebrew memory formation as reflected in the Book of Job. Evidently, one could not deny that much memory and identity in this book is of an elitist nature. However, the rather cursory investigation indicates that not all collective memory in ancient Israel was inscribed by the elite and ‘fed and absorbed into the public memory.’ Indeed, the exchange could also go in the opposite direction. And in any event, scribal memory was not alone: it would have been part of a much richer web of largely noninscribed memory. This insight should affect the way we design future investigations of collective memory in biblical literature. BIBLIOGRAPHY Alcock, S. E. 2002

Assmann, A. 1999

Archaeologies of the Greek Past: Landscape, Monuments, and Memories (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Erinnerungsräume: Formen und Wandlungen des kulturellen Gedächtnisses (C.H. Beck Kulturwissenschaft; München: Beck).

Bloch-Smith, E. 1992 Judahite Burial Practices and Beliefs About the Dead (JSOTSup, 123; Sheffield: JSOT Press). Bloch-Smith, E. 1992 ‘The Cult of the Dead in Judah: Interpreting the Material Remains,’ JBL 111, 213–224. Clines, D. J. A. 1989 Job 1–20 (Word Biblical Commentary 17; Dallas, TX: Word).

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Clines, D. J. A. 2003 Job 21–42 (Word Biblical Commentary 18A; Nashville, TN: Nelson). Connerton, P. 1989 How Societies Remember (Themes in Social Sciences; Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Connerton, P. 2009 How Modernity Forgets (Cambridge University Press: Cambridge). Crenshaw, J. L. 1998 Education in Ancient Israel: Across the Deadening Silence (The Anchor Bible Reference Library; New York: Doubleday). Cubitt, G. 2007 Davies, P. R. 2008

Fohrer, G. 1963

History and Memory (Historical Approaches; Manchester: Manchester University Press). Memories of Ancient Israel: An Introduction to Biblical History—Ancient and Modern (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox). Das Buch Hiob (Kommentar zum Alten Testament, 16; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus Gerd Mohn).

Francis, D., Kellaher, L., and Neophytou, G. 2002 ‘The Cemetery: A site for the construction of memory, identity, and ethnicity,’ in J. J. Climo, and M. G. Cattell (eds..), Social Memory and History: Anthropological Perspectives (Walnut Creek, CA: Alta Mira), 95–110. Fuchs, G. 1993

Mythos und Hiobdichtung. Aufnahme und Umdeutung altorientalischer Vorstellungen (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer).

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The Book of Job (Old Testament library; Philadelphia, PA: Westminster).

Halbwachs, M. 1941 La topographie légendaire des évangiles en terre sainte (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France). Hallam, E., and Hockey, J. 2001 Death, Memory and Material Culture (Materializing culture; Oxford: Berg). Jonker, G. 1995

The Topography or Remembrance: The Dead, Tradition, and Collective Memory in Mesopotamia (Numen bookseries—studies in the history of religion, 68; Leiden: Brill).

Mowinckel, S. 1927 ‘“Moder jord” i det Gamle Testament,’ in H. Österdahl (ed.), Religionshistoriske studier tillägnade Edvard Lehmann (Lund: C.W.K. Gleerup), 130–41. Newsom, C. A. 2003 The Book of Job: A Contest of Moral Imaginations (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Nora, P. (ed.) 1984 Ohler, A. 1969

Renz, J. 1995

Les lieux de mémoire: Vol. 1 : Les France (Paris: Gallimard). Mythologische Elemente im Alten Testament. Eine motivgeschichtliche Untersuchung (Kommentare und Beiträge zum Alten und Neuen Testament; Düsseldorf: Patmos). Handbuch der Althebräischen Epigraphik. Vol. I: Die althebräischen Inschriften (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft).

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Schmidt, B. B. 1994 Israel’s Beneficent Dead: Ancestor Cults and Necromancy in Israelite Religion and Tradition (Forschungen zum Alten Testament, 11; Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr). Smith, A. D. 2003 Spronk, K. 1986

Chosen Peoples: Sacred Sources of National Identity (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Beatific Afterlife in Ancient Israel and in the Ancient Near East (Alter Orient und Altes Testament, 219; Kevelaer: Butzon & Bercker).

Stewart, P. J., and Strathern, A. 2003 ‘Introduction,’ in P. J. Stewart, and A. Strathern (eds.), Landscape, Memory and History: Anthropological Perspectives (London: Pluto), 1–15. Stordalen, T. 2000

Stordalen, T. 2000

Stordalen, T. 2006 Stordalen, T. 2007 Stordalen, T. 2010

‘“Moder jord”—etisk impuls i Det gamle testamente,’ in J.-O. Henriksen (ed.), Makt, eiendom og rettferdighet. Bibelske moraltradisjoner i møte med vår tid (Oslo: Gyldendal Akademisk), 115–38. Echoes of Eden: Genesis 2–3 and Symbolism of the Eden Garden in Biblical Hebrew Literature (Contributions to biblical exegesis and theology, 25; Leuven: Peeters). ‘Dialogue and dialogism in the Book of Job,’ SJOT 20, 18–37. ‘The canonization of ancient Hebrew and Confucian literature,’ JSOT 32/1, 3–22. ‘Mother Earth in Biblical Hebrew Literature: Ancient and Contemporary Imagination,’ in Jill Middlemas, David J. A. Clines, and Else K Holt

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(eds.), The Center and Periphery: A European Tribute to Walter Brueggemann (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix), 113 Strang, V. 2003

Tromp, N. J. 1969

Vall, G. 1995 Yates, F. A. 1966

‘Moon Shadows: Aboriginal and European heroes in an Australian landscape,’ in P. J. Stewart, and A. Strathern (eds.), Landscape, Memory and History: Anthropological Perspectives (London: Pluto), 108–35. Primitive Conceptions of Death and the Nether World in the Old Testament (Biblica et orientalia, 21; Rome: Pontificio Istituto Biblico). ‘The enigma of Job 1,21a,’ Biblica 76, 325–342. The Art of Memory (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul).

CULTURAL MEMORY AND THE INVENTION OF BIBLICAL ISRAEL JOHN VAN SETERS 1 INTRODUCTION The subject of cultural memory is currently experiencing a great deal of popularity in many circles these days, and not least within biblical studies as well. The term cultural memory is one among many terms that are often used synonymously, such as collective memory or social memory, but the notion of cultural memory, in comparison with the others, may be a little misleading or less useful for a discussion of biblical historiography, and this for two reasons. First, it is so broad in scope that it could encompass everything that is inherited from the past, and when applied to the Hebrew Bible, this would include the whole canon and much more. Second, the term also implies a certain degree of passivity, the end result of a long and complex process of cultural accumulation. For some psychologists of cultural memory this could include Jung’s great ‘collective unconsciousness’ or Freud’s primeval myth. And for archaeologists even an ancient garbage dump becomes a place of cultural memory. By contrast, collective memory suggests the conscious effort of remembering, and some scholars even prefer to use the term ‘collective remembering’ to avoid any ambiguity in this way.1 Furthermore, collective or social memory limits the focus of this activity of remembering to a particular social group or community. It is in this sense that we will use the term collective memory in its relationship to the Hebrew Bible, and to its historical traditions in particular. 1 See in particular J. V. Wertsch, 2002, 10–66. This gives a very useful discussion both of the history of cultural and collective memory and current state of the discussion.

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The notion of collective memory is a metaphor that derives, by analogy, from personal memory, and by extension the collective memory of family or group identity. It was the sociologist Maurice Halbwachs who, in the first half of the 20th century, focused attention on the collective identity of a family or group in which the living memory of the oldest members still play an important part (Halbwachs 1992). And much of the subsequent discussion of collective memory has to do with recent history and the role of memory as witness to the events that it includes. This collective memory is far more than just a historical report of events and can include memorials and artifacts of many kinds, such as one finds, for instance, in the ‘Canadian War Museum.’ It can also involve anniversary commemorations and festivals, rituals and liturgy, symbols and flags, etc. While the idea of collective memory may be useful in certain respects, it can be misleading in others. On the one hand, it encompasses history as the recollection of a people’s past, but it includes much more than just a narrative of events. It can also refer to literary works glorifying figures and moments of that past, or memorials and commemorative events that arouse sentiments and feelings about that past.2 And just as personal memory is fundamental to one’s sense of identity, so collective memory likewise shapes and reinforces communal or national identity. On the other hand, the analogy can be misleading in that personal memory arises out of real experiences in the past, however much they may become distorted and reinterpreted by later reflection. Collective memory, especially as it relates to the distant past, does not have this live connection and may very often be a largely or wholly invented past. One indeed has the suspicion that terms such as cultural and collective memory are preferred in discussions of the collective past because they suggest that the great body of tradition to which they are applied has a genuine continuity with actual life experiences, however poorly they are remembered. Collective memory, therefore, seems to require an act of homage or at least respect, which is often antithetical to the scrutiny of historical criti2 See J. Fentress and C. Wickham 1992, 4. Fentress and Wickham stress the distinction between the mere retention of knowledge and the deeply emotional experience associated with remembering that is transferred from the personal to the collective group.

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cism. Collective memory is something in which one is involved and to which one is committed. It is a past that is ‘written on the heart.’ Collective memory is shaped by a member of the group under the influence of a particular ideology, or at the service of political power, or in support of group identity. It is not somehow the spontaneous product of a community, nor a group of persons who, in their sublime anonymity, pass on traditions that coalesce into an expression of their identity. Collective memory is not passive, but is the result of active and deliberate construction for the purpose of exercising power and winning loyalty and obedience to a particular authority, and in this way creating patriots, religious adherents to a system of beliefs, a unity out of a great diversity of individuals and smaller groups. It is the persuasive shaping of a cultural and social identity. Indeed, the whole purpose of a pre-modern historian was to create the delusion that his history is indeed a memory of the people and therefore corresponds to the identity of the people as a whole. If that corporate unit, the state or people or religious community, undergoes a radical change then a new history will need to be written, and therefore a new collective memory invented, to reflect that change in identity.3 The function of history as collective memory is directly related to power in two respects. On the one hand, it may be propagandistic in its effort to legitimize a state or institution through the means of presenting its basis in ancient tradition as a memory of the past. Or, on the other hand, its power as memory may be invoked as resistance to the perceived corruption of power and the return to a more pristine past (see Appleby, Hunt and Jacob 1994:270). Revisionist history is therefore often perceived to be antisocial, unpatriotic, and irreligious. In antiquity historical texts were often the product of royal bureaucracies as memorials to those in power, and as threats to those who might think of resisting that power. Texts reflecting a revision of the past national tradition or resistance to legitimization of the present holders of power are

3 See the valuable sociological study on tradition and identity by Edward Shils 1981, 50–62. Everything that Shils says about tradition could just as easily be stated under the rubric of social or collective memory.

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much harder to find, but they are there nonetheless.4 I will come back to this in my treatment of biblical narrative. As important as this role of propaganda may be, both in support of a political or social system, or as opposition to it, it would be an error, however, to see all of historiography in this manner. Through much of its existence, at least that part of it reflected in the Hebrew Bible, Judah and the Jews were powerless and at the mercy of other great powers, so that collective memory was often much more a matter of creating a past that would help them survive as a people in the present and give them a single and unified destiny into the future. To remember their origins: their forefathers and the exodus under Moses, their wilderness constitution, their own glorious conquest and settlement in the ‘promised’ land, and the glory days of David and Solomon; all this was to construct a grand cultural memory that could be used to give them a hope for the future after the state’s destruction and their exile. Another aspect that needs to be considered here is the invention of tradition as a memory of a people’s or group’s past. In 1983 the historian Eric Hobsbawm together with Terence Ranger published a series of studies on the ‘Invention of Tradition’ (1983) and this has been followed recently by a posthumous work by Hugh Trevor-Roper on The Invention of Scotland (2008). These inventions of British traditions that include customs and institutions, epics and narrative tales, are all regarded as the preservation of memory from the past that are the basis of national identity when in fact they are almost entirely modern inventions. It was precisely the concern in Britain for a greater sense of national unity which led to the creation of institutions with the myth of great antiquity, while at the same time stimulating an anti-union set of invented traditions among the highland Scots of Scotland. All of this was understood as collective memory of the people’s origins and great past traditions. The degree to which social memory is invented as ancient tradition for the purpose of shaping and transforming corporate identity is increasingly being recognized. 4 See Appleby, Hunt and Jacob 1994, 293–95. They give examples from American history of how in recent years the forgotten past of marginal groups have been ‘remembered’ and made part of the collective memory to give them a voice in the nation’s history.

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There has been a certain tendency among some biblical scholars to dismiss the idea that the ancients had any interest in history and that what passes as history is just midrash, a series of morality tales, loosely strung together by editors or scribes by means of a rather arbitrary chronological framework. However, the study of collective memory has made it abundantly clear how deep and widespread is this concern with the past and the rise of ancient historiography as a reflection of this collective memory. A people’s identity cannot exist without a collective memory, whether real or invented. Consequently, this biblical construction of a historical past as a vital aspect of the people’s identity must be taken seriously and not dismissed out of hand. 2 MEMORY IN THE OLD TESTAMENT The Hebrew Bible has a great deal to say about ‘remembering’ and ‘forgetting’ in general, and about remembering the early history and origins of Israel as a people, in particular. This subject of memory in the Hebrew Bible was a matter of great interest and discussion in the 1960s, especially as it related to the biblical theology of redemptive history (Heilsgeschichte). Biblical theology’s interest in memory and its relationship to history must be understood within the context of a debate in the mid-20th century between the history of religions, especially in the form of the myth-ritual school, and the biblical theology movement. Already at the end of the 19th century Herrmann Gunkel, as a member of the German History of Religions School, attempted to compare the biblical story of creation in Genesis 1 with the Babylonian myth of creation in his book Schöpfung und Chaos im Urzeit und Endzeit (1895), and thereby establish the importance of myth and a mythic mentality within Israelite and Jewish religion. Sigmund Mowinckel followed up this comparative method by endeavoring to demonstrate the importance of this myth within the ritual of ancient Israel as reflected primarily in the so-called Enthronement Psalms, which were interpreted as part of an annual New Year’s ritual of divine enthronement celebrating the deity’s victory over chaos and the establishment of order under the divine sovereign (1922; 1962). Other scholars of this school emphasized the role of the king within this annual event, as the divine son of the deity and fundamental to both cosmic and political order.

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Within the myth-ritual school there were differences of opinion as to how and when these Mesopotamian influences were mediated to Israel, whether by means of the general culture of the Levant in the second millennium or in the much later period of the Assyrian or Babylonian empire in the mid-first millennium and how all of this related to Israel’s historical traditions. A difficulty with viewing this mythological structure and its accompanying ritual as early was the fact that the institution of monarchy was understood as developing rather late in the whole scheme of Israelite origins and the ‘early’ accounts of origins in the Hexateuch and Judges give little indication of any such mythical structures. One solution to this, presented by Johannes Pedersen (1934), was to see the mythical pattern already modified in the earliest Israelite period by suggesting that it was applied to the pastoral celebration of the Passover in which the text of Exod. 1–15 is to be understood as a liturgy for this annual event. This appeared to move the actualization of the foundational event from myth to history.5 G. von Rad (1966) took up this suggestion in his own development of the notion of a primitive historical credo as the basis for the earliest Pentateuchal tradition. Martin Noth, in his study of the tradition-history of the Pentateuch (1948; 1972), expanded on von Rad’s suggestion by identifying a number of themes of the primitive historical tradition belonging to the pre-state tribal amphictyony. It is this body of sacred tradition that became the basis of a biblical theology of Heilsgeschichte. One of the fundamental features of this biblical theology was to juxtapose the historical nature of these traditions with that of the non-historical timeless myths of the neighboring nations of the ancient Near East, and to stress the difference in the way in which the timeless reality of myth is actualized through ritual as compared with the commemoration of the redemptive history in the primitive Israelite religion (Noth, 1963). It was in the context of this discussion in biblical theology that one encounters a number of special studies on collective memory that are radically different from the

5 Cf the similar way in which Frank Cross 1973, 77–144 attempted to combine this primitive pattern of the exodus with the Canaanite pattern of myth as reflected in the Ugaritic myths.

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more sociological interests in cultural and collective memory of the present day. A most revealing example of this particular interest in memory can be seen in the work of Brevard S. Childs, Memory and Tradition in Israel (1962), in which he engages in a detailed study of the Hebrew zkr and its cognates as a way of explicating the place of historical traditions in ancient Israel’s self-understanding. Building on an earlier study of the nature of myth in primitive Near Eastern cultures in comparison with biblical thought, Childs (1960:29) gives the following definition of myth: ‘Myth is a form by which the existing structure of reality is understood and maintained. It concerns itself with showing how an action of a deity, conceived of as occurring in the primeval age, determines a phase of contemporary world order. Existing world order is maintained through the actualization of the myth in the cult.’ In his treatment of memory Childs is responding, in particular, to notions from the British and Scandinavian myth-ritual school, which largely interpreted this act of remembering as a way of actualizing the foundation myths of the community through the cult and its rituals. Childs believes that Israel rejected this ‘primitive’ way of dealing with the past inherited from the older Near Eastern civilizations and replaced it with a new form of actualization or re-presentation of the past, in which the once for all character of that past is taken seriously. This represents a kind of historicization of the past reflected in the Deuteronomic tradition. Thus he states (1962:55–56): The writer [D] has as his chief problem the relating of the new generation of Israel to the tradition of Moses. No longer has Israel direct access to the redemptive events of the past. Now memory takes on the central theological significance. Present Israel has not been cut off from redemptive history, but she encounters the same covenant God through a living tradition. Memory provides the link between past and present. The Deuteronomist is acutely aware that Israel’s redemptive history has not ceased. Her history continues only as present Israel establishes her continuity with the past through memory.

It is clear in these remarks that the object of memory for ‘biblical’ Israel is ‘redemptive history’ (Heilsgeschichte). When Childs talks

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about a living tradition he presupposes the notion that Deuteronomy reflects a continuity of tradition from very early times, in which this redemptive history is embedded. In this he is merely following Noth and von Rad, but such a position is very problematic today for a number of reasons. First, the redemptive history is in fact an elaborately constructed invention and does not correspond to a series of events that could have been ‘remembered’ in any literal sense. Second, continuity with a past history of the ‘events’ in redemptive history is seen as mediated through memory, and this for Childs presupposes some notion of collective memory as a reliable witness to historical events, but he says nothing about the social process of its transmission. It is simply assumed. Third, the biblical Israel of Deuteronomy is also an invention of the late monarchy for completely ideological purposes; consequently, it can hardly be construed as the medium by which the tradition was transmitted from an earlier age. As we have seen above, it is only more recently that collective memory of the more distant past has become more closely associated with the idea of an invented tradition as a way of creating an identity that did not previously exist. The noun zikkārōn (‘memorial’) also becomes significant in this discussion of collective memory. Childs is particularly interested in its use in the Priestly Writer and in Deuteronomy. For him the order of the notion’s development between these two sources is particularly important and is not to be based on the age of the documents, in which P is later than D, but is to be decided formcritically. In this case the reverse is held by Childs to be true, namely, that the form of actualization of the past through the cult is older than the form of actualizing the redemptive events in D, because the mythic mentality of P is understood as more primitive. Thus, in P the term zikkārōn is most often associated with elements of the cult and its usage reflects an eternal and unbreakable ordinance as much for the benefit of Israel as it is a reminder to God of these eternal commitments. This reflects a mythical understanding of reality and therefore on form-critical grounds it is older than the historically oriented form in D. Furthermore, P’s use of the term zikkārōn is in keeping with his understanding of covenant and the signs of the covenant. Even

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in the case of the Passover, which according to P was inaugurated during the exodus of the people from Egypt, Childs observes (1962:67–68): ‘Exod. 12.14 declares the passover festival a zikkārōn. The particular concern of the P writer is not the reliving of a past historical event so much as the maintaining of a reality which indeed entered history, but is now an eternal ordinance (v. 14). The zikkārōn stimulates God’s memory and his acts of memory are synonymous with his acts of intervention. The zikkārōn also stimulates Israel’s memory, which produces participation in the sacred order.’ Consequently, ‘[t]he Priestly terminology conceives of history as the unfolding of the divine purpose through the intervention of divine and human memory.’ Childs’s attempt to make the cultic use of P older than that in D (or J) on form-critical grounds, even though it is found in the later texts, is special pleading for theological reasons related to the biblical theology current at the time. The formation of the Passover narratives clearly shows the development in reverse order. The historical traditions become increasingly mythic over the course of time. This can be seen when one compares D and J with P. In Deut. 16:1–8 the Passover is a spring festival that is reconstituted as a remembrance of the exodus from Egypt. It is not intended, in its oldest form, as a reenactment of that event but only a way of associating an older spring festival with it as a way of remembering their origins and identity.6 The version in Exod. 13:3–10 makes out of the eating of unleavened bread, which formerly had no association with Passover, a separate etiology of the escape from Egypt, such that the very eating of unleavened bread every year becomes a memorial of the whole event. But even here, the festival itself does not take place until the people enter into the promised land. The sole purpose of the festival is to pass on the tradition of the exodus as a vivid memory to each successive generation as the foundation of their identity. This popular festival of unleavened bread could be observed in the diaspora quite apart from any cultic context and without priesthood or temple, as a remembrance of Jewish identity (Van Seters, 2003:162–71). 6 Some additions were made to the text in Deut. 16:3b–4a, 8 to suggest reenactment, but they are awkward intrusions. See J. Van Seters 2003, 165; also T. Veijola 1996, 53–75.

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P’s version of the Passover goes far beyond D’s celebration to make it into a first enactment within the events of the exodus itself as the eternal foundation of this cultic ceremony. This is artificially imbedded into the older J account without any regard for its appropriateness to the narrative context. Cultural memory here is much less concerned with the identity of the people than it is with the eternal priestly orders of the cult. Furthermore, the festival of unleavened bread was more closely connected with Passover and was now controlled by strict cultic ordinance (Exod. 12:14–20). The reason why it appears as a later appendage to the events of the Passover meal on that fateful night is not because it is an addition by a later editor, as scholars have so often suggested, but because it is P’s revision of J’s presentation of the festival of unleavened bread and inserted here in anticipation of it (Van Seters, 1994:122–23). Childs, by form-critically trying to place P before both D and J, misses the whole point of this development. Once Childs is satisfied that he has shown that the cultic actualization of the past as in P is prior to the historicization of this act of remembering the past, then he can claim the ‘most significant result’ of his analysis (1962:74), namely, ‘To remember was to actualize the past, to bridge the gap of time and to form a solidarity with the fathers. Israel’s remembrance became a technical term to express the process by which later Israel made relevant the great redemptive acts which she recited in her tradition.’ Childs concludes (1962:83–84): The Old Testament witnesses to a series of historical events by which God brought the people of Israel into existence. ... These redemptive events of the Old Testament shared a genuine chronology. They appeared in history at a given moment, which entry can be dated. ... Yet this does not exhaust the biblical concept. These determinative events are by no means static; they function merely as the beginning. Our study of memory has indicated that each successive generation encountered anew these same determinative events. Redemptive history continues. What does this mean? It means more than that later generations wrestled with the meaning of the redemptive events, although this is certainly true. It means more than that the influence of a

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past event continued to be felt in successive generations, which obvious fact no one could possibly deny. Rather, there was an immediate encounter, an actual participation in the great acts of redemption. The Old Testament maintained the dynamic, continuing character of past events without sacrificing their historical character as did the myth.

Childs uses the biblical concept of memory in support of a theology of Heilsgeschichte. To do this he accepts von Rad’s view that Deuteronomy in general and Deut. 26:5–9 in particular embody an ancient tradition of saving acts of Yahweh.7 He also accepts the belief, supported by the biblical archaeology movement, that the events mentioned in the tradition all had their basis in actual historical events and that there was an unbroken transmission of the tradition from earliest times down to the written biblical record. All three of these positions are scarcely tenable in biblical scholarship today and this leaves his basic thesis in grave doubt. In the end what Childs does is interpret Israel’s experience of remembering its past on the model of the evangelical Christian theology of redemptive history and the religious experience of salvation. This can be seen in some of his concluding remarks. He states (1962:88–89): Each successive generation in Israel witnessed in faith to a reality which it encountered when remembering the tradition. The biblical events have the dynamic characteristic of refusing to be relegated to the past. The quality of this reality did not remain static, but emerged with new form and content because it identified itself with the changing historical situations of later Israel. ... [E]ach generation reinterpreted the same determinative events of the tradition in terms of its new encounter. This gives the biblical witness its peculiar character. It consists of layer upon layer of Israel’s reinterpretation of the same period of her history, because each successive generation rewrites the past in terms See also W. Schottroff 1967, 117–126 where he deals with zkr in D. He expresses agreement with Childs in seeing the use of remembering within the context of the Heilsgeschichte tradition of the Israelite amphictyony (Noth) and the canonical credo (von Rad), and like von Rad and Childs he associates it with cultic actualization. In D it takes the form of exhortation, to remember. 7

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of her own experience with the God who meets his people through the tradition. ... The remembered event is equally a valid witness to Israel’s encounter with God as the first witness. Israel testified to the continuing nature of her redemptive history by the events of the past in the light of her ongoing experience with the covenant God.

The fact is that this highly theological understanding of collective memory bears little connection to what is the more likely social reality. In place of a long chain of successive generations transmitting the tradition from the primal events to later ages, the accounts of these foundational events were invented centuries after the supposed dating of the history they portrayed. And this was the work of a very few who composed the biblical accounts in order to invent a collective memory for a particular corporate entity. The entity Israel is thus part of an invented memory, and it is this entity that is shaped and reshaped in response to the varying social and political circumstances and competing interests within the Jewish community of Palestine and the diaspora. This reshaping is then reflected in the layers of reinterpretation in the text, of which Childs speaks. The rapid decline in the interest of collective memory by the end of the 60s was directly related to the corresponding decline in the biblical theology movement with its concentration on redemptive history and the rising critique in the historical reliability of biblical tradition as it is related to this Heilsgeschichte. And one of the strongest critics of this biblical theology was none other than Childs (1970), who seems to have completely abandoned any talk of memory and substituted in its place the final written tradition of the biblical canon. It was this new focus on canon criticism, both theological and literary, that swept aside both historical criticism and the older biblical theology. Gone is the collective memory of the redemptive history with its process of transmission of the great saving events through a long oral tradition so that each new generation might experience anew that redemptive event. In its place we have a ‘canonical process’ that is largely scribal in character carried out by scribes and editors with little apparent concern for the past. Indeed, the process of actualization is now construed as a hermeneutical method by which to escape from the past. The final canon

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is the sole arbiter of the community and its identity and as such it is actually a way of forgetting the past and of defying any critical method of trying to recover it (Childs, 1979:77–79). The dominating influence of canonical criticism, its concern with the final form of the text and its antagonistic stance towards historical criticism, had almost completely subdued any interest in collective memory until the rise of biblical sociology and anthropology and the application of this renewed interest in collective memory to the biblical text. One such study, inspired by Jan Assmann’s Das kulturelle Gedächniss, was a piece by Georg Braulik, ‘Deuteronomy and the Commemorative Culture of Israel (1994).’ This is primarily a word study on the Hebrew lmd (‘to learn/ teach’) rather than zkr, but Braulik makes it clear that the process of education as presented by Deuteronomy has everything to do with collective memory. He discusses all of the texts that deal with the theme of the Mosaic laws being passed on, by education of the young, from the time of Moses to the later generations, both the laws given at Horeb and those later in the plains of Moab. This is a quite different ‘actualization’ of the tradition emphasized in Childs’s earlier study on memory, but the Deuteronomic laws are nevertheless intimately connected with the events of the sacred history that Israel is repeatedly called to remember. The contents of the ‘education’ of each generation constitutes the fundamental requirements for Israel’s identity and their right to occupy the land they are about to enter. This treatment of collective memory is a radical corrective of the earlier Heilsgechichte theology, as reflected in the earlier studies of Schottroff (1967) and Childs (1962). What Braulik does not really address, however, is the fact that the whole supporting structure of this cultural memory, its historical origin and theological legitimization, is an elaborately invented fiction. And this is so in spite of the fact that the laws are constantly in flux, even as they are presumed to be handed down by generational transmission from the time of Moses. Nevertheless, implicit in Braulik’s diachronic treatment of the theme of ‘teaching and learning’ is the process of invention and reinvention of the tradition with respect to both its history and its customs, laws and institutions, which together make up its collective identity.

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What one can learn from all of these word studies of zkr and lmd and their cognates is that the authors of the biblical texts took the matter of collective memory as the foundation of their identity very seriously and made it abundantly clear, both explicitly and implicitly, that this collective memory was based upon what for them were great historical events and personalities of the past. This is undoubtedly the whole point of their construction of a historical tradition. Consequently, I will turn to the various forms of collective memory as they are presented to us in the history from Genesis to 2 Kings. 3 COLLECTIVE MEMORY AND THE HISTORIES THE DEUTERONOMISTIC HISTORY Let us begin with the Deuteronomistic History. Assuming, with Noth, that this work has been built into, and extended from, Deuteronomy, there can be little doubt that the history as a whole is construed as a collective memory of the people’s past, and as such the foundation of their collective identity. And this identity has to do with a people called Israel, considered as a single entity with a single deity Yahweh, the God of Israel. This is the group who came out of Egypt and traversed the desert together and who conquered the promised land under Joshua. Only when Israel takes up permanent residence in the land and is ruled by ‘judges’ is there any recognition of a tribal differentiation, carried over from an older corpus of tradition. But even here, the effort is made to represent all the wars of the judges as conducted on behalf of the people of Israel as a whole under a succession of leaders appointed by Yahweh. Furthermore, when Deuteronomy defines the identity of Israel as wholly other than the indigenous peoples of the land, the Amorites, Hittites, Canaanites and others, whom they are to eradicate or expel, lest they suffer ethnic and religious impurity, Dtr affirms this identity throughout his history. While the book of Joshua suggests that such an injunction was successfully carried out in the initial conquest, Judges–Kings indicates that this ideal was frequently violated throughout the rest of the history, resulting in dire consequences. It should be noted that from an etic point of view, the Assyrians of the 8th–7th centuries regarded all of the in-

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habitants of Syria-Palestine, including the Israelites, as Amorites and Hittites, so that ‘Israelite’ in Dtr is entirely an emic and ideological self-definition distinct from the more inclusive terms. Even with the history of the monarchy, which basically has to do with the destinies of two separate and distinct entities, Israel and Judah, Dtr invents an original unity in which the first Israelite king Saul, a local Benjaminite leader, is succeeded by a Judean chieftain, David, to create a quite fictitious United Kingdom of Israel. This kingdom only lasts until the end of Solomon’s reign, but it is enough to establish David as the divine choice and model ruler for all Israel, and the temple of Jerusalem as the sole legitimate place of worship of Yahweh, the God of Israel. After Solomon the unity of Israel is fractured into two separate kingdoms, but the chronology continues to combine and intertwine their destinies. Even after the division into two states, Dtr regards David as the ideal Israelite ruler for both kingdoms, and Jeroboam, the first ruler of the northern kingdom, as David’s negative counterpart. The Dtr history is that of one people living in two states, but with a common deity, a common origin and a common identity. The notion of a single people of Israel was taken over by this historian from Deuteronomy, but the precise circumstances in which the residents of the southern kingdom regarded themselves as Israelites, after the demise of the northern kingdom, remains a matter of scholarly debate (Na’aman 2007; 2008). The fact that Judah as an entity is almost completely ignored in D and the primary focus is on Israel, even though the Deuteronomic law-book first comes to light in Jerusalem, speaks very strongly for a northern presence within Judah at this time. And all the basic elements of the sacred traditions of liberation from Egypt and entrance into the land are likewise northern in character. This northern origin tradition together with the great preponderance of northern stories make up the raw material for the history; and yet out of this the author is still able to create a history whose center of identity is Jerusalem and the religious community associated with it. THE YAHWIST A major expansion and revision of this history is reflected in the Pentateuchal source, J. I will not repeat here the arguments that I

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have put forward in defense of this view for the last 40 years (1972; 1975; 1980; 1992; 1994). Instead, I will set out what I view as J’s main contribution to the articulation of Israelite identity. This he does by making use of a different body of collective memory, that of the eponymous ancestors, who had been completely neglected by Dtr. J does this by means of adding an extended prologue to DtrH, which takes the history back into the patriarchal age. What we have here is a chronology of successive patriarchs, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob with the descent of Jacob’s family into Egypt supplying the bridge to the Egyptian sojourn and exodus traditions. This connection is made by using the quite independent Israelite story of Joseph and inserting into it the figure of Judah as the rival and replacement for the elder brother Reuben (Van Seters, 2004). Regarding the succession of patriarchs, Noth already recognized that the genealogical connection between each of them is quite artificially constructed, but he considered this as the result of a gradual expansion of the primitive tradition. In fact, it is clear that as late as the time of Ezekiel, Abraham was still viewed as a regional ancestor in southern Judah, perhaps Hebron, and it was the exilic author J who took up this local Judean tradition and made Abraham the first of the patriarchs, followed by the minor figure Isaac (from the north-east?) and the major ancestor of the Israelites, Jacob, a name that had always been synonymous with the northern kingdom. It is in this way that J is able to further cement the identities of the two peoples Judah and Israel. This common ancestry is recognized for the first time in the late exilic period by Second Isaiah where it becomes fundamental to the identity of the Jewish diaspora (Van Seters 1999). This diaspora context is most evident in the universalism of J’s primeval history: the stories of creation, the deluge, and the tower of Babel, all of which betray so clearly the Babylonian locus and historiographic tradition. And it is out of Ur of the Chaldeans that Abraham migrates to Harran with his family, two places that are of great importance to Nabonidus, the last ruler of Babylon. Likewise, Jacob’s sojourn among the Arameans has been shifted from the region north of the Yarmuk to the distant region of Harran. These strong connections with Babylonia that J gives to the patriarchs and their migrations to the promised land are not lost on

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Second Isaiah, who makes full use of them in his message of hope for a new day. Into the patriarchal stories J builds his great theme of the blessings of ultimate nationhood, possession of land, and prosperity, and these promises are sealed by a solemn unconditional covenant with Abraham (Genesis 15). The promises are passed on from generation to generation, from Abraham to Isaac to Jacob and to Joseph, and then ultimately to Moses in the call narrative. It is through the call narrative, in which Yahweh appears to Moses as the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, that J establishes a fundamental link with the Moses tradition (Van Seters 2006). Furthermore, this revision in identity has been built into the older Deuteronomic tradition of the exodus in a special way. Deuteronomy frequently refers to promises made to the forefathers who came out of Egypt, but the identity of these forefathers and the oaths made to them has been deliberately changed from the forefathers of the exodus generation to the patriarchs by the addition of the names of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, thereby strengthening the continuity between the two traditions. The promises and covenant of the patriarchs thus supersede the more qualified Mosaic covenant in terms of shaping the people’s identity and destiny and has always done so in the later tradition (Van Seters 1972; 1989; 1991; Römer 1990). Now it is important to grasp what is fundamentally new about J’s understanding of identity in this collective memory. Dtr’s concern was to construct a national identity for what he called the people of Israel, and it was this identity that was in crisis as a consequence of the state’s demise. What J did was to create a new dimension to that identity, namely, that of an ethnic identity based upon the myth of generic descent from a common set of ancestors to whom the deity Yahweh has given an unconditional promise of becoming a great nation. Even after the loss of state and land, the people in exile and diaspora, which was J’s own social context, could maintain a sense of identity as sons of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob and aspire to the patriarchal promises.

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THE PRIESTLY HISTORY The Priestly revision of the combined Yahwist-Deuteronomistic history includes yet another massive supplementation to accommodate a radically different ideology and understanding of identity. This revision arises within the socio-historical context of the temple’s re-establishment along with its cultus and priesthood in the Persian period, and it stands in stark contrast to the Yahwistic portion of that history, within which most of it is embedded. Unlike J, which contains only a few simply and rudimentary commemorative festivals and observances and no priesthood (not even Aaron is a priest), the Priestly Writer aspires to create what Josephus later coined a ‘theocracy,’ with the temple and its priesthood at the very center. This revision is not so much a recollection of a historical past as it is the presentation of an elaborate ideology of the cosmic order under the single control of the one creator deity, whom the Jews call Yahweh. As we saw in part 2 above, the notion of the ‘memorial’ (zikkārōn) in J’s and Dtr’s collective memory is reduced to a cultic object or decree as something comparable to a ‘sign’—a reminder of the fixed cultic order to be maintained by the priests and people and the corresponding cosmic order to be maintained by the deity. The largest portion of P’s addition to the history, therefore, has to do with priestly matters of temple liturgy, purity laws, sacrifices, holy days and festival regulations as they relate to the restored temple-worship in Jerusalem. In contrast to J’s simple oracular ‘tent of meeting,’ which is devoid of priesthood or cultus, the ‘tabernacle’ in P has become an elaborate portable temple with a large priesthood, sacrificial practice and liturgy, and it is placed at the very center of the people’s life. The form of governance is a diarchy consisting of a secular ruler and a leader of the sacred orders in the high priest. While Moses, as the founder and mediator of this constitution takes precedence over Aaron, the first high priest, in all subsequent generations the high priest is clearly considered as the more important of the two offices, hence the label ‘theocracy.’ These positions are intended to correspond to the positions of governor and high priest in Yehud in the Persian period. During the Hellenistic period it becomes a reality. Furthermore, the lay people are viewed as making up a sacred assembly, the ‘congrega-

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tion of the people’ so that their identity is not merely national and ethnic but religious. They belong to the ‘ēdâ or qāhāl only so long as they subscribe to and observe the religious obligations imposed upon them by this priestly hierarchy. In addition to this central concern for the religious community of Jerusalem, there is also an interest in the wider world as reflected in P’s treatment of the prior history in Genesis. When P moves back in time to the patriarchal age, there are two significant revisions that he introduces into the narrative. The first is to reaffirm the Abrahamic promise of nationhood and possession of the land as an eternal covenant (berît ‘ôlam) and therefore equivalent to a cosmic decree. In order to participate in this covenant all male offspring and members of the household need to be circumcised, and anyone who is not circumcised is excluded from the covenant. Consequently, circumcision becomes a requirement of identity and inclusion within the group, and this is particularly important among Jews in the diaspora. So long as they maintain certain rights they can continue to be part of the Jewish people. This requirement is placed in the time of Abraham as a more inclusive mark of identity than that of the ‘ēdâ of the temple community. The second addition to the collective memory of the patriarchs introduced by P is the sacred burial grounds of the patriarchs at Hebron in the heartland of Judah. This is a very deliberate way of linking all of the patriarchs with this region instead of some of them being buried in the former land of Israel. Likewise, the invention of such a great memorial to the patriarchs becomes a way of ‘remembering’ this late Priestly form of the patriarchal tradition. And the memorial, greatly enhanced by Herod in the Roman period, is a sacred memorial for Jews and Moslems to this day. The Priestly Writer also takes up the primeval history of the Yahwist but transforms it into something approaching a dogma in which the one deity creates the great cosmic order and gives it a clear and fixed chronology into which the patriarchal age, and ultimately the whole of Israelite history, is fitted. This scheme borrows heavily from Babylonian theogonies and the origins of kingship, but in a form in which there is only a single creator deity and all the elements associated with multiple deities are ‘demythologized,’ and in which the primeval humans and their offspring replace the pri-

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meval king and his genealogical line. P also introduces a periodization of history, similar to that in the Babylonian king lists, from creation to the flood, from Noah to Abraham, and from the Patriarchs to Moses. Each period is marked by a set of laws, a covenant, and a new revelation of the deity, and the whole scheme is made to reflect a cosmic order of the universe. It is significant that the Sabbath is understood as both a remembrance of the six days of creation and the sign of the Sinai covenant, and observance of the Sabbath is an absolute requirement, upon pain of death. This mark of identity is transferred from the remembrance of a historical event, the sojourn in Egypt, to a reminder of the cosmic order in which the people of Israel stand at the center. In this way collective memory has become completely mythologized, an identity with a set of theological dogmas and religious institutions and practices. THE DAVID SAGA As I have argued for several years now, and most recently in my book, The Biblical Saga of King David (2009; also 1983:277–91; 2000), the narrative in the Book of Samuel recounting David’s reign and known to scholars as the Succession Story, along with a large portion of the account of David’s Rise to Power, were not older sources used by Dtr in his story of David, but were much later additions made in the late Persian period. This large and brilliantly written work I now call the David Saga. As such it is a complete work of fiction, although the author purports to present us with a more realistic view of monarchy than that which is given to us in the highly idealized original version of Dtr. Read in this corrected socio-historical context one can only interpret the work as a highly satirical parody of David and Solomon, as well as an attack on the collective memory of the golden age of Israel and on the whole corporate identity that the earlier history represents. Time does not permit me to argue this thesis in great detail (for this you will have to read my book), but let me give you a few examples that cannot be read in any way other than as a parody of the idealized David. The most obvious case, of course, is the David and Bathsheba episode. This begins with the Ammonite war in 2 Samuel 10 in which there is a falling out between David and the Ammonite king Hanun, the son of Nahash, and this personal

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grudge is viewed as the sole cause of the war that follows. Prior to this, David had maintained a treaty of friendship with the former king, Nahash, and had intended to honor him at his funeral. Now this Nahash can be none other than the great enemy of the Israelites against whom Saul had led all Israel in holy war. So how is it possible that David could regard Nahash as a friend and ally?8 Furthermore, when this war is resumed in chap 11, after an interval, and all of David’s forces are in the field with the ark, as if it were a holy war, David does not lead the troops in battle as one would expect—in fact, in the David Saga David never leads his army in battle. Instead, David stays behind to seduce and commit adultery with the wife of his brave warrior Uriah. When it is discovered that she is pregnant, then David makes frequent attempts to cover up his crime by trying to get Uriah to sleep with his wife and so pass off his own child as Uriah’s. Of course it does not work, and so David must dispose of Uriah instead of the child. Now what so many fail to notice in this brilliantly told story is its real point and this is the contrast that is drawn between David, the Jewish king, and Uriah, the Hittite. What is this Hittite doing at the very center In 2 Sam. 17:25 we have a curious genealogical note that deliberately extends this parody. There we are told that Amasa, whom David appoints to replace Joab, was the son of an Arab who was married to the Ammonite princess Abigal, the daughter of the notorious Nahash. Then he also adds that Zeruiah, Joab mother, was also the daughter of this same Nahash! So all of David’s military commanders were foreigners, Ammonites of the royal line of Nahash. And as if to make the point absolutely clear, the author then refers in v. 27 to Shobi, the son of Nahash from Rabbah of the Ammonites. Of course the Chronicler could not tolerate this bit of humor so he makes Zeruiah and Abigail (sic) sisters of David and therefore all of these military commanders his cousins! But Amasa’s father remains an Arab. Furthermore, by naming the offspring as sons of their mothers instead of their fathers, is the author of the David Saga suggesting that they are all bastards? It seems entirely likely that in the older tradition about the three sons of Zeruiah as heroes, Zeruiah was the father’s name, not the mother’s name. It is amusing to see how scholars actually treat Chronicle’s correction as historically correct and make great efforts to get around the obvious in 2 Sam. 17:25. See P. K. McCarter 1984, 391–94. For an elaborate and quite fanciful attempt to treat all of these women as historical, see J. D. Levenson and B. Halpern 1980, 507– 18. 8

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of David’s realm and married to a Jewish aristocrat’s daughter? This is in violation of Deuteronomy and its doctrine of ethnic purity. But David already had Hittites among his warriors during his flight from Saul (1 Sam. 26:6). In addition, David violates all of the principles of holy war by his non-participation in the fighting, by engaging in sex of a most illicit kind, by feasting during this period and by trying to get Uriah also to break these rules. By contrast, Uriah is the epitome of strict Deuteronomic piety, so much so that it leads to his death. Because all of this is fiction, this story must be read as a parody of Deuteronomy and the whole Dtr tradition of holy war! Again, after Uriah is dead and David adds Bathsheba to his considerable harem, the author tells us that what David had done was ‘evil in the eyes of Yahweh’ and so God sends his prophet Nathan to rebuke him and pass judgment on him. Now some have suggested that this act of divine intervention, so uncharacteristic of this author but so typical of Dtr, must be the work of a Dtr redactor, but that is ludicrous. Those who do ‘evil in the eyes of Yahweh’ are only the worst kings like Ahab and Jeroboam, whereas Dtr always speaks of David in the most glowing terms. While the whole structure of the episode is built to imitate a typical Dtr scene of judgment against an evil king, such as Jeroboam and Ahab, it is done for entirely satirical purposes as a parody. And just as in the case of Dtr, where sentence is passed upon the king’s dynasty and ultimately the northern state of Israel, so Nathan’s final word of judgment that the sword would never depart from David’s house to the very end makes David responsible for the eventual demise of David’s dynasty and the state of Judah. David is no better than Jeroboam and Ahab. Among the many additional examples of parody in this literary work I want to cite one from the time of the Absalom rebellion. All the leaders of the people of Judah and Israel have anointed Absalom as king in Hebron to replace David, and David is thus forced to flee from Jerusalem—although he seems to move at a snail’s pace. All David has left in his support are his elite bodyguard of mercenaries, a band of 600 Philistines from Gath and a large body of Greek mercenaries, the Cretans and the peltastai, made famous for their use by Persian rulers, Alexander the Great, and Hellenistic kings (Van Seters 2009:99–120). After reviewing the

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troops, David descends with all of his entourage to the Kidron, a little brook flowing on the eastern side of Jerusalem (2 Sam. 15:23– 29). As the people begin to cross this stream who shows up a little late but the two priests, Abiathar and Zadok, along with a band of Levites carrying the ‘ark of the covenant,’ ‘and they set down the ark of God until all the people had passed over [the stream] from the city’ (v. 24). Now this scene should remind us of another famous episode in Joshua 3–4, in which the priests and Levites bearing the ark stand at the edge of the Jordan while all the people pass over, and ‘when all the people had passed over, then the ark of Yahweh passed over and the priests with it to go before the people”(4:10b–11). Note that the language is almost identical, except that here the Levites are a little careless and put the ark on the ground, and then when everyone has passed over, instead of leading the people, they are merely sent back to Jerusalem, as if they and the ark are no longer needed. This little scene seems to make a parody out of one of the great moments in the earlier salvation history. Note that in the David Saga this is indeed Dtr’s ‘ark of the covenant;’ the use of the terminology is quite deliberate. Furthermore, in this account, as elsewhere in this story, there are two priests and only two, and they end up being rivals, and in contrast to P, neither one is a ‘high priest’ of a great priestly establishment. In fact, the whole priestly establishment was wiped out earlier by Saul. There is no hint here of any theocracy, even though the dating of this text strongly suggests that it is later than P. Now if we ask the question, what is the collective memory of Israel’s past that is being reflected in this document of the late Persian period, it seems to me that we are confronted with a radical rejection of a number of prominent features of corporate identity that the earlier history contained up to this point: 1) There is the rejection of any messianism that is based upon the lineage of David and any polity based upon a monarchy. In the David Saga the monarchy as an institution was corrupt from beginning to end. 2) In the view of the David Saga there never was a unity of two states, Israel and Judah, only a very unstable joint rule that was held together largely by foreign mercenaries who quelled any rebellion against it.

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3) There is likewise a complete rejection of the notion of racial purity. The realm of David and Solomon was full of foreigners, some of whom were more pious in their observance of the law than the Jews themselves. 4) There was a very rudimentary cult establishment with a tent and an ark and a couple of priests and a few Levites to do the job of carrying the ark when necessary. This is a complete rejection of the great theocracy of P and any significant role for the priestly establishment, which could never challenge the role of the secular ruler. One final point. The fact that this major revision was accepted within what became the standard version of the people’s history, in spite of all the effort of the Chronicler to present an alternative version, means that there was already in the late Persian period a strong dissenting voice to any ‘orthodoxy’ in the collective memory, as reflected in Ezra, and to the indoctrination of a single identity for the Jews of Yehud and the Diaspora. BIBLIOGRAPHY Appleby, J., Hunt, L. and Jacob, M. 1994 Telling the Truth about History (New York: Norton). Braulik, G. 1994 Childs, B. S. 1960 Childs, B. S. 1962 Childs, B. S. 1970

The Theology of Deuteronomy (Dallas, TX: BIBAL Press). Myth and Reality in the Old Testament (SBT, 27; Naperville, IL: Allenson). Memory and Tradition (SBT, 37; Naperville, IL: Allenson). Biblical Theology in Crisis (Philadelphia: Westminster).

CULTURAL MEMORY AND THE INVENTION Childs, B. S. 1979 Cross, F. 1973

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Introduction to the Old Testament as Scripture (Philadelphia: Fortress). Canaanite Myth and Hebrew Epic (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press).

Fentress, J. and C. Wickham 1992 Social Memory (Oxford:Blackwell). Gunkel, H. 1895

Schöpfung und Chaos im Urzeit und Endzeit. Eine religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung über Gen 1 und Ap Joh 12 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht).

Halbwachs, M. 1992 On Collective Memory. Edited, Translated, and with an Introduction by L. A. Coser (Chicago: University of Chicago Press). Hobsbawm, E. and Ranger, T. eds. 1983 The Invention of Tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Levenson, J. D. and Halpern, B. 1980 ‘The Political Import of David’s Marriages,’ JBL 99, 507–18. McCarter, P. K. 1984 II Samuel (Anchor Bible, 9; Garden City, NY: Doubleday). Mowinckel, S. 1922 Psalmstudien. vol. 2: Thronbesteigungsfest Jahwäs und der Ursprung der Eschatologie (Oslo: Skrifter utgitt av Det Norske Videnskaps-Akademi). Mowinckel, S. 1962 The Psalms in Israel’s Worship, vol. 1 (Oxford: Blackwell).

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Na’aman, N. 2008 Noth, M. 1948

Noth, M. 1963

Pedersen, J. 1934 Rad, G. von 1966

Römer, T. 1990

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‘When and How Did Jerusalem Become a Great City? The Rise of Jerusalem as Judah’s Premier City in the Eighth-Seventh Centuries B.C.E.,’ BASOR 347, 21–56. ‘Sojourners and Levites in the Kingdom of Judah in the Seventh Century BCE,’ ZAR, 237–79. Überlieferungsgeschichte des Pentateuch (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer). English translation: A History of Pentateuchal Traditions (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: PrenticeHall, 1972). ‘The Re-presentation of the Old Testament in Proclamation,’ in C. Westermann (ed.), Essays on Old Testament Hermeneutics (Richmond, VA: Westminster John Knox), 76–88. ‘Passahfest und Passahlegende,’ ZAW 52, 161–75. ‘The Form-critical Problem of the Hexateuch,’ in The Problem of the Hexateuch and other Essays (Edinburgh: Oliver & Boyd), 1–78. Israels Väter (OBO, 99; Freiburg, Switzerland: Universitätsverlag).

Schottroff, W. 1967 ‘Gedenken’ im Alten Orient und im Alten Testament: Die Wurzel Zākar im semitischen Sprachkreis (2nd ed.; WMANT 15; Neukirchen-Vluyn: Neukirchener Verlag). Shils, E. 1981

Tradition (Chicago: University of Chicago Press).

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Trevor-Roper, H. 2008 The Invention of Scotland: Myth and History (New Haven: Yale University Press). Van Seters, J. 1972 Van Seters, J. 1975 Van Seters, J. 1980 Van Seters, J. 1983

Van Seters, J. 1991

Van Seters, J. 1992 Van Seters J. 1994 Van Seters, J. 1999

‘Confessional Reformulation in the Exilic Period,’ VT 22, 448–59. Abraham in History and Tradition (New Haven: Yale University Press). ‘Recent Studies on Pentateuchal Criticism: A Crisis in Method,’ JAOS 99, 663–73. In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History (New Haven: Yale University Press). ‘The So-called Deuteronomistic Redaction of the Pentateuch,’ in Leuven Congress Volume 1989 (VTSup 43; Leiden, Brill), 58–77. Prologue to History: The Yahwist as Historian in Genesis (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox). The Life of Moses (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox). ‘In the Babylonian Exile with J: Between Judgment in Ezekiel and Salvation in Second Isaiah,’ in B. Becking and M.C.A. Korpel (eds.), The Crisis of Israelite Religion: Transformation of Religious Tradition in Exilic and Post-Exilic Times (OTS, 42; Leiden: Brill), 71–89.

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Van Seters, J. 2003 Van Seters, J. 2004

Van Seters, J. 2006

Van Seters, J. 2009 Veijola, T. 1996 Wertsch, J. V. 2002

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‘The Court History and DtrH: Conflicting Perspectives on the House of David,’ in A. de Pury and T. Römer (eds.), Die sogenannte Thronfolgegeschichte Davids: Neue Einsichten und Anfragen (OBO, 176; Freiburg, Switzerland: Universitätsverlag), 70– 93. A Law Book for the Diaspora (New York: Oxford University Press). ‘The Joseph Story—Some Basic Observations,’ in G. N. Knoppers and A. Hirsch (eds.), Egypt, Israel, and the Ancient Mediterranean World: Studies in Honor of Donald B. Redford (Leiden: Brill), 361–88. ‘The Patriarchs and the Exodus: Bridging the Gap between Two Origin Traditions,’ in R. Roukema, (ed.), The Interpretation of Exodus: Studies in Honour of Cornelis Houtman (Leuven: Peeters), 1–15. The Biblical Saga of King David (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns). ‘The History of the Passover in the Light of Deuteronomy 16:1–8,’ ZABR 2, 53–75. Voices of Collective Remembering (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press).

THE COPENHAGEN SCHOOL AND CULTURAL MEMORY NIELS PETER LEMCHE   

How do you comprehend your approach to Old Testament study? Would you define it as a cultural heritage project? How will you describe the future of our field; and the impact of cultural memory research? How will you regard the relation between cultural memory research and previous approaches (of historiography, folklore, tradition history, etc.)? Continuation—development—break?

MY APPROACH TO OLD TESTAMENT STUDY In her instructions for this seminar, Pernille Carstens has asked for clarification on the three points presented above. The first one has to do with the speaker’s self-perception: How do you comprehend your approach to Old Testament study? and related to it: How would you define it as a cultural heritage project? The last part of the question is easy to answer: After the Copenhagen School’s work not much is left apart from cultural memory. It is quite in line with this that Philip Davies in 2007 published a volume on cultural memory and biblical Israel,1 not a book about the origins of Israel, but exactly what it says—remembering his 1992 division of the subject into three different Israels, histori-

1 The Origins of Biblical Israel (London: T&T Clark, 2007). See now also his Memories of Ancient Israel: An Introduction to Biblical History—Ancient and Modern (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2008).

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cal, biblical and ancient Israel.2 What we have left is a memory of Israel, or in the language of today, the cultural memory of Israel. Historical Israel vanished as we deconstructed its discourse, not because we played a Derrida-like game—we did not—but the traditional historical-critical game. Thus the Copenhagen project was not a postmodern one; it was definitely modern, but it has postmodern consequences. After all, deconstruction also implies construction. When the story of Israel in the Old Testament was, from a historical point of view, torn apart, it was as a matter of fact the historical-critical scholarship’s invention of ancient Israel that was destroyed. The narrative survived—we would say unharmed (and that’s why Ian W. Provan’s accusation against us of having torn the biblical narrative into pieces is absolutely misleading: Whatever people may say about us, we have at least never torn any text apart, only peoples’ ideas about the text, i.e., their misconceptions of the genre of biblical historiography).3 I have regularly described the process as liberating the Old Testament from history. Of course populists like Hershel Shanks, the editor of the Biblical Archaeological Review, took offense, but this is really what our work is about: Liberating the narrative about Israel in the Old Testament from the burden of being a historical source for a historical Israel.4 Of course, historical information is embedded in the biblical narrative, but it was certainly not the main concern of the historiographer to present history ‘as it really was,’ as has been so clearly demonstrated by Davies. The historiographer’s concerns were of a quite different nature. His project had to do with explanation and legitimation of the present; what was the place of ‘Israel’ (in quotation marks) in its own time. He is writing the foundation myth of ‘Israel,’ and Davies’ explanation of how Israel became the collective name for Persian-Hellenistic-Roman (he forgot ‘Roman’) Jews is definitely pointing the way towards a 2

2–4.

In Search of Ancient Israel (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1992), cf. chapters

Cf. Ian W. Provan 1995 and 2000. This was also the reason why I chose in my recently published The Old Testament Between Theology and History: A Critical Survey not to include a history of Israel but a history of the landscape of Palestine without recourse to the Old Testament: ‘The History of Israel or the History of Palestine?,’ Lemche 2008, 393–453. 3 4

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better understanding of the biblical narrative. Ironically, this almost makes this historiographer modern: It was exactly the job of the national historians when the concept of the nation became popular two hundred years ago: To use the past to explain the present. It is clear that history always functions as a kind of collective memory for the people for whom it has been constructed. It was definitely understood by the people behind the 1968 student revolt: Remove the cultural memory of western civilization, that is history, and it will break down from within. It did not happen, but we were close, much closer than normally perceived. Therefore my answer to the second part of the first question must be: Yes, the Copenhagen program is definitely about cultural memory. This answer somehow also presents an answer to the first part. I grew up when historical-critical scholarship ruled the field of Old Testament studies, however with the special Scandinavian angle called ‘tradition history’ ‘with its emphasis on oral tradition’— my teacher was Eduard Nielsen, whose little book on Oral Tradition (Nielsen 1954) is often considered the best explanation of the intentions of the Uppsala School. The Scandinavian approach to tradition history was quite different from the German one that concentrated on the written tradition, but much closer to recent developments centering on cultural memory.5 It might even be said that if the concept of cultural memory had been around two generations ago, it would have been part of the Scandinavian agenda. After all the idea was to begin with the final form of a biblical text, and then speculate about how it got there. Davies’ discussion belongs here. When I presented this overview I did not know if the study of cultural memory would be in the centre of my activities in the years to come. It later turned out to be so. For that reason I instead concentrated on theological issues relevant to the present situation and the theological possibilities which the Copenhagen project opens for such including the possibility of a better understanding of the relationship between the Old and New Testaments. The

5

Cf. on these approaches Douglas A. Knight 2006.

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results of such reflections can be found in the fourth part of my The Old Testament between Theology and History.6 THE FUTURE Pernille Carsten’s second question is: How will you describe the future of our field; and the impact of cultural memory research? and related to this her third question: How will you regard the relation between cultural memory research and previous approaches (of historiography, folklore, tradition history, etc.)? Continuation – development – break? The first part can only be answered in one way: I have no idea, although of course I have, but I have never been happy with guesswork. And most likely: What I reckon to happen will most likely not happen. A few years ago, in a moment of frustration I said to colleagues: It seems that Old Testament scholarship is slipping back into the impossible positions of the past, disregarding what has happened in the last twenty five years. My former student Tilde Binger was present and remarked in her usual laconic way: ‘You are totally wrong; you have been victorious to the degree of destroying yourself! Everything has changed.’ The whole discourse of the field has changed, and little indicates that the old days of historical-critical scholarship will ever come back. It could be said that traditional historical-critical scholarship is today a walking corpse, a zombie, not realizing that it is already dead. It is therefore rather pathetic, not to say tragic when traditional scholarship is put forward instead of more progressive ideas. A sad example of this tendency is the removal of Robert Carroll’s innovative Jeremiah commentary from the authoritative Old Testament Library series of commentaries (Carroll 1986), where it has been substituted by a very traditional commentary by Leslie C. Allen (Allen 2008). Allen’s commentary hardly brings us beyond the level of information which can be obtained from older commentaries such as those published by Wilhelm Rudolf, William L. Holladay, and William McKane.7 When the Concorde made its last flight, one commentaLemche 2008, part IV: ‘Old Testament and Biblical Theology,’ especially chapter 19: ‘T he Contribution of the Copenhagen School,’ 379– 92. 7 Wilhelm Rudolf 1958, William L. Holladay 1986–90, and William McKane 1986-96. 6

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tor remarked: Now we are placing the future in a museum! We can only hope that this will not also be the fate of Old Testament scholarship in its apparent making itself redundant.8 Tilde Binger is probably right—although I will of course not claim the exclusive right to the changes that took place in the last quarter of the twentieth century. The ‘infamous five,’ as we have been dubbed by a recent cartoon published on the internet showing John Van Seters, Philip Davies, Keith Whitelam and myself on bicycles while Thomas Thompson is the dog running next to me— have been leading figures in this process, but it is certainly a collective affair including many, albeit more reluctant colleagues. The immediate reaction to the collapse of history, an expression coined by Leo G. Perdue (Perdue 1994) has been: No history at all! We only have the text and its (present) readership, or simply readerresponse exegesis. Enormous energy has been invested in literary readings of sundry kinds of biblical texts to such a degree that historical studies were almost banned from meetings such as the Society of Biblical Literature Annual meetings. This has definitely changed again. I realized that when I compared the Boston Society of Biblical Literature Meeting in 1999 with the next one I attended, in San Antonio in 2004. It was clear that a certain change of emphasis had taken place, and more interest was invested in historical studies. This trend has continued, which was again evident at the Society of Biblical Literature Meeting in San Diego in 2007 and Boston in 2008.9 It is not so that literary studies are considered old fashioned. They still dominate, but the realization that the Old Testament is not a modern book but a document from a distant past, is definitely growing. I suppose that the change from dominant historical-critical studies to studies interested in the application of modern literary theories was a necessary reaction to the totally dominant paradigm of historical-critical scholarship of past generations. But no modern literary analysis can cover up the fact that the Bible, including both testaments, is a very old book. The Bible is itself an artifact from the past, and a subject of historical studies. 8 Happily Carroll’s commentary is still easily available: Jeremiah: A Commentary, 1–2 (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press, 2006). 9 I cannot say anything about the status at the Society of Biblical Literature, Annual Meeting, in New Orleans 2009 as I was not there.

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Now the danger will always be that historical studies of the old kind will return shamelessly and will be pressed through without any regard for what has happened. The present religious climate, especially in the United States, and the aggressiveness of modern historically oriented fundamentalism is a factor not to be disregarded.10 However, this extreme kind of conservative scholarship only survives as long as we want to discuss it. I can demonstrate that with an example from the internet. I am at the present one of the moderators on the Biblical Studies list, including over a thousand subscribers and also of the ANE-2 list being of the same size. We, the list owners and the moderators, have had several battles with conservatives. In the end many of them left and created their own conservative list. However, after a few months, their list was almost dead. Nothing happened, because it is not very interesting to be among people who share your opinions a hundred percent. Therefore I am definitely not seeing the future as a return to the ‘evil ways of the past.’ In the days of classical historical-critical scholarship the event was placed in the centre of scholarly interest, and the text was considered a source for what had actually happened. All historical methodology since the days of Leopold von Ranke and Gustav Droysen aimed at disentangling fact from fiction in textual evidence. This obsession with facts has definitely changed. There might well be a past reflected in the present text. However, the path from event to text is most often not a straight one. It might not even be there. Historical-critical scholarship based on source criticism had its day. It failed.11 We ended up with a meta-history of a metasociety, ancient Israel, a society that never existed. When I, some years ago, explained that ancient Israel was a monstrous society, not 10 The real problem doesn’t involve hard-core fundamentalism but the variety that tries to put on the facade of being scholarship of the same quality as critical scholarship, as if there can be anything like critical evangelical scholarship. Ian W. Provan (cf. n. 3 above), and Jens Bruun Kofoed (Kofoed 2005) are good examples of this trend, as is Ian W. Provan, Tremper Longman, and Philip V. Long 2003. 11 Basically it relied on false argumentation creating a kind of scholarship dominated by circular argumentation. Cf. further on this Lemche 2008, passim.

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of this world (Lemche 2000), I was of course attacked by colleagues who simply did not understand a word of what I said, that ancient Israel was not a society of this world but a fantasy world created by the biblical historiographers. The amount of absurdities which have been accepted as valid historical information is amazing. Such absurdities have been allowed to survive simply because people asked for something which the biblical historiographer could not provide. My teacher and later colleague John Strange told his students more than forty years ago: We have all been brainwashed by the Deuteronomists. The situation is probably worse. We have not only been brainwashed by an ancient historiographer but we have transformed his message into a modern concept, the one of history. In a situation where the quest for the historical ancient Israel is at an impasse, simply because this ancient Israel never existed, cultural memory provides a link between the past and the present, between the historiography of the Old Testament and biblical Israel’s past. Please note that I did not say ‘Israel’s past.’ Israel, alias historical Israel was certainly there. There is no need to discuss that, and in some way the memory of historical Israel survived, simply because of the survival of the name. When biblical historiographers choose to describe their society as the Israel of the new Covenant (Jeremiah 31), they certainly built on the cultural memory of ‘Israel.’ So did much later the founders of the modern state of Israel when they had to choose a name for their new state in Palestine. Israel would perhaps not be the most obvious, as it was a Jewish state, but as my teacher in Modern Hebrew, Judith Winter (herself from Jerusalem), told me: They chose Israel and not Judah because of the image in the Bible of a strong Israel contra a weak and insignificant Judah. It was a decision forwarded by a political program. It is likely that the choice of Israel by biblical historiographers was not very different from the modern one: The name of Judah smelled of defeat and destruction—no matter whether or not this defeat was a recent one as implied by Philip R. Davies, or belonged to the remote past. The cultural memory of Israel was of a formerly strong Jewish state that stood up to mighty Assyria. It couldn’t be used as the name of the Jewish society within the political context of the Persian or the Hellenistic-Roman empires. It was politically too

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significant. But its memory survived as the cultural memory of the Jewish people. There is plenty of evidence that cultural memory played an important part in the formation of biblical narrative. I have mentioned Philip Davies’ study on the concept of biblical Israel. Perhaps I should also mention Mark Smith’s The Memoirs of God (Smith 2004) if not for the subtitle: History, Memory, and the Experience of the Divine in Ancient Israel. Mark Smith is still working within the confines of ancient Israel, and he continues to speak about a ‘biblical period.’ It is correct that he writes a different kind of metahistory but he does it within the framework of the meta-history of ancient Israel. He ought to have asked the question: Why do biblical writers describe Yahweh in the way they do, as a monotheistic god, and a bachelor? We know that Yahweh was hardly alone in the Iron Age, nor exclusively an Israelite god, but belonged to a wider Palestinian context.12 Cultural memory analyses must always ask that kind of question. In Mark Smith’s case ancient Israel is not a consequence of somebody’s cultural memory, the memory of Israel (and its God) is part of the memory of ancient Israel, the very subject preserved in later memory. Mark Smith will therefore never be able to explore the possibilities presented by his own approach. A generation before Smith, Martin Noth did something very similar when he placed the traditions of the patriarchs and the Exodus within the context of his Amphictyony.13 He created an image of Israel’s past, and used this image—never more than a hypothesis— to study the memoirs of the society that surrounded the amphictyonic shrine. Noth’s construction turned into the governing historical paradigm for the next generation of biblical scholars occupied with the building of houses of cards based on this fragile foundation. In some ironic way, Philip Davies is in line with such a procedure, looking for historical conditions favoring the survival of 12 According to Sennacherib’s annals, a king of Ashkelon is named ṣidqia, ANET, 287. The cuneiform is ṣi-id-qa-a. Neither should we forget the Kuntillet Ajrud (in Northern Sinai) inscription’s mention of Yahweh from Teman—although this reading is contested. Cf. Johannes Renz (1995), 62. The Kuntillet Ajrud inscription with its invoking of Yahweh and his Ashera should also be remembered. 13 Noth 1959 Kapitel III: ‘Die Traditionen des sakralen Zwölfstämmebundes.’

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the memory of Israel and pointing to Mizpah after the fall of Jerusalem in 586 BCE (Davies 2007: 105–15). The parallel between Davies and Noth is closer than we might have expected. Both construct a context on a biblical foundation—basically on historical-critical terms—and use their construction to establish a context for the cultural memory which they find reflected in the texts which they attribute to this context, whether the amphictyonic tribal league before Israel became a state or Mizpah in the years following the destruction of Jerusalem and the Judean state. Furthermore, both of them place this context in the ‘dark ages.’ We know as little about the Neo-Babylonian and Persian periods as about the biblical period of the Judges. It is obvious that Philip Davies builds on the work of Oded Lipschits, i.e. his book about the fate of Jerusalem after 586 BCE, but it is the part of Lipschits’ book that is most debatable, his historical-critical analysis—or lack of—of biblical sources (Lipschits 2005). A more satisfying approach will probably be the one recommended by Mario Liverani in his Israel’s History and the History of Israel (Liverani 2005). In the second part, ‘An Invented History,’ Liverani enquires after the background of these inventions, the patriarchs relating to the problems between ‘returnees and remainees,’ the conquest to problems connected with ‘returnees and aliens,’ the period of the judges related to ‘a nation without a king,’ ‘and finally: the law as ‘self-identification.’ Liverani really makes use of the possibilities in a cultural-memory approach to biblical historiography: Why an Israel, why judges, why a law? Well, it is not a surprise. Many years ago Liverani made it clear that there are different kinds of historiography, one about the past, clearly, one about the present, and one for the future (Liverani 1977). Historiography without an objective will soon be forgotten. A historiography that is solely interested in the past is a dead issue. It is not interesting at all, except to a few specialists. By recommending Liverani’s approach, I am not at the same time endorsing everything found in his history book. Much, especially the historical first part, is quite conventional and uneven in many parts. However, I believe that we can get further along via this road than by many others. Back in 1993 in a lecture in Oslo I put forward the question: ‘Can a History of Israel still be written?’

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which has been published a couple of times in different places (Lemche 1993). One of my three themes there had to do with the idea of the Davidic empire. I have been told several times, e.g., in discussions on the internet, that the empire of David as represented by the biblical text has little to do with a real empire; it is more an image of an empire created by a writer whose idea of how an empire works is a bit provincial. However, in spite of the inability of the biblical historiographer to describe an extended kingdom, David’s kingdom is still a model even to modern people, and it is definitely part of modern Israel’s cultural memory. When I was part of the Tel Jezreel excavations back in the 1990s, I gave a lecture to the people of the kibbutz where we were housed. The people there were definitely not religious. They had no problems with me dismissing the patriarchs, and Moses, but when the same happened to David, they objected. Their cultural memory did include a David and removing David was the same as denouncing their political claims to modern Palestine. However, in 1993 when I gave my address in Oslo, the debacle between Tel Aviv and Jerusalem about the existence of a Davidic monarchy had just begun, the archaeologists of Tel Aviv University objecting to the idea of a historical Davidic Empire, their colleagues at the Hebrew University opposing them sharply.14 I cannot say that the discussion has so far come to a conclusion. The positions seem quite fixed. However, we can say one thing for sure: There was no major state in the Jerusalem area in the 10th century. If something existed here it might have been a hamlet, maybe a small Palestinian town housing—in the best case scenario—a couple of thousand persons, but not the centre of anything great and pompous. Then the question must be: Why do we possess this memory about the great kingdom of David. My answer in 1993 was of course tentative and rather traditional—it still is: The biblical image of the kingdom of David represents an usurpation of the tradition of mighty Israel in the Iron Age—especially in the time of Ahab—and this greatness was transformed to become the past of tiny Judah. There never was a Judah of any importance. 14 For a recent overview of differences, cf. the discussion between Israel Finkelstein from Tel Aviv and Amihai Mazar from Jerusalem in Brian Schmidt 2007.

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Hezekiah’s and later also Josiah’s endeavors to establish a state of any importance in central Palestine both proved pointless. Hezekiah’s dreams were destroyed by the Assyrians, and Josiah’s by the Egyptians. When the historiographer described biblical Israel’s past, he had a different message about King Ahab and the splendor of Ahab’s Israel. His project of elevating David and debasing Ahab was very successful and was followed by posterity. Not only the Jewish messiah of this world but also the Christian messiah of another world has/had to be born as a member of the Davidic family. By the way, the second subject discussed in my 1993 lecture was devoted to the Benjaminites who play such a central role in Philip Davies’ argumentation. It was quite speculative although it did discuss the immigration traditions in Joshua which concentrate on the Benjaminite territory. Albrecht Alt and Martin Noth saw this more than seventy years ago.15 In 1993 I posed the question that it might be a memory of not being indigenous to the land, and referred to the mentioning of the Benjaminites in the Mari letters. At that time the syllabic reading binu-jaminu had just been discovered, making it fairly certain that the DUMUMEŠ jamina really were Benjaminites.16 Historically I saw no problem in spite of the lapse of time—nomadic tribes may survive for centuries or longer—and geographically it was feasible, the distance from Gebel Bishri, the Nomads’ summer headquarters, to Mari being approximately the same as from Gebel Bishri to central Palestine. Migrations like this have been reckoned by anthropologists for a long time to be part of the memory of (previously) migrating tribal societies. So perhaps we might ask if Philip Davies does have some ‘solid’ background for his placing of Benjamin in the centre? I suppose, when the question is about the future of biblical studies that the answer must be: It will all centre on cultural memory. It is a much more promising project than the usual historical-critical studies because it is of no consequence whether or not something happened. The project concentrates on the text in our Cf. Albrecht Alt, ‘Joshua,’ (1936), Kleine Schriften zur Geschichte Israels, I (München: Beck, 1953), 176–92; Martin Noth, Geschichte Israels, 72–73. 16 ARM XII:328:111. Discussion in ‘Is it Still Possible to Write a History of Israel,’ (1999 ed.), 402. 15

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possession: why do we have a story about the patriarchs? Why does Moses lead Israel out of Egypt? Why was Israel sent into exile? Why—why—why? And because this historiography as an example of cultural memory is written with the present and the future in mind, it is relevant. It seems that it has so far not lost this relevance, even today. BIBLIOGRAPHY Allan, Leslie C. 2008 Jeremiah: A Commentary (Old Testament Library; Louisville: Westminster John Knox). Alt, Albrecht 1953

‘Joshua,’ in A. Alt, Kleine Schriften zur Geschichte des Volkes Israel vol. I (C.H. Beck’sche Verlagsbuchhandlung ; München: Beck), 176–92.

Carroll, Robert P. 1986 Jeremiah: A Commentary (Old Testament Library; London: SCM Press). Davies, Philip R. 2007 The Origins of Biblical Israel (London: T&T Clark). Davies, Philip R. 2008 Memories of Ancient Israel: An Introduction to Biblical History—Ancient and Modern (Louisville: Westminster John Knox). Davies, Philip R. 1992 In Search of Ancient Israel (Sheffield: JSOT Press). Holladay, William L. 1986–90 Jeremiah: A Commentary on the Book of the Prophet Jeremiah (2 vols.; Hermeneia; Philadelphia: Fortress:). Knight, Douglas A. 2006 Rediscovering the Traditions of Israel (Third edition, Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature).

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Kofoed, Jens Bruun 2005 Text and History: Historiography and the Study of the Biblical Text (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns). Lemche, Niels Peter 2008 The Old Testament Between Theology and History: A Critical Survey (Louisville: Westminster John Knox). Lemche, Niels Peter 1994 ‘Is It still Possible to Write a History of Ancient Israel?’ SJOT 8, 165–90. Lemche, Niels Peter 2000 ‘On the Problems of Reconstructing PreHellenistic Israelite (Palestinian) History,’ Journal of Hebrew Scripture, vol. 3 art. 1. Retrieved on 28 March 2010 from http://www.arts.ualberta.ca/ JHS/Articles/article_13.pdf. Lipschits, Oded 2005 The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem: Judah under Babylonian Rule (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns). Liverani, Mario 2005 Israel’s History and the History of Israel (London: Equinox). Liverani, Mario 1977 ‘Storiografia politica Hittita–II. Telipinu, ovvero: della solidarietà,’ Oriens Antiquus 16, 105–31. McKane, William 1986–96 A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on Jeremiah, 1–2. The International Critical Commentary (Edinburgh: T&T. Clark Limited). Nielsen, Eduard 1954 Oral Tradition (London: SCM Press). Noth, Martin 1950

Geschichte Israel (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht).

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Perdue, Leo G. 1994 The Collapse of History: Reconstructing Old Testament Theology (Minneapolis: Fortress). Provan, Ian W. 1995 ‘Ideologies, Literary and Critical: Reflections on Recent Writing on the History of Israel,’ JBL 114, 585–606. Provan, Ian W. 2000 ‘In the Stable with the Dwarves: Testimony, Interpretation, Faith and the History of Israel,’ in A. Lemaire and M. Sæbø (eds.) Congress Volume Oslo 1998 (VTSup; Leiden: Brill), 281–319. Provan, Ian W., Longman, Tremper, and Long, Philip V. 2003 A Biblical History of Israel (Louisville: Westminster John Knox). Renz, Johannes 1995 Die althebräischen Inschriften, vol. 1 (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft). Rudolf , Wilhelm 1958 Jeremia (HAT, 12; Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr, 1958). Schmidt, Brian (ed.) 2007 The Quest for the Historical Israel: Debating Archaeology and the History of Ancient Israel (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature). Smith, Mark 2004

The Memoirs of God: History, Memory, and the Experience of the Divine in Ancient Israel (Minneapolis: Fortress).

EXTENDING THE BORDERS OF CULTURAL MEMORY RESEARCH? IZAAK J. DE HULSTER1 1. EXPLORING THE TOPIC 1.1 FROM MEMORY TO CULTURAL MEMORY IN BIBLICAL STUDIES Memory is being studied in a variety of disciplines ranging from neurobiology to sociology and from education to history, in a vast number of discourses, and it is in danger of fragmentation and becoming pointless. Memory in all this diversity gets attention as a multidisciplinary endeavor, but often seems disintegrated, lacking clear connections, either in topics (except for the unified nominator ‘memory’), in methods, or in qualified persons bridging between the most diverse disciplines (cf. Roediger & Wertsch 2008). Jeffrey Olick (2008:26), professor of sociology and history writes in the new journal Memory Studies, looking back on about two decades of active participation in the ‘break-through’ of memory studies: Most important, in my opinion, however, is the lack of even the most basic agreement on canonical texts that might be read across all that divides us (indeed, while Halbwachs and Nora are universally cited, very often such cites seem more totemic than substantive or engaged), or at least a basic lexicon so that we do not all feel compelled to

1 I would like to thank the organizers of the EABS ‘cultural memory’ research group for the stimulating sessions and their invitation, and the editors of the present volume for their further challenges in writing this essay.

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reinvent the wheel in our first footnotes, paragraphs or chapters.

Unfortunately, this task is up also for the present essay. After I will have narrowed down the parameters for cultural memory research within Biblical Studies, I will turn to the topic of my contribution and discuss four ways in which cultural memory research might need to be extended, or at least grow its awareness of its ‘borders.’ The four points to be dealt with are 1. how ‘mental map’ (see below) and cultural memory are related; a focus on historical awareness will lead to the suggestion that elements in a mental map without a historical character are of limited use in relation to cultural memory studies. Within the mainly text-oriented field of Biblical Studies, I advocate 2. incorporating non-textually conveyed knowledge. In connection with this I explore the dynamics of pasts and presents in cultural memory research, reflecting on 3. the future dimension in cultural memory studies. I foster awareness that the present of today is the past of tomorrow and that as such asks for honesty and integrity in examining and representing (historical) pasts, presents, and their cultural memories, aware of the incompleteness of our historical sources and the way written and spoken memories can be colored by unintentional and intentional forgetting and invention of the past; thus, especially with the notion of ‘future’ we touch on 4. a possible ‘ethical’ border as well. 1.2 CULTURAL MEMORY: A FEW GUIDELINES FOR BIBLICAL STUDIES For Biblical Studies, it seems sensible to restrict memory studies to cultural memory focusing on the social processes involved in memory (and not for instance neurological memory) and on collective memory (and not on individual memory). Biblical Studies shares here commonalities with the disciplines of history, sociology, art history, and literature (and less with psychology and biology— cf. Erll 2005). Within Biblical Studies, a recent Semeia volume (Kirk & Thatcher 2005) was devoted to cultural memory. Some points from Kirk (2005)’s essay are received and elaborated on (esp. complemented with attention to the non-textual) to start the article with a brief summary (for a more interdisciplinary overview see Olick & Robbins 1998; Kirk and Thatcher focus on the New Testament; for

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reception of cultural memory within Old Testament, see Smith 2002’s references and Davies 2008). Memory functions within the framework of time and place; calendar and landscape can play roles in outlining a context for memory. Usually memory takes a narrative pattern; also when it finds material expression in e.g. a statue, this is an expression with a relevant ‘story.’ Collective or cultural memory is embedded in a community (family, nation, association, religious group). It shapes identity through the memory of the shared past and new experiences are received in the light of this memory and can be incorporated into the existing memory. Although memory is discussed on a group level, it is embodied by its individual human agents who constitute its dynamic process. This produces and adjusts commemorative narratives (cf. Brueggemann 2003’s ‘imaginative remembering’; and Assmann 2005 who links his idea of ‘kulturelles Gedächtnis’ with canon formation), which might therefore less reflect the historical past and more the group identity. The content of memory has a narrative basis, but the process of memory also results in other kind of products, which are generally captured in the concept of ‘cultural heritage.’ On the one hand, this term points to the diversity of elements involved in cultural memory (such as texts, images, places, rituals—on the site of media and ‘products’) and, on the other hand, it introduces political and ethical questions concerning how to present the past and how to deal with the social and political consequences intrinsic in the presentation of the past (cf. Uehlinger 2007). Cultural memory, constituted by time and place, being embodied by agents and embedded in a community constitutes a social frame itself. Thus, ‘the past, itself constellated by the work of social memory, provides the framework for cognition, organization, and interpretation of the experiences of the present’ (Kirk 2005:15). Memory also provides a framework for the moral evaluation of present actions, and it makes an assessment of the present, it can call for action as well, presenting ‘lines of conduit’ (Kirk 2005:17). Such action creates new stories and strengthens the foregoing memory. The past limits the contingencies of the present and the present actions direct the possible memories of those actions.

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‘Thus the past [...] flows with its own energeia into the ongoing, creative formation of the life of the community’ (Kirk 2005:22). We round off this first investigation with Wertsch (2002). He discusses different memories, mainly textualized (his book deals with the Russia’s memory formation of the Soviet Union) as different ‘voices’ because they stem from different social positions and perspectives. His general conclusion about cultural memory research is applicable to the same enterprise in Biblical Studies as well: Key to this enterprise are the claims that collective remembering is (1) an active process, (2) inherently social and mediated by textual resources and their affiliated voices, and (3) inherently dynamic. However we go about building on these claims, the voices of collective remembering promise to shape memory and identity for as long as we can peer into the future. (Wertsch 2002:178)

He thus underlines the open-endedness of memory as a social process by human agents.2 These human agents preserve and advance memory through texts, artifacts, and rituals. Among the ‘affiliated voices’ are to be included the other cultural heritage media which present the past in the present. It should be clear that the main focus of cultural memory research is on reception of the (historical) past. Turning the above general review into explicit application to Biblical Studies, we have to bear in mind the questions: For which group do we study the Bible as cultural memory narrative? How does this group perceive the biblical text in relation to its identity? Among what other elements of cultural heritage (textual and non-textual) does the Bible play this role? In the present essay we first make some observations concerning the relation between past and present and then turn to Kirk’s broad (maybe too broad?) description of cultural memory as framework for cognition, organization, and interpretation of the experiences of the present, because it allows for a closer examination of the relation2 Cf. for a similar take on memory and agency from a theological perspective Welker 2002; forgetting is part of this as well, but beyond the scope of this article, cf. Butzer & Günter 2004 with references in the introduction.

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ship between this framework and the (historical or invented/ received) past. 2. THE ROLE OF HISTORY: PAST AS RECONSTRUCTION AND CONSTRUCTION A community’s cultural memory contains events, persons, and objects from the past, usually conveyed in a narrative. Such a narrative has, somehow, a historical root, but it is further shaped by invention and replenishing reception on its historical route. The historical root being remembered requires a reflection on the relation between the present of remembering and the historical past remembered. Such a present of remembering may be today’s present, but also any moment in the past on which a further past has been remembered. One can roughly make a polar distinction between a complete denial of the historical past, deeming anything related to history subjective to the degree that it can only be labeled fictional and a natural scientific approach to the past which aims to gain objective knowledge. As neither of these approaches leads to anything workable by themselves, we sketch two versions on each side of the spectrum which are practiced. Although it is impossible to make a clear-cut distinction between historical past and received past as history (what happened) and cultural memory (the narrative shape of the event) because of the things considered in this section, for the sake of clarity we attempt to use this distinction and explicate with context and wording ‘what kind of past’ we refer to. - Reconstruction. This position acknowledges the possibility of obtaining (intersubjective) knowledge about history and interpreting the historical past in a way which includes the understanding of historical people. o My first axiom to sustain this position is that humans have the basic capacity to understand each other (as a general characteristic within the species homo sapiens sapiens)—of course misunderstanding is included as a possibility as well. This statement implies the possibility of people adapting within a reasonable time to another culture, thus acquiring knowledge and understanding of communication within that culture. The historical past comprises other cultures, although we cannot go there the way an ethnographer or a

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cultural anthropologist would. Hartley’s famous opening line ‘The past is another country; they do things differently there’ (Hartley 1961:9) may further illustrate this problem. o Knowledge about history is:  intersubjective—from the remainders of the historical past (artifacts, written records, remembered past, etc.) a complete objective picture cannot be gained; history is studied in dialogue;  preliminary and provisional: in progress, because of the incomplete set of data, the limitedness of the possible perspectives and the advance in research;  heuristic: attempting (e.g., with the help of imagination) to create a complete picture of the fragmented historical past (cf. Collingwood 1946 and Lorenz 2002). This intersubjective, preliminary, provisional and heuristic nature of our knowledge of history does not change the factuality of history as such, but it moderates the ways in which we perceive history, report and describe history, discuss history, and employ history in studying cultural memory. - Construction. This approach is less concerned about the factuality, or even the probability of the past and focuses almost exclusively on the way specific records of a/the (assumed) past make sense today. This approach includes deformation, formation and reshaping of knowledge about the past. There are different ways of adjusting the past to make sense of the present or to contribute to or change the present through a rewritten past. In theology we can exemplify this as follows: o Brueggemann’s imaginative remembering presupposes that the Hebrew Bible has been written after the exile, often the Hebrew Bible deals with past, ‘passed away’ (cf. the German word ‘vergangen’: past, decayed, bygone—see also below in §4) times, which live on in memories. In this way, the writings of the Hebrew Bible mirror the collective memory of a literature producing group in the post-exilic society—it shows how this group (or these groups) wanted to remember and also theologically interpreted the past (Brueggemann 2003). However, when memory—like tes-

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timony in Brueggemann’s theology—becomes immaterialized because of ignorance or denial of the past remembered, there is less and less need for a basis of the Hebrew Bible in historical events, persons, encounters; in the end, there is no reconstruction, only projection or construction; memory will lead its fictional existence in rhetoric, maybe even without awareness of the historical rootedness of the words and sentences (cf. Barr 1999:541-62). In the end, only construction remains. Such critique may also be put into question, as a different approach to what is labeled here as ‘construction’ (although it sometimes consciously contributes projections) points out that what the critique regards as a denial of history is rather a lack of interest. What is labeled here as ‘construction’ may even be an approach which studies the biblical writings only for their theological significance. Lemche (2008:xvii) argues, that a focus on the biblical writings as a ‘historically reliable source presenting a correct image of the past (…) diverts the interest of the reader from the biblical text to events of the past.’ Agreeing with Lemche not to give up the idea of history (as postmodernism does; 2008:xviii) and not to divert interest from the theological significance of the text to the neglect of the historical significance, we will argue that a sustainable image of the past could also enhance the theological significance (for instance to examine—and if read with critical sympathy, to critically value—the ideological angle in emphasizing specific parts or persons in history). o Thus, it is important to examine how people remember, imagine and recreate their past, e.g., for theological or ideological reasons. o Pseudepigraphy denotes a special kind of attempt to change the present by rewriting the (recent) past, especially through the production of authoritative writings (e.g. Merz 2004 and 2006); by producing new textual material presented as written by an authority one can change the positions previously advocated by the person himself (cf. Frank 2009) and thus also change the way he (or she) is remembered, his cultural memory.

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When studying the Bible, one should be aware of the difference between the events referred to and the ‘version’ handed down and written down (sometimes distinguished as history versus historiography—cf. recently Le Donne 2009). Therefore, we distinguish between reconstruction, history with an academic intersubjective agreement and construction (projection), historiography with a too poor or no historical basis (although agents of such historiographical accounts would not categorize them as history). Similarly, a documentable past may sometimes even be denied—often it is a matter of critically engaging with the written and other sources and, ‘comparingly’ and imaginatively (cf. de Hulster 2010) completing the available data. In this light Andrew Vaughn’s program for positive (not positivistic!) history writing which aims to provide a background for comprehension of the text (and thus goes beyond ‘yes or no’-discussion about facts mentioned in the Bible) should be mentioned (Vaughn 2004). However, because of its background function for the understanding of the biblical text, ‘neutral’ instead of positive might have been a better—‘Hegelian’ synthesis—alternative. Similarly, one needs to find a position between a (too) sympathetic (cf. Dever 2005:ix) and a (too) critical approach, giving account of human factors for which engagement and historical empathy is needed, next to distant reflection. The ongoing effort to improve knowledge about history has the benefit of providing a more accurate foil for the understanding of cultural memory. This is not a logical-positivistic concern but, agreeing with the possibility of historical reconstruction (feasible with method and discussion), an attempt to serve the interest of studying cultural memory within the tension of reconstruction and construction of history. Especially when dealing with past cultural memories, it holds that the better our knowledge of history (the historical past in which the cultural memories under consideration were active and the past it refers to), the better our understanding of this cultural memory. These efforts are made in the hope that our efforts are enough aware of our own context that they may be epoch-making and contribute to a more objective cultural memory of future generations, which does not need to be filtered by later generations because of our ideologies, nor for too much changes in the perception of academics (our later generations’ changes in

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intersubjective knowledge are not necessarily a development for the good of ‘historical truth,’ or even for identity related matters which memories are supposed to serve). 3. MENTAL MAP AND HISTORICAL AWARENESS OF THE ROOTS/ROUTES OF KNOWLEDGE 3.1 MEMORY Dealing with memory, what holds for the individual also hold for the group: as Tosh remarks, ‘if the individual cannot exist without memory, neither can a society’ (Tosh 2002:4). Memory, thus functions on a collective level (in a social and cultural way). Related to the view of cultural memory outlined above are the following two lexical meanings of ‘memory’ (for instance, in Oxford English Dictionary online, www.oed.com): - Remaining / ongoing ‘information’ of the past—commemoration (Gedächtnis); this is about knowledge of human agents with a focus on the contents of this knowledge. The figure of Abraham in his (possible) historicity and the traditions adduced to him exemplifies this kind of memory in the image people have made of Abraham. - Act of remembering and storing the past—remembrance / recollection (Erinnerung); this meaning has its focus on the human activity or act of memorizing. The way people refer to Abraham in relation to themselves, often as ‘children of Abraham,’ shows how Abraham as a cultural memory figure is important for cultural memory, shapes it and is shaped by it, as the final section of this essay will illustrate. Although the focus is usually on the past, for heuristic reasons a third common lexical meaning of memory should be included in order to be pondered for cultural memory research: - Storage of information, such as a data collection (‘Datenspeicher,’ ‘Datenbestand’); although this meaning is usually applied to machines, it could also be applied to humans as the available knowledge of this information (in the most conscious sense this is knowledge ready to hand, ‘parate Kenntnisse’).

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Having mentioned that the past provides a framework for cognition, the question arises whether historical awareness is essential to this framework. Memory could be seen in this third sense as storage of information; within cultural memory research one could underline how this information stems from the past, but the fact that this information or knowledge has a specific historical root or route might be lacking. We first think this through outside Biblical Studies. An example is provided by the association of the tulip with the Netherlands. Although historical roots are obvious, the tulip traveled from Kalmykia through Turkey and arrived in ‘Holland’ (then known as Habsburg Netherlands, or also Spanish Netherlands) in 1562. And the more the 1637 tulipomania (and less distinctive moments in the Dutch history of tulips) is forgotten, the more the link between tulips and Holland becomes a timeless association which is not (directly) related to history, but rather a link ongoingly re-established in the present through the use of the tulip as a symbol for the Netherlands, Dutch trade in tulips (annual export of ca. two billion) and its recognition as something ‘typically Dutch’ (cf. Pavord 1999). It is to be noted that the tulip is a visible expression; seeing tulips in Holland will bring to mind the cultural association, whereas seeing tulips in others countries, such as Germany, would be void of such an implication. However, it is to be noticed that the present practices involving tulips (and other flowers growing from bulbs), such as the ‘Keukenhof’ (a park with over seven million flowers) and different ‘bloemencorso’s’ (flower parades) keep the cultural memory for the future, albeit in different fashion than centuries ago; both examples have started during the 20th century. To what extent is the association of the tulip and the Netherlands to be seen as cultural memory? Is the 1562 event a historical cause not remembered? Remembered by some? Or are the traditions established in the 20th century enough reason to speak of cultural memory? One could complicate this with one additional question: for whom is this association of the tulip and the Netherlands an identity marker: for the Dutch or for the tourists, or for the Dutch because of (the expected benefits from) tourism and trade? This leads to an explicit issue concerning the extension of borders, the question whether the third meaning mapped for

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memory (information as framework of cognition) opens up a possibility of including other ‘information’ than (living) memories of what (is projected as having) happened in the past. In other words: is a (slight) awareness that elements of the framework are received from the past and related to (possibly projected) past necessary to discuss these elements as part of cultural memory? Therefore we first explore what will be related to the concept of the ‘mental map.’ Mental map, synonym with ‘system of associated commonplaces,’ denotes a cognitive framework, constituted by a group’s shared understanding of the world which makes communication possible. Usually a mental map can be defined with two parameters: language and culture. The concept of mental map assumes a common language and socio-cultural group which uses this language effectively (see e.g., Givón 2005:65; cf. Black 1954–1955:287; Stienstra 1993: 23 and Kövecses 2006). As such it is part of an identity as well (we do not go into the issues related to learning and speaking another language; it should suffice to point to the experience of many that the use of another language comprises awareness of different cultural conventions). We further explore to what extent this cognitive framework is rooted in the past, but maybe lacks historical awareness. Therefore, we first turn to the relation between the present and the past with the question of how memories and ‘commonplaces’ relate to past and present. 3.2 RELATIONSHIP WITH THE PAST? Reflecting on the use of social or cultural memory, the question arises whether memory could be generally understood as ‘storage of information,’ including memories of the past, but not necessarily excluding other memories which lack awareness of their historical roots. Cultural memory commonly includes elements which are mere projections onto the past without relations to events or persons from the past. Such memories are accepted as part of cultural memory, although their roots are not in the (past) history of the group they belong to, but in the present of their narrative birth (‘worked’ past, proclaimed history), only assuming a certain past and therefore fictive. Thus, history in relation to ‘cultural memory’ does not only include historical events (whether something hap-

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pened or was projected) but also other elements which constitute past and identity. One may first of all think of stories or myths (shared prehistorical or not-event-linked experiences). A special category may be that of legends, as this category in between history and myth reshapes events and personalities, thus changing the past and contributing new projections. This can be done by exaggeration, epic embellishment or by attributing deeds from different periods or persons to one specific legendary figure.3 It should be noted that fiction also has a relation to reality, including past reality, but although it may be true to laws of nature and large developments (as a historical framework for fiction, e.g. in the historical novel genre), it lacks a foundation for its (therefore defined as ‘projected’) ‘historical’ events or ‘historical’ figures, approaching them from the theoretical perspective of ‘historical reliability.’ On the level of an individual, a novelist may do historical research in order to compose a historical novel, attempting to get a reliable picture of a certain city in a certain period. Having a ‘reliable background,’ the novelist adds her or his personage to the scrutinized historical context or chooses a person from that context and adds events or deeds. Similar to the novelist composing a person or an event, a group can add new elements to its history, creating and extending myths and legends (see diagram 1 below, with its brief explanation). The more fictive the cultural memory, the looser the connection of these myths and legends to the historical past of that group. 3.3 MYTHS AND LEGENDS AS MOTIFS IN TEXT AND IMAGE On a more abstract level myths and legends can be considered as— or be reduced to—motifs; even the way in which the retelling of events is shaped often allows for the detection of motifs. These motifs can be expressed by different cultures in specific stories; a 3 In Dutch known as ‘epische verdichting,’ a phenomenon found with Homer, in the genre of chivalric romance and also applied in Gospel studies, see: E. Schillebeeckx, Jesus: An experiment in Christology‎ (London: Collins, 1979), 188 (the translator choose the term ‘epic concentration,’ and in the German translation ‘epische Konzentration,’ whereas the Dutch original speaks about this phenomenon as ‘epische concentratie’; cf. E. Schillebeeckx, Jezus, het verhaal van een levende (Bloemendaal: Nelissen, 19807), 154).

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culture’s (material) images—with their own particularities—can convey them equally well. When the stories are reduced to their narrative cores, the motifs they convey, or they are lead by, lose their relationship with a group’s past,4 but they are still assumed to be part of collective or cultural memory. These motifs, especially when expressed in pictures, are also known as constellations. Such constellations are usually open for different stories, even as they are datable because of style and other characteristics of the object carrying the image. A well-known example is the hero motif, for instance the so-called ‘nude bearded hero with six curls’ (figure 1; Porada 1995:46; ‘nackte sechslockige Held,’ Keel 1992:40). Earlier versions of this image did not distinctively depict the six curls. As one of the depictions has the identification lahmu written on his arm, the figure may be assumed to have been identified (Wiggermann 1981-1982). The figure, however, can have tens of names, depending on the different cultures in which it or its stylistically slightly different equivalents appear. Legends can attribute to this figure names such as Tammuz, Gilgamesh, Nimrod, Samson, Heracles or Mithras (cf. for more background information and how literature deludes the interpretation of images: Keel 1992:1-59).

Figure 1: nude bearded hero with six curls on an Akkad III seal. (Keel 1992:58 figure 36; line drawing by Hildi Keel-Leu) Whereas the connection to a group’s past may be lacking, the history of the motif itself cannot be denied; however, this historicity plays a role on the level of the presents of cultural memories (where the memories are living or created) and not on the level of the past which in some way (through historical connection or because of projection) is related to the present cultural memory. 4

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According to Warburg (memorably exemplified by his ‘Bildatlas,’ 2003), motifs are driven by sentiments and thus warrant their own survival. Gombrich views this survival rather on the level of art and expressed this in his famous axiom: ‘art is born of art’ (1977:20), implying that artists rather copy existing art and cling to its conventions, than that they reinvent style over and over again by their new impressions from natural phenomena. Thus, the means of conveying memory can be beyond specific cultures, as motifs survive the groups they are employed by. In these specific groups, cultural memories express these motifs in concrete words and texts, as well as in images. The images are emphasized by Warburg; Gombrich writes in Warburg’s intellectual biography, that for Warburg: the images of the past were important as human documents. If only we can succeed in restoring their original setting, in placing them in the cultural milieu from which they sprang, if we uncover the threads which link them with the human beings of the past, they reveal to us something of the psychological fabric of their period and of its dominant mental states and attitudes. (Gombrich 1970:127)

Thus, cultural memory is expressed in and fed by texts and images (besides other expressions—such as in architecture, customs, clothing, tools and association with entities the existence of which natural sciences cannot research—the product of cultural memory and the mental map: the myths, legends, motifs they comprise) which obtain specific details in different contexts, cultures, places, and periods. Understanding the way cultural memory has contextualized the past and motifs beyond its inventing community, provides insight in these contexts and the related cultures. Contrary to Warburg, I assume that human agents are—probably not always consciously—active in the transmission of motifs and other cultural elements. 3.4 CULTURAL MEMORY AND MENTAL MAP Cultural memory comprises a socio-cultural group’s mental map or the mental map completes a group’s cultural memory. The mental map would be complementary in its ahistorical elements, if cultural memory is only regarded as a proper term for memories of past

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events (or persons involved in them). If the past is a ‘conditio sine qua non’ element of cultural memory, those parts of memory which are based on complete projections into the past are put into question as belonging to cultural memory, whereas otherwise they could be part of a collective’s mental map or form a special category. Fictional etiologies may exemplify one of the types of stories which fit into this category of projections (cf. Keel 1973). When the assumed relation to the past is agreed on as reshaping projection, there are other categories remaining for investigation of whether they belong to cultural memory. Awareness of the relation to history of memories which are based on projections shows the special positions of these reshapings of the past within cultural memory studies. One should be aware that cultural memories consist of many elements which came into existence without particular intention; admittedly, some people attempt to shape memory—for whatever reason—by changing stories or making up new ones. Furthermore, after having put projections into the past into question, even such projections are assumed to appear at a certain moment in history; a completely fictional etiology becomes a cultural memory when it is accepted by the community despite the fact that it does not exist in history (understood as the past into which the story is projected), but only in the etiological story. In other words: They are historical in their use of the past and they are historical as they enter history, when the present in which they came into existence, becomes a past for future generations. Their placement in a group’s past (even fictionally) makes them—in all common definitions—part of cultural memory. Now, let’s compare (fictional) commemoration with the assumed origins of other elements of the mental map, such as conceptual metaphors. Whereas cultural memory can grow consciously with new ‘reshapings’ and rather semi-unconsciously (regulated by existing elements of the mental map, such as values and—especially nowadays—influenced by the media) through the perception (and incorporation) of events, the collective mental map, however related to individual humans agents, develops rather unconsciously, although certain values may be linked with certain persons who (decisively) advocated them, or a certain (conceptual) metaphor may have broken through because it was used in a well-perceived

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book. Therefore, diagram 1 also shows a dotted line, indicating the uncertainty about the trajectory of the mental map’s element and a solid circle for the element being present in the mental map (for which there is proof). One further example from the Netherlands is illustrative of this relation between the mental map and the past, and it introduces Abraham, whose cultural memory will be studied later on. When Dutch people turn fifty they are said to see Abraham (and as this tradition developed, women turning fifty are said to see Sarah). This saying is obviously related to John 8, but many are not aware of this connection, although familiar with Abraham as a figure of cultural memory in a common Jewish-Christian cultural heritage. The connection to Abraham, however, is lost—as much as we cannot trace the reason for mentioning the age of fifty in John 8:57 (Then the Jews said to him, ‘You are not yet fifty years old, and have you seen Abraham?’—NRSV). This association in the mental map finds expression in traditions such as sending people a happy50th-birthday post card with the text ‘you have seen Abraham (resp. Sarah)’ or placing large inflatable Abraham (or Sarah) puppets or wooden boards in the garden of someone turning fifty. This provides the association with a visual tradition. If this custom is to be categorized as a cultural memory of Abraham (and Sarah), it is hardly possible to claim more than a connection to Abraham and Sarah through a shared identity with cultural Jewish-Christian rootedness. Like John 8:57 contains the cultural memory of Abraham in the idiom without known reference to an event, the Dutch custom reflects a Jewish-Christian cultural heritage, related to Abraham and shaped along a long route (including John 8:57), but possibly without further cultural memory— history and bygone pasts are fading in this custom, only keeping up the memory of Abraham’s name.

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Figure 2a and 2b: Dutch puppets representing Abraham (and Sarah) presented to people turning fifty. (sources: gewoonbijzonder.web-log.nl/gewoonbijzonder/2009/05/hieperdepiep-ho.html and www.pretgigant.nl/abraham~sara.html; both accessed 31-08-2009) 3.5 COLLECTIVITY AND CONTINUITY It should be underlined once more, that cultural memory is the memory of a group of people (collective of human agents on different scales: family, religiously or ethnically defined group, social class, nation or society); this implies that this memory is not individual but intersubjective and this collective nature results in the continuation of the memory. The transmission of myths and motifs contributes to their collective character, to the collectiveness of tradition. Handing over certain things from generation to generation may comprise slow changes in interpretation (attributed meaning), but the communality of these things endows them with an intersubjective perception. Because of its less individual nature, it is easier to access this cultural memory, as one does not have to take into account the possibility of individual whims and vagaries. This easier access is especially important when one studies cultural memories from the outside (with an etic approach). 3.6 RECAPITULATION Thus, we have tried to link the usually anthropological concept of cultural memory with the cognitive concept of mental map. The measure of overlap depends on the role of historical awareness in

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the definition of cultural memories. The Dutch examples of the tulip and of Abraham show how historical influences lead to cultural customs which might lose the awareness of their historical roots and routes. The link of Abraham and ‘50’ is an ‘associated commonplace,’ and as such part of the mental map. Although faded, there is some relation to the past present in these examples and the presence of the custom keeps some kind of memory alive. The distinctive difference between cultural memory and a mental map is the (possibly partly fictional) historical awareness which is present in (‘practicing’) cultural memory and which is not necessary in a (functioning) mental map (although, also the historical roots of an element of a mental map could be detected). Furthermore, cultural memory shapes identity, and is adjusted by an identity, whereas the mental map denotes a cognitive device which at the utmost fosters the unity of a community because it enables the community’s communication. The distinction in relation to history and memorized past between cultural memory and mental map offers an important reason not to include mental map research into cultural memory research, but to be aware of historical connections and cultural memory when studying mental maps. When dealing with cultural memory, we are not only to deal with ‘contents’ as such, but—as hinted at above, and as advocated for elements in the mental map—it is also worth studying the origin and the trajectory of cultural memories: their roots and their routes. But also for elements in the mental map this is illuminating (as far as possible). In societies with a low rate of literacy, especially pictorial material can be a strong tool in shaping, influencing or even setting up cultural memories (and likewise shaping the mental map). This may include ‘pictorial advertising,’ such as the Ptah amulets (cf. Keel 1990 and 2006; Keel and Gasser 2003) or propaganda on Mesopotamian reliefs (cf. Porter 1993 and 2003). 3.7 THE DISTINCTION EXEMPLIFIED: THE ARK WITH ITS CHERUBS This challenges us to engage with the communities in which the Scriptures in statu nascendi were communicated and to study their cultural memories and mental maps. Therefore we turn to a biblical example on the distinction between the two and discuss the com-

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municative implications and associations of John 20:12 (and she [Mary Magdalene] saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at the feet— NRSV). Dealing with the mental map, one can ask the question: how do people in this culture imagine angels and what kind of reference is needed to evoke the association of an angel? When dealing with cultural memory, specifically with the Judaism of Jesus’ day, one could ask: how did Jewish people of those days imagine the two cherubs on the Ark of the Covenant in the Holy of Holies? And, as an aside, why would Josephus (Antiquitates VIII:73) state that their appearance is unknown and cannot be conjectured? When applied to the Tabernacle or the First Temple, this seems to be a clear case of cultural memory. Although the Holy of Holies in the Second Temple was probably empty (Grabbe 2004:217. Porzig [2009:295-299] even considers the First Temple to have been without the Ark), if there would have been one, the question would have been whether imagination concerning this inaccessible place would be part of cultural memory (because of the availability of information through historical sources in oral or written form only) or part of the mental map (dealing with a contemporary issue). An interesting further question, of which the answer would have consequences for the exegesis of John 20:12, would be whether you find a relation between angels and cherubs. Were cherubs already regarded as angels (in accordance with later reception history)? Establishing a relationship between the understanding of ‘angel’ in the New Testament and the association with the cherubs of the Old Testament would make one explore several of the consequences this kind of imagination of the reading / communicating community in the time of the production of the Gospel of John may have for interpretation of this specific verse. The imagined (in cultural memory or mental map terms) position of the cherubs and the position of the angels in John 20:12 could be a further point of comparison and—assuming a positive response—of identification as well. If that part of the community receiving John’s Gospel, which was rooted in the Old Testament, regarded the angels in a similar way as the cherubim as markers of place, both constellations (or motifs) would imply the demarcation of the place of the Lord, and thus the text would witness Jesus’ unity with the Father and

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ultimately his divinity as well. Maybe the distinction could be made that the identification of cherubs as angels is an ahistorical fact, although it happened some time in history. This identification was some time in history a novum and became a commonplace, part of the mental map; semantically stated: ‘cherub’ had become part of a category denoted by the generic term ‘angel.’ But our example contains an example of cultural memory as well. Whether there was an Ark with cherubs in the Tabernacle or the First Temple or not, the Ark of the Covenant had become part of the history which was important for the identity of the Israelites / the Jews; this is also clear from the fact that Bar Kokhba, six decades after the destruction of the Second Temple, minted the Ark in the Temple on his tetradrachms (Mildenberg 1984:33-42). The fact that the description of John 20:12 evokes the image of the Ark of the Covenant in the Holy of Holies has consequences for the readers which are rooted in the Hebrew Scriptures. As one of these consequences is the challenge to confess the unity of the Father and the Son, and consequently the Lordship of Jesus Christ, those readers of the Gospel of John are provoked to adjust their cultural memory with a new divine experience and in accordance with this they are confronted with a question about their identity and whether they can confess with the (Jewish-)Christian community. 4. THE ROLE OF THE PRESENT AND FUTURE PRESENTS When following the generations and their involvement with the Scriptures, one arrives in ‘the’ present, in one’s own presence. One has traced how concepts, ideas, images, how memories rose, continued, developed and changed. One reaches the point of questioning one’s own cultural memory, one’s own view of the past and how this past shapes today’s present. This idea is also expressed in the title of Mieke Bal’s series ‘Cultural memory in the present.’ She chose this title because we look back from the present, realizing how the past defines the present. From her field of ‘cultural studies,’ she criticizes—what she calls—‘the silent assumptions of history’ and regards the past as part of the present (Bal 1999:1). In diagram 1, this—possibly fiction based—cultural memory is indicated by the closed circle in the present. The past not only shapes the present, but the actual present also shapes a future present. In other

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words: the present may become the past which shapes a later present, as the downward pointing arrow at the bottom on the right and its dotted circle in diagram 1 indicate (similarly, elements of the mental map can continue, as the left dotted circle indicates). Aware of the fact that the present is shaping the cultural memory of the future, the question arises whether this calls for an ethical dimension as well; this issue will be addressed in the final section. After the mental map example of Abraham (with the question of whether any reference to Abraham sanctified as European cultural memory because of the ‘European Jewish-Christian heritage’), I would like to further illustrate the above mentioned distinctions and turn to some remarks on Abraham and cultural memory (although a topic for self-contained publications) with the heading: 5. ABRAHAM THEN AND NOW AND THEN We will briefly deal with the image of Abraham in the notion ‘Abrahamic religions,’ then we’ll touch on some collective positive images and one negative image of Abraham. This survey will show certain images of Abraham which are the same in various cultural memories and how one (broad) cultural memory tradition can have different, conflicting images. The following examples are different images in cultural memory. Above we offered an example in which Abraham is losing a clear connection to a community’s cultural memory and seems to be part of the community’s mental map. Before drawing several lines of conclusion, we turn once more to an iconographic example. 5.1 THE ‘FATHER’ OF THE THREE ABRAHAMIC RELIGIONS Abraham is nowadays known as ‘father’ of the three abrahamic religions. As such he is part of the cultural memory of these three religions. But: do they share the same Abraham, or do they all have their own Abrahams? And what if, historically, there would be no Abraham? Many scholars deny the historicity of the person Abraham (for instance Thompson 1974, e.g. 328; and Van Seters 1975), assuming no historical link / lineage with a historical person. However, for some this is just a partial denial of the historical figure. On the other hand there are arguments for a historical Abraham (as argued by Van der Veen and Zerbst, forthcoming) which are to be

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considered. Notwithstanding such a debate about Abraham’s historicity, the three monotheistic Scriptural religions all three claim a link with Abraham. Even without historical ground, the figure/figures of Abraham can be an invitation for dialogue, an occasion for dialogue… Although this may be our hope, Keel (2009, cf. Keel 1995) seems to be right in observing that Abraham as the father of those who believe is rather a means of ‘selbstverherrlichung’ than an attempt to search for dialogue. As much as the three abrahamic religions seem to have their image of Abraham for ideological reasons (being true heirs or children of Abraham), there are also ideological reasons when Abraham is claimed as the link between the three religions (cf. Levenson 2003). Interestingly, several Jews in the second half of the first century CE displayed the figure of Abraham as a figure incorporating Roman and Greek values and being the source of Egyptian wisdom. Thus, they extended his meaning in cultural memory. Especially Flavius Josephus did so (Reed 2009:195-203 and her references). According to Reed, also ‘the Testament of Abraham succeeds in re-imagining Abraham as a universal figure, the experiences of whom can speak to Jew and Gentile, Greek and Roman, Christian and Egyptian alike’ (Reed 2009:212). As the main views on Abraham are positive, we briefly mention several of the collective positive images of Abraham and also give an example of an individual’s (not outside the religious traditions) assumption of a negative cultural memory image of Abraham. 5.2 POSITIVE IMAGES OF ABRAHAM The three monotheistic Scriptural religions all regard Abraham as their father, at least their spiritual father; he is a model believer, sometimes a mediator. This makes Abraham a marker for those religions, and his name is used in many a publication on the dialogue, relationship or similarities between the three (already MartinAchard 1969; later: Longton1987; Kuschel 1994; Feiler 2002; Kratz and Nagel 2003; Peters 2004; Solomon, Harries and Winter, 2005; Bauer and Schneiders 2005; Möller and Goßmann 2006; Obermann 2006; and recently: Baur 2007; Fretheim 2007; Baur 2009; Böttrich,

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Ego and Eißler 2009; Brandscheidt 2009; Schmid 2009; Lodahl 2010; cf. also Haddad and Esposito 2001). Within the broader framework each of the three religions has its own particularities in its image(s) of Abraham. For instance in Judaism, Abraham is seen as the father of the nation, an observer of the (not yet written down) Torah (cf. Gregory 2008), a proselytizer (e.g. Hayward 1998); Islam emphasizes his virtues—and thus includes many of Abraham’s roles: as father, head of the family, wealthy nomad, husband, host, etc. (Canan 2007). Specific to the Old Testament are the references to Abraham for God’s promise of land and offspring. Astonishingly, whereas Abraham lived in peaceful coexistence with the ‘former’ inhabitants (according to Genesis), later references to Abraham and the land lack this tolerance (cf. Habel 1995). The New Testament links belief with being children or heirs of Abraham (gospels) and picks up the theme of Abraham’s faith / trust (cf. Metzenthin 2007 and Sandnes 2008), either stressing his justification (e.g. Romans; with a reference to Abraham’s faith Paul can ‘overlook’ Moses and the law), his deeds (James 2:21-23) or the contents of his faith (which Hebrews 11 links up with resurrection). As father of the Abrahamic faiths, he is believer, patriarch, monotheist, friend of the Lord, (spiritual) example, and spiritual father. Apparently, the figure of Abraham is uniting the different images, or different contents of these images of Abraham. Among the other images /roles of Abraham: I first mention Abraham as migrant (cf. Nagy 2009:237-237), an image which is an inherent part of the Abraham cycle in Genesis (Habel 1995, chapter 7) and which is also present in the Muslim tradition. This image is often used where migration and theology meet (from the migrant’s perspective). A more problematic side of Abraham, touched on above, is his biological (or on a larger scale: ethnic) fatherhood and the image of father Abraham (and likewise his descendants) as heir of the promised land. To avoid political discussion, I just remark that this is an important, influential image in cultural memory.

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5.3 A NEGATIVE IMAGE OF ABRAHAM? Besides the many, many positive images of Abraham, we now turn to a negative image. Bruce Chilton has entitled one of his most recent books Abraham’s curse (2008) and contributes to the cultural memory of Abraham, linking his name—according to the subtitle—with ‘the roots of violence in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam.’ His book can be regarded as a cultural memory statement on the Aqedah. In the first part he shows how the figures of Abraham and Isaac were shaped into pious models of resistance during the Maccabaean period. From this time onwards he assumes a ‘theology of martyrdom’ (cf. Kirk 2005:19), an ideal of suffering and practicing violence in the three Abrahamic religions. With the light he sheds on the aqedah he seems to imply an understanding of God’s command to Abraham to offer his son, as a curse. Chilton sketches the aqedah as a temptation, a false request to endanger Isaac, after Abraham had brought Sarah into dangerous situations. Although one might question Chilton’s reading, his critique of Abraham and his cultural memory calls in question the ideology in today’s perception of Abraham (cf. de Hulster 2008). Acknowledging the violence in the three Abrahamic traditions, or in his own words that ‘the religions of the children of Abraham (and no doubt others) are inherently ambiguous at best, if not indeed inherently flawed, in respect to issues of intolerance, discrimination, violence, and hatred,’ Shepherd (2005:43) argues that ‘a move to a greater degree of self-criticism would be constructive […] for all the children of Abraham’ (28). Acts of violence with a theological underpinning ‘are not morally wrong because theologically questionable—they are theologically questionable because morally wrong’ (41). Thus he makes a plea that religions should submit to and be judged by universal human values. Unfortunately, he does not make any effort to make an image of Abraham and root either violence non-violence or self-criticism there—Abraham functions, as elsewhere, as an umbrella to discuss the three ‘Abrahamic religions.’ Thus, different new dimensions are added or explicated with regard to the cultural memory of Abraham. The final section will touch on the ethical dimension of shaping cultural memory for

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future generations and how this is related to our perception, adoption, and reception of history, the past, and (historical) figures from the past, as pointed to in the previous section. 5.4 ABRAHAM AND ICONOGRAPHY Although it is not our aim to discuss the theme of the aqedah in depth, we would like to refer to Thomas Staubli’s SBL 2008 paper ‘Is There an Iconographic Pattern of the Aqedat Yizkhaq?’ (25-112008). In this paper he showed that almost all of the representations of the aqedah contain a pictorially expressed motif in which four figures are present: sacrificer, sacrifice, substitute sacrifice and the figure of divine intervention; and he showed that this motif iconographically existed before the Abraham story. 6. RECAPITULATION By way of conclusion we recapitulate the main forgoing observations and statements, addressing once more the relation between cultural memory and the mental map and emphasizing again the importance of non-textual material for the study of cultural memory, the dimension of the future, and cultural memory’s possible ethical dimension. - After an overview of the angle to take on cultural memory in Biblical Studies, emphasizing aspects of cultural memory such as its community and identity character with its human agents, its narrative dimension, and its reception of the past, we have turned to questions concerning history and received past and distinguished between intersubjective reconstruction and formative construction of history. My plea is to attempt to be as close as possible to the preliminary knowledge we have concerning the past. Engagement with history and empathy can contribute to an awareness of the human factors in making and writing history and assist in dealing with the many uncertainties in our knowledge. This requires imagination and taking into account as much material as possible, whether textual or pictorial (and maybe others). Even aware of the limitations of historical reconstruction, it is possible to ‘store’ an image of the past (doing justice to historical fact) with emphases relevant to the present.

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After these introductory considerations, the first half of this essay dealt with memory, cultural memories and mental maps. Although a main distinctive element between a community’s cultural memory and its mental map is that the latter includes ahistorical associations, this very distinction is sometimes hard to make, especially in cases which have a fading relation with the past, such as the ‘Dutch’ tulip and the Dutch association of Abraham with the age of fifty. Although these associations have historical roots and routes, and are ‘revived’ by new customs, the question is how, beyond their belonging to the mental map as associations, are part of cultural memory as well. Thus, cultural memory and the mental map are to be separated, as far as certain mental map elements do not show historical awareness, still one should not forget the relatedness between cultural memory and mental map (which allows for a cognitive, an anthropological, and a historical angle on both— cf. Diagram 1). Furthermore, cultural memory is not only related to past history (Vergangenheit), but also to still existing places and still practiced rituals and customs. The past is not something ‘passed away,’ but something part of the present as well—in whatever left, remaining or well preserved in daily life, landscape or museum. Regarding the tulip and Abraham examples, one could argue that the new traditions (of the puppets, resp. the flower parades), although largely missing a historical awareness to their origins, have their significance for identity and are renewed by these continued traditions as part of cultural memory (although the relation between folklore and cultural memory is a topic beyond the scope of this contribution). So, when we deal with cultural memories in the present and cultural memories in the past, we are to accept limitations, given the difficulties of the historical, passed nature of these later memories, and including the danger of the present day, ideologically biased cultural memory of not only the historical past, but also certain past cultural memories. Confronted with the danger of ideology, we should ask several questions, several of which address the ethical consequences

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of cultural memories. Exemplified in line with the examples with Abraham: o What consequences does Abraham as cultural memory figure (being past as part of the present) of a community in the present have on the identity and behavior of this communities’ members? o Can we speak about a responsibility for a certain cultural memory contents (an image of a ‘historical person,’ or a narrative)? o Supposed there was a historical Abraham; is there a responsibility towards him? And whether there was a historical Abraham or not, do we have this responsibility (also) towards the inventor(s) or re-shapers of this figure? o If it is supposed, that there is no historical Abraham, then the figure of Abraham would be a literary invention. This and later images created about him are inventions by authors and readers. What is the effect of speaking about responsibility in this case? o How do the two above mentioned possibilities for a possible historical Abraham relate to Abraham as ‘the Abraham’ claimed by the three ‘Abrahamic religions,’ in either selfglorification and self-justification, or in attempts at conciliation through the (then presumably) ‘shared’ and therefore uniting figure of Abraham? This question sharpens the first question concerning identity and behavior mentioned above. o Taking in account the collective nature of cultural memory, every era, every culture will probably set its own limits regarding the extent to which images can be re-created. Later generations, however, can require account be given for the choices made. Whereas biblical scholars are usually text oriented, the topic of cultural memory requires an awareness beyond this, as cultural memory finds expression not only in texts, but also in images, architecture, acts (in short: in all cultural expressions). Therefore we have advocated that cultural memory research—especially within Biblical Studies—should pay more attention to

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the different cultural expressions, especially—with a generic term—the non-written expressions of cultural memory. As we deal with cultural memory, the focus is on a collective, shared set of narratives, ideas, and also artifacts and symbols. Therefore cultural memories are accessible with more certainty than individual thoughts. In addition, the characteristic of collectiveness also points to their power. This is important when considering cultural memories of the past. In reconstructing those cultural memories one may depend upon an intersubjective framework of knowledge expressed over a broad range of media and that is not handed over to the most individual fantasies which are impossible to reconstruct. This assumption of intersubjectivity (which is indeed restricted to a group) allowed the reconstruction of the understanding of John 20:12 by a historical community (rooted in the Hebrew Scriptures), with both mental map and cultural memory elements. The case study on John 20:12 helped to clarify the distinction between cultural memory and mental map. The implication in the word ‘angels’ which allows for a reference to cherubs is, although due to a historical development, an ahistorical piece of information and as such only part of the mental map of the earliest receiving Jewish communities of the Fourth Gospel. The association of the cherubs with the Ark of the Covenant introduces an important object from Israelite history, as reported in the Hebrew Bible to John 20:12; being a part of received history, this association is possible because of its rootedness in cultural memory. We return once more to where we started: history and received past. The future dimension with its ethical run-off requires honesty and integrity in reconstructing the historical past and assessing the received past of cultural memory. Although (for post-modernists) it may rather seem a modernist concern to ask for the historical ground of cultural memory, this was a concern in Antiquity already. A verse such as 2 Peter 1:16 (For we did not follow cleverly devised myths when we made known to you the power and coming of our Lord Jesus Christ, but we had been eyewitnesses of his majesty— NRSV) and Luke’s accuracy (he aims to complete his task

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may plead for the importance of a memory’s rootedness in history. Similarly, Thucydides argues not to believe anything ἀβασανίστως (uninvestigated, which literally even means: not tortured for examination), but to rely on proofs (the word τεκμήριον employed implies reconstruction—Book 1), because of the validity of memories based on this. Knowledge of history, especially because of its preliminary, heuristic and intersubjective nature, is not to serve ‘yes or no’ discussions, but it should be fostered with willingness and lead to a critical assessment of cultural memory. Still, the impact of a historical event or figure lies not only in the event or figure itself, but in the process (and its human agents involved) of becoming part of cultural memory. This has been, is, and will be shaped in every new present. Therefore, the present article’s focus on the dynamics between pasts and histories is a plea for honesty in studying cultural memory, in the hope that this does not deprive people of their cultural memories, but brings them closer to their historical roots—aware that ethical conclusions based on cultural memory should be (self-) critically examined in the light of ‘universal’ human values (if this is the right category to draw ‘external’ criteria from). This focus opens up for the inclusion of considering the future within cultural memory studies. Especially the image of Abraham provides an interesting case here, as next to the positive images of Abraham, negative consequences of this image can be pointed to. Will the image created for propagating Abraham as the key person uniting the three monotheistic Scriptural religions prevail, and stimulate self-criticism or will the other images created within these three religions stimulate self-justification and disunite?

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Diagram 1: This diagram shows ellipses representing different periods (presents / pasts); a particular historical past and present of a singular group are focused on (therefore the two ellipses with solid lines in comparison to those with the dotted lines). a) That particular present projects a cultural memory (represented by the circle with the dashed line), thus reshaping the past. This reshaping happens by using part of the existing historical past (the

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overlap with the ellipsis) and extending it beyond the borders of history (marked by the dotted vertical lines along the ellipses), thus creating past remembered outside the historical past. Thus, the diagram shows how cultural memory reshapes the past. b) the diagram visualises how a mental map element has risen and is present as an element of the actual mental map, but its root(s) and route cannot be exactly traced. c) the actual present also shapes future presents; therefore, beyond the actual present mental map elements and cultural memory can form the basis for future mental map elements and cultural memories. BIBLIOGRAPHY Assmann, J. 2005

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THE STUDY OF FORGETTING AND THE FORGOTTEN IN ANCIENT ISRAELITE DISCOURSE/S: OBSERVATIONS AND TEST CASES EHUD BEN ZVI 1. INTRODUCTION Memory studies are beginning to impact research on the historical discourse/s of ancient Israel. In this essay, and as part of this process, I wish to draw attention to the potential that studies that focus on forgetting, and on knowledge that is set partially or fully dormant or forgotten have for reconstructing these historical discourses. The point is to move beyond obviously true statements such as remembering involves, by necessity, forgetting and that the construction of all memory and particularly collective memory requires and, at times, is a tool meant to make sure that some matters be bracketed or forgotten.1 The goal of this paper is to explore the potential of studies that shift the central focus from what is remembered to what is set dormant or forgotten. To do so, I have selected four substantially different, illustrative cases. Each involves matters that were, to some extent at least, known to be true within a community but were, or even more importantly, had to be forgotten or ‘bracketed’ in the process of developing the central collective memory of at least the (ideologically) Jerusalem-centered literati of Persian Yehud. These cases are: (1) the local origin of most of the population, (2) the continuation of 1 On these matters, see, for instance, D. Mendels, Memory in Jewish, Pagan and Christian Societies of the Graeco-Roman World: Fragmented Memory– Comprehensive Memory–Collective Memory (LSTS, 45; London: T&T Clark, 2004), 37–41.

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Assyrian hegemony over Judah after Hezekiah’s revolt against Sennacherib, (3) the lack of any reference to reliance on Aram in Hosea, and (4) the rhetorical construction of the cipher/character ‘Pharaoh,’ including ‘Pharaoh’s’ first control of, and then influence in Canaan/Palestine and what one may call, the matter of forgetting ‘Pharaoh’ so as to remember ‘Pharaoh.’2 To be sure, each of these cases deserves a full-length discussion, but for the present purposes their main contours suffice.3 Before turning to these four examples, two important observations are in order.4 The first concerns the concept of ‘site of memory’ which goes back to the work of P. Nora. Nora came the closest to defining ‘site of memory’ when he wrote: ‘If the expression lieu de mémoire must have an official definition, it should be this: a lieu de mémoire is any significant entity, whether material or nonmaterial in nature, which by dint of human will or the work of time What I mean by that will be made clear in the discussion below. Several other and substantially diverse cases could have been selected as well. These include, among many others, the ‘bracketing’ of knowledge and use of medicine and magic; note the lack of medical/magical texts/knowledge in Hebrew Bible, despite the fact that healers/ancient physicians certainly existed, and cf. 2 Chron. 16:12 (and later Sir. 38:1–15). It is worth noting that centuries later the rabbis noted this absence (or one may say, the presence of such a salient absence) and praised Hezekiah for hiding away the ‘book/tablet of cures’ [‫ רפואות ספר‬or ‫]טבלה של רפואות‬, which they imagined to have been in existence until his days (see b. Ber 2a; b. Pes 56a; y. Pes 64a [9.1]; y. Ned. 22b [6.8]; y. San 5b [1.2]). Other potential cases of study involve the ‘forgotten’ existence of Ashera in Yhwistic worship in monarchic Israel and Ashera’s relation to YHWH at the time and ‘forgotten’ traditions about Enoch and Moses (cf. Thomas Römer, ‘Moses Outside the Torah and the Construction of a Diaspora Identity,’ Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 8 [2008], article 15; available at http://www.jhsonline.org). Each of these cases can be studied in terms of memory, forgetfulness and in some cases, likely even in terms of ‘memory of intentional forgetfulness.’ In addition, Chronicles is conspicuous by the extent of the knowledge that it seems to ask its intended and primary readers to bracket. 4 The way in which these observations are supported by an examination of the examples below, along with the relevance of these observations for the study of ancient Israelite discourse/s in Yehud will become evident in the main body of this essay. 2 3

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has become a symbolic element of the memorial heritage of any community.’5 Nora, however, advanced a relatively restrictive understanding of the term.6 One has to keep in mind that P. Nora’s main interest has never been in ancient Israel, ancient near Eastern studies or ancient societies for that matter. For the studies of memory and forgetfulness in ancient Israel and its historical discourse/s (and likely others in ancient Near Eastern societies), a more encompassing understanding of the term is heuristically more helpful. Thus, I will be using the term ‘site of memory’ to refer to any constructed space, place, event, figure, text or the like—whether it exists ‘materially’ or only in the mind of members of a social group —whose presence in the relevant cultural milieu evokes or was meant to evoke core images or aspects of images of the past held by the particular social group who lives in that cultural milieu. Most of these sites act as ciphers to be activated within a particular social discourse, and as places to be visited and revisited, even if only mentally, as part of a self-supportive mechanism of socialization and social reproduction.7 Turning to the second observation, within one general discourse, cultural and collective memories may be shaped in ways that, at times, involve forgetting or making dormant memories that, in turn, may be remembered by the same group in other contexts or through other activities. In fact, certain sites of collective memory or sets of such sites—and these, at least in the present study, include major figures from the past, their lives and words as constructed by the community and its core texts—evoke and shape particular memories, and as they do so, they urge its visitors to P. Nora ‘From Liex de mémoire to Realms of Memory,’ P. Nora (ed.), Realms of Memory. Volume 1: Conflicts and Divisions (New York: Columbia Univ. Press, 1996), xvii. 6 See his ‘General Introduction: Between Memory and History,’ Realms of Memory. Volume 1, 1–20, esp. 14–19. This essay appears also, with a slightly different English translation as P. Nora, ‘Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire,’ Representations 26 (1989), 7–24. 7 In fact, we may (at least heuristically) approach collective memory as a multivalent, shifting array of multiple ‘sites of memory’ that as a whole provides a mechanism for socialization and social reproduction that is consistent with and supportive of the general goals and worldview of the institutions and sectors at the center of a particular community. 5

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forget or turn dormant some matters. But other such sites or sets of sites within the same cultural milieu may evoke or allow the memory of what the interaction with the previous sites made dormant or forgotten, and vice versa. This situation, and particularly in the case of very small communities, does not necessarily involve the creation of ‘sectarian memories’ or ‘counter cultural memories’ opposed to the collective memory developed by the center of the society. Instead, it may reflect a state in which the collective memory that shapes social identity and integration includes shifting arrays of memories and matters forgotten or dormant, interacting with each other and at times seemingly oblivious of each other. This system does not have to be logically consistent, since it has to bring about socially shared acts of imagining the past that contribute much to a shared imagining of the community or in the case of Yehud, ‘the nation’ (i.e., trans-temporal Israel). Thus, often polyphony characterizes the system, even if such polyphony is by necessity restricted to that which is consistent with core beliefs of the group.8 2. THE CASE OF THE LOCAL ORIGIN OF MOST OF THE POPULATION IN YEHUD This is not the place to advance a full study on the matter.9 For the present purposes, it suffices to note that contrary to the experience of remaining in the land experienced by most of the population in Yehud and particularly in Benjamin, eventually a cultural memory of total exile, empty land and a return took hold. According to this core meta-narrative of identity, the entire population consisted of returnees from Babylon, and Israel was ‘exilic Israel.’ The reasons for the adoption of this counter-factual and counter-experiential central memory include (a) matters of continuity between Yehud and Judah, between Jerusalem and Jerusalem, and between Temple and 8 Cf. P. R. Davies, Memories of Ancient Israel. An Introduction to Biblical History—Ancient and Modern (Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 2008), 113. 9 I address the matter at length in E. Ben Zvi, ‘T otal Exile, Empty Land and the General Intellectual Discourse in Yehud,’ E. Ben Zvi & C. Levin (eds.), The Concept of Exile in Ancient Israel & its Historical Contexts (Berlin/New York: de Gruyter, 2010).

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Temple, which stood at the core of the self-identity of the (ideologically) Jerusalem centered literati of the Persian period, and (b) requirements of other central meta-narratives explaining the fall of the monarchic polity in terms of, for instance, the image of YHWH —the husband—who divorced and therefore fully expelled the wife from ‘his house’—or in terms of an ‘impurity of the land’ that caused the latter to expel its inhabitants. In addition, imagery that compared, paralleled and contrasted the Exodus from Egypt and ‘first entrance to the land’ with the ‘Return’ from Babylon and the ‘second entrance to the land’ also contributed to the systemic preference of this collective memory over memories of never leaving the land.10 This example provides a clear case in which individual and communal memories are pushed into (partial) forgetfulness, so as to allow the development of a shared, collective memory, which at least at some level was widely known to be counter-factual, but was fully consistent with and enabling of central aspects and images of the discourse of the community that stood at the core of its selfidentity, and of the related stories they chose to tell about themselves. 3. THE CASE OF THE CONTINUATION OF ASSYRIAN HEGEMONY OVER JUDAH AFTER HEZEKIAH’S REVOLT AGAINST SENNACHERIB According to the story told in Kings, Sennacherib’s army is destroyed by YHWH’s malak (2 Kgs. 19:33–35), but his life is spared for a short while so as to allow him a more ignominious death (2 Kgs. 19:36–38).11 According to the story, Hezekiah’s revolt against For additional matters involved and contribution to the erasing of a memory of remaining in the land, see the discussion in the work mentioned in the previous note. 11 Sennacherib was actually murdered by his sons, but this did not happen close to his campaign against Judah. The book of Kings uses here literary proximity to convey temporal proximity so as to communicate an ideological/theological truth. Chronicles frequently uses the very same literary device, see I. Kalimi, The Reshaping Of Ancient Israelite History In Chronicles (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2005), 18–34. Neither Chronicles nor Kings are ‘unique’ in this matter. In fact, the Assyrian writers of Sennacherib himself used this device too. See the addition of the reference 10

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Assyria ends up being fully successful. Neither Hezekiah nor Judah was a vassal of any earthly king after YHWH’s action on behalf of Jerusalem. Never again did Assyria hold control of the land. To be sure, Assyria remained a polity, but it never re-appeared in the area and, most importantly, it never regained control of Judah. Assyria was done, in so far as it concerns Judah, or Israel, for that matter.12 This picture is not only clearly counterfactual, but also at some level known to be counterfactual in Persian Yehud, as directly demonstrated by the account of Manasseh’s captivity (2 Chr. 33:11);13 indirectly by Nahum, in which the final destruction of to Lulî’s death in the 697 BCE (Cylinder C) annalistic version of the third campaign of Sennacherib. The point they wish to convey is made explicit already in the version in the Bulls 2 and 3 (but see Bull 4; all 694 BCE). See W. R. Gallagher, Sennacherib’s Campaign to Judah (Studies in the History and Culture of the Ancient Near East 18; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 98–100. 12 The only reference to Assyria in Kings that is set in a time after the 14th year of Hezekiah is in 2 Kgs. 23:29 and it locates the king of Assyria by the Euphrates, far away from Judah/Israel. Assyria can only appear in the book when it is far from Judah, Jerusalem and Israel as a whole. There is, of course, a reference to Assyria in YHWH’s promise to deliver Hezekiah from disease and from the king of Assyria (2 Kgs. 20:6). Although it appears later in the book than 2 Kgs. 19:35–36, its temporal setting is contemporary with (and certainly no later than) the Assyrian crisis (2. Kgs. 20:1; and see also 18:2, 13 and the promise of another 15 years in 2. Kgs. 20:6). Hezekiah’s illness only strengthens the image of Jerusalem’s seemingly imminent fall—both king and city are about to die. This literary portrayal serves in the book to enhance that of the great reversal: feeble Jerusalem stands and its mortally sick, pious king heals, whereas mighty Sennacherib and his powerful army perish; Assyria never returns to Jerusalem. 13 Chronicles’s explicit reference to Assyrian domination during the time of Manasseh is, to a large extent, due to narrative and ideological needs associated with its re-shaping of the figure of Manasseh. In addition, it is, although indirectly, related to its tendency to reduce the significance of the destruction of Jerusalem by Nebuchadnezzar and the resulting exile. As the latter became less central, so did the campaign of Senacherib and Hezekiah’s victory over him (on the relation between the two see below). The tendency in Chronicles to reduce the significance of the exile and Jerusalem’s destruction (and the concomitant fall of the monarchy) and the related tendency to reduce the spotlight on the victory over Sennacherib in the characterization of Hezekiah cannot be dealt with

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Nineveh is set at time later than the 14th year of Hezekiah and is associated with release from Assyrian domination over Judah (see Nah. 2:1, and implicitly 1:13);14 and finally, and concerning Northern Israel, by the possible sources of Ezra 4:2, 10.15 Whatever the early roots of this cultural and collective memory, it developed and eventually became the central focal point of remembrance reflected in the present biblical texts. It stood as a site of memory for the mighty act of YHWH’s saving Jerusalem before the Assyrians, in contrast to the absence of such an act in Zedakiah’s time. It is easy then to understand the reason for a clear systemic preference for constructing such a mighty act of YHWH in the 14th year of Hezekiah to be of long rather than short-term consequences. The same logic applies for the mighty deeds of the deity when it saved Israel in Egypt and brought death to those who either oppressed it or were bent on destroying it—on the deliverance from Egypt, see below.16 In addition, evoking the memory of the in any appropriate way within the scope of this essay. They require a separate study which I am currently in the process of researching and writing. 14 The reference to ‫ יעקב גאון‬and ‫ ישראל גאון‬in Nah. 2:3 may refer to Northern Israel (so, for instance, K. Spronk, Nahum [HCOT; Kampen: Kok Pharos, 1997] 86–87 and J. M. O’Brien, Nahum [Readings; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2002], 59), but also, and particularly from the perspective of readers in the Persian period, to an ‘Israel’ that includes Judah. 15 2 Kgs. 17:24–41 refers to an earlier settlement of non-Israelites. For the proposal that Ezra 4:2 is based on some source that existed before the author of Ezra 1–6 see, among others, H. G. M. Williamson, ‘T he Composition of Ezra i-vi,’ JTS n.s. 34 (1983), 1–30 (25–26). A tradition about the deportations and settlement enforced by Osnappar mentioned in Ezra 4:10 was likely known in the Persian period. Cf. the data about deportations in the days of Esarhaddon and Assurbanipal in N. Na’aman, Ancient Israel and Its Neighbors: Interaction and Counteraction (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2005), 212–14; cf. B. Oded, Mass Deportations and Deportees in the Neo-Assyrian Empire (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1979). 16 One may note that in Exod. 12:29; 14:23–31, the agent of salvation is referred to as YHWH and in 2 Kgs. 19:35 it is referred to as ‘YHWH’s messenger.’ This is, however, a common exchange (see, for instance, Exod. 3:2–10; Judg. 13:2–22) with a long history even after the biblical texts were composed; see R. Syrén, ‘The Targum as a Bible Re-

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divine action in the 14th year of Hezekiah could not but raise the need for an explanation of why YHWH saved Jerusalem from Sennacherib/Assyria but not from Nebuchadnezzar/Babylon. Ironically, Sennacherib, who historically spared Jerusalem, was and to a large extent had to be imagined and continuously remembered in Yehud in far more negative terms than Nebuchadnezzar, who actually destroyed it.17 However, the contrast between the two foreign kings, though great, could have served and did serve only a secondary role in the explanation of the fall of Jerusalem, because of the usual need in local discourses to leave ample room for local agency in history. The center of the stage had to be taken by the contrast read, or How Does God Communicate with Humans,’ JAB 2 (2000), 24764. 17 Sennacherib is associated with hubris and with a negation of the character of YHWH, just as the Pharaoh of the Exodus; Nebuchadnezzar is not. Sennacherib is characterized as a king who decided to attack Jerusalem after its king surrendered and paid tribute and thus, as one who drastically violated the political ethics of the time. Nebuchadnezzar, however, is described as a monarch who had a good reason to attack Jerusalem. (This point is taken up and emphasized by Josephus; see Antiquitates X:3–4). Whereas the image of Sennacherib remains absolutely negative in the discourse of Yehud (see E. Ben Zvi, History, Literature and Theology in the Book of Chronicles [London: Equinox, 2006] 270–88; esp. 276–7) and becomes an archetypal villain, that of Nebuchadnezzar becomes increasingly positive in some texts. In fact, he is characterized as YHWH’s servant in Jer. 25:9; 27:6. Nebuzaradan (and indirectly, Nebuchadnezzar) is presented also in a very positive light and Smelik is correct when he states that ‘the author wants to persuade us that Nebuzaradan was a pupil of Jeremiah (40:2–3),’ (Klaas A. D. Smelik, ‘ The Function of Jeremiah 50 and 51 in the Book of Jeremiah,’ M. Kessler [ed.] Reading the Book of Jeremiah. Coherence [Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2004], 87–98 [citation from p. 97]) and cf. Jer. 40:2 with Jer. 32:23. On elevated, positive characterizations of Nebuchadnezzar in the book of Jeremiah, see J. Hill, ‘ “ Your Exile Will Be Long”: The Book of Jeremiah and the Unended Exile,’ M. Kessler (ed.) Reading the Book of Jeremiah: A Search for Coherence (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2004), 149–61 (152–56) and esp. J. Hill, Friend or Foe? The Figure of Babylon in the Book of Jeremiah MT (Biblical Interpretation Series; Leiden: Brill, 1999), 103–10, 130–39, 198–99, 203–5. Cf. the characterization of Nebuchadnezzar in Josephus, and even from a general perspective in Daniel. None of these characterizations could have ever applied to Sennacherib, ironically, since he did not destroy Jerusalem.

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between Hezekiah and Zedekiah (or a substitute of Zedekiah) and to some extent between the pairs Hezekiah-Isaiah and ZedekiahJeremiah. To be sure, each of the prophetic figures in the pair ended up taking much ‘space’ in the cultural memory of ancient Israel. This was, at least partially, due to their association with the much remembered events and circumstances of and around 701 and 586 BCE and the role that remembering these events played in terms of construing ‘Israel’ in the post-monarchic period. The sheer length of the books associated with Isaiah and Jeremiah clearly attests to their space in cultural memory. But most relevant to the present concerns, both were pious figures from the past, so they constituted an unlikely base on which to ground a gaping difference. The latter had then to shift to the contrast between Hezekiah and Zedekiah or his (partial, but substantial) substitute in Kings, namely Manasseh.18 The more the opposition between the two contrary fates of Jerusalem developed into a topos to be remembered, thought about and central to the way and process in which postmonarchic communities imagined ‘Israel’ and themselves,19 the more Hezekiah’s image and his achievements tended to be lionized.20 18 The reasons for the construction of Manasseh as a partial, but very substantial substitute of Zedekiah in Kings require a separate discussion. It is noteworthy that the substitution reflects a common contrast between faithful father (Hezekiah) and calamitous son (Manasseh), which lionizes the former and contributes to the extremely negative characterization of the latter. 19 Despite all the obvious differences, cf. the role that remembering the Jewish Holocaust or Armenian genocide plays in some Jewish or Armenian communities. 20 When 2 Kgs. 18:13–16 is read within its literary context in the book and within the general discourse of ancient Israel in the Persian period, it does not diminish the stature of Hezekiah, but that of Sennacherib (see above). The generative logic of this argument evolved eventually towards his characterization as the greatest king of the post DavidicSolomonic era, and as the person who re-opened the Temple in Chronicles. In a later era, Hezekiah becomes even near-messianic figure (cf. b San. 94a, 98b, 99a; see also M. Hadas-Lebel, ‘Hezekiah as King Messiah. Traces of an Early Jewish-Christian Polemic in the Tannaitic Tradition,’ Judit Targarona Borrás and Angel Sáenz-Badillos [eds], Jewish Studies at the Turn of the Twentieth Century, Volume 1 Biblical, Rabbinical, and Medieval Studies

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4. THE CASE OF THE ABSENCE OF RELIANCE ON ARAM IN HOSEA Up to 732 BCE, Aram was the main regional superpower that confronted Assyria, not Egypt. The matter was not completely forgotten in the world of the literati who read the books of Kings, Isaiah and perhaps Amos 1:3–5. Yet, one does not find the theme of reliance on Aram versus reliance on Assyria in the world of the book of Hosea, which is set within the relevant time. The references there are to the well-known dyad Egypt-Assyria (Hos. 7:11; 12:2).21 This is so despite the fact that the shift towards Aram, or better, hegemony of Aram over Israel from the time of Pekah to 732 BCE played a historically crucial factor. Why is this so? By leaving memories of Aram dormant, a systemic and ideological periodization of the late monarchic past was allowed to come to the forefront: In the first period, the two main earthly powers were Assyria and Egypt. This period reaches its climax in the fourteenth year of Hezekiah (and note the contrast between the fate of Samaria and Judah in 2 Kings 17–19). The other period was characterized by the powers of Babylon and Egypt, which reached its climax in the fall of Jerusalem. Isaiah was the central prophetic character of the first period, though Micah and Hosea also played important roles; Jeremiah was clearly the main prophetic character of that second period, though Ezekiel played a very significant role as well. Moreover, this periodization saw beyond the crisis itself and looked towards the fate of those of Israel involved, and as such draws attention to matters of claimed continuity and discontinuity. Egypt, Babylon and Assyria, unlike Aram, were sites of memory that evoked the forced or voluntary re-settlement of people displaced by events.22 They evoked images of exile and exilees in ways

[Leiden: Brill, 1999], 275–81 and bibliography there). Needless to say, lionization may take different forms, and cf. the Chronicles’ Hezekiah with the Hezekiah of Kings or Isaiah. 21 In Hosea, Aram is mentioned only in Hos. 12:13 as the place to which Jacob escaped in the far past. 22 To remain in Hosea, see Hos. 9:3, 6. The motif is, of course, widely present in Jeremiah.

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that Aram could and did not do.23 Forgetting or laying dormant the memory of Aram allowed this periodization of the late monarchic period to be manifested and remembered time and again, even in Hosea, and along with it the messages it conveyed. 6. FORGETTING ABOUT PHARAOH SO AS TO REMEMBER PHARAOH, AND THE PATTERN OF SERVITUDE AND REDEMPTION

As is well known, the biblical story of the Conquest and references to life in Canaan before Joshua’s conquest do not include references to Egyptian control of Canaan, or any vassal status of its kings, or to Egypt at all. In this world, there are no Egyptians in Canaan. In fact, the intended and primary readers of the Primary History are asked to imagine a world in which Egypt became the hegemonic ruler of the area for the first time, since creation for that matter,24 when or immediately after Pharaoh Neco kills Josiah (see 2 Kgs. 23:29, 33–35). This reference to ‘Pharaoh’s’ first ever conquest of the land—and the fact that Chronicles carefully removes any occurrence of the term Pharaoh in its account of the events— seems already to suggest that the term plays some role in the construction of memories about the past shaped by and reflected in the historical collections of ancient Yehud. The weight of this suggestion increases as one takes into account the distribution of the explicit term Pharaoh in the deuteronomistic and primary historical It is worth noting that the only reference to Aram in the book of Hosea (Hos. 12:12) features it as the temporary place of ‘exile’ of the patriarch Jacob. Aram as a site of memory could only be related to Jacob’s stay in Laban’s house, not as a place or agent of deportation for monarchic Israel. 24 According to Gen. 10:6–20, the Egyptians and Canaanites are both descendants of Ham, but so are the Mesopotamian urban centers and the Babylonian and Assyrian polities. The list is likely organized according to (perceived) socio-political forms of internal organization with the Hamites standing for city dwellers and their polities. This would explain the association of Egypt, Phoenicia, Cush, Assyria and Babylonia— among others—with a single common ancestor. See B. Oded, ‘The Table of Nations (Genesis 10): A Socio-Cultural Approach,’ ZAW 98 (1986), 14–31. In any case, the list does not imply Egyptian hegemony over Canaan. 23

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collections, and in Chronicles, or better, within a research framework based on questions of collective or cultural memory, as one deals with the question of when the ancient readers of these collections were asked to activate the code-word Pharaoh and the memories it evoked and when they were asked not to activate it. To put it differently, and using language associated with the study of sites of memory, when was the memory crystallized in and secreted25 by the central site of memory/term Pharaoh activated? Why in these particular instances, as opposed to many others? Pharaoh is a central figure in the world that the readers keep imagining and visiting as they read the stories from Genesis 12 to Exodus 15. But then Pharaoh disappears, except as an explicit site of memory within the world populated by the characters in books in the collection and, to be sure, implicitly in the world of the readers of these books, who identify with these characters (see the pericope about Jethro’s visit in Exodus 18; Deut. 6:21–22; 7:8,18; 11:3; 29:1; 34:1; 1 Sam. 2:27; 6:6). In fact, Pharaoh is never mentioned in Leviticus or Numbers, and certainly not in Joshua-Judges. When Pharaoh reappears in the historical narrative of 1 Kings, he becomes above all the father of Solomon’s most salient trophy wife (1 Kgs. 3:1; 7:8; 9:24; cf. 11:1). To be sure, he conquers one city in Canaan, Gezer, but he turns it over to Solomon after he kills (‫ )הרג‬its people; thus he acts as a surrogate of Solomon in a late chapter of the conquest of the land by Israel (1 Kgs. 9:16), which allows the latter to be a ‘man of peace’ who never fought or was in need to fight a war. In all these stories, the symbol of Israel’s servitude (‘Pharaoh’) is of service to Solomon. To be sure, Pharaoh is also mentioned briefly as the one who gave Ben-Hadad shelter and treated him well, but who also did his best to convince him not to return to Edom, to become an adversary to Solomon (1 Kgs. 11:17–22).26 In a sense, one may say

Cf. P. Nora’s reference to lieux de mémoire as a site ‘where memory crystallizes and secretes itself’ (P. Nora, ‘Between Memory and History,’ 7). 26 Note that when the text turns to Jeroboam, it avoids the use of the term ‘Pharaoh.’ It is Shishak, King of Egypt, not ‘Pharaoh’ who gave him shelter (see 1 Kgs. 11:40). Shishak is never referred to as Pharaoh nor 25

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that he is a figure who tries to help Solomon, even when YHWH has turned against him (see 1 Kings 11). Then, in Kings, Pharaoh completely disappears from the historical narrative until the aforementioned case of Josiah’s death and Pharaoh’s conquest of the land (2 Kgs. 23:29, 33–35), except for two brief appearances: once as a site of remembrance within the world of the book (2 Kgs. 17:7, a role played elsewhere), and once in the mouth of the Rabshakeh as a figure of derision (2 Kgs. 18:21).27 To be sure, the book of Kings refers to some ‘kings of Egypt,’ e.g., Shishak (1 Kgs. 11:40, in relation to Jeroboam; 1 Kgs. 14:25, as one who came against Jerusalem during the reign of Rehoboam, but not in relation to any campaign against Northern Israel), So (2 Kgs. 17:4), and one may note also the reference to Tirhakah, the king of Cush28 in 1 Kgs. 19:9. But significantly, the book avoids referring to them as Pharaoh.29 Given the ideological and memory ‘baggage’ that the term Pharaoh carries, and given this particular distribution, it is very unlikely that the latter is just an artifact created by randomized distribution. But if so, how did the memories activated by this site of memory (‘Pharaoh’) shape collective memory in Persian Yehud? Once Pharaoh is defeated at the Sea by YHWH, the people of YHWH turn out to be outside the reach of Pharaoh, who now morphs either into a secondary character to Israel’s king or, in one occasion, into a feeble figure of derision (cf. Sennacherib). plays a direct role in the construction of the site of memory termed as ‘Pharaoh.’ See below. The same tendency is attested in the LXX. 27 From the perspective of the readers of the text, the derision is shared by all: by the arch-villain Sennacherib, the pious Hezekiah who did not put his trust on such an unreliable partner, the Jerusalemites of the time who held fast to Hezekiah and above all YHWH, and the readers themselves. 28 By doing so, it stands in a tradition already attested in neoAssyrian sources, according to which the kings of the 25 th dynasty were characterized as ‘kings of Cush’ not ‘kings of Egypt.’ The matter, however, has no direct relevance on the issues discussed here. 29 In fact, even the note in Kings referring to the loss of Pharaoh Neco’s control of the area, which would serve to reiterate the point that he had it, avoids the reference to the term ‘Pharaoh’ (2 Kgs. 24:7).

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However, within the deuteronomistic and the primary historical collections, the story does not end here. A variant of the cipher Pharaoh, this time not in the form of an unnamed Pharaoh, but as Pharaoh Neco appears at the end of a cycle from Moses to Joshua, from torah-given to torah-restored, from ‘freedom’ to ‘servitude,’ and not incidentally just when the gates of disaster become irrevocably open.30 It is just at this time that the community remembering and virtually reliving their (construed) past encounters Jehoiakim, the first king and only king who turned Judah into Pharaoh’s territory, and symbolically into Egypt and thus returned the people of Israel to Pharaoh’s dominion.31 Significantly, Chronicles would not follow Kings on this matter. In Chronicles, there is no place for the cipher Pharaoh in the monarchic history of Israel, except as the father of Solomon’s trophy wife.32 Of course, the primary readers of these histories knew very well that Pharaoh was the king of Egypt and vice versa. In fact, this is a point often and explicitly made by numerous texts.33 Yet as the pattern of occurrences of the term Pharaoh in the historical collections of ancient Israel makes clear, a sense of difference between the two terms and particularly concerning their evocative power also existed. The cipher Pharaoh could and did serve as a site of memory in ways that ‘king of Egypt’ could not. This analysis of the use of the cipher Pharaoh points at various sets of knowledge that were forgotten or turned dormant, as ancient worlds were imagined through reading, and thus, as memory was shaped and virtually enacted. 30 On the account of Josiah’s reign in Kings within the context of a Persian period readership, see E. Ben Zvi, ‘Imagining Josiah’s Book and the Implications of Imagining it in early Persian Yehud,’ in R. Schmitt, I. Kottsieper and J. Wöhrle (eds.), Studien zur Sozial- und Religionsgeschichte Israels und seiner Umwelt. Festschrift für Rainer Albertz zu seinem 65. Geburtstag (AOAT, 250; Münster: Ugarit Verlag, 2008), 193–212. 31 The point is strengthened by the note about the fate of Jehoahaz, the one appointed king by the people of the land (i.e., Judah), who symbolically (partially) embodies them (see 2 Kgs. 23:30–34). 32 See 2 Chr. 35:20 (cf. 2 Kgs. 23:29); 22; 36:4 (and cf. 2 Kgs. 23:34). 33 E.g., Exod. 6:11, 13, 27, 29; 14:8; Deut. 7:8; 11:3; 1 Kgs. 3:1; 2 Kgs. 23:29; passim.

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One can safely assume that the literati responsible for the deuteronomistic collection and the Primary History knew about the continuous presence or influence of Pharaoh in the area during the monarchic period. It seems probable that they were even aware of Egyptian traditions about earlier periods in which Egypt was hegemonic. Yet, they developed a collective memory in which the land had to be and remain Pharaoh-free. Within this memory, Canaanites of all types could and did dwell in the land and even controlled it at some point. Eventually, they were to be exterminated or allowed to remain in the land for particular purposes that do not have to be addressed here. Philistines could come from abroad and remain. Pharaoh, however, had to remain out. One should not deny that this motif plays well with Persian interests and ideologies of power, but one should also not be overly reductionist—which is a common peril in our field. Other matters played an important role in shaping this memory too. For instance, the explanation for the absence of any reference to Pharaoh’s rule over and presence in Canaan in ‘pre-conquest’ times had to do with the fact that there would have been no room for them in the main meta-narrative of the Exodus, because Israel could not have left Egypt to come to Egyptian territory. Even Sinai is not and could not have been Egyptian controlled territory within the logic of the story. But there is more, as our study has shown. Pharaoh becomes a main marker of servitude. With all its problems, in Israel’s memory (as shaped during the Persian period) the monarchic period took place in ‘the land,’ outside ‘the servitude’ of Egypt. Only as Josiah dies, a new era of servitude dawns upon Israel, and then a new Exodus. In sum, much of what is known had to be placed temporarily out of the active memory of Israel so it could remember Pharaoh, servitude and redemption. 7. CONCLUSION This chapter is meant to explore the viability of a particular methodological approach for the study of the history of ancient Israel. Set within the general and growing field of memory studies in ancient Israel, this study clearly demonstrates the substantial potential that these approaches hold for the historical study of the discourse of Yehud or, at least, of that of its literati. This chapter shows that

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the concept of ‘site of memory,’ as advanced here, is heuristically helpful for the study of the history of ideas, images, ideology, and agreed social knowledge that existed in the Yehudite community. Moreover, this essay has shown that a research attitude that turns the critical gaze toward shifting arrays of sites of memory that are contingently, but not necessarily, categorically forgotten or laid dormant, and investigates the roles of these shifting arrays in the shaping of memory and discourse in Persian period Yehud holds much promise. I hope that the four test case studies advanced here and the related conclusions mentioned above will encourage further studies on Yehud that use (and adapt) concepts and approaches developed in memory studies and which focus on ‘forgetting’ as much as on ‘remembering.’ BIBLIOGRAPHY Ben Zvi, E. 2006 Ben Zvi, E. 2008

Ben Zvi, E. 2010

Davies, P.R. 2008

History, Literature and Theology in the Book of Chronicles (London: Equinox). ‘Imagining Josiah’s Book and the Implications of Imagining it in early Persian Yehud,’ in R. Schmitt, I. Kottsieper and J. Wöhrle (eds.), Studien zur Sozial-und Religionsgeschichte Israels und seiner Umwelt. Festschrift für Rainer Albertz zu seinem 65. Geburtstag (Alter Orient und Altes Testament, 250; Münster: Ugarit Verlag), 193–212. ‘Total Exile, Empty Land and the General Intellectual Discourse in Yehud,’ in E. Ben Zvi and C. Levin (eds.), The Concept of Exile in Ancient Israel & its Historical Contexts (Berlin: de Gruyter), 155–68. Memories of Ancient Israel. An Introduction to Biblical History—Ancient and Modern (Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox).

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Gallagher, W. R. 1999 Sennacherib’s Campaign to Judah (Studies in the History and Culture of the Ancient Near East, 18; Leiden: Brill). Hadas-Lebel, M. 1999 ‘Hezekiah as King Messiah. Traces of an Early Jewish-Christian Polemic in the Tannaitic Tradition,’ in Judit Targarona Borrás and Angel SáenzBadillos (eds.), Jewish Studies at the Turn of the Twentieth Century, Volume 1: Biblical, Rabbinical, and Medieval Studies (Leiden: Brill), 275–81. Hill, J. 1999

Hill, J. 2004

Kalimi, I. 2005 Mendels, D. 2004

Na’aman, N. 2005 Nora, P. 1989

Friend or Foe? The Figure of Babylon in the Book of Jeremiah MT (Biblical Interpretation Series; Leiden: Brill). ‘“Your Exile Will Be Long’: The Book of Jeremiah and the Unended Exile,’ in M. Kessler (ed.), Reading the Book of Jeremiah: A Search for Coherence (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns), 149–61. The Reshaping of Ancient Israelite History in Chronicles (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns). Memory in Jewish, Pagan and Christian Societies of the Graeco-Roman World: Fragmented Memory—Comprehensive Memory—Collective Memory (LSTS, 45; London: T&T Clark). Ancient Israel and Its Neighbors: Interaction and Counteraction (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns). ‘Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire,’ Representations 26, 7–24.

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Nora, P. 1996b O’Brien, J. M. 2002 Oded, B. 1979 Oded, B. 1986 Römer, T. 2008

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‘From Lieux de mémoire to Realms of Memory,’ in P. Nora (ed.), Realms of Memory. Volume 1: Conflicts and Divisions (New York: Columbia University Press). ‘General Introduction: Between Memory and History,’ in P. Nora Realms of Memory. Volume 1. Nahum (Readings; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press). Mass Deportations and Deportees in the Neo-Assyrian Empire (Wiesbaden: Reichert). ‘The Table of Nations (Genesis 10): A SocioCultural Approach,’ ZAW 98, 14–31. ‘Moses Outside the Torah and the Construction of a Diaspora Identity,’ Journal of Hebrew Scriptures 8, article 15. http://www.jhsonline.org. Repr. E. Ben Zvi (ed.), Perspectives in Hebrew Scriptures V: Comprising the Contents of Journal of Hebrew Scriptures, vol. 8 (Piscataway, NJ: Gorgias Press, 2009), 269–81.

Smelik, Klaas A. D. 2004 ‘The Function of Jeremiah 50 and 51 in the Book of Jeremiah,’ in M. Kessler (ed.), Reading the Book of Jeremiah. A Search for Coherence (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns). Spronk, K. 1997 Syrén, R. 2000

Nahum (HCOT; Kampen: Kok Pharos). ‘The Targum as a Bible Reread, or How Does God Communicate with Humans,’ JAB 2, 247–64.

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Williamson, H. G. M. 1983 ‘The Composition of Ezra i–vi,’ JTS 34, 1–30.

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CULTURAL AMNESIA NIELS PETER LEMCHE We all know what cultural memory is about—or believe that we do. However, what do we know if we don’t know what we do not know? In my Early Israel from 1985, toward the end, the first axiom ran like this: Our most important duty is to acknowledge our ignorance! It was followed by a second: Once we have acknowledged the state of our ignorance we are in a position to acknowledge what we really do know.1 This should be paired with an axiom used by the Swedish author Jan Guillou in his trilogy about the origins of Sweden: What you see is not what you see!2 Looking back into past scholarship, it is obvious that it has, with few exceptions, not followed any of this good advice. What we see in the Hebrew Bible is not what we see: a history that never took place (which is not the same as to say that nothing took place—a misprision often attributed to the so-called ‘minimalists’). Reading the biblical story right through the Enneateuch, the string of historical narratives from Genesis to 2nd Kings (I will here side with modern German scholars like Reinhard Kratz3) will convince the critical scholar (I deliberately did not say historical-critical scholar—cf. my The Old Testament between Theology and Early Israel. Anthropological and Historical Studies on the Israelite Society Before the Monarchy (VTSup, 37; Leiden: Brill, 1985), 414. In a private letter, the late Robert P. Carroll explained that this was the most important thing ever said in the field of Old Testament studies, a remark which should of course be seen in light of the ‘Hypothesenmacherei,’ which was in those days so common in this branch of theology. 2 The Crusader Triology, Swedish original 1998-2000 (Norstedt), English translation 2008-11 (Harper). 3 Cf. Reinhard G. Kratz, Die Komposition der erzählende Bücher des Alten Testaments (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2000). 1

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History4) that this story is not about what happened but about how the historiographers believed it happened, without much regard for what really happened. Biblical historiography is the result of the constructions of its historiographers’ ‘cultural memory.’ That it also sometimes has to do with real events is not very relevant for this evaluation of biblical historiography, although people living in the modern age are likely to put special emphasis on the connection between story and event because of their own ‘cultural memory,’ their own perception of the world. Years ago I was asked by an old friend why I do not write a proper history of Israel. My answer was: There is no history to write. We can track the history of the landscape of Palestine in some details. We may introduce information from the Old Testament at will but should probably avoid doing so in order not continuously to be brainwashed by biblical historiography and its extension, i.e., the ‘good work’ of the Sunday school and Christian and Jewish religious upbringing. Furthermore, a history of Palestine in ancient times makes absolute sense without the information from the Old Testament which seems more likely to distort the history of this landscape.5 Using the axioms from before, we can conclude that we know little about the history of historical Israel—no more than can be written in a few pages. On the other hand we know a lot about biblical Israel, i.e. the Israel which appears on the pages of the Old Testament. And because the two stories do not fit very well, we will have to treat the two phenomena, the so-called real history (Liverani’s storia normale) and the biblical history (Liverani’ storia inventata) as two separate issues.6 When the work one day is finished, a future historian may sit down to find out what kind of historical residues there might have been embedded in biblical 4 (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2008). Here part II is devoted to the decline and fall of the classical historical-critical paradigm, and part III to a new critical paradigm (99–163, and 165–253 respectively). 5 Cf. The appendix to The Old Testament between Theology and History: ‘T he History of Israel or the History of Palestine?’ 393–453). 6 Cf. Mario Liverani, Oltre la Bibbia: Storia antica di Israele (RomaBari: Gius. Laterza & Figli, 2003), English translation: Israel’s History and the History of Israel (London: Equinox, 2005).

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historiography. So, one day cultural memory research and history may join forces. Until then we do well to keep them apart. Cultural memory is not about history but about how present people see themselves in light of the past. This memory is not controlled by historical events belonging to the past (although such events may have a role to play in the formation of the memory) and it is definitely not limited to only one historical narrative. Thus in the Bible, the memory of Josiah’s reform—disregarding the problem of whether there ever was one—is not limited to only one story, the deuteronomists in 2nd Kings. According to the deuteronomists, Josiah was a great king, as good as David (2 Kgs. 22:1–2). However, we have another version which denies this claim of the deuteronomists, although definitely dependent on their historiography. In Chronicles, the importance of Josiah is played down, and the real great reformer is Hezekiah (2 Chr. 34–5 [Josiah], 29–32 [Hezekiah]). Josiah is denounced as the king who disobeyed Yahweh and was duly punished because of his disobedience (2 Chr. 35:20–22). We see Chronicles using the deuteronomist’s version as his source but not accepting its conclusions. The Chronicler simply corrects his source at will; he does not feel compelled by the image of the past created by his source. AMNESIA Here we come to the theme of today’s lecture: amnesia. We cannot say that the Chronicler has forgotten Josiah. We can, however, say that one memory of the past, the one created by the deuteronomists, was corrected and partly refuted by another historiographer, the Chronicler. There were other parts of the deuteronomistic memory that were not accepted by the Chronicler, first and foremost the idea that David had nothing to do with the temple. As the Chronicler has it, David had already been to IKEA and bought all the ingredients necessary for the construction of the temple; Solomon only had to put the bits and pieces together (1 Chr. 22; 27). This is another example of how the construction of memory works; it is often achieved by obliterating the memory of others, in this case the adherents of the story that Solomon built the temple. Both versions forget the third option: that none of these heroes of Israelite history had anything to do with the construction of the

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temple, remembering the non-biblical, Hellenistic idea that Moses was the person who did the job—a theory heavily exploited by Jan Assmann in his ‘reconstruction’ of the origins of Judaism.7 I have no intention of deciding which version—if any—is the correct version. However, the case for the privileged biblical story is not as solid as normally assumed. There are different hints of an alternative Moses story embedded within the Pentateuch, thus the story of Moses’ Nubian wife (Numbers 25), which only makes sense if the motives trace back to the version indicated by Josephus, that Moses, before his exile, led an Egyptian army to Nubia (Ethiopia) and married Tharbis, the daughter of the King of Ethiopia.8 Another vestige of a different story may be the line in Exod. 15:17 ‘that you lead them (Israel) to and plant it on thy holy mountain, the place you made your dwelling, Lord, the sanctuary, which your hands founded, Lord.’ The note in 2 Kgs. 18:4 about the destruction in Hezekiah’s days of the Nehushtan from the temple seems to be an intertextual reference to such a competing tradition. Finally, the Muslim tradition of placing Moses’ grave on the western slopes approaching the Dead Sea some thirty miles from Jerusalem should not be forgotten, since it is still clearly visible from the main road between Jerusalem and Jericho. The most important part of the Chronicler’s amnesia has, however, to do with his version of the time of the Hebrew kings. I do not need to go into details. After the division of David’s kingdom, Israel disappears from the Chronicler’s history. It is as if it never existed. We know of parallels to such a strategy, e.g. the Neo-Babylonian practice of ‘forgetting’ Assyria after the fall of the Assyrian Empire, when it is normally substituted with Subartu, a legendary kingdom of the north, which at that time had not existed for centuries. The intention is clear: to wipe out not only Assyria but the very memory of Assyria.9 7 This Hellenistic thread goes from at least Hecataeus to Strabo and beyond. Most pronounced perhaps in Strabo, where Moses was an Egyptian priest who led a group of adherents to Jerusalem (Strabo, The Geography, Book XVI. ii.34-38, 40, 46). Jan Assmann, Moses der Ägypter: Entzifferung einer Gedächtnisspur (Frankfurt a.M: Fischer, 2000). 8 Josephus, Antiquities II:10. 9 A parallel would be the disappearance of Assyria from the Babylonian Chronicle after the fall of Nineveh, where it is subsequently sup-

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It seems obvious that the making of a memory has a lot to do with power and control. Perhaps amnesia constitutes the most powerful part of the dynamics of memory making. This may happen on the individual level as for instance when a criminal is executed and removed from the memory of his society. I heard once but haven’t found confirmation so far that in Holland in earlier times a convicted criminal not yet executed was after sentencing never again referred to by name. He became a thing, forgotten by his society thus preparing also for his physical destruction. References, however, to prayers that somebody might be forgotten abound in the Old Testament. Just think of the fate of the impious in Psalms 1–2. The obliteration of ‘Israel’ from the history of the kings of Judah in Chronicles not only represents a conscious decision not to tell that part of the story; it also reflects a distinct attitude as far as these ‘Israelites’ are concerned. Cultural amnesia has nothing to do with being forgetful. It represents a deliberate act of erasing memory. The precise reason for it may be discussed, although a case could be made for the intentional omission of a certain part of Palestine’s population from memory, i.e. the Samaritans. THE SAMARITANS: THE TRUE ISRAELITES Let’s see how we can put together a case for this theory about the exclusion of the Samaritans. We may say that deuteronomistic historiography and the Chronicler’s reconstruction are in agreement as far as one element is concerned: the presence of the Samaritans or their forefathers, the ancient ‘Israelites,’ that is, the inhabitants of the former territory of the historical state of Israel. In the Deuteronomistic History, in Kings, the process of obliterating the memory of the inhabitants of the territory of Samaria—in the Old Testament regularly referred to as Ephraim and Manasseh—begins immediately after the Assyrian conquest of Samaria (2 Kings 17). The population of the Northern Kingdom is led into exile in Mesopotamia, and new people are settled within the territory of Samaria in their place. Thus the first brick is placed in the amnesia project. There were, after the Assyrian conquest, no more planted by Subartu, a somewhat mysterious geographical-political term dating back to the 2nd millennium BCE.

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genuine Israelites living in the former territory of the Kingdom of Israel. Although there is no reason to doubt the historicity of such a deportation also referred to in Assyrian inscriptions,10 the idea that the Assyrians ‘emptied’ the land of its inhabitants is quite ridiculous. One may ask why? Most inhabitants were simple peasants, of no special interest and importance. The skilled workers and the ruling class would be the target, people of use to the Assyrians. Then it will also be an anachronism to think of anything as methodical as for example the German deportations of European Jews to the camps during WW II. Most of the population would have remained in place including also the lucky members of the leading class which escaped being deported. As usual biblical scholarship was satisfied with a rationalistic paraphrase and accepted the biblical claim that all of Israel was deported. Furthermore, it added to it by constructing a theory suggesting that a wave of intellectuals from the north—the later deuteronomists—migrated to Judah and Jerusalem, thus completing the biblical impression of the province of Samaria as a country without forefathers. This theory about the origins of deuteronomism is so popular that it is included in many textbooks about the development of biblical tradition. Well, its supporters reason, it goes back to Albrecht Alt, so it must be correct!11 But now it is also supported by an archaeologist of the caliber of Israel Finkelstein who claims that the expansion of Jerusalem around 800 BCE had to do with a massive wave of immigrants from the north:12 I re10 In the war reports of Sargon II, cf. ANET, 284–5. The Assyrian documents give the number of 27.290 persons, a realistic number as the total number of inhabitants of the kingdom of Samaria may have been several hundred thousand people. 11 For a discussion cf. my ‘ The Deuteronomistic History: Historical Reconsiderations,’ in K. L. Noll and Brooks Schramm (eds.), Raising Up a Faithful Exegete: Essays in Honor of Richard D. Nelson (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2010), 41–50. 12 Israel Finkelstein, ‘T he Rise of Jerusalem and Judah: The Missing Link,’ Levant 33 [2001], 105–15; Israel Finkelstein and Neil Asher Silberman, The Bible Unearthed: Archaeology’s New Vision of Ancient Israel and the Origin of Its Sacred Texts (New York: The Free Press, 2001), 243–6. My reservations can be found in ‘Did a Reform like Josiah’s happen?’ in Philip R. Davies and Diana Vikander Edelman (eds.), Historian and the Bible:

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spectfully disagree and think that it is a consequence of the destruction of all the other cities around Jerusalem during the campaign of Sennacherib in 701 BCE. The Old Testament does not have a word to add here. It has not a single reference to this migration from the north but biblical scholars invented the hypothesis about the migration of refugees from Samaria to Jerusalem to maintain the fiction of deuteronomism really going back to ancient Israel. They probably saw it as the only possible way to explain the presence of so many traditions from the north in the memory making of the south. In connection with the following Babylonian conquest of Palestine, we see a repetition: Two conquests (597 and 587/6) and three deportations (after 597, 587, and 582 after the murder of Gedaliah) followed by a stream of refugees from Palestine to Egypt as well. Thus the country must be empty, and the myth of the empty land found in Chronicles is thereby vindicated (2 Chr. 36:21). The myth of the empty land was invented as part of Judean memory with one purpose in mind: to deny residents who had survived the Babylonian conquest any right of living in their own land. They had, like the condemned Dutchman, lost their identity, and were without a recognized history of their own. On the other hand, the Judeans living in exile nourished the memory of the homeland, or so the story goes. Many are the references to the fathers in deuteronomistic literature. The fathers sinned and were taken from their land, but it was still their land and their inheritance—another key word in this connection. Constructing a kind of ‘Blut und Boden’ ideology in the way ethnicity was constructed in ancient times: common blood, common language, and common civilization (‘religion’), the memory of the Judeans also included a landscape, the territory of Palestine, and produced this image as the official memory of the past giving the people living in ‘exile,’ i.e. of western extraction in a sea of mixed populations in Mesopotamia, the right to return to the land of their forefathers. Recently much of the history of Palestine between 600 and 300 BCE has been rewritten, or still remains to be rewritten. Surviving archaeological remains show that the story about the return Essays in Honour of Lester L. Grabbe (Library of Hebrew Bible/Old Testament Studies, 530; London: T&T Clark / Continuum, 2010), 11-19.

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as told by biblical historiography proves to be about as ‘historical’ as the story of the conquest preceding it. Presumably, it was difficult to persuade wealthy people claiming an origin in Palestine to return to this poor area from the rich and safe haven of Mesopotamia, a place that could guarantee survival instead of repeated famines. However, the gospel was (cf. Isa. 40:1): Return, this country is ours—the country of our fathers. The fathers had been punished, but the inheritance still belonged to their sons. If somebody is living there, they have no right to the country. Most likely they were in need of a good story in order to be convinced of their new identity. If we look at recent discussions, it seems clear that if not empty of people, most of Palestine was, after 600 BCE, reduced to a wasteland. The societal break-down envisaged by David Jamieson-Drake twenty years ago has materialized in the material remains.13 The country was utterly devastated, with one notable exception, the central mountains north of Jerusalem.14 This area was generally left in peace by the Babylonians—we don’t know the exact reason why it was spared, but it must in some way have remained loyal to the Babylonians and/or in opposition to other parts of Palestine that joined the anti-Babylonian rebellion and were crushed because of their defection. The stability of the population of the central mountains of Samaria also means that their memory of the past might have been very different from the one of, say Jerusalem. It is quite likely that these were the true ‘Israelites’ understood as the descendants of the short-lived state of Israel belonging to the Iron Age. The two odd inscriptions put up by ‘Israelites’ at Delos in the Hellenistic Period are a testimony to the self-identification of the people whose temple was at Gerizim and not Jerusalem as ‘Israelites.’15 We should not be afraid of accepting that there is in fact plenty of evidence of 13 David Jamieson-Drake, Scribes and Schools in Monarchic Judah: A Socio-Archaeological Approach (SWBAS, 9; Sheffield: Almond Press, 1991). 14 Cf. on the distribution of the destructions caused by the Chaldeans, Oded Lipschits, The Fall and Rise of Jerusalem: Judah under Babylonian Rule (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2005). 15 Cf. S.R. Llewelyn, New Documents Illustrating Early Christianity, vol. 8, (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 148.

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the presence of this population and their version of the of the past. Delos Inscription 1           τεφανοῦσιν χρυσῷ στεφάνῳ Σαραπίωνα Ἰάσονος Κνώσιον εὐεργεσίας ἕνεκεν τῆς εἰς ἑαυτούς

The Israelites of Delos who contribute to sacred Mount Gerizim crown with a golden crown Sarapion, son of Jason, from Knossos because of his benefaction towards him.

Delos Inscription 2            (vac.)                    ... ca. 6–8 letters ...       .....  .....

The Israelites of Delos] who contribute to sacred and holy Mount Gerizim have honored Menippos, son of Artimidoros from Herakleia, himself and his descendants for having constructed and dedicated at his own expense in fulfillment of a vow to god [the ....] [... and they have crowned] with a golden crown and [...] [...][...]

The question is when this changed. Following recent archaeological theories, there might not have been a massive reinvestment in the territory of Jerusalem including the arrival of a great many people before the 4th century BCE or even later.16 If this is so, any cultural memory of Israel’s mighty past must be explained along these possible lines: 16 Cf. Oded Lipschits, ‘Achaemenid Imperial Policy, Settlement Processes in Palestine, and the Status of Jerusalem in the Middle of the Fifth Century B.C.E.,’ in Oded Lipschits and Manfred Oeming (eds.), Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2006), 19–52; David Ussishkin, ‘ The Borders and De Facto Size of Jerusalem in the Persian Period,’ in Oded Lipschits and Manfred Oeming (eds.), Judah and the Judeans in the Persian Period, 147–66.

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1) It was the result of the competition between Jerusalem and the former state of Samaria/Israel. It might have developed over many years. This is not very important. The important part is that it was preserved and transformed into Jewish memory. We don’t know when it happened but recent formulated ideas about a revised understanding of the break between Jerusalem and Samaria in the Persian or Hellenistic Period, that the Samaritans were excluded from Jerusalem rather than that they deliberately separated themselves from Jerusalem, make sense.17 2) There actually was a deuteronomistic movement bringing many intellectuals with their memories to Jerusalem where they established themselves as the intellectual elite. This explanation is still very popular although it has no basis outside of Albrecht Alt’s original thesis. Many scholars jump to it for sentimental reasons: to keep the memory of ancient Israel as part of Iron Age tradition. Weighing the two theses we must say that the second, although popular, has little foundation in the material handed down to us, and there is nothing that cannot be explained by the first thesis. On the other hand, the first thesis might find quite a lot of support in the texts of the Old Testament itself. In a forthcoming festschrift article I have referred to Eduard Nielsen’s dissertation about Shechem from 1955.18 In the centre of this work stands the competition between Jerusalem and Gerizim, the holy mountain of the Samaritans. This competition can be traced in the biblical texts that are they are handed down to us in spite of revisions and changes. It may well be true that Eduard Nielsen dated the controversy between Jerusalem and Samaria early; but everyone did in those days. However, his analysis will fit well into an image of a memory constructed in connection with the competition between Jerusalem and Samaria which we know existed much later, and reflected in the opposition between the rebuilding of Nehemiah’s wall and the representatives of the Samaritan administration. I know that there will be the usual problems about the historicity of Cf. Ingrid Hjelm, Ingrid Hjelm, The Samaritans and Early Judaism: A Literary Analysis (JSOTSup, 303; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 2000). 18 Eduard Nielsen, Shechem (Copenhagen: Gad, 1955); cf. Niels Peter Lemche, ‘Shechem Revisited’ (forthcoming). 17

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this part of Nehemiah and the identification of his wall—those among us who attended the session of the SBL national meeting in November 2009 might remember when Israel Finkelstein asked his co-panelist to provide just one little stone belonging to Nehemiah’s wall, as most of the argumentation in favor of this wall followed the classic line of biblical studies: it must have been there because it must have been there. So far not a single piece of stone belonging to it has been identified. However, when we question the traditional dating of Nehemiah’s work in Jerusalem (presuming that it is based on historical recollections, which is less than certain) which could have been in the mid fifth century, or at the beginning of the fourth century, and plead for a date that may be later in the fourth century (there were three kings of the name of Artaxerxes and all of them reigned for so long a period that the dating of Nehemiah’s mission to the 20th year could involve all three of them, 445, 385, or 338 BCE), there might be more options than the traditional ones. So far my thesis could be summarized as follows: the memory of ‘Israel’ preserved in the historiography of the Old Testament belonged in the context of the Samaritans or their immediate predecessors, the Israelites, understood to be the inhabitants of the central territory of the mountains north of Jerusalem. This memory may have been central to the self-identification of this society in central Palestine. In the long discussion about the appearance of the name of Israel in extra-biblical documents, not least the stele of Merenptah, it has been argued a number of times that the inscriptions indicate a place of Merneptah’s Israel in the central hills, and on this point (only) I agree with Avraham Faust.19 Whatever the name means and says it seems connected to this landscape. That is also the end of agreement.20 The memory of these inhabitants of central Palestine was usurped by the settlers in Jerusalem and Judah who claimed the Cf. Avraham Faust, Israel’s Ethnogenesis: Settlement, Interaction, Expectation and Resistance (London: Equinox, 2006). 20 Cf. Niels Peter Lemche, ‘Avraham Faust, Israel’s Ethnogenesis, and Social Anthropology,’ in Emanuel Pfoh (ed.), Anthropology and the Bible: Critical Perspectives (Biblical Intersections, 3; Piscataway: Gorgias Press, 2010), 93–104. 19

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country for themselves, meaning the country in total—from Dan to Beersheba. How far these newcomers created their ‘memory’ in the land or how far they already brought it with them might be another subject of discussion. Their aim was to present a story of the past, a ‘memory’ that put aside any other claims to the country. The best way was to construct their own past and include in it also the memory of the past prevalent among their competitors, thus using the memories of the Samaritans against themselves and claiming to be the true descendants also of the Samaritans. We must accept the fact that they succeeded. Their memory became the collective memory of not only one religion but of two, and we all know how strong it remains, even today. There will at the end of this article be reason to ask for parallels: Does this collective or cultural amnesia really exist and is it really as strong and forceful as argued here? It undoubtedly is. I have written extensively in a number of publications, including The Israelites in History and Tradition from 1998, and The Old Testament between Theology and History from 2008, about how national states constructed their past in order to find a new identity for people formerly being part of European patronage states, i.e. kingdoms. Sometimes cultural amnesia had a part to play, or it would be better to say that amnesia was always a part of the construction. In order to form a national state there must be a nation—otherwise it would almost be like Wellhausen’s old dismissal of the patriarchal period; that you cannot write a history of a people before there is a people. Now, few European states are uniform when it comes to the origins of their populations.21 The traditions of many minorities have been suppressed in order to create this image of the nation state. I am today living in Scania, until 1658 a part of the Kingdom of Denmark, although since 1648 it has been held in Swedish hands. Following the Swedish occupation, a forced process of turning the former subjects of the king of Denmark into loyal subThis also applies to Denmark, whose population is rather heterogeneous in spite of Denmark having been an organized state for at least 1100 years. The last nail in the coffin of Danish nationalism founded on historical claims should be the information from archaeologists that the wild Vikings of King Harald Blåtand who conquered England were mercenaries from Poland! 21

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jects of the king of Sweden began—extremely cruel but in the end, efficient. During the first fifty years of Swedish rule several wars were fought between Denmark and Sweden, including the Great Nordic War at the beginning of the 18th century. After that matters were settled and Denmark turned its back to what had been the richest part of the country since—well, eternity. When Scandinavianism—the quest for a Scandinavian identity—arose in the 19th century as part of the Romantic reconstruction of the past (it was the time when the Vikings became a central part of our historical heritage), and national heroes were looked for, the rebellion of Danes now living under the rule of Swedish kings were not forgotten but their activities were removed from Sweden to Denmark in order not to offend the newfound friends in Sweden.22 Creating the ‘Swedish’ memory of course involved church and education and led to the founding of the University of Lund. In schools collective amnesia spread as the former history of the landscape as part of Denmark was ‘forgotten.’ It is still very much so today. As it has been said: History textbooks are weapons of mass instruction! Other European examples follow the same line. The subduing of the Albanian population of northern Greece after the Balkan wars at the beginning of the 20th century was as cruel as the one mentioned above about Scania. Cultural memory including amnesia comes in handy. Depriving a population, a minority group, of its own memory is part of the historical foundation of societies. Which takes us back to Palestine in the Persian and Hellenistic periods. While we know that national states appeared only in the Romantic Period, and that ethnicity and nationalism are two different things, we have the case in the Persian and Hellenistic periods of the emergence of religious groups, including antique Jewry. Because it is not totally distinct from nationalism, it may also display 22 As evidenced by the historical novel of Carit Etlar, Gjøngehøvdingen (The Chieftain of the Gjönges; 1853). It is situated in southern Sealand, and they are lead by a Danish officer Svend Poulsen. In reality the Gjönger lived in north-eastern Scania, and were cruely persecuted after the end of the War of Scania in 1675–9. Svend Poulsen moved to Denmark and was rewarded by the king with a manor house in southern Sealand.

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some of the interests of nationalism, forming a religious identity claiming a land of its own. It may be that there are only few parallels in ancient time to the formation of Jewish society. On the other hand, we find plenty of examples in recent periods, such as religious societies in the United States—should I mention the Mormons and Utah here? For such a society it is good to forget, and so much more efficient than to remember. So, at the beginning of this article I suggested that cultural memory (and its corollary cultural amnesia) has nothing to do with history. This is not something absolutely new. Some among us have claimed for years that a historical source like the biblical historiography is first and foremost a source that helps us to analyze the mind of biblical historiographers. The link between a text and its author is primary, while the link between a text and its presumed background in the real world only a secondary matter. Cultural memory must, if fully understood, include artifacts as well as texts. It will of course include historical residue but as with all ancient historiography this residue only works as a historical source when confirmed by other evidence. So cultural memory is not a way of escaping the fact that in the Old Testament we have a document belonging to the time when it was written down and thus representing the memory and sentiments of its authors.

SOCIAL AND CULTURAL MEMORY IN BIBLICAL EXEGESIS: THE QUEST FOR AN ADEQUATE APPLICATION SANDRA HÜBENTHAL The good news is that social memory theory has finally found its way into Biblical Studies. The bad news is that it is often unclear what social memory theory really is about. Biblical scholars often import social memory theory into their work without being aware of the theoretical concept on which it is based—you cannot have social memory theory without a constructivist worldview accompanying it. Similarly, they are often unclear about their definitions. This last problem, of course, is not simply a problem for biblical scholarship; it is found in many other disciplines as well. The reception of the notions of memory and remembrance often ‘suffers from a remarkable lack of a theoretical foundation’ (Schmidt 2008:191). Thus, working on these theoretical foundations will be a major task for biblical studies in the years to come. Knowing that this is an enterprise requiring a thorough discussion, this paper can only represent a single voice in a larger choir and can concentrate on but one aspect of the phenomenon. The aim of this article is to shed light on the question of terminology in order to de-confuse the terms social, collective and cultural memory on the one hand and soziales, kommunikatives and kulturelles Gedächtnis on the other. Examples from recent German historical documentaries will help to clarify the different types of social memory—here kommunikatives and kulturelles Gedächtnis—and suggest a way in which the concepts can be applied to Biblical Studies.

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1. THE CURRENT DISCUSSION IN BIBLICAL STUDIES What Johannes Fried (2004:66) has formulated for Medieval Studies also seems to hold true for Biblical Studies: most often recollection and memory remain grey areas. Sadly enough they are usually taken up only when they appear useful to support one’s own idea or theoretical concept. In this line stand many publications dealing with the subject of memory and commemoration while ignoring the interdisciplinary research and discourse on social memory theory. In the end, they wind up discussing memory cultures but not cultural memory. The idea of talking about biblical texts as memory or to read them on the basis of social memory research seems odd to many scholars. The only area in biblical research where social memory theory has gained reasonable currency is in historical Jesus research and even there it is treated highly critically and discussed extremely controversially. It is notable but yet not surprising that social memory theory is usually debated in connection with historical questions but not in connection with literary questions. Biblical texts are usually not regarded as commemorative artifacts but rather as tradition and/or testimonial. This betrays another slant regarding commemoration in biblical studies: Memory theory tends to be viewed in terms of an aesthetic of reception, rather than in terms of an aesthetic of production. This not only explains the widespread ignoring of the constructivist character of these texts but also why biblical texts—Old Testament and New Testament alike —are for the most part understood as constituting a Kulturelles Gedächtnis (as will be shown below, the seemingly obvious translation as ‘cultural memory’ is quite problematical. For this reason, I will continue to use the German term in this paper). This identification might fit the current reader, but it does not fit the biblical authors—at least not the New Testament authors. The application of social memory theory to biblical texts is a matter of the point of view which is being taken. Whereas current readers would be right in claiming that the texts are dealing with the most remote past, New Testament authors—under the assumption that they were familiar with social memory theory—would probably rather claim that they were writing about the recent past. Taking Assmann’s distinction seriously, Holly Hearon (2005:99) noted that Gospel texts should be seen as kommunikatives

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rather than as kulturelles Gedächtnis. She observes rightly that New Testament texts ‘may be said to function as social memory for Christian communities.’ As I intend to show in this article, reading biblical texts as kommunikatives Gedächtnis is not the same as reading them as kulturelles Gedächtnis. 2. SOCIAL MEMORY THEORY In the last two decades, innumerable publications have appeared dealing with memory theory both in the humanities and in the natural sciences. Nevertheless there is neither a single definition of memory nor a common scientific approach. To meet the variety of memory concepts, the exchange between the disciplines not only helps to stimulate the research in every single field of work, but also broadens the horizon and opens new perspectives beyond each one’s parochial point of view. Handbooks and lexica on the subject are usually interdisciplinary and their contributions range from neuro-scientific to philosophical approaches. (cf. Erll/ Nünning 2008; Pethes/Ruchatz 2001). Research on memory must be seen per se as an interdisciplinary matter. This means not only that each discipline should benefit from the ideas and results of the interdisciplinary discourse; it also indicates the need to model the discussion in each discipline in a way that relates the specific ideas and discussion results to this interdisciplinary discourse. Perspectives and methods will differ between the different fields of research, but there is no such thing as a memory theory worked out only for history or for psychology or for cultural science—the whole enterprise is trans- and interdisciplinary, and every contribution to a particular field must be related to the others in an interdisciplinary manner. a) DIFFERENCES IN LANGUAGE AND TERMINOLOGY A stumbling block in the international discussion is posed by linguistic differences between English and German terminology. Social Memory is not the same as Soziales Gedächtnis and Cultural Memory does not equal Kulturelles Gedächtnis. But the difficulties start even earlier. In German, the terms Gedächtnis and Erinnerung clearly refer to two different things, but the English language does not make such a clear distinction: both notions are most often simply called

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memory (although ‘Erinnerung’ is more properly translated as ‘recollection’ or ‘recall’). Thus memory has not one single meaning in English, but instead embraces a whole spectrum of closely related, but distinct meanings: ‘remembrance, recall, recollection, reminiscence, souvenir, commemoration, memorization.’ As Aleida Assmann (2006a:184) pointed out, these terms should not be treated as synonyms: what they denominate varies between individual and collective, formal or informal acts of memory. This is not the only difference between the two languages. Dietrich Harth (2008:87) recently concluded that ‘already the words “kulturell/cultural” have different semantic connotations in German and in English’: ‘Anglo-American usage locates “culture” as a collective term for ideas, customs, and arts in contexts of society and civilization, while the lexeme “Kultur” stands for the intellectual, artistic, and creative achievements of a community and is used to express the advanced development of humanity.’ Similar observations could be made for ‘sozial/social.’ The difference ‘Gedächtnis/ memory’ has already been mentioned above and is further complicated by the fact that memory is most often understood to designate a process, a force, or a repository, whereas Gedächtnis denotes rather the storage capacities, sensory impressions, and mental processes (Harth 2008:87). Harth therefore leaves kulturelles Gedächtnis without translation in his contribution to the interdisciplinary handbook and I suggest following this practice for the sake of terminological clarity: Since Kulturelles Gedächtnis is not the same as Cultural Memory and Social Memory does not equal Soziales Gedächtnis, it is not a good idea to mingle the terms; it is better to separate them by retaining the different original language forms. A good deal of international misunderstandings might be avoided this way. b) DIFFERENT THEORETICAL APPROACHES In international discussions of social memory theory in Biblical Studies, there are not only terminological differences. My impression is that, broadly speaking, English-speaking scholars tend to adopt Maurice Halbwachs’ notion of social and collective memory, while German scholars tend to apply Aleida and Jan Assmann’s notion of kommunikatives and kulturelles Gedächtnis. These are not the same thing and the fact that social memory has become more or less synon-

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ymous with kommunikatives Gedächtnis is not a development that helps to clarify the issue. What makes things even more complicated is Harald Welzers (2008:296) recent observation that ‘current research problems include the international heterogeneity of the field. In the Anglo-American realm, the level of synthesis is for now significantly below that of the German-language discourse of memory and remembering.’ But even when dealing with either Halbwachs’ or Assmanns’ concepts, most publications are not clear in terminology. This may be due to the fact, that the particular concepts overlap and ‘can only be strictly separated in a theoretical context’ while their forms are closely linked and sometimes mingled in practice (Welzer 2008:285). But this is not the only reason. In an annotation in his PhD thesis about the historiographical Jesus, Anthony Le Donne (2009:42, n.8) neatly makes the point: ‘It is necessary to point out that the expressions “social Memory” and “Collective Memory” have slightly different nuances: Halbwachs used the qualifier sociaux to describe ways that group ideologies inform individual memories. Collective Memory, rather, was used to connote memories shared and passed down by groups. As these concepts overlap, the terms “collective” and “social” are often used synonymously in current discussions. In fact, they are currently used synonymously with such frequency that their nuances vary from author to author.’ The quotation shows both sides of the problem: on the one hand, the lack of distinction between the different set of terms used in Halbwachs’ concept and, on the other hand, the tendency to work exclusively with the notion of Collective Memory as coined by Halbwachs and to leave aside Assmann’s further distinction between kommunikatives and kulturelles Gedächtnis. This is not simply the result of a failure to appropriate Assmann’s research in AngloAmerican biblical scholarship: Alan Kirk’s (2005) introduction to social and cultural memory in the Semeia-Volume Memory, Tradition, and Text gives an excellent summary of the whole discussion and its possible applications to Biblical studies. Before I go on to suggest a subset of categorical distinctions that might help to facilitate the international biblical exchange and discussion, let us take a very brief look at the theoretical concepts and their foundation as discussed until now.

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3) A BRIEF THEORETICAL OVERVIEW A) MAURICE HALBWACHS: SOCIAL AND COLLECTIVE MEMORY Maurice Halbwachs (1925; 1949) first introduced the idea that every form of memory is a social phenomenon. Every act of remembering needs a social framework to enable the individual to (re-)construct the past. This social framework consists of a collective memory in which the individual has to localize his/her own memory in order to be able to understand, explain and communicate it and thus build up his/her identity. Halbwachs was well aware of the fact that it is not groups, but only individuals that can remember, thus he does not simply transfer the act of remembering from the individual to the group. His argument is rather that the group provides a socially constructed framework for the perception and estimation of individual memories. This spatio-temporal framework structures and models the memory of the individual: ‘Collective memories, then, are representations of the past in the minds of members of a community that contribute to the community’s sense of identity’ (Manier/Hirst 2008:253). Halbwachs’ theory distinguished two different categories of memory: social and collective memory. Social memory refers to the influence of the social framework on the individual’s memory processes as s/he is forced to localize them within that very framework, collective memory, by contrast, denotes the process of the group in establishing the framework in which it semanticizes and actualizes events as memories. In both concepts, memory is thoroughly social and it deals with the social framework. The difference lies in the perspective: social memory is using the framework, collective memory is establishing it. The former interprets events in the light certain categories, the latter delivers the categories in terms of which this interpretation is made. In daily life, both categories of memory constantly overlap and cannot easily be distinguished. One accidental difference is that whereas social memory tends to be ephemeral, collective memory tends to be stable. Another difference is that social memory generally deals with the past in a non-intentional way—Welzer (2001:12) called it a universe of formations of the past en passant; collective memory, by contrast, is an intentional formation of the past. A

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personal diary would pertain to the realm of social memory; whereas a family chronicle would rather represent the realm of collective memory. Social memory is somehow the emotional glue that keeps a group together and this is quasi natural. Collective memory, however, is something a group does not have, but must create—especially in groups where not every individual knows every other individual; thus it is expressed concretely in texts, images, and memorials and the like (A. Assmann 2006a:191). Collective memory is something that is actively built up, not something passively received. This characteristic grows stronger, the bigger a group is and the further it moves away from its spatio-temporal origins. At this point, however, Halbwachs’ and Assmanns’ ways separate. While Halbwachs differentiates between memory and ‘tradition’ which he understands to include every organized and objectified form of memory—Aleida and Jan Assmann incorporate such phenomena into their theory as kulturelles Gedächtnis. This difference reveals another aspect of Halbwachs’ theory: Memory is not just a simple reconstruction of the past, but a (re-) construction of the past based on the needs of the present. Long after Halbwachs, neuro-scientific experiments have confirmed this theory and established the view that re-presentation of the past is always modeled in relation to the needs of the present, so that memory is not a copy of the past, but a selective and perspective construct (Cf. J. Assmann 2000:115). This indicates how closely memory and identity are connected. That idea itself goes back at least to John Locke’s times. What is new is the notion that the identity-forming process is not something that just happens to a community but something that can be controlled or modeled. The community is no longer the passive victim of the past but rather the active offender. Every remembering community is thus responsible for the history it passes on and for the patterns of identification it offers to its members. Identity is socially constructed via narration. For this reason, familiarizing the members of the group with the group’s history in order to incorporate them into the group is a spatial task of every remembering community (cf. Hübenthal 2010; Kirk 2005:4–5).

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B) ALEIDA AND JAN ASSMANN: TURELLES GEDÄCHTNIS

KOMMUNIKATIVES UND KUL-

The notion of memory as a social process and the question of how identity is built up and preserved within a memory group is the basis for Aleida and Jan Assmann’s further development of Halbwachs’ concept, distinguishing between kommunikatives and kulturelles Gedächtnis as subsets of Halbwachs’ collective memory (J. Assmann 1992:45). The starting point is the reunification of tradition and memory into a single concept. Taking up the research of ethnologist Jan Vansina, Jan Assmann (2000:48; 2008:112) proposed that historical awareness operates on two levels: the most remote past (Ursprungszeit) and the recent past, while there is often only very little or even a complete lack of knowledge concerning what is only the more or less remote past. This distinction is the key to Assmanns’ concept of kommunikatives and kulturelles Gedächtnis. The former delineates a vivid, communicated, and identity forming memory which spans a temporal framework of three to four generations. The latter describes the canonized cultural memory belonging to a community, by which the community normatively and formatively coins its self-image: in this sense it is often called tradition. The transition from one to the other is fluid and like social and collective memory, they tend to overlap (J. Assmann 1992:48–65; 2000:11–44). Kommunikatives Gedächtnis is based on oral communication or some other form of direct interaction and thus limited both in time and in space. Without external storage media, the oral memory of a community has a temporal horizon of approximately 80–100 years. Within that temporal frame, episodic and (auto-) biographic memories are told, re-told and shared. These narratives remain vivid as long as the storytellers live on as members of the community. Once they pass away or otherwise leave the community, their contribution to the group’s memory and identity begins to fade, if it is not transformed into another form. Welzer (2008:283) called this transformation ‘a willful agreement of the members of a group as to what they consider their own past to be, an interplay with the specific grand narrative of the we-group, and what meaning they ascribe to its past.’

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In kulturellem Gedächtnis, memories are stabilized and maintained across generations. The temporal horizon is unlimited, as long as the memory is accepted by the remembering community or, in Jan Assmann’s (2008:113) words: ‘Cultural memory reaches back into the past only so far as the past can be reclaimed as “ours”.’ Kulturelles Gedächtnis is organized and formed, conveyed by social practices and initiations. It is manifested in texts, rites, monuments, commemorations and observances. Kulturelles Gedächtnis is therefore not arbitrary, ‘whatever has made it into the active cultural memory has passed rigorous processes of selection’ (A. Assmann 2008:100) and will be commemorated and celebrated in a certain way for a long time. Kulturelles Gedächtnis thus is focused on central points of the past that are preserved for the present. But this is no mere representation of an objective past. The past events tend to turn into symbolic figures which serve as carriers for remembrance: ‘in the context of cultural memory, the distinction between myth and history vanishes’ (J. Assmann 2008:113; 1992:52). What seems, at first glance, to be an improper blending of fact and fiction, makes sense when one turns back to it for a second time: Kulturelles Gedächtnis does not memorialize history as such, but only the community’s memory construct insofar as it has actual relevance for the members of the community. Not history as such is of interest to the memory group, but only remembered history and that is ‘myth’ (J. Assmann 1992:52). Remembering myth as founding stories of a community is never without intentions: Either it is regarded as the motor of growth or as the foundation of continuity (J. Assmann 1992:75; Manier/Hirst 2008:253). The transition from kommunikatives to kulturelles Gedächtnis has to bridge what is called a floating gap at the end of the 80 to 100 year threshold by transforming those aspects of kommunikatives Gedächtnis that are intended to be preserved into another media. This process involves selection, modeling and canonization: ‘Communicative memory devalues certain aspects while placing more value on others, and also adds new elements’ (Welzer 2008:283; cf. A. Assmann 2006b; Hübenthal, 2010). In Halbwachs’ terminology: the identity-constituting social framework that had been created and

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established in collective memory becomes institutionalized and no longer limited in time. The floating gap represents but one of two crisis moments in collective memory. The other can be more or less accurately dated to about forty years after the event. This threshold (Epochenschwelle, J. Assmann 1992:11.51; 2000:29.) marks ‘the point when it becomes apparent that the cohort of living carriers or memory is disappearing’ (Kirk 2005:6). At this moment it becomes necessary to fix the living memory in a more endurable form if the community does not want to lose it. But this crisis of collective memory is also a great opportunity for the community. ‘Breakdowns in tradition’ (Traditionsbrüche, J. Assmann 2000:88) are accelerating shifts in memory media which often means that with scribal societies, writing becomes more and more important. Here it becomes clear that and why kommunikatives and kulturelles Gedächtnis constantly overlap and can be neatly separated only in theory. Both faculties of memory are not stable, but dynamic and constantly in flux. 4) WORKING WITH THE CONCEPTS When working with these concepts, one must keep in mind that in both kommunikativem and kulturellem Gedächtnis experiences of crisis lead to transformation of memories and a change of media. The floating gap has a structural counterpart in the forty-year threshold, both lead to a change in the memory process and its communication and re-presentation. In kommunikativem Gedächtnis, too, canonization takes place, although on a different level (Hübenthal 2010). Further distinctions concerning kulturelles Gedächtnis will not be considered here, since my aim is to convey a basic understanding of the concept, its chances and difficulties. It is important to note that although Assmann’s concept is basically a further development of Halbwachs’ initial theory, this development does not operate on the same level. For this reason neither the concepts nor the terminology can be interchanged. What has complicated the issue is the fact that Assmanns’ concept of kommunikatives and kulturelles Gedächtnis itself has undergone change in the course of its further development. The initial idea was that kommunikatives and kulturelles Gedächtnis represent a subset of Halbwachs’ collective memory (J. Assmann,

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1992:45). Recent publications of both Aleida and Jan Assmann (J. Assmann 2008:110), however, show a shift of the concept: ‘The term “communicative memory” was introduced in order to delineate the difference between Halbwachs’ concept of “collective memory” and our understanding of “cultural memory”.’ Thus collective memory is no longer an umbrella term but has become a counterpart to kulturelles Gedächtnis and so the terms kommunikatives Gedächtnis and collective memory become more and more equal and exchangeable: The ‘institutional character [of kulturelles Gedächtnis, S.H.] does not apply to what Halbwachs called collective memory and what we propose to rename communicative memory’ (J. Assmann 2008:111). In a lecture on social and collective memory, Aleida Assmann (A. Assmann 2006b), however, formulated the matter just the other way around, introducing a three-fold concept consisting of social memory and cultural memory, with collective memory as the middle ground between the two of them. Both approaches alter the original idea: Kulturelles Gedächtnis is no longer a subset of collective memory. The distinction between kommunikatives and kulturelles Gedächtnis as well as the distinction between kulturelles Gedächtnis and collective memory is still operating, but they are now on the same level. This allows an extended alliance between the different concepts, and that is not necessarily for the worse. The price for this union, however, is the identification of kommunikatives Gedächtnis and collective memory. This could be confusing, since a) the terminology is not yet clear and b) scholars might not be working with the current model but with the older notions of kommunikatives Gedächtnis and collective memory and think them to be different concepts on different levels. Nevertheless, this further development of the theory can be very illuminative once the model becomes accepted.

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Social Memory

Collective Memory

kommunikatives Gedächtnis concise arrangement (depending on function)

kulturelles Gedächtnis institutional determination

Characteristics:

Characteristics:

Characteristics:

non-official, temporary, conversational, every day, experiential treasure of the group, multi-perspective, episodic, strictly oral, re-resentation through conversational remembering, memory talk, identity is conversationally fabricated

time limitation begins to dissolve, one perspective begins to prevail, consolidation of a common history (‘founding story’), pictures turn into icons, narrations into myths, scribal processes have started, identity is established through participation in rites, festivities, commemorations

no longer limited in time, codified and canonized signs, mediated through education, identity is established through altercation and relation to the given concept, needs specialized carriers of memory, hierarchically structured

emotional load (depending on carriers)

(depending on canon)

FLOATING GAP

40-YEARS-THRESHOLD

Forms:

Forms:

Forms:

Individual traditions and genres of everyday communication

Individual traditions and genres of everyday communication

High degree of formation, ceremonial communication

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Narratives:

Narratives:

Narratives:

conversational, particular episodes (may have different perspectives on the issue), no chronology events (‘family memory’), re-telling the episodes establishes identity, socially mediated organization principles for narrations

fabrication of a (chrono-)logical and structured narration with one perspective, (re-)contextualization or (re-) historization of episodes in the narration, thus: struggle for the ‘founding story’ in a particular media (e.g. text)

canonization of the narrations, especially ‘founding stories’ and texts otherwise important

Size:

Size:

Size:

Small groups, families, social groups deliver frames for individual memory (school class, military, travel groups and other peers)

Communities of commemorations, larger than families, not every member always knows every other member, sometimes even nations

Larger groups as nations, states, religions, ethnic groups

Time Structure:

Time Structure:

Time Structure:

Temporary/Recent past

Recent past, 80–100 years, moving horizon of 3–4 interacting generations

Most remote past/Absolute past, Historical, cultural time, mythical primordial time, ‘3000 years’

dissolving when carriers leave or pass away

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MODELING SOCIAL MEMORY THEORY For the sake of clarity, I would like to offer the following model as a suggestion for terminology and categories for application of the different memory concepts. This model is based on the latest shift in Assmanns’ (J. Assmann 2008; A. Assmann 2006b) theory and is thus three-fold. I am aware of the fact that these categories are analytical and theoretical; they cannot be separated in practice. Nevertheless I regard it as a step forward. Both the terms and the descriptions are only proposals and are open to discussion and modification. a) GETTING CUSTOMIZED TO THE PERSPECTIVE: TWO EXAMPLES FROM MULTIMEDIA Having worked out a terminology that might help to clarify the distinct categories of group memories, I propose to step back and approach the subject from a different perspective before turning to biblical texts. To get accustomed to the idea of reading medial artifacts in the light of social memory theory, I will apply the theory to two recent German multimedia productions, one a film and the other a TV-series, both broadcast on German TV. The discussion of these cases will show how closely identity-construction and memory are linked and thus give an idea wherein the chances and the difficulties of the concept lie. The TV-series Die Deutschen (= The Germans), broadcast in 2008, consisted of 10 segments of 45 minute historical documentary. Regarded from a social memory perspective, Die Deutschen is an example of an attempt to establish a collective national identity via the medium of TV and can thus be regarded as a contribution to kulturellem Gedächtnis. The series began with the most remote past (936 C.E.) and ended in 1918—safely before the floating gap of today’s Germany. Interesting enough were the subjects and events the series recalled and also the way it portrayed them: e.g. Otto the Great, who it claimed laid the foundation for a German feeling of togetherness, Martin Luther presented as a reformer und patron of the German language, and the democratic uprising of 1848. Die Deutschen mixed statements from historical sources, animated pictures, maps and chronology, and cross-faded historical paintings with fictional presentations of historical events. The format was

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highly emotional and meant not so much to be informative, as formative. The last sequel ending with the proclamation of the Weimar Republic (9.11.1918) represents an attempt to establish identity through memory figures and symbols suggesting that Die Deutschen are a nation of democrats. It is obvious that construction of collective identity is taking place here. It is mediated through episodic narratives which arouse distinctive feelings and is modeled towards a certain reception of history by the choice, structure and presentation of the elements. Clearly, it is no coincidence that 1000 years were chosen as the temporal framework for the series or that it was broadcast in 10 parts and had an emotionally charged title. The idea of the series is to provide a social framework especially for young Germans. Thus it was supplemented by a huge package of supporting materials on the internet and by special materials for teachers. The series invited its viewers to recognize the displayed events as part of a common founding story and to accept them as part of their own past, thus providing a specific identity and a perspective for the future and for one’s fellow citizens. Many other observations could be made about this example, but this should suffice for a first impression of how the theory works. A second example is an attempt to coin collective memory in the film Der Baader-Meinhof-Komplex (2008). The film, originally a movie, deals with the first generation of the German terrorist group ‘Rote Armee Fraktion’ and the events in 1977, which were later termed ‘Deutscher Herbst.’ This film—by contrast to the series described above—recalls the recent past, only some 30 years after the events and is thus rather a contribution to kommunikativem Gedächtnis. It claims to be not simply a film, but in fact an authentic portrayal of the events. One method used to reach this aim is to model the scenes after the fashion of documentary press photos of the late 70s in order not to irritate people’s viewing habits. The effect is that the press photos seem now to be moving or, the other way around, the ‘film’ that delivered these pictures is now finally brought to the movies. The approach is iconic and therefore emotional; nevertheless, the film claims to tell the authentic original story. However, the film, in fact, singles out one version of the Deutscher Herbst and thus silences the stream of other traditions

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regarding the events. This is a typical phenomenon of kommunikatives Gedächtnis, especially around the 40-year threshold. Competing versions of the same event are still circulating, but gradually the struggle for interpretive predominance and the question which version is right (according to the present needs of the community) gains more and more ground. With the film, an attempt is made to narrow the streams of traditions to one perspective and thus canonize this memory and shape it into what is intended to be the collective memory. This is a common process in collective memory. The legal action taken by Juergen Ponto’s widow against the film for its presentation of her husband’s murder and also the public statement of his daughter, who complained that the film distorted collective memory and depicted the murder of her father in a humiliating manner, can both be explained by social memory theory. The development of the discussion on the film and the question whether the events of the Deutscher Herbst are presented and interpreted in the right way shows that, in this case, memory is still fluent and that different versions of the event are still in circulation. The struggle for an official version of this episode of the recent past is not yet over, but it is clear that it is already in the process of transformation into kulturelles Gedächtnis. Both cases show how the construction of collective memories and social frameworks shaping identity are organized. They demonstrate the productive aesthetic aspect of social memory and show different incidents and strategies. In both cases, memory of past events is shaped in order to create identity. The past is constructed according to the needs of the present. Especially the attempt in Die Deutschen to consolidate a stable collective German identity prior to the Nazi Times is remarkable. Because the series ends with 09.11.1918 and the broadcasting started in November 2008, the impression is given that there was a straight road connecting 09.11.1918 with 09.11.1989, ignoring the detour of 09.11.1938 and the Nazi period, a historical event which is currently approaching the floating gap. One could easily get the impression that the Nazi period had no identity-generating character for the German collective identity and that today’s self-awareness is rooted directly in the democratic movement of 1918. However, the tena-

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cious struggle about the holocaust memorial in Berlin and more recently the controversy about the Center against Expulsion show that this is by no means the case. Nevertheless the question how the Nazi period and the holocaust should be commemorated in the German kulturellem Gedächtnis is still far from being resolved. The two cases help to show that, when dealing with social memory theory, two perspectives have to be distinguished: a) the position of the artifact itself in relation to what it is about and b) the position of the recipient in relation to the artifact. Regarding the first perspective, the cases are quite obvious: Die Deutschen deals with the most remote past and is thus best seen as a contribution to kulturellem Gedächtnis; by contrast, Der Baader-Meinhof-Komplex addresses the recent past and can therefore be understood as a contribution to kommuniativem Gedächtnis. The second perspective is not relevant for both cases as the viewer’s and the film’s position is the same. 5) THE IMPACT FOR BIBLICAL STUDIES How then are we to distinguish between artifacts of kulturellem and artifacts of kommunikativem Gedächtnis when dealing with biblical literature? Since the perspective of the current reader is not the same as that of the biblical author(s), we must ask whether this might alter the perspective on and the understanding of the corresponding text? My answer is: yes, and it especially affects New Testament texts. a) THE TEXT’S PERSPECTIVE: KULTURELLES OR KOMMUNIKATIVES GEDÄCHTNIS? As we have seen, kulturelles and kommunikatives Gedächtnis can only be strictly separated in theory, not in practice and both consist of structurally similar canonization processes. Thus for the question whether a biblical text should be regarded in the light of kulturellem or kommunikativem Gedächtnis it seems to me helpful to take a closer look at the context of text formation, which is easier to identify for New Testament than for Old Testament literature. As the New Testament texts have all been written roughly between 50 and 130 CE—which means 20 to 120 years after Christ’s ministry, death and resurrection and reflect back upon these events—they are not

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dealing with the remote, but with the recent past: this suggests reading them as kommunikatives, not as kulturelles Gedächtnis. This is especially evident for the narrative passages of the New Testament, since they narrate the founding events of Christianity. But also the argumentative texts reflect upon these events and exhibit the struggle for an interpretation adequate to their own situation. Regarding its formative period, the post-Pauline literature can be located around the 40-years threshold which opens new perspectives for understanding these texts. Kirk/Thatcher (2005:41) have already formulated this idea in their survey of the Jesus tradition as social memory: ‘Jan Assmann’s discussion of the shift from forms of “communicative memory” to the more enduring forms of “cultural memory,” and the transformations of representations of the past that can accompany this shift in the medium provide fresh leverage for understanding the emergence of the Gospels as written artifacts and on the transition from orality to writing in early Christianity.’ Schröter (2000:525) has observed that, for both parts of the Bible, the development of heuristic models reflecting the construction of cultural identity through acts of commemoration is still in its infancy; till now, the issue has hardly been addressed. With Old Testament literature, the case is different. The processes which took place in the formation of Old Testament texts, especially in exilic times, should clearly be seen as belonging to kulturellem Gedächtnis, for they deal with the founding stories of the most remote past—a past, that even in exilic times was already very remote. Furthermore, the texts often appear to have undergone massive reinterpretation. It is this temporal distance that indicates the need to think of contributions to kulturellem Gedächtnis when dealing with Old Testament literature. Nevertheless, ideally, this supposition would have to be verified for each text individually; the suggested classification indicates a possibility, not a final result. Methodologically, reading New Testament texts as kommunikatives Gedächtnis means that one cannot presume to know exactly how the events memorialized in the texts really took place. Such a reading rather gives insight into the status of the memory group and its process of identity construction. In New Testament texts,

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both the fact and the manner in which the struggle for interpretation of the founding events by a particular group become tangible, bringing to light what each group understood to be their (founding) history. Reading the New Testament as kulturelles Gedächtnis, on the other hand, would mean discovering our own position in relation to this history and understanding it as part of our own identity. In my opinion these are totally different issues. The two examples from the German media make this difference clear: while Die Deutschen invites the viewer to identify with the interpreted experience that has now taken on the form of a canonized common history, the Baader-Meinhof-Komplex reveals an ongoing struggle for the correct understanding of the events it narrates, suggesting how a certain part of recent German history should be remembered as a part of the national identity of a re-united Germany. As the discussion of the film indicates, the quest for an adequate modus of remembrance is still being negotiated in discussion. In this process, only the medium film is post-modern, the underlying mechanisms of communication do not differ much from those of antiquity: collective memories have to be socially negotiated. Leaving aside the fact that the New Testament text does not address national identity, but only the identity of a much smaller memory group, the process of struggling for a Christian identity construction is quite similar; the only difference is that the negotiation process in the New Testament takes place in the medium of text. The Gospels represent different attempts to understand and remember the foundational events of Christianity. In the light of social memory theory, Luke and Matthew can be read as arguments with and alternative suggestions to Mark’s narration; likewise John can be seen as a relecture of the synoptic tradition. The aim in each case is not to historicize but rather to stabilize a current identity concept for the future. b) THE READER’S PERSPECTIVE: RECEPTION AESTHETIC OR PRODUCTION AESTHETIC? When the New Testament was canonized, the vivid process of identity construction that is reflected in the New Testament texts became part of the kulturelles Gedächtnis of Christianity. This makes it possible to read New Testament texts both as kommunikatives and

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as kulturelles Gedächtnis, depending on the perspective taken by the reader. Especially in the canonical approach and in systematic reflection, the New Testament is seen as constituting a part of the Christian kulturelles Gedächtnis, which means that, like the Old Testament texts, it is read and used in the perspective of a reception aesthetic. Looking at Biblical Studies from this angle, it is hardly surprising that most of the scholars working with the canonical approach are Old Testament scholars. The four-fold Gospel, however, also opens up the possibility of reading the New Testament as kommunikatives rather than simply as kulturelles Gedächtnis. From the perspective of kommunikatives Gedächtnis, four different versions of the Jesus story can be read and each of them fosters a different early Christian identity construction. In this perspective, the process of the kommunikatives Gedächtnis, the struggle for a common past that constitutes the present and the future, is frozen so to speak in the New Testament texts, preserved like a snapshot. New Testament texts thus mirror details of the several kommunikative Gedächtnisse (plural) of early Christianity and reflect diverse processes of identity formation. In the process of emerging memory and identity, different strategies of formation and influence, from relecture to pseudepigraphy, can be observed. It is easy to see that, from this perspective, a whole new area of research is opening up. Reading the four-fold Gospel as Kulturelles Gedächtnis has a different effect. Here, the Gospels are read as the canonical decision to construct Christian identity in a pluriform and multiperspective manner on the basis of the four different Gospels set alongside each other. The failure to understand this decision becomes evident with the Diatessaron and it is manifested time and again in every attempt to harmonize the Gospels from early Christianity until today. Harmonizing the Gospels to tell a single story attempts to reduce the different kommunikativen Gedächtnisse (plural) to a single kulturelles Gedächtnis and is characteristic of a reception aesthetic that by no means ended with the canonization of the New Testament. One of the difficulties of reducing the different narratives into a single foundation story is the problem of misunderstanding the different formats and applications. In the New Testament, the

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Gospels are stored first of all as texts and can be read as identity constructions of Early Christianity. In Christian Liturgy, however, the Gospel texts are staged and memorialized as parts of the common founding story of the church. To this end, they are turned back into episodes (‘in those days’), separated from their literary context, and put into a new context of meaning. Collective memory is thus turned into kulturelles Gedächtnis and gains a surplus de sens that it did not have before. This difficulty affects New Testament studies when it takes a production aesthetic look at the texts and reads them as kommunikatives Gedächtnis. Thus the interpretations given by New Testament Studies and those given by the liturgical staging can sometimes show massive divergence. CONCLUSION These insights are meant to clarify the opportunities and difficulties offered by an exegetical approach based on social memory theory that reads the New Testament as a frozen moment of the collective processes of establishing memory and identity. The opportunity that lies in this approach has not yet been fully recognized. To realize it, not only interdisciplinary discourse and trans-disciplinary labor are necessary, but also the development of techniques and methods that help to read and understand biblical texts as memory in a scientific mode. Biblical scholarship is only now starting to work on this project and one of the most urgent tasks is to appropriate the theoretical foundations laid down in the interdisciplinary discourse of neuro-sciences, sociology, psychology, history and cultural sciences and to coin the terms, techniques and methods necessary for a fruitful application to Biblical Studies. Anyone who claims to work with the concept of social memory has to set forth his/her criteria, relating them to inner-theological and the interdisciplinary debates. Biblical scholarship should not claim an exceptional position: our texts are first of all texts. One difficulty about introducing social memory theory into biblical studies remains to be discussed. The interdisciplinary discourse on the subject is still under development and often it cannot be appropriated in the depths necessary for an adequate application. Another difficulty is that social memory theory is complex and

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confusing in its terminology. It is not just a matter of wordplay when attempts are made to clear up the terminology: sound working with the concepts means importing a hermeneutics that can be a real challenge to classical exegetical work. Thus it is clear that biblical studies—like theology in general– has a backlog to work off when it comes to understanding and using social memory theory. Two areas are of major interest: a) the recent interdisciplinary discourse on social memory theory has to be brought into biblical studies in a larger degree than has happened till now and b) within the exegetical discussion, there is need to explain more specifically—in terms of criteria and methods—what a serious application of the theory would entail. Especially as regards the latter, the exegetical discourse has hardly begun. It is, however, all the more necessary, when the reading of the New Testament texts shall be not only historical but also narratological, seeing them as expressions of social memory. I hope that the present reflections can serve as a stimulus to this enterprise. BIBLIOGRAPHY Assmann, A. 2008

Assmann, A. 2006a Assmann, A. 2006b

Assmann, A. 2001

‘Canon and Archive,’ in A. Erll and A. Nünning (eds.), Cultural Memory Studies: An International and Interdisciplinary Handbook (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter), 97–108. Einführung in die Kulturwissenschaft: Grundbegriffe, Themen, Fragestellungen (Berlin: Erich Schmidt [22008]). Soziales und kollektives Gedächtnis. Retrieved on 12 August 2008 from http://www.bpb.de/files/0FW1JZ.pdf. ‘Wie wahr sind Erinnerungen?’ in H. Welzer (ed.) Das soziale Gedächtnis. Geschichte, Erinnerung, Tradierung (Hamburg: Hamburger Edition), 103–122.

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‘Communicative and Cultural Memory,’ in A. Erll and A. Nünning (eds.), Cultural Memory Studies: An International and Interdisciplinary Handbook (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter), 109–118. Das kulturelle Gedächtnis. Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen (München: Beck [52005]). Religion und kulturelles Gedächtnis. Zehn Studien (München: Beck [22004]). The Historiographical Jesus. Memory, Typology, and the Son of David (Waco: Baylor University Press).

Erll A. and Nünning A. (eds.) 2008 Cultural Memory Studies: An International and Interdisciplinary Handbook (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter). Fried, J. 2004

Der Schleier der Erinnerung. Grundzüge einer historischen Memorik (München: Beck.).

Halbwachs, M. 1985 Das Gedächtnis und seine sozialen Bedingungen (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp [32006]). Original: Les cadres sociaux de la mémoire (Paris : Félix Alcan, 1925). Halbwachs, M. 1967 Das kollektive Gedächtnis (Stuttgart: Ferdinand Enke [La mémoire collective, 1949/50]). Harth, D. 2008

‘The Invention of Cultural Memory,’ in A. Erll and A. Nünning (eds.), Cultural Memory Studies: An International and Interdisciplinary Handbook (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter), 85–96.

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‘The Story of “The Woman who anointed Jesus” as Social Memory: A Methodological Proposal for the Study of Tradition as Memory,’ in A. Kirk and T. Thatcher (eds.), Memory, Tradition, and Text (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature), 99–118. ‘Luke 24:13–35 and Social Memory in Luke,’ in T. Hatina (ed.), Biblical Interpretation in Early Christian Gospels Volume 3: The Gospel of Luke (London: T&T Clark), 85–95. ‘Social and Cultural Memory,’ in A. Kirk and T. Thatcher (eds.), Memory, Tradition, and Text (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature), 1–24.

Kirk, A. and Thatcher, T. 2005 ‘Jesus Tradition as Social Memory,’ in A. Kirk and T. Thatcher (eds.), Memory, Tradition, and Text (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature), 24–42. Manier, D. and Hirst, W. 2008 ‘A Cognitive Taxonomy of Collective Memories,’ in A. Erll and A. Nünning (eds.), Cultural Memory Studies: An International and Interdisciplinary Handbook (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter), 253–62. Pethes, N .and Ruchatz, J. (eds.) 2001 Gedächtnis und Erinnerung. Ein interdisziplinäres Lexikon (Reinbek: Rowohlt). Schmidt, S. J. 2008

Schröter, J. 2000

‘Memory and Remembrance: A Constructivist Approach,’ in A. Erll and A. Nünning (eds.), Cultural Memory Studies: An International and Interdisciplinary Handbook (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter), 191– 202. ‘Gedächtnis II,’ RGG4 III (Tübingen: Mohr.), 525.

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‘Communicative Memory,’ in A. Erll and A. Nünning (eds.), Cultural Memory Studies: An International and Interdisciplinary Handbook (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter), 285–298. ‘Das soziale Gedächtnis,’ in H. Welzer (ed.), Das soziale Gedächtnis. Geschichte, Erinnerung, Tradierung (Hamburg: Hamburger Edition), 9–21.

JANE ADDAMS, THE DEVIL BABY OF CHICAGO AND THE (CLASSICAL) SOCIOLOGY OF GENDERED MEMORY IN ANCIENT BIBLICAL SOCIAL WORLDS1 DAVID CHALCRAFT ‘…an American woman rather lively, all social worker’ Maurice Halbwachs on Jane Addams, 19302 INTRODUCTION This essay examines the treatment of gender and memory in the 1916 work of Jane Addams3, The Long Road of Woman’s Memory, Thanks are due to Pernille Carstens for being such a patient editor. I would also like to thank Claudia Camp, Jin Young Choi, Kathleen Corley, Linda Dietch, Jutta Jokiranta, Marianne Kartzov, Christl Maier, Heather McKay, Cynthia Shafer-Elliott and Cecilia Wassen for email correspondence and sharing ideas about this topic and help with references. I hope they are not too disappointed with my interpretations. Needless to say any errors that remain are nobody’s fault but mine. 2 Quoted by Suzanne Vromen, ‘Chicago in 1930: Maurice Halbwachs Outsider view of the City and its Sociologists,’ in Anthony Blasi (ed.), Diverse Histories of American Sociology (Leiden: Brill, 2005), 329. 3 Jane Addams (Knight 2005) was an American social reformer and Nobel laureate, born in Cedarville, Illinois in 1860, and educated at Rockford Female Seminary and the Women’s Medical College, and in Europe. In 1889, with Ellen Starr, Addams established Hull House in Chicago, one of the first examples of social housing in the United States. Addams played a prominent part in the formation of the National Progressive 1

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which she wrote at the age of 56 whilst the Great War raged in Europe. The majority of the book provides reported interviews with a range of women, especially older women, that were brought to expression in reaction to the rumor that a ‘devil baby’ had been born to a Chicago mother and that the mother and child were taking refuge in the settlement house run by Jane Addams. My essay treats Addams’ work as a case study of how (and how not) to use a classical sociological text in biblical studies, with specific attention paid to making advances in the comparative sociological study of memory, especially with relation to the variable of gender and the production of stories. The central analytical question for biblical studies that arises from considering Addams’ work on gender and memory is whether it is possible to identify social situations and/or biblical texts that would seem most likely to have originated from women’s experience and from women’s ways of remembering and passing on information and experience. Such questions have been raised before in the recent past in biblical studies (e.g. Corley 2010; Brenner and van Dijk-Hemmes 1996) and research into cultural memory in ancient biblical worlds is of topical concern (Davies 2008). The book, The Long Road of Woman’s Memory, is short but innovative. Whilst being quite dense, it is still a highly suggestive work. It presents an analysis of memory from a sociological perspective some 7 years before the contribution of Halbwachs (1925), whose work is the more common point of departure (but in which gender does not feature as a variable). Addams is writing at a time now quite distant to us and the book is particularly challenging and refreshing precisely because it knows little of psychoanalytical theoparty in 1912 and of the Woman’s Peace party, of which she became chair in 1915. She was elected (1915) president of the International Congress of Women at The Hague, Netherlands, and president of the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom, which was established by The Hague congress. She was a delegate to similar congresses held in Zurich (1919), Vienna (1921), The Hague (1922), Washington, D.C. (1924), Dublin (1926), and Prague (1929). She won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1931, sharing the award with the American educator Nicholas Murray Butler. Her works include Democracy and Social Ethics (1902), Newer Ideals of Peace (1907), Twenty Years at Hull House (1910), and The Second Twenty Years at Hull House (1930). Jane Addams died in 1935.

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ry and of course knows nothing of the discourse of post-traumatic stress disorder as indeed do all works that were composed before 1980. Addams was living at a time (1860–1935) when traumatic experiences of soldiers during the Great War were being labeled if not as shell shock then as moral failings and cowardice. Addams is also writing at a time during the early movement of feminism and before physical and sexual violence against women by men both out-with and within marriage was itself formally, publicly, legally and clinically acknowledged. Hence Addams’ ability to learn of tragic and violent situations and to offer such assistance as she could through the means of Hull House in Chicago is quite advanced in philanthropic terms and therefore is justly famous (Glowacki and Hendry 2004). Addams’ feminism is one that values various female attributes rather than denying them under a banner of equality and hence in some ways she draws on the very distinctions between the genders so favored by patriarchy. For Addams, the workings of Memory4 on the woman and on all women is a very important attribute that not only reconciles the bearer to the past but can also be used as a potent force to challenge the social order and effect social change (see further below). In addition, my exegesis pulls out a further thread in Addams’ work where women’s experiences and memories serve to keep narratives relevant and alive in their rawness. It is important in Biblical studies, whilst it engages in cross disciplinary work with the social sciences, to appreciate that sociological ideas are not always found neatly packaged and ready for application. Rather, sociological texts are demanding and require interpretation, especially those from the classical era of the discipline (ca. 1880–1920). The social concepts and theories to be found in a sociological text need to be retrieved and hence a key dimension of theoretical work is the practice of exegesis. For those sociologists and historians who think we are living in a time of late or even of post-modernity the wider the hermeneutical and cultural gap that needs to be bridged to enter the world of the classical sociologists. When classical sociologists are considered to be more or less our contemporaries the past and present are more or less al4 Addams often speaks of Memory with a capital letter for reasons that will become clear in the course of the discussion.

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ready intertwined. For some, of course, the extent of the gulf and the degree of social change since the time of the classics renders their work at best bizarre and at worst wrong and irrelevant. As will become apparent Addams’ work is no exception and requires interpretative work. It is necessary to engage in exegetical work and then experiment with the findings before being able to fully assess the value of any classical text for current research. Before going on to consider The Long Road of Women’s Memory in any depth I first want to make some general comments about the sociological approach to memory and thereby place Addams’ contribution in some context (Misztal 2003). SOME ASPECTS OF THE SOCIOLOGICAL APPROACH TO MEMORY 1. SOCIAL CONSTRUCTIONISM AND SOCIAL REALISM The first dimension of the sociological approach to memory to bring to the fore is its general commitment to a social constructionist view of social reality (Berger and Luckmann 1966). This is to be contrasted with a social realist view. A social constructionist approach to social life holds that no elements of belief and ideology are ‘given’; social actors do not encounter pre-given realities. Rather, the realities they encounter have been created by other actors in society and some are more or less permanent whilst others are fluid and in a state of emergence. The point is that what is constituted by ‘gender,’ by ‘deviance,’ by ‘religion,’ by ‘madness’ (Joseph 2010) and so on is not given in nature but is the result of countless interactions and negotiations of a variety of actors. Which definitions of gender and of deviance and so on carry the day are normally those that have been created and maintained by individuals and groups who have the resources and status to make their definitions count and who are able to sanction those others who do not share those meanings. This is not to say that there is no rebellion or counter-cultural definitions but merely to point out that some meanings have more spread in a society than others. Sociology is interested in explaining the nature of these meanings, the process of their emergence and stability and the forces which seek to alter those meanings.

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With respect to the study of memory a social constructionist account pays less attention to the event or events that one might consider to lie behind the memories of those events and pays more attention to the meanings that are created and shared about those events, and to pay more account to the processes of that creation. In this way, one might say that for the sociologist it is the meaning rather than the event itself that is considered significant and that therefore in many ways it matters less whether the event happened at all. Sociology is not so concerned with taking a variety of views about an event in an effort to re-create what the event was ‘in fact and reality.’ It might seem that we need to know what the event actually was like before we can assess just how far a particular version has strayed from the event or has elected to elevate some dimensions of it whilst neglecting many others. For sure this would indeed be the case but it does not follow that we can only gauge bias and ideology when we know what the ‘original’ was like, and this is partly because any view of an event is going to be partial. We are able to gather what the particular ideological interests were of those perpetuating the memory if they are compared with the memories of others and the presentations of others. When we only have one account, whilst we can be sure that its rendering reflects the interests of the writers and transmitters we cannot objectively measure the distance between this version and another or of ‘the event itself’ (which does not really exist for the sociologist). Whilst there are events that account for the memories and meanings that are created it is also the case that some purported events which are remembered and have meaning for actors and collectivities, actually never happened at all and are complete inventions. Often, the event/s was/were experienced by some members of the collectivity and not others or indeed the events were not experienced by any members of the current generation at all. Sociology is not committed to saying that in each and every case an event did not occur or that an event does not lie behind the memories and meanings, but only that for sociology the actual event is not the centre of attention. Rather, what really happened (independent of specific experiences) is the concern of the historian (and heaven help them!). Nevertheless, sociology does not place historical events into a realm of nature where the event occurs in some

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prehistoric past where no-one actually witnesses the event, but actually sees events as taking place with the actions of social beings and being witnessed by or felt by others. In light of the above, Addams’ account of the Devil Baby clearly partakes of the social constructionist side of the debate since the Devil Baby itself did not exist. But it also is social constructionist because it is interested in the meanings (and the retellings) that the ‘multitude of women’ that came to Hull House (and those that did not but ‘believed’ it all anyway) created in response to it. The events that occurred show that people thought there was a devil baby and individuals all came to Hull House with their own expectations and had their own experiences. These expectations and experiences could be grouped, should we know sufficient of them, into patterns which would enable a description of a sociological reality. Jane Addams began that process. As well as having an interest in the varieties of ways in which societies, and the social groups within them, deal with matters of memory and remembrance, sociology will be concerned with the manner in which key social variables such as age, gender, ethnicity and class, for example, impact upon, and are influenced by, memory processes in any particular society or in a range of societies. In relation to Jane Addams’ text under consideration here, the relation of gender to the mechanisms, techniques and social processes of memory—its origins, transmission and effects—are of uppermost significance. 2. VARIETY OF MEMORY MECHANISMS. Sociology is engaged in the understanding of the rise and nature of modernity/modernities and of its/their potential futures. From this perspective, comparative historical sociological research can provide case studies against which the more general claims about the uniqueness of modernity and its trajectories can be ‘tested.’ Sociology therefore is highly attuned to the problems of anachronism precisely because it holds to the fact that there are, or in theory at least should be, quantitative and qualitative differences between modern societies and pre-modern societies (Chalcraft 2010). The second general point to make about a sociological approach to memory is the fact that a comparison of societies across time and

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space, or indeed the comparison of the role of memory in one nation state/society over a period of time, illustrates that the mechanisms of memory vary whilst the importance of memory for social identity and cohesion might be more constant. What is interesting sociologically in this connection is the relation between the available mechanisms of memory and the type of memories that are recalled and utilized, and the ends to which that utilization of memory is put within the social order. Mechanisms include the type of media available for preserving and communicating memory, and the nature of their reach and their carrying capacity. Within ancient worlds memories will be preserved and transmitted in a number of ways but the technologies which are utilized to do so are of course different, quantitatively and qualitatively, from those available in modern and late modern societies. So whilst the transmission of memory, for example is a common feature of human societies it is not the case that the mechanisms of memory are constant across time and space. Hence, as usual, we must be cautious in utilizing generalizations based on the analysis of contemporary societies in studying ancient ones: we must explore the disconnections whilst working within a general frame of the interweaving of past and present. Ancient societies can archive memory in the construction of buildings and the layout of villages and towns, in the route-ways that connect one community to another, in the raising of stones as monuments, in oral transmissions of songs and stories, in the telling and retelling of stories and narratives committed to writing in the vernacular, in the building of memorials, in the wearing of markers, in the writing and archiving of written materials (tablet, cuneiform, inscriptions, reliefs), and in the daily, monthly and annual performance of rituals of worship and communal memory. Societies will also be committed to forgetting the past, to communicating which subjects are taboo and not talked about or revived. ANALYSIS OF THE LONG ROAD OF WOMEN’S MEMORY. THE DEVIL BABY STORY. The myth of the devil baby that is the point of departure for Addams’ account of her encounters with the women of Chicago had a

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variety of versions but the basic thrust of the story that was being circulated in the city and beyond was that a baby with cloven hooves, pointed ears, small horns and with the uncanny ability to speak from birth and moreover to give voice to many profanities, had been born to an innocent mother. The reasons that circulated as to why the devil baby had been born included the irreverence of the father or to his hatred of having another child or at least another female child to further burden the family. These irreverent outbursts had been punished by God/fate through the mother giving birth to a devil baby5. This mother and her baby had come to Hull House to seek refuge and the notion was that the people at Hull House were caring for mother and child, but were not willing for visitors to be permitted to see them. For Addams the depth and spread of interest in this story, and the willingness to believe it, struck her, in modernity, as being quite out of place, as something of a survival of previous superstitious beliefs in the supernatural within a generally disenchanted world. Moreover, the story of the devil baby spread quickly by word of mouth rather than through the mass media, hence bypassing a major organ of modern culture. This pointed to the existence of individuals and groups who were not yet assimilated into modern society but still clinging on to older traditional beliefs ‘their vision fixed, their intelligence held by some iron chain of silent habit.’ This contrast in itself was worthy of note for a sociologist working in Chicago, but also betrays Addams’ belief in the coexistence within modern society of layers of people that could be classified, not by social stratification/class concepts as such, but by degrees of development or of ‘primitiveness.’ Since this primitivism was seen as a survival from the past of non-modern ways of life and thought, it was taken as axiomatic that one could reconstruct ancient times on the basis of comparison and in many ways acOne can visit web sites that promote the idea that there was indeed a devil baby born in Chicago and that moreover can still be seen and heard in the city. For Addams this appearance of the superstition would be less an example of contemporary re-enchantment (as many antiWeberian sociologists champion) and more an example of the persistence of such beliefs among certain sectors of the population. 5

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count for the origin of phenomena that appeared analogous to contemporary experience. Hence the Devil Baby story for Addams is an example of a crude, primitive story that functions as the core for later embellishment as a folk tale/fairy tale and therefore would have had its counterparts in ancient times. It lies at the heart of the beginning of a process of becoming part of women’s Memory as carried by story and narrative and aphorism that, it would appear, Addams sees as repeating itself throughout history whenever women’s oppressed experience finds an outlet. Therefore it follows logically for Addams that if she witnesses the way women react to the story and make use of it for their own purposes in contemporary Chicago and also if she can fathom how the story itself may have originated she has uncovered important sociological clues as to how women may have been related to folk tales of similar supernatural ilk in the past. Before she embarks on this aspect of her study, she concentrates on the role of Memory to reconcile people, especially older women to life. However, not all the older or younger women she encounters do express such an irenic attitude to the past and it is possible that Addams over-states her case and is seeking for some means to adjust her experience of the elderly and the process of aging. In these ways Addams’ work shares a number of evolutionary assumptions with her contemporary sociologists. The treatment of ‘primitiveness’ and of the survival of primitive forms in contemporary cultures is an approach to sociology and anthropology that is not considered a sound way of proceeding in contemporary social science and is a mode of thinking to be overcome, not least through postcolonial theory. TWO OR THREE MAIN FUNCTIONS OF MEMORY Addams argues, on the basis of her analysis of the conversations she held with a ‘multitude’ of women of Chicago in her study, often in the context of their visit to Hull House to see the Devil Baby for themselves, and in listening to their stories, that there are two main functions of memory. Memory functions as a reconciler to life and also, secondly, as a challenge to established conventions. We will consider these two functions in turn before considering whether in

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fact they do cover the range of distinctions and findings Addams actually made. After these introductory surveys my essay proceeds to analyze the functions for Memory Addams presents in more depth before finally offering a brief reflection on their relevance for biblical studies. MEMORY AS A RECONCILER TO LIFE First, we need to present Addams’ view that memory reconciles a person to life, that it works to ‘transmute the tragic experiences of lives lived in extreme hardship into something of value’ (HaddockSeigfried, xx). Haddock-Seigfried, in her commentary on Addams, speaks of ‘memory’s power to sift and reconcile the inconsistencies and perplexities of life, to transmute the dross of disappointments into emotional serenity’ (xx). Clearly, this process takes time and Addams does not offer any ideas about the length of time required precisely (but it can be a ‘long road’) or the factors that may retard or speed up the process. It is not simply a matter of time healing through a process of forgetting but rather of Memory working, almost independently of the active agent to refine the past. Often, when speaking of these processes, given the language of the time that Addams uses to express herself, it would appear that she is not very interested in sociology at all: that is to say she tends to speak of Memory as an independent power that is part of nature that needs to do its/her work—it is ‘elemental and permanent’ (Addams 2002:7), she opines. Memory has to do its work, rather than social actors or social forces working to alter or enhance the memories of individuals and collectivities. However, there is for Addams still quite a role that individuals and groups can play in the area of memory, as we shall see. Social context might motivate such encounters with Memory so that the memory is altered or transformed as well as Memory working to maintain the equilibrium of the individual in the face of social change and indeed to even make them resist social changes in a manner considered quite stubborn from the perspective of those who would welcome those same changes as a needful humanistic and modernist development that should be encouraged. In these latter instances it would appear that whilst Memory has worked it

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does not seem to have brought about serenity but rather a hardened and misplaced confidence in tradition6. It would appear that Memory, to function in this way, needs periods of time to work, and this is perhaps why Addams encountered this aspect of memory, and what put her in mind of it in her engagements with older women. It is in the sphere of the creation and transmission of the narratives that emerge from these circumstances that Addams is the more sociological, and given the nature of our data in biblical studies, provides one of the main grounds for our interest in her work. MEMORY CHALLENGES THE ESTABLISHED ORDER The second function of memory that Addams discovers is that memory provides people with a powerful resource that can challenge accepted social conventions on the basis that individuals who have experienced similar tragedies come to appreciate a common humanity (or in these cases a common sisterhood) that can be contrasted with existing social situations that deny that common humanity and subjugate certain experiences and groups. It is as if the present confronts the memory and the memory is not only the individual memory of the person in the present but the conglomerated and aggregated memory of women everywhere which, we must presume, has been refined and carried in narratives and tales and also in the everyday moral codes and proverbs that almost unconsciously, in taken for granted fashion, influence opinion and behavior. Here ‘old beliefs are married to new facts’; memories become a resource for the formulation of new values in the face of tragic circumstances. As Haddock-Seigfried captures Addams’ intent: ‘she demonstrates instead that beliefs arise and change through recollections and that original feelings become transformed into new attitudes and actions through a dynamic process of memory in the face of challenging circumstances’ (HaddockSeigfried, xxvii).

6 It seems to me that the preface to the work by Haddock-Seigfried does not pay sufficient attention to these features and tends to share Addams opening remarks that Memory serves to reconcile one to the past.

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For example, Addams speaks of European women during the Great War who have suffered loss of home, fathers, husbands and sons as sitting ‘shelterless in the devastating glare of Memory’ (Addams 2002:5). Here memory is somewhat similar to that situation evoked by the Psalm (137) in so far as loss means that the past and what once was can only now be apprehended through memory but which is hard to achieve given the lack of reference and lack of materiality of the past around them. But it seems that for Addams she means also something more: perhaps a challenge at the very core of what it means to be a woman, especially a daughter, sister and mother and that this core is historical, universal and even primeval and can be subsumed under the reified concept of Memory. The current experience is shown up by Memory itself as an object over and against the remembering subject; it is Memory itself that renders the individual shelterless rather than the individual feeling shelterless because hopes as well as memories, the connection between past and present, has been shattered. The present is not challenging Memory but Memory is challenging the present. It is from this confrontation that women are encouraged to challenge the current social state of things, the ways of being, thinking and acting and seek to affect social and cultural change. REPRESSED MEMORIES AND THEIR UP-SURGING. There is yet a third aspect of memory that Addams includes in the book, but which stands at some odds with the other two: for here, Addams deals with the way in which memories from the past can be repressed/forgotten but brought to the surface once again in a disturbing way depending on some stimulus that has revived them. In these instances Memory does not seem to have done its work. In some ways Addams gives us instances of people who are in the midst of tragedy and on-going brutality and ugliness for whom Memory can hardly have begun her work. For those whose earlier memories of suffering have been brought abruptly to the surface and for those who have yet the distance to really recall anything, the force of the emotions brings them to seek out tales of similar events: violent experience encourages an interest in violent tales as well as in tales of retribution.

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I now continue to look at these functions in more detail with particular attention paid to the relation between the work of Memory and the production and transmission of stories, narratives and maxims. RECONCILIATION TO PAST AND THE CREATION AND TRANSMISSION OF NARRATIVES Whilst Addams speaks of the role of memory in reconciling the individual to the past, often to the painful past, (‘which seems to make even the most wretched life acceptable’; ‘appeasing Memory with its ultimate power to increase the elements of beauty and significance and to reduce, if not eliminate, all sense of resentment,’ Addams 2002:7 and 16), we should not think of the transmutation of experiences as one which always leads to painting the past with a rosy tincture or where merely the generalizations of the experience—rather than the ‘sordid details of events long past’—are passed on and recalled through performance of narrative. Rather, as Addams shows with respect to stories from the past and the interest in the Devil Baby story in the present by the older women of Chicago, those experiences can be carried in stories and those stories are hardly anodyne7. Addams is led to speculate about the creation of stories in the past by women who, in the absence of any other resources to influence their husbands, children and the patriarchal society in general, made use of narratives, such as folk tales, to affect some form of social influence and control within the family. These stories themselves were often fantastical but if they recounted the neglect of husbands or the stealing of babies by ghouls and goblins, the origin of these stories was not fantasy and imagination but the grim realities of everyday life. This was one reason, Addams offers, why the older women of Chicago sought out the 7 Addams could mean that even the telling of these tragic tales for a purpose could serve to render the past more acceptable for the individual since they would feel there was meaning. However, she does speak in the following ways: tragic experiences gradually become dressed in such trappings in order that their spent agony may prove of some use to a world which learns at the hardest; and that the strivings and sufferings of men and women long since dead, their emotions no longer connected with flesh and blood, are thus transmuted into legendary wisdom’ (p. 15).

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Devil Baby and wanted to know all details. The Devil Baby story was of the same genre of the past. The connection between this present story and the stories and folktales used by these women in their earlier lives, just as their grandmothers had done, was that it touched precisely on similar issues and was of the same genre. The women recognized the genre and were reminded of the past and thought they may have re-found the way of exerting influence. Moreover, they were pleased by the prospect of a contemporary event bearing out the cause and effect mechanisms, of bad deeds punished by bad outcomes which were the basic life-blood and plot lines of the folk tales of the past. There would be a vindication of their view of life and a renewed resource for educating and scolding their men folk and their children. As Addams observes: ‘These old women enjoyed a moment of triumph—as if they had made good at last and come into a region of sanctions and punishments which they understood. Years of living had taught them that recrimination with grown-up children and grandchildren is worse than useless, that punishments are impossible, that domestic instruction is best given through tales and metaphors.’ (Addams 2002:10)

Addams would then have been interested in observing over a course of time how the Devil Baby story itself would undergo the transmutation from particular event into a narrative that stressed the ever present danger of retribution for wayward children, especially sons, and unfaithful and abusive husbands. In these ways, whilst the original contexts and events that lay behind the folk tales and stories would be generalized and universalized, so that particular characters and victims could no longer be recognized, it is not the case that Memory—and it is memory for Addams that is working on these stories—had worked to turn tragic and violent circumstances into happy ones. Memory was not working to transform painful events into comedy but into narratives where the tragedy was still keen but the moral even keener. Yet it was past tragic experiences and current abusive ones which motivated the interest of some of the women who visited the Devil Baby of Hull House. Whilst they might be acquiescent and apparently able to quietly put their experience in perspective, it would seem that Addams has underplayed the relation between

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painful experience and the fascination with painful tragic narratives, despite her otherwise seemingly full consciousness of it, as the following quotation illustrates: ‘Many of them who came to see the Devil Baby had been forced to face tragic experiences, the powers of brutality and horror had had full scope in their lives and for years they had had acquaintance with disaster and death. Such old women do not shirk life’s misery by feeble idealism, for they are long past the stage of make-believe. They relate without flinching the most hideous experiences.’ (Addams 2002:10–11)

Addams shows then that Memory does not appease and that past traumatic events can resurface and it is the resurfacing of them that the Devil Baby story brought about and which brought them to seek out the Devil Baby itself: ‘At moments, however, baffled desires, sharp cries of pain, echoes of justices unfulfilled, the original material from which such tales were fashioned, would defy Memory’s appeasing power and break through the rigid restraints imposed by all Art, even that unconscious of itself.’ (Addams 2002:21)

Or present suffering was so keen that an interest in the Devil Baby and the tragedy of the young mother was nothing if not natural. Addams writes: ‘The story of the devil baby may have made its appeal through its frank presentation of this very demoniac quality, to those who live under the iron tyranny of that poverty which threatens starvation, and under the threat of a brutality which may any dark night bring them or their children to extinction; to those who have seen both virtue and vice go unrewarded and who have long since ceased to explain.’ (Addams 2002:23)

The Devil Baby events led Addams, she reflected, to ‘glimpse the process through which such tales had been evolved.’ A realisation that this tale, rather than bringing an appeasement between life and fantasy or an escape from reality, actually served as ‘a valuable instrument in the business of living’ (Addams 2002:17). ‘Such a story

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...’ she opines, ‘may once have performed the high service of tradition and discipline in beginnings of a civilised family life.’ The Devil Baby story for Addams is a ‘specimen, crude and ugly in form’ of a more general age old process: ‘…for thousands of years women had nothing to oppose against unthinking brutality save “the charm of words”, no other implement with which to subdue the fierceness of the world about them…Possibly the multitude of life’s failures, the obscure victims of unspeakable wrong and brutality, have embodied their memories into a literature of their own…’ (Addams 2002:19) The devil baby story was used by contemporary women to underline the relation between domestic virtues and sins and good and bad events, and to threaten all with the prospect of the arrival of yet more devil babies if they were to ignore moral guidance and rules. Addams noted that the story appealed most to immigrant women who were new to urban life and North American modernity. ‘To them this simple tale, with its direct connection between cause and effect, between wrongdoing and punishment, brought soothing and relief, and restored a shaken confidence in the righteousness of the universe’ (Addams 2002:20). The story also appealed to those women who felt themselves humbled and disgraced by their own offspring. Just as the mother of the devil baby was innocent and had been betrayed by her husband and now had to suffer a wayward and evil child, so too did these women see a resonance with their own lives and relationships. It would seem therefore that if we are to approach biblical narrative with some of these ideas of Addams in mind, it is necessary to look not only for narratives in which memory has done some work of appeasement but also to appreciate that narratives born from violence and oppression, or narratives intended to make a contribution to social control within domestic settings, still carry the full force of the ugly and abusive and that similar circumstances will not only remind women of the past and its accumulated experience as encountered in older stories but also lead to the generation of similar narratives in the present. These narratives will carry the marks of their origin and moreover will appeal to those who are themselves victims of continuing oppression and abuse.

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Yet Addams remains committed to the power of Memory and story telling to transmute past tragedies into a form of wisdom that provides comfort and grace. Note her last sentence to the second chapter: ‘In the midst of the most tragic reminiscences, there remained that something in the memories of these mothers which has been called the great revelation of tragedy, or sometimes the great illusion of tragedy; that which has power in its own right to make life palatable and at rare moments even beautiful.’ (Addams 2002:28) Note that Addams is speaking in evolutionary terms when she speaks of selection processes. Memory sifts the past to retain what is essential and it generalizes. This process is shared by literature, and it can be seen that literature—story telling and narrative— partakes of the same process and is an instrument for memory’s purposes, since it too sifts and selects for the good of the future, retaining the general from the particular, and the universal from the individual, so that all events, and especially suffering and tragedy are lessened for the individuals and made into legendary wisdom for the collective. This applies to the Devil Baby story too. ‘…the mission of literature to translate the particular act into something of the universal, to reduce the element of crude pain in the isolated experience by bringing to the sufferer a realization that his is but the common lot…’ (Addams 2002:43)

For Addams it is memory that works this way. This description of the relation between experience, memory and narrative however is in some contrast, as I have pointed out, to the earlier presentation by Addams where she emphasizes in many ways the continuing rawness or realism of stories of past injustice. WOMEN’S MEMORIES DISTURBING CONVENTIONS. 1. WOMEN AND FALLEN WOMEN The second major role of Memory that Addams explores is the ways in which individual experience can affect social change through the questioning of conventions that have been passed down by Memory. Usually the woman has had to deal with the social stigma that is attached to unconventional behavior and has suffered ostracism and social criticism; and yet, it is these experi-

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ences that led them often to defend others in similar circumstances and even to challenge the moral code since they appreciate the sense of injustice that all this entails. For Addams the moral code and conventional attitudes regarding personal and married relations are themselves the result of the arrogation of numerous experiences and ideas and in this way are repositories of women’s memories. So there is a situation of competing positions both born from women’s experiences. The challenge to conventions is first acted out before it becomes story: it is only when those sufferings are later retold that we are in the realm of reminiscence, ‘after the edges have been long since dulled.’ (Addams 2002:29) Much of the discussion is based on reminiscences or life histories relayed to Addams by older women in which the role of ‘fallen women’—those active in prostitution or those pregnant out of wedlock—figures prominently. Either as mothers of the daughters themselves or of the sons who should have known better, the older women care for the illegitimate grandchildren and, where possible, seek to build a life with the younger mother (with usually the wayward son no longer on the scene). It is in this context of typical societal reactions to ‘fallen women’ and of the challenge to conventions about fallen women, that Addams illustrates how both the moral habits and the challenge to those habits are at base the work of women and their attitudes. ‘…the tradition that the unchaste woman should be an outcast from society rests upon a solid basis of experience, upon the long struggle of a multitude of obscure women who, from one generation to another, were frantically determined to establish the paternity of their children and to force the father to a recognition of his obligations; and that the living representatives of these women instinctively rise up in honest rebellion against any attempt to loosen the social control which such efforts have established, bungling and cruel though the control may be.’ (Addams 2002:33)

In describing one older woman who would not revise her opinions Addams sees an example of the power of old conventions and the way that there is no remorse about the past since if there were there would be a motivation to revise those ideas. Here it would appear that the power of Memory to make one rest easy about the past has

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less to do with reconciliation to life’s tragedies and more to do with the strength of commitment to remember all the rules of one’s youth and continue to observe them: here Memory works to keep the past, summarized in moral positions, very much alive and a force for the present. As Addams observes: ‘As I saw how singularly free this mother was from selfreproach and how untouched by any indecisions or remorses for the past, I was once more impressed by the strength of the stout habits acquired by those who early become accustomed to fight off black despair. Such habits stand them in good stead in old age, and at least protect them from those pensive regrets and inconsolable sorrows which inevitably surround whatever has once made for early happiness, as soon as it has ceased to exist.’ (Addams 2002:35)

A similar impulse lies behind, Addams theorizes, both the defense of the conventions and the will to challenge those self same conventions: women’s experience is interacting with Memory and in the process creating new narratives and approaches. As she observes: ‘For quite as pity and fierce maternal affection for their own children drove mothers all over the world to ostracise and cruelly punish the “bad woman” who would destroy the home by taking away the breadwinner and the father, so it is possible that, under the changed conditions of modern life, this same pity for little children, this same concern that, even if they are all children of the outcast, they must still be nourished and properly reared, will make good the former wrongs.’ (Addams 2002:39–40)

Addams sees this development as a new (and more real and less hypocritical than the knightly chivalry of old) ‘chivalry of women’ which was challenging conventions and founding institutions to protect the weak and homeless against the strong and the vagaries of modernity in North America, in Scandinavia and in Germany. It is based on woman’s ‘remembering heart.’ ‘Many achievements of the modern movement demonstrate that woman deals most efficiently with fresh experiences when she coalesces them into the

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impressions Memory has kept in store for her. Eagerly seeking continuity with the past by her own secret tests of affinity, she reinforces and encourages.’ (Addams 2002:41) 2. CHALLENGING THE GREAT WAR Another example of women challenging contemporary conditions on the basis of the impact of current experiences on inherited Memory is provided by Addams through the reporting of women’s experiences and opinion formation during the Great War in Europe. The approach is very interesting for the way in which Addams treats questions of instinct and its role in history and social change. For Addams there are at least two fundamental instincts which in the end come into conflict during war time (2002:66). The first instinct is the survival of the tribe—that is women are committed as are men to ensuring that the group to which they belong persists over time. The second instinct is the more maternal one (although there are feminine origins of the first instinct to be considered too) and involves a commitment to the safety and security and life of the children that the woman has carried and brought into the world. In war time, and especially during the Great War, these two instincts come into conflict because women are losing so many of their children to the aggressive pursuit if the first instinct that the legitimacy of that instinct is brought into question. Since the second instinct, carried by women, cuts across national-tribal boundaries it becomes a powerful force for challenging directly the first instinct. Herein lies, for Addams, the feminist origin of a commitment to the end of the War and to pacifism considered more generally. For Addams it is the contemporary experiences of these women that makes them confront the memory of women inherited from the past: a common humanity is re-covered through the reconnecting of women with their past. The life history interview records the following statement from the informant, where her voice is clearly heard: ‘Certainly the women in every country who are under a profound imperative to preserve human life, have a right to regard this maternal impulse as important now as was the compelling instinct evinced by primitive women long ago, when they made the first crude beginnings of so-

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ciety by refusing to share the vagrant life of man because they insisted upon a fixed abode in which they might cherish their children. Undoubtedly women were then told that the interests of the tribe, the diminishing food supply, the honor of the chieftain, demanded that they leave their particular caves and go out in the wind and weather without regard to the survival of their children. But at the present moment the very names of the tribes and of the honors and glories which they sought are forgotten, while the basic fact that the mothers held the lives of their children above all else, insisted upon staying where the children had a chance to live, and cultivated the earth for their food, laid the foundations for an ordered society.’ (Addams 2002:62)

Addams likens this contemporary challenge laid down by women to the war as analogous to previous moments in human history when great wrongs were challenged and moral advances achieved. Her main example is the made to challenge human, or more specifically, child sacrifice, in the evolutionary history of society: ‘A moral rebellion of this sort was inaugurated three thousand years ago both in Greece and Judea against the old custom of human sacrifice.’ (Addams 2002:66)

The process however is only guessed at by Addams and described in the most general terms. She concludes the discussion by saying: ‘The suffering mothers of the disinherited feel the stirring of the old impulse to protect and cherish their unfortunate children, and women’s haunting memories instinctively challenge war as the implacable enemy of their age-long undertaking.’ (Addams 2002:67) CONCLUSION Space constraints mean that fully applying the ideas of Jane Addams to biblical materials and social processes must await a later treatment. All that can be offered here are a number of questions and perspectives that derive from her approach. First it needs to be recalled that Addams’ classical sociological work certainly carries the traces of an earlier evolutionary approach to the history of society where a search for primitive forms in contemporary life is taken as evidence of ways of doing and being from so-called pre-modern

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or primitive times. It is important to be cautious on account of these connections. Also, Addams was only able to interview the women that came into Hull House, or whom she encountered in war-torn Northern Europe or were well enough known for her to hear and record their narratives. Often the case studies that are presented are composites based on interviews and conversations with many women. Hence in social science terms it is difficult to generalize from her data. For the link between experience and the formation of narrative over a course of time to be more fully established a longitudinal study would be required. Moreover, Addams tends to reify the concept of Memory to render it an almost independent force of nature that more or less works independently of human subjects even though it is human subjects, or women as a whole, who benefit from Memory’s labors and indeed it is individual and collective actors who are led by experience to challenge to Memory. A sociological approach to memory requires the identification of the social carriers of memory and the techniques and technologies used. Finally, of course, there has been significant work by others on the sociology of gendered memory and Addams’ contribution needs to be critically reviewed from this vantage point as well (e.g. Leydesdorff, Passerini and Thompson, 2005). In spite of these methodological and conceptual shortcomings Addams’ work is still valuable in that it directs our attention to the possible links between gendered experience, techniques of remembrance and the creation and transmission of particular types of narrative. Thinking about biblical narratives with Jane Addams in mind would lead us to differentiate between those stories, poems and maxims in the Hebrew Bible that appear to have originated from triumph and victory, on the one hand, and those texts that, rather than showing a reconciliation to past suffering, actually keep the memory of violence and abuse alive, on the other. In the case of Psalm 137 for example, whilst Memory works on the exiles to confront them with a new situation, the experience does not lead to the challenging of war and deportation but rather seeks revenge and maintains memory in all its rawness; the Psalm that is looking forward to the dashing of babies against the rocks. We will be led to speculate as to whether those narratives have been kept alive by women’s memory and women’s story tell-

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ing and that their transmission and maintenance has also been impacted by the continuing female experience in ancient times of the abuses of patriarchy. We might want to claim that the narratives that convey violence and abuse, and suffering, torture and death, attract an audience not on account of a voyeurism but on account of a deep affinity with personal experience. So whilst we might consider The Song of Miriam (Exodus 15:21), for example, to celebrate a Hebrew victory in the face of danger which circulates and is performed among women within the social group, we note that the tale of Jephthah’s daughter and the performance of an annual rite among younger women in ancient Israel takes place because of the ever present danger posed to society by violent patriarchy (Judges 11). Indeed, if the tale somehow is to be etiologically explained by reference to changing attitudes to child or human sacrifice, armed with the ideas of Jane Addams one might propose that that social change could have been initiated by women. We are led to try and find supernatural tales of behavior and punishment that can be used to control children, sons and husbands and circulated within domestic settings. With reference to the New Testament it is not unreasonable to consider the early resurrection appearance narratives to have been orally composed and transmitted by women; from a perspective informed by Jane Addams it might be supposed that women were attracted to the early Christian movement not simply on account of the possibility of some form of social mobility but also because the story of a son who was lost, who suffered and died, would do more than evoke an impersonal sympathy. It would be an account that women would want to hear repeated because it drilled down to the very essence of their experience of being daughter, wife and mother. BIBLIOGRAPHY. Addams, Jane 2002

The Long Road of Woman’s Memory (Urbana: University of Illinois Press).

Brenner, A and van Dijk-Hemmes, F. 1996 On Gendering Texts: Female and Male Voices in the Hebrew Bible (Leiden: Brill).

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Chalcraft, David J. 2010 ‘Is Sociology Also Among the Social Sciences,’ in Pfoh, E. (ed), Anthropology and the Bible (Piscataway: Gorgias Press), 37–75. Corley, Kathleen E. 2010 Maranatha: Women’s Funerary Rituals and Christian Origins (Minneapolis: Fortress). Glowacki, P and Hendry, J. 2004 Hull House (Images of America; Charleston: Arcadia). Davies, P. 2008

Memories of Ancient Israel: An introduction to Biblical History—Ancient and Modern (Louisville: Westminster John Knox). Haddock-Seigfried, Charlene 2002 Introduction to the Illinois Edition of The Long Road of Woman’s Memory, by Jane Addams (Urbana: University of Illinois Press). Halbwachs, Maurice 1925 Les Cadres sociaux de la memoire (Paris: Félix Alcan). Joseph, Stephen 2010 Theories of Counselling and Psychotherapy: an introduction to the Different Approaches (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan). Knight, Louise W. 2005 Citizen: Jane Addams and the Struggle for Democracy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press). Leydesdorff, S., Passerini, L and Thompson, P. (eds.) 2005 Gender and Memory (New Brunswick: Transaction). Misztal, B. 2003

Theories of Social Remembering (Maidenhead: Open University Press).

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‘Chicago in 1930: Maurice Halbwachs’ Outsider View of the City and its Sociologists,’ in Anthony Blasi (ed.), Diverse Histories of American Sociology (Leiden: Brill), 323-38.

YAHWEH’S WARS IN THE PENTATEUCH AND THEIR FUNCTION FOR THE CULTURAL MEMORY OF ANCIENT ISRAEL RÜDIGER SCHMITT 1. INTRODUCTION Old Testament Scholarship from the end of 19th Century up through the 1980’s has reconstructed the rise of early Israel as a violent and belligerent process (Schmitt 2011:1–21). For instance, Julius Wellhausen wrote in his ‘Israelite and Jewish History’ (19589:23): ‘Yahweh is the God of Israel, and Israel is Yahweh’s nation: The basic foundation and the permanent principle of the following political-religious history. (...) Israel’s life was Yahweh’s life. Thus, war is the most distinguished aspect of the nation’s life, then and for the centuries to come. It is war that makes the nation; it was war in which the relations of the Israelite tribes have been confirmed at first, and as the national business war has also been the holy business at the same time. Yahweh was the battle cry of this belligerent confederation, the shortest expression of what Israel united and separated from the outside. Israel means “ ‚El is fighting” and Yahweh was the fighting El, after which the nation named itself.’

Wellhausen’s model of Ancient Israel’s history with the genetic connection between folklore and belligerent religion has been widely and eagerly acknowledged by his contemporaries in Old

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Testament scholarship, and still has had a strong influence on research approaches in the 20th century. In particular, Wellhausen’s theory has been mediated by the influential work on the ‘Holy War’ by von Rad (1951). For instance Gottwald (1979:615) took up these ideas in his then much discussed book ‘The Tribes of Yahweh.’ In this work—now in a historical-materialistic Marxist coloring— Israel is described as a revolutionary movement unified by an egalitarian ideal supplied by the ‘Überbau’ of Yahweh-religion. The ‘Holy War’ in the Name of Yahweh is in Gottwald’ s view what has constituted the nation of Israel, and Yahweh himself is perceived as the ‘Commander in Chief of the People’s Liberation Army of Israel.’ Today, 30 Years after Gottwald, it is a scholarly commonplace that a genetic connection between early Israel and monotheistic Yahweh-Religion is by no means plausible and that the relevant texts are definitely not reflecting the early history of the people of Israel, but the experience of defeat, destruction and exile during the Babylonian and Persian periods. This experience led to a specific construction of Israel’s history in the Pentateuch and the Deuteronomistic History Work: The Biblical writers have constructed Israel’s past in the mytho-historical stories of the exodus, the wanderings in the wilderness and the conquest as a particular violent one. Thus, more recent scholarship has emphasized that the biblical war texts are not more than ‘programmatical ideological statements’ (Collins 2003; Zevit 2007) and serve different purposes like the construction of identity, enforcement of the law and, of course, constructing a particular view of the own history.1 In this paper I want to take a closer look on some of the relevant texts, here Deuteronomy 1–3 and Joshua 6–8, to examine the question how and why the biblical writers have constructed a specific belligerent form of cultural memory that contrasts their reality.

1 A comprehensive overview on the more recent discussion is found in Schmitt (2011, 38–45). Cf. also the essay collections of Bernat and Klawans (2007); Kelle and Ames (2008).

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2. THE DEUTERONOMISTIC CONQUEST TRADITION IN DEUTERONOMY 1–3 AND ITS SHAPING OF CULTURAL MEMORY In the context of the book of Deuteronomy the stories in Deuteronomy 1–3 about the trek through Transjordan and the war against the kings of the Amorites, Sihon of Heshbon and Og of Bashan, are the very beginning of the conquest of the land, even before the actual passing of the river Jordan. Deuteronomy 1–3 leads to the proclamation of the law through Moses in Deut 4:44–49 and forms the front frame piece of the book. The literary and historical setting of Deuteronomy 1–3 is still a controversial point in Old Testament scholarship: On the one side a strong line of research in the trail of Noth (19673) favors the thesis that Deut 1–3 is the introduction of the Deuteronomistic History Work. A second line, in particular represented by Otto (1999:101–107; for discussion see Schmitt 2011:24–26) assumes that this deuteronomistic tradition of conquest, composed in the period of the exile, has used a late monarchic or Josianic conquest–source as the basis of Deut 1–Josh 22. This source has—according to Otto—emphasized the superiority of the God of Israel over the hegemonial power of the Assyrian Empire, motivated by the Assyrian crisis and following Assyrian reports on military campaigns. However, the existence of a predeuteronomistic or Josianic account of the conquest is hardly evident for several reasons: On the one hand the proof of a dependence on Assyrian models turns out to be difficult: This theory presupposes the intimacy of late monarchic Judean authors with Assyrian historiography, and that can hardly be made plausible in my opinion. On the other hand the quickly failed episode of the territorial restoration by King Josiah is hardly to be understood as a perspective of hope, rather as a tragic episode in the process of the predetermined doom of the nation, because of the sins of the previous kings. I agree with Römer (2009: 41) that the ‘construction of Deuteronomy as a Mosaic discourse before entering the land ... fits an exilic situation better than Josiah’s.’ Thus, Noth’s basic assumption that Deuteronomy 1–3 has been composed by the deuteronomistic historians as an introduction to their history work has therefore still higher plausibility against the assumption of a late monarchic conquest source.

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I am very well aware about the current debate on the so called ‘Deuteronomistic History Work’ (cf. Römer and de Pury 2000; Römer 2007), but I cannot go deeper into this subject here. Just to make at least some basic assumptions clear: I still believe in the theory of an exilic Deuteronomistic History Work running from Deuteronomy to 2 Kings, but I would argue with Römer (2007) for a more open process of continued writing on the book in the deuteronomistic line of tradition or school over a considerable timespan and also a larger post-deuteronomistic growth, like the Elijah-Elisha-cycle (cf. Otto 2001). I do not believe, like the Goettingen School, that we could identify a DtrP, N or even more ‘individual’ Dtr’s, like other authors did (cf. Schmitt 2011:146–147). 2.1. THE SCOUT STORY AND THE FAILED CONQUEST IN DEUTERONOMY 1:19–46 The scout-story in Deut. 1:19–462 reports the arrival of the Israelites in Kadesh-Barnea and the failed conquest of the land of the Amorites as well as the subsequent penalty of Israel for his double disobedience: First, not to have conquered the country as Yahweh has ordered it, and, finally, the failed attempt to conquer the land against the prohibition of Yahweh. The DtrH version of the scout story, of which the greatest part can be ascribed to the ground-layer of the Deuteronomistic History work (with only some later deuteronomistic additions) makes use of the older narrative preserved in Numbers 13–14 (see Achenbach 12003), and also has simultaneously influenced the further literary development of Numbers 13–14. However, differing from Numbers 13, Deut. 1:19–46 accentuates the role of Moses by using the form of the self-report and by telling that Moses himself encourages Israel to march into the country in v. 29–33 after the return of the scouts, and not—as in the Numbers version—Joshua and Caleb. Moses addresses the Israelites by the delivery formula nātan yhwh… lepāneykā et hāʼāreṣ (1:21) and the do not fear (ʼal-tīrâʼ-) formula (1:21, 29)—but the reaction of the Israelites is not obedience, but the proposal of sending out scouts first. In Numbers 13 the scouts were sent out ac2

For discussion of the literary problems see Schmitt 2011, 67–68.

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cording to the command of Yahweh himself. In the Deuteronomy version, however, Israel is hesitant. This is intensified by the opposition of the Israelites to begin the conquest after the return of the scouts. The reason for that is related in Deuteronomy (different from Num. 13:28–29) in v. 28: The Israelites refused to conquer the country because of the size of its nations and its cities as well as because of the Anakites living there. Moses answers in v. 30 with the request not to be horrified and not to be afraid, since Yahweh will move before Israel and will fight for his people. V. 30 corresponds to the almost parallel expression in the war law Deut. 20:3: God’s law of war is what comes from the mouth of Moses and it is the divine law that is ignored by the Israelites frivolously! The punishment follows immediately; none of this generation are supposed to see the land including Moses. Only the faithful Caleb and Joshua will see the land (1:34–45). As in the Numbers version the Israelites recognize their mistake now—but they are going to make everything even worse when they want to carry out the campaign against the Amorites (v. 41), which Yahweh forbids categorically (v. 42). The Israelites do not listen, however, to Yahweh, but they resist (mrh, hiph) and they act presumptuously (zyd, hiph) when they decide to move against the Amorites (v. 43). The consequence is that finally they were hunted down by the Amorites in v. 44 and defeated (ktt, hiph). Thus, Israel has to suffer the defeat that was intended for the opponent. The Deut scout story represents a kind of reversal of the Yahweh-war as usually envisioned in the Deuteronomistic line of tradition. Since the Israelites foil the military conquest, as demanded in Deut. 20, first through hesitation, then through resistance, the bitter consequence can only be punishment for this disobedience. Thus, the war ordered by Yahweh becomes the measure of obedience in the scout story. It is absolutely remarkable that the DtrH already at the very beginning of his work emphasizes the fundamental connection between possession of the land and obedience to Yahweh’s commands. In the context of the total composition this first failure of Israel already flings a shadow ahead onto his final failure and exemplifies the importance of obedience to Yahweh’s commands and laws. The scout story thus represents the typical kerygmatic pattern of the DtrH with the sequence of fault,

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anger and punishment. That the enforcement of the ḥērem plays no role in Deut. 1:19–46, suggests that the deuteronomistic authors wanted to express a basic failure of the Israelites before the actual conquest took place. The ḥērem as a measure for the obedience of Israel becomes an important category in the land itself after the actual conquest has taken place, for instance in the stories of Achan’s theft in Joshua 7 and Saul’s refusal in 1 Samuel 15. 2.2. DEUTERONOMY 2:24–37, THE BEGINNING OF THE CONQUEST: WAR AGAINST SIHON OF HESHBON After the negative example in Deut. 1:19–46 and the beginning of the trek to the north with the prohibition of the conquest of the land of the descendants of Esau and the Moabites in Deut. 2:1–13, the beginning of the conquest is related in Deut. 2:24–37, now following the ideal scheme of the deuteronomistic theologians. The beginning of the conquest becomes—according to Deut. 2:14– 16—possible after the generation that had sinned against Yahweh died out after 38 years. The text of Deut. 2:24–37 itself is not from one hand but shows clear hints of literary growth:3 Due to the striking change of numbers in the address of Israel from the 2 p. pl. to the 2 p. sg., a ground layer of v. 24aα.30a.31–36 (DtrH) in the 2 p. pl. can be isolated, with later additions by one or more hands in the 2 p. sg. The growth of the DtrH ground layer within the framework of later deuteronomistic additions through v. 26–29* and 30b with the episode about the failed peace offer to king Sihon of Heshbon is clearly dependent on the demand from Deut. 20:10–12 to offer peace before laying siege to a foreign city. It is quite obvious that v. 29 represents a gloss inspired by Deut. 2:20–23. Also a late gloss is v. 37 which depends on the prohibition of war against the Ammonites in Deut. 2:17. The story about the war against Sihon of Heshbon occurs in three parallel versions in the Old Testament: Num. 21:21–26 (without the Heshbon-song v. 27–30); Deut. 2:24–37 and Judg. 11:19– 22. Also Num. 32:3f and Josh. 12:2 are referring to the victory over Sihon. Some exegetes (e.g. Fritz 1969: 28–29; Van Seters 1994:386– 3

For discussion see Schmitt 2011, 68–70.

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88; Rose 1994:393) assume a priority of the Deuteronomy-version. However, if the account in Num. 21:21–26 is assumed to be directly dependent on Deut. 2:24–37 we should expect that the Numbers-version is composed in analogy to the Og-episode in Num. 21:33–35, which clearly depends on Deut. 3:1–7—and this is not the case. Thus, it is therefore more probable that Num. 21:21–26 represents a shorter pre-dtr. account that had been used by the DtrH (cf. Blum 1990:127; Achenbach 22003:358–60). Judges 11 incorporates Numbers 21 with some condensations, but is also dependent on the Deuteronomy-account, as Judg. 11:21 picks up Deut. 2:33. A look on the conceptualization of war in Numbers 21, Deuteronomy 2 and Judges 11 confirms this assumption, as the versions differ in some important aspects: The version in Numbers does not tell us anything about the participation of Yahweh into the struggle; the reaction to Sihon’s attack in v. 23 is a military action performed by Israel itself. Beating the enemy with the edge of the sword (wayyakkehû yiśira’el lepî-ḥareb), the occupation of the country (v. 24), the conquering of the cities (lqḥ, qal), and the dwelling (yšb, qal) there and in the daughter cities (v. 25) is reported without divine assistance. Also the opponents are not committed to utter destruction—as in the Deut-account in 2:34. In contrast, Deuteronomy 2 emphasizes the participation of Yahweh. He does not intervene actively in the battle but he gives the command to attack and prepares the ground for the victory: Right at the beginning of the story we have three imperatives from the mouth of Yahweh in v. 24: ‘Rise up ...’ (qwm, qal), ‘Begin to take possession ...’ (yr qal), and ‘engage him in battle’ (grh hitp imp). Yahweh’s action is in v. 30 to harden the spirit of Sihon (qh) and to hand over the enemy to Israel in v. 24 and 30–31 (ntn byd). Finally the text mentions the abandonment of the enemy (ntn pnh) in v. 33–37, which illustrates that it is Yahweh to whom the victory is owed: v. 33: ‘And Yahweh our God delivered him over to us; and we struck him down, along with his sons and all his people.’ On the level of the final text the repetitions of the deliverance-formula in v. 24 and 30 emphasizes Yahweh’s decision to let the Israelites now begin with the successful conquest of the land. The text is strongly determined by military vocabulary, yrš ‘to take into possession’ (2:31), yaṣa‘ milḥamah ‘go to battle’ (v. 32), nkh

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‘struck down’ (v. 33), lkd ‘to capture’ (v. 34), and bzz ‘make spoil’ (v. 35). ḥērem ‘utterly destroy’ appears as a term from the complex of the sacred war that has to be executed. Deut. 2:34 provides here the complete fulfillment of the demands in the war-laws in Deut. 7:1–2 and in Deut. 20:16–18 with the utter destruction of the whole population including women and children, contrasting the preceding failure in the scout-story in Deut. 1:19–46. Since the later deuteronomistic school tradition missed the peace offer stipulated in Deuteronomy 20, this was complemented in 2:26–28.30b to make the fulfillment of the law complete. The absence of the ḥērem, the utter destruction, in the Numbers version is possibly due to the fact that cities committed to the ḥērem, would be taboo for resettlement. In the Deuteronomy account, however, the topic is not the resettlement of conquered cities but the creation of a tabula rasa for the settlement in the land (cf. Josh. 6:26–27; 8:28). 2.3. DEUTERONOMY 3:1–7. THE VICTORY OVER OG OF BASHAN As mentioned already above, the Deuteronomy account of the Og episode has literary priority before the account in Num. 21:33–35, which is clearly a direct borrowing from Deut. 3:1–7.4 The Og story begims immediately with ‘Then we turned ... (wannēpen)’ joined to the Sihon-story in 2:24–37 and represents its continuation with the victory over the second enemy in the country, Og of Bashan. The text itself shows —except the addition of v. 4aβ–5 inspired by 1 Kgs. 4:13—no manifest signs of literary growth and is used by the DtrH as a renewed example of a successful conquest according to the laws, including the ḥērem, the utter destruction. Following the delivery of the enemy by Yahweh with the delivery-formula (ntn byd in v. 2 & 3) and the encouragement not to be afraid (ʼal-tirâformula), the quick execution by Israel is reported: Og of Bashan is struck down (nkh, v. 3) and his cities were conquered (lkd, v. 4). According to Deuteronomy’s war-law, the ḥērem is executed immediately. The text emphasizes that the ḥērem, which appears twice in v. 6a and b, is executed completely: Men, women and children fall victim to the ḥērem, animals and goods became the booty. With 4

See Schmitt 2011, 70–71; 94–95.

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the formulaic sequence of nkh-lkd-ḥrm DtrH explains how the conquest according to the law should proceed. 3. JOSHUA 6–8: THE CONQUEST OF JERICHO AND AI The pattern observed in Deuteronomy 1–3 is mirrored in the book of Joshua, chapters 6–8 (cf. Schmitt 2011: 98–102). The conquest of Jericho in Joshua 6 has been successful, as the divine commands and the ḥērem were faithfully executed. But the attack on Ai in Joshua 7 failed because one of the Israelites, Achan, has kept for himself of Jericho’s spoil, devoted to the ḥērem. This disobedience causes divine anger and is regarded as breaking the covenant with Yahweh (v. 11: berīt). After an ordeal and a ritual execution of Achan and his family according to the law against apostasy in Deuteronomy 13, the sin is expiated and the conquest of Ai could succeed. The sequence of Joshua 6–8 thus explains again the importance of the ḥērem as a measure of obedience: Without obedience to the law there is no possession of the land. 4. SOME REMARKS ON THE USE OF ḤĒREM IN THE CONQUEST STORIES The execution of the ḥērem is a central theological topic in the deuteronomistic conquest traditions (Schmitt 2011:56–61). The Hebrew term ḥērem ‘ban’ / ‘utter destruction’ is derived from the common Semitic root ḥrm ‘devoted thing,’ ‘devotion.’ The verb ḥērem occurs 48 times in the Old Testament with 33 occurrences in the Deuteronomistic History. Accordingly, the noun ḥērem occurs 29 times in the Old Testament with 18 occurrences in the Deuteronomistic History (cf. Brekelmans 1978:635; Lohfink 1982:193). Noteworthy however is that no occurrence of ḥērem is pre-deuteronomistic. The use of ḥērem, for instance, in Numbers 21 presupposes its use in the deuteronomistic literature. Moreover, those occurrences which were considered part of the older sources of DtrH in scholarly literature, like in 1 Samuel 15 and 1 Kgs. 20:35–42 are in fact of post-deuteronomistic origin (Schmitt 2011:129–130; 144–145). Thus, it seems obvious that ḥērem is a central theological term of DtrH and does not allow any conclusion of a pre-deuteronomistic ideology of ‘Holy War’ from the premonarchic (e.g. von Rad 1951; Gottwald 1979) or even the monar-

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chic period (e.g. Stern 1991; Crouch 2009). Nevertheless, the occurrence of ḥērem on the Moabite Mesha-inscription (KAI 181:17) with the devotion of the war-spoil to the god Chemosh shows that there was a practice of ḥērem in contexts of war in the first Millennium BCE. The problem is, however, that the Moabite Inscription is the only and unparalleled occurrence of this term, and the practice of ḥērem is not mentioned either in other West-Semitic royal inscriptions or in biblical accounts on the wars of Israelite and Judean Kings which can be regarded as (more or less) historical accounts. There may have been a practice of ḥērem related to West-Semitic royal ideology in the 1st Millennium BCE (cf. Younger 1990; Crouch 2009), but we do not have sufficient historical sources to reconstruct its history of tradition. Thus, we have to consider the use of ḥērem in the Deuteronomistic History as a theological topic apart from the Mesha-inscription, since we do not have any sources filling in the gap of tradition. The biblical traditions have dissociated the ḥērem from royal ideology and transformed it into a theological topic, in particular as a measure of obedience to the divine law. 4. THE DEUTERONOMISTIC CONQUEST-TRADITION, ITS HISTORICAL BACKGROUND AND ITS IMPORTANCE FOR THE CONSTRUCTION OF ISRAEL’S CULTURAL MEMORY The cultural memory of Israel’s early history is shaped as a history of God’s wondrous deeds with his chosen people, first marginalized in Egypt, but then successfully conquering the promised land, and utterly destroying the Canaanites and their cities following God’s command and with his mighty help. This violent construction of Israel’s past found in Deuteronomy 1–3 and than in the conquest stories of the book of Joshua is quite different from the picture historical research has drawn today of the emergence of Ancient Israel. Also, the canonical picture of Israel’s glorious victories over ‘people stronger than you’ was of course quite different from what Israel experienced during the late monarchy, the exile and the Persian period. The deuteronomistic conquest tradition in Deuteronomy 1–3 is—as mentioned already at the beginning of my paper—to be addressed as the introduction of the Deuteronomistic History Work, composed basically in the late exilic period, with post-exilic expansions and upgrades. The central kerygmatic pattern

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of the Deuteronomistic History Work with the sequence of fault of the Israelites, divine anger and punishment is unfolded already in the scout story of Deut. 1:19–46: The scout story with the failed conquest explains the strict compliance of the law as condition for the possession of the land. In the context of the total composition of the DtrH this first failure of Israel already casts a shadow ahead onto its final failure—just before the actual conquest- and emphasizes thereby the importance of obedience to Yahweh’s commandments and laws. After the failed conquest, represented by the scout-story in Deut. 1:19–46, Deut. 2:34–37 represents the positive example with the proper fulfillment of the law in Deuteronomy 7 and 20 to execute the ḥērem. The ḥērem-war ordered by Yahweh, envisioned in these texts, is not ideology of war and / or theology of war but essentially theology of the law. In this sense it might be wrong to speak of a conception of Yahweh-war here—the main topic is obedience to the law, exemplarily shown by the ḥērem. The full obedience to the laws as condition for the possession of the land as well as the perspective of the story as coming out of the desert is best understood as a cipher for the Babylonian exile and the hope for return and national restitution. This speaks strongly against the assumption of a pre-exilic Josianic conquest account underlying Deuteronomy 1–3, as supposed by Otto. Also the creation of a tabula rasa after Deut. 7, as propagated in Deut. 1– 3, is hardly to be made plausible in the Josianic period, but much better fits the exilic or early post-exilic eras. The historical projection of a violent and finally succeeded conquest in the early morning of Israel’s existence by DtrH serves to create a hopeful perspective out of the situation of the exile or an early post exilic situation facing the difficulties of return. However, this hopeful perspective is tightly bound to the full obedience of the law, exemplified by the execution of the ḥērem, as precondition for the durable possession of the land. The historical construction of a military conquest under complete observation of the law in Deut. 1–3 and Josh. 6–8 corresponds to a strategy in the construction of the cultural memory, that Theissen (1988:174) and Assmann (2007:227; cf. Römer 2007:126) have characterized as ‘counter-presentic.’ Assmann has addressed those utopian types of memory, especially in the book of

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Deuteronomy, as counter-presentic (‘kontrapräsentisch’), which tend to open a hopeful future against the suffering of the presence, and has described religion as the ‘anachronic structure’ which has enabled the Biblical writers to construct such a type of memory. The construction of a violent conquest in particular in the Book of Joshua is displayed counterfactual against the military, political and cultural powerlessness experienced in the presence. This counterfactual faith to the past is expressed, as Theissen (1988:174) has rightfully observed, in the ideas of the Chosen People, the memory, the reversal and hope. The counter-presentic construction of a military conquest is an expression of the hope for an end of the exile, and at the same time an attempt to compensate the own powerlessness. In the total complex of the exilic-postexilic construction of the own cultural memory the counter-present memory of a violent conquest and its theological Kerygma becomes a historical fact, that constitutes meaning and has to be remembered according to Deut. 32:7: ‘Remember the days of old, consider the years long past; ask your father, and he will inform you; your elders, and they will tell you.’ BIBLIOGRAPHY Achenbach, R. 12003 ‘Die Erzählung von der gescheiterten Landnahme von Kadesch Barnea (Numeri 13–14) als Schlüsseltext der Redaktionsgeschichte des Pentateuch,’ ZABR 9, 56–123. Achenbach, R. 22003 Die Vollendung der Tora: Studien zur Redaktionsgeschichte des Numeribuches im Kontext von Hexateuch und Pentateuch (BZAR, 3; Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz). Assmann, J. 20076

Das kulturelle Gedächtnis: Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen (München: Beck).

Bernat, D. A./Klawans, J. (ed.) 2007 Religion and Violence. The Biblical Heritage (Recent Research in Biblical Studies, 2; Sheffield: Phoenix Press).

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Studien zur Komposition des Pentateuch (BZAW, 189; Berlin: de Gruyter).

Brekelmans, C. 19783 ‘ḥḗræm,’ in E. Jenni and C. Westermann (eds.), Theologisches Handwörterbuch zum Alten Testament, vol. 1. (München: Chr. Kaiser & Theologischer Verlag Zürich), 635–639. Collins, John. J. 2003 ‘The Zeal of Phinehas: The Bible and the Legitimation of Violence,’ JBL 122, 3–21. Crouch, C. L. 2009

Fritz, V. 1969

War and Ethics in the Ancient Near East: Military Violence in Light of Cosmology and History (BZAW, 407; Berlin/New York: de Gruyter). Israel in der Wüste. Traditionsgeschichtliche Untersuchung der Wüstenüberlieferung des Jahwisten (Marburger Theologische Studien, 7; Marburg: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt).

Gottwald, N. K. 1979 The Tribes of Yahweh (New York: Orbis Books). Kelle, B. E./Ames, F. R. 2008 Writing and Reading War. Rhetoric, Gender, and Ethics in Biblical and Modern Contexts (Symposium, 42; Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature). Lohfink, N. 1982

Noth, M. 1967³

‘ḥāram,’ in G. J. Botterweck, H. Ringgren and H.-J. Fabry (eds.), Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Alten Testament, vol. 3 (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer), 192–213. Überlieferungsgeschichtliche Studien: Die sammelnden und bearbeitenden Geschichtswerke im Alten Testament (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft).

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Krieg und Frieden in der Hebräischen Bibel und im Alten Orient. Aspekte für eine Friedensordnung in der Moderne (Theologie und Frieden, 18; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer). Jehu, Elia und Elisa: Die Erzählung von der JehuRevolution und die Komposition der Elia-Elisa-Erzählungen (BWANT, 152. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer).

Römer, Th. C. 2007 The So-called Deuteronomistic History. A Sociological, Historical and Literary Introduction (London: T&T Clark). Römer, Th. C. 2009 ‘Response to Richard Nelson, Steve McKenzie, Eckart Otto, and Yairah Amit,’ JHS 9/19, 36–49. Rose, M. 1994 Schmitt, R. 2011

Stern, P. D. 1991

Theißen, G. 1988

5. Mose (ZBK AT, 5.1–2; Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich). Der „Heilige Krieg“ im Pentateuch und im deuteronomistischen Geschichtswerk (AOAT, 381; Münster: UgaritVerlag). The Biblical Ḥerem. A Window on Israel’s Religious Experience (Brown Judaic Studies, 211; Atlanta, GA: Society of Biblical Literature). ‘Tradition und Entscheidung. Der Beitrag des biblischen Glaubens zum kulturellen Gedächtnis,’ in J. Assmann and T. Hölscher (eds.), Kultur und Gedächtnis (Suhrkamp Taschenbuch Wissenschaft, 724; Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp), 170–196.

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The Life of Moses. The Yahwist as Historian in ExodusNumbers (Louisville: Westminster John Knox). Der Heilige Krieg im Alten Israel (AThANT; Zürich: Theologischer Verlag Zürich).

Wellhausen, J. 19589 Israelitische und Jüdische Geschichte (Berlin: de Gruyter). Younger, K. L. 1990 Ancient Conquest Accounts. A Study in Near Eastern and Biblical History Writing (JSOTSup, 98; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press). Zevit, Z. 2007 ‘The Search for Violence in Israelite Culture and the Bible,’ in D.A. Bernat and J. Klawans (eds.), Religion and Violence. The Biblical Heritage (Recent Research in Biblical Studies, 2; Sheffield: Phoenix Press), 16–37.

THE TEMPLE AS A SYMBOL OF POWER IN INNER-BIBLICAL AND POSTBIBLICAL

EXEGESIS IDA FRÖHLICH Child psychologists often examine their little patients by asking them to draw their family. These family pictures are very meaningful; they reflect the child’s notion about his/her environment and his/her relation to it. The child can put him/herself in the centre as the largest figure—or hide in the farthest corner. Similarly to the imagery of personal relations, social self-identity of a group can be expressed, too, in a visual form, in terms of images, objects, and buildings, the idea being projected in space. The Temple of Jerusalem is a permanent symbol in Jewish biblical and non-biblical traditions. It had, for centuries, been the subject of descriptions written by various authors, members of various social groups, and aiming to portray various ideals through the image of the building. The following study aims to overview a number of texts describing the Temple of Jerusalem. Their common characteristic is that all of them are related to a real building that existed in historical times, namely the Solomonic temple and its successor, the Second Temple. We lack the opportunity to contrast these descriptions with the reality that served as a basis for them (except for the use of topography, some sporadic findings, and archaeological analogies). However, these texts are very informative about the mentality and the aims and targets of the authors with their descriptions. The texts reflect their attitude to historical tradition, and are expressions of their self-determinations. The texts of 1 Kgs. 5:15‒8:66; Ezek. 40‒48; 1 Chr. 22‒2 Chr. 6,

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and the Temple Scroll from Qumran will be examined in the following aspects: a) textual and literary background of the account b) characteristics of the report c) temple and secular place in the text d) the aims of the authors with their depiction e) the image of the Temple as a formation of memory BUILDINGS AS SYMBOLS OF POWER: Symbols of power are countless (emblems, arms, descriptions and images of victorious wars, etc). Buildings—especially state buildings—have an outstanding place in the system of symbols: due to their dimensions and publicity they can mediate messages from their builders to local people and visitors. Excessive measures, rare and luxurious materials, special building techniques of a prestige building are aimed to prove that the builder disposes over considerable manpower (among them specially trained local or foreign specialists), and international trade relations. Intended to be symbols of power these buildings are sited at distinguished places. Symbols of power in the ancient Near East are usually temples and palaces (with administrative buildings); they formed the greater part of the acropolis looking over the lower city, where the residences of the common people were. 1 KINGS 5:15‒8:66 A) TEXTUAL AND LITERARY BACKGROUND: Biblical memory connects the construction of a permanent sanctuary of YHWH with the Solomonic kingdom.1 After an initial period 1 Sanctuaries of Yahweh from the premonarchic times are referred to in the Old Testament. One among them, the sanctuary of Shiloh is related as having permanent personnel, Eli and his sons (1 Sam. 1‒3). Gibeah, mentioned as a high place (bāmāh) of Yahweh was the site of the revelation given to Solomon at the beginning of his reign (1. Kgs. 3:4‒5). On the question of premonarchic temples see Gösta W. Ahlström, The History of Ancient Palestine from the Palaeolithic Period to Alexander’s Conquest, (ed. Diana Vikander Edelman and Niels Peter Lemche; JSOTSup; Sheffield; JSOT Press, 1993), 366-68.

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of misfortunes and lability the time of political consolidation arrived, and the king decided to build a temple to Yahweh, and a palace for himself.2 The report on the building operations begins and ends with that of the temple. The books of the kings are part of the Deuteronomic historical work; Deuteronomic reworking of older historical material was going on for a longer period from the end of the Judean kingdom to the Exile. The authors of the report of the building of the temple of Solomon probably used written material, re-arranging and redacting their sources. Nevertheless, the report that remained to us is not a summary of ancient sources but a retrospect of the kingdom and royal cult from the exilic age when all these were past memories.3 B) CHARACTERISTICS OF THE DESCRIPTION:

According to 1 Kings the temple had been under construction for seven years.4 Its measures were: sixty cubits long, twenty cubits wide, and thirty cubits high (1 Kgs. 6:2).5 The description concen‘So I intend to build a house for the name of the Lord my God’ (1 Kgs. 5:5). 3 On the problem of the sources: Mark A. O’Brien, The Deuteronomic History Hypothesis: A Reassessement (OBO, 92; Freiburg, Schweiz: Universitätsverlag, 1989), 144–45. On the Solomonic temple see John van Seters, ‘Solomon’s Temple: Fact and Ideology in Biblical and Near Eastern Historiography,’ CBQ 59 (1997), 45–57; Roger Tomes, ‘Our Holy and Beautiful House: When and Why Was 1 Kings 6–8 Written?’ JSOT 70 (1996), 33–50. 4 1 Kgs. 6:37–38. The site of the building, the treshold of Arauna the site of Solomon’s temple is mentioned only in Chronicles (1 Chr. 22:1; 2 Chr. 3:1). For a reconstruction of the building of the Solomonic temple, with its ornaments and cultic paraphernalia see the seminal work of T. A. Busink, Der Tempel von Jerusalem von Salomo bis Herodes: eine archäologischhistorische Studie unter Berücksichtigung des westsemitischen Tempelbaus (Leiden: Brill, 1980); Volkmar Fritz, ‘T emple Architecture: What Can Archeology Tell Us about Solomon’s Temple?’ in Frederick E. Greenspahn (ed.), Essential Papers on Israel and the Ancient Near East (Essential Papers on Jewish Studies; New York: New York University Press, 1991), 116–28. 5 Building stones were ‘finished at the quarry, so that neither hammer nor axe nor any tool of iron was heard in the temple while it was being built’ (1 Kgs. 6:7). 2

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trates on the temple building, extending from the external to the internal. The building included three consecutive rooms: vestibule (’ulām), hall (hēkāl), and the Holy of Holies (qodeš qodašim, or debir).6 An additional building of service rooms on three levels surrounded the temple (1 Kgs. 6:8 and other texts). Cultic paraphernalia and ornaments of the building were: the tables of the shewbread, the menorot, and the ark with the cherubim.7 Materials covering the walls and objects were boards of cedar and cypress (1 Kgs. 6:14‒18), olivewood (the cherubim), gold (chains and altar overlaid with pure gold; carved work overlaid with gold) (1 Kgs. 6:19‒22). Ornamental motifs were flower motifs carved into the wooden boards, such as cherubim, palm trees and pomegranates (6:23‒38).8 Jakin and Boaz, the pillars of the entrance were ornamented with pomegranate capitals (1 Kgs. 7:18, 20) while the pillars in the vestibule were of lily-work (1 Kgs. 7:19, 22). Paraphernalia in the outer space were the molten sea, a water container made of bronze that ‘stood on twelve oxen, three facing north, three facing west, three facing south, and three facing east’ and the altar.9 Ornaments of the cultic paraphernalia were motifs of oxen, cherubim, lion, palm trees, and lily (7:27‒50). Details of the outer space of the sanctuary as the borders of the courtyard are not mentioned. The act of the sanctification of the space was the consecration ceremony performed by Solomon: following the bringing of the the Ark to the Temple (1 Kgs. 8:1‒21) Solomon’s prayer was uttered (1 Kgs. 8:22‒53), and the ceremony concluded with Solomon’s blessing (1 Kgs. 8:54‒61). The building described in the text is a symbol of fertility, soundness, was at the same time a cosmic symbol. Plant and animal 1 Kgs. 6:15‒22. 1 Kgs. 6:20‒21 mentions a wooden altar overlaid with pure gold before the Holy of Holies. A golden altar of incense is prescribed in Exod. 30:1‒10. 8 The description of the two cherubim standing in the Holy of Holies is to be read in 1 Kgs. 6:23‒28. Cherub-motifs of the building ornaments may have been similar to these figures, see 1 Kgs. 7:29‒35. The capitals of the columns Jakin and Boaz were covered with ornaments of pomegranates, see 1 Kgs. 7:18‒20. 9 1 Kgs. 7:23‒26. 6 7

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symbolism of the ornaments of the temple meant fertility while cherubim and lions represent, throughout the ancient Near East, apotropaic functions. The molten sea that contained water symbolized the underground water, water in the mobile vessels served for (and symbolized) purification. The menorot may have been part of a symbolism of light. Besides the symbolism of the building the report on it holds another symbolism, that of the numbers related to the building activity. The temple had been built for 7 years, and the palace for 13 years (1 Kgs. 7:1), altogether 20 years. The number is half of 40, a number with symbolic value, that of the years of the wandering in the wilderness; as well as the number of the years of an ideal period of rule.10 The temple was built 480 years following the exodus (40 x 12, the product of the number of the years in the wilderness, and the number of the tribes). The building reported in 1 Kgs. with the given measures might have been an average size temple, compared to other temples

Both David and Solomon reigned for 40 years (1 Kgs. 2:11; 11:42) while Saul’s reign lasted for 20 years, half of the ideal length of rule (1 Sam. 13:1). The judge Othniel ruled for 40 years (Judg. 3:9‒11), and the period of punishment that preceded Samson’s activity also lasted 40 years (Judg. 13:1). The number of the years of Samson’s activity was 20 (Judg. 15:20; 16:31). 10

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known from Iron Age Syria-Palestine.11 The number of workers who worked on the temple are exaggerated.12 C) TEMPLE AND SECULAR PLACE:

The text highlights the spatial unity of the temple and the palace, the continuity of the building process, and that the two building complexes were built from the same building material, with similar ornamental motifs. The height of both complexes is marked by the same number: 30 cubits. The palace complex included several buildings. The measures of the House of the Forest of the Lebanon, the main building of the palace—a hundred cubits long, fifty cubits wide, and thirty cubits high—exceeded those of the temple (1 Kgs. 7:2).13 The palace buildings, similarly to the temple, were Architectural parallels to the Solomonic temple are the temples found in Ain Dara (Syria) and Tell Taynat (Turkey), both from the Iron Age (8th century BCE). On Ain Dara see Volkmar Fritz, ‘Temple Architecture: What Can Archaeology Tell Us about Solomon’s Temple?’ in F. E. Greenspahn (ed.), Essential Papers on Israel and the Ancient Near East (Essential Papers on Jewish Studies; New York: New York University Press, 1991), 116‒28. The temple found in Tell Taynat is the closest architectural parallel to the Solomonic temple. See O. Keel, The Symbolism of the Biblical World. Ancient Near Eastern Iconography and the Book of Psalms (Winona Lake, Indiana: Eisenbrauns, 1997), 160‒62. On the problem of the historical background of the bīt hilāni building described as Solomon’s temple see Israel Finkelstein, ‘ The Rise of Jerusalem and Judah: The Missing Link,’ in Andrew G. Vaughn, Ann E. Killebrew (eds.), Jerusalem in Bible and Archeology: The First Temple Period (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 81‒101. 12 The numbers related to the example of the builders: at the same time a numeric māšāl: seventy thousand laborers and eighty thousand stonecutters in the hill country, and three thousand three hundred supervisors’ (1 Kgs. 5:15‒16). 13 Other buildings built of similar building material were the Hall of Pillars which was fifty cubits long and thirty cubits wide (1 Kgs. 7:6), the Hall of the Throne where Solomon was to pronounce judgment, and the Hall of Justice. The stateroom and the harem were, too, in separate buildings: ‘His own house where he would reside, in the other court back of the hall, was of the same construction. Solomon also made a house like this hall for Pharaoh’s daughter, whom he had taken in marriage’ (1 Kgs. 7:8). 11

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covered with cedar,14 and several of them were decorated with cedar colonnades (1 Kgs. 7:2‒8). The temple was built as a royal temple, a symbol of the state religion of the kingdom. Building the temple and palace together, in the same undertaking, of the same material and of the same architectural description was the expression of the idea of the unity of state and religion. Following local urbanistic and architectural traditions temple and palace were built on the acropolis of the city (the Ophel and the hilltop plateau), and represented local forms (the temple being an example type called bīt hilāni or North Syrian temple type). d) THE AIMS OF THE AUTHORS WITH THE DESCRIPTION The building of the temple described in 1 Kings aims to represent and to highlight Solomon’s royal power. The text hardly ever mentions priests. It is the king who consecrates the temple, the one who says prayer, and gives benediction to the people. He is presented as a theocratic ruler performing priestly duties. e) THE DESCRIPTION AS A FORMATION OF MEMORY 1 Kings sets the scene of the Solomonic temple building in a historical perspective: the temple building took place 480 years (nearly half a millenium) following the Exodus. The Exodus, notwithstanding its historicity is Israel’s founding myth, linked with a liturgical aspect, the pesah. Cultural memory in 1 Kings converted the factual past into a past of memory, a myth. The description of the Solomonic temple is a foundational memory: it is the myth of the existence of Israel in the land of Canaan. The temple’s site was a ‘lieu de mémoire’ in the land of Canaan/Israel (in contrast with the Exodus which was a ‘lieu de mémoire’ outside of Israel).15 Differently from this concept Solomon’s prayer and blessing repeatedly 14 The Hall of Justice was covered with cedar ‘from floor to floor’ (1 Kgs. 7:7). 15 The reason for the dating of the building activity in relation of the Exodus (1 Kgs. 6:1) lies in this fact. The giving of the Law at Sinai and the divine command for the building of the temple is again connected in the Temple Scroll; cf. 11QTa II where the background to the command of the building is the entering of the people of Israel to the land of Canaan.

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refer to another tradition, that of the divine promise given to David (1 Kgs. 8:24‒26). The Deuteronomistic history was compiled probably by trained scribes, members of the priesthood, and related to the Temple. The Solomonic temple is a symbol of royal power and legitimacy; for the Deuteronomists the symbol of the royal power was the temple and not the palace, and they represented the king with priestly functions. This was part of constructing Solomon’s image. The Persian period provided two other descriptions, one in Ezekiel (Ezek. 40‒48), the other one in the Chronicles (1 Chr. 22‒2 Chr. 7). EZEKIEL 40‒48 A) TEXTUAL AND LITERARY BACKGROUND: The closing address of the book of Ezekiel is a vision with the image of renewal following the exile. It was written probably by a person who was different from the young priest taken into captivity with the first exile in 597, and became later known as the prophet of the exile.16 The book of Ezekiel is a carefully redacted work. It obtained its form, in all probability, following the death of the author of the prophecies. The pieces of the collection are ordered thematically: chapters 1–24 contain prophecies against Israel. Those in 25‒32 are against foreign countries while Ezek. 33‒38 holds prophecies of Israel’s salvation. The difference between part one (Ezek. 1‒24) and two (Ezek. 25‒48) is so conspicuous that Josephus speaks of two Ezechielian books (Josephus Antiquitates X:79).17 Ezekiel 40‒48 is an interpretation of, and an answer to a 16 The date of the vision is the year 573, that is 25 years—half of a jubilee—following the first exile when the priest Ezekiel was taken into captivity to Babylonia. This dating does not exclude the authorship of the historical Ezekiel. On the other hand the model for the building described in the vision was probably the Second Temple, built several decades later, in 516 (cf. Ezra 6:15). Even today there is no scholarly consensus about the composition and historical setting of Ezek. 40‒48. For the history of research of Ezek. 40‒48 see Alice Hunt, Missing Priests: The Zadokites in Tradition and History (New York: T & T Clark, 2006), 125‒142. 17 The second part has two themes: a) a new exodus and the conquest of the land (Ezek. 33‒39); b) the re-distribution of the land and the

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preexilic prophecy in the same Ezechielic collection (Ezek. 8‒11),18 which states that the temple will be destroyed, and the divine glory, the kābōd will leave the place. The vision of chapters 40‒48 reports on the return of the kabod, stating that it will stay in their circle forever (40:1‒43:11a), and divine power will be reintegrated. Ezek. 40‒48 is not a uniform text. Besides the description of the temple it deals also with other themes like position and duties of the nasi, the division of the land, and the authority and rights of the sons of Zadok. These parts come probably from an Ezechielian school of disciples.19 B) CHARACTERISTICS OF THE DESCRIPTION:

The ‘hand of the Lord’ which was on the prophet, brought him in a vision to the land of Israel, to a very high mountain ‘on which was a structure like a city to the south’ (Ezek. 40:1‒2).20 He was shown the temple by a man ‘whose appearance shone like bronze’ and holding a linen cord and a measuring reed (qānāh) in his hand;

rebuilding of the holy city (Ezek. 40‒48). The model of the first one is the book of Joshua; the description of the sanctuary tallies with that of the building of the Solomonic temple. 18 Cf. Joseph Blenkinsopp, ‘Interpretation and Tendency to Sectarianism: An Aspect of Second Temple History,’ in: E.P. Sanders (ed.), Jewish and Christian Self-Definition. Volume Two: Aspects of Judaism in the GraecoRoman Period (London: SCM Press, 1981), 1‒26. 19 Walter Zimmerli, Ezekiel 2: A Commentary on the Booke of the Prophet Ezekiel Chapters 25‒48 (Hermeneia: A Critical and Historical Commentary on the Bible, Philadelphia: Fortress, 1983), 463. Similarly Rainer Albertz, Israel in Exile. The History and Literature of the Sixth Century B.C.E. (Studies in Biblical Literature, 3; Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 367‒76; Joseph Blenkinsopp, ‘Bethel in the Neo-Babylonian Period,’ in Oded Lipschits (ed.), Judah and the Judeans in the Neo-Babylonian Period (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2003), 93‒107. 20 ‘In the twenty-fifth year of our exile, at the beginning of the year, on the tenth day of the month, in the fourteenth year after the city was struck down, on that very day, the hand of the LORD was upon me, and he brought me there.2 He brought me, in visions of God, to the land of Israel, and set me down upon a very high mountain, on which was a structure like a city to the south’ (Ezek. 40:1‒2).

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and he was standing in the gateway (40:3).21 They walked together the temple’s area, and the man measured everything with his (six long cubits length) measuring reed. The description starts from outside and moves into the inner part of the temple. The description concentrates upon the external borders of the temple, the walls and gates of the courtyards. The most important part of the temple seems to be the eastern gate, mentioned several times.22 The gates are all similar, with vestibules, recesses, pilasters, and all of them are decorated with palm tree motifs. Their sizes are all the same, 50 x 25 cubits. The temple precinct has three gates, one to the east, one to north, and one to the south.23 The walls circle two courtyards, an inner one measuring 100 x 100 cubits (Ezek. 40:47), and an outer courtyard measuring 500 x 500 cubits.24 It can be supposed that the ground-plan of the sanctuary building is identical with that of the Solomonic temple. Instead of describing the cultic paraphernalia, the Ezechielian description pays attention to the itemization of the activities related to the sacrifices (preparing and consuming the sacrificial meal) (Ezek. 42:13‒14), as well as the purity prescriptions concerning the priests. 21 The man calls the prophet as ‘son of man’ (the expression here obviously has the meaning of ‘man,’ ‘human.’ His call to ‘look closely and listen attentively’ (Ezek. 40:4) is a typical element of summoning for the reception of esoteric teaching, cf. the Admonition of the Damascus Document where the opening of the eyes and the ears of the recipient represent successive grades of the reception of the revelation (CD II, 2, 14). 22 The Eastern gate had a special significance since the temple building was compassed to the east, cf. Ezek. 8:16. 23 The author returns again to the theme of the gates when describing the tasks of the people and the nasi. The Eastern gate of the inner court has a special significance in the account: it is through this gate that the nasi arrives and leaves for the sacrifices at the times of the New Moons and Sabbaths (Ezek. 46:1‒2). Visitors to the Temple (among them the nasi) arrive and leave the Temple in the directions North-South or SouthNorth, using opposing gates for entering and leaving (Ezek. 46:9‒10). No entrance from the West is mentioned in the report; Western gates were built during the Herodian priod. 24 Another indicator in Ezek. 45:1 says that a lot of 500 x 500 cubit will be measured out in the area of the sanctuary, according to the command of the Lord.

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The description ends with the report of the water source coming from above the threshold of the Eastern gate of the temple (Ezek. 47:2), running to the south (Ezek. 47:1‒2), and becoming a huge river (Ezek. 47:3‒6), with trees on its banks (Ezek. 47:7), its water is filled with fishes and grows fruits. The leaves of the trees ‘will not wither nor their fruit fail, but they will bear fresh fruit every month, because the water for them flows from the sanctuary’ (Ezek. 47:8‒12). c) TEMPLE AND SECULAR PLACE Besides the description of the temple two more descriptions of the division of the land are to be found in Ezek. 40‒48 (Ezek. 45; 47‒48). The description again moves from the center to the periphery, from the sanctuary to the territories owned by the priests, Levites, and the city (Ezek. 45:4‒6). This description reports also about the sacral duties of a secular ruler (nasi) (Ezek. 45:9‒46:18). The second report informs readers about the borders of Israel’s 12 tribes, the boundaries established ‘for the Israelites and the foreigners (gerim) dwelling among them’ (47:13‒23). Levi is also given a part among them, with two subdivisions: one for the ‘consecrated priests, the descendants of Zadok, who kept my charge, who did not go astray when the people of Israel went astray, as the Levites did,’ and one (25.000 x 10.000 measures) is for the Levites (Ezek. 48:13‒14).25 The territory of the city, with the sanctuary in its center (Ezek. 48:15‒20) is at the same time the center of the 12 tribes, and its gates are named after the names of Israel’s 12 tribes26 (48:31‒34). d) THE AIMS OF THE AUTHORS WITH THEIR DESCRIPTIONS: Ezekiel’s description is a visionary report. The prophet is guided by a superhuman figure (angelus interpres) who reveals to him the measures of the building. Ezekiel presents the image of a regular complex of buildings with an outer and inner courtyard, and an inner building. Elements (gates and chambers) are standardized, the 25 They are forbidden to sell anything from it ‘for it is holy to the Lord’ (Ezek. 48:14). 26 ‘T he workers of the city, from all the tribes of Israel, shall cultivate it’ (Ezek. 48:19).

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spaces are quadrangles, and their measures and their distances from each other are expressed in round numbers. The presence of the angelus interpres, and the regularity of the measures and the ground-plan of the building suggests the idea of a heavenly origin of the plan. The idea of the existence of heavenly models for earthly institutions and buildings (especially those of temples) is a common Mesopotamian idea, together with the tradition of revelations of heavenly measures to an elect.27 The description conserved the basic realities concerning the site and the building; the western gate of the temple is not mentioned (being probably nonexistent when the report was written).28 On the other hand the image of the water flowing from below the threshold of the eastern gate is an unreal element, and has only a symbolic role in the description, as a poetic image of the revival of the land (water being a cosmic symbol of fertility and life). The description represents an ‘elevated reality,’ using real data added with some superhuman and symbolic elements: the figure of the guide, the content of the measure (one cubit being equal in the description with one cubit and a handbreadth in length (Ezek. 40:6 [E.T. 40:5]), as well as the image of the river originating from the temple. In the Ezekielian vision the city of Jerusalem (a city with well-known Canaanite origins) becomes a center of the 12 tribes. 27 See e.g. the Sumerian kings’ list where kingdom is mentioned as an abstraction that descends to the earth and effectuates earthly kingdoms. Cities have an ideal plan and measures in heaven, see A. Leo Oppenheim, Ancient Mesopotamia: Portrait of a Dead Civilization (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1977), 135-36. Mesopotamians considered the patterns of stars covering the sky as a celestial script for earthly phenomena, see. Francesca Rochberg, The Heavenly Writing. Divination, Horoscopy, and Astronomy in Mesopotamian Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 1‒3. The report on the Flood (Gen. 6‒9) shows obvious similarities with Mesopotamian material. Before the Flood Noah receives from God the exact measures and plan of the ark to be built (Gen. 6:14‒16). See David McClean Carr, Reading the Fractures of Genesis: Historical and Literary Approaches (Louisville, Ky.: Westminster John Knox, 1996), 59, 245. 28 The Western entrances of the Temple precinct were built during the Herodian construction as bridges that spanned the Tyropoion valley. Their traces are marked today by Robinson’s arch and Wilson’s arch on the Western wall of the Herodian courtyard.

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The descriptions of both the sanctuary andof the surrounding land show a concentric structure, the latter concentrated around the 12 tribes. The priestly tribe, the Levites (without land as held by the biblical tradition), receive a prestigious property. In Levi’s land the Zadokite group (originating from David’s priest) is highlighted. At the same time the properties of the nasi lie outside the city (48:21‒22), thus he is not considered the ruler of the city.29 e) THE DESCRIPTION AS A FORMATION OF MEMORY: The founding formation of memory is confirmed with a tribal symbolism. The center—in space as well as in view—is the temple, with its perfect, regular and symmetrical ground-plan, and measures of heavenly origin. Ezekiel’s temple represents the founding of the idea of Jerusalem as the center of the 12 tribes. Although the description does mention a secular ruler and his duties, the text is 29 It is God who is considered as the ruler of the city: ‘And the name of the city from that time on shall be, The LORD is There’ (Ezek. 48:35). The property of the nasi lies beyond the city, ruled by the 12 tribes, and considered the property of the Lord and the site of His presence. The description is closed by that of the borders of Benjamin, Simeon, Issachar, Zebulon, and Gad (Ezek. 48:23‒28). No real symbols of political power have remained to us from Persian period Judah. The memory of a governor’s palace in Lachish is signaled only by two imposant columns; on the Persian period palace in Lachish see W. D. Davies, Louis Finkelstein, The Cambridge History of Judaism: Introduction. The Persian Period (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 91‒93; Oded Lipschits and Manfred Oeming, Judah and the Judaeans in the Persian Period (Winona Lake, Ind.: Eisenbrauns, 2005), 177‒179. The builder of the palace in Ramat Rahel is not known; neither its use by the Babylonian conquerors and later Persian governors is clear. On the other hand the palace in Ramat Rahel as an architectural composition is a real power symbol with its measures and the immense (and superfluous) terrace, the result of a huge earth-work. The builder of this terrace and palace could show that he was master of an immense manpower. On the dating of the beginnings of the building of Ramat Rahel see Israel Finkelstein, ‘T he Rise of Jerusalem and Judah: The Missing Link,’ in: Andrew G. Vaughn and Ann E. Killebrew (eds.), Jerusalem in Bible and Archeology: The First Temple Period (Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature, 2003), 81‒101, esp. 97; on the palace see Amihai Mazar and Ephraim Stern, Archaeology of the Land of the Bible (New York: Doubleday, 2001), 165‒168.

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centered around the sanctuary and its administration.30 Both the temple and the land are characterized by a predominance of the priestly presence, especially by Zadokite priests.31 Authors of the description might have been priests with Zadokite claim; the vision serves to confirm their presence in the Jerusalem temple.32 Ezek. 40‒48 reflects priestly propaganda penned in terms of the space, highlighting the holiness of the temple and purity of the priests performing the temple service. In Ezekiel 40‒48 not only is the temple holy but the whole land around it. It reflects the idea of graduated holiness, centered around the Holy of Holies. The territories of the temple and its environs form a homogenous system linked by the idea of the holy. Power and subordinates are part of the same system, that of the postexilic temple and its community: the Israel of the 12 tribes.33 Secular power is present in the account but is set apart, its territory standing apart from the holy area. The temple of Ezekiel is a symbol of the power of restoration and priestly power. CHRONICLES (1 CHR. 22 ‒ 2 CHR. 6) Based on the account of the temple in 1 Kings (1 Kgs. 5:15‒8:66) the report in the books of Chronicles (1 Chr. 22‒2 Chr. 6) shows significant changes and additions compared to its model. The text

30 The nasi—a title of Persian governors of Yehud originating from the Davidic family—seem to control the land that was outside of the city. 31 The mention of the Zadokite priests as a leading group (while their Levite colleagues could function only as simple temple personnel) is important here. 32 Ezekiel reproaches the priests for neglecting their duties (Ezek. 7:26, 22:26), and following foreign cults (Ezek. 8). These features are characteristic of a later period, that of the rebuilding of the Jerusalem temple at the end of the 6th century BCE. According to Joseph Blenkinsopp, Aaronite priests at Bethel are the referents of Ezek. 40‒48, see his ‘T he Judaean Priesthood during the Neo-Babylonian and Achaemenid Periods: A Hypothetical Reconstruction,’ CBQ 60 (1998), 25‒43. 33 As a matter of fact it was this era and milieu that the tradition of the 12 tribes emerged from. See Mario Liverani, Israel’s History and the History of Israel (London, Oakville: Equinox, 2005), 263, 302‒5. On Achemenid administration see ibid. 292‒95.

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might have been written in late Persian Yehud, and reflects the ideology of this milieu. B) CHARACTERISTICS OF THE DESCRIPTION

The building as spatial symbol is overshadowed in Chronicles while the role of the Levites and priests is highlighted.34 Additions to older tradition result in augmenting significantly the role of David in establishing the temple. David is told to prepare for Solomon in advance everything needed for the future temple: he assigned the site of the future temple (1 Chr. 21:18‒28), and made arrangements for the building of the temple; he even assigned the whole staff of the temple, Levites, priests, singers, and clerks, and other personnel (1 Chr. 22:1‒29:20). Solomon is reported to have ascended to the throne only following these arrangements (1 Chr. 29:21‒25). The report of the temple building known from 1 Kings is repeated in the Chronicles with some changes (2 Chr. 2:1‒16).35 The Holy of Holies, Jakin, and Boaz are highlighted (2 Chr. 3:8‒17), with the description of the altar of bronze, the molten sea, and the vessels ‒ basins, tables, pots, the shovels, bowls, etc. (2 Chr. 4:6‒22).36 In general, everything is more detailed, and it seems that more gold was used for decoration than in 1 Kings. The courtyards are mentioned just once as ‘the courtyard of the priests where the molten sea stood’ (2 Chr. 4:9‒10). The description is followed by the transmission of the ark of the covenant into the sanctuary, and the appearance of the cloud symbolizing Yahweh’s presence (2 Chr. 5:2‒14).

34 The ark that was sent for in Jerusalem by David could be brought only by Levites (1 Chr. 15), and David blesses the people following of the ark (1 Chr. 16:1‒36). 35 E.g. the arrangement made with Hiram—with the difference that in Chronicles only the foreigners (gerim) are mentioned as workers. 36 2 Chronicles 3:14 describes the curtain (kapporet) separating the debir from the rest of the building: ‘And Solomon made the curtain of blue and purple and crimson fabrics and fine linen, and worked cherubim into it.’

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C) THE TEMPLE AND SECULAR PLACE

The Secular place—the palace building—has a mere mention in Chronicles (2 Chr. 8:1) while the building of the temple is highlighted as compared to 1 Kings (2 Chr. 3:1‒7:22). The measurements of the building have not changed in Chronicles (2 Chr. 3:3‒7). D) THE AIMS OF THE AUTHORS WITH THEIR DESCRIPTION

The role of the builder of the temple has been shifted from Solomon to David: in Chronicles it is David who is the initiator of the building project of the temple. Further characteristics are the repeated references to the monumentality of the temple, without referring to any exact measurements.37 The description is fragmented; there is no comprehensive report on the building of the temple building project. Institutional elements related to the temple are much more highlighted than architectural ones. Emphasizing David’s role in the building activity the text makes rather David than Solomon the founder of the temple. E) THE DESCRIPTION AS A FORMATION OF MEMORY

As a formation of memory, the building of the temple is linked, instead of the tradition of the Exodus, with that of the binding of Isaac on the mount of Moriah, identified here with the Temple Mount (2 Chr. 3:1). The other founding tradition is the promise given to David, referred to in Solomon’s prayer and blessing, similarly to the parallel in 1Kings.38 Thus, in Chronicles Abraham and David were chosen for the construction of the monarchic past, rather than the Exodus and Solomon for founding the memory of the Temple (2 Chr. 6:3‒11). The description of the temple retrojects the functioning of the late Persian temple in Yehud, the ideological milieu of the late Persian province, into the past.

37 As Solomon mentions, ‘ The house that I am about to build will be great, for our God is greater than other gods’ (2 Chr. 2:5). 38 2 Chr. 2:7, cf. 1 Kgs. 8:24‒26.

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THE TEMPLE SCROLL FROM QUMRAN (11QTa II‒XXIX) A) TEXTUAL AND LITERARY BACKGROUND OF THE TEXT: The only continuous manuscript of this work known today is from the Herodian period (the last third of the 1st century BCE).39 Fragments of another manuscript from the Maccabean era (2nd century BCE) prove that the manuscript tradition of the work goes back to an earlier period. Several traditions in the work go back probably to the 4th century BCE but the content of the earlier version is not known.40 B) CHARACTERISTICS OF THE DESCRIPTION:

The text is written in a dialogue form as a revelation, transmitted—it seems—indirectly by God to Moses. The prescriptions given by God to Moses concern the building of the sanctuary (cols. II‒XLV), and other spatial units (cols. XLVI‒XLVIII); and prescriptions of the Mosaic law, repeated in thematic groups, with harmonization of their content (cols. XLIX‒LXVI).41 The bulk of the text deals with the temple and the order of the temple sacrifices (which inspired the title Temple Scroll). The addressees of the revelation are ‘Israel,’ following the entrance to the land promised to them.42

Its first edition is Yigal Yadin, Megillat ha-Miqdas—The Temple Scroll, 3 vols. (Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society, 1977; English edition: 1983). A newer edition by Elisha Qimron, The Temple Scroll. A Critical Edition with Extensive Reconstructions (Judaean Desert Studies, Beer-ShevaJerusalem: Ben Gurion University of the Negev Press, Israel Exploration Society, 1996). 40 This compilative character is reflected by the several grammatical inconsistencies of the text (e.g. the alternation of the use of singular and plural in reference to Moses. On the sources of the Temple Scroll see Michael O. Wise, A Critical Study of the Temple Scroll from Qumran Cave 11 (Studies in Ancient Oriental Civilization 49; Chicago: The Oriental Institute, 1990). 41 The latter ones are not mere repetitions of the biblical prescriptions but thematically grouped, shortened, and harmonized compilations, the very beginnings of a legal interpretative tradition called halakhic literature. On these see Hans-Aage Mink, ‘ T he Use of Scripture in the Temple Scroll and the Status of the Scroll as Law,’ SJOT 1 (1987), 20‒50. 42 The author uses archaic people names; notwithstanding this, the date of the compilation of the writing was the postexilic age. 39

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The description agrees with the Solomonic-Ezekielian tradition of the building but everything is described with much more detail.43 The description goes from inside the temple to outside. Cultic paraphernalia are always mentioned together with their function in ceremony.44 The temple complex is constructed by the building and three courtyards around it, three concentric quadrangles (courtyards of the priests, 280 by 280 cubits; that of the Jewish males, 500 by 500 cubits; and that of the women and children, 1580 by 1580 cubits) (col. XXX). The walls are broken through by 12 gates, named after the tribes (cols. XXXVI‒XLV). The account on the sacrificial order of the temple brings into the picture both the temporal and the human aspect (calendar, and purity, respectively) of the functioning temple. The temple is, first of all, holy and pure.45 Prescriptions concerning purity relate to objects and persons, first of all the priests of the temple anointed for service with holy anointing oil.46 The Temple Scroll presents a minute claim 43 The description begins with the delineation of the building and paraphernalia of the Temple: the kapporet, the cherubim, the table of the shewbread, the menorot, and the curtain (11QTa III‒X). 44 E.g. the report on the table of the shewbread includes not only the description of the table but also that of the materials constituting and decorating it, as well as its measures; besides this there is information concerning the number and setting of the shewbreads, their material and the way of their preparing (11QTa VIII 5‒14). Apropos of the altars of blood sacrifice the order of the sacrifices to be presented in the Temple are also presented: the exact time (month and day) of the sacrifice, and their exact names in the yearly festival calendar. The list is augmented by three festivals that are unknown from other sources: the new oil, the new wine, and the carrying of wood, as well as the order of presenting a sacrifice (11QTa XI‒XXIX 7). Descriptions of the buildings flanking the various courts and their stairways are to be found in 11QT a XXX‒XXXV. 45 The four terms—holy (qadoš), the profane (ḥol), pure (ṭohar), and impure (ṭāmē)—are mentioned in Lev 10:10. The first pair of ideas is related to the divine presence while the second concerns the human, animal, and material phenomena in the physical world. On the system and interaction of the notions related to space, time, and the states of humans and animals see Hyam Maccoby, Ritual and morality: the Ritual Purity System and its Place in Judaism ( New York: Cambridge University Press, 1999). 46 Its misuse desecrates, i.e. makes profane (ḥōl) the sanctuary (11QTa XXXV 2‒8), cf. Exod. 30:22‒33. In the system that evolved by the Hellenistic era a prerequisite of becoming a priest was priestly origin; cf.

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of purity; nothing impure (man, animal, materials and food) is to violate the purity of the temple.47 The description of the complex reflects the principle of the ‘graded holiness’ expressed here is more articulated than in the biblical sources. According to the Temple Scroll the ‘holiest’ area of the temple is to be sharply separated from those less holy.48 The inner area formed by the altar and its environment, the sanctuary, the molten sea and the surrounding colonnade (col. XXXV 8‒9) are separated from other parts of the space by a trench which leads the water from the altar to a shaft (col. XXXII 12‒15).49 C) TEMPLE AND SECULAR PLACE:

The Temple Scroll gives an abundant list of the areas outside the temple. All of them are described in terms of ritual purity. The territory next to the temple is the ‘city of the sanctuary.’ Historical analogies lead us to identify the city with Jerusalem, but the exact name does not occur in the text. As the name of the city indicates, it belongs to the temple—at the same time it is sharply separated from it by a ter-

the list in Ezra 2:59‒63 on the priestly families who were not able to prove their pure origin, consequently they were excluded from priestly service. The Temple Scroll (11QTa) does not refer to the prerequisites of origin; however, its views were probably based on the same system. The priestly families in the service of the Temple are listed in the so-called mišmarot-texts from Qumran (4QMishmarot = 4Q320‒330); the names overlap with 2 Chr. 24. 47 E.g. the inner wall of the chambers serving for keeping the priestly robes must be covered with gold lest the robes be contaminated with anything impure. They are to participate in the ceremony of their consecration garbed in ‘the robes of holiness’—probably special priestly garments used exclusively on the occasion of ceremonies (11QT a XXXV 2‒8). The ban of any impurity applies to animals, too. Neither can unclean animals be carried into the sanctuary, nor are unclean birds tolerated on the buildings and external gates of the sanctuary (11QTa XLVI 1‒4). 48 On the idea of the ‘graded holiness’ see Philip Peter Jenson, Graded Holiness. A Key to the Priestly Conception of the World (JSOTSup, 106; Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press, 1992). 49 Consequently, the water cannot come into contact with anything. Liquids were understood to be especially receptive to impurities, and were transmitters of impurities.

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race and a trench (col. XLVI 5‒8, 9‒12).50 However, the city of the sanctuary is part of the holy space, a fringe area of the temple precinct51 where certain impurities are not allowed to be present, e.g. the leper, the zāb (persons who have a seminal discharge) (11QTa XLV 7‒18), and the blind (considered in the Temple Scroll as impure). Activites resulting in impurities like defecation and sexual intercourse, as well as food considered impure are also excluded from it. The next zone in the area belonging to the Temple is that of the cities (with the requirements concerning their purity). Territories of the cities are delimited spaces, residential areas of the communities. They are not identical with the notion of the ‘land.’ Effects of the divine presence are felt differently here than in the city of the sanctuary— consequently, purity rules are also different.52 The smallest spatial unit is the house (bēt), with relating rules of purity.53 The description of the spatial units is followed by a legal section where strict observation of orders concerning physical purity (food, bodily impurities etc.) is prescribed. Besides physical impurities ethical ones (bribery, idolatry, illicit sexual relations etc.) are also forbidden in the precincts of the Temple.

50 ‘... so that no one can rush into my sanctuary and defile it’ (11QTa XLVI 11). 51 Persons with any temporary bodily impurity are excluded from the sanctuary for three days; afterwards they can enter, following a ritual of purification. The blind are excluded from entering (11QTa XLV 7‒18). The idea and system of ritual purity is based on the biblical one but is not identical with it; on this see Hannah K. Harrington, The Impurity Systems of Qumran and the Rabbis: Biblical Foundations (SBLDS, 143; Atlanta: Scholars, 1993). 52 Cities are also the loci of the divine presence—consequently, they are subject to special requirements of ritual purity: ‘the cities shall be pure ... for ever’ (11QTa XLVII 3). However, the demands are not the same as those related to the ‘city of the sanctuary.’ The only impurity banned from the cities is the leper (11QTa XLIX 2‒4). 53 Impurities mentioned are those related to the dead, and the ‘leper’ of houses (probably saltpeter), 11QTa XLIX (cf. Num. 19:14‒15 and Lev. 14:33‒53).

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D) THE AIMS OF THE AUTHORS WITH THEIR DESCRIPTIONS:

The description of the temple in the Temple Scroll is utopian. The measures given in the text are far from reality. The 1600 x 1600 (roughly 750 x 750m) cubit area of the outer courtyard covers a much larger space than the plateau on the Temple Mount.54 The utopian nature of the description is clear from the following sentence ‘And I will consecrate my [te]mple by my glory, (the temple) on which I will settle my glory, until the day of blessing on which I will create my temple and establish it for myself for all times, according to the covenant which I have made with Jacob at Bethel’ ‎(‎11QTa ‎XXIX‎‎8‒‎10‎)‎. Contrarily to the architectural part the legal part of the work is not a utopia but a set of prescriptions regulating everyday life. These are the prescriptions to be observed in order to obtain things which are promised in the utopia. Israel, entering the promised land is given the laws to be observed in order to obtain and keep the land. E) THE DESCRIPTION AS A FORMATION OF MEMORY:

The Temple Scroll was certainly written by specialists of the temple, sacrifices, and calendar—written by priests. The authors constructed a system which comprised the whole of religious practice, including both cult and everyday life. The Temple Scroll serves as the complex self-definition of a group, the members of which set themselves to return to the Law under priestly guidance. The text does not make any reference to the Solomonic and Ezekielian systems which served as models for their description; references in the text relate it to the Exodus, the entering the land (which is the frame of the work). The authors of the Temple Scroll sought to The visual idea of the completely symmetric building complex might have been inspired from two sources: the Ezekielian description (Ezek. 40‒48), and the Hellenistic ideal of the so-called Archidamean city, with straight streets at right angles to each other, and large and symmetrical state buildings. See Magen Broshi, ‘Visionary Architecture and Town Planning in the Dead Sea Scrolls,’ in Devorah Dimant (ed.), Time to Prepare the Way in the Wilderness: Papers on the Qumran Scrolls by Fellows of the Institute for Advanced Studies of the Hebrew University, Jerusalem, 1989‒1990 (Leiden: Brill, 1994), 9‒22. 54

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create a new memory connected solely with the Exodus. We do not know who the authors of the text were or why they created a utopia. Supposedly they were renegade priests who, for some reason, were squeezed out of temple service, and who took an active part in creating a new socio-religious tendency. Several times Qumran rules mention priests (among them Zadokites), often with teaching responsibilities. We can read here their description based on a temple very well known by them—at the same time it was a temple where they never could perform priestly duties. They shaped their identity and that of their community in terms of the temple, cultic service and law, projecting an ideal temple, an ideal alternative to the existing cult, and an ideal service under the rule of God. The Temple described in the Temple Scroll serves as the symbol of a new covenant to be established in the future with a group of the elect. This highly idealized utopian picture denotes a form of opposition mediated in the cultural memory of a group of priests who were crowded out of the cult of the Jerusalem temple. The ideal, exquisitely regular and true to type building, and its sacrosanct holiness called up the memory of a glorious past. This image might have reflected the direct opposite of the actual situation of the authors.

URIM AND THUMMIM DOLORES G. KAMRADA In modern biblical scholarship it is a matter of dispute what sort of object or objects the Urim and Thummim was/were. It is not surprising, since the relatively few passages in the Hebrew Bible where Urim and Thummim (UT) occur do not specify their/its actual form and way of usage. However, it is generally acknowledged that the Urim and Thummim was originally utilized in an oracular process, it served as a device of a divinatory rite.1 The present paper will not attempt to put forward another technical reconstruction of this means of oracle, it concentrates on the function of this device in these biblical passages, what sort of interpretations and associations are connected to its usage, and in what network of notions it is commemorated in the biblical stories. Most importantly, the Urim and Thummim always appears in a ritual context, and it is employed in a rite. Within the system outlined by Jan Assmann (2007:56–59), a rite (or a festival) in itself is a primary organizational form of cultural memory. It is a form of collective memory that provides a basis for the community to interpret and structure the world in its own way. Repetition is a characteristic aspect of rituals as memory constructions, on the other hand, rites also convey some kind of meaning, reference, interpretation, as Assmann argues (2007:88–91). In the first part of this paper I will try to present the system of concepts, the ‘basic’ meaning which this divinatory ritual commemorated within the wider context of ritual coherence. Cornelis Van Dam (1997) has devoted an entire monograph to the question of Urim and Thummim. See also Muss-Arnolt (1900), Jeremias (1909), Robertson (1964), Maier (1969), Lipiński (1970), Johnson (1973), Houtman (1990), Horowitz and Hurowitz (1992), Kitz (1997), Hurowitz (1998). 1

229

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1. THE BASIC MEANING CONVEYED BY THE URIM AND THUMMIM RITUAL The term Urim and Thummim (or only Urim) occurs in priestly texts and the so-called historical books (Exod. 28:30; Lev. 8:8; Num. 27:21; Deut. 33:8; 1 Sam. 28:6; Ezra 2:63; Neh. 7:65). This device is either mentioned as a significant part of the high priestly vestment (some object/s put in the breast piece) or simply as article/s characteristic of the priestly (Levite) function. Nevertheless, there are references to its actual usage in a divinatory rite, as noted above. According to Num. 27:21: ‘But he [Joshua] shall stand before Eleazar the priest, who shall inquire for him by the decision of the Urim before the Lord; at his [Eleazar the priest’s] word they shall go out, and at his word they shall come in, both he [Joshua] and all the Israelites with him, the whole congregation.’ (NRSV)

The terms ‘going out’ (‫ )יצא‬and ‘coming in’ (‫ )בוא‬are predominantly regarded as phrases referring to waging war,2 although Van Dam (1997) claims that they do not exclusively indicate military activity, but also a ‘wide range of diverse responsibilities of Israel’s next leader [Joshua] toward the people’ (179–80). Still, ‫ יצא‬and ‫ בוא‬certainly express going out to battle and returning from it;3 thus the directions formulated in Num. 27:21 evidently include that the deity is to be consulted by means of the Urim before a battle. In line with the prevailing view that the Urim and Thummim ritual was primarily performed in a military context 1 Sam. 28:6 provides an example of trying to gain the oracle before battle by means of this rite. Besides, it is usually considered as a reference to the Urim and Thummim ritual when the consultation of the deity before battle is expressed simply by the term ‫שאל ב‬, ‘inquire of’ the deity.4 The 2 Van Dam (1997, 178-79) cites the ancient texts (Temple Scroll; Targum Pseudo-Jonatan; Babylonian Talmud, b. Sanh. 16a) that interpret these terms here in the like manner, and he also mentions some studies which share this opinion (179, n. 6). 3 See, e.g., Mobley (2006, 59-60) for the general background of this concept. 4 Van Dam (1997, 182-190) provides a thorough investigation of this question. Cf. also, e.g., Houtman (1990, 230), Horowitz and Hurowitz (1992, 107).

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latter phrase is applied in several texts probably alluding to military divination (Judg. 1:1; 20:18, 23, 27–28; 1 Sam. 10:22; 14:37; 22:10, 13, 15; 23:2, 4; 30:8; 2 Sam. 2:1; 5:19, 23–24). The mention of the ephod (that appears to have held the breast piece with the UT in it) in a military context is also mainly regarded as a reference to the Urim and Thummim ritual (1 Sam. 23:9–12, 30:7–8;5 cf. the LXX version of 14:18, as well).6 It is generally presumed that the Urim and Thummim rite was a lot oracle process and that the responses produced by the oracle could be ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ and sometimes ‘no decision.’7 Yet in his informative monograph Cornelis Van Dam (1997:203–10) argues against the lot oracle theory claiming that some more complex responses could not be produced by a simple lot oracle that gives only ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers.8 Refuting Van Dam’s objection Victor Hurowitz has pointed out, however, that this binary system was not a distinctive feature of lot oracles. Hurowitz (1998:267) brings forward the Mesopotamian oracle queries referred to as ‘shamash Anfragen’; the answers were received by liver divination in this oracular process. He highlights: ‘Assyriologists recognize that even in such a complex system [as liver divination] all answers are essentially reducible to “yes” or “no.”…[The] queries describe detailed situations such as complete battle plans or descriptions of political problems. In every case a “yes” or “no” answer is requested’ (1998:267; cf. Lambert 2007). In view of this and other Mesopotamian examples, Hurowitz tries to explain the more complex Urim and Thummim answers in the following manner: ‘A battle plan would be formulated as a question to be answered “yes” for approval and “no” for rejection. The narrator, however, reported the answer as a prophetic-like pronouncement reformuSee Van Dam (1997, 143-45), Houtman (1990, 230), and Dommershausen (1973, 996). 6 See McCarter (1980, 237). 7 See, e.g., Lipiński (1970, 496), Dommershausen (1973, 995-96), Horowitz and Hurowitz (1992, 107-08). Moreover, even such a proposal as Robertson’s, who suggests that the Urim and Thummim were tablets inscribed with the letters of the alphabet, postulates (1964, 72) that binary answers too could be gained by means of these objects. 8 Houtman (1990, 229) has found convincing the argumentation of Van Dam. 5

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lating the question as a command’ (1998:268). The latter phenomenon can be observed in a particular Assyrian example (1998:267– 68). In a previous study on the Urim and Thummim Hurowitz and Wayne Horowitz (1992:108) have referred to A. Leo Oppenheim (1977), who has systematized the various Mesopotamian divinatory methods in different ages describing two main types of oracles: one that produced simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers, and the other which yielded complexly formulated favorable or unfavorable divine responses (apodoses).9 It is striking that not only the ‘yes’ or ‘no’ replies are binary, but the complicated answers gained by the other type of oracles too can be divided into two categories (cf. e.g. Koch 2005:19–23; Zgoll 2006:450–51). This system outlined by Oppenheim may reveal some kind of general binary nature of oracles as such. Similarly, Frederick Cryer (1994:276) summarizes his conclusions concerning the Urim and Thummim ritual like this: ‘…the concept of Urim and Thummim…presupposes that they delivered simple binary answers. This, as we have seen, characterizes every ancient Near Eastern form of divination, ranging from the Mesopotamian omen sacrifice to the ancient Egyptian “bark of the god” oracle. They may or may not have been conceived as lots of some sort, but this fact is actually inessential to understanding their role in the texts.’ Responses given by the Urim and Thummim ritual interpreted as a lot oracle process no

yes

Responses gained by Mesopotamian divinatory methods systematized by A. L. Oppenheim (cited by V. A. Hurowitz and W. Horowitz) No unfavorable

yes favorable

Erica Reiner (1960:25) and Eduard Lipiński (1970) drew attention to a certain divinatory method, the so-called psephomancy ritual, which they considered to have been the closest Mesopotami9 Cf. the chapter concerning divination (The Arts of the Diviner), A.L. Oppenheim (1977, 206-27).

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an parallel of the Urim and Thummim rite. Wayne Horowitz and Victor Hurowitz (1992) have devoted a whole study to this issue. This ritual were performed by means of two stones, a black (haematite) and a white (alabaster), ‘called, respectively, aban erēši, “the desirable die,” and aban la erēši, “the undesirable die”’(Lipiński, 1970:496). Lipiński (1970:496) directly claims that ‘this confirms the opinion that the ‘ūrīm and tummīm of the Bible were originally two stones and gave a “yes” or “no” answer.’ Horowitz and Hurowitz (1992:106–08) couch their view in different terms arguing that the psephomancy ritual yielded positive or negative answers as the phrases ‘stone of desire’ and ‘stone of no desire’ indicate, and the stressed point of their argumentation is that both the psephomancy and the Urim and Thummim oracles displayed binary characteristics and provided binary responses. Still, they underline that this binary feature was shared by various Mesopotamian divinatory practices as well, as noted above. Responses provided by the psephomancy ritual, possibly the closest Mesopotamian parallel of the Urim and Thummim rite (E. Reiner, E. Lipiński, W. Horowitz, V.A.Hurowitz) no/negative (unfavorable): aban la erēši (‘the undesirable die’ / ‘the stone of no desire’)

yes/positive (favorable): aban erēši (‘the desirable die’ / ‘the stone of desire’)

Van Dam (1997:203–4) lists several scholars who have rendered the basic binary replies of the Urim and Thummim oracle not only as yes or no answers, but also as positive or negative, auspicious or inauspicious divine responses or as contrasts of opposites such as light and darkness, good and evil (cf. Oberwelt-Unterwelt, Jeremias 1909:225; black and white, as mentioned above concerning the psephomancy ritual). In other words, they have attributed some deeper meaning to the Urim and Thummim oracle. According to the prevailing view (e.g. Fohrer 1969:72) Urim possibly provided the negative and Thummim the positive response.10

10

229).

Van Dam (1997, 204) refers to Stolz (1981, 95) and Press (1966,

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Some interpretations of the basic binary answers of the Urim and Tummim ritual, a certain meaning attributed to this oracle no negative inauspicious Urim

yes positive auspicious Thummim

Summarizing the argumentation put forward above, the Urim and Thummim ritual exhibits strong binary features which it shares with various other ancient Near Eastern divinatory practices. The binary nature appears to entail more than ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers, it may convey some deeper meaning as well. The foregoing discussion has been aimed at sketching a basic logic, a binary system, behind the ritual in question, highlighting one aspect of the ritual coherence that provided a primary framework for cultural memory. However, it is essential to take a closer look at the actual biblical texts on the Urim and Thummim rite keeping in mind that written texts represent a different form and level of cultural memory than the actually performed rituals themselves. This investigation may promote a better understanding of the meaning, the specific connotation that is transmitted through this oracle. 2. THE ORACLES IN 1 SAMUEL 14:37, 40–42 AND 1 SAMUEL 28 The only text which relates the process of the Urim and Thummim rite is 1 Samuel 14:40–42. Right before the account of this rite, it is reported in v. 37 that Saul consults the deity, more precisely a priest attempts some kind of divination on his account, which ritual is generally identified as an Urim and Thummim oracle, as is mentioned earlier (consultation of the deity before battle expressed by the term ‫)שאל ב‬.11 This divinatory ritual fails, however, the deity does not respond to Saul. Therefore a second divination is perAs Van Dam (1997, 186) underlines, ‘The high priest Ahijah was with Saul, and, as the one wearing the ephod (v. 3), he was undoubtedly “the priest” who suggested the inquiry of God (v. 36).’ Therefore ‘T here is general agreement that the inquiry must have been done by means of the high-priestly UT’ (cf. Van Dam, 1997, 186, n. 29 for studies that share this view). Cf. also e.g. Bodner (2008, 143). 11

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formed (vv. 40–42) in order to reveal who has committed a sin which caused this failure. The method of getting the divine answer is repeated choice between two groups or two persons: one of them is taken by the lot and the other escapes. The majority of scholars and most translations surmise that the divination applied in this second case is also an Urim and Thummim ritual (Van Dam 1997:198–200, especially nn. 18, 21, 29); they rely on the Septuagint version of the text where the terms Urim and Thummim appear as dēloi and hosiotēs (in accusative forms) (McCarter 1980:247–48). Still, Van Dam (1997:197–203) disputes that this lot oracle is identical with an Urim and Thummim ritual. In the first place, it is evident that the two questions posed by Saul represent two different types of queries, the first is a simple binary one, the second requires repeated choice (a complex binary system). In this respect the second divination in vv. 40–42 is remarkably similar to those depicted in 1 Sam. 10:20–21 and Josh. 7:14–18 (cf. Jonah 1:7): all these passages relate the search for a certain individual by a lot oracle (Dommershausen 1973:996; Horowitz and Hurowitz 1992:107-08; Cf. Judg. 1.1 as well). ‫‘( לכד‬capture, seize, take’) is a key verb in all these texts. Van Dam (1997:199) rightly notes that ‘the verbs nāpal in the Hiphil [cf. 1 Sam. 14:41] and lākad in the Niphal are never incontrovertibly used with the high priestly oracle [i.e. with reference to the Urim and Thummim ritual].’ Yet this is not a strong argument against identifying the oracle in 1 Sam. 14:40–42 as an UT ritual, since nowhere else is the Urim and Thummim rite described in detail. Besides, the other key verb of the account in 1 Sam. 14:40–42 is ‫‘( יצא‬go/come out, escape’), which is a key word in Num. 27:21 concerning the Urim and Thummim ritual, as is observed above. Significantly, ‫יצא‬, ‫ לכד‬and ‫ נפל‬are all verbs utilized as military terms in many texts including Num. 27:21; and the Urim and Thummim ritual normally appears in military context. Van Dam (1997:199) also points out that ‘the high priest is not mentioned in vv. 40–42. Saul is in charge,’ i.e. the divination here could not be an UT ritual, in his opinion. However, even in v. 37, which is generally regarded as a report of an UT rite, Saul and not the priest is formally the one who puts the question to the deity (cf. David in 1 Sam. 23:2, 4; 30:8; 2 Sam. 2:1; 5:19, 23–24).

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Van Dam puts forward another argument so as to prove that the second divination could not be an UT ritual. He highlights (1997:198) that the first oracle has failed, ‘God “did not answer him on that day”’ (v. 37b). Therefore, he concludes, Saul has to resort to another means of revelation to reveal the sin that caused the failure. What strikes one is that the first oracle seems to be remarkably successful in a way, since it clearly conveys a divine message in the eyes of Saul and his people. Saul concludes from the failure of the divination (v. 38) that the deity has declared in this way that someone committed a sin; and the people accept his interpretation (v. 40b). Saul’s reaction obviously displays another conclusion he has drawn: he evidently presumes that he would not succeed in his pursuit of the Philistines before having found the guilty man. Consequently, Saul believes he has got an answer from the deity to the question ‘shall I go down after the Philistines? Will you give them into the hand of Israel?’ (v. 37), and the divine answer he thinks is ‘No.’ Thus it appears that in 1 Samuel 14:37 the motif that the deity does not respond to the question is in fact considered as equal to a ‘no’ response by the characters of the story; the entire episode suggests this interpretation, neither the people nor the author of text challenges Saul’s view in this respect. This phenomenon, that ‘no answer’ from the oracle (when the deity does not respond) may be equal to an answer ‘no,’ will be discussed below in more detail. Possible responses to Saul’s question in the Urim and Thummim oracle of 1 Sam.14:37 No no response

yes

Summing up the aforementioned points, in the oracles related in 1 Sam. 14:37 and vv. 40–42 one can perceive two different types of questions: the first is a simple binary one, the second is a complex binary query (repeated choice). It is said in v. 37 that the deity does not answer the first question of Saul, but this ‘no response’ actually indicates a divine ‘no’ reply to the enquiry of Saul in the presentation of the text. The narrative also suggests that the ‘no reply’ directly points out to Saul and the people that a sin has been committed, and for this reason it signals the message that a

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second revelation is needed. Thus the negative reply to the first question provides the basis for the second query. The two questions, a simple binary and a complex binary one, represent different types, but they are not radically different, moreover, the second builds on the first (cf. 1 Sam. 10:20–22). The MT offers no evidence that a different means of revelation is employed in the second oracle, it may well be another Urim and Thummim rite. On the one hand, the MT of 1 Samuel 14:41 makes sense in its present form (Van Dam 1997:200), on the other, the Septuagint version that mentions the Urim and Thummim may point to a homoioteleuton (McCarter 1980:247–48). Nevertheless, it must be admitted that the term Urim does not appear in the MT, the text may refer to another kind of oracle. The next point to be discussed about 1 Sam. 14:40–42 is the motif of curse that occurs in v. 24 and that is directly related to the oracle in vv. 40–42. In v. 24 Saul puts a curse on whoever eats anything on that day before destroying the enemy. The term applied here is ‫‘( ארור‬cursed’). By tasting some honey found in a honeycomb Jonathan directs this curse to himself (vv. 27–28). In the presentation of the narrative this act of Jonathan is the sin mentioned above that causes the failure of the first oracle before battle in v. 37. Even Jonathan himself accepts this interpretation of the events: when taken by the subsequent lot oracle (vv. 40–42), Jonathan admits his guilt and he is ready to die (v. 43), although he severely condemned his father for the curse he had put on the people (v. 29). The people do not dispute either that Jonathan is under the curse (cf. v. 28), but they set his previous victory gained with God against this guilt, and they ransom him (v. 45). In the Septuagint version of 1 Sam. 14:40–42 it is striking that Urim (dēloi) indicates the group or person who is taken by the lot as guilty (McCarter 1980:247–48). This approach highlights a mental association between Urim and curse: Jonathan is marked by the Urim, because he is cursed. In Hebrew Urim (‫ )אורים‬and cursed (‫ )ארור‬can be easily associated, though, of course, it does not necessarily point to any etymological connection. Yet, as has been discussed earlier, it cannot be taken for granted that the term Urim occurred in the Hebrew text providing the basis for the Septuagint version, it may have been an addition of the Greek translator(s). Thus the mental

276

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association between Urim and curse appeared at least on the level of the written text, more precisely in the Septuagint version. Quite a few scholars have adopted this approach of the Septuagint, and they have derived Urim from the verb ‫‘( ארר‬curse’).12 In the Septuagint version of 1 Sam. 14:41 the term ‫ תמים‬is rendered as hosiotēs, i.e. Thummim,13 and Thummim indicates the guiltless party. It is a dominant view among scholars that Thummim can be derived from the root ‫תם‬/‫ תמם‬and it is interpreted as ‘to be without fault’ or ‘to be complete, finished, perfect(ion)’ and the like.14 Urim is often associated with the word ‫אור‬, i.e. ‘(to be) light,’ as well.15 The MT version of 1 Samuel 14:40–42 does not clearly refer to an Urim and Thummim ritual, as has been discussed above. However, the point to be made is that even in the MT the lot oracle process evidently contrasts a cursed person with a guiltless party, two opposite groups are to be distinguished in the oracle, a cursed and a guiltless one. This motif of revealing a cursed, guilty person by the lot oracle appears in two parallel texts, in Joshua 7:14–18 and Jonah 1:7. One may also recall the priestly passage about the ‘scapegoat,’ the goat on which the lot fell for Azazel and which bears the sins of the people of Israel (cf. Lev. 16:8–10, 20–22); the goat on which the lot fell for YHWH is sacrificed to the deity in atonement for the sins of the people, viz. this other goat is evidently supposed to be ritually pure, ‘without fault,’ and thus suitable for being the victim of a sacrifice (cf. Lev. 16:8–10, 15; see e.g. Wright, 1987:15–74; Kiuchi, 1987:144–156; Carmichael, 2006:37–52).

12 See a list of these studies in Van Dam (1997, 95, n. 55). Cf. also e.g. Fohrer (1969, 72), McCarter (1980, 250), and Jeffers (1996, 210) referring to KBL (1953, 22-23). 13 It is generally maintained that here the term hosiotēs refers to the Thummim, but it is worthwhile to note that this is ‘the only time that the LXX uses hosiotēs to translate tummîm’ (Van Dam, 1997, 199, n. 21). 14 See e.g. Van Dam (1997, 95, n. 55, 132, 136-39), KBL (1953, 1032), and BDB (1951, 1071). 15 See e.g. Van Dam (1997, 132-39), and BDB (1951, 22).

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The Oracle in 1 Sam. 14:40–42 Jonathan Jonathan is under a curse (cf. vv. 24, 27, 37–44).

the people, Saul

‘cursed,’ ‘guilty’

‘guiltless,’ ‘being without fault’

Urim (LXX) Urim (‫‘( ארר ← )אורים‬to curse’)

Thummim (LXX) Thummim (‫תמם ← )תמים‬ )usually presumed) ‘Feststellung der Unschuld’ (‫)תמם←תמים‬

‘Aufhellung der Schuld’ (Eissfeldt,1968:272) (‫)אור←אורים‬ Revealing a cursed, guilty person by the lot oracle: Achan (Josh. 7.14–18) Jonah (Jonah 1:7) cf. the goat for Azazel, the ‘scapegoat’ (Lev. 16:8–10, 20–22)

cf. the goat for YHWH (Lev. 16:8–10, 15)

The term Urim appears only in the Septuagint version of 1 Samuel 14:40–42. Still Urim is literally mentioned in a Masoretic text concerning Saul, in 1 Samuel 28:6. This biblical verse relates that Saul consults the deity (‫ )שאל ביהוה‬before the decisive battle against the Philistines. He attempts to consult YHWH by means of three different forms of divination—dream interpretation, Urim (and Thummim), and prophecy—but he cannot get an answer from the deity. In this desperate situation he resorts to a fourth method, necromancy (1 Sam. 28:7ff.). Although the text presents this practice as ‘illegal’ from the perspective of the Deuteronomistic theology (v. 9; cf. e.g. Deut. 18:11–12), necromancy proves to be remarkably effective (1 Sam. 28:12–19) (Lewis 1989:104–17). Most importantly, the text depicts this divinatory method as, albeit prohibited, parallel to the other three oracular techniques, i.e. dream interpretation, Urim and Thummim, and prophecy. Ezek. 21:26(21) too evidently regards three different kinds of divination as parallel methods (shaking the arrows, consulting the teraphim, inspecting the liver), and the very essence of all of them is the divine choice between two options (i.e. ‘at the head of the two ways’ the Babylo-

278

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nian king consults the deity about which road to take) (Jeffers 1996:158–59, 190–93, 227–28). In the light of the above argumentation that various ancient Near Eastern divinatory practices exhibited strong binary features, they shared binary characteristics, it is not surprising, in my view, that different kinds of divination could be handled as parallel techniques. In 1 Samuel 28 necromancy ‘works’; by this means Saul finally gets an unfavorable response for himself, his sons and Israel which response, however, is favorable for the Philistines (vv. 15–16, 19). Besides, the oracle reveals that what is unfavorable for Saul is favorable for David (v. 17). Still, how to evaluate those earlier divinatory attempts of Saul when the deity does not respond to him (‫ )ולא ענהו יהוה‬either by dreams or Urim and Thummim or prophets (v. 6)? The text itself answers this question. Saul himself specifies in v. 15 what the reason is for God not to respond to him: the deity has turned away from him. In other words, the motif that the deity does not answer is equal to an unfavorable answer according to the text. After the first three oracular attempts the necromancy ritual confirms and literally formulates this unfavorable divine response. I have presented another example above where the motif that the deity does not respond in the oracle )[‫ )ולא ענהו ]אלהים‬actually expresses a negative ‘no’ response to the question posed by Saul (1 Sam. 14:37). This reading of 1 Sam. 14:37 and 28:6, 15 may provide a solution to the problem how to place the pattern that a deity does not respond in a binary system,16 since this pattern is in fact equivalent to the motif of a negative (‘no’) or unfavorable reply in these texts. In this respect it is significant that in many other biblical passages the phrase that ‘YHWH responds’ (‫ )ענה יהוה‬means that the deity answers graciously (cf. 1 Sam. 7:9; 1 Kgs. 18:37; Hos. 2:23–24; 14:9; Isa. 41:17; 49:8; Joel 2:19; Ps. 3:5; 20:2; 99:6, etc.).17 The motif of a response from the deity usually (albeit not exclusively) suggests a positive, favorable reply (It is interesting to note that even in EngSee Horowitz and Hurowitz (1992, 108). Cf. the interpretation of 1 Sam. 14:37 and 28:6.15 in BDB (1951, 772): the lexicon mentions these verses as examples which illustrate the meaning ‘of God answering (graciously),’ i.e. in these cases God does not answer (graciously) to the questions of Saul. BDB lists several other passages for this meaning of ‫ענה‬. 16 17

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279

lish the verb ‘answer’ is applied in such a sense, and ‘respond’ has a shade of meaning ‘to react favorably’). On the other hand, no response, when the deity (YHWH) does not respond, seems to be equal to a negative answer or even a reference to an actual unfavorable response (cf. Micah 3:4). As for the ancient Near Eastern background of this concept, one may cite, for instance, a recurrent phrase in the Babylonian Oracle Questions (Lambert 2007): ‘answer me with a reliable “Yes”’ (an-na ki-na ap-la-an-ni; cf. e.g. pp. 30–31, 100–01, 106–07, 110–11). The diviner definitely asks the deities for an affirmative, positive answer; responding is equal to a positive answer in these texts. This idea appears in the psephomancy ritual (which several scholar consider to be the closest Mesopotamian parallel to the UT rite, as noted above): the term ‘there is revelation’ refers to a positive divine answer, while the phrase ‘there is no revelation’ indicates a negative divine response.18 This interpretation of the above-mentioned texts does not imply that the possibility of inconclusive result, i.e. no answer at all, was excluded in these oracles; I only argue that a possible no result (no answer at all) was apparently interpreted as a negative divine response, a divine refusal. When examining the poem which Horowitz and Hurowitz (1992:108) have cited as a text referring to inconclusive results of oracles, one can realize that the motif of inconclusive results appears in a negative context, it is portrayed as a sign of divine refusal, actually as equal to a negative, unfavorable response from the deity.19 Moreover, it is even declared in this text Cf. the rendering of Horowitz and Hurowitz (1992, 101): 20 ‘If (your) judgment is nigh, (and my) plea is accepted 21 (If) Bel, in your heart, there is judg[ment], 22 (If) Shamash, in your heart there is revela[tion], 23 May a stone of desire jump up and may the hands cat[ch (it)]. 24 If (your) judgment is not nigh, (and my) ple[a] is not accepted, 25 (If) Bel, in your heart, there is no judg[ment], 26 (If) Shamash, in your heart, there is no revela[tion], 27 May a stone of no desire jump up and may the hands cat[ch it].’ 19 See the lines in question from the translation of The Poem of the Righteous Sufferer by Lambert (1996, 33): 18

280

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that the deities have actually forsaken ‘the righteous sufferer.’20 This motif corresponds with the one in 1 Sam. 28:15, where Saul states that the deity has turned away from him and that is why he cannot get an answer by means of different divinatory rituals. The Oracles in 1 Samuel 28 (║ Ezek. 21:26: three different kinds of divination as parallel techniques → shaking the arrows ║ consulting the teraphim ║ hepatoscopy, i.e. liver divination → divine choice between two options) ‫שאל ביהוה‬

dream interpretation ║ Urim and Thummim ritual ║ prophecy ║ necromancy Unfavorable favorable no response (response) Saul, his sons and Israel Philistines Saul David

Cf. 1 Sam. 14:37 (Possible responses to Saul’s question in the Urim and Thummim oracle) no (unfavorable) no response

yes (favorable) (response)

43 My god has forsaken me and disappeared, 44 My goddess has failed me and keeps at a distance. 45 The benevolent angel who (walked) beside [me] has departed, 46 My protecting spirit has taken to flight, and is seeking someone else. 47 My strength is gone; my appearance has become gloomy; 48 My dignity has flown away, my protection made off. 49 Fearful omens beset me. 50 I am got of my house and wander outside. 51 The omen organs are confused and inflamed for me every day. 52 The omen of the diviner and dream priest does not explain my condition. 53 What is said in the street portends ill for me. 54 When I lie down at night, my dream is terrifying. Lines 51 and 52 can be read as a reference to inconclusive results of oracles. 20 See lines 43-46 of the translation by Lambert in n. 19.

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It is also worthwhile to note that the Urim and Thummim is closely related to the notion of judgment (‫)משפט‬. In three passages out of the six which literally mentions Urim (and Thummim) the term ‫( משפט‬mišpāṭ) appears (Exod. 28:30; Num. 27:21; Deut. 33:8– 10, in vs. 8 and 10). This relation suggests that divine judgment manifests itself in the oracle by declaring favorable or unfavorable divine decisions. It seems that before a battle the deity was supposed to reveal his judgment over the two opponents in the oracle: one was to be favored and win, the other was to be forsaken and lose the battle. Yahweh appears as judge of the hostile parties or he executes military judgment in many biblical texts (e.g. Judg. 11:27; 1 Sam. 24:13, 16; Isa. 34:5; 41:1; 54:17; Joel 4:2, 12; Ps. 76:10; 2 Chr. 20:12). As Sa-Moon Kang (1989:14) notes in his book (‘Divine War in the Old Testament and in the Ancient Near East’), ‘the Mesopotamian kings appealed to their divine warrior to judge their cases of war. Warfare in Mari documents of the 18th century was regarded as a judgment of the gods for violation of treaty.’ Besides, Horowitz and Hurowitz (1992:107) point out that the above-mentioned psephomancy ritual (a possible Mesopotamian parallel of the Urim and Thummim rite) ‘uses the verb dânu and the noun dīnu, which correspond with the Hebrew mišpāṭ used of both the Urim and the ḥōšen. […] Terms for judgment are also commonplace in all types of Mesopotamian divination.’ For instance, Šamaš bēl dinim (‘Šamaš, lord of the judgment) is an usual introductory formula in the Babylonian oracle questions.21 In her monograph Magic and Divination in Ancient Palestine and Syria, Ann Jeffers (1996:237) remarks that ‘before embarking on war, leaders generally made efforts to gain religious approval. Therefore inquiries were made and the god’s will ascertained.’ The consultation of the deity, beside other rites, was a usual preparatory ritual before waging war at least in the preexilic period (cf. Jer. 21:1; 37:7, 17; 38:14; 2 Chr. 20:3). As Jeffers (1996:237) mentions, consultation before battle or war could be performed before the ark (Judg. 20:27–28; 1 Sam. 14:1822), or by the Urim and Thummim (1 See Lambert (2007) throughout. Hebrew only. The verse may refer to the ephod, as the Septuagint version reads. In this case it is also a reference to the Urim and Thummim ritual. See McCarter (1980, 237). 21 22

282

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Sam. 14:1823; 28:6; 30:7), by a prophet (1 Kgs. 22:15), by dream interpretation (Judg. 7:13; 1 Sam. 28:6), or by necromancy (1 Sam. 28:7). Although this study cannot treat the problem of the ‘holy war’ in ancient Israel, it is noteworthy that divination among other preparatory rituals is mentioned and has a significant role in the Israelite ‘holy war’ system sketched by Gerhard von Rad (1991:42). Yet Manfred Weippert (1972) has convincingly pointed out, in my view, that the elements of the so-called ‘holy war’ system and the ideology of war were not distinctive features of the Israelite warfare, they were common to the ancient world. As W. J. Hamblin (2006:186) notes, ‘ancient Near Eastern armies operated in a world in which belief in the supernatural power of the gods was an omnipresent assumption. Battles were fought and won by the will of the gods … Few kings dared go to war without the explicit approval of the gods.’ In an earlier study I have discussed some aspects of the religious background of warfare in ancient Israel, trying to place the Urim and Thummim within such a system (Kamrada 2009).24 That study mainly concentrated on the concept of ḥērem (‫)חרם‬, but I also attempted to sketch the system of notions and terms which represent the concept of holiness in certain biblical texts. According to my reconstruction, holiness as such is not only an all-embracing category of the holy sphere, but holiness also has both a positive and a negative aspect (see Kamrada, 2009:63–70), and the notions and terms representing holiness can be categorized and construed within a binary system. In the present paper I cannot treat this issue in detail, I only refer to my previous study and enclose a simplified version of the table of concepts discussed in that paper (see Kamrada, 2009:85). The table includes the terms Urim and Thummim (LXX 1 Sam. 14:41).

23 24

LXX only. Cf. n. 30. See especially 63-70, n. 49, and the table on p. 85.

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Table of Concepts Discussed in Kamrada, 2009: Vocabulary of Holiness (simplified version, see Kamrada, 2009:85) Sphere of holiness Some notions and terms representing the negative side of holiness (‫םרח )הוהיל‬

Some notions and terms representing the positive side of holiness (‫םרח )הוהיל‬ ‫היה הוהיל‬

(‫שדק)םישדק־‬ (‫זבח‬/‫טבח‬, meaning ‘slaughter’) ‫םיהלא( הער‬/)‫חור הוהי‬ wrath of YHWH (‫אף‬, ‫קצף‬, etc.)

‫ זבח ;הלוע‬and sacrifice in general ‫הוהי־חור‬

‫רכע‬

Urim (dēloi, LXX 1 Sam. 14.41) ‫אמט‬

Thummim (hosiotēs, LXX 1 Sam. 14.41)

(‫)רבע תירב‬

‫רהט‬ ‫תירב‬

Cf. the Oracles in 1 Samuel 28 ‫שאל ביהוה‬

dream interpretation ║ Urim and Thummim ritual ║ prophecy ║ necromancy unfavorable favorable no response (response)

Cf. 1 Samuel 14:37 (Possible responses to Saul’s question in the Urim and Thummim oracle) no (unfavorable) no response

yes (favorable) (response)

The phrase that probably indicates Urim and Thummim divination is ‫אלהם‬/‫שאל ביהוה‬, i.e. ‘inquire of YHWH/Elohim’ (cf. Judg. 1:1; 20:18, 23, 27–28; 1 Sam. 10:22; 14:37; 22:10, 13, 15; 23:2, 4;

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30:8; 2 Sam. 2:1; 5:19, 23–24).25 The same verb (‫)שאל ב‬, however, is also applied in case of other divinatory methods (cf. ‫ שאל בתרפים‬in Ezek. 21:26, and ‫ שאל באוב‬in 1 Chr. 10:13). Moreover, the same verb often appears in Mesopotamian divination as well: Horowitz and Hurowitz (1992:107) note that ‘š’l is a term that applies in Mesopotamian practice not only to psephomancy but to dream interpretation as well as extispicy.’ ‫ שאל‬can also express a request in a biblical prayer (Ps. 122:6), the offering of someone to God (1 Sam. 1:28), and even a curse (Job 31:30). Summing up all these, the verb ‫ שאל‬can express communication with the deity in various forms. CONCLUSION In the foregoing I have attempted to present the ‘basic’ meaning which the Urim and Thummim divinatory ritual commemorated in certain biblical texts. I have sketched a scheme, a system of concepts characteristic of the UT rite as well as various other divinatory rites in the ancient Israel and Near East, trying to grasp the essential meaning, reference, interpretation that the Urim and Thummim ritual conveyed. I have concluded that concerning this essential meaning, the Urim and Thummim ritual basically does not differ from other ancient Near Eastern and biblical divinatory practices. In the case of various oracular rites a comprehensive system can be perceived: a binary system, where the basic answers are ‘yes’ or ‘no’; ‘no response’ (when the deity does not respond) is interpreted as equal to the answer ‘no.’ The divine ‘response’ itself (when the deity does give a reply) is often regarded as equal to a favorable answer. The most fundamental binary opposition expressed by oracles is the ‘favorable’ or ‘unfavorable’ divine attitude toward the supplicant; ‘no response’ (when the deity does not respond) is considered like an unfavorable divine reply. The term ‫( משפט‬mišpāṭ), i.e. judgment, also appears in connection with the Urim and Thummim ritual, but terms for judgment are generally used with reference to other ancient Near Eastern divinatory rites as well. In a military context judgment probably refers to the divine judgment which the deity passes on the two hostile parties in the oracle before the battle; the divine judgment is ‘favorable’ 25

See n. 4.

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for one of the opponents and ‘unfavorable’ for the other, and the battle itself fulfils this divine judgment. In the texts of the UT ritual the consultation of the deity is expressed by the phrase ‫ אלהם‬/‫שאל ביהוה‬, i.e. ‘inquire of YHWH/Elohim.’ The verb š’l can, however, refer to various biblical and Mesopotamian divinatory methods as well. The biblical verb š’l has several different meanings, but all these meanings actually express various forms of communication with the deity. All in all, the Urim and Thummim ritual shares some essential meaning, interpretation, and related notions, terms with many a biblical and ancient Near Eastern divinatory rite. Taking into account all these similarities and parallels between the different oracular rites, the UT ritual can be placed within the wider context of ritual coherence. According to Jan Assmann (2007:87–88), ritual coherence was the very essence of the cultural memory before canonized texts, and textual coherence became dominant in the ancient world. In the present paper I have endeavored to grasp the basic meaning transmitted through a ritual which was probably a real, actually performed rite at a certain period in ancient Israelite history. Yet it has to be kept in mind that all available information concerning this ritual is derived from canonized texts, and rites and canonized texts represent two different levels of cultural memory: an actually performed rite and a canonized text concerning this rite are evidently not identical. Nevertheless the essential meaning lying at the core of the UT ritual fits in well with the basic system of divination which can be traced in many other biblical and ancient Near Eastern texts. This circumstance confirms the assumption that the biblical texts concerning the UT rite fairly well reflect the fundamental idea communicated by this ritual. The impact and presence of the ancient ritual coherence can be discerned even in the canonized biblical texts, and the meaning conveyed by the UT ritual still plays a significant role within the context of the biblical texts examined above. BIBLIOGRAPHY Assmann, J. 62007

Das kulturelle Gedächtnis. Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen (München: Beck).

286

Bodner, K. 2008

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1 Samuel. A Narrative Commentary (Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press).

Carmichael, C. M. 2006 Illuminating Leviticus: A Study of Its Law and Institutions in the Light of Biblical Narratives (Baltimore, MD: The Johns Hopkins University Press). Cryer, F. H. 1994

Divination in Ancient Israel and its Near Eastern Environment (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press).

Dommershausen, W. 1973 ‘‫ גורל‬gôral,’ in G. J. Botterweck and H. Ringgren (eds.), Theologisches Wörterbuch zum Alten Testament, vol. 2 (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer), 991–98. Fohrer, G. 1969

Geschichte der israelitischen Religion (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter).

Hamblin, W. J. 2006 Warfare in the Ancient Near East to 1600 BC. Holy Warriors at the Dawn of History (London/New York: Routledge). Horowitz, W. and V. A. Hurowitz 1992 ‘Urim and Thummim in light of the psephomancy ritual from Assur (LKA 137),’ JANES 21, 95–115. Houtman, C. 1990

‘The Urim and Thummim: a new suggestion,’ VT 40/2, 229–32.

Hurowitz, V. A. 1998 ‘True Light on the Urim and Thummim,’ JQR 88, 263–74. Jeffers, A. 1996

Magic and Divination in Ancient Palestine and Syria (Leiden: Brill).

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Jeremias, A. 1909

Johnson, B. 1974

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‘Urim und Tummim,’ in Assyriologische und archaeologische Studien (Hermann V. Hilprecht Festschrift; Leipzig: Hinrichs), 223–42. ‘Urim und Tummim als Alphabet,’ in B. Knutsson (ed.), Annual of the Swedish Theological Institute, vol. 9 (Hans Kosmala Festschrift; Leiden: Brill), 23–29.

Kamrada, D. G. 2009 ‘The sacrifice of Jephthah’s daughter and the notion of ḥērem (‫)חרם‬,’ in K. D. Dobos and M. Kőszeghy (eds.), With Wisdom as a Robe. Qumran and Other Jewish Studies in Honour of Ida Fröhlich (Hebrew Bible Monographs, 21; Sheffield: Sheffield Phoenix Press), 57–85. Kang, S.-M. 1989 Kitz, A. M. 1997 Kiuchi, N. 1987 Koch, U. S. 2005

Divine War in the Old Testament and in the Ancient Near East (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter). ‘The plural form of Urim and Tummim,’ JBL 116/3, 401–10. The Purification Offering in the Priestly Literature (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press). Secrets of Extispicy (AOAT, 326; Münster: UgaritVerlag).

Lambert, W. G. 1996 Babylonian Wisdom Literature (1960; repr., Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns) Lambert, W. G. 2007 Babylonian Oracle Questions (Winona Lake, IN: Eisenbrauns).

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Cults of the Dead in Ancient Israel and Ugarit (HSM, 39; Atlanta: Scholars Press). ‘Urīm and Tummīm,’ VT 20, 495–96. ‘Urim und Tummim, ’ Kairós (Zeitschrift für Religionswissenschaft und Theologie) 11, 22–38.

McCarter, P. K., Jr. 1980 I Samuel (AB, 8; New York: Doubleday). Mobley, G. 2006

Samson and the Liminal Hero in the Ancient Near East (New York: T&T Clark).

Muss-Arnolt, W. 1900 ‘The Urim and Thummim. A Suggestion as to Their Original Nature and Significance,’ AJSL 16/4, 193–224. Oppenheim, A. L. 1977 Ancient Mesopotamia: Portrait of a Dead Civilization (completed by Erica Reiner; Chicago: The University of Chicago Press). Press, R. 1966

Rad, G. von 1991

Reiner, E. 1960

‘Urim and Thummim,’ in B. Reicke and L. Rost (eds.), Biblisch-historisches Handwörterbuch, vol. 3 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht), 1066–67. Holy War in Ancient Israel (transl. and ed. M. J.Dawn; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans). Original: Der heilige Krieg im alten Israel (ATANT, 20; Zürich: Zwingli, 1951). ‘Fortune-telling in Mesopotamia,’ JNES 19, 23–35.

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Robertson, E. 1964 Stolz, F. 1981 Van Dam, C. 1997 Weippert, M. 1972

Wright, D. P. 1987

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‘The Urim and Tummim; what were they?’ VT 14, 67–74. Das erste und zweite Buch Samuel (Zürich: Theologischer Verlag). The Urim and Thummim: A Means of Revelation in Ancient Israel (Winona Lake, ID: Eisenbrauns). ‘“Heiliger Krieg” in Israel und Assyrien: Kritische Anmerkungen zu Gerhard von Rads Konzept des “Heiligen Krieges im alten Israel”,’ ZAW 84, 460– 93., The Disposal of Impurity. Elimination Rites in the Bible and in Hittite and Mesopotamian Literature (Atlanta, GA: Scholars Press). Traum und Welterleben im antiken Mesopotamien (AOAT, 333; Münster: Ugarit-Verlag).

CULTURAL MEMORY AND FAMILY RELIGION RÜDIGER SCHMITT 1. INTRODUCTION In his study ‘Das kulturelle Gedächtnis,’ first published in German in 1992 and in other related studies, Assmann has distinguished two basic types of collective memory in Ancient Societies: First, the ‘communicative memory,’ characterized by a historical experience that is determined biographically and maintained by eyewitnesses or by hearsay of a certain community, reaching not beyond 3–4 generations, and with informal (‘everyday’) forms of interaction. The other type of collective memory is cultural memory, characterized by forms of construction and reproduction of identity by the mythologization of events in a mythological past far away, ceremonial communication (feast, ritual), objectified media of memory, written or memorized, word, images, dances and other reutilizations, and a specialized carrier group of the tradition (Assmann 1992:56). An important factor concerning the creation and maintenance of cultural memory in early societies without literacy is the form of participation. Cultural memory can only be created and maintained by participation of the individual at gatherings and feasts (Assmann 1992:57). Commemoration of the dead is, according to Assmann (1992:60–61), the very origin and centre of cultural memory in general. Moreover, Assmann addresses the commemoration of the dead both as ‘communicative’—as a general form of human existence—as well as ‘cultural,’ as it generates carrier groups, rites and institutions. As the main carrier group of commemorative memory is the family, I want to examine in my paper first some features from burials and burial-related contexts from Iron Age Israel, as well as

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some additional evidence from the Hebrew Bible regarding ritual activities related to the ancestors. Second, I examine the tradition about Rachel’s tomb as an example of cultural memory. After evaluating the archaeological and textual data I want to offer some conclusions regarding the value of this approach. 2. GRAVES AND GRAVE-GOODS AND THEIR FUNCTION FOR CULTURAL MEMORY In Iron Age II in Ancient Israel we have two typical forms of graves: The bench/divan tombs and the arcosolia tombs are the dominant forms of newly founded burial places, but also earlier burials caves have been re-used. An example of a bench tomb is shown in Fig. 1 from Beth Shemesh (MacKenzie 1912–13:Pl. V). These tombs are mostly clustered in one or more necropolis within short walking-distance to the cities. The usual grave goods are pottery of typical household types for daily use like bowls, kraters, chalices, pilgrim flasks, jugs, juglets, cooking pots, storage jars and lamps. Dominant are lamps, vessels for liquid storage (jugs, juglets, decanters, flasks) and liquid and food consumption (bowls), followed by food preparation and storage vessels (cooking pots, large bowls/kraters). Also, figurative ritual objects which are frequently part of domestic assemblages in Iron II C like Judean Pillar Figurines (JPFs), horses and riders, model furniture and animal figurines, are frequently found in graves too. However, no specialized ritual vessels like stands and incense burners have been found in graves except for some examples of zoomorphic and anthropomorphic vessels. Thus, the burial assemblages are clearly a subset of domestic utilitarian pottery assemblages. As Wenning (2005:130–133) has shown there is no typical Judean ‘standard’ assemblage, but there are strong local traditions of assemblages of burial goods mostly following the example set in the earliest burial in a cemetery. Nevertheless, the usual set of pottery and objects which were placed in the grave for a single burial were rather small and consisted of five to seven vessels and one to three elements of jewellery and personal adornment, including seals and amulets. Sometimes a weapon (arrow, spearhead) or a knife was added to the grave goods (Wenning 2005:128). The significant lack of specialized vessels for libations and incense burning sug-

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gests that the dead in šĕ’ōl do not need to sacrifice anything. Also, no sacrifices were performed by the bereaved in the cave proper. The relatively small number of vessels given for a single inhumation do not support the assumption that they served for the supplies in the grave or in šĕ’ōl over a longer time span or for eternity. It seems more likely that the food provisions served for a shorter period of time in a transitional phase in which the person was still thought to be personally present and/or the time until the body decomposed (Wenning 2005:129–130). The content of the tombs, which is clearly a subset of domestic assemblages, and their size leads to the conclusion that a single tomb was usually used by a nuclear family or at least by an extended nuclear family. Unfortunately, there are no usable data about absolute numbers of human remains because of the state of decomposition or insufficient recording. But generally it can be observed that even caves with a long period of use (up to 200 years) do not contain more than 25–54 individuals (Wenning 1997:90). The mixture of skeletal remains (Bloch-Smith 1992:70) (as far as discernable or recorded at all), which mirrors the stratification of ages also points to use by a nuclear or extended nuclear family. The grave goods with their regional and sometimes individual differentiation could be seen as markers and media of family and local identity. As in Neh. 2:1–5 the family tomb is both a symbol of local and familiar identity. Noteworthy though is the clustering of the graves (even in Iron I and II A), which shows that there is no archaeological evidence for the concept of the grave connected to the naḥala. Thus, it is not the location of the grave which is constitutive for remembrance and identity, but the grave proper, its inhabitants and, of course, the grave goods. The tombs serve as media that communicate patterns of the cultural symbol-system, both by the rites performed on the occasion of a burial and the grave goods and the treatment of the corpse (see also Wenning 2005:109–112). The personal identity of the deceased is marked by seals and objects of personal adornment like jewellery, fibulae etc. If the grave has been opened again for the next burials, the dead are easily identified by their objects of personal value. Even if the

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bones were stored in a recess after decomposition, the personal objects are a feature of continued remembrance. The collective burial in bench and arcosolia tombs, which were the dominant forms in Iron Age burials, and most likely served as the final resting place for the nuclear or at least extended family, underscores the ongoing connection of the family members after death. The burial gifts (food provisions, figurines, amulets etc.) and also post-burial gifts, as witnessed in Deut. 26:15 and Sir. 7:33, show the need of the dead to be cared for. The personality of the deceased is represented by the items of personal adornment and jewellery. Thus, the (nuclear) familial tomb becomes an expression of the broader familial and local identity. To sum up, the burial practices, the treatment of the corpse and the grave goods are important representations of the identity and the values of the family which gathered together at the burial. Performing the burial rites and observing the burial practices, children and young people can internalize the customs, values and other elements of the symbol system which constitutes familiar and local identity. The most significant social functions of burial practices in general are the creating, maintaining and continuation of identity, both on the local and the family level. 3. THE JERUSALEM CAVE DEPOSITS AND SAMARIA LOCUS E 207 AND THEIR FUNCTION FOR CULTURAL MEMORY The material from several caves located on the eastern slope of the south-eastern hill in Jerusalem excavated in 1967 by Kathleen Kenyon was published little by little between 1974 and 1996 (Kenyon 1974; Holland 1977; Franken and Steiner 1990; Eshel and Prag 1996). The caves yielded no traces of burials and were therefore never used as tombs, but contained great amounts of utilitarian pottery as well as ritual objects. The mentioning of caves and secret or hidden places as space for rituals for the dead in Isa 65:3–5 raises the question, if the Jerusalem caves I–III and related finds, which were not used for burial purposes, were used for the ritual care of the dead. Jerusalem Cave I (Fig. 2 compiled after Holland 1977: Fig 6– 9) is an artificial cave cut into the rock and is about 8 m long; at its widest, 4,2 m; and 1,65m high. The cave yielded exceptionally large

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numbers of pottery and also ritual objects: 16 JPF and other female types, 21 horses and riders, seven bird figurines, 38 different zoomorphic figurines, two anthropoid vessels, three items of miniature furniture, one rattle, one model shrine, two miniature altars, one complete fenestrated cult-stand and fragments of two more items, as well as three chalices were found here. The pottery consists of typical household items, especially vessels for food consumption and a great number of lamps (105 items). Altogether 63% of the pottery was of food-consumption types. As also a tabun and animal bones were found in the cave, it seems that food preparation and consumption took place in the cave proper. Among the pottery were also a number of vessels and sherds which were inscribed with names (Renz and Röllig 1995:267–272; Jer 7:12–29), indicating dedications for the rituals. In Cave II a similar assemblage of about 288 vessels and two ritual objects (animal figurine fragment, chariot model fragment) was found. Different in relation Cave I and II, Cave III yielded no specialized objects. A fourth assemblage, smaller, but similar to Cave I, was discovered in a rock-cut chamber (Locus 6015) on the eastern slope of the Ophel (Mazar and Mazar 1989:50–53, Plan 20, Plate 25–29, Fig. 3). Like Caves I–III, locus 6015 yielded no human remains or other hints of a burial, but again large amounts of pottery and ritual objects and was therefore described by the excavators as a repository or storeroom (Mazar and Mazar 1989:53). The pottery assemblage consists of vessels for food consumption (40 bowls), food preparation (eight cooking pots, two baking trays), storage vessels (six large bowls, one krater, four jars, three pithoi, three holemouth jars), vessels for liquids (six jugs, four decanters, six juglets), as well as two pyxides and three lamps. The assemblage of ritual objects consists of one cylindrical stand, one chalice-like stand, the torso of a JPF, a bearded male head with helmet, the fragment of a horse figurine and a rattle. The high percentage of food consumption and food preparation vessels points to meals accompanied by ritual actions carried out with the stand and the figurines. One of the jars had an inscription on its shoulder reading lyš‘ywh ‘belonging to Yeša‘yāhû’ (Mazar and Mazar 1989: Pl. 27,5; Renz and Röllig 1995:274–275; Jer 7:29), which may point to a votive or dedication.

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Comparable to the finds from Jerusalem are the materials found by the Joint Excavations at Locus E 207 in Samaria, which has been interpreted by the excavators as an Israelite shrine (Fig. 3a/b after Crowfoot, Kenyon and Sukenik 1942:23–24, Fig. 11; Crowfoot, Crowfoot and Kenyon 1957:76–82, 137–139 with figs. 13–33, fig. B, Pl. XI–XII). Locus E 207 is located about 700m east from the Israelite royal enclosure and represents a rock cut trench of trapezoid shape measuring about 26 x 30 m. Several shafts and tombs were cut into the outer wall of the trench. Locus E 207 yielded a great number of ritual objects especially figurines (Fig. 3b): 23 female, two male and 120 zoomorphic figurines. Other ritual objects were tripod incense cups, a perforated goblet and also two rattles were reported from E 207. The pottery consists mainly of typical household vessels. Of special interest is a number of ostraca and incised inscriptions on pots from E 207, mostly bearing names and an animal figurine incised with a name, reading ‘belonging to ‘Uzzā […]’. The inscription shows that personal votives of figurines as well as dedications of jugs, bowls and their content were utilized in the ritual actions that took place here. The Jerusalem Caves (except Cave III, which had no ritual objects) and Samaria E 207 have several things in common: Subterranean locations and large utilitarian assemblages for food consumption and food production together with ritual objects and vessels, as well as votive vessels bearing names. The location is not by chance and it seems that these locations for ritual meals underneath the earth were chosen for one reason: To be near the dead and the netherworld. As in the Hebrew Bible, the cave or cistern is a metaphor for death and the netherworld; we can interpret the caves as a kind of fore-court of šĕʼōl, were the world of the living meets the world of the dead (also Keel and Uehlinger 1992:§ 201). Therefore it seems reasonable to interpret Caves I–III, Jerusalem Locus 6015 (which is located near a cemetery) and Samaria Locus E 207 as places for rituals communicating with the dead, especially commemorative meals where the living shared community with the dead like in Isa 65:3–5: 3: A people who provoke me continually to my face, who sacrifice in gardens, burning incense on bricks;

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4: who sit in tombs and spend the night in secret places; who eat the flesh of swine and in their vessels is the broth of desecrated sacrifice (piggûl ) 5: who say: Stay where you are, don’ t come near me, for you will become holy (qedaštîkā). It may be assumed that the terracotta-figurines thereby served as representations of the ancestors which were honored by burning incense on the altars and giving food portions to them, offered on the stands. Another argument for an interpretation of the caves as places for rituals associated with the dead is the presence of rattles, which are otherwise mostly found in graves and usually not in domestic contexts (Tufnell 1953:376; Bloch-Smith 1992:102–103). Therefore it seems likely that the families of the deceased meet in the caves to commemorate their ancestors with meals and portions for their relatives in the netherworld. The cave deposits can be addressed as places were communicative memory was created and maintained by means of rituals, predominantly ritual meals, performed in or near these places. 4. THE TRADITION OF RACHEL’S TOMB FOR THE COLLECTIVE CULTURAL MEMORY Still a landmark to this very day and a place of worship crossing the boundaries of the so called Abrahamite religions is the tomb of Rachel at Ramath Rahel. In Gen 35:20 Jacob sets up a stele-form memorial (here designated as maṣṣebāh) at the grave of his wife, which has died in childbirth on the way to Bethlehem /Ephrath: 16 Then they journeyed from Beth-El; and when it was still some distance from Ephrath, Rachel was in childbirth, and she had hard labor. 17 When she was in her hard labor, the midwife said to her, ‘Do not be afraid; for now you will have another son.’ 18 As her soul was departing, for she died, she named him ‘son of my disaster’ (Ben-Oni); but his father called him ‘son of the right’ (Benjamin). 19 So Rachel died, and she was buried on the way to Ephrath, that is Bethlehem.

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20 And Jacob set up a maṣṣebāh at her grave; it is the maṣṣebāh of Rachel’s tomb, which is there to this day.

The text contains etiologies for both the names of Benjamin and Rachel’s tombs, and should therefore be classified as an etiological notice. The tradition about the tomb of Rachel can’t be assigned with any certainty to any of the pentateuchal sources of the classical model. However, the tradition about a tomb is an old one, as Jer. 31:15 and 1 Sam. 10:2 (but with a different location) indicate. In its present context Gen. 35:16–20 seems to be an extension of the Jacob complex comprising the etiologies of the cult of Bethel and Rachel’s tomb, most likely compiled by the first editor of the exilic patriarchal history. However, the localization of Rachel’s tomb is not as clear as Gen. 35:19 indicates. According to 1 Sam. 10:2 Rachel’s tomb is to be found north of Jerusalem in the territory of the tribe of Benjamin at Zelza, a place name for which no clear identification could be given. This is also supported by Jer. 31:15, which localizes Rachel’s weeping at Rama (er-Rām) in Benjamin. Most scholars have therefore assumed that the equation of Ephratha with Bethlehem in Gen. 35:19b is secondary, added by the redactor, or a late gloss. Nevertheless 1 Sam. 10:2 may be an older pre-exilic tradition; the competing tradition of a southern localization in the territory of Judah has prevailed, thus Ruth 4:11 mentions Ephratha and Bethlehem as parallels and also Mic. 5:1 identifies Ephratha with Bethlehem. In Hellenistic times, Jub. 32:34 witnesses Ephratha/Bethlehem as the place of Rachel’s tomb, and Matt. 2:18 equate Rama with Bethlehem, thus harmonizing the two traditions. In RomanByzantine times (and later) the Identification of Ramat Raḥel is undisputed and witnessed (among others) by the Pilgrim of Bordeaux (Donner 1978:62) and in Eusebius’ Onomasticon (Eusebius ed. Klostermann 1966:251). The Madeba Mosaic map locates Ephratha half way between Jerusalem and Bethlehem, and Rama (with the notice that this was the place, were a voice was heard at Rama), in the vicinity south from Ephratha and Bethlehem (Fig. 5: Donner 1992: Pl. B). It may be assumed that the shift from the territory of Benjamin to Judah is intentional, as Bethlehem as the birth place of both David and the Davidic Messiah in Mic. 5:1 is a focal point for

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the post-exilic identity. It seems likely that the tradition of the tomb was adopted and relocated in the period of exile by the editors of the patriarchal narratives. The tradition of Rachel’s tomb at Ramat Raḥel has a unifying aspect, both in respect to Rachel as the female ancestor of the northern Kingdom as well as of all Israel, and in respect to the spatial vicinity to the David-tradition of the southern kingdom. Thus, Rachel’s tomb became a marker in the mental map of a kind of nuclide area or—with Assmann (1992:59–60)— a mnemotope (Bethlehem–Ramat Raḥel–Jerusalem) of the allIsraelite identity. Noteworthy is the fact that the textual traditions about Rachel’s tomb are shaped as a family tradition and reflect elements of family experiences, now extended to the national level. Thus, the traditions about Rachel’s tomb, as well as the traditions about the patriarchal graves at Hebron, bear witness to the important impact of the primary religious experience on the shaping of early Judaism in the exilic and post-exilic period. Regarding our question about burial and related places for collective memory, the tradition of Rachel’s tomb is a good example of how the national cultural memory has been linked to a burial place, even a fictional one. Cultural memory has materialized here in the memorial at Ramat Rahel as well as in the biblical texts, creating a mental map, or mnemotope of cultural memory. Again, this literary mnemotope could be materialized in iconography, as the appearance of the above mentioned places on the famous Madeba mosaic map shows, where the originally Jewish cultural memory had been adopted by the late Antique Christians. 5. SUMMARY The examination of burials and burial-related ritual places as examples of communicative memory, as well as the fictional tradition about Rachel’s tomb, has indeed shown that we can distinguish between two basic types of cultural memory: On the one hand the ritually generated communicative memory with its short range for the family, clan and the local community, and on the other hand the national collective memory generated by texts, images and structures as materializations of national and religious cultural memory.

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The rites, rituals, and observances of the family related to burials and commemoration of the dead are producing identity and memory basically on the level of the communicative memory rooted in the living experience and memory of the family. The most significant social functions of burial and commemorative practices in general are the creating, maintaining and continuation of identity both on the local and the family level. Likewise, the tombs of the national ancestors are creating and maintaining national identity and thereby a national cultural memory which is shaped according to the structures of the primary religious experience.

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Fig. 1: Beth Shemesh Tomb 2.

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Fig. 2 Jerusalem Cave 1 with sample of ritual objects.

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Fig. 3a: Samaria Locus E 207 Plan and Sections.

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Fig. 3b: Selection of ritual objects and pottery from Samaria Locus E 207.

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Fig. 4: Jerusalem, Cave Locus 6015 with sample of ritual objects.

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Fig. 5: Madeba Mosaic Map showing Bethlehem, Ephratha and Rama. BIBLIOGRAPHY Assmann, J. 1992

Das kulturelle Gedächtnis (München: Beck).

Bloch-Smith, E. 1992 Judahite Burial Practices and Beliefs about the Dead (JSOTSup, 123. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press). Crowfoot, J. W., K. M. Kenyon, and E. L. Sukenik 1942 Samaria-Sebaste I: The Buildings of Samaria (London: Palestine Exploration Fund). Crowfoot, J. W., G. M. Crowfoot, and K. M. Kenyon 1957 Samaria Sebaste III: The Objects from Samaria (London: Palestine Exploration Fund). Donner, H. 1978

Donner, H. 1992

Pilgerfahrt ins Heilige Land. Die ältesten Berichte christlicher Palästinapilger (4.–7. Jh.) (Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk). The Mosaic Map of Madeba. An Introductory Guide (Palestina Antiqua, 7; Kampen: Kok Pharos).

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Eshel, I., and K. Prag, eds. 1995 Excavations by K. M. Kenyon in Jerusalem 1961–1967, Vol. IV: The Iron Age Cave Deposits on the South-East Hill and Isolated Burials Elsewhere (BAMA, 6; Oxford: Oxford University Press). Eusebius von Cäsarea 1966 Das Onomastikon der biblischen Ortsnamen (ed. Ernst Klostermann; 1904; repr., Hildesheim: Olms). Franken, H. J. and M. L. Steiner 1990 Excavations in Jerusalem 1961–1967 Vol. II: The Iron Age Extramural Quarter on the South-East Hill (BAMA, 2; Oxford: Oxford University Press). Holland T. A. 1977

‘A Study of Palestinian Iron Age Baked Clay Figurines, with Special Reference to Jerusalem Cave 1,’ Levant 9, 121–155.

Keel, O., and Chr. Uehlinger 1998 Göttinnen. Götter und Gottessymbole (4th ed., Questiones Disputatae, 134.; Freiburg: Herder). Kenyon, K. M. 1974 Digging up Jerusalem (London and Tonbridge: Ernest Benn). Mackenzie, D. 1912–1913 ‘Excavations at Ain Shems,’ PEFA 2, 1-100. Mazar, B., and E. Mazar 1989 Excavations in the South of the Temple Mount: The Ophel of Biblical Jerusalem (Qedem, 29; Jerusalem: Institute of Archaeology. Hebrew University of Jerusalem). Renz, J., and W. Röllig 1995 Handbuch der althebräischen Epigraphik I (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft).

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Lachish III: The Iron Age (London: Oxford University Press). ‘Bestattungen im königszeitlichen Juda,’ TQ 177, 82–93. ‘“Medien” in der Bestattungskultur im eisenzeitlichen Juda,’ in Chr. Frevel (ed.), Medien im antiken Palästina: Materielle Kommunikation und Medialität als Thema der Palästinaarchäologie (FAT, 2. Reihe 11; Tübingen: J.C.B. Mohr (Paul Siebeck)), 109–150.

THE TORAH AS CANON OF MASTERPIECES: REMEMBERING IN ARCHIVES PERNILLE CARSTENS The education, the paideia or in the context of the Hebrew Bible, the Torah, was a specific presentation of the past, providing an instance of collective memory. Libraries and art collections were expressions of taste or style, and formed a canon of masterpieces that was taught. Could we classify the Torah as a collection of founding principles in the education, the good taste, in the paideia, like a canon of ‘masterpieces,’ referring to the past being a parallel phenomenon to art collections? The paper shows how the catalogues in the priestly material in Exod. 25–30 and 36–40 have the function of memories of the past, and the paper discusses the connection to other catalogue texts in the eastern Mediterranean region, such as the well-known Lindian Chronicle from Rhodes. This is how memory works, cultures created and recreated the past. FORGET IT In his book Phantoms of Remembrance Patrick J. Geary refers to a certain episode related to an application to the National Humanities Center which was refused. His project was on memory research. An anonymous reviewer wrote: ‘Historians from their earliest training are warned against arguments from silence, but Patrick Geary is proposing to study sounds of medieval silences. But whatever the song affirms, silences remain silent. How can one study what

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people in the Middle Ages forgot? Because something is not mentioned in the scanty written records of the early Middle Ages does not prove that is has fallen into oblivion. He wants to write on “structures of forgetting.” My counsel 1 to him would be: forget it.’

I don’t know if it is adequate to refer to arguments from silence, but I know the cultural memory strategy needs to formulate in a very specific way its attitude towards the past, meaning its relationship to the ancient society and culture. From the outside, most scholars look at the cultural memory approach as a historical one,2 but memorization is a process and cultural memory studies are about how the past is mediated, how memory is produced and circulated, how memory works and is therefore not about history ‘as such.’ Remembering is a mental act and it is personal,3 memory can therefore be both something individual and something related to collective or social arenas shaping one’s own identity (or mental state) as well as the group’s identity, since the collective shares common memories. Cultural memory appears as overwriting (palimpsests)4 and re-use of material artifacts, such as buildings, monuments, and of 1 Patrick J. Geary, Phantoms of remembrance: memory and oblivion at the end of the first millennium (Princeton: Publisher: Princeton University Press, 1994), XIIIf. 2 Geoffrey Cubitt, History and Memory (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 2007), 1–25. 3 Susan. E. Alcock, Archaeologies of the Greek Past, Landscape, Monuments, and Memories (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 15; Anne Whitehead, Memory (London and New York: Routledge, 2009), 50– 84. Susanne Radstone and Bill Schwarz, Memory. History, Theories, Debate (New York: Fordham University Press, 2010), 179-235. 4 Alcock 2002, 4; Ruth M. van Dyke and Susan E. Alcock, Archaeologies of Memory (Oxford: Blackwell, 2003), 1. Manuela Günter defines palimpest: ‘In kulturtheoretischer Perspective fungiert Palimpsest als Spur einer verborgenene Narration, in der sich das Verhältnis Marginaliserung und Hegemonie, Anonymität und Autorisering alt eines der überlieferung fassen lässt―Schliesslich transportiert im Palimpeste der manifeste Textselbst seinen Subtext, sodass die Erinnerung an das von der Geschichte Verdrängte gerade im Medium seines scheinbaren Vergessens möglich wird.’ In Nicolas Pethes og Jens Ruchatz (eds.), Gedächtnis und Erinnerung.

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texts, and of ritual practice, shaping the social life of these ‘building blocks of culture.’ Memorization can be conscious or unconscious, incorporated in the body, and it can become visible in material culture and monuments. People are never alone, but always relate to place, education, nation, family, religious and political groups, and so on. These collectives are the frameworks that direct people’s comprehension of reality. This is the human context from which one should also look upon memory and remembrance as acknowledged both in humanities and in social science. Memory thus is inscribed and embodied in Eastern Mediterranean culture in Antiquity. I approach the Old Testament in its cultural context, seeing the texts as cultural artifact together with other cultural expressions. You could name such an approach cultural studies 5—our research material belongs to the past, but we are not asking questions of the material for the purpose reconstructing history. When looking at the biblical texts as culture, we are interested in shaping a profile of the material. The motto is that there exists no significant difference between the individual building blocks of culture, and that the aim of cultural memory research is an understanding of the building blocks of culture. This perspective directs our reading strategy and interpretation to developing models of analysis based on modern ideas of adequate cultural and memory studies. Literary texts are paths or tracks into cultural memory, as Max Saunders states, they are not ‘direct access to unmediated memory.’6 Like the archaeological approach called social biography, introduced by several scholars, among them Arjun Appadurai,7 I want to introduce this cultural perspective on texts as well as using a biographical approach in the analyses. The texts undergo a change in their travels, just as many archaeological artifacts with several uses, depending on the context. The texts and the material leave tracks we have to follow. Ein interdisziplinäres Lexikon (Hamburg: Rowohlt Taschenbuch Verlag GmbH, 2001), 434f. 5 Astrid Erll, Ansgar Nünning (eds.), A Companion to Cultural Memory Studies (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2010), 77-141. 6 Max Saunders, ‘Life-Writing, Cultural Memory, and Literary Studies,’ Erll and Nünning 2010, 322. 7 Arjun Appadurai, The Social life of things. Commodities in cultural perspective (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986).

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THE ARCHIVE—MEMORY—INDEX Paul Connerton operates in his article on ‘seven types of forgetting’ 8 with a fifth type of forgetting which he calls: Forgettting as annulment. This indicates a kind of archivalization, that something has been stored in an archive, which obviously produces both memory and oblivion. This way of storing the past plays a very important role in imperial archives in antiquity as ‘knowledge-producing institutions.’ 9 Archives stand behind the idea of libraries10 and art collections as well as the idea of museums. Both archives and art collections as weel as museums preserve culture, making ‘registers of index’ in Peirce’s sense of the term. The items or the content of the archives or the texts function as indexes regulating the conception comprehensions (memory/oblivion), and the interesting thing is when an artifact itself not only represents an index, but has incorporated the index. According to Peirce11 it is obvious that a symbol can have this tendency to incorporate both an icon and an index. Doing so they create standards for both remembering and forgetting and thereby they form taste or even canonicity. Connerton points out that this specific way of remembrance is also present in modern society, though obviously the archives now interact with the new computerized information technology, but basically the very same way of controlling information as a political tool is at stake in antiquity. In the following I will investigate several index-like representations:12 an art-collection, a temple index text, an inscription

8 Paul Connerton, ‘Seven types of forgetting,’ Memory Studies 1, 2008, 59-71. 9 Connerton 2008, 65. Cf. Aleida Assmann, ‘Canon and Archive,’ in Jeffrey K. Olick, Vered Vinitzky-Seroussi and Daniel Levy, The Collective Memory Reader (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 334–37. 10 Merlin Donald, ‘Memory Palaces: The Revolutionary Function of Libraries,’ Queen's Quarterly 108/4 ( 2001), 556–52. 11 Charles Sanders Peirce, Collected Papers, vol. 2 (Cambridge Mass 1965-67), 172, paragraph 306. 12 Alfred Gell, Art and Agency. An Anthropological Theory (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998); look further Andrew Jones, Memory and Material Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 18f.

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following the same principles and finally one priestly temple-list from Exodus.

Assemblage of statuettes found in the Panayia Domus, Corinth I have interacted in my work with the research of professor Lea Stirling. My idea concentrates on thinking about ‘collection’ in a broader sense, and uses an art collection with statues as an example of how to develop canonicity or taste. With her permission I show an assemblage of statuettes found in Panayia Domus Corinth. During an excavation by the American School of Classical Studies in 1999 at this house there were nine statuettes uncovered representing Artemis (twice), Asklepios (twice), Roma, Dionysos, Herakles, Europa/Sosandra, and Pan. The statuettes range in date from the late 1st to the mid 3rd or early 4th century CE. It is an extraordinary group strewn over the floor in a central room of the house; perhaps a domestic shrine. The figure of Roma is a unique domestic example of this divinity and may refer to a local monument and to the status of the owner. The other statuettes are typical of domestic assemblages in the Late Roman Greece.

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The Dionysos and Pan figures might remind viewers of the pleasures of banqueting and freedom from care, Artemis probably brought to mind the aristocratic pleasures of hunting. Herakles is often associated with the gymnasium and the active life. ‘The Panayia array of statuettes is like others of Late Antique Greece in exhibiting a taste for seated divinities,’ Stirling states.13 This Corinthian art collection indicates that there existed a canon known by artists and art-collectors stipulating good taste, for instance preferring the god seated. Thus the attitudes demonstrated by the goods in this art-collection do not seem accidental, but seem built upon canon and taste.14

13 Lea M. Stirling, ‘Pagan Statuettes in late Antique Cointh,’ Hesperia 77 (2008a), 89-161, 156. 14 In the Privat Orations of Themistius translated by Robert J. Penella, (Berkely: University of California Press, 2000), 218 in Oration 34, part 11 reads: ‘In no other art do we look for the number of works produced. What we look for are beauty and precision of craftsmanship. I admire Phidias for his Pisaen Zeus, Plynotus for his hall at Delhi...’

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Statuette of Diana found of Saint-George-de-Montagne, Bordeaux

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PAIDEIA The Learned Collector is the title of Lea Stirling’s investigation of mythological statuettes and classical taste in late antique Gaul in the late empire.15 The taste is related to the classical education system, normal and expected among the higher classes of society. At the site of Saint-Georges-de-Montagne there are several famous and well preserved statues of Venus and Diana. They are accepted as late antique mythological statuettes and became canonical to study the genre.16 The approach of Stirling is to examine the intellectual and physical context of sculptural collections. The classical education system, paideia, created the classical taste as well as a deep interest in the mythology17 which prevailed in the Latin west and in the Greek East.18 Paideia at all levels focused on the authors of the first centuries BCE and CE such as Virgil and Cicero.19 Many letters, for instance, contains innumerable references to classical works. It seems to be a kind of code which members of the elite would use to communicate with each other. This classical education system was international and linked across nations. As Lea Stirling states: ‘The importance of paideia cannot be overstated.’20 The paideia is the key to understanding the taste and style in art-collections. The landowners in Gaul clearly collected statues referring to myths,21 providing wallpaper for consistent behaviors, common readings, and shared allusions. We can notice a special taste for imitation of the archaicin literary style too, and an overall tendency towards reworking. Not only statues, but texts as well were a sign of mastery of classical literature and culture. 15 Lea M. Stirling, The Learned Collector. Mythological Statuette and Classical Taste in Late Antique Gaul (Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 2008b). 16 Stirling 2008b, 6. 17 Stirling 2008b, 11. Werner Jaeger, Paideia. The Ideals of Greek Culture. Volume I: Archaic Greece. The Mind of Athens (New York , Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1973). 18 Stirling 2008b, 144. 19 Stirling 2008b, 12. 20 Stirling 2008b, 12. 21 Stirling 2008b, 138. For a general debate on Style and Context, Anne Marie Carstens, ‘Style and Context,’ Hephaistos 21/22 (2003/2004), 7–29.

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Peter Brown has a useful definition of paideia. It is ‘the patient re-creation in every generation, of the “collective memory” of the urban upper class.’22 There was, according Brown, a ‘remarkable cultural homogeneity.’23 Virgil and Cicero in the West and Homer and Demosthenes in the East were ‘burned into memory.’ Brown prefers to look at paideia as shared. It bridged the distances of a vast empire and therefore politics and paideia were linked24— even on the educational level. LINDIAN CHRONICLE In this contribution I would also like to draw on Carolyn Higbie’s monograph on The Lindian Chronicle and the Greek Creation of the Past.25 The Lindian inscription is from the first century BCE from Lindos at Rhodes. The inscription contains two inventories. The first catalogues some forty objects given to Athena by mythical figures from the past (Heracles, Helen) and from historical figures like Alexander the Great. The list on this stele exposes, in an excellent way, the art of remembering. Higbie’s stresses what was important for the Greeks concerning the past in the reconstructions of it, and how they used the past as a tool in the present. Through the list of equipment in Lindos the priest and everyone reading the inscription were taught about the legendary mythic foundation of the temple. In the translation of the second inventory we read in the first part: ‘The flowing made dedication to Athena: Lindos, a phiale. Which no one was able to discover what is made from, on which has been inscribed: “Lindos to Athena Polias and Zeus Polieus”’ 26 ... ‘Kadmos, a bronze lebes. Inscribed with Phoenician letters ... Minos, a silver drinking cup. On which had been inscribed, “Minos to Athena Polias and Zeus Polieus”.’27 ‘Helen, a 22 Peter Brown, Power and Persuasion in Late Antiquity towards a Christian Empire (Madicon: The University of Winconsin Press, 1992), 40. 23 Brown 1992, 39. 24 Brown 1992, 41. 25 Carolyn Higbie, The Lindian Chronicle and the Greek Creation of their past (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005). 26 Higbie 2005, 21. 27 Higbie 2005, 23.

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pair of bracelets. On which had been inscribed, “Helen to Athena”.’28 I suggest that the lists of cultic equipment, as for instance in Exodus 25–30 or Ezekiel 40–45, have the same function and meaning as the Lindian Chronicle. In the Old Testament we have no reference to the donor of the cultic equipment, and no list of votives, but the two traditions are similar in their way of presenting the inventory as lists. This is a way of preserving the past, a way to remember and protect the past in this kind of archives. In both traditions the temple equipment has a certain origin and the mythic past is a decisive factor for having hope for the future as well, the temple archives or list creates continuity in the foundation myth of the temple and the specific relation to Lindos and the future. Memory in this case supports the geographical orientation as well as a specific identity. By 99 BCE the Lindian stele was erected with the special inventories of votives and epiphanies. The thesis of Higbie’s is that the Greek world in the first century BCE was developing new ways of using written sources; giving a smaller town like Lindos on Rhodes an identity and importance connected to the past. ‘The glorious past might be invoked to provide a city with an identity and status in the first century BCE.’ 29 Cities, ethnic groups had used the past for their own purposes, as politicians used it in propaganda.

28 29

Higbie 2005, 27. Higbie 2005, 243.

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The Lindos Stele. The National Museum, Copenhagen

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It seems obvious that the travelers of Greek literature have had an impact on first century Greeks, who thought these places had been important historically. Herodotus is the first visitor who described places and later on Pausanias and Strabo from the first century did as well. They are eyewitnesses expressing themselves in a documentary style,30 and this is, as a matter of fact, one of the first examples of a documentary. So the Lindos stele is an example of the preservation of the past linked to an object connected with a temple. The Lindos stele preserves the memory of its glorious past, and sanctuaries across the Greek world catalogued this past in the same way. There are functional parallels between the idea of the archive, or the library as the storage place, and these temple lists. Like buildings, for instance, lists are reminders of the past, a past that has been lost, but a past preserved in this way. This kind of storage can be used as political propaganda. THE BOOK OF THE TEMPLE The book of Temple is a large manual for the ideal Egyptian temple, reconstructed from forty mostly unpublished papyri—the best preserved of them is located in Copenhagen in the papyrus Carlsberg Collection. For the following account I thank professor Jørgen Podemann Sørensen and the leader of the Canon and Identity formation centre Kim Ryholt.31 The Book of the Temple was originally composed in middle Egyptian, but several manuscripts are translated into Demotic. The text describes the architectural layout of the ideal Egyptian temple. Then the book turns to general rules for priests and some oath formulae. The text is set in the early dynastic period, as a fictive historical setting.32 ‘Das im Buch vom Tempel entworfene Bild ist der Intention nach nicht die Beschreibung eines konkreten Tempels, sondern ein Idealbild.’33 Higbie 2005, 244. Kim Ryholt, ‘On the Contents and Nature of the Tebtunis Temple Library. A Status Report,’ in Sandra Lippert and Maren Schentuleit (eds.), Tebtynis und Soknopaiu Nesos. Leben in römerzeitlichen Fajum (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2005), 141–70. 32 Joachim Friedrich Quack, ‘Das Buch vom Tempel und verwandte Texte,’ Archiv für Religionsgeschicte, 2/1 ( 2000), 1–20, 19. 33 Quark 2000, 3. 30 31

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The examples I have chosen came from The Edfu Temple project in Hamburg, directed by Dr. Dieter Kuhrt. From his translation I give some examples of this genre of text.34 ‘Das Treppenhaus auf der Westseite misst 60 auf [3?] Ellen. Das östlichen Treppenhaus misst auf 10 auf 8 (Ellen); eine kleine Türe befindet sich darin, die sich auf seine Wabet öffnet—ingesamt sind drei Türen darin (zu den Raümen Q, R und W). Ein Raum (S) lieget rechts von ihr (der Opfertischhalle), mit 10 auf 9 (Ellen), in ihn mündet die rechte 35 Treppe.’ ‘Pylontürme (K’) befinden sich davor von 120 (Ellen Länge). Die Höhe bis zu ihrer Spitze beträgt 60 (Ellen), und es ist so, dass ihre Breite von 21 Ellen einem jeden von ihnen zugemessen würde, auf der rechten und auf der linken Seite. Ihre Fasade ist dekoriert worden gemäss den Schriften und allen Anweisungen zum Abwehren der Fremdlandbewohner. Zahlreihe Schhatzkammern sind in sie eingebaut, 36 sowie zwei Türen zum Opferhof (H’) hin.’

The city of Edfu is situated in Upper Egypt, about 100 km south of Luxor on the west bank of the Nile. It is famous for its large temple from the Ptolemaic age (about 300–30 BC) dedicated to Horus. The text was known in the whole of Egypt, both playing an active role as a practical tool in temple-service, but also contributing to the common taste, offering an ideal image. The Edfu material is written on walls inside the temple, some of it in darkness, not legible at all, like so many other Egyptian texts inside graves. What is the function of an inscription in darkness? Is it for ritual matters or does the inscription express a kind of ritual knowledge, a hermetical knowledge? Joachim Quack argues for a ‘lexikalische’ interpretation, and even pointed out potential educational value, similar to the function of paideia mentioned previously.37

Dieter Kuhrt, Edfu VII ( Wiesbaden: Harrazowith Verlag, 2004). Kuhrt 2004, 24. 36 Kuhrt 2004, 29. 37 Quack 2000, 14f. 34 35

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THE PRIESTLY MATERIAL IN THE HEBREW BIBLE And then finally the priestly material in the Old Testament in Exodus, a text we almost could title: The temple text. The text or the catalogue starts in Exod. 25 and continues up to Exod. 40, describing the building and elements used to establish a temple, with exact measurements. The inventory lists, the equipment, the priestly dress and different textiles, the different offerings and material— Leviticus prescribes as well several sacrifices. ‘They shall make an ark of acacia wood; it shall be two and a half cubits long, a cubit and half wide, and a cubit and a half high. You shall overlay with pure gold, inside and outside you shall overlay it, and you shall make a moulding of gold upon it all round. You shall cast four rings of gold for it and put them on its four feet, two rings on one side, and two rings on the other side. You shall make poles of acacia wood, and overlay them with gold’ (Exod. 25:10ff.). ‘You shall make a breastpiece of judgement; in skilled work, you shall make it in the style of the ephod; of gold, of blue and purple and crimson yarns, and of fine twisted linen you shall make it. It shall be square and doubled, a span in length and a span in width. You shall set in it four rows of stones. A row of carnelian, chrysolite, and emerald shall be the first row, and the second row a turquoise, a sapphire, and a moonstone…’ (Exod. 28:6ff.).

The text in Exod. 25 and following seems to have the same function as the Lindian Chronicle. It is like an art collection, mentioning, like lists do, all the equipment in the Temple—like a treasure house. When using acacia wood, gold, linen, and blue and purple yarn—one is expressing good taste. The prescriptions concerning the various offerings do the very same, and there exists a canon preferring burnt offering and grain-offering, not using pigs but sheep or goats. Like both the book of the Temple and the Lindian Chronicle the whole story in Exodus is situated back in history, belonging to the desert period, which gives it importance and authority. The function of the list is to call to memory, like an archive. In Connerton’s sense a text like Exod. 25ff. could be used as the control of the past, and function as a political or theological

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tool. Temple theology is fundamental in the Old Testament and the lists represent a certain strategy. The temple book in the Old Testament could be regarded as designed prestige literature, placing the cult and the temple in the past to create an identity. The Old Testament was created in periods of globalization, in the Persian and the Hellenistic-Roman period. The writings are a piece of memory work meant for the creation of national or local identity and particularity in a global world. In a globalized world, counter-activity is always present, which focuses on the local, small tradition, the particular narrative, which creates its own way of coherence. The temple list, the archives and the art collections do the same, trying, as a political strategy, to create a collective memory about the past. The Torah was like paideia. Torah was good taste, a canon of masterpieces referring to the past.

WAS THE MACCABEAN REVOLT THE ‘FIRST RELIGIOUSLY MOTIVATED WAR IN HISTORY’ (J. ASSMANN)? EXEGETICAL, HISTORICAL AND HERMENEUTICAL CONTRIBUTIONS TO A RECENT DISCUSSION

JOHANNES SCHNOCKS 1. INTRODUCTION In the present debate on religion and violence there seems to have evolved a broad consensus that it is those that hold religious beliefs, and among them particularly the monotheists, who have afflicted mankind with war and suffering by their claim to an exclusive truth. For Jan Assmann, the Maccabean revolt was the first time in history when a fully fledged monotheism in the sense of the later Jewish, Christian and Muslim faiths unfolded its violent potential. At the same time, this potential was inscribed into the cultural memory of these religions, thus inviting repetition and imitation. Even though Assmann’s theses have been much disputed since the publication of ‘Moses the Egyptian,’1 public discussion especially

1 Jan Assmann, Moses the Egyptian: The Memory of Egypt in Western Monotheism (Cambride, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1997). The enlarged German edition was published as: Moses der Ägypter. Entzifferung einer Gedächtnisspur (München: Carl Hauser, 1998; Paperback Frankfurt: Fischer Tashenbuch Verlag, 2000). Assmann replied to the very controversial reactions to this book in many articles and in his book: Die mosaische Unterscheidung oder der Preis des Monotheismus (Edition Akzente; München: Carl Hanser, 2003). All quotations from Assmann’s works are my own translations.

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outside the circles of theological scholarship is still largely influenced by them. I would therefore like to outline briefly some of his thoughts, before looking more closely at a few specific points. Assmann’s basic assumption is that of the difference between primary and secondary religions.2 Primary religions are polytheistic, cult-centered and open to the world. Secondary religions on the other hand have been marked by the so-called ‘Mosaic Distinction’ between true and false religion. They are monotheistic, centered on the written word and negating the world.3 It is this monotheistic turn which, according to Assmann, ‘rests on the distinction between true and false and has in its later reception generated the distinction between Jews and Gentiles, Christians and Heathens, Christians and Jews, Muslims und Unbelievers, true Believers and Heretics, and which has manifested itself by excesses of violence and bloodshed.’4 In the context of monotheism, the written word is an important aspect. Assmann adopted this terminology from Theo Sundermeier to clarify that a religion like the one characterized by the Egyptian concept of ma’at on one side, and Judaism or Christianity on the other side are not just different types of religion but contradict one another; cf. Jan Assmann, Ma’at. Gerechtigkeit und Unsterblichkeit im Alten Ägypten (München: Beck, 1990), 18f. For the concepts of Sundermeier and Assmann cf. Anja A. Diesel, Primäre und sekundäre Religion (serfahrung)—das Konzept von Th. Sundermeier und J. Assmann, in Andreas Wagner (ed.), Primäre und sekundäre Religion als Kategorie der Religionsgeschichte des Alten Testaments (BZAW, 364; Berlin-New York: de Gruyter, 2006), 23–37. It is doubtful whether the categories of primary and secondary religion are helpful to distinguish the ‘monotheistic’ religion(s) represented by Old Testament texts especially from the Persian era from ‘polytheistic’ religions in the Ancient Near East, as is rightly shown by Rüdiger Schmitt, Die nachexilische Religion Israels: Bekenntnisreligion oder kosmotheistische Religion? in Andreas Wagner (ed.), Primäre und sekundäre Religion als Kategorie der Religions-geschichte des Alten Testaments (BZAW, 364; Berlin-New York: de Gruyter, 2006), 147–57, esp. 157. 3 Cf. for these characteristics, which are often found in his works, J. Assmann, Die mosaische Unterscheidung oder der Preis des Monotheismus, 11 and 21. 4 J. Assmann, Die mosaische Unterscheidung oder der Preis des Monotheismus, 22. 2

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Assmann stresses the comprehensive claim of the written word to determine religious ethics: ‘The individual has in a way to re-incarnate [the written word], in order to make it come into existence in his own life. A life according to scripture is called for […]. Life is equal to the fulfillment of scripture.’5 According to Assmann, this is especially true for martyrdom, which he characterizes as a form of intolerance.6 Martyrdom means ‘to die for the law,’ it is the utmost form of a life according to or within the law, of an enactment of scripture which has become the inward ‘script’ of a life. Martyrdom, which will later become a central motif of Jewish and Christian religion, may be encountered for the first time in the Maccabean wars. It is a phenomenon which is only conceivable within the horizon of an exclusive monotheism and its motto ‘No other gods!,’ just like its active counterpart, namely to kill in the name of God.’ 7

At this point Assmann’s definition of martyrdom as ‘to die for the law’ and its exclusive connection to monotheism asks for correcJ. Assmann, ‘Gottesbilder-Menschenbilder: anthropologische Konsequenzen des Monotheismus,’ in R. Gregor Kratz/ H. Spieckermann (eds.), Götterbilder, Gottesbilder, Weltbilder. Polytheismus und Monotheismus in der Welt der Antike, Band II: Griechenland und Rom, Judentum, Christentum und Islam (Forschungen zum Alten Testament, 2. Reihe 18; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 313–29, 321f. 6 Cf. Assmann, Unterscheidung, 34f., where he gives the example of the ritual consumption of sacrificial meat in the Roman imperial cult and the refusal of Christians to take part in it even under the threat of death. His commentary clearly shows whom he considers to be ‘guilty’ of bloodshed in this context: ‘It is less a case of intolerance on the part of the perpetrators, i.e. the representatives of the Roman Empire, who were usually open to all forms of concessions and satisfied with minimal forms of recognition. This was so because they were not interested in producing martyrs. It was in fact a case of intolerance on the side of the victims who would have considered even the smallest concession as apostasy and ‘assimilation.’ Assmann agrees to the accusation that he considers the victims themselves responsible for their fate: ‘What else is martyrdom but the responsibility of the victim for his fate?’ (ibid. 35). 7 J. Assmann, ‘Monotheismus und die Sprache der Gewalt,’ in P. Walter (ed.), Das Gewaltpotential des Monotheismus und der dreieine Gott (Quaestiones disputatae 216; Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 2005), 18–38, 34. 5

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tion. The surrender of life ‘obedient to the laws’ has been deeply inscribed into the cultural memory of the occident.8 It is however not connected with the monotheistic intolerance of Maccabean martyrs, but with the Spartans who died under Leonidas 300 years earlier at the battle at the Thermopylae.9 Assmann classifies the Maccabean revolt as follows: Here we find the connection between monotheism, intolerance and violence for the first time in historical reality and not only in literary reconstruction, where it is frequently mentioned.[...] The king (i.e. Antiochus) does not contemplate brutal suppression, but the creation of a cultural identity in a Hellenistic sense, which means a thorough Hellenization of the eastern peoples, something which Antiochus probably conceived of as a benefit. […] This measure 8 In German these words almost automatically evoke two famous lines from Friedrich Schiller’s ‘Der Spaziergang’ (1795) where he cites an epitaph commemorating the fallen warriors of the battle of Thermopylae with the words: ‘Wanderer, kommst du nach Sparta, verkündige dorten, du habest / Uns hier liegen gesehn, wie das Gesetz es befahl.’ (Schiller, Der Spaziergang, 97f.) Schiller here gives a free translation of the wellknown epitaph of Simonides of Ceos: Ὦ ξεῖν᾽, ἀγγέλλειν Λακεδαιμονίοις ὅτι τῇδε κείμεθα, τοῖς κείνων ῥήμασι πειθόμενοι, stressing the role of the law more explicitely than does the original. 9 From the viewpoint of cultural memory it is most interesting that 1 Macc. 12:21, 2 Macc. 5:9 hold that Spartans and Jews are blood relations. Klaus Bringmann, Hellenistische Reform und Religionsverfolgung in Judäa. Eine Untersuchung zur jüdisch-hellenistischen Geschichte (175–163 v. Chr.) (Abhandlungen der Akademie der Wissenschaften in Göttingen, Philologischhistorische Klasse 3, 132; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1983), 72, argues that the invention of a legend like this in maccabean times must be understood as a reaction to the pressure imposed by the Hellenistic culture and emphasized by the example of the Phoenicians who were supposed to be related to the Greeks. Kadmos the Sidonian was the legendary founder of Thebes and was said to have brought the script to the Greeks—a cultural memory which conserves at least some knowledge about the invention and spreading of script. The alleged kinship of Spartans and Jews tries to establish an analogy but is also plausible in some respects. For both ethnic groups the construction of identity relies very much on laws which were traced down to the mythical legislators Moses and Lykurg, and which in both cases have the effect of a certain isolation from the surrounding cultures.

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turned to violence only by the heroic resistance of Jehuda Maccabi. This resistance is the first religiously motivated war in history. It shows us the new religion in its political consequences. These people fought for the law, they fought for God.’ 10

Assmann sees martyrdom as well as armed resistance as a zealousness for the faith ‘in the sense of a religiously motivated, total rendering of one’s own life; the Arabic equivalent of course being dhihad.’11 The main problem with Assmann’s assertions lies in the fact that he relies almost exclusively on 1 Maccabees as if it were a historically reliable source. He, at the same time, underlines his intention of dealing with historical facts only. Apart from the points of criticism already mentioned it is therefore necessary to question his theses more fundamentally. I would like to discuss first those passages from the First and Second Books of the Maccabees respectively where the beginning of the resistance is described. As a next step I shall present a few aspects of recent historical scholarship and finally inquire into the hermeneutical consequences of these questions. 2. EXEGESIS 1 MACC. 2:19‒28.44 19 But Mattathias answered and said in a loud voice: ‘Even if all the nations that live under the rule of the king obey him, and have chosen to obey his commandments, everyone of them abandoning the religion of their ancestors, 20 I and my sons and my brothers will continue to live by the covenant of our ancestors. 21 Far be it from us (ἵλεως) to desert the law and the ordinances. 22 We will not obey the king’s words by turning aside from our religion to the right hand or to the left.’ 10 J. Assmann, Gottesbilder—Menschenbilder: anthropologische Konsequenzen des Monotheismus, 326. 11 J. Assmann, Gottesbilder—Menschenbilder: anthropologische Konsequenzen des Monotheismus, 328.

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23 When he had finished speaking these words, a Jew came forward in the sight of all to offer sacrifice on the altar in Modein, according to the king’s command. 24 When Mattathias saw it, he burned with zeal (ζηλόω) and his heart was stirred. He gave vent to anger (θυμόϛ) according the judgement;12 he ran and killed him on the altar. 25 At the same time he killed the king’s officer who was forcing them to sacrifice, and he tore down the altar. 26 Thus he burned with zeal (ζηλόω) for the law, just as Phinehas did against Zimri son of Salu. 27 Then Mattathias cried out in the town with a loud voice, saying: ‘Let everyone who is zealous (ζηλόω) for the law and supports the covenant come out with me!’ 28 Then he and his sons fled to the hills and left all that they had in the town. 44 They organized an army, and struck down sinners in their wrath (ὀργή) and renegades in their anger; 13 the survivors fled to the Gentiles for safety.14

The beginning of the fight according to 1 Macc. 2 is the action of Mattathias the father of the Hasmonean dynasty, who kills a renegade and a Seleucid officer. Here the fight is a completely human task. The keyword of the whole chapter is ‘to be zealous’ ζηλόω.15 The description of the guerrilla actions by Mattathias’ 12 τὸ κρίμα. The word is a common translation for ‫משפט‬, which might explain the somewhat unexpected phraseology. In any case both in the Greek version as probably in the Hebrew original the phrasing was more concrete than e.g. in the German ‘Einheitsübersetzung’ ‘... und ließ seinem gerechten Zorn freien Lauf’ or Karl-Dietrich Schunck, 1. Makkabäerbuch (Jüdische Schriften aus hellenistisch-römischer Zeit, 1, 4; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus, 1980), 305: ‘zu Recht....’ The whole verse is informed by a construction clearly imitating Hebrew syntax. 13 Behind the parallelism there might be some sort of imitatio dei as in Jes 13:9 LXX. 14 Quotations from the Bible follow the New Revised Standard Version with small corrections. 15 1 Macc. 2:24.26.27.50.54.58 cf. Num. 25:11, 13 LXX; apart from that, within Maccabees only in 2 Macc. 4:16 within a completely different

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men, ‘and they struck down sinners in their wrath’ (v. 44), uses ὀργή, a word employed in 1 Macc. 1‒3 exclusively for the divine wrath. About Judas it is said further along in the text: He went through the cities of Judah; he destroyed the ungodly out of the land; thus he turned away wrath from Israel. (1 Macc. 3:8)

The priest Phineas serves as a model for zealotry in Num. 25. The historical model constructed here may be characterized as follows: In the seemingly hopeless situation of well deserved divine wrath (1 Macc. 1:64) it is only (!) Mattathias and his sons (cf. 1 Macc. 5:55‒62) who, like the priest Phineas with their revolt attain a bloody atonement. To them and their dynasty therefore not only is due a charismatically gained political leadership, but also in reference to Phineas the permanent possession of the office of the High Priest. It is obvious that this line of argument is primarily intent on justifying Maccabean power. This observation has implications on the reception of a book like 1 Maccabees which is so deeply rooted in a certain historical situation that it can only be transferred into a different context within very restricted limitations. 2 MACC. 8:1‒7 1 Meanwhile Judas, who was also called Maccabeus, and his companions secretly entered the villages and summoned their kindred and enlisted those who had continued in the Jewish faith, and so they gathered about six thousand. 2 They implored the Lord to look upon the people who were oppressed by all;

context. Similarly ζῆλον, which appears only in 1 Macc. 2:54.58 and in a different context in 1 Macc. 8:16. θυμῷ stands for uncontrollable wrath on the Seleucid side resp. that of the traitors (1 Macc. 3:27; 7:35²; 9:69; 15:36; 2 Macc. 4:25.38; 9:4.7; 10:28; 13:4) and much more seldom for the Jewish battle spirit (1 Macc. 2:24.44; 2 Macc. 7:21; 10:35²; 14:45; 15:10); differently: 1 Macc. 2:49. Ὀργή repeatedly denotes the divine wrath as the theological interpretation of the predicament depicted (1 Macc. 1:64; 2:49; 3:8; 2 Macc. 5:20; 7:38; 8:5); more seldom also human wrath with regard to the enemies (1 Macc. 15:36; 2 Macc. 4:25) or the Jews (1 Macc. 2:44; 2 Macc. 4:40).

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and to have pity on the temple that had been profaned by the godless; 3 to have mercy on the city that was being destroyed and about to be leveled to the ground; to hearken to the blood that cried out to him; 4 to remember also the lawless destruction of the innocent babies and the blasphemies committed against his name; and to show his hatred of evil. 5 As soon as Maccabeus got his army organized, the Gentiles could not withstand him, for the wrath of the Lord had turned to mercy. 6 Coming without warning, he would set fire to towns and villages. He captured strategic positions and put to flight not a few of the enemy. 7 He found the nights most advantageous for such attacks. And talk of his valor spread everywhere.

The paragraph quoted is the beginning of the narrative of Judas’ actions. The prayer represents a text of reflection with similar functions as the speeches and metatexts of the books of Samuel and Kings. The text may be interpreted from its position in its immediate context. Within the action narrated it connects with 2 Macc. 5:27, the first mention of Judas. In between, in chapters 6 and 7, there are a series of martyr stories. Through this, the allusion to the spilt blood of the innocent in v. 3 f. is firmly rooted in the events narrated before. The deaths of the martyrs thus obtain significance for the whole of Israel. After they have been accomplished, God again turns mercifully towards his people.16 Clearly in the concept of 2 Maccabees, the fight does not have any atoning function, and there is no parallel to the narrative about Mattathias in 1 Maccabees 2. In comparison to 1 Maccabees there is, furthermore, a strongly Cf. Daniel R. Schwartz, 2 Maccabees (CEJL; Berlin: de Gruyter, 2008), 323: ‘ Thus the chapter [i.e. chapter 8] begins to reap the benefit of the previous two: after the blood of martyrs caused God’s wrath to turn to mercy (8:5), it is clear that the normal covenantal relationship is restored, according to which the devout Jews are protected by their all-powerful ruler, no matter how bad the odds.’ 16

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marked theocentrism. God himself is the agent of the revolt, who again turns towards his people using Judas as a tool. These examples from the books of Maccabees thus show that the features which for Assmann characterize the Maccabean revolt as a war motivated by monotheism can be traced back to be in line with the literary concepts of the first or the second book respectively. They belong to two different interpretations of the events which have quite different agendas. We have to ask therefore if we can speak of the Maccabean revolt as a religiously motivated war in terms of historical evidence. HISTORICAL CONSIDERATIONS Othmar Keel has shown convincingly that the Temple of Jerusalem was defiled but probably not dedicated to Ba’al Shamem; an idol was probably not placed there. The so-called ‘abomination that makes desolate’ (‫ )ׁשקוץ ]מ[ׁשמם‬of the Book of Daniel (Dan. 9:27; 11:31; 12:11; cf. 1 Macc. 1:54) probably consisted of the sacrifice of pigs which were slaughtered on an elevation on the altar of burnt offerings.17 Altars and sacrifices outside of Jerusalem, as presupposed in the episode of Mattathias in 1 Macc. 2, cannot be supported by any other independent source. Therefore with its reference to Phineas the text is rather a foundation legend of the Hasmonean dynasty built freely out of several basic elements. 17 Cf. Othmar Keel, ‘Die kultischen Massnahmen Antiochus' IV. Religionsverfolgung und/oder Reformversuch? Eine Skizze,’ in O. Keel/ U. Staub (Eds.), Hellenismus und Judentum. Vier Studien zu Daniel 7 und zur Religionsnot unter Antiochus IV (OBO, 178; Freiburg, Schweiz: Universitätsverlag, 2000), 87–121 and Othmar Keel, Die Geschichte Jerusalems und die Entstehung des Monotheismus (Orte und Landschaften der Bibel, 4, 1; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007), 1186–1211; Schwartz, 2 Maccabees, 274 emphasizes that 2 Maccabees 6 knows of three elements of the religious persecution: ‘defilement of the Temple (vv. 2–5), prohibition of the practice of Jewish law (vv. 1, 6, illustrated in vv. 10–11), and enforced worship of Dionysus (v. 7).’ Whereas the historical reality of the first and second is beyond doubt the third element the worship of a foreign god for Schwartz ‘might be no more than the contribution of a hyperactive imagination familiar with the Ptolemaic world’ (ibid.); for the ‘classical’ position cf. Erich Zenger et al., Einleitung in das Alte Testament (6. ed.; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2006), 512f. (Niehr).

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In the beginning, armed resistance certainly also had religious motives, but political and social reasons even then played their role.18 We should not underestimate, however, that our sources (for various reasons) are keen to narrate the events as religiously motivated. This is especially true for the author of 1 Maccabees who wanted to claim that the rule of the Hasmonean dynasty was not only based on prowess in arms and that the war was a righteous one but that from the beginning Mattatias and Judas pursued religious goals thus qualifying them to become High Priest. The following events are well known. After conflict had continued for some time Jonathan managed to be installed as High Priest during the struggle for the throne between Demetrius Soter and Alexander Balas in 153. Simon finally was able to conquer the Acra and to obtain a quite far reaching independence. In terms of historical evidence we are therefore facing a ‘religiously motivated war’ only insofar as it was a reaction to religious persecution. The Maccabean decision to fight even on the Sabbath expressly does not point to a fundamentalist interpretation of the Torah but presupposes a genuine exegetical effort. Individually, the anti-Seleucid circles had different aims. Those most closely adhering to the Torah, who were probably responsible for the Book of Daniel, seemed to favor passive resistance, hope for a resurrection of their martyrs, and to regard the Maccabeans’ armed resistance only as a ‘small help’ (Dan. 11:34). The ensuing hint at hypocritical coalitions is also bound to denounce the Maccabeans and to doubt the integrity of their religious motives. To judge the connection between religion and violence one has therefore to inquire much more closely into the groups involved and their motives and aims than Assmann is ready to do. Cf. K. Bringmann, Hellenistische Reform und Religionsverfolgung in Judäa. Eine Untersuchung zur jüdisch-hellenistischen Geschichte (175‒163 v. Chr.), 64: ‘Der Religionskrieg, der von Anfang an auch Züge einer sozialen Erhebung getragen hatte, schlug so in einen Krieg um, in dem für soziale und politische Ziele gekämpft wurde. Die Tatsache, daß Antiochos IV. in der Religionsfrage nachgab, konnte die Folgen seiner verfehlten Politik nicht aus der Welt schaffen. Schon im Jahre 164 v. Chr. ging es den Makkabäern um die Stärkung ihrer eigenen Stellung sowie um die Gewinnung der Selbständigkeit, und in Judäa gab es Kräfte, die sie zu unterstützen bereit waren.’ 18

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Historically, martyrdom as well as counter-violence were both forms of resistance against religious persecution, but they were favored by quite distinct groups. This distinction becomes obvious in the different circles responsible for our sources and should not be overlooked. HERMENEUTICS Returning to my principal question, it must be said that the Maccabean revolt was a religiously interpreted war—like many or all wars in pre-modern times—and that it was religiously motivated only in the beginning in one respect or other. It is not tenable that the sacrifice of life for the law or the use of violence to protect one’s own religious identity is characteristic for monotheists and appeared here for the first time in history. But what are the consequences of these ideas for the concept of cultural memory and biblical hermeneutics in the case of the Maccabean conflict? 1. Assmann, with his statement of an enactment of holy writ like a film script, presupposes biblical hermeneutics for monotheistic religions which would indeed be fundamentalist. His examples from the Maccabean revolt chosen as historical proof have been shown to be invalid. For Jews and Christians alike the picture drawn by him does not in any way do justice to any biblical hermeneutics, because the element of exegesis within the canonical context always has to be taken into account. An example of this exegesis even in 1 Maccabees is the episode of 1 Macc. 2:29‒41 where Mattathias and his men decide to put life over the Sabbath and to fight on a Sabbath in defense. 2. The texts treated here have shown that in the books of Maccabees a reception of holy writ may be observed on different levels and with different aims. In 1 Macc. the main aim is the legitimatization of power. 2 Maccabees on the other hand is much more theological. Temple and people are seen as a sort of community of fate in the face of God. The continuity with regard to the protocanonical texts is here grounded in God as the creator and almighty ruler, who finally again shows his mercy towards his people and the temple.

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3. As deuterocanonical texts the Books of Maccabees are now themselves part of the Bible. Especially because of the acts of the martyrs they were considered important by the early Church. There remains the question however of how those parts especially of 1 Macc. which have been identified as problematical may be received into Christian teaching. The dimensions of the problem can be exemplified by recent scholarship on the crusades.19 It has been shown that crusade propaganda used the concept of the Holy Land having been religiously polluted by heathens that could only be cleansed again by the shedding of their blood. This concept can be traced back to 1 Maccabees and many quotations from the books of Maccabees found in the medieval sources underline this link. As in 1 Maccabees the concept serves to legitimize bloodshed in papal reasoning, and there are even more complex motives and constellations in the books of Maccabees that were employed by Christians as a paradigm for violence serving their own aims claiming that they were aims of religion. Furthermore it becomes quite clear that the violence exercised by Mattathias or Judas in the books of Maccabees can hardly be labeled as an expression of monotheism as such or as guided by the mere repetition of canonical texts. What we find instead are literary constructions that interpret the situation of the Maccabean revolt in order to legitimize the Hasmonean dynasty religiously as well as politically in 1 Maccabees. and to tell a story about sin, atonement and salvation in the face of the almighty God in 2 Maccabees respectively. When reference is made to older canonical texts it is done in a sophisticated way to strengthen the argument. With respect to Assmann’s concept of cultural memory there is an even more systematic observation which sheds light on how he is dealing with the kind of cultural memory present in the bible. 19 Cf. Arnold Angenendt, ‘Die Kreuzzüge: Aufruf zum “gerechten” oder zum “heiligen” Krieg?’ in Andreas Holzem (ed.), Krieg und Christentum. Religiöse Gewalttheotien in der Kriegserfahrung des Westens (Krieg in der Geschichte, 50; Paderborn: Schöningh, 2009), 341–67; Penny Cole, ‘ “O God, the Heathen have come into your Inheritance” (Ps. 78.1). The Theme of Religious Pollution in Crusade Documents, 1095–1188,’ in Maya Shatzmiller (ed.), Crusaders and Muslims in Twelfth-Century Syria (The Medieval Mediterranean, 1; Leiden: Brill, 1993), 84–111.

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In the last chapter of ‘Das kulturelle Gedächtnis’ he introduces the concept of ‘Hypolepse’ as the way in which Greek philosophy deals with its texts.20 In a hypoleptical process (for instance at the Platonic academy or the Aristotelian peripatos) one author refers to an older text and variegates it at the same time by criticism or simply by adding his own argument. Assmann differentiates very clearly between this and the other principles to refer to an older text as canonical or classical. The latter are characterized by repetition whereas ‘Hypolepse’ is a principle of variation.21 What we have found in the books of Maccabees is a rather creative way of exegesis of older canonical texts. If we do not read 1 Maccabees as a witness report (what it by no means is) but as a piece of literature or propaganda we will have to acknowledge that it refers for example to Numbers 25 as to the starting point of an argument. The canonical history is not perceived as closed but one’s own story is part of it. Biblical events are the horizon in which present incidents can be interpreted and from which the claim of power for one’s own dynasty can be deduced in a process of appropriation and variation according to the present requirements. This process is quite close to Assmann’s idea of ‘Hypolepse.’ It shows that Biblical interpretation is, from its beginning, much more than simple repetition. My overall message is rather inconvenient: there is no easy way to distinguish between violent and peaceful religions or other forms of cultural identity. There is even no easy way to prevent people from trying to legitimate violence by interpreting the bible. It is our duty as professional exegetes and theologians to show in every single case that those interpretations are misguided.

Cf. Jan Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis. Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen (2. ed.; München: Beck, 1997), 280– 92. 21 According to Assmann, religions can be classified as ‘cultic’ or ‘textual’ by the same differentiation of repetition and variation. This classification is already close to his differentiation between primary and secondary religions in Die mosaische Unterscheidung. 20

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Angenendt, A. 2009 ‘Die Kreuzzüge: Aufruf zum “gerechten” oder zum “heiligen” Krieg?’ in Andreas Holzem (ed.), Krieg und Christentum. Religiöse Gewalttheotien in der Kriegserfahrung des Westens (Krieg in der Geschichte, 50; Paderborn, Schöningh), 341–67. Assmann, J. 1990 Assmann, J. 1997

Assmann, J. 1997

Assmann, J. 2003 Assmann, J. 2005

Assmann, J. 2006

Ma’at. Gerechtigkeit und Unsterblichkeit im Alten Ägypten (München: Beck). Das kulturelle Gedächtnis. Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen (2nd ed.; München: Beck). Moses the Egyptian. The Memory of Egypt in Western Monotheism (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1997). German edition: Moses der Ägypter. Entzifferung einer Gedächtnisspur (München, 1998; paperback Frankfurt: Fischer Verlag, 2000). Die mosaische Unterscheidung oder der Preis des Monotheismus (Edition Akzente; München: Carl Hanser). ‘Monotheismus und die Sprache der Gewalt,’ in P. Walter (ed.), Das Gewaltpotential des Monotheismus und der dreieine Gott (Quaestiones disputatae, 216; Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder), 18–38. ‘Gottesbilder—Menschenbilder: anthropologische Konsequenzen des Monotheismus,’ in Reinhard Gregor Kratz and Hermann Spieckermann (eds.), Götterbilder, Gottesbilder, Weltbilder. Polytheismus und Monotheismus in der Welt der Antike. Band II: Griechenland und Rom, Judentum, Christentum und Islam (FAT, 2/18; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck), 313–329.

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Bringmann, K. 1983 Hellenistische Reform und Religionsverfolgung in Judäa. Eine Untersuchung zur jüdisch-hellenistischen Geschichte (175‒163 v. Chr.) (Abhandlungen der Akademie der Wissenschaften in Göttingen, Philologischhistorische Klasse 3, 132; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht). Cole, P. 1993

Diesel, A. A. 2006

Haag, E. 2003

Keel, O. 2000

Keel, O. 2007

‘“O God, the Heathen have come into your Inheritance” (Ps. 78.1). The Theme of Religious Pollution in Crusade Documents, 1095–1188,’ in Maya Shatzmiller (ed.), Crusaders and Muslims in Twelfth-Century Syria (The Medieval Mediterranean, 1; Leiden: Brill), 84–111. ‘Primäre und sekundäre Religion(serfahrung)—das Konzept von Th. Sundermeier und J. Assmann,’ in Andreas Wagner (ed.), Primäre und sekundäre Religion als Kategorie der Religionsgeschichte des Alten Testaments (BZAW, 364; Berlin: de Gruyter), 23–37. Das hellenistische Zeitalter. Israel und die Bibel im 4. bis 1. Jahrhundert v. Chr (Biblische Enzyklopädie, 9; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer). ‘Die kultischen Massnahmen Antiochus’ IV. Religionsverfolgung und/oder Reformversuch? Eine Skizze,’ in O. Keel and U. Staub (eds.), Hellenismus und Judentum. Vier Studien zu Daniel 7 und zur Religionsnot unter Antiochus IV (OBO, 178; Freiburg, Schweiz: Universitätsverlag), 87–121. Die Geschichte Jerusalems und die Entstehung des Monotheismus (Orte und Landschaften der Bibel, 4/1; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht).

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Maier, J. 1990

Menke, K.-H. 2005

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Der Untergang des Makedonischen Reiches. Römische Geschichte, Buch 39‒45. Eingeleitet, übersetzt und erläutert von Hans Jürgen Hillen (Die Bibliothek der Alten Welt. Römische Reihe; Zürich: Artemis & Winckler). Zwischen den Testamenten. Geschichte und Religion in der Zeit des Zweiten Tempels (NEB Ergänzungsband zum Alten Testament, 3; Würzburg: Echter Verlag). ‘Anmerkungen zu Magnus Striets “Monotheismus und Schöpfungsdifferenz. Eine trinitätstheologische Erkundung”,’ in P. Walter (ed.), Das Gewaltpotential des Monotheismus und der dreieine Gott (Quaestiones disputatae, 216; Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder), 154–165.

Schunck, K.-D. 1980 1. Makkabäerbuch (JSHRZ, 1/4; Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus). Schwartz, D. R. 2008 2 Maccabees (CEJL; Berlin: de Gruyter). Zenger, E. et al., 2006 Einleitung in das Alte Testament (6th ed.; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer).

MEMORIES OF THE VEIL: THE COVENANTAL CONTRASTS IN CHRISTIAN-JEWISH ENCOUNTER EMMANUEL NATHAN In his Many Religions—One Covenant, Joseph Ratzinger (now of course Pope Benedict XVI) remarked: ‘The strict antithesis between the two Covenants, the Old and the New, that Paul develops in 2 Corinthians 3 has fundamentally marked Christian thought ever since.’1 In this contribution I shall examine the checkered history of that particular Pauline passage within Christian-Jewish encounter. The contrast between old and new covenant in 2 Corinthians 3 has regrettably re-engraved itself onto stained glass and sculptures depicting a victorious Ecclesia set against her blindfolded Synagoga counterpart. Employing insights from social and cultural memory theory on the embedding of memories in art and rituals, I shall explore what I am terming ‘memories of the veil.’ I divide my contribution into three sections: (1) the covenantal contrasts of 2 Corinthians 3, (2) the veil motif in art, and (3) Catholic liturgical expressions of the veil, specifically in the Good Friday Prayer for the Jews. 1. THE COVENANTAL CONTRASTS OF 2 CORINTHIANS 3 2 Corinthians 3 describes a series of stark contrasts: letter and spirit (v.6), what ‘kills’ against what ‘gives life’ (v.6), and a new covenant (v.6) versus the old covenant (v.14). 1 Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, Many Religions – One Covenant: Israel, the Church and the World, transl. Graham Harrison (San Francisco: Ignatius, 1999), 54.

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Table 1: The contrasts in 2 Corinthians 3 (+ve) spirit of the living God (v.3) tablets of human hearts (v.3) new covenant (v.6) Spirit (v.6) The spirit gives life (v.6) the ministry of the Spirit (v.8) the ministry of righteousness/ justification (v.9) the greater glory (v.10) the permanent (v.11) we act with great boldness (v.12) only in Christ is it [= the veil] set aside (v.14)

(-ve) Ink (v. 3) tablets of stone (v.3) old covenant (v.14) Letter (v.6) The letter kills (v. 6) the ministry of death (v.7) chiseled in letters on stone tablets the ministry of condemnation (v.9) what once had glory (v.10) has lost its glory what was set aside (v.11) not like Moses (v.13) who put a veil over his face To this very day a veil (v.15) lies over their minds

These contrasts have been understood in different ways, but what is generally agreed to be at stake is Paul’s apology for his apostolic ministry to the Corinthians coupled with his polemics against opponents who, in Paul’s words, are mere ‘peddlers of God’s word’ (2:17) and rely on their letters of recommendation (3:1). The identity of these opponents remains an issue of academic debate. Of interest to me in this contribution is Paul’s introduction of Moses, the glory on his face, and the veil in 2 Cor. 3:7–18.

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Table 2: 2 Corinthians 3:7–18 (NRSV)

7 Now if the ministry of death, chiseled in letters on stone tablets, came in glory so that the people of Israel could not gaze at Moses’ face because of the glory of his face, a glory now set aside, 8 how much more will the ministry of the Spirit come in glory? 9 For if there was glory in the ministry of condemnation, much more does the ministry of justification abound in glory! 10 Indeed, what once had glory has lost its glory because of the greater glory; 11 for if what was set aside came through glory, much more has the permanent come in glory! 12 Since, then, we have such a hope, we act with great boldness, 13 not like Moses, who put a veil over his face to keep the people of Israel from gazing at the end of the glory of what was being set aside. 14 But their minds were hardened. Indeed, to this very day, when they hear the reading of the old covenant, that same veil is still there, since only in Christ is it set aside. 15 Indeed, to this very day whenever Moses is read, a veil lies over their minds; 16 but when one turns to the Lord, the veil is removed. 17 Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. 18 And all of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another; for this comes from the Lord, the Spirit.

Linda Belleville has correctly pointed out that Paul modifies the original Exodus narrative he is drawing upon. The Exodus narrative does not (a) mention the glory on Moses’ face fading, (b) suggest that the Israelites were unable to look at Moses’ face, (c) link the putting on of the veil to their inability to gaze at Moses, or (d) provide a motive for the veiling. Belleville also goes on to isolate six Pauline ‘innovations’ to the Exodus narrative: (1) Paul alone sees the waning of Moses’ glory as implying the same for the old/Mosaic covenant, (2) he is the only one to suggest that the veil prevents the Israelites from seeing that the glory is ending, (3) thus

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Moses’ action displays a lack of openness, (4) Paul synchronizes the veiling in Moses’ time with the veiling of the old covenant in Paul’s time, (5) thus imputing dulled perceptions and veiled minds to Paul’s contemporaries who still ‘read Moses’ since, (6) it is the spirit who unveils and sets free.2 Applying social memory theory to this passage, I would argue that Paul was engaged in constructing a counter-memory of Moses. This is in line with Philip Esler’s work on Paul’s contestation of Abraham in Galatians. In the case of 2 Corinthians 3 I maintain a similar contestation of mnemonic tradition, this time surrounding the glory of Moses, in which Paul deliberately modifies memories of Moses in light of the local exigencies he is faced with at Corinth. One of these exigencies is the dispute with opponents who seem to be stealing his community from him. In a social scientific study of the discursive strategy behind Paul’s use of the term ‘new covenant,’ Thomas Blanton has analyzed what he terms the ‘Pauline redeployment of the motif of Moses’ veil.’ In Blanton’s view Paul is attempting to delegitimize the ideology and praxis of his rivals who preached that under the new covenant the spirit enables perfect observance of the law. But rather than attack his opponents head-on he undermines their ideology of the primacy of the Mosaic law. By way of an exegetical inversion Paul constructs a discourse that transposes the charges against him of falsifying God’s word and preaching a veiled gospel (cf. 2 Cor. 4:2–3) onto Moses instead and, by extension, onto the opponents advocating Torah observance. Blanton points out the irony of a Paul who defends himself against the charge of falsifying the word of God by exegeting a meaning from the Exodus text that runs exactly counter to its plain sense. But that is precisely because Paul’s discourse is aimed at legitimizing his own ideology over against a position that he construes as inimical in the process. It echoes an argument by Philip Esler that what is at stake in such cases is not really a theological argument but rather who has the

2 Linda L. Belleville, ‘Tradition or Creation? Paul’s Use of the Exodus 34 Tradition in 2 Corinthians 3:7-18,’ Paul and the Scriptures of Israel, ed. Craig A. Evans and J.A. Sanders (Journal for the Study of the New Testament Suppplement 83; Sheffield: JSOT, 1993), 165-86, 185.

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most persuasive way of interpreting scripture for the purposes of serving group identity.3 Blanton advances a hypothesis on the social situation at Corinth: ‘Paul’s narrative in 3:7–18 thus represents the mystification, that is, the presentation in the form of a theological narrative, of the physical and ideological translocation that Paul himself had encouraged the Corinthian Christians to enact, the movement from synagogue preaching to the Pauline gospel.’4 The statements on ‘they with veiled minds who read Moses to this day’ against ‘we with unveiled face reflecting the glory of the Lord in freedom’ mirrors the physical movement out of the synagogue into the house-church that Paul’s Corinthian community undergoes. Paul’s narrative is one in which Moses as representative of the law is superseded by Christ. Blanton’s findings provide for a possible wider sociological context within which to read Paul’s use of Moses in 2 Cor. 3:7–18 as constructing a counter-memory for in-group purposes. To summarize, then, Paul’s counter-memory constructs Moses’ veil into an obstruction to sight, knowledge and freedom. It turns into a ‘veil of blindness’ lying upon contemporary Israel. From a social memory perspective, we see here how Paul’s present provides the setting for him to reframe the past. At the same time, he is relying upon that past to foster identity construction in the present. This dual movement, especially engendered by an individual, touches upon a serious challenge to studies in memory—the issue of memory distortion.5 I find helpful in this regard an observation from Anthony Le Donne on theological memory distortion: ‘If a particular individual memory is not rendered plausibly in social

Philip F. Esler, ‘Paul’s Contestation of Israel’s (Ethnic) Memory of Abraham in Galatians 3,’ Biblical Theology Bulletin 36/1 (2006), 23-34, 30. 4 Thomas R. Blanton IV, Constructing a New Covenant: Discursive Strategies in the Damascus Document and Second Corinthians (Wissentschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament, II/233; Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 228. 5 See the collected essays in Daniel L. Schacter (ed.), Memory Distortion. How Minds, Brains and Societies Reconstruct the Past (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University, 1995). 3

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dialogue, it will be corrected and in some cases rejected.’6 In other words, an individual memory needs to negotiate its entry into collective memory. In my next section I shall explore this interaction through the depiction of Moses’ veil in Christian art. 2. THE VEIL MOTIF IN ART Wolfgang Seiferth in his Synagoge und Kirche im Mittelalter7 has done much to show a connection between the veil of blindness in 2 Corinthians 3 and the blindfolded Synagoga in medieval art and sculpture. The most famous example of the blindfolded synagogue is perhaps the one at Strasbourg Cathedral (ca. 1230) with her counterpart of Ecclesia looking on victoriously. Figure 1: Ecclesia and Synagoga, Strasbourg Cathedral

6 Anthony Le Donne, ‘T heological Memory Distortion in the Jesus Tradition: A Study in Social Memory Theory,’ Memory in the Bible and Antiquity: The Fifth Durham-Tübingen Research Symposium (Durham, September 2004), ed. Stephen C. Barton et al. (WUNT, I/212 Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2007), 163-177, 160. 7 Wolfgang Seiferth, Synagoge und Kirche im Mittelalter (München: Kösel, 1964). English: Synagogue and Church in the Middle Ages, transl. Lee Chadeayne and Paul Gottwald (New York: Frederick Ungar, 1970).

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The connection of the Synagoga to Paul’s exegesis has also been confirmed by biblical scholars such as Peter von der Osten Sacken and Gerhard Dautzenberg. Von der Osten Sacken calls attention to how the Pauline antithesis between letter and spirit becomes the ‘Verstehenshorizont für alles Folgende’ and speaks of ‘der Zusammenhang zwischen paulinischen Text und mittelalterlicher Skulptur.’ 8 Dautzenberg calls 2 Cor. 3:15, where Paul speaks of a veil lying over his Jewish contemporaries’ minds, as ‘der biblische Ausgangspunkt für das mittelalterliche Bild der durch eine Bind auf den Augen am Sehen gehinderten, blinden Synagogoge.’9 Returning to Seiferth, he argued that there was a gradual unveiling of Moses and Synagoga in history: ‘In the window of Suger in the abbey church of St. Denis [12th Century], Moses stands with veiled head while Christ, beside him, lifts the veil. Claus Sluter [ca. 1405] shows the veil drawn far back on his enormous bust of Moses. Finally, the Moses of Michaelangelo [1515] is unveiled: the divine truth can be seen in his face… This was the final and decisive paraphrase of the veil of Synagoga, at a time when she herself had disappeared from art.’10 As it stands, Seiferth’s argument, if correct, clearly illustrates the ‘correction’ that Paul’s individual memory of the veil undergoes when rendered into social dialogue. But there is something a little too linear and evolutionary about Seiferth’s concise presentation that requires we probe the matter a bit further.

8 Peter von der Osten-Sacken,‘Die Decke des Mose. Zur Exegese und Hermeneutik von Geist und Buchstabe in 2. Korinther 3,’ in Die Heiligkeit der Tora. Studien zum Gesetz bei Paulus (München: Chr. Kaiser, 1989), 87-115, here pp. 87-88. 9 Gerhard Dautzenberg, ‘Alter und neuer Bund nach 2Kor 3,’ in ‘Nun steht aber diese Sache im Evangelium ...,’ in Rainer Kampling (ed.), Zur Frage nach den Anfängen des christlichen Antijudaismus (Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 1999), 229-49, here 243. 10 Seiferth, Synagogue and Church, 31.

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Figure 2–4: Suger, Sluter and Michaelangelo on Moses

It should be pointed out that depictions of the veiled Moses and blindfolded Synagoga are not directly related to each other even though they both start around the 9th Century. Nonetheless, they do share a close and frequent ‘association’ between them such that

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by the 15th Century their roles were sometimes interchanged.11 Next, even though the allusion to 2 Corinthians is clear in the St.Denis window of Christ removing the veil from Moses, it must be noted that it is a 19th Century reconstruction based on a drawing and Abbot Suger’s own mention regarding its manufacture. The original window was either destroyed or lost in 1799. As for Claus Sluter’s Well of Moses, it is impossible to tell whether Moses’ head covering actually alludes to the veil, even though of the six prophets around the fountain only Moses has such a head covering.12 In his analysis of Moses’ veil in the bible, tradition, and Christian art,13 Brian Britt argued that Seiferth’s evolutionary scheme is reductive in suggesting that the veiled Moses transposed into the image of the veiled Synagogue. Statistically, the veil’s depiction pales against the frequency of either the blindfolded Synagoga or the horned Moses.14 Britt’s research uncovered a mere eight images in the history of art showing Moses veiled and of these only seven were from Christian art (the eighth was an illustration from a contemporary Jewish children’s bible book). It was thus a comparatively rare scene. First of all, there was a practical consideration: in order for the audience to ‘recognize’ Moses, his face could not be completely veiled. But, more importantly, the fact was that Paul’s exegesis of the Exodus story introduced ambivalence towards Moses, such that Christian art was caught between illustrating the Exodus account or Paul’s counter-exegesis of that narrative. This resulted in the personality of Moses being divided between the 11 Ruth Melinkoff, The Horned Moses in Medieval Art and Thought (California Studies in the History of Art, 14; Berkeley: University of California, 1970), 126-27; Brian Britt, Rewriting Moses. The Narrative Eclipse of the Text (JSOTSup, 402; London: T&T Clark, 2004), 101. 12 So Britt, Rewriting Moses, 109. 13 Britt, Rewriting Moses, 82-115: ‘Concealment, Revelation, and Gender: The Veil of Moses in the Bible and in Christian Art.’ 14 The ‘horned Moses’ traces itself back to Jerome’s translation of cornuta esset for the shining of Moses’ face in Exod. 34:29-35, purportedly based on Aquila’s rendition of kekaratōto. The artistic motif of the horned Moses, based on this Vulgate translation, seems to have originated in 11th Century Britain and quickly became popular. See Melinkoff, The Horned Moses, 13-17, 61-75 and also William H. Propp, ‘ The Skin of Moses’ Face —Transfigured or Disfigured?’ CBQ 49 (1987), 375, n. 1.

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Synagoga, who reflected the Christian feminization, denigration and supersession of Judaism, and the horned Moses, the maleness of which imagery indicated the continuing cultural and religious respect for Moses’ prophetic stature in relation to the apostle Paul and his typological foreshadowing of Christ.15 Examining the seven Christian images of a veiled Moses more closely, only two of them clearly rely on the antithesis in 2 Corinthians 3. These are from the Vivian Bible (9th C., the earliest recorded image) and the anagogical window at St-Denis (12th C. with the problems of reconstruction already mentioned). The Vivian Bible image contrasts Moses with the Book of Revelation in a hierarchical order. It relies on the Pauline theme of veiling and unveiling as well as the notion of the old being superseded by the new. Yet despite this, Moses is depicted as already unveiled and sits as if enthroned. Britt suggests that the rendering of Moses’ veil in art is less theologically stable than the Pauline text and also implies that the Exodus narrative is stronger than Paul’s exegesis. The same holds true for Abbot Suger’s window. The allusion to 2 Cor. 3 is clear: Moses is being unveiled by Christ, the caption reads ‘What Moses veils the doctrine of Christ unveils,’ and the image above it shows the mystic mill of Paul, where the grain of the old covenant is ground into the new. Yet the image of the veil here does not project the same kind of supersessionist or hierarchical relationship between Jesus and Moses that 2 Cor. 3 offers. In the window they appear to be of equal stature. Jesus’ gesture can even be interpreted as an act of respect, or as a groom unveiling a bride. Thus the image becomes open-ended beyond the original polemical and rhetorical context of 2 Corinthians 3. Britt points out that the people of Israel, who are the ones reputedly veiled, are not even depicted in the window. He suggests that the medium of art, because of its potential to generate a surplus of meanings, allows the image to transcend the negative associations of the text itself. In this sense, ‘art can serve a ‘corrective’ function in a tradition.’16 Britt’s analysis adds careful nuance to Seiferth’s own study of the Synagoga and lends further support to the statement that social Britt, Rewriting Moses, 101, 111. Britt, Rewriting Moses, 114, paraphrasing Margaret Miles in Image as Insight, 1985. 15 16

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dialogue (in this case the rendering in art) can offer a corrective to an individual memory (Paul’s), if this is not judged to be plausible. As we have seen, on many levels—practical, cultural, and religious—the Exodus narrative of Moses’ glory has proven stronger than Paul’s counter-exegesis of the fading glory and obstructing veil. Yet, Paul’s portrayal of the veil does not disappear from collective memory. Just to give one example from my own university town: between 1962 and 1968 the American College for seminarians studying at Leuven installed a series of stained glass windows. At the bottom pane of one of them sits a blindfolded Synagoga on broken stone tablets of the Ten Commandments, and while it passes relatively unnoticed (one has to look carefully to find it), it is still noteworthy that a Catholic seminary chose to install it in the wake of the Second Vatican Council, an ecumenical council that had witnessed the Roman Catholic Church promulgate Nostra aetate, its Declaration on the Relation of the Church with Non-Christian Religions, marking a move away from triumphalist theology. To be fair, the board of bishops and rector of the college left much of the artistic license to the Flemish stained glass artist Roger Daniels but it still shows that the collective memory of the blindfold/veil continued to persist in Catholic mindsets, despite sweeping ecumenical gestures from the hierarchy.

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Figure 5: The blindfolded Synagoga stained glass window at the American College in Leuven

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That collective memory has been impacted by other, more subtle, considerations. Britt himself has pointed out that Moses’ partial veiling, while serving a practical purpose of allowing him to be recognizable to the audience, also carries a more implicit Pauline understanding: the Israelites depicted are unable to see what the Christian onlooker can see: ‘in the spirit of Paul’s reading of Exo-

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dus 34, the veil of Moses is not needed by Christians.’17 Secondly, the unveiling motif carries over from the 17th Century onwards into images of Nature, in the guise of a Greek goddess, being unveiled by the female figure of Science.18 Thirdly, even if the majesty of a horned Moses wins out over a veiled Moses, it must be pointed out that the image of a Moses with horns is not without ambivalence. Ruth Melinkoff, in her survey of The Horned Moses in Medieval Art and Thought, has argued that the horns carry an ambiguity.19 They are not simply interpreted as horns of honor. Common folk would easily have confused these horns for the Devil’s horns, and Moses’ representative status in relation to Judaism, Torah and the Jewish people would have interacted with the negative representation of Jews in Christian art.20 I would therefore like to suggest that the persistence of the negative memory of the veil carries a dynamic similar to a myth, in the sense employed by Paul Connerton in How Societies Remember. In contrasting myths and rituals, Connerton points out that myths distinguish themselves from rituals by their ability to display greater variation and capacity to transform. This guarantees their longevity: The symbolic material of such myths does not have the invariance and inertia of something already presignified and formalized. On the contrary, it constitutes something more like a reservoir of meanings which is available for possible use again in other structures. The mythic material contains a range of potential meanings significantly in excess of their use and function in any particular arrangement, any single dramatic structure.21

The ability of a myth, highlighted by Connerton, to continually resurrect itself and transcend its original structures, indicates that

Britt, Rewriting Moses, 110. Britt, Rewriting Moses, 112. 19 Melinkoff, The Horned Moses, 121-37. 20 See also Heinz Schreckenberg, Die Juden in der Kunst Europas. Ein historischer Bildatlas (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht; Freiburg: Herder, 1996). 21 Paul Connerton, How Societies Remember (Cambridge: Cambridge University, 1989), 56-7. 17 18

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not all negative myths can be so easily dispelled or corrected when rendered into social dialogue. Figure 6: Kindlifresserbrunnen (‘Child eater fountain’), Kornhausplatz, Bern, Switzerland

So I end this section on a note of caution and an example: one of the most deleterious myths in Christian anti-Semitism has been the blood libel myth. Despite its repudiation many times over on several levels it continues to persist. Even when an image tinged with such associations can become a tourist attraction and curiosity in a European capital, like the Kindlifresserbrunnen in Bern (Switzerland), the blood libel myth is still alive and well in many other parts of the world, sometimes in places far removed from the original

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cultural context it sprang from. So, even though images of the Pauline veil in art and sculpture have been few in history, and have now more or less been unveiled as to their negative effects, nonetheless their latent ability to return in some other guise always remains an open-ended possibility. 3. LITURGICAL EXPRESSIONS OF THE VEIL In this section, I explore ritual as a site of memory and how ritual language also contributes to the persistence of memories. As already seen in the previous section, Connerton’s distinguishing criterion between myths and rituals is their capacity for variation. To continue now with rituals, he mentions: By comparison with myths, the structure of rituals has significantly less potential for variance. All rituals, it is true, have to be invented at some point and the details of their articulation may develop or vary in content and significance over the course of time. None the less, there remains a potential for invariance that is built into rites, but not into myths, by virtue of the fact that it is intrinsic to the nature of rituals—but not of myths—that they specify the relationship that obtains between the performance of ritual and what it is that the participants are performing. 22

We can discern a similar sort of invariance, or at least persistence, in Catholic liturgical language when it comes to expressions of the veil. The ritual in focus is the Good Friday Prayer for the Jews, which was the subject of much recent controversy in 2008. I shall go over some of that controversy in what follows but my purpose is really to trace the sedimentation of collective memory in ritual acts. The Good Friday prayer is a good example because it is nestled in a rite that has enjoyed a considerable stability for several centuries—the Tridentine Mass, dating back to 1570 when it was issued under Pius V, and only revised twice (in 1920 and 1962). In early July 2007, Pope Benedict issued a motu propriu, a papal executive order, entitled Summorum pontificum, granting broader permission for the Tridentine Mass (in its 1962 revised form) to be 22

Connerton, How Societies Remember, 57.

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celebrated. It was understood as a conciliatory move to a small but influential group of conservative Catholics fiercely committed to bringing back the Tridentine rite. The move provoked much debate, not least because it seemed to pave the way for the creation of two liturgies, even though the Roman Missal promulgated by Paul VI in 1970 is officially still the ‘ordinary’ liturgical rite, whereas the Roman Missal of 1962 (issued by Pope John XXIII) is but the ‘extraordinary’ expression of it.23 Of greater concern, though, is the fact that the two liturgies reflect different theologies. ‘In particular, they reflect diverse theologies of church and disparate perspectives on the role of the baptized in worship. They also invoke different understandings of mystery, transcendence, and God’s presence. Those variations are not unrelated to the fact that the two liturgies emerged in two different historical situations separated by four centuries.’24 Much more controversially, and perhaps what attracted the most media attention, was the difference in wording between the two liturgies of the Good Friday Prayer for the Jews. In both missals the prayer is part of nine solemn intercessory prayers falling between the reading of the Good Friday Gospel and the Veneration of the Cross. Yet there their similarity ends. In addition to praying for Jews in disrespectful terms, the 1962 Good Friday intercessions also pray for ‘heretics and schismatics,’ and ‘the Heathen.’25 These were all substantially revised in the 1970 missal and references to heretics and heathens were removed. Table 3: A comparison of Missals 1962 Missal

1970 Missal

No longer in use

Ordinary use

Let us pray also for the Jews that the Lord our God may take the veil from their hearts and that they also may acknowledge our Lord Jesus

Let us pray for the Jewish people, the first to hear the Word of God, that they may continue to grow in the love of his name and in faith-

See the articles in Commonweal, August 17, 2007, 10-19. Bernard Prusak, ‘Getting the History Right,’ The Old Rite Returns. Four Views, Commonweal, August 17, 2007, 16-19, 17. 25 John Walton Tyrer, Historical Survey of Holy Week. Its Services and Ceremonial (Alcuin, 29; London: Oxford University, 1932), 124. 23 24

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Christ.

fulness to his covenant.

… Almighty and everlasting God, You do not refuse Your mercy even to the Jews; hear the prayers which we offer for the blindness of that people so that they may acknowledge the light of Your truth, which is Christ, and be delivered from their darkness.

Almighty and eternal God, long ago you gave your promise to Abraham and his posterity. Listen to your church as we pray that the people you first made your own may arrive at the fullness of redemption.

As one can see, the Prayer in the 1962 Missal has a clear reference to the veil and blindness that harks back to 2 Corinthians 3. It also differs markedly in theological tone from the 1970 Missal, which incorporated the new theology of Vatican II, including the statements of Nostra aetate.26 The original intention of Pope Benedict’s motu propriu had been simply to grant broader and easier access for interested communities to follow the 1962 Missal, but it was foreseeable that the Good Friday Prayer in its pre-conciliar formulation would cause consternation to Jews, and threaten a rift in Christian-Jewish relations. John Pawlikowski points out that many voices—not just from Jews—were raised in protest. Groups long associated with efforts after Vatican II at Christian-Jewish understanding—such as the Committee of German Catholics and Jews, the International Council of Christians and Jews, the Austrian Coordinating Council on 26 It was particularly Point 4 of Nostra aetate, pertaining to the Church’s relation to Judaism and the Jews, which marked an advance in Catholic-Jewish relations. So, for instance, the following statement from Point 4 would have had a direct impact on the rewording of the 1970 Missal’s Good Friday Prayer for the Jews: ‘True, the Jewish authorities and those who followed their lead pressed for the death of Christ; still, what happened in His passion cannot be charged against all the Jews, without distinction, then alive, nor against the Jews of today. Although the Church is the new people of God, the Jews should not be presented as rejected or accursed by God, as if this followed from the Holy Scriptures. All should see to it, then, that in catechetical work or in the preaching of the word of God they do not teach anything that does not conform to the truth of the Gospel and the spirit of Christ’ [emphasis added].

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Jewish-Christian Relations, and the North American Council of Centers on Christian-Jewish Relations—sent messages to the Vatican urging that the Latin version of the 1970 Good Friday prayer be inserted into the 1962 Missal. Important Roman Catholic leaders like Cardinal Karl Lehmann of Germany and the U.S. bishops’ conference weighed in, along with several Jewish groups, including the Vatican’s official Jewish dialogue partner, the International Jewish Committee for Interreligious Consultations and the Chief Rabbis of Israel. Concern over the prayer was shared equally by Christians and Jews. It was not, as the popular press has frequently suggested, a one-sided Jewish protest.27

Finally, after much deliberation and public anticipation in the run-up to Holy Week, the Pope issued in February 2008, on Ash Wednesday, a revised form of the Good Friday Prayer for the Jews to replace the 1962 version: Table 4: Trent 2008 28 Latin Oremus et pro Iudaeis. Ut Deus et Dominus noster illuminet corda eorum, ut agnoscant Iesum Christum salvatorem omnium hominum … Omnipotens sempiterne Deus, qui vis ut omnes hominess salvi fiant et ad agnitionem veritatis veniant, concede propitious, ut plenitudine gentium in Ecclesiam Tuam intranet omnis Israel salvus fiat.

English Let us also pray for the Jews: That our God and Lord may illuminate their hearts, so that they may recognize Jesus Christ as the Saviour of all people … Almighty and eternal God, who desires that all people be saved and come to the recognition of the truth, propitiously grant that, as the fullness of all nations enters your Church, all Israel may be saved.

As one can see, references to the veil and Jewish blindness were dropped, but the change has disappointed Jews and Catholics John T. Pawlikowski and Judith Banki, ‘Praying for the Jews. Two Views on the New Good Friday Prayer,’ Short Takes, Commonweal, March 14, 2008, 10-12, 10. 28 See The Tablet (International Catholic Weekly Newspaper), 9 February 2008, 29. English translation by Fr. Reginald Foster. 27

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in interreligious dialogue, who see it as only a ‘cosmetic revision’29 and still quite in line with the theology of Trent. The hope had been that Pope Benedict would insert the 1970 prayer. To quote Pawlikowski again, ‘the new oration could have been written before Vatican II. The 1970 prayer is superior because it affirms Jewish faithfulness without settling the question of how this might affect Christian notions of salvation.’30 Certainly when compared schematically, the revised Good Friday prayer is closer in language and spirit to the liturgy of 1962,31 thus contributing much to the impression of a resurgence of pre-conciliar theological worldviews and a step back from the Council’s reforming spirit. Even with references to the veil and blindness removed, the current formulation prays for the ‘illumination’ of Jewish hearts and retains the desire for Jews to recognize Christ as savior of all people, quite different from the 1970 prayer. Pawlikowski goes on to call for a renewed commitment to Christian-Jewish dialogue in order to move past the setback of the papal prayer. He hails the jubilee celebration of the year of St. Paul (which began on 28 June 2008) as an opportunity to raise awareness of the ‘emerging view of Paul as someone with a quite positive understanding of Judaism, not merely as an opponent of Jewish law.’32 I appreciate what Pawlikowski is trying to say: rather than concentrate on Paul’s negative statements about Judaism, which there surely are, let us also be aware that he had several positive things to say as well. Pawlikowski’s argument points to the tendency in Christian-Jewish relations, after Nostra aetate, to look to the passages of Rom. 9–11 for a more hopeful sign of Paul’s thinking on the ‘mystery of Israel’ and God’s irrevocable election. In addition, biblical scholarship has in the past thirty years set itself to recovering Paul’s Jewishnes, such that the theological statements 29 Robert Mickens, ‘Pope Orders Change in Tridentine Prayer for Jews,’ The Church in the World, The Tablet, 9 February 2008, 29. 30 Pawlikowski, ‘Praying for the Jews,’ 11. 31 See ‘Het Goede Vrijdag gebed voor de Joden in de Tridentijnse ritus 2008,’ Katholieke Raad voor Israël, Nederland. February 2008 http://www.kri-web.nl/downloads/08-02-12-goedevrijdaggebed.pdf (accessed 17 April 2012). 32 Pawlikowski, ‘Praying for the Jews,’ 12.

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in his letters are placed within a matrix of his relationship to Second Temple Diaspora Judaism.33 But looking to Rom. 9–11, it must be said, does not really solve the problem of Paul’s antithetical language in 2 Cor. 3 (and other places), even if Romans was his last recorded epistle. It should also be pointed out that Rom. 9–11 can be read both ways. The revised Good Friday Prayer expresses the hope that all Israel may be saved, a direct reference to Rom. 11:26. Gerhard Dautzenberg has argued34 that realizing this anomaly in Paul’s thinking must remain as a challenge and warning to Christian theology that some of its scriptures contain the dangerous potential to denigrate Judaism. Along with his urgent call to renew commitment to Christian-Jewish dialogue, Pawlikowski reminds us that we should not forget a Christian history of violence against Jews and that Vatican II constituted a ‘radical transformation of ordinary Catholic teaching on the Jews.’35 This reminder confronts us with the unsettling perception that a mere forty years on from Nostra aetate, a new generation seems to be forgetting its predecessors’ initiatives and reasons for Christian-Jewish dialogue. Why is this? The Second Vatican Council is almost certainly the most heavily documented ecumenical council in history. It was widely reported in the press. We even have sound bites and video footage. What accounts for this 33 Set in motion by three seminal works of Krister Stendahl, Ed Sanders and James Dunn respectively: Krister Stendahl, ‘ The Apostle Paul and the Introspective Conscience of the West,’ HTR 56 (1963), 199215. Reprinted in id. Paul Among Jews and Gentiles and Other Essays (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1976), 78-96; E.P. Sanders, Paul and Palestinian Judaism: A Comparison of Patterns of Religion (London: SCM, 1977); James D.G. Dunn, ‘T he New Perspective on Paul,’ BJRL 65 (1983), 95-122. 34 Dautzenberg, ‘Alter und neuer Bund nach 2Kor 3,’ 248-49: ‘Das eigentliche Problem von 2Kor 3 ist die antithetische Denk- und Argumentationsform, der Paulus hier folgt. Sie geht vom gegenwärtigen christlichen Heilsstand aus, führt dann aber fast zwanghaft zur Negierung jüdischer Positionen. [...] H.-J. Schoeps hat vor Jahrzehnten festgestellt: “Alle extremen Sätze der paulinischen Gesetzestheorie, wie daß das Gesetz Zorn schafft (Röm 4,15), zur Sünde reizt (Röm 7,7), die eigentliche Kraft der Sünde erst bewirkt (1Kor 15,56), und noch vermehrt (Gal 3,19), im Dienst des Todes steht (2Kor 3,7) usw., haben sich antinomistisch ausbeuten lassen.” In dieser Gefahr steht die christliche Theologie bis heute.’ 35 Pawlikowski, ‘Praying for the Jews,’ 11.

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memory loss in the face of so much recorded ‘memory’? Perhaps some answer lies in the fact that even with this documentation, the reforming spirit of Vatican II has still to contend with collective memories that have been embedded for centuries in sculptures, artworks, and rituals.36 In an electronic age where the icon is more enticing than the word, perhaps this is something we need to ponder when we reflect on the risks and challenges of memory in a memory-less age. What kind of memories tend to linger while others are forgotten and why? CONCLUSION In this contribution I have explored how an antithetical opposition between ‘old’ and ‘new’ covenants mentioned in one biblical text (2 Cor. 3) became a motor for cultural memories, expressed in both art and ritual, through Paul’s own use of the veil of Moses as a metaphor for spiritual blindness that was obstructing contemporary Israel. Departing from the biblical text, insights from social and cultural memory theory were helpful in tracing the embeddings and mutations of these collective ‘memories of the veil’ in Christian Western Europe, first with the veil motif in art, and then with Roman Catholic liturgical expressions of the veil as an example of the invariance of memory that is built into ritual language, along with the dilemma this presents us today when such memories are found especially wanting in the aftermath of the Shoah. I would like to offer a final reflection by way of conclusion. Memories of the veil are dangerous memories, in two senses of the term. They are dangerous because they reveal to us a history of Christian denigration of Judaism, and their persisting ability for resurgence because of their embedding in monuments and rituals. But they are also dangerous in the sense employed by Johann Baptist Metz,37 memories of human suffering that shock us into trans36 I have chosen to confine myself to liturgy and ritual in the Roman Catholic, Western, Church. For an analysis of anti-Jewish polemics in Byzantine liturgy and hymnography still present today, see Bert Groen, ‘Anti-Judaism in the Present-Day Byzantine Liturgy,’ Journal of Eastern Christian Studies 60 (2008), 369-87. 37 Johann Baptist Metz, Faith in History and Society. Toward a Practical Fundamental Theology. transl. David Smith (New York: Seabury, 1980.)

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forming our praxis in the present because they are grasped by a memory of the future that interrupts us. What sort of memories shall we impart to the next generation? In the words of the current Chief Rabbi of the United Kingdom, Lord Jonathan Sacks: ‘Memory can’t change the past, but it can help us have the courage to change the future.’38 For Christian-Jewish encounters in the third millennium these are hopeful and heedful words.

38 Jonathan Sacks, BBC Radio Four Thought for the Day, 25 January 2008, http://www.bbc.co.uk/religion/programmes/thought/documents /t20080125.shtml [Radio transcript; accessed 04.09.2008].

INDEX OF AUTHORS

Achenbach, R., 232, 235 Addams, J., 8, 201, 202, 203, 204, 206, 207, 208, 209, 210, 211, 212, 213, 214, 215, 216, 217, 218, 219, 220, 221, 222, 223, 239 Ahlström, G.W., 246 Albertz, R., 253 Albright, W.F ., 2 Alcock, S.E., 15, 17, 19, 26, 31, 37, 310 Alkier, S., 135 Allen, L.C., 84 Alt, A., 91, 164, 168 Ames, F.R., 230 Angenendt, A., 338 Appadurai, A., 311 Appleby, J., p. 55, 56 Archibald, R., p. 16, 28 Assmann, A., 32, 178, 179, 181, 182, 183, 185, 188, 312 Assmann, J., 3, 8, 65, 97, 125, 162, 176, 178, 179, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185, 188, 192, 239, 267, 285, 291, 299, 327, 328, 329, 330, 331, 335, 336, 337, 338, 339 Bakhtin, M.M., 45

Bal, M., 114 Banki, J., 361 Barr, J., 101 Barton, S.C., 348 Bauer, T., 116 Baur, K., 116 Belleville, L.L., 345, 346 Ben Zvi, E., 2, 5, 142, 146, 152 Berger, P.L., 8, 204 Bernat, D.A., 230 Binger, T., 84, 85 Black, M., 105 Blanton, T., 346, 347 Blasi, A., 201 Blenkinsopp, J., 253, 257 Bloch-Smith, E., 37, 293, 297 Blum, E., 235 Bodner, K., 272 Borrás, J.T., 147 Böttrich, T., 116 Bradburne, J., 16 Brandscheidt, R., 117 Braulik, G., 65 Brekelmans, C., 237 Brenner, A., 202 Breuggemann, W., 97, 100, 101 Bringmann, K., 330, 336 Britt, B., 351, 352, 355

367

368

INDEX OF AUTHORS

Broshi, M., 265 Brown, P., 316 Busink, T.A., 247 Butzer, G., 98 Canan, I., 117 Carmichael, C.M., 276 Carr, D.M., 255 Carroll, R.P., 84, 85, 159 Carstens, A., 316 Carstens, P., 81, 84, 201 Chalcraft, D.J., 8, 206 Childs, B.S., 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65 Chilton, B., 118 Clines, D.J.A., 33, 34 Cogan, M., 27 Cole, P., 338 Collingwood, R. G., 100 Collins, J.J., 230 Connerton, P., 16 ,17 ,32, 37, 38, 39, 41, 312, 322, 356, 358 Corley, K.E., 202 Crenshaw, J.L., 38 Cross, F., 58 Crouch, C. L., 238 Crowfoot, G.M., 296 Crowfoot, J.W., 296 Cryer, F.H., 270 Cubitt, G., 37, 310 Dahood, M., 35 D’Altroy, T.N., 15 Dautzenberg, G., 348, 349, 363 Davies, P.R., 31, 81, 82, 83, 85, 87, 88, 89, 91, 97, 142, 164, 202 Davies, W.D., 257

Dever, W.G., 102 Diesel, A.A., 328 Van Dijk-Hemmes, F., 202 Dimant, D., 265 Dommershausen, W., 269, 273 Donald, M., 312 Donner, H., 298, 299 Dostoyevskij, F., 45 Droysen, G., 86 Dunn, J.D.G., 363 Dyke, R.M. van, 310 Edelman, D.V., 164, 246 Ego, B., 117 Eissfeldt, O., 277 Eißler, F., 117 Erll, A., 96, 177, 311 Eshel, I., 294 Esler, P., 346 Esposito, J.L., 117 Etlar, C., 171 Evans, C.A., 346 Faust, A., 169 Feiler, B., 116 Fentress, J., 54 Finkelstein, I., 90, 164, 169, 250, 257 Finkelstein, L., 256 Fohrer, G., 33, 34, 271, 276 Francis, D., 37 Frank, N., 101 Franken, H.J., 294 Fretheim, T.E., 116 Freud, S., 6, 53 Fried, J., 176 Fritz, V., 234, 247, 250 Fuchs, G., 42 Gallagher, W.R., 144

INDEX OF AUTHORS

Gasser, M.P., 112 Geary, P.J., 309, 310 Gell, A., 19, 312 Givón, T., 105 Glowacki, P., 203 Gombrich, E.H.J., 108 Gordis, R., 33 Gossmann, H-C., 116 Gottwald, N.K., 230, 237 Grabbe, L.L., 113 Greenspahn, F.E., 247, 249 Groen, B., 364 Guillou, J., 159 Gunkel, H., 57 Günter, M., 98, 310 Habel, N.C., 33, 117 Hadas-Lebel, M., 147 Haddad, Y.Y., 117 Haddock-Seigfried, C., 210, 211 Halbwachs, M., 17, 32, 37, 54, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185, 201, 202 Hallam, E., 37 Halpern, B., 73 Hamblin, W.J., 282 Harries, R., 116 Harrington, H.K., 264 Harth, D., 178 Hartley, L.P., 100 Hayward, R., 117 Hearon, H., 176 Hendry, J., 203 Higbie, C., 317, 318, 320 Hill, J., 146 Hirst, W., 180, 183 Hjelm, I., 168

369

Hobsbawm, E., 56 Hockey, J., 37 Holladay, W.L., 84 Holland, T.A., 294 Holzem, A., 338 Horowitz, W., 267, 268, 269, 270, 271, 273, 278, 279, 281, 284 Houtman, C., 267, 268 Hulster, I. de, 2, 5, 102, 118 Hunt, A., 252 Hunt, L., 55, 56 Hurowitz, V.A., 267, 268, 269, 270, 271, 273, 278, 279, 281, 284 Hübenthal, S., 1, 3, 6, 7, 181, 183, 184 Jacob, M., 55, 56 Jaeger, W., 316 Jamieson-Drake, D., 166 Jeffers, A., 276, 277, 278, 281 Jenson, P.P., 262 Jeremias, A., 267, 271 Johnson, B., 267 Jones, A., 312 Jonker , G., 36, 39, 40 Joseph, S., 204 Jung, C.G., 53 Kalimi, I., 143 Kampling, R., 349 Kamrada, D.G., 282, 283 Kang, Sa-Moon, 281 Keel, O., 107, 109, 112, 116, 250, 296, 335 Kellaher, L., 37 Kelle, B.E., 230 Kenyon, K.M., 294, 296 Kessler, M., 146

370

INDEX OF AUTHORS

Killebrew, A.E., 250, 257 Kirk, A.K., 96, 97, 98, 118, 179, 181, 184, 192 Kitz, A.M., 267 Kiuchi, N., 276 Klawans, J., 230 Klostermann, E., 298 Knappett, C., 19 Knight, D.A., 83 Knight, L.W., 201 Koch, U. S., 270 Koefod, J.B., 86 Kottsieper, I., 152 Kövecses, Z., 105 Kratz, R.G., 116, 159, 329 Kuhrt, D., 321 Kuschel, K-J., 116 Lambert, W.G., 269, 279, 280, 281 Le Donne, A., 102, 179, 347 Lemche, N.P., 4, 6, 82, 84, 85, 86, 87, 90, 101, 168, 169, 246 Levenson, J.D., 73, 116 Levin, C., 142 Levy, D., 312 Lewis, T.J., 277 Leydesdorff, S., 222 Lipiński, E., 267, 269, 270 Lippert, S., 320 Lipschits, O., 89, 166, 167, 253, 256 Liverani, M., 27, 89, 160, 258 Llewelyn, S.R., 166 Locke, J., 181 Lodahl, M., 117 Lohfink, N., 237 Long, P.V., 86

Longman, T., 86 Longton, J., 116 Lorenz, C., 100 Luckmann, T., 8, 204 Luther, M., 188 Maccoby, H., 262 MacKenzie, D., 292 Malafouris, L., 19 Manier, D., 180, 183 Martin-Archard, R., 116 Mazar, A., 90, 257 Mazar, B., 295, 296 Mazar, E., 295, 296 McCarter, P.K., 73, 269, 273, 275, 276, 281 McKane, W., 84 Melinkoff, R., 351, 356 Mendels, D., 139 Merz, A., 101 Metz, J.B., 364 Metzenthin, C., 117 Mickens, R., 362 Mildenberg, L., 114 Miles, M., 352 Mink, H.-Aa., 261 Misztal, B., 204 Mobley, G., 268 Möller, R., 116 Morrison, K.D., 15 Mowinckel, S., 42, 57 Muss-Arnolt, W., 267 Na’aman, N., 67, 145 Nagel, T., 116 Nagy, D., 117 Nathan, E., 3 Neophytou, G., 37 Newsom, C.A., 44 Nielsen, E., 83, 168

INDEX OF AUTHORS

Noll, K. L., 164 Nora, P., 2, 14,15,17,32, 95, 140, 141, 150 Noth, M., 58, 60, 63, 66, 68, 88, 89, 91, 231 Nünning, A., 177, 311 Nyrup, T., 18 Obermann, A., 116 O´Brien, J. M., 145 O’Brien, M. A., 247 Oded, B., 145, 149 Oeming, M., 167, 257 Ohler, A., 42 Olick, J.K., 95, 96, 312 Oppenheim, L.A., 256, 270 Osten-Sacken, P. von der, 349 Otto, E., 231, 239 Otto, S., 232 Passerini, L., 222 Pavord, A., 104 Pawlikowski, J.T., 360, 361, 362, 363 Pedersen, J., 58 Peirce, C.S., 312 Perdue, L.G., 85 Peters, F. E., 116 Pethes, N., 177, 310 Pfoh, E., 169 Porada, E., 107 Porter, B. N., 112 Porzig, P., 113 Prag, K., 294 Press, R., 272 Propp, W.H., 351 Provan, I.W., 82, 86 Prusak, B., 359

371

Pury, A. de, 232 Qimron, E., 261 Quack, J.F., 320, 321 Rad, G. von, 58, 60, 63, 230, 237, 282 Radstone, S., 310 Ranger, T., 56 Ranke, L. von, 86 Ratzinger, J., 343 Reed, A.Y., 116 Reiner, E., 270, 271 Renz, J., 37, 40, 88, 295, 296 Ricœur, P., 5 Robbins, J., 96 Robertson, E., 267, 269 Rochberg, F., 256 Roediger, H.L., 95 Rose, M., 235 Röllig, W., 295, 296 Römer, Th. C., 69, 140, 231, 232, 239 Ruchatz, J., 177, 310 Rudolf,W., 84 Ryholt, K., 320 Sacks, J., 3, 365 Sanders, E.P., 253, 363 Sanders, J.A., 346 Sandnes, K.O., 117 Sáenz-Badillos, A., 147 Saunders, M., 311 Schacter, D.L., 347 Schentuleit, M., 320 Schillebeeckx, E., 106 Schiller, F., 330 Schmid, K., 117 Schmidt, B.B., 36, 90 Schmidt, S.J., 175

372

INDEX OF AUTHORS

Schmitt, R., 5, 7, 8, 152, 229, 230, 231, 232, 234, 236, 237, 328 Schneiders, T.G., 116 Schocks, J., 3 Schottroff, W., 63, 65 Schramm, B., 164 Schreckenberg, H., 356 Schröter, J., 192 Schunck, K.-D., 332 Schüssler Fiorenza, E., 8 Schwartz, D.R., 334, 335 Schwarz, B., 310 Seiferth, W., 348, 349, 351, 352 Shanks, H., 82 Shatzmiller, M., 338 Shepherd, J.J., 118 Shils, E., 55 Silberman, N.A., 164 Sinopoli, C.M., 15 Smelik, K.A.D., 146 Smith, A.D., 41, 42 Smith, M.S., 88, 97 Solomon, N., 116 Spieckermann, H., 329 Spronk, K., 37, 145 Staub, U., 335 Staubli, T., 119 Stavrakpoulou, F., 5 Steiner, M.L., 294 Stendahl, K., 363 Stern, P.D., 238 Stern, E., 257 Stewart, P.J., 38 Stienstra, N., 105 Stirling, L., 313, 314, 316 Stolz, F., 271

Strang, V., 39, 41 Strange, J., 87 Strathern, A., 38 Stordalen, T., 5, 35, 36, 42, 45, 47, 48 Sukenik, E.L., 296 Sundermeier, T., 328 Syrén, R., 145 Sørensen, J.P., 320 Thatcher, T., 96, 192 Theissen, G., 239, 240 Thompson, P., 222 Thompson, T.L., 85, 115 Tomes, R., 247 Tosh, J., 103 Trevor-Roper, H., 56 Tromp, N.J., 37 Tufnell, O., 297 Tyrer, J.W., 359 Uehlinger, C., 97, 296 Ussishkin, D., 167 Vall, G., 42 Van Dam, C., 267, 268, 269, 271, 272, 273, 274, 275, 276 Van der Veen, P., 116 Van Seters, J., 4, 61, 62, 68, 69, 72, 74, 85, 115, 234, 247 Vansina, J., 7, 182 Vaughn, A.G., 102, 250, 257 Veijola, T., 61 Vinitzky-Seroussi, V., 312 Vromen, S., 201 Wagner, A., 328 Walter, P., 329 Warburg, A.M., 108 Weippert, M., 282

INDEX OF AUTHORS

Welker, M., 98 Wellhausen, J., 170, 229, 230 Welzer, H., 179, 180, 182, 183 Wenning, R., 292, 293 Wertsch, J.V., 53, 95, 98 Whitehead, A., 310 Whitelam, K., 85 Wickham, C., 54 Wiggermann, F.A.M., 107 Williamson, H.G.M., 145 Winther, T., 116 Winter, J., 87

Wise, M.O., 260 Wöhrle, J., 152 Wright, D.P., 276 Yadin, Y., 261 Yamada, S., 27 Yates, F.A., 32 Younger, K.L., 27, 238 Zenger, E., 335 Zerbst, U., 115 Zevit, Z., 230 Zgoll, A., 270 Zimmerli, W., 253

373

INDEX OF REFERENCES The Old Testament Genesis 1 1:11f 4:10 6-9 6:14-16 10 10:6-20 12 15 24 31:5. 32 32:10 35:16-20 35:19 35:20 49:30

57 42 43, 47 256 256 149 149 150 69 42 40 40 297, 298 298 297 37

Exodus 1-15 3:2-10 6:11.13.27.29 12:14 12:14-20 12:29 13:3-10 14:8 14:23-31 15 15:2 15:17

58 145 152 61 62 145 61 152 145 150 40 162

375

15:21 18 25 25:10 ff. 25-30 28:6 ff. 28:30 30:1-10 30:22-33 34 34:29-35 36-40 40

223 150 322 322 309, 318 322 268, 281 248 262 356 351 309 322

Leviticus 8:8 10:10 14:33-53 16:8-10 16:15 16:20-22 18:25.28 20:22 25:10 27:30

268 261 264 276, 277 276, 277 276, 277 42 42 42 42

Numbers 3:13 8:17 13 13-14

42 42 232 232

376

13:28-29 16:34 19:14-15 21 21:21-26 21:27-30 21:33-35 25 25:11 25 :13 LXX 27:21 32:3 f. Deuteronomy 1-3

INDEX OF BIBLICAL REFERENCES

233 42 264 235, 237 234, 235 234 235, 236 162, 333, 339 332 268, 273, 281 234

8, 230, 231, 237, 238, 239 1:19-46 232, 234, 236, 239 1:21 232 1:28 233 1:29 232 1:30 233 1:29-33 232 1:34-45 233 1:41.42.43.44. 233 2:1-13 234 2:14-16 234 2:17 234 2:20-23 234 2:24 234, 235 2:24-37 234, 235, 236, 239 2:26-28 236 2:26-29 234 2:29 234 2:30 234, 235, 236 2:30-31 235 2:31-36 234

2:31 2:32 2:33 2:33-37 2:34 2:34-37 2:35 2:37 3:1-7 3:2 3:3 3:4 3:4-5 3:6 4:9 4:9 f. 4:44-49 6:4 6:12 6:21-22 7 7:1-2 7: 8 7:18 8:18 8:19 f. 9:28 11:3 13 16:1-8 16:3-4 16:8 18:11-12 20 20:3 20:10-12 20:16-18 26:5-9

235 235 235 235 235, 236 239 236 234 235, 236 236 236 236 236 236 29 15 231 29 15 150 239 236 150, 152 150 15 15 42 150, 152 237 61 61 61 277 233, 239 233 234 236 63

INDEX OF BIBLICAL REFERENCES

26:15 29:1 32:7 33:8 33:8-10 34:1

294 150 240 268 281 150

Joshua 3-4 4:10 -11 6 6-8 6:26-27 7 7:11 7:14-18 8:28 12:2

75 75 237 230, 237, 239 236 234, 237 237 273, 276, 277 236 234

Judges 1:1 3:9- 11 7:13 11 11: 19-22 11:21.23.24.25 11:27 13:1 13:2-22 15:20 16:31 20:18 20:23 20:27-28

269, 273, 283 249 282 223, 235 234 235 281 249 145 249 249 269, 283 269, 283 269, 281, 283

1 Samuel 1-3 1:28 2:27 6:6 7:9 10:2 10:20-21 10:20-22 10:22 13:1 14:3 14:18 14:24 14:27 14:27-28 14:28 14:29 14:36 14:37 14:37-44 14:38 14:40 14:40-42 14:41 14:40-42 14:41 14:43 14:45 15 22:10.13.15 23:2 23:4

377

246 284 150 150 278 298 273 275 269, 283 249 272 269 LXX, 281, 282 LXX 275, 277 277 275 275 275 273 269, 272, 274, 278, 280, 283, 277 274 274, 276 LXX 277 LXX 276, 283 LXX 272 273, 274, 275, 276, 277 LXX 273, 275, 276, 282, 283 275 275 234, 237 269, 283 269, 274, 283 269, 274, 284

378

23:9-12 24:13 24.16 26:6 28

INDEX OF BIBLICAL REFERENCES

28:7 28:7 f. 28:9 28:12-19 28:15 28:15-16 28:17.19 30:7 30:7-8 30:8

269 281 281 74 272, 278, 280, 283 268, 277, 278, 282 282 277 277 277 278, 280 278 278 282 269 269, 274, 284

2 Samuel 2:1 5:19 5:23-24 10 11 15:23-29 15:24 17:24 17:25.27

269, 274, 284 269, 274, 284 269, 274, 284 72 73 75 75 75 73

1 Kings 2:11 3:1 3:4-5 4:13 5:5 5:15-16 5:15-8:66

249 150, 152 246 236 247 250 245, 258

28:6

6-8 6:1. 6:2.7 6:8 6:14-18 6:15-22 6:19-22 6:20-21 6:23-28 6:23-38 6:37-38 7:1 7:2 7:2-8 7:6.7 7:8 7:18-20 7:18 7:19.20.22 7:23-26 7:27-50 7:29-35 8:1-21 8:22-53 8:24-26 8:54-61 9:16 9:24 11 11:1 11:17-22 11:40 11:42 14:25 18:37 19:9 20:35-42 22:15

247 251 247 248 248 248 248 248 248 248 247 249 250 250 250 150, 250 248 248 248 248 248 248 248 248 252, 260 248 150 150 151 150 150 150, 151 249 151 278 151 237 282

INDEX OF BIBLICAL REFERENCES

2 Kings 17 17:4 17:5 17:7 17:17 17-19 17:24 17:24-41 18:2 18:4 18:13 18:13-16 18:11 18:11 f. 18:21 19:30 19:35 19:33-35 19:36-38 20:1.6 22 22:1-2 23:16f 23:29 23:30-34 23:33-35 23:34 24:7 36:4 Isaiah 13:9 22:16 34:5 37:31 40:1

28, 163 151 26 29, 151 151 148 26 145 144 162 144 147 28 26 151 36 145 143 143 144 152 161 37 144, 149, 151, 152 152 149, 151 152 151 152 332 LXX 37 281 36 166

379

41:1 41:17 49:8 54:17 65:3-5

281 278 278 281 294, 296, 297

Jeremiah 7:12-29 7:29 21:1 25:9 27:6 31 31:15 32:23 37:7 37:17 38:14 40:2 40:2-3

295 296 281 146 146 87 298 146 281 281 281 146 146

Ezekiel 1-24 7:26 8 8-11 8:16 17:9 21:21 21:26 25-32 25-48 33-38 33-39 40:1-2 40:1-43:11 40:3

252 258 258 253 254 36 277 277, 280, 284 258 252 252 252 252 253 252 253

380

40:4 40:6 40:47 40-45 40-48

INDEX OF BIBLICAL REFERENCES

42:13-14 45:1 45:4-6 45:9-46:18 45:47-48 46:1-2 46:9-10 47:1-2 47:2 47:3-6 47:7 47:8-12 47:13-23 48:13-14 48:14 48:15-20 48:19 48:21-22 48:23-28 48:31-34 48:35

254 256 254 318 245, 252, 253, 255, 258, 265 254 254 255 255 255 254 254 255 255 255 255 255 254 255 255 255 255 256 257 255 257

Hosea 2:23-24 7:11 9:3 9:6 12:2 12:12 12:13 14:9

278 148 148 148 148 149 148 278

Joel 2:19 4:2 4:12

278 281 281

Amos 1:3-5 2:9

148 36

Jonah 1:7

273, 276, 277

Micah 3:4 5:1

279 298, 299

Nahum 1:13 2:1.3

145 145

Malachi 4:1 6-8

36 8

Psalms 1-2 3:5 20:2 76:10 78:1 99:6 122:6 137

163 278 278 281 338 278 284 212, 222

Job 1:5 1:10 1:19

40 43 40

INDEX OF BIBLICAL REFERENCES

1:21 2:11 2:13 3:1 3:3-5 4:3 f. 4:3 f. 5:23 6:17 7:10 8:13 8:16-17 8:18 10:8-11 12:8 14:8 15 15:28 15:29 16:4-6 16:7-14 16:17 16:18 16:18-19 16:18-21 18 18:7 18:14 18:14-16 18:15-17 18:16-21 18:17-19 18:18-21 18:21 18:17

42 43 43 36 36 41 41 42, 43 43 31, 33, 36, 43, 45, 46 45 36 33, 36, 43, 45, 46 42 43 43 69 40 43 41 38 46 33, 43, 46, 47 46 37 38 37 33 33 33 33, 36, 38, 45, 46 33 33 37 36

18:19 18:20 20 20:5 20:9 20:9-11

381

20:27 24:6 24:18 27:21 27:23 29:7-25 29:13 30:1-15 30:9 31:15 31:18 31:30 31:38-40 33:27 38:8-10

36 33, 36 38 46 37, 38, 43 34, 36, 37, 45, 46, 47 42 42 43 43 43 41 40 38 40 42 42 284 34, 43, 45, 46 40 42

Proverbs 10:1 25:1 30:1 31:1

41 41 41 41

Ruth 4:11

298

Daniel 9:27 11:31 11:34 12:11

335 335 336 335

382

INDEX OF BIBLICAL REFERENCES

Ezra 1-6 2:59-63 2:63 4:2 4:10 6:15

145 263 268 145 145 252

Nehemiah 2:1-5 7:65

293 268

1 Chronicles 6 10:13 15 16:1-36 21:18-28 22 22:1 22:1-29:20 22:2 27 29:21-25

245 284 259 259 259 161 247 259 245 161 259

2 Chronicles 2:1-16 2:5 2:7 3:1 3:1-7:22 3:3-7 3:8-17 3:14 4:6-22 4:9-10 5:2-14 6:3- 11 8:1 16:12 20:3 20:12 24 29-32 33:11 34-5 35:20 35:20-22 36:21

259 260 260 247, 260 260 260 259 259 259 259 259 260 260 140 281 281 263 161 144 161 152 161 165

Romans 4:15 7:7 9-11 11:26

365 365 362, 364 365

1 Corinthians 15:56

365

The New Testament Matthew 2:18

298

John 8 8:57 20:12

110 110 113, 114, 122

INDEX OF BIBLICAL REFERENCES

2 Corinthians 2:17 3

344 343, 346, 348, 352, 360, 364, 366 3:1 344 3:3 344 3:6 343, 344 3:7 344, 365 3:7-18 344, 345, 347 3:8.9.10.11.12.13. 344 3:14 343, 344

383

3:15 4:2-3

344, 349 346

Galathians 3:19

365

Hebrews 11

117

James 2:21-23

117

2 Peter 1:16

122

2:58 3:8 3:27 5:55-62 7:35 8:16 9:69 12:21 15:36

332, 333 333 333 333 333 333 333 330 333

2 Maccabees 4:16 4:25 4:38 4:40 5:9 5:20 5:27 7.21 7:38

332 333 333 333 330 333 334 333 333

Apocrypha and Pseuepigraphia Book of Jubilees 32:34 298 Sirach 7:33 38:1-15

294 140

1 Maccabees 1-3 1:54 1:64 2 2:24 2:19-28 2:26.27 2:29-41 2:44 2:49 2:50 2:54

333 335 333 332, 335 332, 333 331, 332 332 337 331, 332, 333 333 332 332, 333

384

INDEX OF BIBLICAL REFERENCES

8:1-7

333, 334

8:3 ff. 8:5 9:4 9:7

334 333, 334 333 333

10:28 10:35 13:4 14:45 15:10

333 333 333 333 333

4QMishmarot

263

Temple Scroll II II-XXIX III-X VIII 5-14

251 261 262 262

XI-XXI 7 XXIX 8-9 XXX-XXXV XXXII 12-15 XXXV 2-8 XXXV 8-9 XXXV XLV XLV 7-18 XLVI 1-4 XLVI 5-8 XLVI 9-12 XLVI 11 XLVII 3 XLIX 2-4 XLIX-LXVI

262 265 262 263 262, 263 264 262 263 263 264 264 264 264 264 261

Other Early Jewish and Rabbinic Writings Josephus, Antiquitates II:10 162 VIII:73 113 X:3-4 146 X:79 252 Berakot 2a

140

Pesahim b.Pes. 56a y. Pes. 64a

140 140

Nedarim y.Ned. 22b

140

Sanhedrin y. San. 5b b. San 16a 94a 98b 99a

140 268 147 147 147

Dead Sea Scrolls Damascus Document II 2 254 II 14 254